BY : MikoNoHoshi
Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 4275
Disclaimer: I get no money from writing these fics, nor I don't own Weiss. In fact, I'm not even allowed to touch the pretty least not in any of their special places...

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews! They keep me dedicated to this fic, and I really hope it doesn’t disappoint. I promise we’re moving towards some plot action, within the next five or six chapters I think.

Chapter Warnings (which I haven’t been remembering to give…sorry): violence, abuse, slight gore, blood

Chapter Thirty-Four: Shackle Me

*** ** ***

“Are you stupid, Ran?”

The grip on his hair tightened, dragging his head up to see Crawford’s face, too close as the man stared into his eyes.

“You must be.”

His hair was released, and his head fell to rest on his chest. He couldn’t hold it up anymore, and were it not for the shackles that suspended his arms above his head and held him up against the stone wall of the basement room, he would have collapsed. Unconsciousness threatened, and only the thought of would happen should he give in kept him in the world of the waking.

“Do you enjoy being punished?”

He wanted to laugh at Crawford’s slow, deliberate questions. He wanted to growl at the man and spit at him. He wanted to bang his owner’s head repeatedly against the stones and then ask if he enjoyed it.

“Do you get off on it?”

Aya did his best to raise he head and give a glare of denial. How could he like this? Though Farfarello had left some time ago, Aya could still feel warm blood tricking down the back of his neck from where the man had ground his head against a sharp edge of stone. His arms ached as he hung just high enough that he was unable to brace himself, and his wrists bled from fighting against the Irishman’s blows. There hadn’t been knives; Crawford didn’t like them , and he had staid to watch this time. Aya had caught glimpses of a white suit in the dark corner as Farfarello hit him, sometimes with his hands and sometimes with a piece of metal, a pipe or bar. Aya didn’t know which had come first, remembering only the sharp pain of each blow to his chest and stomach that forced air and blood from him.

“You’re disgusting, Ran. Stupid, dirty, useless.”

He coughed, the movement racking his body with pain and bringing another spatter of blood to lips.

“I give you simple rules, and you break them.”

It hurt.

“Do you remember what you did?”

He couldn’t seem to get enough air, each breath bringing only a burn to his lungs.

Crawford backhanded him across the face, the crack of the blow sounding loud in the quiet room.

“Answer me, slave. Do you remember what you did?”

“Yes,” he gasped, trying to pull himself up by his arms in order to breath.

Another strike to the same cheek; it was a meager distraction to the other sensations.

“Yes, Master.”

This time a fist to his stomach that made him fight again for consciousness as the room swam.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Crawford looked him up and down, stepped back, and removed his jacket.

Aya tried to focus, but the room was blurred.

“What did you do, Ran?”

To not answer would be to suffer more.

“I,” a gasp, his voice quiet and wet, “broke your rule…Master.”

“What rule did you break?” Crawford began to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

The room began to fade. There was a sharp tug as Crawford grabbed the collar, yanking it forward only to shove Aya’s head back into the wall again.

“I . . .” What had he done? Aya frantically wracked his brain for the offense, finding the memory clouded over by the torture afterwards. “I . . .” He struggled to breathe, remember, and remain conscious. What had he, oh. “My collar… I,” his voice broke off in a choked gasp that almost frightened him, then he coughed and went on, “took it off.”

“Yes. You do not remove your collar.” The grip on his hair was back, twisting it at the roots as he was forced to look up. “That says you’re mine, Ran. My boy, my slave, my little slut. I was lenient this time.”

His other hand went to stroke Aya’s neck, just above the collar, but he drew it way quickly when he found his favorite place coated in blood. He wiped it down Aya’s bruised side, leaving a wide, red smear as his hand settled on the other’s thin waist.

“If you do it again, I will not be so kind.”

The hand squeezed at his waist, hard, pressing against the abused organs inside and causing him to whine quietly in pain.

“Yes, that’s right. You must learn. Remember, Ran, if you can’t follow the rules, I will find someone who can. And who is more compliant than someone who never wakes up?”

The thinly veiled threat to his sister took the last of the fight from him, and Aya held very still when Crawford leaned forward to kiss his bloody lips.

*** ** ***

“Are you alright?” he asked, trying to check in without putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

There was a small nod, and, Yohji wasn’t sure, maybe a little shudder. He took a breath and summoned a degree of authority into his voice.

“Listen, Aya,” he paused to clear his throat, a cover for the sudden realization that his voice came out sounding like Balinese. He continued, laying out the rules he thought Aya needed, “Don’t sit on the floor when other people are around.”

“Yes, Yohji,” his voice was quiet and flat.

“Don’t tell people you belong to me, and walk beside, not behind. Remember, we’re friends, right?”

“Yes, Yohji.” His name was definitely being used as a title rather than an address.

“Don’t be so quiet. Answer people when they talk to you or ask you questions, and look at them not at the floor.”

“Yes, Yohji.” Was this really the right thing to do? His doubts began to solidify with every cold answer. He wanted Aya to yell at him, to tell him that he didn’t need his damn rules. But he went on.

“Don’t let anyone hurt you. If they do, you tell me.”

“Yes, Yohji.” If Aya noted the difference in the rules, that they weren’t to harm him, he gave no sign.

“Don’t do anything that you don’t want to, no matter who tells you to. Even me.”

A hesitant pause, then, “Yes, Yohji.”

The blonde nodded, feeling dirty. The tense stillness only added to the feeling he had erred, and he scratched at his arm as if physical grime might appear there.

The only relief he could find was in the slight relaxing of Aya’s shoulders which spoke, he hoped, of the comfort the boy received from having his temporary position laid out more plainly before him. It seemed like a meager compensation. Why the hell was he always the bad guy?

Yohji forced down the frustration he felt, along with a sudden, irrational urge to simply put Aya on a leash and be done with it. He really needed a drink.

“C’mon, let’s grab some breakfast before work.”


Aya tried to shake off the memory and listen attentively to his owner’s rules, anticipating instructions of submission and service in preparation of a test of some sort or retribution for those unknowingly broken. He confirmed each, and waited for a blow; he clenched his teeth, silently vowing not to flinch when it happened.

It didn’t. The quiet continued; though he could see his owner’s displeasure, he didn’t know how to assuage it beyond taking his punishment without a fight. Part of him was relived, but another coiled even tighter in anticipation and concern. Confused and tired, Aya let his shoulders fall, just slightly, from their drawn up posture.

Yohji looked at him over the edge of the dark glasses he wore, and Aya saw a flash of something dark in jade eyes. Quickly, he lowered his head, unwillingly recalling the vivid image of the wire pulling tight around Kaimo’s neck. He barely resisted lifting a hand to the collar at his throat.

What did these rules do if not to provide Yohji standards to punish by? They didn’t offer a way to serve his owner. As much as Aya wanted to be pleased by the further proof of Yohji’s sincerity, doubts, fueled by that dark look, clung to his hope, dragging it down. What would Schuldig think if he came and read Yohji’s thoughts? He would see that Aya failed to please the man, that Aya made him angry and disappointed (he had seen that much on Yohji’s face) but very rarely pleased, that Aya did nothing for him and, worse, accepted no punishment for his deficiency but rewards for nothing more than following his owner around. Schuldig might punish him or take him away; it was this that haunted Aya, trumped in frequency only by the second, underlying thought that came forward again and again with nothing to combat its insistence: he deserved to be punished.


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