BY : MikoNoHoshi
Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 4283
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 to Dove, Dragon Lover, Phoenix682, and Kryptonite for your reviews! I really appreciate them!

Chapter Five: Buy Me

He hadn’t intended to accept, had a number of viable excuses at the ready in fact, until Kaimo had made it exceedingly clear that owning “the proper toys” was the only missing prerequisite for Yohji’s joining of his playtime in the basement. He had waffled momentarily, but sensing his immediate termination of intimacies with Kaimo, backtracked and reluctantly accepted, pleading his own ability to pay as an excuse for his behavior.

Kaimo had simply smiled and pressed a new, stiff leather leash into his hand.

They stood, now, before the stage as the lights pulsed in warning then went out, leaving only a soft, diffuse glow in the middle of the stage as the gathering audience was cast into near darkness and certain obscurity. Kaimo stood close to his left, long fingers brushing Yohji’s hand, skirting up his forearm to grasp his bicep through his jacket as the taller man spoke quietly in his ear.

“Choose a good one, Kawate. After all, you never forget your first.”

The sexual suggestion was blatant. Yohji repressed a shudder. Kritiker’s photos of abused women and children sprang to mind, their pretty faces juxtaposed with welts, bruises, and even open wounds. Some of them were dead, staring with glassy eyes that still pleaded for explanation. These slaves, these people, would be left unclothed, chained, and waiting in a bedroom or backroom or closet, living lovedolls with no more choice than unresisting plastic. It was unspoken in some classy circles of Marked, and discussed in detail in all others. Slaves were traded among friends, and it wasn’t unusual, Yohji now knew, for their sexual services to be wagered in poker games or handed out by drunken masters.

And it was for this specific purpose that Kaimo’s slaves were popular. He offered not the rough, scarred skin of petty criminals, but new merchandise.

A spotlight suddenly burst onto the stage, harsh and fluorescent as it illuminated a slick podium. Behind it stood a large trunk of a man; his black tuxedo struggled to conceal his overdeveloped muscles, with the sleeves pulled tight and white collar gripping his wide, veined neck. With his green hair cropped military short and accompanied by a goatee that was too small for his square face, he looked like a Wrestlemania reject turned maitre d.

“Good evening,” he smiled with an unattractive amount of gums as he leaned over the microphone.

Itsura Joji, Yohji’s mind supplied, not an innocent by far, but not a target.

“We’ll begin this evening with a particular beauty,” Joji announced, turning to watch as a muscular foreign man in a black t-shirt walked out holding the end of a leash. At the other end, staggering as the leash was yanked forward, was a beautiful woman. She might have been twenty-five, if that. Her hair was long and dark, spilling over ivory shoulders. Her brown eyes spoke the extreme innocence of the mentally challenged. Yohji’s heart went out to her, and he fought the urge to snap Kaimo’s neck right then and there. She stood completely naked before the crowd, ample breasts heaving in fear as the bright spotlight blinded her. Her hands were bound behind her back.

“Lot one-eight-four,” Joji’s deep voice informed. “She’s fresh, ladies and gentlemen, without a former master. You’ll find her form is pleasing with a notable absence of any significant damage. Note, please, the meek personality.”

The man in the t-shirt turned the woman around to display her backside. There were tears in her eyes as Joji began the bidding at 2,000,000 yen. There were immediate offers.

“Petty change,” Kaimo stated. “Do you want her?”

He almost said yes to save her a sale to someone else, but something in his head said wait.

“She’s too sad.”

“Yes. Not well trained to make such a display.”

The woman went for just under 5,000,000 yen to a middle-aged man with a limp. He came to the stage to claim her, handing over a thick roll of bills before snapping his ready leash to her collar, all to the polite applause of the audience.

Another woman followed, a bit younger and slightly more ragged looking, but with pretty features. After her a boy, young and blond and heavily scarred; he wore a cheap fudoshi and met his fate with practiced detachment. Two more women came after that, one wearing a bright sundress as she walked away with a frigid-looking female buyer.

Yohji and Kaimo took a break and got another drink while the latter encouraged his ‘friend’ to make a selection so that the night’s planned activities might proceed. Deciding it wouldn’t much matter which person he pretended to buy, Yohji was set to select the next slave up for auctions—a corpulent young girl, advertised with good health. He was about to open his mouth when a thought shot through his head.


It was strange, but he wrote it off as instinct. After all, Kaimo would probably not be interested in getting kinky with a chubby adolescent.

“Now,” Joji announced, “we have a rare treat. Lot one-nine-three.”


“That one.”


Black pupils consumed the eyes, glazed intensity eating away their strange color as the boy peered up at Yohji while he stood on the stage, trapped in a surreal moment of golf clapping and flesh peddling. Kaimo handed over the cash with a flourish—more than double any other bid that night—and Joji grinned wide enough to reveal his missing canine. The man in the t-shirt unsnapped his own leash, wordlessly stepped away, and offered Yohji his new purchase.

The spotlight beat down over the slave as he knelt on the stage floor, hands bound behind his back and face lifted to meet Yohji’s. He might have been a captured noble, perhaps a young samurai tortured for information; something in his person, though thin and broken and obviously drugged, whispered honor. It was in his angular features, the way his eyes lifted, his failed attempt to straighten his posture, the formal way his knees and feet laid elegantly together even as he was sold away.

Yohji was grateful he was clothed. Though the dress shirt and slacks were too big, they offered some semblance of humanity. Had this boy arrived naked, his pallid skin all revealed against that fire-colored hair, Yohji might have thought he was an angel, or a hallucination from a really good acid trip.

As it was, it still took Kaimo’s instruction to get him to apply the leash.

The snap closed with a loud click, and the boy’s chin sank back against his chest.


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