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: I tried to make this chapter a bit longer as a thank you to those of you who took time to review! Thanks!

Chapter Warnings: this one definitely knocks this over into the M/NC-17/X category, a bit of graphic detail, pretty
good potential for squick if you’re sensitive to blood, non-con

Chapter Six: Beat Me

“Tsk,” Kaimo frowned as the boy swayed unsteadily behind Yohji, bumping a thin shoulder into the doorframe as they passed into the hall. “Joji got carried away.”

Yohji followed him to one of the smaller side rooms, one with two facing love seats and eerily lit by a fake candelabrum that flickered on the low table between them. The leash was stiff and awkward in his hand, tugging back several times but immediately relaxing as the boy summoned strength to continue forward. Yohji didn’t look back to watch the boy follow him; seeing him made Yohji feel uneasy, and he had to concentrate now.

“You may want to sit,” Kaimo directed, eyes focused over Yohji’s shoulder, devouring what they found there.

“Sure,” he agreed, unsure how to navigate the process when attached to another person. Affecting ease and hoping for the best, he settled himself at the far end of one loveseat and, with reluctance, turned to see the boy slide to the floor. He knelt there, mere inches from Yohji’s feet, head bowed and completely still.

“Well trained,” the dark haired man commented. “He’ll be fun to play with, though I’m not sure he’s up to it tonight.”

No, he couldn’t let it be delayed. He couldn’t show up at home with an incomplete mission and a beautiful love slave. Yohji had a sudden, inappropriate thought of pleading with Omi as the naked slave sat on his bed: ‘Please can I keep him? I’ll feed him and walk him and fuck him every day.’ He bit back a laugh and hoped that hell had a smoking section.

“He’s fine,” he slipped into the easy persona of Kawate who went with the flow of the world and expected his daddy’s money to buy him out of any trouble it caused. “I rather like them…pliable.”

Kaimo’s smile was darker than the room.


The fog was starting to wear off, clinging just at the edge of his world now. As it parted, the pain returned, and Aya almost longed for the numb stupor induced by the needle. But it wasn’t safe. He tried to order his thoughts, to force the messy jumble of events into some cohesive structure of meaning. There had been Schuldig, then the man with needle, bright lights that hurt his eyes, and people, so many people to watch his humiliation. They clapped when the two men came on stage. Someone had stared at him, a hazy silhouette against the light; he hadn’t remembered to bow his head, and he wondered if he had simply forgotten the punishing blow. There was shuffling after that, and stairs. He thought he might have fallen on them, but it wasn’t clear. And now, there was sensation.

It was pain, again, as always. His arms pulled in a new direction, upwards, stiff and extended and bearing most of his weight since his toes barely touched the cold floor. He was cold, all over, and he was naked again. Except the collar. He tried to summon the familiar hate for the thing, but it didn’t come.

Pain, again, sudden this time. Was it whip or crop? What was he supposed to say to Farfarello? What was the lesson? He couldn’t remember; it hurt in stinging lines across his back and bottom, increasing with irregular strikes. What was he supposed to do to stop it?

The crop—he knew its linear strike across the back of his thighs—hit harder. Aya felt the slow seep of blood. His head was still light and dizzy, and the copper smell made him feel sick. He fought against the urge to vomit, focusing on the friction of the collar against his neck, its familiar biting rub that accompanied each jerk of his abused body.

One pain stopped, and there was talking. Not in his head. Where was Schuldig? He must be with Crawford. If Crawford did that now, he was definitely going to be sick. They shouldn’t have given him the drugs; they shouldn’t have taken them away.

“Uhn!” He felt the cry ripped from his dry throat as two rough fingers jabbed at his entrance. They shoved in and out while a sweaty body pressed close, the stiffness of the man’s erection pressing against the back of his thigh, against the new wounds there. It wasn’t Crawford. A new panic rose inside him, and the edges of his vision began to darken. He fought against it, hard. The fingers left, and, had he had enough oxygen to do so, Aya would have steeled himself for the penetration. As it was, he hung limply and waited.

Hands grabbed his hips, pressing painfully over the jutting bones, bruising on purpose. The body shifted and—




Kaimo jerked away from the boy’s body as if it had burnt him. His dark hair was tangled and fell around his face is disarray as he stared in shock at the invading party. Kaimo did not like to be interrupted in his fun, and he was ready now. His open dress shirt was damp with perspiration, the wrinkled folds of cloth flanking his chest and framing his jutting erection, purposefully smeared with the slave’s red blood.


Was it the same man? The tall blonde standing before him, glaring, teeth clenched and fist resting on the wall where he had just struck it—this was not the mild-mannered, pampered Kawate he had led about for a week. Something about his eyes set Kaimo on edge, and he was about to call his bodyguards when the ferocity melted away to reveal his flirtatious new friend once more.

He took another step away from the slave, just in case. But Kawate was coming up to him, running his hands (scars? what from?) under his shirt, down his sides, talking in a voice of pure viscous honey.

“I’m sorry, Kaimo-san. I’m just . . . I’m jealous . . .”

Of course. The pretty slave couldn’t have all the fun. It was too perfect, because what Kaimo could kill this one first, gouge out those deep eyes and pull his long body into thirty different parts. Then, then he could go back to marring the beautiful prisoner. The smell of blood was already filling the room, and his dick twitched in anticipation.


Aya struggled desperately, trying to get his brain to process the scene in front of him. He knew it was crucial. His life depended on it and, more importantly, hers did. It was her smile that gave him strength. Biting his tongue, he focused on the single point of sensation and forced his eyes open.

The dark haired man from earlier was there; he had given the drugs to the big man. Aya hated him before he realized that this one had held the crop moments before. The other one, the blonde—from before? He thought so. He had sat on the couch, Aya was sure, and the redhead had been at his feet. The blonde was wearing leather boots. Yes, Aya remembered the soft click of the leash. That one was his owner.

~~When your Master give you an order, you obey, you understand me? No matter what. You obey, or I will beat you and then force you to watch while I shoot her in the head.~~

Crawford’s words echoed through his mind without his consent, and the phantom pain of instructing blows flared momentarily through the stinging of his back. Aya forced it down and focused on the blonde.

Aya wanted to hate him too, but there just wasn’t enough energy to go around.

The blonde had his hands on the other; that one’s back was to him, his butt just visible under the tail of the shirt. The blonde’s hands were there, kneading the flesh, drawing long, loud moans from him as he rocked against the man’s front.

The only thing Aya could do was watch, hoping they would fall asleep afterwards and not go at him together.

Hard turquoise eyes were suddenly back on him; the man watched him while the blonde touched him from behind. His hands ran over his shoulders, massaging—no! The hands flew up and the man’s body tensed, lifting off the floor as he arched back against the blonde. He choked, grasping desperately at the silver wire wrapped around his neck. It was biting, slicing, and blood began to spill down his chest. He let out a short, low gurgle, kicked pathetically, and then was still.


You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story