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...

Chapter Eight: Bandage Me

Okay, so he had a wounded, mostly naked, fantastically beautiful slave napping in the front seat of the Seven. Yohji had had worse nights. Still, Omi wasn’t going to be thrilled with this, and he had a feeling that Kritiker wouldn’t either. Oh well, it wasn’t the first time Kudou Yohji had fucked up.

He sat in the car for a long time, breathing the cool air of the quiet garage and trying to decide what to do. Nothing came, so he finished his third cigarette and decided to apply himself to more practical matters.

Opening his door, Yohji slid from the Seven, closed it, and walked to the passenger side. The boy’s head was against the door, his body slouched in the seat, small even in Yohji’s suit jacket. It had slipped down from one pale shoulder as he curled up. Yohji wasn’t sure if he was asleep or unconscious.

Carefully, he opened the door, hand ready to shift the boy’s weight to the back of the seat.

“Hey,” Yohji jostled his arm. “Hey, guy.”

There was no reply as his head lolled onto the bare shoulder.

“Okay. Let’s go, princess.”

Sliding his arms under the boy, Yohji lifted him easily over one of his own shoulders so that his long legs hung limply against Yohji’s chest and his cuffed hands bumped the assassin’s back as he walked. Yohji might have thought about the beautiful ass near his face, but he was busy marveling over the shear lightness of his new charge. The guy was only a few inches shorter than himself, but the fucker was thin, and though it made walking up the stairs surprisingly easy, Yohji resolved to feed him as soon as possible.

There were four rooms on the third level of their building. One of these was the office, better known as where Omi played computer games, but used occasionally for actual work and storage of important files. There was also a tiny darkroom nestled in one corner, for those rather sensitive photographs that couldn’t quite be sent to the local drug store. Besides the office, there were the three bedrooms and the shared bathroom that never had enough room in the medicine cabinet.

It was here Yohji headed after gently depositing his “princess” on his own large bed. He drew the large plastic bowl from under the sink and let it fill with warm water while he pulled out the med kit and a clean washcloth. All of these in hand, he returned to the unconscious figure.

He was laying face-down on the bed, skin extremely pallid against the deep green comforter. His hands, Yohji noted, were scrunched awkwardly under his chest. Surely the leather cuffs were biting into his wrists, but it didn’t seem to register; he wondered, sadly, if the boy was simply used to sleeping that way.


The water was approaching opaque, now, a brackish red-brown that Yohji was all too familiar with as he dumped it down the sink and stowed the bowl. It had taken almost an hour to clean the boy’s wounds. They weren’t too deep; most hadn’t drawn blood. But the last few strikes of Kaimo’s weapon, aimed at the lower back and thighs, had gotten vicious, and those had bled rather profusely and had to be handled carefully, with their rough edges and potential for infection. Yohji had applied antibacterial ointment to these along with gauze, before wrapping bandages securely around the boy’s chest and back, continuing down around his lower back and abdomen. It was harder to remain impassive as he lifted one leg then the other to bandage his thighs where the crop had scored the sensitive flesh. His bottom was more difficult, and Yohji ended up applying several large, square Band-Aids across the worst places and securing them with white medical tape that wasn’t too much lighter than the boy’s skin.

Besides a few odd groans as he manipulated the boy’s position, his patient was silent.

It had been a strange and intimate process. Yohji had done it before, with wounded teammates, but having another person spread naked and unconscious in front of him while he prodded their wounds made him feel slightly uncomfortable. It was a bit better once he had removed the cuffs and collar, laying them on the nightstand among remnants of his medical attention.

Restoring the medkit to its place under the sink, he padded back to his room. The redhead was still unconscious, laying flat on his back tucked into his elaborate bedding. Yohji stood at the bedside for a few minutes, looking at the boy in the warm lamplight. There were a thousand questions to be asked and more than a few details to be worked out. He didn’t have a clue how or whether this was going to go, but he knew it wouldn’t be easy. Still, looking at the boy’s face, beautiful with the lips parted in uneasy sleep, Yohji also knew he was going to keep him.

With a sigh aimed at the situation and himself, Yohji shucked his clothes, tossing them randomly on top of one of the disorganized piles that dominated the floor near his closet. He paused, standing naked as he considered where he might locate something to sleep in, then quietly opened one of the dresser drawers to pull out a little used pair of cotton sleep pants. He tugged them on and flicked off the lamp. Carefully, he settled on the edge of the bed, on top of the comforter, and laid down. Tucking one arm under his head, Yohji watched the boy until he fell asleep.


Aya jerked away, instantly panicked at the gentle tug of the blankets that his mind insisted were restraints. He soon realized differently as his hands came free and clutched at his own hair; he sat panting amid the soft covers as the rushing of his heart refused to abate. It increased tenfold when, casting his eyes to the left, he found his owner resting beside him.

*** * ***

The bed creaked as Crawford rolled off of him, panting and sweaty. The air of the large room was cool, and gooseflesh textured his naked body when the man moved away. The collar, though, was sticky with sweat and hung heavy on his neck. More concerning, Aya’s head hurt, and a tenuous reaching of his fingers indicated a swelling knot on its crown where it had been forced against the headboard with jarring force. He couldn’t touch the other pain, a sharp, stinging ache of his insides, but the wounds were no less real for this. He tried to even out his breathing, using the measured air flow to force back the tears and bile.

“Floor,” Crawford said.

Aya heard, distantly, but before he could process the command, he found himself suddenly sprawled on the hardwood, he elbow aching as it barely saved his face as he landed on his stomach when Crawford kicked him to the floor. He was startled, and forcing himself to his knees, he scrambled for the small wastebasket. He clutched it to his chest as he wretched into it, unable to get his breath back even as his vomiting turned to dry heaving. The harsh jerks of his reflexive system shot angry pains through his injured parts, and his throat burned with the bitter acid drawn from his stomach.

“Stop it,” Crawford demanded, sitting up in the bed to stare at Aya as he hunched over the wastebasket.

Aya tried to breathe, but his body hitched again. He heard the vague growl, missed the opening of the bedside drawer, and gasped in surprise as the withdrawn horse crop fell stiffly over his bowed shoulders. He released the basket, cowering under the heavy blows that continued to assault his back as the crop came down on his flesh with a stiff, snapping sound.

He was shaking when it stopped, elbows pressed to the floor and head in his hands. The crop dangled, curled leather end just touching the sensitive skin of his neck as Crawford leaned over the edge of the high bed.

“Ridiculous. All this fuss over sleeping on the floor.”

The crop snapped again; Aya jumped as another burning stripe cut across his shoulders.

“Another rule. Are you listening?”

The crop hit. Aya managed a vague nod of his head.

“You fuck in your master’s bed, but you do not sleep there. Understand?”

Another hit, across his shoulder blades, biting on top of the bones. He nodded again.

“Slaves and dogs sleep on the floor, little bitch.”

There was a flare of resistance at the word dog, but it was distant through the pain. Then the bed creaked again, marking Crawford’s retraction. The drawer slid shut. The lamp clicked and the room went dark.

His breath was shallow, but he forced his muscles to relax. Carefully, Aya shifted to his side, folding one arm under his aching head as he brought his knees reluctantly towards his chest, instinctually shielding his privates, chafed and raw from Crawford’s rough attentions. His free hand clung fiercely to one damp eartail, an ineffectual, childlike attempt to comfort himself as he fell into an exhausted sleep on the cold floor.

*** * ***

Aya blinked against the memory, shoving it back to focus on the now. He noticed the curious presence of clean bandages across his chest and belly, the slight pull of medical tape in other places, as he slipped soundlessly from the bed. He swayed as he gained his feet and sank, thankfully, to his knees before his lightheadedness caused him to fall. It was a strange, blessed relief that filled him when he spotted his collar on the nightstand, within easy reach. Once it was fastened securely once more around his neck, he settled onto the floor. Its wood surface was covered by a coarse, woven rug, and Aya hoped his new owner wouldn’t mind if he slept on it.


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