Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Crawford's Pet ❯ Learning Curve ( Chapter 2 )

Crawford's Pet
Chapter Two - Learning Curve

By Cheyenne Dancer

(Quick Author's Interruption: It's been so long since I've posted on this PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. YOHJI TORTURE.)

Damn, he could use a smoke. Yohji explored that thought, felt it out and rolled it around in his mind. It was better to focus on the increasing desire to inhale burning tobacco than to let his mind curl in upon itself in fruitless fury over his current situation.

Mind-numbing. The tires thrummed against the pavement. One of the tires must have picked up a nail, an endless clatter sounded Yohji's defeat with irritating regularity, carrying him further from the nondescript warehouse where the rest of Weiss lay broken. The engine hummed in an all-encompassing silence.

The very monotony slowly drained away the adrenal wash of fear and fury that had accompanied their ill-fated confrontation leaving mortification in its wake. Staying alert was a game doomed to failure in geometric proportion to the longevity of the ride. Lethargy teamed with exhaustion dragged him down into a quagmire of anxiety and ennui that had little to do with the celluloid heroes dashing across the silver screen.

The silence screamed across his nerves until the unbearable presence of words not spoken put his teeth on edge, making him want to cry out and shatter the despairing wall surrounding him with chatter, anything to hear a friendly voice. He'd almost prefer hearing threats of world domination or Farferello singing 'Only God's Children' to this eerie silence reeking of his fear and burgeoning despair.

He'd long since lost all sensation in his fingers, numbness creeping like a traitorous disease along his arms towards the burning in his shoulder muscles. Small things impinged on his consciousness, distracting him. The carpet abraded his cheek where his face lay buried against the floor. Sometime not too distant, someone had broken a bottle of cheap cologne, the smell filled his nostrils and made his eyes water.

His knees ached, his head ached, and his entire body was one big throbbing pain swiftly descending into a numbing awareness.

He really needed a cigarette. The craving flowed through him shredding his nerves further with the ferocity of a raging tiger clawing its way toward freedom.

Crawford was clever. He'd give him plaudits for that.

Having his shirt shoved up to his armpits and his pants yanked to his thighs, hands cuffed uncomfortably tight behind his knees made him painfully aware of being displayed, his genitals exposed to whatever torture might tickle Crawford's fancy.

Biting back a groan, he shifted as much as his cramped position allowed. It did little to ease the dull burning in his shoulders; minute flexing didn't return circulation to cramped limbs.

An uncomfortable prickling along his spine fed an imagination already overactive by nature and circumstance. It was as if he could sense cool appraising glances sliding along the curve of his spine and resting thoughtfully on his bared bottom. Ghostly fingers slid down between his legs and caressed his genitals. Biting his lip, he drew his legs together and curled tighter.

This was only the start.

Humiliation and dehumanization made formidable weapons and Crawford was using them with laudable precision.

He really didn't want to be here.

He was so fucked.

Yohji's thoughts scattered like butterflies in a gale, fluttering from his teammates to his predicament and back again.

If his teammates could see him now, Yohji's stomach lurched. Fuck, it didn't bear thinking about. Ken would no doubt laugh his fucking head off at Yohji's predicament, and then deck him for being so stupid. Omi would blush brightly and give him a little moue of disappointment.

They would try to rescue him. Or attempt to. He was certain of it, even though his leaving with Schwarz might have looked like betrayal. Still, Omi and Ken would come for him, if --when-- they were able. Like brothers do, even when they hated what you did, they still stood up for you. Because, when it all came down to it, they were family.

It was terrifying to contemplate. Because Yohji knew they would fail. Despair bloomed in the hope that they wouldn't come. That they had been injured so much in the fight that by time Ken slammed out of the hospital with Omi at his heels, Crawford's trail would be no more than a whisper along the paths of the dead.

And Aya--Yohji's heart plummeted alone toward the edge of darkness as he imagined his leader's cold purple eyes--Aya would give him a look like he'd just walked through something foul in the lowest sewers and then quietly turn away leaving him to his own devices. There never were second chances with Fujimiya-fucking-Aya.

Yohji did not matter to Aya. Not before and definitely not now.

The car downshifted and turned jerking Yohji's thoughts from the darkness where unease and fear hunkered like a slavering beast. He clenched his teeth, breathing slowly in and out of his mouth, tasting the cologne bitter and harsh at the back of his throat. He had lost count of the number of turns eons ago.

Good advice to mark the twists and turns of a journey made blind and under duress--just not practical as time slid away into a gray eternity of waiting marked by the shush of the tires against tarmac.

Another shifting sway as the car turned again, then a bump and they traveled up a small hill. That was new. He had no way of telling how many times they had doubled back on themselves, but he couldn't remember any inclines.

A metallic grinding sound broke the silence and the car rolled to a stop. Shadows moved across the car as daylight was cut off, the sound of a garage door closing with doomed finality overloud in Yohji's straining ears. Car doors opened and shut. The car rocked.

Anxiety clawed its ragged way out of his belly. Staying awake in spite of mind-numbing boredom wasn't the impossible task of a scant few minutes ago.

He could be anywhere. The thought sat like rotting meat in the pit of his stomach. The only bright spot in this entire fiasco was that he was still alive. Schwarz hadn't killed him yet--if that could be a positive.

If Schwarz had wanted him dead, he'd be dead. Humbling as that thought was, he'd--all of Weiss--had had their noses amply rubbed in Schwarz' superiority to the point that only an idiot would be able to deny that fact.

Yohji was many things, but he didn't think idiot was among them.

//That remains to be seen, kätzchen.// Schuldig's voice drawled. Yohji suppressed the urge to jump. Fuck, he hated having someone trawling through his head unasked.

//Join the club, Kudou.// Schuldig snorted. //Be a good kitty now and get out of the car. Don't give Father any reason to hurt you.//

As if. Yohji pointedly ignored Schuldig. If Schwarz were going to torture him, damned if he was going to make this easy on them. There was no one here to hold hostage for his good behavior.

"Wakey, wakey, kitten." Schuldig spoke aloud this time, his forced cheerfulness grating across Yohji's painfully strung tight nerves.

"Fuck off, freak."

"That's not very nice, kitten. You might hurt my feelings."

"That's not the only thing I'm gonna hurt." Yohji growled.

//You should be nice to me. I might be the only friend you've got here.//

Friend? Mental bonds constricted around his throat, choking off any sound that he might have made.

//Shhh. Idiot. Papa doesn't know we're talking.//

A touch so light it could have been his imagination feathered across his bared bottom. A finger settled on the opening to his body. Yohji felt the tight muscle spasm at the contact and he lunged away. Pain sparked bright through his skull as he slammed against the door of the car. "Itai! Fuck! Shit! Damn!"

Hands reached in and grabbed him by his hips jerking him uncompromisingly backward. Shculdig's laughter poured into him even as he was manhandled from the car. Yohji tumbled helplessly to the ground.

//Karma, sweet thing, is a bitch. Next time listen to 'niisan.// Schuldig joked, forcing Yohji to stand, dragging his cuffed hands in a painful scoring line along his thigh, scraping a long thin line on the curve of his ass.

"Motherfucker! That hurts!" Yohji jerked angrily away a stinging torrent of awareness flooded along cramped limbs. Schuldig shadowed his faltering steps; Yohji's legs not yet ready to hold him securely.

//Don't be such a baby, kätzchen.//

Glancing around furtively, he didn't see the telekinetic anywhere. He must've entered the main house before Schuldig had yanked him from the car. It still left him outnumbered and outclassed.

//You should be so lucky, kätzchen.//

A ghostly touch slid around his genitals like a gentle breeze kissing naked flesh. Yohji shied away from the invisible hands, stumbling over Schuldig.

//Schist, kitten, so playful.// Schuldig's laughter tickled across the panicked stream of non-thought that was pulsing to life like the monster in a light night video show. Yohji stood shaking, letting Schuldig manhandle him, as the German chastised the boy. "Nagi-kins, be a dear and stop that, you're disturbing our guest."

Nagi moved around from behind them a small twist to his lips as he canted Yohji a cool challenging look that he had surely learned from Crawford and perfected.

Fucking chibi. Yohji was pretty sure that Nagi had just molested him. It made him feel dirty, to blame in some vague fashion since he was the adult and Nagi was barely out of childhood.

"Move it, Kudou." Schuldig shoved him toward Crawford, irritation radiating from him. //You should really readjust your attitude where Naoe is concerned. It's gonna get you into trouble. Nagi is a snake basking in the sun. Be glad you get to detail with Papa.//

"You've got to be kidding me." Yohji snapped, not realizing he hadn't answered Schuldig in his head. He was beginning to feel safer when being held by Schuldig and that was a frightening thought. Forcing himself to a calm that he did not feel, he studied his surroundings.

The garage looked like any of a hundred. It was blatantly non-descript. A few tools hanging on the wall, a workbench in one corner, the sedan looming like a dark beast in the middle of plain gray concrete. Most probably underground from the dim lighting slanting through dingy windows of the door and how cool and damp the air felt as he stood with gooseflesh marching across his exposed ass.

//Better get used to it, Kudou. It doesn't get much better than this.//

"Let's get this party underway." Crawford spoke calmly, his eyes dead behind the barrier of his glasses.

Shaking his hair out of his face, Yohji squared his shoulders meeting the American's eyes defiantly. Blaze of glory and all that, he'd loved American westerns, he'd just never thought he'd die in one, complete with Big Bad Villains and campy lines. "So let me guess, I'm the guest of honor?"

"No, kitten, I'd say you were the party favor." Crawford gestured behind Yohji. "Hold him, Mastermind. Prodigy, if you please."

Sensing that Crawford spoke more for his benefit than for Schuldig's, Yohji waited, his breath a rapid flutter of wild wings. Schuldig locked arms with him. By the simple expedient of sliding his feet against Yohji's, Schuldig forced Yohji's legs as wide apart as the tight pants hobbling his thighs would allow.

He imagined that he could feel Nagi's power settle over him, like the pressure of a thunderstorm just before it swept through a field, an increasing chill curling about his naked flesh.

He really, really hated this.

"Berserker, if you please."

Yohji went rigid. Farferello. He had thought they would wait for physical torture until they got him inside and secured. Their confidence eroded his own even further, making it a slippery slope into a cesspool of gloom and fear where the only hope was for death to take him swiftly from their hands.

It was blatantly unfair to pit mere mortals against fucking godlike paranormals.

"I would stay very still, kitten, unless you wish to lose something you value more highly than your somewhat expensive hooker-wear."

"It breaks my heart to know how you loathe my wardrobe, Crawford." Yohji drawled.

A hard slap sent his head rocking backward. "Feel better now?" Yohji snapped, green eyes brilliant in their fury.

"Do not provoke me, Yohji."

"I think that's the least of my worries." Smart aleck was good, right?

His shirt was cut from his body first. A light prick of the blade along his side had him gritting his teeth against a pained hiss.

"Be more careful, Berserker." Crawford spoke coolly.

Yohji wasn't sure he liked Crawford's solicitousness; it didn't spell a quick end to his captivity. Moving restively, he wished fervently that he was far away, inordinately uncomfortable with the mad Irishman kneeling between his legs with a sai. A tug at his waist and a bruising grip on his hip stilled him. Yohji went rigid, mesmerized by the bright flicker of the knife as it moved between his legs. His mind went completely blank for several horrifying moments.

Farferello was playing; his movements slow and unnecessarily elaborate as the knife slipped effortlessly through material, a hairsbreadth over his flesh. When the material fell with a soft hiss to his ankles, Yohji released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

His nonchalance had been stripped from him with his clothing, leaving him bare and unprotected. His stomach felt as weak as if he'd emptied its contents of a three-week binge. Being naked and bound among the members of Schwarz filled him with a foreboding that was quickly taking on monstrous proportions.

Color washed across his face uncontrollably. When Farferello traced his naked flesh with the flat of the cool blade, his testicles tried to crawl up inside his body. Terror and Yohji Kudou were becoming fast friends. Fear soured his throat and raked angry claws through his bowels. Yohji clenched his fists helplessly.

"Very pretty, kitty." Farferello smiled up at Yohji with a sleepy golden eye. Farferello began to pet Yohji's penis, investigating its length and thickness with his fingers like a curious child.

Gods and ancestors, the madman was playing with his cock. This was not happening. Yohji shied backward, brought up short by Schuldig.

Dredging up a flippant smile, Yohji quipped, "I think I prefer the torture, thank-you."

"Your flippancy is beginning to grate, kitten." Crawford spoke grimly prowling around Yohji.

"I'll stay awake nights over that one." Yohji twisted in Schuldig's hold. Crawford was staring at him with a breath stealing intensity. A strange crawling sensation wriggled along Yohji's spine.

"Hold still." Crawford purred; his voice laced heavily with amusement.

"What?" Yohji spoke distractedly, acute discomfort washing through him as the American touched his face. Crawford's eyes were the color of amber. Yohji twitched. His reflection stared back at him from deep within the man's fathomless gaze, caught and held.

A soft dark folded cloth slithered across his face covering his eyes. "Temee!" Yohji jerked, unable to break Crawford's hold. "Yamero! What are you doing?"

His protests did little good. "Don't be stupid, boy." Crawford answered dry amusement flavoring his voice as if it was painfully obvious what he was doing. Gentle fingers brushed aside Yohji's loose hair to keep it from getting caught in the blindfold; then Crawford knotted the cloth tightly at the back of Yohji's head.

The juxtaposition of tenderness with the welling terror of sightlessness on top of everything else made his belly clench, the taste of foreboding like ozone in his nostrils.

His world faded away leaving him suspended in the empty dark of sensation. Yohji could feel Crawford leaning against him. The man was hot and unmistakably hard. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He hated handcuffs. He hated blindfolds. He fucking hated games. It was a pitched battle to remain calm. He sensed Crawford moving around him. Yohji shifted, uncomfortable, fear gnawing around the edge of darkness flowing into his mind.

Outgunned and outmaneuvered. Alone in the dark. Woefully unprepared for whatever the fuck games Schwarz was up to. Kritiker had never planned on Weiss being captured. Theirs were suicide missions. Success or Death. There was no in-between, no need for anti-terrorist training. What the hell had Persia been thinking?