Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ No Touchy! ❯ Spanking The Guilty One ( Chapter 9 )

 

 

 

A few days passed after the incident with nothing of any interest occurring. Unless one counted Crawford confiscating all of Nagi's computer equipment as punishment for his part in the debacle.

 

Or Farf going on a murderous rampage after finding out about the convention in a very posh Tokyo hotel. Crawford had not been happy to see Farf stroll into the living room wearing a blood stained and ripped priests robe. He'd been less happy about the priest said robes belonged to bleeding all over the trunk of the car.

 

“Oi! I was saving him for later,” Farf complained when Crawford shot the priest between the eyes.

 

“How many times have I told you not to bring strange toys home?”

 

Farf huffed in an annoyed fashion before marching into the house. Crawford sighed heavily and went to get Schuldig.

 

“What the hell do I have to go for?”

 

Crawford pinched the bridge of his nose above his glasses trying to stave off the headache suddenly forming there.

 

“Because,” Crawford growled. “I might need you if I get pulled over.”

 

“Can't you *see* if you're going to get pulled over?” Schuldig bit back sarcastically. Damn it, the man was acting like nothing had happened and it annoyed the hell out of him.

 

“Just get in the damn car, Schuldig,” he snarled, stifling the urge to toss him in the trunk with the dead body.

 

Driving toward the outskirts of Tokyo, Crawford surmised he should at least be grateful that Farf had taken the convertible instead of the Jag. Not that anyone had keys to the Jag aside from him but Farf's hotwiring skills were damn near legendary.

 

The body dump went without any trouble as did the car ride back. Aside from Schuldig pouting and sulking thw whole way.

 

“Well, that was a complete waste of my time,” Schuldig complained, slamming the car door then storming into the house.

 

Crawford's smile widened as he *saw* what Schuldig was doing in the kitchen. He quickly rearranged his features into their usual unreadable mask before walking into the kitchen.

 

“Schuldig, how many times have I asked you to refrain from drinking out of the orange juice container?”

 

Schuldig smirked around the edges of the carton. “This week, or a running total, Brad?”

 

Crawford glowered at him and began a mental countdown.

 

Schuldig shook his head vigorously, trying to clear it of the sudden fuzziness that had invaded. He blinked and glared at Crawford's wavering form.

 

“You bastard,” Schuldig said, lurching toward the other man only to fall face first onto the table.

 

“Just the position I wanted you in,” Crawford said, glasses glinting and an evil smile on his face.

 

 

Schuldig blinked and shook off the lingering grogginess. He found himself lying chest down on the kitchen table. Two things registered. 1. he was tied down. Again. 2. it felt like his pants had been pushed down to somewhere around his knees.

 

“That's the nice thing about that particular drug,” Crawford's voice said from somewhere out of Schuldig's view. “It acts quickly but wears off with almost no side effects.”

 

“Hell, Brad, if you wanted me in this position all you had to do was ask,” Schuldig said.

 

“I hardly thought you'd agree to what I have in mind.”

 

“Really? What might that be?”

 

“Punishment for your error in judgment the other night,” Crawford said.

 

“You loved every second of it.”

 

“Certain aspects, yes. You're very . . . talented. However, I will not permit you to drug me at your whim without consequences,” Crawford said, bringing his hand down in a stinging slap on Schuldig's right butt cheek.

 

Schuldig jumped and squeaked in surprise before wiggling his behind at Crawford, trying to entice another slap.

 

“I do like your hands on me any way possible, Brad,” Schuldig said, smirking evilly over one shoulder.

 

“I'll just have to use something else then,” Crawford said, grabbing one of the heavy wooden spoons from the counter.

 

Schuldig winced slightly as the spoon came down hard across his other cheek. After that there was a succession of blows that had him wiggling and yelping at regular intervals. He normally didn't mind a little rough play time but damn that hurt.

 

Crawford stepped back and admired his handiwork. “Almost the color of Abyssinian's hair. Perfect,” he said, walking to the opposite side of the room and picking up the keys to the Jag from the side table.

 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Schuldig demanded, trying to work his way free from the ties but both the silk and the heavy wood of the table refused to give.

 

“Out. I'm sure you can convince either Nagi or Farf to untie you once they get home,” he said, walking out the door and ignoring the string of curses and death threats being heaped upon his person.

 

 

When Nagi and Farf got home an hour later Schuldig was still struggling to free himself.

 

“Hells bells,” Farf said, cutting him loose. “Pull your damn pants up, no one wants to see that.”

 

Schuldig yanked his jeans back into place and marched out of the room without saying a word.

 

Nagi was staring in horror at the congealing sticky mess on the table. Farf's eyebrows went up then his nose wrinkled in disgust.

 

“So, what do we do about that?” he asked, turning to Nagi.

 

“Burn the table.”