Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Craft of Erotic Abhorrence ❯ Chapter I ( Chapter 1 )

~*~Chapter I~*~

Ken gasped and fell upon his knees in the wavering grass. Shaky fingers grappled at his throbbing abdomen, pain erupting so fiercely that he could barely breath. Under any other circumstance, he would have been able to block such a blow but the American man had caught him off guard. Slowly he raised his head, sucking in agonizing gulps of air. Crawford enshadowed him, looking dark and foreboding in the cresting moonlight. Blood puddled upon the swell of his bottom lip, glinting in the night's glow.

"I will warn you only once Ken." Crawford scraped his fingers through soft, brown locks and roughly jerked the boy's face upwards. "Spill my blood again and I will kill you. Gradually."

Liquid gathered in the wells of silt-colored eyes. "I ain't no fucking fag," Ken bit out, his skull shrieking in Crawford's clasp.

"Your sexual preference is of no concern to me." The American man tightened his grip. "You are nothing more than a possession of mine. Your feelings and wishes mean nothing to me. This is my price, understood?"

"Yeah yeah," Ken croaked, staring up at the clairvoyant with hateful eyes. "Just fucking let go!"

Crawford wrenched hard, driving the boy up to his feet. He released him, instead raking his fingertips roughly down the side of Ken's throat. "You don't ever bid me," he whispered, his torn lips only inches away from panting ones. "I will do to you whatever pleases me. I dominate you and for my gift, you will agree."

Ken lurched from the man and his back connected against a wall of solid bark. "Bastard," he swore, rubbing angrily at his temple. "Goddamn pervert, what the hell's your problem?"

Crawford smiled thinly. "I can see that you don't learn easily." He was quick, catching hold of Ken's wrists and stabbing them above his head, against the rough pattern of the tree's wood. "We shall see," he murmured, running the tip of his tongue over Ken's pursed lips. Luminous eyes locked with brown ones. Relishing the feel of fear the boy struggled to keep repressed, Crawford leisurely pressed his body full flush against Ken's. "How well you fare."

Ken squirmed, ropey quivers writhing in the pit of his stomach. This was not how it was supposed to be! Money he would have found, violence he would have done, all manner of crime he would have committed. He would have given Crawford anything...normal. But not this. Not his body in this degrading humiliation. He had never once considered that he might be worth asking for.

Crawford was like a wall against him. Ken's face reddened as he realized that his furious struggles were quickly became sexual in nature, their lower bodies grating in an obscene sort of contact. The wriggles inside his stomach intensified. Ken gasped, his lips parting and he was kissed again.

It was disgusting, to be kissed by another man.

Or at least the concept of it was. The actual kiss was rough, teeth and tongue scraping in erotic little drips. Crawford's mouth tasted of liquor, something dignified and pretentious like brandy or port. He pushed his body hard upon Ken's, long fingers tugging at the top of black cargo pants. Ken thrashed and his body rubbed against the other man's. Intimately. Crawford licked his tongue over Ken's relenting one and slipped a hand into the boy's pants. Just as he connected with hardening flesh, he bit Ken's tongue. Hard.

Ken moaned, pain and pleasure binding into one devastating emotion. Blood filled his mouth and he didn't even realize that he was kissing his domination back, hungrily. His hips jerked in the man's talented grasp. His body was shrieking in depraved lust. He didn't know anything other then the eating mouth on his own, the pressure of working fingers upon his erection. Crawford disappeared and gender disappeared, leaving behind only the most base of pleasure. He arched his body into those tormenting digits. Wordless cries slid into the man's questing mouth, their tongues grappling over lingering traces of blood.

Crawford tore his mouth from Ken's and raked scarlet-smeared teeth along the sensitive skin of the boy's collarbone. He loosened his grip around moist sexflesh and pulled his own hips away, allowing only the barest pressure to touch Ken. "Beg me for it," he murmured, brushing his lips over Ken's ear.

Ken shuddered, unable to keep from pushing himself into Crawford's slack grip. "Asshole," he panted. "Fucking prick."

"Say it." Crawford marked the skin behind Ken's ear with breathy words and flickering licks. He let go of the brunette's throbbing member completely. "Beg."

"Oh fuck!" Ken squeezed his eyes shut, loathing himself for what he was about to do and loathing Crawford for bringing him to this pathetic position. "Please," he hissed out, his hips jerking. Pre-cum splashed from the engorged length. "Just fi-finish this shit!"

The clairvoyant smirked, running the flat of his palm over the boy's leaking shaft. "You want this Ken? Orgasm at the hands of a man?"

"Yes," he shoved out around gritting teeth. Fury and shame and lust wove him into their suffocating embrace. Lust led him. "Do it!"

Crawford jammed his mouth onto Ken's and jerked him off in harsh, quick strokes. The pleasure was sudden and so intense that Ken came in only a few rapid heartbeats after. He tried to hold it off and failed miserably. He cried out against Crawford's mouth. His body arched as he coated the man's fingers before falling limply against the bark. Crawford released his wrists and he would have slid down to the grass, had the man not instead curved his hand around the base of his throat.

"Was that good?"

Ken's chest heaved as he sucked in air. "No you fucking-mmmphhh!"

Crawford abruptly thrust milky-slathered fingers into the boy's yapping mouth. He forced them in deep, watching as brown eyes widened in disgust. Ken gagged, his own bitter fluids soaking the cavern of his mouth.

"Lick them clean," Crawford ordered. "This is your mess."

Having no other choice, Ken obeyed, glaring at the perverse man with all the loathing that burned at him. This was fucking sick.

"That's better." Crawford removed his fingers and tilted Ken's chin up to meet his gaze.

Brown eyes narrowed. "What?" Ken spat, forcefully jerking his head away.

Thin lips curved slightly. "You'll do." He released Ken and turned back to the path. "Come. We're going inside."

Ken stared at him with revulsion. Crawford looked as unflappable as ever, as though he hadn't just given a guy a fucking handjob. As though he wasn't a damn pervert who got his rocks off by forcing straight guys into humiliating sexual deeds.

"Quit gaping and come on," Crawford bit out, impatience shading his voice. "I have business inside and you're going to do it for me."

"Well I'm not doing anything perverted so you just better watch it because I'll-"

Crawford hit him, hard knuckles grazing one sloping cheekbone with enough force to send the brunette staggering backwards.

"Shut your fucking mouth and come on." Crawford pushed up his glasses, his face cold. "My patience with you is waning."

~*~*~*~*~

Ken angrily followed Crawford down an enormous corridor. Their footfalls upon the porcelain tiles were the only sounds that marred the silence of the mansion's second floor. Ken wasn't aware of the palpable tension that radiated from his aggressor. Ken didn't notice the opulence of his surroundings or the solitude of their passage throughout the upper storey, despite the extravagant gala that was being hosted below. All that he knew and all that he could see was the crimson of hatred. The fury of flagrant violence that threatened to end this degradation. His fingers literally burned with the urge to wrap themselves around Crawford's throat and choke the life out of him. He wanted to hurt Crawford more than he'd ever wanted to hurt anyone before. Anyone. Birman had been right in her warnings. This clairvoyant was dangerous and it was in a twisted way Ken had never expected.

He had assumed that Crawford's price would be money or violence or some sort of illegal activity. Not lust. Not this complete surrender to a man. Never this. And the worst of it, beyond what he'd been made to do and beyond that he'd actually begged for it, was that he didn't have any choice in the matter. He had no other options, save for this and everything it included. The bottom line was that he was a beggar and somehow that was just as shameful as submitting sexually the likes of Brad Crawford.

A cold gust of wind blew in from one of the open windows. Ken shivered, his skin erupting in goosebumps beneath his shirt. A great feeling of uneasiness swelled over him. Whatever Crawford's business here inside the mansion was, it wasn't going to be pretty. He had a bad feeling about this, through and through. A hundred questions and protests squirmed on the tip of his tongue and he wasn't able to voice even a single one of them.

He was nothing more than Crawford's possession, his fucking slave. He couldn't even speak without permission. Ken ground his teeth together. He would act the servant, for now. He would suffer through all this sick shit and then...then it would be Crawford's turn to suffer. Of that he would make certain.

Because Crawford wasn't the only one trained to kill.

"Instant karma," Ken thought, lightly touching the tender skin of his cheek where Crawford had hit him. "I'll make it my fucking business."

The room Crawford led him into was a large bedroom. Moonlight filtered in through the windows, painting the room in a play of light and shadows. Ken glanced around, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It looked to be a man's room, filled with leather and things nautical. With gloved hands, Crawford began searching the darkly furnished desk that stood opposite the bed.

Ken watched him and couldn't help but ask, "What're you looking for?"

Crawford ignored him.

Ken glared needles at the back of the man's head, his hatred intensifying. He loathed being kept in the dark, especially on shady business matters such as this one. He wasn't some goddamn kid for fuck sakes. What did Crawford think he was going to do, blab it to the world? He had discipline and control. Afterall, he wasn't part of a team of assassin because he couldn't keep his yap shut.

"Come." Crawford's voice cut through the thick hush of the room. He slipped what appeared to be a disk into the pocket of his suit and stalked across the vast area to the door that stood beside a well-stocked bookcase. Crawford didn't look back to see whether he was following or not. Ken clenched his hands into fists as he reluctantly headed after the American. Crawford's supercilious bearings scraped against his nerves, vexing him to no end. The guy was just such a fucking prick.

The door led into an enormous, adjoining bathroom, complete with a jacuzzi, a gigantic sink counter and a mini bar. Ken had to gawk. Who had a mini bar in their bathroom? How many ladies did the guy entertain, with a jacuzzi that big?

Crawford snapped the door shut behind them and opened the light.

Ken blinked furiously in the sudden brightness. He scrubbed a fist over his eyes and took his first real look at the clairvoyant in light. He saw with some surprise that behind glassed lenses, the man's eyes were the amber colour of smooth brandy. He was attractive in a controlled, unapproachable sort of way. Ken couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to dominate this man. Strip him of his restrain and humiliate him. Could such a thing ever happen? He decided then that before he left Crawford, he would try to break his control, just once. He owed it to the smug bastard.

"Finished?"

Crawford's cool voice broke Ken from his thoughts. "Finished what?"

"Your perusal of me."

Ken snorted, hiding his embarrassment. "Get over yourself."

Crawford ached an eyebrow, watching him with that all-knowing, pretentious gaze. It made Ken yearn for his bugnuks. He could have scratched up the guy's face something fierce. Maybe that would teach the arrogant American a lesson.

There was a faint crinkle of plastic as Crawford removed from one of his pockets a zip-lock bag. He took from it a syringe. "This is what you're going to use to kill the man who enters this room."

Ken's jaw dropped. "What? I'm not killing anyone on your say-so!"

Crawford stalked towards him. "Your hands are stained. That much I've already seen. This should be nothing to you."

"But I can't just...I don't even know anything about the guy!"

"You don't need to." His hand tangled once more into Ken's hair and he jerked the boy around, so that his back was pressed up against the man's solid chest. "I would have thought that by now you would know better then to question my orders." The tiniest prick of needled pressure kissed the exposed column of Ken's throat. "Have any other protests?"

Ken shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. The rage swimming in his veins at that moment was overpowering. It threatened to consume him and he had to forcibly quell it. He couldn't afford to let his mouth and fists run off. His life wasn't the only thing at stake.

"I thought so." Crawford released him. "Your target will the only man to enter this room. He is a tall, grey-haired man with a scar marking his left cheek. Inject this needle into his neck and leave through the balcony. I will find you in the gardens. Fail and it'll be your body they'll find."

"Where the hell are you going?"

"I don't have time to baby-sit you," Crawford snapped impatiently. "I have other business to attend to. Don't fuck this up."

Ken bristled and spoke without thinking. "I've never fucked up a killing so quit griping!"

An unreadable expression crossed onto Crawford's face. The man assessed him with those piercing, amber eyes in a way that Ken didn't like. He stared back, though utterly unnerved. He hadn't meant to blurt out what he normally protected so fiercely but Crawford had an infuriating way of getting under his skin.

'Literally from the looks of it,' a tiny voice inside his mind piped up.

Ken told the voice to shut it.

It wasn't as though he could hide the truth of his work from Crawford. If the man was to help him, he would need to know the whole truth. And what did Ken know about Crawford anyways? Perhaps the clairvoyant had seen more of it in visions then he'd let on. That wouldn't surprise him in the least. It wasn't as though the American was one to let him in on details.

"Slaves don't need to know anything," Ken thought bitterly.

Crawford left him after a few more brusque instructions, turning off the lights behind him. Ken sat on the edge of the jacuzzi in the dark and cursed Crawford for a good seven minutes straight. The guy was an asshole dick of the first water. He'd never quite loathed anyone as much as he loathed Crawford.

"Lousy fucking American dickweed," he spat acrimoniously, staring down at the syringe in his gloved hands.

Who was this man Crawford had bid him to kill? Ken wasn't any stranger to murder but those he did take were malevolent in nature. He and his team mates had been recruited for the sole purpose of collecting dues from those who were protected under the law. They killed rich, powerful sinners who deserved death. He had no qualms about it, not anymore. He believed in karma and he believed in the cycle of morality.

But where did Crawford's target fit it? What sort of man was he, that Crawford wanted him dead? Ken wouldn't put it past Crawford to want an honourable man dead. And if the man was a decent sort, how could he kill him? How could he kill without knowing for certain, simply on the orders of a man like Crawford? Was all this worth it?

A pair of clear, blue eyes and a sunny smile came into his head.

Yes.

A shudder wracked his body as he wiped his hand over his face.

What else could he do?

'Not a fucking thing and you know it. This time you're *caught* kiddo and with a fucking perv no less.'

"Shut up Yohji," Ken grumbled irately. His eldest team mate was a former Private Investigator and his voice was one that intermittently popped into Ken's head. "I know I'm done for this time."

'Keep it cool kiddo and once this shit's over, I'll hook you up with some of the hottest chicks in Tokyo. They'll erase all of future-man's pervascious ways from your memory.'

Ken snorted. Somehow he doubted that very much. Crawford was hardly the type to be easily forgotten.

"Especially since the guy gave your pole the old five-finger polish, eh?"

Fucking voice of Yohji. Fucking numbcunt mind talking shit. Fucking Crawford and his bullshit ways.

Ken sat around and cursed Crawford's person some more.

Eventually, as he knew it would, footfalls sounded from the hallway. The bedroom door scraped open and the soft sound automatically urged Ken into action. Adrenalin coursed through his veins, speeding the pumping of his heart. It was too late now. He lived for blue eyes the rush. Quietly, Ken opened the bathroom door a notch. His fingers were damp around the needle.

The tall, grey-haired man entered and flipped the light on. Ken could see the scar marking his cheek. Pressed against the wall and breathing more quickly then usual, he watched the man rummage thorough his desk. There was nothing he could do. He had no choice. He could only hope that killing this man was be justifiable.

There *never* is any justification to take the life of another.

Hadn't some smart guy said that?

Ken's hands shook around the needle. He longed for the comforting weight of his claws and felt naked without them. The man turned around, loosening his tie. Whether it was his own uncertainties magnified, Ken didn't know but the man's eyes looked kind.

He paused.

The man tossed his tie onto the bed and shrugged out of his suit blazer. He stopped to light a cigarette before heading into the bathroom.

In the daylight, the mess of the night is forgotten.

Aya's words, spoken on a warm Sunday morning so long ago. He hadn't said anything more then that. Ken hadn't needed to hear anything more. He understood. Aya knew how to lay it out. He was solid like that. Ken knew it. Because maybe that was the only way to keep sane. Because in the end, maybe it didn't make a difference either way. Because for love, for friendship-

Promise me you won't come look for me!

-none of that matter and it was enough to flaunt convention, wasn't it?

If I'm to die here then so be it.

He would never let that come to pass. He wasn't prepared to go through all this bullshit for nothing.

"I keep my promises," he thought, resolved. "Especially for you, kid."

Once a sinner, hands were always stained.

It was messy.

The man entered the bathroom in a cloud of cancer fumes. The syringe ready in his hand, Ken attacked and for one moment, he actually felt the weight of his blades encasing his hands. Misgivings fell apart in the wake of this familiar rush. This was what he was, what he knew. In those finals seconds, morality and ethics were stripped bare. There was only the primordial lure of death and blood and nothing else mattered then.

You can't get used to it, never that but maybe...maybe you can come to *like* it.

Somehow, whether the he had glimpsed Ken's reflection in the sink mirror or he'd simply felt something off, the man knew Ken was there. He whirled around and levelled a kick to Ken's stomach. He was quick and strong, more so than any old man should be. Ken lurched, the wind torn from his lungs. As he regained his balance by grabbing onto the doorknob, the syringe fell to the floor. It skittered across the tiles and bounced against the black toilet bowl.

The man took his eyes from Ken just for a moment to see what had fallen. That provided enough distraction for Ken to regain his bearings. He hurled himself at the man, smashing his fist into the guy's face. The cigarette fell to the floor. The sickening crunch of fragile bones breaking shrilled throughout the silence. Blood ruptured from the man's nose. He uttered a soft sound of surprise, one Ken was unable to hear.

His mind, incapable to cope with the fact that this man might be good, built Ken a defence made of illusions. That grey hair grew darker and those bloody lips shifted, changing until they became ones that had kissed Ken. Ken saw Crawford then and though he knew that this man wasn't him but rather a target, he gave in all the same.

Because sometimes it was just easier to give in.

The blistering fury he'd kept contained at Crawford's attitude and actions seemed to burst open then. Ken reacted with a violence that was beyond what he normally gave into. It was saturated with hatred and humiliation and fear; all that Crawford had wrung from him. This task abruptly delved into the realm of 'personal' and 'vengeance' and he wasn't going to let it go, not now.

What did it matter anyway? Sinners always sinned.

Hard knuckles jammed into Ken's throat and then into his mouth. He choked, stunned anew at the man's speed but had enough mind to return the favour. Dimly, as though from far away he could hear whatever rationality was left in his mind...and it sounded a lot like the kid and oh didn't it hurt to think of that...telling him that he absolutely could not break blood, not when DNA testing was so easy to come by. Kritiker had clean up teams who scoured the site after a mission and made certain no incriminating evidence was left behind. Ken doubted Crawford had any such resources at his behest.

The man crashed into the bathroom sink, his face a mess of blood and spit. His eyes were frightened because he knew and though he gave to Ken as good as he could it wasn't enough. Ken's guts and throat swam in pain but those eyes looked amber and he really couldn't help himself.

A shower of stars exploded into Ken's head. He grunted, pushing away from the wall he'd been banged into and lashed out with a kick. The man stumbled, wavering as he strove to maintain his balance. Ken grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face into the jacuzzi's edge. A thrashing elbow caught him hard in the bruised muscles of his stomach. Gasping, he let go and for a minute his vision blurred.

We fight for what we believe in. We can only hope it's enough. What else can we do?

Omi's voice once more, light and wise beyond his years.

He couldn't let the kid down, not again.

Ken blinked hard and scrambled to catch hold of the discarded syringe. The man tried to stand but wasn't able to. Fractured bits of his teeth scattered across the floor. There was blood all over the rim of the jacuzzi and on the white floor tiles.

"Who are you?" The man gurgled around a mouthful of thick fluid.

Ken didn't answer, couldn't answer. Panting as his lungs screamed, Ken yanked up the syringe and crammed it home, even as the man managed a solid blow to his side.

He swore as the man fell to the floor, his head smashing onto the floor with an obscene thump. Then the man began to convulse.

The man who wasn't Crawford. The man who could very well be a decent sort.

Shaking violently, his body rupturing in pain, Ken spilled from yet another murder scene.

Another notch on the pole.

Crawford found him in the garden a good twenty minutes later, sitting on a large decorative rock and staring up at the sky.

"Who was he?" Ken demanded without any preamble. His body, while still a bit sore, felt better. His breathing was normal again and though he had a couple of bruises, he hadn't bled.

Crawford studied him, his aloof gaze lingering over discoloured lips. "I would have thought that one who's made killing their livelihood would possess some semblance of self-control."

"It's not my fucking livelihood!" Ken bristled, grinding his teeth in fury at Crawford's haughty attitude. Crawford made Weiss sound so dirty when it wasn't. They each had their own reasons for becoming killers and Crawford had no right to judge him. Visions or not, the man didn't know shitall! "Why did you want that man killed?" Ken persisted doggedly. "What did he do? Was he good or bad?"

"Good or bad?" Crawford looked amused, his lips quirking in a cynical slant. "Don't tell me you actually perceive the world in such black and white terms? That isn't anything more then a luxury and I think you know it. Murderers don't have the right to indulge in morality. You gave up that right when you first killed."

Crawford's words were his own thoughts and doubts made solid. They stung, slashing his bleeding heart just a little bit further. He lashed out, cowering behind self-righteous anger but they both knew how those words hurt. And how they rang true. "You don't have any right to judge me, not when you're practically squirming in your own filth! There are people in this world who've sinned and they deserve to die but don't because they hide behind power. It's our job to strip that away and pay them for their crimes. I don't give a shit about your approval or what you think so you can just get bent!"

"Is that so?" Crawford loomed over him, enshadowing him. "And what about what you deserve Ken? Who will extract reparations for your sins?" Long fingers slid over the bruised curve of angry lips. Crawford smirked the Japanese boy jerked away. "Or do you already know the answer?"

"When this is over I'll kill you," Ken vowed, rubbing heatedly at his mouth. He couldn't rid himself of the shaky little shivers the man's touch had fuelled and that enraged him even further. "Consider that a promise."

"You are naive." Crawford pushed up his glasses and they flashed in the moonlight. "This will be interesting."