Disclaimers: I don't own Weiß Kreuz and I don't own Yami no Matsuei.  I just decided to take a character from each, make them meet and slash them.  Nothing wrong with that, right?

Rating: All I can say is that it's not for nice little innocent eyes. 

Warnings: Odd pairing. o.o; MurakixAya.  Controversial imagery.  May cause nosebleeds.  ::Hands out the tissues.::  Oh and yes, PWP.

Notes: I don't have the slightest clue where this came from.  Was watching Yami and noticed how Muraki had a thing for violet eyes so… this happened. 

Sinful Virtues

by Andariel

He didn't know how this could have happened.  Caught, just plainly caught on a mission.  The stupidest of mistakes.  The most careless of actions and there he was, beaten, humiliated but not broken.  Not yet.  Not ever!  Shimmering amethysts glared coldly at the angelic figure in front of him.  No, not angelic but far from it.  However, how could one not notice and admire those pure, downright handsome features?  The metallic silver hair and matching eyes.  Aya always thought that he had an unusual gaze, but this proved that he wasn't all that alone when it came to exotic looks.  His admiration in the form of a fierce glare turned to a flinch that marred his usually stoic features.  He had tugged at his wrists once again; the thin material that made up his bonds cutting deeply into his already bloody wrists.  The pain was sharp, unlike anything he had felt before, but then again that night had been full of new, shall we say… experiences.  He could feel the warm crimson liquid seep down his bare arms; his coat had been lost sometime back and so had his gloves.  Nothing protected that sensitive flesh of his wrists and yet he knew that it would only get worse if he were to move, which of course, he did.  Stubbornness had always been his downside, he had been told more than once.  No tears stained that pretty marble face, however, no sign of weakness escaped him but the soft hisses through gritted teeth.  The pain was there, no doubt and there were even certain things that Aya could not put behind his nicely constructed mask. 

            Writhing against his bonds, Aya snapped his eyes open to look at his capturer.  The man stood there with a casual smirk playing on those lips, fingers toying around the hilt of Aya's unsheathed katana.  For some reason the very notion that someone else, that this bastard was touching his weapon only made him angrier; only made him glare more fiercely.  It was a wonder that the silver-haired wonder had not been frozen on the spot.  But no, he walked toward Aya who merely sat there, bound against the light gray stone of the large cross.  His wrists held above his head, bound tightly to the stone; unmoving, mercilessly.  The older man moved forward, the light clicking of his heels against the marble floor.  Perfect imagery of an angel indeed; the perfectly ironed white suit and polished white shoes, silvery strands of hair falling over his face messily yet absolutely stunningly, covering his right eye, which Aya had still to catch a glimpse yet.  Not that he was interested, really.  The fine-framed glasses reflected his own figure, bound, beaten, bloody… there was even a more fierce tinge of red beaming down through the stained windows of the otherwise deserted church.  The moon was laughing at him tonight.  It was laughing at his fate, at his fucked up destiny that led him here instead of where he was supposed to be getting his revenge.  But things never worked that way, now did they?  No, of course not.

            The man still approached and paused right before him.  The katana, his katana held in a gloved hand.  But he could not bear to even look at it.  He could not bear to look away from his incandescent image that leaned closer to him.  He could not…

            Suddenly his eyes widened as the unmistakable sound of metal beating down on stone echoed loudly through the spacious church.  This man, whoever he was had lifted his hand and slammed the katana into the stone, right below his wrists.  He could feel the cold metal against his naked flesh.  He could also feel the poor blade's tip being dulled and shattered as it beat down into the harsh stone.  How many hours would it take him to fix that… 

            Flinch. Ow, fuck!  He winced as his body was suddenly jolted out of his previously somewhat comfortable position.  A white clad knee had been rammed between his own, spreading his legs so that he could lean closer to his redheaded prisoner. 

            "Beautiful…" came the melodic voice, whispering ever so softly, his breath tickling Aya's cut lips, his fingers touching the assassin's cheek in what could've been interpreted as a gentle caress.  Given the circumstances, it was anything but.  Those gloved fingers slid upward, brushing over messy strands of crimson red hair to twist painfully into the silky strands.  All that was withdrawn from Aya was a cringe as his head was tugged backward, slamming into the harsh stone.  Thankfully it wasn't violent enough to cause any major damage.  Just a few stars that floated around his head for a few seconds before frizzling back into reality.  "You'll be even more beautiful when I break you."  He concluded, giving those split lips a brush of his own.

            Aya tried to fight him; he really did but the tearing pain around his lips, not to mention the sharp touch of his own blade resting against the inside of his crimson-stained wrists.  The sharp hold on his hair that kept his head in place surely did not help matters either but despite the situation, he still struggled, writhing against the cold stone in vain attempts to get away.

            Stuck.  Trapped.  No way out.  He shuddered, whether it was out of rage or fear of the shitty situation it couldn't be told but all he could do was shut his eyes, shut them so that he did not have to look in the face of the man that leaned over him, teasing, taunting, torturing.  He would not be broken.  He would not allow himself to be broken.  Not now, not ever and not by this sick fiend.  But who could ignore the hand that drifted gradually down his chest, certainly leaving red imprints behind due to the force that was being used.  His shirt wasn't thick enough to mask the sensations of that touch, nor serve as a protective barrier against those hands he had learned to despise.  Oh, how he wanted to scream and curse and protest.  How he wanted to do all those things but found himself deadly silent as thick pride cut off every possible word that could escape his pained lips.  Lips, which were being crushed against those of another.  There was nothing gentle about the gesture, as he knew there would be none.  He was but a prisoner there to be used to this man's desires.  A man whose name he did not even know.  But then again, did it matter?

            What more could he really do other than sit there, pressing himself painfully against the stone that was biting into his back and endure the rough caresses and kisses that trailed down the side of his neck?  His eyes snapped open to stare at the highly decorated ceiling of the church, how ironic, ne?  He shuddered yet again as a bare hand was pressed to his abdomen, beneath the black material of his shirt.  So that's what that whispered noise had been before: the falling of a glove upon the spotless marble floor.  Spotless but not for long, he thought bitterly, still quite aware of the blood that slid down his arms.  Arms that were soon going numb.  He tried to move, causing himself only more pain to that tender zone of his wrists that was tightly bound.  Seems like they're not numb yet, after all.

            "Yamero…" finally, his voice was found.

            "Kesshite," was the firm yet quiet reply, contrasted greatly by the sharp grasp that wrapped tightly around Aya's chin.  He'd definitely have more than a few bruises when he woke up the following morning.  That is if he woke up at all.

            He didn't know where the knife had come from, he had not even seen it be drawn but he sure felt it slide down his chest, the sharp point teasing the pale, sensitive flesh as the black turtleneck he wore was sliced open.  There went that.  But with it came back the burning rage he felt about the situation.  Cold amethysts were turned on the silver haired man, who merely looked at Aya with the same cool composure and casual smirk he had offered minutes earlier.  He had leaned up to admire his handy work, presumed Aya with a scowl.  Unlike before he said nothing, knowing it would be meaningless rambles that would show nothing more other than weakness.  Fujimiya Aya was not weak.  He would live through this, through this night and bring down this goddamn bastard when he less expected it.  But he would not break and would not give into the sick game this man was obviously playing.

            The usually affective glare did not work on this man.  In fact, it seemed to have merely encouraged him to go on with his sick little game.  But Aya continued glaring coldly; so coldly that the sun itself could have frozen over if it was there to witness this scene.  But it was not.  The only companion was the cold red moon shining outside.  Shining outside and laughing at the humiliating circumstances he found himself in. 

            It was only then that he realized just how cold it was inside the church.  His chest, now unprotected by the soft black material of his shirt was more sensitive to the crisp coolness that surrounded him.  He fought the shivers that attempted to force themselves down his spine, but he would not tremble, would not show weakness.  Never. 

            But just for how long would his little defiant act sustain him for? 

            Everything eventually came to an end…

            Perhaps what unnerved him the most was the fact that this man did not just get down to business and get it over with, no, that would be much too easy, much too easy to endure and block out.  This was not the idea.  The idea was to break him and thus he would take his time to watch his little pet squirm and slowly break apart.  It was more fun that way, Aya thought with a wave of sickness that threatened to wash over him.  Another sign of weakness.  Damn the human body that always found a way to betray the mind.

            Amethyst eyes narrowed dangerously, Aya's body twitched, tugging once again at the bonds that held his wrists dangerously in place.  Ah, let's not forget the katana as well, shall we?  And he didn't.  All it took was the light touch of the cold metal upon his bloody and battered flesh to make him pause, even angrier still.  Perhaps that would be the easy way out of this, just slice his wrist open and bleed to death.  No more going through whatever this bastard had thought out for him.  No more fun and games, just comfortable darkness that would wash over him, welcome him in with open arms and a smile to let him sleep and rest and finally be at peace.

            But that would go against the whole point of surviving through this.

            That would ruin all that he had planned himself.  All that he still lived and killed for.  He still had business to take care of.  He still had his revenge to take and this would not solve anything.  In fact, this would make it all in vain.

            He would not die in vain either.

            Seems like he was stuck after all.  And somehow, this guy had known this.  But how? 

            A shaky breath touched his lips as the man approached once again and touched the sharp tip of the blade he held to his chin, raising Aya's head just enough to meet his gaze.  Amethyst on silver.  Ah, but there, he saw it now what the silky strands of silver hair covered; where an eye should be was instead one made out of glass.  How… strange.  But who was he to judge?  

            "Who are you?"  Aya spat bitterly, his tone sharp, crisp, cold.  Of course he expected no answer aside from a chuckle or a grin, or perhaps another move toward the torture that he was about to endure.  Whatever that might be.  But no, there was a response and he saw it as those lips parted, the soft voice emitting quietly, huskily even.

            "You may call me Muraki."

            Just like that?  Aya seriously hoped that his surprise was well masked by his many layers of heavy façade.  He hoped, but he was not sure.  At this point it was quite hard to be sure of anything like that.  But at least now he had a name.  Not like it meant much, really.  But it was a name.  A name to hate and despise and do even things to in his mind while he could not do them in person.  Yet.

            Metal hit the cold marble floor.  It echoed beautifully against the mostly barren walls decorated with their religious figures and stained glass windows.  How ironic.  He who had given up on the gods over two years ago.  He who more than once claimed to bear the "cross."  He who now was bound to the very cross (which happened to have a very light shade of gray, nearly white…) within the very house of god, as the Christians liked to call it.  All sins sum up to this.  The knife had been dropped, thankfully so… or in fact, probably not thankfully so because instead of the knife were now fingers, touching his jaw ever-so-softly.  A lover's touch, it appeared.  Ah, but how far from the truth.  "I cannot wait to hear you cry…" 

            Aya broke out of the touch, turning his head sharply but it was no use, the said Muraki was there and on him.  No way out.  He felt like a caged animal.

            What wonderful imagery.

            A sharp gasp escaped his lips, betraying him as blunt nails raked down his pallid chest, leaving red marks behind.  But they did not stop when those fingers reached the bridge of his pants.  Not at all.  Those fingers undid the buckle with expert ease.  Sharp, tugging movements that got the black mission pants open and another scowl from him, but weaker this time.  So much weaker… he wasn't trained for this situation.  He wasn't prepared for this.  Anything but this…

            The worse part was that his body, once again was betraying him.  Some dark, sick, twisted side of his mind was enjoying this. The feel of those raking nails, the tugging of his pants that bared more than he would have liked yet not enough.  The coldness that assaulted his body, making him shiver involuntarily, making his body react in ways that it was not supposed to reach, making him angry and yet so desperately pleading for whatever it was going to be done to him.  He wanted to scream, he wanted to fight, he wanted to do anything to get away from that grasp but couldn't.  Found himself instead frozen in place while warm, moist lips were trailed down his throat.  Descending toward his quickly rising and falling chest to take between them a hardened nipple.

            He told himself that he was cold.

            He told himself that he was certainly not enjoying this.

            He told himself… he told himself a whole lot of bullshit that kept him sane at the time, because he was not supposed to be enjoying this.

            Aya grit his teeth, making his jaw hurt but the pain was being dulled away by something else, something else more sinfully pleasurable than it was supposed to be.  The sensations that were brought forth were extraordinary.  He twitched, squirming beneath the ravishing kisses that trailed across his chest to fall over the other nipple, the same treatment applied: the none-too-gentle nipping of teeth, the torturous brush of an expert tongue. 

            Gods!  How was he supposed to get through this with an inch of sanity left on his abused mind?

            Cannot give in… cannot give in.

            The rough kisses and sharp nips were lowered down his abdomen, once again making him squirm.  A sharp breath escaped him and Aya threw his head back, resting against the stone that was his crucifix, his payment for his sins, amethyst eyes closed, lips parted ever slightly in the perfect image of a fallen angel.  So this is what it was like to sin…

            Suddenly a new kind of cool assaulted him.  Those damn pants had been thoroughly undone to reveal the growing arousal that lied beneath. 

            Damn weak, betraying human bodies…

            How he loved them at this point.

            Coherent thoughts were beyond his grasp and for once, that was quite all right.  He no longer sought for control.  He no longer sought for sanity. He no longer sought for anything other than the pleasure that was being held by a thin string in front of him but not being brought forth. 

The thick black material of his pants was parted and pulled downward just enough so that those expert lips could envelop the growing erection that was the cause of his turmoil.  Muraki had sunk down to his knees before his trapped pet, the long coat and jacket long gone and lying carelessly on the floor to the side, leaving him in a halfway parted gray dress shirt.  Aya did not dare look him.  Did not dare look anywhere but the darkness behind his lids as he allowed a muted moan to escape his from his throat as his now desperately throbbing erection received a torturous brush of that tongue. 

            It wasn't enough.  It was never enough.  But it was also obvious that Muraki wasn't about to settle for so little.  After but a few strokes of his tongue over the throbbing member, after tasting that sweet saltiness that was being brought forth by his efforts and his efforts alone, the silver haired man ceased all physical contact, remaining close, however so that Aya could feel the softness of his breath upon that over sensitive flesh.

            Subconsciously, Aya bucked his hips ever slightly only to be held down by a firm hand against his abdomen.  A hiss escaped through gritted teeth.  Amethyst eyes snapped open in what could've been identified as defiance, but was in fact something else.  Something different. Much different.  Much more pleasant.  Yes, it was rage that build up inside of him, still transferred over from the fact that he was here in the first place, but now it was fueled by something more.  A desire that dug deeper than mere anger over the circumstances.  No, this time he was using the circumstances to further his own wishes.  He would not be broken.  Would not…

            He wanted to tell Muraki to release him, wanted to take control of this situation.  Wanted something more than just sit there at someone's mercy but he said nothing.  That would seem like begging.  That would seem like giving in, which in reality he was but would not admit to himself just yet.  Aya watched through narrowed pools of amethyst as the other man leaned up and closer to himself, one hand ascending to take hold of the hilt of his precious katana.  The poor thing.  He felt the cold metal shift against his wrists but did not once wince or flinch or do anything that would betray any sort of emotion other than the apparent anger portrayed on his chilly, handsome features.  However, as he felt the weight of his arms being released as whatever material that held his bloody wrists together was slashed through it, a gasp of surprise (and pain) touched his lips.  Partially numb arms dropped, allowing him to nurse those wounded wrists for a moment, all the while staring at his capturer intently.  What was the meaning of this?

            Fuck the meaning of his, he wanted more. 

            Slender fingers shot out to wrap themselves tightly around the dark gray collar of Muraki's shirt, yanking him closer as Aya too leaned forward away from the coldness of the stone cross that had become his resting place.  As if he had already been expecting this, Muraki had come closer quite willingly, ever slightly caving under the hold that pulled him closer to Aya in silence.  All but a smirk tainted those doll-like features. 

            There were no words to be exchanged, but that was no surprise.  There were no silent remarks or cautious looks.  There was nothing but uncontrollable lust that would later on be denied.  But for now lust was all it was and lust was what carried Aya forward with such intensity that would later on surprise even himself.  Still holding onto that parted collar, he pressed a fervent kiss to the other's lips, a kiss that fought for control, that bruised, that left his mark but unfortunately it wasn't so easy.  There was no control to be fought over for it had already been established the moment that he had been bound to that cross.  To emphasize this very point, Muraki touched a hand to Aya's bare chest, shoving him back onto the stone cross that had become his throne.  The kiss was broken and Aya hit the stone with a flinch but the pain barely even registered though the lustful haziness that was his mind.

            One bruise and cut at a time, Aya was becoming broken.  But not on the inside.  Not even as those enigma-filled, silver-bathed features approached.  The harsh kiss was then continued and this time it was obvious just who was in control of the situation.  Aya did not even bother to fight by this point, preferring to merely give into whatever this would turn out to be than bring even more harm to himself.  Besides, the point of all this was to go home unbroken, right?  This would only be accomplished if he gave in willingly instead of being forced into doing so.  Nothing about the meeting was gentle, however, and nothing would ever be.  This was the only silent understanding both of them held.  No one needed to speak a word to get this notion across and by the snappy, jolty movements coming from Aya, he apparently had no complaints. 

            The redhead worked almost desperately at unbuttoning the rest of the gray shirt before pushing it hastily from the pale broad shoulders it covered.  The thin material fluttered to the floor, hitting the marble surface in a whisper of fabric.  That insipid flesh was immediately marred by the fresh crimson that stained Aya's wrists, staining this vision of flawless beauty that knelt before him.  Yet something about that liquid crimson marring that chalky surface made it all the more appealing.  More real, perhaps in where none of this really seemed to be real or make any sense.  His hands continued to trail down, accompanied by the harsh breaths that escaped his lips, now free as the other was focusing on marking random spots of his neck with none-too-gentle nips and ravishing kisses.  Amethyst eyes fluttered in and out of sight as his lids trembled beneath the sensation that was being pushed through his body without his mental consent.  Mental consent was overrated, after all.  His fingers found the buckle of the white pants Muraki wore and immediately pulled them open with a jerky yank that surprisingly enough did not send the button flying and rolling on the floor.  But nothing shattered the thick silence they basked upon, just Aya's ragged breaths, which were all too quiet to even disturb anything. 

            Who was there to disturb?  The silent saints that stood by to watch the two human sinners bask in the pure lust that drove them?  Wasn't that one of the seven deadly sins?  Hell might as well open up its doors and let them in right then and there.

            Black-clad knees hit the marble floor painfully, a sharp jolt forcing itself up ever tendon and bone but getting lost somewhere along the nerve endings of his brain that were supposed to tell him that it had just hurt.  Too cloudy; too damn cloudy to register such petty things.  He much rather focus on the tasks at hand, one of which happened to be the throbbing length of Muraki's member.  He watched through half lidded amethysts as the other man grit his teeth, stifling a groan that dared form in his throat.  Aya was pulled forward in his straddling position, the slashed shirt pushed aside to that he too could be bathed in the vibrant red light that shone in through the stained windows.  He felt as those rough hands raced down his bare back, fingers hooking around the bridge of his parted pants, yanking them down further so that he sat exposed and completely vulnerable to the coolness that surrounded him but did not seem to penetrate the bubble that had enclosed itself around them. 

            Lust.  Pain.  It all hit him in full force now more than ever as he felt the fingers that were kind enough to prepare him for what would come next, invade his body in the most intimate of ways.  Invade, probe but also reach up into that oh-so tender spot in all which turned blindingly white and the moans finally made it past his lips; stubbornness and pride long forgotten over the development of the night.  He knew his fingers were leaving marks on the shoulders he held onto desperately, fighting the urge of both getting away from the intimate invasion as well as lean into it.  He wasn't sure what he wanted, but he was sure of one thing: that blinding white pleasure that made everything he ever knew seem like forgotten traces of a life long gone was all he looked forward to.  But first came dismay as he was suddenly left with a dreading feeling of emptiness as the fingers that took care in stretching him were removed. 

            Kiss bruised and split lips were parted in silent protest as the reasonable length he had been taunting just seconds earlier was pushed into the tight, warm protesting cavity of his body.  The silence was broken as a groan formed in his throat, sounding so out of place in their given surroundings.  But then again, wasn't this all out of place for a claimed holy place?  Aya dug his fingers into the quickly warming flesh of the other man, who was in no better condition than him.  Whatever precautions had been taken earlier were being made up for now as Muraki buried himself within the younger man, giving the shuddering redhead a few seconds before beginning to move deeply against him.  It took all the self-control he had to keep from crying out against the burning pain that was slowly overcoming the pleasure he had just experienced previously.

            Ah, patience was a virtue when the fuzziness of the mind began to be cut through by the sharp jaws of physical pain. 

            But finally, finally that earth-shattering sensation was brought back as that wonderful spot was hit once again, causing him to arc his back and cry out loudly.  Red bangs had begun to stick to his forehead with the perspiration brought about by the efforts he was being put through.  Gladly, of course.  He no longer saw anything but the darkness behind tightly shut lids and momentary white sparks as he was being pushed to climax.  His breath was ragged, as was that of Muraki who contented himself with taking his pleasure rather than making any extra efforts to deliver it as well.

            And thus it was over much too soon.  Much too soon as Aya felt himself be flooded with the warmness only identified as the other man's release.  He wasn't sure if he wanted to scream or to cry, being pushed to such limits only to be used and tossed away like yesterday's trash that someone forgot to take out the previous night. 

A shaky breath escaped him, making his body quake, suddenly cold with the sweat it had gathered and the coldness that had suddenly made its presence around him.  He dared not open his eyes, dared not for he feared what he would find.  A stab through the back perhaps?  That'd be the great way to go, ne?

But he had to open them, just to face the sick reality he had just been placed through yet… yet something did not look right.  In fact, it looked much too right.  Way too right to confirm his despairing fears.  The ceiling was all too plain above him.  In fact the ground he lied on felt nothing like the cold marble he had been previously been made aware of.  It felt… soft, comfortable.  And that voice!  Fuck that voice that sleepily called his name, the warm hands that touched his arm with a light caress as if to raise him from whatever trance he had just fallen into.  He knew it and it wasn't cold, nor did it belong to the silver haired man that had just fucked the life out of him and left him to the Fates.  That voice… 

He turned his head slowly, amethyst gaze starting to clear as he tried to focus on the sleepy face that lied beside him, choppy strands of chocolate brown falling over half lidded cyan blue orbs.

"Ken…"

~*~ Owari? ~*~

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::Dodges any flying objects being thrown her way.::  Well?  ::Grin.::  Reviews, comments, hate mail anyone?