Weiss Kreuz (Farfarello/Schuldig)
Jul. 3rd, 2007 11:19 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
file-five.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
kinkfestTitle: Damaged Goods
Author: Truth -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
file_five
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Knife-play, self-inflicted injuries, violence, slash
Word Count: 1767
Summary: Farfarello had more than his share of scar tissue, and little of it was actually visible to the naked eye.
There was something almost tantalizing about the entire business, the sense of 'forbidden' not at all assuaged by the fact that his first encounter with Farfarello had found Schuldig pressed against the bars of a holding cell trying to get a better look at the figure wound up in the straightjacket in the far corner of the tiny room.
They hadn’t had a straightjacket in his size and it was just a little too small, cutting into his skin in a way that let him know there’d be marks when he was set free. Inconvenient, mildly irritating, yet another mark against their ability to see him as a human being, but nothing that he couldn’t ignore. Not that he would. Someone would bleed for this – not the discomfort, but the dehumanization.
There was something about Farfarello that would never be predictable – never be tamed, and Schuldig watched him with the fascination of a small child faced with fire for the first time. Yes, they’d been warned that it would burn them if they touched it, but it was so beautiful… so tantalizing.
The first three things that Schuldig learned about Farfarello were easy.
1. Farfarello really was mad, if in a very cold and calculating fashion.
2. If you treated him honestly, he wouldn’t try to kill you. Well – certainly not as often.
3. Logic does not apply.
The fourth was more difficult, and it tied back into the ‘small child with flame’ bit.
4. Do not touch.
Schuldig was a very tactile person. He liked to touch and Farfarello….
Farfarello liked Schuldig, or at least had nothing serious against him, because Schuldig got to keep his fingers.
It was the touching that he objected to, it was Schuldig’s touching that he wanted to stop. He could almost taste the fascination and curiosity and it was too much like being a toy or a thing. Schuldig didn’t see it that way, not really – which was why he came away with only a warning. The blood was to make certain it wasn’t a warning he’d forget.
The first time Schuldig caught Farfarello without the bandages that were a part of his daily wardrobe, he’d paused and stared. Farfarello had endured the scrutiny stoically, rolling them up before tossing them into the trash. The heavily muscled body, whipcord and bone, didn’t have a mark on it – if you didn’t count the damage done to his face.
“Why…?” Schuldig paused, shrugging as he let the question peter out. If Farfarello didn’t want to answer, he wouldn’t answer and that would be the end of it.
Farfarello gave him a measuring look.
Because he liked to control how people saw him. Because by now it was habit. Because there was always blood, and it beat having to pay for getting that blood out of his clothing.
“Because it keeps people from asking questions.”
Schuldig gave him a look that said he’d heard the evasion, despite the fact that it was at least half-truth. “Then why do it at all?”
That was a question that took him onto dangerous ground and he knew it, but he wanted to know and listening to Farfarello think was only marginally less hazardous than actually touching him. The question had to be verbal, and he’d have to be content with the answer Farfarello gave.
“Have you ever tried it?”
That stopped Schuldig in his metaphorical tracks and he paused to consider, not the question, but the reason for it. Farfarello left him to it, dropping into a chair to remove his boots. Schuldig had obviously interrupted him on his way to a shower and Farfarello rarely allowed the telepath’s curiosity to so much as slow him down.
Schuldig’s attention was occasionally irritating, but his mindset was slowly altering and so was the attention being paid. It beat being thought a particularly shiny pebble to be collected and placed with the rest in Schuldig’s mental jackdaw nest.
“I’m not exactly fond of pain,” Schuldig finally admitted. “At least not my own… and you don’t seem to have to worry about infection or impeding your ability to work.”
Farfarello finished undressing, reaching for the towel on the back of his chair. “It has nothing to do with pain.”
“I gathered.” Schuldig looked at him with honest curiosity. “So why?”
Defiance, pride, fury, vengeance, memory….
Farfarello stared back at him levelly. “Would you like to find out?”
Schuldig hesitated, eyes narrowing. He still wanted to touch and just maybe…. “Yes.”
“Take off your shirt,” Farfarello advised him, padding toward the bathroom. “And anything else you don’t want to get wet.”
An opportunity, perhaps. Possibly something more.
Several minutes passed before Schuldig joined Farfarello in the bathroom. He was wearing his pants, but all else had been discarded. Farfarello was before the mirror, running a towel through his hair.
He showered as he did most things, swiftly and efficiently. There were more interesting things upon which Farfarello chose to spend his time and this would be one of them. Winding his towel around his hips, he turned to look at Schuldig.
Schuldig looked back, waiting.
There was a knife on the edge of the sink, although Schuldig could not remember Farfarello having one in hand when entering the bathroom. The blade had a thin sheen of moisture and Farfarello paused to wipe it dry before gesturing to Schuldig. “Kneel on the floor.”
He didn’t wait for Schuldig to do as he was bid, moving to sit himself on the edge of the tub.
Slowly, Schuldig knelt on the slightly damp bathmat, keeping a wary eye on the knife.
“It’s not for you,” Farfarello assured him dryly. “Not in that way.”
Schuldig made a face at him, but resisted the urge to comment. He had the very strong feeling that it would not be appreciated.
Farfarello handed him the knife.
There was a long silence as Schuldig turned it in his hand, feeling the weight of it. He was no stranger to knives or their use… but he’d never contemplated whatever this was. He glanced up at Farfarello for some sort of sign and received, instead, an open hand.
It wasn’t quite a test, this didn’t have the right feel to it, but Schuldig knew that hesitation would not be appreciated. It was strange to see so much skin without a mark on it, and his eyes were drawn upward again to Farfarello’s face.
Without his eyepatch, attention wasn’t drawn so forcibly to the lines that cut across Farfarello’s face. Even the ruined eye was pale on pale and might require a second look to realize that the mark there wasn’t simply a mark, but a thick scar that cut across the eye as well as the half-closed lid above it.
Farfarello’s skin was warm beneath his fingers, still radiating the heat of his shower, and Schuldig forced his attention downward. Almost without thinking, he rested the blade of the knife against the pale blue of the vein that ran down the inside of Farfarello’s arm.
It didn’t matter. Schuldig would not kill Farfarello and there would be no marks.
It wasn’t trust, it was a strange sort of understanding and Schuldig slid the knife to one side, drawing it slowly along the curve of muscle in the forearm, pressing down harder with every centimeter.
Dark blood welled slowly in the wake of the knife, dripping in a steady stream as Schuldig reached Farfarello’s wrist and withdrew the blade. He watched the blood, puzzled, as if expecting some enlightenment, absently cleaning the blade on Farfarello’s towel.
“It means… nothing,” he decided.
Farfarello nodded, holding out his free hand for the knife. Schuldig gave it to him, still frowning at the arm in his grasp. A moment later, with a casual disregard for Schuldig’s introspection, Farfarello made a second gash, parallel to the first.
To abuse a sacred temple, constructed in God’s image, to cause injury that brought no pain and left no marks, to question, to hate, to provoke, to deny….
Schuldig felt his eyes trying to roll back into his head as he attempted to release Farfarello’s arm and, instead, felt his fingers digging in even more tightly.
“It means nothing,” Farfarello corrected him, voice tight, “when you do it.”
Forcing himself to release his grip on Farfarello, Schuldig raised fingers that felt thick and clumsy to trace the faint lines on Farfarello’s face. The pale marks were overlaid by fading streaks of blood in the wake of Schuldig’s fingers. “These… you didn’t make these.”
An altercation in one of the hospitals, overlooked because who cared what the criminally insane did amongst themselves. He’d lost an eye…. It was the last thing he clearly remembered feeling.
“Scars.” They were the marks of someone else’s hands on Farfarello’s body and something else, something that Schuldig could not quite grasp.
Schuldig took a shallow breath and then a second, still trying to find his mental feet. He found himself staring down at the blood on Farfarello’s arm, watching in fascination as Farfarello took an edge of the towel and wiped away the blood. “That….”
“It will not scar,” Farfarello told him dryly.
There was a sense of betrayal in that, and Schuldig looked up to where he’d marked Farfarello’s face with blood.
Why would it scar? There would be no satisfaction in that. The mark was no act of violence, imposed from without.
There it was again, the edges of something that Schuldig could see, but not quite touch.
“Try not to think too much,” Farfarello told him dryly, raising a bloody hand and drawing a dark line down Schuldig’s own forearm.
Yes, this was so much more satisfying.
Schuldig took the knife back, staring at it as if still in search of some sort of coherent answer. Farfarello had an answer, and it was obviously one that satisfied him, but Schuldig was no closer to figuring it out.
Matters were taken abruptly out of his hands as Farfarello rose from the edge of the tub and, with a casual shove, pushed Schuldig over onto his side. The knife was retrieved and drawn gently across Schuldig’s face, mimicking the lines of blood he’d trailed on Farfarello’s skin.
Comprehension slowly dawned as the knife moved to Schuldig’s arm, breaking the skin as Farfarello drew it downward and Schuldig made a sound that, suddenly, had nothing at all to do with pain.
Schuldig would never look at him in the same way again.
Sometimes one has to actually touch the fire to realize the truth of the burn.
Author: Truth -
file_five Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Knife-play, self-inflicted injuries, violence, slash
Word Count: 1767
Summary: Farfarello had more than his share of scar tissue, and little of it was actually visible to the naked eye.
There was something almost tantalizing about the entire business, the sense of 'forbidden' not at all assuaged by the fact that his first encounter with Farfarello had found Schuldig pressed against the bars of a holding cell trying to get a better look at the figure wound up in the straightjacket in the far corner of the tiny room.
They hadn’t had a straightjacket in his size and it was just a little too small, cutting into his skin in a way that let him know there’d be marks when he was set free. Inconvenient, mildly irritating, yet another mark against their ability to see him as a human being, but nothing that he couldn’t ignore. Not that he would. Someone would bleed for this – not the discomfort, but the dehumanization.
There was something about Farfarello that would never be predictable – never be tamed, and Schuldig watched him with the fascination of a small child faced with fire for the first time. Yes, they’d been warned that it would burn them if they touched it, but it was so beautiful… so tantalizing.
The first three things that Schuldig learned about Farfarello were easy.
1. Farfarello really was mad, if in a very cold and calculating fashion.
2. If you treated him honestly, he wouldn’t try to kill you. Well – certainly not as often.
3. Logic does not apply.
The fourth was more difficult, and it tied back into the ‘small child with flame’ bit.
4. Do not touch.
Schuldig was a very tactile person. He liked to touch and Farfarello….
Farfarello liked Schuldig, or at least had nothing serious against him, because Schuldig got to keep his fingers.
It was the touching that he objected to, it was Schuldig’s touching that he wanted to stop. He could almost taste the fascination and curiosity and it was too much like being a toy or a thing. Schuldig didn’t see it that way, not really – which was why he came away with only a warning. The blood was to make certain it wasn’t a warning he’d forget.
The first time Schuldig caught Farfarello without the bandages that were a part of his daily wardrobe, he’d paused and stared. Farfarello had endured the scrutiny stoically, rolling them up before tossing them into the trash. The heavily muscled body, whipcord and bone, didn’t have a mark on it – if you didn’t count the damage done to his face.
“Why…?” Schuldig paused, shrugging as he let the question peter out. If Farfarello didn’t want to answer, he wouldn’t answer and that would be the end of it.
Farfarello gave him a measuring look.
Because he liked to control how people saw him. Because by now it was habit. Because there was always blood, and it beat having to pay for getting that blood out of his clothing.
“Because it keeps people from asking questions.”
Schuldig gave him a look that said he’d heard the evasion, despite the fact that it was at least half-truth. “Then why do it at all?”
That was a question that took him onto dangerous ground and he knew it, but he wanted to know and listening to Farfarello think was only marginally less hazardous than actually touching him. The question had to be verbal, and he’d have to be content with the answer Farfarello gave.
“Have you ever tried it?”
That stopped Schuldig in his metaphorical tracks and he paused to consider, not the question, but the reason for it. Farfarello left him to it, dropping into a chair to remove his boots. Schuldig had obviously interrupted him on his way to a shower and Farfarello rarely allowed the telepath’s curiosity to so much as slow him down.
Schuldig’s attention was occasionally irritating, but his mindset was slowly altering and so was the attention being paid. It beat being thought a particularly shiny pebble to be collected and placed with the rest in Schuldig’s mental jackdaw nest.
“I’m not exactly fond of pain,” Schuldig finally admitted. “At least not my own… and you don’t seem to have to worry about infection or impeding your ability to work.”
Farfarello finished undressing, reaching for the towel on the back of his chair. “It has nothing to do with pain.”
“I gathered.” Schuldig looked at him with honest curiosity. “So why?”
Defiance, pride, fury, vengeance, memory….
Farfarello stared back at him levelly. “Would you like to find out?”
Schuldig hesitated, eyes narrowing. He still wanted to touch and just maybe…. “Yes.”
“Take off your shirt,” Farfarello advised him, padding toward the bathroom. “And anything else you don’t want to get wet.”
An opportunity, perhaps. Possibly something more.
Several minutes passed before Schuldig joined Farfarello in the bathroom. He was wearing his pants, but all else had been discarded. Farfarello was before the mirror, running a towel through his hair.
He showered as he did most things, swiftly and efficiently. There were more interesting things upon which Farfarello chose to spend his time and this would be one of them. Winding his towel around his hips, he turned to look at Schuldig.
Schuldig looked back, waiting.
There was a knife on the edge of the sink, although Schuldig could not remember Farfarello having one in hand when entering the bathroom. The blade had a thin sheen of moisture and Farfarello paused to wipe it dry before gesturing to Schuldig. “Kneel on the floor.”
He didn’t wait for Schuldig to do as he was bid, moving to sit himself on the edge of the tub.
Slowly, Schuldig knelt on the slightly damp bathmat, keeping a wary eye on the knife.
“It’s not for you,” Farfarello assured him dryly. “Not in that way.”
Schuldig made a face at him, but resisted the urge to comment. He had the very strong feeling that it would not be appreciated.
Farfarello handed him the knife.
There was a long silence as Schuldig turned it in his hand, feeling the weight of it. He was no stranger to knives or their use… but he’d never contemplated whatever this was. He glanced up at Farfarello for some sort of sign and received, instead, an open hand.
It wasn’t quite a test, this didn’t have the right feel to it, but Schuldig knew that hesitation would not be appreciated. It was strange to see so much skin without a mark on it, and his eyes were drawn upward again to Farfarello’s face.
Without his eyepatch, attention wasn’t drawn so forcibly to the lines that cut across Farfarello’s face. Even the ruined eye was pale on pale and might require a second look to realize that the mark there wasn’t simply a mark, but a thick scar that cut across the eye as well as the half-closed lid above it.
Farfarello’s skin was warm beneath his fingers, still radiating the heat of his shower, and Schuldig forced his attention downward. Almost without thinking, he rested the blade of the knife against the pale blue of the vein that ran down the inside of Farfarello’s arm.
It didn’t matter. Schuldig would not kill Farfarello and there would be no marks.
It wasn’t trust, it was a strange sort of understanding and Schuldig slid the knife to one side, drawing it slowly along the curve of muscle in the forearm, pressing down harder with every centimeter.
Dark blood welled slowly in the wake of the knife, dripping in a steady stream as Schuldig reached Farfarello’s wrist and withdrew the blade. He watched the blood, puzzled, as if expecting some enlightenment, absently cleaning the blade on Farfarello’s towel.
“It means… nothing,” he decided.
Farfarello nodded, holding out his free hand for the knife. Schuldig gave it to him, still frowning at the arm in his grasp. A moment later, with a casual disregard for Schuldig’s introspection, Farfarello made a second gash, parallel to the first.
To abuse a sacred temple, constructed in God’s image, to cause injury that brought no pain and left no marks, to question, to hate, to provoke, to deny….
Schuldig felt his eyes trying to roll back into his head as he attempted to release Farfarello’s arm and, instead, felt his fingers digging in even more tightly.
“It means nothing,” Farfarello corrected him, voice tight, “when you do it.”
Forcing himself to release his grip on Farfarello, Schuldig raised fingers that felt thick and clumsy to trace the faint lines on Farfarello’s face. The pale marks were overlaid by fading streaks of blood in the wake of Schuldig’s fingers. “These… you didn’t make these.”
An altercation in one of the hospitals, overlooked because who cared what the criminally insane did amongst themselves. He’d lost an eye…. It was the last thing he clearly remembered feeling.
“Scars.” They were the marks of someone else’s hands on Farfarello’s body and something else, something that Schuldig could not quite grasp.
Schuldig took a shallow breath and then a second, still trying to find his mental feet. He found himself staring down at the blood on Farfarello’s arm, watching in fascination as Farfarello took an edge of the towel and wiped away the blood. “That….”
“It will not scar,” Farfarello told him dryly.
There was a sense of betrayal in that, and Schuldig looked up to where he’d marked Farfarello’s face with blood.
Why would it scar? There would be no satisfaction in that. The mark was no act of violence, imposed from without.
There it was again, the edges of something that Schuldig could see, but not quite touch.
“Try not to think too much,” Farfarello told him dryly, raising a bloody hand and drawing a dark line down Schuldig’s own forearm.
Yes, this was so much more satisfying.
Schuldig took the knife back, staring at it as if still in search of some sort of coherent answer. Farfarello had an answer, and it was obviously one that satisfied him, but Schuldig was no closer to figuring it out.
Matters were taken abruptly out of his hands as Farfarello rose from the edge of the tub and, with a casual shove, pushed Schuldig over onto his side. The knife was retrieved and drawn gently across Schuldig’s face, mimicking the lines of blood he’d trailed on Farfarello’s skin.
Comprehension slowly dawned as the knife moved to Schuldig’s arm, breaking the skin as Farfarello drew it downward and Schuldig made a sound that, suddenly, had nothing at all to do with pain.
Schuldig would never look at him in the same way again.
Sometimes one has to actually touch the fire to realize the truth of the burn.
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no subject
Date: 2007-07-04 04:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-04 01:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-04 07:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-04 01:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-04 02:12 pm (UTC)You have one of the most clear, concisely defined Farfarello's I've read. (We both know who the other belongs to). He's not cliched, he's not shallow.
He's deeply thought out and you touch right on the ragged edge of his sanity, dancing on a blade that is frightening.
This turned out so damned good!
no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 02:16 pm (UTC)This is gorgeous. I love how you handle both of their powers, and the strangeness that keeps Schuldig interested. And -- gah, the reasons for scarring-and-not, the dividing line being meaning -- awesome.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-15 08:48 pm (UTC)