laylah
in
springkink
Weiss Kreuz (Schuldig/Farfarello)
Title: Blur
Author: Laylah
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~1700
Summary: "Take this," Schuldig says. The pill is small, dry, threatening to crumble to powder in his hand.
A/N: I've taken a little liberty with exactly how this "feeling no pain" thing works, for the sake of indulging the kinkiness of the fic. Also, um, I appear to have flipped the pairing. Hope that still works for you. ^^;
"Take this," Schuldig says. The pill is small, dry, threatening to crumble to powder in his hand.
Farfarello leans over and licks it from his palm. For a second there's spillover, the taste of sweat and bitter drugs in Schuldig's head if not his mouth. Farfarello swallows. "What is it?"
Schuldig smirks. "Ecstasy," he says. "Thought it'd suit you."
"Mm." Farfarello makes faces for a minute, like he's trying to work the taste out of his mouth. "You taking some too?"
"Nah," Schuldig says. "I'm piggybacking on yours." Which means he can stop in the middle if he needs to, probably -- Farfarello's head is pretty twisty, but he can usually find his way back out again pretty fast.
Farfarello lolls back against the couch. "You're a big pervert," he says contentedly.
"Vergib uns unsere Schuld, wie auch wir vergeben unseren Schuldigern," Schuldig says, reaching for the zipper on Farfarello's vest.
"Schuldigern," Farfarello repeats, smiling faintly. "But there's only one of you."
"I'll just have to be extra bad, then," Schuldig says, and Farfarello giggles. It'll be a while before the drug really kicks in, so Schuldig takes his time getting Farfarello out of his clothes, and unwinding the bandages around his torso. Farfarello moves with him, making it easy, squirming out of boots and fatigues, arching off the sticky vinyl of the couch so Schuldig can pull the bandages away. Sometimes they stick, against one of the newer cuts, and sting when they're pulled loose, but feeling Farfarello's pain is a little different from anyone else's, not so much distress as this weird kind of delight that makes it hard to remember what pain means.
"These ones, too?" Farfarello asks, holding up his arms.
"Nah, those ones are sexy." Schuldig grins. "Leave 'em." They add a little contrast, Farfarello spread out on his back, wearing just the bandages and his collar and eyepatch, and a whole bunch of scars.
"Come on, then," Farfarello says. His hands dance over his own skin, stopping to push against bruises, to rake his nails over the thick scars of old burns. He hisses, and his cock twitches at each new jolt until he's really hard, cock flushed dark with blood against the white scar-lined skin of his belly. "You got a knife on you, or you want one of mine?"
"Drugs kicking in yet?" Schuldig asks. He pushes Farfarello's knees apart, kneels between them, reaches down. The bones in Farfarello's ankles are sleek and smooth, just below the surface; the tendons at his heels are taut and vulnerable. His calf muscles are cleanly defined, his thighs long and lean. Schuldig traces his way up slowly, just touching, light enough to make Farfarello squirm.
"I don't know," Farfarello says. "Maybe? You tell me."
That sounds like an invitation if Schuldig ever heard one. He lets himself into Farfarello's head on purpose this time, dividing his attention so he can feel what he's doing. He leans down, bites a still-pink scar crossing Farfarello's hip, and he hears the little answering hiss at the same time that he feels the shiver of hurt-pleasure that runs down Farfarello's spine. When he turns his head to lick the shaft of Farfarello's cock, his hair falls loose over his bandana and brushes Farfarello's skin, and the delicacy of the touch makes them both shiver.
"Yeah," Schuldig says. "Rolling now, aren't you?" He runs his hands over Farfarello's skin, fingertips barely touching, way too light to hurt, and Farfarello squirms anyway. The background hum that comes with spending time in Farfarello's mind, the nasty little cocktail of being right and hurt and wronged, is quieter than usual. When Schuldig looks up, Farfarello's watching him, eye wide, just a thin ring of gold around the black of his dilated pupil.
"Keep doing that," Farfarello whispers. He reaches down and gets both hands in Schuldig's hair, pulling, not hard but just like he needs something to hold on to. Like a cat kneading for comfort and coincidentally digging claws into flesh.
"This?" Schuldig says, stroking Farfarello's sides, tracing the hollow of stomach, the arch of ribcage. "Or this?" He leans back down and takes the head of Farfarello's cock in his mouth, carefully, tongue circling the head.
"Nnn," Farfarello says. "Yes." His mind's an open invitation, and a mess, emaciated saints and the bitter taste in his mouth and the warm wetness of pleasure. It's going to be easy to get lost in there if he lets himself, Schuldig thinks, and tries to hold back -- better to just taste and withdraw, to touch Farfarello's mind and back off instead of sinking into the mire of it.
Having Farfarello's cock in his mouth means he can't ask permission for anything else, but Schuldig figures the answer to most things should be yes about now. Farfarello's pulling his hair with one hand and petting him with the other, both in the same slow dreaming rhythm, and doesn't resist when Schuldig pushes his thighs further apart.
There's a packet of lube in Schuldig's left pocket -- it seemed like something he'd want, one way or another, if he could get Farfarello to eat the drugs. He reaches for it now, pulls it out and tears the plastic open. The stuff oozes onto his fingers, slick and cool.
When he slides his fingers into the crack of Farfarello's ass, he reaches for Farfarello's mind at the same time -- it'd be good to have warning if this is going to provoke a fight, and if it doesn't -- yeah, like that, all at once, Farfarello's cock salty in his mouth and Farfarello's ass clutching tight and hot around his fingers, and at the same time he feels what Farfarello feels, surrounded and invaded and syrupy slow. Schuldig closes his eyes and moves like that for a minute or two, sucking Farfarello's cock and fingerfucking him nice and smooth. The ecstasy makes it easy to stay where he is, to just get fascinated with the way Farfarello's cock slides against his tongue, the way his mouth feels swollen and a little tender, the crush of his lips against his teeth. They could just go on like this, Schuldig thinks, could just keep going until that warm tension at the base of his cock spills --
No, that's Farfarello's thought, not his own. Schuldig is pretty sure he can't come just from someone else getting a blowjob, no matter how easy it is to borrow that someone's mind. And even if he can, he doesn't really want to. Not when he has Farfarello spreading for him without even thinking about it. He reaches down with his free hand and unzips his pants.
Crawford uses rubbers when he screws either of them. Schuldig's never asked if that was because of a vision or if he's just squeamish. Not like knowing would change anything.
And it just feels better bareback. Schuldig rises up on his knees, letting Farfarello's cock slip out of his mouth. "Having a real good time, aren't you?" he says, watching how Farfarello stares at him. "Now I want you to just pick your legs up. There you go, yeah." He presses against the back of one thigh to help, fixing the angle so it'll slide in easy, and sometimes he thinks his favorite part isn't even how goddamn hot and tight it feels, it's the fact that it's crazy vicious bastard Farfarello, who's their muscle, and still spreads his legs for it when he's in the right mood.
"Go on," Farfarello says now. His eye's glassy, unfocused, and he reaches for Schuldig's hair again. "You stopped moving."
"Yeah, I know. Here goes, okay?" Schuldig pulls his fingers out and strokes his cock a couple times to slick up, then leans forward and pushes -- and he doesn't even mean to pick up on Farfarello's side right now, but it happens all the same, his own slick-tight-hot bleeding into Farfarello's full-stretched-ache, and at least one of them curses.
"Do it," Farfarello says. "Do it." He squirms, and Schuldig starts to thrust, slow and languid, long strokes so he can -- so they both can -- really feel what he's doing. He leans forward, and his hair spills over his shoulder to brush Farfarello's chest. Farfarello plays with it, stroking it, like the texture is fascinating, and Schuldig tries not to get distracted in that thought. When he closes his eyes he can see colors, bright and variable as stained glass, and it gets harder to tell the sensations apart, to remember that it's his hips rocking, Farfarello's legs locked around his waist, not the other way around. It feels like both at once, or like he's switching back and forth. Like their edges are shifting, melting, both of them high off that one dose, until it's just one long blur of heat and friction and -- at some point one of them thought to get a hand on Farfarello's cock, and it builds faster after that, even if they're still moving slowly -- at least Schuldig thinks they are -- he's in too deep, almost lost, but it's weirdly comfortable and -- just pleasure, all of it, one good sensation after another, strung out in a long glittering chain until -- he thinks Farfarello comes first, probably, almost sure, because that surge of hot-tight-pulse-light sparks down his own nerves and then he's shaking too, losing it, coming with Farfarello's satisfaction washing right over him.
It takes a few minutes, as best he can tell, to untangle his own thoughts from Farfarello's afterward. It isn't even especially entertaining to do so -- Farfarello's still rolling, humming under his breath and his limbs loose and relaxed, and outside his head everything seems darker and flatter. Still, somebody ought to keep it together, in case they get a mission or something, so Schuldig withdraws slowly, sorting out the edges of his own perceptions and putting the wall back up.
When he tries to pull away physically, though, Farfarello comes alert enough to lunge for him, grabbing his wrist in a bruise-tight hold. "Don't," he says, his voice still slow. "Stay here."
Schuldig laughs. "What, you get all clingy when you're high?" He twists free of Farfarello's grip, to make a point, and then climbs up to sprawl on the couch next to him. "For a little bit," he says. "Since you insist."
Author: Laylah
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~1700
Summary: "Take this," Schuldig says. The pill is small, dry, threatening to crumble to powder in his hand.
A/N: I've taken a little liberty with exactly how this "feeling no pain" thing works, for the sake of indulging the kinkiness of the fic. Also, um, I appear to have flipped the pairing. Hope that still works for you. ^^;
"Take this," Schuldig says. The pill is small, dry, threatening to crumble to powder in his hand.
Farfarello leans over and licks it from his palm. For a second there's spillover, the taste of sweat and bitter drugs in Schuldig's head if not his mouth. Farfarello swallows. "What is it?"
Schuldig smirks. "Ecstasy," he says. "Thought it'd suit you."
"Mm." Farfarello makes faces for a minute, like he's trying to work the taste out of his mouth. "You taking some too?"
"Nah," Schuldig says. "I'm piggybacking on yours." Which means he can stop in the middle if he needs to, probably -- Farfarello's head is pretty twisty, but he can usually find his way back out again pretty fast.
Farfarello lolls back against the couch. "You're a big pervert," he says contentedly.
"Vergib uns unsere Schuld, wie auch wir vergeben unseren Schuldigern," Schuldig says, reaching for the zipper on Farfarello's vest.
"Schuldigern," Farfarello repeats, smiling faintly. "But there's only one of you."
"I'll just have to be extra bad, then," Schuldig says, and Farfarello giggles. It'll be a while before the drug really kicks in, so Schuldig takes his time getting Farfarello out of his clothes, and unwinding the bandages around his torso. Farfarello moves with him, making it easy, squirming out of boots and fatigues, arching off the sticky vinyl of the couch so Schuldig can pull the bandages away. Sometimes they stick, against one of the newer cuts, and sting when they're pulled loose, but feeling Farfarello's pain is a little different from anyone else's, not so much distress as this weird kind of delight that makes it hard to remember what pain means.
"These ones, too?" Farfarello asks, holding up his arms.
"Nah, those ones are sexy." Schuldig grins. "Leave 'em." They add a little contrast, Farfarello spread out on his back, wearing just the bandages and his collar and eyepatch, and a whole bunch of scars.
"Come on, then," Farfarello says. His hands dance over his own skin, stopping to push against bruises, to rake his nails over the thick scars of old burns. He hisses, and his cock twitches at each new jolt until he's really hard, cock flushed dark with blood against the white scar-lined skin of his belly. "You got a knife on you, or you want one of mine?"
"Drugs kicking in yet?" Schuldig asks. He pushes Farfarello's knees apart, kneels between them, reaches down. The bones in Farfarello's ankles are sleek and smooth, just below the surface; the tendons at his heels are taut and vulnerable. His calf muscles are cleanly defined, his thighs long and lean. Schuldig traces his way up slowly, just touching, light enough to make Farfarello squirm.
"I don't know," Farfarello says. "Maybe? You tell me."
That sounds like an invitation if Schuldig ever heard one. He lets himself into Farfarello's head on purpose this time, dividing his attention so he can feel what he's doing. He leans down, bites a still-pink scar crossing Farfarello's hip, and he hears the little answering hiss at the same time that he feels the shiver of hurt-pleasure that runs down Farfarello's spine. When he turns his head to lick the shaft of Farfarello's cock, his hair falls loose over his bandana and brushes Farfarello's skin, and the delicacy of the touch makes them both shiver.
"Yeah," Schuldig says. "Rolling now, aren't you?" He runs his hands over Farfarello's skin, fingertips barely touching, way too light to hurt, and Farfarello squirms anyway. The background hum that comes with spending time in Farfarello's mind, the nasty little cocktail of being right and hurt and wronged, is quieter than usual. When Schuldig looks up, Farfarello's watching him, eye wide, just a thin ring of gold around the black of his dilated pupil.
"Keep doing that," Farfarello whispers. He reaches down and gets both hands in Schuldig's hair, pulling, not hard but just like he needs something to hold on to. Like a cat kneading for comfort and coincidentally digging claws into flesh.
"This?" Schuldig says, stroking Farfarello's sides, tracing the hollow of stomach, the arch of ribcage. "Or this?" He leans back down and takes the head of Farfarello's cock in his mouth, carefully, tongue circling the head.
"Nnn," Farfarello says. "Yes." His mind's an open invitation, and a mess, emaciated saints and the bitter taste in his mouth and the warm wetness of pleasure. It's going to be easy to get lost in there if he lets himself, Schuldig thinks, and tries to hold back -- better to just taste and withdraw, to touch Farfarello's mind and back off instead of sinking into the mire of it.
Having Farfarello's cock in his mouth means he can't ask permission for anything else, but Schuldig figures the answer to most things should be yes about now. Farfarello's pulling his hair with one hand and petting him with the other, both in the same slow dreaming rhythm, and doesn't resist when Schuldig pushes his thighs further apart.
There's a packet of lube in Schuldig's left pocket -- it seemed like something he'd want, one way or another, if he could get Farfarello to eat the drugs. He reaches for it now, pulls it out and tears the plastic open. The stuff oozes onto his fingers, slick and cool.
When he slides his fingers into the crack of Farfarello's ass, he reaches for Farfarello's mind at the same time -- it'd be good to have warning if this is going to provoke a fight, and if it doesn't -- yeah, like that, all at once, Farfarello's cock salty in his mouth and Farfarello's ass clutching tight and hot around his fingers, and at the same time he feels what Farfarello feels, surrounded and invaded and syrupy slow. Schuldig closes his eyes and moves like that for a minute or two, sucking Farfarello's cock and fingerfucking him nice and smooth. The ecstasy makes it easy to stay where he is, to just get fascinated with the way Farfarello's cock slides against his tongue, the way his mouth feels swollen and a little tender, the crush of his lips against his teeth. They could just go on like this, Schuldig thinks, could just keep going until that warm tension at the base of his cock spills --
No, that's Farfarello's thought, not his own. Schuldig is pretty sure he can't come just from someone else getting a blowjob, no matter how easy it is to borrow that someone's mind. And even if he can, he doesn't really want to. Not when he has Farfarello spreading for him without even thinking about it. He reaches down with his free hand and unzips his pants.
Crawford uses rubbers when he screws either of them. Schuldig's never asked if that was because of a vision or if he's just squeamish. Not like knowing would change anything.
And it just feels better bareback. Schuldig rises up on his knees, letting Farfarello's cock slip out of his mouth. "Having a real good time, aren't you?" he says, watching how Farfarello stares at him. "Now I want you to just pick your legs up. There you go, yeah." He presses against the back of one thigh to help, fixing the angle so it'll slide in easy, and sometimes he thinks his favorite part isn't even how goddamn hot and tight it feels, it's the fact that it's crazy vicious bastard Farfarello, who's their muscle, and still spreads his legs for it when he's in the right mood.
"Go on," Farfarello says now. His eye's glassy, unfocused, and he reaches for Schuldig's hair again. "You stopped moving."
"Yeah, I know. Here goes, okay?" Schuldig pulls his fingers out and strokes his cock a couple times to slick up, then leans forward and pushes -- and he doesn't even mean to pick up on Farfarello's side right now, but it happens all the same, his own slick-tight-hot bleeding into Farfarello's full-stretched-ache, and at least one of them curses.
"Do it," Farfarello says. "Do it." He squirms, and Schuldig starts to thrust, slow and languid, long strokes so he can -- so they both can -- really feel what he's doing. He leans forward, and his hair spills over his shoulder to brush Farfarello's chest. Farfarello plays with it, stroking it, like the texture is fascinating, and Schuldig tries not to get distracted in that thought. When he closes his eyes he can see colors, bright and variable as stained glass, and it gets harder to tell the sensations apart, to remember that it's his hips rocking, Farfarello's legs locked around his waist, not the other way around. It feels like both at once, or like he's switching back and forth. Like their edges are shifting, melting, both of them high off that one dose, until it's just one long blur of heat and friction and -- at some point one of them thought to get a hand on Farfarello's cock, and it builds faster after that, even if they're still moving slowly -- at least Schuldig thinks they are -- he's in too deep, almost lost, but it's weirdly comfortable and -- just pleasure, all of it, one good sensation after another, strung out in a long glittering chain until -- he thinks Farfarello comes first, probably, almost sure, because that surge of hot-tight-pulse-light sparks down his own nerves and then he's shaking too, losing it, coming with Farfarello's satisfaction washing right over him.
It takes a few minutes, as best he can tell, to untangle his own thoughts from Farfarello's afterward. It isn't even especially entertaining to do so -- Farfarello's still rolling, humming under his breath and his limbs loose and relaxed, and outside his head everything seems darker and flatter. Still, somebody ought to keep it together, in case they get a mission or something, so Schuldig withdraws slowly, sorting out the edges of his own perceptions and putting the wall back up.
When he tries to pull away physically, though, Farfarello comes alert enough to lunge for him, grabbing his wrist in a bruise-tight hold. "Don't," he says, his voice still slow. "Stay here."
Schuldig laughs. "What, you get all clingy when you're high?" He twists free of Farfarello's grip, to make a point, and then climbs up to sprawl on the couch next to him. "For a little bit," he says. "Since you insist."