Kiss Me Kill Me
folder
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,040
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Wei� Kreuz › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,040
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Untitled
Long story short : Farfarello of Weiss Kreuz isn\'t mine... someone else owns him ;_; Caspian of Highlander also isn\'t mine... uh~ some other dudes own him too ;_; no major literary masterpiece this one, just some~ well, asylumsex ^^ it will get gorey - if you don\'t like it, then don\'t read it >P
Untitled (as of yet)
By Tro
Caspian had always been easily amused, just as content to rip the wings off a butterfly as carve his name into someone’s flesh; anything to pass the time. Fortunately, as he saw it, he was also insane, always had been. It made the millennia go by so much faster when you had interesting hobbies.
Sometime around the turn of the sixteenth century he had found himself forcibly incarcerated in a quaint little place known as the Saint Mary’s Asylum for the Mentally Deranged just outside of London. It still tickled him pink to this day; that they stopped killing the killers because it was too inhumane! Ever since, he had been hooked. Some men went bar hopping, desperate for companionship, but not Caspian. Caspian turned to the asylums to slake his fancies, and the eternal curse of boredom had been, at least temporarily, turned aside.
He couldn’t help it. You met some of the most interesting people locked up for some of the most interesting things. It just so happened, that on rare occasion, he would even run into someone who had managed to commit an atrocity not even he had thought of. Leave it to mortals to come up with new and better ways to shorten their lives!
Currently, he was holed up in a relatively small, privately funded asylum in Ireland called Our Lady of Peace’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The name still made him chuckle. However, as far as nuthouses went, this one was proving to be terribly dull. All the inmates he had encountered were drugged to the gills, not that there were that many of them to begin with. There were even fewer hospital workers. Caspian had toyed with the idea of slaughtering the entire staff and letting the prisoners roam free in the countryside, but he just wasn’t in the mood. After all, he had just done that very thing not two asylums ago. It was getting old.
Perhaps it was time to discard his current persona, anyway. Casper Prada just didn’t have the right ring to it. Besides, if there was one thing he cared less for than the despondent inmates here, it was the food. It was time for a change of scenery.
Idly, Caspian twirled the scalpel he had liberated from the medical facility. He had visited the clinic with high hopes of impending violence against his fellow man, only to find it dark and empty. Apparently, they were only allowed to butcher themselves between the hours of eleven am and six pm, and were to behave themselves all day Sunday. He wondered if the doctors were even ‘on call’. Who would be around to call them, even if they were? During the early hours of the morning, only a skeleton staff of sleepy eyed guards patrolled the grounds. Caspian very much doubted they would notice he wasn’t in his padded cell for a while.
It was easy enough to get out of his cell. His quickening took care of the narcotics they pumped into him with such frequency, he was unrestrained while in his room, and he had the benefit of centuries of experience breaking out of mental wards. Of course, as easy as it was to get out, getting in was the easiest part of all. Carve up victim A like a pig on a spit, maybe eat victim B’s liver, rinse, and repeat a few dozen times. No one wants to believe that such wholesale carnage could be the work of anyone who –wasn’t- insane. It cracked him up. The more of them you killed, the less likely you were to get a death sentence! Rehabilitation, they said, was far more humane. After all, if you’re crazy, it isn’t your fault; you just came that way, couldn’t help yourself.
Caspian snorted. It was as big a load of crap as he had ever heard. He was crazy, not stupid. When he flayed a man alive just to hear him scream, he did it because he liked it and it helped to pass the time. Modernistic idiots. Hypocrites. He had been called a monster a hundred thousand times over, across the millennia, and the name still fit. These days they just called him –troubled-.
Oh well. Caspian sidled past the closed doors to the hospital chapel. All these places had one. The tired old resident pastor was probably still there; it was Sunday after all. His sense of time was a little skewed, being in there, but he thought it was nearly dawn. He considered scalping the old man and sodomizing him with an incense burner over the altar, but tucked it away as a maybe for later as an incongruously secure door came into view.
Three hefty padlocks bolted the door shut. All the other doors in the facility were secured with simple dead bolts, nothing like this. If that wasn’t an invitation, then he didn’t know what was.
Curiosity insatiably piqued, he rounded the corner to get a better look. He had seen the door before and thought nothing of it, but today it caught his eye and held. Of course, now he had to see what was behind it. Perhaps it was an armory, or just perhaps, something a bit more interesting. He would just have to see.
A little jiggling with the scalpel here, a bit of fancy finger work there, and the three sets of locks slipped open in his palm. The door creaked open ominously as he silently set the locks on the ground. Caspian smiled maniacally at the dark maw of a dimly lit hallway spiraling down from the now open doorway. Into the deep then.
Humming to himself, the Immortal practically skipped down the steps to emerge in a long, tiled hallway leading off to the left. This certainly looked promising. Caspian slipped silent as death down the way, creeping up to a corner at the end of the hall. He peered around the edge and nearly cackled with glee. It branched out into a large room, a narrow strip of room ran in front of a wall of bars stretching from one end to the other. A single guard sat looking bored to tears in front of the barrier, practically begging to have his throat ripped out.
So, being in a particularly giving mood, Caspian obliged him. The guard never heard him coming, probably didn’t even feel the fingers that ripped through the delicate skin of his neck. His eyes widened for an instant before going dark. Caspian had other things in mind than to play with these little toys.
Such as the pale form of a boy leaning indolently against the back wall, far behind the bars. This was definitely looking interesting.
A quick search of the cooling body at his feet revealed a nice military issue flip knife and a keycard etched with one word on it. “Farfarello, hm?” Caspian sauntered over to the bars and peered in. The boy inside didn’t move a muscle, face turned away with a black eye patch hiding his profile.
Frowning at this lack of response, the immortal slid the card through its electronic lock. Its cheerful dinging sound was amusingly out of place as Caspian entered the lion’s den.
Not bothering with such petty trivialities as hesitation and self preservation, Caspian walked straight up to the boy and stared. Up close, he locked even younger, delicate almost. Close cropped, stark white hair and snowy pale skin swathed in a standard issue white straight jacket made this Farfarello look like he was carved from ice. Pale pink scars lined the bridge of his nose and chin, while four gleaming hoops glittered in each ear. The thick black slash or an eye patch cut across his face, covering his left eye; the other eye he couldn’t see, as the boy pointedly refused to turn away from the wall.
Caspian frowned, not one used to being ignored for any reason. “Look at me,” he demanded. The boy didn’t move. “Farfarello!” The Immortal scowled. He hoped he hadn’t gotten his hopes up for some catatonic vegetable.
Farfarello continued to lean unmoving against the pale padding of his wall. “I said,” the Immortal began, reaching out and grabbing the boy’s chin to wrench his face about. There was a whisper of cloth on cloth, and suddenly he felt something wet trickling down his belly.
Looking down, he found the black hilt of the knife he had lifted off the guard protruding from his chest. The boy’s slender fingers were still curled around it. The straight jacket had proved to be less of a deterrent than one would have assumed. He hadn’t even felt it go in, hadn’t seen the boy move at all, really.
The last though Caspian had, as his life pumped steadily out of the ragged hole in his heart, was that Farfarello’s eye was a beautiful shade of amber. It was like falling into a young sun, and then he died.
-tcb-
Untitled (as of yet)
By Tro
Caspian had always been easily amused, just as content to rip the wings off a butterfly as carve his name into someone’s flesh; anything to pass the time. Fortunately, as he saw it, he was also insane, always had been. It made the millennia go by so much faster when you had interesting hobbies.
Sometime around the turn of the sixteenth century he had found himself forcibly incarcerated in a quaint little place known as the Saint Mary’s Asylum for the Mentally Deranged just outside of London. It still tickled him pink to this day; that they stopped killing the killers because it was too inhumane! Ever since, he had been hooked. Some men went bar hopping, desperate for companionship, but not Caspian. Caspian turned to the asylums to slake his fancies, and the eternal curse of boredom had been, at least temporarily, turned aside.
He couldn’t help it. You met some of the most interesting people locked up for some of the most interesting things. It just so happened, that on rare occasion, he would even run into someone who had managed to commit an atrocity not even he had thought of. Leave it to mortals to come up with new and better ways to shorten their lives!
Currently, he was holed up in a relatively small, privately funded asylum in Ireland called Our Lady of Peace’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The name still made him chuckle. However, as far as nuthouses went, this one was proving to be terribly dull. All the inmates he had encountered were drugged to the gills, not that there were that many of them to begin with. There were even fewer hospital workers. Caspian had toyed with the idea of slaughtering the entire staff and letting the prisoners roam free in the countryside, but he just wasn’t in the mood. After all, he had just done that very thing not two asylums ago. It was getting old.
Perhaps it was time to discard his current persona, anyway. Casper Prada just didn’t have the right ring to it. Besides, if there was one thing he cared less for than the despondent inmates here, it was the food. It was time for a change of scenery.
Idly, Caspian twirled the scalpel he had liberated from the medical facility. He had visited the clinic with high hopes of impending violence against his fellow man, only to find it dark and empty. Apparently, they were only allowed to butcher themselves between the hours of eleven am and six pm, and were to behave themselves all day Sunday. He wondered if the doctors were even ‘on call’. Who would be around to call them, even if they were? During the early hours of the morning, only a skeleton staff of sleepy eyed guards patrolled the grounds. Caspian very much doubted they would notice he wasn’t in his padded cell for a while.
It was easy enough to get out of his cell. His quickening took care of the narcotics they pumped into him with such frequency, he was unrestrained while in his room, and he had the benefit of centuries of experience breaking out of mental wards. Of course, as easy as it was to get out, getting in was the easiest part of all. Carve up victim A like a pig on a spit, maybe eat victim B’s liver, rinse, and repeat a few dozen times. No one wants to believe that such wholesale carnage could be the work of anyone who –wasn’t- insane. It cracked him up. The more of them you killed, the less likely you were to get a death sentence! Rehabilitation, they said, was far more humane. After all, if you’re crazy, it isn’t your fault; you just came that way, couldn’t help yourself.
Caspian snorted. It was as big a load of crap as he had ever heard. He was crazy, not stupid. When he flayed a man alive just to hear him scream, he did it because he liked it and it helped to pass the time. Modernistic idiots. Hypocrites. He had been called a monster a hundred thousand times over, across the millennia, and the name still fit. These days they just called him –troubled-.
Oh well. Caspian sidled past the closed doors to the hospital chapel. All these places had one. The tired old resident pastor was probably still there; it was Sunday after all. His sense of time was a little skewed, being in there, but he thought it was nearly dawn. He considered scalping the old man and sodomizing him with an incense burner over the altar, but tucked it away as a maybe for later as an incongruously secure door came into view.
Three hefty padlocks bolted the door shut. All the other doors in the facility were secured with simple dead bolts, nothing like this. If that wasn’t an invitation, then he didn’t know what was.
Curiosity insatiably piqued, he rounded the corner to get a better look. He had seen the door before and thought nothing of it, but today it caught his eye and held. Of course, now he had to see what was behind it. Perhaps it was an armory, or just perhaps, something a bit more interesting. He would just have to see.
A little jiggling with the scalpel here, a bit of fancy finger work there, and the three sets of locks slipped open in his palm. The door creaked open ominously as he silently set the locks on the ground. Caspian smiled maniacally at the dark maw of a dimly lit hallway spiraling down from the now open doorway. Into the deep then.
Humming to himself, the Immortal practically skipped down the steps to emerge in a long, tiled hallway leading off to the left. This certainly looked promising. Caspian slipped silent as death down the way, creeping up to a corner at the end of the hall. He peered around the edge and nearly cackled with glee. It branched out into a large room, a narrow strip of room ran in front of a wall of bars stretching from one end to the other. A single guard sat looking bored to tears in front of the barrier, practically begging to have his throat ripped out.
So, being in a particularly giving mood, Caspian obliged him. The guard never heard him coming, probably didn’t even feel the fingers that ripped through the delicate skin of his neck. His eyes widened for an instant before going dark. Caspian had other things in mind than to play with these little toys.
Such as the pale form of a boy leaning indolently against the back wall, far behind the bars. This was definitely looking interesting.
A quick search of the cooling body at his feet revealed a nice military issue flip knife and a keycard etched with one word on it. “Farfarello, hm?” Caspian sauntered over to the bars and peered in. The boy inside didn’t move a muscle, face turned away with a black eye patch hiding his profile.
Frowning at this lack of response, the immortal slid the card through its electronic lock. Its cheerful dinging sound was amusingly out of place as Caspian entered the lion’s den.
Not bothering with such petty trivialities as hesitation and self preservation, Caspian walked straight up to the boy and stared. Up close, he locked even younger, delicate almost. Close cropped, stark white hair and snowy pale skin swathed in a standard issue white straight jacket made this Farfarello look like he was carved from ice. Pale pink scars lined the bridge of his nose and chin, while four gleaming hoops glittered in each ear. The thick black slash or an eye patch cut across his face, covering his left eye; the other eye he couldn’t see, as the boy pointedly refused to turn away from the wall.
Caspian frowned, not one used to being ignored for any reason. “Look at me,” he demanded. The boy didn’t move. “Farfarello!” The Immortal scowled. He hoped he hadn’t gotten his hopes up for some catatonic vegetable.
Farfarello continued to lean unmoving against the pale padding of his wall. “I said,” the Immortal began, reaching out and grabbing the boy’s chin to wrench his face about. There was a whisper of cloth on cloth, and suddenly he felt something wet trickling down his belly.
Looking down, he found the black hilt of the knife he had lifted off the guard protruding from his chest. The boy’s slender fingers were still curled around it. The straight jacket had proved to be less of a deterrent than one would have assumed. He hadn’t even felt it go in, hadn’t seen the boy move at all, really.
The last though Caspian had, as his life pumped steadily out of the ragged hole in his heart, was that Farfarello’s eye was a beautiful shade of amber. It was like falling into a young sun, and then he died.
-tcb-