|This is Slash, and it Involves Philosophy
||[Mar. 31st, 2010|10:48 am]
I am posting this here because I don't know where else to post it, and because I thought you all would get a chuckle out of it, and maybe have some fun discussing how the philosophers in question relate to slash fanfic. I did not write this. A friend did, but they don't have a LJ account. In all actuality, I think they sweded it from another fic, which is a whole other discussion in and of itself, especially if you bring Foucault's notions on authorship into the equation. |
Naked, his arms bound in an aching, painful way, the ground cold against his bare knees, his collar chained to a ring in the wall, his eyes blindfolded tightly and a sharp blade being run over his skin, Derrida realized what fear really was.
Fear was something he had long since learned to deal with, since meeting Foucault. It was imperitive for any scene, and added to the thrill, but with the feel of such a sharp blade ghosting across the sides and back of his neck, scant inches from slitting a vital vein or artery, should Foucault feel such a whim, Derrida learned what real fear was.
Foucault could hurt him severly, kill him, with one slight push, and he was helpless to do anything about it.
He heard Foucault laugh darkly, before the blade moved back further, away from his neck and onto the shoulderblade.
Their was a slight noise, and suddenly, a sharp, searing pain slit through his skin, and Derrida cried out.
The blade was turned, and the sharp edge of the cold metal bit at the skin on his shoulder blade, slicing it apart with a horizontal cut, and Derrida could feel his warm blood start to ooze on his back, his mind hazy from the pain.
Derrida bit his lip, determined to endure it. Foucault had told him that this was necessary, and it hadn't even crossed his mind to refuse.
“You bleed quite a lot, Jackie. Did you know that?”
Derrida felt Foucault make another cut, and he whimpered slightly.
“Such soft flesh you have. No wonder you're always so responsive.”
Derrida felt the blade slit his skin once more, and he bit his lip hard, determined not to cry.
Stopping and starting, the blade made short, straight cuts, criss-crossing and overlapping, before it stopped again. He felt Foucault's mouth come down upon his shoulder, and Derrida could feel him licking the blood up, his breath hot against the torn skin.
“Hurts, doesn't it?” He whispered. “Pain isn't always so fun.”
The blade descended again, slicing through the skin quicker now, as if Foucault had learned how to control it with greater ease. Derrida grit his teeth as he felt the blade turn in the same stroke, doing his best to endure the fire on his back.
“Interesting. You're hard, Jackie. Did you notice that?”
Derrida hadn't. All he had noticed was the agony in his shoulder, and the hard, cold pavement of the basement pressing into his knees, but, of course now that his mind had heard it, Derrida realized that he was hard.
How had that happened?
“Perhaps part of you likes this. Did you ever think of that? Maybe part of you likes being hurt.”
Foucault's voice was low, taunting, and as the blade cut through his skin again, Derrida felt a sharp stab of arousal go straight to his center as the pain stabbed at him once more. Another cut, and he cried out, moving slightly, though this cry was distinctly different then that first.
“You do enjoy this. You do. I never knew you were such a masochist, Jackie. What hidden depths you have.”
The blade slashed his skin in two quick strokes, and Derrida felt his mind start to go numb.
“Nearly there. Just two more to go.”
Another cut, another burst of pain. Another stab of foreign lust to his nether regions, as Derrida clenched his eyes shut, despite already not being able to see.
The last was long, slow, drawn-out, and Derrida cried out for a last time.
A wet cloth was wiped across his skin, then nothing.
Slowly, Derrida felt his hand restraints removed and heard the chain from the wall disconnect from his collar. Gently pulled up from his knees to stand once more on unsteady legs, the blindfold was quickly whisked away, and Derrida's eyes met the satisfied smirk of Foucault.
“Well done. Come see, Jackie. It turned out well.”
Foucault guided him over to a chair in front of a mirror, prearranged in the darkened basement. Foucault positioned another one behind him, reflecting the reflection of the cuts on his back into the mirror so Derrida could see.
It was a mark. A scar. A permanent fixture, to let all know who he belonged to. Derrida's eyes strained in the dark light, picking out the six impeccably-carved characters.
Michel, they read. Derrida knew it would scar, leaving him forever marked, bound, to his lover.
“I rather like it,” Foucault said, reflecting upon it thoughtfully. “Don't you?”
“Yes, Master,” Derrida replied, breathless. “Thank you.”
Foucault turned him around, a dark look in his eyes.
“You're welcome,” He whispered, before kissing him fiercely, and Derrida felt all the pain of his mark being washed away.