let me hear your voice tonight (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alexseanchai) wrote2010-05-03 01:11 am
alexseanchai) wrote2010-05-03 01:11 am
Entry tags:
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Title: In Your Eyes I See (A Fire That Burns)
Rating: holy shit this is actually NC-17
Summary: The iron knife skims across Sam's abdomen, searing his torturer's mark onto him. A name, if Sam had to guess; if he weren't blindfolded, he'd look. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sammessiah's AntiChristmas 2010.
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Torture.
Word Count: 670
The iron knife skims across Sam's abdomen, searing his torturer's mark onto him. A name, if Sam had to guess; if he weren't blindfolded, he'd look. Salt next, measured out with a silver spoon, each crystal red-hot on his skin, white-hot on his bleeding flesh. Then holy water, a glass rod dipped in the bowl and tap-tap-tap, acid burns everywhere the water touches. Sam flinches away, involuntary reaction, and the spikes inside the manacles bite into his wrists, his neck.
"Going somewhere?"
"Not leaving," Sam gasps out. "Never leaving you."
"Good." The flat of another knife, not iron because it doesn't burn, slides up one side of Sam's dick and down the other. Sam shivers.
Fingers trace over the name written on him, mixing something more viscous with his blood. It's already healing. The touch is deceptively gentle, or is it that the blade is deceptively cruel? Sam whimpers, he can't stop himself; he wants to scream but he refuses to give him the satisfaction. Not yet. Not yet.
A match flares and drops. Oil, that's what it was, and it's afire. Sam gasps in breath. A hand caresses his ass, slick with more oil, and a finger penetrates him, another, stretching him, and a third.
Then nothing: the salt and holy water evaporated in the reaction with his skin, the fire burnt out, nothing touching him anywhere, and Sam squirms against the chains just to feel the sharpness. Just to feel.
A minute. Two. The respite is as tortuous as everything before.
Something warm and wet closes over his dick: tongue, teeth, suction. Sam doesn't have enough breath to scream.
Three more seconds and he's done, and right then is when the mouth pulls away. Sam lets out a high-pitched noise and holy water splashes across his chest, neck, washes the blood away and scorches the inside of his veins, punishment. He wants to say, get the fuck on with it, get this show on the road, but he needs a moment to catch his breath.
Hands run along his arms from the cuffs at the wrists to the one at the neck, and fingers brush his cheekbone and his lips. Sam blows a raspberry, just for the hell of it, and hears startled laughter, and then there are lips on his, a hand hauling Sam's leg over a shoulder and another cradling the back of his head, a cock sliding into his ass and a hipbone against his cock and a patter of little kisses between thrusts and grunts.
Fucking finally.
Sam whites out. When he comes back, there's two hundred pounds sprawled across him, breath tickling his ear. Sam twists his power through the locks on the manacles and the knot on the blindfold, and they fall away, leaving Sam free to roll over and grin down at Dean, pinning him to the table. "Feeling better?" he asks.
"'S a heavy fucker 'n top of me," Dean grumbles, but the tone of voice says it's for form's sake. "Move."
Sam's power whisks them both down the hall to the massive bed they share. Several demons follow them with their eyes, and Sam thinks about punishing them for watching their bareassed king and his equally bareassed consort, but if Sam actually objected all that strongly he'd have gone for teleportation and anyway he doesn't much want to think about anything besides sleep and food. Sam lands them in a sprawl across the satin sheets, nobody on top of anybody, and promptly rolls up against Dean's side, tucking his head against Dean's neck. "Seriously, man, you feeling better?" he asks.
Dean kisses Sam's forehead, which Sam takes as an answer in the affirmative. "You?" Dean asks.
The connections between Sam and every demon in or out of hell, threatening to overwhelm him a few hours ago, have settled to a muted hum, and also seriously awesome sex. Sam hums, wriggling into a more comfortable position, and wraps an arm around Dean and lets himself drift into sleep.
Rating: holy shit this is actually NC-17
Summary: The iron knife skims across Sam's abdomen, searing his torturer's mark onto him. A name, if Sam had to guess; if he weren't blindfolded, he'd look. Written for
sammessiah's AntiChristmas 2010.Pairings: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Torture.
Word Count: 670
The iron knife skims across Sam's abdomen, searing his torturer's mark onto him. A name, if Sam had to guess; if he weren't blindfolded, he'd look. Salt next, measured out with a silver spoon, each crystal red-hot on his skin, white-hot on his bleeding flesh. Then holy water, a glass rod dipped in the bowl and tap-tap-tap, acid burns everywhere the water touches. Sam flinches away, involuntary reaction, and the spikes inside the manacles bite into his wrists, his neck.
"Going somewhere?"
"Not leaving," Sam gasps out. "Never leaving you."
"Good." The flat of another knife, not iron because it doesn't burn, slides up one side of Sam's dick and down the other. Sam shivers.
Fingers trace over the name written on him, mixing something more viscous with his blood. It's already healing. The touch is deceptively gentle, or is it that the blade is deceptively cruel? Sam whimpers, he can't stop himself; he wants to scream but he refuses to give him the satisfaction. Not yet. Not yet.
A match flares and drops. Oil, that's what it was, and it's afire. Sam gasps in breath. A hand caresses his ass, slick with more oil, and a finger penetrates him, another, stretching him, and a third.
Then nothing: the salt and holy water evaporated in the reaction with his skin, the fire burnt out, nothing touching him anywhere, and Sam squirms against the chains just to feel the sharpness. Just to feel.
A minute. Two. The respite is as tortuous as everything before.
Something warm and wet closes over his dick: tongue, teeth, suction. Sam doesn't have enough breath to scream.
Three more seconds and he's done, and right then is when the mouth pulls away. Sam lets out a high-pitched noise and holy water splashes across his chest, neck, washes the blood away and scorches the inside of his veins, punishment. He wants to say, get the fuck on with it, get this show on the road, but he needs a moment to catch his breath.
Hands run along his arms from the cuffs at the wrists to the one at the neck, and fingers brush his cheekbone and his lips. Sam blows a raspberry, just for the hell of it, and hears startled laughter, and then there are lips on his, a hand hauling Sam's leg over a shoulder and another cradling the back of his head, a cock sliding into his ass and a hipbone against his cock and a patter of little kisses between thrusts and grunts.
Fucking finally.
Sam whites out. When he comes back, there's two hundred pounds sprawled across him, breath tickling his ear. Sam twists his power through the locks on the manacles and the knot on the blindfold, and they fall away, leaving Sam free to roll over and grin down at Dean, pinning him to the table. "Feeling better?" he asks.
"'S a heavy fucker 'n top of me," Dean grumbles, but the tone of voice says it's for form's sake. "Move."
Sam's power whisks them both down the hall to the massive bed they share. Several demons follow them with their eyes, and Sam thinks about punishing them for watching their bareassed king and his equally bareassed consort, but if Sam actually objected all that strongly he'd have gone for teleportation and anyway he doesn't much want to think about anything besides sleep and food. Sam lands them in a sprawl across the satin sheets, nobody on top of anybody, and promptly rolls up against Dean's side, tucking his head against Dean's neck. "Seriously, man, you feeling better?" he asks.
Dean kisses Sam's forehead, which Sam takes as an answer in the affirmative. "You?" Dean asks.
The connections between Sam and every demon in or out of hell, threatening to overwhelm him a few hours ago, have settled to a muted hum, and also seriously awesome sex. Sam hums, wriggling into a more comfortable position, and wraps an arm around Dean and lets himself drift into sleep.
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(Anonymous) 2010-05-05 12:48 am (UTC)(link)There's some very sweet sentiments in this. I'd say the blade is deceptively cruel x
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