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mickeymTitle: The Sweetest Burn
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mickeym
Pairing Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~1450
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Contains knives, and bloodplay
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: This is forraynedanser, to whom I promised knifeplay quite some time ago. I hope this works for you, honey :) Thanks to rejeneration for the cheerleading and support earlier, and for looking over what I had done. You're the best, baby. *g* Y'all enjoy!
"Little cuts. Shallow…." Sam's voice trails off, but the sting doesn't.
It increases. Multiplies into narrow ribbons of fire slicing into him, circling through him.
Dean drags in a breath, closes his eyes so he can feel the burn marrow deep.
"Dean?"
His eyes fly open; meet Sam's gaze straight on. Sam's eyes are hot, hungry, pupils wide and dark. "Y-yeah," Dean manages, the word coming out kind of rough.
"S'okay?" The blunt edge of the knife is cool against his skin -- which feels as though it's on fire -- and Sam rubs it gently over the newest line of heat. "You gotta tell me if it's not."
"It's good." Dean swallows a moan when Sam turns the knife back over; slides it down his sternum. He can't follow it with his eyes, stretched out on the bed like this; can't watch the moist sliver grow and stretch and fucking own him, like when they stand in front of the mirror, but Dean can feel it.
Sam strokes the knife over Dean's chest, leaving sweet bites of pain behind in a swirling, spiraling pattern.
"Should see yourself," Sam says roughly, the words skating over Dean's skin as puffs of warm air. He hums a question, words not quite forming on his tongue any more. "Just so fucking gorgeous like this, man."
Sam leans in closer, mouth closing over one of the cuts, sucking heat and slickness to the surface. Dean groans and arches toward Sam, shaking when whitehot pain screams through him before fading into a low-level throb.
"Taste," Sam says, and drags one finger over the circle of fire ringing Dean's right nipple. He rubs his finger over Dean's mouth and Dean licks; tastes the copper-iron heat of blood, and the salty warmth of Sam through it. He chases Sam's finger with his tongue, curling, sucking to get more of that.
Sam groans and lowers his head, takes Dean's mouth with a hunger that burns into him. He arches up toward Sam, growling low in his throat, hands curling into fists where he's restrained. Can't touch.
"Want to fucking carve my initials in your skin." Sam bites each word into Dean's lips, into the length of his throat, and Dean feels each one throb there, branding him. He shudders and tips his head back a little further, the words dragging up out of his throat.
"Do it, Sam--God, please--"
Sam laughs, a low, dark chuckle that makes goosebumps ripple across Dean's skin. "Shouldn't tempt me," he says in a voice that sounds like sin, rich and heavy and slow. "You're gonna hurt in the morning." Sam drags the knife tip over Dean's pec and downward, pressing just a little harder when Dean begs first with his body, then with words.
"Don't care, please, Sammy--" He babbles some more, heated words that mean nothing and everything, shivering when the knife slips further in sweethot bites that make him cry, make him bleed.
The deeper cuts don't burn like the shallow ones -- not at first, anyway. The sting comes slower, later, rich and layered, heat that moves through him.
He feels the blood welling up, spilling over in fat, hot drops. Each one tickles as it slides down his side; Sam's tongue both soothes the burn and makes it worse as he chases them down and laps them up.
Sam tastes like pain and love when he kisses Dean, tongue slick and hot, eager to share the flavors.
"Need you," Sam whispers an eternity, a second, later. Dean rubs up against him as best he can, fingers curling and uncurling. Sam bites at Dean's mouth. "Want you."
"Yes, Christ yes. Anything. Everything." Dean feels desperate; pain and need burn through him, from him, his skin fairly itches with it. Even the heat of each cut doesn't feel like a cut. It will tomorrow, but right now he's riding high on the endorphin rush, nothing but waves buoying him up.
It's dangerous, this place he's in right now. He would let Sam cut his heart out and feed it to him, if that's what Sam wanted.
Adrenaline spikes higher in him at the thought of Sam asking him for something like that, and Dean gasps. "Sammy, Jesus--"
"Shh. I got you, man." Sam's fumbling with the ties holding Dean's arms stretched out, loosening them until Dean's free. He's big and warm when he covers Dean's body, and they slide together, blood and sweat slicking between them. Dean bites at Sam's throat, his jaw, and spreads his legs apart, urging Sam in between them. "Jesus, Dean."
Dean laughs, but it comes out ragged, raw, and it's a relief to feel Sam's hands press his thighs open; to feel the hard heat of Sam's dick as he slides into him.
He'd mocked Sam earlier -- when he wasn't busy moaning -- for prepping him; lube and a couple of fingers rubbing and teasing at his prostate before they got the knife out and things got wild. Now Dean's glad Sam thought of it, because there's no waiting, just the sweet, sweet burn and stretch as his body takes Sam's.
It's hot and it hurts, and it's fucking perfect.
Sam mutters something against Dean's throat, his voice hardly more than a low growl that Dean feels all the way down inside him. He shifts, pulling his legs back and open; groans when Sam sinks a little deeper inside.
"So good, Dean, Jesus, you feel--" Sam's fingers are tight in Dean's hair, holding him still for a long, searching kiss. It feels a little like Sam's trying to eat him from the outside in and Dean's okay with that. Gives himself over to it, rocking up to meet Sam's thrusts and opening for his tongue. All Sam's. Anything Sam wants, Dean wants to give it to him.
Sam fucks into him hard and fast, sweat stinging the cuts decorating Dean's torso. Each thrust splits him open, fills him up, and he wants to reach between them and jerk himself off; wants it so badly he aches with it. He makes one abortive attempt and Sam growls, grabs his hands and pins them while he fucks harder, until Dean's grunting at the friction, the heat filling him, owning him, and all he can do it take it.
He struggles once against Sam, but Sam's big and heavy, and determined Dean's not going to come first. He bites at Dean's throat, sucks hard on the cut that zigzags across his collarbone, and Dean throws his head back and groans, fingers scrabbling at the sheets.
"Mine, Dean. Fucking mine," is all Sam says, panting the words hot and moist into Dean's skin. Each one's punctuated by a hard, shuddering thrust.
Dean feels it when Sam comes; feels each pulse as liquid heat pools inside him. He shakes against Sam, held right on the edge but denied going over, while Sam catches his breath.
Then it's Dean's turn.
Sam's mouth is hot and wet, sliding down over him, lapping at the cuts, at the sweat, at the pre-come slicking the tip of Dean's dick. He takes Dean into his mouth and sucks; works three fingers deep up inside Dean. It doesn't take much; Dean comes in less than a minute, orgasm curling up hot and bright to wrap around his nerve endings. He shouts Sam's name and arches, feeling each spike of pleasure as it works through him.
He tastes himself in Sam's mouth afterward, when Sam slips in close to him and kisses him gently; soft kisses that soothe and quiet him.
Later still, Sam strokes a cool, wet washcloth over him, laughing softly when Dean's too wrung out even to move, instead letting Sam shift him around. It feels good, cool over burning, and Dean can hardly keep his eyes open through it. He's already slipping into a light doze by the time Sam comes back from the bathroom and clicks the lights out.
"Thanks," he mumbles, wincing when Sam's fingers press against one of the deeper cuts. "Needed it."
"I know," Sam answers quietly. He curls himself around Dean and Dean breathes out slowly, feeling safe and loved in ways nothing else can touch. Sam touches the back of Dean's neck with his lips, and Dean feels the smile there. "Sleep, okay?"
"Mmm." He wants to say more -- something -- but it's like he can't. He's too content, too worn out, to do anything but what Sam tells him to do.
So he sleeps.
~fin~
Author:
mickeymPairing Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~1450
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Contains knives, and bloodplay
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: This is for
raynedanser, to whom I promised knifeplay quite some time ago. I hope this works for you, honey :) Thanks to rejeneration for the cheerleading and support earlier, and for looking over what I had done. You're the best, baby. *g* Y'all enjoy!"Little cuts. Shallow…." Sam's voice trails off, but the sting doesn't.
It increases. Multiplies into narrow ribbons of fire slicing into him, circling through him.
Dean drags in a breath, closes his eyes so he can feel the burn marrow deep.
"Dean?"
His eyes fly open; meet Sam's gaze straight on. Sam's eyes are hot, hungry, pupils wide and dark. "Y-yeah," Dean manages, the word coming out kind of rough.
"S'okay?" The blunt edge of the knife is cool against his skin -- which feels as though it's on fire -- and Sam rubs it gently over the newest line of heat. "You gotta tell me if it's not."
"It's good." Dean swallows a moan when Sam turns the knife back over; slides it down his sternum. He can't follow it with his eyes, stretched out on the bed like this; can't watch the moist sliver grow and stretch and fucking own him, like when they stand in front of the mirror, but Dean can feel it.
Sam strokes the knife over Dean's chest, leaving sweet bites of pain behind in a swirling, spiraling pattern.
"Should see yourself," Sam says roughly, the words skating over Dean's skin as puffs of warm air. He hums a question, words not quite forming on his tongue any more. "Just so fucking gorgeous like this, man."
Sam leans in closer, mouth closing over one of the cuts, sucking heat and slickness to the surface. Dean groans and arches toward Sam, shaking when whitehot pain screams through him before fading into a low-level throb.
"Taste," Sam says, and drags one finger over the circle of fire ringing Dean's right nipple. He rubs his finger over Dean's mouth and Dean licks; tastes the copper-iron heat of blood, and the salty warmth of Sam through it. He chases Sam's finger with his tongue, curling, sucking to get more of that.
Sam groans and lowers his head, takes Dean's mouth with a hunger that burns into him. He arches up toward Sam, growling low in his throat, hands curling into fists where he's restrained. Can't touch.
"Want to fucking carve my initials in your skin." Sam bites each word into Dean's lips, into the length of his throat, and Dean feels each one throb there, branding him. He shudders and tips his head back a little further, the words dragging up out of his throat.
"Do it, Sam--God, please--"
Sam laughs, a low, dark chuckle that makes goosebumps ripple across Dean's skin. "Shouldn't tempt me," he says in a voice that sounds like sin, rich and heavy and slow. "You're gonna hurt in the morning." Sam drags the knife tip over Dean's pec and downward, pressing just a little harder when Dean begs first with his body, then with words.
"Don't care, please, Sammy--" He babbles some more, heated words that mean nothing and everything, shivering when the knife slips further in sweethot bites that make him cry, make him bleed.
The deeper cuts don't burn like the shallow ones -- not at first, anyway. The sting comes slower, later, rich and layered, heat that moves through him.
He feels the blood welling up, spilling over in fat, hot drops. Each one tickles as it slides down his side; Sam's tongue both soothes the burn and makes it worse as he chases them down and laps them up.
Sam tastes like pain and love when he kisses Dean, tongue slick and hot, eager to share the flavors.
"Need you," Sam whispers an eternity, a second, later. Dean rubs up against him as best he can, fingers curling and uncurling. Sam bites at Dean's mouth. "Want you."
"Yes, Christ yes. Anything. Everything." Dean feels desperate; pain and need burn through him, from him, his skin fairly itches with it. Even the heat of each cut doesn't feel like a cut. It will tomorrow, but right now he's riding high on the endorphin rush, nothing but waves buoying him up.
It's dangerous, this place he's in right now. He would let Sam cut his heart out and feed it to him, if that's what Sam wanted.
Adrenaline spikes higher in him at the thought of Sam asking him for something like that, and Dean gasps. "Sammy, Jesus--"
"Shh. I got you, man." Sam's fumbling with the ties holding Dean's arms stretched out, loosening them until Dean's free. He's big and warm when he covers Dean's body, and they slide together, blood and sweat slicking between them. Dean bites at Sam's throat, his jaw, and spreads his legs apart, urging Sam in between them. "Jesus, Dean."
Dean laughs, but it comes out ragged, raw, and it's a relief to feel Sam's hands press his thighs open; to feel the hard heat of Sam's dick as he slides into him.
He'd mocked Sam earlier -- when he wasn't busy moaning -- for prepping him; lube and a couple of fingers rubbing and teasing at his prostate before they got the knife out and things got wild. Now Dean's glad Sam thought of it, because there's no waiting, just the sweet, sweet burn and stretch as his body takes Sam's.
It's hot and it hurts, and it's fucking perfect.
Sam mutters something against Dean's throat, his voice hardly more than a low growl that Dean feels all the way down inside him. He shifts, pulling his legs back and open; groans when Sam sinks a little deeper inside.
"So good, Dean, Jesus, you feel--" Sam's fingers are tight in Dean's hair, holding him still for a long, searching kiss. It feels a little like Sam's trying to eat him from the outside in and Dean's okay with that. Gives himself over to it, rocking up to meet Sam's thrusts and opening for his tongue. All Sam's. Anything Sam wants, Dean wants to give it to him.
Sam fucks into him hard and fast, sweat stinging the cuts decorating Dean's torso. Each thrust splits him open, fills him up, and he wants to reach between them and jerk himself off; wants it so badly he aches with it. He makes one abortive attempt and Sam growls, grabs his hands and pins them while he fucks harder, until Dean's grunting at the friction, the heat filling him, owning him, and all he can do it take it.
He struggles once against Sam, but Sam's big and heavy, and determined Dean's not going to come first. He bites at Dean's throat, sucks hard on the cut that zigzags across his collarbone, and Dean throws his head back and groans, fingers scrabbling at the sheets.
"Mine, Dean. Fucking mine," is all Sam says, panting the words hot and moist into Dean's skin. Each one's punctuated by a hard, shuddering thrust.
Dean feels it when Sam comes; feels each pulse as liquid heat pools inside him. He shakes against Sam, held right on the edge but denied going over, while Sam catches his breath.
Then it's Dean's turn.
Sam's mouth is hot and wet, sliding down over him, lapping at the cuts, at the sweat, at the pre-come slicking the tip of Dean's dick. He takes Dean into his mouth and sucks; works three fingers deep up inside Dean. It doesn't take much; Dean comes in less than a minute, orgasm curling up hot and bright to wrap around his nerve endings. He shouts Sam's name and arches, feeling each spike of pleasure as it works through him.
He tastes himself in Sam's mouth afterward, when Sam slips in close to him and kisses him gently; soft kisses that soothe and quiet him.
Later still, Sam strokes a cool, wet washcloth over him, laughing softly when Dean's too wrung out even to move, instead letting Sam shift him around. It feels good, cool over burning, and Dean can hardly keep his eyes open through it. He's already slipping into a light doze by the time Sam comes back from the bathroom and clicks the lights out.
"Thanks," he mumbles, wincing when Sam's fingers press against one of the deeper cuts. "Needed it."
"I know," Sam answers quietly. He curls himself around Dean and Dean breathes out slowly, feeling safe and loved in ways nothing else can touch. Sam touches the back of Dean's neck with his lips, and Dean feels the smile there. "Sleep, okay?"
"Mmm." He wants to say more -- something -- but it's like he can't. He's too content, too worn out, to do anything but what Sam tells him to do.
So he sleeps.
~fin~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-10-28 08:29 pm (UTC)does look quite a lot like your tatt ;)
no subject
Date: 2007-10-28 08:36 pm (UTC)Thank you for sharing.
And you're right - asian writing, not Ogham. I'm not familar enough to know which one, either.