#knife!play

He shivers when he feels her step up behind him, lean and strong, panther-like in her silence and her growl. One of her hands slides along his bare shoulder, her fingers curl around his throat and tilt his head up. He gasps, raising his eyes to her as ardently as he ever raised them to his Father, and catches the sharp end of her smile when she leans down. Her thick hair covers his face when she kisses his forehead and he gasps as he feels her golden knife press against his chest.

The blade is flat and cool. It can’t hurt him, not really, but she can. 

She hesitates, like catching a new scent, and hums against his skin. “You smell sweet,” she says, curious and quiet. Gabriel’s wing’s twitch where they’re held tight to his back. Earlier she had opened his back, torn his wings from his Earthly form like babies are torn from their mother’s bodies, and cleaned them with her hands as he’d shaken and sobbed.

Then, she’d fed him chocolate from her hand and pet through the delicate, gold-white feathers with the same touch, smearing the sweet treat between the feathers and against his sensitive skin. He’s warm now, burning from her heat, and the chocolate is melting and mixing with his oil and turning his scent sweet.

Her hand leaves his throat and he whimpers, wanting to chase her, but she has taken his voice, plugged his neck with her will, and all that comes out is a soft, needy sound. He feels her smile against his shoulder as she kneels between his wings.

She touches one first, gently, scratching her nails through the smears of chocolate and blood in his feathers. Then, a split-second after, he feels the knife follow. It’s a tingle, dangerous and sudden and he stiffens, breathing hard as he feels the knife peel the stickiness from his feathers like pulling cold wax from someone’s skin. It scrapes off like pieces of glaze from a donut, ice from a windshield. It’s terrifying in its precision and feels so good that, after the first stroke of the knife is done from the base of his wing to the tip, he moans.

Her smile is as warm as the fire in his lungs. “You like that?” she asks, and wraps her hand around his neck again so she can feel him nod. She kisses his sweaty hair and drags the knife along his wings again. “You want me to keep going?”

Gabriel nods, clenching his eyes shut.

She growls, a tigress, paralyzing. Her hand tightens. “Beg me,” she demands.

She has robbed Gabriel of his voice, forced him into silence because in the silence he can truly understand how old, how powerful, how absolutely unchecked her wrath can be. He clenches his fingers, bares his teeth, and sucks in a breath as he tries to fight past the gate she’s put behind his teeth, the suppressor on his tongue, the thick welt of chocolate and blood in his throat.

“Please.” It’s a tiny whisper, less strength to it than a starving wood mouse fleeing from winter. Barely a sigh.

It’s enough.

Sam is straddling his thighs, and he’s hard as fuck, Deancan feel him. He likes this, and Deanbites his lip and turns his head to one side. He can’t see the weapon Sam’sholding in his sure, steady hand, but he can see Sam’s face, see the dark lustin his eyes and the excitement on his face.

“Which – which knife is that?” he rasps.

Sam breathes out, heavy through his nose. “Does itmatter?” he asks, and Dean feels another shiver run down his spine at thelow, fucked-out quality of Sam’s voice. Maybe it doesn’t matter. After all, Sam has chosen the weapon, and maybe itdoesn’t matter to him. Maybe all that matters is the threat of it, the waySam’s free hand is resting and warm on Dean’s shoulder, the way his cocktwitches with every stiff intake of Dean’s breath.

“Does it?” Dean asks.

Sam smiles. Dean can hear it; “No,” he replies.“I didn’t think about it. I didn’t care.”

Dean nods, just a little, and breathes out when he feels Samturn the blade, resting it wide and cold against Dean’s spine, He drags itdown, flat and slow, and Dean’s fingers clench and unclench by his sides.

“I love this,” Sam whispers, reverent like he’s ina church. Dean bites his lip and gives a hum of acknowledgement. As though hecan’t feel how into it Sam is against his ass. “I don’t know what it is. Ilove…”

“Having me at your mercy?” Dean says, trying to beteasing but coming out shaky and soft instead.

Sam replies with another soft sigh. “Maybe,” hesays, tilting his head to one side. He sets the tip of the blade against Dean’sspine and turns it, digs in hard enough that he raises a red line but not deepenough to break skin. The burn of the knife’s touch comes about two secondsafter it passes, leaving Dean unable to really feel where it is, his skin litup instead where it just was. “Or maybe it’s just that you trust me somuch. I don’t know.”

Dean sighs again, relaxing just a little as Sam continues todraw lines on him. He goes up almost to Dean’s nape, then zigzags his way backdown in little arcing curves until he gets to the dimples in the small ofDean’s back, and then back up. As he goes, the burn builds, settling in thepart of Dean’s brain that kicks off under sensation. It starts to affect himtoo – the weight of Sam on top of him, the heat in his hand, the way the knifelicks down his back as intimately as the lover who’s holding it. Dean likespain, as much as that used to sicken him. He likes sensation, whatever it might be. Sam knows this.

Sam abruptly tilts the blade again so the cool flat siderests against one of the burning lines on Dean’s back and Dean lets out asmall, involuntary moan. He feels Sam’s cock twitch and hears his sharp intakeof breath.

“Dean,”Sam whispers, like Dean’s name may as well be God’s, and Dean shivers again.The blade kisses his skin again, as soft as Sam’s mouth, and then Dean feels itmove away. Sam rests both hands on Dean’s stinging back and smooths his palmsdown either side of his spine, before he leans down and nuzzles against theback of Dean’s neck.

Dean turns his head again and leans up onto his elbows sothat Sam can kiss him. Sam does, first on his unmarked neck, where the edge ofhis tendon stands out. Then the corner of his jaw, feather-light and chaste.Then his mouth, one hand cupping Dean’s neck in a mimic of a collar, squeezing so gently as his chest slides againstDean’s back, and Dean lets out another moan, louder and rougher against Sam’smouth.

Sam pulls back, his eyes swallowed by his pupil, his lipsred. “Thank you,” he says, his thumb rubbing under Dean’s chin, alongthe arch of his throat. “You were so perfect for me.”

Dean blushes, but doesn’t lower his eyes. He doesn’t want tomiss a single second of Sam looking at him like he’s the most precious thing inthe world. “I liked it,” he says instead of anything else he wants tosay, and Sam’s smile spreads out slow and wide across his face.