OOC : SLASH FICTION
Please note - behind this cut is an image so vile, so foul, so unmistakably obscene that you will rend your hair, claw your eyes, and pray to gods greater or lesser to scourse the images from your mind, likely taking solace in the only refuge available; drink, and strong drink at that. Know, then, that this hideous mockery of all that is good and true was spawned by actual comments made in RP and during RP, both IC and OOC, requiring the carrying out of this horrible, horrible threat.
With that in mind, read on, if you dare...
"That's it. Give it up for me." Caine looked down at the figure of the blonde youth tied to the bed. His grin was knife-sharp and wicked, watching his nephew twist and writhe on the bed. He drew one of his daggers, flipping it end for end and catching it again. "Wear yourself down as much as you like. Hell, just makes my part easier."
Martin grunted, straining against the knotted leather binding him in place. Every muscle strained, then relaxed deliberately, but still found no escape. "Why are you doing this? You can fight this, Uncle Caine. I know you can. Let me go, and we'll call it good," he tried. He kept his voice calm, watching the older man's approach.
Caine laughed mockingly. "Let you go? After all the work put in to get you here? I don't think so."
The knife flashed, and Martin closed his eyes tightly - but the blow never landed. Instead, there was a sudden waft of cool air against his skin. He opened his eyes to find his shirt sliced open from collar to waist, skin prickling in the draft.
"Uncle, what-"
"Shh." Caine was staring at him with a peculiar intensity that Martin had never seen before in the man. He leaned over his nephew's body, sliding against him. "I want to enjoy this moment." Despite himself, Martin could feel himself reacting. He squirmed against the braided leather thongs, and
ERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERROR
With that in mind, read on, if you dare...
"That's it. Give it up for me." Caine looked down at the figure of the blonde youth tied to the bed. His grin was knife-sharp and wicked, watching his nephew twist and writhe on the bed. He drew one of his daggers, flipping it end for end and catching it again. "Wear yourself down as much as you like. Hell, just makes my part easier."
Martin grunted, straining against the knotted leather binding him in place. Every muscle strained, then relaxed deliberately, but still found no escape. "Why are you doing this? You can fight this, Uncle Caine. I know you can. Let me go, and we'll call it good," he tried. He kept his voice calm, watching the older man's approach.
Caine laughed mockingly. "Let you go? After all the work put in to get you here? I don't think so."
The knife flashed, and Martin closed his eyes tightly - but the blow never landed. Instead, there was a sudden waft of cool air against his skin. He opened his eyes to find his shirt sliced open from collar to waist, skin prickling in the draft.
"Uncle, what-"
"Shh." Caine was staring at him with a peculiar intensity that Martin had never seen before in the man. He leaned over his nephew's body, sliding against him. "I want to enjoy this moment." Despite himself, Martin could feel himself reacting. He squirmed against the braided leather thongs, and
ERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERROR