Fic:Under My Skin Sam/Dean (not Wincest) AU NC-17
Title: Under My Skin
Author: dastiel_gal
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Porn, slash, AU
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings Enticements: tattooing, porn
Word Count: 1,830
Disclaimer: I don't own Sam or Dean, more's the pity, Kripke & Co do. This is all scurrilous lies, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: Sam only went in to keep Brady company. He never expected the rest of it... any of it.
Author’s Notes: Written for the prompt Dean/Sam - tattoos, piercings. Dean is the hot tattoo artist/piercer in the area around Stanford, Sam's friends convince him to get something done. in blindfold_spn. How could I resist a prompt like that? Cross-posted to spn_smut and sn_slash.
Download from AO3
---oo00oo---
"This one! Right? Definitely this one!"
Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or bang his head against the wall. Not only is Brady leafing through the trailer-trash-flash book, when the book of one-off originals is right next to it, he just picked out the most crappy, tasteless thing in the whole folder. He catches the tattoo artist (a huge, hairy biker type) in mid-eyeroll and has to fight not to laugh. They try to steer Brady towards something cooler - apparently the one-offs are "too expensive" (for something you're gonna have on your skin forever? Sam thinks cheap is NOT the way to go...), and there's better stuff available in the flash book than the one that caught Brady's eye - but he's having none of it. After ten minutes, the tattooist starts looking at his watch, and Sam gives up.
"Sure, man, whatever. It's your skin."
The back rooms here are tiny, certainly no room for onlookers the size of Sam, so he waves goodbye to Brady, then parks himself on a chair in the now-empty reception and leafs through the book of one-off pieces. The ones he likes are all by the same artist, Dean W - intriguing all-black pieces blending solid, chunky tribal stuff with pagan influences and hotrod-style flames. Bold and masculine, cool as fuck, and if he were gonna get ink... His head is so far in the book that he barely glances up while the second tattoo artist brings out his newly-inked client and takes payment.
"Anything I can help you with? Got time for a quickie before we close."
He looks up, and is rendered temporarily speechless by the vision of pyroclastic hotness in front of him. It takes a second to get past the green eyes, the freckles, and the plumpest lips he's ever seen on a white man, then on down to a fit, muscular body that makes his dick twitch, and an all-black tattoo that swirls and dips all over the guy's arms and shoulders, and - from what he can see peeking out of the black wife-beater - his chest too. It's obvious from the style that it's a Dean W design. The whole effect is... Sam doesn't even know what it is. Fuck me, he thinks. No, really, please. Fuck me.
"Um. I came in with a friend. I wasn't gonna..."
The guy gives him an appraising look. "That's a shame, man. I'd love to get my hands on you." He stops, mouth falling open. "I mean... shit, sorry, dude. Um. That came out wrong. I'd love to put ink on you."
Sam laughs. "No sweat, man, I'm gay anyway, so unintentional double entendres from tattooed guys make my day."
Green Eyes looks relieved. "Okay, then. You like my tatt? I could do you something in the same vein..." He holds out his hand. "I'm Dean."
So that's how Sam ends up in the chair, getting a tattoo he never planned on, from the sexiest inkster on the fucking planet. They settle on a pentagram surrounded by flames, on his chest where it can be hidden when necessary (he suspects there's limited call for lawyers with visible tattoos). Dean looked at his chest long and hard when he stripped his shirt off, but apart from that verbal slip, the guy's been a total professional, so he must have just been judging the best placement. And Sam's sure that brush across his bare nipple with the alcohol wipe was accidental. It was cold as hell while it dried, and made his nipple stand up stiff.
Sam's surprised by how good the needle gun feels. He was expecting this to be a trial of endurance, but honestly - once they were past inking the outlines, which was unpleasantly scratchy - the infill is a tolerable burn, and there's a nice underlying buzz that's kind of stimulating, like using an electrical massager on tense shoulders. Or, no, more like the feel of a vibrating plug. Oh. That... is really not a good train of thought here. Especially not with a gorgeous man bending over his chest, so near he can feel the body heat radiating off him. Sam tries to get his brain away from the buzz, but now he's connected it with sex, it's pretty much a lost cause. With a sense of despair, he feels his dick start to thicken. Dean's leaning over so close, there's no way he's gonna miss that.
"Are you okay, man? Looking a touch stressed, there. We can take a break?"
"Um, yeah, just give me a minute. How much longer?"
"About fifteen minutes, nearly done."
Dean stands up and potters around, clearing up the studio, giving Sam a better look at his stunning body in the process and, when he turns around, the world's hottest ass. Sam rethinks the wisdom of taking a break, given that the view's doing not a damn thing to soften his half-hard cock. If it gets any more blood...
"Listen, dude, I've been working at weird angles all day and my back is fucking killing me. Would you mind if I stood across you while we finish off?"
"Um. How do you...?"
"Like this," says Dean, swinging his leg up and over the chair - over Sam - like he's mounting a chopper, and Sam is so fucking fucked here, he's the King of All Fuckedness. All of his blood heads south, in ten seconds he's gonna be tenting his jeans unmissably, and Dean's crotch is, like, barely a coupla inches away from his. No way he's not gonna notice. The needle's back on his chest, buzzing away, and Sam gives up, shuts his eyes and waits in mortification for the exclamation of disgust and the punch in the face he's sure will follow it.
The buzz continues unabated, though, even when he feels his swelling dick touch Dean's inner thigh. What little blood isn't south of the border pools in Sam's cheeks. This is, without doubt, the most humiliating thing to happen to him, ever, and it had to be in front of the sexiest guy Sam's ever met. Of course. Sam wants the ground to open up and swallow him, reclining chair and all.
"Okay, man, that is IT. All done."
Sam heaves a sigh of relief and waits for Dean to move off of him, but Dean stays right where he is, starts wiping blood away from the tattoo and telling him about aftercare.
"Hey, man, are you all right? Not gone dizzy, have you?"
"No, I'm fine, I just..."
"Well, aren't you gonna inspect your new artwork?"
There's nothing for it. Mr Smokin' Hawt Tattooist is all but sitting in his lap, he's poking the guy's inseam with his erection for fuck's sake, and now he has to face his shame and crack his eyes open.
Except, when he does, he finds that the green eyes are dancing with mischief, and there's a big fat shit-eating grin all over Dean's face.
"There you are, man! I was afraid you were never gonna look at me again. Let me tell you, I should get a goddamn medal for finishing that tatt instead of tossing the gun across the room and jumping your bones half-way through. You got any fucking idea how hot you look, fine body all spread out underneath me, hard from the gun?"
"Um. I'm sorry, I... really, I know it's... what?"
Dean's outright laughing at him now. "Dude, seriously, did you miss the part where I came on to you, first thing outta my mouth? And the second, come to that. It was fricken Freudian."
"Oh. Oh! I thought..."
The laughter slides off Dean's face, replaced by heat. "Jesus, you've been so busy worrying about your own hard-on, you ain't even noticed mine, have you?"
Sam gasps in shock, eyes flying downwards, and sure enough there's an entirely mouth-watering bulge in Dean's Levis.
Dean finishes the aftercare, and leans in. "If you don't want to be kissed, now's the time to duck."
He dips his head and lays a kiss on Sam that's like a jolt of electricity, and Sam tries to buck up out of the chair, reaches out for Dean.
"Oh, no you don't, you just got ink done." Dean grins wickedly, "You need to take it easy and let me look after you."
He kisses his way down Sam's chest, which must be like riding a bronco because what with the buzzing and the endorphins and the lips, Sam is oversensitized to hell and incapable of sitting still. Dean compensates by settling his full weight on Sam's legs and grinding his way down, which results in yet more bucking.
Dean laughs, unbuttoning and unzipping Sam. "Looks like you're a bumpy ride, son." And then he's tugging Sam's jeans and shorts down just enough, and wrapping his delicious mouth around Sam's cock, and it's a good thing Dave the Biker packed up and went home 20 minutes ago, because Sam yells out loud enough to wake the dead. And keeps yelling, because holy fucking Christ, Dean's mouth feels as good as it looks, hand working in tandem further down Sam's shaft, and he's been so turned on for so long, he feels like he's losing his damn mind. Dean's writhing against his legs, working on him so good, oh shit, sloppy and wet and fucking noisy as hell, and Sam's a neat freak, doesn't usually go for messy sex, but Dean can apparently make him like anything, because... Oh, oh, it's too good, just, he's gonna...
"Dean!" He tugs at the short hair, arching up from the chair, and Dean slides his mouth up, sucking hard all the way, and pops off the end with a filthy slurp, a split second before Sam shoots, and fuckfuckFUCK, uses his hand around the base to aim Sam's dick at his gorgeous face, gives himself a fucking facial, God, and that's so dirtyhot that Sam keeps coming way past when, whiting out, till he falls back, shaking and moaning and halfway insensible.
When his brain starts firing back up again, he finds Dean in his lap, grinning gleefully, Sam's come sliding down his face and dripping off his jaw (and holy crap, that should not be so hot). "Jesus fuck, man, that was awesome. You really get into it, don't you?"
Sam manages a shaky laugh. "It's just you, you're so damn hot, I... I should..." He gestures at Dean's crotch, before realizing there's a huge, dark wet spot on the front of his jeans. Looks like Sam's not the only one who was really into it.
"Well, now, I live just around the corner, Sam, and given that you got me all... dirty, and... sticky..." Dean's eyes go wide and fake-innocent, "I think you ought to take me home and help me clean up. Hmmm?"
"Oh, yes, hell, yes. God. Please."
Dean slithers back, grin blinding, and holds out a hand to peel Sam up off the chair.
"And after that, we need to talk about your next tatt. I got a great idea for a back piece."
Author: dastiel_gal
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Porn, slash, AU
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings Enticements: tattooing, porn
Word Count: 1,830
Disclaimer: I don't own Sam or Dean, more's the pity, Kripke & Co do. This is all scurrilous lies, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: Sam only went in to keep Brady company. He never expected the rest of it... any of it.
Author’s Notes: Written for the prompt Dean/Sam - tattoos, piercings. Dean is the hot tattoo artist/piercer in the area around Stanford, Sam's friends convince him to get something done. in blindfold_spn. How could I resist a prompt like that? Cross-posted to spn_smut and sn_slash.
Download from AO3
---oo00oo---
"This one! Right? Definitely this one!"
Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or bang his head against the wall. Not only is Brady leafing through the trailer-trash-flash book, when the book of one-off originals is right next to it, he just picked out the most crappy, tasteless thing in the whole folder. He catches the tattoo artist (a huge, hairy biker type) in mid-eyeroll and has to fight not to laugh. They try to steer Brady towards something cooler - apparently the one-offs are "too expensive" (for something you're gonna have on your skin forever? Sam thinks cheap is NOT the way to go...), and there's better stuff available in the flash book than the one that caught Brady's eye - but he's having none of it. After ten minutes, the tattooist starts looking at his watch, and Sam gives up.
"Sure, man, whatever. It's your skin."
The back rooms here are tiny, certainly no room for onlookers the size of Sam, so he waves goodbye to Brady, then parks himself on a chair in the now-empty reception and leafs through the book of one-off pieces. The ones he likes are all by the same artist, Dean W - intriguing all-black pieces blending solid, chunky tribal stuff with pagan influences and hotrod-style flames. Bold and masculine, cool as fuck, and if he were gonna get ink... His head is so far in the book that he barely glances up while the second tattoo artist brings out his newly-inked client and takes payment.
"Anything I can help you with? Got time for a quickie before we close."
He looks up, and is rendered temporarily speechless by the vision of pyroclastic hotness in front of him. It takes a second to get past the green eyes, the freckles, and the plumpest lips he's ever seen on a white man, then on down to a fit, muscular body that makes his dick twitch, and an all-black tattoo that swirls and dips all over the guy's arms and shoulders, and - from what he can see peeking out of the black wife-beater - his chest too. It's obvious from the style that it's a Dean W design. The whole effect is... Sam doesn't even know what it is. Fuck me, he thinks. No, really, please. Fuck me.
"Um. I came in with a friend. I wasn't gonna..."
The guy gives him an appraising look. "That's a shame, man. I'd love to get my hands on you." He stops, mouth falling open. "I mean... shit, sorry, dude. Um. That came out wrong. I'd love to put ink on you."
Sam laughs. "No sweat, man, I'm gay anyway, so unintentional double entendres from tattooed guys make my day."
Green Eyes looks relieved. "Okay, then. You like my tatt? I could do you something in the same vein..." He holds out his hand. "I'm Dean."
So that's how Sam ends up in the chair, getting a tattoo he never planned on, from the sexiest inkster on the fucking planet. They settle on a pentagram surrounded by flames, on his chest where it can be hidden when necessary (he suspects there's limited call for lawyers with visible tattoos). Dean looked at his chest long and hard when he stripped his shirt off, but apart from that verbal slip, the guy's been a total professional, so he must have just been judging the best placement. And Sam's sure that brush across his bare nipple with the alcohol wipe was accidental. It was cold as hell while it dried, and made his nipple stand up stiff.
Sam's surprised by how good the needle gun feels. He was expecting this to be a trial of endurance, but honestly - once they were past inking the outlines, which was unpleasantly scratchy - the infill is a tolerable burn, and there's a nice underlying buzz that's kind of stimulating, like using an electrical massager on tense shoulders. Or, no, more like the feel of a vibrating plug. Oh. That... is really not a good train of thought here. Especially not with a gorgeous man bending over his chest, so near he can feel the body heat radiating off him. Sam tries to get his brain away from the buzz, but now he's connected it with sex, it's pretty much a lost cause. With a sense of despair, he feels his dick start to thicken. Dean's leaning over so close, there's no way he's gonna miss that.
"Are you okay, man? Looking a touch stressed, there. We can take a break?"
"Um, yeah, just give me a minute. How much longer?"
"About fifteen minutes, nearly done."
Dean stands up and potters around, clearing up the studio, giving Sam a better look at his stunning body in the process and, when he turns around, the world's hottest ass. Sam rethinks the wisdom of taking a break, given that the view's doing not a damn thing to soften his half-hard cock. If it gets any more blood...
"Listen, dude, I've been working at weird angles all day and my back is fucking killing me. Would you mind if I stood across you while we finish off?"
"Um. How do you...?"
"Like this," says Dean, swinging his leg up and over the chair - over Sam - like he's mounting a chopper, and Sam is so fucking fucked here, he's the King of All Fuckedness. All of his blood heads south, in ten seconds he's gonna be tenting his jeans unmissably, and Dean's crotch is, like, barely a coupla inches away from his. No way he's not gonna notice. The needle's back on his chest, buzzing away, and Sam gives up, shuts his eyes and waits in mortification for the exclamation of disgust and the punch in the face he's sure will follow it.
The buzz continues unabated, though, even when he feels his swelling dick touch Dean's inner thigh. What little blood isn't south of the border pools in Sam's cheeks. This is, without doubt, the most humiliating thing to happen to him, ever, and it had to be in front of the sexiest guy Sam's ever met. Of course. Sam wants the ground to open up and swallow him, reclining chair and all.
"Okay, man, that is IT. All done."
Sam heaves a sigh of relief and waits for Dean to move off of him, but Dean stays right where he is, starts wiping blood away from the tattoo and telling him about aftercare.
"Hey, man, are you all right? Not gone dizzy, have you?"
"No, I'm fine, I just..."
"Well, aren't you gonna inspect your new artwork?"
There's nothing for it. Mr Smokin' Hawt Tattooist is all but sitting in his lap, he's poking the guy's inseam with his erection for fuck's sake, and now he has to face his shame and crack his eyes open.
Except, when he does, he finds that the green eyes are dancing with mischief, and there's a big fat shit-eating grin all over Dean's face.
"There you are, man! I was afraid you were never gonna look at me again. Let me tell you, I should get a goddamn medal for finishing that tatt instead of tossing the gun across the room and jumping your bones half-way through. You got any fucking idea how hot you look, fine body all spread out underneath me, hard from the gun?"
"Um. I'm sorry, I... really, I know it's... what?"
Dean's outright laughing at him now. "Dude, seriously, did you miss the part where I came on to you, first thing outta my mouth? And the second, come to that. It was fricken Freudian."
"Oh. Oh! I thought..."
The laughter slides off Dean's face, replaced by heat. "Jesus, you've been so busy worrying about your own hard-on, you ain't even noticed mine, have you?"
Sam gasps in shock, eyes flying downwards, and sure enough there's an entirely mouth-watering bulge in Dean's Levis.
Dean finishes the aftercare, and leans in. "If you don't want to be kissed, now's the time to duck."
He dips his head and lays a kiss on Sam that's like a jolt of electricity, and Sam tries to buck up out of the chair, reaches out for Dean.
"Oh, no you don't, you just got ink done." Dean grins wickedly, "You need to take it easy and let me look after you."
He kisses his way down Sam's chest, which must be like riding a bronco because what with the buzzing and the endorphins and the lips, Sam is oversensitized to hell and incapable of sitting still. Dean compensates by settling his full weight on Sam's legs and grinding his way down, which results in yet more bucking.
Dean laughs, unbuttoning and unzipping Sam. "Looks like you're a bumpy ride, son." And then he's tugging Sam's jeans and shorts down just enough, and wrapping his delicious mouth around Sam's cock, and it's a good thing Dave the Biker packed up and went home 20 minutes ago, because Sam yells out loud enough to wake the dead. And keeps yelling, because holy fucking Christ, Dean's mouth feels as good as it looks, hand working in tandem further down Sam's shaft, and he's been so turned on for so long, he feels like he's losing his damn mind. Dean's writhing against his legs, working on him so good, oh shit, sloppy and wet and fucking noisy as hell, and Sam's a neat freak, doesn't usually go for messy sex, but Dean can apparently make him like anything, because... Oh, oh, it's too good, just, he's gonna...
"Dean!" He tugs at the short hair, arching up from the chair, and Dean slides his mouth up, sucking hard all the way, and pops off the end with a filthy slurp, a split second before Sam shoots, and fuckfuckFUCK, uses his hand around the base to aim Sam's dick at his gorgeous face, gives himself a fucking facial, God, and that's so dirtyhot that Sam keeps coming way past when, whiting out, till he falls back, shaking and moaning and halfway insensible.
When his brain starts firing back up again, he finds Dean in his lap, grinning gleefully, Sam's come sliding down his face and dripping off his jaw (and holy crap, that should not be so hot). "Jesus fuck, man, that was awesome. You really get into it, don't you?"
Sam manages a shaky laugh. "It's just you, you're so damn hot, I... I should..." He gestures at Dean's crotch, before realizing there's a huge, dark wet spot on the front of his jeans. Looks like Sam's not the only one who was really into it.
"Well, now, I live just around the corner, Sam, and given that you got me all... dirty, and... sticky..." Dean's eyes go wide and fake-innocent, "I think you ought to take me home and help me clean up. Hmmm?"
"Oh, yes, hell, yes. God. Please."
Dean slithers back, grin blinding, and holds out a hand to peel Sam up off the chair.
"And after that, we need to talk about your next tatt. I got a great idea for a back piece."