thecatevari (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thecatevari) wrote2007-09-10 09:35 am
thecatevari) wrote2007-09-10 09:35 am
Entry tags:
Sweet Charity - Maygra
Getting back into the habit of writing, I'm going to try and do at least one timed writing (15m) every day. This one's for Maygra's SC story. First pass at Sam's first scene here:
Sam woke up, but it didn't feel much like waking up. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he wasn't still dreaming. Reality didn't normally feel this much like warm bathwater, swirled around his naked skin.
Hey. Naked skin.
Of course, Sam hadn't been able to take a real bath in years. Not since he hit his growth spurt and shot forever out of the comfort zone of commercial tubs. His brief stint with the track team in high school in Arizona had been nice; they'd shared training space with the college and had those large jacuzzi type tubs for the football players, big enough for men.
Why am I thinking about baths, again?
Sam thought he could use a nice bath. Beneath the feeling of warm lassitude is a kind of distant ache, the quiet chorus of sore muscles. Jess used to give him great massages when his shoulders or legs ached—and they often did; the world seemed mostly built for short people and that meant a lot of twisting and bending, even when one wasn't hunting the creatures of the night on a regular basis. There had been a few times Sam had thought about asking Dean for a massage—only when it got really bad—but just a few seconds thought and a look at Dean would remind him all the reasons that was a bad idea.
Dean. Where's Dean?
Sam frowns a little, torn between his pleasant daydreams of a melting point hot bath and the increasingly loud background noise of thoughts. And his shoulders ache. Sam tries to flex them: stretch his arms over his head and bow his back…and finds that his wrists are held fast. The same with his ankles, when he tries to move his legs.
Oh. Oh, what's going on here?
Sam lifts his head from whatever he's laying on (Stone? Is this stone?) and cranes to see what's wrapped around his limbs. It's not rope, far as he can tell. It looks soft, stretchy, even though there's absolutely no give in the fabric. They look a little like the scarves Jess had tied him up with the one time.
Kinky.
And now Sam is starting to worry. Just a little bit.
Sam. You're drugged and tied up. This is not you. This is a drug of some kind. You need to snap out of it. Sam. Sam.
"Hello?" he calls loudly, which presents its own problems as his head starts to throb. Okay, yelling might be a mistake. He strains up as far as the ties on his wrists and ankles will let him. The room he's in is small. Plain. Bare.
Not good. Really not good.
"Is there anybody there? Hello? Could someone let me out now?"
Sam tries to think whether he has any weapons. But oh. Yeah. Naked. He forgot that part.
I'm not sure how I feel about it, so opinions welcome.
Sam woke up, but it didn't feel much like waking up. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he wasn't still dreaming. Reality didn't normally feel this much like warm bathwater, swirled around his naked skin.
Hey. Naked skin.
Of course, Sam hadn't been able to take a real bath in years. Not since he hit his growth spurt and shot forever out of the comfort zone of commercial tubs. His brief stint with the track team in high school in Arizona had been nice; they'd shared training space with the college and had those large jacuzzi type tubs for the football players, big enough for men.
Why am I thinking about baths, again?
Sam thought he could use a nice bath. Beneath the feeling of warm lassitude is a kind of distant ache, the quiet chorus of sore muscles. Jess used to give him great massages when his shoulders or legs ached—and they often did; the world seemed mostly built for short people and that meant a lot of twisting and bending, even when one wasn't hunting the creatures of the night on a regular basis. There had been a few times Sam had thought about asking Dean for a massage—only when it got really bad—but just a few seconds thought and a look at Dean would remind him all the reasons that was a bad idea.
Dean. Where's Dean?
Sam frowns a little, torn between his pleasant daydreams of a melting point hot bath and the increasingly loud background noise of thoughts. And his shoulders ache. Sam tries to flex them: stretch his arms over his head and bow his back…and finds that his wrists are held fast. The same with his ankles, when he tries to move his legs.
Oh. Oh, what's going on here?
Sam lifts his head from whatever he's laying on (Stone? Is this stone?) and cranes to see what's wrapped around his limbs. It's not rope, far as he can tell. It looks soft, stretchy, even though there's absolutely no give in the fabric. They look a little like the scarves Jess had tied him up with the one time.
Kinky.
And now Sam is starting to worry. Just a little bit.
Sam. You're drugged and tied up. This is not you. This is a drug of some kind. You need to snap out of it. Sam. Sam.
"Hello?" he calls loudly, which presents its own problems as his head starts to throb. Okay, yelling might be a mistake. He strains up as far as the ties on his wrists and ankles will let him. The room he's in is small. Plain. Bare.
Not good. Really not good.
"Is there anybody there? Hello? Could someone let me out now?"
Sam tries to think whether he has any weapons. But oh. Yeah. Naked. He forgot that part.
I'm not sure how I feel about it, so opinions welcome.
no subject