#500 words
I got a prompt for praise kink like a year ago for my ‘warmth’ smut series and occasionally it pops into my brain from time to time because I wholeheartedly plan on writing it one of these days, but there are times where all I can think about is—
![[ Inspired by this post and the above anon. ]The scars from Satya’s arm spiderweb across her back li](https://64.media.tumblr.com/80309b7064c4f1c37afe1433216c5a39/tumblr_nij2qicvYY1u6swawo1_1280.jpg "[ Inspired by this post and the above anon. ]The scars from Satya’s arm spiderweb across her back li")
[Inspired by this post and the above anon.]
The scars from Satya’s arm spiderweb across her back like lightning.
She sits on the edge of the mattress with her shoulders bare, her prosthesis stowed away. Jamison has rarely seen her without it, and rarer still without her clothes. To be here in the absence of both seems somehow strange, like he’s stumbling in something too secret and he must promise with his finger hooked in the crook of hers to keep it forever safe.
There are tiny moments like this, all interspersed among an endless mesh of disparate cityscapes and rattling gunfire, where he glimpses the young woman Vishkar once consumed. They are brief pockets filled with quiet, with soft breathing and the murmur of her heartbeat: the girl who loved to dance, expressions flawless, breathless; the girl who drew symmetrically perfect shapes with rulers and protractors on countless pages until she was given hard-light; the girl who became prodigy through the art of her meticulous, precise design. She doesn’t like to talk of how things were before that gigantic corporation—she must have her reasons, he supposes, and he’s sure they’re good ones—but every now and then, when the nights grow restless and she welcomes his loquacious company, she will think aloud with him in soft rhythmic tones and recount pleasant memories.
Biting at the inside of his cheek, Jamison traces a thumb down her left shoulder blade. Warmth stamps his sliding fingerprint as he smooths over the ripples of her scars. They crack and splinter in fissures from what remains, a knot of muscle at her shoulder. That is one memory she has not cared to recount. He has no illusions about its pleasantness as he knows his own losses well and neither was particularly pleasant, but something grates at the back of his mind that it’s personal for her—not because something like losing a limb could be traumatic, but because her (Vishkar-engineered, Vishkar-issued, and Vishkar-everything else) prosthesis has become such an integral part of everything she is that to ask why’d you let ‘em take it orhow’d you get all these? might be taken with offense.
He lowers his nose to her back and presses where the lightning tapers off.
For once, he remains silent.
Post link
For Anon, 500 words featuring trans man Draco and some top surgery scar worship. A million thanks to @samyistrying for all the help and cheering!
It was a little after eleven, Saturday morning, and the sun was out. They’ve just finished breakfast. Harry made scones; extra butter, raspberry jam for Draco, strawberry for him, with a very strong tea. Draco took three sugars in his–“Because you’re so sweet,” Harry would tell him, and he’d always roll his eyes. Or almost always. He just laughed, today; touched Harry’s lip, gentle, as if trying to feel the words. Then hummed, looked down, and was quiet for a long spell. Nothing alarming—he’d do that every now and again, dive into his own world, needing some time. Harry was happy to wait. He sat beside him, getting lost in the patterns the light made on the table, cheery and bright. At first he didn’t notice the movement beside him.
Then a cough, and—oh, Draco wasn’t sitting down any longer. He also wasn’t wearing his shirt. Harry might have squealed.
“I—” Draco gasped, a touch panicked.
“No—darling, no, no. I was… surprised, is all. You never—”
Harry’s seen it before, but not like this. A couple of times when they were drunk, giggly and stumbling, clumsy hands searching; on quiet nights, careful and slow; once or twice hurried, desperate, blurry. But now it was morning, Harry had his glasses, and the blush on Draco’s cheeks could undo him. Not to mention…
He tore his eyes down, heart beating too fast. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”
“Harry,” Draco laughed, and the sound made breathing possible again, “baby. I want you to look. I wouldn’t have… I want to.” He came closer, gave a small kiss to Harry’s forehead, and another to his ear. “Baby.”
He sat down in Harry’s lap, and no force in the universe could stop Harry’s hands from wrapping around him, instinctive.
“Sorry,” he murmured. Then, helpless: “Darling, you’re so beautiful.”
“So I’ve been told, yes,” Draco smiled, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “You can touch, if you like.”
If he liked. Like he could resist leaning forward, laying gentle kisses on each scar. Like he could keep his hands away, like he somehow had the power to. With how Draco chuckled, ticklish and warm and precious, smelling of lavender body-wash and tea—with how he was laughing, “Harry—Harry!”
“Sorry,” he managed. “I don’t… god, Draco. Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Draco said, muffled against his neck. “Yes.”
It was cold in the kitchen—he could tell by the goosebumps on Draco’s bare arms, but the skin under his fingers felt warm. Harry ran them along the scar on the left, then on the right, a little drunk on being allowed to, on being trusted enough. He tried to control himself, not to overdo it, some-bloody-how.
“You’re sure it’s okay?”
Draco’s head came up, shy smile igniting something deep in Harry’s chest. “I’m sure.”
It was morning still. They had all day. Harry breathed a grateful sigh, watching the light glimmer across the body of the man he loved.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Sam Winchester
Warnings: Gun!kink, gunplay, established Wincest, hints of dubcon but it’s really totally consensual, questionable ways of resolving pent-up frustration, pretend blowjob, object insertion
Word count: 500 exactly
Summary:During a physical confrontation Dean discovers something new about his little brother: Apparently, Sam has a serious gun kink?? Well… They probably shouldn’t explore it any further because it’s pretty damn messed up… Right?
A/N: This is for @impala-dreamer‘s drabble challenge. I picked SPN and the prompt “something kinky” for this one. You can read part 1 of this drabble as a stand-alone or as a build-up for this one.
The metal effortlessly slides into Sam’s mouth, his lips instantly sealing around the barrel. Dean’s handgun feels heavy and tastes like discharge residue, makes Sam let out a keening noise from deep in his chest. His mind’s spinning. Drool’s running down his chin now as his big brother slowly begins to pulls the gun back out, dragging it against his tongue.
“That’s it, Sammy…”
Dean sounds out of breath. He looks it too, face flushed and droplets of sweat beading near his hairline.
“Go on, get it nice and clean…” he pants and pushes the barrel back into Sam’s mouth.
In response, the younger man grinds the heel of his own hand into his groin, trying to quell some of the heat pooling there too quickly.
“God, you’re such a slut, aren’t you?” Dean says, green eyes laser-focused on the way the gun disappears into Sam’s mouth, pink lips stretched obscenely around the barrel. This is new territory. It’s beyond messed up. Even though there are no bullets in the chamber, they’re definitely crossing a line here that isn’t supposed to be crossed. Ever. But there’s no going back, not now.
“Fuck…” Dean grunts when Sam tightens his lips around the barrel, doing his best to imitate some sort of twisted blowjob. It’s like something out of a dark porno, tongue swirling around and lapping at the metal greedily. A moan even spills out of his little brother when the gun dips in even deeper and makes him gag. It’s vulgar and for some godforsaken reason it goes straight to Dean’s dick.
Pulling the gun out of Sam’s mouth, Dean presses the muzzle against his brother’s belly. The barrel pokes right at the soft area below his navel and a whine escapes Sam, all frightened and so, so needy.
“Strip.”
Dean’s command leaves no room for misunderstandings. None. And Sam hurries to do as he’s told, stumbling on his own feet as he tears off his shirt and jeans, his underwear unceremoniously following suit.
“On the bed.”
Another command that rips a pathetic moan from Sam, sets his groin alight. He’s scrambling onto the bed, springs in the mattress squeaking in protest. And before he knows it, Dean’s on top of him, the front of his shirt pressed flush against Sam’s sweaty chest. And the gun’s back. Sleek metal feels cold against his skin as the barrel suddenly slips in between his legs. And Sam stops breathing.
“Want me to stick it in you?” Dean husks and Sam lets out a desperate groan, bucking against the gun as it finds his entrance. And then Dean pushes, the tip of the muzzle lightly breaching the already slick hole.
“Maybe I should pull the trigger? Huh? Put a bullet in—”
A cry rips from Sam’s throat, back arching right off the bed as splatters of white streak his abdomen. Spasming, his mouth opens in a scream, eyes screwed shut. Dean just watches in bafflement, wide-eyed and breathless.
Oh, they’reso fucked.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Sam Winchester
Warnings:Gun!kink, gunplay, established Wincest, mild violence, hints of dubcon but it’s totally consensual, questionable ways of resolving pent-up frustration, no actual sex
Word count: 500 exactly
Summary: Dean is cleaning his gun when Sam’s attitude finally makes him snap… But it doesn’t at all go the way he expects. And he’s about to discover something new about his little brother.
A/N: This is for @impala-dreamer‘s drabble challenge. I picked SPN and the prompt “weapons”. And hey, this time I actually managed to keep the WC at “only” 500!? *Gasp*
The white cloth drags over the barrel of the Colt handgun, wiping at the oil residue and specks of dirt staining it. Sam’s eyes are following every move of Dean’s capable hands as he cleans his gun, brows furrowed in concentration. Sitting on one of the beds in the motel room, Dean shoots Sam a brief glance when silence seems to drag out a little longer than usual. Sure, they’ve been butting heads a lot lately, but usually that doesn’t equal any of them being silent. Not like this, anyway.
“What?” Dean says, lifting his gaze for half a second to eye his little brother up and down.
“Nothing,” Sam just says. His voice sounds a little strained, a little tight in his throat. Clearly, he’s lying.
Puzzled and suddenly annoyed, Dean fixes his gaze on him again:
“Seriously, dude, what’s your problem?” he spits and tosses the oily rag at the floor at Sam’s feet. And that’s it. All of the pent-up frustration they’ve both been bottling up comes pouring right out, all puffed-up chests and clenched fists. But Sam doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even retaliate when Dean smacks him against the wall, back first. The almost-clean gun is still in Dean’s hand, poking at the wallpaper when he slams his forearm across Sam’s throat:
“You know, I’ve just about had it with you!” Dean snarls, fed-up with his brother’s constant brooding and bitchy attitude. He expects Sam to cock back his fist and deliver a punch, expects him to start fighting. But instead, all he gets is heavy breathing and… And why are Sam’s pupils suddenly blown huge like this?
“Wha…?” Dean begins, but immediately trails off when he notices the unmistakable hardness tenting his brother’s jeans.
“What the hell, Sam?” he says, pulling back a little. As he does, the gun lightly brushes against a tense shoulder, the barrel slipping across Sam’s flannel shirt as Dean lets his arm fall back down.
His little brother’s reaction is instant: A thin noise escapes him, a guttural sort of whine that hitches in his throat. Oh… So, that’s what this is? Incredulous, Dean feels his own throat go tight, his breathing suddenly speeding up. Well, this is new.
“You like this, huh?” he hears himself rasp just as he presses the muzzle of the gun against Sam’s throat. There’s a gasp, a tiny flinch – and definitely a roll of his little brother’s hips.
“Jesus…” Dean says under his breath, pulse skyrocketing. And then he lets the gun trail along Sam’s jawline, cool metal grazing stubble and feverishly hot skin. As he drags the barrel across a slightly quivering bottom lip, a pink tongue darts out to lick at the weapon. Dean feels like he’s just been punched in the gut - yet, his dick practically jumps.
“Open your mouth…”
Sam downright whimpers. Still, his lips part in an open invitation.
“Want you to clean it for me,” Dean whispers and slides the gun’s barrel into his brother’s mouth.
