#gunkink

[but-it-was-always-supposed-to-be]

The Devil’s a lie

“Do you like it?”

Sherlock enters the room slowly, reaching out and shutting the slightly ajar door softly behind him. There’s only one lamp on. The room is dim and the air smells like cigarettes. It takes his eyes a second to adjust.

“I chose it specially.”

Sherlock tries to step forward but falters. He can't tell straight away where the voice is coming from, but there’s no mistaking exactly who it belongs to.

“Don't look so frightened…” The voice drawls again, lower this time. “I won't bite. Well, at least not yet.”

Sherlock feels his eyes darting nervously, following the shrill sound of the high-pitched sniggering that follows until he finally catches sight of what he’s been looking for. Yearning for.

All this time.

Read it all here

[teacuphuman09]

Day 9 of the Month of Kink!

Arthur has the SAS Captain bent over what’s left of the garden wall. It’s a bit surreal to be fucking in this idilic setting. Everything around them is oversaturated, the colours just a little too bright, and grating against his senses. They’ve done this in worse locals, however, and Arthur’s not about to let a little Wonderland feeling stop him from dragging out every last soft sob the British officer has to give.

[sneakyseeker]

Put On A Show~

"....oh, many things~ *purr* For instance, that shiver, and maybe a whine would cause me to turn them on..."

Sky leaned his aft against his desk, arms crossing in front of his chassis as he looked to Warp. Just the thought of Warp activating his blasters, of the type of show he indicated he wanted Sky to give him... his wings flicked upwards, his glossa slowly trailed along his lower lip as he paused mock-thoughtfully optics already drowning a dark honey gold never leaving Warp’s face. 

“S-so a shiver...?” His gaze dropped down from Warp’s face to his right shoulder-mounted plasma rife following the sharp fins on the top down the blaster barrel to the slightly flared head. He let his thoughts wander to the firepower capacity of Warp’s main weapons before sliding further to what other uses Warp had them for in the past.  He sharply invented, digits digging into the plating of his upper arms as a shiver racked through his frame and wings.

[sassysharpshooter]

alright but hear me out. kingsman training. (think alternate scene instead of the train test). the kingsman all "kidnap" their respective recruits and put on ski masks & sunglasses & voice scramblers so that the recruits don't know it's them. harry's got eggsy tied 2 a chair. harry interrogating eggsy. pistol whipping eggsy. eggsy realizes it's harry after he notices a certain tic that only harry has? starts playing with harry. harry doesn't like it. puts gun in eggsy's mouth. eggsy sucks it off

Haha heehee wow ok yeah

completely unbeta’d accidental (not really) minific under the cut

It would have been a good sort of test. The lighting in the room is poor, coming from a single bare bulb on a stand next to him. Eggsy finds himself cuffed to a chair, by both wrists, which he considers must be some sort of interrogation protocol. It was in the movies enough, and for sure somebody must’ve turned up dead this way.

The Gentleman Interrogator, if he could be called that at the moment, wears all black. He could be anyone, the way his garbled voice sounds.

If only he didn’t bite the inside of his lip.

If only.

The sweet-salt taste of his own blood hardly surprises him any more. It’s been as real to Eggsy as mother’s milk since he was a pup. But now, tonguing at the flow that comes so easily from what might be a broken nose, it tastes visceral. Real. And it’s an expenditure he’s willing to make, considering it’s Harry in front of him.

The mask hardly betrays his identity. The little microphone hidden just inside his mouth, next to his lip, warping his voice into someone else’s is just as secretive, but the way the flesh moves inside his mouth, the way his teeth grind just so whenever he makes a smartass comment in response to his interrogation--as he did in consternation whenever they weren’t “at work”--that’s when he knows just who’s on the other hand of the next pistol whip to the face, the one that’s going to paint him the prettiest shades of black and blue.

But he’s not about to tell him that.

No, Eggsy figures he’s earned a little payback, a little silent admiration of his own, after the “incidental” touches at the tailor, after the smothering, too-quick kisses snatched in more than one alleyway. Sometimes retribution comes hard,--

And he’ll be damned if he’s not going to make this beautiful bastard do the same.

“For the last time, where are the other Kingsmen? Where is your head of operations?! Are you willing to die for this?!”

Always the same ruddy questions.

“Don’t got shit to say to you.”

So he gives the same blasted answer.

The next blows sting. A slap, quickly followed by a backhand before he can blink his eyes and recover. Wow. He’s not pulling any punches.

But the young man knows he’s holding the ace now, knows just how much it’ll sear Hart inside to see the smirk he gives in response, to see the way he lets his mouth slowly open, lets the blood of a new cut on his lip flow, and drip over his chin with a bit of spittle, looking like a hungry little beast as it trails down to his neck, dips over the sharper form of his adam’s apple. A strange sort of “come hither” that beckons further down his body, and he sees Harry’s eyes bob down, and then back up again.

Gotcha.

Then, almost to impede the progress of that little trail, Harry’s hand clamps down hard on his throat, and he gives a choked sound of surprise. Eggsy frowns, and is about to open his mouth, to berate the bastard for going so far, when his mouth’s protests are blocked off by something metal, something metal and plastic and sharp against the roof of his mouth--

It’s his fucking gun. The shock of arousal that immediately shoots through the boy surprises him far more than the identity of his aggressor, and with a baleful look his eyes turn up, meet the ones staring down at him, challenging him, bidding him to shut his stupid trap while he’s ahead.

What the fuck does he want? Does he want him to break? To give up? To start crying, bawling, letting the stream of tears mingle with blood and spit, running down his cheeks? Fuck what he wants!

The mildly-pronounced sight on the Tokarev pistol is another giveaway, digging ever so slightly into the ridged tissue in the top of his mouth. He knows this gun. He knows who carries this gun. Which is precisely why he maintains that eye contact while he presses forward, lets that sharp little bit drag and carry along, paining him as he closes his lips the best he can, and sucks. Hard.

Confusion. Befuddlement. Was that a gasp, drawn sharp through the nostrils? All Eggsy ever wanted, and more.

He maintains the contact, doesn’t blink a single time as he lavishes that gun more thoroughly than he’s ever dreamed of working a cock. He can’t take it all in his mouth--the shape is too odd, and the oiled taste mildly unpleasant. He doesn’t care. He’s finally getting to make Harry blissfully uncomfortable, obvious by other tells in his body language that he’s learned by rote, by watching Hart in his everyday life. He tongues the muzzle, that little entrance point, rimming it deftly as he hooks Harry’s leg with his own, pulls him closer.

His hands are shaking. He’s giving his gun head, and his hands are shaking. His own clutch at the arms of the chair, finding the texture hardly comparable to tangling his fingers in one of those fine suits.

It’s only after he surges forward, after he tries to take the damn length of it past his tongue and deeper yet, groaning with everything he’s got in his guts, angling his head to nuzzle and rock against the elder man’s suited leg, drunk on his aftershave and high on accosted power--that Harry pulls back, that he turns away, and remains in quiet silence, holstering the pistol with hands that still quake.

Eggsy’s mouth hurts. His chest and face and legs, every last bit of him aches. But he knows this little battle is his, and that assessment proves even more true as Galahad tugs his mask off and tosses it in the corner. The look of irritation and sheer lust sharpening his eyes when he glances back over his shoulder at the boy is reward enough, but he has a feeling he’s going to be doing a bit more work with that sore mouth, so he sighs, spits, and grins like the devil himself, managing a few breathless words in Harry’s direction.

“Any more where that came from?”

[erotes-novel]

Keeping Score (version 1)

Kelam looked up, surveying carefully the shooting range for the heavier weaponry. He squinted and frowned at the bright sunlight, the outdoor range different and something that he was taking a moment to adjust too. At the wooden stand off to the right side was a group of three soldier, two looked sort of familiar but Kelam’s attention was diverted before he could peg where he’d seen them before when his flight leader spoke up.

“Aki, take some pointers from Kelam and see if you can incorporate them into your gunmanship. Kelam, on top of training Aki you got scores you need to submit. I’m your flight leader not your damn den mother, you’re the last to submit scores again. Your scores prove you to be the best damn shot on the flight team and Aki’s my worst. If you’re going to drag your feet on getting your scores sent in you can help Aki raise his before the final deadline for this cycle.” Tak’s voice was heavy with disapproval, he gave a slashing look to Kelam.

“Yes, sir.” Kelam drawled before glancing to Aki. It had to be comical, most of Epsilon Flight were a good foot or so under Kelam’s height he always felt he stuck out like a sore thumb on the flight deck and everywhere else. He took a step toward Aki, golden eyes examining the wetware integrated carbines mounted on his arms when he a footfall from the direction of the landing pad.

Malek glanced around the field, squinting in the bright sunlight. He heard Caleb curse behind him, and Corin snickered; Malek rolled his eyes and moved forward, leaving the two to scuffle behind him. He scanned the field, and his gaze caught on a tall figure, head and shoulders above the others around him, light brown hair shining in the light, broad shoulders under heavy weaponry.

Kelam.

He smirked and swaggered forward, toward the taller man, letting his foot fall loud enough to alert the scout, who was turned toward a man Malek didn’t recognize right off - he assumed one of Kelam’s Flight mates. Malek’s eyes scanned down the weapons that the other sported, and he smirked in amusement; nothing compared to his.

“Hey Kelam~” he called, stopping in a wide-legged stance right behind him, crossing his arms across his chest (incidentally making his shoulder-mounted rifles more prevalent), and donning his most irritating smirk. He heard Corin and Caleb come up behind him, and glanced over his shoulder to note that Corin was once again carrying his large sniper rifle, and Caleb was frowning and brushing dust off his arms, his own wetware integrated carbines a match for the stranger’s.

Turning back to Kelam, Malek shrugged, his rifles moving smoothly with the movement. “Surprised to see you out here so late~ having difficulty... getting your score up?”

Kelam’s eyes widened, his frame went rigid as he heard that familiar voice behind him. Slowly he turned around, crossing his own arms in front of his chest unconsciously mirroring Malek’s action. His expression darkened at the irritating glare, eyes narrowing in suspicion that Malek was up too something, the stance giving prevalence to the shoulder mounted rifles. Alarm went off in Kelam’s head, as he realized that Malek might have had a good guess who the anon asking questions about having a gunkink on UnderComm could be.

His breath caught at the smooth action of the rifles moving with that shrug, eyes glue to the weaponry before he tore his gaze away and back to Malek’s face, his own slightly flushed. He glared at Malek, fingers digging into the armor on his upper arms before he relaxed, a smirk on his face as he tilted his head. “Oh, I-I can get the score up, Slagger.” He took a step forward, his left hand drifting up to his cannon, fingers trailing slowly along the lower rim of his cannon. “G-guess the question is... can you, Malek?”

[teleportingprankster]

And what happens if I would hassle ya, Slagger? *raised optic ridge, someone's reading Warp's description*

Hmm. If you were~?

Well, I’d have to come up with an appropriate… consequence for hassling me, now wouldn’t I~? *smirks and trails his digits down his blaster*

[fairbreezewrites]

WTNV - The Future Tense of Fear - Kevin/DB!Carlos

The Future Tense of Fear - (Kevin/DB!Carlos) - gore, blood, gunkink (it's not gunplay if no one is playing), amnesia

Sometimes, things that are dead don’t stay dead. Sometimes, things that are forgotten are (not) better off forgotten. Sometimes, the monsters are under our skin, waiting.

---

I'm not going to write them all here, but for the love of all that is good and holy, please read all of the warnings and everything else attached to this fic before you read it.  This has been sitting on my hard drive for weeks waiting for a serious edit, but I'm (probably overly) aware of the current fandom environment I'm tossing it into.  

[starlightiing]

I just got sexually aroused over someone sobbing and begging for their life at gunpoint.

Mark Ruffalo please gtfo because you have made me feel like the dirtiest mother fucker in the world.

Thank you.