Writing prompt: skin

[EmilyMiller]

With a nod to @StillStunned - short pieces on this topic. Either new, or taken from an existing work. Be as creative as you like:

Skin​

The air is perfumed with essential oils, a tea light flickering in a terracotta burner. Other candles throw trembling shadows on the walls, the orange of sunset flirting through semi-closed blinds.

She lies below me on towels. Naked. Arms folded, hands making a pillow for her sideways-turned head, eyes closed. Her dirty blonde hair held off her neck with a tortoiseshell claw clip. I place a kiss on her nape, fine hairs tickling my nose, and she both giggles and squirms.

I trace a fingertip down her spine; more wriggling. I drip oil into a palm, rubbing my hands together to warm it. At first I’m just applying, anointing her precious pale skin. I drip more, and move from her shoulders to her back. Yet more and down to her pert butt. I resist slipping a hand between her legs, supposing the oil might irritate.

Her back now slick, my hands apply pressure. Easing tension, finding knots and loosening them. My efforts are rewarded with sighs, and she shifts just a little, stretching her arms out in relaxation. Her skin shines in the dim light, it looks almost golden, not its customary ivory.

She yawns as I knead and drag my hands over her flesh. Maybe she is sleepy. But no, she turns and those azure eyes are on me, burning with ill-concealed desire. “Do my front, honey…”

“Then do me.”

 

[StillStunned]

From The Walled Garden (about two women talking on the phone as they watch the young gardener):

Outside Roberto was reaching up to tie back the wisteria. Rosa’s sigh came through my bud. “I like it when he bends over, but this stretching is nice too.”

I agreed. The sight reminded me of the joy of running my fingers over a lover’s back. Feeling the muscles play under his skin, savouring the heat that radiated up through my fingertips, listening to his gasps as the nerve endings came alive under my touch…

A faint moan brought me back to the present. For a second I thought perhaps it had been me, but then I heard it again, coming through the bud in my ear. “Rosa?” I asked. “Are you playing with yourself?”

She didn’t reply immediately, but a grunt on the other end of the line told me enough. “Not going to lie,” she whispered after a moment. “I’m thinking about licking his chest. Biting his nipples. Rubbing my face in those hairs.”

 

[Soixenta]

His scent reaches me first. That scent that’s purely him: his cologne, the trace of leather from his old jacket, but most of all just him. The same scents on someone else could never smell the same.

I take a moment to breathe it in, but I’m drawn further. His skin radiates warmth. How does he do that? Always, even on the coldest winter nights. When his hands are on me, it feels like being submerged in a hot bath. But when I touch his body, it’s like he’s on fire.

It burns through my lips when I bend forward to brush them over his chest. I hear his breathing, the thud of his heart, but all my attention is focused on this heat. I follow it up, still breathing in his scent, until I reach his neck and his pulse is alive under my lips.

I feel it in my tongue too as I run the tip over the thin skin. He shivers, his breath catches, and I smile and explore further, tasting and smelling and feeling his skin.

 

[Actingup]

From my ‘A Twist in the Plot’, an edgy and awkward piece set in a small country town. A troupe of amateur actors have been improvising at rehearsal, which led to a group sex scene. This is what follows.

———

As Heather and Keith came down from their orgasms, Heather straightened up, still panting a little, and then looked around our circle, coming back to rest her eyes on Rosie, and then Susie. Whatever she saw in their eyes seemed to reassure her about something. She moved forwards so that she was standing in between us and Keith, and said quietly, "There's something that I need to do."

With that, she first eased her stockings off, showing her shapely bare legs. "Keith, could you please unbutton me?" she said, and then stood passively, looking at us with a fixed, neutral expression as Keith slowly removed her dress from behind. As it eased down to the ground, I saw Keith's expression change, and he stopped doing anything.

"Bra, please Keith," and he complied, finally leaving her as naked as the rest of us.

Except that she was more naked. Because, instead of the smooth, supple skin of Rosie and Susie, there was something else. She had many areas of unblemished skin, particularly on her arms and legs, but on her torso, particularly around her ribs and breasts, we could see many old scars that looked like they were from little cuts and cigarette burns. She held up her arms, so that we could see that she had some scars on her sides. Then she slowly turned around, so that Keith could look at her front, and we could see that the same pattern continued on her back, including in places that she couldn't possibly have reached herself.

She turned back around to face us, and now I could see tears in her eyes.

Rosie reacted first.

"Oh, Heather honey," she whispered, and moved forwards to wrap her in a hug, skin to skin. They stood for a moment, and then Rosie looked at Keith and back over her shoulder at Susie and me and inclined her head for us to join her in a group cuddle around Heather.

——

This leads to a tribal massage, and in part two of the story, the group slowly work through a way to get justice for Heather and deal with her estranged husband.

 

[EmilyMiller]

From my ‘A Twist in the Plot’, an edgy and awkward piece set in a small country town. A troupe of amateur actors have been improvising at rehearsal, which led to a group sex scene. This is what follows.

———

As Heather and Keith came down from their orgasms, Heather straightened up, still panting a little, and then looked around our circle, coming back to rest her eyes on Rosie, and then Susie. Whatever she saw in their eyes seemed to reassure her about something. She moved forwards so that she was standing in between us and Keith, and said quietly, "There's something that I need to do."

With that, she first eased her stockings off, showing her shapely bare legs. "Keith, could you please unbutton me?" she said, and then stood passively, looking at us with a fixed, neutral expression as Keith slowly removed her dress from behind. As it eased down to the ground, I saw Keith's expression change, and he stopped doing anything.

"Bra, please Keith," and he complied, finally leaving her as naked as the rest of us.

Except that she was more naked. Because, instead of the smooth, supple skin of Rosie and Susie, there was something else. She had many areas of unblemished skin, particularly on her arms and legs, but on her torso, particularly around her ribs and breasts, we could see many old scars that looked like they were from little cuts and cigarette burns. She held up her arms, so that we could see that she had some scars on her sides. Then she slowly turned around, so that Keith could look at her front, and we could see that the same pattern continued on her back, including in places that she couldn't possibly have reached herself.

She turned back around to face us, and now I could see tears in her eyes.

Rosie reacted first.

"Oh, Heather honey," she whispered, and moved forwards to wrap her in a hug, skin to skin. They stood for a moment, and then Rosie looked at Keith and back over her shoulder at Susie and me and inclined her head for us to join her in a group cuddle around Heather.

——

This leads to a tribal massage, and in part two of the story, the group slowly work through a way to get justice for Heather and deal with her estranged husband.

Tearing up a little

 

[Actingup]

Tearing up a little

It took me way out of my comfort zone and I’m still unsure about it, but the readers went the journey with me, and it all ended well.

 

[anthrodisiac]

Skin? Skin?! Dang, a writing exercise not meant for me

I got hair, though!

From Once You Go Anthro Ch. 01: Abeni, zebra anthro woman, and the first anthro the MC sexually experiences:

-----

Abeni stalked across the room and placed her hands on either side of my head on the couch, leaning over me. My fingers, unbidden, went to her jacket zipper. I half expected her to slap my hand away and chastise me, but instead she murmured, "Go on. I wanna see your jaw hit the floor when you see zebra titties for the first time."

Then she slowly lowered herself onto my lap, knees on either side of my hips. Even through my jeans and her panties, I could feel the blazing heat between her legs. She leaned back as I dragged her zipper down, sapphire gaze locked on me, lips parted, nostrils flaring as she breathed shakily.

I tugged slowly. The long arc of her neck craned back, black-and-white stripes over coarse fur. I couldn't help it, I ran my fingers over her neck, trailing after her zipper the lower I pulled it. Her collarbones came out next, then the high tops of her breasts. The picture hadn't done her justice--they sat high, round, firm, still with that gorgeous striped patterning.

I kept up the sluggish pace, like I was savoring unwrapping the best present anyone could ask for. And fuck, she really was. Abeni's bra appeared next, no shirt under her jacket, just a lacy purple bra, same color as her panties.

"Can I..." I looked her in the eyes, wanting so bad to just come out and say it, but nerves got the best of me.

I expected Abeni to mock me, call me a silly hume or something. Instead, her chest heaved and she nodded eagerly. "Do it, stud."

A shiver ran through me. Stud. I didn't realize being this wanted was a turn-on in and of itself. Like she actually wanted me, like she couldn't wait for her turn to unwrap me. No one had ever made me feel so attractive before, and between that and the lustful look she gave me, I felt my cock strain further.

I finished unzipping her jacket and helped her shrug it off her shoulders. God, she really was objectively hot. I loved the asymmetry of her stripes, how they seemed to dance on her skin as she shifted. The feel of her hair, coarse, rough, and tickling my fingertips as I ran my hand along her chest, her shoulders, reaching back to unclasp her bra, was intoxicating, like running a thousand tiny claws along my skin.

 

[Cagivagurl]

Standing immovable my eyes absorbing her beauty. A creature so deliciously delicate, and yet strong and sinewy. The light glistened off her luscious chocolate like skin. Smooth, taut, like melting caramel. She moved with the grace of elegance. Memories filtered in. The feel of her exquisitely delectable skin. Silky smooth, velvety satin, blemish free, deep and elastic. The way it melted under my touch as thumbs caressed, massaging delicately. How she cloaked me like a taffeta embrace, sensuous and voluptuous.

 

[ADirtyPerv]

Such decadent, supple softness! The kind of skin a duchess might have, after decades of careful maintenance, servants and ladies-in-waiting falling all over themselves to care for each delicate inch of skin.

But this was just her. Just the way she was. I watched her through the window of her double-wide as she finished her routine, cheap lotion over tanned thighs. It didn't matter that it was cheap; her skin glowed in the soft light, shining with a radiance no money could buy.

I was delighted, of course, to have found her. She would be my crowning glory, would fill in my gaps with casual ease. I quashed my usual, seething jealousy, and watched.

It was a balmy night, but the windows were open, no sound from the window AC unit; was it broken, or were she and her husband trying to save money? I sometimes liked to piece together the bits of my donors' lives. It gave me something to think about as I did my slow, sanguine work, followed by a different kind of piecing together.

My jealousy reared its head again as she crossed into the living room. Her husband was cooking for them, had put a lot of care and effort into making a delicious meal out of frozen veggies and canned meat. Definitely budget-conscious, then. But none of that seemed to matter, as she approached him, clad only in a robe, giving him a glowing smile and a soulful kiss. He reached up and caressed her cheek, gentle fingers across her forehead, her jawline, fully consumed by her, and her perfect skin.

"Food's almost ready, as humble as it is," he said.

Her smile lit their entire home. "You asked for a simple life, Carl. I'm quite happy with what we have."

A long moment of intimacy followed, with her laying her head on his chest, both of them gently swaying, accompanied only by the sound of bubbling on the stove.

I wondered if he would hold me like that, after. If only to be close to her, to touch her skin again. I hoped so, but it never seemed to work out that way.

I pulled my patchwork, incomplete face more firmly into place and crept forward. Once more, just once, and I would be complete.

Her donation would be...greatly appreciated.

 

[redgarters]

It would be easy to say the touch of her skin feels electric. But it's so much more.

It's the explosion of years of longing finally culminating in her touch. It's the burn of feelings in my chest that follows her fingertips down between my breasts.

It's the overload of a thunderstorm that suddenly connects my body to the charge in the heavens. The sensation of supernaturality when all the little hairs on my body rise towards her in unison.

It's the sin of wanting something forbidden for all my life made into her flesh in my hands. Her body against mine.

The merging of souls through something as simple as the brush of fingers against skin.

 

[EmilyMiller]

Such decadent, supple softness! The kind of skin a duchess might have, after decades of careful maintenance, servants and ladies-in-waiting falling all over themselves to care for each delicate inch of skin.

But this was just her. Just the way she was. I watched her through the window of her double-wide as she finished her routine, cheap lotion over tanned thighs. It didn't matter that it was cheap; her skin glowed in the soft light, shining with a radiance no money could buy.

I was delighted, of course, to have found her. She would be my crowning glory, would fill in my gaps with casual ease. I quashed my usual, seething jealousy, and watched.

It was a balmy night, but the windows were open, no sound from the window AC unit; was it broken, or were she and her husband trying to save money? I sometimes liked to piece together the bits of my donors' lives. It gave me something to think about as I did my slow, sanguine work, followed by a different kind of piecing together.

My jealousy reared its head again as she crossed into the living room. Her husband was cooking for them, had put a lot of care and effort into making a delicious meal out of frozen veggies and canned meat. Definitely budget-conscious, then. But none of that seemed to matter, as she approached him, clad only in a robe, giving him a glowing smile and a soulful kiss. He reached up and caressed her cheek, gentle fingers across her forehead, her jawline, fully consumed by her, and her perfect skin.

"Food's almost ready, as humble as it is," he said.

Her smile lit their entire home. "You asked for a simple life, Carl. I'm quite happy with what we have."

A long moment of intimacy followed, with her laying her head on his chest, both of them gently swaying, accompanied only by the sound of bubbling on the stove.

I wondered if he would hold me like that, after. If only to be close to her, to touch her skin again. I hoped so, but it never seemed to work out that way.

I pulled my patchwork, incomplete face more firmly into place and crept forward. Once more, just once, and I would be complete.

Her donation would be...greatly appreciated.

I need the Cliffs Notes, too subtle for me

 

[anthrodisiac]

Such decadent, supple softness! The kind of skin a duchess might have, after decades of careful maintenance, servants and ladies-in-waiting falling all over themselves to care for each delicate inch of skin.

But this was just her. Just the way she was. I watched her through the window of her double-wide as she finished her routine, cheap lotion over tanned thighs. It didn't matter that it was cheap; her skin glowed in the soft light, shining with a radiance no money could buy.

I was delighted, of course, to have found her. She would be my crowning glory, would fill in my gaps with casual ease. I quashed my usual, seething jealousy, and watched.

It was a balmy night, but the windows were open, no sound from the window AC unit; was it broken, or were she and her husband trying to save money? I sometimes liked to piece together the bits of my donors' lives. It gave me something to think about as I did my slow, sanguine work, followed by a different kind of piecing together.

My jealousy reared its head again as she crossed into the living room. Her husband was cooking for them, had put a lot of care and effort into making a delicious meal out of frozen veggies and canned meat. Definitely budget-conscious, then. But none of that seemed to matter, as she approached him, clad only in a robe, giving him a glowing smile and a soulful kiss. He reached up and caressed her cheek, gentle fingers across her forehead, her jawline, fully consumed by her, and her perfect skin.

"Food's almost ready, as humble as it is," he said.

Her smile lit their entire home. "You asked for a simple life, Carl. I'm quite happy with what we have."

A long moment of intimacy followed, with her laying her head on his chest, both of them gently swaying, accompanied only by the sound of bubbling on the stove.

I wondered if he would hold me like that, after. If only to be close to her, to touch her skin again. I hoped so, but it never seemed to work out that way.

I pulled my patchwork, incomplete face more firmly into place and crept forward. Once more, just once, and I would be complete.

Her donation would be...greatly appreciated.

Fuck, man, that's deliciously dark.

 

[ADirtyPerv]

I need the Cliffs Notes, too subtle for me

Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs was the inspiration.

 

[SinclairGroupLLP]

Such decadent, supple softness! The kind of skin a duchess might have, after decades of careful maintenance, servants and ladies-in-waiting falling all over themselves to care for each delicate inch of skin.

But this was just her. Just the way she was. I watched her through the window of her double-wide as she finished her routine, cheap lotion over tanned thighs. It didn't matter that it was cheap; her skin glowed in the soft light, shining with a radiance no money could buy.

I was delighted, of course, to have found her. She would be my crowning glory, would fill in my gaps with casual ease. I quashed my usual, seething jealousy, and watched.

It was a balmy night, but the windows were open, no sound from the window AC unit; was it broken, or were she and her husband trying to save money? I sometimes liked to piece together the bits of my donors' lives. It gave me something to think about as I did my slow, sanguine work, followed by a different kind of piecing together.

My jealousy reared its head again as she crossed into the living room. Her husband was cooking for them, had put a lot of care and effort into making a delicious meal out of frozen veggies and canned meat. Definitely budget-conscious, then. But none of that seemed to matter, as she approached him, clad only in a robe, giving him a glowing smile and a soulful kiss. He reached up and caressed her cheek, gentle fingers across her forehead, her jawline, fully consumed by her, and her perfect skin.

"Food's almost ready, as humble as it is," he said.

Her smile lit their entire home. "You asked for a simple life, Carl. I'm quite happy with what we have."

A long moment of intimacy followed, with her laying her head on his chest, both of them gently swaying, accompanied only by the sound of bubbling on the stove.

I wondered if he would hold me like that, after. If only to be close to her, to touch her skin again. I hoped so, but it never seemed to work out that way.

I pulled my patchwork, incomplete face more firmly into place and crept forward. Once more, just once, and I would be complete.

Her donation would be...greatly appreciated.

"It puts the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again!"

 

[SmilingLez]

Everyone thought they were just watching. Safe. Detached. No skin in the game. Then gas prices skyrocketed. Food followed. Quiet panic spread. War. Hate. Choices narrowed. Everything turned personal. Everyone had skin in it. By the time they admitted it, they weren’t watching anymore - they were bleeding.

 

[SmilingLez]

Everyone thought they were just watching. Safe. Detached. No skin in the game. Then gas prices skyrocketed. Food followed. Quiet panic spread. War. Hate. Choices narrowed. Everything turned personal. Everyone had skin in it. By the time they admitted it, they weren’t watching anymore - they were bleeding.

Poetry is my mistress and she can be jealous ...

They thought they watched.
Safe.
Detached.

Gas spiked.
Food followed.

Quiet panic.
War.
Hate.

Choices shrank.
It got personal.
Skin in it.

By the time they admitted it -
they weren’t watching.
They were bleeding.

 

[EmilyMiller]

Poetry is my mistress and she can be jealous ...

They thought they watched.
Safe.
Detached.

Gas spiked.
Food followed.

Quiet panic.
War.
Hate.

Choices shrank.
It got personal.
Skin in it.

By the time they admitted it -
they weren’t watching.
They were bleeding.

I’d read it that way

 

[ElectricBlue]

Skin for me is inseparable from what covers it. This passage exalts both silk and skin:

Francesca undid the zip of her own black mini-skirt and stepped out of it. Her legs were bare, her bottom covered by a pair of brief bikini knickers. She shrugged, and slipped out of those too, placing them with the skirt on the small couch. She left her top on, tying the shirt-tails up under her breasts.

She stood facing the broad window, and the sunlight caught the little thatch below her belly, highlighting the soft hair into a spun golden shadow. "How would you like me to stand?"

"Contrapposto, my dear, that would be perfect."

"Heels or bare feet?"

"Ah girl, you see, this is what's missing! A woman who knows how to wear clothes. Ahh, tsk tsk, Bonnard, why didn't you see, with your wooden dummy and its horrible stiff curves?"

"Don't blame yourself, Bonnard," said Francesca. "You've got me now, so we can begin."

"Hold still then, my beauty. Let us adorn you."

Bonnard dropped the skirt over Francesca's head and placed it on her hips. With several pins he nipped it in for her waist, and the cut of it fell nicely around her derrière.

"Voilà," he said, there it is. "Now I can adjust the hem to get the right fall. That's what I couldn't get right before." He knelt down before her, a box of pins by his knee. "Hold still, Francesca, don't move."

For the next ten minutes, Bonnard pinned and fitted the skirt, caressing the cut of the cloth with his hands. He smoothed it down over her bottom, her belly, her thighs, making sure the fit was right, just so. His hands felt only the cloth, but Francesca felt the loving caress of his swift touch on her skin.

Songs of Seduction - Of Silk and Skin

 

[PennyThompson]

He tried not to make it obvious, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, casually looking at her when she asked a work question. He wished desperately to be able to just stare at her openly without seeming like a dirty old man. To see more than her round, open face, her shapely bare shoulders, her surprisingly toned arms. To look at her body, her skin.

Sunkissed™, that's what the marketing called it. Many prospective parents in the late '40s, early '50s, worried about the changing climate they would be pulling a child into from non-existence, sought out the controversial gene edits. Some countries tried to ban or restrict it, but the genie was out of the bottle. A simple set of CRISPR switches that could be activated in utero with an injection, any biohacker could do it in a garage lab.

Enhanced body thermoregulation. Suppressed fever and inflammation response. Metabolism, immune system, kidney efficiency. And skin pigmentation. Innate UV resistance.

There was a lot of stigma for a while, toward the parents mostly, but to the children too. Backlash against "Playing God." Backlash to the backlash, calling it "genetic bigotry." Triple-reverse-backlash and existential hand-wringing about artificial speciation and DNA-coded inequality. By the time the Sunkissed Generation Deltas had reached adulthood, the furor had died down to a low unresolved simmer.

But to his eyes, none of that mattered. He thought she was beautiful, distractingly so. Her skin tone was unlike any natural human pigmentation. Copper colored, in a literal metallic sense, shimmering and shifting in the sunlight. Her hair was dark brown, nearly black, but iridescent and rainbow-tinted like an oil slick.

God, he wanted to touch her. To feel her skin, to stare at her forever.

 

[Actingup]

He tried not to make it obvious, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, casually looking at her when she asked a work question. He wished desperately to be able to just stare at her openly without seeming like a dirty old man. To see more than her round, open face, her shapely bare shoulders, her surprisingly toned arms. To look at her body, her skin.

Sunkissed™, that's what the marketing called it. Many prospective parents in the late '40s, early '50s, worried about the changing climate they would be pulling a child into from non-existence, sought out the controversial gene edits. Some countries tried to ban or restrict it, but the genie was out of the bottle. A simple set of CRISPR switches that could be activated in utero with an injection, any biohacker could do it in a garage lab.

Enhanced body thermoregulation. Suppressed fever and inflammation response. Metabolism, immune system, kidney efficiency. And skin pigmentation. Innate UV resistance.

There was a lot of stigma for a while, toward the parents mostly, but to the children too. Backlash against "Playing God." Backlash to the backlash, calling it "genetic bigotry." Triple-reverse-backlash and existential hand-wringing about artificial speciation and DNA-coded inequality. By the time the Sunkissed Generation Deltas had reached adulthood, the furor had died down to a low unresolved simmer.

But to his eyes, none of that mattered. He thought she was beautiful, distractingly so. Her skin tone was unlike any natural human pigmentation. Copper colored, in a literal metallic sense, shimmering and shifting in the sunlight. Her hair was dark brown, nearly black, but iridescent and rainbow-tinted like an oil slick.

God, he wanted to touch her. To feel her skin, to stare at her forever.

Love it, but can we make it open source?

 

[StillStunned]

The chase lasted four days. When Ulion found his prey, the man was sitting with his back against a stunted tree, sheltering from the sun. His eyes were closed, but he opened them and tilted his head as Ulion’s mount approached.

“It’s you.”

Ulion said nothing as he dismounted. A slap on his horse’s rump sent it on its way to find something to graze. His other hand didn’t move from his blaster’s butt.

They looked at each other. Years of shared memories passed between them. No words were needed. Ulion and Grenor, names that had been said in the same whispered breath on this frontier for a decade or more.

It was Grenor who looked away first. Reaching behind him with one hand, he drew forth a wineskin and held it up. “One more, for the road?”

Ulion’s laserbolt went straight through the skin and into the other man’s chest. Wine pulsed out, like blood from a body.

He turned away even before the wineskin hit the stony ground.

 

[djrip]

Shavi dug a slick leathery pouch from a pack on the wyrm's harness, and turned to Tlan with an appraising gaze that seemed to take in his whole naked body, making his cock stir. "Time to get you greased up."

"Excuse me?"

"Wyrm oil. How do you think we stay warm while maintaining scale to skin contact at three thousand feet?"

"I guess I hadn't thought about it."

"Well this is how. Come on, put your arms up."

The dragon rider scooped a handful of the gelatinous wyrm oil from her sack and rubbed it between her hands as she approached him, grinning. She put both hands on his chest, and started to move them around in circles, down his sides, up onto his shoulders. The oil was cool and warm at the same time, making him shiver.

"Oh my god, this feels amazing," he panted, as her hands slid over him, spreading the stuff as they went.

"I know what it feels like," she said with a smirk, kneeling down to work it onto his thighs, and reaching up between them, encircling his balls in one slippery hand, and then his hardening shaft in the other. She moved her hand slowly up his tingling length, looking up at him with big, beautiful black eyes as she closed her fingers around the head of his cock and squeezed him gently.

"Now just wait," he gasped.

"You don't want frostbite here, believe me."

-Scales on Skin

 

[anthrodisiac]

A whiff of chemical. The dry rasp of felt over skin. A black mark swirled, arching over pale flesh. Lines made real on curves and furrowed brow.

Thad stirred, the kids quieted. Then he muttered in his sleep, lips smacking. Resumption. The price of inattention. Of daring to slumber when children wished to play.

The giant penis scribbled on Dad's bald head would serve as lesson.

"What are you doing?"

The kids turned, eyes wide. Mom stood, hands on hips, jaw tense in matronly disapproval.

"Uh..."

She snatched the Sharpie from the eldest and knelt beside her husband. "All wrong. You need to make the balls hairier, like this..."

 

[EmilyMiller]

The chase lasted four days. When Ulion found his prey, the man was sitting with his back against a stunted tree, sheltering from the sun. His eyes were closed, but he opened them and tilted his head as Ulion’s mount approached.

“It’s you.”

Ulion said nothing as he dismounted. A slap on his horse’s rump sent it on its way to find something to graze. His other hand didn’t move from his blaster’s butt.

They looked at each other. Years of shared memories passed between them. No words were needed. Ulion and Grenor, names that had been said in the same whispered breath on this frontier for a decade or more.

It was Grenor who looked away first. Reaching behind him with one hand, he drew forth a wineskin and held it up. “One more, for the road?”

Ulion’s laserbolt went straight through the skin and into the other man’s chest. Wine pulsed out, like blood from a body.

He turned away even before the wineskin hit the stony ground.

They remade it with Grenor shooting first…

 

[StillStunned]

They remade it with Grenor shooting first…

Who says Ulion was the good guy? Or whether there even was a good guy? (For me, westerns - even sci-fi westerns - are a genre best suited to grimdark, shades of gritty grey, no white hats without at least a few bloodstains.)