on your trigger - z berg/ryan ross
on your trigger
z berg/ryan ross
nc-17, 1311 words
for kink bingo's "gun play" square (yes, the title is from "happiness is a warm gun" and no, i don't have any original thoughts). contains some D/s elements and also, obviously, gun play, though the gun is not loaded.
There’s no push and pull of power - it’s not his, even though it could be.
“Gimme all your cash,” Z grins, teeth shining in the pale yellow lamplight. Ryan’s fingers clench around the towel at his waist, and he pauses in the doorway - Z looks vaguely sinister in her stance, up on her knees on the folds of Ryan’s blanket, the grip of his father’s old revolver nestled in her palms and pointed at his chest. “It’s empty,” she informs him, unmoving except for her thumb against the side of the gun to let the cylinder swing open, and Ryan sees bits and pieces of her naked chest through six empty chambers.
“Jesus,” he says. His fingers loosen a little, and he becomes aware of the water still dripping from his hair down the back of his neck, making a slow traveling path down his damp spine. “Where did you find that?”
“I was snooping in your closet,” Z says, slowly walking forward on her knees toward him. She pushes the cylinder back into place - Ryan’s heart skips a beat, and he feels a little silly. “You better get on your knees and beg for mercy before I shoot.”
He raises his eyebrows but Z raises hers right back at him, situating herself at the edge of the bed before crossing her legs. She’s completely naked except for the gun in her hands and the dark, smudged makeup circling her eyes - her arms are probably getting tired but there’s no shake in her muscles, weapon pointed right between Ryan’s eyes.
“I said on your knees.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, and he obeys slowly, easing himself down onto the soft carpet of the bedroom floor, Z making sure the gun follows. She smiles down at him when he settles, hands resting on his thighs; he doesn’t lift his arms in the air, I surrender, even though it feels appropriate.
Z straightens out one of her legs, experimenting, trying to reach him - “You’re too far away, come here.” It makes Ryan laugh but Z just raises her eyebrows at him again, straight-faced despite her playful tone, “Is something funny?”
“No, ma’am,” Ryan says, holding onto his towel with one hand as he moves closer, settling in front of Z’s legs. “How’s that?”
“Mistress,” she corrects, biting her lip, probably to keep from laughing, “and you’re going to have to get rid of that fucking towel.”
“S’that so?” he asks, fingers skimming the knot holding the fabric onto his hips. Z makes no move to expand or agree, only bends forward enough to press the revolver directly against Ryan’s forehead. “You’re an awfully pushy mistress,” he breathes out, tugging his towel and letting the material fall away from his hips and spill onto the carpet, the bottom still caught between his heels and his ass that’s resting on them.
“You’re an awfully mouthy hostage,” Z replies, uncrossing her legs to brush her toes against the inside of Ryan’s knee. She doesn’t attempt to be subtle about her wandering eyes, looking away from his face and down his body, between his thighs.
Ryan chews the corner of his lip, a laugh caught inside his throat, and fidgets. He feels awkward and his body is teetering between tense and turned on - when he curls his hands around Z’s ankles to have something to hold, she presses the gun that much harder between his eyes.
“I think you should put your hands behind your back,” she says, voice quieter but hardly softer. Ryan’s skin prickles and he complies almost automatically; Z opens her legs enough in response that he has to dig his fingernails into his own skin to keep from reaching out to touch her thighs. “You’re a better listener all of a sudden,” Z teases, quietly still - Ryan laces his fingers together to keep his hands from dropping back to his sides.
“Not sure what you want me as a hostage for, though,” he mumbles, looking up at her.
“You get one guess,” Z murmurs back, and he has all the clues he needs. Her neck looks flushed and her arms are finally shaking; he can feel the tiny tremors against his forehead, traveling from her to him through the gun between. As Ryan leans forward, she leans back - Z moves one hand to hold herself up, palm sinking into the mattress, and the whimper she gives when his lips brush between her legs makes his dick twitch. The tip of the revolver rests just below his ear, waiting, and Ryan can see Z’s finger on the trigger tighten when she presses the gun against his skin again, “C’mon.”
She sounds almost strained, her voice even lower than usual - he closes his eyes and tries not to squirm, licking obediently over her clit in the broad strokes that he knows make her groan. The lack of contact makes him nervous; the only other places Ryan can feel her body are the insides of her knees against his shoulders. Without his hands he feels like he’s fumbling, but when he lets his tongue slide low enough to taste her properly, she’s so wet it surprises him. The gun presses against his jaw as he slips his tongue inside her the best he can, but instead of feeling like a threat, this time it feels like encouragement.
Z can never be still, rolling her hips to match whatever rhythm he starts, sometimes moving quicker to try and speed him up - Ryan might hold her hips right where he wants them so he can tease her clit or thrust at the best angle or just take back control, but he can’t now. Even with the empty gun and no restraints on his wrists, he feels held in place. There’s no push and pull of power - it’s not his, even though it could be. Instead of giving in and pushing Z’s thighs open he lets her use him how she wants, moaning and grinding her clit against the pad of his tongue. His dick is practically aching and he shifts between her legs fruitlessly, searching for contact and groaning against her in frustration; there’s a dull throb in his jaw from the press of the gun and he wants Z to throw it down and tug his hair, hold his head between her legs. His fingers twist tighter around each other behind his back at the thought, and he tries to press in closer, sliding his tongue against her firmly - the sound he gets in return sends a sharp pang of arousal through his chest.
“Fuck,” Z groans, voice ragged between her heavy breaths - Ryan can feel her body jerking slightly under his mouth, hips moving quicker, and he tries to keep up and move with her. Z whines when she’s close, like she always does; Ryan tries to suck her clit into his mouth, pressing closer again, and she practically writhes. The gun drags painfully from his jaw down to his neck when she squirms, and his groan must push her into orgasm - Ryan feels breathless while he licks her through it, panting nearly as hard as she is. As soon as Z drops the gun beside her on the bed, Ryan moves his hands to feel up her body; her skin is hot and damp and he almost wants to stay between her legs, make her come again just like this.
Z’s whole body is practically flushed after she comes - she keeps her eyes closed while she tries to catch her breath, and Ryan whispers up at her, “I hope I guessed right.” She laughs breathlessly, low and almost raspy, and runs her fingers through his hair - Ryan’s dick is leaking, he knows, pleading silently to be touched, but he stays where he is and plants slow kisses along the insides of her thighs.
z berg/ryan ross
nc-17, 1311 words
for kink bingo's "gun play" square (yes, the title is from "happiness is a warm gun" and no, i don't have any original thoughts). contains some D/s elements and also, obviously, gun play, though the gun is not loaded.
There’s no push and pull of power - it’s not his, even though it could be.
“Gimme all your cash,” Z grins, teeth shining in the pale yellow lamplight. Ryan’s fingers clench around the towel at his waist, and he pauses in the doorway - Z looks vaguely sinister in her stance, up on her knees on the folds of Ryan’s blanket, the grip of his father’s old revolver nestled in her palms and pointed at his chest. “It’s empty,” she informs him, unmoving except for her thumb against the side of the gun to let the cylinder swing open, and Ryan sees bits and pieces of her naked chest through six empty chambers.
“Jesus,” he says. His fingers loosen a little, and he becomes aware of the water still dripping from his hair down the back of his neck, making a slow traveling path down his damp spine. “Where did you find that?”
“I was snooping in your closet,” Z says, slowly walking forward on her knees toward him. She pushes the cylinder back into place - Ryan’s heart skips a beat, and he feels a little silly. “You better get on your knees and beg for mercy before I shoot.”
He raises his eyebrows but Z raises hers right back at him, situating herself at the edge of the bed before crossing her legs. She’s completely naked except for the gun in her hands and the dark, smudged makeup circling her eyes - her arms are probably getting tired but there’s no shake in her muscles, weapon pointed right between Ryan’s eyes.
“I said on your knees.” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, and he obeys slowly, easing himself down onto the soft carpet of the bedroom floor, Z making sure the gun follows. She smiles down at him when he settles, hands resting on his thighs; he doesn’t lift his arms in the air, I surrender, even though it feels appropriate.
Z straightens out one of her legs, experimenting, trying to reach him - “You’re too far away, come here.” It makes Ryan laugh but Z just raises her eyebrows at him again, straight-faced despite her playful tone, “Is something funny?”
“No, ma’am,” Ryan says, holding onto his towel with one hand as he moves closer, settling in front of Z’s legs. “How’s that?”
“Mistress,” she corrects, biting her lip, probably to keep from laughing, “and you’re going to have to get rid of that fucking towel.”
“S’that so?” he asks, fingers skimming the knot holding the fabric onto his hips. Z makes no move to expand or agree, only bends forward enough to press the revolver directly against Ryan’s forehead. “You’re an awfully pushy mistress,” he breathes out, tugging his towel and letting the material fall away from his hips and spill onto the carpet, the bottom still caught between his heels and his ass that’s resting on them.
“You’re an awfully mouthy hostage,” Z replies, uncrossing her legs to brush her toes against the inside of Ryan’s knee. She doesn’t attempt to be subtle about her wandering eyes, looking away from his face and down his body, between his thighs.
Ryan chews the corner of his lip, a laugh caught inside his throat, and fidgets. He feels awkward and his body is teetering between tense and turned on - when he curls his hands around Z’s ankles to have something to hold, she presses the gun that much harder between his eyes.
“I think you should put your hands behind your back,” she says, voice quieter but hardly softer. Ryan’s skin prickles and he complies almost automatically; Z opens her legs enough in response that he has to dig his fingernails into his own skin to keep from reaching out to touch her thighs. “You’re a better listener all of a sudden,” Z teases, quietly still - Ryan laces his fingers together to keep his hands from dropping back to his sides.
“Not sure what you want me as a hostage for, though,” he mumbles, looking up at her.
“You get one guess,” Z murmurs back, and he has all the clues he needs. Her neck looks flushed and her arms are finally shaking; he can feel the tiny tremors against his forehead, traveling from her to him through the gun between. As Ryan leans forward, she leans back - Z moves one hand to hold herself up, palm sinking into the mattress, and the whimper she gives when his lips brush between her legs makes his dick twitch. The tip of the revolver rests just below his ear, waiting, and Ryan can see Z’s finger on the trigger tighten when she presses the gun against his skin again, “C’mon.”
She sounds almost strained, her voice even lower than usual - he closes his eyes and tries not to squirm, licking obediently over her clit in the broad strokes that he knows make her groan. The lack of contact makes him nervous; the only other places Ryan can feel her body are the insides of her knees against his shoulders. Without his hands he feels like he’s fumbling, but when he lets his tongue slide low enough to taste her properly, she’s so wet it surprises him. The gun presses against his jaw as he slips his tongue inside her the best he can, but instead of feeling like a threat, this time it feels like encouragement.
Z can never be still, rolling her hips to match whatever rhythm he starts, sometimes moving quicker to try and speed him up - Ryan might hold her hips right where he wants them so he can tease her clit or thrust at the best angle or just take back control, but he can’t now. Even with the empty gun and no restraints on his wrists, he feels held in place. There’s no push and pull of power - it’s not his, even though it could be. Instead of giving in and pushing Z’s thighs open he lets her use him how she wants, moaning and grinding her clit against the pad of his tongue. His dick is practically aching and he shifts between her legs fruitlessly, searching for contact and groaning against her in frustration; there’s a dull throb in his jaw from the press of the gun and he wants Z to throw it down and tug his hair, hold his head between her legs. His fingers twist tighter around each other behind his back at the thought, and he tries to press in closer, sliding his tongue against her firmly - the sound he gets in return sends a sharp pang of arousal through his chest.
“Fuck,” Z groans, voice ragged between her heavy breaths - Ryan can feel her body jerking slightly under his mouth, hips moving quicker, and he tries to keep up and move with her. Z whines when she’s close, like she always does; Ryan tries to suck her clit into his mouth, pressing closer again, and she practically writhes. The gun drags painfully from his jaw down to his neck when she squirms, and his groan must push her into orgasm - Ryan feels breathless while he licks her through it, panting nearly as hard as she is. As soon as Z drops the gun beside her on the bed, Ryan moves his hands to feel up her body; her skin is hot and damp and he almost wants to stay between her legs, make her come again just like this.
Z’s whole body is practically flushed after she comes - she keeps her eyes closed while she tries to catch her breath, and Ryan whispers up at her, “I hope I guessed right.” She laughs breathlessly, low and almost raspy, and runs her fingers through his hair - Ryan’s dick is leaking, he knows, pleading silently to be touched, but he stays where he is and plants slow kisses along the insides of her thighs.