Love's a Loaded Gun by lipstickcat
Title: Love’s a Loaded Gun
Author: lipstickcat
Pairing: Turnbull/Kowalski
Rating: NC-17
Kink: Gun kink
Notes: Thank you kindly to slidellra for the fast beta. Remaining mistakes are all my own. Also? Sorry for the crappy title, but I’m not going to miss the deadline trying to think of a clever title….
***
It’s dumbass o’clock in the morning when Ray finally drags his feet over the threshold of his apartment and hits the light switch, flooding the room with light that makes him wince and squint. He’d been on a stakeout and had never been so pleased to hear Dewey’s voice as when he called through to say that he was in position and Ray could finish his shift. All he wants now is to go to bed and sleep through his day-off.
Murphy’s Law, of course, dictates that Ray is not allowed to get what he wants, when he wants it. Murphy’s Law dictates that before Ray can even shrug out of his jacket, there will be a knock at the door. Ray would like to meet this Murphy guy and kick him in the head. And the head would be the polite place to kick him, all things considered.
Scrubbing the heel of his palm over one eye as he answers the door; Ray isn’t particularly surprised to find a Mountie behind it. What else would he expect at this hour? But, because it’s a time in the night/morning that should be made illegal, and perhaps because the guy’s out of uniform, it takes a moment for Ray to realise that it’s the wrong Mountie.
“…Turnbull?”
Turnbull just smiles dimly and begins to walk forward before Ray had a chance to invite him in, not that he was going to. Ray has no choice but to step backwards or be mowed down by… something big and not red. He really needs his sleep.
“I saw your light come on,” Turnbull says, as if it explained everything.
Ray hesitates before shutting the door. He might need an escape route. But he decides that Turnbull’s safe; he’s one of those big guys you come across sometimes that don’t seem to realise how strong and threatening they really are. He cooks, Ray has no doubt in his mind that he also bakes cakes and probably makes little marzipan roses to put on the top, he can also see Turnbull rescuing baby birds that have fallen out of nests. Turnbull’s harmless. Strange, yes. And also possibly a stalker, but then, as Ray has had to tell Stella in the past; “stalker” is such an ugly word.
“What were you doing outside my apartment at this time of night?” Cut to the chase, confirm that he’s a little creepy, get him out, and go to bed. It was a plan.
“I was just passing by.” Turnbull steps closer and Ray can smell alcohol on his breath, something sweet and girly. Ray is pretty sure he isn't drunk, just tipsy enough to dumb down his inhibitions. “When I saw your light come on, I thought perhaps you were having a bad night sleeping. I thought that perhaps I could help.”
Ray has the urge to simultaneously ask “How do you think you can help?” and “How do you know where I live?” but both these questions invite further conversation, which Ray really wants to avoid, so instead he shrugs and says, “I’ve just got home, and I was heading to bed….”
“Oh.”
Turnbull is in his personal space now, his hand sliding beneath Ray’s jacket, pleasant heat stealing over his torso. It’s the kind of thing that Ray should discourage, but he’s tired, and it’s so nice and easy to just lean into the touch a little. He barely even notices the fumbling beneath his jacket, only the smooth withdrawal of Turnbull’s hand, and then the freak is standing in front of him, holding his weapon. And not in any good way.
Shit.
But Turnbull doesn’t show any sign of wanting to make Ray a statistic; one of those people who are killed in their own home, with their own gun, by someone they thought they knew. Turnbull’s just standing there, with the safety still on, turning the gun over in his hands, an appreciative expression on his face.
“A two-tone beretta, nine millimeter, very well maintained.” He glances up at Ray, who nods and gives a half shrug.
Ray hadn’t thought about it before, but just because Turnbull doesn’t carry in the States, it doesn’t mean that he can’t fire a gun. When he actually thinks about it, Ray realises he must have some kind of firearms certificate from the Mountie school. He’s probably even good on the range. Can cook, makes decorative marzipan sculptures, rescues young birds, and will shoot you square between the eyes from 30 feet. That sounds about right.
Just as Ray's beginning to think that perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to get to know this guy a little bit better, Turnbull turns the gun over one more time and gets a firm hold on the grip. He raises the gun and gazes at Ray down the sights, then brings it close to him and rests the barrel against his lower lip.
Ray can feel his eyebrows shoot up. That is not any way of weighing up a gun that he knows about.
Turnbull’s breathing just that little bit harder; slow but purposefully intense. His mouth is open, top lip brushing the end of the barrel. Ray imagines he can feel his hot breath gusting over the cold steel, and it's wrong, wrong, wrong. It makes him shiver, his whole body waking up, tingling with goosebumps.
The corners of Turnbull’s mouth turn up in a devilish smile, and Ray realises he doesn’t know this man. He knows nothing about him, but he seems to know more about Ray than Ray knows about himself. Something catches the light, and there’s a tongue, the tip pushing, quivering, along the smooth barrel, barely licking at all in the small space between Turnbull’s parted lips, but enough to catch Ray’s attention, to make him want.
Turnbull tilts his head back slightly, and then the end of the barrel is pushing past his top lip. Turnbull drops his head forwards again, the barrel sinking into his mouth, lips wrapping around it. Ray groans before he can stop himself. So very wrong, and thank god the safety’s on, and he’s in the wrong profession to be turned on by this, and, fuck, he’s so hard. His mouth is dry as he watches Turnbull swallow the barrel, down to the trigger guard, then slowly pull back again.
Turnbull’s eyes are fixed on Ray, heavy lidded, so that his dark eyelashes shadow the blue of his eyes in a way that Ray can only think of as slutty. Those eyes don’t hold Ray’s attention for long, though, because Turnbull’s taking the barrel in again and moaning softly; Ray can almost feel the deep vibration of Turnbull's moan in his own body. It makes Ray breathe out an embarrassing whimper of arousal.
Smirking, Turnbull pulls the barrel from between his lips in a long, slow slide and steps towards Ray. Ray’s ready and eager this time, propelling his body forward in a desperate surge, so that he’s pressed up against Turnbull before their lips even meet. He mouths hungrily at Turnbull, who responds with hot, dirty, messy kisses. All wet and fast, with tongue and teeth, devouring, and that seems right to Ray, it seems like he’s being eaten alive. Ray can feel the length of the gun pressed against his cheek, spit-slick and warm, so much like the inside of Turnbull’s mouth. He’s vaguely aware of being pushed backwards, the toe of Turnbull’s boot tapping against his, not at all clumsy but purposeful and guiding. He doesn’t crash against his front door, as he would expect, its just that suddenly there’s no more empty space behind him and Turnbull is pressing him back against the door with the kind of careful pressure required to firmly hold a young bird without crushing it.
Ray is panting and moaning as Turnbull pulls back, one big hand splayed over Ray’s chest to hold him in place. Turnbull has a thoughtful expression on his face, his head cocked to the side as he drags the muzzle of the gun over Ray’s cheek, trailing it down along the line of his jaw. Ray tilts his head up in mock defiance, and the steel drags down his neck as his chest heaves against Turnbull’s heavy palm.
The tip of the barrel fits between Turnbull’s spread fingers, and he pushes it, a short sharp jolt, just enough to leave a bruise in the morning, against the top of Ray’s ribcage, over his heart. Ray sucks in a breath, his hands jumping with adrenaline and self-preservation instinct, but he wills them down, presses them against the rough grain of the door. The safety’s on, and, if he is honest with himself, he’s not sure he’d want to stop even if it wasn’t.
Turnbull pulls the gun away and sweeps it back up, as elegant as if he were following a moving target. The muzzle nudges against Ray’s lips, and he parts them wide enough to let the barrel into his mouth. Turnbull makes an “ahhh” sound, his eyes widening, pupils dilating in a rush. The hand on Ray’s chest slides up to cup the back of his head, while Turnbull leans in to nip at Ray’s jaw. And then he’s gently tipping Ray’s head forward, forcing him to take in more of the barrel, while Turnbull kisses over his chin, licking across his lips, tongue flickering along the side of the barrel of the gun, into Ray’s mouth and out again.
This? This is the kind of shit that could get Ray suspended and sent to a shrink for the rest of time. This is the kind of shit that could put Ray in a situation where he’ll end up dead. This is opening up all kinds of cans of worms.
Ray’s never been more turned on in his life.
Turnbull presses his face against Ray’s, clammy breath blasting over Ray’s skin, Turnbull’s nose digging into his cheek forcefully, somehow telling Ray who’s in charge, as if the gun in his mouth didn’t already make that clear. The hand clutching the back of Ray’s head slips away to unfasten his jeans. Turnbull’s hand wrapping around Ray’s cock makes Ray hum around the barrel, so he can feel the steel vibrating against his lips.
Ray sees bright amber light, even when he closes his eyes; it paints the dark behind his eyelids in vivid explosions, like bursts of gunfire through his mind. Everything’s hazy and blended together in one sensation; the controlled way Turnbull’s jerking him off with long strokes that pull him to the brink every second, the way Turnbull fucks his mouth with the gun, the slow solid slip of the metal between his lips, twisting a little in his mouth with each slide in and out, the way it occasionally catches dry on his lip and pulls slightly. Sometimes Turnbull leans in to kiss, lick, bite, but Ray knows from the noises he’s making that he’s mostly holding himself back, watching.
Orgasm washes over Ray in a rush. He’s not normally a screamer, but right now he’s crying out around the muzzle of the gun. The noise he makes is muffled and desperate. The barrel slides out one last time and leaves his mouth completely. His jaw aches and his mouth feels empty.
When he opens his eyes Turnbull is offering him his gun with a heavy lidded, hungry expression on his face. As Ray takes his weapon, he realises that Turnbull hasn’t finished. He reaches out for his pants, but Turnbull takes a step back, shakes his head and smiles.
“There’s no need, thank you.”
Ray’s a little confused; Turnbull is obviously hard, and after that orgasm it's only fair. But Ray’s too tired and fucked out to dwell on it as he slouches against the door, jeans still undone. It takes a moment to realise that Turnbull’s politely waiting to be let out. It’s an effort to move his heavy limbs enough to get the door open.
“Good night, Detective. Sleep well.”
Ray mutters a jumbled reply as Turnbull slips out into the corridor. As Ray shuts the door he knows that Turnbull’s going to go back to his own home to think about tonight and jerk off. He thinks about Turnbull stroking himself, sprawled across his bed, eyes shut, picturing Ray and his gun. He thinks about himself there as well, standing over Turnbull, dragging the barrel of the gun over Turnbull's bare chest, around the arc of his neck as he throws his head back. He thinks about the moans Turnbull would make as he slid the gun into his mouth, the way he would pump himself faster, harder.
It'd be easy to find out where Turnbull lives.
He stumbles off to bed, disturbingly hot images filling his mind.
He takes his gun with him.
***END***
Tagging.... llassah!!! Do them proud and hard!
Author: lipstickcat
Pairing: Turnbull/Kowalski
Rating: NC-17
Kink: Gun kink
Notes: Thank you kindly to slidellra for the fast beta. Remaining mistakes are all my own. Also? Sorry for the crappy title, but I’m not going to miss the deadline trying to think of a clever title….
***
It’s dumbass o’clock in the morning when Ray finally drags his feet over the threshold of his apartment and hits the light switch, flooding the room with light that makes him wince and squint. He’d been on a stakeout and had never been so pleased to hear Dewey’s voice as when he called through to say that he was in position and Ray could finish his shift. All he wants now is to go to bed and sleep through his day-off.
Murphy’s Law, of course, dictates that Ray is not allowed to get what he wants, when he wants it. Murphy’s Law dictates that before Ray can even shrug out of his jacket, there will be a knock at the door. Ray would like to meet this Murphy guy and kick him in the head. And the head would be the polite place to kick him, all things considered.
Scrubbing the heel of his palm over one eye as he answers the door; Ray isn’t particularly surprised to find a Mountie behind it. What else would he expect at this hour? But, because it’s a time in the night/morning that should be made illegal, and perhaps because the guy’s out of uniform, it takes a moment for Ray to realise that it’s the wrong Mountie.
“…Turnbull?”
Turnbull just smiles dimly and begins to walk forward before Ray had a chance to invite him in, not that he was going to. Ray has no choice but to step backwards or be mowed down by… something big and not red. He really needs his sleep.
“I saw your light come on,” Turnbull says, as if it explained everything.
Ray hesitates before shutting the door. He might need an escape route. But he decides that Turnbull’s safe; he’s one of those big guys you come across sometimes that don’t seem to realise how strong and threatening they really are. He cooks, Ray has no doubt in his mind that he also bakes cakes and probably makes little marzipan roses to put on the top, he can also see Turnbull rescuing baby birds that have fallen out of nests. Turnbull’s harmless. Strange, yes. And also possibly a stalker, but then, as Ray has had to tell Stella in the past; “stalker” is such an ugly word.
“What were you doing outside my apartment at this time of night?” Cut to the chase, confirm that he’s a little creepy, get him out, and go to bed. It was a plan.
“I was just passing by.” Turnbull steps closer and Ray can smell alcohol on his breath, something sweet and girly. Ray is pretty sure he isn't drunk, just tipsy enough to dumb down his inhibitions. “When I saw your light come on, I thought perhaps you were having a bad night sleeping. I thought that perhaps I could help.”
Ray has the urge to simultaneously ask “How do you think you can help?” and “How do you know where I live?” but both these questions invite further conversation, which Ray really wants to avoid, so instead he shrugs and says, “I’ve just got home, and I was heading to bed….”
“Oh.”
Turnbull is in his personal space now, his hand sliding beneath Ray’s jacket, pleasant heat stealing over his torso. It’s the kind of thing that Ray should discourage, but he’s tired, and it’s so nice and easy to just lean into the touch a little. He barely even notices the fumbling beneath his jacket, only the smooth withdrawal of Turnbull’s hand, and then the freak is standing in front of him, holding his weapon. And not in any good way.
Shit.
But Turnbull doesn’t show any sign of wanting to make Ray a statistic; one of those people who are killed in their own home, with their own gun, by someone they thought they knew. Turnbull’s just standing there, with the safety still on, turning the gun over in his hands, an appreciative expression on his face.
“A two-tone beretta, nine millimeter, very well maintained.” He glances up at Ray, who nods and gives a half shrug.
Ray hadn’t thought about it before, but just because Turnbull doesn’t carry in the States, it doesn’t mean that he can’t fire a gun. When he actually thinks about it, Ray realises he must have some kind of firearms certificate from the Mountie school. He’s probably even good on the range. Can cook, makes decorative marzipan sculptures, rescues young birds, and will shoot you square between the eyes from 30 feet. That sounds about right.
Just as Ray's beginning to think that perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to get to know this guy a little bit better, Turnbull turns the gun over one more time and gets a firm hold on the grip. He raises the gun and gazes at Ray down the sights, then brings it close to him and rests the barrel against his lower lip.
Ray can feel his eyebrows shoot up. That is not any way of weighing up a gun that he knows about.
Turnbull’s breathing just that little bit harder; slow but purposefully intense. His mouth is open, top lip brushing the end of the barrel. Ray imagines he can feel his hot breath gusting over the cold steel, and it's wrong, wrong, wrong. It makes him shiver, his whole body waking up, tingling with goosebumps.
The corners of Turnbull’s mouth turn up in a devilish smile, and Ray realises he doesn’t know this man. He knows nothing about him, but he seems to know more about Ray than Ray knows about himself. Something catches the light, and there’s a tongue, the tip pushing, quivering, along the smooth barrel, barely licking at all in the small space between Turnbull’s parted lips, but enough to catch Ray’s attention, to make him want.
Turnbull tilts his head back slightly, and then the end of the barrel is pushing past his top lip. Turnbull drops his head forwards again, the barrel sinking into his mouth, lips wrapping around it. Ray groans before he can stop himself. So very wrong, and thank god the safety’s on, and he’s in the wrong profession to be turned on by this, and, fuck, he’s so hard. His mouth is dry as he watches Turnbull swallow the barrel, down to the trigger guard, then slowly pull back again.
Turnbull’s eyes are fixed on Ray, heavy lidded, so that his dark eyelashes shadow the blue of his eyes in a way that Ray can only think of as slutty. Those eyes don’t hold Ray’s attention for long, though, because Turnbull’s taking the barrel in again and moaning softly; Ray can almost feel the deep vibration of Turnbull's moan in his own body. It makes Ray breathe out an embarrassing whimper of arousal.
Smirking, Turnbull pulls the barrel from between his lips in a long, slow slide and steps towards Ray. Ray’s ready and eager this time, propelling his body forward in a desperate surge, so that he’s pressed up against Turnbull before their lips even meet. He mouths hungrily at Turnbull, who responds with hot, dirty, messy kisses. All wet and fast, with tongue and teeth, devouring, and that seems right to Ray, it seems like he’s being eaten alive. Ray can feel the length of the gun pressed against his cheek, spit-slick and warm, so much like the inside of Turnbull’s mouth. He’s vaguely aware of being pushed backwards, the toe of Turnbull’s boot tapping against his, not at all clumsy but purposeful and guiding. He doesn’t crash against his front door, as he would expect, its just that suddenly there’s no more empty space behind him and Turnbull is pressing him back against the door with the kind of careful pressure required to firmly hold a young bird without crushing it.
Ray is panting and moaning as Turnbull pulls back, one big hand splayed over Ray’s chest to hold him in place. Turnbull has a thoughtful expression on his face, his head cocked to the side as he drags the muzzle of the gun over Ray’s cheek, trailing it down along the line of his jaw. Ray tilts his head up in mock defiance, and the steel drags down his neck as his chest heaves against Turnbull’s heavy palm.
The tip of the barrel fits between Turnbull’s spread fingers, and he pushes it, a short sharp jolt, just enough to leave a bruise in the morning, against the top of Ray’s ribcage, over his heart. Ray sucks in a breath, his hands jumping with adrenaline and self-preservation instinct, but he wills them down, presses them against the rough grain of the door. The safety’s on, and, if he is honest with himself, he’s not sure he’d want to stop even if it wasn’t.
Turnbull pulls the gun away and sweeps it back up, as elegant as if he were following a moving target. The muzzle nudges against Ray’s lips, and he parts them wide enough to let the barrel into his mouth. Turnbull makes an “ahhh” sound, his eyes widening, pupils dilating in a rush. The hand on Ray’s chest slides up to cup the back of his head, while Turnbull leans in to nip at Ray’s jaw. And then he’s gently tipping Ray’s head forward, forcing him to take in more of the barrel, while Turnbull kisses over his chin, licking across his lips, tongue flickering along the side of the barrel of the gun, into Ray’s mouth and out again.
This? This is the kind of shit that could get Ray suspended and sent to a shrink for the rest of time. This is the kind of shit that could put Ray in a situation where he’ll end up dead. This is opening up all kinds of cans of worms.
Ray’s never been more turned on in his life.
Turnbull presses his face against Ray’s, clammy breath blasting over Ray’s skin, Turnbull’s nose digging into his cheek forcefully, somehow telling Ray who’s in charge, as if the gun in his mouth didn’t already make that clear. The hand clutching the back of Ray’s head slips away to unfasten his jeans. Turnbull’s hand wrapping around Ray’s cock makes Ray hum around the barrel, so he can feel the steel vibrating against his lips.
Ray sees bright amber light, even when he closes his eyes; it paints the dark behind his eyelids in vivid explosions, like bursts of gunfire through his mind. Everything’s hazy and blended together in one sensation; the controlled way Turnbull’s jerking him off with long strokes that pull him to the brink every second, the way Turnbull fucks his mouth with the gun, the slow solid slip of the metal between his lips, twisting a little in his mouth with each slide in and out, the way it occasionally catches dry on his lip and pulls slightly. Sometimes Turnbull leans in to kiss, lick, bite, but Ray knows from the noises he’s making that he’s mostly holding himself back, watching.
Orgasm washes over Ray in a rush. He’s not normally a screamer, but right now he’s crying out around the muzzle of the gun. The noise he makes is muffled and desperate. The barrel slides out one last time and leaves his mouth completely. His jaw aches and his mouth feels empty.
When he opens his eyes Turnbull is offering him his gun with a heavy lidded, hungry expression on his face. As Ray takes his weapon, he realises that Turnbull hasn’t finished. He reaches out for his pants, but Turnbull takes a step back, shakes his head and smiles.
“There’s no need, thank you.”
Ray’s a little confused; Turnbull is obviously hard, and after that orgasm it's only fair. But Ray’s too tired and fucked out to dwell on it as he slouches against the door, jeans still undone. It takes a moment to realise that Turnbull’s politely waiting to be let out. It’s an effort to move his heavy limbs enough to get the door open.
“Good night, Detective. Sleep well.”
Ray mutters a jumbled reply as Turnbull slips out into the corridor. As Ray shuts the door he knows that Turnbull’s going to go back to his own home to think about tonight and jerk off. He thinks about Turnbull stroking himself, sprawled across his bed, eyes shut, picturing Ray and his gun. He thinks about himself there as well, standing over Turnbull, dragging the barrel of the gun over Turnbull's bare chest, around the arc of his neck as he throws his head back. He thinks about the moans Turnbull would make as he slid the gun into his mouth, the way he would pump himself faster, harder.
It'd be easy to find out where Turnbull lives.
He stumbles off to bed, disturbingly hot images filling his mind.
He takes his gun with him.
***END***
Tagging.... llassah!!! Do them proud and hard!