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Guns work the same as knives

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It's empty. I made sure of that. The safety is on. He made sure if that. It's safer than a knife. But his finger is on the trigger, it's cold against my chin, he has me pinned to the alley wall as he slams into me, reaching around, and it's enough . It's so good .

 

I'm wrecked. Scrambling, alternating between clinging to whatever of him I can reach or the wall. I have to choose breathing over swallowing and if I was in charge of myself I'd be mortified over the saliva rolling over my gasping lips, pooling against the wall before dripping down, or the tears streaming against my cheeks. But I can't focus on anything other than what he is giving me, taking everything I can.

 

Rapture. Unadulterated pleasure. I can't even cry out properly, just shuddery, repetitive “ ah, ah, ah ” noises with every jolt, weak in comparison to the sensation.

 

He pulls away, turning me willingly, lifting me against the wall, pulling one leg over the shoulder, the other coming up and wrapping around his ribs, and finally sliding back home as the pearl handle comes to rest against my chest, pointing once again up so that it's almost at my chin. And I'm greedy. I want to take it all. Everything he can put into this and more.

 

He nips at my jaw and my mouth tries to pucker for a taste of that, but I'm too slack-jawed. I want more. But I can't reach. All I can do is take. More pitiful noises escape me, low whines of base need.

 

He moves the gun away, resting his forearm against the wall. On the opposite side his head comes down and he's breathing shallow puffs of air against my collarbone. Licking occasionally. And every time my entire body shivers. Tries to pull. So greedy. Give it to me .

 

Then he's the one shuddering. And it's too satisfying for words, feeling this body quake beneath my hands. Finally, I can take. I've seen this body fight, kill, conquer. And by giving under it, I've witnessed it fall.

 

We still. Catch our breath. Then smiling green eyes catch mine. “Damn, y/n.” he breaths, rubbing his thumb against the miniscule scratches on my face from the brick.

 

I chuckle. “Told you guns work the same as knives.” We part and straighten our clothes out, both weak kneed and satisfied. I can feel his release leak out and am grateful we were already on our way to the Impala.

 

“Hey Dean?”

 

“Yeah?”


“Next time, can I hold the gun?”