Teach me how to shoot your gun


Strife wheezes when I slam him into the wall, then huffs, audibly, as if he has just stepped into a steaming bath, and knowing that I caused this, just by being near him, makes my blood boil all the hotter. I’ve pinned his right hand with the gauntlet so he can’t defend himself, as his other hand is busy clinging onto his pistol, and the expanse of skin under his shirt, the smooth hills and long valleys of his muscles suspended in anticipation, in desire, is open for my conquest. I know what he wants. He wants to kiss, but his ridiculous mask is in the way, so I kiss that instead. “War?” he utters, like there isn’t enough air inside his helmet, “what are you doing?” Why, following your suggestion, brother. To show more initiative in love, like I do in fighting; invent new tactics, be less predictable, try and surprise you. Have I risen to the challenge? I breathe, open-mouthed, into his visor, while he writhes under my weight. My thumb brushes his nipple, erect and sensitive, and when I pull on the golden bud that adorns it, I hear him hiss, a ragged gasp, it hurts, but he likes it, he likes it when it hurts, and it drives me mad with lust. Pressing closer, I force my thigh between his legs and feel his excitement prod back at me as if he’s stuffed a large stone in his pants. He moans and I laugh, not out of mockery, but in exhilaration of a battle going well and a resounding victory at hand. I could… unlace his pants all the way and have my way with him right now. But would that not be a concession? Giving grounds where I needn’t give any? For a moment, we both gaze down at the telling glint of moisture and I barely suppress the temptation to forfeit my advantage, bend the knee in front of him, and scoop it up with my lips. “We should continue the lesson,” I propose instead, aware that my voice will betray my own need, but confident that in this encounter, he cannot turn the odds. When he laughs, I feel the familiar tremor of final surrender run through his body as it turns pliant and soft in my arms, ready for invasion. “Brother,” I whisper. He leans the pistol on his thigh, unable to maintain his grip on the stock, and I struggle to remain serious myself as I strike the final blow and touch the barrel. “Won’t you teach me—” I touch the barrel the way I want to touch him and speak to him the way I might breathe in his ear at the point of no return—“how to shoot… your gun?”

Teach me how to shoot your gun — Strife