#antis dni

The subway car rattles beneath us, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, and I can't stop staring at his hands. Those long fingers are wrapped around the pole above his head, the same fingers that were gripping that prop gun two hours ago. Matte black holster, heavy, absurdly realistic, like something you’d see in an old western.

He's wearing his usual uniform of vintage button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and I can see the hairs on his forearm shifting as he adjusts his grip.

The Getting Killed promo shoot. That's what this was supposed to be. Just another day of him being the moody frontman, staring down the lens like he wanted to murder it, the fake pistol pressed against his side, then held out toward the camera like a threat.

But god, the way he held it. The way his knuckles went white. The way his mouth parted, slack and dangerous, when he pulled the trigger and the blank snapped loud enough to make everyone jump.

I shift on the plastic seat, thighs pressing together, and he notices. Of course he notices. Cameron's head turns slow, those dark eyes finding mine, and he smirks, just a little, just enough to show he knows exactly what he's doing to me.

"You're staring," he says, low enough that only I can hear it over the screech of the tracks.

"You're holding that pole like you held that gun," I say back, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. "Can't stop thinking about it."

His eyebrow arches. The subway lurches around a curve and I have to grab the seat to keep from sliding into him, but I want to. I want to slide into his lap right here on the Q train and feel him hard against me, feel those calloused hands on my throat…

"How open-minded are you?" I ask, the words tumbling out before I can catch them.

Cameron laughs, a rough sound that vibrates in his chest. "Baby, I'm in a band. I think my mind's pretty fucking open."

"Not what I meant."

I lean in, close enough to smell his sweat and the faint chemical residue of the blank gunpowder still clinging to his clothes, and I whisper exactly what I want in his ear. Every filthy detail. The gun, his hands, his cock, the way I want him to use me like I'm nothing but a toy for his pleasure, the way I want him to make me suck on that fake barrel while I grind against him, the way I want to feel the metal against my skin while he fucks me. His whole body goes still. His smirk doesn't drop. In fact, it gets hungrier, sharper, predatory like I’m a fawn and he’s got me right on target.

"Yeah?" he asks, and his hand drops from the pole to grip my hip, thumb digging in hard enough to bruise. "That what you want?"

I nod, already wet, practically aching, the whole thirty-minute ride home a torture of his hand stroking up and down my thigh, slipping higher every few stops until his fingers are brushing the inseam of my jeans, pressing just enough to feel how soaked I am through the denim.

"You're dripping," he murmurs against my ear at Atlantic Avenue, his hand cupping me fully now, right there on the subway, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning loud enough for the whole car to hear. "Can't wait to get you home. Gonna ruin you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you feel it for days."

By the time we stumble through the apartment door, I'm practically vibrating, my panties soaked through, my clit throbbing with every step. Cameron kicks the door shut behind us and drops his bag and I hear the weight of it. I know the gun is in there, black and heavy and ridiculous, and my knees go weak.

He shrugs off his jacket slow, theatrical, watching my face. "You were squirming the whole ride home," he says. "Couldn't sit still. Like you had somewhere better to be."

"I did have somewhere better to be. Something better to do…" I breathe.

Cameron crosses the room in three long strides and grabs my jaw, tilting my head back. He kisses me hard, teeth catching my lower lip, and I moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt. He tastes like cigarettes and the Red Bull he drank at the studio, and when he pulls back his eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing his dark brown eyes whole.

"Bedroom," he commands, and I go.

I strip as I walk. My shirt over my head, bra unhooked and dropped in the hallway, jeans shoved down my legs until I'm naked by the time I hit the mattress. Cameron takes his time. He sets his bag on the dresser and unzips it with agonizing care, and I watch him pull out the prop gun, check the chamber even though we both know it's empty, turn it over in his hands like he's appraising a jewel.

"On your knees," he says, voice low and dangerous. "Edge of the bed."

I scramble to obey, dropping to my knees on the carpet, looking up at him. He steps closer, and I can see the bulge in his jeans, the way he's already hard for me. He lifts one booted foot and presses it between my legs, the hard leather nudging against my wetness.

"Grind," he orders. "Get yourself off on my boot while I fuck your mouth with this."

He presses the gun against my lips, and I open my mouth obediently, taking the barrel inside, tasting metal and oil. He grips the handle and starts thrusting, shallow at first, then deeper. Fucking my mouth with the prop gun while I rut against his boot like an animal, my hips circling frantically, my clit dragging against the leather tread.

"That's it," he murmurs, watching me with dark eyes. "Fuck yourself on my boot while I use this pretty mouth. Look at you, so desperate, humping my shoe while I shove this gun down your throat. You like that? You like being used like a toy?"

I moan around the metal, the vibrations making him groan, and I grind harder against his boot, the friction building, my whole body trembling. He keeps thrusting the gun into my mouth, the barrel slick with my spit, and I suck obediently, hollow my cheeks, my tongue dragging along the metal as he pulls back and pushes in again. The leather is hard against my cunt, the tread pattern pressing into my clit, and I'm so close already, so worked up from the ride home, from his hands, from the gun.

"Good girl," he rasps. "Such a good fucking girl. Taking that gun like it's my cock. You want the real thing now?"

I nod desperately, and he pulls the gun out with a wet sound, a thick string of spit connecting my lips to the barrel, glistening in the lamplight, stretching before it breaks and drips onto my tits. Then he’s unzipping his jeans and pulling out his cock, thick and heavy and leaking pre-cum.

"Open," he commands, and I do, tongue out, desperate.

He slides into my mouth in one smooth thrust, filling me completely, and I moan around him, the taste of him overwhelming. All salt and musk and heat. He grips my hair, holding me still, and starts fucking my mouth in earnest, his hips snapping forward, burying himself to the root again and again.

Then I feel it, the cool metal pressing against my temple. He's holding the prop gun to my head while I suck him off, the barrel digging into my skin, and the obscene danger of it, the visual of it, makes me suck harder, makes me moan louder around his cock. My hands are on his thighs, gripping tight, and I can feel him twitching, throbbing against my tongue.

"Fuck," he groans, his thrusts stuttering. "Look at you. Sucking my cock with a gun to your head. Such a filthy fucking slut for me. You like that? You like feeling dangerous?"

I nod as best I can, tears pricking at my eyes from the stretch of my jaw, from how deep he's going. He keeps the gun pressed against my temple, his grip tight in my hair, and fucks my mouth rough and relentless until he's panting, until his thighs are trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Enough," he growls suddenly, pulling out and leaving me gasping, spit dripping down my chin. "On the bed. Now."

I scramble up, lying back on the mattress, and he climbs over me, still fully clothed except for his cock jutting out hard and wet. He straddles my hips and holds the gun in one hand, dragging it down my body with agonizing slowness, tracing my collarbone, circling my nipples until they're hard and aching, the cold metal making me gasp and arch.

"So pretty," he murmurs, and drags the barrel down my stomach, over my hip, and then he's pressing it between my legs, rubbing it against my clit, grinding the metal against my most sensitive spot. I cry out, bucking my hips, and he laughs and keeps rubbing, working the gun against me in tight circles while I writhe beneath him.

He drags the barrel lower, teasing at my entrance, and for a heart-stopping, breathless moment I think he's going to push it inside me. I tense, my cunt clenching around nothing, wanting and fearing it in equal measure, my hips tilting up involuntarily, begging for it. He holds it there, the tip of the barrel just barely pressing against my opening, and I whimper, desperate, my hands fisting in the sheets.

But he doesn't. He pulls it back, denying me, and I groan in frustration, in relief, in desperate need. He drags the gun back up my body, traces my ribs again, circles my nipples until I'm panting, until I'm sobbing for him to touch me, to fuck me, to do anything.

"Please," I choke out. "Cameron, please, I need you inside me…"

He drags the gun down one last time, presses it hard against my clit, rubbing furiously while I buck and moan, and then he climbs off me and grabs my ankle, lifting one leg up and pressing it back toward my chest, folding me open completely.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and lines himself up with my entrance. "So fucking ready for me. Begging for it."

He pushes in, bare, just hot skin on skin, and we both groan as he fills me completely. He keeps my leg pressed back, held against his chest, and starts to move. It's slow at first, grinding his hips in tight circles that drag his cock against my walls, hitting places that make my vision blur, then harder, setting a rhythm that has the bed creaking.

"Flip over," he commands suddenly, pulling out and leaving me empty. "On your stomach. Ass up."

I scramble to obey, turning onto my belly and pushing up onto my knees, presenting myself to him. He moves behind me, and I feel his hands spreading my cheeks, his thumbs dragging through my wetness, and then the gun is there close to my face, pressing against my chin, tilting my head back sharply.

"Keep your head up," he orders, the barrel digging into the soft underside of my jaw, holding me in place like a handle. "Just like that. Don't fucking drop it."

He sinks back into me in one brutal thrust, and I cry out, my neck straining against the pressure of the gun, the position forcing my back to arch more, my tits to hang heavy beneath me. He starts pushing harder, his hips slapping against my ass with wet, filthy sounds, and I can feel every ridge of him, every vein. 

His free hand snakes around my hip, finds my clit, and starts rubbing rough, tight circles that have me seeing stars. "You take it so good," he's panting, his breath hot against my neck. "So fucking good for me, baby. Look at you, held up by a gun while I ruin this pretty fucking pussy. Rubbing your clit while I fuck you raw. You like that? You like being my little toy?"

He leans in, the gun still pressed hard against my chin, forcing me to keep my head up, and I feel his mouth at my neck hard, and I know he's leaving marks. Dark purple hickeys that'll last for days, claiming me, branding me as his. He sucks harder, teeth grazing my tendon, moving down to my shoulder, sucking another mark there, and another, leaving a trail of bruises while his fingers work my clit frantically and his cock pounds into me from behind.

"Please," I sob, grinding back against him, meeting his thrusts. "Please, Cameron, I'm so close, I need,"

He pulls out suddenly, leaving me whining and empty, my cunt grasping at air, and flips me onto my back. He climbs over me, straddling my chest, knees pinning my arms, the gun in one hand while he jerks his cock with the other. Rough, desperate strokes.

"Open your mouth," he commands. "Stick out your tongue."

I obey, and he groans, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and then he's cumming, thick ropes of hot cum spilling over my tongue, my lips, my cheeks, dripping down my chin onto my tits. He keeps stroking, milking himself, painting me with his release, my face, my neck, my breasts, marking me completely, covering me in him. The last drops fall onto my stomach, and he breathes hard, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild.

He tosses the gun to the side of the bed. It lands with a soft thud on the carpet and he slides down my body, spreading my legs wide with his shoulders.

"My turn," he growls, and then his mouth is on me.

I cry, back arching off the bed, as he licks into me with long, filthy strokes, his tongue dragging through my folds, circling my clit, sucking it into his mouth. He's relentless, eating me like he's starving, like I’m the only thing that matters in the world. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and he moans against me, the vibrations making me sob.

"So fucking sweet," he murmurs, looking up at me with his chin glistening with my arousal. "So wet for me. Gonna make you cum on my tongue, baby. Gonna lick you clean."

He goes back to work, his tongue flicking my clit, two fingers sliding into me and curling against my g-spot, and I'm climbing fast, so fast, my whole body trembling. He sucks my clit hard, his fingers pumping in and out, and then I'm coming, my cunt clamping down on his fingers, my hands fisting in his hair, holding him there while I ride his face through the waves of pleasure.

He keeps licking, softer now, drawing out every aftershock, until I'm boneless, trembling, covered in his cum and sweat. He crawls up my body and collapses beside me, pulling me into his arms, his chest heaving against my back.

"Fuck," he breathes against my skin, pressing lazy kisses to my shoulder. "That was fun."

I hum and run my fingers through his hair. "Like some kinda russian roulette or something. Thank you for playing."

He laughs, breathless, and bites my ear gently. "Well thank you for bringing it to my attention.”