#CANNOTTTTT stop thinking abt this scene.

[strfall]

not a fuckin' toy. `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ tw gunplay

His body was all sweat slick heat against yours, both of your chests heaving in time as you caught your breath from tustling around in his threadbare sheets. One of his arms was haphazardly thrown around you as he leaned against the wall his bed was pushed up against, lacking a headboard.

It was always like this on lazy days with Riff. Lounging around in each other’s body heat in between rounds, never really cooling off. Especially in the summer when the heat pressed in from the outside, too. The window was thrown open for the occasional breeze, but you’d both rather stay naked all day for a couple of reasons.

You slide out of his rickety old bed casually, your feet dropping onto the wood floor to carry you across the room in search for his cigarettes and a lighter. You picked through the clothes strewn across the floor when something catches your eye on his dresser, sticking out from under one of his shirts thrown across the top.

It glinted in the light as you approached, tugging it out from its hiding spot and feeling the weight of it in your hands. The steel was heavy for something so small, cool compared to the heat of the air around you. You turned halfway to face him, rotating the gun in your hands.

“The hell do you have this for?” You question, shooting him a look as you tear your eyes away from the metal in your grasp.

“Don’ worry ‘bout it. Put it down,” he answers dismissively, pushing his dark hair off his sweaty forehead and beckoning you back to the bed with a jerk of his head.

You ignore him, a strange fascination with the piece in your hands taking over you as you look back down at it. You grip it like you’ve seen in the movies or like the cops do, admiring how it looks in your delicate hand.

“Hey,” his voice is a bit sharper now when you don’t listen to him. “That ain’t a fuckin’ toy. Put it down,” he demands again.

To his dismay, his tone only makes you feel even more defiant, a mischievous smirk settling on your lips as you approach him, pointing the gun right at him. “Put your hands up, delinquent.”

His eyes narrow dangerously at you. It’s not loaded, he’s not fucking stupid. The safety’s on, and your finger’s not even on the trigger. But seeing you point that thing at him…

When you get close enough to the bed again, gun still pointed straight out in front of you, directly at him, he rises to the challenge. He leans forward, pressing his forehead directly to the end of the barrel. One wrong move and you could splatter his brains on the wall behind him.

His eyes burn as they look up at you, almost in a dare. He’s daring you to take his challenge, to squeeze that trigger and hear the mechanical click of a quick death. Your heart is beating faster now, your expression falling at the sudden intensity of the moment. There’s something so inherently intimate about the illusion of holding someone else’s life in your hands, and them letting you.

And then his hand is on the gun, snatching it away from your hand as he uses the other to wrap around your waist and pull you forward into him. His expression is still just as intense, his fiery gaze never leaving your face.

“You don’t play around with this shit, you hear me?” He asks, his eyebrows raising expectantly as he waves the gun out of your reach. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, could blow someone’s goddamn head off,” he hisses and you give a little nod feeling like a scolded kid.

“You feel all tough with this thing pointed at me? Huh?” he questions, making your body shiver as he runs the cool metal up your thigh. “You feel like a big girl?” he suddenly presses the length of the barrel against the heat of your core making you gasp and shudder.

“Was jus’ messin’ around, Riff,” you mumble, your hand gripping his wrist tightly, but you're unsure whether you're wanting to push him away or keep him right where he is.

“Yeah. Exactly,” he huffs, breaking your grip to toss the gun aside. “Don’ want you messin’ around with your life,” he pulls you down to straddle his lap by his grip on your hips, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Your life. You were the one holding the gun out at him and he was concerned about your life.

Riff Lorton already knew he was heading for an early grave, but he’d be damned if you were resigned to the same fate.