Fic: Prop Me Up
Jun. 2nd, 2011 11:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: Prop Me Up
Summary: Restlessness, drunkenness, and firearms.
Fandom: Gun Crazy RPF (you heard me)
Word Count: 848
Rating/Contents: NC-17, gunplay, object insertion, solo, voyeurism
Pairing: Peggy + John friendship
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: I have been threatening to write this story for quite some time, so here it is: the obscure RPF gunplay story about Peggy Cummins and John Dall, light of my world. Because really, what else is![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo for?
It was late; the crew had gone home, but Peggy didn't feel like it. Derek, darling Derek, wasn't waiting up for her, which was just as well. She wouldn't make good company tonight, not when she was feeling so restive.
There was a knock on the trailer door, and John came in without waiting to be called. "Just the woman I wanted to see."
"I don't know who else you expected to see in my trailer," she said, not getting up from her place on the loveseat.
He held up a bottle. "A little nightcap?"
"I could stand a lot more than a nightcap," she admitted.
"Then a lot more it is," he said joyfully.
Glasses were rounded up and drinks were poured; it took two or three before Peggy really relaxed, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table next to John's. He nudged her playfully with his foot. "What's this?"
She looked up from her gin; he held up one of the props, a six-shooter. "I haven't the foggiest why that's here," she said lightly.
"Someone's been stealing," he said, needling her. "You bad girl."
She held out her hand and he turned it over. She tossed it up and down a few times; it felt light in her hand, too light for any real use.
"Careful with that, sweetheart," he said, taking a sip from his glass.
She twirled it around her finger. "Scared of a fake?"
"Scared you'll knock yourself in the head with it and cause more work for the makeup girl."
"You're no fun," she said, pouting at him. She ran the gun up and down along the buttons of her blouse, a little lower with each pass.
"I don't know whether you're in this picture because you like guns, or if you like guns because you're in this picture," he said, watching the gun's progress.
"A little of both," she said; the prop gun was at her waistband now, and she dared to go lower, letting it trace down over the seam of her trousers.
She was rather afraid he'd go running, but not him, not John; he just smirked at her. "Having fun?"
"I think I could be having more," she said, pressing the tip of the barrel in just so, right in the most sensitive spot; she could feel it through her clothing, the O of it circling her.
"Well, go on," he said, waving at her. "Do it if you're going to do it."
She smiled. "I thought the whole point of being a fruit was that you weren't interested."
"It means I don't want to touch," he said, sitting back in his chair. "It doesn't mean I'll go blind if I look."
Peggy bit her lip, unable to decide how to proceed; now or never she thought, and she wiggled out of her trousers, pushing them down enough that she could spread her thighs apart. She hesitated a moment, but one look at the shining silver of the gun and all her doubts flittered away.
It was cold as she stroked herself with it, but it warmed up quicker than she'd imagined, growing blood warm from the heat rolling off her. It was unforgiving, the ridges of the barrel bumping against her flesh; soon enough it was slick as well, impossible not to be when she was so wet between her thighs.
Very carefully, she began to push it into herself, back and forth, a little more each time. Her face was burning, but when she looked up, John was watching her raptly, like he was fascinated rather than excited. The barrel made awful, wonderful, slick sounds, loud and obscene and utterly sexy. It was so hard within her, completely unyielding, but something about that just made it better.
It was all the way in now, the trigger guard pressing hard against her clitoris, and she thrust down on it and came, seeing stars behind her eyelids.
It took her some moments to collect herself; she didn't feel awkward until she pulled the gun slowly out of her, looking around for somewhere to put it. John produced a handkerchief, handing it to her, and she wrapped it up, setting it down on the coffee table.
She struggled back into her tight trousers; dressed, she sat back against the loveseat, wiping the back of her hand over her brow. She looked at John in front of her, taking in his almost sleepy smile, and wondered where they could possibly go from here. "I'm afraid you didn't have any fun."
"Oh, I had fun," he assured her, leaning over and kissing her chastely on the forehead. "You put on quite the show." Seeing her blush, he smiled. "Finish your gin and go to bed," he said, talking to her as if she were a child.
"Yes, Papa," she returned, teasing him.
He gave her one more smile, and then he was gone.
Summary: Restlessness, drunkenness, and firearms.
Fandom: Gun Crazy RPF (you heard me)
Word Count: 848
Rating/Contents: NC-17, gunplay, object insertion, solo, voyeurism
Pairing: Peggy + John friendship
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: I have been threatening to write this story for quite some time, so here it is: the obscure RPF gunplay story about Peggy Cummins and John Dall, light of my world. Because really, what else is
kink_bingo for?It was late; the crew had gone home, but Peggy didn't feel like it. Derek, darling Derek, wasn't waiting up for her, which was just as well. She wouldn't make good company tonight, not when she was feeling so restive.
There was a knock on the trailer door, and John came in without waiting to be called. "Just the woman I wanted to see."
"I don't know who else you expected to see in my trailer," she said, not getting up from her place on the loveseat.
He held up a bottle. "A little nightcap?"
"I could stand a lot more than a nightcap," she admitted.
"Then a lot more it is," he said joyfully.
Glasses were rounded up and drinks were poured; it took two or three before Peggy really relaxed, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table next to John's. He nudged her playfully with his foot. "What's this?"
She looked up from her gin; he held up one of the props, a six-shooter. "I haven't the foggiest why that's here," she said lightly.
"Someone's been stealing," he said, needling her. "You bad girl."
She held out her hand and he turned it over. She tossed it up and down a few times; it felt light in her hand, too light for any real use.
"Careful with that, sweetheart," he said, taking a sip from his glass.
She twirled it around her finger. "Scared of a fake?"
"Scared you'll knock yourself in the head with it and cause more work for the makeup girl."
"You're no fun," she said, pouting at him. She ran the gun up and down along the buttons of her blouse, a little lower with each pass.
"I don't know whether you're in this picture because you like guns, or if you like guns because you're in this picture," he said, watching the gun's progress.
"A little of both," she said; the prop gun was at her waistband now, and she dared to go lower, letting it trace down over the seam of her trousers.
She was rather afraid he'd go running, but not him, not John; he just smirked at her. "Having fun?"
"I think I could be having more," she said, pressing the tip of the barrel in just so, right in the most sensitive spot; she could feel it through her clothing, the O of it circling her.
"Well, go on," he said, waving at her. "Do it if you're going to do it."
She smiled. "I thought the whole point of being a fruit was that you weren't interested."
"It means I don't want to touch," he said, sitting back in his chair. "It doesn't mean I'll go blind if I look."
Peggy bit her lip, unable to decide how to proceed; now or never she thought, and she wiggled out of her trousers, pushing them down enough that she could spread her thighs apart. She hesitated a moment, but one look at the shining silver of the gun and all her doubts flittered away.
It was cold as she stroked herself with it, but it warmed up quicker than she'd imagined, growing blood warm from the heat rolling off her. It was unforgiving, the ridges of the barrel bumping against her flesh; soon enough it was slick as well, impossible not to be when she was so wet between her thighs.
Very carefully, she began to push it into herself, back and forth, a little more each time. Her face was burning, but when she looked up, John was watching her raptly, like he was fascinated rather than excited. The barrel made awful, wonderful, slick sounds, loud and obscene and utterly sexy. It was so hard within her, completely unyielding, but something about that just made it better.
It was all the way in now, the trigger guard pressing hard against her clitoris, and she thrust down on it and came, seeing stars behind her eyelids.
It took her some moments to collect herself; she didn't feel awkward until she pulled the gun slowly out of her, looking around for somewhere to put it. John produced a handkerchief, handing it to her, and she wrapped it up, setting it down on the coffee table.
She struggled back into her tight trousers; dressed, she sat back against the loveseat, wiping the back of her hand over her brow. She looked at John in front of her, taking in his almost sleepy smile, and wondered where they could possibly go from here. "I'm afraid you didn't have any fun."
"Oh, I had fun," he assured her, leaning over and kissing her chastely on the forehead. "You put on quite the show." Seeing her blush, he smiled. "Finish your gin and go to bed," he said, talking to her as if she were a child.
"Yes, Papa," she returned, teasing him.
He gave her one more smile, and then he was gone.
