[team four] bang bang
in the sexy summer concert there's a song with fake (i hope) guns and this happened. warning for gunplay.
One round in the chamber and Shori’s hands only shake a little as he aims at the target. He’s not yet steady enough for just one hand-cocked to the side, like Fuuma-but he’ll get there. He has faith in himself, or more accurately his involuntary reaction to their latest concert props.
It’s taken him the rest of the year to gather up the nerve. He couldn’t tell Kento or Fuuma; they would just laugh at him. Likewise, his friends would just think he’s into some kinky role-playing or something, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The last thing he wants is another person around while he feels this…this rush.
He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, after all.
But for now, he holds the weight in his hands, heavy with metal and what it can do. His fingers slide carefully over the trigger guard, a gentle caress compared to the firm grip he has on the handle. Taking a deep breath, he does his best to assume the stance he’d read about online, bending his knees and elbows just enough to keep them from locking up. This part would probably be easier (and safer) if someone else were here to teach him, but then they would want to stay and watch him shoot.
Shooting is the part he needs to be alone for.
The anticipation is almost as good, making Shori’s breath catch before he even does anything. He knows what’s coming, can feel it in his blood, rushing through his veins and accumulating somewhere he rarely feels any activity. Now it has ignited like a burning fire, spreading to the ends of all of his nerves and making him shake from something other than the gun in his hands.
His next breath comes out as a faint moan, and he would be ashamed if it didn’t feel so damn good. He’s struggling to stand still, knowing that he could seriously injure himself if he doesn’t concentrate-fuck, why can’t he trust anyone enough to spot him? Just like bench pressing, there’s someone there in case he drops the barbell, but he can’t think of anyone he knows who could just stand behind him and not take advantage of his state.
“Do it,” he tells himself, and his nerves seem to pause for the half a second it takes him to straighten up and pull the trigger.
The pressure almost knocks Shori off his feet, the shot going so wide that it misses the target completely. He didn’t expect to be good at this; he’s just happy he didn’t shoot into someone else’s lane and attract the attention of the owner. It’s early enough that there are only a few other patrons here, evenly spaced a good distance away from him, but he’s more worried about raising suspicion. No one needs to know that the famous center of Sexy Zone had visited a shooting range for anything other than target practice.
The actual reason for his visit is still throbbing throughout his body, his temperature rising despite the cold winter months. If he could see himself, he’d probably be bright pink, panting for air, his eyes glossed over and unfocused. It seems so perverse-he doesn’t even get this hot from jerking off-but it feels so good, a cascade of pleasure washing over him and heightening his senses so much that the sensation of his own clothes brushing against his skin has him gasping.
All of this on the first round-there are still five left.
Struggling to maintain his composure, he considers the consequences of shooting off the rest of the clip in one go. If this one was any indication, he would probably spontaneously combust. Doing one at a time doesn’t seem any more appealing, though. Shori’s torn between fast and overwhelming or slow and torturous. He wonders if this is what goes through someone’s head when they have sex.
On a whim, he shoots the next two in succession. He maintains his balance, but his body is twice as stimulated as before. A blurry mark on the paper hanging in the distance tells him he’d actually hit the target this time, but accuracy is the furthest thing from his mind right now.
The third shot surprises him, his finger squeezing the trigger on its own, and the fourth one veers so high that Shori fears he might take out a light. It’s then that he remembers to breathe, his body tingling even more with the newly inhaled oxygen and the faint scent of smoke. His hands itch with the need to shoot, to feel that pressure kick back against him as the loud noise penetrates his ears even through the protective muffs.
“Fuck it,” Shori mutters, the uncharacteristic swear stinging his lips as he aims at the target swimming in the distance. Sweat pools on the back of his neck, his hands growing clammy as his grip on the gun starts to slacken; he needs to fire off the last two rounds soon or he risks dropping it and potentially shooting his face off.
Bang.
Shori’s breath catches in his throat, choking down what would have undoubtedly been an audible noise. The intensity is almost too much for him to handle, but he doesn’t want to end this yet, not when there’s just one round left and he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance to do this again.
The longer he waits to pull the trigger for the last time, the more it builds up inside him, like a volcano waiting to erupt. Delaying it feels good, containing the jolts and surges within him with no other option than to continue coursing through his body. All at once he understands why people are into orgasm denial, teasing themselves mercilessly without allowing any release, doing everything in their power to prolong it as long as possible. If it weren’t for the paranoia of being questioned for just standing there nonmoving, he’d test his own limits.
Bang.
The last recoil offsets his equilibrium, hands trembling as he manages to hold onto the gun but not his balance. The ground is hard against his knees, but he barely feels it over the euphoria taking over his senses, leaving him in a realm of consciousness beyond reality for as long as it takes him to come down.
His lungs demand air before he’s fully coherent, his head tilting back to further open his windpipe. He blinks his eyes open and for a second there’s nothing but spots of light, the ceiling of the range and the light bulbs hanging from it slowly coming into focus. Shori stares helplessly as the tension rearranges itself inside him, fading from too intense to function to pleasantly buzzing beneath the surface of his skin.
It takes him a few moments to gather up the brain capacity to move, swallowing down what was sure to develop into an incriminating noise when his jeans rub him just right. The concept of being sexually aroused after all of that seems so foreign right now-either he should have already finished or not be affected in that way at all. It feels as disassociated as it usually does; he frowns amidst the lingering shivers as he adjusts himself and packs up his things.
He doesn’t look the owner in the eye when he returns the gun and protective gear, though seeing his poor excuse of a target isn’t much better. Out of six rounds, he’d managed to hit the paper twice, one of which barely grazed the farthest outline.
“You ought to practice more,” the gruff voice tells him. “At this rate you’d be less safe with a gun than without!”
Shori says nothing, just bows his head politely and makes his way out of the building, the crisp air doing nothing to lessen the heat in his face. While his arousal has subsided, his nerves still singe in memory of this experience, so strong that it isn’t likely to weaken anytime soon.
Under his breath, he mutters that practicing would make him even more dangerous.
→ tag chankapana
One round in the chamber and Shori’s hands only shake a little as he aims at the target. He’s not yet steady enough for just one hand-cocked to the side, like Fuuma-but he’ll get there. He has faith in himself, or more accurately his involuntary reaction to their latest concert props.
It’s taken him the rest of the year to gather up the nerve. He couldn’t tell Kento or Fuuma; they would just laugh at him. Likewise, his friends would just think he’s into some kinky role-playing or something, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The last thing he wants is another person around while he feels this…this rush.
He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, after all.
But for now, he holds the weight in his hands, heavy with metal and what it can do. His fingers slide carefully over the trigger guard, a gentle caress compared to the firm grip he has on the handle. Taking a deep breath, he does his best to assume the stance he’d read about online, bending his knees and elbows just enough to keep them from locking up. This part would probably be easier (and safer) if someone else were here to teach him, but then they would want to stay and watch him shoot.
Shooting is the part he needs to be alone for.
The anticipation is almost as good, making Shori’s breath catch before he even does anything. He knows what’s coming, can feel it in his blood, rushing through his veins and accumulating somewhere he rarely feels any activity. Now it has ignited like a burning fire, spreading to the ends of all of his nerves and making him shake from something other than the gun in his hands.
His next breath comes out as a faint moan, and he would be ashamed if it didn’t feel so damn good. He’s struggling to stand still, knowing that he could seriously injure himself if he doesn’t concentrate-fuck, why can’t he trust anyone enough to spot him? Just like bench pressing, there’s someone there in case he drops the barbell, but he can’t think of anyone he knows who could just stand behind him and not take advantage of his state.
“Do it,” he tells himself, and his nerves seem to pause for the half a second it takes him to straighten up and pull the trigger.
The pressure almost knocks Shori off his feet, the shot going so wide that it misses the target completely. He didn’t expect to be good at this; he’s just happy he didn’t shoot into someone else’s lane and attract the attention of the owner. It’s early enough that there are only a few other patrons here, evenly spaced a good distance away from him, but he’s more worried about raising suspicion. No one needs to know that the famous center of Sexy Zone had visited a shooting range for anything other than target practice.
The actual reason for his visit is still throbbing throughout his body, his temperature rising despite the cold winter months. If he could see himself, he’d probably be bright pink, panting for air, his eyes glossed over and unfocused. It seems so perverse-he doesn’t even get this hot from jerking off-but it feels so good, a cascade of pleasure washing over him and heightening his senses so much that the sensation of his own clothes brushing against his skin has him gasping.
All of this on the first round-there are still five left.
Struggling to maintain his composure, he considers the consequences of shooting off the rest of the clip in one go. If this one was any indication, he would probably spontaneously combust. Doing one at a time doesn’t seem any more appealing, though. Shori’s torn between fast and overwhelming or slow and torturous. He wonders if this is what goes through someone’s head when they have sex.
On a whim, he shoots the next two in succession. He maintains his balance, but his body is twice as stimulated as before. A blurry mark on the paper hanging in the distance tells him he’d actually hit the target this time, but accuracy is the furthest thing from his mind right now.
The third shot surprises him, his finger squeezing the trigger on its own, and the fourth one veers so high that Shori fears he might take out a light. It’s then that he remembers to breathe, his body tingling even more with the newly inhaled oxygen and the faint scent of smoke. His hands itch with the need to shoot, to feel that pressure kick back against him as the loud noise penetrates his ears even through the protective muffs.
“Fuck it,” Shori mutters, the uncharacteristic swear stinging his lips as he aims at the target swimming in the distance. Sweat pools on the back of his neck, his hands growing clammy as his grip on the gun starts to slacken; he needs to fire off the last two rounds soon or he risks dropping it and potentially shooting his face off.
Bang.
Shori’s breath catches in his throat, choking down what would have undoubtedly been an audible noise. The intensity is almost too much for him to handle, but he doesn’t want to end this yet, not when there’s just one round left and he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance to do this again.
The longer he waits to pull the trigger for the last time, the more it builds up inside him, like a volcano waiting to erupt. Delaying it feels good, containing the jolts and surges within him with no other option than to continue coursing through his body. All at once he understands why people are into orgasm denial, teasing themselves mercilessly without allowing any release, doing everything in their power to prolong it as long as possible. If it weren’t for the paranoia of being questioned for just standing there nonmoving, he’d test his own limits.
Bang.
The last recoil offsets his equilibrium, hands trembling as he manages to hold onto the gun but not his balance. The ground is hard against his knees, but he barely feels it over the euphoria taking over his senses, leaving him in a realm of consciousness beyond reality for as long as it takes him to come down.
His lungs demand air before he’s fully coherent, his head tilting back to further open his windpipe. He blinks his eyes open and for a second there’s nothing but spots of light, the ceiling of the range and the light bulbs hanging from it slowly coming into focus. Shori stares helplessly as the tension rearranges itself inside him, fading from too intense to function to pleasantly buzzing beneath the surface of his skin.
It takes him a few moments to gather up the brain capacity to move, swallowing down what was sure to develop into an incriminating noise when his jeans rub him just right. The concept of being sexually aroused after all of that seems so foreign right now-either he should have already finished or not be affected in that way at all. It feels as disassociated as it usually does; he frowns amidst the lingering shivers as he adjusts himself and packs up his things.
He doesn’t look the owner in the eye when he returns the gun and protective gear, though seeing his poor excuse of a target isn’t much better. Out of six rounds, he’d managed to hit the paper twice, one of which barely grazed the farthest outline.
“You ought to practice more,” the gruff voice tells him. “At this rate you’d be less safe with a gun than without!”
Shori says nothing, just bows his head politely and makes his way out of the building, the crisp air doing nothing to lessen the heat in his face. While his arousal has subsided, his nerves still singe in memory of this experience, so strong that it isn’t likely to weaken anytime soon.
Under his breath, he mutters that practicing would make him even more dangerous.
→ tag chankapana