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Diego takes his hands away, unveiling Five’s eyes. Five makes sure to school his expression in order to appear as neutral as possible, perhaps even unimpressed, even as he feels the unbearable buzz of anticipation beneath his fingertips.
The surprise—what Diego has dragged him to the bedroom for with all the fanfare of insisting that he cover his eyes—is a sleek ebony case waiting for him on the mattress. Five glances over his shoulder at Diego, and the sparkling look on his brother’s face simultaneously pacifies and worries him. He takes the look as a silent ‘go on’ from Diego anyway, and runs his hands across the metal latches, cool to the touch.
He unconsciously breathes in before he snaps the buckles open and lifts the cover up.
Inside is a steel pistol, lying sumptuously on the sunken black velvet. The lightweight heft of it slides into his palm naturally as he slots his finger over the trigger guard and thumbs over the grip paneling; it’s like second nature.
Diego’s breath floats over his shoulder, airy and awed, “Do you like it?”
Five scoffs. The same guy who told him not to worry about buying him a birthday present is asking him if he likes the vintage nickel-plated revolver he got for him. Of course Five fucking loves it.
He confirms the safety is on before tackling Diego to the bed and kissing the life out of him.
It’s been three and a half months, and since then, Diego’s lost count of how many times Five has asked to bring the revolver into the bedroom, figuratively. It does reside in their bedroom in a literal sense, as it lays stashed in the top drawer of the nightstand, right beside the lube ironically enough.
On the fourteenth of February, Diego gets the barrel of a gun pointed at his face instead of a Valentine’s card. At least he can say his boyfriend isn’t cheesy. No. Five skips all the formalities of hinting at his unchaste desires, negating the song and dance of a proper courtship.
Instead, he bribes Diego in order to get exactly what he wants (a barrel of a gun pointed at his face), and it’s such a sweet deal that they barely even have to negotiate it. Tomorrow, Diego’s going to get Five in a lingerie set of his choice.
“I like you nervous,” Five says. “It’s cute.”
He’s not sporting his characteristic smirk; his lips are curved into a slight smile, eerie in its symmetry. It barely even carves out his dimples.
“Can you really blame me?” Diego laughs dryly. He’s locked into a staring contest with the muzzle of the gun, and so far, he’s losing. At this rate, he’s going to go cross-eyed.
“Hmm,” Five hums thoughtfully, balancing out the weight of the pistol in his palm. “I guess not...,” which is so unhelpful and unsympathetic, but any and all complaint dies on Diego’s tongue as Five’s unoccupied hand brushes against his (less than) half-hard cock. Finally, some fucking friction.
Briefly, Five’s eyes flicker away from Diego’s face to focus as he lines Diego’s cock up with his hole. The way he chews on the corner of his bottom lip is so charming, Diego almost forgets that he’s supposed to be scared right now.
As the tip breaches him, Five’s eyes flutter shut and his grip on the gun wavers. Honestly, it’s cathartic seeing the juxtaposition between the amount of lethal power Five holds in his right hand and the rigidness in his body crumbling as his face turns pink before Diego’s very eyes.
Diego remembers he has two functioning hands and slides them around Five’s waist, holding him appreciatively as his boyfriend finds his rhythm. He tests the waters by rocking his hips up into Five, gauging his reaction, and he’s satisfied at the gasp Five lets out and the violent tremor that makes him nearly drop the pistol.
Diego is pretty proud of himself, that he can still get it up even when there’s a bullet not one heartbeat away from piercing his brain. He expected it to be a boner killer (what with the whole experience having the potential to be a near death experience), but the way Five is cupping his own elbow in his other hand to keep his arm from falling, and the way he’s moaning, “nnh, Diego, keep— right there,” is quickly disproving that hypothesis.
Five is loud, despite how much restraint he’s trying to practice, and Diego isn’t doing much better. So neither of them hear the click of the safety being switched off, but Five most certainly feels it against his thumb.
Five seats himself at the base of Diego’s cock, restless and flushed and sweaty. He drops his forehead onto Diego’s shoulder as he catches his breath. Five lets Diego thrust into him lazily, hiccups with each nudge at his prostate.
“It’s so good, Diego. Love your cock sho much,” Five slurs, mumbling the words into his brother’s neck. “Don’t— fucking— stop,” he pleads. Demands? Diego doesn’t know. He can’t fucking think like this.
Five never says shit like that. It has Diego placing a hand on the back of his neck—possessive, grateful.
And just as Diego thinks he’s gotten used to it, thinks he can come like this, ignoring the fact there’s a gun in Five’s hand to keep his erection from flagging—Five drags the muzzle down from where it’s trained between his eyebrows. He lowers his aim, tracing Diego’s nose with the barrel. It’s freezing against the flush in his face. Five leans back to watch as it reaches Diego’s lips.
Parting Diego’s mouth with the muzzle, Five prods his lips into a slack-jawed ‘o’ shape. He doesn’t want to shove it further into Diego’s mouth; not only are they not ready for that, it feels a little too uncouth, too debased for the two of them. Like this, resting against the plush of his lips, it’s…exhilarating. Teasing. Maybe Five shouldn’t like it this much, the dumbstruck look that borders on fear clouding Diego’s face as he peers over the barrel.
Then, Diego presses a kiss to the tip of the gun. Five shivers. God, he’s so fucked.
Five pushes himself away—just as the moment becomes too much—redirecting the gun to point up towards the ceiling, arm bent at a 90 degree angle. He’s got his other hand on Diego’s shoulder, keeping himself upright as he reclines away from Diego.
“Forgot to mention,” Five pants. He thinks it’s time to finally come clean. “I never took out the bullets.”
He may have forgotten to mention, but Five didn’t forget to take them out. He never would have overlooked such a deadly detail, and Diego knows that. He’s been thinking it for a while, but Diego is certain now: he should have never taken that fucking deal.
“Make me come,” Five orders. Diego’s so much more used to those words sounding saturated in desperation as Five begs for his climax, but tonight is different. “I’m going to count to ten, Diego. Make me come,” he repeats.
He moves his finger from the guard to the trigger.
Oh, fuck. He’s serious.
Diego blanches, but when Five says “one”, he doesn’t waste another second before wrapping his hand around Five’s dick, stroking frantically. Usually, he’d bask in the feeling of Five tightening around him, but he doesn’t have time for that right now.
Five’s “two, three” are encouragingly shaky, so Diego redoubles his efforts, rolling his hips up into Five’s to bury himself deeper.
His vision is going blurry with adrenaline, and all the numbers start to sound the same. Before he knows it, Five is already at “six”.
“Fuck!” Diego hisses, because holy shit, he’s more turned on than he’s ever been in his life. What the hell happened to all those particularly honed survival instincts? His self-preservation skills? Down the drain, thanks to Five.
“Seven,” Five exhales from deep within his throat. “Come on, come on,” Five urges, gritting his teeth as he grinds down on Diego’s cock.
Five’s not going to kill him. Diego’s not going to let him. Neither of these things mean that Five won’t pull the trigger.
Five’s reminder of “eight” makes Diego look back at the soon-to-be smoking gun, confirming that it’s definitely within point-blank range of his visage. At this distance—
“Nn- nine,” Five gasps.
“Jesus Christ,” Diego chokes.
He might actually come before he makes Five come.
Diego doesn’t even hear Five say “ten” as the explosion of all the high-pressure gas igniting within the chamber renders him briefly deaf. The bullet flies quickly through the air, closing the distance between itself and Diego’s face—
But Diego is quicker. And as the ringing in his ears dies down, he cracks open his eyes to make sure that he’s not dead.
There’s come splattered all across his chest, presumably both his and Five’s. Diego snatches the gun from Five’s hand and clicks the safety back on. He flops down onto his back, exhausted as fuck from both sex and the sudden emergency use of his powers to save his own damn life. Not for the first time. Diego notices a small, black mark in the ceiling above them. That could have been in his skull.
He’s mad, but it was hot as hell, so he’s not really sure what lesson there is to be learned from all of this. Probably that he has to get better negotiation skills. Or not negotiate with terrorists at all.
It takes Diego longer than he’d like to admit to catch his breath. Once he does, he glares at Five, and there it is again—that characteristic smirk.
“You’re no fun,” Five says, dimple gleaming at him while his sweaty hair falls in his face.
Diego scowls in response.
He’s going to get Five a fucking maid dress.