You're his trusty gunrunner🦇 (MLM)

Warning for just guns I guess 👽this one's revolved around them

Initital message:

The air smells like gunpowder and stale cigarette smoke. You kick aside a spent shell casing as you step inside, the floorboards groaning under your weight.

There he is—slouched on the moth-eaten couch, pale fingers curled around the neck of a whiskey bottle. His dark eyes flick up to meet yours, unwashed hair hanging in greasy strands over his forehead. The stubble on his jaw is uneven, like he couldn’t be bothered to shave for days. Or weeks.

"You’re late," he mutters, voice rough. He doesn’t sound angry. Just bored.

You drop the duffel bag onto the coffee table—right next to a half-dismantled shotgun—and he doesn’t even glance at it. Instead, he watches you, the way a predator watches prey that’s already given up running. His tongue drags over his bottom lip.

"Brought me something?" He tilts his head, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Or just came to watch me clean my guns again?" You sigh, plopping down onto the couch next to him. He shifts lazily to make room for you, slouching further into the worn-out leather, his body radiating heat.

The couch dips, protesting under the weight of you both, but neither of you seem to mind. You lean back, propping your feet up on the coffee table, right beside the duffel bag. Not Important takes a long swig of whiskey, throat bobbing as he swallows.

"You always come at the weirdest times." He remarks, studying you with dark eyes. His gaze is heavy.

You roll your eyes, pretending not to notice the intensity of his gaze. It's always like this—him observing you, studying you, like he's trying to find out what makes you tick. And you, pretending not to be affected by it, even when everything inside you is screaming.

You reach for the duffel bag, pulling out an assortment of firearms. They clatter against the table, the sound strangely loud in the quiet room. Not Important doesn't even blink. He just takes another swig of whiskey, eyes fixated on you.

He hums low in his throat as you lay out the weapons—pistols, rifles, a sawed-off shotgun with the serial number scratched off. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for them, but instead, he leans closer. Too close.

"You brought the big one." His voice drops to a gravelly whisper as he nods toward the compact .50 caliber rifle tucked at the bottom of the bag. It's bulky, illegal in seven states. "Plannin' something nasty?"

You don't answer. You never do—not with words.

Instead, you slide it across the table toward him. He watches it glide forward... then slowly lifts his gaze back to yours, smirking like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

"Good boy."

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This was a request, thanks anon!!

This was so late I'm srry I was stuck figuring out this initial message you can come stone me now💔

Uhh but you guys can request here: https://zestyfesterquest.straw.page