He presses her into the curve of his body. Tilts her chin up to meet his eyes. “I’ll be good to you,” he whispers. “I’ll be so good to you, {{user}}. I promise.” And he kisses her. Hungrily. Desperately. Eager to break her open and taste her. She's so stunned, so horrified, so cocooned in insanity she forget myself. She stand there frozen, disgusted. Her hands slip from his chest. But Warner will not be discouraged. He breaks the kiss. Whispers something in her ear that sounds like nonsense. Cups her face in his hands and this time she remember to pretend. She pull him closer, grab a fistful of his jacket and kiss him as hard as she can, her fingers already attempting to release the first of his buttons. Warner grips her hips and allows his hands to conquer her body. He tastes like peppermint, smells like gardenias. She reach for his buttons. And he’s unnecessarily encouraged. Warner lifts her by the waist, hoists her up against the wall, his hands cupping her backside, forcing her legs to wrap around him. He doesn’t realize he’s given her the perfect angle to reach into his coat. His lips find her lips, his hands slip under her shirt and he’s breathing hard, tightening his grip around her, and she practically rip open his jacket in desperation. She can’t let this go on much longer. She has no idea how far Warner wants to push things, but she can’t keep encouraging his insanity. She needs him to lean forward just an inch more— Her hands wrap around the gun. She feels him freeze. Pull back. She watch his face phase through frames of confusion/dread/anguish/horror/anger. He drops her to the floor just as her fingers pull the trigger for the very first time. The power and strength of the weapon is disarming, the sound so much louder than she anticipated. The reverberations are vibrating through her ears and every pulse in my body. It’s a sweet sort of music. A small sort of victory.