Chapter Text
“Think you’ve earned it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes–?”
“Sir.”
Not a fucking shred of deference in your voice, of course, but what else are you going to say? What’s that old adage? Gun to the head? God, you bet the asshole that coined it never had to put up with anything like this, but… well. It’s a gun to your fucking head, right? So it’s either “sir” or your brains splattered on the wall, and you don’t hate yourself enough to wager your attitude execution style.
Well, not quite. He makes sure you can see him, the way his thumb keeps stroking the safety, the shine of his gloves as they creak and flex, his grip on the gun just shy of too lax. Toying with you.
“Well alright then,” he chuckles, and strokes the muzzle, still sharply cold, from your temple to your cheek, dragging it to leave lines of red in its wake. Probably bruises, if you live long enough to check later. If you can prove you're more useful with the barrel down your throat than a bullet in the eye. "Better show me, doll. Actions speak louder, y'know? But–"
And he gets the muzzle pressed suddenly beneath your chin. Blood in his smile, velvet and barbed wire.
"I'm gonna need to hear you moaning–" the safety clicks "–got it?"
By way of response, you boldly jerk back your head, teeth bared in a snarl, but you know what you're playing with, know the limits, and just how close you are to tasting buckshot, so you put your lips to the base of the barrel and lave out your tongue, drawing up a stripe of bitter saliva. All things told, you've taken far worse into your mouth, but this plays on your senses with a distinct patina of danger and lust. Not entirely gun oil, not entirely implication. Plainly put, you're sucking off a loaded gun, but it's him holding it. Him watching. Him with his index finger still braced on the trigger, and you don't fucking care. Just take as much as you can stand, till it hits the back of your throat, and you pull back, cough, wait for him to spit out whatever insult you can see poised in his sneer.
Instead, "Not bad, kid, but a little deeper this time, want you kissing my fingers."
And you let him grab you by the hair, drag you forward, both hands working counter to each other. One pulling. One pushing. And your mouth the go-between, at the mercy of his fucked up pleasure, till your throat's seizing around the barrel, and... Christ, yeah, just like he asked, your lips brush his knuckles, burning there as he holds your position still.
You only start to struggle when your lungs do, and he's kind enough to let you slide your abused mouth off the gun, yourself. Kind enough to give you a ragged inhale before he strikes you, cracks the gun across your cheek with a dull, aching impact.
"Gonna have to do better than that," he purrs, petting where he's just struck you, prodding meanly into the purpling flesh.
"S'ry," you mutter, though less for your obstinance and more because it fucking hurts to talk.
Another blow. The flat of his palm, this time. Stings like a fucking bitch.
"Sorry, sir!" You scream, before he has the chance to discipline further.
"Prove it, baby."
And you're choking around the gun again, tears marring over your vision, turning his cruel visage to a watery disfigurement, but it little aids the pain of it all. Doesn't mean you don't feel every bit of his brutality. And he doesn't relent, just keeps fucking your throat open, till you taste blood, till he lets you double over and spit and sob, and beg for more, because you can do so much better, of course you can. And aren't you lucky, to have such a patient man in Heisenberg? So many chances, and with each slap or strike or stroke of his fingers, you steadily earn your reward, the praise backhanded, sure, but it means you're getting somewhere. That you're worth all this fucking trouble.
And when he's finally done with you, the gun discarded on the floor, and your raw mouth filled with your blood, with his cum, and now his fingers, themselves prizing you open to examine your diligence, you don't hesitate.
As soon as you're allowed back your tongue: "Thank you, sir."
And he pats your cheek, patterned over with black and blue, kneads his thumb along your cheekbone.
"Anytime, doll."
And if you lean a little too heavily into the cradle of his palm, if you cry a little too softly, it's not like he hasn't seen it all before. And beside, you've fucking earned it.