Joey wonders, absentmindedly, where Matt got so good with a gun.
It wasn't exactly in the job description of 'family-friendly content creator,' and as far as Joey knew, Matt never had an interest in weapons before this. Could it be information imparted to him during the seance? A detective would know how to handle a gun, but could Matt really have gotten as good as he is just from second-hand knowledge? Joey isn't entirely sure, and he's not going to ask.
Not that he really can. The barrel of Matt's revolver is pressed up against Joey's forehead, and Joey isn't willing to risk surprising the man by speaking and ending up with his brains splattered across the bedroom wall. He doesn't know how long it's been since Matt sat him down on his knees in front of him and withdrew the gun from its leather holster, using the barrel to brush Joey's hair to the side almost tenderly before pressing it against his skin.
And then he told Joey to wait.
Joey isn't sure what he's waiting for, or how long it'll be. But he's not looking to anger Matt by asking, too unsure of whether Matt will explode with violence or put on the sweet facade of a loving partner. Going from the gun, Joey is guessing it'll be the former.
So Joey sits, staring at the trigger guard and Matt's fingers wrapped around the grip behind it. Joey thinks the safety is on (do 70s revolvers even have a safety? Joey is unsure on that, too) and at least Matt's finger is off the trigger, but somehow, that doesn't do much to quell the nervous fluttering still boiling in his stomach. It's still a gun -- loaded, as Joey can plainly see from the cylinder -- pressed right against his head.
He swallows, shifting his weight nervously. One wrong word and Matt could kill him. Maybe. Getting cursed to live with matching stab wounds is hard enough...how would Joey be revived from getting shot point blank in the head? Maybe it would be the end after all. The thought is comforting, somewhat, but Joey still doesn't like it.
"Are you scared?" Matt seems to have noticed Joey's movement, because he pushes the gun harder against Joey's face, forcing his head back so Joey is looking up at him.
Joey swallows again, his throat dry. This probably isn't the time for defiance. "Y-Yes."
"Good," Matt says simply. He withdraws the gun and Joey lets his head drop, breathing fast, staring down at the wooden floor.
He can't help the tremor that runs through him, leaving him weak and shaking as he kneels with his hands cuffed behind his back, sweaty with fear. No matter how many times he's close to death, how many times he watches it, every time it drags cold, clammy fingers across his skin he still feels the same trembling, nauseating anxiety. The same fragility of his ribs underneath The Sorceresses' knife. The same fine thread of his life that was so easily cut before.
Joey's next gasp catches in his throat and he squeezes his eyes closed, raggedly trying to force his breathing into some kind of rhythm, attempting to head off the overwhelming memories before they're all he can think about.
"Shh." There's suddenly a hand in his hair, a thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Joey, my love."
Joey just fights against the urge to squirm away from Matt's voice, keeping his eyes closed so he doesn't have to see that familiar face with those wholly unfamiliar eyes looking back at him.
"Joey, Joey." Matt's voice is gently chastising, and Joey freezes as the cold barrel of the gun presses up against his cheek. "Hold still. You're working yourself up for no reason."
Joey finally opens his eyes again, breaths short and cut off as his eyes flick to the shiny exterior of the gun. He's so close that he can read the engraving.
"I'm not going to shoot you, Joey," Matt says, as if it was obvious, as if Joey was stupid for ever thinking he was in danger. "I could, but I won't."
There's a brief half-second where Joey wishes Matt would, wishes he'd put him out of his misery and finally take the liberty of finishing what The Sorceress started. But Matt doesn't, just rubbing the tip of the barrel against Joey's cheekbone thoughtfully.
"I like you too much for that." Joey glances back up at Matt for a brief moment and the man is smiling, razor-sharp.
How comforting, Joey thinks, borderline hysterical.
The tip of the gun trails over Joey's skin, leaving a line of tingling, fiery sensation in its wake, and comes to rest against Joey's lips.
"Open your mouth," Matt says quietly. His voice is calm, soft, almost, but firm. The voice of someone who knows that their orders will be followed.
Joey looks up to his face again, almost in enough disbelief to forget about the nerve-wracking anxiety currently making his legs tremble. Matt wants him to perform oral on the barrel of a gun? There's fucked up, and then there's downright insane.
Matt just looks back at him apathetically. He's not pushing the gun against Joey's mouth, more resting it carefully on his bottom lip. His right hand is wrapped around the wood paneled grip of the gun with his pointer finger on the outside of the trigger guard. As Joey watches, he slides his finger inside to rest it on the trigger.
Well, downright insane it is.
Joey takes a deep breath on reflex alone, parting his lips and wrapping his tongue around the tip of the barrel. He has to struggle not to make a face at the sharp, acrid tang of solvent and the metallic bitterness of gun oil, clenching his hands into fists and breathing heavily through his nose as Matt pushes it further in.
The cold, hard metal clinks against his teeth as he swallows around it, trying not to drool. It's heavy on his tongue, heavier than he expected, and his eyes flutter half-closed just out of habit as the tip bumps against the roof of his mouth. Joey's never taken the time to measure the barrel of Matt's gun, but it has to be at least six inches, as demonstrated oh-so-clearly by the way Joey chokes, throat tightening around the weapon in his mouth.
The quick burn of pain as the barrel scrapes against his throat makes him tear up, his eyes watering as he starts to pull back, teeth scraping against the top of the barrel.
"That's not a very good job," Matt says idly, and Joey finally forces his eyes upward.
Matt's got interest plain in his gaze as he stares down at Joey, looking for all the world like some predator that has its next meal pinned underneath it. It's a look that Joey has become intimately familiar with, and it sends a shiver down his spine as he finally pulls all the way back, swallowing heavily to try and get the taste of metal out of his mouth. He can feel a humiliated blush high on his cheeks, but he just looks back down at the floor quickly, wanting to defer to Matt until the man decides he's gotten bored with him.
"I didn't say you could stop." Matt traces the barrel against Joey's lips again, using it to gently nudge his face up so he's looking at Matt. "I want you to suck it like you've sucked my cock, Joey."
The blush on his cheeks burns brighter and he grits his teeth, glancing down at the gun again, still glistening with spit. This is just another one of Matt's power plays and Joey wishes he was brave enough to tell Matt to fuck off.
He's not brave, though, so he just takes another breath before leaning in, curling his tongue around the tip before hollowing his cheeks out and taking it as far as he can in one smooth motion. It's a lot less forgiving than a dick, but he can make it work.
He allows his eyes to slip closed again, trying to imagine it is someone's – very deliberately leaving that someone a vague figure without a name or a face or soft brown hair – dick, trying to forget about the fact that he has his mouth wrapped around the barrel of a loaded gun held by someone who has no real qualms about little things like first-degree murder. Matt could pull the trigger right now and blow Joey's head to pieces and Joey would be powerless to stop him.
The thought is…uncomfortable. But it doesn't matter. Joey just needs to focus on this and get it over with.
Joey swallows around it again, sucking hard on the cold metal, bobbing his head up and down like he's done so many times before. He just has to keep Matt happy.
He's not exactly sure where the thought comes from first. Maybe it's the nudge against the back of his throat again, or the way Matt looks from underneath his eyelashes like this, but suddenly all he can think about is the feeling of Matt's dick in his mouth like this, hot and heavy on his tongue as Matt holds him by his hair and fucks his throat. The thought hits like a molten-hot punch to the gut and Joey whimpers softly, muffled around the weapon in his mouth.
Matt seems to like that, because he presses the gun in deeper. Joey hears the bed creak as Matt shifts his weight, and then there's pressure between his legs, the toe of Matt's boot pressing between his thighs.
"Are you going to get wet off deepthroating my gun?" Matt asks. His voice has a ragged edge to it, like he's losing control.
The gun is forced in deep again and Joey gags, eyelids fluttering and a jolt of heat racing down his spine. The danger, the adrenaline coursing through his body, the thought of Matt making Joey swallow his cock without regard for Joey's comfort or pleasure is all sending tingles down his nerves to gather heavy in his groin, and Joey whimpers again as he realizes that yeah, he absolutely fucking is getting wet off this.
"You know what they say, Joey?" Matt laughs breathlessly, and damn if the sound doesn't make Joey want to roll over and show Matt his belly. "They say you shouldn't point a gun at anything that you're not willing to destroy. Do you know what that means?"
Joey can't stop the desperate little noise that slips from his throat. Matt could destroy him. He probably will, one day. There's no way Joey is getting out of this relationship alive and they both know it and at this point Joey hopes Matt just ends it already. He hopes it's Matt who slits his throat, or shoots him, or beats him until Joey goes lifeless, and he hopes Matt talks so tenderly to him the whole time like he does when he's got his hands wrapped around Joey's throat.
And through it all, through the haze of pain and frightened arousal, he's still wet. In fact, at this point, his underwear feel hot and damp between his thighs. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the simulated blowjob. Maybe it's Matt, still carefully rocking his foot back and forth between Joey’s thighs. Joey doesn't care. He just needs to get this over with.
He bobs his head to take it deeper, so deep that he can feel the trigger guard pressed against his bottom lip and the sight on the end of the barrel is jamming painfully into his throat, reflexive tears springing to his eyes. He blinks, swallowing hard, tasting the sharp tang of gunpowder on the end of the barrel, then slowly starts to draw back.
"No," Matt says softly, and Joey freezes as he feels a hand on the back of his head. "No, I think I like this view."
Joey groans before he can catch himself, choking on a cough as he tries to breathe around the gun shoved practically down his throat. It's starting to hurt, his jaw aching from the awkward angle of the long metal barrel in his mouth, his throat stinging where the tip scrapes against it.
Matt runs his fingers through Joey's hair, fingers gentle as he smoothes the platinum blonde strands down. "You deserve this, and you know it."
Joey just whines, his thighs sliding further apart on the wooden bedroom floor as Matt presses his boot against Joey's clothed dick and sends his hips jerking forward helplessly. His eyes want to slip closed but he forces them open, gagging as Matt's hand shifts and the weight in his mouth is forced further back.
Then Matt's thumb comes up and--
Click.
The sound of the gun being cocked makes Joey's heart drop to his stomach like a brick, his mind slamming to a stop as his body braces for the searing pain of a bullet through the back of his head. Joey screws his eyes shut, perfectly still, not even daring to breathe when there's no point to it.
But it never comes. Matt just laughs again, giving an affectionate pat to the top of Joey's head like he's a beloved dog. "You're so pretty when you're scared. When you think you're going to die, and your face goes all tight and your eyes get all teary. Were you that pretty when you died last time? When she killed you, did you cry?"
Joey sobs, overwhelmed from the sudden crashing wave of relief as it finally registers that he's not going to get shot, muscles going limp and weak as he sags forward, barely holding himself up. He's so ruined that the jab barely lands, and he just gives Matt a weakly pleading look from underneath his eyelashes, tears blurring his vision. Matt knows where his tender spots are, what buttons to push to send Joey into a spiral of memories of blood bubbling in his throat, his body arching up at the cold, unforgiving metal of a knife dug into his chest.
Too much like the cold, unforgiving metal of the barrel of the gun that Matt still has pressed against the back of his throat. The cocked gun.
But Joey doesn't get much time to worry about that, because Matt is slowly drawing the gun out, pulling it from his mouth inch by inch and holding his head in place to keep Joey from moving back. There's something strangely erotic about it as Joey gasps for breath when the gun finally slides from between his lips, a string of spit trailing it, the metal gleaming.
"Say something," Matt orders, dropping the gun on the bedspread carelessly. "I want to hear your voice."
Joey struggles for a moment, still too emotionally overwhelmed to formulate a snappy reply. When he finally forces himself to speak, his voice catches, and he swallows, then tries again. "Matt…"
His voice is scratchy and hoarse. Even that little quiet word makes his throat sting. Joey winces, swallowing painfully, tasting the lingering sharpness of metal in his mouth. He can still feel the ache in his jaw and the heaviness of it sliding down his throat.
"Perfect," Matt says warmly, and he reaches out to brush a tear away from Joey's cheek, smiling down at him. "Didn't that feel good?"
Joey nods on autopilot. He doesn't know what the hell is wrong with him, because it did feel good, letting Matt take control, knowing that his life was completely in Matt's hands. Joey was even starting to get used to the metallic taste. He swallows again, just to see if it's what he remembers, just to feel that same heat in his belly at the pain and the acrid, bitter taste.
His eyes go to the gun, just for a moment, sitting innocently on the bed with its barrel slippery with spit. How would it feel inside his mouth again, now that he's ready for it? Now that he knows what it's like? How would it feel jammed against the back of his head as Matt fucks him on his hands and knees? How would it feel if Matt shot him right as he came, if the last sensation in the bloody pulp of his ruined brain was the feeling of uncontrollable pleasure around Matt's dick?
Joey shakes himself a little at that last one, coming out of his daze and blinking dumbly. Okay, that...went...a little far.
Matt seems to think he's scared of it, because he squeezes Joey's face gently, drawing his attention back to Matt. "Don't worry. I won't scare you like that again tonight. Not as long as you follow my orders.”
The only thing Joey is scared of is himself and his fucked up kinks, but he just nods, letting Matt think he’s won. Matt ruffles his hair affectionately and then reaches to pop the button on his pants. Right. Well, of course. What else did Joey expect? He watches, feeling a little hazy and out of it, as Matt pulls his dick out from his underwear, giving himself a few dry-handed pumps before beckoning Joey to get on with it.
Joey’s throat already feels scratchy and painful, but he knows he can’t say no. He leans forward slightly, wary of getting himself off-balance with his hands still stuck behind his back, as Matt slips a hand into his hair and tugs at it gently.
“You’re pretty on your knees,” Matt says idly, and though Joey doesn’t look at him as he wraps his mouth around the head of Matt’s cock, he knows Matt’s staring at him. “Might as well have been made for it.”
Joey wishes he had enough of a lack of self-preservation to bite Matt’s dick off. He doesn’t, and even if he did, he knows he wouldn’t, because being told that all he’s good for is Matt’s pleasure makes his clit throb underneath his panties. So what if he likes being humiliated? It wasn’t a problem before now. Matt just made it all worse. Joey swallows Matt down deeper, feeling Matt’s hand in his hair, the heavy hardness of Matt’s cock in his mouth, salt on his tongue from the beginnings of pre-cum beading at the tip before Joey tongues them off. Fuck, he wants the gun back in his mouth, wants it back at his head, wants that surge of adrenaline that makes everything feel like more. Joey moans weakly, his hips rolling down into Matt’s foot, his panties wet as slick pools between his folds.
“See?” Matt’s getting breathless, and he thrusts his cock hard into Joey’s mouth, sending Joey moaning again as he struggles to catch his breath. “You do it so well. My pretty little thing, humping my foot as he sucks my cock.”
The things Matt’s saying are filthy, and yet Joey’s cunt pulses at every word, at Matt calling him pretty, calling Joey his. Joey shouldn’t like it. He shouldn’t want more of it. He shouldn’t want more of any of this, really, but now he’s horny, and Joey’s never had great self-control when he’s horny. He tries not to grind down into the stimulation on his cunt again and fails miserably as his hips jerk and the silk of his panties rubs against his hard, oversensitive clit. Matt’s so big in his mouth, and all Joey can think about is the feeling of Matt in his cunt like this, hot inside him, filling him up no matter if Joey begs Matt not to. Fuck, Matt could put Joey in any position he wanted, and Joey would have no choice but to go with it. Joey whines and tugs at the handcuffs, wishing he could reach his hand down to rub at his neglected pussy.
“Oh, you want to get off, huh?” Matt asks with a breathless laugh, driving his cock into the back of Joey’s throat purposefully and watching Joey choke. “How about this? If you get me off good enough, I’ll finger you until you cum.”
It’s not what Joey really wants, but it’s certainly better than nothing. He nods as much as he can with Matt’s dick still shoved down his throat and hollows his cheeks out, fluttering his eyes closed to focus all his attention on giving Matt the blowjob of his undead life. He dips his head, letting Matt tug at his hair and force his throat to wherever he wants it, and when Matt holds his head still and starts to grind up into his mouth, sighing in contentment whenever the tip of his cock nudges into Joey’s sore, aching soft palate, Joey just allows the tears that bead in his eyes to fall as he moans helplessly from the abuse.
He wants Matt to fuck him more than he ever has before in this moment, hold him at gunpoint and fill his cunt as he tells Joey how pretty he is, how worthless he is, how much Matt loves him. Joey’s hips jerk again and he moans long and loud, strangled around Matt but still pathetically telling as to what he’s asking for. Joey can’t help it. Matt has managed to train him like a fucking dog at this point, and now all Joey wants is an orgasm out of this mess. He moans again, bobbing his head and tonguing at Matt’s slit, and then–
Matt cums without warning, snarling out a swear as he drags Joey’s head down and spills sticky-hot and bittersweet in Joey’s mouth. Joey almost chokes for a moment, but then Matt pulls back and he can swallow, panting heavily as he wipes his face on his shoulder and silently and shamefully feels the heat pulse stronger at the taste of Matt’s cum in his mouth.
Even before Joey’s really caught up to himself again, Matt’s dragging him up by the hair and throwing him down on the bed, so rough that Joey yelps as his arms get pinned beneath him. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t send his legs splaying apart where they fall over the edge of the bed, and that’s where Matt reaches, pulling his panties down around his ankles with one hand as he uses the other to reach between Joey’s thighs.
Oh. Oh, that feels good. Joey’s thighs drop open a little wider and his head falls back back as Matt rubs long, slow circles into his clit, Joey’s slick covering Matt’s fingers and making the slide on his cunt easy and filthy. Joey wishes he wasn’t getting off on this, but Matt’s hot and Joey’s easy and touch starved and so desperate right now that his folds ache with understimulation. Joey groans and jerks his hips into Matt’s hand.
“Your cunt looks so good like this,” Matt says slowly, appreciatively, and Joey feels his fingers trail between his folds to rub over his hole teasingly. “All flushed red and slick. You really do want to get off, don’t you?”
Joey arches his back to angle his hips up. Just…just don’t think about who it is. Just don’t think about the face of the person above him. “Matt–”
Matt cuts him off by sliding two fingers inside him all at once, causing Joey’s voice to hitch as he cries out with the sudden penetration. Matt’s other hand goes back to toying with Joey’s clit, rubbing at it and tugging and pinching it as he slowly starts to thrust his fingers in and out, dragging them across Joey’s sweet spot as he does.
It doesn’t take long for Joey to reach the edge. He feels himself getting close, his body coiling tight, and then Matt pinches his clit hard and pushes his fingers inside Joey deep and Joey’s cumming, his arms rigid underneath his back as he moans Matt’s name and thinks of Matt’s cock inside him instead, thinks of Matt letting Joey ride his fingers, thinks of Matt fucking him until Joey can’t think of anything but the ache inside him. Joey’s body feels hot all over as he goes limp, letting Matt slowly withdraw his fingers but being unable to find the energy to close his legs as he pants shallowly, his throat burning and his mind foggy.
Matt hums softly and digs in his pockets for a moment before pulling out a small key. He holds it up and gives a half-grin to Joey, still splayed on his back, feeling a bit like a trussed up turkey. Or a porn star.
“Time to get you out of those handcuffs, don’t you think?”