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To say that Wooyoung is scared is an understatement.
He is terrified, shaking like a leaf, paralyzed with fear. Terror-struck.
And yet, his cock has never been harder.
Yunho's tall frame looms over him.
Dark, lazily hooded eyes with something almost unhinged glistening in them stare right back at the younger boy on his knees.
One eyebrow is lifted. Expectant, authoritative.
Intimidating.
The metal pressing into Wooyoung's bottom lip is even more blood-curdling than the eerie look on Yunho's handsome face.
"Lick it.”
Wooyoung barely manages to swallow back his whimper. His lip trembles. His sweat-slick hands twitch in his lap.
He exhales shakily. Parts his mouth. Darts out his tongue, just the tip of it.
Misses the click of Yunho's throat because the blood buzzing in his ears drowns out everything else.
Wooyoung has done this before, taken things in his mouth.
Yunho's long fingers, four of them at once, the digits tickling his uvula causing sloppy drool to trickle down Yunho's knuckles. An imposing dildo to tease the older boy, to show his skills. Yunho's thick cock, of course, always stretching his lips so wide the corners of it are raw and cracked the next day.
But never this. Never a gun.
Wooyoung’s nose scrunches at the foreign taste. If he weren't frightened out of his wits, he’d throw Yunho a cheeky wink and purr that it's almost like licking a penny. That he’d much rather taste something else.
Now, however, he can't utter a single sound, let alone whisper crude temptations. Let alone fire off bratty remarks.
The gun tastes bitter, like the dread churning in his stomach.
Oil. Chemicals.
Yunho has cleaned the gun before use. Meticulously, with Wooyoung watching his every move, not aware of the plans Yunho had in store for him.
Yet under the solvent, Wooyoung can still taste something smoky, something burned. Acrid.
Gunpowder.
A reminder that Yumho used the weapon not long before cleaning it. A reminder that he can use it again.
That realization sends a violent shiver up Wooyoung's spine. The barrel knocks into his upper lip at the involuntary motion, cold and unforgiving.
It stings. The sharp sting has his dick throbbing in his jeans.
This time, Wooyoung does whimper.
“Get on with it already,” Yunho snarls from above him. “You're always so eager to have something in that slutty mouth of yours. What happened to that?”
A fucking loaded gun prodding at my mouth, maybe, you asshole, Wooyoung wants to say.
He doesn't.
Instead, he laps at the underside of the icy-cold barrel, peeking up at Yunho through his lashes. They flutter. Not flirtatiously. Not now.
Wooyoung's mouth is dry. There is barely any spit coating his tongue as he kitten-licks at the steel frame.
When he blinks and looks down, just for a second, he sees the muzzle, the pitch-black void within it. It seems to glare at him, tempting him to stick his tongue in like he would do to Yunho's petal-pink tip.
“That's it,” Yunho croons. “That's a good little kitty.”
His deep voice is deceivingly sweet, dripping with honey. Smooth as the oil he used on the gun earlier.
His big hand rakes through Wooyoung's hair, fingers brushing away some of the strands that are sticking to the younger's forehead.
Wooyoung has no clue when he had started sweating. Probably when that predatory, crazed smile curled Yunho's heart-shaped lips upward. Probably when Yunho forced him on his knees and pointed the gun at his face.
His mouth never stops. He doesn't know what will happen if he does. The rational part of his brain doesn't want to know.
His cock, however, does.
Alternating between pressing feather-light kisses on the front sight and lapping along the bottom, he dutifully keeps his gaze on Yunho, not daring to look away for even a frantic heartbeat.
Yunho smiles at him, all soft and kind. His eyes tell a different story.
“Open,” he instructs, tapping the metal against Wooyoung's tongue, then his teeth.
Wooyoung's heart drops into his stomach.
The urge to shake his head, to tell Yunho to stop, to tap out is enormous. It claws at his chest, itches under his skin like carrion bugs.
He parts his lips anyway.
Yunho's smile transforms into a grin, all fangs and danger.
‘Deranged’ would be a fitting term.
The gun slides into Wooyoung's mouth, millimeter by excruciating millimeter. Slow, agonizingly slow.
Yunho would be a fantastic torturer. He’d drag out every second, basking in the scent of cold sweat penetrating his nostrils, reveling in teary eyes going wide and muscles quivering in terror.
That fleeting thought should absolutely not have Wooyoung's trapped cock splurting out a ridiculous amount of pre-cum.
Wooyoung gags. Why, he is not certain. He has taken bigger.
“You always look so pretty on your knees,” Yunho praises. He scratches behind Wooyoung's ear like one would pet a cat. “Even prettier with something between those gorgeous lips.”
It does little to alleviate the anxiety coursing through Wooyoung's veins. If anything, it sends his heart into overdrive, the organ rattling against his ribcage hard enough to hurt.
Every instinct screams at him to withdraw from the murder weapon invading his mouth deeper and deeper.
He remains rooted to the spot.
Yunho's index finger ghosts over the trigger guard. A quick, casual brush.
Wooyoung freezes.
Yunho tilts his head. He almost looks like an adorably confused puppy, but Wooyoung knows he is a wolf, ready to destroy him not with teeth but with bullets.
“Scared, Youngie?”
The younger boy wants to scowl at him, wants to use his mismatched eyes as daggers to plunge straight into Yunho's fair skin.
He can't. Not when Yunho yanks him back by his long hair to expose his throat and shove the gun down the deepest it can go.
Bile rises in Wooyoung's esophagus. Sour, almost as acrid as the chemicals sticking to the metal nudged against the soft palate of his mouth.
“Don't be,” Yunho purrs. “You know I would never hurt you.”
A lie. The multiple burn marks on Wooyoung's ass is proof of it.
Wooyoung wears them as a badge of honour.
Yunho thrusts the gun in a suggestive tempo, a slow, lazy pace. Back, forth. In, out.
“Suck,” he says.
A simple demand, spoken too many times for Wooyoung to recount.
He obeys. Wrapping his lips tighter around the barrel, he hollows his cheeks, suckling softly.
Very softly. Heedful, alert, aware of the threat which does not dangle above his head like the sword of Damocles, but is filling up his throat instead, its executioner ready to blow it into a thousand pieces of flesh and gunk.
“Mm, good,” Yunho groans.
Wooyoung's balls hum.
Through his nose, he pulls air into his aching lungs.
Yunho could puncture them with one easy motion of his finger.
Fuck.
His hips buck. His hard cock strains against his jeans, the crown moist with pre-cum, as damp as his eyes are with tears that gather on his lashlines.
Yunho is hard, too.
From his peripheral vision, Wooyoung sees the length twitching behind Yunho's pants, thickening with blood the more petrified Wooyoung gets.
He gurgles around the gun.
The sound of a man starved. For cock, for salvation.
Something wet dribbles down his chin. Drool, perhaps even more tears. With how flushed and feverishly hot Wooyoung's face is, he is unable to tell the difference.
Yunho's hand leaves its death grip around his hair, leaving his scalp prickling. It cradles Wooyoung's jaw, a thumb brushing some of the unknown moisture away, before it retreats.
On pure instinct, Wooyoung leans in, following the warmth, the affection.
He gets neither.
He gets steel shoved impossibly further down his throat.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine it's Yunho's dick, solid and rigid.
But Yunho's cock does not taste like iron. It does not taste like fear settling deep in his belly, or like blood from the insides of his cheeks.
A helpless cry slips from his occupied mouth. Yet with a gun barrel between his teeth, he only pleads in vowels.
Yunho squeezes his own cock. Chuckles at him.
“You wish you were sucking my dick instead, hm?”
Wooyoung doesn't dare nod.
He blinks. Three, four more tears roll down his cheeks.
“Too bad,” says Yunho.
Again, his finger skims over the grip.
Up, up, up.
Ice floods Wooyoung's guts. The knot of dread twists low in his tummy, just like the coil of arousal and his impending orgasm curling tighter and tighter.
He's dizzy. Dizzy from the blood draining from his sweaty face and surging down to fill his cock. Dizzy from the line of horror and lust blurring beyond recognition.
“Show me what that mouth can do, and maybe I'll let you.”
The kneeling boy complies without thinking.
It's almost primal, the way he takes the gun deeper and sucks on it. He is a tiny rabbit attempting to play dead under the glowing eyes of a hungry fox. A fawn stiffening in the headlights of a truck racing over the highway, only to run the wrong way and crash head-first into the moving vehicle with full force.
Blood coats his tongue as he deepthroats the gun. Dark-red froths against Yunho's knuckles steadily holding the firearm, trickling down the bones of his wrist.
“Perfect little thing,” whispers Yunho, licking his lips, “bleeding so prettily for me.”
The tears in Wooyoung's eyes blur his vision. Through the salty beads clouding his sight, he catches Yunho's sharp teeth glistening in the dim light as the older boy speaks.
“I wonder if your brain would look just as pretty when it's splattered all over the wall behind you.”
As Yunho speaks the words, his finger curls around the trigger.
And clicks.
Panic detonates in Wooyoung's chest.
Every muscle locks tight except the ones that matter. His body betrays him, relinquishing control entirely.
A humiliating warmth spreads between his quivering legs. Ammonia permeates the cold air Wooyoung wildly ruts against, mingling with the stale scent of metal and blood.
Light yellow darkens the denim with enough force to unravel any remaining shred of dignity. Piss soaks Wooyoung’s inner thighs, his ass, the concrete floor under his wobbling legs.
Yunho's smug laugh rings in his bright-red ears.
One last shove of the barrel against his abused uvula is enough to rip Wooyoung apart entirely.
His nervous system seems to misfire entirely, overwhelming sensation and terror crashing together into something incomprehensible.
Crying out around the gun, his face a mess of snot and drool and blood, he comes.
Untouched, terrified, so violently that his nerves short-circuit from the strain, Wooyoung empties himself in his jeans, cum mixing with urine and tears, his shivering frame ceasing to belong to him.
It is as overwhelming and intense as it is mortifying and disgraceful, which only increases the power of his toe-curling orgasm. His eyes cross, rolling back, yet he still sees Yunho — Yunho with that manic grin and those feral eyes.
He sobs and mewls and wails, disconnected vowels of Yunho's name blending with his hiccups and heaves for air.
The firearm slides out of his sore mouth. A string of blood and spit connects his swollen lips to the pitch-black abyss of the muzzle.
Yunho crouches down and kisses him.
He tastes like gunpowder.