Work Text:
"Haha... you look so stupid right now, why are you crying?"
The taste of gun oil is heavy on your tongue. It's bitter and thick and clearly not meant to be ingested -- but it's involuntary, the way your throat contracts and swallows down the noxious taste anyway. Whether it's from fear -- or from something else -- you aren't sure.
"It's not like it's hard! Just hold your mouth open for me. It's simple! Even you can do that... right? You're... not going to let me down, right?"
The way his voice switches from mocking derision to sweetly imploring makes it hard to even remember the position you're in: kneeling on the cold grimy tile of VSF HQ, hands tightly bound behind your back. There's only Officer Brisko now, one hand gently supporting your head while the other forces the cold steel of the gun down your throat.
The tent in his slacks is obvious. You swallow again and he laughs.
"Well? Do we have an understanding?"
Mindful of the precariousness of your position, you nod, just a little- a tacit assent that this is better than the alternative, of being dragged back into the interrogation room for another round of "questioning," (if physical assault interspersed with sweet laughter could be called as such.)
"See? I knew you would understand. You're such a quick learner!"
Despite the fear, Sonny's praise stirs something shameful and molten in the pit of your stomach; the soft caress of his thumb over your cheek has you leaning into his hand as if he didn't just have a gun down your throat, like you're not gasping for all the breath you can get now while you have the chance... like you aren't just as pitifully obedient as he says you are, suckling against his thumb when he slips it into your mouth just to laugh at you one more time.
"Isn't it easier when you let me do all the thinking for you?"
The sound of his zipper is deafening in the small space between you. The smell hits you as much as the humid warmth, a physical manifestation of desire assaulting your senses as his arousal springs free. Sonny lightly slaps it against your cheek, leaving a wet, sticky imprint behind before he guides it to your waiting, shamefully wanting mouth.
"Alright. Say 'aaaah...'"
It's bigger than you imagined, velvety smooth skin sliding against your tongue. Trying to fight it would be pointless (or perhaps that's just what you tell yourself to justify the way your eyes slip closed and your tongue wraps around the plush head as you desperately try to forget the discomfort of kneeling on the cold floor with a stranger's cock down your throat.) Sonny lets out a curse as you try to give him what he wants, trembling from something that might be fear, might be want, when his fingers sink into your hair. You can do this, you can do this... just give him what he wants, and it'll all be over.
You drop your jaw just a fraction more and begin to bob your head shallowly, trying to take in as much as you can to get this over with-
"Didn't I tell you to just hold you mouth open? Maybe I haven't trained you as well as I thought."
Sonny's voice jolts through you and when you flutter open your eyes to look up at him, the disapproval on his face is almost unbearable.
"But I guess that's my fault... I'm your commander, so I need to give better instructions, right?" He sighs, shaking his head like his cock down your throat is more of an inconvenience than anything else. "Let's try it my way, okay? Maybe you're a hands-on learner."
Abruptly the hands in your hair grip tight and pull. It's too much all at once, throat stuffed full of cock with no room left for air. You struggle to push him away, make space so you can think, so you can breathe, but he only chuckles and rolls his hips shallowly until you settle down, too breathless to do anything but take what he has to give. It's impossible not to gag when Sonny starts fucking into your throat- it's overwhelming, it's too much all at once, he's too fucking big for this but then again, he seems to enjoy the way you struggle, the fear in your pleading eyes as you stare up at him. He's vocal, now- soft exhalations, breathy shivers, cruel laughter every time you gag. In any other circumstance you might be able to appreciate his reactions, the way he bites his lower lip when his cock brushes against your tongue, how oddly pretty his long pale eyelashes are when he momentarily loses himself to the pleasure of your body. Eventually you find your rhythm, breathing in when you can and exhaling with every withdrawal. It feels like drowning, drowning in the taste and smell of Sonny Brisko as he uses you for his own gratification- and despite the situation you're in, you can't help but to want more, want to rip more fucked-out noises from the bastard's pretty throat. It's revenge, in a way, revenge for putting you in this position in the first place.
If he's going to enjoy himself, then you'll find a way to have your own fun -- and damn the consequences.
He swears when you swipe your tongue over the head of his cock and tongue at the slit, but this time he doesn't reprimand you for acting out of turn. His motions are becoming erratic, and it's getting harder to breathe- but the haze of hypoxia is welcome in its own way, dulling the need to gag every time he hits the back of your throat and heightening your own undeniable arousal. You lean forward, taking in as much as you can as he picks up the pace.
"Doing so good, take it, fucking- take it," Sonny grits out each word as his hips stutter and he grows close to his own release. You can practically taste the change in his precum as he begins to throb against your tongue, and you lap eagerly at his weeping slit, trying to coax out more of the salty fluid as Sonny shakes apart above you. It's too much, he's too much, you feel like you're going to pass out and it's shameful how good it feels when he holds himself deep in your throat and thrusts with his hips, heedless of your comfort as he chases his pleasure.
He spends down your throat, hot and thick and choking, and all you can do is swallow, swallow, swallow, until everything fades to black.
It's the feeling of cold steel tucked under your chin that brings you back. The realization that you, perhaps, might've lost consciousness for a bit is dull and dizzying; everything is dizzy, the taste in your mouth is raw and bitter and some part of you wants to cry as you realize Sonny's already tucked himself away and straightened his rumpled clothes- that despite everything, he's unaffected, and you're a filthy hot mess. As the man crouches down, taps your chin with the gun so you look up to meet his eyes, you can't help but to shiver at the cold mirth in his expression.
"Maybe you've got some potential in you after all! But it's too soon to be sure of that, so how about we do this again soon, alright?" He ruffles your hair roughly, the motion meant to torment rather than soothe, and gets back to his feet. "I'll have you trained up just right before long, don't worry." He calls over his shoulder as he heads for the door. Sonny clicks off the lights as he leaves, plunging you into darkness. As the sound of his footsteps fades into the ringing silence, you're haunted by the knowledge that for all he's done to you, there's nothing you can do to get him back in return.
Sonny whistles a cheery tune as he heads out of VSF HQ, conscience clear as the starry sky above.