He holds it up to his lips and caresses them over it, letting them part slightly to its weight. You can see it, you can see the way his tongue snakes out and licks it, running from the ornate hilt to the tip, where it flickers inside the hole for a moment. He turns it then and slides the entire first two inches past his lips, past his teeth. Slowly his hand pulls back, slipping it almost all of the way out, and then thrusts it back in, so deep that the handle is almost at his chin, and he's deep-throating it, he's fucking deep-throating all five inches of the cold, dark metal. He's doing this on purposes -- of course he is -- it's a game, it's another act, one of those temptations he can't stop teasing you with. But you can't stop staring, you can't stop thinking those words that make it all so much better, all so much worse. He's doing this just for me.

And this is why you're twisting, this is why the chains are digging into your wrists so hard you're half certain something's going to snap, either the links or your brittle bones. This is why you're so hard you're nearly against your stomach, so trapped you can taste the despair on your tongue like turpentine. He catches your eye and winks then, a lacey dark crescent on a lily white cheek, and then he's pulling it out, cheeks bowed in with the delicate suction of his mouth around it. You can see the saliva glistening on it in the torchlight, and he runs his tongue up to the tip again, and oh, but you can almost feel that tongue on you as it flickers inhumanly fast over the unfeeling rim, all dips and thrusts and licks that go wasted on the steel, the lucky, lucky steel.

You groan, you can hear it, a low sound pulled from somewhere deep inside, and you can only sink your teeth into your bottom lip as it echoes around the chamber, as it paints itself around you again and again in that heated, needy tone you can't believe you ever created. He slinks towards you then, his face tilted down slightly as he does, one fine shoe clicking in front of the other, and you bite back another wanton sound as you take in his clothed form, garbed in the uniform that's so like the one you wear, yet with all the subtle differences that scream of the 1940s, that scream of propriety and walking sticks and monocles and wartime and trumpets and martinis and everything else he's created out of, every other memory of that time that has been preserved between the pages of his diary, like flowers picked from a garden and left forgotten to dry.

His jacket has been tossed to the floor with your clothes and his sleeves are rolled up, white oxford sleeves that make his arms look more boyish, more powerful, more like Tom Riddle, down to the silver watch on his left wrist forever frozen at a quarter past four. Black braces crisscross over the white of his back and clip to the waist of his smart grey pants, and you wonder where he would have ever hid it, where he would have found such a thing, where he would have kept it in a place like Hogwarts, with a thousand and one eyes waiting to catch you doing something wrong.

And then you aren't thinking anymore, he's brushing the tip of the revolver against your lips, and you can't imagine doing anything other than following the example he set forth as you wrap your lips around it, letting him slide it in deep, pull it out and thrust it in deep again, and it's delicious and hot, not cold, it tastes like his kisses flavored with chrome, a perverse mixture that makes you suck all the harder, makes you use your tongue in ways you couldn't have imagined ever doing, much less to a -- to a -- Colt .38 Special, finishes a mocking part of your mind, a part you feverishly, mistakenly presume must have heard him name the gun earlier, a part you smother with the sensations that are flooding you, the smell of his cologne, the sound of his crisp, pressed pants shifting as he moves ever so slightly along with the thrusts, the feel of one of his fingers under your chin as you take it, as you take it as deep as you can, as his hand guides the thing past your lips and down to where you're almostalmostalmost gagging, feeling it press back, back, back, back and that's when you hear the safety click.

End.