I wish I knew enough about guns to write this.

( I'd started writing this between gaps in internet access so it veered pretty sharply away from the specifics of the prompt, I'm sorry OP. I saw 'gun kink' and thought Russian Roulette immediately, hope this is ok.)

He didn't know why he agreed to this. Honestly he had no idea how this had even come up in a conversation that had started about baseball, for chrissake. One minute they were enjoying what had to have been the greasiest tacos Freddy had ever eaten in his entire life, talking about the recent baseball games. Then they were here. Like that. A snap of the fingers, and the dark room loomed in on him, blinds drawn and the sounds of the city muffled. Freddy thought he might have whiplash.

White-- Larry, his name was Larry-- sat across from him at the small table, face cement, eyes focused on the gun he held. It was a nice gun, Freddy noted belatedly, a solid-looking revolver. He wished he had a better knack for the names of guns, cause he might want to get one of these himself once this whole thing was said and done with. Once Orange got to be Freddy again. Large fingers worked like fucking dancers as he snapped it open and dumped the rounds into his wide palm. He pocketed them, but pulled one out, making a point to let Freddy see it, and pressed it back into it's chamber. Freddy swallowed thickly, glancing away, at the mute light of the lamp on the wall.

“Just a game, Kid.” White's voice was as easy as ever, he didn't seem even a little bothered by what he was talking about. Freddy swallowed again, wetting his lips.

“Yeah, just a game.” he said slowly, without resolve. He had to do this, though, it might be a test, for all he knew, to see if he was worth this gig. He looked back at White, and the man offered a mild smile, spinning the chamber with an easy familiarity. Freddy pointedly ignored the static heat that bloomed in his gut at the sight.

“You first, then.” White flipped the revolver, holding it across the table by the barrel. Freddy stare at it dumbly for a moment, before jolting to take it, rapping his knuckles on the underside of the table with a curse. White chuckled, the sound nothing more than a rumble in that broad chest, and Freddy felt like his throat would crumble and fall into his gut with how dry it was.

The gun was heavier than it looked, which was saying something, and warm in his hand from where White had been holding it. He glanced up to meet the older man's gaze, finding a silent, warm comfort there.

“Never played a game like this before.” he muttered. The truth bolting out of him, followed by a small stab of regret. He was supposed to be a hardass, like the rest of the terrifying motley crew they had going on. “Dunno how I'd explain ghosting a buddy.” again, the truth, and when he looked back from the revolver, White was still smiling at him. The regret didn't come this time.

“Nothin' to it, Kid. If I lose, I lose.” he sounded so nonchalant about it, Freddy thought he might be crazy. Freddy wondered briefly if he was crazy too, because he pointed the gun towards the softly smiling man. It took everything he had in him to keep his hand from shaking. He looked over the revolver, and White leant forward slightly, gaze pinning him like a butterfly. He flushed under the scrutiny, and squeezed.

Click.

For a split second he could hear the bang, see White's face cave in and spray out over the wall, but no such thing happened. White's smile returned, easy. Freddy felt like he was going to throw up, or start giggling. He didn't know which, the adrenaline made it hard to pick one. White reached out, and Freddy seized up for a second. Was he going to let this dangerous criminal point a gun at him? White raised an eyebrow and that knot in his stomach tightened a little. He smiled, it probably looked more like a grimace, though, because White leant forward the rest of the way and coaxed him into letting go of the gun. His fingers were warm and firm, and Freddy bit back the urge to follow them as they pulled away.

They didn't pull far, though, White braced himself on the table and- oh. Oh. The cold metal touched his chin lightly, tilting his head up, and a shudder raced down his spine. White's face was inscrutable. Actually, Freddy had taken classes to read people, to notice details about their posture or facial expressions. All that was gone, though, as the barrel of the revolver lifted, slowly dragging up the side of his face, and rested a moment at his temple. His eyes couldn't stay still, flickering up that strong arm, running over the exposed collarbone and finally to his eyes. What was left of his brains must have liquefied and dribbled out the back of his head. His throat was dry again.

It shouldn't be hot, staring passed a gun at a criminal. Not even a little bit. It was though. The gun looked nothing short of snug in that large hand, only inches from his face. Freddy kinda wanted to lean forward and put his mouth on it. He wondered what White would do if he did. Pull the trigger, probably. That was the plan anyways, though, wasn't it? Pull the trigger, see if Freddy's luck had run out? A small part of his brain, one that wasn't incredibly, insanely turned on by this whole fucked up situation, reminded him that Larry could pull the trigger right now and he would die. Bang, no more Tommy-Freddy-Orange. Nothing.

That thought did nothing to quell the heat rolling in his abdomen. He leant forward and pressed his lips to the tip of the gun, watching White the entire time, giddy with adrenaline and feeling fearless and terrified and horny all at once. Who knew guns could be hot? It tasted like metal and oil when he pulled away and licked his lips, boiling under the heat of White's gaze.

Click.

He let out a small gasp, jolting only slightly. He was alive. His lucky day, it seemed. White was moving, coming around the small table that had been between them. This was so fucked. Freddy stood to meet him anyways, body buzzing with energy. Larry's hand was hot and heavy on his hip, and he only vaguely recognized the cool pressure of the gun just below his ear. He let out a low moan in response, clutching at the larger man as their lips met. It was graceless and all teeth and tongue and completely fucking perfect. Freddy pressed in close, hands fluttering restlessly over Larry's shoulders, back, arms, waist.

Eventually Larry pulled away, giving Freddy time to try and remember how to breathe. He gripped the shirt at Freddy's waist, tugging faintly.

“Off.” he growled, and the gun had no part in Freddy's frantic eagerness as he complied, yanking the dirty thing over his head as Larry steadily walked him backwards towards the bed. He started working on his fly when the gun made an appearance again, forcing him to lift his head into another searing kiss. He made a throaty noise as the back of his legs hit the bed. Larry didn't push him back, though, instead he manhandled him onto his knees, leaning over the edge of the bed, and Freddy had a moment to consider how seriously fucked up this whole situation was as he heard the rustle of the other man removing his own clothing.

His pants were yanked down and then off and he promptly quashed that line of thinking. There were more important things to think about at the moment. Like the thick finger pushing at him, wet with spit. He arched, breathing deeply, as the hot burn of intrusion was counterbalanced by the cold barrel of the revolver running up his spin. God, that thing was loaded. His cock gave an interested twitch and Freddy was glad Holdaway would never know this was happening, couldn't see him. Another finger found its way inside him and he stopped thinking at all, falling forward and pressing his heated face into the cool surface of the motel comforter.

For all the heat and desperation, Larry was all too patient in prepping him, and Freddy lost track of everything as he was worked open. He was a whimpering mess, hips twitching indecisively, not knowing if he wanted to force himself back on those devilish fingers or grind into the corner of the bed. Larry got the clue eventually, though, and the fingers disappeared. Freddy heard him spit, and looked back over his shoulder blearily. He moaned aloud at the sight of Larry working the spit over himself. He wasn't going to walk right after this. Not for a while. Maybe never again. The gun was back at his temple and he stopped caring, shifting his knees wider apart and facing forward at the insistent push of the weapon.

Larry leant over him, hot and the only thing grounding him as he pushed in slowly. Freddy let out a breathless keen as he was filled inch by burning inch. Spit was a piss poor lubricant, but he really couldn't care less as Larry's hips met his and the stretch was just enough, the cold of the revolver at his temple making it all the better. This was why the ring on his finger was complete and utter bullshit, but that wasn't something you just brought up in casual conversation over tacos. 'By the way, I'm a total faggot, and guns get me going like whoa.'

Freddy choked back a hysterical giggle, and pressed his ass back into the crook of Larry's pelvis, because there was no way in hell he was going to tell the man with a gun to his head to move. Larry got the point, and moved, a quick hard grind of his hips. Freddy clutched at the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the planet as Larry set up a punishing pace, forcing his pelvis into the bed, grinding his cock onto the fabric.

He didn't know what to do with himself, so he settled for simply resting his forehead on his wrist and trying to remember to keep breathing as he was fucked senseless by a man he'd only known for days. He was pretty sure he was drooling, panting like he would suffocate and his ass might be bruised from how hard Larry's hips were hitting it. God this was fucked. Larry's mouth was on the back of his neck, biting, kissing and occasionally a muffled swear would heat the cooling saliva with his breath. Deliriously, he hoped he would leave a mark. Something to prove that this wasn't some fucked up fever dream. Maybe he'd gotten food poisoning from the tacos. Who knew.

The revolver shifted against his temple just slightly as Larry shifted his attention to his shoulder. He could feel his peek coming, burning up through him, coiling tight in his abdomen and setting his nerves on fire. He hadn't even touched himself properly, just the harsh rub of the cheap comforter on the underside of his cock. It didn't stop the blinding pressure from making even the half-formed encouragements and moans bleed into one long, desperate keen.

Click.

With a strangled cry, Freddy came harder than he ever had in his life, vision flashing white as he arched int Larry's chest, entire body pulled taught. Someone swore, he thinks it was Larry, and the hips stutter to a stop, pressed against his aching ass as he collapses bonelessly onto the bed. Larry--White, when had the change happened?-- must have superhuman endurance, because he was still holding himself up and off of Freddy, pressing absent kisses all over his back. Freddy thought he might never move again.

“You okay, Kid?” It took him a moment to process the words as he lay in the afterglow, head full of cotton.

“Ass hurts.” he muttered, and was rewarded with a gentle laugh against his shoulder blade. He decided he really liked White's laugh. They both grunted as they separated, White standing and walking to the bathroom. Freddy was content to simply lay over the side of the bed. He actually started dozing when White returned with a warm cloth and cleaned him gently. Freddy was too tired to feel embarrassed as White wiped the come off of his ass and thighs, then pulled him back against his chest to wipe his stomach clean. He tilted his head up and kissed tiredly at White's jaw, relishing in the faint feel of stubble against his kiss-sensitive lips.

After some maneuvering, and Freddy making noises that were absolutely not whines, thank you very much, they were both settled comfortably in the bed, White's arm wrapped around his waist and his head resting on the older man's chest. As he dozed, listening to the steady beat of White's heart, he made a mental note to figure out if they could play with that revolver again, without the whole being loaded part, of course.