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It’s a dangerous game they play, the two of them, but the thrill of danger is what makes it so fun, is what makes McCree keep playing again, and again, and again. The stakes go higher each time, of course, but it wouldn’t be Blackwatch without risk, and McCree has learned by now that Reyes always rewards risk.
“Come here,” Reyes tells him, which is the signal that another round of their game is beginning. McCree shuffles around the desk to stand in front of his commander, heart thumping. Reyes has one of his Hellfire Shotguns in his lap, a muted black metal reminder of the danger McCree is flirting with. “On your knees,” Reyes orders, when he is close enough.
McCree obeys immediately, looking up at Reyes expectantly. His breath is shallow and his skin is thrumming with sparks of anticipation. Reyes looks at him for a moment, as if admiring the view. When he finally moves, the hair the back of McCree’s neck stands up and goosebumps prickle down his arms.
“Close your eyes,” Reyes says, and McCree obeys. He obeys because Reyes has made trust into a game, built it up over months with dares that push its boundaries and rewards that make it all so worth it. Logically, McCree knows that there’s a practical reason for it; during a Blackwatch sting, it is trust in his commander’s judgment and orders that gets them out alive. During their free time, it is trust that gets McCree the kind of praise he so desperately wants.
The shotgun’s safety click off loudly in the room, and McCree can’t help the cold shiver that runs up his spine. He thinks he might need to piss. He regrets not going before meeting Reyes in his office, but he doesn’t ask to be excused, and he doesn’t open his eyes.
Cold steel brushes up against his lips. McCree can smell the faint ashiness of gunpowder and the strong tang of gun maintenance oil. His heart beats like a hummingbird’s, fast and loud against his ribcage, and he decides he definitely needs to piss. Oh, they’ve joked about this before, their own dark brand of humor when Reyes presses two fingers into the Blackwatch brand. I own you now; your life is mine to do with as I please. Oh, and what do you please, Commander? Don’t worry your pretty head about that - whatever it is, you’ll be happy to perform. But this is the first time he’s ever been so close to one of the Hellfire shotguns, much less on the dangerous side of the muzzle.
“Open,” Reyes commands. McCree parts his lips and lets out a pant onto the metal of the gun. “Lick,” Reyes tells him, and McCree’s tongue darts out and traces along the front of the shotgun. He dips his tongue into the barrel momentarily and gives the rim of the muzzle a swipe before withdrawing from the taste. He’s drooling all over it, which can’t be good for it, but Reyes doesn’t seem to mind.
Out of nowhere, the shotgun surges forward and into McCree’s mouth. It’s thicker than he expected, and his jaw is sore just from opening so wide but he’s not going to complain. Icy cold sweat beads at his temples and he can’t help but moan around the barrel of the gun. He’s got to piss but he’s hard as hell too. How far is Reyes going to take their game today?
A hand grabs his wrist and guides it to the shotgun. McCree feels his hand being led along the barrel, down the ejection port, over the sides of the stock. His thumb in particular gets brushed over the trigger guard, and then comes to a rest on the trigger itself. Reyes can’t be serious. (Of course he’s serious.) Reyes can’t be doing this. (Of course he’s doing this.) I own you now.
“Pull the trigger,” Reyes growls. “Pull the trigger yourself.” Your life is mine to do with as I please
McCree whimpers and obeys. He reflexively bites down on the barrel but squeezes the trigger, the whimper in his throat lost in the light click and heavy bang of the gun. Warmth blossoms from his crotch and down the inside of his thighs at his bladder empties into his pants and onto Reyes’s carpet. Don’t worry your pretty head about that
But a tick later he’s still breathing. Still biting down on the gun so hard he thinks he might dent it. Still hearing the roar of blood in his head, the thrum of electricity in his spine. Blanks. The damn thing was loaded with blanks.
Reyes pulls the gun out of McCree’s mouth and places a hand on his cheek instead. “Good boy,” He murmurs, as McCree trembles on his knees in front of him. Reyes rubs his thumb over McCree’s sore jaw and McCree can’t help the tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes. “Good boy,” Reyes repeats, running his other hand through Jesse’s hair.
“Thank you, sir,” McCree finally manages to croak out.
Whatever it is, you’ll be happy to perform.