Jesus fucking Christ.
“Replace it…” he mumbles around the barrel, voice muffled by steel and saliva, breath ghosting down the metal and fogging it faintly.
“Replace what, Jules?” I ask, voice low and steady, not moving except to press his back tighter against my chest. My hand curls over his on the grip—slow, firm—taking control without taking it away. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just tell me.”
His fingers twitch against mine, then tighten—hard—so hard I feel bone grind beneath skin. He’s holding on like this is the only thing anchoring him to the floor, like if I pull away he’ll shatter into a thousand unfixable pieces.
“Replace it…” he says again, softer this time, voice cracking around the metal still filling his mouth. His eyes stay locked on the screen, wide and glassy, as if it’s killing him in slow, deliberate motion. “This one hurts…”
Oh. Oh, fuck.
He’s watching himself get ruined—listening to his own moans, haunted and hollow and violated—and he wants something else. Something louder. Something better. Something mine.
I press my forehead to the back of his neck, breath catching in my throat. My voice drops to the barest whisper, meant only for him. “Okay, little halo. I’ve got you. Let me replace it.”
My fingers tighten around the grip—slow, steady. I don’t take the gun from him; I control it with him. His other hand is still clamped around my forearm, nails digging in so deep I know there’ll be crescent marks tomorrow. He’s shaking all over—not violently, just constant, like a wire strung too tight, every nerve coiled and waiting to snap.
The tape keeps playing. But it doesn’t matter now.
“You want me to give you something else to feel, Jules?” I ask, voice low and heavy, mouth brushing the shell of his ear as I tighten my arm around his waist, pulling him flush against me. “Something better?”
The words land somewhere deep inside him—under his ribs, past the panic—and I feel the impact the second they hit. His spine arches just slightly, thighs tensing, and then his hand moves on my arm. It pushes. Slow. Intentional. No stutter, no hesitation—just steady pressure guiding my palm downward like he’s carving a path out of his own torment, like this is the only way to crawl free of the noise.
Down his stomach, past the waistband of his boxers, until my fingers close around the heat of him—already hard, already leaking, already begging without words.
“Jesus,Jules…” I breathe into the hollow of his throat, voice catching on the heat crawling up my spine. But I don’t stop. I don’t fucking hesitate.
He’s still got the gun in his mouth, still got my other hand wrapped tight around the barrel with his, still locked to the screen like breaking eye contact would let the ghosts crawl out and drag him under again. So I give him something stronger. I wrap my fingers around his cock and squeeze once—firm, brutal, grounding.
Julian jerks hard in my arms. A broken moan punches out around the steel—high, garbled, raw—and I swear the sound could gut a lesser man. His knees buckle just slightly; my arm locks tighter around his waist to hold him upright.
“That’s it, pretty boy,” I whisper, dragging my hand up his length slow and rough and perfect. “Let it drown everything else out. Just me now. Only me.”
His whole body convulses when I say it.
And I know—I fucking know—I’ve already started replacing it.
The tape still plays, but Julian’s shaking because of me now—because of my voice, my grip, my breath hot against his neck. The gun remains in his mouth, but it’s no longer panic holding it there. It’s purpose. It’s ritual. It’s the only thing loud enough to match what I’m doing to him, the only anchor strong enough to keep him present while I pull him apart and put him back together.
I stroke him again—slow, deep—hand locked between his hips while he moans into the muzzle like it’s holy, the sound vibrating through steel and straight into my bones. I can feel him begging now—not with words, but with every inch of his body: the twitch of his thighs, the helpless pulse of his cock in my palm, the way his hands clench around my arm like he wants to be burned alive by touch alone. He doesn’t want silence anymore. He wants me—raw, overwhelming, louder than the ghosts still whispering from the screen.
He moans again around the steel—high, wet, wrecked—and my hand keeps moving, slow and filthy, grip tight enough to bruise. I feel every desperate twitch as he tries to hold on, tries to be good, tries to take it, tries to let me burn every last echo of the tape out of him until there’s nothing left but this.
Then, suddenly—he lets the gun fall from his mouth.
It doesn’t drop. He lowers it carefully, shaking fingers still wrapped around the handle, breath coming in broken, spit-slick gasps. I freeze behind him—arm still banded around his waist, cock grinding hard against the small of his back, mouth pressed hot to his neck.
He doesn’t turn to face me. Doesn’t look up at the screen either. He simply lifts the gun, tilts his head back until his cheek brushes my throat, and whispers—just two words,barely a breath—“Put it…” A tremble. A pause. Another fractured inhale. “…somewhere else.”
My whole fucking spine lights up. “Julian,” I growl into his ear, already breathless, already drowning in the heat rolling off him. “You know what you’re asking me?”
He nods—a broken, vicious little jerk of his head, like he’s begging to be erased and rebuilt from the inside out.
I wrap both arms around his waist now, dragging him back hard against my chest. I take the gun from his shaking hands—slow, reverent—while his hips roll instinctively, grinding back against me like he’s trying to fuse us together through sweat and violence. My free hand slides down the curve of his spine, tracing the sweat-streaked dip at the base, two fingers parting him as he gasps for air.
He’s open. He’s shaking. He’s mine.
I lean in, voice a low snarl scraped raw. “You want me to fuck the fear out of you with a gun?”
