He moans—wordless, frantic—and nods again, teeth bared in something halfway between pain and worship.
“Then bend the fuck over, halo.” I keep one hand firm on the small of his back and push, guiding him toward the bed. He folds like I own the hinges in his body—knees hitting the mattress, chest bowing low, spine arching sharp and perfect. His thighs spread wide, trembling, cock swinging heavy between them and already leaking dark spots onto the sheets. He whimpers once—sharp, pleading.
I spit into my palm and coat the muzzle, the wet sound making his breath hitch hard. I press the gun between his cheeks and slide it down slow—not inside yet, just tracing, just warning.
He whines.
“Say it,” I growl. “Say what you want.”
“Please,” he gasps, voice shredded. “Please, Rafe—replace it—burn it out—fuck me with it—please—”
I press the muzzle against his hole and push—just an inch. Just enough.
Julian screams. His head snaps up, mouth falling open in a moan so raw it shreds the last thread of my self-control. I push deeper—slow, agonizingly slow, far too slow for the frantic need rolling off him—and he’s sobbing now, hands fisting the sheets, body clenching tight around cold steel like he’s trying to crawl inside it, to make it part of him.
“That’s it,” I growl. “Take it. Take all of it. Let the tape play. Let the ghosts scream. I’m the only fucking thing inside you now.”
I thrust it deeper. His whole body spasms, a wrecked cry tearing out of him—half-sob, half-orgasmic whimper—as he rocks back against the intrusion like he’ll die without the stretch, without the weight, without the punishment I’m giving him.
I brace one hand firm on his lower back, pinning him in place while I fuck him open with the gun—slow, deliberate, devastating. Every inch claims more ground, every shallow thrust erases another echo.
Behind us, the tape reaches another crescendo. His voice from then. My voice now. No contest.
This is the sound he’ll remember.
He takes the muzzle like it was forged for him—back arched, thighs shaking, fingers clawing at the sheets so hard the fabric tears under his nails. Every small thrust makes his whole body twist, makes his breath stutter, makes that gorgeous broken noise catch in his throat like he’s trying to swallow the entire world and choke on the part that hurt him.
The tape behind us keeps playing—Nathan’s voice, Julian’s old moans, dead air wearing my boy’s face like a mask—but Julian isn’t listening anymore. He’s panting, whimpering, pushing himself back against the weapon like he’s begging it to carve out whatever’s left of yesterday’s nightmare. Sweat rolls down his spine in rivulets; his cock is so hard it could bruise my palm without even touching it. He’s taking it like the steel is the only thing keeping him alive, like every inch buried inside him is burning away another layer of the past.
Then I feel it—the shift. His legs buckle. His breath fractures. His body clenches tight around the muzzle, spasming in a rhythm that’s too raw, too close to the edge. He’s going to come—not from pleasure, but from pain, from fear, from the gun cauterizing the panic like a wound that’s finally being closed.
“Rafe—Rafe—I can’t—oh god—please—please—”
He’s seconds from breaking open in a way I won’t allow. Not like this. Not on steel. Not on something that isn’t me.
I grab the gun with one hand, brace the other around his hip, and pull the muzzle out in one clean, brutal drag.
He screams—loud, frantic, desperate—and collapses forward, chest slamming into the mattress, ass still lifted high, shaking and clenching around nothing like he’s begging whatever was inside him to come back. But I’m already there. I shove my sweats down, fistmy cock, and line myself up in the slick, stretched, pulsing place the gun just left—ready, open, aching for something real.
Julian turns his head, face crashing into the sheets, voice wrecked beyond recognition. “Rafe—please—I need—you said—please—replace it—replace it—”
I grab both his hips and slam into him. Hard.
He goes silent for exactly one second. Then he breaks. Sound floods out of him—raw, obscene, holy—my name punched from his lungs like it’s the only word he remembers how to say. “Rafe—Rafe—fuck—oh my god—”
His entire body melts and seizes at the same time, spine arching, thighs trembling, fingers clawing for anything to hold on to, anything to keep him in his body while I drive myself in to the hilt.
I growl into his shoulder, teeth scraping skin. “That’s it. This is what replaces it. Not him. Not the past. Not the tape.Me.”
The word tears something out of him. He pushes back—hard—even through the shaking, even through the overstimulation. He meets every thrust like he’s trying to fuse himself to me, like his bones forget where to belong unless I tell them.
“Listen,” I snarl against his neck. “You hear that? That’s dead noise. That’s nothing. This—” I thrust deeper, hips crushed to his ass, voice dropping to a growl. “This is the only sound that matters now.”
He sobs—loud and beautiful. “Rafe—please—harder—I can’t—I can’t—”
“Yes you can,” I snarl, dragging my hand up his back and shoving his shoulders deeper into the mattress, forcing the arch in his spine. “You take me, you breathe. You breathe because I told you to. You stay because you’re mine.Thisis what replaces it.”
I pull almost all the way out—slow enough that he whimpers, hips chasing me instinctively—then slam back into him so hard his scream shatters down his throat. My breath hits his ear, hot and ragged. “Say it.”
