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Los Angeles never really sleeps, but it tends to get quieter after midnight. Even though traffic thins out, the billboards keep glowing and people are still having sex at parties with others they can't afford.
Holland leans into the door; it's rusted and screeching like a dying animal, and the stink of rainwater soaks through the poorly insulated building. He ignores the pain in his wrist and scans the place. The door bangs shut behind him, and he jumps. Jackson Healy is already there standing against the wall, which means March is late. He's always fucking late, yet somehow it stings more tonight.
Healy's eyes are fixed on him. He doesn't look angry, and somehow that's worse. His face is blank, carved from stone, but there's something predatory in the stillness of his body. March can feel the weight of that stare like a hand around his throat before Healy's even moved.
March squares up. He pulls his hands from his coat pockets and starts to say something smart, but it dies in his mouth before he can try. The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. Rain drums on the roof, never in rhythm with anything March is thinking. He nervously wipes his forehead and tries to look like he's not shivering. His breath comes out in shallow puffs, visible in the cold air.
Across from him, Healy rolls his shoulders once and drags a heavy hand over his face. The movement is slow, deliberate. March watches the way his fingers press into his own skin, the way his jaw works like he's chewing on words he won't say. The silence is worse than yelling. It makes March's skin crawl, makes him want to fill the space with excuses and apologies and anything to break the tension coiling in his gut.
He doesn't get the chance.
Healy moves. Not fast, but with purpose. He crosses the distance between them in three strides. Healy's hand shoots out to grab his chin, forcing him to look up. The grip is iron, fingers digging into the hinge of his jaw until March's mouth opens involuntarily.
"You know what pisses me off, March?" Healy's voice is low and dangerous, barely above a whisper. March opens his mouth. Healy squeezes tighter, thumb pressing into the soft flesh under his tongue. It burns. It burns so good that March feels his cock twitch in his too-tight pants, and shame floods through him hot and immediate.
"I don't want to hear it." Healy's thumb digs deeper into March's jaw. March can taste salt and copper where he's bitten his own cheek. "I'm getting real tired of your bullshit."
Before March can squeak out an answer, Healy pulls his fist back and drives it straight into his ribs. The air gets knocked out of him in a single violent exhale, and March doubles over making a broken sound that's half-gasp, half-moan. His whole side lights up with pain, bright and sharp and spreading like fire under his skin. He can feel each individual rib where Healy's knuckles connected, can feel the way his lungs struggle to expand against the bruising.
He should feel angry. He should fight back.
Instead, his cock hardens further, pressing insistently against his zipper. It's fucked up and he knows it. The shame is almost as good as the pain.
"That's what I thought," Healy says quietly. He hits him again, a different side this time. March staggers backwards and catches himself against the wall. His ribs are screaming. The cold concrete against his palms is the only thing keeping him upright. He can feel his pulse hammering in his throat, in his wrists, in his cock. Everything is too much and not enough.
Healy steps forward, grabbing him by the throat– just the side of it, fingers pressing into the muscle. He doesn't squeeze hard enough to cut off air, but hard enough that March has to think about breathing. Hard enough to remind him who's in control here. March's vision swims. He can see the flecks of gray in Healy's hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide and black.
"Look at me," Healy says. March does as he’s told, and their eyes are inches apart. Healy's are cold, focused, like he's looking at something he owns. "You're a mess."
Then, Healy lets go and throws him. Not hard, just firm. March stumbles, catching himself with his hands. The sharp pain in his wrist flares up again, and his breath comes ragged. His ribs ache with every inhale. Healy lands a final blow to March's left cheek, and March yelps– a high, pathetic sound that echoes in the empty space. He tastes blood, warm and metallic, pooling under his tongue.
And fuck, he's completely hard now. Straining against his pants, obvious and humiliating.
Healy walks over to him, slow. He grabs March's arm and spins him around, pinning him against the wall with his forearm across his chest. March can feel Healy's heartbeat, steady and unhurried, a counterpoint to his own frantic pulse. Then he's being shoved fully to the ground. His knees hit the concrete hard enough to make him gasp, and he feels the impact radiate up through his thighs.
March closes his eyes for a second. The pain is still there, but it's smaller now, more like a background hum beneath the want that's consuming him. He feels oddly warm despite the cold seeping up from the floor.
"You like this."
It's not a question. March's eyes snap open. Healy is standing over him, looking down with something that might be contempt or might be hunger. March can't tell anymore.
"No–"
"Don't lie to me." Healy's hand clamps over March's mouth, cutting off whatever he was going to say. March's eyes go wide. He can only breathe through his nose, and even that feels difficult with Healy's palm pressed flat against his lips. Healy leans in close, his breath hot against March's temple. "You get off on pissing me off. You want this."
Healy's free hand drifts down, tracing the hard line of March's cock straining against his pants. The touch is light, almost mocking. March tries to push up into it and Healy pulls away.
"This is what you've wanted the whole fucking time, isn't it?"
March tries to shake his head, but Healy's grip is firm. He can't move, can barely breathe. His heart is hammering so hard he thinks it might crack his already-bruised ribs. Healy lets go of March's mouth to cup the back of his head, fingers sifting through hair damp with sweat and rain. He holds March steady, thumb tracing circles at the nape of his neck. It's weirdly intimate, almost tender, and March doesn't know what to do with it. So he sits in it, lets himself feel the contrast between the gentleness of that touch and the violence still singing through his body.
The room tilts. Maybe from the alcohol still in his system, or maybe Healy just leans in too close. Their noses brush. March's mouth goes dry.
"You want me to stop?" Healy asks, voice low and predatory.
March shakes his head. "No," he whispers, and he means it with every fiber of his being.
Healy smiles. It's small, and gone in an instant, but March sees it. Sees the satisfaction there, the pleasure. Healy shifts his weight, and March hears the familiar sound of a belt buckle, the slide of leather through loops. But Healy doesn't unzip. Instead, March hears the click before he sees it.
The gun.
Healy always keeps it on him, and now it's in his hand, solid and silver and terrifying. March's breath catches. His cock throbs.
Silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. Healy just looks at him, the gun held loosely in his hand, letting March understand what's about to happen. The anticipation is its own kind of torture, and March feels his mouth water even as his stomach clenches with fear.
"Open your mouth," Healy says finally. His voice is soft, almost gentle, which makes it worse somehow.
March's lips part. He doesn't think about it, doesn't question it. He just obeys, his jaw dropping open like he's been trained for this, like his body knows what Healy wants before his mind catches up. Healy steps closer, and March can practically feel every inch of him pressing on his body.
The gun comes up slowly. Healy traces the barrel along March's bottom lip, a mockery of tenderness, and March's breath hitches. The metal is cold, smooth, tasting faintly of oil and gunpowder when Healy pushes it past his lips. March's eyes go wide, his whole body going rigid with the wrongness of it, the perversion of having a weapon in his mouth like this.
"Get it wet," Healy says, and there's something dark in his voice, something that makes March's cock twitch despite the fear flooding his system. "You're going to need it."
March understands then. Understands what Healy is going to do with the gun once it's slick with his spit, and the shame of it crashes over him like a wave. He's being made to prepare the instrument of his own violation, to lubricate the weapon that will split him open. The humiliation is devastating, and his cock leaks in response.
Healy pushes the gun deeper. The barrel slides over March's tongue, cold and unyielding, and March gags. His throat convulses around the intrusion, trying to reject it, but Healy doesn't pull back. Just holds it there, letting March struggle, letting him feel the weight of the metal pressing down on his tongue.
"Breathe through your nose," Healy instructs, clinical and detached, like he's teaching March something useful. "And get it nice and wet. You'll thank me later."
March tries. He sucks in air through his nostrils and forces his throat to relax, forces himself to accept the gun in his mouth. Saliva pools around the barrel, slicking it up, and the wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room. He can taste metal and oil, can feel the perfect cylindrical shape of it, can feel the way it presses his tongue flat. Tears are already forming in his eyes from the gagging, from the shame, from the terrible knowledge of what comes next.
Healy fucks his mouth with it. Slow, deliberate thrusts that make March's jaw ache, that make him drool around the barrel like he's sucking cock. The comparison isn't lost on him– he's on his knees, mouth open and willing, taking what Healy gives him. But this is worse somehow. More degrading. A gun isn't meant to be in someone's mouth like this, isn't meant to be slicked up with spit and need.
"That's it," Healy murmurs, and there's approval in his voice that makes March's stomach flip. "Good boy."
March whimpers around the metal. His jaw is starting to hurt, stretched wide around the barrel, and his throat keeps trying to close up every time Healy pushes deep. Spit is running down his chin now, dripping onto his shirt, and he's never felt more wrecked, more used. His cock is straining against his pants, obvious and humiliating, advertising his sickness for anyone to see.
Healy pulls the gun out slowly, and March gasps, sucking in air. His lips are swollen, slick with saliva, and he can still taste the metal on his tongue. The gun is wet now, gleaming with his spit, and March stares at it with a mixture of horror and want.
"Turn around," Healy says, his voice rough now, the first crack in his composure. "Hands on the floor."
March does what he's told. His hands press flat against the concrete, and he can feel every piece of grit and debris digging into his palms. He's on his knees, ass in the air, and he's never felt more exposed in his life. Vulnerable. Offered up. He hears Healy move behind him, hears the rustle of fabric as Healy kneels down.
Healy's hands are on his hips, rough and possessive, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. He yanks March's pants and underwear down, not bothering to be gentle. The fabric catches on March's cock and he hisses, the friction almost painful. Then he's bare from the waist down, cold air hitting his skin and making him shiver. The exposure is obscene.
"Stay still," Healy says.
March doesn't move. He's shaking, but he doesn't move. He can feel Healy's eyes on him, can feel the weight of that gaze like a physical thing. Then he feels something cold and hard press against him. The gun. The barrel is smooth and unyielding, and March's whole body tenses.
"Relax," Healy says, and it's almost gentle. Almost.
March tries. He takes a shaky breath and tries to relax, but his body won't cooperate. Every muscle is wound tight, anticipation and fear coiling in his gut. He hears Healy spit, hears the wet sound of it, and then feels the slickness as Healy spreads it with his fingers. It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough, but March knows Healy doesn't care.
The gun presses in. Just the tip at first, cold metal breaching him, and March makes a sound he's never made before– high and broken and desperate. It burns. It burns in a way that's different from Healy's fists, sharper and more invasive. The metal is unforgiving, and March can feel every millimeter as Healy pushes it deeper.
"Breathe," Healy says, and March does. He sucks in air through his teeth and tries to relax around the intrusion. It's impossible. The gun is too hard, too cold, too much. But Healy doesn't stop. He pushes it in slowly, methodically, until March feels like he's being split open.
"Fuck," March chokes out. His arms are shaking, barely holding him up. The gun is deep inside him now, deeper than he thought possible, and he can feel it everywhere. Can feel the way it stretches him, the way his body tries to accommodate something it was never meant to hold.
Healy pulls it out slightly, then pushes it back in. The drag is brutal, the friction almost too much even with the spit. March's vision blurs. He's crying, he realizes distantly. Tears are running down his face, dripping onto the concrete below.
"Look at you," Healy says, and there's something like wonder in his voice. "Taking it so well."
March sobs. The gun moves inside him, in and out, in and out, a steady rhythm that's driving him insane. His cock is leaking, dripping onto the floor, and he's so hard it hurts. The shame is overwhelming. He's being fucked by a gun, opened up and violated by cold metal, and he's never wanted anything more in his life.
Healy spits again. March hears it, feels the added wetness as Healy works it in with his fingers alongside the gun. It helps, but not much. The burn is still there, the stretch still too much. But March is adjusting, his body learning to take it, and that's almost worse. That he can take this. That he wants to.
"Please," March whispers, though he doesn't know what he's asking for.
Healy doesn't answer. Just keeps moving the gun, pushing it deeper, pulling it almost all the way out before sliding it back in. March's thighs are trembling. His whole body is trembling. He feels like he's going to fall apart, like he's being unmade from the inside out.
Then Healy twists the gun, just slightly, and March screams. The sensation is indescribable; pain and pleasure so intertwined he can't tell them apart anymore. His cock jerks, and for a moment he thinks he's going to come just from this, just from being split open on Healy's gun.
But Healy pulls it out. The absence is almost as shocking as the intrusion was. March feels empty, hollowed out, his body clenching around nothing. He's gasping, his breath coming in ragged sobs.
"Good," Healy says, and March hears the sound of a zipper. "Now you're ready."
March doesn't have time to process before Healy is grabbing his hips and hauling him up. His legs don't work right, and he stumbles, but Healy catches him and spins him around, pushing him back against the wall. March's shoulders hit the concrete hard, and he winces. His whole body is one giant bruise, inside and out.
Healy spits into his hand, works it over his cock. March watches, transfixed, as Healy strokes himself. He's hard, flushed dark, and March's mouth waters. But Healy doesn't give him a chance to do anything. He just lines himself up and pushes in.
After the gun, Healy's cock feels almost gentle. Almost. But it's still too much, still burning and stretching and filling him completely. March gasps, his head falling back against the wall. Healy doesn't give him time to adjust. Just starts fucking into him, hard and fast and brutal.
"Fuck," March chokes out. His hands scrabble for purchase, one gripping Healy's shoulder, the other pressed flat against the wall. Healy's rhythm is punishing, each thrust driving March harder against the concrete. He can feel it scraping his back, can feel the way his body is being used.
"This what you wanted?" Healy's breathing is heavy now, his voice rough. "You're fucking pathetic, you know that? Did all this just to get me pissed off so I'd fuck you?"
March can't answer. Can't form words. His mouth is open, gasping, and all that comes out are broken sounds. Healy's hand comes up to wrap around his throat, not squeezing, just holding. A reminder.
"Answer me."
"Yes," March manages to gasp out. "Yes, fuck, yes–"
Healy's grip tightens. "That's what I thought."
March's vision is starting to blur at the edges. The lack of air combined with the overwhelming sensation of Healy inside him is too much. He's so close, his cock trapped between their bodies, getting friction with every thrust. He can feel his orgasm building, coiling tight in his gut.
"Please," he gasps. "Please, I'm so close–"
Healy pulls out.
"No!" March's voice breaks. His cock is throbbing, desperate, and the denial is almost painful. "Please, Healy, please,"
But Healy just watches him. Watches him fall apart, watches him beg. Then, slowly, he wraps a hand around March's cock. The touch is firm, warm, and March nearly sobs with relief. Healy strokes him slowly, deliberately, getting him right to the edge again.
And then he stops.
"Fuck!" March is crying now, actual tears running down his face. "Please, please, I can't fucking do this!"
"You can," Healy says. His voice is flat, emotionless. "You're going to wait until I say."
He does it again. And again. Brings March right to the precipice, lets him feel the edge of release, and then pulls back. March is a wreck, full-on sobbing, his face hot and wet. His whole body is shaking, every nerve ending on fire. He's begging, words falling out of his mouth that don't even make sense.
"I can't, I can't take it anymore,"
"Yes you can." Healy's voice is rough. He brings the gun back up, presses it to March's cheek. The metal is warm now, heated by March's body, and his cock twitches at the contact. "You're going to have to wait until I say. You don't have much of a choice."
March is making sounds he's never made before. Desperate, broken sounds. His hips are trying to move on their own, trying to get friction, but Healy is holding him still. March turns his head and kisses the barrel without thinking. Tastes like metal and his own spit and something else he can't name.
"Please," he whispers against the gun. "I'm sorry I was late, I'll be good, I promise,"
Healy pushes back into him, and March's whole body arches. The angle is different now, deeper, and Healy hits something inside him that makes him see stars. Healy fucks him hard, relentless, and wraps his hand around March's cock again.
"Come," Healy demands.
March does. It hits him like a freight train, his whole body locking up as his orgasm tears through him. He's still crying, and everything is too much. He can feel himself clenching around Healy, can feel the way his cock pulses in Healy's grip, spilling over his hand and onto both their stomachs. It goes on and on, wave after wave, until March feels like there's nothing left of him.
Healy fucks him through it, chasing his own release. March is oversensitive, every thrust almost painful now, but he takes it. Takes everything Healy gives him. Finally, Healy stills, buried deep, and March feels the warmth as he comes inside him.
For a moment, they just stay like that. Pressed together, breathing hard, the rain still drumming on the roof above them. Then Healy pulls out, and March's legs buckle. He slides down the wall, ending up on his knees on the concrete floor.
Next to him, he hears the clanking of Healy's belt buckle as he pulls his pants back up and holsters his gun properly. March turns his tear-stained face up to him, wrecked.
"Healy–" His voice is broken, hoarse.
"Next time, you'll be on time." Healy's voice is flat, cold. Like nothing just happened. Like March isn't sitting here destroyed.
March hears footsteps moving towards the door. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't try to get up, because he knows his legs won't hold him anyway. The door opens, and the rain gets loud for a second before it slams shut.
March is alone.
He sits there on the floor, and his whole body hurts. Everything hurts. He can still feel where Healy's hands were on his hips, where the gun was pressed to his skin, where Healy was inside him. The ache is deep, bone-deep, and March knows he'll feel it for days. He can feel Healy's come leaking out of him, warm and wet, and the shame of it makes him shudder.
The rain keeps drumming on the roof, bringing him down slowly. He closes his eyes. His breath hitches, and another sob works its way out of his chest. He's not hard anymore, but he's still aching, still wanting more even though Healy's gone. The wanting never stops. That's the worst part.
He stays there for a long time, on the floor, alone. His clothes are still halfway off and the ground is disgusting, cold and gritty beneath him. March needs to pull himself together, needs to get up and get dressed and get out of here. But he can't find the energy to move. Can't find the will to do anything but sit in the aftermath of his own destruction.
"Fuck," he whispers to the empty room.
The rain is his only answer.