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Daniel told himself he wasn't the type of man to get jittery before a date, especially not in his own damn house. But here he is, swapping shirts for the third time, staring at his reflection in the kitchen window like some awkward kid on prom night.
It's absurd. He's pushing fifty-six, his heart a patchwork of stents and stubborn beats, his face a roadmap of wrinkles earned from grilling warlords, divas, and mob bosses alike. He shouldn't give a rat's ass about the fit of his black button-down. Yet here he stands, fussing with the collar, all because of Armand.
But to Daniel it makes sense, because Armand is simply magnetic. He pulls in the likes of both men and women without trying, and he never gives anyone a second glance. But with Daniel, he's kept a steady stream of conversations and more.
They've shared three outings so far — an intimate dinner in a dimly lit spot, meandering strolls through the city, and that one humid night in a smoky jazz club where Armand nursed a single glass of whiskey, his gaze fixed on Daniel like he was a rare artifact under glass.
It wasn't raw desire in those eyes, not the familiar spark of infatuation Daniel knew from his younger days. No, it was something deeper, more consuming: pure, unrelenting focus that left Daniel feeling exposed, alive in ways he'd forgotten.
What did a guy like Armand want with him, anyway? Armand couldn't be a day over twenty-five, his skin flawless and taut, those deep brown eyes carrying an ancient calm that hinted at secrets buried deep.
He glided through life with economical grace, every motion conscious, as if he'd long ago mastered the art of restraint. Standing beside him, Daniel felt like a bellowing bull in a china shop — in the way and making a mess no one wants to clean.
But hell, Daniel wasn't about to question his luck. When opportunity knocked, you answered.
So he'd extended the invite, casual as could be, for Armand to come over tonight. His heart had been thumping wildly in his chest as he did, eyes darting everywhere but at the man who'd stood in front of him.
When Armand said yes, Daniel wasn't even looking at him — eyes fixed on the wall over his shoulder. It was an embarrassing move not much different from his teenage years.
His hard work and mellowed shame paid off, because now the doorbell chimes, and a thrill zips through Daniel's chest.
He smooths his shirt one last time and crosses the hall, heart thudding a little harder than usual.
Pulling the door open, he finds Armand silhouetted against the evening glow, wrapped in a simple charcoal coat, hands clasped casually at his waist. The porch light casts a gentle halo, softening the harsh lines of his jaw, making him seem almost approachable — almost.
"Daniel," Armand murmurs, his voice a smooth caress. "Thank you for inviting me."
Daniel manages a grin, stepping back to let him in. "Mi casa es su casa. Just don't hold the mess against me, it's the lair of a bachelor with zero excuses."
A subtle smile tugs at Armand's lips as he crosses the threshold, his coat brushing lightly against Daniel's arm.
The moment he enters, the space transforms; the cluttered living room, with its stacks of books and half-empty coffee mugs, seems to contract around him, drawing all attention to the quiet intensity he carries.
Daniel catches himself watching the way Armand's eyes scans the room — appraising, as if cataloging every detail with that same piercing curiosity. It sends a shiver down Daniel's spine, a mix of nerves and something warmer, more insistent, stirring in his gut.
Daniel leads the way into the living room, gesturing toward the worn leather couch.
"Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something? Whiskey? Water? I've got a bottle of that single malt you liked from the club."
Armand slips off his coat, draping it over the arm of a chair with care. Underneath, he wears a fitted black shirt that hugs his lean frame, the fabric shifting smoothly as he moves.
"Whiskey sounds perfect." He says, his tone even, eyes lingering on Daniel for a beat longer than necessary.
As Daniel pours two glasses in the kitchen, the clink of ice seems unnaturally loud in the quiet house.
He glances back, watching Armand settle onto the couch, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on his knees. There was something predatory in the way he sits, watchful like a panther deciding whether to pounce or observe.
Daniel's pulse quickens again, that familiar mix of unease and pull tightening in his chest.
He hands over the glass, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Armand's skin is cool, almost unnaturally so, sending a faint spark up Daniel's arm.
"To unexpected evenings," Daniel toasts, clinking glasses before sinking into the armchair opposite.
They sip in companionable silence at first, the whiskey burning a warm path down Daniel's throat.
Armand's gaze roams the room again, pausing on the bookshelf crammed with dog-eared thrillers and faded photo albums, then drifting to the far wall where a locked cabinet stood half-hidden behind a potted fern.
Daniel follows his eyes and chuckles nervously. "Curious about my little collection?"
Armand's head tilts slightly, that faint smile returning. "Collection?"
"Guns," Daniel says, setting his glass down. "Old habit from my reporting days. Keepsakes, mostly. Want to see? Might bore you, but it's better than small talk about the weather."
Armand's eyes light up. "I'd like that."
Daniel rises, unlocking the cabinet with a key that hangs around his neck. The door swings open to reveal a neat array: a vintage revolver, a pump-action shotgun, a couple of handguns, and the AK-pattern rifle mounted at the top.
He pulls out the revolver first, handing it over butt-first. "This one's a Colt Python from the '70s, 357 Magnum. I picked it up in Beirut after a story went sideways."
Armand takes it carefully, turning it in his hands, thumb tracing the cylinder. His touch is reverent, almost sensual, the way he explores the metal's curves.
"You've fired it?"
"Plenty," Daniel replies, leaning against the wall. "Taught me a thing or two about control."
Armand's eyes flick up, holding Daniel's gaze as he assesses him. Then he moves on, examining the shotgun, the pistol, listening intently as Daniel rattles off details — calibers, histories, the scars each bore from real-world chaos.
It feels grounding, this ritual, pulling Daniel out of his nerves and into solid ground.
But when Armand reaches for the AK, Daniel's watchfulness steadies.
The rifle is heavier, more imposing, its dark stock gleaming under the lamp light. Armand lifts it effortlessly, balancing it across his palms like it was an extension of his body.
"AK pattern," Daniel explained. "7.62 by 39. Built to last through hell and back, reliable as they come."
Armand nods, sighting down the barrel experimentally, his posture shifting into something fluid.
He racks the bolt with a sharp click that echoes through the room, louder than Daniel anticipated. The sound jolts him, a reminder of the weapon's raw power.
Armand turns then, the rifle rising until the muzzle points squarely at Daniel's chest.
Daniel's smile freezes. "It's not loaded," he says, the words tumbling out faster than intended.
He's sure of it — he always triple-checked — but doubt flickers in his mind.
For a split second, he waits for the punchline, convinced this is Armand's peculiar brand of humor.
"Okay," Daniel says, palms up in mock surrender. "Hilarious. You got me."
But Armand doesn't laugh. His expression remains serene and unblinking, the rifle steady as stone in his grip.
He holds it like a professional, relaxed as if aiming a lens rather than a lethal tool.
The space between them shrinks, charged with something electric and perilous. Daniel's heart hammers, breath catching as he stares into those dark eyes over the sights.
There's no rage there, no madness, just that same devouring curiosity.
"You said it was reliable," Armand whispers, voice soft and almost affectionate.
Daniel swallows hard, throat tight. "It is. But that's not—"
The muzzle doesn't budge. Armand's finger hovers near the trigger guard, just resting.
"Armand," Daniel says, firmer now, though his voice cracks at the edge. "Put it down, easy."
Armand's head tilts again, studying him like a puzzle half-solved. The intensity in his gaze deepens, pulling Daniel in despite the fear coiling low in his belly.
It's terrifying, intoxicating. Daniel's body betrays him, a flush creeping up his neck, heat pooling in unexpected places as the danger heightens every sense.
Seconds stretch into eternity. Then, slowly, Armand lowers the rifle, barrel dipping toward the floor.
He sits it back on the rack with the same care he'd shown picking it up, turning to face Daniel fully.
"I wanted to feel it," he says simply, stepping closer until the warmth of his presence cut through the chill.
Daniel exhales shakily, hands dropping to his sides. "Feel it? Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack."
Armand's lips quirk, closer now, his breath ghosting Daniel's skin. "But you didn't run."
Daniel's exhale comes out ragged, his body still thrumming from the adrenaline spike.
He searches Armand's face for some sign of jest, some crack in the composure that would let him laugh it off. But those deep brown eyes hold only that piercing curiosity, pulling him in like a riptide.
The rifle rests against the rack now, but Armand's hand linger on the stock, fingers curling possessively around the grip.
"You trust me," Armand says.
As he speaks, he steps even nearer until the heat of his body contrasts with the room's cooling air.
His free hand rises, tracing the line of Daniel's jaw with feather-light touch, thumb pressing just enough to tilt his head back.
"Or maybe you liked the fear? The feeling of not knowing what comes next, the thrill of it."
Daniel's mouth parts, words failing him as Armand's gaze drops, assessing, devouring.
The proximity is dizzying — Armand's scent, clean and faintly metallic, mingling with the whiskey on Daniel's tongue.
He should pull away, set boundaries, but his feet stay rooted, cock stirring traitorously against his thigh at the raw dominance in Armand's stance.
Armand's hand slides down, gripping Daniel's shirt collar, bunching the fabric as he guides him backward towards the arm of the couch. The edge seems to bite into Daniel's hips despite its softness.
"Show me more of that fear," Armand says.
Before Daniel can protest, Armand's movements blur in his eyes. He snatches the rifle again, the metal whispering as he maneuveres it.
Daniel's heart slams against his ribs, confusion twisting into alarm as Armand presses him down onto the surface beneath, the sticky leather cool against his back.
"Wait—Armand, what—" Daniel's voice cracks, hands coming up to push, but Armand pins his wrist with one hand, the rifle's barrel cold and insistent against his inner thigh.
"Shhh." Armand whispers, leaning over him, his weight a cage of lean muscle.
The barrel traces upward, parting Daniel's legs with unyielding pressure, the fabric of his pants no barrier to the chill seeping through.
Daniel's breath hitches, a mix of terror and forbidden heat flooding his veins as the muzzle nudges against his zipper, then higher, probing at the cleft of his ass through the cloth.
He bucks instinctively, but Armand's grip tightens, forcing stillness.
"You said it's reliable, let's test that."
With a flick of his wrist, Armand unzips Daniel's fly, yanking pants and underwear down in one rough pull, exposing him to the room's stale air.
"Wait! Armand — what the fuck are you doing?"
The other man raises a questioning brow and pointedly stares at Daniel's lap.
His cock twitches, half-hard from the adrenaline, but fear clamps down hard as the barrel returns, now bare against his skin.
The reaction causes shame to flood him and he almost reaches a hand to block himself. Armand is faster, he points the gun at Daniel's genitals.
"There's no need to be shy Daniel, it's only us," he drags the gun down until it rests underneath Daniel's balls. "I won't hurt you."
Daniel watches then, breath hitching, as Armand lines it up, the blunt tip nudging against his entrance.
It's not thick like a cock, but foreign, a weapon meant for destruction now poised to invade him in the most intimate way. Fear spikes through Daniel like ice water, his muscles tensing instinctively, but arousal floods him too, hot and insistent, his shaft already half-erect and throbbing against his stomach.
With a slow push, Armand slides the barrel inside.
Daniel gasps, his body arching off the couch as the cold metal breaches him, stretching his rim around its rigid length. It's invasive, the chill seeping into his heat, making him clench down hard in reflexive protest.
The sensation is bizarre — hard and smooth, no give like flesh, just unfeeling steel forcing its way deeper. Terror claws at his mind: this is a gun, loaded (maybe? Daniel's fear won't allow him to remember), deadly; one wrong move and it could end him. But god, the fullness hits something primal, stirring a forbidden heat that makes his balls tighten and his cock leak a fat bead of pre-cum onto his skin.
Armand leans in closer, his free hand gripping Daniel's thigh to hold him steady, fingers digging bruises into the flesh.
He doesn't thrust with his hand, not yet. Instead, he shifts his hips forward, pressing his clothed erection against Daniel's ass cheek as if he's the one buried inside.
It's a mockery of intimacy, Armand's body mimicking the rhythm of a lover while the gun does the real work. He rolls his hips in a slow grind, pushing the barrel deeper with each subtle movement, the leverage from his body driving the metal further into Daniel's clenching hole.
Daniel whimpers, his inner walls fluttering around the intruder, trying to expel it even as his body betrays him with eagerness. The gun bullies past his resistance, inch by unyielding inch, until the tip nudges his prostate — a sharp, electric jolt that makes his vision blur.
Terror and lust war inside him; he imagines the hammer falling, the bullet tearing through him from the inside out, and the thought alone makes his pulse race, his breath coming in ragged pants. Yet that same fear amplifies every sensation, turning the cold penetration into something obscenely erotic.
His cock jumps, fully hard now, the head flushed dark and weeping steadily, a thin trail of pre-cum pooling in the dip of his navel.
Armand picks up the pace, his hips snapping forward in shallow thrusts that jostle the gun inside Daniel. Each movement sends the barrel sliding in and out, the ridges of the grip catching slightly on his rim before plunging back. Daniel clenches desperately around it, his muscles rippling in futile attempts to grip something solid, but the metal offers no warmth, no pulse, just relentless pressure.
It feels like being fucked by danger itself, the fear of the trigger a constant shadow over the building pleasure.
His prostate takes the brunt of it, the gun's tip grinding against that sensitive bundle with every hip roll from Armand, bullying it mercilessly. Sparks shoot up Daniel's spine, his toes curling, a low moan escaping despite the knot of dread in his chest.
"Oh, have I touched you somewhere nice Danny?" Armand asks, his breath hot against Daniel's ear as he leans down, never breaking the rhythm of his hips.
He thrusts harder, the gun spearing deeper, twisting slightly to drag along Daniel's walls. Daniel's body jolts, the stimulation to his prostate intensifying into a burning ache that borders on pain, but it's laced with ecstasy, making his cock throb and leak profusely.
"Answer me, boy."
But Daniel can't. It feels like any sudden movement will be his last, at any wrong turn or harsh breath a bullet will fly out and tear through his body. That fear overtakes him in a real way, paralyzing his lungs.
But his body doesn't stop regardless.
Droplets of pre-cum slick his shaft, running down to his balls, the wetness a stark contrast to the dry chill of the metal inside him. He's terrified — every clench around the gun reminds him of its lethal potential, the way it could shatter him in an instant — but the arousal is overwhelming, a tidal wave that finally crashes over the fear, leaving him gasping and groaning wildly.
Armand's movements grow more forceful, his hips pistoning as if he's buried balls-deep in Daniel's ass, the illusion heightening the dominance.
The gun fucks in and out mechanically, the barrel moving roughly, a contrast to the normal slick glide of a cock.
Daniel's hole flutters around it regardless, each drag heating his nerves. The scrape and pull hurts now, battering down on his walls and surely leaving behind scrapes — cuts that will take months to heal after this is all over.
His prostate feels more sensitive now, the relentless prodding turning it into a hotspot of raw nerves, every bullyish thrust sending waves of pain radiating through his core.
His cock aches, untouched, the head swollen and slick, pre-cum flowing freely now, soaking his groin in sticky warmth.
Sweat beads on Daniel's forehead. He feels exposed, violated in the most thrilling way, the gun's cold invasion contrasting the heat building in his veins.
His breaths come in short, desperate bursts, moans mingling with whimpers as the prostate stimulation pushes him toward the edge. The pressure there is unrelenting, a deep throb that makes his vision swim, his body trembling on the precipice.
Armand seems to sense it, his lips curling into a wicked smile. He slows his hips just enough to tease, the gun buried deep and still, grinding against Daniel's prostate with tiny circles.
Daniel clenches hard, his walls squeezing the barrel, the sensation of fullness amplified by the fear. Pre-cum dribbles steadily from his slit, his cock pulsing with need, balls drawn tight.
Then Armand's finger tightens on the trigger.
"Are you ready to cum for me?" He asks, voice rough with lust.
Daniel groans, an ugly sound that has him wanting to clasp his own mouth shut. But Armand smiles down at him, eyes observing every wrinkly aligning his face.
"Yes, cum for me." Then he pulls the trigger.
The click echoes like thunder in Daniel's ears.
Terror peaks in a blinding flash, merging with the overwhelming assault on his prostate, and Daniel cums with a strangled cry.
His body convulses, ropes creaking as he arches, hot spurts of semen erupting from his cock, painting his chest and stomach in thick ropes.
The orgasm rips through him, intensified by the clench around the gun, his hole spasming wildly as waves of ecstasy crash over the fear. He leaks and leaks, the release endless, leaving him shuddering and spent, the gun still lodged inside as Armand watches with satisfied hunger.
Daniel feels every inch as Armand slowly drags it out of him. His body grips at the material as if it's afraid to let it go.
Then, eyes watching Daniel, Armand brings the gun up to Daniel's lips. "Kiss it."
His words leave no room for argument and Daniel finds a new fear welling up inside of him. He cranes his neck up as much as he can, Armand helping by slowly dragging the tip of the gun up his body.
The barrel now rests on Daniel's chest, the very tip in front of his lips. He looks into the unending darkness of Armand's eyes, and with fresh tears in his own — he puckers up and places a kiss on the tip.
Armand smiles, satisfied.