Tim's apartment offers the usual purple shadows and moonlight. Closing the door, he reaches for the lights. A warm, hard body presses his, and Tim grunts.

Someone male pokes Tim's spine with a gun. "Spread 'em. Leave the lights off."

Swallowing, Tim plants his hands on the door and widens his stance. "You could get into trouble for this."

"Should I say 'please'?" The man cups Tim's cock.

"Uh. That might help."

Breathing across Tim's neck, the man whispers, "Please."

The cold gun trails up Tim's back under his shirt. Tim shudders. Long, rough fingers unzip his pants, then push inside his boxers and wrap like flames around his hardening cock. He thrusts forward.

"That's more like it," the man says, his heated laughter making Tim flush.

"I'm glad you approve," Tim mutters. He drives his cock into that welcoming fist.

Lowering the gun to breach Tim's waistband, the man bites Tim's neck. His hard cock nudges Tim's ass.

Tim groans and thrusts.

"Give it to me," the man says.

Tim would've said he's close. But the man pumps harder, hand twisting, and Tim shouts wordlessly. He comes over his door and the man's hand.

Gasping, Tim rests his head on his forearm. "You could've just asked."

Both hands fall; flipped lights reveal Tony's grinning mouth, which Tim kisses.

Tony drops his gun, safety still locked, onto a table. "I wanted to change things up. Plus, I've heard you can get more with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone."

"Al Capone said that." Tim rearranges his pants and heads for the bathroom.

"Oh. Well, just because he let the IRS catch him --"

"And was a gangster."

"Doesn't make him stupid."

Grabbing a washcloth, Tim laughs all the way back to the door.