Chapter 9: The Breeding Claim
Wut woke to a specific, profound ache. It was a deep, throbbing memory lodged in the very core of him. He didn’t open his eyes immediately. He took inventory. The dull soreness in his hips, pressed into the mattress. The sharper, more intimate tenderness when he shifted slightly, a reminder of being stretched and filled and used. The bruises were a constant, low-frequency pulse against the sheets.
Then came the other sensation. Warm, wet, impossibly gentle.
He blinked, the golden dawn light fracturing into soft focus. Rod was nestled between his legs, the duvet pushed down to his thighs. His head was bent, his focus absolute. He wasn’t fucking him. He was… tending.
His tongue, soft and agile, lapped in slow, broad stripes over Wut’s hole. The muscle was swollen, sensitive, and the contact sent not a bolt of lust, but a wave of shocking, vulnerable intimacy through Wut’s groin. It was a caress on bruised flesh, an apology and a claim all at once.
“Rod,” Wut breathed, his voice raspy with sleep.
Rod hummed against him, the vibration a direct, dirty buzz that made Wut’s hips twitch. He didn’t stop. He pressed closer, his tongue probing not to penetrate, but to soothe and to taste. He licked away the dried, flaky evidence of their rooftop conclusion, his movements slow and methodical. Wut could feel the slight give, the lingering openness from the night before. Rod’s tongue explored that, too, dipping just inside the rim, tasting the remnants of himself.
It was obscenely intimate. More intimate, in a way, than the frantic coupling hours before. This was a study. A reclamation.
“S’okay?” Rod murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin.
“Yeah,” Wut sighed, letting his head fall back. “Just… sore.”
“I know.” Rod’s voice was thick. “I want to feel it.”
He shifted. Wut heard the soft click of a cap. The smell of coconut and shea butter bloomed in the air—the unscented lotion they kept on the nightstand. Rod’s fingers, slick and cool, replaced his tongue. One finger, pressing gently, an insistent question at a door already broken down. It slid in without resistance, a smooth glide into a channel that was relaxed, used, tender.
Wut hissed, a sharp intake of breath. It wasn’t pain. It was a vivid, full-color recall. The pressure of that initial thrust against the glass, the burning stretch, the complete submission. His cock, lying soft against his stomach, gave a helpless, interested twitch.
“So open,” Rod whispered, almost to himself. He worked the finger slowly, in and out, a gentle pistoning. “Jesus, Wut. You’re still so open for me.” He added a second finger. The stretch was minor, a faint echo, but the feeling of being filled again, so soon after, was profoundly affecting. Rod scissored them gently, feeling the clutch of inner muscle. “Can you feel last night? Inside?”
Wut could. A ghostly, physical memory. A heaviness. A claim. “Yes.”
Rod’s fingers curled, seeking. They brushed a spot that made Wut’s entire body jolt, a live wire tapped. “Fuck!” he gasped.
“There it is,” Rod said, his voice laced with a dark, satisfied wonder. He rubbed that spot again, a slow, relentless pressure that had Wut pushing back against his hand, a weak, involuntary grind. “Your body still wants it. Even like this, all sore and fucked-out, it’s begging.”
He withdrew his fingers with a soft, wet sound. Wut felt empty, achingly so. He heard more movement, the rustle of bedding, Rod spitting into his palm. Then the blunt, hot pressure was back, different this time. The broad, unforgiving crown of Rod’s cock, nudging against his entrance, slick with spit and lotion.
“Look at me,” Rod said.
Wut forced his eyes open, lifting his head. Rod was poised over him, propped on one arm. His dyed hair was mussed, sleep-soft. His hazel eyes were dark, pupils blown with a desire that was tempered by something else—a fierce, protective focus. He wasn’t the wild animal from the rooftop. He was a man who had done something monumental and was now dealing with the consequence, the responsibility, the prize.
“This might hurt,” he said, no trace of apology, only a stark honesty.
“I know,” Wut said. “Do it.”
Rod pushed.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion. The soreness flared, a bright, protesting ache as his body, still softened from Rod’s fingers, was forced to accept him again. Wut’s breath came in short, sharp pants. His hands fisted in the sheets. He watched Rod’s face, saw the strain there, the effort to go slow, the overwhelming pleasure of being sheathed once more in a heat that was unmistakably his.
“Fuck… fuck…” Rod chanted, sinking inch by agonizing inch. “You’re taking it… you’re taking me back in…”
When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt, they both went still. The feeling was immense. A deep, burning fullness that was pain and possession and homecoming. Wut felt stretched to his limit, his insides molded around the rigid length. He could feel every heartbeat in his own throat, and he swore he could feel Rod’s pulse inside him.
Rod lowered himself, bracing his forearms on either side of Wut’s head. He didn’t move his hips. He just stared down, his face inches away. “Tell me what you feel.”
“You,” Wut gasped. “All of you. It burns.”
“Good.” Rod dropped his head, kissing the junction of Wut’s neck and shoulder, a tender press against the skin he’d marked with his teeth before. “It should burn. I want you to feel me all day. I want every time you shift in your chair at work, you remember my cock in your ass.”
He began to move. Not the frantic, driving pace of the rooftop. This was a deep, rolling cadence. A slow fuck that emphasized every millimeter of slide, every cling of muscle. Each withdrawal was a reluctant loss, each thrust forward a profound, settling reclaim. The burn gradually subsided, metabolized into a heavy, drugging pleasure that radiated from Wut’s core out to his fingertips.
“You were incredible last night,” Rod whispered into his skin, his hips maintaining that relentless, slow rhythm. “Pinned against that glass. Coming for the whole goddamn city. I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful. My brave, perfect whore.”
The filthy praise, delivered in that reverent, breathless tone, speared through Wut more effectively than any thrust. Heat flooded his face, his chest. His cock, trapped between their stomachs, was fully hard now, leaking against his own skin.
“You gave me that,” Rod continued, his pace never faltering. “You gave me the key. You gave me the height. You gave me your fear and your trust and I fucked you full of it. And now…” He drove in particularly deep, grinding his pelvis against Wut’s ass, making him cry out. “Now I get to fuck you full of me all over again. In our bed. Because I can. Because you’re mine.”
“Yours,” Wut echoed, the word torn from him. It was the truth. In this suspended, golden morning, there was no power to gift or withhold. There was only this fact, being fucked into him with every deep stroke.
Rod’s rhythm began to stutter, to deepen further. His control was slipping. Wut could feel the tension coiling in the arms braced beside him, hear the increasingly ragged drag of breath in his ear.
“Gonna come,” Rod warned, his voice a broken scrape. “Gonna fill you up again. Keep last night’s load company. You want that? You want me to pump another load into your sore, fucked-out hole?”
“Yes,” Wut begged, mindless. “Do it, Rod. Fill me.”
It was the permission that broke him. Rod’s hips slammed forward, seating him impossibly deep. He held there, his body bowing, a guttural, choked sound ripping from his throat. Wut felt it—the hot, liquid pulse deep inside him, a second branding, a fresh flood claiming already-claimed territory. Rod came in long, pumping surges, his cock twitching and jerking as he emptied himself.
Wut came moments later, untouched, the sensation of being filled, owned, and used triggering a climax that was less an explosion and more a deep, full-body surrender. His release spilled hot between them, a weak, sympathetic echo of Rod’s.
Rod collapsed, his dead weight a welcome anchor. He was still inside, softening now, but he made no move to withdraw. He simply panted into the crook of Wut’s neck.
Minutes passed. The room grew brighter. A bird chirped insistently outside the window.
“Don’t pull out,” Wut said quietly.
Rod shook his head against his shoulder. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
They lay like that, intimately locked, as their heartbeats slowed. The stickiness between them cooled. The soreness returned, a persistent, throbbing companion. Finally, Rod shifted, his softened cock slipping free with a soft, wet sound. Wut felt the immediate, warm trickle of release onto his thigh and the sheets beneath.
Rod rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He looked dazed, satiated.
Wut gingerly sat up. The ache was profound. He felt… used. In the most literal, physical sense. He felt stuffed, marked, and profoundly settled. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Where are you going?” Rod asked, his voice lazy.
“Shower. And then… pancakes. You promised.”
A slow grin spread across Rod’s face. “I did.”
In the shower, Wut let the hot water sluice over him. He soaped himself carefully, cleaning away the night and the morning. He felt the tender skin, the bruises. He felt the subtle, internal leak. He shut off the water and toweled dry. When he returned to the bedroom, Rod was still in bed, but he’d thrown the soiled top sheet into a corner. He’d pulled on a pair of low-slung sweats but nothing else.
Wut dressed in soft, loose track pants and a t-shirt. Every movement was a reminder.
The kitchen was filled with quiet, domestic sounds. The click of the gas igniter. The sizzle of butter in the pan. The rhythmic whisk of batter in a bowl. Rod worked with a focused ease. Wut leaned against the counter, sipping a glass of cold water, watching him.
“You’re moving carefully,” Rod observed without turning around.
“No shit.”
Rod chuckled. He poured batter into the pan. It hissed and bubbled. “Hurts to sit?”
“I haven’t tried yet.”
“You will. At your desk later.” He flipped a pancake with a neat flick of his wrist. “Think about me when you do.”
Wut didn’t answer. He was thinking about him now. About the feeling of being plugged, full. Rod had stayed inside him for a long time after, a human stopper. He’d made him carry the evidence.
The pancakes were perfect. Golden brown, light. They stacked them on plates, drizzled them with maple syrup, added a pat of butter that melted into golden pools. They took their plates to the small dining table.
Wut paused before sitting down. He looked at the hard wooden chair, then at Rod, who was already sliding into his seat, watching him with a knowing, quiet smirk.
Wut lowered himself slowly. The initial contact was a shock—a direct pressure on bruised flesh and, more intimately, a pressure that seemed to push inward, reminding him of the fullness he carried. A faint, hot trickle escaped, seeping into the fabric of his track pants. He couldn’t suppress a sharp inhale.
Rod’s smirk softened into something more complex. Concern, pride, a deep, dark affection. “Okay?”
Wut settled his weight, adjusting slightly. The ache was constant, a low hum. He picked up his fork. “It’s a reminder.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the sweet, buttery taste a stark contrast to the raw physical memory between them.
“It’s different today,” Rod said finally, cutting into his stack. “The… dynamic.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like a game anymore. Or an experiment. The conference room… that was me testing a boundary. The rooftop… that was you burning the boundary down. This morning?” He gestured with his fork between them. “This is just… what we are now. A fact.”
Wut considered this. He felt the truth of it. The exploration had crystallized into a new shape. A permanent expansion of their repertoire. “So, what? We just… toggle? Some days you’re in charge, some days I am?”
Rod shook his head, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s not about being ‘in charge.’ Not like that. It’s about… access. You’ve given me access to a part of you. A vulnerable part. The part that can let go completely. And I… I’ve discovered I have a capacity for taking care of that. For holding it. For fucking it senseless and then washing it gently in the shower.” He took a sip of coffee. “It’s not a switch we flip. It’s a room in our house we didn’t know was there. And now we live in all the rooms.”
The metaphor was apt. Wut felt like he was moving through a familiar space that had been subtly, permanently rearranged. The furniture was the same, but the light fell differently.
He finished his pancakes. The simple act of eating felt grounding, normalizing. Yet the persistent, throbbing ache beneath the normalcy was a thrill. A secret they shared with the empty apartment.
“I have to go to work,” Wut said, glancing at the clock.
“I know.” Rod stood, collecting their plates. He took them to the sink. As Wut pushed back from the table, wincing at the fresh pang, Rod came up behind him. His hands slid around Wut’s waist, palms flattening against his lower stomach. He pulled him back against his chest, his chin resting on Wut’s shoulder.
“You’re carrying me with you,” Rod murmured, his lips against Wut’s ear.
Wut placed his hands over Rod’s, pressing them more firmly against his belly. He could almost imagine he felt the weight, the physical reality of it. “I know.”
“Every meeting. Every email. Every time you shift in that fancy chair of yours.” Rod’s voice was a low, possessive thread. “You’ll feel it. And you’ll remember who put it there.”
He kissed the side of Wut’s neck, a soft, closed-mouth press. Then he released him.
Getting dressed for work was a new exercise in awareness. The slide of boxer-briefs over tender skin. The way his suit trousers, usually comfortable, felt like a gentle, constant hug on the bruises. Sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his socks was a production.
Rod leaned in the doorway, watching, a small, unreadable smile on his face. “You look…” he searched for the word. “Settled.”
Wut stood, fixing his cuffs. He met Rod’s gaze in the dresser mirror. “I feel settled.”
At the door, Wut paused. He had his keys, his wallet, his phone. He had the memory of the rooftop key, cold and heavy in his palm. He had the deeper, more physical memory of this morning.
Rod caught his hand before he could turn the knob. He pulled him into a final kiss. It was deep, but slow. A communion. When they parted, Rod’s eyes were serious.
“The gift,” he said. “I’m holding it carefully.”
Wut nodded. He had nothing to add. Rod understood.
The drive to work was a study in sensitivity. Every bump in the road translated directly. He parked, walked through the gleaming lobby, rode the elevator up. Each step was a conscious effort. He greeted his assistant, entered his office, and finally, he sat.
He let himself down into the leather chair with deliberate control. The pressure was immediate and intense. A direct line to the past twelve hours. He let out a slow, controlled breath, his eyes drifting shut for a second.
When he opened them, he looked out his window. His office was high, but not as high as the rooftop. The city lay below, orderly and oblivious. He remembered the feeling of the glass against his cheek, the wind, the shouted confession. He remembered the slow, burning reclaim in their sunlit bed.
He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. There wasn’t one. The ache was a perfect, persistent circle.
A smile, private and deep, touched his lips. He turned to his computer, waking the
A smile, private and deep, touched his lips. He turned to his computer, waking the screen to a constellation of emails. The dull, throbbing ache in his chair was a counterpoint to the bright, demanding pixels. He worked, but his concentration was a frayed wire. Every slight shift, every lean forward to type, sent a fresh, hot reminder from his core. It wasn’t pain anymore. It was a presence. A ghost limb of Rod, still buried inside him.
His midday meeting was a trial. He sat at the conference table, the same table where this had all begun, and fought to keep his expression neutral. The memory was visceral: the smell of cleaning supplies, the risk, Rod’s tentative fingers. Now, he felt the echo of that, amplified a thousand times by what came after. He shifted, trying to relieve the pressure, and a sudden, slick warmth seeped into his briefs. His breath hitched. He covered it with a cough, sipping his water.
“You okay, Wut?” his manager asked.
“Fine. Just a… lingering muscle thing from the gym,” he lied, the words tasting like ash and secret honey. The gym. If only they knew.
The day bled into a slow, torturous parade of minutes. Each one was measured by the pulse between his legs. By three o’clock, the soreness had deepened into a stiff, bruised feeling. The ghost of Rod’s possession had become a literal, liquid weight he carried low in his gut. He was hyper-aware of a slight, phantom fullness, as if his body was stubbornly trying to retain what had been given. He went to the bathroom, locked himself in a stall, and pressed a hand against his lower abdomen through his shirt. He imagined he could feel a different density there.
The drive home was an exercise in focused endurance. The car seat was unforgiving. Traffic was a snarl of red lights and impatient horns. Each jolt travelled straight up his spine and settled, hot and demanding, in his ass. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He wasn’t just going home. He was retreating to the only sanctuary that understood this specific, brutalized part of him.
He finally pushed open the apartment door. The familiar quiet greeted him, smelling of lemon cleaner and the jasmine candle Rod liked. He dropped his keys in the bowl, the clatter too loud. He toed off his shoes, his movements stiff and careful.
Rod appeared from the living room archway. He was in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, looking soft and domestic. His eyes, however, were sharp, scanning Wut’s face, his posture. “Rough day?”
Wut leaned against the wall, letting it take his weight. He didn’t speak for a moment. He just absorbed the sight of him, this man who had rearranged his internal world. The ache spiked, a vicious, welcoming throb. “It was long,” he finally said, his voice rough. “Every second was long.”
Rod understood. He closed the distance, his hands coming up to cup Wut’s face. He kissed him, a slow, searching kiss that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with assessment. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’m full,” Wut corrected, the words slipping out unbidden, more honest than he’d intended. “I feel… full. And empty at the same time. It’s all I could think about.”
A dark, pleased light flickered in Rod’s hazel eyes. “Yeah?”
“All day. In the meeting. In my chair. I kept feeling… leaks.” He felt his face heat, but he held Rod’s gaze. The shame was gone, incinerated on the rooftop. What remained was a stark, reporting honesty. “It’s like my body forgot how to close.”
Rod’s thumb stroked his cheekbone. “Maybe it doesn’t want to.”
He took Wut’s hand and led him to the bedroom, not to the bed, but to the full-length mirror on the closet door. He stood behind Wut, his chin on Wut’s shoulder, their reflections a study in contrast: Wut in his rumpled office wear, Rod in careless comfort. “Look at you,” Rod murmured. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”
Wut saw the faint shadows under his own eyes, the tension in his jaw. He saw the way Rod’s hands settled possessively on his hips, right over the hidden bruises.
“I need—” Wut started, then stopped. The need was a formless, yawning thing. It wasn’t for sex, not precisely. It was for resolution. For culmination.
“Tell me,” Rod prompted, his lips against Wut’s ear.
Wut took a breath, his eyes glued to their tangled reflection. The Thai words, their native tongue, felt more accurate, more visceral. “ฉันทนมาตลอดทางจนถึงบ้าน,” he said, the syllables low and guttural. I endured all the way home. He pressed Rod’s hands lower, flattening them against his lower belly. “บอกโรดว่าฉันอยากได้น้ำเต็มท้อง.” Tell Rod I want to be filled up until my stomach is full.
Rod’s breath caught. His fingers flexed against the fine fabric of Wut’s dress shirt.
Wut continued, the fantasy spilling out, raw and uncensored. “ให้โรดเย็ดจนท้องนูนเหมือนท้องจริงๆ.” Let Rod fuck me until my belly swells up like a real one.
In the mirror, he watched Rod’s expression transform. The playful dominance, the curiosity, all of it melted away into something stark and profoundly serious. His eyes searched Wut’s reflected gaze. “Wut,” he said, the single syllable heavy. Then, in Thai, the question was a whisper of awe. “เธออยากท้องหรอ?” You want to be pregnant?
It wasn’t a literal question. They both knew the biology was impossible. It was a question of metaphor, of depth, of a hunger so profound it sought physical proof. Wut didn’t blink. “ใช่.” Yes.
Rod’s arms tightened around him. He turned Wut from the mirror, breaking the spell of their reflection, needing the physical truth instead. “Then I’ll make you look pregnant,” he vowed, his voice trembling with a fervor that bordered on religious. “I’ll put so much in you, you’ll feel bloated with it. You’ll walk around for days feeling my come sloshing inside you. Is that what you want? To be my fucking vessel?”
“Yes,” Wut gasped, the English word a punch of air. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Clothes were a hated barrier. Rod peeled Wut’s suit off with a reverence that contradicted the filth of his words. He knelt to remove his trousers and briefs, his mouth following his hands. He didn’t use his tongue to prepare this time. He used it to claim, lapping at the sore, puffy rim, making Wut jump and shudder. “It’s still red,” Rod noted, his voice muffled against his skin. “It’s still mine from this morning. Good.”
He stood, pushing Wut backwards until his knees hit the bed. He fell, and Rod followed, a relentless wave. The bottle of lube was in his hand, but he ignored it. He spat into his palm, twice, three times, working it over his cock with a rough, hurried friction. He was already brutally hard, the veins standing in stark relief. “This isn’t for pleasure,” Rod growled, nudging the head against Wut’s entrance. “This is a deposit. You understand? I’m filling a tank.”
He shoved in.
The cry Wut let out was torn from a deeper place than any before. It was a sound of pure, brutal reception. There was no gentle stretch, no accommodating glide. His body, already tender and used, was forced to accept a violent re-occupation. Rod didn’t pause. He kept pushing, his hips driving forward until their bodies were slammed together, his balls tight against Wut’s ass.
“Oh, fuck, it’s tight,” Rod choked, his eyes screwed shut. “Tighter than this morning. Because you’re sore. Because you’re trying to hold the last load in and now I’m giving you another.” He began to move, and it was nothing like the slow, deep reclaim of the dawn. This was a mechanical, pumping rhythm. Short, jackhammer thrusts designed for one purpose only: injection.
Wut clawed at the sheets, his head thrashing side to side. The pain was bright and searing, a white-hot brand being reapplied. But beneath it, woven into the very fibers of the hurt, was the profound, psychological satisfaction of being used for this exact, crude purpose. He was a container. He was being filled.
“You feel that?” Rod grunted, his rhythm relentless, punishing. “You feel me shoving it up deep? Where it’ll stick? Where it’ll pool?” He changed his angle, driving downward, and Wut gasped as the cockhead seemed to bruise a new, deep place inside him. “Gonna pump you so full, it’ll have nowhere to go but up. Gonna distend your pretty little guts.”
The language was filthy, degrading, and it poured gasoline on the fire in Wut’s belly. His own cock, ignored and trapped between them, was achingly hard, leaking a steady stream of pre-come onto his own skin. He wasn’t going to come from touch. He was going to come from the idea, from the devastating reality of being turned into a receptacle.
Rod’s pace became frantic, losing its mechanical precision. He was close. His breaths were ragged sobs. “Gonna give it to you,” he promised, his voice breaking. “Gonna knock you up with it. You want my baby? Here it is. Take it. Take every fucking drop.”
He slammed in and froze. His body went rigid, a bowstring pulled past its limit. A guttural, wounded noise ripped from his throat. Wut felt the first jet, scalding and impossibly deep. Then another. And another. Rod pulsed inside him, a volley of hot, liquid claims. He kept thrusting shallowly through it, milking himself, pushing each new surge deeper into Wut’s clenching channel.
Wut came silently. His orgasm was a deep, internal convulsion, a spasm that gripped Rod’s still-spurting cock and milked it for more. His vision tunneled. There was no pleasure, only a catastrophic, full-body surrender to the function. He was being filled, and his body was helping, sucking him deeper, begging for the seeding.
Rod collapsed, spent, his weight a crushing, beautiful anchor. He was still semi-hard, still lodged inside. He panted like a dying man against Wut’s chest.
For minutes, there was only the sound of their struggling lungs. Wut felt overwhelmed. The sensation of fullness was no longer a phantom or a memory. It was acute, pressing, almost uncomfortable. He felt crammed, packed to the brim. A slow, heated trickle escaped, but it was a negligible relief. The bulk of it was trapped, held inside by the very pressure of Rod’s body and his own clenched muscles.
Rod finally shifted, his softening cock slipping out with a wet, gulping sound. A more substantial flood followed, but not the complete release Wut expected. He still felt impossibly, densely full.
Rod moved down the bed, his eyes intent. He pushed Wut’s thighs apart, looking. He swore softly. “You’re gaping,” he whispered, awed. “It’s not closing. It’s just… open. And look.” He pressed his fingers firmly into Wut’s lower abdomen, just above the pubic bone.
Wut looked down. His stomach, always flat and taut with muscle, now showed a subtle, firm swell under Rod’s pressing fingers. It wasn’t imagination. The sheer volume inside him was pushing outward, creating a faint, real curve.
“There,” Rod breathed, his eyes wide. “See it? That’s me. That’s my come in you. Making a bump.” He leaned down and licked a stripe up Wut’s oversensitive perineum. “My pregnant boy.”
The words shouldn’t have landed. They were absurd. But in the charged, wrecked space of their bedroom, they felt truer than anything. Wut’s hand came down, covering Rod’s, pressing down on the slight distension. A deep, complicated emotion swelled in his chest, threatening to crack him open. It was possessiveness, and vulnerability, and a terrifying, absolute love.
“You did it,” Wut said.
Rod crawled back up, wrapping Wut in his arms, holding him fiercely. They lay like that as the evening shadows stretched across the floor. Wut was afraid to move. Moving might break the spell, might encourage a messy loss he wasn’t ready for.
“I want to keep it,” he murmured into Rod’s hair.
“Then keep it.” Rod kissed his chest. “Walk with it. Sleep with it. Let it settle.”
Dinner was a quiet affair. Wut put on loose, soft shorts and a tank top. He moved with a new, conscious care, a hand often drifting to rest on his lower belly. The faint pressure there was a constant, thrilling secret. He felt heavy. Grounded. Rod watched him with a reverent, simmering attention, fetching him water, brushing his knuckles against the back of Wut’s neck.
Later, in bed, Rod curled around him from behind. His hand slipped under the waistband of Wut’s shorts, palm warm and flat against that slight, firm swell. “Still there?” he whispered.
“Still there,” Wut confirmed. He felt a slow, internal shift, a liquid redistribution as he lay on his side. He pushed back against Rod, feeling his renewed, semi-hard interest against his ass. “You want to put more in?”
Rod’s laugh was a soft huff against his shoulder. “I’m fucking drained, you greedy thing. But tomorrow.” He nipped at the skin. “Maybe tomorrow we see how much it takes before you really look it.”
The promise was a dark, sweet curl in Wut’s stomach. He fell asleep with Rod’s hand a possessive weight on his belly, holding the proof of their madness inside him.