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in your garden where the nettle met the rose

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Harold pushes down on the soft swell of his belly, just enough to hurt, and John whimpers. It curls his toes and makes him rut up against the air. He feels exhausted, spent and keyed up all at once, as if his body is no longer its own. He wants to sleep as much as his body wants to fuck. It seeps wetness and jolts into Harold’s hand when he reaches inside John with two fingers and rubs hard at the point that makes him twitch and burn.

John’s mouth falls open on a quiet, wet pant.

“Harold,” he murmurs.

He can’t believe he wants this again. He’s still loose and open from the last time. The rim of his hole still burns.

“I’ve got you,” Harold says, and then, “Oh.”

He sinks into John, burying himself to the hilt as John’s body sucks him in greedily. It’s a kind of raw ache, like pressing on a bruise, and John is dying to be filled. He hooks his legs around Harold and buries his heels into Harold’s buttocks, drawing him in and deeper.

He’s in as deep as he can go, the head of his cock butting up against John’s cervix, and John draws him closer until they’re grinding together, pain and pleasure mixed, and he groans. It’s all sweaty and sticky and close, the both of them sliding together. Harold pants into his skin, and John touches him everywhere—his face, his back, the fragile bridge of his shoulders.

He works his hips against Harold’s until his stomach burns with it, and even then, they’re just getting started.

Harold gets him up on his hands and knees, ass hanging off the edge of the bed so Harold can fuck him while standing. His belly hangs down, more prominent like this for all that John is just starting to show. Harold fucks him from behind, his cock driving deep. He palms at John’s chest, his hips, his ass. He rubs John’s belly with firm, possessive strokes, and John moans.

“Mine,” Harold growls in his ear, more caveman alpha than mild-mannered computer genius, and John gushes between them, coming onto the mattress with his dick untouched.

Yours, John mouths, so stuffed full of cock that he can’t breathe, can’t think.

Harold fucks him through it, fucks him after it, and John coasts along the obscene, satisfying feeling of being stuffed full. He’s so sensitive that it hurts. He whimpers when Harold hits the good spots inside him and again when Harold’s hips finally snap forward, knot swelling deep in John’s guts. It gets bigger, bigger—so big he’s sure he can’t take it, prizing him open and locking him shut. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, and he sobs around it.

Harold groans with satisfaction, petting John’s back and sides, telling him how well he did, how well he’s doing.

John closes his eyes and breathes, feeling the rush of relief that comes from being bred, of being petted and praised. Shame is hard on its heels, but there’s nowhere to go, and he feels himself getting impossibly hard again at the inevitability of it.

Harold grips his soft cock, and John comes twice more, half-hard and cringingly sensitive by the time Harold’s knot finally softens enough to be worked free from his aching hole.