Rókus
by Edward Kyle Stokes
Chapter 7
Different Choices
The week dragged on with the new, comfortable rhythm of work and shared lunch breaks. Rókus and Tom as were inseparable during the day, deepening their bond. But on Friday, as they packed up their tools, Tomas posed the question that had been hanging between them like a cloud.
"Are you going to the club tonight?" Tomas asked, his tone casual.
Rókus knew exactly what the question implied. Did Tomas mean they were going to have their new 'usual night out,' which now meant hooking up with Laren and Solan? The thought weighed heavily on Rókus.
"Laren will probably be there. Maybe Solan," Rókus replied, testing the water.
"And... so what?" Tomas shot back, a strange defiance in his eyes.
"So... you wanna hook up with them?"
"I don't mind. You?"
Rókus felt a familiar confusion. He didn't know what he felt, didn't know where this dual relationship—the tender intimacy with Tomas, the brutal excitement of the bears—was leading. "Guess not."
Sure enough, when Rókus and Tomas arrived at the club, Laren and Solan were there, a massive, imposing pair. They spotted the boys immediately and strode over, full of swagger.
"Great to see you again," Laren boomed, clapping Tomas on the shoulder. "We had a great time last week. Ready for a repeat performance?"
Rókus looked strongly at Tomas, hoping to convey his feelings through a single glance. Then he turned to the two bears. "No," he said, quite simply. Nothing more, just a firm, clear no.
Tomas' reaction was unreadable, seemingly unconcerned. He simply shrugged. "I'll catch up with you tomorrow, Rókus," he said, giving him a brief nod. He then turned and left the club, walking out with Laren and Solan.
That night at Laren's apartment was far more intense and extreme than before. With only one twink for the bears to play with, Tomas found it impossible to handle them alone. Laren and Solan stripped him naked in no time, their movements rougher and more demanding. Laren poured a drink and, almost instantly, popped a pill into it.
The drug hit Tomas hard, but not hard enough to numb the sheer force of the two giants. They started playing: Laren used his mouth while Solan fucked him pretty hard in the arse. Then they switched. Solan, using his massive arms, was almost choking Tomas as Laren leaned down and smacked his arse hard before ramming his manhood in all the way.
Tomas' eyes were watering from the pain and the sheer intensity. Both bears smacked him around and fucked him without mercy. When they had exhausted their fun, they bundled the broken boy into a taxi and sent him home.
The rest of the evening at the club was not uneventful for Rókus. He nursed a drink at the bar, the sting of Tomas leaving quickly overridden by the general thrum of the music. He was scanning the crowd, trying to distract himself, when a young man approached him. He was tall and slim, with a kind face and a shy smile that looked instantly familiar.
"Rókus?" the man asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
Rókus looked at him, his brow furrowed in concentration. The face sparked a vague, fragmented memory—a blur of cold air and traffic. His father's words surfaced: A young man. Quite tall, athletic. Said he was a friend from the club...
"Yes," Rókus replied. "Do I know you?"
The man's smile widened. "I'm Elias. We met a few of weeks ago. You were having a rough night, pretty out of it when I came across you on the bridge and helped you home. Your dad was there, at your house. I left you with him."
A wave of relief and embarrassment washed over Rókus. "Elias! I... I remember flashes. I was so gone. Thank you. My dad said someone brought me home, but I couldn't remember who."
Elias ordered a drink—a simple soda—and they fell into conversation. Elias was easy to talk to, his demeanour gentle and unassuming, a world away from the aggressive confidence of Laren. He told Rókus he was a nurse working at a nearby hospital, specialising in rehabilitation.
"You really seemed to need someone to step in," Elias said, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "You were shaking on that bridge."
Rókus just nodded, grateful that Elias didn't press for details. The confession of Elias' profession only deepened Rókus' gratitude; he truly was a caring person.
After a second drink, Elias asked Rókus to dance. They moved together on the edge of the floor, not in the frantic, drug-induced way Rókus had danced before, but with a simple, pleasant rhythm. As the night drew to a close, they walked toward the exit.
"It was really good seeing you again, Rókus," Elias said, stopping just outside the door. "I'm glad you're okay."
He leaned in quickly and gave Rókus a warm, soft kiss on the cheek. "Maybe I'll see you here again sometime."
Rókus felt a genuine warmth spread through him. "I hope so, Elias," he said.
He watched as Elias walked away, his heart feeling lighter than it had after Tomas went off. He walked home alone, but for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel lonely.
Rókus arrived at Tomas' tiny studio on Saturday morning, his heart full of the pleasant memory of Elias and the warm anticipation of seeing Tomas. But when Tomas opened the door, the sight of him made Rókus' casual mood vanish. Tomas looked drained, his eyes ringed with shadows, and his movements were stiff. As he stripped down for a shower, Rókus saw the faint, angry bruises and red marks littering his smooth back and shoulders.
Rókus felt a surge of sympathy mixed with a private, internal frustration. He quickly got to work, making strong coffee. While he didn't want to get "all high and mighty" and say, I told you so, he couldn't help but think that Tomas had, in a way, asked for it. More pressingly, Rókus wondered why their good thing, their gentle, new relationship, wasn't enough for Tomas.
After Rókus had applied a soothing cream to the worst of the bruises and kissed a few of the painful spots, Tomas finally asked about his own Friday night. Like an idiot, Rókus blurted out the story about Elias, the "good Samaritan" who had brought him home weeks ago.
The look Tomas gave him was enough to freeze Hell over. His eyes narrowed, and the warmth instantly drained from his face. "But nothing happened," Rókus insisted quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. "Just one little peck on the cheek."
It was obvious to Rókus that major reparations were called for. He needed to show Tomas, beyond any doubt, that he wanted him and, crucially, that Tomas was a strong, desirable man—not the passive plaything he had been the previous night.
Rókus took hold of Tomas' hand, his eyes burning with sincerity. He leaned in close and whispered softly, his voice full of a commanding need. "You have to fuck me, Tomas. I want you. Now."
The effect was immediate and profound. Tomas, startled by a sudden dominance, was reborn. His eyes flashed, and he seemed to shed his aches, pains, and jealousy in an instant. The proposition—the demand for him to be the active one, the penetrator—revitalised him. He reveled in the idea of being on top in bed. He moved with a new, aggressive energy, finding the strength to ravage the smooth, slim being lying under him.
After he had had his pleasure, the physical exertion replaced the emotional pain. Tomas rolled over, deeply contented, his hand possessively fondling Rókus' balls as the boy brought himself to a powerful climax, shooting over his smooth, hairless chest.
If Friday night had been a crushing ordeal for Tomas, albeit one of his own making, Saturday was a sweet, necessary triumph.
"Will you stay?" Tomas posed the question, his hand still resting possessively on Rókus' inner thigh.
Rókus didn't hesitate. He looked into Tomas' eyes, seeing not the confusion of the club, but the gentle appreciation of the morning. "Of course, silly," Rókus replied, echoing Tomas' own words from the week before.
Rókus stayed. Sunday was a slow, domestic drift of a day, a deliberate counterpoint to the chaos of Friday. They didn't rush to leave the studio. Instead, they spent the morning lazing in bed, talking in soft whispers about their families and dreams. They planned their week's work, their lunch breaks, and argued playfully over which music to put on.
In the afternoon, they finally ventured out to buy groceries, the mundane act of selecting bread and cheese feeling profoundly intimate. They cooked a simple but satisfying meal together in the tiny studio kitchen, Rókus awkwardly chopping vegetables while Tomas effortlessly seasoned the dish. Later, they spent the evening cuddled on the sofa, watching another film, their legs tangled together. The day was dedicated to building a foundation, fortifying the simple, shared world that felt entirely safe from the outside.
The lovemaking was inevitable, the natural conclusion to their day of quiet intimacy. As the credits rolled on the film, they exchanged a look that needed no words. They didn't rush; they simply undressed where they sat, their movements slow and deliberate, a testament to the fact that they had all the time in the world.
They moved to the bed, their bare bodies meeting with a familiar, welcome warmth. Their hands traced the contours of the other—Rókus' fingers exploring the lean muscles of Tomas's back, Tomas' hands gently caressing the smooth, hairless expanse of Rókus' chest. R ó kus was very gentle, mindful of the bruises, some still visible from Friday night. They kissed deeply, the kiss evolving from tender affection to passionate desire.
Rókus took the lead this time, moving over Tomas, eager to show his desire and cement the balance that Saturday had brought. He straddled Tomas, controlling the pace, making sure that every touch, every kiss, every movement was shared and desired. It was a release of built-up tension, a celebration of their connection.
When Tomas finally took his turn, he was careful and tender, his movements speaking of deep affection. The lovemaking was profound, a comforting rhythm that erased the lingering aches and fears of the past. They moved together until they both reached a powerful climax, their cries and moans restrained, their bodies shuddering with absolute satiation. They fell asleep intertwined, the comforting weight of their commitment settling over them as the quiet of the night descended.
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