Worried Pitcher Claims His Catcher

Sullivan sat on the edge of the bed in their shared apartment, the thin mattress dipping under his weight as he stared at the closed bathroom door. His baseball uniform still clung to him, the fabric damp with sweat from the grueling game that had stretched long into the evening. At twenty-four, the pitcher felt every inning in his shoulders and the tight coil of worry low in his gut. Roman had taken hit after hit behind the plate—foul tips glancing off the mitt, wild pitches slamming into the dirt near his knees—but Sullivan had watched every one of them. Roman had dodged, shifted, rolled with the impact like the seasoned twenty-six-year-old catcher he was. Still, the images replayed: the sharp crack of bat meeting ball, Roman’s body jerking, the way he’d grit his teeth and stay down in the squat.

Sullivan’s fingers dug into the sheets. “Come on, get out here,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough. He couldn’t shake it. Maybe a bruise blooming deep under the gear. Maybe something pulled. He hadn’t been able to check properly in the dugout chaos, and now the silence of the apartment only made the worry sharper.

The shower cut off. Water dripped. Sullivan’s pulse kicked harder. He stayed perched there in his dirt-streaked pants and jersey, cleats kicked off by the door earlier, waiting.

Roman stepped out, steam trailing him like a second skin. A single towel hung low on his hips, knotted loose enough that the V of muscle at his waist showed clearly. Water beaded across his broad chest, tracing paths down the defined ridges of his abs, catching in the dark hair that arrowed lower. His dark hair was slicked back, droplets sliding from the ends to his shoulders. Muscles that had absorbed every pitch of the night still looked powerful, unmarred at first glance, but Sullivan’s eyes hunted for damage anyway.

“You’re staring like I grew a second head,” Roman said, that familiar knowing smirk already tugging at one corner of his mouth. His voice was low, amused, still rough from calling pitches all game.

Sullivan’s throat worked. “Did you get hurt? I saw those foul tips. The one in the seventh looked like it caught you square.”

Roman stepped closer, bare feet silent on the floor. The towel shifted with each step, riding lower. “I dodged them. You saw me. I’m fine.”

“Let me see.” Sullivan stood abruptly, the mattress springs creaking in protest. He closed the distance, hands already lifting, hovering near Roman’s ribs. “Turn. Let me check.”

Roman’s smirk widened, but he turned slowly, presenting his back. Water still glittered along the strong lines of his shoulders and the dense muscle flanking his spine. Sullivan’s palms settled lightly, then firmer, mapping the warm, damp skin. He pressed carefully along the catcher’s sides, thumbs tracing the lattice of old scars and new pink marks that might have been from gear digging in. No deep flinch. No sharp intake of breath that signaled real pain. Just the solid heat of Roman’s body under his hands.

“Anything?” Roman asked, glancing over his shoulder. His voice had dropped, velvet and teasing.

Sullivan shook his head, fingers lingering at the curve of Roman’s waist where the towel edge rested. “No bruises I can find. But that slide in the ninth—”

“I rolled out of it clean.” Roman turned fully again, facing him. Sullivan’s hands stayed on him, sliding up now to the collarbones, checking the places the chest protector might have rubbed raw. Roman’s skin was hot from the shower, smooth over hard muscle, the scent of soap mixing with the faint residual musk of the game. Sullivan’s worried gaze dragged lower, over the pecs still glistening, the dark nipples tightened from cool air and attention, down the trail of hair that disappeared under the towel.

Roman’s eyes half-lidded. He clearly enjoyed every second of the inspection. “You’re thorough tonight, pitcher. Usually you just yell at me to ice something and pass out.”

“I watched every pitch,” Sullivan said, voice quieter now, the anxiety still thrumming but changing shape. His fingertips skimmed the towel’s knot, brushing the soft skin just above it. “I kept thinking one of them got you. That you’d be limping or holding your side.”

“I’m not.” Roman caught Sullivan’s wrist lightly, not pushing it away but guiding the hand lower, pressing Sullivan’s palm flat against his own stomach. The muscles jumped under the touch. “See? Solid. You can check lower if you’re still worried.”

The invitation hung between them, thick as the steam still curling from the bathroom. Sullivan’s breath came shorter. His own uniform felt suddenly too tight, the jersey sticking to his chest. He let his hand travel, following the path of water droplets, fingertips dipping just under the towel’s edge. Roman’s smirk turned sharper, eyes bright with heat.

“Go on,” Roman murmured. “Get it out of your system.”

Sullivan tugged. The towel loosened, then dropped entirely, pooling at Roman’s feet. Roman stood bare, cock already half-hard and thickening under the open appraisal, heavy between his thighs. Water droplets still clung to the dark thatch of hair at the base. No bruises there either—just clean, powerful lines, the thick length of him filling out as Sullivan stared.

“Christ,” Sullivan breathed. His hands returned, no longer purely clinical. He cupped Roman’s hips, thumbs stroking the sharp bones, then slid around to grip the firm globes of his ass, squeezing once to feel the give of muscle. Roman rocked forward into the contact with a soft sound of approval.

“Found something you like better than bruises?” Roman teased, voice husky. He stepped in until their chests nearly touched, the damp heat of his skin soaking into Sullivan’s jersey. “You’re still dressed. Still smelling like the mound. Makes me want to get you dirty all over again.”

Sullivan’s worry finally cracked open into something hotter, hungrier. He had checked every inch he could reach, found Roman whole and solid and wanting, and the relief flooded straight into lust. His hands gripped harder, hauling Roman forward. Their mouths met in a rough, open kiss—Sullivan tasting mint and heat, tongue sliding deep as Roman answered with equal force. Roman’s bare cock pressed against the front of Sullivan’s uniform pants, already leaving a damp streak.

Sullivan walked them backward without breaking the kiss, guiding until the backs of Roman’s knees hit the mattress. He pushed. Roman went down willingly, sprawling across the sheets, legs parting, cock jutting up flushed and ready. Sullivan followed, still fully clothed, bracing over him on one arm while the other hand mapped bare skin again—chest, stomach, the sensitive insides of Roman’s thighs. He squeezed lightly, checking one last time even as his palm drifted inward to wrap around Roman’s shaft and stroke once, firm and slow.

Roman arched, a low groan vibrating in his throat. “There it is. That’s the look I wanted. Stop fretting and take what you need.”

Sullivan’s free hand worked at his own belt, yanking it open, shoving the uniform pants down just enough to free his own aching cock. It sprang out heavy, the head already slick. He settled between Roman’s spread thighs, rutting once so their lengths dragged together, friction sparking white-hot. Roman’s hands shoved under Sullivan’s jersey, palms skating over sweat-damp abs, then lower to grip his ass and pull him tighter.

“Fuck, you’re wound so tight,” Roman panted against his mouth. “All that worry turned into this. Gonna claim me properly now that you know I’m in one piece?”

Sullivan kissed him harder in answer, teeth grazing Roman’s lower lip. He reached between them, lining up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Roman’s hole—already relaxed from the shower’s heat and the long knowing looks. He pushed in slow, inch by thick inch, watching Roman’s face for any flicker of real discomfort. There was none. Only the catcher’s head tipping back, mouth open on a moan as Sullivan filled him deep.

They stayed locked like that for a long moment, Sullivan buried to the hilt, hips flush to Roman’s ass, both of them breathing hard. Sullivan’s worry had burned away completely, replaced by the raw need to move, to fuck, to keep Roman under him and prove with every thrust that the catcher was whole and his. He rolled his hips experimentally, dragging out halfway before sliding home again. Roman’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging in.

“Harder,” Roman urged, voice wrecked already. “I’ve taken worse pitches than this. Give it to me.”

Sullivan obeyed, setting a steady, powerful rhythm that made the bedframe creak. Each thrust punched a grunt from Roman’s chest. Sweat sheened anew on both of them, Sullivan’s uniform jersey still half-on and rucked up, Roman’s bare body gleaming under him. Sullivan braced on his forearms, forehead pressed to Roman’s, staring into those sharp eyes while he fucked deeper, angling for the spot that made Roman’s cock jump untouched between their stomachs.

The apartment filled with the wet slap of skin, the creak of springs, mutual gasps. Sullivan’s hand snaked between them to stroke Roman in time, thumb swiping over the leaking head. Roman clenched around him deliberately, milking every stroke, the smirk long gone and replaced by open, hungry need.

Sullivan felt the tension coil tighter at the base of his spine, but he held back, wanting this first stretch of claiming to last. He shifted angles again, pounding into Roman with the same precision he used on the mound, every drive measured and deep. Roman’s nails raked down his back under the jersey, leaving stinging trails that only fed the fire.

“Not done checking yet,” Sullivan growled against Roman’s ear, voice thick. He slowed deliberately, grinding in circles that made Roman curse and push back for more. “Gonna take my time feeling every bit of you. Make sure nothing’s sore. Make sure you feel me tomorrow instead.”

Roman laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when Sullivan snapped his hips hard. “Do it then. Claim what’s yours, pitcher. I’m right here—open and waiting.”

Sullivan pulled nearly all the way out, the thick ridge of his cockhead catching at the rim, then slammed back in to the root. Roman’s shout echoed. They moved together like that, building and building, the worry fully transmuted into pure possession. Sullivan’s free hand pinned one of Roman’s wrists above his head, fingers laced, holding him down while he fucked him open on the bed they shared. Roman’s free hand stayed busy, stroking himself in rough pulls that matched Sullivan’s rhythm, precome slicking the way.

The next thrust dragged a deeper sound from both of them. Sullivan felt Roman’s walls flutter, felt the catcher’s body start to lock up under him. He kept driving, relentless now, the bed slamming the wall in steady percussion. Roman’s eyes stayed locked on his, dark with lust and that same teasing challenge even as pleasure overtook him.

Sullivan leaned down, biting at the junction of Roman’s neck and shoulder—hard enough to mark, soft enough not to truly hurt—and Roman shuddered hard around him. The heat between them climbed higher, unfinished, the night still stretching ahead with more to take and give. Sullivan’s cock throbbed deep inside, his own release hovering close but deliberately held off, because this was only the beginning of claiming every inch he had worried over.

Sullivan’s hips snapped forward again, burying himself to the root inside Roman’s heat, the catcher’s body clenching greedily around every thick inch. The bite mark he’d left on Roman’s neck already darkened under the sweat-slick skin, and Sullivan licked over it once more, tasting salt and soap. Roman’s free hand worked his own cock in rough strokes between their stomachs, precome smearing across Sullivan’s jersey. The pitcher held himself back by sheer force of will, that coil of worry now pure, possessive fire demanding he claim every last bit of the man under him.

“Still fretting somewhere in there?” Roman panted, eyes half-lidded and sharp with challenge. His legs tightened around Sullivan’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back to urge him deeper. “Fuck me like you mean it. I can take everything you’ve got left after nine innings.”

Sullivan growled low in his throat and pulled out completely. Roman’s hole fluttered empty for a second, shiny and stretched, before Sullivan shoved him over hard. Hands planted on Roman’s shoulders, he flipped the catcher face-down onto the mattress. Roman went willingly, spreading his knees wide on the sheets, ass lifted in open invitation. The thick muscles of his back flexed under the damp sheen of water and sweat, the curve of his hole still open and glistening from the first stretch.

“Stay right there,” Sullivan ordered, voice rough as gravel. He stripped the rest of his uniform off in jerky motions—jersey yanked over his head, pants shoved down and kicked away—until he stood bare and aching behind Roman. His cock slapped heavy against his stomach, flushed dark and dripping. Sullivan reached for the bottle of lube they kept in the nightstand drawer, popping the cap with one hand. He poured a generous slick over his shaft, stroking himself slow and filthy so Roman could hear the wet sound, coating every ridge until it shone. Another palmful he spread between Roman’s cheeks, two thick fingers pushing in to work the cool gel deep, scissoring once just to feel the catcher push back onto them.

Roman moaned into the pillow, hips rolling. “That’s it. Get me wet for you. Claim it.”

Sullivan withdrew his fingers, gripped Roman’s hips hard enough to bruise, and lined up. He drove in with one long, relentless thrust that forced the air from Roman’s lungs in a punched-out groan. The tight heat swallowed him completely, velvet walls fluttering and squeezing. Sullivan didn’t give him time to adjust. He set a brutal pace immediately, hips slamming forward in deep, pounding strokes that rocked the entire bed. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the apartment, louder than the creaking springs. His fingers dug into the meat of Roman’s hips, yanking the catcher back onto every thrust so he buried himself to the hilt each time.

“Fuck—yes—harder,” Roman snarled, turning his face to the side so Sullivan could see the flush high on his cheeks, the way his mouth stayed open on every punched moan. “Pound that ass like you own it, pitcher. Felt every foul tip tonight and still want more of your cock.”

Sullivan’s mind blanked to pure need. He watched his slick length disappear over and over into Roman’s body, the rim stretched tight and greedy around him. Every deep drive sent a fresh wave of possession through him—Roman whole, Roman strong, Roman taking him without flinching. He leaned over the broad back, chest plastered to damp skin, and fucked harder, the head of his cock battering that sweet spot until Roman’s arms gave out and he collapsed fully onto the mattress. Still Sullivan kept going, gripping those hips like handles, using them to haul Roman back into each punishing thrust.

“You’re mine,” Sullivan ground out between gritted teeth, sweat dripping from his jaw onto Roman’s spine. “Every pitch I threw tonight, every second I watched you behind the plate—now I’m taking what’s mine. Feel that?”

Roman laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a broken moan when Sullivan angled sharper. “Then flip me and show me. Want to see your face when you fill me up.”

Sullivan pulled out with a wet sound that made them both groan. He manhandled Roman onto his back in one strong motion, hooking the catcher’s strong legs up and over his shoulders. Roman’s knees pressed near his own ears, the position folding him open completely. Sullivan sank back in without preamble, the new angle letting him drive even deeper. He braced his hands on either side of Roman’s head and fucked in rough, possessive strokes that made the headboard slam the wall in steady rhythm. Roman’s cock lay heavy and neglected against his abs, leaking a steady trail onto his own skin.

“Stroke it,” Sullivan ordered, voice wrecked. “Jerk that cock while I wreck your hole. Want to watch you come on me.”

Roman obeyed instantly, wrapping a big hand around himself and stroking in time with Sullivan’s thrusts. Filthy encouragement spilled between them without pause. “That’s it—fuck me open. Use me. Your catcher’s hole was made for this cock. Deeper, Sullivan—split me on it. Gonna feel you every time I squat tomorrow.”

Sullivan snarled approval and drove harder, hips pistoning. The sight of Roman folded under him, legs locked over his shoulders, hand flying on his own shaft, flooded him with heat. “Look at you taking it. Tight fucking catcher greedy for pitcher cock. Gonna breed this ass so deep you walk funny for a week. Come for me—squeeze that hole and paint your chest.”

Roman’s strokes turned frantic, fist twisting over the head on every upstroke. “Do it—fill me. Claim it hard. Fuck, Sullivan, right there—pound that spot. I’m yours, take it—”

The words pushed Sullivan over the edge at the same moment Roman’s body locked up. Roman came first with a broken shout, thick ropes of come striping his chest and abs in hot pulses while his hole clamped rhythmically around Sullivan’s driving cock. The milking pressure ripped Sullivan’s orgasm from him. He buried himself to the root and flooded Roman deep, cock jerking as he pumped load after load into the gripping heat. They stayed locked like that through the aftershocks, Sullivan grinding shallowly to work every last drop inside while Roman’s legs trembled over his shoulders and his hand milked the final spurts from his own spent cock.

Breathing ragged, Sullivan eased Roman’s legs down but didn’t pull out yet. He stayed buried, rolling his hips in lazy circles that made fresh come slick out around his shaft. Roman’s eyes stayed dark and hungry even through the haze of release, one hand reaching up to tangle in Sullivan’s sweat-damp hair and tug him down for a biting kiss.

“Still worried?” Roman murmured against his mouth, already half-hard again from the residual throbbing inside him. “Or you got more claiming left in that arm tonight?”

Sullivan thrust once more, slow and deliberate, feeling his own spend make the slide filthy. The tension hadn’t eased—it had only sharpened into something that demanded round after round. He licked into Roman’s mouth and rolled them onto their sides without slipping free, one leg hooked over Roman’s hip to keep them joined. “Not done. Not even close. You’re staying open for me until I decide every inch has been checked properly.”

Roman’s laugh turned into a low moan as Sullivan started rocking again, already thickening inside the slick mess they’d made. The night stretched ahead, the bed creaking under them, both men locked together and nowhere near finished.

Sullivan rocked deeper into the slick mess of his own come, the filthy glide making Roman’s hole flutter and clench around every thickening inch. On their sides like this the angle was intimate and relentless, Sullivan’s chest pressed to Roman’s back, one arm locked around the catcher’s waist while the other hooked Roman’s top leg higher. He fucked in slow, grinding circles first, feeling the residual heat of their first shared orgasm paint the way, then snapped his hips harder when Roman pushed back with a hungry groan.

“Still so damn tight,” Sullivan muttered against the damp nape of Roman’s neck, tongue tracing the salt there. “Even after I filled you once. My catcher was built to take pitcher cock like this.” His free hand slid down Roman’s stomach, ignoring the spent cock for now, fingers spreading to feel the soft give of muscle that had absorbed every impact of the night. No flinch. Solid. The last stubborn coil of worry melted completely into pure claiming heat.

Roman reached back, fingers digging into Sullivan’s hip to haul him closer. “Then stop teasing and wreck me again. I can feel you getting hard inside me—use it. Make me feel every inning you threw tonight.” His voice was wrecked velvet, already thick with fresh want. The twenty-six-year-old catcher’s body rolled with each thrust, powerful thighs flexing, the bite mark on his shoulder darkening under fresh sweat.

Sullivan obeyed. He pulled nearly free until only the fat head stretched Roman’s rim, then drove back in to the root in one brutal slide that punched a shout from both of them. The bedframe protested. Skin slapped wet and loud. Sullivan set a deep, punishing rhythm, hips pistoning while his hand finally wrapped Roman’s cock—still sticky from earlier, already half-hard again and thickening fast under the firm strokes. He jacked him in time, thumb swiping the leaking slit, smearing precome down the shaft.

“Look at this,” Sullivan growled, voice raw. “You’re leaking for me already. Greedy fucking hole milking me while I stroke you. Gonna come on my cock again before I even fill you a second time?” He bit the side of Roman’s throat, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to mark, and Roman’s laugh broke into a moan.

“Do it—claim it harder. Fuck, Sullivan, right there. Your cock’s hitting perfect. Keep pounding that spot and I’ll paint the sheets for you.” Roman’s free hand fisted the pillow, knuckles white. Interior thoughts flickered hot: every foul tip, every dive into the dirt had been worth it if it brought this—Sullivan’s thick cock owning him, the pitcher’s worry transformed into this relentless drive. He clenched deliberately, squeezing around the invading length until Sullivan cursed and fucked faster.

They stayed locked on their sides for long minutes, the apartment echoing with wet sounds and ragged breaths. Sullivan’s strokes on Roman’s cock turned rough and twisting, matching the snap of his hips. Sweat slicked them both anew—Sullivan’s chest sliding against Roman’s back, droplets tracing the catcher’s spine. Roman’s hole fluttered and gripped, still loose and open from the first round yet somehow tighter with fresh need. Sullivan felt the pressure building low in his gut again, that same mound-precision focus now locked on wrecking the man under him until neither could think of the game.

When the angle wasn’t enough, Sullivan rolled them without pulling out. He manhandled Roman onto hands and knees, staying buried deep the whole time, then rose up behind him. Hands clamped hard on those solid hips—the same hips that had squatted for nine innings—and he drove in hard. The new position let him watch every thick inch disappear into the stretched, shiny rim. Come from earlier frothed around his shaft with each thrust, dripping down Roman’s balls. Sullivan reached under, still stroking Roman’s cock in a tight fist, and the catcher dropped to his elbows with a broken sound of pure pleasure.

“Yes—fuck me open. Use that arm, pitcher. I took worse than this behind the plate and still want more of you.” Roman’s voice cracked on the last word as Sullivan angled sharper, battering the spot that made stars burst behind his eyes. Interior heat flooded him: Sullivan’s possession felt better than any win, the younger man’s thick cock claiming every inch he’d worried over. He pushed back into every slam, meeting it, the muscles of his back and ass flexing under the sweat-sheen.

Sullivan leaned over him, chest plastered to damp skin, one hand bracing beside Roman’s head while the other kept working the catcher’s cock. “Mine,” he snarled between thrusts. “Every dive, every block—now this hole is mine to fill until you can’t squat without feeling me. Come on my cock, Roman. Squeeze me and take it.” His pace turned brutal, the bed slamming the wall in steady percussion. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto Roman’s spine. The twenty-four-year-old pitcher’s own cock throbbed deep inside the clenching heat, the base of his spine tightening hard.

Roman’s orgasm hit first—body locking, hole spasming in rhythmic pulses that milked Sullivan ruthlessly. Thick ropes of come striped the sheets under them as he shouted Sullivan’s name, free hand flying back to grip the pitcher’s thigh and hold him deep. The milking pressure ripped Sullivan over the edge right after. He buried himself to the hilt and came hard, cock jerking as he pumped load after load into Roman’s gripping heat, flooding him deeper than before until it slicked out around his shaft with every shallow grind.

They stayed locked through the aftershocks, Sullivan’s hips still twitching, grinding lazy circles to work every drop inside while Roman’s hole fluttered around him. Breathing ragged, limbs trembling, Sullivan finally collapsed forward onto Roman’s back. Both men panted, sweat-slick skin sealed together, hearts hammering in matching rhythm. The apartment smelled of sex and soap and the faint residual leather of gear. For a few long moments neither moved—just the shared heat, the slow drip of come down Roman’s thighs, the way Sullivan’s cock softened gradually inside the mess they’d made.

Then Sullivan eased out with a wet sound that made them both hiss. He rolled to the side, sat up on shaky legs, and padded to the bathroom. Warm water ran. He returned with a soft cloth, wrung out carefully, and knelt beside the bed. Gentle strokes cleaned Roman’s hole first—tender over the swollen rim, wiping away the thick white mess that leaked free—then up over the catcher’s spent cock and the stripes across his abs and chest. Sullivan cleaned himself next with the same cloth, slow and thorough, before tossing it aside.

He climbed back onto the thin mattress and curled around his satisfied catcher from behind, one arm draping heavy over Roman’s waist, legs tangling. Roman was already half-dozing, body loose and marked and thoroughly claimed. Sullivan pressed his mouth to the damp hair at Roman’s nape and murmured, voice low and rough with spent relief, “Glad you’re truly unharmed. Every single inch. You’re whole and here and mine.”

Roman hummed, eyes closed, a small private smile curving his mouth in the dark. He knew something Sullivan didn’t—not yet. Tomorrow’s roster meeting would make the pitcher the permanent ace of their rotation, the contract already signed in quiet after the game while Sullivan had fretted in the dugout. Roman had kept the news locked behind his teeth all night, wanting this claiming first, wanting Sullivan’s worry turned to possession before the future changed around them both. He pressed back into the warm curl of Sullivan’s body and let the secret stay his for one more hour of afterglow.