Putting in the work was something Django's done for the better part of the last few decades. Calloused hands and a fearsome reputation weren't the only things he earned from it. Enemies, scars, a creaky joint or two. Right now, none of that really mattered. Right now, what mattered was that hot, young body pressing back against him, the taste of Chasin's skin beneath his mouth, the smell of him filling Django's mind with every breath, and...

Django chuckled softly, a mere puff of warm breath against the spot where hed dampened Chasin's skin.

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about your dick."