Chapter 1: The Flip
The bulb flickered, a sickly yellow pulse that made the shadows in Tommy’s bedroom jump. It was a shitty apartment on a shitty block, and the only thing that didn’t feel temporary was the rumpled king-size bed dominating the space, a island in a sea of half-unpacked cardboard. The air was thick with the smell of spilled cabernet—a dark stain blooming on the sheet like a warning—and the closer, muskier heat of two bodies that had been circling each other all night.
“You’re such a control freak,” Chanse murmured, his voice a low rasp against Tommy’s throat. He wasn’t asking; he was stating a fact, his fingers already working open the button of Tommy’s jeans.
Tommy’s breath hitched, but he forced a laugh. It came out strained. “You’re one to talk. You rearranged my bookshelves when I went to piss.”
“They were alphabetized by genre. It was pathological.” Chanse’s hand slid down, palming him through the denim, and Tommy’s hips jerked. “See? This is what you need. To not think for a fucking second.”
Tommy’s head fell back against the pillows. He wanted to argue, to make a sarcastic comment about Chanse’s diagnostic skills, but the words dissolved into a groan as clever fingers freed his cock from his briefs. The cool air was a shock, then the warmer touch of Chanse’s hand. He was already hard, aching.
“Still wearing these fucking bracelets,” Chanse said, tapping one of the silver bands on Tommy’s wrist before pinning that hand above his head. The metal was cool against his skin. “My little trophy.”
“Fuck you,” Tommy breathed, but he was already spreading his legs, the defiance in his dark eyes giving way to a hungry surrender he only ever showed here, like this.
Chanse made quick work of their clothes, his own lean, golden body unfolding over Tommy’s taller, hair-dusted frame. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, the cap snapping open in the quiet room. He poured it slick over his fingers, not breaking eye contact.
“Gonna open you up,” Chanse said, his hazel eyes glinting. “Gonna make you feel so full you forget your own name.”
Tommy just nodded, his throat tight. He watched Chanse’s face, the slight curl of his lip, the intensity in his gaze that softened, just for him, right before he touched him.
The first press was careful, a slick, slow intrusion that made Tommy gasp. His body clenched instinctively before relaxing, yielding. Chanse knew him. Knew how to work him open with a brutal efficiency that was its own kind of tenderness—a circling, scissoring stretch that burned just on the edge of too much.
“There,” Chanse muttered, curling his fingers, and Tommy saw stars, his back arching clear off the mattress. “Yeah. That’s it. Loosen up for me, big guy.”
Tommy’s knuckles were white where he gripped the headboard. “Stop… stop talking and just…”
“Just what?” Chanse added a third finger, the stretch a bright, sharp shock. “You want me to fuck you? Gotta ask nicer than that.”
“Chanse…” It was a growl, a plea, a threat.
“Ask.”
“Fuck me.” The words were torn out of him, raw and desperate. “Just fucking fuck me already.”
With a wicked grin, Chanse withdrew his fingers. Tommy felt empty, achingly so, until he heard the tear of the condom wrapper, the soft sound of Chanse slicking himself up. Then the blunt, heavy head of his cock was pressing against him, a promise of pressure.
Chanse pushed in, and the world narrowed to that single, searing point of connection. He went slow, maddeningly slow, sheathing himself inch by inch until their hips were flush, bodies welded together. Tommy could feel every vein, every pulse. He was impossibly full, split open on a thick, hot heat that stole the air from his lungs.
“Christ, you’re tight,” Chanse gasped, his composure cracking. He was buried to the hilt, trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Move,” Tommy demanded, his voice shattered. “Or I’ll do it myself.”
Chanse’s laugh was a dark puff of air against his neck. Then he moved.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a deep, pounding rhythm that shook the bedframe, each thrust jolting Tommy up the sheets. Chanse fucked with a focused, driving intensity, one hand braced by Tommy’s head, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. The slap of skin on skin, their ragged curses, the squeak of the mattress springs—it filled the room, crude and beautiful.
Tommy took it, his body pliant, his mind blissfully blank. He was just sensation: the drag of Chanse’s cock inside him, the scrape of his beard against his collarbone, the delicious friction of his own neglected cock trapped between their sweating stomachs. He was close, so close, the pressure coiling white-hot in his gut.
“That’s it,” Chanse grunted, his rhythm growing jagged. “You take it so good. My god, you feel like heaven, you fucking…”
Tommy’s eyes snapped open. The words, the utter surrender in his own body—it sparked something old and stubborn. Control. He needed it back.
With a guttural sound, he planted his hands on Chanse’s chest and shoved. Hard.
Chanse, lost in his own momentum, wasn’t expecting it. He toppled sideways with a shocked grunt, landing on his back. Before he could react, Tommy was on him, reversing their positions with a strength that left Chanse winded. He tore the condom off Chanse with a rough tug and reached for the lube.
“What the hell?” Chanse panted, but his eyes were blazing with challenge, a wild smile touching his lips.
“My turn,” Tommy said, his voice dripping with a dominance that was half-real, half-play. He slicked himself hastily, his cock heavy and angry-red. He pushed Chanse’s thighs apart, not asking, and guided himself to his hole.
Chanse threw his head back, a string of filthy curses pouring from his mouth as Tommy pushed inside. It was tighter, hotter. Tommy set a ruthless pace, fucking into him with hard, deep strokes that drove the breath from Chanse’s lungs. He leaned down, capturing Chanse’s mouth in a biting kiss, all teeth and tongue.
“You like that?” Tommy growled against his lips. “Huh? You like getting fucked for a change?”
“Fuck yes,” Chanse hissed, his nails digging into Tommy’s broad back. “Do it. Come on, harder.”
Tommy obeyed, pistoning his hips, chasing his own climax. The power was heady, seeing Chanse unravel beneath him, his composure shattered, his lean body writhing. Tommy was so close. He could feel the tightening in his balls, the dizzying rush up his spine.
Just as he was about to tip over the edge, Chanse’s hand shot between them. He grabbed the base of Tommy’s cock in a vice-like grip, squeezing brutally.
The climax was yanked back, a shocking, painful denial. Tommy cried out, a ragged sound of pure frustration. “What the fuck!”
In that moment of stunned agony, Chanse surged up. He wrapped his legs around Tommy’s waist and flipped them again with a fierce, practiced twist, reclaiming the top. He didn’t bother with a condom this time. He just spat into his hand, slicked his aching cock, and slammed back into Tommy’s willing, open body.
The feeling was obscene—the wet, direct heat of it, the claiming. Tommy moaned, long and broken, as Chanse started to fuck him again, deeper now, possessively.
Chanse bent low, his mouth on Tommy’s neck, sucking a brutal, marking kiss into the skin just above his collarbone. Then another lower, near his pulse point. Each one stung, a brand.
“You’re gonna be marked up for days,” Chanse whispered, his voice thick with triumph.
“Asshole,” Tommy gasped, but he tilted his head back, offering more of his throat, his body singing with the dual sensations of being utterly filled and openly claimed.
“Mine,” Chanse grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. “This perfect, tight ass is mine. I’m gonna come in it. I’m gonna fill you up. That’s where it belongs.”
The words, raw and unfiltered, shattered the last of Tommy’s resistance. He came untouched, his climax ripping through him silently at first, then as a choked-off sob, his body clamping down around Chanse in rhythmic pulses.
The feeling of Tommy coming untouched around him was Chanse’s undoing. With a final, driving thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could and let go, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside Tommy.
He collapsed forward, his weight a solid comfort. They stayed like that, joined, breathing in ragged unison, the only sound the drip of sweat and their slowing hearts.
In the silence, Chanse nuzzled the fresh mark on Tommy’s neck. “Told you,” he murmured, utterly spent.
Tommy didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes closed, one hand coming up to thread through Chanse’s sweaty curls, holding him there, in the wreckage, right where they both wanted to be.