Chapter 1: Claimed in Sleep
The first thing Tommy felt was the slow, deliberate drag of a fingertip along the ridge of his collarbone. A path of faint, tingling heat tracing the map of teeth marks left there hours before. He stirred, not quite awake, a low hum vibrating in his throat. His body knew. Even through the fog of sleep, every nerve remembered who put those marks there.
“Still purple,” a voice murmured, low and satisfied, right against his ear.
Tommy’s eyes fluttered open. Morning light, filtered through sheer curtains, turned the room a soft gold. Chanse was propped on an elbow beside him, head tilted, those piercing hazel eyes studying his work. His brown curls were a wild mess against the pillow. He wore a lazy, proprietary smirk.
“Mmm,” Tommy managed, his voice graveled with sleep. He stretched, the muscles in his arms and back pulling taut, the duvet slipping to his waist. The cool air kissed the bites and scratches littering his chest and shoulders. A catalogue of their relationship. “You sound proud.”
“I am.” Chanse’s finger came to rest on a particularly vivid bruise just above Tommy’s pec. He pressed, just enough. A sharp, bright spark of sensation that made Tommy’s breath hitch. “You look owned.”
Tommy swallowed. The words, delivered with such casual certainty, did something complicated to his insides. He craved the feeling, the absolute surrender of it. And then he needed to dismantle it, to regain footing. He lifted a hand, running it through his own bleached hair. The silver bracelets on his wrist clinked together softly. “I have a Zoom call at ten. Need to look professional, not like I lost a fight with a housecat.”
Chanse’s smirk didn’t fade. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Tommy’s ear. “You didn’t lose anything. You took everything I gave you. Perfectly.” His tone shifted, the dominance softening into something warmer, more granular. “How’s the head?”
The concern, genuine and immediate, untwisted the coil a little. “Quiet,” Tommy admitted. It was mostly true. He mostly felt the heavy, pleasant ache in his muscles and the persistent thrum of where Chanse’s hands had been. “You?”
“Starving.” Chanse rolled out of bed in one fluid motion. The morning light caught the golden tone of his smooth back, the lean definition of his shoulders. He snagged a pair of low-slung sweatpants from the floor and stepped into them. “I’m commandeering your kitchen. Don’t argue.”
Tommy watched him go, the possessive swell in his chest at odds with the need to direct the day. He lay there for another minute, listening to the familiar sounds of Chanse in his space: the cupboard door clicking open, the grinder’s aggressive whirr for coffee, the fridge humming. The scent of last night—sex, sweat, Chanse’s cedar-and-salt scent—was slowly being overlaid by the richer promise of coffee and toast. Home. It felt like home.
He finally pushed himself up, the sheets pooling around his hips. He caught his reflection in the dark television screen across the room: a broad, muscular silhouette, a pale canvas marked with dark blossoms. He looked thoroughly, utterly wrecked. A slow smile tugged at his lips, dimpling his cheek.
By the time he padded into the kitchen, wearing just his briefs, Chanse had two mugs steaming on the counter and was surveying a carton of eggs with intense focus. Tommy came up behind him, sliding his arms around Chanse’s waist, pressing his marked chest to the warm, smooth skin of Chanse’s back. He inhaled, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
“Tickles,” Chanse said, but he leaned back into the hold. “Your beard is like sandpaper.”
“You love it,” Tommy mumbled against his skin.
“I tolerate it.” Chanse turned in his arms, his hands coming to rest on Tommy’s hips. His gaze was direct, searching. “Seriously. You good?”
The question was a ritual. A necessary checkpoint. Tommy met his eyes. “Yeah. I’m good. Better than good.” He meant it. The control he gripped so tightly was nowhere to be found here. It was blissful. It was terrifying. He kissed Chanse, a slow, coffee-tinged kiss that tasted like morning and forgiveness. “Stop worrying about me.”
“Impossible.” Chanse kissed the corner of his mouth, then his dimple. "Now sit. I’m making you omelets. Gotta get that protein.”
Tommy obeyed, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island. He watched Chanse move, all confident, economical grace. The cap he usually wore was abandoned on the coffee table, leaving his curls free. He looked young, focused, completely in his element.
“You’ve got that look,” Chanse said without turning, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl.
“What look?”
“The overthinker’s look." Chanse whipped the eggs with a fork. “Wear a turtleneck.”
“It’s sixty-five degrees out.”
“Suffer for your art, princess.” Chanse shot him a grin over his shoulder. “Or just tell them you’re crazy about your boyfriend and he gets a little too enthusiastic. They’ll either think it’s hilarious or HR will call. Either way, it’s content.”
Tommy laughed, the sound bright in the sunlit room. “You’re a menace.”
“I am.” Chanse poured the eggs into a sizzling pan. The sound was immediate and comforting. “So, the pitch call today. The series about the two idiots who start a fake cleaning business to launder money but actually become weirdly good at cleaning?”
“That’s the one.” Tommy wrapped his hands around the warm mug. “The network guy is a fan of the sketch stuff, but he’s… conservative. Suit-and-tie, even on Zoom.”
“So be you. Charming. Dimpled. Quick. Make the suit laugh and he won't give a fuck about your neck.” Chanse deftly folded the omelet. “You’re so talented, and you know it. We'd be nothing without your timing.”
The praise, so blunt and matter-of-fact, landed directly in the center of Tommy’s chest, warmer than the coffee. He needed that, too. The reassurance after the surrender. It rebalanced the scales.
Chanse plated the omelet and set it in front of him with a flourish. “Eat. Fuel for the conquering of timid network executives.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, knees touching under the island. The domesticity of it was as potent as anything that had happened in the bedroom. Tommy found himself cataloguing it: the way Chanse chewed, the dab of hot sauce on his lip, the casual ownership with which he’d taken over this morning.
“You staying after?” Tommy asked, trying to sound casual. “I should be done by noon.”
Chanse looked at him, his expression softening. He reached across and brushed a thumb over the love bite on Tommy’s collarbone again, a gentle reiteration. “Try and get rid of me.”
After breakfast, Tommy showered, the hot water stinging the marks. He chose a dark grey, long-sleeved henley. It covered most of the evidence. He left the top button undone. A compromise.
When he came out of the bedroom, hair styled, bracelets on, looking every bit the charismatic professional, Chanse was lounging on the sofa, scrolling on his phone. He looked up, and his gaze did a slow, appreciative sweep. “See? Now you look like you run things. Very convincing.”
“I do run things,” Tommy said, leaning down to kiss him goodbye. It was deep and lingering, a promise for later.
“You do,” Chanse whispered against his lips. “Now go get ‘em, tiger. I’ll be here.”
The call went well. The network guy laughed. Tommy was quick, charming, the ideas flowing easily. He caught a glimpse of himself in the tiny Zoom window—his smile, his eyes alight—and for a moment, he saw what Chanse saw. Someone in control. Someone good.
Afterwards, the silence of the apartment felt different. Expectant. He walked back into the living room. Chanse was right where he’d left him, but he’d put music on low, something soulful and rhythmic.
“Well?” Chanse asked.
“Greenlight. Pending some notes, but… it’s a go.”
“Told you.” Chanse got up and walked to him. He didn’t offer congratulations. Instead, he hooked a finger in the neck of Tommy’s henley and pulled him down for a kiss. It was less gentle than the morning’s kisses, edged with the same possessive heat from the night before.
Chanse closed the distance, his hands landing on Tommy’s hips, pushing him back until his calves hit the arm of the sofa, his mouth trailing along Tommy’s jaw.
He bit down, not on skin, but on the soft cotton of the henley’s collar, tugging it aside to expose the marks beneath. Tommy’s breath caught, his hands flying up to grip Chanse’s shoulders. For a suspended second, he was purely reactive, his body humming with the familiar, welcome submission. Then his brain, that relentless engine, fired up.
“Wait,” Tommy murmured, the word a puff of air against Chanse’s temple.
Chanse stilled, his lips a hair's breadth from Tommy’s pulse. He didn’t pull back, just waited, listening with his whole body.
Tommy’s grip tightened. He pushed. It wasn’t a shove, but a firm, definite pressure. Chanse yielded, letting himself be guided back an inch, his hazel eyes searching Tommy’s face, bright with curiosity, not defiance.
A slow, new certainty uncoiled in Tommy’s gut, hot and solid. He kept one hand on Chanse’s shoulder, the other coming up to cradle his jaw, thumb stroking the sharp line of his cheekbone. He saw the understanding dawn in Chanse’s eyes, a flicker of surprise, then a dark, intense gleam of approval.
Tommy leaned in. He kissed him, deep and hungry, all tongue and heat and claiming. He walked him backward until it was Chanse’s legs that hit the sofa. Tommy broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. “My turn,” he said, his voice a low, rough thing he barely recognized.
He watched the shudder run through Chanse, watched his eyes go heavy-lidded and dark. Chanse’s answering smirk was a flash of white in the dim room. “Yeah? Show me.” The challenge was there, but so was the welcome.
Tommy’s hands went to the hem of Chanse’s t-shirt. He pulled it up, slow, revealing the smooth, toned plane of his stomach, his chest. Chanse lifted his arms, compliant, his eyes locked on Tommy’s. The shirt went over his head, a whisper of fabric, and was tossed aside.
The music thrummed low in the background, a heartbeat.
Tommy’s fingers found the waistband of Chanse’s sweats, pushing them down, and Chanse stepped out, kicking them away. He stood there, utterly bare, completely unselfconscious, his hazel gaze unwavering.
“Your turn,” Chanse breathed, his voice rough.
Tommy didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the back of his own henley and wrenched it over his head in one quick motion. The grey fabric joined Chanse’s on the floor. His bracelets clattered faintly against each other. He toed off his socks, shoved his pants and briefs down his thighs before letting them join the pile.
For a heartbeat, they just looked. The afternoon light cut across the room, painting stripes over skin—gold over Chanse’s, pale over Tommy’s marked terrain. The air was charged, thick with the scent of them.
Then Tommy moved, acting in a pure, impulsive hunger. He closed the distance, his hands finding Chanse’s hips, his mouth crashing down on Chanse’s with a force that stole a grunt from them both. Chanse met it, his fingers digging into the thick hair at Tommy’s naul, biting back just as hard.
Tommy walked him back, one relentless step after another, until they reached his bedroom, and the back of Chanse’s knees hit the edge of the mattress. Chanse fell, bouncing once, his curls a dark halo on the rumpled sheets. He looked up, chest rising and falling, a challenge written in every line of him.
“So take your turn,” Chanse breathed, his voice ragged.
Tommy followed him down, a predator finally on prey. He caught Chanse’s wrists in his hands, his grip firm and unyielding. He pushed them down into the mattress, above Chanse’s head, his own larger body settling heavy atop him. The full, pressing weight of him. Chanse went still beneath it, a sharp exhale escaping his lips. His eyes were wide, watching and waiting. Tommy held his wrists down, the bones delicate under his grip. He could feel Chanse’s pulse hammering against his thumbs.
He watched the flicker in Chanse’s hazel eyes, the slight part of his lips and closed the final inch until their lips met.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a possession. Hard and consuming, all heat and firm pressure and desperate tongue. Chanse made a sound, low in his throat, and his body arched up, not to struggle, but to meet it. To give more. Tommy drank him in, the taste something he was starved for. He bit at his bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough, and Chanse groaned, his fingers twisting in Tommy’s grip.
He claimed his mouth until they were both breathless, until the world narrowed to the slick heat between them and the pounding of his own heart in his ears. When he finally broke away, a string of saliva connected them for a second in the muted light. Chanse’s lips were swollen, his breathing ragged.
Chanse’s lips were swollen, his breathing ragged. Tommy stared down at him, at the complete surrender in his eyes, and felt a surge of power so clean and sharp it stole his own breath.
“I’m gonna fuck you good,” Tommy whispered into Chanse’s ear, the words a raw, hot promise against his skin. He reached for the bottle of expensive lube from the nightstand, the glass cool in his palm.
Chanse’s gaze flicked to the bottle, a smirk tugging at his ruined mouth. “Christ, we go through almost a bottle a week,” he huffed, his voice wrecked. “It’s ridiculous. The logistics alone—”
Tommy shut him up with his finger, pressing two against Chanse’s rim. Pushing one of them in slowly. Chanse’s eyes flared, holding his breath. The silence was profound, broken only by the slick sound and Tommy’s shaky exhale. Chanse gasped, his head tipping back, throat exposed. Every muscle in his abdomen tightened, then released as Tommy worked him open with a slow, relentless focus.
He was so tight, hot and clenching, and Tommy watched, mesmerized, by the play of agonized pleasure across Chanse’s face. “You okay?” Tommy whispered, the words gravel.
“Yeah" Chanse panted, his hips canting up, taking Tommy deeper. “Fuck, Tommy.”
Tommy added another finger, scissoring carefully, the stretch making Chanse gasp, his head thrashing side to side on the pillow. Sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat. Tommy bent, lapping at it, tasting salt and skin, before capturing his mouth again, swallowing every ragged sound.
When he was sure, so sure, he slicked himself, the cool gel a shock against his heated skin. He positioned himself, the head nudging against Chanse, and paused, his whole body trembling with the effort of waiting. Chanse’s eyes flew open, hazy and desperate. “Now. Please, now.”
Tommy pushed in, a slow, devastating inch, the breath stuttering out of both of them. He buried his face in Chanse’s neck, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming heat. He bottomed out, hips flush against skin, and they froze, fused, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs.
Then Tommy moved, a deep, measured roll of his hips. Chanse’s legs locked around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. The rhythm built, each thrust punctuated by a choked-off sound, a gasp, the wet slap of skin.
Tommy moaned and looked down at Chanse, his eyes wide and glassy, utterly undone. Tommy could see everything in them—the surrender, the trust, the wild, reflexive love. It shattered him. His control began to fray at the edges, rhythm becoming ragged, deeper. A broken sound tore from his throat. He was coming apart, and the only thing holding him together was the man beneath him.
Chanse’s fingers scrambled from the sheets to clutch at Tommy’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. “Look at me,” he demanded, his voice wrecked and raw. “Tommy. Look at me.”
Tommy did. The world dissolved into those hazel eyes, wide and dark and fixed solely on him. He could feel Chanse’s breath hot on his face. He was getting close, the need burning and unbearable. He saw the same desperate tension in the corded line of Chanse’s neck, in the white-knuckled grip on his face.
Chanse’s thumb stroked his cheekbone, a staggering contrast to the violence of their movement.
“Feels so good” he breathed.
The words were a ragged confession in the charged air. Tommy’s rhythm stuttered, overwhelmed. He needed to see Chanse break. Now. His hand slid between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers wrapping around Chanse. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, a tight, rough friction that made Chanse’s eyes roll back.
“Tommy—” Chanse choked out, his body bowing off the bed.
Tommy fucked into him harder, deeper, his grip relentless. He watched it happen—the sudden tension, the helpless clench, the shattered cry ripped from Chanse’s throat as he came over Tommy’s fist and his own stomach. The convulsions around him were intense, a hot, rhythmic pull.
Only then did Tommy let go.
His own control vaporized. His hips jerked, his rhythm dissolving into frantic, desperate snaps. A broken sound tore from him. His head snapped back, tendons cording in his neck, revealing the stark panorama of purple teeth marks and red scratches littering his throat and chest. He came with a shudder that felt like it cracked his ribs, vision whiting out at the edges.
He collapsed, his weight a welcome burden.
They lay fused, breathing in ragged sync. The room came back in pieces: the hum of the fridge, their heartbeats, the wet heat between them.
Chanse’s hand, trembling, came up to cradle the back of Tommy’s head. His thumb stroked through the damp hair at his temple. A silent check-in in the wreckage.
Tommy nuzzled into the touch, his face buried in Chanse’s neck. The marks on his skin throbbed a gentle, owned rhythm. A reminder of the usual order, and how quickly the script could turn between them. Tommy sometimes craved to be dominated into submission, but also needed the reminder he could take it back when he wanted. A balance Chanse knew how to walk perfectly.
“You,” Chanse whispered, voice shot, “are incredible.”
The praise seeped into the marrow of Tommy’s bones, soothing the raw edges. He couldn’t form words yet. He just nodded against Chanse’s skin, holding on as the world gently solidified around them again.