Chapter 3: Th
When they woke the next morning, it was calm.
There were no time slots, no shouting alarm clock, nothing to get up to. Pale Sunday light filtered through the blinds, painting slow stripes across the rumpled sheets. They woke tangled in each other’s arms, legs entwined, Chanse’s face buried in the crook of Tommy’s neck.
They felt it immediately.
They relished in it. Hips found hips, slowly rolling together in a gentle, waking rhythm. Tommy shifted, wincing only slightly as a dull ache bloomed from the deep bruises on his skin. Chanse’s hands smoothed over his flank with a soothing pressure. “Okay?” Chanse mumbled against his lips, his voice thick with sleep.
“Mhm.” Tommy kissed him, a slow, deep thing with no destination. It was a silent agreement. There was no rush, no hurry to finish. Tommy was still sensitive from the night before, his body rarely getting a rest with Chanse staying over this often. Every movement was a vivid echo, a pleasant soreness that made him aware of every point of contact. Chanse seemed to understand, his touch reverent, mapping the evidence of his passion with a newfound patience. Their rhythm was their own, a slow cresting wave building from the depths of a shared, quiet peace. They allowed it to deepen. The kisses became languid, unspooling like honey between them.
Chanse’s touches drifted from Tommy’s hips to the small of his back, his palms warm and broad. He pressed open-mouthed kisses against his skin, along the ridge of a shoulder blade, the knob of his spine. There was no need to claim, just to be felt, a silent cataloging of presence.
Tommy leaned over him, his weight balanced on one forearm. He let his cock rub against Chanse’s, the wetness from it making them slide together perfectly. A sharp, sweet friction sparked, drawing a low groan from Chanse’s throat.
“God, you feel good,” Chanse breathed, his hands coming up to cradle Tommy’s face. He looked utterly disarmed, his usual sharpness dissolved into something awed and soft.
"Yeah?" Tommy murmured and pressed their foreheads together. His movements were a gentle, rocking grind, all building pressure and shared breath. He focused on the pulse in Chanse’s neck, the fluttering catch in his own breath.
“So good,” Chanse whispered, his thumbs stroking Tommy’s cheekbones. His hazel eyes were dark, fixed on Tommy’s with an intensity that felt like being known. Tommy felt a familiar, vulnerable unraveling begin in his chest. It always left him quiet, words replaced by the raw physics of breath and skin. Chanse felt the shift in his stillness, the way Tommy’s hips slowed to a near-stop against his.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice a soft scratch in the morning air. “What do you wanna do?” He kissed Tommy softly, a tender pressure that spoke of endless time.
Their rhythm gentled, a slow, persistent slide that refused to cease. They kissed again, a deeper exchange, and when Chanse pulled back just enough to look at him, Tommy saw his own reflection in those hazel eyes.
“Think I wanna be on top,” Tommy murmured into Chanse’s golden skin, the confession feeling both monumental and simple.
A slow smile spread across Chanse’s face, intrigued and utterly fond.
“Oh, you wanna fuck me?” Chanse asked suggestively, nuzzling into Tommy’s neck, their breaths colliding hotly before their lips met again in a brief, searing kiss.
“No,” Tommy whispered, the word definitive against his mouth. Then he was moving, hoisting himself up with a grunt of effort to straddle Chanse’s hips, his own thighs framing Chanse’s lean torso.
He looked down at Chanse from this new height, the pale light catching the silver of his necklace and the earnest determination in his brown eyes. Chanse just stared up, his breath catching. The sight stole the sharp comment right off his tongue.
Here, from below, Tommy was a revelation. Chanse was in awe. He really got to see Tommy from this view.
All of him. The morning light carved the definition of his toned muscles and gilded the dusting of dark hair on his chest. The fading markings stood out like shadows on a map, and his thick cock stood proud against his stomach. His broad shoulders, so masculine, paired with his wide hips were just something else entirely.
Chanse basked in it, his hands coming up to slide slowly from Tommy’s knees to his inner thighs. “Fuck, Tommy,” he breathed, his voice hushed. “You look like a goddamn statue.” Tommy’s determined expression flickered, a faint blush warming his neck.
“Shut up,” Tommy murmured, but it lacked bite. He shifted, the movement making Chanse’s grip tighten. “I’m serious. Look at you.” Chanse’s thumbs rubbed circles into the dense muscle of Tommy’s thighs. “All this, and you’re mine.”
Tommy, usually struggling with compliments, just took them. He swallowed, his throat working. Then he leaned down, one hand braced beside Chanse’s head, and captured his mouth in a soaring kiss. It was deep and grateful, pouring everything he couldn’t say back into Chanse.
When he finally broke the kiss, a string of saliva connected their lips for a second in the hushed room. "Lube,” Tommy whispered, his voice shredded.
Chanse’s hand shot out, fumbling across the nightstand with a clatter until his fingers closed around the familiar glass bottle. He pressed it into Tommy’s palm, his gaze locked on Tommy’s face.
Tommy popped the cap, the sound sharp in the quiet. He poured a generous amount, the gel cool and slick against his skin.
Then he began, his eyes never leaving Chanse’s. He worked himself open with a deliberate, teasing slowness, his slender fingers pushing past the initial resistance. A soft gasp escaped him, his head falling back just slightly, the cords of his neck standing out.
Chanse watched, utterly stunned, his breath caught in his throat. The visual was obscenely beautiful—Tommy’s muscular form bowed in concentration, offering himself up in a way he so rarely did.
“Jesus, Tommy,” Chanse breathed, the words awed and strained.
Tommy’s rhythm hitched, a deeper push drawing a sharp inhale through his nose. Chanse couldn’t just watch. He reached up, his fingers finding Tommy’s, brushing against them where they were buried inside himself.
Together, their fingers moved, Chanse’s joining Tommy’s in a slick, intimate dance.
The stretch was profound, a full, breath-stealing pressure that made Tommy’s thighs tremble. He bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut, then forced them open to find Chanse’s gaze. “More,” Tommy breathed, the word barely audible.
Chanse added a third finger alongside Tommy’s, the burn blooming into a deep, satisfying fullness. They moved like that for a while, unhurried, a slow and patient opening. There was no rush, no fight for control, only the shared rhythm of their breathing in the quiet room.
Tommy’s hips began to roll, a slow, involuntary undulation. He was grinding down onto the tangled press of their fingers inside him, seeking a deeper angle. A low, broken sound escaped Chanse’s throat at the sight, at the feel.
“Fuck, baby..” Chanse murmured, his voice wrecked. Tommy’s rhythm became more deliberate, a smooth, rocking grind that chased the building heat in his core. He was using their joined hands, fucking himself on them with a focused, lazy intensity.
Chanse could only watch, mesmerized, as Tommy took what he needed. The muscles in Tommy’s abdomen fluttered with the effort. Sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat.
“That’s it,” Chanse encouraged, his free hand stroking Tommy’s flank. “Just like that.” Tommy’s movements grew more sure, his head falling back as pleasure built in a slow, steady wave. The world narrowed to this perfect, shared friction. He was close, but there was no frantic race. Just the slow, inevitable crest. Chanse felt the tension coiling in Tommy’s body, the way his internal muscles clenched rhythmically around their fingers.
“Chanse...,” Tommy gasped, a warning and a plea.
“Slow down, baby,” Chanse breathed, his voice low. He gently stilled Tommy’s rocking hips, his other hand carefully withdrawing their tangled fingers. Tommy groaned, a sound of pure frustration, his body trembling with suspended need.
He collapsed forward, forehead dropping to Chanse’s chest, his breaths coming in ragged pulls. Chanse held him, his hands roaming the sweat-slick plane of Tommy's back. “Just breathe.” he murmured into Tommy’s hair.
They stayed like that until the edge passed, until Tommy’s thighs only quivered lightly against Chanse’s sides. Then Tommy pushed himself up, his eyes determined and dark. He reached for the discarded lube, squeezing a fresh, cool pool into his palm.
His warm, slick hand closed around Chanse, the touch deliberate and slow. He worked the lube over every inch of him, his thumb sliding over the head with a soft, twisting pressure. “I fucking love your cock..” Tommy whispered, his voice rough.
Chanse’s head thumped back against the pillow, a sharp exhale escaping him. Tommy’s grip tightened slightly, his rhythm becoming a possessive, languid stroke.
“Fuck, Tommy,” Chanse managed, his hips lifting off the bed.
“Yeah?” Tommy asked, a faint, smug smile touching his lips as he watched Chanse unravel. “I just love it.”
He raised himself up on trembling knees, the cool air a shock against his heated skin. Chanse’s hands immediately rose to meet him, fingers splaying across his hip bones.
"Easy.." Chanse breathed, guiding him with a steady pressure until the head of his cock nudged against him. He let go, his hands resting intimate on the swell of Tommy’s ass, a silent pledge of trust. Tommy sucked in a sharp breath, the sensation overwhelming and perfect.
Tommy began to lower himself, a slow, deliberate yielding that burned in the best way. Every inch was a surrender and a relief.
"Oh fuck.," Chanse groaned, his head pressing back into the pillow. The full, deep stretch stole Tommy’s words, leaving only a ragged exhale. They fit together seamlessly, as always.
"Okay?" Chanse asked, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where thigh met torso. Tommy could only nod, his eyes glassy with the intensity of being so completely filled. He started to move, a tentative rock of his hips.
Pleasure, bright and immediate, shot up his spine. "There?" Chanse murmured, reading his body like a favorite book. "Yeah," Tommy gasped, finding a rhythm that was both claiming and given.
The pace quickened, their sweat-slick bodies sliding together in the quiet room. Chanse’s hands remained a warm, intimate weight, following every motion. "You're so damn beautiful like this," Chanse said, the words rough with emotion.
Tommy hips rolled in a deep, circular grind, a steady, claiming rhythm that seated Chanse impossibly deeper inside him. A punched-out groan escaped Chanse’s lips, his hands flying to Tommy’s thighs to feel the muscle working beneath his palms. They let it continue like that, Tommy’s hips rolling over Chanse’s, fucking himself deeply on his cock. Each slow, downward slide grazed that perfect spot inside him. His own hard cock rocked back and forth between them, slapping wetly against his stomach with every measured thrust.
"Right there," Tommy gasped, his voice strangled. "God, right there."
Chanse’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. "I feel it," he managed, his own control fraying. Tommy watched Chanse’s face, saw the pleasure there, and it fueled him. He leaned back, changing the angle, seeking that friction again.
A shudder ripped through Chanse. "Tommy—wait—" he choked out, his hips stuttering.
Tommy stilled immediately, his body trembling with the effort. They hovered there, breathing ragged, the sensation still thrumming between them like a live wire. "Too much?" Tommy panted, searching Chanse’s face.
"Just… close," Chanse admitted, his eyes squeezed shut. "Don’t stop. Just… slow."
Tommy nodded, understanding. He began again, a slower, more torturous roll of his hips. He focused on the drag, the fill, the steady, milking pressure. Tommy kept his spine arched back, a long, elegant curve that presented his torso to the morning light and to Chanse’s hungry gaze.
Chanse’s hands roamed his body, his thumbs brushing over Tommy’s nipples, then tracing the stark outline of each rib as Tommy breathed. He mapped the delicious trail of hair below Tommy’s bellybutton, his fingers following it down before gripping the pronounced jut of Tommy’s hip bones as they rolled slowly above him.
Chanse met his thrusts just barely, a subtle upward tilt of his own hips that deepened the connection without stealing the rhythm. He did not take over, letting the steady, rocking motion of Tommy’s fit and unwavering body remain in charge of the mutual pleasure building between them.
“You feel so good..” Tommy whispered, his voice cracked open with awe. His rhythm faltered for a second, clenching around Chanse and drawing a ragged groan from them both.
“Don’t stop,” Chanse breathed, his hands sliding back up to palm Tommy’s chest. “This is all you, baby.”
Tommy nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin, and found his pace again. It was deeper now, more purposeful,
Chanse could only watch, his own control a thread about to snap. “I’m not gonna last,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into Tommy’s hips.
“Then don’t,” Tommy growled.
Tommy’s pace shattered into something urgent and punishing. He drove himself down onto Chanse, each impactful meeting of their bodies a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. His thighs burned with the strain, but he welcomed it, his entire world narrowing to the searing depth of Chanse inside him.
He pressed forward, braced his palms flat on Chanse’s chest, fingers splaying over the defined muscle. The shift in angle was electric, a direct line to that nerve-deep spot that made his vision waver.
Their lips crashed together in a mess of breath and need. It wasn’t gentle; it was a soaring, anchoring kiss, all teeth and shared oxygen as Tommy fucked himself through the building tremors in his own legs. Chanse’s orgasm erupted from his core, a raw, surging heat that had his back arching off the bed.
He grabbed Tommy’s forearms, his grip desperate, anchoring himself as he spilled over inside him. Their kiss never broke, a muffled, static groan passing between them as Tommy rode him through the violent pulses, clenching tight around him, milking every last shudder.
Tommy’s own need was a coiled, screaming thing in his gut, ignored until now. He ground down harder, chasing the friction against his own neglected cock trapped between their bodies. "Come on, baby," Chanse gasped into his mouth, the words slurred and raw.
His hands slid from Tommy’s forearms to his hips, guiding him into a faster, messier rhythm. The slick sounds of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths. Tommy’s muscles burned, but he couldn’t stop.
Every nerve was alight, the overstimulation from Chanse still pulsing inside him merging with his own building peak. He broke the kiss, throwing his head back with a choked cry. The morning light cut across his throat, highlighting the bruises Chanse had left there.
"That's it," Chanse murmured, his voice wrecked but soft, his thumbs pressing into the deep bruises on Tommy's hips. The pressure there, a familiar anchor, tipped him over. Pleasure detonated.
White-hot and absolute, it raced up his spine. His body seized, back arching violently. A raw, broken sound ripped from his throat, nothing like his usual controlled laugh.
He came between their stomachs, stripes of heat painting his skin and Chanse's. The pulses seemed endless, wracking through him. Chanse held him through it, hands steadying his trembling hips.
"I've got you," Chanse whispered, the words barely audible over Tommy's panting. Slowly, the tremors subsided, leaving him boneless and shaking. He collapsed forward, his weight sinking into Chanse.
The heat between their bodies was a damp, sticky glue. Chanse’s arms came up around him, locking tight, his own breathing a rough percussion in Tommy’s ear. They stayed like that, entangled and spent, for a long while.
Chanse shifted slightly, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Tommy’s head, fingers tangling in his bleached hair. The movement was unbearably tender.
Tommy smiled into Chanse's skin. A profound, quiet warmth was spreading from his core, softening every muscle and quieting the usual buzz in his mind. Leaving just the perfect weight of Chanse beneath him and the solid proof of their connection still thrumming inside him. It was a heavy, golden contentment, deeper than any post-sex haze he’d ever known.
He felt incredibly, stupidly happy.
“Chanse?” His fingers, still trembling, traced the line of a scar on Chanse’s shoulder he knew by heart.
“Yeah, baby?” Chanse’s voice was a ragged, warm thing against his temple.
Tommy raised his head to look at him, studying his face. The morning light caught the gold in Chanse’s skin and the exhausted, open affection in his hazel eyes.
When their eyes meet Tommy smiles. That warm, confident, and lazy smile that was so uniquely Tommy. His cheeks dimpling deep, brown eyes creasing.
Tommy's fingers trace the full curve of Chanse's bottom lip, sticky and soft. Chanse’s heart flutters at the sight, pulling him closer by the small of his back.
"I love you so much," Tommy whispered, the words raw and unguarded, meant only for the space between their mouths.
Chanse pulled him in for a final kiss, slow and affectionate, a silent sealing of the sentiment. "I love you too, Tommy," he murmured against his lips, the words dissolving into a sigh.
The kiss lasted until their breathing evened out, syncing again in the quiet room. Chanse finally slapped Tommy’s ass lightly, the sound a sharp, playful punctuation in the stillness.