Chanse wakes up in the morning in Tommy's bed, at his apartment. He feels it before his eyes have even opened. In the scents in the air and how the linen felt underneath him. The sounds outside Tommy's bedroom window slightly different than the ones he's used too in west hollywood. And of course the ever so strong arm wrapped securely around his waist.
Tommy.
Chanse could tell he was still sleeping, even if he couldn't see him, where he lay behind him, he could feel it the slow and steady exhales of his breath, softly fanning the back of Chanse's neck, could feel it in the weight of the arm on top of him, relaxed in a way Tommy barely ever was when awake.
Careful not to wake him, Chanse turns around to face him, the thin white duvet slipping past their hips as he did.
He held his breath and just stared at the man in front of him. That he now could call his.
He was beautiful.
The bleached blonde strands, almost white looking in the soft light. His chiseled jaw, the well groomed beard. His pointy nose and soft lips. Chanse let the tips of his fingers lightly trace the thin lines around Tommy's eyes. The ones that came from smiling. Moved up to trace the slightly deeper line, between his brows, the one from worrying and caring too much.
Chanse smiled into the quiet room.
Tommy had been smiling more lately.
He continued his silent tour, letting his gaze fall on the marks scattered across his toned frame, all different shades - some newer and some older. All telling the same tale, of Tommy belonging to him.
His fingers brushed softly against them. Tommy still pretended to be annoyed by them. Not when they happened but after. In the bathroom mirror after a shared shower, or in the bedroom getting dressed.
"So what do you suggest I wear today to cover this fucker up with?" He'd say pointing to some bite left a little too big, just slightly too high.
But Chanse knew he liked them.
He let his hands ghost over Tommy's strong arm, the outlines of muscle there even in his relaxed state. Those arms would drive Chanse insane. The way they could pin him down, lift him up, or simply choose not to do anything - even when they both knew Tommy easily could.
Chanse looks down at his toned chest, his abs.
Chapter 5: Tide and Anchor
The aftermath in the kitchen had been a brutal, necessary exorcism. Now, in the soft gloom of the bedroom, Chanse mapped the geography of Tommy’s surrender with his tongue. He licked a slow, wet stripe over the aching bite mark on his pec, then soothed it with a kiss. “My beautiful, fucked-out man,” he murmured into the sweat-damp hair at Tommy’s temple.
Tommy trembled beneath him, his breath still coming in hiccupping shudders. Chanse reached for the lube on the nightstand, the click of the cap loud in the quiet. He slicked his fingers, watching Tommy’s face as he pressed one inside, finding him still loose and open from earlier. Tommy’s eyes fluttered shut, a ragged sigh escaping him.
“Look at me,” Chanse breathed, his voice a low command laced with something unbearably tender. Tommy’s brown eyes, hazy with spent tears and building need, focused on him. Chanse sank into him with a slow, relentless pressure, a full, burning stretch that made Tommy’s jaw go slack. “See who’s here,” Chanse said, hips flush against him, not moving. “It’s just me. Only ever me.”
He began to move, a deep, rocking rhythm that was less about friction and more about consumption. Each roll of his hips was a wordless promise, each slide a reclaiming. Tommy’s hands came up to claw at Chanse’s back, his strong legs hooking around Chanse’s waist to pull him deeper. “Chanse,” he gasped, the name a prayer and a breaking point.
“I know,” Chanse whispered against his mouth, driving into him harder, the bedframe tapping a steady rhythm against the wall. “I’ve got you. Let it go.” Tommy’s climax hit him silently, a seismic wave that locked his body tight, his channel pulsing around Chanse in hot, rhythmic clutches. Chanse followed him over, pouring himself deep with a guttural groan, collapsing his weight onto Tommy’s heaving chest. In the silence, broken only by their ragged breathing, Chanse nuzzled into the junction of Tommy’s neck. “You’re my everything,” he whispered, the words sinking into skin already marked as his.