Chapter 1: Chapter 1
The script was shit. Tommy knew it, Chanse knew it, and the two empty wine glasses on the coffee table definitely knew it. The pages were a mess of scribbled-out lines and question marks, abandoned an hour ago when the conversation had turned from punch-ups to personal fuck-ups.
“I’m just saying,” Chanse murmured, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. He was stretched out on the opposite end of the couch, a throw pillow crushed under his elbow. “Your premise relies on a guy not knowing what a PDF is. My dad knows what a PDF is. It’s 2024, man. Gotta aim higher.”
Tommy swirled the dregs of his cabernet, watching the legs slide down the glass. “Fine. You write the next one. I’ll just stand there and look pretty.”
“You’ll nail that part.” Chanse’s gaze was a physical weight, a warm sweep from Tommy’s bleached hair down to where his socks had been discarded on the rug. It was a look Tommy had been cataloguing for months—sometimes teasing, sometimes sharp, but lately, under the dim glow of this particular floor lamp, it felt like a match held close to dry tinder.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, flavored with pentagram and cheap wine and the faint, familiar scent of Chanse’s cologne. Tommy’s mouth was dry. He set his glass down with a click that sounded too loud.
“What?” he finally asked, the word cracking.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
A smile played on Chanse’s lips. He pushed himself up, moving with a lean grace that always made Tommy feel a little too bulky, a little too hairy. He didn’t stop until his knee brushed Tommy’s thigh on the faded floral cushion. “About how you get this little line right here,” he said, his fingertip hovering just above the furrow between Tommy’s brows. “When you’re thinking too hard. When you’re in your head.”
Tommy swallowed. “I’m always in my head.”
“I know.” Chanse’s hand didn’t retreat. It descended, a whisper of touch smoothing over his eyebrow, then down the line of his short beard. The two silver bracelets on Tommy’s wrist jingled faintly as his hand trembled where it rested on his own knee. “Want me to help you get out of it?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a door swinging open. Tommy’s analytical mind, usually a chorus of doubts and second-guesses, went utterly silent. There was only this: the heat of Chanse’s leg against his, the piercing hazel of his eyes, the reckless surrender of the evening crystallizing into a single, inevitable point.
He kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was months of sublimated want exploding into motion. Tommy’s hand came up to cup the back of Chanse’s neck, fingers sliding into the soft brown curls at his nape. Chanse made a noise—a sharp, gratifying intake of breath—and then he was kissing back, all hungry lips and slick friction.
The script pages fluttered to the floor. A pillow followed. Chanse shoved Tommy back against the arm of the couch, climbing over him, their bodies slotting together with an urgent, clumsy rightness. Tommy could feel the hard line of Chanse’s cock through his jeans, pressed against his own, and it pulled a ragged groan from his throat.
“Fuck,” Tommy breathed against Chanse’s mouth.
“Yeah,” Chanse agreed, sucking Tommy’s lower lip between his teeth before diving back in. His hands were everywhere, pulling at Tommy’s t-shirt, rucking it up until his palms found skin. Tommy arched into the touch, the sensation of those smooth, sure hands on his torso, over the coarse hair of his chest, almost too much.
He got Chanse’s shirt off next, revealing golden skin and the tight, smooth planes of his stomach. Tommy ran his hands over it, learning the terrain, before flipping their positions with a grunt, pressing Chanse down into the cushions. He mouthed along his jaw, down the column of his throat, biting just hard enough to elicit another one of those beautiful, broken sounds.
“You have no idea,” Chanse gasped, his fingers clawing at Tommy’s back. “Months. Fucking months, Tommy.”
That did it. The last thread of pretense snapped. Tommy fumbled with the button of Chanse’s jeans, his fingers shaking. Chanse batted them away and did it himself, shoving his own pants and boxers down in one frantic push. Tommy followed, kicking his own free, and then they were skin to skin, cocks sliding together in the hot, humid space between their bodies.
The feeling was electric, overwhelming. Tommy buried his face in Chanse’s neck, breathing him in, rocking his hips in a slow, desperate grind. Chanse’s legs came up to wrap around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.
“Wait,” Tommy choked out. He pushed himself up on trembling arms. “Wait. I want… I need…”
He didn’t have to finish. Chanse’s eyes, dark and blown wide, understood. He gave a sharp, eager nod.
Tommy leaned over, yanking open the drawer of the side table. He rummaged past remote controls and loose charger cables until his fingers closed around the cold, smooth cylinder. He tossed the bottle of lube onto Chanse’s stomach.
The look Chanse gave him was pure fire. “Premium shit. Hopeful motherfucker, weren’t you?”
“Shut up,” Tommy said, but there was no heat in it, only a raw, exposed need.
Chanse slicked his fingers, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. His other hand guided Tommy onto his back, arranging pillows. His touch was suddenly, devastatingly careful. “Okay?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Just… yeah. Please.”
The first press was a cool, blunt intrusion. Tommy gasped, his body tensing. Chanse stilled, letting him adjust, dropping kisses along his clavicle. “Breathe, big guy. Just breathe.” He worked one finger in, slowly, with a patient, twisting motion that made Tommy’s toes curl. It was strange, then it was full, and then, as Chanse curled his finger, it was fucking unbelievable.
“Holy shit,” Tommy whimpered.
“There we go,” Chanse murmured, his breath hot against Tommy’s ear. He added a second finger, stretching him open with a meticulous, burning care that felt like both agony and salvation. Tommy pushed down against the sensation, his hands fisting in the couch fabric. He was babbling, a stream of “fuck” and “yes” and “right there.”
When Chanse finally slid his fingers free, Tommy felt empty, bereft. He watched, heart hammering against his ribs, as Chanse slicked himself up, his cock glistening in the lamplight. He was beautiful, all lean muscle and intent.
“You sure?” Chanse asked, poised above him, his expression uncharacteristically solemn.
Tommy answered by hooking his legs around Chanse’s waist and pulling him down. “I’m sure. Do it.”
The push was slow, relentless, an inexorable filling that stole the air from Tommy’s lungs. He threw his head back, a choked cry escaping his lips as Chanse sank home, pelvis finally meeting his. They stayed like that, fused, trembling, until the blinding stretch bloomed into a deep, radiating pleasure.
“Move,” Tommy begged. “Chanse, fucking move.”
He did. Setting a rhythm that was deep and punishingly good. Tommy met each thrust, his body learning the angle, the cadence. Chanse leaned down to kiss him, filthy and open-mouthed, swallowing his moans. Then he latched onto Tommy’s neck, sucking and biting at the skin just above his collar bone.
“Gonna mark me, you bastard,” Tommy panted, but he tipped his head back, offering more.
“Yeah,” Chanse growled against his skin. “Let ’em see. Let ’em all fucking see.”
The words, the possession in them, coiled tight in Tommy’s gut. He was hurtling towards the edge, the friction of Chanse inside him, the scrape of his body hair against his stomach, the brutal, wonderful claiming at his throat—it was all too much. He reached between them, took his own cock in hand, and stroked in time with Chanse’s thrusts.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice barely recognizable.
“Do it.” Chanse’s pace became frantic, his hips slapping against Tommy’s ass. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
The orgasm ripped through him, violent and wracking. He cried out, back bowing off the couch as his cock pulsed, streaks of come painting his stomach and chest. The clenching of his body around Chanse’s cock was the final trigger. Chanse shouted, a raw, ragged sound, and drove in deep, shuddering as he emptied himself inside.
The world blurred into a haze of sweat and heat and labored breath. Chanse collapsed on top of him, a welcome, crushing weight. For long minutes, the only sounds were their slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of the city outside.
Slowly, carefully, Chanse softened and slipped out. He rolled to the side but immediately pulled Tommy with him, tucking him against his body, draping an arm over his waist. Tommy winced as the cool air hit the wet, sensitive bite on his neck. He’d need a turtleneck for a week.
Chanse’s fingers traced idle patterns through the hair on Tommy’s chest, smearing through the drying come. “So,” he said, his voice raspy. “The PDF bit is definitely out, right?”
A stunned laugh burst out of Tommy. He turned his head, nuzzling into the space beneath Chanse’s jaw. “Yeah. It’s out.”
They lay there in the warm nest of the couch, sticky and spent. The unsaid things hung in the air between them, heavier than any script. But for now, in the dim glow, with Chanse’s heartbeat steady against his back, it was enough. It was a beginning. Tommy closed his eyes, and for once, he wasn’t in his head at all. He was right here, ruined and remade, and he never wanted to move.