Chapter 2: Round Two - Claiming
The calm didn’t last. Chanse’s tracing fingers stilled, then dug in, gripping Tommy’s hip. In one fluid, possessive motion, he rolled Tommy onto his stomach, pressing him down into the cushions that still smelled of them. Tommy’s protest was a muffled grunt into the pillow, his body instinctively arching as Chanse’s weight settled over him.
“Again,” Chanse breathed, his voice rough against the shell of Tommy’s ear. “Need you again.” He wasn’t asking. He reached for the discarded lube, slicking himself once more before guiding his cock back to Tommy’s stretched, sensitive entrance. The push was blunt, a deep, burning reclamation that punched the air from Tommy’s lungs. Chanse didn’t pause, sheathing himself fully in one relentless thrust.
“Fuck, Chanse—“
Chanse didn’t pause, sheathing himself fully in one relentless thrust.
“Fuck, Chanse—“ Tommy’s cry broke into a ragged moan as Chanse settled deep, his balls pressed hot against Tommy’s skin. The stretch was breathtaking, a delicious, filthy burn that echoed the throbbing marks on his neck.
“Told you,” Chanse growled, his hips already drawing back before slamming home again, setting a brutal, possessive rhythm. Each drive punctuated his words, the wet slap of their coupling loud in the quiet room.
Tommy pushed back against him, meeting every punishing plunge, his fingers clawing at the faded floral fabric. The pleasure was a live wire, scouring away every thought except more, deeper, harder. Tommy’s analytical mind, his insecurities, dissolved into pure need. “Please,” he gasped, the word torn from him. “Don’t stop, fuck me harder, I need it—I need more.” His begging became a chant, raw and obscene, as Chanse fucked him with a raw, unhinged urgency that felt like truth.
Chanse’s hands tightened on Tommy’s hips, his thumbs digging into the bruising flesh as he drove deeper, spurred on by the broken stream of pleas. “You want more?” he snarled, his breath hot and ragged against Tommy’s sweating shoulder. “You’re gonna get fucking more.” He shifted his angle, pulling Tommy up onto his knees, the new position allowing him to piston in with even deeper, more devastating strokes that rubbed relentlessly against Tommy’s prostate.
Tommy saw white, his vision flickering with each brutal impact. “Yes! God, right there, don’t you fucking stop!” he screamed, his voice raw. He reached back, clumsily grabbing Chanse’s thigh, trying to pull him even closer, to fuse them together. The obscene, wet sounds of their bodies filled the room, a rhythm more honest than any script they’d ever written.
Chanse leaned over him, biting at the already tender marks on Tommy’s neck, making him cry out. Tommy’s own cock slapped against his stomach, painfully hard and leaking, untouched.
Chanse’s hand snaked around his hip, calloused fingers wrapping tight around Tommy’s aching cock, and the contact was so electric Tommy sobbed. “Look at you,” Chanse grunted, his thrusts never faltering as he stroked him in time. “So fucking greedy for it.” Then, without warning, Chanse wrenched himself out and flipped them over, pulling Tommy atop him so he straddled his lap.
The sudden shift left Tommy gasping, suspended above him, his own spend smearing between their stomachs. “My turn to watch,” Chanse said, his gaze ferocious, hands guiding Tommy’s hips. Tommy understood, reaching behind himself to guide Chanse’s slick cock back into his aching hole, sinking down onto it with a torn, shuddering cry.
He rode him with a frantic, bouncing rhythm, his own need obliterating any grace. Chanse’s hands gripped his ass, spreading him open, fingers digging into the flesh as he watched himself disappear into Tommy’s body. “That’s it, take it all, you fucking need it,” Chanse hissed, bucking up to meet every downward plunge.
Tommy’s bracelets jingled as he braced his hands on Chanse’s chest, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck straining. The new angle hit something deeper, something that made his vision crackle at the edges. “I’m gonna—“ he choked out, but Chanse cut him off.
“Not yet.” Chanse sat up suddenly, wrapping an arm around Tommy’s back to crush their chests together, still buried deep inside him. He captured Tommy’s mouth in a wet, biting kiss, swallowing his moans as he began to fuck up into him with short, savage jerks of his hips.
He captured Tommy’s mouth in a wet, biting kiss, swallowing his moans as he began to fuck up into him with short, savage jerks of his hips. The angle was brutal, perfect, each drive hitting the raw, overstimulated nerve deep inside him until Tommy’s words dissolved into shattered, incoherent pleas. “More, fuck, I can’t—just give me more, Chanse, ruin me,” he babbled, his voice broken against Chanse’s lips, his own cock leaking a steady stream onto their stomachs.
Chanse’s answer was a guttural snarl, his hands sliding from Tommy’s back to clutch his ass, spreading him wider, forcing himself impossibly deeper. “Fuck” he gasped, the words hot in Tommy’s mouth.
The force of it stole Tommy’s breath, leaving only a punched-out, rhythmic “uh-uh-uh” with every drive. “Please, I can’t—I need you,” he choked, the words slurry and desperate against Chanse’s sweat-slick shoulder. His own cock was a furious, neglected ache between them, dripping onto the mess already cooling on their skin. Chanse’s thumb, rough and demanding, swiped through the wetness on Tommy’s stomach before resting lightly on his shaft, not really touching it.
Chanse’s thumb hovered, a tormenting millimeter from the leaking slit. “You're leaking so fucking much, baby,” he breathed, his voice shredded. Tommy shuddered, his whole body a clenched knot of unmet need.
Pre-come welled up in a steady, clear bead, dripping onto Chanse’s stomach to mix with the drying spend. The ache was a bright, sharp throb that synced with his heartbeat. “Touch it, please, just fucking touch me,” Tommy begged, his hips stuttering in a useless, shallow grind.
“No.” The denial was absolute, a low rumble in Chanse’s chest. He kept his hand splayed on Tommy’s belly, holding him down, feeling the muscles quiver. His other hand gripped Tommy’s chin, softly, tracing with gentle fingers. "You don't need it."
Tommy's head fell forward, his bleached hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He was so full, so wrecked, his own demand a physical torture. “I do - I do, Chanse” he sobbed, the admission ripped from a place of pure vulnerability. The pain was a bright, delirious counterpoint to the pleasure tearing through him.
His begging dissolved into pure, guttural sound. “Please do it, fuck, ruin me, I don’t care - just take it" He was babbling, offering every broken piece of himself up to that devastating rhythm. He was a live wire of sensation, every nerve ending screaming for a release that was being meticulously, cruelly withheld. His own untouched cock wept steadily onto Chanse’s golden skin, a humiliating, desperate leak. "I can't—" he finally rasped, the words scraping raw.
“Yes you can." Chanse’s voice was a low, controlled scrape against the whirlwind of Tommy’s need. His hips never stopped their deep, rolling pumps, but his hand remained a flat pressure on Tommy’s belly.
He leaned back, taking his weight on his hands, and looked down between their bodies. The visual was obscene: himself, slick and buried to the hilt, Tommy stretched taut around him, trembling. “Fuck, look at that.” Tommy’s head lolled to the side, his eyes glassy, but Chanse gripped his jaw. “Look.”
Tommy looked. Seeing Chanse’s cock working in and out of his own swollen flesh made his stomach clutch. “I’m so close,” he sobbed.
“Then come,” Chanse growled, his voice cracking with the strain of his own restraint. He locked his hips, driving up once more and holding himself there, buried to the root, a brutal, perfect pressure. His hands abandoned Tommy’s body, falling to the cushions beside him, fists clenched in surrender.
It was the denial of touch and that final, immovable fullness that did it. Tommy’s entire body went rigid, a silent, shattered scream contorting his face. His cock jerked violently between them, untouched, and pulsed out a hot, sudden stripe of white over Chanse’s sternum.
Another helpless jet followed, then another, splattering Chanse’s skin as Tommy trembled, impaled and shuddering through a climax that felt ripped from his spine. “Ah, God—ah, fuck!” he chanted, the words thin and broken, his hands fluttering helplessly before pressing against Chanse’s chest, feeling the warm proof of his own surrender.
Chanse watched, mesmerized, as the last weak drops spilled from Tommy’s tip onto the mess he’d made. Only then did a rough, approving sound escape him. “Jesus. Look at that.” He moved then, a slow, deliberate thrust that made Tommy whimper, oversensitive and spent.
"C," Chanse breathed, the sound a raw, hungry exhalation against Tommy's damp neck. His hips began a relentless, deep rhythm, each thrust jolting through Tommy's oversensitive body with a sharp, electric ache. Tommy gasped, his fingers scrambling against the slick skin of Chanse's chest, the world narrowing to that brutal, sliding fullness.
"You take it so good, even when you're wrecked," Chanse grunted, his voice strained. His hands anchored on the bruises already blooming on Tommy's hips, pressing deep into the tender flesh. The pain was a bright, clarifying stripe amidst the overwhelming sensation.
"I've dreamed about this," he whispered, biting the shell of Tommy's ear. "Fucking you raw until neither of us can walk straight." Tommy's answering moan was a broken, wet sound, his body arching involuntarily to meet each drive. Chanse sped up, his thrusts becoming frantic, a savage piston that slapped their sweat-slick skin together.
The wet, rhythmic sounds filled the room, obscene and possessive. "I'm close, fuck," Chanse hissed, his rhythm faltering into desperate, shallow jerks. He drove in deep, burying himself to the hilt, and Tommy felt the hot, internal pulse as Chanse came.
Chanse shouted, a guttural, unraveling sound, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside. The warmth spread, a claiming that left Tommy shuddering through aftershocks. For a moment, they stayed locked, breathing harshly into the quiet.
The slow thrust was a merciless tease against Tommy’s frayed nerves. A broken gasp escaped him, his oversensitive body clenching helplessly around the intrusion. Chanse didn’t pull out; he stayed buried, his own breathing ragged, watching the aftermath play across Tommy’s face.
“You okay?” Chanse asked, his voice sandpaper rough.
Tommy could only nod, his forehead dropping to rest against Chanse’s. The smell of sex and sweat was dense between them. Chanse’s hands came up to cradle Tommy’s jaw, his thumbs wiping at the wet tracks under his eyes Tommy hadn’t even realized were there.
Then Chanse pulled him down, closing the last inch of space, and their mouths met.
It wasn't like before. This kiss was deep, slow, and devastatingly tender, a profound contrast to the bruising pace of their bodies. Tommy sighed into it, a shuddery release of breath, all his defenses gone. He could taste himself, the wine, and something uniquely Chanse.
The kiss lingered, softening, a silent conversation their banter could never translate. When they finally broke apart, breathing the same air, Chanse’s hazel eyes were dark and unguarded. “Tommy,” he whispered, just a name, but it held everything.
A tremor ran through Tommy, part aftershock, part fear. This, right here, was the terrifying part. The sex he could process; this quiet wreckage, he didn’t know how to hold. He felt raw, flayed open beyond the physical marks on his skin and the slickness between his thighs. Chanse’s breath was warm against his lips, his thumbs still tracing the line of Tommy’s jaw.
A minute passed, or maybe five, measured only by the slowing drumbeat of their hearts.
Tommy closed his eyes and waited for the other shoe to drop. It always did. Jokes were armor, sex was a transaction, and this… this tender silence felt more dangerous than anything that had come before.
Chanse turned onto his side, his hazel eyes searching Tommy’s profile in the dim lamplight. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again, his usual confident baritone replaced by something quieter, more tentative. The air between them grew taut, charged with all the unsaid things their bodies had already screamed.
“I’m not going anywhere after this,” he whispered.
The words hung in the humid air, a promise so terrifying Tommy felt his throat tighten. He kept his eyes shut, the lamplight a red blaze through his eyelids, until the silence demanded a response.
“People say shit like that,” Tommy finally said, his voice gravel. “After.” He gestured weakly at the mess between them.
“I’m not people.” Chanse’s finger hooked under his chin, forcing his gaze. “And I’ve been saying it for months. You just weren’t listening.”
“Flirting isn’t saying it.”
“Every joke was. Every fucking look.” Chanse’s thumb brushed his lip. “I’m in love with you, you dense motherfucker.”
The world tilted. Tommy’s breath hitched. “Don’t. That’s not a casual thing you just drop.”
“Was anything about tonight casual?” Chanse’s gaze dropped to the vivid bite mark on Tommy’s neck. “I’m in love with you. It’s fucking terrifying.”
A shaky laugh escaped Tommy. “Yeah.” He looked away, at their discarded clothes, the dead script. His heart hammered against his ribs. “It is.”
The quiet stretched, filled only with the city’s distant hum. Chanse didn’t retract it. He just waited, his hand a steady weight on Tommy’s jaw.
Tommy’s bracelets jingled as he brought a trembling hand up to cover Chanse’s. He met his eyes, the kind brown ones Chanse always teased for being too soft. “I’m in love with you, too.” The admission felt like stepping off a cliff. “Obviously. Pathetically.”
Chanse’s answer was a kiss that tasted like salt and surrender. He rolled them gently, the worn cushions sighing beneath them, until Tommy was on his back again. “Pathetic is my favorite flavor,” he murmured against Tommy’s mouth, his hand sliding down the trail of coarse hair from sternum to hip.
His fingers traced the sticky, cooling mess on Tommy’s stomach. “Mine and yours,” he said, voice low, before bringing his fingers to Tommy’s lips. Tommy took them into his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes locked on Chanse’s. The act was filthier than anything before it, a silent vow.
“Again,” Tommy rasped, releasing Chanse’s fingers. “I need to feel you again.” He was already hard, aching, the oversensitivity burned away by a deeper hunger. Chanse’s cock, still wet from their last round, slid against his thigh, insistently alive.
Chanse reached for the lube once more, coating himself with a slick, slick sound that made Tommy’s hips jerk. “How do you want it?” he asked, his control a thin veneer over the need in his eyes.
“Just like this,” Tommy breathed, spreading his legs. “I want to see you.” Chanse guided himself back to Tommy’s used, willing entrance, the head catching for a moment before pushing inside. The stretch was a sharp, breathtaking burn, and Tommy arched, a raw gasp tearing from his throat.
Chanse seated himself fully, pausing, his body trembling with restraint. “Fuck, you’re so open,” he groaned, looking down at where they were joined. He began to move with a slow, deep roll of his hips, each drag a brutal, perfect friction. “You take me so fucking good.”
Tommy wrapped his legs around Chanse’s waist, heels digging into his back. “Harder,” he demanded, his voice breaking on the word. “Don’t be gentle now.” Chanse obeyed, his rhythm snapping into something punishing, his balls slapping against Tommy’s skin with each drive.
The couch creaked in protest. Tommy’s moans were punched out of him, sharp and rhythmic. “Right there, god, yes,” he chanted, his hands fisting in Chanse’s damp curls. He was a raw nerve, every sense saturated with Chanse—his smell, his sweat, the exquisite agony of his cock.
Chanse dropped his head, biting again at the already bruised column of Tommy’s throat, marking what was his. “Mine,” he growled against his skin, a primal possession in each thrust. Tommy came with a wordless shout, his spend striping his belly anew, his body clamping down in convulsing waves.
Chanse followed, driving in one last, deep time, his release pulsing hot inside. He collapsed, his full weight a welcome anchor. In the heavy silence, their breaths slowly synchronized. Chanse did not pull away. He settled, his face buried in Tommy’s neck, one hand splayed possessively over his heart.