A scene were Tommys has been having a rough day at work, and Chanse cares for him when they get back to Tommy's apartment. They make out slowly in the kitchen, after putting down their stuff. Tommy makes it clear through his movements he wants Chanse to fuck him, even though Chanse knows Tommy's sore. They'd fucked like crazy the night prior. He awes him, his silly, strong, muscular man still wanting to give him everything despite already having given him all. Tommy comments on it, quick witted and sarcastic as usual. Chanse straddles him, touches his skin, cards through his chest hair and traces the bites marks and thin lines from where his fingers scratched him. Tommy took so much, always wanting to give more. Chanse felt the need, immense and deep to return it. Wanting to appreciate and praise him through his words, touches and mouth rather than on his cock.. for all the stress to melt off of Tommy's shoulders. Tommy leans back and lets it happen, his resisting words becoming more sparse and far between. But yet spreads his legs, an invitation open. Tommy's insatiable and will make it known. He's no pillow princess after all. Chanse promises to fuck him later, and makes his way down Tommy's strong frame, feels his strong arms, broad chest, the narrowing of his waist. He's perfect, and Chanse tells him. Tommy doesn't do well with compliments, wants to brush them off quickly. Chanse uses his mouth, sucking his cock, softly and delicately, a stark contrast to his often commanding lead. His voice soft like honey. Pops the head in and out, let's his tongue find the slit, steadily dripping. Tommy always leaks so much, it drives Chanse wild. He let's his mouth travel down, his balls, the insides of his thighs, lapping at the sensitive and swollen hole. His tongue makes it way in with little resistance, still a little give from the night before. Tommy wriggles, his legs shaking. A bit self conscious about the ass eating, but allows it anyway - unravels with the dual sensations of hands, fingers, mouth and tongue... Like he's decided to just surrender to them, the praise - to all of Chanse. Like Chanse, even in this soft state of simply caring, no roughness, has a way to break Tommy apart and make him lose all sense of control.

Chapter 1: The Countertop Confession

The kitchen smelled like last night’s garlic stir-fry and this morning’s regret. Tommy leaned against the counter, the peeling floral wallpaper a dizzying backdrop to the pound behind his eyes. Every muscle ached, a deep, satisfying burn that spoke of exertion, of weight, of hands that knew exactly how to use him. His thumb traced the edge of the sticky laminate. He was exhausted, scraped raw, but his skin still hummed.

Chanse pushed through the swing door from the hallway, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, just low-slung sweats that hung off his hips. The morning light cut across the golden skin of his chest, highlighting the smooth, toned planes. Tommy’s eyes caught on the curve of his bicep, the memory of that arm holding him down flashing hot and immediate.

“You look like hell,” Chanse said, his voice rough with sleep. He came to stand in front of Tommy, crowding his space. The air shifted, thickening again.

“Feel like it,” Tommy grumbled, but his hands, acting on their own volition, found Chanse’s hips. His fingers dug into the sharp bones there, a claim, an anchor.

Chanse’s smirk widened. He lifted a hand, his touch incongruously gentle as he brushed Tommy’s bleached hair back from his forehead. Then his fingers drifted down, tracing the constellation of faint, purple bruises that dotted Tommy’s throat. A catalog. His hazel eyes darkened, possessive satisfaction simmering in them. “Good.”

Tommy shivered. The word was a lit match tossed on gasoline. He was tired, yes, but the hunger was worse, a yawning thing in his gut. He needed to be wrecked all over again. To feel the fracture, just so he could be put back together.

“Don’t start,” Tommy warned, but it was weak, his voice cracking.

“Or what?” Chanse whispered. His thumb pressed against a particularly vivid mark just above Tommy’s collarbone, a whisper of pain that spiraled straight down his spine. Tommy’s grip on his hips tightened, his knuckles white.

Chanse watched him, reading the conflict in the tense line of Tommy’s jaw, the defiance in his brown eyes warring with the sheer need screaming from every pore. He saw it. He always saw it.

Slowly, deliberately, Chanse dropped to his knees. The old linoleum was cool under his knees. He looked up, his gaze unwavering. “You’re trembling.”

“I’m not,” Tommy lied. The sight of Chanse like this, of his own power reflected back at him in that submissive pose, was almost too much. It short-circuited his overthinking brain, leaving only raw, pounding want.

Chanse’s hands slid up Tommy’s thighs, the cotton of his worn boxer-briefs suddenly too thin a barrier. “Yes, you are.” He leaned forward, his breath hot through the fabric, and Tommy’s head thumped back against the cabinet with a dull thud. A strangled sound escaped him.

“I’ll take care of you, baby,” Chanse murmured, his voice a low vibration against Tommy’s skin. His lips brushed the strained fabric. “But you’ll take it slow.”

It was an order. A merciful one. The final piece of control, willingly handed over. Tommy’s breath hitched, a sharp, desperate intake. He was laid bare, caught between the defiance of his pride and the surrender his body screamed for. His hands, which had been clenched at Chanse’s hips, loosened. His fingers threaded into the soft, brown curls, not pushing, just holding on.

“Okay,” Tommy breathed, the word a release of tension. A white flag.

Chanse’s smile was a flash of triumph, and tenderness, and something fiercely protective. He hooked his fingers in the waistband. “Okay.”

The flickering bulb above them buzzed. A car honked somewhere in the distance. The world, mundane and impatient, kept turning outside the sticky, scented chaos of the kitchen. But in here, time was theirs. It stretched and slowed, measured only by Tommy’s staggered breaths and the deliberate, worshipping sweep of Chanse’s hands.

He was ruining him. And he was putting him back together. And Tommy, for once, didn’t have to think at all. He just had to feel.