It had started like most other times, lately. Strangely domestic but still passionate and completely uncontrollable. Their mouths slotting together, a steamy make out session resulting in torn off clothes and naked lust. Chanse's fingers finding Tommy's wanting hole, expertly working him open. Tommy seemed to be storing bottles of lube everywhere in his apartment by now. He whispers pure filth into Tommy's ear, praises him the way he deserves. They didn't even pretend to bother with condoms anymore - the question simply gone from the setup. They both liked it better this way, and it was just them anyway - exclusive in their secrecy. Chanse knew how Tommy liked to be fucked by now - not too fast but gut wrenchingly deep. Tommy liked the slight burn, as long as it was followed by the sweetness of Chanse's mouth on his skin, the whispers of devotion and affection. It could have gone as every other time, an intimate and passionate fuck ending in synced climaxes and mutual comedowns. But it didn't. Somewhere when Chanse's cock was slamming into him especially deep, murmuring something extra affectionate into his sweaty skin - Tommy felt it. He had to say it. It had taken them so long, and it had been so fucking rough to get here - to be able to feel this, be together. And it was everything. Tommy's eyes watering from both the sensation of the fucking and the feelings fluttering in his heart, a strong hand grazing Chanse's cheek. "I - I love you" It came from the deepest part of his insides, spilling out. He wanted to take it back for a second, until Chanse responded; "I fucking love you too" driving in harder - needing Tommy to feel it. And for the first time he says, asks "Wanna finish inside you" And Tommy chanting "Please let me have it" hips meeting his cock, guiding it deeper inside - needing it "Please fill me up". Chanse empties deep inside Tommy's hole, his teeth claiming a new mark into his shoulder. They come down in a beautiful mess of the revelation, the feelings, and the sticky truth of what had happened. Warm and happy. "I do really love you"

Chapter 1: The Mark of Want

The door clicked shut, and Tommy’s back hit the wall before the deadbolt fully engaged. Chanse’s palm was a flat, warm pressure against his sternum, fingers splayed, holding him there without effort. The other hand came up to cradle his jaw, a thumb brushing the coarse hair of his beard.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” Chanse’s voice was a low vibration in the quiet of the apartment hallway, away from the living room’s clutter of camera equipment and discarded script drafts.

Tommy’s breath hitched. He could smell the faint, clean scent of Chanse’s sweat from the studio lights, mixed with his own stupid, expensive cologne. “Might’ve crossed my mind.”

“Liar.” Chanse’s teeth found the cord of muscle in Tommy’s shoulder, biting through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. The sting was sharp, bright, and traveled straight down his spine. A moan, raw and embarrassingly eager, tore out of him. His own hands, which could bench-press Chanse with stupid ease, came up to grip Chanse’s hips, not to move him, just to feel the solidness there.

That was the thing. That was always the thing. Chanse was smaller, smoother, built like a dancer where Tommy was built like a guy who moved film gear. But in this space, in the dim light of his own bedroom doorway, the hierarchy flipped. Tommy’s strength became just another thing to be surrendered.

Chanse pulled him by the beard into a kiss that was all teeth and possession, walking him backward into the bedroom. The back of Tommy’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sank down, looking up. Chanse stood over him, hazel eyes dark in the lamplight, pulling his own shirt off. The sight of that golden skin, the defined lines of his stomach, never got old. It sparked the same low, insatiable fire it always did.

“You’re quiet,” Chanse murmured, kneeling on the bed, straddling Tommy’s thighs. His fingers worked open the button of Tommy’s jeans.

“Analytical,” Tommy corrected, his voice already rough. He was. He was analyzing the shift in Chanse’s pupils, the set of his mouth, the specific pressure of his knees against Tommy’s legs. Cataloging it. Trying, and failing, to build a routine out of a feeling that was fundamentally chaotic.

“Think less.” Chanse’s hand slid into his open fly, wrapping around him, and all coherent thought dissolved into a static buzz. Tommy’s head fell back, a choked sound escaping him. “Yeah. There it is.”

It was fast, and it was slow. It was Chanse pushing him onto his stomach, the sheets smelling like them, like sleep and sex and that vanilla laundry detergent Chanse insisted on buying. It was the familiar snick of the cap on the nightstand bottle, the chill of the lube that warmed instantly under Chanse’s touch. Tommy fumbled for a pillow, shoved it under his hips, and the sigh that left him was pure relief.

Chanse’s hands were knowing. He didn’t ask. He mapped Tommy’s body like territory he owned, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles of his lower back, easing him open with a patience that felt like torment. Tommy pressed his face into the duvet, the words please and now tangled on his tongue, coming out as a muffled groan.

“I know,” Chanse said, as if he’d heard them anyway. His voice was soft, almost smiling. He leaned over, his smooth chest a hot line against Tommy’s scarred back, his mouth at Tommy’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

When he pushed in, it was a full, unstoppable glide. No barrier. They’d stopped using condoms months ago, a silent mutual agreement one sweat-slicked night that felt more significant than any signed document. It was raw, like the arguments they had over edits, like the laughter they shared at stupid influencer posts, like the unspoken thing that had grown, roots deep and tenacious, between them.

Chanse set a relentless, deep rhythm, one hand braced by Tommy’s head, the other circling his hip, holding him in place. Every thrust was a punctuation mark, driving the air from Tommy’s lungs. He was a litany of choked-off sounds, of pleading, wordless and desperate. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the creak of the bedframe, the hot puff of Chanse’s breath against his neck.

“So good,” Chanse murmured, the words grazing Tommy’s skin. “Taking me so perfect. Always so perfect for me.”

The praise unraveled him faster than the physical touch. It was the approval, the ownership in the tone, that sent fractures through his carefully maintained control. He felt the tension coiling, the inevitable snap approaching, but beneath it, rising like a tide, was something else. Something warmer and more terrifying.

Chanse’s rhythm stuttered, his control slipping. His grip on Tommy’s hip tightened, his breaths coming in ragged gusts. “Tommy. I’m gonna—”

The words broke through the last dam.

“I love you.”

They fell into the room, quiet and stuttered, weak against the noise of their bodies. Tommy froze, horrified, elated, shattered. The movement behind him stopped. The entire universe constricted to the point where their bodies were joined.

For a second, there was only silence, charged and immense.

Then Chanse let out a shuddering, broken sound. He dropped, his full weight pressing Tommy into the mattress, his face buried in the space between Tommy’s shoulder blades. His hips rolled forward, one last, deep, claiming push, and he held there.

Tommy felt it, the hot, intimate pulse deep inside him. A full, breathtaking claim. Chanse shuddered through it, a low groan vibrating against Tommy’s back, his fingers lacing with Tommy’s against the sheets.

Slowly, gently, Chanse rolled them, pulling Tommy with him, keeping them connected. Tommy ended up on his back, Chanse a heavy, welcome weight on his chest. In the soft lamplight, he could see the sheen of sweat on Chanse’s temples, the unruly curls stuck to his forehead.

Chanse looked down at him, his hazel eyes searching Tommy’s face, raw and open. He brushed a thumb over Tommy’s lower lip, his touch unbearably tender.

“Took you long enough,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. A smile, small and real, touched his lips. Then he kissed him, deep and slow, and Tommy could taste the truth of it on his tongue.