Chapter 3: The Wager
The air in Tommy’s apartment was thick and still, charged with the unspent energy from their silent car ride home. Chanse’s challenge had been a low murmur against his neck as they’d stumbled through the door, and now Tommy was driving him back into the worn hardwood, their bodies a frantic, sweating tangle of limbs. “Think you’ve got me?” Tommy grunted, using his weight and strength to roll them.
He didn’t. Chanse moved like water, twisting free with a gasp that was half-laugh, and hooked a leg behind Tommy’s knee. They went down hard, Tommy’s breath leaving him in a whoosh as his back hit the floor. Chanse was on him in an instant, a solid, triumphant weight straddling his hips, pinning his wrists above his head. Tommy struggled, a genuine, raw testing of strength, his muscles corded and straining. “Fucker,” he panted, a wild grin breaking across his face.
Chanse leaned down, his curls dripping sweat onto Tommy’s chest. “I always get you.” He said it simply, a fact carved into the space between their heaving bodies. The playfulness vanished from his eyes, replaced by a dark, focused heat. He shifted his grip, intertwining their fingers, and pressed Tommy’s hands harder into the floorboards. His voice dropped to a graveled whisper against Tommy’s ear. “Looks like I’m filling that gorgeous ass of yours all day tomorrow, baby.”
Tommy’s entire body went lax beneath him, a shuddering surrender that was more profound than any fight. “Yeah,” he breathed out, the word sounding ripped from his core. “Okay.” Chanse kissed him then, deep and possessive, sealing the promise into his skin.
Chanse kissed him then, deep and possessive, sealing the promise into his skin. He finally released Tommy’s wrists, his own fingers leaving faint, aching impressions behind. Tommy brought his hands down, not to push him away, but to slide them up the damp, smooth skin of Chanse’s back, pulling him closer into the cradle of his hips. The old floorboards dug into his shoulder blades, a dull counterpoint to the sharp, bright pleasure of Chanse’s mouth on his. “You’re gonna kill me,” Tommy murmured against his lips, his voice rough and full of wonder.
“Shut up,” Chanse breathed, but it was soft, his usual sharpness melting away in the dim room. He trailed his mouth along Tommy’s jaw, down the column of his throat, nipping at the pulse hammering there. Tommy arched into it, a low sound escaping him, his body humming with a surrender so complete it felt like power. Chanse settled his weight more firmly, and Tommy could feel the hard line of his arousal through their clothes, a relentless press that made his head spin. The apartment was silent except for their ragged breathing and the distant, hollow thump of a bassline from another unit.
Sunlight, thin and dusty, cut through a gap in the blinds and striped across Chanse’s back, illuminating the shifting muscles under his golden skin. Tommy watched, mesmerized, as Chanse propped himself up on his elbows, his hazel eyes searching Tommy’s face. He traced the line of Tommy’s beard with his thumb, his touch unexpectedly gentle. The intensity of the last few minutes still hung in the air like ozone, but this was different. This was the quiet after the storm, where everything felt raw and real. Tommy’s brain, always racing, finally stilled.
Tommy’s brain, always racing, finally stilled. He just stared up, drinking in the focused warmth above him. “So, tomorrow,” he finally said, his voice a rough scrape.
“All day,” Chanse confirmed, his thumb still tracing lazy patterns on Tommy’s cheek. A faint smirk played on his lips. “You got a problem with my schedule?”
“Would it matter if I did?” Tommy countered, a real smile breaking through. Chanse leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, tasting of sweat and the whiskey they’d shared hours before. It was an answer better than words.
Tommy let his head fall back against the floor with a soft thud, the lingering taste a welcome burn on his tongue. A comfortable, weighted silence settled over them, broken only by the slowing rhythm of their hearts.
“So,” Tommy said, tracing the line of Chanse’s spine. “You just assume I have, like, an assortment of plugs laying around?” Chanse’s laughter was a warm puff of air against his collarbone. “I have faith in your logistical preparedness,” he murmured, not moving an inch.
His fingers found the silver bracelets on Tommy’s wrist, idly clicking them together. The familiar, metallic sound was anchoring in the quiet room. Tommy watched him, the way Chanse’s focus could turn so completely onto a single, simple thing. “Maybe I’m fresh out.”
“Then we’ll improvise.” Chanse finally lifted his head, his hazel eyes glinting with a promise that made Tommy’s stomach flip. “But you’re not.” He said it with such casual certainty that Tommy had to smile. Chanse knew him, maybe better than the polished, performing version everyone else saw.
He knew about the drawer, the specific velvet box tucked behind the socks. Tommy’s secret wasn’t the items, but the profound need they represented—a need only Chanse ever touched. “You’re a bastard,” Tommy whispered, the affection thick in his voice. Chanse just grinned, leaning down to kiss him again, slow and deep, as the late afternoon light bled across the floorboards toward them.
Chanse just grinned, leaning down to kiss him again, slow and deep, as the late afternoon light bled across the floorboards toward them. They ended up sprawled on the couch, limbs tangled, drifting off to the muffled sounds of the city below. The single candle finally guttered out, leaving them in a comfortable, shared dark.
Morning came not with a gentle wash of light, but with a sharp, insistent beam cutting between the blinds directly onto Tommy’s closed eyes. He groaned, turning his face into the warmth beside him, which happened to be Chanse’s shoulder. The scent of last night’s sweat and sleep was familiar, deeply comforting. Chanse’s arm was a heavy, welcome weight across his chest.
“Your sun is attacking me,” Tommy mumbled into his skin.
Chanse stirred, his hand sliding up to card through Tommy’s messy hair. “It’s your sun, in your shitty apartment.” His morning voice was a graveled rumble that vibrated through Tommy’s whole body. “And it’s telling you we have a pit shoot in ninety minutes.”
Tommy’s mind, still soft with sleep, drifted immediately to Chanse’s promise on the floor, the feel of being pinned. His body reacted before his brain could catch up, a flush spreading down his neck. Chanse felt the subtle shift, the quickening heartbeat under his palm. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Tommy with those clear, knowing eyes. A slow smile spread across his face.
“Already?” Chanse asked, his tone light but his gaze intense.
“Shut up,” Tommy said, without any heat, refusing to look away. “You started it.”
“I did.” Chanse didn’t deny it. His fingers traced the line of Tommy’s jaw, then drifted lower, over the pulse in his throat, down the center of his chest. The touch was deliberate, a silent question. Tommy’s breath hitched, his analytical mind finally quiet, overruled by a simpler, more urgent need. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Chanse’s hand slipped beneath the rumpled sheet.
His fingers were cool against Tommy’s heated skin, tracing a slow path down his abdomen. Tommy sucked in a breath, the sheet pooling at his waist as the morning light illuminated the dust motes dancing around them. “Tell me where it is,” Chanse murmured, his lips brushing Tommy’s shoulder.
“Sock drawer,” Tommy breathed out, the words barely audible. “Left side.” He watched Chanse rise, the lean lines of his back gilded by sun, and listened to the familiar sound of the wooden drawer scraping open. The clink of the velvet box was a sound that sent a jolt straight through him.
The clink of the velvet box was a sound that sent a jolt straight through him. Tommy kept his eyes on the water-stained ceiling, listening to the quiet rustle from across the room. Chanse gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Logistical preparedness,” he repeated, his voice thick with amused admiration.
He returned, the small black box in one hand, a single silicone plug in the other. Chanse placed it on the rumpled sheet between them, a stark, intimate object in the morning light. Tommy’s throat tightened, his confidence from the night before dissolving into a raw, fluttering exposure. “It’s not a big deal,” he mumbled, immediately cringing at the defensive tone.
“It’s a whole boutique, is what it is.” Chanse climbed back over him, his body blocking the sun. He leaned down, his curls brushing Tommy’s forehead. “My big, strong comedian,” he whispered, his breath warm, “with a secret stash of pretty things.” He kissed Tommy before he could reply, swallowing his self-conscious noise.
The kiss was deep and lingering, pulling the tension from Tommy’s shoulders. “You’re an asshole,” Tommy sighed into his mouth, his hands coming up to grip Chanse’s hips.
“You love it.” Chanse kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. “You love that I know.” He nipped at Tommy’s bottom lip. “Admit it.”
Tommy turned his head, his cheek against the pillow. “Maybe.” The word was a quiet concession. Chanse just smiled against his skin, his fingers tracing the line of Tommy’s hipbone beneath the sheet.
The playful glint in Chanse’s eyes deepened into something hotter, more possessive. His thumb stroked the inside of Tommy’s thigh, a slow, deliberate promise. “Gonna keep you full of me all day,” he murmured, the banter shifting into a graveled vow. “Think you can handle that at shoot?”
Tommy’s hips jerked at the thought, a helpless, wanting movement. “Try me.”
Chanse’s grin was all teeth. He popped the lid on the velvet box. His fingers bypassed the familiar plastic bottles, finding a small, opaque glass vial tucked in the corner. “What’s this?” he asked, holding it up to the light where it caught the sun, glowing amber.
“Coconut and peppermint,” Tommy said, his voice already strained. “...cooling.” Chanse uncorked it, and a sharp, clean scent cut through the room’s sleepy warmth. He poured a generous pool into his palm.
“Fancy.” The word was a low vibration against Tommy’s neck. Chanse’s slick fingers found him, pressing inside with a single, fluid motion that made Tommy’s back arch off the mattress. The initial cool sensation was a shocking, delicious contrast to the heat of his skin, a bright flare that quickly melted into a deep, spreading warmth.
Chanse worked him with a focused, practiced rhythm, his other hand splayed across Tommy’s abdomen, through the trail of course hair below his navel, keeping him still. He wanted to draw this out, to watch every flicker of pleasure on Tommy’s face, but the clock was ticking loudly in the back of his mind. He added a second finger, curling them just there, and Tommy’s choked-off cry was pure victory.
“We have sixty minutes,” Chanse murmured, his own breathing uneven. He scissored his fingers gently, stretching him, the slick sounds obscene and perfect. Tommy pushed back against his hand, a wordless plea for more. “So I have to be quick.” He didn’t sound happy about it.
“You remember the deal, right?” he asked, his voice low.
“All day,” Tommy repeated, the promise tightening his stomach. “I remember.” Chanse kissed him then, soft and deep, his slick fingers beginning a slow, circling pressure that made Tommy break the kiss with a gasp. His hips twitched upwards, a silent plea. “Just… God.”
“Easy,” Chanse whispered against his mouth, his other hand cupping Tommy’s jaw, holding him still for another kiss as his finger worked him open with a patient, thorough rhythm. The stretch burned, perfect and sweet, and Tommy melted into it, into him. “See? You take it so good.”
“Only for you,” Tommy managed, the confession tumbling out raw and unguarded in the quiet room. A second finger joined the first, and he cried out, his hand fumbling for Chanse’s wrist, the silver bracelets cool under his grasping fingers.
A second finger joined the first, and he cried out, his hand fumbling for Chanse’s wrist, the silver bracelets cool under his grasping fingers. "Just a little more," Tommy whispers and grinds down on Chanse's fingers, fucking himself on them. "Please, baby."
Chanse watched him, mesmerized by the raw hunger on his face, the way his muscular body moved with a desperate, yielding grace. He added a third finger, slowly, giving him time to adjust, his other hand smoothing up Tommy’s heaving chest.
"That’s it." Chanse slowly withdrew his fingers, the sudden emptiness a shock. Tommy whimpered, a soft, vulnerable noise he’d never let anyone else hear.
Tommy nodded, biting his lip, his brown eyes wide and dark.
Chanse guided himself, the cool tip a shocking contrast against Tommy’s heated skin. He watched Tommy’s face, the bitten lip, the flutter of his eyelids, as he began to push.
The stretch was profound, overwhelming, a slow burn that stole the air from Tommy’s lungs. He gripped Chanse’s biceps, his knuckles white, anchoring himself as the world narrowed to this single, relentless point of connection. Chanse paused, fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, and let out a ragged, shuddering breath of his own.
It was a stretch, bordering on painful. Tommy would’ve needed more preparation, a slower evening of it, not this frantic morning rush. But they didn’t have time. A sharp, punched-out sound escaped Tommy’s throat, his body locking tight around Chanse. “Fuck, fuck, wait—”
Tommy forced his eyes open, the dark brown swimming with a sheen of overwhelmed tears. He sucked in a shuddering breath, then another, the sharp line of pain blurring into a heavy, full ache. Chanse watched the transition in his gaze, the panic softening into a dazed, deep acceptance. “There you are,” Chanse whispered, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “Okay?”
Tommy nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. He wrapped his legs around Chanse’s waist, pulling him closer, a silent signal. Chanse began to move then, with a slow, relentless rhythm that made Tommy’s thoughts dissolve into pure sensation.
Each thrust was a claim, and Tommy clung to him, whispering his name like a prayer against the pounding of his own heart. Chanse drove into him, the pace merciless now, the peppermint-cool burn a distant memory under the brutal heat of friction. “That’s it,” Chanse grunted, his own control fraying, his hips snapping forward. “Gonna feel me all day, every time you move.”
“Yes,” Tommy sobbed, the agreement torn from him. His own hardness, trapped and neglected between their sweat-slick stomachs, leaked a desperate, rhythmic pulse against Chanse’s skin with every impactful drive.
His rhythm faltered, a stuttering hitch in their frantic pace. Chanse leaned back, his hands sliding from Tommy’s hips to his thighs, his hazel eyes dark and intent. “C’mere,” he breathed, his voice ragged.
Chanse folds Tommy's body, the angle deeper. He pulled Tommy’s hips up, draping his legs over his shoulders, and Tommy’s world tilted, the pressure shifting into something brighter, more severe. “Oh, god,” Tommy choked out, his hands scrabbling against the sweat-damp sheets. Chanse drove back into him, the new position robbing him of breath, of thought, of everything but the pounding depth of it. He wanted his release deep inside Tommy, a claiming that would linger.
Chanse’s pace became uneven, desperate. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a raw scrape. “You take it.” It wasn’t a question. Tommy wrapped his own hand around himself, three rough, hurried strokes were all it took, his release striping his chest as Chanse shuddered and poured into him with a guttural groan. The heat was profound, a searing answer to the cooling oil, and Tommy clenched around him, milking every last drop.
The heat was profound, a searing answer to the cooling oil, and Tommy clenched around him, milking every last drop. Chanse went rigid above him, a shuddering sigh gusting against Tommy’s neck. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he sank his weight down, keeping his cock buried deep inside Tommy’s spent, trembling body.
“Just… stay there,” Chanse murmured, his voice wrecked and soft. He pressed a damp kiss to Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy obeyed, every nerve alight, hyper-aware of the hot, softening weight within him. Chanse reached a lazy arm over to the nightstand, his fingers fumbling for the black velvet box.
The sudden clenching of Tommy’s body around his sensitive cock made Chanse gasp. “Careful, baby,” he whispered, a ragged laugh in his throat. He finally retrieved the small silicone plug. Tommy watched, breath held, as Chanse brought it back to the mess between them.
Chanse withdrew himself slowly, a sensation that made Tommy gasp at the sudden, vulnerable emptiness. “Now, clench for me,” Chanse whispered, his voice ragged and breathy against Tommy’s ear.
He pressed the solid, cool silicone tip against him, replacing the warm, spent weight of his own body. Tommy obeyed, his muscles tightening on instinct, a sharp, full ache blooming inside him. Chanse’s thumbs pressed firmly against the sensitive, swollen ring of muscle, sealing him.
A soft, choked sound escaped Tommy’s throat, part overwhelm, part profound submission. “That’s it,” Chanse breathed, applying steady pressure as he guided the plug home with a slick, pushing glide. It seated itself with a soft, definitive pop, an unmistakable foreign presence.
Chanse kept his thumbs there for a long moment, ensuring everything was held inside, sealed. “All mine in there now,” he murmured, finally releasing the pressure and smoothing his palms over Tommy’s trembling stomach. He wiped his hand absently on the rumpled sheet, his focus entirely on Tommy’s face.
The plug was a constant, solid presence, a rounded weight that seemed to radiate a faint, lingering coolness from the oil deep inside him. His body, still buzzing and oversensitive, clenched instinctively around it, the involuntary grip making him gasp at the sudden, sharp fullness.
“Easy,” Chanse soothed, his palm flat on Tommy’s lower belly. “Just breathe into it.” Tommy took a shaky breath, and on the exhale, his muscles reluctantly relaxed, accepting the intrusion. The initial starkness softened into a low, pervasive ache, a persistent reminder that would throb with every shift of his hips, every step he took.
It felt like a secret, a claim lodged in the most intimate part of him. The implications unspooled in his mind: sitting in their shared office, filming a stupid sketch, trying to deliver a punchline while all he could feel was this. A slow, hot flush crept up his neck. Chanse watched the realization dawn, his hazel eyes gleaming.
“There’s that analytical brain, working overtime,” Chanse said, his thumb brushing Tommy’s hipbone. “What’s the verdict?”
Tommy swallowed. “I feel… occupied.” The word was perfect, and it made Chanse’s smile turn wicked.
“Good.” Chanse leaned down, his voice a whisper. “You are.” He kissed him, slow and deep, and Tommy melted into it, the internal pressure shifting from a strange fullness to a grounding, possessive anchor. It was a promise, a sentence, and a gift, all in one.