Chuck versus The Lessons; Part One
Title: Chuck versus The Lessons; Part One
Authors: recrudescence and nakeno
Pairing: Chuck/Casey
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own'em, don't get paid.
Word Count: 3,463
Summary: There's a line. Bold and bright and veryvery visible. Asset. Job. Assignment. Nothing. More. Bad, sketchy film passing through: Chuck calling him 'buddy,' Chuck putting his hand on Casey's shoulder, Chuck contemplating him, Chuck inviting him to dinner with the family, Chuck looking at him and saying everything he hates about lying to them with those green-brown eyes...
Tekken 4 tournament at the Buy More. Of course, the Intersect throws a fit right around eight wins out of ten for Chuck. Casey all business. Sarah all pretty.
The Intersect always has other ideas: like catching a glimpse of the small comic convention in town. Drug lords with drug smugglers; a smiling face on a paper flyer giving Chuck the run-down on a Yakuza infiltrate, intent on setting up a web to increase their profits on the Western side of the globe.
What's that mean? Booking a room; no vacancy, but Casey swings it on account of his intimidating manner.
It's a nice little room, in Chuck's opinion: like every other hotel room he's laid eyes on. Paisley curtains, dim lamps, a limp-bland carpet and cookie-cutter art on the walls. A nice porcelain sink.
Against the wall? A bed. But that's the problem, you see: A. Bed. As in: singular?
Casey in those black, pin-striped PJ's.
Silk robe hanging on the bathroom door.
And Chuck's in, like, polka-dot boxers and a Cap'n Crunch t-shirt.
Tottering out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth-- the Cap'n got a bit of Crest on his hat-- and seeing Casey already in bed. In the bed. The only bed. And Chuck comes to a slow stop halfway across the room. There's hesitation before he moves over, grabbing the second blanket that's laying there on what is, apparently, his side of the bed. Casey doesn't so much as bat a lash, but Chuck is awkwardly standing there, holding one corner of the blanket in both hands, almost up to his chin, blink-staring at Casey.
After a long, deliberated moment, he slides in as well. Tries to hunker down with his back to Casey. If he can't see him, then obviously the man is not there-- it works the same with boogie monsters and sticking your head under the blanket.
However, when Casey lays down and does the same, he doesn't even get his arm halfway extended to the lamp before shifting down on the mattress brushes their backsides together and Chuck goes flailing off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a pronounced 'thump!'
"Good, you just stay down there. But give the blanket back."
Chuck scrambles comically to his feet, brushing back his hair and trying to play it off-- can practically read it off his face: 'I fall off of beds all. the. time. I'm an expert. Don't try this at home. ' Smooth, Bartowski, smooth.
"Wanna... wanna try head-to-foot?"
Casey just stares for a heartbeat, "Kinky little SOB, aren't you?" Just to unnerve him more. "Also, I don't do feet-in-the-face."
"I... I-wh-- man... what... what do you-- I didn't... mean..." Even Chuck's ears go red, head tipping down, eyes sliding to the side. Were there enough pillows in the room to possibly throw together...? Give the floor a little cushioning and bed right down. It'll be just like a slumber party! Only without Morgan and Ellie's eye rolling and the Back-to-Back 80's Sci-Fi Movies Night.
In the end? He ends up crunching into a fetal position on the very end of the mattress, like that time he did have a sleep-over and Morgan and him got into a spat over who would overtake one or the other, Superman or the Green Lantern, and he didn't want the blasphamer's arm even brushing his. Of course, it's funny that he should go to sleep thinking of arms and then wakes thinking of them as well. Because he's got one over him. Casey half on top of him.
Casey, unconsciously protecting the Asset. Spooning. He's getting spooned by Casey. Who is breathing softly through sleep-parted lips. Soft and damp sleep-parted lips. The ones right there behind the curve of his ear. Breathing on him. Ghosting. Sending a trickling tingly sensation down through his middle. Has the urge to squirm, but he doesn't. Not so sure he wouldn't go squirming back. 'Spooning the Asset' sounds dirty in a good way. God, did he just think that?
And, of course, Chuck happens to have a morning erection. Hasn't felt this humiliated since he popped one at a school assembly in seventh grade. Marching-band pants don't hide much, as it happens.
Strong, heavy arm. Slumber-limp and over his middle, heating that long, rectangle section, the shape and length of Casey's arm. Thing is, it doesn't even feel bad. Yeah, it's Casey, but he can't see him. So, like the boogie monster theory, it doesn't actually have to be him. Wide, flat-palmed hand (probably sculpted that way after gripping people's faces and shoving so many damn times) flat against Chuck's abdomen. Thumb slightly rubbing in his sleep from time to time.
Chuck shifts. Ever so subtly.
But Casey? Casey wakes up.
First thing: assess the situation. Kneecaps to the tender inside of another's. Hips not meeting. Morning wood. Of course. Chuck smells of Axe, Gravity-- Casey knows. Casey knows everything about the Asset. From toothpaste brand to condom preferences. And? Chuck is awake. Chuck is breathing shallowly. Chuck is pressed along Casey's body, a fine tremor in every inch of him-- Casey keeps his breath even. Chuck doesn't know that Casey is awake. So, Chuck can't really say anything to a sleeping man when said sleeping man presses his mouth, making a lazy-huffing sound, against the soft-pale skin behind that ear. Chuck can't babble when Sleeping Casey presses his hand flat to a quivering stomach, where the hem of the shirt has shifted up; exposing just a small strip of abdomen. Curiously making a soft smacking sound 'in his sleep' to gauge the reaction.
And Chuck is convinced he's going to start hyperventilating and pass out. Casey is nuzzling up aginst him like he's a giant teddy bear and he'd almost rather wake him up and risk the reaction, but on the other hand... it doesn't actually feel bad. Just really, really unexpected. It's idiotic that this is the most action he's gotten in what feels like eons.
More proof of Casey's humanity. It's just not proof he ever thought he'd be exposed to so... intimately.
There's a line. Bold and bright and veryvery visible. Asset. Job. Assignment. Nothing. More. Bad, sketchy film passing through: Chuck calling him 'buddy,' Chuck putting his hand on Casey's shoulder, Chuck contemplating him, Chuck inviting him to dinner with the family, Chuck looking at him and saying everything he hates about lying to them with those green-brown eyes...
There's a line. And Casey lines himself up against it. Then pushes. Subtly. Just like he's pushing his hand down, ever so... ah. Yes. There it is. Curled up with a large, intimidating NSA agent and Chuck has a hard-on... Feel it pressing through cotton boxers against the back of his knuckles: tracing the shape of it.
Shifting and snuffling and being utterly normal, behaving the way any sleeping person would, and Chuck can totally get behind Casey doing normal things. Only. Casey's the one behind him. The one who has himself settled nice and cozily all along Chuck's back, has a clumsy hand settling way too low for comfort on his front, and how horrible is it that he involuntarily nudges into that contact?
Shouldn't be moving, shouldn't be alerting Casey to the fact that his hand is resting on another guy's crotch, because Chuck really, really doesn't wanna go out that way.
Casey tightens, as is a response sleeping people sometimes have. Arm contracting, hand pressing flat: pressing against the top portion of hardened erection, through the material. All along his palm, throb-nudge: Chuck is breathing short and fast. Casey is sighing. Chuck likes Casey's hand being there... Assess the situation. Take in all the facts. ...Complete the mission.
Hard. Reacting. Willing. Casey is just waking up; maybe he hasn't settled into himself yet. Maybe he's still in that sleep-wake haze and it won't be held against him. Casey shifts. Upward more. Turn his jaw and face into hair and skin, that small dark mole-freckle there on the side of Chuck's nape. Nudges his five o'clock shadow there and shifts on up until he is against Chuck; hips against him, his own hardness pressing flat up against the small of a back.
Definitely, definitely more exposed to certain bits of Casey's humanity than he'd ever imagined. Ohdeargod.
And Casey is huge and terrifying and warm and sleepy-slow and molded all against his body and ChristChristChrist, there is no appropriate reaction for this.
Gauge the reaction. Be alert and aware of it. Body language can convey a lot about where an individual stands. Folded arms: defense. Tapping fingers, foot: impatience, anxiety. Arms straight down by the sides, tightly: tension. Loose stance, widely placed feet: comfortable, confident. Pressing back up against another's erection? ...Consent. Willingness.
...Approval.
Casey is also probably trained in the art of "being able to gauge your bed partner's discomfort even while you're asleep" and Chuck is sure he's got to be sweating bullets and broadcasting a heartbeat that sounds like a bass drum. Slickness over the head of his cock, sticky-damp against the inside of his underwear--thinthin cloth between that and Casey's big, could-kill-a-man-in-an-instant hand. And Casey is hard against him and pressed against him and Chuck can't figure out how to move without making this an even bigger, more uncomfortable mess. So he just whimpers.
Even though, technically, Casey having an erection should be making his own wilt like nothing else, it... isn't. He sort of wants to die.
Casey's eyes are slitted open. He can see the soft-wild curls, dark and silky-- Pantene-- sleep having made them even more untamed and mussed. Casey closes those eyes. Casey counts to ten. Casey open his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. Do it... doitdoitdoit: Casey's thoughts that are suggested by the head not in his head. Protect the Asset, do what's right for the job: Casey's rational, patriotic, dutiful side... The general said it herself-- once the new Intersect was constructed, Chuck was... expendable. For a brief, harsh second, Casey's chest burns. Tightens.
Blame it on a breath drawn in wrong, nothing to it at all: and draw his hand back up Chuck's stomach, it rucks that worn t-shirt upward more. Polka dot boxers. They're damp; material darkened where the precome is leaking... And when Casey's large-long fingers sneak under elastic, when the pads of his fingers meet hard, silken skin... they get wet. Wet.
Take care of the Asset. Release that tension. As they were not specific as to how much care he was to take with the Intersect... Highest priority.
Casey touches him. Under the cloth, skin against barebarebareskin, and everything snaps together inside his head like a jigsaw puzzle: awake. Oh, fuck. Casey's awake, awake and feeling him up, and is it possible he's only partially conscious? Because that would be really, really nice to know.
Or maybe this is all just a totally awkward dream and he'll wake up any second now sprawled on the floor. Instead, he whimpers. And it sounds as loud as a shattering pane of glass and he's just waiting for Casey's fist to close down way too roughly on parts of him that are way too vulnerable for that kind of thing.
The Asse- Bartowski... Chuck... makes this sound. This soft, desperate, vulnerable sound. And, fuck. Fuck. The training, the defenses, the walls; they fall away, easy as curtains cut from the rods-- flowing and fluttering and puddled on the floor. Forgotten. That sweetsoft whimper brings Casey's face up, his lips against Chuck's amusingly redhot ear, and, "Shhh..." Quietly. Low from the throat.
Casey's knowing, skilled fingers-- sex is part of the job if the mission requires it, this is nothing Casey hasn't done before to get the job done-- slowly, easily take the width of absurdly soft skin covered hardness in his grasp. Chuck's cock hot in his hand-- smooth foreskin shifting over throbbing blood-swollen muscle. Stroke him. Once. Easy and telling; as if silently explaining his intentions here. No harm. Just taking care of it. Just taking care of you, Bartowski...
Jaw slack, vision glazed, and then Casey does one of those very Casey-ish admonitions up against his ear--hushed and rough and listen-up-because-I-mean-business. And he does. Listens up, tenses up, and chokes on his own self-consciousness. Chuck wants to hide his face and maybe roll under the bed, but his shirt's riding up under Casey's warm-heavy arm and his boxers are drawn down enough for Casey to--ohgod--grip him, firm and slow and perfect. And he hates himself for not screaming bloody murder. For doing nothing but stuttering out Casey's name, sounding shaky-scared and pathetic.
A slow undulation against that tense-shivering form. All those geek-boy muscles taut, clenching almost rhythmically with every touch of his hand on that body. Casey's other hand, of the arm against the mattress, coming out from under his own side and pressing flat to Chuck's back, just below the shoulderblades and sliding up slow, rubbing reassuredly, push-palming right up the back of that neck-- glossy. Downy-fine hair.
Stroked and smoothed and reassured, more or less. It's like they've suddenly fallen into a completely different universe. One where Casey gives him hand jobs instead of death threats. He'd almost rather Casey had him in a headlock or something. At least he knows how he'd react to that. But this new, gruff-soothing side of him has Chuck's nerves knotted and his control snapping like rotted thread.
"Th-this isn't something y--look, I don't... don't need..." Trying to string together something complete and coherent only to have every unformed word get wiped away by the almost gentle press of a wide, capable hand.
Casey making that soft grumbling sound-- a growl-grunt, only not. Softer. Tempered. Because he's taking a fistful of delicate locks and guiding that head to turn, Casey is immediately kiss-nudging a pink-parted mouth. Prod-grazing in a rhythm. Mouthing until Chuck's instincts take over, until those lips part under the attention, until Casey can slip his broader, thicker, wetter tongue between those teeth and into the tempting damp taste beyond.
Guiding him. Urging him.
Easing him unwittingly onto his back a little more so Casey can be over him, Casey's wrist forcing the elastic down; Chuck's cock exposed to the room air, encased in the large paw that is Casey's grip.
Blunt thumbpad over the trickle of wetness; clear and glistening. For now. Holding him gentle-firm in the rest of his hand and using that thumb to push the slightly giving muscle of that head in slow, circular motions. Drag that slickness down the length of him, all the way down into the springy-crisp texture of pubic hair, over the gathered skin of scrotum; feeling it tighten under his attention.
Grip-guided over, and he goes with it, because you don't fuck around when Casey's calling the shots, even if Casey also happens to be kissing you.
Chuck's shirt halfway up his stomach, his hips steadily pushing into that touch, only getting glimpses because he can't bring himself to keep his eyes open long enough given that Casey is staring down at him like he plans to devour him. Which, disturbingly, isn't nearly as disturbing a notion as it probably should be.
Hot-hitching breaths, mouth feeling wet and slack-stupid, but he gets it--finally gets some control of the English language and it all gushes out of him at once. Octave too high and pace too rapid, but still. "Waitwaitwaitaminute, wha--what's going on? Is it truth serum? Some kind of blackmail?" Right. Someone out there is blackmailing Casey into having sex with him. But there's gotta be a reason behind this.
Never thought he'd be anything but horrified to have all that muscle and intent overtop him and pretty much holding him in place, but maybe he just isn't fully awake yet. Though parts of him certainly seem to be.
Casey looking down at him like he's trying to memorize every last particle, only it isn't clinical or cool so much as really, unexpectedly hot. Having all that focus on him, in a way that doesn't seem murderous for once.
Heated. Intense. Lashes that are too dark, too long-- fine black lace-- for a man fluttering opened and closed time and again. Casey's own eyes are half open, shuttered-- keen, chlorine blue having gone to a deep-ocean color. More black. More burn.
And Chuck's swollen spit-glistened mouth is hanging open, inviting Casey's tongue to come on in, explore its depths and savors its tastes and-- Godno.
Just as his head is inclining again to take full advantage, those lips are moving again-- close enough to Casey's own he can feel it-- only, words are coming out and it take a second to register. And Casey's head draws back a touch and his hand stills and he... looks. Just looks. Searching the giving, rounded, almost boyish contours of that face for that dry, typical Bartowski humor. He doesn't find it. Casey's eyebrows find each other, however. Crinkled and centered above his nose. ...Blackmail?
"Oh. Um. Okay. That question sounded less stupid before I asked it. Still. Ah. I still think parts of it are valid." Like the where the hell did this come from? parts.
He's pretty pleased with himself for getting the words out even while Casey's jerking him off. (While Casey is jerking him off-- just to review.)
Casey pulls his head back more. Staring. As part of the spy business, you have to be a good actor; else, your cover will get blown time and time again and you will be very much dead because of it. He softens his expression, makes regret rise up into his face, makes it emanate from his still darkened eyes. Voice that rough-gravelly grumble, only lowered and laced with apology, "Walker... She..." And trailing off, drawing back so he's not so much looming over the kid.
Chuck feels nothing short of utterly panicked. "She. She put you up to this." As if the whole life-under-surveillance thing couldn't get any more horrendously embarrassing.
Because Bartowski thinks of him as nothing but a robot. Chuck's robot handler-friend. Buddy. The one who did nothing but the job. The one who just shoved himself past every alarm and disapproval and danger in his head and in reality to take what he wanted, to touch and kiss and want, to be human and needing, only to receive this response. It's really not surprising, however. Casey can't really blame him. Casey can feel his jaw harden.
Chuck focuses on the important stuff, like trying to salvage his dignity and the situation. "Could I...maybe..." only how does he end that? Could I have my genitals back, please?
Casey lets his hand loosen, then release-- don't let him notice the reluctance-- and draws his warm hand away across a pale and satiny thigh. "She thought maybe if you were bedded, you be less... enthusiastic... about her. You'd be less focused. Less needy." Those last two words come out like the sharp-tipped flash of a whip.
"Oh." He can't think of anything else to say to that. And since Casey looks like he really does want to smack him, maybe silence truly is golden. He can feel it.
Under his skin. The hot hiss of boiling blood. The way it swells his chest and makes flint-hard, liquid nitrogen eyes. The growl in Casey's throat." And you believe that, don't you?" You fucking insulting moron.
Demanding. Challenging. It's in every line of Casey's taut expression.
What else is he supposed to believe? More importantly, is he supposed to argue with the guy who's got him pretty much literally by the balls?
"Look, right now, I really don't know what to believe and this isn't making it any easier. Okay?"
"You're learning, Bartowski." Damn if the name 'Chuck' is about to leave his mouth as he's rolling to the other side of the bed, gripping the cheap hotel blanket by the edge and tossing it down toward the foot of the bed. The flutter-rustle of it underminded by the squeak of the equally cheap mattress and Casey fluidly rolls to his feet. Not missing a beat as he stretches, has his back to the other, "Get up. Get dressed. We got a job to do." Snatching his robe from a hook on the way to the bathroom.
Chuck sits up after the door snicks shut. He tugs his pajamas back into place. Runs a hand through his hair. He waits. The day really can't get any more surreal and he feels weirdly serene about that. And really confused. And, okay, kind of pissed off. Is there some kind of list circulating among the upper echelons of the FBI? A roster of who he can and can't have sex with?
Casey is leaned over the cheap sink, hand on either side of the bowl of it; shaking. Tight and shaking and near to breaking the Goddamn thing. Eyes up, into the mirror, leveling a narrowed-eyed look at himself. Yeah. Figures. Why would he, anyway? This makes sense. This is safe. This is better. ...So why is there a crack on the edge of the porcelain basin after Casey turns away and climbs into the shower?
-End Part One-
Authors: recrudescence and nakeno
Pairing: Chuck/Casey
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own'em, don't get paid.
Word Count: 3,463
Summary: There's a line. Bold and bright and veryvery visible. Asset. Job. Assignment. Nothing. More. Bad, sketchy film passing through: Chuck calling him 'buddy,' Chuck putting his hand on Casey's shoulder, Chuck contemplating him, Chuck inviting him to dinner with the family, Chuck looking at him and saying everything he hates about lying to them with those green-brown eyes...
Tekken 4 tournament at the Buy More. Of course, the Intersect throws a fit right around eight wins out of ten for Chuck. Casey all business. Sarah all pretty.
The Intersect always has other ideas: like catching a glimpse of the small comic convention in town. Drug lords with drug smugglers; a smiling face on a paper flyer giving Chuck the run-down on a Yakuza infiltrate, intent on setting up a web to increase their profits on the Western side of the globe.
What's that mean? Booking a room; no vacancy, but Casey swings it on account of his intimidating manner.
It's a nice little room, in Chuck's opinion: like every other hotel room he's laid eyes on. Paisley curtains, dim lamps, a limp-bland carpet and cookie-cutter art on the walls. A nice porcelain sink.
Against the wall? A bed. But that's the problem, you see: A. Bed. As in: singular?
Casey in those black, pin-striped PJ's.
Silk robe hanging on the bathroom door.
And Chuck's in, like, polka-dot boxers and a Cap'n Crunch t-shirt.
Tottering out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth-- the Cap'n got a bit of Crest on his hat-- and seeing Casey already in bed. In the bed. The only bed. And Chuck comes to a slow stop halfway across the room. There's hesitation before he moves over, grabbing the second blanket that's laying there on what is, apparently, his side of the bed. Casey doesn't so much as bat a lash, but Chuck is awkwardly standing there, holding one corner of the blanket in both hands, almost up to his chin, blink-staring at Casey.
After a long, deliberated moment, he slides in as well. Tries to hunker down with his back to Casey. If he can't see him, then obviously the man is not there-- it works the same with boogie monsters and sticking your head under the blanket.
However, when Casey lays down and does the same, he doesn't even get his arm halfway extended to the lamp before shifting down on the mattress brushes their backsides together and Chuck goes flailing off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a pronounced 'thump!'
"Good, you just stay down there. But give the blanket back."
Chuck scrambles comically to his feet, brushing back his hair and trying to play it off-- can practically read it off his face: 'I fall off of beds all. the. time. I'm an expert. Don't try this at home. ' Smooth, Bartowski, smooth.
"Wanna... wanna try head-to-foot?"
Casey just stares for a heartbeat, "Kinky little SOB, aren't you?" Just to unnerve him more. "Also, I don't do feet-in-the-face."
"I... I-wh-- man... what... what do you-- I didn't... mean..." Even Chuck's ears go red, head tipping down, eyes sliding to the side. Were there enough pillows in the room to possibly throw together...? Give the floor a little cushioning and bed right down. It'll be just like a slumber party! Only without Morgan and Ellie's eye rolling and the Back-to-Back 80's Sci-Fi Movies Night.
In the end? He ends up crunching into a fetal position on the very end of the mattress, like that time he did have a sleep-over and Morgan and him got into a spat over who would overtake one or the other, Superman or the Green Lantern, and he didn't want the blasphamer's arm even brushing his. Of course, it's funny that he should go to sleep thinking of arms and then wakes thinking of them as well. Because he's got one over him. Casey half on top of him.
Casey, unconsciously protecting the Asset. Spooning. He's getting spooned by Casey. Who is breathing softly through sleep-parted lips. Soft and damp sleep-parted lips. The ones right there behind the curve of his ear. Breathing on him. Ghosting. Sending a trickling tingly sensation down through his middle. Has the urge to squirm, but he doesn't. Not so sure he wouldn't go squirming back. 'Spooning the Asset' sounds dirty in a good way. God, did he just think that?
And, of course, Chuck happens to have a morning erection. Hasn't felt this humiliated since he popped one at a school assembly in seventh grade. Marching-band pants don't hide much, as it happens.
Strong, heavy arm. Slumber-limp and over his middle, heating that long, rectangle section, the shape and length of Casey's arm. Thing is, it doesn't even feel bad. Yeah, it's Casey, but he can't see him. So, like the boogie monster theory, it doesn't actually have to be him. Wide, flat-palmed hand (probably sculpted that way after gripping people's faces and shoving so many damn times) flat against Chuck's abdomen. Thumb slightly rubbing in his sleep from time to time.
Chuck shifts. Ever so subtly.
But Casey? Casey wakes up.
First thing: assess the situation. Kneecaps to the tender inside of another's. Hips not meeting. Morning wood. Of course. Chuck smells of Axe, Gravity-- Casey knows. Casey knows everything about the Asset. From toothpaste brand to condom preferences. And? Chuck is awake. Chuck is breathing shallowly. Chuck is pressed along Casey's body, a fine tremor in every inch of him-- Casey keeps his breath even. Chuck doesn't know that Casey is awake. So, Chuck can't really say anything to a sleeping man when said sleeping man presses his mouth, making a lazy-huffing sound, against the soft-pale skin behind that ear. Chuck can't babble when Sleeping Casey presses his hand flat to a quivering stomach, where the hem of the shirt has shifted up; exposing just a small strip of abdomen. Curiously making a soft smacking sound 'in his sleep' to gauge the reaction.
And Chuck is convinced he's going to start hyperventilating and pass out. Casey is nuzzling up aginst him like he's a giant teddy bear and he'd almost rather wake him up and risk the reaction, but on the other hand... it doesn't actually feel bad. Just really, really unexpected. It's idiotic that this is the most action he's gotten in what feels like eons.
More proof of Casey's humanity. It's just not proof he ever thought he'd be exposed to so... intimately.
There's a line. Bold and bright and veryvery visible. Asset. Job. Assignment. Nothing. More. Bad, sketchy film passing through: Chuck calling him 'buddy,' Chuck putting his hand on Casey's shoulder, Chuck contemplating him, Chuck inviting him to dinner with the family, Chuck looking at him and saying everything he hates about lying to them with those green-brown eyes...
There's a line. And Casey lines himself up against it. Then pushes. Subtly. Just like he's pushing his hand down, ever so... ah. Yes. There it is. Curled up with a large, intimidating NSA agent and Chuck has a hard-on... Feel it pressing through cotton boxers against the back of his knuckles: tracing the shape of it.
Shifting and snuffling and being utterly normal, behaving the way any sleeping person would, and Chuck can totally get behind Casey doing normal things. Only. Casey's the one behind him. The one who has himself settled nice and cozily all along Chuck's back, has a clumsy hand settling way too low for comfort on his front, and how horrible is it that he involuntarily nudges into that contact?
Shouldn't be moving, shouldn't be alerting Casey to the fact that his hand is resting on another guy's crotch, because Chuck really, really doesn't wanna go out that way.
Casey tightens, as is a response sleeping people sometimes have. Arm contracting, hand pressing flat: pressing against the top portion of hardened erection, through the material. All along his palm, throb-nudge: Chuck is breathing short and fast. Casey is sighing. Chuck likes Casey's hand being there... Assess the situation. Take in all the facts. ...Complete the mission.
Hard. Reacting. Willing. Casey is just waking up; maybe he hasn't settled into himself yet. Maybe he's still in that sleep-wake haze and it won't be held against him. Casey shifts. Upward more. Turn his jaw and face into hair and skin, that small dark mole-freckle there on the side of Chuck's nape. Nudges his five o'clock shadow there and shifts on up until he is against Chuck; hips against him, his own hardness pressing flat up against the small of a back.
Definitely, definitely more exposed to certain bits of Casey's humanity than he'd ever imagined. Ohdeargod.
And Casey is huge and terrifying and warm and sleepy-slow and molded all against his body and ChristChristChrist, there is no appropriate reaction for this.
Gauge the reaction. Be alert and aware of it. Body language can convey a lot about where an individual stands. Folded arms: defense. Tapping fingers, foot: impatience, anxiety. Arms straight down by the sides, tightly: tension. Loose stance, widely placed feet: comfortable, confident. Pressing back up against another's erection? ...Consent. Willingness.
...Approval.
Casey is also probably trained in the art of "being able to gauge your bed partner's discomfort even while you're asleep" and Chuck is sure he's got to be sweating bullets and broadcasting a heartbeat that sounds like a bass drum. Slickness over the head of his cock, sticky-damp against the inside of his underwear--thinthin cloth between that and Casey's big, could-kill-a-man-in-an-instant hand. And Casey is hard against him and pressed against him and Chuck can't figure out how to move without making this an even bigger, more uncomfortable mess. So he just whimpers.
Even though, technically, Casey having an erection should be making his own wilt like nothing else, it... isn't. He sort of wants to die.
Casey's eyes are slitted open. He can see the soft-wild curls, dark and silky-- Pantene-- sleep having made them even more untamed and mussed. Casey closes those eyes. Casey counts to ten. Casey open his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. Do it... doitdoitdoit: Casey's thoughts that are suggested by the head not in his head. Protect the Asset, do what's right for the job: Casey's rational, patriotic, dutiful side... The general said it herself-- once the new Intersect was constructed, Chuck was... expendable. For a brief, harsh second, Casey's chest burns. Tightens.
Blame it on a breath drawn in wrong, nothing to it at all: and draw his hand back up Chuck's stomach, it rucks that worn t-shirt upward more. Polka dot boxers. They're damp; material darkened where the precome is leaking... And when Casey's large-long fingers sneak under elastic, when the pads of his fingers meet hard, silken skin... they get wet. Wet.
Take care of the Asset. Release that tension. As they were not specific as to how much care he was to take with the Intersect... Highest priority.
Casey touches him. Under the cloth, skin against barebarebareskin, and everything snaps together inside his head like a jigsaw puzzle: awake. Oh, fuck. Casey's awake, awake and feeling him up, and is it possible he's only partially conscious? Because that would be really, really nice to know.
Or maybe this is all just a totally awkward dream and he'll wake up any second now sprawled on the floor. Instead, he whimpers. And it sounds as loud as a shattering pane of glass and he's just waiting for Casey's fist to close down way too roughly on parts of him that are way too vulnerable for that kind of thing.
The Asse- Bartowski... Chuck... makes this sound. This soft, desperate, vulnerable sound. And, fuck. Fuck. The training, the defenses, the walls; they fall away, easy as curtains cut from the rods-- flowing and fluttering and puddled on the floor. Forgotten. That sweetsoft whimper brings Casey's face up, his lips against Chuck's amusingly redhot ear, and, "Shhh..." Quietly. Low from the throat.
Casey's knowing, skilled fingers-- sex is part of the job if the mission requires it, this is nothing Casey hasn't done before to get the job done-- slowly, easily take the width of absurdly soft skin covered hardness in his grasp. Chuck's cock hot in his hand-- smooth foreskin shifting over throbbing blood-swollen muscle. Stroke him. Once. Easy and telling; as if silently explaining his intentions here. No harm. Just taking care of it. Just taking care of you, Bartowski...
Jaw slack, vision glazed, and then Casey does one of those very Casey-ish admonitions up against his ear--hushed and rough and listen-up-because-I-mean-business. And he does. Listens up, tenses up, and chokes on his own self-consciousness. Chuck wants to hide his face and maybe roll under the bed, but his shirt's riding up under Casey's warm-heavy arm and his boxers are drawn down enough for Casey to--ohgod--grip him, firm and slow and perfect. And he hates himself for not screaming bloody murder. For doing nothing but stuttering out Casey's name, sounding shaky-scared and pathetic.
A slow undulation against that tense-shivering form. All those geek-boy muscles taut, clenching almost rhythmically with every touch of his hand on that body. Casey's other hand, of the arm against the mattress, coming out from under his own side and pressing flat to Chuck's back, just below the shoulderblades and sliding up slow, rubbing reassuredly, push-palming right up the back of that neck-- glossy. Downy-fine hair.
Stroked and smoothed and reassured, more or less. It's like they've suddenly fallen into a completely different universe. One where Casey gives him hand jobs instead of death threats. He'd almost rather Casey had him in a headlock or something. At least he knows how he'd react to that. But this new, gruff-soothing side of him has Chuck's nerves knotted and his control snapping like rotted thread.
"Th-this isn't something y--look, I don't... don't need..." Trying to string together something complete and coherent only to have every unformed word get wiped away by the almost gentle press of a wide, capable hand.
Casey making that soft grumbling sound-- a growl-grunt, only not. Softer. Tempered. Because he's taking a fistful of delicate locks and guiding that head to turn, Casey is immediately kiss-nudging a pink-parted mouth. Prod-grazing in a rhythm. Mouthing until Chuck's instincts take over, until those lips part under the attention, until Casey can slip his broader, thicker, wetter tongue between those teeth and into the tempting damp taste beyond.
Guiding him. Urging him.
Easing him unwittingly onto his back a little more so Casey can be over him, Casey's wrist forcing the elastic down; Chuck's cock exposed to the room air, encased in the large paw that is Casey's grip.
Blunt thumbpad over the trickle of wetness; clear and glistening. For now. Holding him gentle-firm in the rest of his hand and using that thumb to push the slightly giving muscle of that head in slow, circular motions. Drag that slickness down the length of him, all the way down into the springy-crisp texture of pubic hair, over the gathered skin of scrotum; feeling it tighten under his attention.
Grip-guided over, and he goes with it, because you don't fuck around when Casey's calling the shots, even if Casey also happens to be kissing you.
Chuck's shirt halfway up his stomach, his hips steadily pushing into that touch, only getting glimpses because he can't bring himself to keep his eyes open long enough given that Casey is staring down at him like he plans to devour him. Which, disturbingly, isn't nearly as disturbing a notion as it probably should be.
Hot-hitching breaths, mouth feeling wet and slack-stupid, but he gets it--finally gets some control of the English language and it all gushes out of him at once. Octave too high and pace too rapid, but still. "Waitwaitwaitaminute, wha--what's going on? Is it truth serum? Some kind of blackmail?" Right. Someone out there is blackmailing Casey into having sex with him. But there's gotta be a reason behind this.
Never thought he'd be anything but horrified to have all that muscle and intent overtop him and pretty much holding him in place, but maybe he just isn't fully awake yet. Though parts of him certainly seem to be.
Casey looking down at him like he's trying to memorize every last particle, only it isn't clinical or cool so much as really, unexpectedly hot. Having all that focus on him, in a way that doesn't seem murderous for once.
Heated. Intense. Lashes that are too dark, too long-- fine black lace-- for a man fluttering opened and closed time and again. Casey's own eyes are half open, shuttered-- keen, chlorine blue having gone to a deep-ocean color. More black. More burn.
And Chuck's swollen spit-glistened mouth is hanging open, inviting Casey's tongue to come on in, explore its depths and savors its tastes and-- Godno.
Just as his head is inclining again to take full advantage, those lips are moving again-- close enough to Casey's own he can feel it-- only, words are coming out and it take a second to register. And Casey's head draws back a touch and his hand stills and he... looks. Just looks. Searching the giving, rounded, almost boyish contours of that face for that dry, typical Bartowski humor. He doesn't find it. Casey's eyebrows find each other, however. Crinkled and centered above his nose. ...Blackmail?
"Oh. Um. Okay. That question sounded less stupid before I asked it. Still. Ah. I still think parts of it are valid." Like the where the hell did this come from? parts.
He's pretty pleased with himself for getting the words out even while Casey's jerking him off. (While Casey is jerking him off-- just to review.)
Casey pulls his head back more. Staring. As part of the spy business, you have to be a good actor; else, your cover will get blown time and time again and you will be very much dead because of it. He softens his expression, makes regret rise up into his face, makes it emanate from his still darkened eyes. Voice that rough-gravelly grumble, only lowered and laced with apology, "Walker... She..." And trailing off, drawing back so he's not so much looming over the kid.
Chuck feels nothing short of utterly panicked. "She. She put you up to this." As if the whole life-under-surveillance thing couldn't get any more horrendously embarrassing.
Because Bartowski thinks of him as nothing but a robot. Chuck's robot handler-friend. Buddy. The one who did nothing but the job. The one who just shoved himself past every alarm and disapproval and danger in his head and in reality to take what he wanted, to touch and kiss and want, to be human and needing, only to receive this response. It's really not surprising, however. Casey can't really blame him. Casey can feel his jaw harden.
Chuck focuses on the important stuff, like trying to salvage his dignity and the situation. "Could I...maybe..." only how does he end that? Could I have my genitals back, please?
Casey lets his hand loosen, then release-- don't let him notice the reluctance-- and draws his warm hand away across a pale and satiny thigh. "She thought maybe if you were bedded, you be less... enthusiastic... about her. You'd be less focused. Less needy." Those last two words come out like the sharp-tipped flash of a whip.
"Oh." He can't think of anything else to say to that. And since Casey looks like he really does want to smack him, maybe silence truly is golden. He can feel it.
Under his skin. The hot hiss of boiling blood. The way it swells his chest and makes flint-hard, liquid nitrogen eyes. The growl in Casey's throat." And you believe that, don't you?" You fucking insulting moron.
Demanding. Challenging. It's in every line of Casey's taut expression.
What else is he supposed to believe? More importantly, is he supposed to argue with the guy who's got him pretty much literally by the balls?
"Look, right now, I really don't know what to believe and this isn't making it any easier. Okay?"
"You're learning, Bartowski." Damn if the name 'Chuck' is about to leave his mouth as he's rolling to the other side of the bed, gripping the cheap hotel blanket by the edge and tossing it down toward the foot of the bed. The flutter-rustle of it underminded by the squeak of the equally cheap mattress and Casey fluidly rolls to his feet. Not missing a beat as he stretches, has his back to the other, "Get up. Get dressed. We got a job to do." Snatching his robe from a hook on the way to the bathroom.
Chuck sits up after the door snicks shut. He tugs his pajamas back into place. Runs a hand through his hair. He waits. The day really can't get any more surreal and he feels weirdly serene about that. And really confused. And, okay, kind of pissed off. Is there some kind of list circulating among the upper echelons of the FBI? A roster of who he can and can't have sex with?
Casey is leaned over the cheap sink, hand on either side of the bowl of it; shaking. Tight and shaking and near to breaking the Goddamn thing. Eyes up, into the mirror, leveling a narrowed-eyed look at himself. Yeah. Figures. Why would he, anyway? This makes sense. This is safe. This is better. ...So why is there a crack on the edge of the porcelain basin after Casey turns away and climbs into the shower?
-End Part One-