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Chuck is almost certain he’s being a shitty boyfriend. It still doesn’t stop him from trying his hardest to become world champion at Avoiding the Issue. The issue, in this case, being sleeping with Mike Chilton. He’s perfectly aware that this is not something any sane person should complain about (have you seen Mike?) but there you go.
In a sense, he’s already been sleeping with Mike: they’ve snuck off for handjobs in Mutt, parked discreetly off the shoulder of every major road near Burner HQ and Antonios; for heated blow jobs in the supply closet when everyone else was out and it’s all been amazing. Chuck was perfectly content to leave things at status quo, but Mike Chilton never met an envelope he wouldn’t push (into oncoming traffic).
Mike messaged him during a run out to the Cablers a few weeks ago, Chuck back at HQ buried in an upgrade for the Burners’ communication protocols that would hopefully reduce both environmental and intentional jamming. He had a question, and after Chuck ensured that it did not involve anything likely to result in fiery death or severe maiming he’d just laughed and asked, tiny square icon looking almost flustered in Chuck’s peripheral vision, whether Chuck wanted to go all the way. Home base.
Mike Chilton wanted to fuck him, even if he couldn’t actually say it quite that baldly.
Chuck didn’t know what to say, and Mike tried to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Hey bro, I don't want to push you. We can talk later, after you've had a chance to think about it," he’d said, icon flashing a brief reassuring smile before vanishing.
Chuck attempted to finish the communication mods but after three aborted tries--including one batch of shamefully sloppy code that triggered an infinite loop and necessitated killing the dev sandbox--he admitted defeat and flopped backwards onto the bed, smashing a pillow over his face with a plaintive whine.
--
Chuck has definitely thought about it. In fact he’s done a copious amount of research: medical info guides, a handbook or two he’d managed to dredge up, and a variety of porn ranging from softcore to a couple of things that have probably scarred him for life. After which, red-faced and flailing, he makes sure to nuke the search and browsing history into oblivion.
He may have also saved one or two of the videos to an innocuously named folder buried in with various code references and database schematics too boring for anyone else to care about. He was only human.
The fact remains that after much consideration and research, he just didn’t think he could handle this. It was supposed to be great if you did it right, and for all his reckless driving Mike Chilton had been nothing but careful and conscientious when it came to sex. But every time Chuck thought about Mike fucking him senseless his stomach bottomed out and he felt sick, like those awful seconds of weightlessness during a particularly crazy and life-threatening jump in Mutt.
He liked to do things for Mike when he could, because Mike always did and gave everything he could to his friends--hell, frequently to complete strangers. Mike Chilton, the most stand-up guy in Motorcity, who deserved better than Chuck to begin with but was crazy and nice enough to settle for an awkward nerd built like a giraffe. Mike, who asked too much and pushed too fast when fighting Kane but rarely asked for anything personally. Now he was asking for something that Chuck is pretty sure you’re supposed to want to do with your boyfriend, and he just...couldn’t.
So Chuck deflects like mad. He comes up with more important things to do when Mike looks like he might bring it up, and when they snatch a few private moments he makes sure to rev Mike up fast until he’s too far gone to care about broaching the subject. He’s almost proud of himself when he derails the conversation by going down on Mike while they’re doing 200 in Mutt, even if they do almost crash. Mike never complains, but Chuck occasionally catches him looking awkward out of the corner of his eye while he begs off to the Realm or to work.
Yeah. Pretty much the worst.
--
"Chuck, buddy, is everything okay?"
Shit. Okay, so apparently they’re having this conversation after all. He tosses the new part to Mike and tries to laugh things off. “Fine! Been awhile since we’ve even had a bot attack and I think you’re gonna love these latest upgrades. Why do you even ask?” Mike cocks his head and narrows his eyes for a long, tense moment before he turns back to Mutt and grabs a wrench.
Chuck has a brief, futile moment of hope that Mike is going to drop it before he speaks again. "Dude, something is obviously bothering you, and I’m pretty sure it’s been since I asked you about...you know.” Chuck makes a pained noise, rubbing the back of his neck, but Mike keeps going. He drops the part in, tightening the bolts just enough to hold it in place and stands, looking at Chuck expectantly.
“Talk to me Chuckles. Is it too soon? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”
“No! It’s not too soon. I just...well...,” and then he can’t stop himself from babbling, that he’s sorry but he just can’t do it, he can’t give himself to Mike like that even though he should want to. Wants to want to. Mike’s staring and it worries Chuck that he actually can’t read him for a minute.
“Whoa there! Hold up, buddy,” Mike calms, signaling him to stop. “Okay, two things,” he says, counting them off on his fingers. “One: if you don’t want to do something it’s fine, all you had to do is tell me. Two: Don’t ever feel like you owe me anything or “should” feel a certain way about something just because we’re sleeping together. Hell, even just because we’re friends. Come on, Chuckles,” he says, grinning and tapping Chuck’s shoulder with a clean spot on the side of one grease-streaked hand, “live free right? Let’s just take it easy and have fun.”
Chuck wraps himself around Mike in a hug, offering a quiet “Thanks Mikey.” Letting go, he leans against Mutt, patting her roof. “Let me know when you want to test out the upgrades, I can see if anything needs tweaking.”
“Absolutely.”
Mike bends down, reaching into the engine compartment to finish tightening those bolts and says absently, “So is it only, er, being on the receiving end you’ve got a problem with? Because that’s all you actually mentioned but to be honest, that...wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” He leans over to look around the hood at Chuck, smiling wryly. “Just FYI.”
Oh. Ooohhhhhh.
Maybe not the worst boyfriend, then, just mortifyingly obtuse. He supposes he should have thought about that--of course he should have it’s ridiculous, what the hell--but he just sort of assumed Mike would be in the driver’s seat, as it were. That’s just how it worked, right? Mike Chilton drove and Chuck just held on for the ride.
Chuck’s world reorients itself abruptly and he contracts an instant case of cotton mouth, face hot enough that spontaneous human combustion seems like a distinct possibility. He should say something. Anything. But his brain is coming up empty, except for a gurgling noise (it must have come from him) which probably doesn’t count as a useful reply.
Mike, blessedly, does him the courtesy of burying himself back in the engine block and letting Chuck escape. He has upgrades for 9 Lives that need attention, and apparently a lot of thinking to do.
--
“And then it hit him right in the face! Bam! Chocolate cream everywhere, and then...oh man...she just sprays a perfect mound of whipped cream on top of his head, drops a cherry on top, and walks off!” They stumble into Mike’s room comfortably buzzed, laughing, and trying not to trip over the dirty clothes, RC cars, and miscellaneous parts perpetually scattered across the floor. Mike topples into the narrow bed like a felled tree, burying his face in the pillow and absently kicking off his shoes (it takes a couple tries) while Chuck slides the small pile of old auto repair manuals and car mags out of the way to perch on the edge.
Chuck leans over and helps Mike out of his jacket, hooking it over the closet door handle. He rucks up Mike’s t-shirt with the other hand to rub the small of his back--Mike won’t ever mention it, but he must still be stiff and a little sore from the last bot attack--and gets a tiny, muffled happy noise as Mike wiggles into the pressure. Chuck slides the heels of his hands down Mike’s back, pushing hard along either side of the spine.
Mike sighs quietly and glances over his shoulder, all lopsided grin and bedroom eyes. “How much for the happy ending?”
It surprises a dorky bubble of laughter out of Chuck and he lazily swats at Mike in reprisal. His hand hits square on the firm plane of Mike’s ass, and Mike makes a strangled noise that tries to be a laugh but is mostly a bitten off groan of contentment and yes there. Chuck’s stomach does an impromptu somersault.
Well then.
Avoiding Chuck’s eyes, Mike shoves a hand through his hair and drops his forehead into the crook of one arm. “Chuck, do you want--” he says, trailing off.
“I’ve been thinking about it and yeah. I do.”
Chuck is suddenly and incredibly thankful that the alcohol still in his system is just enough to loosen him up and bypass his normal overthink-everything mode as he eases over, straddling Mike’s thighs and palming his hips. They both pause, anticipating, and Chuck says “I just, um, obviously haven’t ever done this before and I don’t want to hurt you and. Do, uh, you have supplies? We need those right?”
“Yeah. Stocked up just in case.” Mike reaches over, snagging the lube and condoms out of the nightstand drawer and tossing them back towards Chuck. There’s a bit of flush riding high on his cheekbones and his small smile hangs somewhere between boyish and naughty; it’s obvious from the rise and fall of his chest that he’s breathing harder, and Chuck wonders if Mike’s heart is beating as fast as his own.
Mike peels out of his shirt and Chuck can never stop staring at the smooth, tan expanse of his torso. His hands are fumbling clumsily at his jeans and Mike reaches out to catch his wrist, ghosting a thumb reassuringly over the jut of bone on the side. Chuck tucks his face into Mike’s neck and breathes deep. Mike’s losing his belt and thumbing open the button on his pants, and Chuck really needs to focus so he dedicates himself to biting the spot where Mike’s neck slopes into his shoulder and then sliding up to suck at the thrum of his pulse.
Mike kisses him, licking a request at the seam of his lips that’s instantly granted, Chuck opening to slide his tongue against Mike’s. Hands steadied, Chuck helps Mike shuck his pants and underwear. They break apart, Chuck whining plaintively as Mike’s hand slides into his open fly and pulls him out, thumb sliding through the precome at his tip. He nips at Chuck’s lower lip and kisses the dusting of freckles on his cheek, jacking Chuck until he has to grab his wrist and make him stop.
Chuck pushes Mike down, reaching over to pick up the bottle of lube, and oh god how is he supposed to do this? “T-turn over,” he says, swallowing and looking down at the lube so he doesn’t have to meet Mike’s eyes. Mike squeezes his hand, a quick comforting clasp and does, pulling a pillow under his hips for comfort.
“You sure? I want to look at you.”
“Mikey, I appreciate that, but if you look at me I think I’m going to lose it.” Mike feels the warm press of Chuck’s big hand against his back in apology and huffs a small laugh.
“Fair enough, dude.”
Chuck slicks his fingers and pushes tentatively with just one, watching the hitch of Mike’s shoulders and soothing it with a kiss. “Okay?” Mike nods and shifts, spreading wider to give him better access. It isn’t long before Mike starts pushing back, impatient, but Chuck leans down on his hips and works him open slow and steady. Kisses and bites and licks his shoulders--Mike especially likes the bites--until Mike’s trembling and about to burst, saying “Please, Chuck, please fuck me, come on.”
How, when he asks so earnestly, can Chuck do anything but comply?
Chuck tries to go as slow as humanly possible, to keep from coming instantly as much as to make sure he doesn’t hurt Mike; he’s only lasted this long because he can keep Mike from touching him from back here, can focus on the shift of muscles in Mike’s back and breathe. His fearless leader has other ideas, however, bucking back and taking him in so much faster than planned. Keening sharply, Chuck’s hands scrabble to grab Mike’s hips, hissing “shitMikeywarnaguy...oh god,” and there’s no way slow and careful is happening now. He pulls back and shoves in again hard and fast, then just goes for it.
When it comes to sex--like everything else--Chuck is generally the loud one, not words so much as a near-constant stream of moans and sharp cries and nervous laughter; Mike is almost silent, his enjoyment only audible in his ragged, hitched breathing but written all over his face. Mike Chilton getting fucked is something entirely new: he groans and cries out and growls, rough and throaty. He begs for faster and harder and when Chuck complies, pulling Mike up to get a hand around his dick and bite into his shoulder, Mike comes with what Chuck is pretty sure counts as a wrecked sob.
Mike pulls Chuck’s hand up, sucking his own come off of long fingers and grinding back onto Chuck’s cock, and Chuck is officially done for. He apparently comes so hard that his brain shuts down, because the next thing he processes is lying face-to-face with a very disheveled, very satisfied Mike Chilton nuzzling his forehead and kissing his nose.
Chuck tries to talk but only manages to produce something approximating “bluaskhlgk.” Soft laugh cracking open into a yawn, Mike settles in, pulling Chuck around him in lieu of the covers.