[Man what is up with the smut lately, am I right? I guess I'm bored. I blame Allison. Don't expect it to last. Some things with this I'm not wholly satisfied with but it's good enough for me.
FYI, I know there's been a distinctly noticeable lack of sabriel lately and it's just because most of my sabriel WIPs are long fics so they take time and, like, thinking.]
Chuck stood in the bathroom, trying to steady his breathing. He stared at his red face in the mirror. Focused on not breaking something. Gripped the edge of the counter and met his reflection's watering eyes, and swallowed the pain in his throat. He sniffed. He wouldn't cry—definitely wouldn't cry. Not because of some rude, frustrating teenager.
Easier said than done, though. He couldn't prevent a little tiny tear from escaping the corner of his eye. He grimaced and wiped it away. Grown men weren't supposed to cry.
Damn kid.
Right.
Michael's little brother was downstairs, probably eating him out of house and home or breaking something else or coming up with more insults. And Chuck couldn't deal with it. He couldn't handle the constant feeling that he was being talked down to by this seventeen year old douchebag with a pierced ear and an iPhone. Couldn't handle being called a "middle-aged hipster loser" and a "whiny bitch" and a "twitchy motherfucker" all in the span of five minutes. He definitely couldn't handle this kid ignoring everything Chuck told him and eating half of his kitchen and leaving dishes everywhere and saying, "Geez, chill. You're so sensitive. What are you, a girl?" (as if being female was this terrible affliction) when Chuck protested. For three days straight. All the same thing, over and over, new and increasingly creative ways to demean Chuck, when Michael was at work or at the gym and not there to tell him off.
The kid—Luke—had broken an old china teacup Chuck's mom had gotten him a long time ago—sixteen years ago at least—and when Chuck (understandably) blew up, Luke had laughed in his face and gone into the living room to watch something offensive with the volume up to fifty.
That was about five minutes earlier.
Now, Chuck had locked himself in the bathroom. He could hear the TV clearly through the floor—make out every word, almost.
He rubbed at his eyes. Held in a tiny, tiny sob—he really didn't want to cry because he'd just get ridiculed more and probably called pathetic, but... But his mother had given him that teacup when he was nineteen years old in college and all alone for the first time, and he'd kept it so carefully since then, and dusted it and washed it and put it on display and now... Just twelve shards in the kitchen trash, with tiny splinters of porcelain doubtless hiding in the grout between the tiles of the floor.
"Fuck."
Chuck turned away from the sink and reached for the faucet in the tub, wrenching it around with more force than entirely necessary. The pipes rumbled as water poured out, and he sat on the toilet lid for a few seconds watching the bottom of the bathtub fill up. Eventually, as the water level grew, Chuck pulled his clothes off and tossed them into a pile in front of the door. He turned on the fan. Set his cellphone safely on the counter beside the sink. As he stepped back toward the tub, though, it buzzed. He sighed and flipped it open. (He'd been made fun of for owning a flip phone, as well.)
From: Micah: How is babysitting going? Not too bad? I'll be heading home in a moment.
Snorting, Chuck tapped out a terse reply—Awful. Left him downstairs so I can cry in bath. He stood, naked, and waited for the reply he knew would be forthcoming. Michael, of course, did not disappoint. Barely seconds after Chuck's initial response, the phone buzzed again.
I'm coming over.
Chuck sniffed, and smiled. He didn't bother to send anything back. Just left his cell on the counter and stepped into the warm bath. Settled down into the water with a long sigh. He closed his eyes. He could still hear the television, but the words were at least mostly drowned out by the fan and the sound of the bathtub filling up. He estimated about ten minutes until Michael made it to the house from the gym. Less if he'd taken his bike.
He sank lower in the water. It splashed quietly as it rose, and he used his foot to clumsily shut it off.
The TV sounded louder, but no less muffled. Thank God. He didn't think he could deal with Tosh.0 at that moment in time. (Not that he could deal with Tosh.0 ever. But especially then.)
He blocked it out, though. Bent his knees so he could lay with the water up to his mouth, and ignored how itchy his eyes felt. Hopefully the steam and the heat would make him feel better—he certainly felt more relaxed, already. His breath had slowed considerably, and his heart rate had dropped back down to something less agitated. His hands trembled a little, but hey. Can't have everything.
Just as he felt himself drifting off, a door downstairs opened and shut. The volume on the television plummeted immediately, and Chuck could hear Michael's voice, scolding. Luke said something that sounded annoyed and petulant. Michael kept his cool, as always. Then, silence.
The stairs creaked, and after a moment, a soft knock came at the bathroom door.
"It's locked."
A frustrated grumble from the other side, and the lock turned—Michael had a copy of every key in the house and that included the bathroom. He slipped in, and shut the door behind him. Locked it again. Stood and leveled his gaze on Chuck.
Chuck gave him a weak smile. "Hi."
Michael sighed and moved closer. He knelt beside the bathtub, folding his arms along the rim, and leaned close to kiss Chuck's forehead. "I talked to Luke," he murmured.
"Yeah? What did he say?"
"Nothing kind." Michael stretched one arm out and pushed Chuck's hair back from his face. He stroked his thumb over Chuck's cheek. "Are you okay?" He looked worried. Chuck laughed, half-heartedly.
"You make it sound like I got hurt."
Michael frowned. "You did. Emotionally. That's still hurt."
Chuck rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smile at Michael's concern. "I'm fine." He wrapped his fingers around Michael's wrist and pulled at it, so he could kiss the palm of his hand. "I swear." Another kiss. "Especially now you're here."
"Oh, really?" Michael pulled his arm away. "Well, how about I join you, hm?"
"Please."
Michael snorted and stood up, shrugging out of his workout shirt. He dropped his clothes in front of the sink and urged Chuck to lean forward, so he could sit behind him. The water rose with his extra mass. Chuck leaned back against Michael's chest. He was warm, and smelled a little like sweat, but not in a particularly unpleasant way. In a familiar way, that mingled with the scent of oranges.
Chuck closed his eyes and relaxed.
Eventually, he helped Michael clean off a little. He had, after all, just gotten home from the gym, and had ridden his bicycle.
They got out of the tub and drained it, dripping water all over the floor, and Michael smothered Chuck with a fluffy towel that smelled like dryer sheets and citrus aftershave. Chuck huffed out a laugh and tugged Michael closer—wrapped the towel around his shoulders to keep him "trapped" and pressed their lips together.
Michael deepened the kiss. Cupped Chuck's stubbly face in his hands and mouthed at his jaw. "Wanna make you feel better," he murmured. "Make you feel good."
Heat pooled around Chuck's collar and belly, and reddened his cheeks. (Something that always embarrassed him—when he blushed, he blushed from his forehead to his chest. But Michael always said he thought it was cute, which always made Chuck blush even more.) He ran his fingers through Michael's damp hair. Looked at him thoughtfully. "Start by carrying me to bed." His voice came out as a whisper.
Rather than respond, Michael scooped Chuck up into his arms—Chuck clung to him, wrapping his legs around his waist. Michael set a steadying hand against Chuck's lower back and peered out into the hallway. Empty, so he moved quickly, and had them in the bedroom in a few seconds. He shut the door with his foot and nearly dropped Chuck when he tripped over a discarded shoe. But they made it safely to the bed, and Michael deposited Chuck on the clean blue sheets, pinning him down against the mattress.
He lowered himself down on top of Chuck, elbows planted against the bed on either side of Chuck's head. A slow kiss, and the brush of skin on skin. He gripped a handful of Chuck's short hair and moved his mouth to the hollow of Chuck's throat. He lapped at the skin there and Chuck breathed something unintelligible.
"What?" Michael nipped his collarbone.
Chuck sucked in a noisy breath. "I said, 'Shit, Luke is downstairs.'"
"So?"
"So, what if he hears?" Chuck frowned. "I don't want—" He drew in a little gasp when Michael bit harder, and floundered for words. Breathlessly, "I don't want your parents to get mad, if he tells them." His voice cracked on the last word.
Michael ran his hand up Chuck's side and said, "He won't tell. Even if he hears—it could be a way to get him to leave the house..." He pressed his lips against the underside of Chuck's jaw. Slid his hands down to grip Chuck's soft waist, and ground his hips down.
Chuck swore. "Good point—" His breath caught in the back of his throat and he let his head fall back against the pillows. "Just—fuck—" A reedy whine escaped his mouth. "Fuck, fuck." He felt like a dork, reduced to mumbling a stream of obscenities instead of real words, but he couldn't be bothered to care. He focused, instead, on matching Michal's motions—clutched at his well-muscled back with a desperate whimper. His nails dug in against Michael's skin, but Michael made no sign of minding. He just smiled serenely and dropped open mouthed kisses across Chuck's chest.
"Too slow," Chuck whined.
Michael raised his eyebrows.
"You're impatient."
And suddenly, Chuck found himself lifted into a more upright position and shoved against the headboard—he yelped at the same time the board hit the wall with a thunk.
Then, a hand between his legs and—
"Oh—God!" Chuck felt pretty sure he shouldn't have taken the Lord's name in vain but he didn't really care. He forgot there was another person in the house, for a moment, and groaned loudly, desperate and breathless. Usually Michael wasn't so rough, but Chuck decided maybe he liked it a lot, especially when Michael bit his shoulder.
Michael pulled away for a moment to rummage in the drawer of the nightstand, and Chuck made a plaintive sound of protest. Michael shook his head. "Patience, Mr. Shurley." He winked and came away from the drawer with a condom, and lube. Necessary things. Chuck let his head fall back against the headboard and only winced a little at the loud thud it made.
"Careful, careful." Michael kissed his face, as he reached down. Breathed soft words against Chuck's skin and prodded, gently.
Chuck drew in a gasp, louder than before. He reached for Michael—gripped at his upper arm with a soft, "Oh—"
"You're okay," Michael kissed his cheek. "You're fine."
The only response he got was a shaky moan and a nod.
He took his time—got Chuck squirming on his fingers, begging, "Michael—Micah, please, please, please—"
"You want it?"
Chuck nodded emphatically. His fingers tightened on Michael's arm hard enough to bruise. Michael handed the condom to Chuck with his free hand and said, "Open it." He watched Chuck fumble with the packaging, until he finally managed to get it out and toss the foil over the side of the bed—it fluttered to the floor. "Good, good." Michael kissed Chuck. "Put it on for me, baby."
Hands trembling, Chuck moved to do as Michael asked. Impossible not to, when the pet name came out—Michael meant serious sexual business when he called Chuck "baby," and Chuck wasn't about to miss out on a moment of it.
Michael kissed Chuck hard, and lifted him enough to slide in—maybe too much all at once, because Chuck let out a broken, "Fuck!"
Downstairs, the front door slammed.
Smirking, Michael shifted slightly, wrapping his arms around Chuck to hold him close. Chuck buried his face in the curve of Michael's shoulder, and Michael stroked a hand down his back with a soft shushing noise. Held still, and dropped kisses along the top of Chuck's head, listening and watching carefully for any sign that he should pull out.
After a few seconds, Chuck whispered, "I'm okay." He brought his arms up to drape them around Michael's neck, limp and loose. He opened his mouth against Michael's collarbone, and wiggled impatiently, and repeated himself.
Michael ran his fingers through Chuck's hair. "You sure?"
Chuck growled in frustration. "Move."
"Okay, baby, I'll move."
That pet name again. Chuck almost pointed out that it made Michael sound like he was in some cheesy porno, but then Michael shoved him down against the mattress and rolled his hips and Chuck forgot what he meant to say. He moaned instead, figuring that might get the point across just as well. In any case, it seemed to amuse Michael, because he smiled. Maybe that was just him being a sap, though.
"Why're you holding back, hm?"
Okay, not so sappy after all. Pervy.
"I'm not—" Chuck cut himself off with a soft keening noise from the back of his throat.
Michael chuckled and grabbed Chuck's wrists, pinning them over his head with one hand, and tracing the other hand feather-light across Chuck's chest and down his rib cage. "You are. You're usually so noisy. So loud and desperate." He nipped Chuck's earlobe. "Like yesterday morning, I bet the neighbors could hear you. What do you think? You think so?" He punctuated his sentence with a more determined thrust.
Chuck grunted. "Are you—Jesus fuck—are you makin' fun of me?" He gasped, "Fuck—" Let out a whimper.
"Me? Never." Michael kept his pace, not too fast, but persistent and driving. "You know..." He had to take a moment to breathe. "You know I'd never make fun of you, baby." He adjusted his angle.
"Motherf—"
Chuck dug his fingers into Michael's hair and back, hard enough to leave red scratches across his shoulder blades.
So Michael tried deeper—slower, too. A little torturous. Chuck keened and swore. A bit more of that and then back to a faster pace, slipping one hand down Chuck's belly and taking hold of him with loose, warm fingers. "Wanna hear you, babe. Be loud. I know you can." Sharp, quick jerks of his hips and an even stroke of his hand, and Chuck mewled beneath him, gasping for air. Michael breathed heavily through his nose. "Good, good." Encouraging tone, soft words. "Come on, gorgeous, let me hear you say my name—"
Chuck cried Michael's name—a few times, in fact.
When he sagged against the sheets, Michael wrapped him up in his arms.
Panting, Chuck muttered, "I need another bath, now."
Michael laughed.