Work Text:
"...Casey?"
"....mmm?"
"Reagan is watching us make out."
"Uh-huh."
"I don't think this was part of his political agenda."
Casey slaps the picture frame facedown. "Happy?"
"A little creeped out, actually."
And Casey shrugs and reaches for the remote. Not like he hasn't gone without before.
"Okayokay, not that creeped out."
"Make up your mind."
Odd how make-out sessions on Casey's couch are somehow routine now. And normal.
Normal until Morgan bursts in on them. Tries to, at least, pounding on the door and accusing Casey of trying to steal his BFF. Casey, Chuck is pleased to note, doesn’t even pull a weapon on him. Just glares, grunts, plops right back down on the couch without a word. Morgan blinks.
"We're rehearsing a play!" Chuck blurts out.
"Cool. Which one?"
"A...good one?"
"West Side Story," Casey says at the same time.
And Chuck just stares at him, then hums a few bars of "I Feel Pretty."
Both of them turned sideways, staring over the back of the couch at Morgan. And Casey's got a hand going upupup Chuck's thigh, face perfectly benign. "For the, uh, talent show," Chuck rattles on, digging that hole deeper and deeper. It's Sarah's spastic colon all over again.
"Yeah, Bartowski makes a great soprano," drawls Casey, still gradually gripping upupup, and Chuck damn well might be a soprano very soon.
"My bro can do just about anything. He's cool like that." Morgan nodding in approval before his face goes all stormy, "Speaking of: what's not cool is being brushed off for.... This Guy." Indicating John and his stupid couch and his stupid coolness and his stupid stealing of Chuck-ness. Huffing, "Talent show or no, my friend... Not. Cool."
Casey is slipping his too-big palm between Chuck's thighs, feeling the shape of him along his right thigh, trapped in boxers and slacks. "We were going to do a surprise performance at your surprise party, you dweeb," Chuck answers. If his voice is getting higher, hopefully Morgan thinks it's part of this suddenly-soprano...thing. "So now you have to pretend to be surprised when we have it 'cause you totally just ruined the effect."
"Lots of rehearsal time needed." Casey nodding sagely. Rubbing him, cupping him. Finally reaching up to thumb open the button on those slacks, talking over the sound of a gritting zipper.
Chuck dramatically drops his face into one hand to disguise the fact that his eyes just glazed over. "Ruined, I tell you." Slapping discreetly and ineffectively at Casey's roaming fingers with his other hand.
Morgan with his arms across his chest, dropping finally, looking vaguely confused and hurt, "Dude. Performance art...for me?" Does that idiot actually sound choked up? Casey is rolling his eyes and rolling the head of Chuck's softened cock between thumb and forefinger, wrist pressed deep into the open V of his slacks.
"That... that is so Rocky Horror Epic." Morgan's head lags forward, frowning. "And I ruined it." Casey has shifted closer to Chuck on the couch, feeling him harden under his touch-- and he really, really does love that. And if Chuck can somehow get rid of Morgan within…oh, the next two minutes or so, he completely intends to press Bartowski over the couch arm and swallow him down without so much as a second's hesitation.
"Yeah, man, you so did. So now we've gotta think of something even more awesome to top it and hey, guess what Ellie picked up when she got groceries today?" He didn't know he could talk that fast, but hopefully Morgan at least picks up on the key words Ellie and groceries and hightails it out.
Because he's starting to sweat, combination of heat and terror, and Casey's palming his cock into hardness and Morgan's stillthere and that is just too. freaking. wrong. Only not quite wrong enough for his body to stop responding.
Casey is expertly slipping him free of both underwear and slacks, into the open. In the open where it would only take Morgan a few extra steps to see him there, sitting, letting Casey touch him that way. Casey's expression gives away nothing.
Morgan's eyes light up and then he’s almost taking that step toward them and Casey’s tensing up alarmingly before something goes tittering in Morgan's pocket. Who clumsily takes out his phone and mutters, “Anna” and gives them both an adoring look. "I'll be surprised, man. I promise. You guys are..." A fist to his heart. Nodding. Casey is looking at him like he's a fucking idiot and Chuck is just looking cross-eyed.
And off he goes, like a little monkey skittering out the door, which shuts with a slap echoed immediately by Chuck's open palm slapping against the couch.Hips jerking up so hard he nearly slips right down off the sofa. "YouaresounbelievablydangerouslyCelineDionevil."
"Oh, suck it."
Chuck's face twisting up, redredred and trying to scowl, "Y-you-- you suck it, dammit..."
Casey just looks amused and releases Chuck from his grip, takes him by the hips, bodily shoves him against that couch arm and ducks his head neatly down between those thighs, taking him into his mouth and starting to suck immediately. Wet-obscene and wonderful.
Handfuls of too-short hair, probably gripping too hard, probably hurting when his hips go snapping right up at the first hot touch of Casey's evilevil mouth, but Chuck is too busy wailing to apologize. Evil, talented man: the Dion sort. Fucker. Jesus. And if Morgan were to walk in now... When Chuck's clenching his hand into sofa material, twisting it until his knuckles bleed white, his other hand in Casey's cropped and dark hair. Hips thrusting steadily, and Casey doesn't even protest. Just lets him. Just lets him fuck his mouth. OhsweetmotherofGoooood, yesyesplease.
Then Casey huffs in amusement while he's there because, apparently, Chuck had said that out loud.
OhthankyouJesus for not having Casey bite him. Instead, Casey moves with him, letting Chuck push and shove and fill his mouth all he likes. And if he could, if he didn't have pants looped around his thighs, he'd push a leg up, over one of Casey's shoulders, be able to feel the grit of stubble against his inner thigh--maybe let Casey splay a hand behind his knee, heft it straight up, higher, till that leg is pushed up and out of the way and he's getting a spit-wet finger shoved inside him as Casey's going down on him.
Casey pulling his mouth back with a wet, audible sound. Mouth wet and red as he goes pushing up onto his knees, blatantly reaching down to adjust himself in his jeans before he's looming over Chuck. Spit-slick erection in his jerking hand, mouth grazing Chuck's jaw, his mouth, but never quite kissing him. "Like that? Like when I suck you off, don't you, Bartowski? Like fucking my mouth... Feels like it gives you a bit of power, doesn't it? Your hands in my hair and your cock in my mouth." Deliberately doing this just so he can mutter dirty things to him before going right back down to suck him. Hard and sure and adeptly, molding the slick-hot insides of his cheeks around him and pushing.
It’s not fair that Casey can always hold himself together, calm center or not. Always gets things done, whether it's taking down a terrorist or infiltrating a secret lab or pausing in the midst of giving head long enough to give a dirty monologue and then sucking Chuck right back in until he's seeing flashbulbs of pretty white light everywhere. Stuttering "yeah" a million times a minute and wrenching that soft hair, pushing Casey's face right up between his legs so he can get that tongue on as much of him as possible. Casey might be the one really calling the shots, but if all Chuck gets out of it is a spectacular experience in getting off, he'll count himself a winner.
Chuck's hips jerk and push, his hands twist in Casey's hair and mentally Casey smirks, wide palm on the side of a thigh. Squeeze-kneading, riding the bucking of those hips, of the in-out sensation of that cock in the tight suction of his mouth. Tonguing the tip of him, the base of him when Chuck pushes that far and Casey relaxes his jaw, swallows him convulsively. It's all worth it just hearing Chuck go “yes” in that tone. Like it's the only thing he could ever, ever want... And Casey? Casey pays off the gratitude by pulling back his mouth again, taking him in hand instead, firmly jerk-stroking him at the same time he's mouthing that red-salty head, mouth open, tongue visible--lapping him, lapping those clear little trickles of precome.
The door is locked, right? Chuck still isn't familiar with all the gadgets and gizmos that personalize Casey's place, but it seems he'd at least have an autolock. Seems also that Casey wouldn't be swallowing and stroking and sucking him off if he had anything else on his mind, so Chuck guesses it's a moot point. His hips slanting up, crunching him into a haphazard slouch, but he has his chin tipped up and his nails skating against Casey's scalp and ohfuckohgod, "Close. C'mon, Casey, c'mon."
"Mm," Casey hums, at the same time he's closing that mouth over the tip of Chuck's cock and sucking. Hard. Shifting, getting over that lap, mouth open and drawn back, tongue out, tip of it skating across that little damp-salty slit, his hand steadily working him, jerk-stroking him, faster, harder. Mouth open and just waiting, obscenely lewdly sitting over Chuck's lap with his mouth expectantly wide.
"Holy fuck." He sounds utterly calm, all things considered. Considered Casey's there on his knees with his hand wrapped around Chuck's erection and his mouth just hanging open and waiting for him to come. Not even licking, not even sucking him, just expectant and ready to take it. Leather creaks around his clenched fingers when they slap down to seek purchase in the couch instead of Casey's hair, face flame-hot and his cock is dampdark and pulsing there in Casey's fist. Chuck doesn't even have time to breathe, doesn't have time to warn him before he loses it. Everywhere.
Chuck's head goes back and his hips go up, hard and rough in Casey's merciless grip, and he's coming; hot-sticky strings of white come, on his tongue, his chin, one particular pulse of it catching on his filtrum, wet-messy, bitter, and, best of all a Chuck who is breathless and spent. Casey swiping his tongue there under his nose, licking away any evidence of Chuck's climax, thumb sweeping over the head, gathering up what little is left there before pushing it between his lips, into his mouth with a noisy sucking sound. A quiet little grumble of approval.
The first thing Chuck does is wriggle out of those pants and boxers completely, after staring at the show Casey makes of cleaning himself off. Jesus. "You're kind of kinky, yknow." Nothing wrong with that--he's got nothing at all to complain about just now, no indeed. Arms crossing, reaching down to peel his shirt off as well, then reaching again to get hold of Casey's and pull him back up to couch level.
Chuck. Stripping off readily, rattling off at the mouth at the same time. And Casey gives a quiet, agreeing grunt. Somewhat amused as well. Chuck tugging at him, Casey's mouth dropping open to slant over Chuck's own-- soft, pouty, sensual. Loves pressing his tongue between those lips and claiming. Loves the taste of him. Drawing back after a second, one of Casey's hands on Chuck's chest, flicking over a nipple, digging his thumbnail against it lightly, "You bitchin' or something?"
"Nah. Just appreciating." Smirking and shuddering at the sensation of a nail being drawn over his chest, catching on a nipple and causing his eyes to shutter. Both hands greedily pawing up under Casey's shirt, up his nape, urging the cloth over his head--get them both on equal footing, clothing-wise. Hooking a bare leg over a broader waist, letting himself get sandwiched between Casey and the couch. Hm. "Sandwich...wanna sandwich? Or want me to get you off? I can go either way."
Casey's hands down to undo his jeans, hips pushing in an impatient rhythm and Casey is rolling his eyes again, though his voice is strained, "Shut up, you little freak." Thumbs under the waistband, jerking down, off his hips. Tongue on Bartowski’s chest, taking that same nipple into his mouth and lick-biting experimentally. Pulling back, licking his lips, "Wanna suck me off? Or did you have something besides a damn sandwich in mind? I could fuck you-- hard, too. Love the feel of you, clenched and hot and slick around me. And those little sounds you make..." Casey nudging up against the side of Chuck's face. Rile him up again. Make him so damn hard he can't see straight; and, no doubt about it, Chuck likes when Casey rumbles those dirty words at him. "Hot little sounds when I'm fucking you, like you're absolutely dying for it..."
He's suddenly not so hungry anymore. "Yeah?" A little breathless, a little fidgety, hum-moaning at that sharp nip against his already-sensitive skin. "Think maybe I should just bend over the back of the couch for you? Or maybe on my back, on the floor? Both? How much can you handle, hm?" He's always taken his chances with ribbing at Casey, and doing it with sex is no exception. If anything, it's more fun, since Casey's less inclined to brush off his remarks. And Chuck enjoys having his opinions taken into account.
"No..." Casey mutters, dangerous and intent. Leaning out, arm straining, the movement pressing up up along Chuck's bare-hot skin as he's jerking open the end-table drawer. Little foil packet, small bottle he's gone to strategically placing about his place ever since Chuck had gone to strategically placing himself on Casey. "Think you should stay right where you're at." Foil in his teeth, torn open and latex slipped on. And Casey is shoving Chuck up against the arm of the couch, shoulder blades pressed there as he's physically hefting those legs over his shoulders, slicking his fingers and pressing; teasing at first before he goes to letting his fingers sink into all that hotsnugheat. Voice grated raw and gravelly, "Gonna fuck you right here. Where I can damn well see your face; see what I do to you written all the fuck over you..."
It's a combination of hot and humiliating just how fast Casey can get him hard. Sometimes just with a touch, a word, a look. So mostly hot, then. Swallowing hard, throat dry, Chuck letting his legs get bent up and every bared inch of him scrutinized in that attentive manner that's so much a part of what Casey is. Cock still spit-wet from being in the mouth now dead-set on working him up all over again with rough-hewn, sin-heated words, and Chuck's hand rubs over it almost absently.
"Hm..." In a soft-speculating tone as Casey's working a finger into that bent-up, open-displayed body. Lithe and lean and eager. "Gonna touch yourself while I fuck you, mm? Get yourself off while you're riding my cock... Letting me fuck you so hard and deep you don't even remember your own fucking name." Casey smirks.
Leaning in to brush their mouths together. In a conspiratorial and teasing tone, "Let's short-circuit the Intersect, why don't we?"
Chuck waggles his eyebrows and smirks right back. "Ooh, spy humor. Do me." Though he helpfully hefts his hips up some more to let that finger slip in deeper, grunting quietly and, yeah, touching himself.
He can't help it, it just makes him smile. Then Casey is strictly back to business, hand pressing up against Chuck’s ass, sinking two fingers deep and curling them, urging Chuck into a back and forth rhythm, a little ragged and jerky and a lot fucking good. "...Fuck, look at you, Bartowski... You've got no fucking clue, do you?" All bent up and slicked up and wanting. That curly hair all a curly fucking mess and Casey drawing back enough to watch Chuck's hand slicking up and down his steadily hardening cock, and to watch his own fingers slipping in and out of him, glistening-wet and flexing.
Head flopping onto the couch arm as Casey's voice rakes over his nerve endings as tangibly as any touch. Gasp-hiccupping when a second finger slides in firm and deep, and Chuck jerks himself harder. Casey likes to look at him, though he still doesn't quite get why, but everyone's got their thing and that, he gets. Casey, on the other hand, is definitely worth watching. Eyes slitted and mouth all smeared-wet from blowing Chuck just a few minutes ago--would never know it from he way he's spilling precome over his fist--and Chuck's other hand splays over his stomach. Working up to twist-tug at a nipple even though it feels better when Casey does it, then sliding down over his stomach and thigh to press and prod where Casey's larger fingers disappear into him, the rim of him already stretched tight around them.
"Yeah," strained and tight. Casey swallowing visibly, head ducked, eyes keen blue gone deep-ocean dark, blackened with want. "Yeah, that little sound right there...so fucking hot." Those little whimpers and gasps get him harder quicker than Casey thought possible. Something about the vulnerability of it, the helpless nature of it that gets in Casey's blood and makes it run hot and ready. Cock swollen thick, dark-red and hard, and Casey biting down on his own lip as a set of Chuck's long, supple fingers go curiously exploring where Casey's got fingers up in him. Wetting his lips, bearing in-- "Feel that?" Quiet and murmur-rumbled, "Feel me in you like that? Tell me, Chuck... Tell me how much you want that, tell me how you want me in you-- fucking you like I'm doing now with my fingers.” Letting those said fingers press deep, his thumb stroking over the back of that questing hand as he does so, mouth hanging open slightly for a moment, a few lax seconds in all that determination.
Likes watching him, likes hearing him; both opinions Casey's never shy about expressing and, regularly as clockwork, Chuck inhales sharply, groaning and letting one of his fingers press in a little bit, just the tip. Head bobbing, cock leaking a constant stream against his belly now, and one of his feet presses into a shoulder blade. Lift that leg up, move from having it draped limply over Casey's shoulder to having his heel notched there instead, doubling up and exposing himself even more. Should feel way stranger than this, having this kind of thing going with Casey, but he's learned to take a lot of things in stride, what with having a computer in his brain, and this is very much one of the better things. Strangled voice, all broken up and just a whisper, and he tries to swallow so he can say more. "Need...in, need it...you."
Chuck nods vigorously, shifting, surging against him; actually pressing one of those thin fingers in along Casey's own, where Casey's adding a third; stretching him, readying him. Chuck's foot up on his shoulder, bent up, showing himself and Casey's breaths going thick-hard and ragged. FuckfuckJesusfuck... Can barely form the words, and Casey doesn't bother waiting. Slipping his fingers free and slicking his latex-clad cock before he's lining himself up with the other and leaning in with all his weight-- the slow penetration of the head of him, then the smooth-glide of the shaft going ininin and Casey is groaning and Chuck is making those sounds. Knees making the sofa creak, his hands grasping those pale thighs, pressed in hips-to-ass and stalling there for just a second before drawing back and thrusting, Chuck's name leaking free of him in a hiss, watching Chuck using that pretty-talented hand to jerkjerkjerk at himself.
Creaking of the couch, rush-rasp of his own rapid breaths, obscene slick-wet sounds, and Chuck's heartbeat seems to bottom out when those perfect teeth bare against a deep-seated hum-groan-growl as Casey pushes into him and the ceiling swims in front of his eyes. Fingers cruelly tight around his own cock, Casey's hands wrapping around his thighs, and he's grinding into him all. the. way. "Like that. God. Just--likethatyeah."
Fuck, and Chuck's expression; sweetly twisted and red. So goddamn reddened. It's a perfectly acceptable expression on a face like that, as far as Casey is concerned. Hand splayed wide over the top of a thigh, fingers digging in-- white-red divots on already pale skin. Carefully-carefully; rough-and-tumble being one thing, hurting the boy another. Of course, by the way Chuck's face contorts and those noises come slipping out of him, along with jumbled words, he's feeling anything but hurt. Likethat-- Casey's eyes heavy-lidded, darkened but focused, watching him, open and blatant, each and every time he draws back and shoves in again. Hard, circular little grinds when he's in him-- all the way inhim, before pulling back again. Sweat making their skin slick-easy against each other, can't help reaching up to wipe a few fine curls sweat-stuck to the other's brow. "Yeah... those little sounds, those little sounds r-right fucking there." Over the couch arm, heels digging into Casey's shoulder blades; hard-fast and messy. In the most perfect kind of way.
Casey's grit-grating out filthy-wrong words and shoving into him hard, and God, he's gonna lose it. Gonna scream the place down and come all over himself even though he hasn't ever been a screamer and he just came, like, five freaking minutes ago. Casey is just a lot to handle, all that force and presence and intent, and more often than not Chuck really can't handle him for too long before something has to give. And currently, that's his ability to form actual words, but he's okay with that. Gasp-whining and pushing up to meet him each time those strong hips roll forward and Casey presses in, hardthick and overwhelming and filling him. Couch leather sticking to his skin when he does he best to writhe up and meet those thrusts.
Squirming, the kid hiccupping and near sobbing and Casey is aching to taste those sounds in his own mouth. And Bartowski? A limber little nerd, he'll give him that, pausing on a withdraw in order to lean and press his tongue into that open, red-and-wrecked mouth. When he draws back, his thrusts are a little rougher, harder; Casey adjusting on his knees, shifting back on them just a touch, just to get to that right angle, the one that makes Chuck open-mouthed and mindless. Which is pretty much Casey's favorite look on him. Squeezing thighs to his chest, holding him upright, a hand on a hip; strong-tight and possessive; "Ready to lose it, aren't you, Chuck? Ready to come all over yourself-- a-fucking-gain, just like this, me in you-- watching you get yourself off... Can tell by the way you move, whine..." Gritting, strained, not nearly as neat-calm as before. Far more breathless, "C'mon, Chuck, lemme see you... want to see you."
On this front, he pretty much always heeds what Casey has to say. Particularly if it's growled at him all wrapped in that nothing-but-hot tone of voice and Casey's in him at the time. Bent up and spread open, taking it and wanting it and Chuck is squirmingclenching around the width of Casey's cock and practically sobbing from it. Oversensitive and raw-nerved, head lax against the couch arm and his own cock spilling hotwhite fluid seemingly everywhere and Casey is still hard, still fucking him. "Nnngh."
Casey's breath catches, intense expression twisting as if pained, feeling Chuck clenching around him convulsively in the midst of his orgasm, causing his hips to jerk-shove just a little harder. And just seeing it, just seeing the words and effects he has on him is enough to have him hissing, teeth bared and eyes squeezing shut, no longer able to hold his gaze on the sweaty, come-smeared mess that he's made of Chuck. It's fist-hard and spark-bright-brief, but it's good; Chuck's name on his tongue and Chuck's body tight around him as he feels those first good hard waves of orgasm, head to clenching toes. Fingers digging in and holding.
Not long at all before Casey's face is twisting, this surprisingly soft gasp of sound rushing out of him that just so happens to take the form of Chuck's name. And the next thing Chuck knows he's got Casey's full weight on him, his hands smoothing up over as much sweaty skin as he can, and Casey is shaking as he's coming. Pinning Chuck to the sofa in a sticky, overheated, fucked the fuck out heap of a person who has to go to work tomorrow but doesn't really care.
The fall-out is a little more intense than expected; drawing back his hips slowly before he's pressing his brow to Chuck's temple, eyes closed tight and breathing heavy-harsh and audible. Like he's just run down a particularly quick-footed miscreant. Whether it be an international terrorists or a Buy More shoplifter. He hates the ones with light feet. And Chuck's got him so damn disoriented he's thinking about shoplifters for crying out loud. Pushing back all sweat-damp hair from the other's brow. Swallowing. "So... performance art, huh?"
Crap. "I...guess so," blearily, a hand coming up to scrub over his face. "Can't leave Morgan hanging." Sometimes he wonders if Casey wouldn't mind hanging Morgan, but there's been some improvement on that front.
"'M'sure he forgot about it as soon as he hit Ellie's kitchen." Amused. Sweaty, naked, come-smeared and amused. A shoulder lifting and falling, "Dunno. You performed pretty well as far as I'm concerned."
That has him smiling, lazy and stupid-wide. "C'mon, choir boy. Don't get performance anxiety on me."
Casey rolls his eyes, mumbling, "Never gonna live that down..." Get Chuck off that damn couch arm, because it can't be comfortable, sitting back on his knees-- slightly unsteady, though he'd never admit it, and dragging Bartowski with him, until he can stretch him out a little, get him worked out and maybe able to walk to the bathroom here in a few.
"Use your talents for good, man." Wincing a little as he essentially gets peeled off the couch and rearranged into a more comfortable position. Eventually, he'll try and crawl to the bathroom. Eventually. Casey's a pretty decent pillow.
"As far as I'm concerned, I did. And really, really well, too." Hand in his hair, almost petting. But not quite.
A very, very nice pillow, Chuck mentally amends. One he could fall asleep on if he had the chance. He doesn’t say that, of course, just mumbles vaguely and makes no move to actually move.