gossip girl; so, about that joint. [nc-17]
so, about that joint.
chuck/nate, nc-17. ~3000 words.
nate's an idiot, millions of brain cells decimated over the years since he bought his first ounce.
Nathaniel Archibald is a complete idiot.
Chuck sometimes thinks back to try and figure out if Nathaniel's always been this oblivious, this clueless to the obvious and --
But it's sort of hard to think about a five year old Nate when seventeen year old Nate's stretched out in the back of the limo with him, legs propped up in Chuck's lap (why does he think they belong there exactly, they're fucking heavy) and lips wrapped around his fifth joint of the day (morning).
So he doesn't bother with the past, settles for the present. Nate's an idiot, millions of brain cells decimated over the years since he bought his first ounce and even though he's always had a dorky grin now it's dopey and clueless.
Chuck really shouldn't like this so much.
But Nate's always been completely devoted to Chuck - at least in the sense that everyone else is. Whatever he wants, he gets. So Nate's wandered off the proper path occasionally, spent too much time trying to be Blair's boyfriend while pining after Serena instead of paying attention to his best friend but Chuck fixed that, and Nate's back to being entirely, willingly his.
He's not possessive so much as selfish. He shares Nate with that awful Brooklyn girl, lets Nate be friends with Dan Humphrey of all people. But this - stupidly happy, genuinely blissful? That's his. Only his.
It's not Chuck's fault he's selfish, either. Nate gives and gives; he's not so much generous or selfless as completely unknowing. It's like innocence in a way, how Nathaniel acts, even though one can't quite call a stoner who cheated on his girlfriend with her best friend and has a father on trial for countless felonies innocent or naïve. But innocence, naivete, those go away after a few encounters, a few too many drinks or touches or nights in the back of a limo.
What Nate is? It just doesn't go away.
Some sound of contentment escapes Nate after another drag, and Chuck reaches out, tugs the joint away from him. "Aren't you high enough yet, Nathaniel?" he asks, and wonders if it's possible for a human being to turn into a puddle because Nate must be trying his damndest to. He gets all boneless and melty at points like this, half-falling off the seat, shoved up against one of the doors to keep from faceplanting into the floor.
"Um," and here, Chuck begins wondering how Nate just managed to pack an entire textbook worth of philosophical thinking into that syllable, " - no." A lazy grin blossoms on his best friend's face, and when Nate reaches for the joint, Chuck holds it just out of reach. Well, not really, but Nate obviously thinks it's too far to grab at and the grin's replaced with a sulky expression. (Chuck would say 'pout', but really, Nate doesn't quite pout.) "Give it back."
"No," Chuck says simply.
Nate doesn't argue - there it is again - and just slumps into the leather of the seat beneath him. "You're an asshole," he declares, like it's some new revelation.
"The fact that it's taken you this many years to figure that out astounds me, Nathaniel," Chuck drawls, ignores the second aimless grab and inhales lightly. The smug glance is just to rub it in.
Nate glares - it's almost cute on him, nose wrinkling and lips pursing - before correcting himself, "Basshole." He's bursting into near giggles at his own pun before Chuck even realizes he's made it, and it's a really good thing that this is a common occurrence with Nate because Chuck can guarantee you his driver would be caught more off-guard by hysterical laughter than anything debauched.
"The answer's still no," he finally retorts, and something clenches, tightens low in his gut at the crestfallen look on Nate's face because it means he'd just accept that.
This voluntary, oblivious obedience is probably what got them in this position sometime in the past.
Again, Chuck really shouldn't relish in it so much.
Even he knows when something shouldn't be had in excess, not even Nate's subservient moping, so he gestures at him carelessly. "If you want it back, you're going to need to sit up."
Nate gives him this 'are you stupid' look, which, coming from Nathaniel, never fails to amuse Chuck. "Like m'gonna get up right now, man. I'm comfortable." Chuck gives him an apprehensive glance; the way he's flopped so elegantly against the other side of the limo has his neck bent funny. Then again, Nate's stoned out of his mind, maybe he doesn't notice.
"Just get up."
"No."
Chuck considers letting this argument go on for a while; grade school had resulted in plenty of never-ending "no, you" type fights before one of them shoved the other or threatened to tell a maid or something. But that would take serious effort and he's feeling rather lazy, so he meets Nate halfway.
Literally.
It's actually pretty helpful that Nate's decided to heave a world-weary sigh and start propping himself up on his forearms; this position's a little awkward to begin with, and this way Chuck can brace half of his weight on him, lips still comfortably (and smugly) wrapped around the joint. "Promise to play nice, Nate," he says, a few wisps of smoke escaping in the process. Another tight feeling shoots past his stomach at the way Nate ignores the smoke and fixates on Chuck's lips, teeth closing restlessly over his lower one.
"Man, I just want my shit back - " Nate's protest barely gets a chance before Chuck has his mouth covered with his.
Nate thinks it's a kiss. Chuck's not surprised - he'd think it were one, too, considering previous affairs like these - so he presses harder and exhales.
The sputtering cough is not exactly the result that Chuck was hoping for. It's still fucking hilarious. "Dude!" Nate half-whines when he can breathe again, shoving at one of Chuck's shoulders. "The fuck was that - "
"Nathaniel, really. You of all people should know what that was." The second drag Chuck takes is more pointed; getting Nate's attention might help, although for all he knows, he's just staring at Chuck's mouth again. Chuck gives a lazy, muted sort of sound - ready? - before pressing his lips against Nate's once more, hoping this isn't a 'third time's a charm' kind of deal.
It's not; Nate breathes in right when he's supposed to - though Chuck thinks that was just instinct this time - and he gives this funny little noise. It's like a whine and a sigh all in one and Chuck decides this time can be a kiss, if only to keep Nate from breathing too early.
He only pulls away when nails start digging into his shoulders - asphyxiation isn't one of his kinks, unfortunately - and gives Nate an expectant look.
Nate's always got the perfect blissed-out face when he's getting high, but this - this is entirely too hot and Chuck's too pleased to bother mentally denying it. Nate's out of breath and panting and flushed and looks fucking delighted. His eyes are blown and Chuck barely even kissed him but his lips are slick and full and -
No wonder this ended up happening one sticky-hot summer night. Nate can look utterly fucked without even getting any.
"That was fun," Nate abruptly says, a fantastic understatement for the century considering what he looks like. "Do it again."
Chuck will let that slide this one time.
With each progressing hit, Nate gets better and better at it; he's always been a quick learner despite being clueless as all get out, so long as he has a little guidance. He starts to breathe in the second Chuck's lips press against his, holds it as long as he can and even teaches Chuck in the process - he abandons the nails tactic and buries a hand in Chuck's hair, tugs just slightly when he needs to breathe. The position's still awkward and Chuck thinks that the knee Nate's got digging into his hip needs to back off but somehow it's all too perfect despite that. Messy, disheveled - that's something he and Nate wear excellently.
At some point the joint burns out and it's an enormous effort for Chuck to find a place to toss its remains when Nate's teeth become reacquainted with his jaw. This is how it usually happens; it's never planned and it sort of just segues from drinking and smoking to rutting and fucking and Chuck likes that because it's easy, they're easy and it's not complicated like every other fucking person in the world. He lets Nate's mouth wander until it's somewhere on his collarbone and one of Chuck's hands distractedly twists through his hair and tugs and oh, that's right. It's easy to forget in the haze just how easily Nate makes noise and every single sound out of Nathaniel Archibald's mouth is like sin itself.
The only thing better is the way Chuck can wrench his name out of Nate with a single twist-pull-yank on a fistful of hair and he regrets that it's out of displeasure but it still sounds so right and anyway, Nate knows why he's pulling. This time it's a real kiss, not just an extra shove of his mouth to keep Nate's lungs from fucking up his fun and the hand that curves over the back of Chuck's neck is like coming home which is kind of stupid since home means a hotel and an emotionally stunted father. Nate is the closest to 'home home' that Chuck can get because he's the most familiar, the most constant thing in Chuck's life and god, it's really pitiful that he likes kissing Nate enough to miss the way that Nate's grinding up listlessly from the leather seat.
He makes up for it with a slow, full rock; Nate voices his appreciation in a low moan that's swallowed up by the kiss and then the hand in his hair and the hand on his neck has Chuck remembering that despite Nate being so lazily accepting of everything, he's always the one that makes a kiss full of tongue and teeth first.
Nate's always had difficulty with the activity of getting off clothes when he's high (sometimes Chuck thinks he has difficulty sober, too) so Chuck bats away the hand that's going for his zipper, and starts on Nate's, not bothering with his shirt because it smells like Nate and - has Chuck mentioned this lately?
He loves the way Nate smells. In a hotboxed limo three hours into smoking, Chuck can still bury against the crook of Nate's neck and breathe in and beneath the traces of sweetness from pot that's almost always lingering is Nate, some fucking perfect, heady mix of sweat and starch and incredibly girly fabric softener and cologne that Blair probably gave him but Nate still hasn't used up.
Anyway, now that he's gotten his face shoved against Nate's throat and his hand down Nate's pants, Chuck can think a little straighter, breathe a bit easier.
Nate has this funny habit when Chuck's hand wraps around his cock. He lets out moan after moan and whine after whine but it isn't until his hips are jerking up and he's fucking Chuck's fist that he remembers the well-versed art of begging like a slut.
In fact, before all this happened, Chuck was with the rest of the world in thinking that Nate didn't know how to talk dirty.
But here he is, teeth teasing at the soft patch of skin right beneath Nate's jaw and feeling the hitching whines before they actually get past his throat and hearing obscenity after obscenity fall from his best friend's lips. Granted, Nate can only be so coherent when he's high and needy but he knows how to beg no matter what state he's in, whether they're fucking or not.
And Chuck really, really likes the way Nate begs. The more curses that lace his pleas the better, and Chuck milks it for all it's worth, responds to the "harder, fuck" with a light thumbing at the head and Nate bitches for a full five seconds until a lazy flick of Chuck's wrist has him pleading all over again. "Jesus fuck, I need to—oh—need - God," Nate manages between moans and obscene arches of his back.
"Don't think religion's what you should be asking for," Chuck tsks, and he's rewarded with a rake of nails up between his shoulder-blades and Chuck doesn't want to know what that did to his shirt.
"Y'know what I mean—mmmfuck—you asshole." Nate manages the biting retort despite the ragged sigh halfway through and the frantic shift in the previously steady rhythm of his hips. Chuck rewards his almost-eloquence with the kind of kiss that Nate loves, tongue twisting around his momentarily before teeth find his lower lip and bite. Nate lets out a keening sound that Chuck instinctively stifles because the limo is only so soundproof and Nate could shatter mirrors if he tried, you know.
After that, all it takes is a lazy lick at the swollen skin and another few twists of his wrist to have a litany of swears pouring out of Nate's mouth, his whole body tense and loose all at once in some peculiar contradiction; Chuck doesn't stop at the sticky warmth, instead keeps his hand moving in sure strokes until Nate's shifts turn into squirms.
Nate lets out a priceless, sleepy whine when Chuck starts cleaning his hand - it probably has something to do with the fact that he's using his mouth. "Just came, man, d'you fuckin' mind being a whore somewhere else?" he complains. Of course, he's complaining while he's shoving his way into an unsteady sitting position and proceeding to shove Chuck and this part will always be a little funny because Nate's really the only one who Chuck would ever allow to get away with a lack of reciprocation.
The instinctive desire to return the favor, though, has Nate on his knees on the floor of the limo, wide hands sliding impatiently up Chuck's thighs. "Take 'em off," he asks/demands after fumbling with Chuck's pants for about three and a half seconds. (Chuck's turned on as all hell, but watching Nate get frustrated over a fucking zipper is always worth it.) But he helps after another annoyed huff, barely getting the catch undone before Nate's shoving at the fabric and oh god he doesn't waste time.
Nate likes sucking cock. A lot. And Chuck's not about to complain about that, but he's also never going to adjust to the sudden warm, wet heat that makes him want to come rightgoddamnnowplease. And while he's busy trying to stave that off, Nate's tongue has to go and lick a languid stripe up the length of his cock and what the fuck is he humming around his dick -
Chuck pretends to find that incredibly ridiculous every time Nate does it because it helps him refrain from coming like a fifteen year old virgin. (It barely helps.)
He's not really sure where the hell all of this enthusiasm comes from when Nate is still sleepy-eyed and fucked out; Chuck twists a hand back through his hair in an attempt to pull Nate off, just to see the hazy, desperate glance he'll give him, the faint noise of protest that starts bubbling in the back of his throat before Chuck relaxes his grip.
Chuck has always loved Nate's hair, and that resulted in a lot of bitching the first time Nate ventured to go down on him. Now, the only response Chuck gets for yanking on a fistful of his best friend's hair is a low moan muted and muffled around his cock. Hell, Nate would probably let Chuck fuck his face or something, but Chuck definitely prefers it lazy like this, like Nate. (At least when he's high.) This is the one thing Nate does better without direction, anyway; he hollows his cheeks at the right time, knows exactly what spot makes Chuck's hips twist up from the seats and that some depraved part of Chuck likes it better when Nate's throat tightens up on a near-gag rather than him trying to suppress the reflex.
Nate even has perfect fucking timing, knowing just when to pull back and wrap a fist around the base and pump once, twice and Nate whines for it like he needs it more than Chuck needed to come before and that little noise that Nate probably doesn't even realize he's making is almost always what has Chuck coming, nails digging into Nate's scalp and hips jerking more weakly than he'd ever admit.
••
They have this ten minute routine thing that follows consisting of Chuck fixing his pants and managing to coerce Nate halfway into his lap because Nate seems to think it's a leg-rest and it's really not. Chuck's been thumbing lazily at Nate's lips for a while, tracing the reddened, swollen curves, occasionally leaning in for an awkwardly angled kiss but indulging himself anyway because Nate tastes like weed and him and that's the best possible combination for his ego.
"Hey, did we ever finish that last joint?" Nate asks, interrupting Chuck's rather content exploration.
"Nathaniel?"
"Mm?"
"You're a fucking idiot." Chuck pauses at the expression that Nate gives him. "... You're not supposed to smile."
He really shouldn't like that reaction so much.
•••
quick notes: i've never thought of chuck and nate as anything more than just best friends. so to me, this is just a natural facet of their friendship because nate's a ho and chuck is horny. feedback is nice! this is my first nc-17 fic in general so i'd appreciate concrit where necessary. :>
chuck/nate, nc-17. ~3000 words.
nate's an idiot, millions of brain cells decimated over the years since he bought his first ounce.
Nathaniel Archibald is a complete idiot.
Chuck sometimes thinks back to try and figure out if Nathaniel's always been this oblivious, this clueless to the obvious and --
But it's sort of hard to think about a five year old Nate when seventeen year old Nate's stretched out in the back of the limo with him, legs propped up in Chuck's lap (why does he think they belong there exactly, they're fucking heavy) and lips wrapped around his fifth joint of the day (morning).
So he doesn't bother with the past, settles for the present. Nate's an idiot, millions of brain cells decimated over the years since he bought his first ounce and even though he's always had a dorky grin now it's dopey and clueless.
Chuck really shouldn't like this so much.
But Nate's always been completely devoted to Chuck - at least in the sense that everyone else is. Whatever he wants, he gets. So Nate's wandered off the proper path occasionally, spent too much time trying to be Blair's boyfriend while pining after Serena instead of paying attention to his best friend but Chuck fixed that, and Nate's back to being entirely, willingly his.
He's not possessive so much as selfish. He shares Nate with that awful Brooklyn girl, lets Nate be friends with Dan Humphrey of all people. But this - stupidly happy, genuinely blissful? That's his. Only his.
It's not Chuck's fault he's selfish, either. Nate gives and gives; he's not so much generous or selfless as completely unknowing. It's like innocence in a way, how Nathaniel acts, even though one can't quite call a stoner who cheated on his girlfriend with her best friend and has a father on trial for countless felonies innocent or naïve. But innocence, naivete, those go away after a few encounters, a few too many drinks or touches or nights in the back of a limo.
What Nate is? It just doesn't go away.
Some sound of contentment escapes Nate after another drag, and Chuck reaches out, tugs the joint away from him. "Aren't you high enough yet, Nathaniel?" he asks, and wonders if it's possible for a human being to turn into a puddle because Nate must be trying his damndest to. He gets all boneless and melty at points like this, half-falling off the seat, shoved up against one of the doors to keep from faceplanting into the floor.
"Um," and here, Chuck begins wondering how Nate just managed to pack an entire textbook worth of philosophical thinking into that syllable, " - no." A lazy grin blossoms on his best friend's face, and when Nate reaches for the joint, Chuck holds it just out of reach. Well, not really, but Nate obviously thinks it's too far to grab at and the grin's replaced with a sulky expression. (Chuck would say 'pout', but really, Nate doesn't quite pout.) "Give it back."
"No," Chuck says simply.
Nate doesn't argue - there it is again - and just slumps into the leather of the seat beneath him. "You're an asshole," he declares, like it's some new revelation.
"The fact that it's taken you this many years to figure that out astounds me, Nathaniel," Chuck drawls, ignores the second aimless grab and inhales lightly. The smug glance is just to rub it in.
Nate glares - it's almost cute on him, nose wrinkling and lips pursing - before correcting himself, "Basshole." He's bursting into near giggles at his own pun before Chuck even realizes he's made it, and it's a really good thing that this is a common occurrence with Nate because Chuck can guarantee you his driver would be caught more off-guard by hysterical laughter than anything debauched.
"The answer's still no," he finally retorts, and something clenches, tightens low in his gut at the crestfallen look on Nate's face because it means he'd just accept that.
This voluntary, oblivious obedience is probably what got them in this position sometime in the past.
Again, Chuck really shouldn't relish in it so much.
Even he knows when something shouldn't be had in excess, not even Nate's subservient moping, so he gestures at him carelessly. "If you want it back, you're going to need to sit up."
Nate gives him this 'are you stupid' look, which, coming from Nathaniel, never fails to amuse Chuck. "Like m'gonna get up right now, man. I'm comfortable." Chuck gives him an apprehensive glance; the way he's flopped so elegantly against the other side of the limo has his neck bent funny. Then again, Nate's stoned out of his mind, maybe he doesn't notice.
"Just get up."
"No."
Chuck considers letting this argument go on for a while; grade school had resulted in plenty of never-ending "no, you" type fights before one of them shoved the other or threatened to tell a maid or something. But that would take serious effort and he's feeling rather lazy, so he meets Nate halfway.
Literally.
It's actually pretty helpful that Nate's decided to heave a world-weary sigh and start propping himself up on his forearms; this position's a little awkward to begin with, and this way Chuck can brace half of his weight on him, lips still comfortably (and smugly) wrapped around the joint. "Promise to play nice, Nate," he says, a few wisps of smoke escaping in the process. Another tight feeling shoots past his stomach at the way Nate ignores the smoke and fixates on Chuck's lips, teeth closing restlessly over his lower one.
"Man, I just want my shit back - " Nate's protest barely gets a chance before Chuck has his mouth covered with his.
Nate thinks it's a kiss. Chuck's not surprised - he'd think it were one, too, considering previous affairs like these - so he presses harder and exhales.
The sputtering cough is not exactly the result that Chuck was hoping for. It's still fucking hilarious. "Dude!" Nate half-whines when he can breathe again, shoving at one of Chuck's shoulders. "The fuck was that - "
"Nathaniel, really. You of all people should know what that was." The second drag Chuck takes is more pointed; getting Nate's attention might help, although for all he knows, he's just staring at Chuck's mouth again. Chuck gives a lazy, muted sort of sound - ready? - before pressing his lips against Nate's once more, hoping this isn't a 'third time's a charm' kind of deal.
It's not; Nate breathes in right when he's supposed to - though Chuck thinks that was just instinct this time - and he gives this funny little noise. It's like a whine and a sigh all in one and Chuck decides this time can be a kiss, if only to keep Nate from breathing too early.
He only pulls away when nails start digging into his shoulders - asphyxiation isn't one of his kinks, unfortunately - and gives Nate an expectant look.
Nate's always got the perfect blissed-out face when he's getting high, but this - this is entirely too hot and Chuck's too pleased to bother mentally denying it. Nate's out of breath and panting and flushed and looks fucking delighted. His eyes are blown and Chuck barely even kissed him but his lips are slick and full and -
No wonder this ended up happening one sticky-hot summer night. Nate can look utterly fucked without even getting any.
"That was fun," Nate abruptly says, a fantastic understatement for the century considering what he looks like. "Do it again."
Chuck will let that slide this one time.
With each progressing hit, Nate gets better and better at it; he's always been a quick learner despite being clueless as all get out, so long as he has a little guidance. He starts to breathe in the second Chuck's lips press against his, holds it as long as he can and even teaches Chuck in the process - he abandons the nails tactic and buries a hand in Chuck's hair, tugs just slightly when he needs to breathe. The position's still awkward and Chuck thinks that the knee Nate's got digging into his hip needs to back off but somehow it's all too perfect despite that. Messy, disheveled - that's something he and Nate wear excellently.
At some point the joint burns out and it's an enormous effort for Chuck to find a place to toss its remains when Nate's teeth become reacquainted with his jaw. This is how it usually happens; it's never planned and it sort of just segues from drinking and smoking to rutting and fucking and Chuck likes that because it's easy, they're easy and it's not complicated like every other fucking person in the world. He lets Nate's mouth wander until it's somewhere on his collarbone and one of Chuck's hands distractedly twists through his hair and tugs and oh, that's right. It's easy to forget in the haze just how easily Nate makes noise and every single sound out of Nathaniel Archibald's mouth is like sin itself.
The only thing better is the way Chuck can wrench his name out of Nate with a single twist-pull-yank on a fistful of hair and he regrets that it's out of displeasure but it still sounds so right and anyway, Nate knows why he's pulling. This time it's a real kiss, not just an extra shove of his mouth to keep Nate's lungs from fucking up his fun and the hand that curves over the back of Chuck's neck is like coming home which is kind of stupid since home means a hotel and an emotionally stunted father. Nate is the closest to 'home home' that Chuck can get because he's the most familiar, the most constant thing in Chuck's life and god, it's really pitiful that he likes kissing Nate enough to miss the way that Nate's grinding up listlessly from the leather seat.
He makes up for it with a slow, full rock; Nate voices his appreciation in a low moan that's swallowed up by the kiss and then the hand in his hair and the hand on his neck has Chuck remembering that despite Nate being so lazily accepting of everything, he's always the one that makes a kiss full of tongue and teeth first.
Nate's always had difficulty with the activity of getting off clothes when he's high (sometimes Chuck thinks he has difficulty sober, too) so Chuck bats away the hand that's going for his zipper, and starts on Nate's, not bothering with his shirt because it smells like Nate and - has Chuck mentioned this lately?
He loves the way Nate smells. In a hotboxed limo three hours into smoking, Chuck can still bury against the crook of Nate's neck and breathe in and beneath the traces of sweetness from pot that's almost always lingering is Nate, some fucking perfect, heady mix of sweat and starch and incredibly girly fabric softener and cologne that Blair probably gave him but Nate still hasn't used up.
Anyway, now that he's gotten his face shoved against Nate's throat and his hand down Nate's pants, Chuck can think a little straighter, breathe a bit easier.
Nate has this funny habit when Chuck's hand wraps around his cock. He lets out moan after moan and whine after whine but it isn't until his hips are jerking up and he's fucking Chuck's fist that he remembers the well-versed art of begging like a slut.
In fact, before all this happened, Chuck was with the rest of the world in thinking that Nate didn't know how to talk dirty.
But here he is, teeth teasing at the soft patch of skin right beneath Nate's jaw and feeling the hitching whines before they actually get past his throat and hearing obscenity after obscenity fall from his best friend's lips. Granted, Nate can only be so coherent when he's high and needy but he knows how to beg no matter what state he's in, whether they're fucking or not.
And Chuck really, really likes the way Nate begs. The more curses that lace his pleas the better, and Chuck milks it for all it's worth, responds to the "harder, fuck" with a light thumbing at the head and Nate bitches for a full five seconds until a lazy flick of Chuck's wrist has him pleading all over again. "Jesus fuck, I need to—oh—need - God," Nate manages between moans and obscene arches of his back.
"Don't think religion's what you should be asking for," Chuck tsks, and he's rewarded with a rake of nails up between his shoulder-blades and Chuck doesn't want to know what that did to his shirt.
"Y'know what I mean—mmmfuck—you asshole." Nate manages the biting retort despite the ragged sigh halfway through and the frantic shift in the previously steady rhythm of his hips. Chuck rewards his almost-eloquence with the kind of kiss that Nate loves, tongue twisting around his momentarily before teeth find his lower lip and bite. Nate lets out a keening sound that Chuck instinctively stifles because the limo is only so soundproof and Nate could shatter mirrors if he tried, you know.
After that, all it takes is a lazy lick at the swollen skin and another few twists of his wrist to have a litany of swears pouring out of Nate's mouth, his whole body tense and loose all at once in some peculiar contradiction; Chuck doesn't stop at the sticky warmth, instead keeps his hand moving in sure strokes until Nate's shifts turn into squirms.
Nate lets out a priceless, sleepy whine when Chuck starts cleaning his hand - it probably has something to do with the fact that he's using his mouth. "Just came, man, d'you fuckin' mind being a whore somewhere else?" he complains. Of course, he's complaining while he's shoving his way into an unsteady sitting position and proceeding to shove Chuck and this part will always be a little funny because Nate's really the only one who Chuck would ever allow to get away with a lack of reciprocation.
The instinctive desire to return the favor, though, has Nate on his knees on the floor of the limo, wide hands sliding impatiently up Chuck's thighs. "Take 'em off," he asks/demands after fumbling with Chuck's pants for about three and a half seconds. (Chuck's turned on as all hell, but watching Nate get frustrated over a fucking zipper is always worth it.) But he helps after another annoyed huff, barely getting the catch undone before Nate's shoving at the fabric and oh god he doesn't waste time.
Nate likes sucking cock. A lot. And Chuck's not about to complain about that, but he's also never going to adjust to the sudden warm, wet heat that makes him want to come rightgoddamnnowplease. And while he's busy trying to stave that off, Nate's tongue has to go and lick a languid stripe up the length of his cock and what the fuck is he humming around his dick -
Chuck pretends to find that incredibly ridiculous every time Nate does it because it helps him refrain from coming like a fifteen year old virgin. (It barely helps.)
He's not really sure where the hell all of this enthusiasm comes from when Nate is still sleepy-eyed and fucked out; Chuck twists a hand back through his hair in an attempt to pull Nate off, just to see the hazy, desperate glance he'll give him, the faint noise of protest that starts bubbling in the back of his throat before Chuck relaxes his grip.
Chuck has always loved Nate's hair, and that resulted in a lot of bitching the first time Nate ventured to go down on him. Now, the only response Chuck gets for yanking on a fistful of his best friend's hair is a low moan muted and muffled around his cock. Hell, Nate would probably let Chuck fuck his face or something, but Chuck definitely prefers it lazy like this, like Nate. (At least when he's high.) This is the one thing Nate does better without direction, anyway; he hollows his cheeks at the right time, knows exactly what spot makes Chuck's hips twist up from the seats and that some depraved part of Chuck likes it better when Nate's throat tightens up on a near-gag rather than him trying to suppress the reflex.
Nate even has perfect fucking timing, knowing just when to pull back and wrap a fist around the base and pump once, twice and Nate whines for it like he needs it more than Chuck needed to come before and that little noise that Nate probably doesn't even realize he's making is almost always what has Chuck coming, nails digging into Nate's scalp and hips jerking more weakly than he'd ever admit.
••
They have this ten minute routine thing that follows consisting of Chuck fixing his pants and managing to coerce Nate halfway into his lap because Nate seems to think it's a leg-rest and it's really not. Chuck's been thumbing lazily at Nate's lips for a while, tracing the reddened, swollen curves, occasionally leaning in for an awkwardly angled kiss but indulging himself anyway because Nate tastes like weed and him and that's the best possible combination for his ego.
"Hey, did we ever finish that last joint?" Nate asks, interrupting Chuck's rather content exploration.
"Nathaniel?"
"Mm?"
"You're a fucking idiot." Chuck pauses at the expression that Nate gives him. "... You're not supposed to smile."
He really shouldn't like that reaction so much.
•••
quick notes: i've never thought of chuck and nate as anything more than just best friends. so to me, this is just a natural facet of their friendship because nate's a ho and chuck is horny. feedback is nice! this is my first nc-17 fic in general so i'd appreciate concrit where necessary. :>