original prompt:
Mike and Chuck are in the midst of a pretty hot and heavy make-out session when Chuck admits he's ready to go all the way. At first, Mike's like, 'okay let's do this' but then they find out neither of them know what they're doing. So they have to look everything up and find out what kind of stuff they'll need.

Bonus if there's a really awkward trip to the convenience store.

here you go, motorcity fandom, you lovely, lovely sweethearts. hope you enjoy. even though like, no one comes on here anymore? i dunno

"Hands on me," Mike whispers. "Hands on me." His lips hover over Chuck's lightly speckled cheeks, brushing and teasing, withholding the full kisses as gifts for later. Chuck's lankier fingers clutch onto Mike's shoulders, but Mike quickly locks his thick fingers around the twig-thin wrists. "Keep," Mike says lowly, "your hands..." He pushes Chuck down—but not with too much pressure—onto Mutt's glimmering green hood. "... on me. Don't get your fingerprints on her."

Chuck scoffs against Mike's lips. He gives Mike a dorky, lopsided, thin-lipped grin. How endearing he finds it, that Mike looks out for his car even now. "Really?" he asks. "You're kidding."

"I'm not going to seriously let you filth her up with your grubby paws," Mike says, letting go of his grasp.

"But I'm allowed to filth you up with my grubby paws?" Chuck kept his hands planted on the back of Mike's head, allowing his fingers to wander and stroke Mike's hair (which he found so odd, so fascinatingly geometric in silhouette).

Mike only responds with, "Mhmm," kissing Chuck full-on. Gentle, at first, then as each of their hot breaths progress to faster paces, Mike gets more aggressive, climbing onto Chuck, but using the poor kid's bones as body support. He still doesn't want to touch the car with bare skin.

Mike nips at Chuck's bottom lip, to which Chuck pulls away, hitting the back of his head on the hood. Two boo-boos, same reason.

Mike has only one concern.

"Hey! Did you—did you dent her?" He shoves Chuck's head aside to check. Chuck rubs the back of his head, groaning at the pain and groaning at Mike's stupid belief that making out on the hood in the first place isn't going to leave some sort of imprint of evidence. An assprint would be funny, Chuck decides, but impractical. He huffs.

Mike snaps back, standing up on the ground again. "Oh! Oh my God, Chuckles, I'm sorry. Are you okay?" He rubs the back of Chuck's head to feel for irregular bumps. "I can be more gentle. I'm so sorry. I don't mean to hurt you, you know that."

"It's okay, it's okay," Chuck assures. It kind of isn't okay. But it isn't un-okay enough to tell Mike how un-okay it is, exactly. But maybe this was okay, hooking up on Mutt. Flattering, almost. Isn't allowed to make eye contact with the vehicle, but at least he's ranked high enough on Mike's list to be allowed touchings and kissings on the very hood. That's got to mean something, right?

But he has to remind himself, reassure himself that he means more to Mike than he thinks he does. More to him than Mutt. Maybe. But he isn't going to bring that up now. Maybe not ever. Maybe someday, when Mike finally gives in and makes out with the car. What a nightmare.

Chuck looks back at Mike, who brings a thumb up to Chuck's chin. Turns his face at a few angles.

"You sure you're okay?" Mike asks. "You want to keep going?"

"Yeah," says Chuck. "Of course."

Mike tips Chuck's head up for another kiss, but, impulsively, Chuck pulls back, shouting, "Hey—can we, can we talk about something?"

Mike blinks in curiosity. "Sure, Chuckles."

"What am I to you?" Whatever Chuck had just pictured in his head, did not transcribe this way. At all. He wishes he could just take that ugly question back, eat it, throw it back up again, and stick it in someone's cereal.

"Wh—what are y—" Mike laughs nervously. "What are you to me? You're... you're Chuck, of course, what—what do you want me to say?"

"Well, I was kind of just thinking about it, I was kind of thinking about how I really hate the word

boyfriend," Chuck punctuated the awkward term with quick finger wiggles, "and if other people knew about us, oh, shit, man..." Mike furrowed his eyebrows at the swear. "That's what they'd see us as, and, and I don't wanna—"

"You don't wanna be boyfriends?"

"No! I mean! That's not what I mean! I mean we're above that word! It's just so overused, it's like a joke, almost, like, they'll see us together, and it's just so—so condescending, they'll be like, oh, there's Mike Chilton and his little booooyfriend. Why can't we be called something better, something cooler? Can't you just be my boo-boo kittyfuck or something?"

"Chuckles, please." Mike puts his hand on Chuck's shoulder. "The cussing. Anyway, yeah, I guess I could be whatever you want. Whatever you want, babe, I could be your, I don't know, dark knight or something."

"You cheesy fuck," Chuck laughs.

"Come on."

"Sorry." He's still giggling. "But don't you think 'boyfriends' is a dumb word? We should be something cooler, like Extra Super Duper Best Friends, Level 88."

"Level 88? Is that all?"

"Well," Chuck says, hopping off the hood, "that level is pretty much unreachable in the LARPing universe."

"So we've just been LARPing this whole time? You are really good at staying in character, huh, Lord Chuckles."

"No! I—"

"I'm kiddin', babe. Let's hop inside her." Mike walks around to his side of the car, opening the door, presenting it to Chuck. "Tinted windows, am I right?"

Once they get inside, they lie across both seats, Mike on top of Chuck, planting soft kisses on his freckled neck. Chuck seethes, bucking his hips against Mike's jeans, clutching his hair tightly again. "Fuck," he whispers, not holding back, lightly moaning. "Dude," he says. "Dude."

"What," Mike says tonelessly, still sucking and kissing.

"It kinda feels like... it kinda feels like you're rubbing a piece of warm ham on my neck."

Mike sits up. "What the heck am I supposed to say to that? Do you really like ham?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it feels good, Mikey. I was just saying it felt kinda like warm ham."

"Do you love ham more than me?" Mike asks with an arched eyebrow and a halfhearted smile.

"Totally."

"Okay," Mike accepts. "I gotcha." Then he goes to kiss Chuck on the mouth again, consciously thinking about whether or not this feels like ham. What makes a kiss feel like ham? Is it the tongue movement, the speed and consistency of the swirls? Or maybe it's the use of the actual lips themselves? Do those fleshy, little beds of skin affect the levels of ham-like intimacy? Wondering which one it could possibly be, he experiments with his kiss, but he's so confused—does he want to feel more or less like ham?

Whatever he's doing, and whatever lunch meat he could be compared to, it seems to him that Chuck is enjoying it.

On the both of them, things are heating up southward. Groins are tightening, denim is rustling, and Mike sits up to politely ask what Chuck would like him to do. "Shall I?" he inquires, jacking off the air.

"Uh."

Mike points to his own lips.

"No, no, I think—"

"What?"

Chuck is shaking. He leans up, trying to undo his jeans with one hand. "No, no, never mind, you know what, you know what you should do? You should just—you should just blow me, uh, please?"

Mike starts to lower his head down, pondering in the back of his mind which lunch meat he should try emulating this time, but he quickly sits up again. "Wait. What were you going to say? Did you wanna try something new?"

"No, no, it's stupid. Stupid. Stupid, stupid!"

"It can't be stupid. What's up, Honeychuckles?"

Chuck sports the expression of an overwhelmed puppy. "Noooo."

"We're in this together, buddy, and that wood's not gonna take care of itself."

Chuck's chest tightens, along with his groin, at the thought of what he's about to ask—he gulps. "Well, um, Mikey, I was thinking about asking you..."

"Yeah?"

"Well, um, I was thinking about it and it seemed kinda like a good idea at the time but I don't think it's such a good idea now, but it seemed like a pretty normal thing, you know, like since we're Extra Super Duper Best Friends Level 88, and maybe we could try going..."

Mike smiles.

"... All the way?"

Mike lets out a huge breath. "Jesus, take the wheel." Just kidding, he thinks. I would never let Jesus drive my car.

Chuck doesn't know what to make of this reaction—what was once just a frightened, overwhelmed puppy is now a full-blown signature Chuck freak-out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I take it back! I'm sorry, Mike, oh, God, my boner's gone right down! Augh, the anxiety, I think I'm gonna shit!"

Mike tries to contain his laughter, but quits as soon as he realizes there is no saving him now. "Calm your beans, Luckychucks, I'm down with it."

Chuck wants to pull his own hair out of his scalp. He told me to calm my fucking beans! "Your boner went down too?" he screams in a panic.

"No, no, I mean I'm cool with going," Mike leans in, "all the way." Soon after saying that, he briefly thinks to himself, if there's any other sort of meat Chuck is into other than ham, it's probably a hearty sausage. "I think we're ready."

Chuck pushes his hair out of his eyes, beaming. "You really mean it?"

"Don't make me think you don't trust me, babe."

"Oh, no, don't pull that on me, Mikey. I was just—I just want to know if you're ready too, because, like, I dunno, what if you think you're ready, but y—"

"I know I'm ready."

Chuck shudders at the phrase. Mike usually says that before dangerous things.

"I'll get inside you," Mike says casually.

"Uh, okay." Chuck starts to undo his jeans again, shimmying awkwardly under Mike, unable to peel them off completely. "I don't know if you've noticed!" Chuck suddenly pipes up, "But this vehicle isn't exactly designed for trouser removal."

Mike agrees. "We should really get Dutch to work on that."

"You know, I don't really think he'd be into that, and what kind of excuse would we come up with if we asked him to give us some sort of way to take off our clothes more easily, I mean—oh."

Mike mercilessly tears off the rest of Chuck's pants and boxers, throwing them onto the passenger's seat floor. With Chuck's legs slung over his shoulders, he unbuckles and unzips himself, and enthusiastically says, "Let's do this!"

And then they sit in silence.

Mike gazes endlessly at the scene before him, pre-cum dripping from both of them. His uncertainty stumps him, and he finally gets a taste of worry.

What now?

Mike pokes Chuck with himself. The lighting isn't that great in here. He's waiting for his tip to fall into place, like a puzzle piece. He feels around with his fingers, and the entrance wasn't as wide as he once imagined it to be.

"I'm going to do this," he assures Chuck. "I'm Mike Chilton."

"If you weren't ready, you could have ju—"

"Shut up. I'm Mike Chilton." He proceeds to push himself into plain skin. "I got this."

"Mikey, I don't think..."

"You don't think what? I can do this? Of course I can. You just need to give me a second. It's an art, not a science."

Chuck sighs. "Well, all right."

Another thirty seconds pass of Mike examining and Chuck waiting. Chuck starts to pick gunk out of his fingernails.

"What am I doing wrong?" Mike asks, in such an exaggerated manner that it's like he's asking an audience of children.

"I don't know," Chuck says. "You're not inside me."

"I'm Mike Chilton."

"Are you?" Chuck asks. "Are you Mike Chilton?"

"I don't know anymore," Mike says, putting himself down, putting Chuck's legs down, sitting back and taking a good, long, hard look at his life. "Maybe we should have thought about it a little more before trying it."

"I knew it!" Chuck cried, taking his boxers off the floor. "I knew it was a bad idea but I didn't listen to me! Stupid, stupid, stupid—"

"Hey, hey, hey. Quit it." Mike stuffs himself back into his pants as well. "We can figure this out. We can do this. Can't we? We can."

"We didn't even get lube!" Chuck cries, pulling his hair. "Of course we need lube! We're so stupid, Mikey! I can push a few buttons and wipe out and entire security system but I can't remember need lube for dick in ass? Why do I even try? Why, why, why?"

"Hey, man. You're not born knowing how to put a penis in a butt. Come on. Let's take a trip, huh? To... wherever lube is!" Mike gets out of the car and stands heroically, waiting for Chuck to follow. Chuck eventually follows suit after getting his pants back on.

"They've probably got some at the corner store," Chuck says. "We could... go together. Or not. I don't know."

"Well, you've gotta help me pick it out," says Mike.

"What help could you possibly need picking out lube?"

Before either of them know it, they're both standing in the designated aisle at the creepy, unassuming, 24-hour convenience store. Fluorescent lights flickering, boxes of questionably branded condoms scattered across the shelves, packaged tubes of lube erratically placed between the boxes.

"So we've never actually used protection," Mike whispers. "Think we should get tested sometime?"

Chuck shrugs. "You were my first."

Mike shrugs back. "You weren't."

Chuck's heart drops, fast. He didn't want to hear that. He tries to relax himself by convincing himself that Mutt was Mike's "first" or something, and he shouldn't worry about competing with a car. Then he remembers that he's been competing with a car since the beginning. He starts making uncomfortable squeaking noises.

Mike notices. "You okay? We don't have to do this now."

"I'm fine. Just pick something out. Please."

It's okay, he tells himself. Whoever was his first, he didn't get that far with. Obviously. He couldn't do me. But he probably used his mouth on that person. His mouth has been other places. Better places.

"Ribbed for her pleasure?" Mike says, looking at a box of Durex. "How inconsiderate."

"Yeah," Chuck says too fast.

"You want ribbed?"

"What? Sure. I don't know."

"First package of ribbed condoms without the use of specific pronouns wins." Mike begins on his search. But first, he tosses a package of lube to Chuck—they all looked the same, anyway. "We got our first thing."

"Hooray."

Mike continues to read each detail of the condom packages out loud. Chuck is thoroughly embarrassed. It's past midnight, and his boo-boo kittyfuck is clearly projecting words like "extra-lubricated" and "ultra-pleasure." Mike picks up a yellow box, frowning slightly at the packaging, but shrugging it off. "Trojans," he says. "Seem good, Chuckles?"

"Perfect."

"Okay. Now we can do this!"

Return to square one. Chuck lying on his back across Mutt's seats, peach-fuzzy legs hanging over Mike's bare shoulders. This time, though, they've upgraded—Mike is ripping open a lovely patch of plastic. "Ooh!" he exclaims as he peels it over himself. "It's such a beautiful green."

"I'm glad to know my anus will be filled with such a fashionable penis," Chuck deadpans.

"Darn right." Mike squeezes a dollop of lube onto his left palm and slabs it on Chuck's bottom, just moisturizing all over, like he's going to be everywhere but where he needs to be.

"Stretch!" Chuck reminds him. "Stretch."

"Right!" Mike lifts one finger and goes right in for the kill, earning a scream out of Chuck. Mike makes loud noises of gibberish over the screaming, startled as hell. "Don't! Don't—don't scream. If you scream, I'll—I don't know, just don't! Take it easy. Please?"

"Oh, yeah, that makes sense. I'm just not going to make noise when you put your fingers up my ass, that's no problem at all, Mikey. Maybe while we're at it, we could take another jab at the, I don't know, Doom Jump, with your fingers in my ass, then we'll see how much noise I don't make."

"That sounds like a good idea, Chuckles. Baby steps, though. Baby—" A second finger. "—steps."

"That—! Does not feel like baby steps!" Chuck squirms. "I thought you said this was going to be easy."

"No. I said, take it easy." A third finger, and a higher squeal from Chuck. "You wanted this."

"I know. I know, and I still do, okay? Just keep going."

Mike makes circular motions. "Is it hurting?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

"Okay." Mike attempts to put in one more finger, and with it, he brings his erection forward. He thinks he's getting places. He's a little proud, so he smiles. "Is it okay if I hold onto your hair?" he asks.

"Yes," Chuck breathes.

Mike leans forward, slightly in Chuck already, but with a few fingers still in. He grabs Chuck's hair with his right hand, and slides the rest of his fingers out.

"See, Chuckles? I told you I got this."

"Should've believed you the first time," Chuck says.

"You didn't?" Mike says, thrusting now. "Shame. I told you to trust me."

"No—ah—you said... not to make you think I didn't trust you. Unh—but I do trust you... I—I'm going to stop talking." All he could do now was moan and pant and want. He clutches the edge of the seat and the door handle—hard. "Fuck."

Mike moans in return, one hand in Chuck's hair and the other on his waist.

"Faster," Chuck groans.

Mike abides, grinning. "I never thought you'd ask."

Mike tries not to stroke his hair. He really does. But the temptation is unbearable, so he gives in, quickly realizing he didn't try that hard not to in the first place.

Chuck yawns, smacks his lips. "Do we have to stay in the car?" he mumbles.

"I'll take you home soon," Mike says. He's falling asleep slowly himself. "Hey. We're not boyfriends, are we?"

"No," Chuck says. "Extra Super Duper Best Friends, Level 88, remember?"

"After all that, we're still on level 88?"

"Well," Chuck says, turning his body around to face up at Mike, "after your whole 'I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-your-butt' thing, I'd say we went down a level or two."

"Wow."

"But you proved yourself a capable, trustworthy, sexy hero," Chuck explains.

"Sexy hero," Mike repeats admiringly.

"Yes. So, minus a few, plus a few, we're still at 88, I guess."

Mike heaves out a big sigh, leaning against the windowsill. His eyes slowly flutter shut. "All that for nothing, then."

"No... no. You've also accumulated a lot of... sexual agility points. That's pretty impressive." Another yawn. "Not only did your sexual agility points add up to over one thousand, but that also entails you to a whole new skill set, entitled... buttsex."

"Buttsex."

"Yes. And only Level 89 Extra Super Duper Best Friends can possess the skill of buttsex."

"Level 89? Is that all?" Mike asks.

"Don't push it."