STRPS -- You Had Me at "Pon Farr"

[the_deep_magic]

Title: You Had Me at “Pon Farr”

Author:the_deep_magic

Pairing: Pinto

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: CRACK, bondage, plot devices

Word Count: 8,209

Disclaimer: I don’t know them. Nor did I come up with the concept of Pon Farr, though I truly wish I had. Would’ve been more like “every seven days,” though…

Summary: Zach goes through Pon Farr. Yup. Prompted forever ago here at the kink meme.

A/N: I have no doubt done horrible things to ST canon (and possibly reality itself) here, but I maintain it is all justified under the noble banner of crack!fic.

Chris has never actually seen a doorbell short out before. One second it was doing its thing, then zzzzzt and a faint whiff of electrical smoke and it was no more. He supposes that pounding on it in rapid succession might have had something to do with the doorbell’s current state. Ah, well.

“Zaaaaaa-aaaaaach, I broke your doorbell! Don’t you want to invite me in to beat the crap out of me?”

He switches to good old-fashioned knocking, starting out with the “shave and a haircut” bit in the hopes that Zach has some latent Roger Rabbit tendencies, but no dice. Just as well – he probably wouldn’t know what to do with Jessica Rabbit if she landed in his lap.

“I know you’re in there. Your car is in the driveway and I saw you through the broken blind, so I know you’re not in the bathroom. And, no, that isn’t stalking, that is concerned friendship.”

Chris’ knuckles are starting to get sore when he hears Noah let out a low whuff, followed by a very human and poorly stifled shhhhhhhstupiddog. Inspiration hits, and Chris lets out a bark. Perhaps he should feel a bit self-conscious, standing on the stoop of his best friend’s house in the lingering daylight barking loudly at the front door, but it works. Noah joins in, loudly and zestfully. Chris does a celebratory dance, made no less graceful when he smacks his elbow on the doorjamb.

Inside the house, he hears Zach trying to wrestle Noah back into his crate. Between the barks, Chris catches strains of “…not even another dog, you dumb…” and “…will pay for that doorbell…” Suddenly, the door opens – about three inches. All he can see is one of Zach’s eyes, which would look threateningly angry if not for the half-shaved eyebrow above it.

“What the everloving fuck, Christopher?”

“Not gonna let me in?”

“No.”

“C’mon,” Chris says, giving his most charming smile.

“A stirring argument. As a counterpoint, let me offer: no.”

“What’s your major malfunction?”

“Not in the mood for this. Go away.”

Chris lunges and manages to get his foot in the door just as Zach goes to slam it.

“AAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!”

“Oh, god, Chris, I’m so sorry.” Zach swings the door open, concern pinching his features. “I didn’t know your foot—“

In one smooth motion Chris pushes past him and through the door, going over to calm Noah, who is still convinced that there is a new and friendly dog outside whose butt demands to be sniffed. Behind him the door slams, and he turns to see a very pissed off Zach.

“What?” Chris says, going for nonchalance. “It did sting a little.” Then he finally gets a good look at Zach, who looks more strained than Chris has ever seen him. His shoulders are tensed and his fists are clenched at his sides, like he’s trying to hold himself in. But not from attacking Chris – no, Zach is sweating even in the air conditioning and almost shaking with nervous energy.

“You need to go,” Zach says, his voice uneven.

Chris is genuinely concerned now. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing… I’m just not feeling well right now.”

“Not just right now – you’ve been off all week. You’ve been getting pissed off for no reason. Everyone’s noticed it. Five separate people have asked me what’s going on with you. Not entirely sure why they’re asking me, but the question stands.”

Zach closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m not lying; I really feel terrible.”

“You look terrible.” Chris glances around and sees small cardboard boxes and brown mailing envelopes scattered all over the floor. A quick inspection reveals a single source for all of them – Amazon.com. “Holy crap, did you have a book orgy and forget to invite me?”

He follows the trail into Zach’s living room where, indeed, books are strewn across coffee table and couch. Star Trek books, every last one of them. More than that, the original series season two box set is open on the floor and the TV is displaying a DVD menu for one of the discs.

Chris knows Zach likes to be thorough in his preparation, but this seems… excessive. “Doing a little, um, research?”

 

“Yes, research. Very boring. Did I mention go away?” Zach is actually pacing at this point.

“Zach, seriously, you’re starting to freak me out,” Chris says, reaching for Zach’s arm – and nearly burning his fingers. “Fucking hell, you weren’t joking! How high is your fever?”

The older man looks startled. “I don’t feel like I have a fever.”

“You’re shitting me. How are you still up and walking around? Oh, god, it’s the bird flu, isn’t it? Everyone laughed at me when I warned them—“

“Does anyone have bird flu anymore?” Zach muses, momentarily distracted from his condition. “And no, it’s not the flu, avian or otherwise. I don’t feel sick, exactly. Just really… off.”

Zach is hiding something – Chris knows it like it’s his mutant superpower. He can just tell when Zach has those Dr Pepper jellybeans stashed away, or knows some really juicy gossip about the scandalous sex lives of various crewmembers. It’s a good power to have – he can usually get the whereabouts of the jellybeans out of Zach somehow, and he knows to stay away from the lighting department because they are all despicable perverts, even by Chris’ standards. So this thing should be no problem to ferret out.

“Okay, Zach, spill it.” Well, no one said he had to be subtle.

“Spill what?”

“I have heard you use the word ‘exegesis’ in casual conversation – do not try to play dumb with me.”

Zach collapses on the couch, somehow managing to look wilted and tense at the same time. “I can’t tell you.”

“I have ways of making you talk. Sexy ways.”

The older man actually jerks back at that. “Fuck, Chris, don’t even— Look, I can’t tell you because you’ll think I’m crazy, okay?”

“Too late for that.”

“No, not ugly-hat crazy. Like, keep-him-away-from-sharp-objects crazy.”

“I’d always imagined padded cells were very comfortable. Straightjackets not so much, but—” Chris is cut off by the throw pillow that smacks him in the face at a stunningly high velocity. “Wait a minute, when the hell did you learn to throw like a guy?”

“Okay, ignoring the blatant sexism, I don’t—” Zach cuts himself off, a horrible revelation dawning in his eyes. “Oh, god.” He jumps up from the couch, leans over, and picks the thick mahogany coffee table up. One-handed. Like it’s made out of balsa wood.

Anyone else looking that horrified would have dropped the thing to the floor, but this being Zach, he lightly sets the coffee table back where it was. That little gesture is comforting to Chris, letting him know that there is still some vestige of Zach in this pod person currently inhabiting Zach’s body.

Chris doesn’t want his panic to show in case this alien being is hungry for some of his more vital organs and just waiting for an excuse to pounce. “Zach? You need to start explaining. Like, now.”

Sliding to the floor in defeat, Zach buries his head in his hands and moans, “I think I’m going into Pon Farr.”

“WHAT?!”

“Saying out loud makes it sound even crazier; please don’t make me repeat it.”

Chris gestures wildly as if to convey concepts of “fictional construct” and “physical impossibility,” and Zach responds with a twitch of the lip that clearly indicates his awareness of such things.

Then denial sets in. “No,” says Chris, “this is clearly a practical joke. Good one, Zach! Ha ha!” He actually enunciates the “ha” and the “ha” for good measure, and goes over to lift the coffee table, which has obviously been replaced with a lightweight prop.

Except that it hasn’t. Chris can pick it up, but it takes two hands and lifting with the knees to get it to chest height, and he knows for a fact he can lift more than Zach can. He’s very proud of that fact. He brings it up in conversation whenever possible.

“Okay,” says Chris, plopping down on the floor but being careful to keep his distance from his friend. “So, this means… what exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Zach mutters. “This is why I’ve been acting weird all week. I can’t sleep; I can barely eat. It hasn’t been this bad until today, though. I’m so fucking horny I can’t think straight.”

And Zach must be some kind of far gone to admit to that. It also explains the sweatpants, but if Chris looks closely, he can see… that he should really, really not be looking closely. “And so all the Star Trek stuff… really is research.”

“It’s all I’ve got to go on.” Zach picks up one book titled Spock’s World and flips through it absently. “I had it all overnighted with the hope that I could, I don’t know, figure out how to stop it or something.”

“And the body temperature, the strength… You’re turning into a Vulcan, too?”

“Not entirely, I don’t think. At least my ears—” Zach’s hands fly to his ears in a panic to check their shape. “Thank god, my ears are still normal.”

Chris is almost afraid to ask. “So what happens next?”

“Well, um. I’ve tried meditating, but I guess it’s not as good as Vulcan meditation. So unless something miraculous happens soon, I can look forward to—“

The sun breaks over Chris’ mental horizon with breathtaking clarity. “Hours and hours of rough, primal, mind-blowing sex.”

“Or death.”

“No, let’s focus on the sex.” Many are the times at which Chris has uttered that sentence, and only now does its importance truly come into focus. “My friend, we have got to get you laid.”

“What? No! Don’t you know anything about Pon Farr? I won’t have any control over myself – there’s no telling what I might do. Even if I don’t die, I’ll end up in jail for rape, and I’ll deserve to be there.” Zach is picking at the carpet so hard he’s actually tearing the fibers out.

Chris ponders everything for a minute, then says, “Okay, so we don’t know how to stop it, but we can stall the hell out of it.” Zach looks up, the smallest glimmer of hope in his eyes. Chris continues, “If we can’t get you laid, we’re gonna get you drunk.”

&&&

He wakes with his face half-buried in the couch and tries to piece together the events of the previous evening. Chris had purposefully consumed much less alcohol than Zach so he could keep an eye on him, but he remembers Zach tossing the tequila back like it was water on a hot day. Chris’ brain feels a bit fuzzy, so he’s willing to bet Zach’s going to be rolling in the hurt when he wakes up. He resolves to let Zach sleep as long as he can.

He goes to the guest bathroom to brush his teeth, borrowing a toothbrush that doesn’t look or smell like it’s been used to clean the grout – he figures he’ll buy Zach a new one anyway. As he’s padding back out to the living room, he hears a tortured groan from Zach’s bedroom. Poor guy sounds like he’s dying in there, so Chris pours him a cup of water and grabs the aspirin.

Nudging open the door, Chris fully expects to see Zach flat on his stomach, cursing Senor Jose Cuervo to the depths of hell. What he does not expect to see is Zach flat on his back, sweatpants pushed down to his knees with a long-fingered hand roughly working his cock. The cup of water goes crashing to the floor, and Chris should use his free hand to cover his eyes, but he just can’t look away.

The crash alerts Zach, who springs up and turns his body away from Chris. “I can’t stop,” he moans. “I’ve come three times already and I’m still hard. This shouldn’t be happening. How is this possible?”

Chris hears the anguish in Zach’s words. He feels the water soaking into the carpet at his feet. But what he keeps coming back to, the thing he can’t ignore, is that despite Chris’ obvious presence in the room and his friend’s equally obvious embarrassment, Zach’s hand hasn’t stopped its movement. Hasn’t even slowed down, from what Chris can tell.

“Shouldn’t, um…” Chris falters. “Shouldn’t you be, like, massively hung over?”

“Yes!” Zach groans, timed disturbingly to coincide with a jerk of his hips. “I should be in the fucking hospital with alcohol poisoning. But—“

“Vulcans don’t get drunk,” Chris finishes for him. He glances around the room wildly, not sure where to look. He can’t leave his friend like this, but he can’t stay and watch this either, not if he wants to keep his sanity. His mind casts about for something, anything.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, “I’ve got an idea. Give me your hand.”

Zach twists around at the waist and reaches out his hand – blessedly not the one still engaged below. “You’re kind of… Vulcan-ish at the moment, so…” Chris trails off, taking the first two fingers on Zach’s hand in his own fist and tugging at them with slow, even pressure.

With a shout, Zach explodes. He jerks his hand away and curls in on himself as he comes, but not before Chris catches the wild, desperate look on his face. Chris sits down on the bed facing the door, not quite able to come to terms with what’s just happened. In one sense, he’d have to say that he’s just given his best friend a Vulcan handjob, and a damn good one, too. As for what that means in terms of what is generally agreed upon as reality… that is less clear.

He hears the soft sound of a tissue being pulled from the box on the nightstand as Zach… Chris tries and fails to keep from thinking about the wad of crumpled tissues already on the nightstand. After that, only the sound of the two men’s breathing fills the room, Zach’s harsh and panting, and Chris’ as quiet as he can make it.

After a few long minutes, Chris can’t stand the silence any more. “Are you…?” he starts, not entirely sure what he’s asking.

“I’m not, um, hard any more, uh, if that’s what you’re… oh, fuck this.”

Chris hears Zach thump down on the bed, and he turns to see that Zach has mercifully pulled his ugly sweatpants back up and is now lying curled into a ball.

“Is— Do you think it’s over?” Chris asks.

“No,” moans Zach. “I can still feel it, whatever it is. Whatever you did, I think it helped. Temporarily, at least. It’s died down a little, but it’ll be back.”

As usual, Chris speaks before he really stops to think what he’s saying. “Maybe you’re not supposed to fly solo.”

“What?”

“Wow, sex really makes you stupid.” This makes Zach turn over and give Chris the Glare of Doom. “I mean, Pon Farr is supposed to be about mating, right? Not, y’know, spilling your seed upon the dusty earth or whatever.”

“Are you still drunk?”

“Are you still Vulcan?”

“Fuck. You.” Zach claps his hands over his eyes and breathes in deeply. “Okay. So. You’re thinking that the effects of this… thing are mitigated by the participation of another party?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re prone to circumlocution when you’re nervous? But, yes. Two to tango and all that.”

“Well, unless you’re volunteering, that doesn’t help me a whole lot.”

“What if I am?”

With a huff of frustration, Zach sits up. “Do not jerk me around unless you actually intend to jerk me around.”

“Dude, I am not as straight as you think I am.”

“Bullshit.”

“Did you ever ask? Or did you just assume?”

“I drew a logical conclusion based on the available evidence.”

“Oh, god, you really are turning into Spock.” Chris gets the Death Glare again. He sighs. “Okay, I mostly date girls. And I mostly only talk about dating girls. Because they smell nice and they call you for reasons other than sex and they don’t bring the wrath of the Paramount PR department down on your head.”

“So?”

“So…” Chris takes a deep breath. “You smell nice. I mean, not right now – right now you smell like a Mexican whorehouse – but in general.”

Zach’s jaw drops. “This is… I am losing my mind. First I go into alien heat, then I am propositioned – fairly poorly, I might add – by my best friend. This is all some sort of extremely detailed and sadistic hallucination.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “This is not getting us anywhere. You go take a shower, and I’ll… I don’t know. I’ll check the internet. Google has all the answers, right?”

Zach nods his head as if in a trance. “Yeah, shower. I’ll do that.”

&&&

Ten minutes later, Chris slaps the screen down on Zach’s laptop, utterly appalled. He walks back to Zach’s room up to the door of his bathroom, where he can still hear the water running.

“Zach, whatever you do, do not type the words ‘Pon Farr’ into Google. Just… just don’t. There are things no man was meant to see. Or read.”

“Chris.” Zach’s voice sounds strained, desperate. “Chris, it’s happening again.”

Fortunately, Zach hadn’t locked the bathroom door, so Chris bursts in, only to be nearly smothered by a thick cloud of steam. “Shit, how hot is that water?”

“Not hot enough.” Zach sounds truly pathetic, and against his better judgment, Chris pushes back the shower curtain to look.

“Holy fuck.”

Zach is hard. Painfully hard, by the look of it, his cock flushed a deep, angry red like he hasn’t gotten off in weeks. It hurts Chris just too look at it. Zach’s stroking himself slowly and stiffly, like he’s disgusted with himself – it’s more than Chris can bear. Later, he’ll claim he pretty much committed himself when he pulled that stunt with Zach’s fingers earlier. He strips off his shirt and steps into the shower.

The water temperature is bearable, but only just. Zach is so stunned that Chris easily maneuvers them so that the older man is blocking the brunt of the punishingly hot spray. Chris sinks down on his knees and bats Zach’s hand away, and before the older man can protest, Chris takes his cock in his mouth.

Immediately, Zach’s hips jerk forward and Chris has to brace him as best he can with his hands, hoping that pseudo-temporary-half-Vulcans don’t bruise very easily. But Zach doesn’t seem to mind – in fact, he’s already been reduced to babbling incoherency. Chris smiles on the inside at the retort he’ll have the next time he flubs a line and Zach implies that he can’t do anything right with his mouth. He swirls his tongue lewdly and the older man swears with unusual fervor.

Soon, Zach’s right on the edge and the thrust of his hips is getting too strong for Chris to stop. He eases his grip a little – just a tiny bit – and Zach’s fucking his mouth, coming with a hoarse shot and nearly doubling over. He braces himself against the tile wall to catch his breath, and Chris takes advantage of the distraction to surreptitiously spit into the drain.

Chris shuts the water off and helps Zach out of the shower so he doesn’t stumble and crack his head open – after all, Chris has been known to reduce some knees to jelly in his time. He hands Zach a towel from the counter, then looks down at his sodden jeans, which are leaving a huge puddle on the floor. It’s another credit to either Chris’ oral abilities or the bizarreness of the situation that Zach doesn’t even seem to notice.

The older man takes his time drying himself off, but eventually he has to look at Chris – who is blocking the door.

“So,” says Chris. “We gonna make a big deal out of this?”

Zach opens his mouth, then shuts it. Then opens it again. “Not right now.”

“Good. I’m guessing this probably isn’t over yet.”

“No. That helped – that helped a lot, actually – but it’s still there. Just sort of simmering now instead of boiling over.”

Chris fixes Zach with a look. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“I’m not asking for a diamond tennis bracelet, but a ‘thank you, Chris, for the spectacular blow job, your oral talents far exceed my own’ wouldn’t go unappreciated.”

“Thank you, Chris, for the spectacular blowjob, but I am not prepared to repeat the rest of that sentence.” For the first time since Chris showed up at his door yesterday, a genuine grin spreads across Zach’s face. “I’d rather not start our day by lying to you.”

&&&

It’s two handjobs and a blowjob later when Zach apparently decides things aren’t moving fast enough and grabs Chris by the ears to shove his cock further down the younger man’s throat. It’s something Chris fucking hates, but he gets that this whole thing is a little out of Zach’s control or he probably wouldn’t be going down on him in the first place.

“Dude, these aren’t handles,” he groans afterward, rubbing his sore ears.

Zach yanks up his pants, then rolls over to bury his head in the pillows. “Oh, god, I did that, I actually did that. I’m sorry. I think it’s getting worse – this isn’t helping as much as it was and I’m feeling less in control every time.” He rolls up abruptly. “I’ve been thinking. Way I see it, we’ve got two options.”

“Which are?”

“One, I lock myself in here with all the lube in the house, then you find earplugs and guard the door until you’re certain I’ve passed out in a puddle of my own—“

“Not gonna happen. What’s option two? And exactly how much lube do you have in the house?”

“Two. Um.”

“Yes?”

“My dignity was kind of hoping you’d pick option one.”

“That was the dignified option? Oh, god.”

“Look in my closet, the lowest shelf on the left.”

Chris gets up and digs his way into Zach’s hot tranny mess of a closet. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“You’ll know when you find them.”

“Them? What are you—“ Chris stops abruptly and sticks his head out of the closet to glare at the other man. “Zach, no.”

“You have to.”

“No!”

“I’m not letting you stay here unless you do.”

Chris gapes. “I can honestly say I never thought I would have to utter this sentence, but no, Zach, I will not handcuff you to the fucking bed.”

“I don’t know how much control I’ve got left – I could hurt you.”

“I’m not made of glass, dickweed.”

“Dammit, Chris!” Zach shouts, fist swinging out to hit the wall. It ends up punching through the wall.

“Point taken.” Chris stares down at the cuffs in his hand. They look expensive – soft brown leather with some kind of fleece lining. Expensive and well-used. “Not trying to be difficult here, but are we sure these will even hold you?”

“Well, this bed’s taken some pretty rough—” Zach catches himself and turns aside quickly to mutter the rest of the sentence into obscurity. He makes a show of testing the wrought iron of the headboard. “I think we’ll just have to hope it holds.”

Chris considers his options. On the one hand, he would hate to submit his friend to the further indignity of having to be restrained. On the other hand: Zach. Naked. Cuffed to the bed. “Alright. On one condition.”

“What?”

“I get to ride you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Again with the playing dumb. Your plan, in essence, requires me to tie you down and service you sexually for an unspecified length of time. Am I wrong?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. And there’s still option one.”

“No, we already vetoed that. And I am completely on board with the sexual servicing, as long as I get some say in the details.”

Zach groans, but he’s already half-hard and rising. “I would hardly characterize fucking your ass as a detail.”

“Your eyes say ‘no,’ but your dick says ‘yes, god, yes, gimme some of that sweet Pine ass,’” Chris says with a lewd smile. He helps Zach buckle the cuffs around his wrists, then secures them to the headboard and fluffs up the pillows supporting Zach’s shoulders. “Okay?”

“So, so far from okay.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Will you please stop acting as if fucking me is a chore?”

“God, I’m sorry, you know that’s not… I just really wish this could be happening under less clinically insane circumstances.”

“You need sex; I want sex. What could be saner than that?” With that, he grips the waistband of Zach’s god-awful sweatpants and swiftly strips them down to his ankles, flinging the offending garment away.

Height-wise, Zach’s only got about an inch on Chris, but stretched out like this with his arms spread out behind him, he looks like he goes on forever. “Christ, Zach, there’s so much of you.”

Zach grins. “Would you mind taking me to the nearest gay bar and repeating that? Loudly?”

And thank god he hasn’t lost his sense of humor, because Chris is pretty sure he couldn’t deal with the Vulcan poker face in bed. It’s got its appeal in a kinky sort of way, but Chris likes his lovers a little more on the responsive side. “Condoms?” he asks as he shucks the pajama bottoms he’d borrowed.

“Top drawer,” Zach replies, nodding to the bedside table.

Chris rolls the condom onto Zach, which earns him an entirely undignified whimper and a sharp little thrust of his hips. Responsive indeed. Chris laughs and straddles Zach’s thighs, slicking his fingers with lube. He braces one hand behind him and tilts back so Zach gets an unimpeded view of Chris slowly fingering himself open.

Before long, Zach is wriggling impatiently underneath him. “Taking your time there, aren’t you?”

“Shut it. I haven’t bottomed in forever and I wanna make sure I’m relaxed enough to take that mammoth kielbasa you call a dick.”

“You don’t have to flatter me, idiot. I’m priapic and chained to the bed.”

Pushing up on his knees, Chris removes his fingers to point one accusingly at Zach. “Better watch that mouth or I’ll gag you with an old sock, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

Zach gapes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Nah. But it’s just nice to know I could.” With that, Chris straddles him, takes Zach’s cock in his hand, and begins to lower himself down, drawing groans from both of them.

Evidently Chris had gotten so used to handling Zach with hands and mouth that he’d completely forgotten about the other man’s elevated body temperature, a fact which becomes abundantly clear as Chris impales himself on Zach. It’s only mildly terrifying, feeling as though he is being fucked by the sun. He tries to express this verbally, with the rather embarrassing result of uttering an incomprehensible string of guttural consonants.

Fortunately, Zach is in much the same state of inarticulacy. He wails and bucks his hips and god, it would hurt if it didn’t feel so utterly brilliant. Chris’ animal hindbrain kicks his body into gear and he starts moving, rising up and sinking down on Zach’s cock, and it’s a damn good thing he stretched himself because Zach is not giving him any time to adjust. He’s got his feet planted on the bed and is currently using all of his considerable strength to thrust himself up and up and up, taking most of Chris’ weight with him. It’s insane – Chris is on top but somehow Zach’s got most of the control and for some reason it is turning him the fuck on.

Sweat is already starting to roll down the back of Chris’ neck, between his shoulder blades, when he distantly hears Zach chanting something. He focuses all of his rapidly-devolving mental powers into listening, and it’s a steady stream of “oh god Chris please touch yourself I want to but I can’t Chris you’re so fucking hard just do it do it do it wrap that slick hand around your cock oh fuck Chris now.”

And never let it be said that Chris doesn’t know a good idea when he hears one. A few rough strokes and they’re both groaning, Zach’s eyes gaping as Chris’ slam shut. The younger man throws his head back as he comes, riding high on Zach’s bone-jarring thrusts and gripping tight around the rock-hard heat inside of him until the rhythm falters, and then Chris is just trying his best not to be bucked off as Zach comes like a fucking freight train beneath him.

His weight lands back on his knees on the mattress as Zach’s body wilts. Chris can already feel him softening and dear god, he never thought he’d be thankful for that, but even he has to take some time to recover from that. He pulls off Zach with a slight grimace, disposing of the condom and trying to look a lot less shaken than he feels.

He gives up and collapses next to Zach. “Can I take the cuffs off now?”

Zach tries to sit up, but gravity seems to be winning, so he slumps back down. “Yeah, I think we’re safe for a little while.”

Chris frees Zach’s wrists but leaves the cuffs hooked to the bed frame. He winces in sympathy as Zach gingerly rotates his shoulders and lets the blood flow back into his arms. “You okay?”

“Could be a lot worse, considering. Luckily, I think Vulcan bodies were built for this kind of abuse.” His eyes suddenly go wide with shock and he glances over at Chris. “But human bodies aren’t. Oh, shit, Chris did I hurt you? I’m so s—“

Chris weakly punches Zach in the arm. “Don’t you dare apologize. Were you even paying attention?”

Zach blushes – he actually fucking blushes. “Er, well, from my angle you did seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Fucking hell, Zachary. I think the residents of the space station could tell I was enjoying myself. Just… give me a few minutes before we go again.”

&&&

After that, Zach actually naps a while. Chris considers joining him, but the sex has mostly just wound him up, and though he doesn’t really believe Zach would hurt him or anybody else, he can’t be sure of anything right now. He pads out to the kitchen to see if there’s anything edible in the house.

By the time the macaroni has been properly boiled and the cheese added, he hears Zach stirring in the bedroom. Chris considers bringing the food into the bedroom, but figures Zach could use a few minutes out of the sex cave and into the bright daylight of the kitchen.

Zach walks in rubbing his eyes and stretching. “Can I get some water?” he asks through a massive yawn. “My throat’s turned into the Sahara.”

Chris tosses him a water bottle from the fridge and brings two bowls and silverware over to the table. “Yeah, I guess we’d better make sure you stay hydrated.”

Zach slumps down into a chair, looking a little pinched around the eyes but otherwise suspiciously alert for a man who’s had more orgasms today than should be technically survivable. Also suspiciously glum, though he is going after that mac and cheese like Homer Simpson after a donut.

After eating a while in silence, Chris can’t take anymore. “What gives, man? You’ve been magically gifted with enough strength and stamina to sequentially fuck an entire rugby team and you’re acting like it’s a burden. If I were you, I’d be ecstatic.”

“It’s not…” Zach drops his spoon and gestures vaguely. “It’s not like that. I mean, I come, and it feels good, but it doesn’t make the drive, the need go away. It’s like having itch in my brain and no way to scratch it. Plus…” He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then trails off.

“Plus what?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, I just let you ream my ass. You don’t get to hold back on me.”

Zach sighs. “I didn’t… I didn’t envision us getting together like this. I mean, not that we’re together, but. You and me. Sex. Not like this.”

“So that means you envisioned it?”

The older man nods and buries his face in his hands. “And now after this, everything is going to get awkward and every time you look at me, all you’ll be able to see is me flopping around in the throes of a terrible plot device and we won’t be able to work together and JJ will fire us.”

“Only you would be able to round up that much anxiety while in heat.” Zach glares at him again. “Look, this is going to… change things, sure. We can’t avoid that. But we’ll deal with that when we have to. And I seriously doubt this is in any way going to fuck up the tension between Kirk and Spock. So for now, just shut up and eat your macaroni.”

“Must be pretty damn cold in hell if you’re being the voice of reason,” Zach mutters, but he picks his spoon back up and cleans his bowl. Then he goes back to the stove and gets a second helping.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” says Chris. “Carbo loading. Gotta keep your strength up.”

“Don’t see that I have much choice,” Zach says, then scrunches his nose in thought. “An entire rugby team? Sequentially?”

“A man can dream, can’t he?” Chris leers.

Zach groans. “Oh, fuck you, I’m getting hard again.”

“Holy balls, they really ought to study you in a lab. You could put the good folks who manufacture Viagra out of business.”

But Zach is too busy shoveling pasta in his mouth to reply, presumably getting as much fuel down as he can before the next round. As soon as he finishes, he grabs both bowls, tosses them in the sink, then clutches Chris’ hand and wordlessly drags him back to the bedroom.

&&&

Chris changes it up as much as he can, alternating between all the ways he can think of to get Zach off. When Zach offers to jerk him off in return, they make the fascinating (Chris groans when Zach says it) discovery that the Vulcan hand sensitivity thing means Zach is stimulating himself at the same time. It’s a boon for Chris’ sore jaw and his aching cock, and though he can’t exactly keep up with Zach, he sure as hell doesn’t mind trying.

He’s lying flat on the bed, limbs still limp from the fourth or fifth savage fucking he’s gotten today when he happens to glance over at the nightstand. “Fuck, lube’s almost gone,” he mumbles, only drooling a little.

“S’okay,” says Zach, still somehow able to talk and move, “I’ve got more.” He heads to the closet, and Chris’ brain starts to drift, idly wondering exactly how long this whole thing is going to go on. Hours? Days? Not that he’s complaining, but he’s kind of surprised he hasn’t already been reduced to a smoking pile of ash.

Chris hears grumbling and when he cranes his head up, he sees things flying out of the closet – shoes, belts, a rather sizeable dildo – as Zach hunts for the lube. “Fuck,” Zach groans as he heads for the bathroom. More rattling and much more swearing.

“Haven’t you got, like, an emergency stash, or something?” Chris asks, trying to be helpful without actually moving.

“I did,” Zach moans. “We apparently went through it already.”

“All of it?”

Zach glares at him from the doorway. “Yes, all of it. Need I remind you that I don’t routinely engage in marathon fuckfests that entirely deplete my supplies?”

“Well,” says Chris, mustering the energy to roll over and sit up. “I s’pose that’s comforting. Get dressed and we’ll go get more.”

Zach looks away shyly. “I don’t think I should come with you.”

“I’m not going to leave you here by yourself.”

“You have to – I can’t be around other people like this. And you’re going to have to cuff me again.”

“What?” gasps Chris. “No!”

Zach grasps his shoulders, fingers grazing bite marks already starting to turn purple. “Chris, you can’t tell me I haven’t been getting rougher with you.”

“Yeah, but—“

“I obviously can’t come with you in this state, and I don’t trust myself on my own. The drugstore’s only 5 minutes away. I’ll be fine for that long if I’m tied up.”

“Zach—“

“Please,” Zach says, eyes desperate, and Chris doesn’t really want this fact getting out, but he never could deny Zach when he asks nicely, so he relents.

After getting dressed and carefully buckling Zach into the cuffs, Chris flips open Zach’s cell phone and sticks it in his hand. “Ten minutes, five there and five back. You need anything, and I mean anything, hit speed dial and I’ll come right back.”

“Not without the lube, you won’t. I’m pretty sure Vulcans still chafe.”

Chris chuckles and heads for the door. “Ten minutes.”

“Chris, when this is all over…”

“Yes?” He turns back to look at Zach, spread out and gorgeously disheveled on the bed.

“We are going to find Gene Roddenberry’s grave, dig him up, reanimate him, ask him how the hell this is possible, and then kill him again. Then maybe salt the earth so nothing will ever grow there again.”

“Um, Zach, I’m pretty sure he was cremated. Some of his ashes got shot into space.”

“Motherfucker.”

&&&

The look he gets from the clerk when he dumps most of the store’s stock of lube (and plenty of condoms, too) on the counter is priceless. Chris just grins lewdly and shoots him the finger-guns, because whatever this guy is thinking, the reality is many orders of magnitude crazier than he could possibly imagine.

Chris is making good time, too, right up until traffic stops dead about half a mile from the house. He cranes his head, trying to see what’s going on. Ten minutes becomes fifteen. He gets out of his car and can see the accident. It doesn’t look like anyone’s seriously hurt, but the cars are completely blocking the road – even the police have to drive up over the median. Fifteen minutes turns into twenty; the phone rings.

“Chris,” he hears in a throaty moan. “Chris, where are you?” Zach is panting – this can’t be good. “Chris, I’m hard again, and I can’t— I’m not—“ The sound of metal straining against metal.

“Fuck, Zach, hold on,” Chris shouts so Zach can hear him with the phone so far away from his ear. “Just hold on. I’m on my way.”

“Chris, please. Oh god, I can’t— I need you. Please.”

“I’m coming,” Chris says, sticking his head out the window to see if anything’s moving. It’s not. “Just keep talking to me.”

“CHRIS!” He hears the creak of metal and the crash of the phone hitting the floor.

“Fuck it,” Chris mutters, checking for pedestrians before jerking the wheel hard to the right and pulling up on the sidewalk. His car will get towed and there will be hell and fines to pay, but fuck if he’s going to sit in traffic while Zachary Quinto is cuffed to a bed, hard and desperate and needing him. He grabs the bag of supplies, slams the car door, and runs.

It’s almost an out-of-body experience, dashing full tilt through the streets of Silverlake with a plastic bag full of lube because his best friend needs sex now or he will… Chris doesn’t know. He doesn’t even want to think about it. Jabbing in the gate code, he tries to catch his breath as he pulls his keys from his pocket.

As soon as he gets the front door open, Chris hears the screech of the cuffs against the iron railings, nearly drowned out by Zach’s moans. The bedroom is a bona fide disaster area – Zach’s thrashing has pushed most of the pillows off the bed and bunched the sheets and blanket up. The wrought iron of the headboard has bent, but the cuffs are still in place – for now. Zach’s arms, though, are stretched unnaturally as he’s twisted to the side, trying to fold in on himself and get some friction on his hard, aching cock. His arms are spread so wide that he can’t quite get there, and he looks damn near out of his mind.

Chris rushes over to him and runs what he hopes are soothing hands down his sides, trying to get him to stretch out so Chris can touch him. “Shhh, Zach, I’m here. I’m here now. C’mon, baby, you’ve gotta relax so you don’t hurt yourself. Come on.”

Zach responds, slowly turning over and uncurling as Chris grabs a tube out of the plastic bag and opens it with shaking hands. He wraps a slick fist around Zach’s cock and pumps twice before Zach is coming in hot spurts, climaxing but still unsatisfied.

“Shit, Zach,” Chris moans. “What do you need?”

“More. I need more,” he all but wails, yanking again at his restraints. “Chris, you gotta fuck me. Please.”

“Are you s—“

“YES! Please Chris, you gotta— Need you to fuck me NOW.”

Chris can’t argue with that. He strips off his clothes in record time, somehow retaining enough manual dexterity to don a condom. He lubes up again and pushes a finger into Zach, who shouts at the intrusion.

“Hurry,” he groans. “Can’t wait.”

Chris goes as fast as he can – he doesn’t want to hurt him, but it honestly sounds like not fucking Zach is what’s hurting him. He’s scissoring two fingers inside of Zach when the older man twists hard and begs, so Chris hooks his knees over his shoulders and plunges deep on the first stroke.

Sinking into Zach’s superhuman heat is less like any of the sex Chris has ever had and more like dying, possibly – diving headlong into the heart of a supernova just as the nuclear fusion starts. If he hadn’t already come so many times today (less than Zach, of course, but still a personal best), Chris would be gone. As it is, he can barely catch his breath long enough to pull back and then thrust forward. He does it again. And again. And though Chris feels like he’s drowning, it’s enough to send Zach over another, smaller precipice, body clutching convulsively at the younger man’s cock.

Zach seems a little calmer now, though nowhere near satisfied, and Chris can’t think. He needs help – he needs Zach. Chris reaches feebly toward the headboard, muttering, “Gotta… gonna take these off now.”

And thank god, Zach doesn’t protest, just pulls them back toward the headboard and neatly bends in half so Chris can reach the cuffs. The movement also pushes his hips up, making Chris’ eyes roll back in his head. It’s a small miracle he gets the cuffs off at all – his fine motor skills are shot all to hell from nerve-frying pleasure and it’s like trying to do brain surgery while wearing oven mitts. But when he frees one hand, Zach can help with the other, and then both long, perfect hands are pulling his knees toward his chest. He moans, “Chris, move,” and the fog in Chris’ brain suddenly clears.

He leans forward, putting his weight on Zach’s thighs and his hands on his hips, and pounds into Zach mercilessly. Soon Chris is thrusting as hard and deep as he can, but Zach’s body just takes and takes and takes. He reaches between them to grip Zach’s cock, and the older man comes again, shouting and bucking and still needing more. Chris clenches his teeth and shuts his eyes against the overwhelming sight of Zach flying spectacularly apart beneath him so he can last just a little longer, make Zach come again if it’s the last thing he does. He’s starting to wonder if it’s possible to die from too much sex – Pon Farr by proxy, maybe – but, really, there are worse ways to go.

Zach is panting beneath him, making sounds that start out as words but die mid-syllable. Luckily, by now Chris has figured out what he needs. “C’mon, Zach, come for me.”

“Can’t,” he wails in a rare moment of eloquence. “Not again.”

“Yeah, you can. One more, baby, just one more.” Chris wonders if Zach will smack him later for the pet name, but right now it seems to be having the desired effect. “C’mon, baby, you got one more in you, just for me, I can feel it.”

Zach’s hand joins Chris’ wrapped around his cock, and together they stroke Zach hard and fast. His whole body quakes as his orgasm overtakes him, and this time Chris follows him, sinking deep into Zach’s heat and letting it consume him until his vision goes white and his arms give out.

When Chris opens his eyes, he realizes he’s lying heavily atop Zach, whose legs have slid down to circle his waist. Fortunately, Zach doesn’t seem to be having any trouble breathing, because Chris is certain that his limbs are not going to respond to any commands from his central nervous system for a long time. Zach wraps his arms around the man atop him, and Chris closes his eyes to listen to the rhythm of Zach’s heart and the soft whoosh of breath against his forehead.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but he must have dozed a little, because he wakes with a twitch while dreaming he’s falling off a cliff. His head involuntarily jerks up, startling Zach, too, and suddenly their mouths are so close they may as well be touching. This is when it hits Chris that, for all they’ve done together, they have yet to kiss. It’s absurd, really, and though Chris would’ve sworn a few minutes ago that he needed a serious coffee break from the tireless sex machine that is currently Zach, all he wants now is to kiss him.

Chris closes the distance between them and just lets his lips rest against Zach’s. They’re hot, of course, thanks to his elevated body temperature, but they’re also soft and swollen from Zach’s teeth. He mouths gently against those lips, and Zach responds in kind. It takes a few long minutes to turn into a proper kiss, and even then it’s slow and messy, but it sends a shiver down Chris’ spine that wakes up tired nerve endings.

“Holy shit,” Chris mutters against Zach’s mouth. “I think this Pon Farr thing might be contagious.”

&&&

Two days later, they’re both back on set, and though Chris’ legs can barely hold him, Zach’s looking spritelier than he has in weeks, body temperature and whatnot all back to normal. It’s so terribly, terribly unfair, but at least Zach has the good grace to wait on Chris hand and foot, bringing him water and snacks and even propping him up a bit between takes.

The official line is that Zach lost a bet over the technical term for sexual arousal stemming from being on stage or camera (“Autagonistaphilia,” says Chris with all the smugness he can muster, “Exhibitionism only applies to exposing oneself”) and Chris is just being a jerk about it, making Zach do absolutely everything for him. It’s just weird enough to be true. Chris can’t quite remember why he agreed to this particular cover story, as it makes him look like a toolbag in front of their friends even though he’s just spent three days catering to Zach’s every sexual whim, but Zach is being really nice about it, only rolling his eyes in mock exasperation when someone is obviously staring at them.

In fact, Zach is being a little too nice about it. As he helps Chris into his trailer, he apologizes for maybe the 47^th time that hour and Chris wants to smack him upside the head. “Can it!” he snaps.

Zach deposits him gently on the couch and then hops back. “I’m sorry – I know you’ve got to be sick of me touching you.”

Chris smites his forehead with his palm. “Zach,” he says with a deep calm he doesn’t feel. “I’m tired, I’m sore, I’m covered your teeth marks, and still, all I can think about is your naked body.”

Zach executes a textbook-perfect Does Not Compute face, made all the more teeth-grindingly adorable by the fact that he’s still all Spocked up. Chris sighs heavily and uses a large portion of his remaining strength to lean up and yank Zach down for a deep, probing kiss, digging his fingers into the horrible bowl cut and messing it all to hell just because he can.

When Zach pulls back, his mouth is beginning to twitch up into a smile. “So, what you’re saying is…”

“Damn it, do not make me wait seven years to hit that again.”