It’s two days before Chris forgets their agreement. Well, it’s two days before the next compensatory black magic blowjob, and after Zach has finished calling out the names of numerous major and minor deities in a octave no dignified man should reach, Chris gently tucks him back in his underwear and turns for the door.
The best Zach can do is sling an arm out, and it’s by pure luck that his fingers snag in Chris’ belt as he tries to make his getaway. And Chris doesn’t stop immediately, either – the two extra steps he takes yank Zach’s boneless weight off the couch and Zach ends up face first on the floor, pants still somewhere around his knees. The unbelievable shit Chris gets him into.
But he holds firm around Chris’ belt, concentrating all of his strength in his fingers until he can regain the necessary motor function to get his knees under him, and from there to stand up. “Christopher,” he says, pulling his jeans up with as much poise as he can muster. “Have you forgotten our agreement?”
“I think your nose is rug burned,” Chris says helpfully.
“Get your ass on the couch.”
“I really ought to get going.”
“Ass. Couch. Now.”
Chris obeys, sitting rather primly on the edge of the cushions as Zach starts pacing in front of him. “What are you doing?”
“Plotting my reciprocation.”
“Could you plot faster? There’s a new episode of Dancing with the Stars on tonight.”
Zach gapes. “Seriously? Seriously? I’m devising ways to make you come and all you can think about is Tom fucking Bergeron? I am insulted.”
“I thought we already established the fact that I’m kind of fucked up in the head.”
“I’m a little more worried that you might be fucked up in the pants,” Zach growls, climbing onto Chris’ lap. “Guess I’m just going to have to try harder.”
He shoves Chris onto his back and nearly tears his shirt trying to get it off. It’s a stupid shirt anyway, and Chris looks much, much better with it off. Zach’s on a mission now. Chris knows his weakness – though reality-warping blowjobs are kind of an obvious Achilles' heel – now he just has to find Chris’. He’s sucked Chris off, rimmed him, fingered him, fucked him, been fucked by him, and Chris has… well, “responded positively” doesn’t quite seem to cover it. There are dents in the wall above Zach’s headboard to attest to that. But none of it feels as overwhelming, as deep-down necessary as Chris’ mouth around Zach’s cock. Zach just needs to find the thing that Chris absolutely, positively can’t say no to.
It’s not biting or nipple-tweaking. For a moment, Zach thinks it might be frotting until he sees Chris’ eyes dart toward the digital clock. When Chris actually yawns and politely covers his mouth, Zach knows Chris is actively fucking with him, but it doesn’t matter. When he hits the right spot, Chris won’t even be able to think, let alone fuck with Zach.
They tussle for position on the couch, Chris trying to squirm away and Zach dragging him back down. They’re both half-naked and sweaty, skin marred with red from teeth and fingernails and Zach’s dick is making a valiant effort at a comeback from all the Chris under his hands and mouth. At some point Chris realizes this, palms Zach roughly through his jeans and uses the moment of distraction to wiggle away. Zach swings out again blindly, his open hand smacking hard across the swell of Chris’ ass.
Chris squeaks and freezes in his tracks.
Fucking bingo.
Zach has him face down on the floor, his pants and underwear yanked down within seconds. He brings his hand down again and again, reveling in the way Chris’ shouts break down from curses to bare syllables to clipped grunts. He’s humping the floor before Zach’s hand really even has a chance to sting, hips grinding down in a long, rough thrust on a particularly vicious smack as he comes.
Binky, two days later, R (1/2)
The best Zach can do is sling an arm out, and it’s by pure luck that his fingers snag in Chris’ belt as he tries to make his getaway. And Chris doesn’t stop immediately, either – the two extra steps he takes yank Zach’s boneless weight off the couch and Zach ends up face first on the floor, pants still somewhere around his knees. The unbelievable shit Chris gets him into.
But he holds firm around Chris’ belt, concentrating all of his strength in his fingers until he can regain the necessary motor function to get his knees under him, and from there to stand up. “Christopher,” he says, pulling his jeans up with as much poise as he can muster. “Have you forgotten our agreement?”
“I think your nose is rug burned,” Chris says helpfully.
“Get your ass on the couch.”
“I really ought to get going.”
“Ass. Couch. Now.”
Chris obeys, sitting rather primly on the edge of the cushions as Zach starts pacing in front of him. “What are you doing?”
“Plotting my reciprocation.”
“Could you plot faster? There’s a new episode of Dancing with the Stars on tonight.”
Zach gapes. “Seriously? Seriously? I’m devising ways to make you come and all you can think about is Tom fucking Bergeron? I am insulted.”
“I thought we already established the fact that I’m kind of fucked up in the head.”
“I’m a little more worried that you might be fucked up in the pants,” Zach growls, climbing onto Chris’ lap. “Guess I’m just going to have to try harder.”
He shoves Chris onto his back and nearly tears his shirt trying to get it off. It’s a stupid shirt anyway, and Chris looks much, much better with it off. Zach’s on a mission now. Chris knows his weakness – though reality-warping blowjobs are kind of an obvious Achilles' heel – now he just has to find Chris’. He’s sucked Chris off, rimmed him, fingered him, fucked him, been fucked by him, and Chris has… well, “responded positively” doesn’t quite seem to cover it. There are dents in the wall above Zach’s headboard to attest to that. But none of it feels as overwhelming, as deep-down necessary as Chris’ mouth around Zach’s cock. Zach just needs to find the thing that Chris absolutely, positively can’t say no to.
It’s not biting or nipple-tweaking. For a moment, Zach thinks it might be frotting until he sees Chris’ eyes dart toward the digital clock. When Chris actually yawns and politely covers his mouth, Zach knows Chris is actively fucking with him, but it doesn’t matter. When he hits the right spot, Chris won’t even be able to think, let alone fuck with Zach.
They tussle for position on the couch, Chris trying to squirm away and Zach dragging him back down. They’re both half-naked and sweaty, skin marred with red from teeth and fingernails and Zach’s dick is making a valiant effort at a comeback from all the Chris under his hands and mouth. At some point Chris realizes this, palms Zach roughly through his jeans and uses the moment of distraction to wiggle away. Zach swings out again blindly, his open hand smacking hard across the swell of Chris’ ass.
Chris squeaks and freezes in his tracks.
Fucking bingo.
Zach has him face down on the floor, his pants and underwear yanked down within seconds. He brings his hand down again and again, reveling in the way Chris’ shouts break down from curses to bare syllables to clipped grunts. He’s humping the floor before Zach’s hand really even has a chance to sting, hips grinding down in a long, rough thrust on a particularly vicious smack as he comes.