the_deep_magic | FIC: Star Trek RPS -- Bow Chicka Wow Wow

Title: Bow Chicka Wow Wow

Pairing: Pinto

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 3,497

Disclaimer: This didn’t happen anywhere but in my head.

Summary: Chris has a snack. Zach has a dream. Together, they rule the world. Inspired by this prompt at the kink meme (kind of).

A/N: As the title may indicate, this turned out a little crackier than I’d imagined. Maybe not pure uncut Colombian nose candy, but it would definitely not make it through customs.

Zach had to talk to someone about it or he would go insane. That much was certain. What he is having trouble with, however, was why he thought it would be a good idea to go to Zoe with a conversation that started, “Hey, have you ever had one of those dreams—“

“Omigod, you had a sex dream about someone! Who? Someone in the cast?”

“What? Wait a minute—“

“It was! And now you’re all nervous because you have to see him today and you know you can’t look him in the eye without thinking about doing The Nasty!” She’s practically hopping with glee.

This is what he gets for making vaguely sexist assumptions, Zach thinks. His logic had gone something like this: Zoe is female; therefore she will be more nurturing and supportive in my time of need.

His assumptions were faulty. “How do you even know it’s a him?”

Zoe executes a truly spectacular eyeroll. “How many girls are in this cast?”

“I never said it was a member of the cast!”

“It’s Chris, isn’t it?”

Zach doesn’t feel a single muscle in his body move, not the slightest twitch in his expression to give him away, but Zoe knows anyway. Zoe knows entirely too much. Zoe will pay for what she knows.

“Aw, honey, don’t feel bad,” she says, but it’s a little too late for the nurturing now.

“Just… can you help me run interference? I think we’ve only got one scene together today.”

“And how long do you expect me to be doing this?”

“Just for today. Today… and maybe tomorrow. No more than that.”

“Hmm…”

“Please. Don’t make me beg.”

“Fine, no begging. Just repeat the following statement: ‘I am a man and therefore helpless to my hormones.’”

Zach does not whine at that. Not even a little bit.

Zoe’s gaze turns to ice. “You need me, Quinto. Say it.”

“Fine. Iamamanandthereforehelplesstommyhormones. You happy?”

“Blissfully.”

&&&

It’s Chris’ fault, really. Oh, sure, Zach’s thought about it before in passing, but he didn’t dwell on it. He can’t really afford to dwell on it, not with things the way they are. This was before The Incident two days ago. He knocked on Chris’ trailer door. That is what one is supposed to do – knock. And when one’s friend says “Come in,” one assumes that said friend is in a suitable position to receive a guest.

And it’s not like Chris was naked or involved in some deviant sexual act – no, it was far worse. What Zach was presented with, upon opening the door, was the trailer’s inhabitant sprawled blithely across the couch, reading a John Irving novel and licking Nutella off a spoon. And before Zach could get a single word out, Chris’ Nutella retrieval strategy switched from broad, flat licks to twisting his tongue just so into the bowl of the spoon to scrape out any lingering chocolate.

So even though Zach’s first thought should have been something along the lines of how the hell does he eat Nutella straight out of the jar and still have a body like that? it was actually (word for word) oh god, to be that spoon.

But Zach’s not an actor for nothing, and he actually managed to exchange pleasant greetings with Chris despite the fact that he had completely forgotten what he had gone there for in the first place. And he did quite well for the next twenty seconds or so, until Chris turned his head and Zach zeroed in on the smudge of chocolate above his lip. And he must have no self-preservation instincts whatsoever, because the next words out of his mouth were “Hey, you’ve got a little something right there.”

And Zach would swear on a stack of Bibles that at that very moment, the trailer went dark save for a single spotlight pointed at Chris’ mouth, and skeezy jazz music started up in the background as Chris slowly, lovingly, pornographically laved that spot completely clean of chocolate with his tongue. Zach’s brain short-circuited on the spot. Seriously: porn jazz.

Really, he ought to sit Chris down and explain to him that he needs to be careful with a mouth like that. With great power comes great responsibility and all. If Helen of Troy had had a mouth like that, all of the Aegean would have gone up in a mushroom cloud, anachronisms be damned. It’s dangerous, is what it is.

But Chris just smiled and said “Thanks, man!”

The next day, Zach thought he was safe. The moment had passed, life had gone on. He’d even managed to have an intelligent conversation with Chris without once thinking about chocolate, hazelnut, or the combination thereof. And then he went to sleep.

He has sex dreams, sure, but they’re not usually about individual people that he knows. There was an exception for Leonard Nimoy, but Zach’s pretty sure that’s in Nimoy’s contract anyway – he probably gets royalties for it. But then Chris showed up, all blue eyes and soft focus and doing incredibly dirty things to Zach in a floaty white place that may or may not have been heaven.

The overall narrative arc is a little sketchy – Zach rarely remembers his dreams, but damned if he’s not trying now – but his subconscious hadn’t merely summoned up the sight of Chris. No, it had added the sound of Chris, his voice all low and rusty after a long day, and the smell of Chris, clean skin mixed with spicy soap, and the feel of Chris, a day’s worth of stubble rubbing against Zach’s skin in the most intimate of places…

Motherfucker. Zach’s pretty sure sane people don’t dream in smells. Schizophrenics, maybe. Or people who have not gotten laid in— Wait, how long has it been since Zach’s gotten any? Not that long, certainly. Not long enough for his unconscious mind to start dredging up the texture of his co-star’s lips in the middle of the night.

Zach’s never been entirely clear on Chris’ sexuality – he seems to have a bit of Kirk in him (and, yes, when asked Chris will say that he would like a bit of Kirk in him, how’s that for narcissism) in that he will flirt with anything. Men, women, small woodland creatures, alcoholic beverages, potted plants – as in “What? That ficus was eyein’ me, bro!” Zach’s not sure how often Chris gets taken up on his offers, but he’s definitely a sexual being.

Which is not helping the situation at all. Which is why Zoe needs to keep Chris the hell away from Zach.

It turns out they don’t actually have any scenes together today, though Zach still has a hell of a time ducking Chris. His face, in full bruise makeup, seems to pop around every corner like a seriously fucked-up shooting gallery. And every single time, Zach is dragged right back into dreamland, where Chris is splayed under him like a living sex toy, gasping and begging for more. But Zoe does her job well; Zach half expects her to pull her car keys out and start jingling them to distract Chris with the shiny. It would probably work at least twice before he got suspicious.

&&&

The doorbell rings at an hour that is far, far too late – or possibly early – for any sane caller; thus Zach doesn’t even have to see the giant blue eye shoved perilously close to the fisheye lens of the door’s peephole to know who it is.

“Nobody home,” he shouts lamely through the door, but he opens it anyway, because if he doesn’t, Chris will start up a monotone rendition of the 1812 Overture with the doorbell and that will set Noah off and his bastard dog-hating neighbor will probably call the police again about the “rabid junkyard Doberman” that ought to be summarily removed from polite society. The things Zach puts up with for that dog.

Chris has launched himself across Zach’s sofa before the older man has finished closing the door behind him. He wriggles around, getting comfortable in the most obscene way possible, before blurting, “Learned something today.”

Zach sighs. “Did you, now?”

“Yup.” Chris looks immensely pleased with himself, which is never, ever a good sign. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I learned?”

“You’re going to tell me regardless.”

And Chris laughs with that ridiculous giggle of his, which should not be sexy at all except that he arches his back a little and his t-shirt slides up to reveal a few inches of soft, pale skin over hard muscle and there’s that thrice-damned porn jazz again. Zach rests his head against the wall, wondering how this could possibly get any more awkward.

“Turns out…” drawls Chris, idly picking at his fingernails, “Zoe can’t keep a secret.”

The lewd saxophone music screeches to a stop and is replaced by the score to Psycho. Conveniently, Zach’s already within head-knocking range of the wall, so he merrily sets about banging his way to unconsciousness until a throw pillow knocks him off rhythm.

“Dude,” says Chris, “might wanna give those remaining brain cells a rest.”

“No need,” Zach says lightly. “I’ll be dead by morning anyway.”

Chris sits up and groans. “Fucking hell, how is it this hard to get into your pants?”

“I— What?”

“Not that I thought you were a manwhore or anything, but what do I have to do? Text you naked photos of me reading Kierkegaard?”

The mental image (Chris, wearing nothing but a pair of wire-frame glasses, with a battered copy of Concluding Unscientific Postscript in one hand and his thick, erect cock in the other) comes swiftly and mercilessly, and Zach actually wibbles. He didn’t know that was possible before, but he is definitely wibbling.

“I mean, I’ve been eating sex food in my trailer for weeks hoping you’d drop by.”

Zach finds his voice again. “Sex food?” Perhaps it would have been better to remain lost.

“Wednesday was Banana Day. Pretty spectacular, if I do say so myself.”

This… this was not happening. This could not be happening. Zach might have said so out loud.

Chris rolls his eyes as he gets to his feet. “Are you wondering if this is another dream? Because I ask you – does it matter?”

“YES! Yes, it fucking matters! There’s the movie and the paparazzi and my life to think about!”

“Can it, Quinto. You can angst all over the place later. You’ve been hard since I mentioned Kierkegaard – which is only a little fucked up, by the way – so man up and do something about it.”

Zach marches over and plants his lips on Chris’ mostly to shut him up. It’s only a temporary stopgap, because then Chris is laughing again and muttering “fuckin’ A” with a distinct air of victory and whipping his own shirt over his head.

“You think you’ve won something?” Zach pulls back from Chris after a few long moments and aims for righteous irritation but lands closer to petulance. “You’ve won nothing.”

“Won your shirt,” Chris says, holding up Zach’s Mr. Bubble t-shirt, the one that he was… just… wearing.

Fuckity shit damn ass balls.

Chris laughs like the hell-spawn he is. “Stop thinking so much for a change and take off your pants.”

And – fucking hell – that is change Zach can believe in. He starts in on his belt with one hand while grabbing Chris by the scruff of the neck with the other. The younger man lets himself be dragged to the bedroom like he planned it that way, and who knows, maybe he did.

Now Chris can’t keep his damn hands to himself or give Zach room enough to shimmy out of his pants, a feat which requires almost gymnastic abilities. When he’s finally naked, he feels justified in shoving Chris, who still has pants and briefs around his ankles, back onto the bed.

If asked, Zach couldn’t say why he expected Chris to lie back and take it. Probably had a lot to do with the dream, and possibly certain extended daydreams that involved Chris as a pampered rent boy, but the real Chris? Not so much with the submission. As soon as Zach climbs on to the bed, Chris upends him with a yank to the arm and a swivel of the hips. Zach’s back hits the bed, and he uses the ensuing bounce to pull his knees up under him and throw Chris off. Well, partially. He succeeds in throwing his weight forward, but Chris recovers fast and is right back at him. After that, things blur a little until Zach finds himself face down on the bed, with one of Chris’ arms down hard across his shoulders and the other yanking his ankle back so far his heel is almost touching the middle of his back.

“You are damn lucky I actually bend this way,” Zach groans through a mouthful of pillow.

“Don’t I know it. Say uncle?”

“I feel very uncomfortable invoking family members in a discussion of who gets to top.” Chris shoves a knee in his kidney. “GAAAAAHH! UNCLE, you lousy fucking—“

Chris immediately springs up and goes to the nightstand, digging through any number of shameful items as Zach dazedly tries to pinpoint the exact moment that this spun out of his control. Probably about ten minutes after he met Chris.

“You are one kinky fucking bastard,” Chris says, emerging from the drawer with the necessities as well as a variety of leather and metal cockrings and a nipple clamp. He sounds very, very impressed.

Zach is so not in the mood for teasing right now. “You put everything but the condoms and lube back in that drawer or I will ruin you, Pine.”

Chris’ grin could only be described as shit-eating, but he actually does what he’s told for once. “Yeah,” he laughs. “I guess I ought to go gentle on you, seeing as it’s our first time and all.” He follows this up by taking a running leap on to the bed and landing gracelessly on Zach.

It’s all elbows and knees and the occasional bite until they wind up with Zach face down on the bed, his head cushioned by his arms, with Chris kneeling behind him between his spread legs. The younger man is circling Zach’s hole with a well-lubed finger. Zach is trying hard to relax, but a large part of his hindbrain has him convinced that there’s a predator kneeling behind him who can and will pounce at the slightest provocation.

Eventually, Chris works his finger in. “Fuck, Zach, how often do you bottom?”

“Not. Very.” Zach grates out.

“Well… I’m honored,” Chris says, and if he sounds a little breathless, Zach chalks that up to their earlier wrestling match.

But it gets easier from there, and soon Chris is steadily gliding two fingers in him with little resistance, just barely brushing Zach’s prostate without really giving him what he needs. “Enough already,” Zach shouts, and it’s not, not really, but if Chris doesn’t hurry up and fuck him already, bad things are going to happen. Cosmic, universe-explodey things.

“Knew you’d be begging for it,” Chris teases, rolling on a condom as Zach kneels up to grab the headboard. He’s all set with a clever retort when the younger man grabs his hips and starts slowly pushing into him, driving all rational thought from his mind. It’s a tight fit and god, Chris feels huge from this angle and the pressure is just this side of unbearable but then something just gives and Chris is buried flush against Zach.

When Zach catches his breath, Chris is wetly mouthing wordless sounds against his spine. The older man pushes back, a silent command to move, and bless his horny little heart, Chris gets the message. He doesn’t dick around, either, thrusting in deep, smooth strokes that have Zach weak in the knees within moments.

But Zach, it seems, is a bit of a masochist when cornered, and says, “That all you got, Pine?”

Chris’ laugh is dark and hot against the back of Zach’s neck, and the younger man redoubles his efforts, finding an angle that makes Zach’s knuckles go white against the dark wood of the headboard. He hasn’t been fucked this well in ages – maybe ever – and the fast, dirty rhythm they’ve found is sweet enough to be addicting.

Zach uncurls one hand, dropping it down to touch himself, but Chris growls and swats it away, wrapping his own hand around Zach’s cock. The older man retaliates by reaching back and digging his nails into Chris’ ass to feel the flex of muscle there.

“C’mon, you beautiful son of a bitch,” Chris breathes in his ear. “I know you’re close. I can feel it. Do it. Let go.”

Then Zach is coming in white-hot bursts of pleasure, clenching hard around Chris to pull him under, too. They stay connected for a long time, Zach trembling under Chris’ weight thrown bonelessly against him. Eventually Chris pulls away and goes to dispose of the condom – in a designated trash receptacle, Zach fervently hopes – while Zach slides back down to the bed and tries to remember which way gravity goes.

When Chris slides back into bed, their lips somehow find each other’s and Zach forgets to be jealous of the spoon. Chris’ tongue is doing something lazy and amazing, and if Zach weren’t so completely fucked out he’d be tempted to try and start something again. As it is, he enjoys the quiet moment with nothing but the soft, wet sound of the kiss stirring the air.

It doesn’t last; Chris pulls back with a low hum of satisfaction. “I’m staying the night,” he announces, grabbing an armful of blanket and rolling over. “Oh, and I’ve been told I kick in my sleep. Just kick me right back – I won’t wake up.”

Zach stares helplessly at a spot on the ceiling until Chris begins to snore.

&&&

“You should be thanking me,” Zoe says, darting around the craft services table. “I did you a favor.”

“Why do I think the ‘favor’ was mostly accidental?”

“Bitch, please,” she mutters, arming herself with a plastic fork. “I was tired of watching Chris throw himself at you.”

“What throwing? There was no throwing!” And then, quieter: “As far as you know.”

“Oh, honey, everybody knows about Banana Wednesday.”

As if on cue, the passing grip carrying a plate piled high with nothing but cheese cubes mutters, “Even I know about Banana Wednesday.”

Zach’s dignity does a faceplant into the egg salad, but he can’t help the tiny shimmer of anticipation that rises in his chest as Chris rounds the corner. “Hi, Zo!” he says. And, as if Zach isn’t even there, he follows it up with, “Oh, and thanks for telling me that thing about the thing. I will set you up with the hottest straight male I can find – when I find one.” Then, to Zach: “Grab some sandwiches to go, babydoll. We have much to discuss.”

Zach takes the sandwiches – not because Chris said so, but because he was going to anyway, dammit. And he does follow Chris, because for all he knows Chris has hired a skywriter to paint ZACH AND I ARE FUCKING across the unbroken blue of the afternoon sky. He will makes sure it is the last thing Chris sees before he kills him.

Once they make it outside to the relative privacy behind the soundstage, Chris turns to Zach with a question that’s not really a question at all. “You’re free tomorrow night, yeah?”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m taking you to the monster truck rally.”

Zach gapes.

“Aw, c’mon. Large vehicles obliterating other, smaller vehicles. It’s the circle of life. Everybody loves monster trucks!”

“I don’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Um… because I have an IQ with multiple digits?”

“Now, see, that’s just prejudice. In our comfortable, postindustrial society, we’ve tried to sublimate our destructive impulses to the point where most of us would deny they even exist. But I doubt we as humans will ever completely eradicate our more animalistic tendencies, and what better way to vicariously experience the bloodlust of the hunt than by taking it out on the very symbol of Western capitalism – the automobile? And I would argue that it’s healthier than most reality TV shows.”

Zach sighs, really not wanting to betray how turned on he is. “Fine. I will tolerate monster trucks. For you.”

Chris grins. “Splendiferous. I’ll even let you fuck me after.”

“I don’t know if you’re looking for constructive criticism on your persuasion techniques, but you should’ve led with that.”

“But then how would I know you love me for my keen cultural acumen and not my hot body?”

Chris spins around and does a little shimmy in his black Kirk pants that kick starts Zach’s mental jukebox – but this time it’s playing “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” Zach decides he can live with that.