(no subject)
Aaaaaaand here's the Pinto, in response to perdiccas's prompt on the STXI Sinfest. Warning for even more porn.
"Yeah, we, uh... we went to Yosemite."
And, okay, it's not a lie. They really did go to Yosemite.
Everyone's nodding and smiling, wanting him to fill in some details before the sixth guy at the table (tall, blond, razor cheekbones, utterly boring, name of Sven) starts telling another story. Sven, in fact, is opening his mouth, no doubt to tell about the time he went to Yosemite.
Words come flying out of Zach's mouth. "For the weekend! Yeah. For the weekend." That part's more of a half-truth.
They got in the car Thursday night, because both of them had been up until seven on Thursday morning and they both knew they weren't going to be able to sleep. Usually after a party like that one, Zach had a hangover all weekend, and Chris tended to disappear into his house with some flavor of the week and re-emerge on Monday looking bleary and gratified. But Zach had cracked a tooth during filming a few days before and was still on painkillers, so that ruled out alcohol for him. And Chris, watching Zach wince and pop another vicodin a few hours into the evening, had gallantly volunteered to keep an eye on him for the evening.
"I'll be like your wingman. Only instead of trying to get you laid, I'm going to keep you from falling into the toilet."
"Yeah. Right. Look, wingman, I need another Coke."
"I'll get you that Coke, but I'm gonna crash on your sofa later. You need to be supervised."
And now it was past six on Thursday. Zach lay in the reclined passenger seat of his Prius, reeling in the grip of pain medicine and trying to figure out what Chris was talking about. It was something bright and cheerful and unbearably fucking loud, and he was blissfully happy when the radio came on instead and ushered him off to static-colored dreams with commercial breaks.
They must have stopped at some point. Zach remembered peeing beside a field somewhere while Chris giggled and watched for headlights. Mostly he remembered Chris humming along to the radio, and vague impressions of towns where streetlights zipped past the windows.
And he remembered Chris's hand resting on his knee, but it might have been a dream. Still, dream or not, he woke up with a hard-on. Fortunately, Chris didn't seem to be in the car.
The sun had come up, and there were pine trees around their parking spot, burdened with actual snow. It was like waking up in the middle of a Christmas card. With an erection.
Chris popped the door open a moment later, singsonging 'wakey wakey' or something like that. Zach groaned.
"Get up," demanded Chris. "I got us a room."
"Where the fuck are we?"
"Yosemite. The lodge. Get up, and we'll go shower and have breakfast and figure out what to do today."
"Is sleeping okay? Can I sleep for the rest of the day?"
But Chris was gone again, unloading the back seat (where Zach hopes he packed enough underwear for this little adventure). And as Zach dislodged his numb and tingly feet from the vehicle, he realized that okay, maybe he was a little excited about this. Rock climbing might be beyond him right now, but hiking, maybe even rafting...
What actually happened was that before he even had the conditioner rinsed out of his hair, Chris came in to brush his teeth, and Zach said something stupid and funny and made Chris spit a mouthful of toothpaste down his chest.
"Fuck, man," sputtered Chris, "there's toothpaste everywhere."
"Wipe it up. God, you're like a toddler, anything you put in your mouth is coming right back out again."
"It's all over my face," he complained, turning the sink on full blast. Zach cringed, imagining what the bathroom would look like when he stepped out. "I look like a rabid dog," added Chris, clearly not looking anywhere but the mirror. Splash, splash. "I look like somebody jizzed on my face."
And bang the hard-on was back, and the image of Chris with come on his face was like a physical blow to Zach's chest, driving a whuff of air out of him. Chris was still talking on the other side of the shower curtain, and from the sound of it he was pouring gallons of water on the floor, but Zach's ears rang faintly and he had to support himself against the wall with one hand while he struggled to breathe. Given that one mental picture to work with, his brain was supplying him with plenty more in the same vein, as he had tried so hard for so long to keep it from doing: Chris gasping, writhing, bucking; Chris, flushed and begging; other parts of Chris, and oh god he was going to have to stop imagining this immediately. His mind flew back to the half-remembered pressure of Chris's hand on his knee, maybe a dream, and he almost groaned.
Chris had stopped talking. There were soft wet sounds coming from the other side of the curtain, slight scrubbing noises as Chris no doubt sopped up the water park he'd made of the bathroom. Or maybe he was wiping his chest, dabbing the toothpaste from his face and body with the wet towel. Maybe what Zach was hearing was his skin. Zach screwed his eyes closed and bit his tongue, trying to think of anything else.
Now Chris was saying something else, which Zach had completely missed. "Uh," Zach blurted, "what?"
"I said, it's stuck in my chest hair."
Fuck fuck fuck. Keep your voice smooth, Zach. "You don't have chest hair."
"I so have chest hair. Not like your luxurious rainforest, okay, but I am a man and I have manly chest hair. With toothpaste in it."
Zach barked out a laugh too high and short to sound quite sane, but the banter was helping, and the dizzy surge of desire subsided a little-- leaving in its wake a sick-like gnawing, the familiar nauseous ache of knowing that this, too, he could not have. Gritting his teeth, Zach lathered up some face wash in his washcloth. He should have made Chris turn the car around, should have refused to go along with this; he knew better.
But there was the soft-slick sound of scrubbing again, and godfuckingdammit he knew now that Chris was rubbing his chest with the towel. Almost unconsciously, Zach pressed his hand to his own chest, mimicking; the soft terrycloth almost felt like a tongue, and now he was so hard he was lightheaded.
"You okay?" Chris, oh god, had Zach made a sound? Had Chris heard his breathing change? Because he was panting now in earnest, gasping at the touch of the washcloth, and his other hand had somehow become wrapped around the base of his cock as if to rein it in. Zach didn't trust his voice. The steaming water pouring across his shoulders almost vanished in the overwhelming rush of heat that pooled up in him, pressed against his skin, made him hurt with the combination of guilt and envy and starving lust. He blinked, stupidly, dropped the washcloth, and tried to shake himself out of it, only succeeding in slamming his elbow against the wall.
"Zach?" Chris sounded really worried. Had he hit the wall that hard? Zach cleared his throat just as Chris's fingers appeared around the edge of the shower curtain and holy fuck, there was Chris, his face and his shoulder and part of his chest (still flecked with toothpaste foam), and holy fuck oh god Zach yanked his hand away from his cock as if it had burst into flames.
"Uh," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. He was as hard as he'd ever been in his life, flushed to the ears, and his elbow hurt where it had smacked the wall.
"I thought you..." Chris trailed off, color mounting in his face. "You..."
Zach finally gathered the presence of mind to shriek like a little girl, and Chris yanked his face out of the shower out of pure reflex, leaving Zach to curl up against the tile a little in utter humiliation. The sink started running again, and Zach listened to the sloshing with something like relief, letting conditioner run down his neck and get in his ears because he would never, ever be able to recover from the shame, and what was the point of rinsing his hair now?
"You know," said Chris a moment later, with a false lightheartedness that made Zach want to fucking disappear, "eventually you're going to have to finish with the shower. Even if I wasn't covered with toothpaste, I did drive all night."
Zach could think of nothing to say to this, so instead of replying he pressed his face into the tiles for support and squeezed his eyes shut.
Silence for a few more moments, then: "Look, man, I'm sorry, I thought you fell or something, I didn't mean to... to catch you, okay, jerking off or whatever."
This was even worse. Couldn't Chris just forget about it, go away, let him die in peace? Pretend it never happened, wasn't that how straight guys dealt with this kind of shit?
"I gotta say though," Chris went on, stumbling a little, wandering into realization, "I'm kinda.. I didn't think you'd be... you know, with me in the room. That's a little weird, man."
Zach finally wrangled his voice back into action. "I wasn't--" It came out as a croak.
"Yeah, you were. Come on, Zach, there's random boners, and then there's... well, you had your hand on it, okay? You were fucking blushing. You were red, okay? And look, I don't care, I just... with me right here?"
"I wasn't," began Zach again, knowing that whatever he was trying to say was a lie.
Chris huffed, and Zach started formulating a better response, only to be cut off by Chris flinging the shower curtain open. Any possible response fled Zach's mind entirely at the sight of Chris, dripping wet and stark naked, staring Zach down with a furious intensity that cared nothing for nudity. "You were."
Zach noticed, with rising hysteria, that he'd been correct, and the spray escaping from the shower was only adding to a serious pool of water on the floor.
"You were," Chris continued, "don't even lie to me," and his voice was darker and thicker than before and whatever was in his gaze was so far from lighthearted that Zach found himself hardly able to breathe. "Shit," said Chris, "you're hard again."
That broke the spell. Zach half-turned, trying to put his body between his cock and Chris's gaze, before he realized that he wasn't the only one reacting to the situation. Chris was flushed, but not just with embarrassment or anger; rosy mottling had begun to color his chest, and his eyes were bright and glassy. And he was half-hard, stirring to attention. Zach caught himself and turned his face away, struggling to control himself.
"You want me," said Chris, softly.
Zach said nothing. He couldn't get enough air, though his chest was heaving.
"You want me," repeated Chris, and this time there was realization in his voice, awe and comprehension mingling to inform Zach that either Chris was about to break his no-coworkers rule for him, or their friendship was going to end.
"Say it."
Zach bit his lip.
"Fucking say it. I know it's true."
Zach groaned, and heard an answering sound from Chris, and any self-control he was clinging to evaporated. "Yes," he said, still turned away, not trusting himself to look. "I want you."
Then Chris was in the shower with him, two heavy steps and the spray bouncing off his skin stinging against Zach's calves, and still he couldn't look.
"I think you should know," Zach said when he could breathe again, "I don't... I don't do this. Not with people I'm gonna see again."
Chris kept his silence, but his breathing was heavy enough to fill Zach's ears. Zach tried again: "I can't do this, Chris. It doesn't end well. There's always drama, paparazzi, whatever. People get hur--" It turned to a yelp in his throat as something touched his shoulder-- a finger, Chris's finger, following the trail of pouring water upward to the nape of his neck.
"You can't tell me there hasn't been anyone," murmured Chris. "No boyfriend? No little... dalliances in the makeup trailer? I've seen them looking at you."
The finger kept travelling, following the curve behind his ear until it rested at the point of his jaw. Zach's lips parted of their own accord, and he felt his head turning to keep contact with that soft, burning touch. "No," he groaned. "Nobody. People find out."
"So what if they do?" The pressure of Chris's finger lightened, and Zach turned his head still more, trying to keep it. He wanted-- needed-- for the touch to stay, to keep moving over him, for Chris to thread his fingers through Zach's hair and stroke his throat and... he couldn't help the moan that escaped him.
"So what if they do," repeated Chris. Zach was buried under the answers: they'll hate me, I won't get any more good roles, my mother will disown me, Chris will never touch me this way again--
--but he was still touching, still touching and Zach's lips parted further to let out an answer or maybe another moan and the tip of Chris's finger, feather-light, weighed on his bottom lip waiting for him. Zach shuddered, and opened his eyes.
The heat in Chris's eyes almost hurt him. He didn't look like he wanted to talk about fears, about feelings, about whatever stupid shit Zach was trying to formulate right now. He looked like he might attack. Zach shuddered again, and reached out to shove Chris away, only when his palm connected with Chris's chest it turned into something else entirely. Chris hissed, frowned, thrust his jaw forward, and Zach surrendered and bent his head forward to taste that lone finger resting on his lip.
And then he found himself crushed against the wall of the shower, Chris pressing into him and the delicious pressure of Chris's cock there too, against his belly, and his mouth full of Chris's first and second fingers pushing and stroking and exploring. Water cascaded over Chris's face, filling his eyes so that he had to blink furiously, spattering against Zach's face while he groaned and suckled, overcome with greed.
"Oh, god, your mouth," groaned Chris. "Want-- your mouth--" which he punctuated with little thrusts, the skin of his cock sliding along Zach's abdomen. If every place where they touched felt like a brand on Zach's skin, Chris himself seemed half-unaware that he was grinding himself against Zach's body. He was utterly absorbed in Zach's mouth, frowning in his intensity as he explored, his jaw thrust just forward enough to expose his teeth. He was beautiful; he blazed. For every flicker of Zach's tongue, Chris's fingers licked him back, discovering teeth and palate and tongue while Chris ate him up with his eyes.
The friction was almost too much. Zach's knees trembled, and he clutched at Chris's shoulder to hold himself up, which Chris took as an invitation, bringing his mouth closer to the corner of Zach's lips where they puckered around his fingers. It wasn't exactly a kiss at first, just the edge of Chris's mouth pressed against the edge of Zach's, absorbing the motion of each thrust of his hand through the soft flesh of his cheek, breathing across his jaw and neck while the water pooled between them there their bodies pressed together.
Then Chris tongued the edge of Zach's lip, ever so slightly, and Zach's whole body convulsed for a second while he struggled to get himself under control. In response, Chris began frotting against him in earnest, snapping his hips and kissing and probing with his tongue, the clench of his left hand almost bruising Zach's arm where it held him against the wall.
Zach tried to say something, tried to warn Chris that it was too much, but the two fingers pulling at his cheek and the tongue stroking his own kept him muffled, so he was forced to shove Chris away to keep from being drowned by the falling water and the rising glowing ache in his balls.
And Chris stepped away. The loss was palpable, and Zach sagged against the wall gasping from it, but Chris was still watching him with those burning eyes, and while the last dregs of Zach's sanity told him to get out, get somewhere else where he could jack off in peace before Chris could find out how close he'd brought him, before everything was ruined-- those eyes held him hypnotized while Chris reached down and stroked his own cock wantonly, licking his lips unconsicously.
Zach tried to say something, but Chris beat him to it. "Suck me," he said. "You want me. Do it."
A hoarse whisper through tingling lips: "You're straight."
"There's no law that says a straight guy can't get his dick sucked."
Zach had nothing to say to this. He started to open his mouth anyway, felt the soreness in his tongue, and slithered down the wall until he was half-kneeling, half grabbing at Chris, because yes his mouth wanted Chris's thick heavy cock and god damn it, if everything was ruined tomorrow at least he would have this.
His lips wrapped around the tip, just the tip; he held Chris by the thighs, feeling the lithe muscle under his hands; he was so gentle, so careful, that when Chris groaned as if he'd been stabbed it caught him unawares and he swallowed. The groan turned into a bitten-off curse, Zach leaned forward, and they nearly fell out of the shower before Chris's hands on his shoulders turned him physically around so that Chris could rest his back against the wall.
Where he had the leverage to buck. The first time he did, Zach's grip shifted from his thighs to his hips, where Zach's long precise fingers could sink into the flesh of his buttocks and his thumbs brace against the arch of bone beneath the hard muscles Chris was clenching, trying to shove his cock further into Zach's mouth.
So Zach obliged, even though the water pouring down Chris's belly filled his eyes and nose. If he was going to keep Chris from bucking (and he had to, because it was becoming clear that the guy had no control over his body when there was a mouth on his cock), he was going to make Chris forget he had the option. He teased for just a few moments, just long enough to flicker his tongue at the tip and taste the salty fluid already beading there, and then sank his mouth down Chris's thick shaft and did everything he had done to Chris's fingers earlier.
And now Chris's fingers were threaded in his hair, clenching and pulling, making him protest vocally so that Chris howled from the vibration, but he'd stopped trying to thrust. Zach, pleased with himself, freed one hand and began stroking Chris's balls: heavy like his cock, not as fuzzy as Zach's own, tight against his groin.
All the air went out of Chris at once, audibly, with a pleading unh that left Zach reeling with hunger to hear it again. It drove him to stray from Chris's cock, letting the heft of it rest against his cheekbone while he drew every sound he could get from Chris's throat: wails and sobs and curses and grunts, while Zach alternated licking and lapping and rolling his tongue across the velvet skin there. Chris's cock bobbed against the side of Zach's face, and with the hand he'd been using on Chris's balls he set up a rhythm of hard, steady pumps that made the muscles of Chris's thighs clench.
"Fuck," said Chris, voice raspy with need. "Fuck, Zach, I'm gonna-- I--"
"Yeah," replied Zach, pulling back for a second to look up at Chis (panting, glazed with pleasure, flush of arousal spreading from his face almost to his nipples). "I know," and he swallowed Chris to the root and sucked.
Chris howled. He seemed for a second to be trying to pull away, but Zach wasn't having that, so he gripped Chris's hips even tighter while he felt Chris's toes curl against his knee on the floor of the tub, and felt with his lower lip and chin the way Chris's balls tightened and pulsed as he came down Zach's throat, gasping and sobbing and arching against the wall of the tub.
When he let Chris go with his mouth, he had to hold even tighter with his hands, because Chris nearly slipped off his feet. "God," said Chris, "that was fucking... that was amazing."
Zach stood up, shaking the water out of his lashes, still supporting Chris. "You're gorgeous," said Zach, although he'd meant to say something else. "Just... don't hate me later, okay?"
"Hate you?"
Zach sighed. "I've done this before, Chris. Blown a straight guy, I mean. I know it's not going to happen again, we're never gonna talk about it, whatever, just... I don't want to stop being your friend."
Chris looked at him like he'd grown another head. "Zach, you..." He shook his head slowly, as if looking for words. Zach clenched his fists; this was going to be awkward in another minute, no matter how much either of them had wanted it, and he was still so hard he thought he might explode. He needed Chris to go somewhere else, start forgetting about this, let him get himself off in peace before every chance of getting past it slipped away.
"You didn't come," said Chris-- the last thing Zach expected.
"It doesn't matter," replied Zach. Go, Chris. Go, go go while we can still be friends.
But Chris wasn't leaving. "I don't... I mean, I've never..." Goddammit. Go.
Finally Chris got past the stammer: "Look, Zach. Like this." And he reached out with both arms, wrapped Zach up in an embrace that pressed Zach's face into his shoulder. Zach stiffened and almost struggled, but Chris was still as broad-shouldered and golden and slick-wet as he had been a few minutes before, and instead of pushing himself away Zach found himself choking back a mewl and making a mighty effort not to resume their earlier frotting.
Chris's lips sealed themselves to Zach's shoulder for a second. "You kept saying I'm straight," he said in Zach's ear, smoky-voiced from orgasm and desire. "Maybe I'm not so straight." Another kiss, pressed just behind Zach's ear, wringing another mewl and a tremble from him. "Maybe I want to see where this goes."
His arms shifted from holding Zach against him; his hands wrapped around Zach's hips, a mirror of their earlier position, and he pulled Zach against him hard.
The dam inside Zach buckled, and he moaned and cursed and rode Chris's belly with his hips, digging his fingertips into Chris's sides while he let the pouring heat of the shower wash over and between them, his whole consciousness focused on the slide of skin, cock against tight muscle, lips and tongue wandering across the slope of his shoulders, Chris's hands kneading the shivering muscle of his ass.
"When we're done here," said Chris, ever-so-casually, "we're gonna pass out for a while, okay?"
Zach nodded frantically, panting and gasping and blushing because oh god, Chris was seeing him like this, Chris wasn't even clouded with lust anymore, he needed to stop before he came and Chris saw--
"And then," continued Chris, his voice darkening, "we're gonna keep fucking."
The words sank straight to the base of Zach's groin and he felt himself coming, tried to stop it, felt Chris roll his hips against him even as he forced his own still, and oh god his orgasm unspooled and unraveled and exploded and crashed and he offered up a wail that felt like it was ripped from his gut. "Do it," said Chris, low and urgent in his ear. "Fucking do it," even while Zach shot ribbons of come between them and shook and spasmed and was completely undone in his grasp, laid bare to the core.
And Chris didn't let go.
"I would have thought," said Zach when he could breathe again, his throat feeling sticky with pleasure and creeping laziness, "you'd want to go hiking after we slept."
He felt Chris's smile against the side of his neck. "Let's not and say we did."
"We, uh, we did a lot of stuff," says Zach, gamely, but the glance he gives Chris betrays his real meaning: bail me out, man.
So Chris obliges. "We stayed in the Lodge," he begins, trying to give the impression that they were only in the Lodge at night. "Really nice accommodations. We had a balcony and everything."
"Did you see any bears?" That's the girl that showed up with Sven; she looks way too interested in this. Zach's chest is getting tight, panic rising just a little, and he throws another glance at Chris, who looks back at him steadily: it's okay, she's just stuck with the date from hell.
"We saw a couple of wild animals," says Chris, voice entirely free of irony. "And we did a lot of hiking." He stands up, pushing his chair back. "If you guys don't mind, I drank a lot of coffee on the way over. I'll be right back." He wanders off in the direction of the men's room.
That's Sven's cue. "I had an excellent coffee roast the other day, at a little independent shop in Santa Monica," he starts. Everybody politely turns their attention to him, carefully disguising their boredom; Zach realizes that none of them is going to ask him any more questions. Nobody really does care what he and Chris did in Yosemite.
He pokes at his napkin and wonders how soon he can discreetly follow Chris.
"Yeah, we, uh... we went to Yosemite."
And, okay, it's not a lie. They really did go to Yosemite.
Everyone's nodding and smiling, wanting him to fill in some details before the sixth guy at the table (tall, blond, razor cheekbones, utterly boring, name of Sven) starts telling another story. Sven, in fact, is opening his mouth, no doubt to tell about the time he went to Yosemite.
Words come flying out of Zach's mouth. "For the weekend! Yeah. For the weekend." That part's more of a half-truth.
They got in the car Thursday night, because both of them had been up until seven on Thursday morning and they both knew they weren't going to be able to sleep. Usually after a party like that one, Zach had a hangover all weekend, and Chris tended to disappear into his house with some flavor of the week and re-emerge on Monday looking bleary and gratified. But Zach had cracked a tooth during filming a few days before and was still on painkillers, so that ruled out alcohol for him. And Chris, watching Zach wince and pop another vicodin a few hours into the evening, had gallantly volunteered to keep an eye on him for the evening.
"I'll be like your wingman. Only instead of trying to get you laid, I'm going to keep you from falling into the toilet."
"Yeah. Right. Look, wingman, I need another Coke."
"I'll get you that Coke, but I'm gonna crash on your sofa later. You need to be supervised."
And now it was past six on Thursday. Zach lay in the reclined passenger seat of his Prius, reeling in the grip of pain medicine and trying to figure out what Chris was talking about. It was something bright and cheerful and unbearably fucking loud, and he was blissfully happy when the radio came on instead and ushered him off to static-colored dreams with commercial breaks.
They must have stopped at some point. Zach remembered peeing beside a field somewhere while Chris giggled and watched for headlights. Mostly he remembered Chris humming along to the radio, and vague impressions of towns where streetlights zipped past the windows.
And he remembered Chris's hand resting on his knee, but it might have been a dream. Still, dream or not, he woke up with a hard-on. Fortunately, Chris didn't seem to be in the car.
The sun had come up, and there were pine trees around their parking spot, burdened with actual snow. It was like waking up in the middle of a Christmas card. With an erection.
Chris popped the door open a moment later, singsonging 'wakey wakey' or something like that. Zach groaned.
"Get up," demanded Chris. "I got us a room."
"Where the fuck are we?"
"Yosemite. The lodge. Get up, and we'll go shower and have breakfast and figure out what to do today."
"Is sleeping okay? Can I sleep for the rest of the day?"
But Chris was gone again, unloading the back seat (where Zach hopes he packed enough underwear for this little adventure). And as Zach dislodged his numb and tingly feet from the vehicle, he realized that okay, maybe he was a little excited about this. Rock climbing might be beyond him right now, but hiking, maybe even rafting...
What actually happened was that before he even had the conditioner rinsed out of his hair, Chris came in to brush his teeth, and Zach said something stupid and funny and made Chris spit a mouthful of toothpaste down his chest.
"Fuck, man," sputtered Chris, "there's toothpaste everywhere."
"Wipe it up. God, you're like a toddler, anything you put in your mouth is coming right back out again."
"It's all over my face," he complained, turning the sink on full blast. Zach cringed, imagining what the bathroom would look like when he stepped out. "I look like a rabid dog," added Chris, clearly not looking anywhere but the mirror. Splash, splash. "I look like somebody jizzed on my face."
And bang the hard-on was back, and the image of Chris with come on his face was like a physical blow to Zach's chest, driving a whuff of air out of him. Chris was still talking on the other side of the shower curtain, and from the sound of it he was pouring gallons of water on the floor, but Zach's ears rang faintly and he had to support himself against the wall with one hand while he struggled to breathe. Given that one mental picture to work with, his brain was supplying him with plenty more in the same vein, as he had tried so hard for so long to keep it from doing: Chris gasping, writhing, bucking; Chris, flushed and begging; other parts of Chris, and oh god he was going to have to stop imagining this immediately. His mind flew back to the half-remembered pressure of Chris's hand on his knee, maybe a dream, and he almost groaned.
Chris had stopped talking. There were soft wet sounds coming from the other side of the curtain, slight scrubbing noises as Chris no doubt sopped up the water park he'd made of the bathroom. Or maybe he was wiping his chest, dabbing the toothpaste from his face and body with the wet towel. Maybe what Zach was hearing was his skin. Zach screwed his eyes closed and bit his tongue, trying to think of anything else.
Now Chris was saying something else, which Zach had completely missed. "Uh," Zach blurted, "what?"
"I said, it's stuck in my chest hair."
Fuck fuck fuck. Keep your voice smooth, Zach. "You don't have chest hair."
"I so have chest hair. Not like your luxurious rainforest, okay, but I am a man and I have manly chest hair. With toothpaste in it."
Zach barked out a laugh too high and short to sound quite sane, but the banter was helping, and the dizzy surge of desire subsided a little-- leaving in its wake a sick-like gnawing, the familiar nauseous ache of knowing that this, too, he could not have. Gritting his teeth, Zach lathered up some face wash in his washcloth. He should have made Chris turn the car around, should have refused to go along with this; he knew better.
But there was the soft-slick sound of scrubbing again, and godfuckingdammit he knew now that Chris was rubbing his chest with the towel. Almost unconsciously, Zach pressed his hand to his own chest, mimicking; the soft terrycloth almost felt like a tongue, and now he was so hard he was lightheaded.
"You okay?" Chris, oh god, had Zach made a sound? Had Chris heard his breathing change? Because he was panting now in earnest, gasping at the touch of the washcloth, and his other hand had somehow become wrapped around the base of his cock as if to rein it in. Zach didn't trust his voice. The steaming water pouring across his shoulders almost vanished in the overwhelming rush of heat that pooled up in him, pressed against his skin, made him hurt with the combination of guilt and envy and starving lust. He blinked, stupidly, dropped the washcloth, and tried to shake himself out of it, only succeeding in slamming his elbow against the wall.
"Zach?" Chris sounded really worried. Had he hit the wall that hard? Zach cleared his throat just as Chris's fingers appeared around the edge of the shower curtain and holy fuck, there was Chris, his face and his shoulder and part of his chest (still flecked with toothpaste foam), and holy fuck oh god Zach yanked his hand away from his cock as if it had burst into flames.
"Uh," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. He was as hard as he'd ever been in his life, flushed to the ears, and his elbow hurt where it had smacked the wall.
"I thought you..." Chris trailed off, color mounting in his face. "You..."
Zach finally gathered the presence of mind to shriek like a little girl, and Chris yanked his face out of the shower out of pure reflex, leaving Zach to curl up against the tile a little in utter humiliation. The sink started running again, and Zach listened to the sloshing with something like relief, letting conditioner run down his neck and get in his ears because he would never, ever be able to recover from the shame, and what was the point of rinsing his hair now?
"You know," said Chris a moment later, with a false lightheartedness that made Zach want to fucking disappear, "eventually you're going to have to finish with the shower. Even if I wasn't covered with toothpaste, I did drive all night."
Zach could think of nothing to say to this, so instead of replying he pressed his face into the tiles for support and squeezed his eyes shut.
Silence for a few more moments, then: "Look, man, I'm sorry, I thought you fell or something, I didn't mean to... to catch you, okay, jerking off or whatever."
This was even worse. Couldn't Chris just forget about it, go away, let him die in peace? Pretend it never happened, wasn't that how straight guys dealt with this kind of shit?
"I gotta say though," Chris went on, stumbling a little, wandering into realization, "I'm kinda.. I didn't think you'd be... you know, with me in the room. That's a little weird, man."
Zach finally wrangled his voice back into action. "I wasn't--" It came out as a croak.
"Yeah, you were. Come on, Zach, there's random boners, and then there's... well, you had your hand on it, okay? You were fucking blushing. You were red, okay? And look, I don't care, I just... with me right here?"
"I wasn't," began Zach again, knowing that whatever he was trying to say was a lie.
Chris huffed, and Zach started formulating a better response, only to be cut off by Chris flinging the shower curtain open. Any possible response fled Zach's mind entirely at the sight of Chris, dripping wet and stark naked, staring Zach down with a furious intensity that cared nothing for nudity. "You were."
Zach noticed, with rising hysteria, that he'd been correct, and the spray escaping from the shower was only adding to a serious pool of water on the floor.
"You were," Chris continued, "don't even lie to me," and his voice was darker and thicker than before and whatever was in his gaze was so far from lighthearted that Zach found himself hardly able to breathe. "Shit," said Chris, "you're hard again."
That broke the spell. Zach half-turned, trying to put his body between his cock and Chris's gaze, before he realized that he wasn't the only one reacting to the situation. Chris was flushed, but not just with embarrassment or anger; rosy mottling had begun to color his chest, and his eyes were bright and glassy. And he was half-hard, stirring to attention. Zach caught himself and turned his face away, struggling to control himself.
"You want me," said Chris, softly.
Zach said nothing. He couldn't get enough air, though his chest was heaving.
"You want me," repeated Chris, and this time there was realization in his voice, awe and comprehension mingling to inform Zach that either Chris was about to break his no-coworkers rule for him, or their friendship was going to end.
"Say it."
Zach bit his lip.
"Fucking say it. I know it's true."
Zach groaned, and heard an answering sound from Chris, and any self-control he was clinging to evaporated. "Yes," he said, still turned away, not trusting himself to look. "I want you."
Then Chris was in the shower with him, two heavy steps and the spray bouncing off his skin stinging against Zach's calves, and still he couldn't look.
"I think you should know," Zach said when he could breathe again, "I don't... I don't do this. Not with people I'm gonna see again."
Chris kept his silence, but his breathing was heavy enough to fill Zach's ears. Zach tried again: "I can't do this, Chris. It doesn't end well. There's always drama, paparazzi, whatever. People get hur--" It turned to a yelp in his throat as something touched his shoulder-- a finger, Chris's finger, following the trail of pouring water upward to the nape of his neck.
"You can't tell me there hasn't been anyone," murmured Chris. "No boyfriend? No little... dalliances in the makeup trailer? I've seen them looking at you."
The finger kept travelling, following the curve behind his ear until it rested at the point of his jaw. Zach's lips parted of their own accord, and he felt his head turning to keep contact with that soft, burning touch. "No," he groaned. "Nobody. People find out."
"So what if they do?" The pressure of Chris's finger lightened, and Zach turned his head still more, trying to keep it. He wanted-- needed-- for the touch to stay, to keep moving over him, for Chris to thread his fingers through Zach's hair and stroke his throat and... he couldn't help the moan that escaped him.
"So what if they do," repeated Chris. Zach was buried under the answers: they'll hate me, I won't get any more good roles, my mother will disown me, Chris will never touch me this way again--
--but he was still touching, still touching and Zach's lips parted further to let out an answer or maybe another moan and the tip of Chris's finger, feather-light, weighed on his bottom lip waiting for him. Zach shuddered, and opened his eyes.
The heat in Chris's eyes almost hurt him. He didn't look like he wanted to talk about fears, about feelings, about whatever stupid shit Zach was trying to formulate right now. He looked like he might attack. Zach shuddered again, and reached out to shove Chris away, only when his palm connected with Chris's chest it turned into something else entirely. Chris hissed, frowned, thrust his jaw forward, and Zach surrendered and bent his head forward to taste that lone finger resting on his lip.
And then he found himself crushed against the wall of the shower, Chris pressing into him and the delicious pressure of Chris's cock there too, against his belly, and his mouth full of Chris's first and second fingers pushing and stroking and exploring. Water cascaded over Chris's face, filling his eyes so that he had to blink furiously, spattering against Zach's face while he groaned and suckled, overcome with greed.
"Oh, god, your mouth," groaned Chris. "Want-- your mouth--" which he punctuated with little thrusts, the skin of his cock sliding along Zach's abdomen. If every place where they touched felt like a brand on Zach's skin, Chris himself seemed half-unaware that he was grinding himself against Zach's body. He was utterly absorbed in Zach's mouth, frowning in his intensity as he explored, his jaw thrust just forward enough to expose his teeth. He was beautiful; he blazed. For every flicker of Zach's tongue, Chris's fingers licked him back, discovering teeth and palate and tongue while Chris ate him up with his eyes.
The friction was almost too much. Zach's knees trembled, and he clutched at Chris's shoulder to hold himself up, which Chris took as an invitation, bringing his mouth closer to the corner of Zach's lips where they puckered around his fingers. It wasn't exactly a kiss at first, just the edge of Chris's mouth pressed against the edge of Zach's, absorbing the motion of each thrust of his hand through the soft flesh of his cheek, breathing across his jaw and neck while the water pooled between them there their bodies pressed together.
Then Chris tongued the edge of Zach's lip, ever so slightly, and Zach's whole body convulsed for a second while he struggled to get himself under control. In response, Chris began frotting against him in earnest, snapping his hips and kissing and probing with his tongue, the clench of his left hand almost bruising Zach's arm where it held him against the wall.
Zach tried to say something, tried to warn Chris that it was too much, but the two fingers pulling at his cheek and the tongue stroking his own kept him muffled, so he was forced to shove Chris away to keep from being drowned by the falling water and the rising glowing ache in his balls.
And Chris stepped away. The loss was palpable, and Zach sagged against the wall gasping from it, but Chris was still watching him with those burning eyes, and while the last dregs of Zach's sanity told him to get out, get somewhere else where he could jack off in peace before Chris could find out how close he'd brought him, before everything was ruined-- those eyes held him hypnotized while Chris reached down and stroked his own cock wantonly, licking his lips unconsicously.
Zach tried to say something, but Chris beat him to it. "Suck me," he said. "You want me. Do it."
A hoarse whisper through tingling lips: "You're straight."
"There's no law that says a straight guy can't get his dick sucked."
Zach had nothing to say to this. He started to open his mouth anyway, felt the soreness in his tongue, and slithered down the wall until he was half-kneeling, half grabbing at Chris, because yes his mouth wanted Chris's thick heavy cock and god damn it, if everything was ruined tomorrow at least he would have this.
His lips wrapped around the tip, just the tip; he held Chris by the thighs, feeling the lithe muscle under his hands; he was so gentle, so careful, that when Chris groaned as if he'd been stabbed it caught him unawares and he swallowed. The groan turned into a bitten-off curse, Zach leaned forward, and they nearly fell out of the shower before Chris's hands on his shoulders turned him physically around so that Chris could rest his back against the wall.
Where he had the leverage to buck. The first time he did, Zach's grip shifted from his thighs to his hips, where Zach's long precise fingers could sink into the flesh of his buttocks and his thumbs brace against the arch of bone beneath the hard muscles Chris was clenching, trying to shove his cock further into Zach's mouth.
So Zach obliged, even though the water pouring down Chris's belly filled his eyes and nose. If he was going to keep Chris from bucking (and he had to, because it was becoming clear that the guy had no control over his body when there was a mouth on his cock), he was going to make Chris forget he had the option. He teased for just a few moments, just long enough to flicker his tongue at the tip and taste the salty fluid already beading there, and then sank his mouth down Chris's thick shaft and did everything he had done to Chris's fingers earlier.
And now Chris's fingers were threaded in his hair, clenching and pulling, making him protest vocally so that Chris howled from the vibration, but he'd stopped trying to thrust. Zach, pleased with himself, freed one hand and began stroking Chris's balls: heavy like his cock, not as fuzzy as Zach's own, tight against his groin.
All the air went out of Chris at once, audibly, with a pleading unh that left Zach reeling with hunger to hear it again. It drove him to stray from Chris's cock, letting the heft of it rest against his cheekbone while he drew every sound he could get from Chris's throat: wails and sobs and curses and grunts, while Zach alternated licking and lapping and rolling his tongue across the velvet skin there. Chris's cock bobbed against the side of Zach's face, and with the hand he'd been using on Chris's balls he set up a rhythm of hard, steady pumps that made the muscles of Chris's thighs clench.
"Fuck," said Chris, voice raspy with need. "Fuck, Zach, I'm gonna-- I--"
"Yeah," replied Zach, pulling back for a second to look up at Chis (panting, glazed with pleasure, flush of arousal spreading from his face almost to his nipples). "I know," and he swallowed Chris to the root and sucked.
Chris howled. He seemed for a second to be trying to pull away, but Zach wasn't having that, so he gripped Chris's hips even tighter while he felt Chris's toes curl against his knee on the floor of the tub, and felt with his lower lip and chin the way Chris's balls tightened and pulsed as he came down Zach's throat, gasping and sobbing and arching against the wall of the tub.
When he let Chris go with his mouth, he had to hold even tighter with his hands, because Chris nearly slipped off his feet. "God," said Chris, "that was fucking... that was amazing."
Zach stood up, shaking the water out of his lashes, still supporting Chris. "You're gorgeous," said Zach, although he'd meant to say something else. "Just... don't hate me later, okay?"
"Hate you?"
Zach sighed. "I've done this before, Chris. Blown a straight guy, I mean. I know it's not going to happen again, we're never gonna talk about it, whatever, just... I don't want to stop being your friend."
Chris looked at him like he'd grown another head. "Zach, you..." He shook his head slowly, as if looking for words. Zach clenched his fists; this was going to be awkward in another minute, no matter how much either of them had wanted it, and he was still so hard he thought he might explode. He needed Chris to go somewhere else, start forgetting about this, let him get himself off in peace before every chance of getting past it slipped away.
"You didn't come," said Chris-- the last thing Zach expected.
"It doesn't matter," replied Zach. Go, Chris. Go, go go while we can still be friends.
But Chris wasn't leaving. "I don't... I mean, I've never..." Goddammit. Go.
Finally Chris got past the stammer: "Look, Zach. Like this." And he reached out with both arms, wrapped Zach up in an embrace that pressed Zach's face into his shoulder. Zach stiffened and almost struggled, but Chris was still as broad-shouldered and golden and slick-wet as he had been a few minutes before, and instead of pushing himself away Zach found himself choking back a mewl and making a mighty effort not to resume their earlier frotting.
Chris's lips sealed themselves to Zach's shoulder for a second. "You kept saying I'm straight," he said in Zach's ear, smoky-voiced from orgasm and desire. "Maybe I'm not so straight." Another kiss, pressed just behind Zach's ear, wringing another mewl and a tremble from him. "Maybe I want to see where this goes."
His arms shifted from holding Zach against him; his hands wrapped around Zach's hips, a mirror of their earlier position, and he pulled Zach against him hard.
The dam inside Zach buckled, and he moaned and cursed and rode Chris's belly with his hips, digging his fingertips into Chris's sides while he let the pouring heat of the shower wash over and between them, his whole consciousness focused on the slide of skin, cock against tight muscle, lips and tongue wandering across the slope of his shoulders, Chris's hands kneading the shivering muscle of his ass.
"When we're done here," said Chris, ever-so-casually, "we're gonna pass out for a while, okay?"
Zach nodded frantically, panting and gasping and blushing because oh god, Chris was seeing him like this, Chris wasn't even clouded with lust anymore, he needed to stop before he came and Chris saw--
"And then," continued Chris, his voice darkening, "we're gonna keep fucking."
The words sank straight to the base of Zach's groin and he felt himself coming, tried to stop it, felt Chris roll his hips against him even as he forced his own still, and oh god his orgasm unspooled and unraveled and exploded and crashed and he offered up a wail that felt like it was ripped from his gut. "Do it," said Chris, low and urgent in his ear. "Fucking do it," even while Zach shot ribbons of come between them and shook and spasmed and was completely undone in his grasp, laid bare to the core.
And Chris didn't let go.
"I would have thought," said Zach when he could breathe again, his throat feeling sticky with pleasure and creeping laziness, "you'd want to go hiking after we slept."
He felt Chris's smile against the side of his neck. "Let's not and say we did."
"We, uh, we did a lot of stuff," says Zach, gamely, but the glance he gives Chris betrays his real meaning: bail me out, man.
So Chris obliges. "We stayed in the Lodge," he begins, trying to give the impression that they were only in the Lodge at night. "Really nice accommodations. We had a balcony and everything."
"Did you see any bears?" That's the girl that showed up with Sven; she looks way too interested in this. Zach's chest is getting tight, panic rising just a little, and he throws another glance at Chris, who looks back at him steadily: it's okay, she's just stuck with the date from hell.
"We saw a couple of wild animals," says Chris, voice entirely free of irony. "And we did a lot of hiking." He stands up, pushing his chair back. "If you guys don't mind, I drank a lot of coffee on the way over. I'll be right back." He wanders off in the direction of the men's room.
That's Sven's cue. "I had an excellent coffee roast the other day, at a little independent shop in Santa Monica," he starts. Everybody politely turns their attention to him, carefully disguising their boredom; Zach realizes that none of them is going to ask him any more questions. Nobody really does care what he and Chris did in Yosemite.
He pokes at his napkin and wonders how soon he can discreetly follow Chris.