Fic: Hot Like Whoa (Pinto)
Title: Hot Like Whoa
Pinto: Pinto
Rating: No porn, but sexy descriptions
Length: 1800
Summary: Chris gets sick. Zach plays nursemaid. Tetchily
A/N: Pinto fangirls are dropping like flies. halfbreedchild , aliassmith , lama_mama and I are all suffering various degrees of sickness, so I wrote this in a slightly fevered stupor to cheer us up. Or make us feel shitty that we don't have Zach to look after us when we're sick. Sorry, didn't really think this through :/ Hope it makes sense, I have no idea.
“Whoa . . . shit. Whoa.”
He sits back down on the bed, rubs the balls of his hands into his eyes.
“You okay?”
“I just got super dizzy. Like I was going to fall over. I feel kinda crappy.”
Zach's hand cool across his forehead while Zach frowns at him like he's being a pain in the ass.
“I think you have a temperature.”
“I have a fever? Oh God. Oh, my God.”
“I don't think you're dying, Chris.”
Zach purses his lips, rubs over his forehead with a thumb.
“Get back into bed. I'll go get the thermometer.”
“I need to piss.”
“So go piss then get back into bed.”
“What if I fall?”
“You're not going to fall.”
“But what if - just get me a bottle to pee into, or something.”
“ . . . No.”
*
“Stupid little stupid plastic piece of fucking crap. Do you know how to reset this thing?”
“Press the button and hold it down.”
“I did that already.”
“Then hold it down longer.”
“I've been holding it down, like, a whole minute.”
Zach swears more at the digital thermometer, threatens to stomp on it or throw it out the window. It eventually gives a pathetic little Beep and resets itself the second he promises to try taking Chris's temperature via the anal route if it doesn't motherfucking reset its stupid little POS motherfucking self immediately.
“Don't move a muscle, I'm not resetting that fucking thing again.”
“You should've been a nurse. You missed your true vocation. God, my head is pounding.”
“Then quit yapping. I'll get you some Tylenol.”
A few minutes and Zach's back with water and meds, taking the thermometer out of Chris's armpit to check it's done cooking.
“A hundred and one. That's pretty impressive.”
“Over a hundred? Oh God, I'm dying. I'm too pretty to die.”
“I don't think anyone actually ever died of man flu.”
*
“I'm actually dying. Dying. God, I'm dying. I want to die. Shoot me. Shoot me in the fucking head.”
He feels wretched. Shivery and sick, everything aches, it aches if he sits up to watch TV, it aches if he lies flat to sleep. His mouth is stuffed with sour cotton wool, his legs feel like he's been running in a race and his head, God, his fucking head is splitting open from the inside out.
“There are reasons we don't keep firearms in the house. You being an over-dramatic pain in the ass when you're sick being the primary one of those. Here, you can have a couple more pills. Try to drink more water.”
“Mom used to get me Gatorade when I was sick. And Fritos, and Red Vines. And comics.”
“We appear to be all out of Gatorade, sorry.”
“You could go to the store?”
He throws an arm over Zach's legs, hugs into him, looks as pathetic as possible, which isn't that difficult right now.
“You'll be alright without me for half an hour?”
“No. You'll come back and I'll be all stiff across the bed.”
“Too easy. Way too easy.”
“Your mom.”
“You know what? I think I may be starting to reconsider the firearms policy.”
*
Cold. Cold cold cold, he is so fucking cold and can't stop shivering, even under the winter weight duvet he had to dig out from the back of the linen closet and, man, Zach's going to be pissed when he finds out Chris dumped all his neatly folded hand towels on the floor to get to it. Fuck! So cold, his skin's all goosebumpy everywhere. He tugs the duvet around himself tighter, aware that his sweat's making his pants and thermal shirt stick to his skin sort of grossly. So fucking cold.
Ahh. Okay, getting better now. He's in a warm little cocoon and, yeah, that's it, nice and warm, like lying on a beach on vacation, somewhere nice, St Vincents like that one year, so hot, oh that's wonderful. Like volcanic springs in Iceland where Zach promises they can go, maybe this year, or the ones where those monkeys sit in them, is that Japan?
Fuck. Too hot. Too fucking hot, God, he can't breathe and his head, fucking hell his head is caving in. He tries to push the duvet back but his arms are all wobbly and the duvet's fucking huge all of a sudden, swallowing him up and he flails his arms and legs but the duvet's not moving, and he's about to die of heat stroke, he knows it. What are the symptoms? Being really stupidly hot, for a start, and he starts panicking because he can't get this fucking duvet off so he's trying to struggle out of his pants under the duvet but they get all twisted up.
The door. Zach. “Zach? Help! Help me!”
“What? What the fuck? What the fuck are you doing under there?”
*
Lying naked, face up across the bed with a fan directed at him and it feels sort of nice, sending little shivers all over his body but then he moves a millimeter and his whole body complains with a litany of aches and pains and feelings of fucking ugh. Litany is a funny word. Litany. Lit any. Zach was so funny being a priest. Fucking hell, if Zach had been a priest in real life, he'd be, like, a bishop now? Is that right? No. That can't be right. Zach's too hot to be a bishop. Little bit too gay. Fucking bishops, man. Roman Catholic. Like Gladiators. Roman. Head of Romaine lettuce. Head of Roman Catholic church, totally the pope, dude has a funky car. Goats. Totally satanic, it's the freaky-ass eyes, satanic goats. Totally eat Romaine lettuce. Goats eat everything, right? Satanic goats lettuce pope.
“Did you just say, I may have this wrong - 'Satanic goats lettuce pope'?”
“I think I might be a little bit delirious.”
Zach's hand feels icy on his forehead. It's awesome. He wonders what it'd feel like on his -
“Dude, you're burning up. I've got to get your temperature down or we're going to the hospital.”
“Fine, whatever. Touch me more.”
“Chris, did you hear me?”
“Sure did. Yep.”
*
Face down now and Zach's dumped a bunch of ice cubes on his head and told him to stay still. The ice is melting, sending little trickles of cold water through his hair to drip down his face to the bed, and it feels awesome. But, God, not as awesome as this. Zach's dipping a facecloth into a bowl of iced water, wringing it out then dragging the cloth over Chris's skin. It's heaven. It's fucking paradise. He thinks he has a hard-on but isn't sure he can feel his dick. Which should probably worry him more than it does right now. Shit. Maybe he is dying.
A swipe of the cloth down his arm, wiping away the itchiness of dried sweat and salt on his skin. Fresh water and Zach's cleaning between his fingers, the palm of his hand, his wrist. Up this inside of his arm, lifting it away from his body to wipe into his armpit and a trickle of water runs down to his chest, making him shiver with pleasure this time. He's so turned on right now. He thinks. Maybe? The other arm, same treatment, the cloth slightly rough, the fan drying the water on his skin and he moans, his head throbbing. Zach's hands, stroking over his skin with the cloth, the other arm now, same treatment and all this tension and the aches are seeping out of his bones. Over his back now, squeezing the cloth to let water drizzle down to collect in the small of his back, wiping around in circles, massaging out the knots set there by being stuck too long unmoving in bed. The edge of the cloth teases the tops of his ass cheeks and, hey, there we go, he can feel his dick. Thank fuck. But Zach ignores his ass, moves with his little bowl to the end of the bed and starts washing Chris's feet. And it's awesome, God, so good but it's not an ass bath.
He spreads his legs a little as Zach starts washing them both, a warning grumble,
“Christopher . . .”
“What? It feels nice. You're so doing this again when I'm not sick.”
“Think again. I'll let you do it to me.”
“Well that's not the idea at all.”
“Looks like we're at an impasse then, doesn't it?”
The cloth is dripping icy water over the tops of his thighs and it runs down, dripping against his balls when he spreads his legs wider.
“Chris, I'm not going to fuck you.”
“My butthole is hot.”
“Preaching to the choir, babe.”
“No, I mean -”
“I know what you meant. I'm not washing your butthole. You're just trying to make me have sex with you, and it's not happening.”
“It's hot! Please? It'd feel so good.”
Pause. Sigh. Pause. Then fingers of one of Zach's hands spread his cheeks a little and Zach squeezes the cloth, letting the water spill down to splash cold and clean over his asshole.
“Oh God, oh, fuck yes, fuck me, do that again.”
Squirming against the bed as he gets harder, what remains of the ice cubes slipping off his head.
“I'm trying to cool you down, not get you all hot and horny. No more butt pranks.”
“But they're my favorite kind of pranks. And I am sick.”
“In the head. You feel cooler now, go get some sleep on the couch while I change the sheets.”
“You are no fucking fun at all when I'm sick.”
*
Wow. No idea what the time is, he slept like he was dead. He stretches out experimentally, his muscles still achy but that horrible, nauseating deep muscle pain is gone, as is the headache. Fever too, probably. Fucking excellent. Time to catch up on sex.
He turns over in the bed, Zach's body curled up on his side away from Chris so he spoons up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist and nuzzling into the back of Zach's neck.
Which is damp. Hot. Actually, Zach's shivering slightly, tucked up rather too tightly into his own body.
“Fuck. Zach? Are you sick?”
“You gave me your man flu, you fucking pig. I hate you and want you to die. Right after I die.”
“I don't think anyone ever actually died of man flu, Zach.”
*
Pinto: Pinto
Rating: No porn, but sexy descriptions
Length: 1800
Summary: Chris gets sick. Zach plays nursemaid. Tetchily
A/N: Pinto fangirls are dropping like flies. halfbreedchild , aliassmith , lama_mama and I are all suffering various degrees of sickness, so I wrote this in a slightly fevered stupor to cheer us up. Or make us feel shitty that we don't have Zach to look after us when we're sick. Sorry, didn't really think this through :/ Hope it makes sense, I have no idea.
“Whoa . . . shit. Whoa.”
He sits back down on the bed, rubs the balls of his hands into his eyes.
“You okay?”
“I just got super dizzy. Like I was going to fall over. I feel kinda crappy.”
Zach's hand cool across his forehead while Zach frowns at him like he's being a pain in the ass.
“I think you have a temperature.”
“I have a fever? Oh God. Oh, my God.”
“I don't think you're dying, Chris.”
Zach purses his lips, rubs over his forehead with a thumb.
“Get back into bed. I'll go get the thermometer.”
“I need to piss.”
“So go piss then get back into bed.”
“What if I fall?”
“You're not going to fall.”
“But what if - just get me a bottle to pee into, or something.”
“ . . . No.”
*
“Stupid little stupid plastic piece of fucking crap. Do you know how to reset this thing?”
“Press the button and hold it down.”
“I did that already.”
“Then hold it down longer.”
“I've been holding it down, like, a whole minute.”
Zach swears more at the digital thermometer, threatens to stomp on it or throw it out the window. It eventually gives a pathetic little Beep and resets itself the second he promises to try taking Chris's temperature via the anal route if it doesn't motherfucking reset its stupid little POS motherfucking self immediately.
“Don't move a muscle, I'm not resetting that fucking thing again.”
“You should've been a nurse. You missed your true vocation. God, my head is pounding.”
“Then quit yapping. I'll get you some Tylenol.”
A few minutes and Zach's back with water and meds, taking the thermometer out of Chris's armpit to check it's done cooking.
“A hundred and one. That's pretty impressive.”
“Over a hundred? Oh God, I'm dying. I'm too pretty to die.”
“I don't think anyone actually ever died of man flu.”
*
“I'm actually dying. Dying. God, I'm dying. I want to die. Shoot me. Shoot me in the fucking head.”
He feels wretched. Shivery and sick, everything aches, it aches if he sits up to watch TV, it aches if he lies flat to sleep. His mouth is stuffed with sour cotton wool, his legs feel like he's been running in a race and his head, God, his fucking head is splitting open from the inside out.
“There are reasons we don't keep firearms in the house. You being an over-dramatic pain in the ass when you're sick being the primary one of those. Here, you can have a couple more pills. Try to drink more water.”
“Mom used to get me Gatorade when I was sick. And Fritos, and Red Vines. And comics.”
“We appear to be all out of Gatorade, sorry.”
“You could go to the store?”
He throws an arm over Zach's legs, hugs into him, looks as pathetic as possible, which isn't that difficult right now.
“You'll be alright without me for half an hour?”
“No. You'll come back and I'll be all stiff across the bed.”
“Too easy. Way too easy.”
“Your mom.”
“You know what? I think I may be starting to reconsider the firearms policy.”
*
Cold. Cold cold cold, he is so fucking cold and can't stop shivering, even under the winter weight duvet he had to dig out from the back of the linen closet and, man, Zach's going to be pissed when he finds out Chris dumped all his neatly folded hand towels on the floor to get to it. Fuck! So cold, his skin's all goosebumpy everywhere. He tugs the duvet around himself tighter, aware that his sweat's making his pants and thermal shirt stick to his skin sort of grossly. So fucking cold.
Ahh. Okay, getting better now. He's in a warm little cocoon and, yeah, that's it, nice and warm, like lying on a beach on vacation, somewhere nice, St Vincents like that one year, so hot, oh that's wonderful. Like volcanic springs in Iceland where Zach promises they can go, maybe this year, or the ones where those monkeys sit in them, is that Japan?
Fuck. Too hot. Too fucking hot, God, he can't breathe and his head, fucking hell his head is caving in. He tries to push the duvet back but his arms are all wobbly and the duvet's fucking huge all of a sudden, swallowing him up and he flails his arms and legs but the duvet's not moving, and he's about to die of heat stroke, he knows it. What are the symptoms? Being really stupidly hot, for a start, and he starts panicking because he can't get this fucking duvet off so he's trying to struggle out of his pants under the duvet but they get all twisted up.
The door. Zach. “Zach? Help! Help me!”
“What? What the fuck? What the fuck are you doing under there?”
*
Lying naked, face up across the bed with a fan directed at him and it feels sort of nice, sending little shivers all over his body but then he moves a millimeter and his whole body complains with a litany of aches and pains and feelings of fucking ugh. Litany is a funny word. Litany. Lit any. Zach was so funny being a priest. Fucking hell, if Zach had been a priest in real life, he'd be, like, a bishop now? Is that right? No. That can't be right. Zach's too hot to be a bishop. Little bit too gay. Fucking bishops, man. Roman Catholic. Like Gladiators. Roman. Head of Romaine lettuce. Head of Roman Catholic church, totally the pope, dude has a funky car. Goats. Totally satanic, it's the freaky-ass eyes, satanic goats. Totally eat Romaine lettuce. Goats eat everything, right? Satanic goats lettuce pope.
“Did you just say, I may have this wrong - 'Satanic goats lettuce pope'?”
“I think I might be a little bit delirious.”
Zach's hand feels icy on his forehead. It's awesome. He wonders what it'd feel like on his -
“Dude, you're burning up. I've got to get your temperature down or we're going to the hospital.”
“Fine, whatever. Touch me more.”
“Chris, did you hear me?”
“Sure did. Yep.”
*
Face down now and Zach's dumped a bunch of ice cubes on his head and told him to stay still. The ice is melting, sending little trickles of cold water through his hair to drip down his face to the bed, and it feels awesome. But, God, not as awesome as this. Zach's dipping a facecloth into a bowl of iced water, wringing it out then dragging the cloth over Chris's skin. It's heaven. It's fucking paradise. He thinks he has a hard-on but isn't sure he can feel his dick. Which should probably worry him more than it does right now. Shit. Maybe he is dying.
A swipe of the cloth down his arm, wiping away the itchiness of dried sweat and salt on his skin. Fresh water and Zach's cleaning between his fingers, the palm of his hand, his wrist. Up this inside of his arm, lifting it away from his body to wipe into his armpit and a trickle of water runs down to his chest, making him shiver with pleasure this time. He's so turned on right now. He thinks. Maybe? The other arm, same treatment, the cloth slightly rough, the fan drying the water on his skin and he moans, his head throbbing. Zach's hands, stroking over his skin with the cloth, the other arm now, same treatment and all this tension and the aches are seeping out of his bones. Over his back now, squeezing the cloth to let water drizzle down to collect in the small of his back, wiping around in circles, massaging out the knots set there by being stuck too long unmoving in bed. The edge of the cloth teases the tops of his ass cheeks and, hey, there we go, he can feel his dick. Thank fuck. But Zach ignores his ass, moves with his little bowl to the end of the bed and starts washing Chris's feet. And it's awesome, God, so good but it's not an ass bath.
He spreads his legs a little as Zach starts washing them both, a warning grumble,
“Christopher . . .”
“What? It feels nice. You're so doing this again when I'm not sick.”
“Think again. I'll let you do it to me.”
“Well that's not the idea at all.”
“Looks like we're at an impasse then, doesn't it?”
The cloth is dripping icy water over the tops of his thighs and it runs down, dripping against his balls when he spreads his legs wider.
“Chris, I'm not going to fuck you.”
“My butthole is hot.”
“Preaching to the choir, babe.”
“No, I mean -”
“I know what you meant. I'm not washing your butthole. You're just trying to make me have sex with you, and it's not happening.”
“It's hot! Please? It'd feel so good.”
Pause. Sigh. Pause. Then fingers of one of Zach's hands spread his cheeks a little and Zach squeezes the cloth, letting the water spill down to splash cold and clean over his asshole.
“Oh God, oh, fuck yes, fuck me, do that again.”
Squirming against the bed as he gets harder, what remains of the ice cubes slipping off his head.
“I'm trying to cool you down, not get you all hot and horny. No more butt pranks.”
“But they're my favorite kind of pranks. And I am sick.”
“In the head. You feel cooler now, go get some sleep on the couch while I change the sheets.”
“You are no fucking fun at all when I'm sick.”
*
Wow. No idea what the time is, he slept like he was dead. He stretches out experimentally, his muscles still achy but that horrible, nauseating deep muscle pain is gone, as is the headache. Fever too, probably. Fucking excellent. Time to catch up on sex.
He turns over in the bed, Zach's body curled up on his side away from Chris so he spoons up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist and nuzzling into the back of Zach's neck.
Which is damp. Hot. Actually, Zach's shivering slightly, tucked up rather too tightly into his own body.
“Fuck. Zach? Are you sick?”
“You gave me your man flu, you fucking pig. I hate you and want you to die. Right after I die.”
“I don't think anyone ever actually died of man flu, Zach.”
*