FIC: ST RPS -- Folie à Deux
Title: Folie à Deux
Author: the_deep_magic
Pairing: Pinto
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,621
Warnings: first-person POV, masturbation, fingering
Disclaimer: not even
Summary: Zach might have a little bit of a thing for Chris' hands. Chris might have noticed.
A/N: Fills the hand fetish square on my Kink Bingo card. And HOW.
He knows.
I’m not sure when he figured it out. It could have been when I walked in on him fiddling around on his guitar in his trailer - I’m pretty sure my jaw was on the ground for a good thirty seconds. It could have been before that, the day the makeup people were putting on his fake swollen hands while I was getting my daily ear application and my eyes kept wandering in his direction. I suppose there’s even a tiny chance I got utterly wasted and blurted it out, though I don’t think I’ve gotten that drunk around him in a long time. The potential for disaster is too high.
Point is, Chris has noticed that I can’t stop looking at his hands.
I tried to be subtle about it at first, only sneak peeks when he was really into whatever he was saying and started gesturing crazily. Then I would wait until he wasn’t looking to really stare at his fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee or idly tapping against a table. But of course that wasn’t enough, so like a drug addict, I’ve done weirder and weirder things to get a fix. It didn’t stop at merely looking, either. The Spork high five - that’s an idea I’m particularly proud of. I’ve tried not to overdo it, keep it down to once or twice a day, but my heart can’t help jumping into my throat when he instigates it.
Once I twisted my shoelaces into a knot I couldn’t untie and asked him for help, just to watch his clever fingers in action. He didn’t just yank at it either; he worked carefully with his neat, blunt fingernails, practically massaging the laces and picking at the knot until it came loose and I was sporting a semi in my jeans. Goddamn, that was a good day.
Some time recently, though, he’s figured it out. Either that or I’m starting to hallucinate, because instead of lapping the whipped cream off the top of his ridiculous iced coffee things with his tongue (which was bad enough for my focus), he’s taken to plunging his first two fingers into the mess, sticking them in his mouth, and sucking them clean. Who does that? Outside of a soft-core porno, I mean. No one. No sane person does that. And I know for a fact that guitar wasn’t in his trailer two weeks ago.
And he’s always fiddling with something. Last time I talked to him, he had a messenger bag over his shoulder and he kept stroking the strap, up and down, up and down. I couldn’t not look - he’s got these nicely thick, strong fingers that I keep imagining on me, around me, inside me, fuck. I probably drooled on myself.
I’m getting wood just thinking about it. What the hell, I’ve got the afternoon free - no rushed jack-off before bed this time. I stretch out on the couch, rubbing my palms up and down my chest, over my t-shirt for now, imagining they’re his hands. I plan on taking this nice and slow.
Which is pretty much the only reason I’ve still got my pants on and buttoned when the doorbell rings. No use pretending I’m not at home - the car’s out front and whoever it is must know my gate code. On my way to the door, I try to will the hard-on away. Recalling the week when Noah got that stomach virus does the trick pretty fast.
Of course it’s Chris at the door. Who else would it be? And how come this never happens when I’m jerking it to Alan Rickman’s voice?
I open the door with a sigh. “Just don’t get enough of me on set, huh?”
“Never,” Chris says with a wink, pushing his way inside. “Got any of those kettle chips?” he calls on his way to the kitchen, ass swaying back and forth as he goes. God, he’s a brat, and I’d ride him like a fucking Ducati if he’d let me.
“Fresh out,” I groan, plopping back down on the couch. Hopefully he’s just here to rifle through the pantry and then leave. No, that’s not true, I don’t want him to leave. But I’m not really in the mood for him to fuck with me today, watch him lick salt off his fingers or pretend to play the piano or whatever. Does he play the piano? Aw, fuck, there goes my dick again. Down, boy.
I close my eyes and tip my head back against the couch, which leaves me completely unprepared when the little fucker runs in from the kitchen and jumps on me. Okay, not little - bone-crushingly massive on my lap. Three or four inches forward and he’s in for a big (hard, throbbing) surprise.
“Okay, see,” he starts, pretty lamely. “I’m not here for the chips.”
“So I deduced.”
He reaches two fingers out and presses them against my lips. I do not moan. I do, however, make a sound in the back of my throat like a dying weasel.
“You really need to shut up,” he says, having the audacity to look frustrated. At me. “I assure you, it is in your best interest to shut up.”
I roll my eyes, but he looks deadly serious and keeps his fingers right where they are until I nod. Then he takes them away and draws a deep breath. “I have come into possession of some knowledge. Doesn’t matter how, but the fact is that I have. Until now, I have used this knowledge in a… not entirely productive manner.”
Fuck, this is going to take all afternoon and I’m not going to get to wank before The Biggest Loser comes on. “Get to the damn point, Chris.”
“See,” he says, squinting down at me. “You think you have the upper hand here. But you really don’t.”
“Look, just because you barge into my house and jump on my lap-” He sucks his first two fingers - the ones that were just on my lips - into his mouth, his eyes flaring bright and hot, and okay, shutting up now.
Then he pulls them out with a wet, obscene pop. “Yeah, I was thinking I’d just mess around with you for a while, see how distracted I could get you, but I came to two conclusions. One: it’s just un-fucking-professional on set, and you know I’m all about professionalism. And two: I wasn’t getting nearly as much out of it as I thought I would.”
He frowns a little, looks me up and down as if wondering what he should do next. That’s about the time he finally gets a good look at the bulge in my jeans, which has been unhelpfully responsive to his blathering. Also the finger-sucking. “Oh, hello,” he addresses my dick with a wide grin. “This is going to be much easier than I thought.” And he strips off his shirt.
Which pretty much confirms my long-held suspicions that he’s a legitimately crazy person, but now he’s a half-naked crazy person who is - holy fucking shit - rubbing teasingly at his own nipple with still-wet fingers, so when he says “Now take off your shirt,” I skip merrily into this shared madness he’s projecting and toss my shirt behind the couch.
“Excellent,” he says, looking rather seriously pleased with the proceedings. He hops up off my lap and hauls me around until I’m lying lengthwise on the couch, back propped up against the throw pillows by the arm. “This would probably work better on a bed, but I didn’t want to presume.”
He didn’t want to presume, you see. That explains everything. Like why he’s wriggling out of his pants but leaving the briefs on, then spreading my legs by nudging one off the side of the couch and throwing the other over the back. He then kneels between them, a look of dire concentration on his face. “Okay, here’s the deal,” he says at last. “If you stay where I put you and keep the talking to a minimum, I am going to rock your fucking world.”
Sounds fair.
“God, I don’t even know where to start,” he muses, looking me over again. “Guess I’ll just dive in.”
I only have a few milliseconds to worry about what that might mean before he puts those big, hot hands on me, a palm on either side of my navel, and rrrrrrrubs his way up to my shoulders. Then he frowns at my arms, which are lying uselessly by my sides, and splays them out, too, one along the back of the couch and one along the arm. I feel like a marionette with the strings cut. “May I make a suggestion?” I hazard.
“Go for it.”
“Bed?” If we’re doing this, we’re doing this.
“Yeah.”
He gets up and I pull my limbs back together and we walk back to my bedroom in silence. Well, except for the moment Chris passes Noah, in which he unselfconsciously bends down and greets the dog with a “Hi, buddy,” and a scratch to his ears. If Noah realizes Chris is mostly naked and starting to pitch a tent in his briefs, he doesn’t show it. Guess whatever this group hallucination is has jumped the species barrier.
When we get to my room, Chris says, “Hey, why don’t you lose the pants and get comfortable on the bed?” like it’s an offhand suggestion - hey, how about tacos for dinner - but I don’t have any other pressing business to attend to, so I go with it.
Once I’m laid back against a stack of pillows, Chris climbs on to the bed and resumes his former position between my spread legs. He grins. “Much better.”
I have half a mind to ask what he’s going to do, but I figure that would spoil the whole dream-like, casual naked-buddies thing we have going, so I just enjoy the chance to get a good sniff at his skin when he leans over me and picks up my hands, lightly curling each one so it grips the middle rung of my headboard and my arms are spread out to the sides. He kneels back and appraises me with a discerning eye, and my cock gives a happy little twitch when I get a nod of approval.
“I didn’t bring anything to tie you up with, so I’m going to trust you to keep them there.”
Maybe it should surprise me that a casual reference to bondage doesn’t surprise me. “You never were one for planning.”
“What can I say, I’m a spontaneous type of guy. Now relax - we’re getting to the world-rocking.”
He starts again with the rubbing, but this time his hands split when he reaches my shoulders and one goes down each of my arms, fingers spreading and curling to shape the muscles all the way to my wrists. Then he does it again, and again, the deadly serious expression never leaving his face, like he’s calculating the level of my arousal through my skin. Though all he really needs to do is check out my dick, which is truly appreciating not only the delicious friction of his hands, but also his almost freakish concentration. Both Zach and Zach Jr. appreciate the attention.
Then he opens his fucking mouth again. “I’ve got you all figured out, Zach.”
Oh, this should be good. “Do you, now?”
“Mm-hmm.” On his next pass, his hands squeeze a little harder around my shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle in a way that makes me arch into his touch. “You can’t stop thinking about my hands.”
I’d love to say something snarky about his grasp of the obvious, but if I open my mouth, all that’s going to come out is a whimper because his hands are moving under me to push all the way up the length of my back until his arms are practically cradling me from beneath. “They are pretty nice hands, aren’t they? You’ve been wondering what they’d feel like all over your body. On your skin, in your mouth, wrapped around your dick. My fingers thrusting into your ass.”
Fuck, he’s turning himself on, straddling my leg to rub his crotch against my thigh. It distracts him and his hands slow to a stop until I helpfully clear my throat and raise an eyebrow. He laughs. “Which is why I was able to bust in here-” With one finger, he traces my collarbone from side to side “-and get you naked and in bed-” then drags that single finger down the center of my chest “-with almost no explanation whatsoever.”
Okay, I know he’s been saying something, but it’s taking all my focus not to squirm under the lighter touch of his fingers. “I’m ticklish, dickwad,” I gasp out.
“Ohhh, I know you didn’t just say that.” I brace myself, but he just grins wider, all shark teeth. “But don’t worry, I’m filing that away for later use.”
This is not really happening. Chris Pine is not really drawing patterns on my bare chest with the warm, callused tips of his fingers. I’m not watching as he outlines my left pec with his index finger, tracing right over my pounding heart before zeroing in on my nipple. That would be madness. So I hold my breath as his other hands strokes firmly over my belly, lest the mirage shimmer away.
It’s the poking that brings me back. Right in the solar plexus. “Zach. Zach, breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You weren’t just then.” He looks down at my dick, which is painfully, embarrassingly hard. “Jesus. Okay, I’m going to give you a break here for a second. Keep your hands where they are, and try to hold it together.”
I open my mouth to ask what it is about my aching hard-on that says whoa there, slow down, but then he’s shoving his hand into his briefs and drawing out his cock, wrapping his strong, perfect fingers around… oh.
“Mmm, thought you’d enjoy a show.”
I want to say something to that - I feel like if I don’t get a good comeback in now, it’s going to haunt me. But Chris spits into his palm and starts to stroke himself in long, slow pulls and the word thing. It’s just. It’s not happening. Maybe ever again.
No surprise, his dick is as gorgeous as the rest of him. And much like him, it’s absurdly thick, with a big, fat head. God, he’s using both hands now, twisting and tugging, sitting back on his heels to get comfortable and my own hands tighten around the headboard rung. He exhales a soft puff of breath with each stroke, and it’s got to feel so fucking good, those broad palms rubbing against his cock, my abs tighten a little every time he flicks his thumb over the tip.
How long this goes on, I couldn’t even begin to say, but eventually he can’t keep the torturously slow pace anymore. He shifts, and I’m sure he’s going to reach for me but then he plants his left hand on the bed behind him and starts to pump his hips, fucking into his tight fist. I want to look at his face, see if his tongue is going into overdrive keeping those panting lips from drying out, but his fingers are fucking rippling as they squeeze his cock and I can’t tear my eyes away.
Jesus, he’s got to come soon. I don’t care how good his stamina is, no one can hold up to that kind of manual assault for long. His breath is coming faster, his hips jerking in tight, erratic little thrusts and he’s so close. I spare a glance up at his face to see his closed eyelids flutter. He’s riding the knife edge and my whole body is tensing up right along with his, except that when he finally cries out and spills over his hand, I get no relief at all, just the sweet torture of watching him lovingly wring every last drop of fluid out of his pulsing cock.
He fists himself lazily as he comes down from the high, body already starting to slacken. For one horrible second I think he’s just going to flop over and go right to sleep, but when I start to sit up, his back straightens immediately and he shakes his head.
“Goddamn it, Chris!” I need something, anything at this point, but I’m afraid moving my own hands lest it break this fugue state that’s allowed me the glorious vision of Chris bringing himself off right in front of me. By now I’m panting, nearly ready to explode without a touch to my cock and if Chris doesn’t do something about that right fucking now-
He swipes two fingers across the mess on his belly and holds them out to me like it’s ambrosia. I’m so starved for sensation I don’t even think, just crane my neck up desperately… and he pulls back. “The fuck?” I shout.
It seems to startle him. “No, wait, it’s okay. I just had a better idea.”
That’s all the warning I get before those two long fingers rub firmly down my taint and press into me.
I nearly scream and my thighs jerk together in reflex, but he doesn’t try to fuck me yet, just presses and rubs around my hole with his spunk for lube. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He trails off, gently spreading my thighs again with his other hand. “I just got a little excited. About fingerfucking you.”
God, he is just full of the most rational explanations today. But what the fuck ever, he can recite Casey at the Bat in Esperanto as long as he keeps working those fingers into me. He doesn’t even bother to start with one, just pushes both in once I start to loosen up a little. It burns so good as I stretch around the thickness of his knuckles and holy fuck, his fingers are in me, his strong, gorgeous fingers twisting up inside me, god, I’m gonna lose it.
I know I’m babbling stupidly now, but his other hand, slick with sweat and his cum, wraps around my cock and just holds as his fingers crook inside me. They fucking attack my prostate, no subtlety whatsoever, and if I wasn’t already about to explode it would hurt. It does hurt, I’m so turned on it hurts, his thumb digging into my taint as his fingers rub inside me and the sensation is too intense, I can’t come like this. I just have to lie there and take it as he tortures me, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth like he’s doing a mildly difficult crossword puzzle and not utterly annihilating whatever’s left of my brain.
“Can’t,” I sob, “I can’t. ‘s too much.”
“Too much what?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
“Ev-ahhh-everything.”
I’m flinging my head back and forth on the pillow by the time he finally gets it, eases up on the pressure inside me and against me. “That’s- yeah, now…” I can’t even say it, just push my hips up weakly until he gasps “oh!” and finally uses his left hand to jack my cock hard and fast the way I need it. I yelp when his thumb catches just right beneath the crown and he repeats the motion twice more before everything goes fuzzy and I shoot so hard I see stars.
Chris strokes me through it, hands actually speeding up to milk me dry. Even when I run out of spunk, my muscles keep clenching, aftershocks turning into hard, full-body shudders because he’s not stopping, the stupid bastard, he’s still squeezing and prodding and fucking me into painful oversensitivity until there are tears leaking from my eyes and my hands finally leave the headboard to shove him away.
“Fuck!” I blurt, curling in on myself protectively. “Know when to stop! Christ!”
My heartbeat slows, and this little ball I’ve tucked myself into feels warm and safe. My whole body is buzzing in a way that’s downright unreal, and when I sit up, carefully stretching my limbs, I half expect the bed to be empty save for me and some seriously ripe sheets. But Chris is there, watching me quietly with his hands folded in his lap. His chest is still heaving a little and there’s dried cum on his belly - do hallucinations have this level of detail?
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply, because what else is there to say? I consider reaching for the tissue box, but I’d have to actually move to get it, so I just wipe off on the sheets. “Did, uh. Did that just happen?”
“Did what just happen?”
“You wanking in front of me then fingerfucking me until the top of my head blew off.”
“Tilt your head down a sec?” he asks, and what the hell, I do. “Affirmative. You might need a hat.”
Without discussing it, we both end up settling down against the pillows, stretched out on our backs. I suppose at some point I should try to process this, but not now. It’s too good to overthink. “Hey Chris?”
“Mmm?”
“You gonna stop fucking with me on set?”
“Nope.”
“What about professionalism?”
“Yeah, fuck that. That was before I knew what a desperate little hand-slut you were.”
“Chris?”
“Yup?”
“Sometimes I catch you staring at my mouth.”
It’s honestly just a guess on my part, but when I look over at him and run my tongue over my upper lip, he actually shivers, and I make a mental note to stock up on Blow-Pops.