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 Title: The Incredible Adventures of the Amazing Stoner Pinto Dudes, Part 1
Pairing: Zach/Chris
Word Count: circa 3000
Summary: Zach and Chris get high
Rating: NC-17 for drug use and smut
A/N: It tickles the heck out of me that Zach sounds like a wasted valley girl in half the interviews he's in. Hence, this.

“Fuck.” I let my head drop back to the couch's headrest, try to focus on the TV.

“I know.”



“This is, like.” I give up. It's just not happening, I don't have the energy to even form coherent thoughts.

“I know.”



A low, rhythmic rumble begins across the couch, rising in cadence. I finally work up the energy to open my eyes and see Zach, sniggering now, no, giggling into the back of his hand.

“Know what it's called?” He starts laughing harder and I can't help myself, the tickle rising up from deep in my gut until I'm right there with him. Which makes him laugh even harder still, and now I'm just about as bad as he is, feeding off him and I can't stop. Zach's voice has worked its way up, he's having to work to gasp out words between great, hiccuping guffaws.

“It's. . . called. . . fuck!” and he rolls face down into the couch, hooting with laughter and loses it totally. I clear my throat, start up again, this little bubble of laughter that just won't quit but I try to hold it together,

“It's called 'Fuck'? Seriously?” Zach snorts like a drain emptying and gasps something unintelligible into the couch cushion he's still face down on, body shaking. I try again,

“What? It's called 'Jesus'? For real?” I dissolve.

“Stop, stop, I can't, fuck. Okay.” He takes a breath, looks serious for a split second before his shoulders start shaking again, “The weed's called 'Cheese',” and Zach's voice starts to hit the stratosphere, "Because . . . it's stinky . . . like a French cheese!”

And it's the funniest thing that anyone's ever said ever, I howl and actually have tears running down my cheeks now. This is what side splitting means, I'm hurting from laughter, whimpering but it won't stop and Zach, well, he's gone, just gone, almost crying into the couch. One of us calms for a second before the other sets him off again, like ripples bouncing around a pool and it takes way too long before we get settled back down. I have a stitch in my side and have to wipe my eyes, watching Zach finally push himself back into a sitting position, scrubbing at his face with his hands, trying to blink some moisture back beneath his eyelids.

“Motherfuck, I am so insanely wasted.”

“So it wouldn't be a good idea to light up again, huh.”

“Oh heck, no.”

He reaches out to the ashtray on auto-pilot, lighting the fifth joint of the evening, the one we're already halfway through, taking a long draw and squinting with effort before choking out a long stream of smoke. He runs his tongue around his top teeth,

“Ugh. Cotton mouth. Drink?” and doesn't wait for my reply, just hands me the joint and shoves himself up and off the sofa with some effort, staggering a little as he finds his feet.

“Beer,” I call after him, “And munchies. The good ones, not the you ones. And water.” He nods, waves a hand back toward me in acknowledgement, stumbles off toward the kitchen.

I settle deeper into the couch, toe off my shoes and swing my legs up along the seat, take a deep drag and try to hold it in. It's so strong, I have to spit the smoke out and take a breath, reach over to rest the joint back in the ashtray after just one more small toke. Not like Zach, the man's a pro. I never usually get this baked but, like always with him, I'm trying to keep up and I'm so completely caned that it takes a full second to notice he's tossed a huge bag of Cheetos into my lap and is holding out a beer in my direction. Another second to blink stupidly before reaching out for it. He grins, that wide, face-splitting grin which never fails to make me smile back at him in reflex.

“Wow, you look gone. Like, totally not there.”

“I'm just relaxed. I like your new couch.”

“Dude, you're seriously fried. You should see your eyes.”

“Right, because you're looking so hot this evening.”

“You wish you could look this good in sweats.”

“Your mom in sweats.”

Which is lame, but we get the contagious giggles again until we're begging each other to quit, shut up, calm the fuck down. He plays around with the TV remote but we can't settle on anything so he starts flipping through DVDs, pauses to take another long, squinty draw, exhales.

“Actually, I need to walk the dog while I still can. You pick something. Not Die Hard.”

“Nah, I'm going to raid the kitchen. You got any ice cream?”


“Jesus, ugh.”

I shoo him out, dig through his fridge, finally finding a jar of pickles stuffed at the back so snag a couple of them along with a handful of frozen multi-grain waffles, carry them back to the couch along with a couple more beers. Take another quick hit. It's weird being here without him, I'd get up and start poking around in his private shit if I wasn't so wasted because Zach has the hidden depths market cornered and I'm sure there's a whole bunch of stuff I've yet to figure out about him. But I'm feeling increasingly fucked up so flick through some shitty music TV, keep flipping and, excellent. Turns out he's got all the porn channels. Way to go, Quinto. I say it out loud and then can't stop repeating it as I porno surf because it sort of rhymes and feels so good to say. I land on one scene where a stacked blonde is seriously going downtown on a little brunette friend, and start to get a slight pants happy. Which is when the grass really starts to kick in.

Holy fuck, I notice that I'm in deeper shit than I'd realized when I start to see tracks of color melting slightly away from the screen but it's drawing me in, down, head reeling. Everything seems to drop away and my body gets sucked down into the couch, heavy as if an enormous hand is gently pushing me down super slowly. It's gravity, I can feel the touch of gravity all over me, and my lungs feel like they're full of warm liquid. It's nice. I lie back, stare at the ceiling fan going around and around and around, listening vaguely to the soft moans in the background.

The brunette is really getting into it now from the sound of it. I can't manage to even turn my head to the side to watch but I get hard, so hard, this insistent pulse starting up deep and heavy in my balls. It radiates out and I start to feel hot, not like sexy-hot, just this heat building up, in my stomach, across my dick, my thighs. Like my whole body is throbbing with heat now and I'm so hard it aches. I distantly wonder if Zach would mind if I took my pants off, but I'm almost paralysed, held down by the big invisible hand of gravity. I don't think I've ever been this physically aroused before, I feel it in my nipples against my tee shirt, my scalp, my stomach, the soles of my feet where they're digging into the couch. I wish I didn't have my socks on, just the idea of dragging my naked feet along the velvety fabric of the sofa makes my head spin. I dig my fingers into the cushion beneath me, listening to the brunette wailing in what's definitely a fake orgasm but, fuck, it works and I can feel myself leaking into my pants, the tip of my dick pushing up against the waistband of my shorts. I hear Zach's return, the bang of the back screen door, Noah's claws clicking across the hardwood floor, but can't do anything but lie there and feel these waves of arousal radiating out from me, my eyes screwed shut.

“Fuck, the fresh air bombed me all to shit, I can barely stay upright. What've you – oh my god. OH. MY GOD. Gross. Uncool, man. Seriously, that is not, really not cool.” He sounds pissed now, I manage to move enough to watch as he grabs the remote and flicks the TV off, shielding his eyes with one horrified hand. I prise open my mouth, try to croak out an apology,

“Zach, I -” I clear my throat, reach for a drink.

“Chris, dude, what the hell?”

“I don't know, I wasn't going to leave it on, I just got a whole lot more wasted all of a sudden and couldn't move. I didn't do it on purpose.” He still looks so thoroughly appalled I have to make a concerted effort not to laugh, try to look innocent. Work the puppy dog eyes.

“Besides, you're the one with all the porn. Kudos.” He's staring at me, eyes narrowed. I notice them flicker as he looks me over and there's no way I'm even half-able to hide how hard I still am. He grins suddenly and it's his evil grin, his Sylar grin, all eyebrows and shiny teeth. Ruh-roh.

“You want porn? Sure. We can watch porn.” He thumbs a number into the remote, obviously from memory and the screen flicks into life, a full-color 48” plasma big screen up-close-and-personal blow job. A sloppy, wet, grunty and entirely naked homosexual blow job, in full surround sound, no less. He crosses the room to the dresser, opens a drawer and takes out a box of kleenex, which he tosses down next to me along with a tube of lotion.

“Here. Knock yourself out.” Smirks at his own pun and throws himself down at the other end of the couch with his beer. Lights up again, taking a drag and regarding me steadily through the haze.
“Don't let me stop you.”

I'm still sprawled across the couch on my back, a little less lit now than I was before but there's still that heavy, lifeless feeling in my limbs and I just can't bring myself to move, or even feel that embarrassed. The ache's feeling good now, my nuts feel full and heavy, my dick hot and hard where it's trapped between my jeans and my stomach. The screen draws my attention, I can't help it as it's right there and, fuck, that's one enthusiastic hummer that guy's getting. The blower has got one hand wrapped around the blowee's balls, his lips tight around the base of his dick, spit gleaming up and down this seriously huge schlong that somehow the guy's managing to take deeper than anyone's ever managed on mine and, frankly, I've got nothing on Mr. Porno.

Somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice wonders how hung Zach is and I'm too stoned to shut it up. I can tell he's watching me watching this, can feel his eyes on me dark from across the couch. If anything, it adds to how turned on I am, which should freak me out but, hell, I'm way too gone to worry about anything other than how good a blow job would feel right now. I fixate on it, watching the one on-screen and fixating entirely on how fucking good that would be, how good a warm, wet mouth would feel on my overhard prick. The ache intensifies until I have to touch, I can't stop myself and shove a hand inside my jeans to cup and rub, just get a little friction going. I look across to Zach, who doesn't bother to pretend that he's not watching me, his sweats doing precisely jack shit to conceal that he's pretty fucking hung and is getting increasingly turned on.

“I don't suppose that you'd. . .” I nod at the screen, he quirks an eyebrow,

“That I'd. . . ?”

I unbutton my fly and tug the waistband of my shorts down to let my dick free. I can feel blood pumping through every single vein in my body, a pulse that beats heavier and harder against my hand now as I palm myself and squeeze. I feel dizzy, disoriented, like I have to work at filling my lungs with enough oxygen.

“That. Would be so great right now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Oh, like you haven't wanted to get on this for years.” He just gives me this look for a moment, a classic Zach What. The fucking hell. Are you talking about now? look and shakes his head,

“Fuck no!”

“Aww, c'mon.”

“Fuck. No.” I drag out the puppy dog eyes again and he snorts,

“I'm not sure I even could if I wanted to. I think I may have destroyed my saliva glands. You just carry on, you're doing okay.” He watches me for long moments, finishing his beer as I half-watch the porn, half-focus on him as I continue to rub as best as I can with my jeans still on. Then Zach makes an exasperated noise, dumps his beer bottle and glares across the couch towards me,

“For chrissakes, at least take your pants off. That looks uncomfortable.”

“Take them off for me.”

“Chris, you can take off your own damn pants.”

“I'll take mine off if you lose the sweats.”

I have no idea where that came from. I blame the drugs. He looks surprised for a split second then stands and tugs them down fluidly, kicking them into a corner of the room. Seems to consider for a moment before shrugging and pulling his tee shirt off over his head, tossing that in the same direction. And now there's this whole long, lean heap of semi-naked Zach on the couch next to me, almost close enough to touch shoulders, pulling a thick, darkly flushed hard-on out of his shorts and pumping some lotion into one of his hands. I muster the energy to wriggle out of my jeans and shirt, deciding, Fuck it, tug my shorts off, too.

He's looking at me, all over me and, damn, if my body doesn't notice it and light up in all kinds of interesting, twitchy ways. I watch him coat his dick in lotion and start to squeeze a little and I'm instantly rock hard again, feeling it all over, in my nuts, in the muscles of my ass. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back relaxed against the top of the couch but then he rolls his head toward me once more, opens his eyes, looks me briefly in the face with a half-smile before looking down to where I've followed suit with a handful of lotion.

“Want a hand with that?” My dick jumps in my hand and he leans into me, his whole arm all naked warm skin against mine. I just look at him wordlessly, too turned on to speak up and unable to actually ask for it, and he rolls his eyes, sighs,

“Jesus christ, straight guys, I swear to fucking god. . . “ and reaches across me to wrap those long, strong fingers tightly around my dick. Takes my hand with his other one and places it firmly in his lap. Licks his lips unconsciously and then starts jacking me in earnest, slowly at first but with an increasing pace that's pretty soon blowing my mind. I follow his lead, grip him as tight as I would myself and begin to tug at him, which earns me a hiss of approval and a quiet gasped Fuck.

We sit there in a silence only broken by the sound of the guys on the porno, our own moans and cursing, the slickly wet slapping of two hands moving faster, more urgently. I'm rocking up into his hand now, jaw clenched, eyes on the screen ahead, feeling the itch building all along my dick, muscles tightening in my legs, ass, stomach. I even feel it in my toes, curling in my socks against the floor. Feel Zach's dick get harder, swelling in my fingers so grip him tighter still and feel smug as all hell as his hips buck up, once, twice and he growls out this long, low grunt of Ohhhfuckyeaaah, shooting warm and thick over my fingers, and turning in time to watch that, seeing him like that sets me off, throwing my head back and shouting god only knows what as I shoot as hard as I ever have, cum jetting halfway up my chest in long, thick ropes.

We slowly return to earth and he grabs a bunch of kleenex out of the box before handing it to me. I'm still too high, too cum-happy to feel even a little bit awkward, mopping myself up best I can and wiping off my hands, body buzzing, mind reeling but not unpleasantly. He pulls his shorts back up from where they'd ridden down, covers himself and gets up off the couch, fetching his shirt and throwing it on before grabbing my shorts and tossing them at my head.

“New couch, man. Cover that stank ass.” Flips the TV station to a news report and settling back down with another beer, handing a spare to me. I take a sip, another, thirsty. Clear my throat again,

“Wow, Zach, that was. . .” He looks at me and I think I detect the slightest hint of, I don't know, something in his eyes but it's quickly erased by a smile,

“Yeah, it was, wasn't it? Insane. This weed fucking rocks.”

“Yeah, sure. Great weed. Excellent weed.” I nod, mindlessly, drink my beer. I'm not entirely certain whether I feel disappointed or not.


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