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cjs_owndisclaimer. Not mine and none of the events described here in have any basis in reality.
title. Smile on Your Mouth
rating. NC-17
pairing. Zach/Chris, established.
summary. Your mouth, your hands. Your face.
notes. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perdiccas in exchange for a donation to Mercy Corps, as prompted during ewinfic's Mega Mini Haiti-thon.
It's been too long of a day – too, too long – and Chris is covered in bruises, the result of a shoddily made rig. (Something the person responsible, someone in props, was being chewed out for at that moment by an irate pair of producers and a director hopped up on Diet Coke.) Zach almost wishes he were a fly on the wall at Paramount right now, but Chris is both aching from the injuries and loose-limbed from the percocets they gave him at the ER to take the edge off; his lover needs to be home in bed with a cat trying to sleep on his head and a dog bounding after them for the affection Chris gives so easily.
"Hey," Chris murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, "Do we have bread at home? Real bread?"
"Bought a loaf of that white junk yesterday. You going to need more to keep these pills down?" he asks, knowing his lover's stomach is not going to be pleased by the introduction of narcotics; he pulls into the spot at CVS and hands Chris his sunglasses to keep the flash of the paps' cameras from bothering him too much.
"Not yet." Chris slides on the glasses and turns his face away from the windows, saying, "Just be quick," as Zach leaves the running car.
He turns on the charm with the Pharmacy girl, managing to push himself ahead of the twelve people who are waiting, and a couple of minutes later, he's pushing some guy out of the way and Chris flips the bird to one guy who calls them Fucking Queers even as the asshole takes their picture.
;;
J.J. calls as they enter the house, telling them that Paramount's stopping production for a week while the rigging is investigated and the moron who'd made it is drug tested, which Chris has to translate for Zach given the speed at which J.J.'s speaking – the man really needs to cut back on his caffeine consumption.
Zach tries to stay calm at the idea that Chris' suffering was the direct result of some sort of illegal intoxicant, but Chris loses it the minute the phone is hung up, broken wrist be damned.
"So I fell fucking twelve feet onto my fucking arm, making the entire scene J.J.'s been trying to shoot all that more realistic thanks to this fucking lovely cast, because some asshole couldn't do his job without a fucking toke?" he rails, the words falling from his lips so bitter and hate-filled that Noah, who came looking for his afternoon cuddle, runs off to his crate.
And Zach knows he shouldn't smile – not given the circumstances – yet he can't help when his lips curve; Chris, of course, zeroes in on it in seconds. "What the fuck is so fucking funny?"
"I was unaware that fuck could be used that many times in a sentence," Zach answers, still smirking. "Now, you want to sit here for a bit longer, damning our crew to the deepest depths of hell, or you want to go up to bed?"
"Oh, blow me."
"That's an option, too."
The blunt statement stops whatever rant Chris was about to embark on and his blue eyes take on a sudden sparkle of blatant arousal that Zach hasn't seen since J.J. started riding them all hard and putting them away wet. Sure, they've been having sex – and plenty of it – but it was more "relationship upkeep", as Karl called it, than activities that would break the bed.
"So, couch, bed, or fellatio?"
As if he even needed to ask...
;;
Zach had wanted to move their tryst to their bedroom, knowing Chris would likely pass out following one ZQ Special. Between the blowjob and the day's events, he knew moving Chris post-orgasm would be one hell of a task, but Chris had fought for the couch.
So there, on the floor with a pillow stuffed under his knees, Zach kneels while Chris' legs are splayed, one on either side of Zach's frame, jeans already unzipped. He almost comments on the lack of underwear beneath the denim, then decides to keep that fight for another day when Zach can appropriately discuss how much he doesn't care for anyone getting ideas about his boyfriend's dick – he's a jealous bastard when it comes to Chris.
"Fuck."
Zach looks up with his eyelids drawn low over blown pupils and his chest hair escaping the confines of his black undershirt, abruptly aware that Chris is choking back words that'd make a porn star blush. Chris slides his fingers into Zach's hair, tightening a little too much before releasing his grip and sliding forward just enough for Zach to mutter, "Impatient tonight."
"Want you," Chris whispers back, breath hitching when one of Zach's perfect hands wraps around his cock and Zach tongues the head. "Your mouth, your hands. Your face."
"My face, huh." Zach gives a small half-smile before he bends forward to tongue at his lover again, drawing a stripe from base to tip and cupping Chris' balls in one hand, rolling them as he slides his mouth over Chris; both of Zach's hands go immediately to chris' thighs, which are trembling with the effort of trying not to thrust.
Chris whimpers. Actually whimpers. "God, yes, your face... Love when you can swallow it all, when it's on your lips or your chin or... Fuck, Zach, are you humming..."
Zach smiles, continuing to bob his head and do the wicked twist with his tongue over the slit that always makes Chris turn to a puddle. He doesn't so much as think of pulling away to justify his use of the Star Trek theme at this moment; he doesn't think he needs to.
Chris' head falls against the couch back with a groan and his hand returns to his boyfriend's hair, twisting in the dark strands to ground himself. Fuck, but Zach is good at this – licking and nipping, fingering his balls when Chris gets close before pulling off to suck only at the head until Chris has come away from the edge with a sigh.
"Please," Chris pants, "please..." He wants to come, wants to fill Zach's mouth with whatever he can since striping his face isn't usually an option.
Usually.
There's a desperate, hard hum, then Zach pulls back and pushes a slick finger against his ass, then in. He smirks all over again when he finds that spot he's learned all too well in their time together and leans close, closing his eyes; "Come, Christopher," he says.
A moan, long and deep and smooth, cuts through the air. Chris cannot tear his eyes away though he's sure he looks ridiculous with his mouth hanging open and embarrassing noises falling from him, as he comes. Stripes of come spurt onto Zach's cheek and his chin; there's a drip of it on his forehead, sliding slowly toward an eyebrow.
"Holy hell, Zach," Chris says once his faculties have returned, sloppily petting at his lover's hair.
"Feel better?"
Chris nods, giving a, "Um-hum," by way of a response as his eyes begin to close.
title. Smile on Your Mouth
rating. NC-17
pairing. Zach/Chris, established.
summary. Your mouth, your hands. Your face.
notes. Written for
perdiccas in exchange for a donation to Mercy Corps, as prompted during ewinfic's Mega Mini Haiti-thon.It's been too long of a day – too, too long – and Chris is covered in bruises, the result of a shoddily made rig. (Something the person responsible, someone in props, was being chewed out for at that moment by an irate pair of producers and a director hopped up on Diet Coke.) Zach almost wishes he were a fly on the wall at Paramount right now, but Chris is both aching from the injuries and loose-limbed from the percocets they gave him at the ER to take the edge off; his lover needs to be home in bed with a cat trying to sleep on his head and a dog bounding after them for the affection Chris gives so easily.
"Hey," Chris murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, "Do we have bread at home? Real bread?"
"Bought a loaf of that white junk yesterday. You going to need more to keep these pills down?" he asks, knowing his lover's stomach is not going to be pleased by the introduction of narcotics; he pulls into the spot at CVS and hands Chris his sunglasses to keep the flash of the paps' cameras from bothering him too much.
"Not yet." Chris slides on the glasses and turns his face away from the windows, saying, "Just be quick," as Zach leaves the running car.
He turns on the charm with the Pharmacy girl, managing to push himself ahead of the twelve people who are waiting, and a couple of minutes later, he's pushing some guy out of the way and Chris flips the bird to one guy who calls them Fucking Queers even as the asshole takes their picture.
J.J. calls as they enter the house, telling them that Paramount's stopping production for a week while the rigging is investigated and the moron who'd made it is drug tested, which Chris has to translate for Zach given the speed at which J.J.'s speaking – the man really needs to cut back on his caffeine consumption.
Zach tries to stay calm at the idea that Chris' suffering was the direct result of some sort of illegal intoxicant, but Chris loses it the minute the phone is hung up, broken wrist be damned.
"So I fell fucking twelve feet onto my fucking arm, making the entire scene J.J.'s been trying to shoot all that more realistic thanks to this fucking lovely cast, because some asshole couldn't do his job without a fucking toke?" he rails, the words falling from his lips so bitter and hate-filled that Noah, who came looking for his afternoon cuddle, runs off to his crate.
And Zach knows he shouldn't smile – not given the circumstances – yet he can't help when his lips curve; Chris, of course, zeroes in on it in seconds. "What the fuck is so fucking funny?"
"I was unaware that fuck could be used that many times in a sentence," Zach answers, still smirking. "Now, you want to sit here for a bit longer, damning our crew to the deepest depths of hell, or you want to go up to bed?"
"Oh, blow me."
"That's an option, too."
The blunt statement stops whatever rant Chris was about to embark on and his blue eyes take on a sudden sparkle of blatant arousal that Zach hasn't seen since J.J. started riding them all hard and putting them away wet. Sure, they've been having sex – and plenty of it – but it was more "relationship upkeep", as Karl called it, than activities that would break the bed.
"So, couch, bed, or fellatio?"
As if he even needed to ask...
Zach had wanted to move their tryst to their bedroom, knowing Chris would likely pass out following one ZQ Special. Between the blowjob and the day's events, he knew moving Chris post-orgasm would be one hell of a task, but Chris had fought for the couch.
So there, on the floor with a pillow stuffed under his knees, Zach kneels while Chris' legs are splayed, one on either side of Zach's frame, jeans already unzipped. He almost comments on the lack of underwear beneath the denim, then decides to keep that fight for another day when Zach can appropriately discuss how much he doesn't care for anyone getting ideas about his boyfriend's dick – he's a jealous bastard when it comes to Chris.
"Fuck."
Zach looks up with his eyelids drawn low over blown pupils and his chest hair escaping the confines of his black undershirt, abruptly aware that Chris is choking back words that'd make a porn star blush. Chris slides his fingers into Zach's hair, tightening a little too much before releasing his grip and sliding forward just enough for Zach to mutter, "Impatient tonight."
"Want you," Chris whispers back, breath hitching when one of Zach's perfect hands wraps around his cock and Zach tongues the head. "Your mouth, your hands. Your face."
"My face, huh." Zach gives a small half-smile before he bends forward to tongue at his lover again, drawing a stripe from base to tip and cupping Chris' balls in one hand, rolling them as he slides his mouth over Chris; both of Zach's hands go immediately to chris' thighs, which are trembling with the effort of trying not to thrust.
Chris whimpers. Actually whimpers. "God, yes, your face... Love when you can swallow it all, when it's on your lips or your chin or... Fuck, Zach, are you humming..."
Zach smiles, continuing to bob his head and do the wicked twist with his tongue over the slit that always makes Chris turn to a puddle. He doesn't so much as think of pulling away to justify his use of the Star Trek theme at this moment; he doesn't think he needs to.
Chris' head falls against the couch back with a groan and his hand returns to his boyfriend's hair, twisting in the dark strands to ground himself. Fuck, but Zach is good at this – licking and nipping, fingering his balls when Chris gets close before pulling off to suck only at the head until Chris has come away from the edge with a sigh.
"Please," Chris pants, "please..." He wants to come, wants to fill Zach's mouth with whatever he can since striping his face isn't usually an option.
Usually.
There's a desperate, hard hum, then Zach pulls back and pushes a slick finger against his ass, then in. He smirks all over again when he finds that spot he's learned all too well in their time together and leans close, closing his eyes; "Come, Christopher," he says.
A moan, long and deep and smooth, cuts through the air. Chris cannot tear his eyes away though he's sure he looks ridiculous with his mouth hanging open and embarrassing noises falling from him, as he comes. Stripes of come spurt onto Zach's cheek and his chin; there's a drip of it on his forehead, sliding slowly toward an eyebrow.
"Holy hell, Zach," Chris says once his faculties have returned, sloppily petting at his lover's hair.
"Feel better?"
Chris nods, giving a, "Um-hum," by way of a response as his eyes begin to close.
