Title: Canvas
Pairing: Chris/Zach, (Pinto) for pintopalooza ‘s Pinto Pornapalooza II, second verse, A.K.A Princess Pine’s birthday
Disclaimer: Not even within a light year’s view of the truth, sadly.
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3968 words
Warnings: None. If you’re looking for porn, you came to the right place. I doubt anyone clicking here is about to be surprised.
Prompt filled: Bodypaint. Maybe expressing/writing what is hard to say out loud?
A/N: It was really hard to keep it PWP with this prompt, so I hope I didn’t overdo it with the purply words and yes, there’s some original poetry in here, if you squint. And I’m totally willing to let Chris take the credit for my words, not that he would deign to. One can dream… Unbeta’d, all mistakes are mine.

It starts as a joke. Chris is writing out a grocery list when Zach encircles his waist from behind. A gentle kiss planted to the back of Chris’s neck makes him shiver, and his pen stutters, leaving a blue slash over the eggs.

He turns and runs the felt tip across Zach’s bicep, laughing. Zach gapes at him and swipes the pen, and Chris takes off down the hall. Zach tackles him in the bedroom and they fight over the pen, smearing blue on their hands. Zach gets his knees on Chris’s arms to hold him down. Chris thrashes, trying to buck Zach off his torso, but Zach leans down and kisses him soundly. Chris melts. Then Zach sits up and the look on his face, soft and affectionate, makes Chris hold still while Zach writes Mine right above Chris’s heart.

Chris doesn’t wash it off before pulling on a shirt and going to the grocery store. For the rest of the day, whenever he thinks of the word on his chest, he smiles.


Zach is shaving a week later when Chris comes into the bathroom. He wolf whistles at the towel around Zach’s waist and rests his hands on the knot while smiling at his lover in the mirror. Zach smiles back and refocuses on the razor against his skin. He doesn’t notice the pen Chris is hiding, but he does notice when his towel is pulled off.

“Chris…” he warns lightly.

“What?” Chris asks, all innocence and wide blue eyes.

“You want me to cut my throat?”

“Of course not. But can I not appreciate the geometric perfection of your ass sometimes, or must you hide it behind all that tantalizing terry cloth?”

Zach sighs, feigning exasperation. “You’re like a kid with no supervision, you know that?”

Chris hums distractedly, running a hand over the curves of Zach’s butt cheeks and dropping to his knees. He looks up occasionally to ensure Zach’s attention is still divided. Continuing to rub with his left hand to disguise the feel of the pen in his right, Chris manages to write Chris Pine was here with a small arrow pointing to Zach’s cleft before Zach notices anything.

He chuckles, standing up and leaving a kiss behind Zach’s ear before retreating back to their bedroom. He’s just dozing off again when Zach’s voice draws his attention.

“Christopher Whitelaw Pine! Are you twelve?”

“Zachary John Quinto, there are some jokes that are ageless.” He rolls to his side to watch Zach dress, not saying anything when his inked words are left alone, simply covered over by cotton and denim.

Zach shakes his head. “You’re washing that off when I get home later.”

“Why? I left your word on my chest until it faded away,” Chris protests, sitting up and snagging Zach’s pants with a finger, pulling him close. Chris nuzzles his belly and looks up into his face, puppy dog eyes very much in evidence.

“What I wrote on you was sentimental. What you wrote on me is seedy bar graffiti.” Zach smiles though, running an affectionate hand through Chris’s hair.

“Oh, so if I wrote something lyrical or drew a heart on your ass you’d appreciate it more? You’re such a girl.” He watches Zach pull on a t-shirt, then walks toward the door with his middle finger extended.

“I’d rather be girly with pretty words than nominee for the Truck Stop Bathroom Poetry Award.”

Chris calls out, “You’re just jealous of my awesome.”

But Zach’s given him an idea.


When Zach walks in hours later, what he sees is enough to stop him in his tracks.

Candles alight on every surface give the house a soft glow. Music caresses his ear. The table is set in imitation of a five star restaurant. Chris is just opening a bottle of wine and setting it out to breathe when he sees Zach standing there, mouth agape.

“How was your day, dear?” Chris says with mirth in his eyes.

“Uh… fine. What’s all this?” Zach walks further into the room, setting his bag down beside the couch. Chris comes over and kisses him thoroughly before answering.

“You seem so shocked. Did you really think me incapable of being more than a bathroom stall poet?” Arms still locked around Zach’s waist, Chris begins to sway to the music, chin resting comfortably on Zach’s shoulder.

“You are a paradox, Pine,” Zach murmurs, lips brushing against Chris’s neck. This is Chris’s favorite thing, the way Zach always fits his face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, breathing him in as though his scent is vital to Zach’s existence. Chris feels loved, wanted, like his mere presence has some kind of power over Zach, this person who projects such self-assurance and calm. It’s not an act, Zach’s demeanor, and Chris loves that he knows a certain tilt of his head, a look in his eye, and he can crumble Zach’s self control before he even gets his hands on him. But then again, Zach can do the same to him with one eyebrow, the curve of his lip, the butter in his voice.

“What can I say? You inspire me,” Chris mumbles back, lifting the hem of Zach’s shirt and fluttering his fingers across the sensitive spot at the small of Zach’s back, anticipating the thrill that he feels rumble up and down Zach’s body. If he hadn’t worked all afternoon on this set up for Zach, the food and ambience, he’d let himself fall headlong into showing Zach just how inspired he is… but it will wait. He pulls back, leaving a trail of kisses along Zach’s jaw before disentangling them and pulling Zach to the table.

The food beckons, and they tuck in. Zach talks about his meetings and his frustration that they got another notice from JJ that filming for the sequel has been pushed back yet again. Chris hmmms his agreement with a mouth full of spaghetti, sucking the last three inches of a noodle in through pursed lips. Zach’s eyes zero in on the gesture and linger as Chris licks sauce from his lips.

Chris is fidgety, his knee bouncing in anticipation for his plans. He knows how Zach will react, and frankly, he can barely restrain himself for the duration of the meal. He contents himself with teasing Zach, flirting shamelessly and dropping innuendos to watch the reaction. There’s the stutter of his fork, the blink of his eye as Chris watches his pupils dilate, gaze glued to Chris’s mouth as he makes a mess of himself with spaghetti sauce and then uses his tongue to clear it from his lips. They never could sit close to one another without touching in some way, and it’s true now, their legs stretching, meeting in a tangle beneath the table. Chris watches as the tension between them grows, and Zach slowly loses his composure.

It’s as they’re cleaning up that the dam bursts. Chris is rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher when he feels Zach come up behind him, wrapping him in heat and want, soft growls of desire emanating from Zach’s throat. This time, however, instead of Chris crashing back into Zach with his own frenetic energy, he lets Zach’s wash over him without reacting too much.

“Jesus, Chris, the dishes can fucking wait,” Zach bitches, hands grabbing at him.
Zach is right where Chris wants him, open, wanting, vulnerable.

Chris turns, kicking the dishwasher door shut with his foot and holds Zach’s hands against his chest to still them. “Feel that? My heart beating? Heavy breathing?” Zach nods, trying to feel more, but Chris presses his hands harder. “No one but you does that to me. It’s not just your body and how you make me feel physically. It’s deeper, in here.” He taps Zach’s fingers against his chest, his eyes soft and serious. He watches the fire in Zach’s eyes change. There’s still heat, but the flame condenses, tightening, burning brighter, white hot. “Let me show you,” Chris says softly. Zach nods, and lets himself be led to the bedroom where Chris has everything set out already.

Zach stops in the doorway, taking it in. More candles, and something new on Chris’s nightstand. He walks to it, curiosity etched on his face while Chris watches him take it in, the small ceramic ink well filled with black paste, a series of fine paint brushes beside it. Zach turns to Chris.

“Is that henna?”

Chris nods. “I know it’s illegal, but only if you buy it already in paste form. I got powder and mixed it myself. The girl at the herbal shop gave me some stuff to make the stain more intense.” He suddenly feels shy, glad for the dim candlelight to mask the flush creeping up his cheeks. “I, uh… thought I’d write on you in better words… I mean, you know… But it stains, won’t just wash off right away.”

Zach begins to strip, heated stare on Chris’s face before he crosses the room and envelops him in a tight embrace. “On one condition,” he mutters against Chris’s ear. “We shower first and you wash that trailer trash shit off my ass.”

Chris grins and leads him to the bathroom, letting Zach undress him. “You know,” he breathes as they step under the steamy spray. “Henna takes time to dry. And it smears, so once I start, you have to be really still.” He licks his way across Zach’s collarbone, then pulls back to squirt soap onto a washrag and build up suds.

“Seems sort of counterintuitive to your earlier intentions, Pine,” Zach says, watching as Chris lathers him up all over, turning around to bare his ass at the younger man’s instruction.

“Well, we’ll just have to make the most of this shower, won’t we?” Chris asks, dropping to his knees and licking from the underside of one of Zach’s ass cheeks up the curve to his back. He sets about scrubbing off his earlier artwork, Zach leaning against the tile, spreading his legs slightly.

The ink comes off easily, and Chris spends time appreciating Zach’s body laid out before him like a buffet, fingers teasing up the insides of Zach’s thighs, his lips coasting over clean skin. Zach groans when he runs a fingertip from Zach’s taint to his tailbone, his pucker quivering at the light touch. Chris repeats the motion to see the reaction again, and with gentle swiftness, inserts a finger in Zach’s hole. Despite the steam, gooseflesh breaks out across Zach’s skin and Chris smiles, licking teasingly, loving his power to elicit such a reaction.

“Turn around,” he husks, removing his finger to let Zach comply. Palms running up and down Zach’s body, Chris stares up into his face. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, lowering his face to kiss Zach’s hipbone. He darts his tongue out to lick along Zach’s dick, using one hand to lift Zach’s leg over his shoulder and tickle his fingers back to the cleft of Zach’s ass. Just as he takes Zach’s cock into his mouth, he impales him on a finger again, gently but insistently.

Zach moans, hands wending into Chris’s hair to massage and tug the way Chris likes. Zach is never pushy, never guides his actions when Chris sucks him down, but they’re both tactile, and Chris loves that Zach wants to feel the muscles in his face changing as he works Zach over, tongue undulating against the velvety steel of his erection. Chris wriggles his finger and then presses in another as he deep throats, feeling the tremble in Zach’s thighs. He hums against the cock in his mouth, pumping his head to draw out the moans.

“Fuck, Chris,” Zach whispers, his fingers more insistent against Chris’s scalp. Taking the base of Zach’s cock in his left hand, his right still seeking the tiny bundle of nerves inside Zach, Chris licks his way up and down the shaft, bearing more of Zach’s weight over his shoulders as he undoes him, curling his tongue sensually around the head and ridge before sucking back down, hand pumping in rhythm.

“Oh god, holy… haaaaaa, Chris, I’m…”

“Yeah, baby,” Chris murmurs, pulling off to mouth sloppily along the shaft. “Come in my mouth,”

That’s all it takes, as he sinks back around Zach’s cock, fingers working in and out of him, he feels it pulse against his lips and tongue. Swallowing against the tide, Chris bears all of Zach’s weight, letting him collapse to the bottom of the tub in a slow slide.

Gentle kisses, tangled limbs, hot water sluicing over their skin, they get lost in each other. Chris is anxious to get to his project, but he keeps himself in check, not wanting to rush. The night is young.


The flashes are bright, the distance between them too great, infuriating. Chris smiles as genuinely as he can. The red carpet for the Emmys is always chaotic, and he’s reminded of the near gentility of the red carpet in Sydney for the first Trek premiere, the polar opposite of this melee. They’ve done lots of these now, but as their relationship progresses, each one of them gets harder. They can’t touch, or let sly looks betray them as cameras flash to record their every move. The closer they get to each other emotionally, the further apart they must behave.

But on this night, they have a secret, and it buoys Chris – his words, painted over Zach’s body, beneath his tux. Something the paps and fans will never see. It’s some of Chris’s best writing. Some he borrowed from his favorite poets. Some he wrote himself. Every word an indelible etching of his feelings.

So he watches Zach’s fluid moves across the carpet, knowing the stains of him are beneath the designer duds. And he smiles a little wider, a little brighter. His. Even though they can’t show it.

He’s grateful that their seats are together, because when it gets boring, he leans over and whispers words he’s memorized.

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.”¹

Zach smiles, his thumb caressing over his thigh where the painted stain for those words remains.

The night drones on, and they pretend to be just friends. Companionable arms slung about their waists for more pictures, but they touch only at the shoulders and arms, not the full body presses they’ve become used to in more private moments. The after party is crowded, buzzing with excitement, and they mingle and schmooze. Chris is tired of it all, but he compliantly plasters his smile on, occasionally raking his eyes over the room to seek out Zach’s form.

Their gazes meet. They smile. Then Chris turns to get another drink, leaning over the bar. A few minutes later, a voice near his ear cuts through the chatter.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.”²

“If you’re trying to make this party harder to endure, it’s working,” Chris says, taking a drink of his beer.

“I read that somewhere. Thought of you.” The purr of Zach’s voice goes straight to Chris’s groin, a heat that he can’t suppress. His eyes flash blue fire at Zach.

“I think you read it on the curve of your hip, and if anyone walks with liquid grace, it’s you.” He takes another drink, and says just low enough for only Zach to hear,

This ultimate zenith is unknowable,
love contained not even by the sky.
But those who, too, have fallen
Also know what it is to fly.”

Zach frowns slightly and takes a drink of his martini, his lips a perfect bow Chris wants nothing more than to taste. “I don’t recognize that one,” Zach says after a minute.

With a breath of bravery in the face of those who might see, Chris lets his fingers trail the small of Zach’s back before curling his hand back on his beer. “That one, my good sir, is an original work. And written where you can’t read, even with your ridiculously hot yoga contortions.”

Zach’s warm brown eyes are eclipsed by his pupils. He quickly drains his drink and Chris stares at the undulations of his swallowing throat. “Time to go, oh poet of my heart.”

Chris smiles wickedly, shoves his bottle away from him, and turns. By unspoken agreement, they split up, making the rounds of the room one more time in their exodus, finally standing outside to wait for their car to pull up. It is only when the smoky tint of the windows obscures them that they give in to the building heat of the night and come together. In the past, groping each other in the backseat of cars was a frantic thing, pushing the boundary of their control to see just where that edge lay. This, however, is a slower burn, intense kisses, revered touches, and whispered words.

Zach straddles Chris’s lap, and Chris both revels in it and curses it. He loves feeling surrounded by Zach, enveloped in heat and want and love. But he can’t get his hands between them, cannot touch Zach in the way he wants because even air cannot pass between their bodies. With a smile and a bite to Zach’s jaw, he realizes the need ramping up within him is only as intense as it is because he cannot reach, cannot satiate.

Slipping his fingers between Zach’s waistband and lower back, Chris scrapes his nails against Zach’s flesh, eliciting a hiss from Zach’s mouth on his neck.

“Want you so much, Chris,” and that tongue flicking his skin does things to him Chris can’t even name. Chris answers, voice roughened with hours of restraining his desire, his need, his worship of Zach’s body.

In me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.”³

Zach growls low in his throat, and thankfully, the car coasts to a stop at the curb. With a coy smile, Chris takes Zach’s hand and leads him into their house, and further, into their room. They stop touching long enough to shed clothes, and with Zach naked before him, Chris admires his handiwork. Lines of fading henna turn Zach’s skin into art (not that it wasn’t already art before Chris ever took the brush to him), his shoulders, stomach, hips, all speaking words of Chris’s adoration.

“My favorite book,” he murmurs, reaching out to Zach, who fits himself perfectly into Chris’s embrace. Lips slot together, tongues dance and slide, and Zach threads his fingers into Chris’s hair, pulling roughly, eliciting a moan from deep in Chris’s chest.

“My favorite author,” Zach says between licks and bites. Chris tips his head back as Zach feeds on his throat, hands reaching down to knead Chris’s ass.

“Can’t take all the credit. The format gets some of it. A painting is only as good as the canvas on which it’s displayed.”

“Bullshit,” Zach growls, low and rough in Chris’s ear. “Sidewalks, brick walls, garbage cans, train cars. All of them can bear art which only becomes more beautiful for the ugliness on which they’re depicted.”

“Did you just call yourself ugly?” Chris pushes Zach to his back on the bed with his legs dangling over the side, Chris’s hands stroking over curlicues and whorls of hair and henna’d devotion before kneeling between Zach’s legs to breathe on his cock.

Zach’s reply gets lost in the nonsense that his throat emits as Chris takes his cock into the hot well of his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue in perfect ratio. Zach’s hips dance in Chris’s direction, and instead of holding him down like usual, Chris rides Zach’s undulations with perfect ease, loving the thrum of tense muscle beneath his hands as they caress Zach’s thighs. He coaxes them apart, stopping his mouth worship to slick his fingers with spit.

“Oh god yee-hessssss,” Zach hisses, shamelessly hooking his hands behind his knees and pulling his legs obscenely apart. Chris grunts at the move, diving back down to suck Zach fiercely, pushing a deliberate finger into Zach’s hole. A few strokes, and he adds a second finger, mercilessly massaging Zach’s prostate and humming around the silken hardness in his mouth.

“Chris,” Zach warns.

Chris looks up Zach’s body through his eyelashes, knowing that his desire and love and utter need for this man are apparent in the debauchery of his face, and that the very wanton expression will be Zach’s undoing. Still, he wants Zach’s very essence if he can get it, and so employs his considerable tongue skills and winks like the flirtatious bastard he is. Zach arches, back rainbowing off the bed in a graceful twist and he shouts, spurting, splashing, surging onto Chris’s tongue. Chris greedily swallows and stands, his knees creaking from the punishment of the hardwood floor. A quick rummage through the bedside table for lube and a condom, and he covers Zach’s body with his own, urgent and desperate.

Zach melts in the right curves and angles against him, languid and pliant.

“You’re the poetry, Chris,” he breathes, lazily wrapping his body around Chris’s limbs still vibrating with need. Slicked and gloved up, Chris lines his erection up and thrusts in one smooth motion, impaling Zach with a groan and gritted teeth.

It’s more than physical pleasure, as it always has been with them, an undeniable strength of attracting forces that refuse to be separated, and Chris breaks wide open for Zach, just as Zach’s body splits apart for him. Overwhelmed with his lover’s vulnerability as well as his own, Chris pumps his hips, biting his fellatio-swollen lip and falling into the deep beauty of Zach’s eyes as he fucks him. Zach, carried out of his post-orgasmic bliss to crest yet another wave of desire, bares his teeth at Chris and emits the filthiest string of encouragement Chris has ever heard. In another time, another environment, Chris would laugh, be impressed, or parry back, but in this moment, the sound of utter wickedness is so Zach that brings a sting to Chris’s eyes.

Zach turns his head to latch his teeth onto Chris’s bicep, enough to sharpen the pleasure but not smart. The swirl of tongue in such an incongruous place does it for him, and Chris lets out a near inhuman keen as he comes, breathless, incoherent, dissolved. Zach ruthlessly strokes his renewed erection and bursts forth again watching Chris come undone above him.

When Chris opens his eyes, they’re sharing breath and smiles, and Zach puckers his lips to rub along Chris’s jaw as they both entwine around each other.

“There are no words that can put this into writing,” Chris whispers.

“Except one.”

Chris quirks a brow at him and then whines in protest when Zach pulls away from him long enough to grab from his bedside table the blue pen that started the whole thing,, handy for reading and making notes on scripts in bed. Rolling back to Chris’s side, Zach pulls the cap off with his teeth and writes Us over Chris’s heart. Planting his lips to Chris’s, Zach tosses the pen away, and they lose themselves in a passionate kiss. When they break apart, Chris grins.

“Best word ever.”

¹ Longing, by Matthew Arnold
² I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair by Pablo Neruda
³ If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

~ by A on August 25, 2011.

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