fic, star trek xi, rpf, zoe/zach
Title: It comes down to trust
Rating: PG-13, I guess?
Fandom: STXI Real Person Liiiiies
Warning: This is RPF. You know. Don't read it if it's not your thing.
Characters: Zoe Saldana/Zachary Quinto
Summary: Based on these party photos; sometimes you want to make it with your gay best friend.
Author's Notes: Sometimes I just do whatever sloanesomething tells me to do.
As expected, the after party dies down and fast when Fergie leaves, her retinue close behind her.
Zoe smiles sleepily at Zach and waves. "Take me home."
He shakes his head at her, reaching for his cell. She pouts and leans heavily against him, listening to the hum in his chest while he talks on the phone, ordering a driver and chilled Pellegrino.
"Home's a long way from here, Zee," he says to her, wrapping an arm around her. She likes it when he's playing big brother; he's safe and he's kind and she trusts him. He's a bit clingy, he enters her personal space more than any other guy (gay or otherwise) she's known; but, you know, it's harmless.
-
The air is warm, but the car is cool and her sunglasses fog up when she gets in. Zach carefully removes them and wipes them on his shirt before putting them in her over-large purse.
"This purse is bigger than you," he says, putting her seat belt on.
She smacks his hand away. "I'm not an infant, Zach," she warns, but he's already belted her in.
"Drink," he says, handing her a bottle.
She complies, but not without making a hissing noise at him.
-
Far more sober, and now needing to pee, Zoe peers up at the back entrance of the five star hotel. "Your room is much closer than mine, do you mind?" she asks and he nods.
His room is Spartan clean; hers is a mess of designer dresses she vetoed before choosing the white top and leather pants. She grins at him from the door of the bathroom. "Yours is bigger than mine, is that fair?"
He laughs, flopping on his king size and searching for the remote.
Moments later, she peeks at him again and his eyes are closed, the tv's on mute. The good thing about leather pants is that it's far easier to clamber onto your friend's bed and lay down next to him without it seeming like a seduction technique (no skin to tempt him with, regardless of his sexual leanings). He smiles and places his hand on her thigh. She lets him, curious at the intent, but usual assumptions don't hold up well with Zach.
She listens to him breathe in and out and -
-
The morning is bright (no, they left the lights on before passing out; it's 4 a.m.) and his face is nestled in the crook of her neck. She groans, lifts herself up (he grumbles in his sleep as he's dislodged from her), and hits the switch by the bedside table. Not about to sleep a full night in designer pants, she gets up, rifles through his drawers for boxers and a t-shirt, and changes. She turns to see one sleepy eye close and she rolls her eyes.
"This is a sleepover, not a party, Zach," she grumbles, climbing back in next to him.
"When do you braid my hair?" he asks, leaning his head against her.
"After breakfast," she says, half asleep again.
-
Zoe dreams that he's fucking her at the party, kissing the back of her wrists in the car, pressing her against the wall of the elevator as they climb up to the penthouse, slowly undressing her in his room and pulling her down on top of him, whispering her name over and over -
-
"There had better be coffee," she growls when the blinding light of daylight hits her closed eyes. Her head is pounding. She opens her eyes to see him standing by the window, the curtain rod still in his hand. Her heart catches just a little in her chest and she looks very quickly away.
Bad ideas are seeping in through her entire groggy, hungover thought processes. I am a grown up, she thinks, I am a professional, she thinks, I am not that woman.
He's sitting on the bed now, handing her a cup of coffee (milk, no sugar; he knows her well). "You talk in your sleep," he says.
She takes the cup, her eyes narrowed. "Don't listen next time."
Zach looks at her for a long moment. "Hard not to. You make compelling arguments."
"We're not having this conversation," she says, drinking deeply from her cup, comforted by the familiar taste. When she looks back at him, he's got a strange smile on his face and she feels ten years younger and completely clueless.
He leans in cautiously, like as if she'll attack him if he moves fast. His lips brush the corner of her lips and she feels her eyes go wide and her skin go clammy; and his cheeks are the vaguest color of pink.
"Okay, sure," he says. "See you downstairs for breakfast."
She knows she could stop him with a word, she knows an opportunity when she sees one; but she lets him go. His eyes linger briefly on her (wearing his clothes, her face smudged with last night's makeup, her hair an absolute rats nest), and his affectionate look makes her knees feel a little wobbly.
"See you," she echoes.
*
Rating: PG-13, I guess?
Fandom: STXI Real Person Liiiiies
Warning: This is RPF. You know. Don't read it if it's not your thing.
Characters: Zoe Saldana/Zachary Quinto
Summary: Based on these party photos; sometimes you want to make it with your gay best friend.
Author's Notes: Sometimes I just do whatever sloanesomething tells me to do.
As expected, the after party dies down and fast when Fergie leaves, her retinue close behind her.
Zoe smiles sleepily at Zach and waves. "Take me home."
He shakes his head at her, reaching for his cell. She pouts and leans heavily against him, listening to the hum in his chest while he talks on the phone, ordering a driver and chilled Pellegrino.
"Home's a long way from here, Zee," he says to her, wrapping an arm around her. She likes it when he's playing big brother; he's safe and he's kind and she trusts him. He's a bit clingy, he enters her personal space more than any other guy (gay or otherwise) she's known; but, you know, it's harmless.
-
The air is warm, but the car is cool and her sunglasses fog up when she gets in. Zach carefully removes them and wipes them on his shirt before putting them in her over-large purse.
"This purse is bigger than you," he says, putting her seat belt on.
She smacks his hand away. "I'm not an infant, Zach," she warns, but he's already belted her in.
"Drink," he says, handing her a bottle.
She complies, but not without making a hissing noise at him.
-
Far more sober, and now needing to pee, Zoe peers up at the back entrance of the five star hotel. "Your room is much closer than mine, do you mind?" she asks and he nods.
His room is Spartan clean; hers is a mess of designer dresses she vetoed before choosing the white top and leather pants. She grins at him from the door of the bathroom. "Yours is bigger than mine, is that fair?"
He laughs, flopping on his king size and searching for the remote.
Moments later, she peeks at him again and his eyes are closed, the tv's on mute. The good thing about leather pants is that it's far easier to clamber onto your friend's bed and lay down next to him without it seeming like a seduction technique (no skin to tempt him with, regardless of his sexual leanings). He smiles and places his hand on her thigh. She lets him, curious at the intent, but usual assumptions don't hold up well with Zach.
She listens to him breathe in and out and -
-
The morning is bright (no, they left the lights on before passing out; it's 4 a.m.) and his face is nestled in the crook of her neck. She groans, lifts herself up (he grumbles in his sleep as he's dislodged from her), and hits the switch by the bedside table. Not about to sleep a full night in designer pants, she gets up, rifles through his drawers for boxers and a t-shirt, and changes. She turns to see one sleepy eye close and she rolls her eyes.
"This is a sleepover, not a party, Zach," she grumbles, climbing back in next to him.
"When do you braid my hair?" he asks, leaning his head against her.
"After breakfast," she says, half asleep again.
-
Zoe dreams that he's fucking her at the party, kissing the back of her wrists in the car, pressing her against the wall of the elevator as they climb up to the penthouse, slowly undressing her in his room and pulling her down on top of him, whispering her name over and over -
-
"There had better be coffee," she growls when the blinding light of daylight hits her closed eyes. Her head is pounding. She opens her eyes to see him standing by the window, the curtain rod still in his hand. Her heart catches just a little in her chest and she looks very quickly away.
Bad ideas are seeping in through her entire groggy, hungover thought processes. I am a grown up, she thinks, I am a professional, she thinks, I am not that woman.
He's sitting on the bed now, handing her a cup of coffee (milk, no sugar; he knows her well). "You talk in your sleep," he says.
She takes the cup, her eyes narrowed. "Don't listen next time."
Zach looks at her for a long moment. "Hard not to. You make compelling arguments."
"We're not having this conversation," she says, drinking deeply from her cup, comforted by the familiar taste. When she looks back at him, he's got a strange smile on his face and she feels ten years younger and completely clueless.
He leans in cautiously, like as if she'll attack him if he moves fast. His lips brush the corner of her lips and she feels her eyes go wide and her skin go clammy; and his cheeks are the vaguest color of pink.
"Okay, sure," he says. "See you downstairs for breakfast."
She knows she could stop him with a word, she knows an opportunity when she sees one; but she lets him go. His eyes linger briefly on her (wearing his clothes, her face smudged with last night's makeup, her hair an absolute rats nest), and his affectionate look makes her knees feel a little wobbly.
"See you," she echoes.
*