Star Trek RPF Kink Meme Part 1 [CLOSED]
So, this is pretty self-explanatory, we're closely following in the footsteps of st_xi_kink except this time it's all about the real person fiction. Just because the other two mods and myself are shameless does not mean you all have to be, posting anonymously is fine, nay encouraged. All you do is request a pairing and a a prompt/kink and any number of
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The first thing Zach’s aware of is the mind-numbing glare of awful sunlight: the next thing he’s aware of is Chris, at his chair next to the bed, feet up on the desk. He’s got a paperback open in one hand, and in the other a box of Cheerios, and he’s watching Zach through those ridiculous plastic-framed glasses. His hair is wet.
“Morning, sweet pea,” he says. “I made breakfast,” offering the cereal box. He’s wearing an old Berkeley t-shirt, letters faded, holes at the collar.
“Kill yourself,” says Zach into the pillow. “Seriously. Fuck off.”
“How’s that tequila treating you?”
“Go play in front of a truck.”
“Nice. When did you learn all the words to ‘Dreamlover,’ by the way?”
Jesus Christ. “What?” Something bad is happening around his pillow. He touches his throbbing head tenderly: yes. His hat - which used to be a pretty nice Goorin Brothers thing, cheap but versatile -- is crushed under his left ear, drooled on. He thinks about trying to get it out from under his head but then that seems really difficult so he doesn’t.
“‘What’ is right. It’s you singing ‘Dreamlover’ to Zoe, and it’s on my phone. Consider that shit sold to TMZ like yesterday.”
“Here’s a suggestion,” Zach says, not very clearly. As wretched as he feels, there’s almost definitely worse wretchedness yet to come. He imagines the hangover hovering about six inches over his head, waiting to shove its claws into his face as soon as he moves. “Die of swine flu. You ass. Why are you so cheerful?”
“Hangunder.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Apparently it is.” Chris has his public laugh, a politician’s laugh, but then he’s got this weird hoarse bark when he’s not On, which is actually preferable. “I was up at seven. I already did most of the crossword, but if you know a four-letter word for 'Transcaucasian capital,' I’ll take it.”
“Baku. Azerbaijan. They did it last week too.”
“Fucking Azerbaijan!” says Chris, and bends over to scribble it down.
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“Your wish is my command, Your Drunkesty,” says Chris, bowing regally in the chair. He drops his long legs off the desk, heads for the bathroom. Zach watches his ass, not very covertly. The tiny zip of dopamine set off by the snugness of Chris’s jeans might not be able to fix his life, but it’s a good start.
Over the hiss of the faucet Zach yells, “Don’t get my fucking books wet again.”
“Do you realize you’re in my room? It’s my fucking book.”
“What book is it? Get me some drugs while you’re in there.”
He hears the medicine cabinet open and the rattle of pills. “Carver. Collected stories.”
Who is this guy? He’s like a made-up person. “Really. And how’s English 101 treating you? Is college super scary? Any cute girls in your class? Oh my God, do you think they know you used to have braces?”
Footsteps beside him; the creak of bedsprings as Chris sits down by his head. Zach could bite his ass, if he could move. He wouldn’t, but he could. It would be tempting. “Front all you want: Cathedral still skull-fucks you with its awesomeness,” says Chris, shoving the water up to his face. “Every time. Open your mouth.”
“Buy me dinner first.” Zach pushes himself up onto his elbows, painfully, and takes the cup and the handful of aspirin. He’s actually going to die, probably. He will die here, in Chris Pine’s hotel room in Vancouver, and then J.J. will dig him up and kill him again for necessitating a recast. The end. He wilts back down to the mattress.
“You’re not gonna die,” says Chris, uncannily. “Jesus Christ. What a drama queen you are. It’s like you’ve never had a hangover before. By the way, I can’t believe you’re hating on Raymond Carver. Keep it up and I’m going to read aloud until you cry like a little girl and your ears bleed from how hard every single sentence owns your ass.”
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“It’s not first thing,” Chris is saying. “I told you, I did the crossword. Incidentally, big talk from the guy who brought Nicomachean Ethics to makeup.”
“That was different.”
“In what possible way?”
A lot of ways. For one thing, Zach isn’t some blue-eyed polo-team-looking golden boy whose brain melts every time a pretty girl uncrosses her legs within a ten-foot radius, not that that should make a difference, but it does. For another thing Zach doesn’t want to live inside Nicomachean Ethics. Sure, he can get behind the idea, happiness being a life of purposeful virtue, great in theory, but that’s not the same, and he doesn’t read books the way Chris does: burrowing down inside them, loving them stupid, dogearing passages and probably writing them down in some secret Moleskine of English-major sadness. It just doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of him, the rest of him being kind of a douchebag.
None of this is anything he can explain properly, so he just says, “Don’t read aloud. One, my whole life is a giant headache, so the less you talk the better, and two, Carver loses a lot off the page.”
“Slander.”
“Facts. It’s part of the magic. All that feeling from those asshole narrators of his. Find me a passage that sings and we’ll talk.” Okay, he’s actually feeling better. Maybe he never felt that bad to begin with, maybe it was just one of those things where all you have to fear is fear itself. He extricates the hat, drops it on the floor, tries sitting up. It’s bad, but it’s not unbearable.
“Oh, it’s on,” says Chris. “I’m gonna sing a passage all over your face. Get ready for it.” He flips a page, rubs his mouth absently, and Zach has a split-second flash of fantasy, an old standby: Chris on his knees, blue eyes dark, that full mouth hot and ruinous around his dick. Except suddenly in the fantasy Chris is wearing the dumb glasses, which is weird, and sort of endearing. It might have to be added to the general rotation.
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“Blah blah,” says Zach. “Emotionally constipated narrator, wife’s blind friend barges in, the guy tries to describe the cathedral to him. I am actually like twelve times more literate than you are. This tequila-stupid version of Zachary Quinto is an anomaly.”
“Whatever makes you feel better,” says Chris, grinning at him, and Zach is suddenly grateful that he isn’t blind, because whatever else Chris is he is a pleasure to look at, especially when he smiles, especially in the sunlight. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, almost self-consciously -- and that’s beautiful too -- and darts Zach a quick, strange look.
“Go ahead,” says Zach. “Thrill me.” He pulls his knees up and rests his elbows on them.
“I don’t know if it’s going to have the full impact,” Chris says. “You kind of need the build-up to get how great it is. It’s cheap just coming in at the end.” He does look self-conscious. This story, Zach realizes sort of insanely, is Chris’s girlfriend, and now he has to introduce her to his social circle and he’s worried that it’s going to be weird.
“I’m not going to judge your girlfriend,” he says. “I’m too hungover,” and what’s really strange is that Chris seems to actually get what he means, because he laughs and pushes his glasses up, unfolding the corner of the page: clears his throat again, settles his shoulders against the wall at the head of the bed, so one long thigh presses against Zach's shoulder.
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“ ‘Are they closed?’ he said. ‘Don’t fudge.’
“ ‘They’re closed,’ I said.
“ ‘Keep them that way,’ he said. He said, ‘Don’t stop now. Draw.’ ”
Chris coughs and glances sideways at him. Zach doesn’t say anything.
“So we kept on with it. His fingers rode my fingers as my hand went over the paper. It was like nothing else in my life up to now.
“Then he said, ‘I think that’s it. I think you got it,’ he said. ‘Take a look. What do you think?’
“But I had my eyes closed. I thought I’d keep them that way for a little longer. I thought it was something I ought to do.”
Zach realizes that Chris isn’t looking at the open book before him. His half-lidded eyes are on something out the window: he knows the passage by heart.
“ ‘Well?” he said. ‘Are you looking?’
“My eyes were still closed. I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything.
“ ‘It’s really something,’ I said.”
Zach can hear everything now: the rumble of the ice machine down the hall, a muffled conversation, the strains of an unfamiliar theme song from someone’s television. His head still throbs, and he can’t take his eyes off Chris. Who doesn't even seem to notice what's happening: just shuts the book in one hand and smacks the cover as if to emphasize a point.
“The End,” he says, in his normal voice. “Wipe your tears, bitch. Raymond Carver will do that to you. Did you get owned, or did you get super-owned?”
“I like your girlfriend,” Zach says. “She can stay.” Almost without meaning to he touches the back of Chris’s wrist with two fingers. And maybe he’s still drunk, but he could swear Chris shivers, just a little, at the brush of his skin.
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This story, Zach realizes sort of insanely, is Chris’s girlfriend, and now he has to introduce her to his social circle and he’s worried that it’s going to be weird.
GUH. YES. I AM DONE BEING ARTICULATE NOW.
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BECAUSE THIS CHRIS WAS ALREADY MY CANON CHRIS AND GOD I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE
anon, if you are on my FL, I will laugh and laugh, because I pulled this shit on you guys a few days back with The Sun Also Rises and I felt a little like a fool.
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I am not on your flist but clearly your excellent taste in canon indicates that I should be. as soon as i finish the other like 900 pages of this and de-anon.
ps "sun also rises" is totally his favorite hemingway amirite
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This OP completely loves you. That was glorious. One big passage that sings, honest to God.
Big bonus internets for Chris Pine's Smile in the Sun. Even more bonus internets for the crossword puzzle. SO MANY INTERNETS.
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i'm pretty sure Pinto doing the Sunday NYTimes crossword puzzle over breakfast burritos is my secretest kink. HELP
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Best new I've had all day! (ME TOO OMG.)
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