RPF: it’s huey lewis & the news, idiot
it’s huey lewis & the news, idiot
She’d like to think she’s a good actress. Getting there. Whatever. And it’s no surprise that she’s learning - you do a fabulous script. You do a popular movie. It worked for Gosling. And he got laid for a couple years too. robert pattinson has great hair. you should sue him. rpf. kristen stewart/rpattz. 1122 words, pg13.
note: unbeta'd. okay. this is so not my fault. at all. at the very least, i dedicate this to glassbomb. because she’s really convincing. and awesome. and stuff. and, yes, deadduck008. mountain dew was involved. shoot me.
-
So here’s the thing.
Kristen’s an actress. She’d like to think she’s a good actress. Getting there. Whatever. And it’s no surprise that she’s learning - you do a fabulous script. You do a popular movie. It worked for Gosling. And he got laid for a couple years too. But she’s in the middle of fucking nowhere, in between pages and pages of vampires and werewolves and really shitty wigs. Not her fault.
She’s the twit, at least.
In the fucking middle of nowhere isn’t so bad. She wanders. Takes pictures to send to mom - she’s all about the shrubbery, apparently. She reads. She spits her lines.
But lunch sucks. And to the point where she sits at the end of the tent, by the bushes, to drown the smell of veggie-whatever and carbs with nature. Yeah, she knows. She’s trying to try. At least, she didn’t sign up for Speed Racer.
“You’re staring.”
She jumps. There’s Robert. Pattinson - first name basis makes her nervous so she, like, detaches herself and muses about his hair and how good his hair looks in the middle of nowhere with really shitty weather and -
Yeah. Whatever.
But he’s standing there, just standing there, with this weird little smile and his really, really, really good hair. Even the disgusting thing on his tray can’t take it away from him and she just relents.
Her hand waves and he drops the tray, peering over at her script. She bats his hand away and drops to the plastic bench.
Kristen sighs. “I’m reading.”
She’s really not. He knows she’s really not. And yet, still, still he stays sitting across from her at the table. Eating the veggie-whatever that looks like a penis, if you ask her. But she’s mature. Sure.
His lips curl. “You’re reading my head?”
“You’re not funny,” she says. Her nose wrinkles. Her fingers are nervous, peeling the ends of her script back and forth. It’s habit, really.
“I’m not trying to be, love.”
She’s a liar if she tells you that she doesn’t like the sound of that, of love, of how his tongue sort of does this thing when he says it. It goes back and forth over his lip and really, she’s not watching.
Really. She’s too pissed about his fantastic hair.
“Right,” she mutters anyway.
-
Okay, so this movie thing isn’t that bad.
It might be days later where she changes her mind, but she kind of digs the whole sitting in bed for hours and takes and making out with him.
Just not him. Really. Just not him.
The others try to tell her that he’s not a bad guy. Of course, he’s the one that goes around grinning to the groupies saying things like hello, love and waving his joint around like he’s trying to have a cock fight. Yeah. She said it. Cock fight.
But then again, he’s sitting there, right across the bed from her. He’s watching her and just watching her and she’s grabbing this weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wavers. She might throw up.
He looks like he wants to kiss her. She might want to kiss him back.
Well, shit.
So this whole kissing thing sort of unfolds in front of her with the director waving her crazy hands instead of Edward and Bella being nothing more than words on bunch of page.
This is the third take.
“So you kind of, sort of, really have to kiss her,” she says and Kristen wants to punch her in the face if she goes about this whole epic-in-a-bottle shit again. But the director’s gushing to Robert.
“On the mouth,” Robert adds, turning to her.
“Idiot.” - and she can’t help herself, it sort of slips and the poor production’s assistant nearby kind of sighs because she’s married and thinks Robert’s better off in some sanctioned guerrilla prison where they lock him away and only play ACDC so he can stop looking like a Duran Duran video.
Shut up. She’s really trying.
But he’s disappointed, leaning away on the bed. He shrugs, reaching for some water as they finish setting up for the next take. “You’re the tight arse.
Her eyes roll. “Shut up.”
She swears she hears make me.
-
He gets her high.
It’s, like, so totally not her fault either. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it a whim. Call it the ‘years-now-when-she-has-kids-she-can-say-she-did-stupid’ moment. But she’s high. As a kite. A very nice kite.
“You smell nice.”
She has to tell him. Confess. Whatever - good for the soul. But she leans closer, to smell him because he does smell nice and she needs to secretly indulge that. Even though, he’s right here. And it’s kind of not a secret, but oh, well.
“See,” he drawls, rolling another joint, “I’m not completely bad.”
She has to smile at that. Just a little bit (high, afterall) and nods seriously. She thinks about kissing him too. Just to show how serious she is. Maybe, a little tongue. But she’s not that sure where his tongue has been. Plus, like, there’s a lot of Twilight moms on set. And that scares her.
She pats his head instead.
“No,” she agrees. “You’re a big bloody fucking asshole.”
-
Most days, she’s waiting for revelations.
She thinks she kind of likes him. Enjoys kind of liking him too. It’s disturbing. It’s the truth. She sort of even dances around the idea of kissing him on her own. All by herself.
But he’s got the great hair, she reminds herself.
It’s one of those kisses today, anyhow, and they’re standing off to the side. She’s got her hands in his jacket and his are cupping her face. She wants to think that it’s going to be okay - although, the idea of that comes from all the millions of lines that Bella makes her choke on.
She’s here. And she’s enjoying herself. A little. Okay, she really is. He kind of knows that too and it’s weird because it’s like a secret, from her to him and he’s keeping for whatever reason.
Her teeth scrape over her lip and she leans forward, her mouth brushing over his forehead as she presses against him. Her line. Oh, yeah. It’s her line.
“I love you,” she says quietly. “I don’t get it. I just - you know, we’ll be okay. We’ll always be okay.”
His lips curl. “Okay.”
But she bursts into laughter.
It takes them another ten takes to get closer, his mouth over hers and maybe, just maybe, hers sighing into his. And maybe too, she might even like it a little too much.
She’s genuine. But he’s still a dick.
She’d like to think she’s a good actress. Getting there. Whatever. And it’s no surprise that she’s learning - you do a fabulous script. You do a popular movie. It worked for Gosling. And he got laid for a couple years too. robert pattinson has great hair. you should sue him. rpf. kristen stewart/rpattz. 1122 words, pg13.
note: unbeta'd. okay. this is so not my fault. at all. at the very least, i dedicate this to glassbomb. because she’s really convincing. and awesome. and stuff. and, yes, deadduck008. mountain dew was involved. shoot me.
-
So here’s the thing.
Kristen’s an actress. She’d like to think she’s a good actress. Getting there. Whatever. And it’s no surprise that she’s learning - you do a fabulous script. You do a popular movie. It worked for Gosling. And he got laid for a couple years too. But she’s in the middle of fucking nowhere, in between pages and pages of vampires and werewolves and really shitty wigs. Not her fault.
She’s the twit, at least.
In the fucking middle of nowhere isn’t so bad. She wanders. Takes pictures to send to mom - she’s all about the shrubbery, apparently. She reads. She spits her lines.
But lunch sucks. And to the point where she sits at the end of the tent, by the bushes, to drown the smell of veggie-whatever and carbs with nature. Yeah, she knows. She’s trying to try. At least, she didn’t sign up for Speed Racer.
“You’re staring.”
She jumps. There’s Robert. Pattinson - first name basis makes her nervous so she, like, detaches herself and muses about his hair and how good his hair looks in the middle of nowhere with really shitty weather and -
Yeah. Whatever.
But he’s standing there, just standing there, with this weird little smile and his really, really, really good hair. Even the disgusting thing on his tray can’t take it away from him and she just relents.
Her hand waves and he drops the tray, peering over at her script. She bats his hand away and drops to the plastic bench.
Kristen sighs. “I’m reading.”
She’s really not. He knows she’s really not. And yet, still, still he stays sitting across from her at the table. Eating the veggie-whatever that looks like a penis, if you ask her. But she’s mature. Sure.
His lips curl. “You’re reading my head?”
“You’re not funny,” she says. Her nose wrinkles. Her fingers are nervous, peeling the ends of her script back and forth. It’s habit, really.
“I’m not trying to be, love.”
She’s a liar if she tells you that she doesn’t like the sound of that, of love, of how his tongue sort of does this thing when he says it. It goes back and forth over his lip and really, she’s not watching.
Really. She’s too pissed about his fantastic hair.
“Right,” she mutters anyway.
-
Okay, so this movie thing isn’t that bad.
It might be days later where she changes her mind, but she kind of digs the whole sitting in bed for hours and takes and making out with him.
Just not him. Really. Just not him.
The others try to tell her that he’s not a bad guy. Of course, he’s the one that goes around grinning to the groupies saying things like hello, love and waving his joint around like he’s trying to have a cock fight. Yeah. She said it. Cock fight.
But then again, he’s sitting there, right across the bed from her. He’s watching her and just watching her and she’s grabbing this weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wavers. She might throw up.
He looks like he wants to kiss her. She might want to kiss him back.
Well, shit.
So this whole kissing thing sort of unfolds in front of her with the director waving her crazy hands instead of Edward and Bella being nothing more than words on bunch of page.
This is the third take.
“So you kind of, sort of, really have to kiss her,” she says and Kristen wants to punch her in the face if she goes about this whole epic-in-a-bottle shit again. But the director’s gushing to Robert.
“On the mouth,” Robert adds, turning to her.
“Idiot.” - and she can’t help herself, it sort of slips and the poor production’s assistant nearby kind of sighs because she’s married and thinks Robert’s better off in some sanctioned guerrilla prison where they lock him away and only play ACDC so he can stop looking like a Duran Duran video.
Shut up. She’s really trying.
But he’s disappointed, leaning away on the bed. He shrugs, reaching for some water as they finish setting up for the next take. “You’re the tight arse.
Her eyes roll. “Shut up.”
She swears she hears make me.
-
He gets her high.
It’s, like, so totally not her fault either. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it a whim. Call it the ‘years-now-when-she-has-kids-she-can-say-she-did-stupid’ moment. But she’s high. As a kite. A very nice kite.
“You smell nice.”
She has to tell him. Confess. Whatever - good for the soul. But she leans closer, to smell him because he does smell nice and she needs to secretly indulge that. Even though, he’s right here. And it’s kind of not a secret, but oh, well.
“See,” he drawls, rolling another joint, “I’m not completely bad.”
She has to smile at that. Just a little bit (high, afterall) and nods seriously. She thinks about kissing him too. Just to show how serious she is. Maybe, a little tongue. But she’s not that sure where his tongue has been. Plus, like, there’s a lot of Twilight moms on set. And that scares her.
She pats his head instead.
“No,” she agrees. “You’re a big bloody fucking asshole.”
-
Most days, she’s waiting for revelations.
She thinks she kind of likes him. Enjoys kind of liking him too. It’s disturbing. It’s the truth. She sort of even dances around the idea of kissing him on her own. All by herself.
But he’s got the great hair, she reminds herself.
It’s one of those kisses today, anyhow, and they’re standing off to the side. She’s got her hands in his jacket and his are cupping her face. She wants to think that it’s going to be okay - although, the idea of that comes from all the millions of lines that Bella makes her choke on.
She’s here. And she’s enjoying herself. A little. Okay, she really is. He kind of knows that too and it’s weird because it’s like a secret, from her to him and he’s keeping for whatever reason.
Her teeth scrape over her lip and she leans forward, her mouth brushing over his forehead as she presses against him. Her line. Oh, yeah. It’s her line.
“I love you,” she says quietly. “I don’t get it. I just - you know, we’ll be okay. We’ll always be okay.”
His lips curl. “Okay.”
But she bursts into laughter.
It takes them another ten takes to get closer, his mouth over hers and maybe, just maybe, hers sighing into his. And maybe too, she might even like it a little too much.
She’s genuine. But he’s still a dick.