Fic: The One with the French and the Leather (Karl/OFC)
( ohownovel, this is for you bb!)
YES, IT'S ANOTHER WARDROBE MISTRESS FIC. (Am I going to hell for these? Do I even care?)
She's French. She says things like "ooh la la" with absolute sincerity and that Gallic sort of blankness - soft words, a lift of eyebrow, a slight shrug - that means he can never tell what it actually means. She's French, he doesn't understand her at all, and she absolutely drives him crazy.
At the moment she is kneeling in front of him, dark head bent with concentration - and not on what he might prefer, given the basic facts of their positions. No, she is fixing the ties along the outside of the right leg of his leather pants because he has managed to fuck them up yet again just by walking across the set. It's an actiony flick, right, and the leather is pretty cool, but the goddamn fragile costumes don't make a whole lot of sense. She is muttering in French under her breath; it's something she's always doing, and he sort of suspects it might be poetry, but it's French so he's probably wrong. He's looking down at her and holding quite still because she tends to wield scissors and needles and pins. Dark hair pulled into a rather severe knot at the nape of her neck, elegant unpierced ears, slim competent fingers, pale olive skin. He can't see her eyes, but he knows they are black as night.
"There." She taps twice on his shin through the leather, dismissing him. "Now don't fuck them up again." She stands up in front of him and there it is again - that French thing she does - the one that leaves him wondering what the hell she actually means. Aren't the French supposed to a rather direct breed of people? Maybe it's mysterious. He can't remember. Christ, it's probably both.
"Yeah, I'll try," he agrees without agreeing and her always-painted red lips twist a little.
She rolls her eyes before turning away and that he gets, because it's exactly what he was going for - boyish Kiwi charm set to annoying. He laughs, an AD yells something about Urban finally being dressed again, and it's back to work.
Of course the leather pants get fucked up again, because that is what leather pants are for.
"Merde," she sighs, eyeing the laces again - it's always the lacings with these damn things - and he doesn't know why she is so put out, because hello, he's the one looking like a ridiculous goth cowboy, with trousers coming undone down the seams so they look more like chaps, he is the one becoming unwillingly half naked on a movie set. Which, yes, goddamn, is entirely different than all those other movies he's done half naked and isn't just hilarious that Urban is always dropping trou.
Fuck, he wants to say as her fingers start working on the leather, high on the outside of his thigh, and well, that is inconvenient. If she notices, she gives no indication of it. And it only becomes worse and more obvious and more painful, because her fingers are on his thigh and all he can think about is other places her fingers would feel good, better, best of all.
"Fuck it," he finally says. "I'm done with these fucking leather piece of shit excuses for wardrobe." He stomps off to his trailer and for a second, maybe, feels a little better. Because throwing a goddamn twelve-year-old-diva tantrum always helps. Jerking off in a frenzy of frustration and visions of black eyes and red lips helps, too.
And that's how it happens every day for a week, two weeks, whatever it is. He loses track of bullshit stuff like what day of the week it is while his mind is busy keeping track of more important things like exactly how many times she touches him on any given day and exactly how many minutes he has before he can go back to his trailer and close his eyes and make himself come by simple touch and extravagent imaginations of a saucy French mouth leaving lipstick on his skin and her long black hair unpinned and tangled in his hands. He fucks her every way, every filthy way possible. In his imagination.
"And that's a wrap on Urban!" It's his last day on set, last day with the stupid leather, last day listening to muttered French out of wine-red lips and wondering why the hell he hasn't just fucked her in reality yet and knowing it's because she's still a complete mystery to him. He still has no idea what she means when she says things like oh, you krauts are all the same or i should sew these into your skin or, the eternal favorite (at least once a day): ooh la la.
There's a bit of a party afterwards and he finds her leaning against the brick wall outside, her lips pursed around a cigarette, her eyes in shadow. He invades her space a bit, breathes in smoke. She tilts her head to look at him, and he can see her eyes now - dark, and direct like he hasn't seen before. He puts his hands on her waist, his thumbs grazing bare skin above her hipbones. She drops the cigarette and grinds it out in the dirt underneath her heel.
"We are past the talking, no?"
"Fuck, yes," he growls, and pulls her against him, doesn't kiss her yet. He's waiting for it.
"Ooh la la," she laughs and reaches a hand up to his neck, pulling him down, parting her red lips to meet his.
A few hours later, sweaty and spent, her lips bare of paint and all the more poetic for it, he thinks he finally gets is. Ooh la la is French for lust.
YES, IT'S ANOTHER WARDROBE MISTRESS FIC. (Am I going to hell for these? Do I even care?)
She's French. She says things like "ooh la la" with absolute sincerity and that Gallic sort of blankness - soft words, a lift of eyebrow, a slight shrug - that means he can never tell what it actually means. She's French, he doesn't understand her at all, and she absolutely drives him crazy.
At the moment she is kneeling in front of him, dark head bent with concentration - and not on what he might prefer, given the basic facts of their positions. No, she is fixing the ties along the outside of the right leg of his leather pants because he has managed to fuck them up yet again just by walking across the set. It's an actiony flick, right, and the leather is pretty cool, but the goddamn fragile costumes don't make a whole lot of sense. She is muttering in French under her breath; it's something she's always doing, and he sort of suspects it might be poetry, but it's French so he's probably wrong. He's looking down at her and holding quite still because she tends to wield scissors and needles and pins. Dark hair pulled into a rather severe knot at the nape of her neck, elegant unpierced ears, slim competent fingers, pale olive skin. He can't see her eyes, but he knows they are black as night.
"There." She taps twice on his shin through the leather, dismissing him. "Now don't fuck them up again." She stands up in front of him and there it is again - that French thing she does - the one that leaves him wondering what the hell she actually means. Aren't the French supposed to a rather direct breed of people? Maybe it's mysterious. He can't remember. Christ, it's probably both.
"Yeah, I'll try," he agrees without agreeing and her always-painted red lips twist a little.
She rolls her eyes before turning away and that he gets, because it's exactly what he was going for - boyish Kiwi charm set to annoying. He laughs, an AD yells something about Urban finally being dressed again, and it's back to work.
Of course the leather pants get fucked up again, because that is what leather pants are for.
"Merde," she sighs, eyeing the laces again - it's always the lacings with these damn things - and he doesn't know why she is so put out, because hello, he's the one looking like a ridiculous goth cowboy, with trousers coming undone down the seams so they look more like chaps, he is the one becoming unwillingly half naked on a movie set. Which, yes, goddamn, is entirely different than all those other movies he's done half naked and isn't just hilarious that Urban is always dropping trou.
Fuck, he wants to say as her fingers start working on the leather, high on the outside of his thigh, and well, that is inconvenient. If she notices, she gives no indication of it. And it only becomes worse and more obvious and more painful, because her fingers are on his thigh and all he can think about is other places her fingers would feel good, better, best of all.
"Fuck it," he finally says. "I'm done with these fucking leather piece of shit excuses for wardrobe." He stomps off to his trailer and for a second, maybe, feels a little better. Because throwing a goddamn twelve-year-old-diva tantrum always helps. Jerking off in a frenzy of frustration and visions of black eyes and red lips helps, too.
And that's how it happens every day for a week, two weeks, whatever it is. He loses track of bullshit stuff like what day of the week it is while his mind is busy keeping track of more important things like exactly how many times she touches him on any given day and exactly how many minutes he has before he can go back to his trailer and close his eyes and make himself come by simple touch and extravagent imaginations of a saucy French mouth leaving lipstick on his skin and her long black hair unpinned and tangled in his hands. He fucks her every way, every filthy way possible. In his imagination.
"And that's a wrap on Urban!" It's his last day on set, last day with the stupid leather, last day listening to muttered French out of wine-red lips and wondering why the hell he hasn't just fucked her in reality yet and knowing it's because she's still a complete mystery to him. He still has no idea what she means when she says things like oh, you krauts are all the same or i should sew these into your skin or, the eternal favorite (at least once a day): ooh la la.
There's a bit of a party afterwards and he finds her leaning against the brick wall outside, her lips pursed around a cigarette, her eyes in shadow. He invades her space a bit, breathes in smoke. She tilts her head to look at him, and he can see her eyes now - dark, and direct like he hasn't seen before. He puts his hands on her waist, his thumbs grazing bare skin above her hipbones. She drops the cigarette and grinds it out in the dirt underneath her heel.
"We are past the talking, no?"
"Fuck, yes," he growls, and pulls her against him, doesn't kiss her yet. He's waiting for it.
"Ooh la la," she laughs and reaches a hand up to his neck, pulling him down, parting her red lips to meet his.
A few hours later, sweaty and spent, her lips bare of paint and all the more poetic for it, he thinks he finally gets is. Ooh la la is French for lust.