Fic: What Not To Wear (Karl/OFC) (Wardrobe Mistress Series)

[urbancate]

Title: What Not To Wear
Pairing: Karl/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Length: 775
Summary: Sort of a stretch of the definition of Wardrobe Mistress, but it's Karl and boxer briefs and I don't think anyone will complain. ;-)
Notes: Written for ohownovel 's prompt "Karl/Wardrobe Mistress, What Not To Wear" from the Couch Potato Twist Comment!Fic Fest .



What Not To Wear

He is ushered into a big warehouse/studio space by an infant named Brandy who offers him water, sparkling or still. He wonders when coffee and tea were slashed from the menu. Damn stylists. Damn agent for sending him to a stylist. Double damn the agent for being a decent agent and arranging photo shoots and stylists and the crap he'd rather do without but are parts of the game he has to play. If he sort of enjoys getting his picture taken is something he will never admit.

"Ms. Turner will see you now."

Mizz Turner rises from her seat behind a desk big enough to seat a family of twelve for dinner, extends her hand. "Good morning, Mr. Urban. You can call me Jules."

"Karl," he replies. Her handshake is firm and all business, and he wishes he could say that he notices that the rest of her is all business, too. No such luck. Jules, the damn stylist, is also damn sexy. He will blame it on her style, though the truth is he just has a weakness for brunettes with real bodies and eyes that laugh.

"Are you ready? Today you're going to learn how to dress."

"You're joking. I've known how to dress myself since about the age of three."

"Honey." The look she shoots him can only be described as withering. Jesus Christ, these women, with their clothes "You didn't know how to dress yourself three years ago. Trust me. I've seen the pictures." She looks him up and down, again. Assessing him, again. "At least you figured out the hair."

"What the hell is wrong with my hair?!"

"Nothing right now. And it was the early 2000's, so you can sort of be forgiven, but really - long hair," she gestures wildly with her hands and shudders. "And those suits - shouldn't even be called that. Rags, really."

"I'm standing right here, woman. While you insult me. I don't have to stick around for this." But he's not moving.

"Tailoring. First lesson: Tailoring Is Your Friend." She pulls a gray suit - wait, he bets she calls it silver - off the massive rack of clothes behind her. "Okay?"

"What?"

"Put it on."

"Right here?"

"Yes." Her lack of patience with him is palpable and irritating as hell and totally starting to turn him on. Her eyes are still laughing at him. "Not exactly right here. Behind the curtain." She gestures to another side of the room, a sort of move-along motion that he obeys.

"Hand me the jeans," she orders from the other side of the curtain.

"What?"

"The jeans, they've got to go," she enunciates. "They do absolutely nothing for your ass."

"My what?"

"You heard me. Now hand them over." 

"I happen to love these - " he starts indignantly before he realizes he's emerged from behind the curtain in only his boxer briefs and socks.

"Oh, good," she says, with a smile. "Black boxer briefs. I'm glad we don't need to have the white boxer discussion."

"What?" He's starting to sound stupid, he's sure. Repetitive, at the very least.

"I do my research. No more white boxers, okay? Now put on the suit."

Six hours, two more suits - one of which is white - a tailor with actual pins, jeans that fit, more shirts than he can count, and a good deal of lecturing - she wasn't kidding when she said he was going to learn - all of that later, he is deemed ready and Jules Turner turns him loose. But keeps the jeans he came in. Damn.

The photo shoot goes well. He sends her a thank you card. And asks for his damn favorite jeans back.

Two days later, she brings the offensive - her word - denim to his door and her eyes are still laughing.

She sucks on his tongue and bites his lip as he undoes the hooks at the back of her dress, letting it fall to the floor.

"Turnabout is fair play," he says, finishing the process, divesting her of the matching bra and panties, while he's still fully dressed.

"Duly noted," she shivers and gasps under his touch.

It's all going very well, and as it should, in his estimation, until his jeans are halfway down his thighs and she just stops. And stares at his underwear. And not the good kind of staring, either.

"What?"

"Are you a skater? Snowboarder? Vagabond teenager?"

"Um, no?"

"Then no plaid, either. Okay?"

"Got it." He resigns himself to a boxerless existence, but figures it's really not that much of a sacrifice as they tumble to the bed.

Comments

[affectingly.livejournal.com]

"Are you a skater? Snowboarder? Vagabond teenager?"

"Um, no?"

"Then no plaid, either. Okay?"

AHAHA. I loved this! Your OFC is so delightful!

[urbancate.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I think that's my favorite part of this fic. &hearts

[supasass.livejournal.com]

I love Karl's grumpiness. The fact that you have made him boxerless has broken me though. GUHGUHGUH etc. lol

Your kink meme was lovely. So much gorgeous nuggets of porn. It was as if I went to McDonalds and the food was got a michelin star chicken bucket.

Is it possible we could be friends? You seem awesome. I comment more than I post, if thats ok. But I am nice, honest!