(star trek rpf) Fic: Best Not To Think About It

[urbancate]

Title: Best Not To Think About It
Pairing: Karl/Zoe (kind of)
Rating: R (kind of)
Length: 1,370
Disclaimer: Lies, lies, and more lies. Lies I didn't even research!
Summary: Movie sets can get boring.
Notes: Donauwelle is German dessert of awesomeness - chocolate covered cake with cherries and cream. Also, first attempt at RPF. *facepalm*

 

Making a movie is hard work. Grueling. Intense.

 

Making a movie is a whole lot of hurry up and wait. Boring.

 

Making a movie - with the right people, that is - is like a movie in and of itself. A crazy, sideways, fucked up, hilarious slice of life like only Hollywood can offer. Fun.

 

All of these are true.

 

Right now Karl is stuck somewhere in the second aspect. Something fell, the lighting is off, J.J. yelled, people are working furiously to fix it. He sits with a view of mayhem, waiting. Too much trouble to go back to his trailer, he decided. Chris is somewhere to his right, texting furiously and giggling, which should be ridiculous - a grown man giggling - except Chris is more like an overgrown puppy. It's a bridge scene being held up, which means everyone is here, waiting - Zach, Zoe, John, Simon, Anton. Uncharacteristically, though, everyone is doing their own thing. Usually someone says something stupid, makes a joke, they all laugh, camaraderie abounds, etc. But today they are all in their own little worlds - cell phone, iPod, book, magazine, whatever. It's not the worst day he's ever had on a set. By far. But it certainly isn't the best. One of the Z's would probably call it a negative karma day. In Karl's opinion, it's just one of those things. Like spouses, even castmates who get along like gangbusters occasionally need a break from each other. Tomorrow will be back to normal - hijinks, tomfoolery, mind fuckery of the only most loving intent.

 

All of that aside, right now Karl is bored.

 

Another thing about making a movie - everyone sleeps with everyone else. Or they at least think about it. So that's what Karl does. He thinks about it. Because he's married but Natalie is on the other side of the globe and while he is not that guy, he is still a guy, and one with an active imagination.

 

And he has to think about something, because even in his head he's tired of hearing himself snark about Chekov's age and that's no good at all. Stale in in his own head will only mean a dozen extra takes.

 

He read somewhere, or heard - he can't remember - that ballet dancers are ridiculously oversexed creatures. That of all the oversexed artist types existing in the world, ballet dancers are definitely the worst. Or best. The connotation is long forgotten.

 

The whole idea had been forgotten - partly because it struck him as terribly incongruent and partly because what did he care about ballet - until he met Zoe. Not because she seems ridiculously oversexed. She is too elegant for that. But she is, or was, a ballerina. Still is, by his estimation. It's the elegance, the controlled yet effortless grace that imbues her every movement.

 

Yet she is not at all cool. Cool as in fun, yes. Cool as in icy, no. She will be haughty sometimes, but as a joke, part of the act of fulfilling the expectations held by others concerning a beautiful ballerina become actress. Which defies his expectations, he supposes. Ballerinas are supposed to be slightly chilly and untouchable and float through the world looking down their elegant noses at the mere mortals. And Zoe floats, she does. But she is also warm and funny and vulnerable and her laugh is a surprising combination of throaty and girl-next-door that makes him wonder about sex with a ballerina. More than wonder, actually.

 

He is still looking at the pages of a magazine, but damned if he can remember what it is or even make out what he's supposedly reading. Because his mind has gone straight from Zoe's laugh to Zoe laughing that throaty laugh while naked and underneath him - spread out like dessert, like Donauwelle - a little bit tart, a lot sweet, and a whole lot creamy.

 

He thinks this is where his brain should return to mundane and appropriate things like food or news magazines. But the little brain is in control now and says No, sorry mate. Flip a page of the magazine. Now think about those legs. Endless, perfect legs, wrapped around you, pulling you in.

 

He can't believe he's doing it, but he gives in.

 

 

-

 

 

Zoe thinks it might have started with Simon. He was definitely the first one to say fuck as if it were an actual curse and not just another funny thing they all throw around at each other all day. She doesn't know the why of the fuck, but she is living through the chain reaction like they all are - keeping to herself and waiting for J.J. to be happy with the just-so arrangement of oversized flashlights.

 

Why they don't all retreat to their trailers, she doesn't know. Maybe because no one has made the first move. Instead they all sit in their respective name-appropriated chairs. In costume. Which means there is a certain primness to her posture - knees together, book in her lap, iPod in hand over the book over her thighs - damn this Starfleet skirt anyway.

 

Zach loaded some music for her yesterday - "Expand, girl, expand the musical horizons." - something obscure and light years ahead of the trend curve. She is trying to listen, she really is. Or at least let it float around while she reads. But reading isn't working either. This day gets officially marked up in the out-of-whack karma column.

 

She turns the volume way down and scrolls through the library, small clickety clicks in her ear buds. To her left, Karl groans and she wonders what could be so upsetting about Popular Science or whatever nerd magazine he has today. Another strangled noise from Karl. Maybe it's not nerdery today. Maybe it's rugby. The man does get worked up about rugby - she has witnessed it herself, they all have - half-drunken Kiwi speeches about Aussies and The Cup. And then there was the blistering soliloquy from a play he'd been in as, no, you'll never guess, a rugby player. She thinks. Frankly, she doesn't remember anything except being mesmerized by the slow build of the speech, poetic and random and devastating, and the return of Karl's accent.

 

It is one of his actor ticks. He stays in accent during filming. 24/7. She understands. Whatever it takes, you do it. It's a shame, though, because New Zealand Karl is a walking, talking sex bomb. American/McCoy Karl is still sexy, but it's not the same.

 

And why is she thinking about this anyway?

 

It's a stupid thing to think about. Karl and his accent and his mouth, oh holy jesus that mouth, she would not mind kissing that mouth. At all.

 

 

-

 

 

Her legs are strong. All of her is lithe and limber and strong. And flexible. She pulls him in, he fills her in one long deep thrust, sinks into heated, wet woman. The moment stutters as she sighs and wraps her laugh around his name. The moment rights itself and everything becomes motion. In and out and in, circles and spirals, the bow of her back, beads of sweat between her breasts. She pushes and levers with that incredible body and he is on his knees and she is wrapped around him every way possible and now they're dancing, dancing.

 

 

-

 

 

She presses her thumb against his lower lip, slides it along the curve, savors the anticipation, the slight hesitation. His mouth is insanely carnal, she thinks. And then she can hardly think at all, because he is devouring her or she is devouring him, it doesn't matter which. He sucks on her tongue, she bites that cupid lip, they are hungry and this is the feast.

 

 

-

 

 

Someone slaps his shoulder. "Karl-Heinz!" It's Chris. Apparently the lights are finally ready for them.

 

 

-

 

 

It is the end of the day, the entirely wrong time of the day to be eating a donut. But there it is. Chocolate-covered-pudding-cream-filled donut. He eats half of it in one bite.

 

"Eeww. Karl." Zoe chides as she walks away.

 

Another bite and the donut is gone. He licks pudding off a finger and heads for his trailer.

Comments

[blcwriter.livejournal.com]

Nicely done, and I'm with you on the facepalm. I can't quite believe I wrote one (and only one, so far, but that's not guarantee) either. Risque of you to go for the het (what a fandom) and just the right balance. Love that they were on the same page.

[urbancate.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I like the slash, I do, but het is where I can write anything remotely porny, so het it is.