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Entry tags:
rpf Katee/Trucco.
Fandom: BSG RPF. (run now)
Pairing: Katee Sackhoff/Michael Trucco, vague Katee Sackhoff/Tricia Helfer
Rating: er.. R, for sexual situations and language.
Length: 1,500+
Notes: Blame those photos from comiccon. You know, these photos. And![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
latteaddict and pirateygoodness and someone else that I don't remember right now.
Disclaimer: NEITHER OF THESE PEOPLE ARE MINE. In some respects, they're not even real.
Repetition Leads to...
by ALC Punk!
Same-old, same-old. It's a photo-op, with press and amateur photographers milling around, snapping anything and everything. Michael's not really paying attention, just smiling and acting relaxed while his eyes kind of scan, looking for something, anything, to relieve the monotony.
It's Katee who finds him, though, barrels into him, laughing and maybe a little drunk on the convention and late nights. Not to mention the wine she must have had earlier.
"Hey, sailor," she calls up to him, leaning back and giving his ass a pat under cover of steadying herself.
Trucco grabs for her arms, but then remembers where they are. "Stop that," he hisses as he smiles for the flashes going off.
"Make me," she hisses back.
"You look hot," he suggests, a moment later, while trying to surreptitiously look down her dress.
Katee beams even more, at that. "Thanks."
"No, really. Really hot." He's really hoping that the leer in his eyes is only discernable to her.
Catching on, her eyes narrow slightly. "Shut up."
"You look hot." He repeats, grinning inanely for the camera.
Her fingers pinch his hip. "You are such a broken record."
"Aren't you a little young to know phrases like that?"
A laugh escapes her, and the flashes go off again. Everyone wants to capture that magical moment of Katee smirking and laughing. "Admit it," she pats his ass again, then turns, pressing her hip into his groin, "you love it when I'm around."
Trying to smile while wanting to grit his teeth, he growls out, "Stop that, or you're getting a spanking."
"Promise?" she taunts.
And then the session is over, as the photographers call for them to change partners. Katee moves on, and Michael drifts towards Mary and some of the crew from Stargate. He moves carefully, though, thinking cold thoughts.
Very cold thoughts.
-
"Did you steal someone's old curtains for that jacket?"
Michael turns from staring out the window of the hotel conference room the party is being hosted in, to find Katee standing too close. He shrugs, "I don't think you're one to talk, Sackhoff."
"Oh?" A giggle escapes her, her eyes travel his frame, and her eyebrows grow up. "Are you saying I should take fashion advice from a man who thinks jeans are formal wear?"
He tilts his head, "At least your dress is black, this time."
"Are you insulting my dress?" she demands, moving even closer. Her eyes are sparkling with laughter. "Because that could be grounds for defenestrating you."
"For what?"
"Wanna dictionary, old man?"
He snickers, then backs away before he forgets himself and does something like grab her arm or smack her ass. "I'm impressed you know such big words, Sackhoff."
"Ah, Trucco, I'm a woman of many talents." She winks, then holds out her half-empty glass. "Wanna sip?"
"What's in it?" He figures he has a right to be suspicious. After all, this is Katee, and God only knows what she'd try to slip him.
She giggles, then moves closer and grabs his arm, "You are so paranoid."
"I have every right to be," he defends.
"No fun, either."
Michael scans the guests, noting that most aren't really paying attention to them. "I can be very fun, and you know it."
"So you say."
Taking the challenge in her tone, he nudges her with his elbow, "Wanna go make out in the bathroom?"
Like it's normal for them (which it maybe kinda is, not that it should be. Really) to do stuff like this. He's pretty sure he's got fantasies about Katee that involve things he's not sure he'd ever actually ask her to do (except for the one with the penguin--he's pretty sure that one is Aaron's fault, though).
"Nah," she smirks, "I had Tricia in the bathroom earlier, so I'm past the excitement of that."
And there is not a fucking thing he can say to that, because just for a moment, he's seeing naked Tricia and naked Katee, and they're kissing, and he's fairly certain that his brain has melted. Possibly through the floor and down to the ground level, bypassing the elevators.
"Will you do it again, in front of me?" Shit, that is so not what he wanted to say.
What the hell kind of alcohol has he been drinking? Or maybe it's just Katee, with her giggling and smirking and brushing up against him. And he knows what she tastes like when she's hyper like this, and his body protests the rapid shifting in his thought-patterns.
Katee chuckles, "Nah. We don't perform for an audience, Mike."
"Don't call me that."
"Make me," she suggests, giggling up at him, like this is suddenly the funniest thing she's ever done.
God. She's such a kid, he realizes--he always thinks it after they've done something stupid. This time, he's thinking it before. "Katee... I should go." He jumps when she pats his ass and grabs her wrist. "Stop that."
"Party pooper." She says, pouting at him.
It doesn't work on him. Much. "I should get some sleep. Catch you at the panel tomorrow, maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe." She gives him a disinterested little wave and turns to walk away.
Michael shrugs at her change of mood, and follows his own plan, anyway, heading off to his room. It takes him three elevators to get to the right floor, and he wonders about this whole progress thing that demands express elevators only go to certain floors. Maybe he's drunk and mentally rambling.
Standing in front of his hotel room, he sticks his hand into his back pocket for the key, and can't find it. He checks the other pocket, then the front ones, and the ones inside the lining of his jacket (a jacket he totally likes, despite what certain fashion-challenged women who wear orange sweaters might say), and comes up with nothing.
Shit. Obviously, he's dropped it somewhere.
It means a trek down to the reception desk, an explanation, and probably some sort of groveling. It also means running into way too many people who would want to stop and chat. And he's tired of chatting and making polite conversation. He really just wants to go into his room and climb into his bed to think about Katee... and Tricia.
"Forget something, Trucco?"
He turns, and decides it's totally inevitable that Katee's leaning against the wall behind him, a keycard in her hand. "Thief."
Widening her eyes innocently, she chuckles before replying, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You picked my pocket," he says. It's not a guess, since it's the only way she could have that key.
"Maybe. What're you gonna do about it?"
"May I have my key, please?"
Katee studies him, then shrugs and moves forwards, stopping just out of range before holding the card out, "Here. Guess you're really not in the mood tonight, huh."
Well, he is and he isn't. It's just damned confusing. Except that it really shouldn't be, he decides, because Katee is there, and not in the half-dozen places she totally could be. And that's definitely enough for him, because while the fantasy is nice, the reality is way better.
Which inevitably means that five seconds after he thinks that, he's snaked a hand around her wrist and pulled her into him, and he's kissing Katee. And this time it's not flirty stuff, there's intent involved and she laughs before his tongue slips against hers. At some point, she reaches around him and unlocks the door. But since he's concentrating very fully on the task at hand (Katee's mouth, which tastes like wine and garlic and Katee), he doesn't really notice until she shoves him backwards and he almost trips over the carpet.
"Clumsy."
"Distracted."
She laughs softly, then kicks the door closed and grabs his shirt, probably wrinkling it, but he so doesn't care.
-
Michael's barely awake when Katee kisses him one last time and crawls from the bed to get dressed. She's muttering something about an early morning, and being in her own hotel room, but he doesn't really listen. He's only got one eye open, watching her get dressed in the near-darkness.
"Bra," she suddenly complains, "Where the hell did you put my bra?"
"I threw it?" He suggests, because he's not really certain. The problem with bras--especially Katee's--is that they contain breasts, and breasts tend to shut his brain off. "If I find it, I'll return it in the morning."
"Oh, that'll go over well." Even in the dark, he can tell she's glaring at him.
"Fine. Turn on the light."
She does, half-blinding him until he pulls the pillow over his head. By the time she pokes him to tell him goodbye, he's practically snoring.
"Old," she mocks softly, bending down to kiss his cheek.
"Ancient and wise," he agrees.
She pats his nearly-exposed ass, "Keep telling yourself that, Michael."
"'Night, Katee."
He's asleep before she makes it to the door. The thought that she might leave it open doesn't even drag him back to semi-consciousness.
-
Morning dawns, and he lays there trying to remember what the hell went on the night before. When the memory hits him, he groans. Because he keeps telling himself not to do that, and he keeps (obviously) failing.
God, he's an idiot.
Kicking himself, he gets up and heads into the shower. Maybe next convention, he'll be over this whole... thing.
He doubts it, though.
-f-
Pairing: Katee Sackhoff/Michael Trucco, vague Katee Sackhoff/Tricia Helfer
Rating: er.. R, for sexual situations and language.
Length: 1,500+
Notes: Blame those photos from comiccon. You know, these photos. And
latteaddict and pirateygoodness and someone else that I don't remember right now.Disclaimer: NEITHER OF THESE PEOPLE ARE MINE. In some respects, they're not even real.
Repetition Leads to...
by ALC Punk!
Same-old, same-old. It's a photo-op, with press and amateur photographers milling around, snapping anything and everything. Michael's not really paying attention, just smiling and acting relaxed while his eyes kind of scan, looking for something, anything, to relieve the monotony.
It's Katee who finds him, though, barrels into him, laughing and maybe a little drunk on the convention and late nights. Not to mention the wine she must have had earlier.
"Hey, sailor," she calls up to him, leaning back and giving his ass a pat under cover of steadying herself.
Trucco grabs for her arms, but then remembers where they are. "Stop that," he hisses as he smiles for the flashes going off.
"Make me," she hisses back.
"You look hot," he suggests, a moment later, while trying to surreptitiously look down her dress.
Katee beams even more, at that. "Thanks."
"No, really. Really hot." He's really hoping that the leer in his eyes is only discernable to her.
Catching on, her eyes narrow slightly. "Shut up."
"You look hot." He repeats, grinning inanely for the camera.
Her fingers pinch his hip. "You are such a broken record."
"Aren't you a little young to know phrases like that?"
A laugh escapes her, and the flashes go off again. Everyone wants to capture that magical moment of Katee smirking and laughing. "Admit it," she pats his ass again, then turns, pressing her hip into his groin, "you love it when I'm around."
Trying to smile while wanting to grit his teeth, he growls out, "Stop that, or you're getting a spanking."
"Promise?" she taunts.
And then the session is over, as the photographers call for them to change partners. Katee moves on, and Michael drifts towards Mary and some of the crew from Stargate. He moves carefully, though, thinking cold thoughts.
Very cold thoughts.
-
"Did you steal someone's old curtains for that jacket?"
Michael turns from staring out the window of the hotel conference room the party is being hosted in, to find Katee standing too close. He shrugs, "I don't think you're one to talk, Sackhoff."
"Oh?" A giggle escapes her, her eyes travel his frame, and her eyebrows grow up. "Are you saying I should take fashion advice from a man who thinks jeans are formal wear?"
He tilts his head, "At least your dress is black, this time."
"Are you insulting my dress?" she demands, moving even closer. Her eyes are sparkling with laughter. "Because that could be grounds for defenestrating you."
"For what?"
"Wanna dictionary, old man?"
He snickers, then backs away before he forgets himself and does something like grab her arm or smack her ass. "I'm impressed you know such big words, Sackhoff."
"Ah, Trucco, I'm a woman of many talents." She winks, then holds out her half-empty glass. "Wanna sip?"
"What's in it?" He figures he has a right to be suspicious. After all, this is Katee, and God only knows what she'd try to slip him.
She giggles, then moves closer and grabs his arm, "You are so paranoid."
"I have every right to be," he defends.
"No fun, either."
Michael scans the guests, noting that most aren't really paying attention to them. "I can be very fun, and you know it."
"So you say."
Taking the challenge in her tone, he nudges her with his elbow, "Wanna go make out in the bathroom?"
Like it's normal for them (which it maybe kinda is, not that it should be. Really) to do stuff like this. He's pretty sure he's got fantasies about Katee that involve things he's not sure he'd ever actually ask her to do (except for the one with the penguin--he's pretty sure that one is Aaron's fault, though).
"Nah," she smirks, "I had Tricia in the bathroom earlier, so I'm past the excitement of that."
And there is not a fucking thing he can say to that, because just for a moment, he's seeing naked Tricia and naked Katee, and they're kissing, and he's fairly certain that his brain has melted. Possibly through the floor and down to the ground level, bypassing the elevators.
"Will you do it again, in front of me?" Shit, that is so not what he wanted to say.
What the hell kind of alcohol has he been drinking? Or maybe it's just Katee, with her giggling and smirking and brushing up against him. And he knows what she tastes like when she's hyper like this, and his body protests the rapid shifting in his thought-patterns.
Katee chuckles, "Nah. We don't perform for an audience, Mike."
"Don't call me that."
"Make me," she suggests, giggling up at him, like this is suddenly the funniest thing she's ever done.
God. She's such a kid, he realizes--he always thinks it after they've done something stupid. This time, he's thinking it before. "Katee... I should go." He jumps when she pats his ass and grabs her wrist. "Stop that."
"Party pooper." She says, pouting at him.
It doesn't work on him. Much. "I should get some sleep. Catch you at the panel tomorrow, maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe." She gives him a disinterested little wave and turns to walk away.
Michael shrugs at her change of mood, and follows his own plan, anyway, heading off to his room. It takes him three elevators to get to the right floor, and he wonders about this whole progress thing that demands express elevators only go to certain floors. Maybe he's drunk and mentally rambling.
Standing in front of his hotel room, he sticks his hand into his back pocket for the key, and can't find it. He checks the other pocket, then the front ones, and the ones inside the lining of his jacket (a jacket he totally likes, despite what certain fashion-challenged women who wear orange sweaters might say), and comes up with nothing.
Shit. Obviously, he's dropped it somewhere.
It means a trek down to the reception desk, an explanation, and probably some sort of groveling. It also means running into way too many people who would want to stop and chat. And he's tired of chatting and making polite conversation. He really just wants to go into his room and climb into his bed to think about Katee... and Tricia.
"Forget something, Trucco?"
He turns, and decides it's totally inevitable that Katee's leaning against the wall behind him, a keycard in her hand. "Thief."
Widening her eyes innocently, she chuckles before replying, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You picked my pocket," he says. It's not a guess, since it's the only way she could have that key.
"Maybe. What're you gonna do about it?"
"May I have my key, please?"
Katee studies him, then shrugs and moves forwards, stopping just out of range before holding the card out, "Here. Guess you're really not in the mood tonight, huh."
Well, he is and he isn't. It's just damned confusing. Except that it really shouldn't be, he decides, because Katee is there, and not in the half-dozen places she totally could be. And that's definitely enough for him, because while the fantasy is nice, the reality is way better.
Which inevitably means that five seconds after he thinks that, he's snaked a hand around her wrist and pulled her into him, and he's kissing Katee. And this time it's not flirty stuff, there's intent involved and she laughs before his tongue slips against hers. At some point, she reaches around him and unlocks the door. But since he's concentrating very fully on the task at hand (Katee's mouth, which tastes like wine and garlic and Katee), he doesn't really notice until she shoves him backwards and he almost trips over the carpet.
"Clumsy."
"Distracted."
She laughs softly, then kicks the door closed and grabs his shirt, probably wrinkling it, but he so doesn't care.
-
Michael's barely awake when Katee kisses him one last time and crawls from the bed to get dressed. She's muttering something about an early morning, and being in her own hotel room, but he doesn't really listen. He's only got one eye open, watching her get dressed in the near-darkness.
"Bra," she suddenly complains, "Where the hell did you put my bra?"
"I threw it?" He suggests, because he's not really certain. The problem with bras--especially Katee's--is that they contain breasts, and breasts tend to shut his brain off. "If I find it, I'll return it in the morning."
"Oh, that'll go over well." Even in the dark, he can tell she's glaring at him.
"Fine. Turn on the light."
She does, half-blinding him until he pulls the pillow over his head. By the time she pokes him to tell him goodbye, he's practically snoring.
"Old," she mocks softly, bending down to kiss his cheek.
"Ancient and wise," he agrees.
She pats his nearly-exposed ass, "Keep telling yourself that, Michael."
"'Night, Katee."
He's asleep before she makes it to the door. The thought that she might leave it open doesn't even drag him back to semi-consciousness.
-
Morning dawns, and he lays there trying to remember what the hell went on the night before. When the memory hits him, he groans. Because he keeps telling himself not to do that, and he keeps (obviously) failing.
God, he's an idiot.
Kicking himself, he gets up and heads into the shower. Maybe next convention, he'll be over this whole... thing.
He doubts it, though.
-f-
no subject
This line is inspired...
A laugh escapes her, and the flashes go off again. Everyone wants to capture that magical moment of Katee smirking and laughing.
no subject
Thank you =)
HAH. Well, it's true. Katee may almost always be laughing, but people love taking pictures of her doing so. Not that I mind....
no subject
no subject
Thaaank you. ;)
no subject
Very glad to see that your Katee can disregard the ugly jacket for the pretty man underneath.
no subject
Thank you =)
no subject
"fashion-challenged women in orange sweaters" made me laugh, because yeah, she's worn some questionable things in her time. And I certainly wouldn't kick his red velvet jacket out of bed, nosirree.
ah, rpf, it's totally like being a fly on the wall. Except not.
no subject
I like his jacket. But I like pretty men in shiny clothing.
It's no leather jacket, but it's no zebra-striped monstrosity, or a goatee.
*eg* Thank you. (I should dare you to write some rpf...)
no subject
At least it's not that black t-shirt he wore to Burbank, and then to SF. Being promoted to regular at least got him into a jacket.
My rpf would TOTALLY be Bourne and Trucco slash, because Best buddies is *this close* to doin' it (or so I am told). Plus, the pretty. But I think I'd need to drink heavily.
no subject
OR BUTTERFLIES.
Well, then. There's your reason right there. it would be pretty So. Find a bottle of wine...
no subject
But I have nothing to drink but a measly bottle of cider. And that's not enough. (plus, the spouse is watching The Shining, and I'm not exactly in the mood)
no subject
Pity. Perhaps they're just at a bar, being cranky about not getting parts. Or JR is, and Trucco is mocking him for not getting fanmail until after he was dead. Whereas, Trucco totally gets fanmail, and even has his own message board and internet communities and...
And there would be manly punching.
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and it was hotand I have 500 words already.I'm SO going to hell. *sigh*
no subject
Yay. ;)
I promise, there's a nice salad bar and free booze in hell.
no subject
I figured the free booze, but I'm glad to hear about the salad bar. We can preserve our girlish figures, even while we drink like fish and try to pretend we're remorseful.
no subject
Well, there's also sausage and stuff. But the booze is always flowing.
*gets distracted* I shouldn't consider writing Nero Wolfe-era Kara/Anders. At all. NO MORE AUs. Archie Goodwin, though. Kara is Archie as a girl. Hrm.
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