Men In Short Skirts 1

Men In Short Skirts

Part 1 - Macho In A Skirt

Posted: May 2005
Title: Men In Short Skirts
Author: Haleth with Miranda Bell
Type: RPS
Characters: Karl/Eric Bana
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: As far as we know, Karl Urban and Eric Bana have never met, let alone do they engage in this sort of frivolity together on a regular basis. We can only dream.
Warnings: Men in skirts. If you consider that kinky, what the heck are you doing here??
Beta: Theresa Green
Author's Notes: After slashing Hector and Cupid in "Cupids", gosh darn it I just had to RPS these two, so I turned to the biggest and bestest KarlFan I know, and we bounced a few ideas back and forth. It took a lot of musing and conniving to semi-plausibly get these two into a room together wearing short skirts. We are justifiably proud of the accomplishment. While I wrote this, there is no way in the slashy universe it could have been done without Miranda's ideas, inspiration, consultation, advice, slang knowledge and general all-round perviness. Hence, I officially dub her "Miranda Bell, Slash Consultant (and the lube beneath my wings)" and send her large hugs, kisses and luscious Karlvibes.

Summary: Like the title says...

*****

Un-bloody believable. He couldn't fucking believe he was doing this. (The things your friends can talk you into sometimes.)

It's not that Karl resented doing a charity gig. He was a generous bloke, and he certainly thought Dress/Success was a worthy cause. But he'd not really planned to don the wings again, not without being paid a shitload more than he used to get paid for Xena, anyway.

The dodgy wing job was irking him. Lighter than the pair he used to wear, which was a relief, but not as detailed, and not as sturdy. And they didn't spread. Looked like the studio had slapped them together on the cheap. He had to be careful to not bash them against the wall. And the glue wasn't the same as what they used to put on him. This stuff itched.

"You're scowling again, Mr. Urban," the assistant hissed from behind a blinding lights.

Karl's scowl deepened.

"Not that it's a bad thing," the photographer added cheerfully. "Cupid looks good scowling. YOU look good scowling. But this is for charity, so how about something a little less..." the photographer kept snapping pictures as her lips screwed up in concentration.

"...less aggro?" the assistant suggested.

"Yes, that's it, not quite so aggro. But just as smouldering... we want the ladies to bid high on this!"

Bid. Oh, yeah, the auction. He'd almost forgotten. Donations.

Dress/Success was an Australian charity. It collected gently-used business clothes and distributed them to needy people so they could make a good impression in job interviews. They gave courses in how to look for work and present yourself to employers, did job training in the fashion industry, stuff like that. His agent had gone to uni with the chairwoman of the board of directors. She'd handled all the arrangements.

This was supposed to be a working holiday - he had a couple of press events, two meetings about movies and an interview with a hot new journo, and then he was supposed to have free time to visit old friends. But as soon as he got off the plane, he'd been told about this deal.

The charity was taking pictures of actors and actresses in famous costumes from successful movies and shows, and auctioning them to raise money for a new drop-in centre in the city.

Miranda had called him at the hotel to tell him she'd been photographed in one of her Éowyn gowns, the white one with the silver belt. Pete evidently approved of the charity and was happy to loan the gear to the Dress/Success people.

Now, Karl knew his agent had asked Miranda to call him and tell him this; otherwise the conversation would have been about friends and rellies and what was happening in their careers, not a bloody photo shoot. So he was a bit put off by the whole set up. But Karl was a nice guy. Too nice, apparently.

Karl said he might if they let him be Éomer; that would have been cool. He'd like to put the armour on again. But the charity refused to go for it. The deal was 'dresses', or at least skirts. Sure, the Éomer cozzie had a skirt-ish sort of aspect to it, but they wanted something even more skirt-like.

He'd turned it down at first. He was too busy, he said, and he was knackered. Needed a break. He did have a couple of decent suits that didn't fit him since he'd bulked up a bit. Couldn't he just donate them to the cause? He really didn't want to go back to old roles, especially not roles that involved that much skin and leather. But the next day Hugo Weaving called and said he and Guy Pearce had slipped into a couple of numbers from Pricilla, so why not give it a burl?

Besides, they already had the Cupid cozzie from the production company.

Then why hadn't the production company asked him if he wanted to do this? he'd asked.

"Oh," his agent told him, "I didn't want to bother them with something like that. I just told them to ship the costume and that I would deal with you."

Karl struck a menacing Cupid pose and glared at the camera. 'Deal with' him, as if he were some sort of 'difficult actor' or something. That was an insult. He wasn't difficult. He was a congenial sort. He might get narky the odd time, but never anything a few beers and a laugh with some friends wouldn't cure. What he needed was some time off. A few beers. A laugh with some friends. Or a friend.

But he had to do the gig or they'd think he was a sook. Bugger. He had it sussed; the whole thing was a set up from the start. Ask him to do something he obviously didn't want to do, drop a few hints that he might be difficult and then he had to do it to prove he wasn't.

"Ooh, that's good, I like that a lot!" the photographer gushed as the camera whirred and clicked. "Very manly!"

So, it was manly they were after, was it?

Macho in a skirt.

Well, at least he wasn't dressed like a woman, he reckoned. He was in good shape, too. Pecs cut, delts pretty big. The straps had never fitted quite this snugly against his chest. He didn't mind the trousers. The leather was soft, and fit beautifully. The skirt, well, it wasn't so bad, as long as he had the trousers on under it.

He still wished he had better wings, but you can't have everything. This wasn't so bad. He was actually starting to enjoy it. He fingered the bow and thought about doing a few shots aiming up at the sky. Might show off his triceps nicely.

The assistant whispered in the photographer's ear again and scurried off to the other room.

"All right, we're done, then," the photographer announced suddenly.

Done? But Karl was just getting warmed up. "What d'you mean, 'done?" Done? He was getting into the swing of things and they were stopping, just like that?

"Yeah. I think we have enough to work with, and the next subject will be arriving shortly. I'm afraid Harvey, my assistant, was a bit enthusiastic when he was booking the appointments. We're under rather a tight schedule." She was unloading film and changing lenses as she spoke. "Don't worry, Mr. Urban. You were fantastic, really."

"I thought we could do some stuff with the bow."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it? But there's someone else due any minute. Just have time for a quick tea." She picked up a mug with the Dress/Success logo on it. "Don't look so down, Mr. Urban. Very manly. Fantastic. The chairwoman will be pleased. I'm feeling quite chuffed about the whole project."

Karl didn't give two fucks about what the photographer or the bloody chairwoman might think. He wasn't happy with the shoot. He hovered on the makeshift stage, just a few risers surrounded by draped fabrics with the bright purple and red Dress/Success logo splashed across it, hoping she might change her mind, but she'd wandered off to join Harvey in the office.

* * *

Eric whistled as he mounted the stairs two at a time. The heavy, metal panels of his Hector armour bounced against his back. The costume had just arrived at his agent's office not one hour before the shoot was scheduled. Most people would have been irritated by the close timing, but not Eric. He saw the whole "costume lost in transit" incident as a good sign.

The fact that it'd arrived just in time meant that the shoot was meant to be.

Eric wasn't ordinarily superstitious, not like some of the actors he'd worked with. He didn't perform any little rituals before starting a scene or carry good luck charms. He put that down to his lack of formal training. It seemed to him that the more 'serious' stage training someone had, the more superstitions they held to.

He'd had no training at all. One night he'd stopped in the middle of pulling a draught for a regular customer, walked across the bar, got on stage and made people laugh. All his training took place in front of a crowd of yobbos half off their faces. He'd had no time for superstitions. Couple of nights he might have had to duck out the back to avoid being harassed by offended patrons, but there were no rabbits' feet or secret mantras involved. Just timing, preparation and hard work.

Superstitious or not, Eric had a good feeling about this project.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the hallway. There it was, the familiar Dress/Success logo tacked to a nondescript beige door.

A lot of actors would have resented having to go pick up their own costume and haul it over to the photographer's studio as well, especially on such short notice, but Eric didn't mind. He wasn't up himself. He didn't like the whole movie star thing at all.

Eric liked doing work for charities, toy drives and appearances and the like. He wanted to kick in however he could. And he liked Dress/Success in particular. Their business was getting people back on their feet. They'd helped a lot of people who were down on their luck, and Eric always thought of people down on their luck as only a few lucky breaks removed from him. He was a tin-arsed bastard, and he knew it.

Not that he didn't work hard. He worked his arse off. Flat out like a lizard drinking... when he was working. Right now he was having some well-deserved down time between films, which was why he'd agreed to do the shoot, and another reason he didn't have any problem with picking up the costume himself.

Being between jobs also made him a bit worried about the costume. He wasn't in the same shape he'd been in when filming Troy. No one can stay in that sort of shape indefinitely. When he wasn't filming - when he wasn't getting in shape for or staying in a particular shape for a particular role - Eric tried to eat healthy and stay active. But he was not currently dieting to get ripped and he was not pumping iron.

Everything would fit - what he'd lost in muscle mass he'd probably gained in fat - but it wouldn't look quite as good.

Hell. Decent lighting, proper angles - if the photographer was any good, she'd be apples. He'd get dressed up, they'd do a bit of fussing to make his hair look better, maybe throw a manly scar on his cheek, he would strike a few heroic poses... not a bad way to spend the arvo. Who knows? Someone might pay decent coin for the photo. His agent seemed to think he'd do some good for the charity.

He pushed open the door to the studio and stood in the dark foyer. There was a corridor to the left and a black-curtained door on the right. He pushed back the curtain and saw a photographer clicking away at the brightly-lit stage.

His agent had told him the photographer was a chum of the chairwoman of Dress/Success, and was doing this for free. Normally, there was no way a charity could afford her. Eric didn't know her personally, but he thought he recognised her from the telly. Cherise, or Cherry, something. He'd seen her on a fashion show while he was getting made-up for a talk show.

She was making noises, like she liked what she was taking pictures of. "Mmm, yeah, that's it. Smouldering!" she was saying.

Eric pushed the curtain open further so he could see whom she was snapping.

* * *

Karl reluctantly got off the stage. Well, that was it. And he should go back to the hotel and just fucking forget about it. After all, they wouldn't put a bad picture up for auction, would they? They'd pick the best one. He would look good. The outfit would look good. Someone who was into that sort of thing would pay good money, which would go to a good cause.

He didn't want to think too hard and long on who might pay money for a picture of an oiled, bare-chested man wearing a short, black leather skirt and trousers and a bloody great set of wings on his back. Hopefully, it would be some massive Xena fanatic, and not someone who was into it for the kink.

He put the bow down so it was leaning against the wall, and reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow. Fucking hot, those lights were. The sweat was running into his eyes, blurring his sight. And he was sweating under the leather.

That had always been the most uncomfortable part of being Cupid. The best part and the worst part. The snugness of the leather felt good, but the constant warmth and dampness was distracting. That and the tightness. If he got a stiffie in these trousers he was done for.

He looked up and saw a tall man, even taller than him, standing by the door. Tall and broad shouldered and handsome. Dark wavy hair, trimmed beard, big dark eyes. He was staring at Karl with a hungry look.

Or maybe Karl was imagining the hunger. Maybe the guy was just trying to figure out what the fuck Karl was dressed as.

"Hullo," Karl said.

"G'day," the man said.

He looked a bit spacey. Karl knew he knew him, though. Or he should know him.

"I'm Eric. Eric Bana," the man said, extending his hand.

Oh, fuck, yeah. Eric Bana. He looked different in real life. He looked a regular bloke. Only much better-looking than your average bloke. And bigger.

Karl couldn't believe he'd been so wrapped up in his whinging to himself he hadn't recognised Eric right away. But then you don't expect to meet someone like that in a sort of dingy photographer's studio every day. "Oh, hi, I'm Karl Urban."

"I know," Eric said with a friendly grin. "Cupid. Seen you on the box. Of course, you were blond for that, but I knew you right off. And from Lord of the Rings, of course. Not the same cozzie, but I recognised you from that movie, too."

Babbled a bit, didn't he? Karl nodded and waited for Eric to say something about Orlando.

Most people said something about Orlando. How he was lucky to work with Orlando. Or wasn't it amazing how things had taken off for Orlando? Karl was thrilled for Orlando, of course. The kid worked for everything he had, and he deserved all he got, but Karl was tired, a bit, of being asked about it all the time. As if all any of them ever did on the set of Lord of the Rings was sit around looking at Orlando and predicting what a big star he was bound to become.

But then, maybe that's what Eric had done when they were filming Troy.

He watched Eric open his mouth and, sure enough, it formed a perfect 'o'. Karl didn't mind so much, because the sight of those lips making a perfect 'o' was rather pleasant. But he nonetheless braced himself for the Orlando comment.

" Orlando showed me The Price of Milk one night. I loved that."

Karl blinked. What?

"Really great movie, mate. With the cows and the golf club and the..." Eric trailed off. He had a suit bag over one shoulder, and he shifted it heavily to the side. "...the milk, you know."

Karl smiled. "Thanks."

Eric looked nervous. Had he really liked the movie, or was he being polite? Why would he mention something he didn't like to be polite? Eric heaved the costume off his back and draped it over his bent arm.

"Must have been a fun shoot."

"Sure. Fun. All friends. Fairly low budget. We all had to pitch in, you know?" But maybe Eric wouldn't know. Karl didn't think he'd done much in the way of low budget movies. Block busters, epics, Hollywood movies, not Kiwi independent films shot on the run with whatever the crew could come up with. Half the time the actors came up with ways to save money.

That was the advantage of independent. If you had an idea, you pitched it to the director and, since you were as much of an expert on the character as anyone else, you were often listened to.

"You know, what I miss about comedy is the spontaneity. Doing drama and that, there's so much preparation and getting ready for the role. By the time the camera rolls, not a lot of leeway. I bet on a film like Price of Milk, you get to play around a bit, improvise and the like."

So, Eric was missing his comedy roots. That made sense. And he wanted to play around a bit.

Karl let that sentence drift through his mind harmlessly. "Well, you can do all the improv you want for this shoot. Make Hector a bit of a dag," he joked.

Eric shrugged. " 'fraid not, mate. Locked into the hero mode with this one. Too bad, really. Would have had a lot of fun with a costume like this on my old show." Eric looked at the floor and gave a little laugh. "So, then, where's the photographer?" he asked abruptly. Like he just thought of it, all of a sudden.

"Having a cuppa in the office, I think."

"Am I early?"

"Naw, they're a bit rushed. Think they double-booked us."

"Shame that. Hate rushing. Hey, maybe they should take our pictures together. After all, Greek mythology and all that." Eric chuckled again, then stopped as suddenly as he started.

Harvey flitted out of the office. "Oh, Mr. Bana. You're here." He swivelled to look at Karl, obsequious smile faltering. "And Mr. Urban, you're not changed yet."

Karl gave him a patented bad guy glare. "Is there some problem with that?" He was starting to get a bit tired of this incompetent, double-booking twit.

"Oh, no, no, not at all. It's just... um..." Harvey wrung his hands and looked up at the two actors. He looked around, appearing for all the world as if he were searching for hidden cameras. "It's just that we only have the one."

Eric tilted his head to one side. "The... one?"

Harvey vibrated with energy for a moment. He bit his lip. "Dressing room," he whispered, like it was a dirty word.

* * *

Eric laughed a little too nervously. Shit. He was going to have to get changed with him in the room? The gods hated Eric. There was no other explanation.

When he first walked into the studio he'd been gobsmacked. It was him, Karl Urban. KarlfuckingCupidUrbanfuckingÉomer, standing on the stage, looking surly and hot and more than manly: godlike.

He could remember, distinctly, the first time he spied Cupid. He'd always thought Xena was a silly show, until he walked in one day and Xena was on the box and he saw all that skin and muscle and the blond spiky hair and the wings and the leather, and he reacted in the way he normally only reacted to sheilas. Blokes just weren't his bowl of rice.

He'd managed to ignore it until he went to see The Two Towers and Éomer made his entrance. It took him a bit to realise it was Cupid up on the big screen, and then it took him another three seconds to realise he was as hard as a diamond, and that the blond on the screen had done it to him, and it wasn't the one with the tits.

Then when he had to sit next to Orlando and watch Karl dive into that milk tank... fuck!

The Karl in the tank was not the same Karl out there in the studio. The man with the perfect, naked, milk-covered arse was lanky and lean and cute. The man on the stage wasn't cute. He was smouldering. He had the same dark hair you want to run your hands through, same perfect lips you wanted to pash on for days, same deep, wide eyes, but a different body.

Not a different body. Same body, different shape. Eric knew all about changing your body shape for roles. The man with the blond spiky hair on Xena had been impressively-built. He must have done a fair bit of work to get that body. He also knew Karl must have had to work out like hell for Lord of the Rings. Riding around in all that heavy chain mail and armour, tossing spears from horseback - that was a major workout.

The dark-haired man on the stage in black leather and not a lot else was more than buff. But then, Eric had never seen Éomer without his clothes on - Karl had probably always looked like that under the chain mail and leather and layers of armour. All that time he was being anguished and macho and noble - hell, as noble as Hector - Éomer'd been walking around looking like that under his clothes. What a concept.

And now Eric was going to be in the nuddy next to him in a fucking dressing room.

"Terribly sorry. The charity only rented this studio for us for the month. Mate's rates and all that," Harvey explained nervously. "Landlord is an old friend of the chairwoman. \this studio's a temporary thing, doesn't have the sort of facilities we're used to. There's just the one room."

Eric shrugged. It was a little too much of a shrug. Well, fuck, even when he wasn't in training his shoulders were big, it was tough not to shrug too much. "No drama. We're actors. We're used to that sort of thing. Right?"

Karl was scowling. Maybe it wasn't all right. "You go first," Karl growled.

Eric nodded and followed Harvey down the hall.

The dressing room was small, so it was a good thing they weren't sharing it at the same time. He'd already had to move the cozzie down and front to hide his sudden erection. He wouldn't be able to shield himself in quarters this close. He put the costume on a chair and pulled his shirt off. Was it cold in here, or were his nipples imitating his dick?

He whipped off his jeans and tucked his cock more snugly into his underdaks. "Stay," he muttered at it as he pulled on the heavy skirt. The sheer weight of the metal panels would prevent any serious tenting. At the same time, the constant pressure would make matters worse. What a time to crack a fat.

He tried not to think back to any potentially embarrassing moments on the set of Troy. Those little panties they put on them really weren't up to the task of keeping everything in line at all times, under all circumstances. Nothing terrible had happened, but he'd had a few close calls.

Nothing as bad as when Orlando fell out of his panties. That was in a rehearsal, so no cameras had captured the moment for posterity, but Brendan had a hell of a time being tough and menacing after seeing that. Eric's view was from a few yards away, but Brendan had seen it all, and according to him, there was a lot to see. "Lad's not so scrawny below the waist..." Brendan had muttered that evening at dinner. Eric wasn't sure if it was true, or if Brendan had only said it because he found it amusing to watch Eric spew beer all over the table.

As soon as he put the top on, he felt himself relax a bit. He felt the wave of calming Hector-vibes. Of all the roles he'd inhabited, Hector was the one that gave him the most confidence. It was the inherent nobility of it. He could stand tall and proud and be the fucking Prince of Troy, and no one could fuck with him.

Until he looked in the mirror and saw that little sliver of belly.

He couldn't understand at first why they designed the armour with that flaw. Surely, a warrior would want to keep his soft parts better protected. If he stood just so it was covered, but as soon as he reached to the side or bent over or stretched, the top separated from the bottom and there it was - the soft belly of the dragon. Isn't that where all the mythical super-creatures got it in the end?

Not Hector. Hector wasn't killed by the underdog with a lucky or clever thrust of the sword to the unprotected gut. Achilles slammed him through the shoulder with a sharp stick. Brutal. He'd known he was outmatched, but he'd still gone out there and fought. That's the kind of bloke Hector was. Hector gave Eric courage.

He wriggled his shoulders to get the armour to sit right.

Not too bad. Maybe he should pump up a bit. He looked around the room, but was unable to locate anything that would hold his weight. Chin-ups - that's what he'd done during filming to get his arms and chest really big right before the cameras rolled. Hector had to always look ready for battle. Everyone encouraged him to pump up the muscles, make Hector even more manly. He'd made a joke about bench pressing Paris and Helen for fun, and everyone laughed but he could have done it - that was how in shape he'd been.

There wasn't anything that looked sturdy enough for that sort of activity in the little dressing room, so he settled for a few push-ups. A couple dozen. There was barely enough room on the floor, since half the room was taken up by an old couch, but he managed.

He felt the muscles fill with blood and grow, veins start to protrude. He got up, braced his arms on a stool and did a few of sets of bench dips to pump up his triceps. He stretched his arms out, rotated at the shoulder.

Damn, and the top of the costume rode up, exposing his lower back. Always made him a bit nervous, that did. As much as the exposed belly. Saffron knew it. She teased him a few times, tickled him right before a scene. Made it damn hard to be dignified.

By the time his big fight with Ajax rolled around, he'd almost resigned himself to the indignity of it. During a break he made the mistake of whinging about it. Orlando and Brad both looked at him like he was a slightly thick child.

"That's part of the deal, Eric. You gotta show a little skin," Brad said patiently.

"It's not so bad. I've had to do worse," Orlando said with a good-natured chuckle.

Eric knew that. At least they weren't oiling and shaving him to within an inch of his manhood. But it irked him, still. He was an actor, damn it, not a pin-up boy. He shouldn't have to flash his abs at the camera. Biceps he could understand. Pecs went without saying. But that little stripe of belly or back was somehow more intimate than going without any shirt at all.

Vulnerable. That's how it made him feel. And especially vulnerable now that he wasn't quite so fit. He stood in front of the mirror again and lifted the costume. He hadn't gone flabby or anything, he just wasn't as cut. He dropped to the floor again and did a few crunches to make his stomach harder. Not terribly comfortable in the cozzie, but he looked better.

There was a tentative knock at the door. "Mr. Bana? Celia is ready for your make-up."

He opened the door and saw Karl at the end of the corridor talking to the photographer.

"I understand, Mr. Urban. We could do a few more shots while Celia is getting Mr. Bana ready," the photographer was saying.

Oh, fuck. He was going to be hanging around.

Celia led him to the next room, a bathroom turned into a make-up room. She fussed with his hair and patted his face here and there, chattering the whole time. Real earbasher, she was. Eric ignored her. He closed his eyes and concentrated on Hector. Tamer of horses. Mighty warrior. Noble prince. Fighting for Troy. Fighting evil foes. Fighting to keep himself from cracking onto the man down the hall.

"Right, then, Mr. Bana. You're set to go."

But he wasn't. He wasn't prepared for what he was about to see on the stage. Not at all.

Reality notes:

Dress/Success and its ubiquitous chairwoman are complete and utter inventions, and are in no way meant to reflect upon the organization (or lack thereof) of any existing charities.

Eric did not, in fact, jump on the stage in the middle of a shift. He went to the comedy club on his night off to try out his first routine. Is Haleth embarrassed that she knows this? Hell, no. She's a Bana-geek and proud of it.

Karl's implied failed romance with a man being the reason he went back to New Zealand was completely fabricated by Miranda.

This, of course, did not happen. None of it. Not a word. Not a sigh. Not a moan.

*****

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If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Haleth and Miranda Bell