Studio 60 fic: a ploy for words, she said like she meant it
a ploy for words, she said like she meant it
studio 60, jordan (jack/jordan), no spoilers, nc-17, 1187 words, for zauberer_sirin and the word cock. yes. you heard me.
Maybe it’s because she can practically taste Jack’s smile.
There was a garden
in the beginning
Tori Amos, Original Sinsuality
-I’m supposed to look important brushes against her ear as she settles in her chair, late afternoon.
She’s stuck, really, on the theory that Jack Rudolph’s voice is meant to make something curl in threads inside of her stomach- only to flush through her skin, her cheeks, and back down between her legs.
“You’re supposed to be paying attention to the meeting,” she says, as if she cares. And sometimes they’re just play parts- husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, friends who should be lovers. It’s the wiring of an affair.
Maybe it’s because she can practically taste Jack’s smile, but her fingers start to drift as he talks, talks about lawyers and motions, talks about a golf game, and so her fingers still around her thigh.
His voice is a rumble and she remembers (last night, chasing hotels) how he likes to open his mouth against her throat and say that’s a girl when his fingers are in her cunt.
“They’re idiots.”
She snorts. “Jack, you think everybody’s an idiot.”
And he laughs because it’s Tuesday and he knows she’s right with the night before and the night following- the other half is out of town- she’ll be right for awhile.
“You alone?” He asks a stupid question.
It’s kind of scary how good they are about this, how easy it is to lie to everyone else but themselves like an unraveled paradox. But people aren’t supposed to get that he kisses her first in the morning and she likes the feeling of him pressed against her back, the curve of her ass, and murmuring sleep now.
Sentimental? Probably.
(Here’s the secret: Jordan’s never been a believer in something because something’s screwed her over in three different states and a constellation of failed relationship. But Jack’s this, that, and everything different and it isn’t right how this works for her. see alternate definition: skepticism)
“I’m alone,” she tells him, pausing. She breathes, “It’s a quiet afternoon and I thought I’d actually pretend to be, you know, productive.”
She purrs a little and Jack laughs, her fingers inching closer (oh, hello jean day) and then stilling over her zipper.
“You’ve got productivity down-” But he doesn’t finish, because there are people, and shifts through papers (she counts) like he cares.
She snorts and thinks well, if i as the button of her jeans pops open. He’ll never know and so, if anything, it’ll just be one of those moments. But she does wonder, briefly, what it would be like if he- She shakes her head.
Her fingers brush against her stomach, sliding under the elastic (lace, McDeere, lace- how about the sexy panties for once?) of her underwear and through the tufts of her curls.
She really can’t believe that she’s doing this, but shyness is on default during this particular moment. And really, really, it’s not like he’s-
“Jordan?” Jack breathes. Or well, doesn’t. It’s more of her name being said in that way, the kind of way old movies make her toes curl and settle. It speaks possession, in every sense and she’s still a little shaky when exists outside of this.
But she’s a little braver, again, and brushes one of her fingers against her clit. She bites back a moan, breathing and then breathing once more. At some point, there’s another finger and both are brushing in slow, lazy circles.
God, she should really just try one of those key chain vibrators. Because stress relief is stress relief.
Her voice is a little curve of air. “Yes?”
There’s silence, but her fingers keep moving and underneath the desk her legs spread just a little wider. She starts to tease herself, thinking (here) last night like a momentary echo:
Jack between her legs. Jack between her legs with his tongue in her cunt. Jack between her legs with his tongue in her cunt and her mouth parted in a ohohoh because it means something now.
There’s a cough and- she swears she can’t help it- her moan slips, drifts, and lingers as she slides a finger into her cunt.
“You’re not even-”
Her lips curl and she dips forward, almost stumbling as she cradles the phone. She adds a second finger for because and feels her nipples pressing against the lace of her bra, desperately wishing for her other hand ohgod.
“So what if I am,” she manages. But the teasing is there. “What are you going to do, Jack? Stop watching your lawyers for a quickie?”
There’s a growl and she actually, actually laughs delightedly. Jordan’s touching and retouching old parts of herself with wet paint here! because Jack being Jack is actually good for her.
But he surprises her, hissing between his teeth (they’re not looking, she guesses) and shifting.
“Tell me,” he orders softly, growling and she shivers.
She won’t give him the satisfaction yet because they’re still into early stages, drifting stages, and she refuses to admit dominance by now.
“Why?” Her lips are curled, her eyes closed, and her hair is starting to spill over her face. She breathes, mews a little, and her hips start to rock in the image of him, eyes wild and hers. “Is your hand around your cock, Jack? Are you thinking about me?”
She hears McDeere and squirms because she can’t wait to be in trouble and god, she’s really wet for him.
He says nothing and she hears murmurs in the background- if she could, she would laugh because this moment is hers, hers, hers but she’s too busy thinking about him instead.
Her voice lowers, her lips dusting against the phone. “Would you like toohknow about my- fingers-in-”
He growls and she gasps, stealing rhythm. Her hips start to rock against her hand and she’s thinking about jack and jack’s cock like mind games and dirty words.
(Sidenote: There are a lot of things that they won’t get to tell each other, even if they make it far. Jordan’s mouth might slip, brush, and say i like when we just lay here but Jack will still be wearing a ring, one ring, and all the symbolism.)
“I swear, Jordan,” he whispers harshly to her, pushing her into an awareness, new and raw, that she craves. (It’s going to tear us apart, he’ll say, slowly.) “I’m going to come down there and fuck you.”
She’s too lost in tone, in color, and in the weight of his words to really care about promises here and there. She lets him listen to her moan and pant and twist, stirring echoes of this morning and in the shower.
Her hips buck when her coated fingers twist, too deep this time, pushing her orgasm to rip through her.
There’s nothing but careful pants on the other line, nothing but silence on hers. But her lips curl slowly. And she might laugh.
There’s a mutter. “You’re going to kill me,” he says and already, she imagines his hand swaying against a wrinkle. His breath is short and she can remember the thickness of his cock, in her hand, in her mouth, and-
Stop. But she’s grinning.
end.
studio 60, jordan (jack/jordan), no spoilers, nc-17, 1187 words, for zauberer_sirin and the word cock. yes. you heard me.
Maybe it’s because she can practically taste Jack’s smile.
There was a garden
in the beginning
Tori Amos, Original Sinsuality
-I’m supposed to look important brushes against her ear as she settles in her chair, late afternoon.
She’s stuck, really, on the theory that Jack Rudolph’s voice is meant to make something curl in threads inside of her stomach- only to flush through her skin, her cheeks, and back down between her legs.
“You’re supposed to be paying attention to the meeting,” she says, as if she cares. And sometimes they’re just play parts- husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, friends who should be lovers. It’s the wiring of an affair.
Maybe it’s because she can practically taste Jack’s smile, but her fingers start to drift as he talks, talks about lawyers and motions, talks about a golf game, and so her fingers still around her thigh.
His voice is a rumble and she remembers (last night, chasing hotels) how he likes to open his mouth against her throat and say that’s a girl when his fingers are in her cunt.
“They’re idiots.”
She snorts. “Jack, you think everybody’s an idiot.”
And he laughs because it’s Tuesday and he knows she’s right with the night before and the night following- the other half is out of town- she’ll be right for awhile.
“You alone?” He asks a stupid question.
It’s kind of scary how good they are about this, how easy it is to lie to everyone else but themselves like an unraveled paradox. But people aren’t supposed to get that he kisses her first in the morning and she likes the feeling of him pressed against her back, the curve of her ass, and murmuring sleep now.
Sentimental? Probably.
(Here’s the secret: Jordan’s never been a believer in something because something’s screwed her over in three different states and a constellation of failed relationship. But Jack’s this, that, and everything different and it isn’t right how this works for her. see alternate definition: skepticism)
“I’m alone,” she tells him, pausing. She breathes, “It’s a quiet afternoon and I thought I’d actually pretend to be, you know, productive.”
She purrs a little and Jack laughs, her fingers inching closer (oh, hello jean day) and then stilling over her zipper.
“You’ve got productivity down-” But he doesn’t finish, because there are people, and shifts through papers (she counts) like he cares.
She snorts and thinks well, if i as the button of her jeans pops open. He’ll never know and so, if anything, it’ll just be one of those moments. But she does wonder, briefly, what it would be like if he- She shakes her head.
Her fingers brush against her stomach, sliding under the elastic (lace, McDeere, lace- how about the sexy panties for once?) of her underwear and through the tufts of her curls.
She really can’t believe that she’s doing this, but shyness is on default during this particular moment. And really, really, it’s not like he’s-
“Jordan?” Jack breathes. Or well, doesn’t. It’s more of her name being said in that way, the kind of way old movies make her toes curl and settle. It speaks possession, in every sense and she’s still a little shaky when exists outside of this.
But she’s a little braver, again, and brushes one of her fingers against her clit. She bites back a moan, breathing and then breathing once more. At some point, there’s another finger and both are brushing in slow, lazy circles.
God, she should really just try one of those key chain vibrators. Because stress relief is stress relief.
Her voice is a little curve of air. “Yes?”
There’s silence, but her fingers keep moving and underneath the desk her legs spread just a little wider. She starts to tease herself, thinking (here) last night like a momentary echo:
Jack between her legs. Jack between her legs with his tongue in her cunt. Jack between her legs with his tongue in her cunt and her mouth parted in a ohohoh because it means something now.
There’s a cough and- she swears she can’t help it- her moan slips, drifts, and lingers as she slides a finger into her cunt.
“You’re not even-”
Her lips curl and she dips forward, almost stumbling as she cradles the phone. She adds a second finger for because and feels her nipples pressing against the lace of her bra, desperately wishing for her other hand ohgod.
“So what if I am,” she manages. But the teasing is there. “What are you going to do, Jack? Stop watching your lawyers for a quickie?”
There’s a growl and she actually, actually laughs delightedly. Jordan’s touching and retouching old parts of herself with wet paint here! because Jack being Jack is actually good for her.
But he surprises her, hissing between his teeth (they’re not looking, she guesses) and shifting.
“Tell me,” he orders softly, growling and she shivers.
She won’t give him the satisfaction yet because they’re still into early stages, drifting stages, and she refuses to admit dominance by now.
“Why?” Her lips are curled, her eyes closed, and her hair is starting to spill over her face. She breathes, mews a little, and her hips start to rock in the image of him, eyes wild and hers. “Is your hand around your cock, Jack? Are you thinking about me?”
She hears McDeere and squirms because she can’t wait to be in trouble and god, she’s really wet for him.
He says nothing and she hears murmurs in the background- if she could, she would laugh because this moment is hers, hers, hers but she’s too busy thinking about him instead.
Her voice lowers, her lips dusting against the phone. “Would you like toohknow about my- fingers-in-”
He growls and she gasps, stealing rhythm. Her hips start to rock against her hand and she’s thinking about jack and jack’s cock like mind games and dirty words.
(Sidenote: There are a lot of things that they won’t get to tell each other, even if they make it far. Jordan’s mouth might slip, brush, and say i like when we just lay here but Jack will still be wearing a ring, one ring, and all the symbolism.)
“I swear, Jordan,” he whispers harshly to her, pushing her into an awareness, new and raw, that she craves. (It’s going to tear us apart, he’ll say, slowly.) “I’m going to come down there and fuck you.”
She’s too lost in tone, in color, and in the weight of his words to really care about promises here and there. She lets him listen to her moan and pant and twist, stirring echoes of this morning and in the shower.
Her hips buck when her coated fingers twist, too deep this time, pushing her orgasm to rip through her.
There’s nothing but careful pants on the other line, nothing but silence on hers. But her lips curl slowly. And she might laugh.
There’s a mutter. “You’re going to kill me,” he says and already, she imagines his hand swaying against a wrinkle. His breath is short and she can remember the thickness of his cock, in her hand, in her mouth, and-
Stop. But she’s grinning.
end.