fic: fingers crossed
fingers crossed (that your ex-lover is dead)
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/brian), post 109 the blackout part ii, r.
there is only one person she truly hates: herself.
are you listening?
no - In the narrowest sense
kiss & swallow; IAMX
Out goes the rundown. She lets Sloan talk for forty-two minutes straight about something she doesn’t understand and probably never will.
“Do you have any idea what she’s saying?” He asks. He’s standing close, too close and she feels the hairs on the nape of her neck bristle. There’s an old reflex, somewhere, that twitches when she replies and she squirms slightly.
“What a ridiculous question.”
“I think I’ve seen enough.”
She is not looking at him. It is a practised reaction and all she says is, “OK.”
His shoulders slop down, and she’s not sure what he was expecting from her. “Brian” She says, short, and his head whips round. Her brow furrows and her eyes finally catch in his, “I don’t hate you.”
It’s true. There is only one person she truly hates: herself.
He texts her, and deep down she knows it’s a booty call. And deep down she doesn’t really care anymore.
Four years is a long time, and when he kisses her it takes a second to adjust to the incessant pressure. She pushes back against him, hard, winces at the clash of teeth on teeth. His hand slides beneath the waistband of her skirt and clearly he has not forgotten a thing about her.
She only feels guilty for a second.
She comes hard and fast, lying prone beneath him. Jesus, Will, she breathes, and he laughs. “Wrong one.”
“Please -” It’s not as pathetic as it sounds, “-just shut up.”
His mouth meets her jaw, his hand twisting across her mouth. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
“Fuck. You.” It comes muffled. Just how he likes it.
“That was off the record.” She says, fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt.
He guffaws, “Which bit?”
“Brian.” It’s a warning shot and he knows it. She watches it ghost across his face for a second, while he fixes a smirk.
“Yeah, Mackenzie, fucking you does wonders for my journalistic integrity.”
She shrugs, backlit in the doorway. “Who knows. Maybe it’s sexually transmitted.”
She’s gone before he can get the last word.
New York Magazine is published on Mondays. She gives him two days to apologise. Sloan thinks that’s too long, Jim thinks she should give it a week and see if he makes it publicly, and Will really couldn’t give a fuck. She gives him two days.
He smirks when the door swings open, steps back to let her into his apartment. He’s redecorated since Mackenzie was last here, and she almost passes comment before he speaks, “I have to say-“
“No you don’t.”
His fingers graze her arse when he falls into step behind her, half a pace too close. Still smirking. “I have to say I’m impressed you lasted a whole 48 hours. That must be your all time personal best.”
“I’m not playing, Brian.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, screws her eyes tight shut when his hand works around her waist, “I’m not here to- “
“Oh come on. We both know that’s exactly why you’re here.” He says, and when his hands find her breasts she’s inclined to agree.
“I’m here,” she stifles the gasp, “so you can apologise.”
His lips find her collarbone, “Apologise for what?”
She laughs, “Don’t be coy.”
“Don’t be naïve,” he counters, and his voice drops lower by an octave, “I’m not sorry.”
She touches him now, finally, a fraction rougher than he likes and he bites down on her neck in retaliation, savours the moan it elicits. Her left hand grabs for his, tries to tug it lower. “Not so fast, Mackenzie.” Comes the growl, and she knows he’s just waiting for her to say it.
“Please.”
Let’s be clear: this is the last time.
She’s said that before.
end.
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/brian), post 109 the blackout part ii, r.
there is only one person she truly hates: herself.
are you listening?
no - In the narrowest sense
kiss & swallow; IAMX
Out goes the rundown. She lets Sloan talk for forty-two minutes straight about something she doesn’t understand and probably never will.
“Do you have any idea what she’s saying?” He asks. He’s standing close, too close and she feels the hairs on the nape of her neck bristle. There’s an old reflex, somewhere, that twitches when she replies and she squirms slightly.
“What a ridiculous question.”
“I think I’ve seen enough.”
She is not looking at him. It is a practised reaction and all she says is, “OK.”
His shoulders slop down, and she’s not sure what he was expecting from her. “Brian” She says, short, and his head whips round. Her brow furrows and her eyes finally catch in his, “I don’t hate you.”
It’s true. There is only one person she truly hates: herself.
He texts her, and deep down she knows it’s a booty call. And deep down she doesn’t really care anymore.
Four years is a long time, and when he kisses her it takes a second to adjust to the incessant pressure. She pushes back against him, hard, winces at the clash of teeth on teeth. His hand slides beneath the waistband of her skirt and clearly he has not forgotten a thing about her.
She only feels guilty for a second.
She comes hard and fast, lying prone beneath him. Jesus, Will, she breathes, and he laughs. “Wrong one.”
“Please -” It’s not as pathetic as it sounds, “-just shut up.”
His mouth meets her jaw, his hand twisting across her mouth. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
“Fuck. You.” It comes muffled. Just how he likes it.
“That was off the record.” She says, fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt.
He guffaws, “Which bit?”
“Brian.” It’s a warning shot and he knows it. She watches it ghost across his face for a second, while he fixes a smirk.
“Yeah, Mackenzie, fucking you does wonders for my journalistic integrity.”
She shrugs, backlit in the doorway. “Who knows. Maybe it’s sexually transmitted.”
She’s gone before he can get the last word.
New York Magazine is published on Mondays. She gives him two days to apologise. Sloan thinks that’s too long, Jim thinks she should give it a week and see if he makes it publicly, and Will really couldn’t give a fuck. She gives him two days.
He smirks when the door swings open, steps back to let her into his apartment. He’s redecorated since Mackenzie was last here, and she almost passes comment before he speaks, “I have to say-“
“No you don’t.”
His fingers graze her arse when he falls into step behind her, half a pace too close. Still smirking. “I have to say I’m impressed you lasted a whole 48 hours. That must be your all time personal best.”
“I’m not playing, Brian.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, screws her eyes tight shut when his hand works around her waist, “I’m not here to- “
“Oh come on. We both know that’s exactly why you’re here.” He says, and when his hands find her breasts she’s inclined to agree.
“I’m here,” she stifles the gasp, “so you can apologise.”
His lips find her collarbone, “Apologise for what?”
She laughs, “Don’t be coy.”
“Don’t be naïve,” he counters, and his voice drops lower by an octave, “I’m not sorry.”
She touches him now, finally, a fraction rougher than he likes and he bites down on her neck in retaliation, savours the moan it elicits. Her left hand grabs for his, tries to tug it lower. “Not so fast, Mackenzie.” Comes the growl, and she knows he’s just waiting for her to say it.
“Please.”
Let’s be clear: this is the last time.
She’s said that before.
end.