fic: paroxysms
so apparently this is a ship I am sailing? yeah...there's no rationalising it really.
paroxysms
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/brian, slight mac/will), pre-series, r
it’s not masochism, exactly, but it comes pretty close.
you write such pretty words
but life's no storybook
love's an excuse to get hurt
lover I don’t have to love; bright eyes
It has been a long day. Her legs ache and New York City is not what dreams are made of.
He is a writer.
“I’ve never heard of you.”
His glasses slide down his nose a fraction when he appraises her. The frames shadow his eyes and she can’t quite read his voice. “You must not read a lot.”
“I’m a journalist.” Her lips curl. She sips her drink, waits a beat.
“Kind of proves my point.”
The bar closes at midnight. His fingers ghost across the inside of her thigh in the taxi. “What kind of lady do you take me for, Mr Brenner?”
“That’s where our wires cross,” he murmurs, tongue wet against her collarbone. “You see, I don’t think you’re a lady at all.”
His hands are tight around her wrists and somehow it’s too much and not enough at the same time. She bites down on his neck. Hard.
“Good girls don’t bite.” He coos.
“I thought we’d already ascertained that I’m not a good girl.”
He speeds up, as if to say, fair enough.
The trouble is this: she is a good girl and there’s only so long she can keep up the façade.
That kind of makes her a bad girl, right?
The mattress squeaks. His hands tighten around her hips. “Stay still.”
She pushes back against him to prove a point but, really, she’s enjoying this a little too much.
“You won’t win.” He says, and his teeth find her jawbone, hand splaying across her pelvis. She bucks sharply, catches her breath long enough to say:
“Watch me.”
They are not dating. Not in the Hollywood sense of the word, at least. No. He calls her or texts her or let’s just say he contacts her and she feigns disinterest just long enough to get him crazy.
Still, when her college friends ask she calls him her boyfriend and smiles about it too.
Her lips drag across his neck. “How many times do we have to fuck before this is a relationship?” Her voice is slurred and he’s clumsier than usual, too.
He chuckles. “I don’t think there’s a precedent.”
She goes to reply, loses it halfway to the staccato rhythm of his hips beating against hers.
“This isn’t working anymore.” He says. She bites back the laugh rising in her throat.
“This has never worked, Brian.” That was always sort of the point.
She fucks him hard, one last time, and it’s more out of spite than self-pity.
Six months pass. She meets Will McAvoy. She dates Will McAvoy. She fucks Will McAvoy. She does not think of Brian Brenner for nearly two years.
Somehow he gets her work email. Long time, no speak.
Please do not contact me again. She replies.
You couldn’t keep away if you tried.
He’s right, of course, she can’t and she doesn’t. It’s not masochism, exactly, but it comes pretty close.
What can she say? Turns out she is not a good girl, after all.
end.
paroxysms
the newsroom, mackenzie mchale (mac/brian, slight mac/will), pre-series, r
it’s not masochism, exactly, but it comes pretty close.
you write such pretty words
but life's no storybook
love's an excuse to get hurt
lover I don’t have to love; bright eyes
It has been a long day. Her legs ache and New York City is not what dreams are made of.
He is a writer.
“I’ve never heard of you.”
His glasses slide down his nose a fraction when he appraises her. The frames shadow his eyes and she can’t quite read his voice. “You must not read a lot.”
“I’m a journalist.” Her lips curl. She sips her drink, waits a beat.
“Kind of proves my point.”
The bar closes at midnight. His fingers ghost across the inside of her thigh in the taxi. “What kind of lady do you take me for, Mr Brenner?”
“That’s where our wires cross,” he murmurs, tongue wet against her collarbone. “You see, I don’t think you’re a lady at all.”
His hands are tight around her wrists and somehow it’s too much and not enough at the same time. She bites down on his neck. Hard.
“Good girls don’t bite.” He coos.
“I thought we’d already ascertained that I’m not a good girl.”
He speeds up, as if to say, fair enough.
The trouble is this: she is a good girl and there’s only so long she can keep up the façade.
That kind of makes her a bad girl, right?
The mattress squeaks. His hands tighten around her hips. “Stay still.”
She pushes back against him to prove a point but, really, she’s enjoying this a little too much.
“You won’t win.” He says, and his teeth find her jawbone, hand splaying across her pelvis. She bucks sharply, catches her breath long enough to say:
“Watch me.”
They are not dating. Not in the Hollywood sense of the word, at least. No. He calls her or texts her or let’s just say he contacts her and she feigns disinterest just long enough to get him crazy.
Still, when her college friends ask she calls him her boyfriend and smiles about it too.
Her lips drag across his neck. “How many times do we have to fuck before this is a relationship?” Her voice is slurred and he’s clumsier than usual, too.
He chuckles. “I don’t think there’s a precedent.”
She goes to reply, loses it halfway to the staccato rhythm of his hips beating against hers.
“This isn’t working anymore.” He says. She bites back the laugh rising in her throat.
“This has never worked, Brian.” That was always sort of the point.
She fucks him hard, one last time, and it’s more out of spite than self-pity.
Six months pass. She meets Will McAvoy. She dates Will McAvoy. She fucks Will McAvoy. She does not think of Brian Brenner for nearly two years.
Somehow he gets her work email. Long time, no speak.
Please do not contact me again. She replies.
You couldn’t keep away if you tried.
He’s right, of course, she can’t and she doesn’t. It’s not masochism, exactly, but it comes pretty close.
What can she say? Turns out she is not a good girl, after all.
end.