Studio 60/JackJordan/Blink
Title: Blink
Fandom: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Characters: Jack Rudolph/Jordan McDeere
Word Count: 327
Rating: light R/M
Summary: “Jack blinks, and in that split second of black he sees her, him, them pressed against the wall of a clean bathroom stall in a chic nightclub.” [Pre-series, One shot.]
A/N: I have no idea what this is. Honestly.
Blink
--
It’s their third meeting concerning the hiring of a new network president, and they’re no closer now than they were back when they started. The men in suits toss around names like baseballs while Jack stares silently into his coffee cup, hearing but not listening to the conversation currently ensuing about some guy named Chris Eisman.
His gaze doesn’t move as he interrupts the latest speaker with a loud, “What about Jordan McDeere?”
The room falls silent for a moment, and a quiet who? comes from the other end of the table and goes ignored.
“Why McDeere?”
(Jack blinks, and in that split second of black he sees her, him, them pressed against the wall of a clean bathroom stall in a chic nightclub.)
“She may not be a big name yet, but I guarantee that in a few years you’ll all know who she is.” He’s finally looking at them and not his plain, white office mug. “She’s worked wonders for NBC and CBS, and if we move fast, she can do the same for us.”
(blink: a hand up her skirt, teeth on his neck, a forgotten jacket trampled by her heels)
The man at the head of the table narrows his eyes at Jack, trying to read him. “You know this McDeere girl, Jack? Doin’ a favor?”
(blink: fingers in his hair, tongue in her mouth, slacks pooled around his ankles)
Jack doesn’t even so much as shift in his seat. “I don’t know her personally.”
(blink: a black lace bra with a complicated clasp, lips on her throat)
“You sure about that?” The man’s stare doesn’t falter, and neither does Jack’s.
(blink: legs ‘round his waist, impossibly white skin, pale blue eyes)
“Yes, sir.”
(blink: frenzied rhythm, whispering in his ear, and oh god, oh god, oh god)
Satisfied, the man busies himself with making a note on his yellow legal pad.
Jack swallows thickly, eyes back in his coffee, silent once more.
--
End
Fandom: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Characters: Jack Rudolph/Jordan McDeere
Word Count: 327
Rating: light R/M
Summary: “Jack blinks, and in that split second of black he sees her, him, them pressed against the wall of a clean bathroom stall in a chic nightclub.” [Pre-series, One shot.]
A/N: I have no idea what this is. Honestly.
Blink
--
It’s their third meeting concerning the hiring of a new network president, and they’re no closer now than they were back when they started. The men in suits toss around names like baseballs while Jack stares silently into his coffee cup, hearing but not listening to the conversation currently ensuing about some guy named Chris Eisman.
His gaze doesn’t move as he interrupts the latest speaker with a loud, “What about Jordan McDeere?”
The room falls silent for a moment, and a quiet who? comes from the other end of the table and goes ignored.
“Why McDeere?”
(Jack blinks, and in that split second of black he sees her, him, them pressed against the wall of a clean bathroom stall in a chic nightclub.)
“She may not be a big name yet, but I guarantee that in a few years you’ll all know who she is.” He’s finally looking at them and not his plain, white office mug. “She’s worked wonders for NBC and CBS, and if we move fast, she can do the same for us.”
(blink: a hand up her skirt, teeth on his neck, a forgotten jacket trampled by her heels)
The man at the head of the table narrows his eyes at Jack, trying to read him. “You know this McDeere girl, Jack? Doin’ a favor?”
(blink: fingers in his hair, tongue in her mouth, slacks pooled around his ankles)
Jack doesn’t even so much as shift in his seat. “I don’t know her personally.”
(blink: a black lace bra with a complicated clasp, lips on her throat)
“You sure about that?” The man’s stare doesn’t falter, and neither does Jack’s.
(blink: legs ‘round his waist, impossibly white skin, pale blue eyes)
“Yes, sir.”
(blink: frenzied rhythm, whispering in his ear, and oh god, oh god, oh god)
Satisfied, the man busies himself with making a note on his yellow legal pad.
Jack swallows thickly, eyes back in his coffee, silent once more.
--
End