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bedlamsbardMore of the Black Monday M/S, and for those that are interested in what dress Stella's wearing , it's this one. I'll figure out context for it later, I swear.
“Stella,” Mac said shakily, and she looped her free hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him, feeling his tongue press against hers with more desperation now, more frantic need and less –
Less despair. Like he was kissing her, not as if the world might end, but as if he wanted her. And that, Stella knew, was a good thing. A very good thing, because it meant he wasn’t thinking about his parents, or about dinner, or about the conference, but about her, and about himself. It made a nice change.
“Wait,” she gasped, breaking away. Mac pulled back immediately, glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked, and he looked down at her hand with something like embarrassment.
“Stella –” he said.
“I know, I know,” she muttered, and sroked his cock one more time before taking her hand out. She wiped it on the bedspread and began to fumble with the laces at the back of her dress. “Help me out here,” she said finally, pulling with distraction at the knot at her neck.
Mac’s hands brushed lightly over her shoulders and he met her eyes as his soldier’s fingers untangled the tie that kept her dress up. When he got it loose, Stella let the front of her dress fall forward. She wasn’t wearing a bra – like she could with this dress – and Mac’s eyes went immediately to her breasts, then he blushed and looked down at her lap.
“Like it, huh?” she asked. There was a zipper at the back, and Stella twisted around until she could get her hands around the pull without ripping the dress. She pulled it over her head, letting the red silk fall onto the floor in a shapeless pile.
Mac was still looking down. Stella leaned forward to push his shirt off his shoulders and wonder a little at the fact that he had an undershirt on beneath too. “Hey,” she said. “You have too many clothes on here.”
She waited for Mac to reply, but instead he smiles faintly at her, something nervous in the quirk of his mouth, and reached to pull off. Stella ran one hand down his chest, feeling the interplay of muscle beneath skin, then put her hands on his belt buckles. Mac touched her back lightly, more reassurance, she thought, than a caress, and then with more surety. He let her push his pants off, and kicked off shoes and socks, so that they were both lying almost naked on the bed, wearing only their underwear.
There was a moment when Stella thought, so that’s what he looks like, because the least she’d ever seen Mac wearing was sweats and a t-shirt, and the only reason that came about was bad. The department cover-alls went over their usual clothes, and while Mac emerged from them looking rumpled and unhappy about it, he’d never gone so far as to strip down in front of her. Maybe Danny or Flack in the locker room, but never her or Aiden. He was too much of a gentleman for that.
Stella put her hand on Mac’s chest, feeling him breathe quick and ragged, warm skin and a fine down of hair. He’d fixed his eyes on her throat, like meeting her eyes was a sin and looking down would be unthinkable.
Unwind, she thought, because he was still thinking too much. What are you thinking of? Don’t do it. Don’t.
Her free hand slid down to fix against the band of his briefs and he flinched a little against her touch. “It’s okay,” she said, calming as she could. “It’s okay. It’s –” okay, she wanted to finish, but the word stopped in her throat when Mac leaned forward to press a kiss to her collarbone and flipped her onto her back. She squirmed beneath him, let him pull her panties off and arch up so she could push away his briefs. He kicked them away impatiently, then kissed her again, hard, demanding, and this was good. Stella wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him back. Taste of alcohol in his mouth, the sweet bright tang of whiskey, and maybe she could get drunk off this alone. Never mind the gin and tonic she downed earlier; Mac’s mouth was enough.
His hands found her breasts, caressing and teasing, and she arched up into him. “Jesus, Mac,” she gasped. “Jesus fucking – oh, God.”
They hadn’t bothered with a condom, because Stella hadn’t come to Chicago with the express intension of getting herself laid and Mac probably hadn’t had sex since – well, there had been Rose whatshername, but that was a disaster if there ever was one. Stella normally didn’t advocate unsafe sex, but she was on the pill – thank God for birth control – and she’d eat her badge if there was even a one percent chance Mac had some kind of venereal disease. Giving him the excuse to walk out was too big a risk, and she couldn’t do that.
I don’t care if you’re falling, she wanted to say. I don’t care if you think this is going to fuck you up, because it probably will. Fuck, breathing fucks you up. Just forget, okay? For fifteen minutes, an hour, a day. Let me help you, because it’s the least I can do. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t care about me, because it’s all about you tonight, okay?
His hands were rough from gunhandling, small and quick and neat, and these were the same hands, after all, that handled bits of evidence, tiny shreds of cloth and paper and hair that could fall apart at the slightest breeze. Not figuratively; literally. It took good hands to be a CSI; good hands and good eyes, and Mac had both. He had an eye for the evidence, for the details, but he couldn’t always see the patterns that made up the big picture, so that when he looked at the finished product there were dark spots, shadowed spots. It was the same with everyone, but it was almost glaring with Mac, because of the spots he couldn’t see. Not the same as most other people, because it was the people he couldn’t read. She knew what he’d say to that – people lie, evidence never does. Was there any real point in dealing with people except to gather evidence?
Yes. There was always a point. Puzzle pieces made pictures, but you had to have all the pieces first or the picture wouldn’t be whole. There would be holes, and sometimes the holes would be glaring, because the evidence couldn’t tell you the why. The who and the how, yes, but seldom the why.
Why did you kill your wife, Mr. Cafferty?
She looked at me funny.
There was lipstick on her collar. Not her shade.
She dropped the eggs.
She’s been over at Bill and Nadine’s house three times this week, and Nadine’s in the hospital.
I didn’t. She fell.
On a gun, Mr. Cafferty?
I don’t own a gun.
Then where’d the bullet come from?
I don’t know, Detective.
That’s interesting, seeing as how it’s registered to you.
Mac touched her slow and with promise, the same way he processed evidence, neat and sure, fingers stroking from the curve of her breast to her hip, never quite lifting away from the skin. Searching for something he’d missed, some little clue that would unlock the mystery.
No mystery here, Stella wanted to say, arching harder against him as he thrust into her. No mystery. Just me, and you. Just a man and a woman. People do things like this all the time. Don’t be a detective, not now.
Things I love: when watching reruns of eps I haven't seen does not, in fact, take my fanon and bash it over the head, but take my fanon and give me canon to support it. Ah, CSI: NY, how I love thee. Can anyone that taped "Tri-Borough" let me know exactly what Danny says about Paul Gianetti and the mafia family he's connected to? The second I heard "mobbed up", I flipped to a new page in my notebook and scribbled notes and it sounded like "head of the Pastelli Family," but I'm not sure.
Things I hate: remembering why I don't share my obsessions with my RL friends, because they say stuff like, "Well, I watched CSI: New York last night, and it sucked," and I end up leaping toward them with my hands outstretched, shrieking at the top of my voice, "WHAT!" In front of other people. Fortunately it was Creative Writing Club, and they're all well aware of my insanity. *sniff* Insulted my show.
“Stella,” Mac said shakily, and she looped her free hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss him, feeling his tongue press against hers with more desperation now, more frantic need and less –
Less despair. Like he was kissing her, not as if the world might end, but as if he wanted her. And that, Stella knew, was a good thing. A very good thing, because it meant he wasn’t thinking about his parents, or about dinner, or about the conference, but about her, and about himself. It made a nice change.
“Wait,” she gasped, breaking away. Mac pulled back immediately, glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked, and he looked down at her hand with something like embarrassment.
“Stella –” he said.
“I know, I know,” she muttered, and sroked his cock one more time before taking her hand out. She wiped it on the bedspread and began to fumble with the laces at the back of her dress. “Help me out here,” she said finally, pulling with distraction at the knot at her neck.
Mac’s hands brushed lightly over her shoulders and he met her eyes as his soldier’s fingers untangled the tie that kept her dress up. When he got it loose, Stella let the front of her dress fall forward. She wasn’t wearing a bra – like she could with this dress – and Mac’s eyes went immediately to her breasts, then he blushed and looked down at her lap.
“Like it, huh?” she asked. There was a zipper at the back, and Stella twisted around until she could get her hands around the pull without ripping the dress. She pulled it over her head, letting the red silk fall onto the floor in a shapeless pile.
Mac was still looking down. Stella leaned forward to push his shirt off his shoulders and wonder a little at the fact that he had an undershirt on beneath too. “Hey,” she said. “You have too many clothes on here.”
She waited for Mac to reply, but instead he smiles faintly at her, something nervous in the quirk of his mouth, and reached to pull off. Stella ran one hand down his chest, feeling the interplay of muscle beneath skin, then put her hands on his belt buckles. Mac touched her back lightly, more reassurance, she thought, than a caress, and then with more surety. He let her push his pants off, and kicked off shoes and socks, so that they were both lying almost naked on the bed, wearing only their underwear.
There was a moment when Stella thought, so that’s what he looks like, because the least she’d ever seen Mac wearing was sweats and a t-shirt, and the only reason that came about was bad. The department cover-alls went over their usual clothes, and while Mac emerged from them looking rumpled and unhappy about it, he’d never gone so far as to strip down in front of her. Maybe Danny or Flack in the locker room, but never her or Aiden. He was too much of a gentleman for that.
Stella put her hand on Mac’s chest, feeling him breathe quick and ragged, warm skin and a fine down of hair. He’d fixed his eyes on her throat, like meeting her eyes was a sin and looking down would be unthinkable.
Unwind, she thought, because he was still thinking too much. What are you thinking of? Don’t do it. Don’t.
Her free hand slid down to fix against the band of his briefs and he flinched a little against her touch. “It’s okay,” she said, calming as she could. “It’s okay. It’s –” okay, she wanted to finish, but the word stopped in her throat when Mac leaned forward to press a kiss to her collarbone and flipped her onto her back. She squirmed beneath him, let him pull her panties off and arch up so she could push away his briefs. He kicked them away impatiently, then kissed her again, hard, demanding, and this was good. Stella wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him back. Taste of alcohol in his mouth, the sweet bright tang of whiskey, and maybe she could get drunk off this alone. Never mind the gin and tonic she downed earlier; Mac’s mouth was enough.
His hands found her breasts, caressing and teasing, and she arched up into him. “Jesus, Mac,” she gasped. “Jesus fucking – oh, God.”
They hadn’t bothered with a condom, because Stella hadn’t come to Chicago with the express intension of getting herself laid and Mac probably hadn’t had sex since – well, there had been Rose whatshername, but that was a disaster if there ever was one. Stella normally didn’t advocate unsafe sex, but she was on the pill – thank God for birth control – and she’d eat her badge if there was even a one percent chance Mac had some kind of venereal disease. Giving him the excuse to walk out was too big a risk, and she couldn’t do that.
I don’t care if you’re falling, she wanted to say. I don’t care if you think this is going to fuck you up, because it probably will. Fuck, breathing fucks you up. Just forget, okay? For fifteen minutes, an hour, a day. Let me help you, because it’s the least I can do. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t care about me, because it’s all about you tonight, okay?
His hands were rough from gunhandling, small and quick and neat, and these were the same hands, after all, that handled bits of evidence, tiny shreds of cloth and paper and hair that could fall apart at the slightest breeze. Not figuratively; literally. It took good hands to be a CSI; good hands and good eyes, and Mac had both. He had an eye for the evidence, for the details, but he couldn’t always see the patterns that made up the big picture, so that when he looked at the finished product there were dark spots, shadowed spots. It was the same with everyone, but it was almost glaring with Mac, because of the spots he couldn’t see. Not the same as most other people, because it was the people he couldn’t read. She knew what he’d say to that – people lie, evidence never does. Was there any real point in dealing with people except to gather evidence?
Yes. There was always a point. Puzzle pieces made pictures, but you had to have all the pieces first or the picture wouldn’t be whole. There would be holes, and sometimes the holes would be glaring, because the evidence couldn’t tell you the why. The who and the how, yes, but seldom the why.
Why did you kill your wife, Mr. Cafferty?
She looked at me funny.
There was lipstick on her collar. Not her shade.
She dropped the eggs.
She’s been over at Bill and Nadine’s house three times this week, and Nadine’s in the hospital.
I didn’t. She fell.
On a gun, Mr. Cafferty?
I don’t own a gun.
Then where’d the bullet come from?
I don’t know, Detective.
That’s interesting, seeing as how it’s registered to you.
Mac touched her slow and with promise, the same way he processed evidence, neat and sure, fingers stroking from the curve of her breast to her hip, never quite lifting away from the skin. Searching for something he’d missed, some little clue that would unlock the mystery.
No mystery here, Stella wanted to say, arching harder against him as he thrust into her. No mystery. Just me, and you. Just a man and a woman. People do things like this all the time. Don’t be a detective, not now.
Things I love: when watching reruns of eps I haven't seen does not, in fact, take my fanon and bash it over the head, but take my fanon and give me canon to support it. Ah, CSI: NY, how I love thee. Can anyone that taped "Tri-Borough" let me know exactly what Danny says about Paul Gianetti and the mafia family he's connected to? The second I heard "mobbed up", I flipped to a new page in my notebook and scribbled notes and it sounded like "head of the Pastelli Family," but I'm not sure.
Things I hate: remembering why I don't share my obsessions with my RL friends, because they say stuff like, "Well, I watched CSI: New York last night, and it sucked," and I end up leaping toward them with my hands outstretched, shrieking at the top of my voice, "WHAT!" In front of other people. Fortunately it was Creative Writing Club, and they're all well aware of my insanity. *sniff* Insulted my show.