Unscheduled Appointment (1/1)
Title: Unscheduled Appointment
Part: 1 of 1
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica/30 Rock
Word Count: 361
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None, really
Characters: Galen Tyrol/Liz Lemon
Excerpt: Jack will kill her if he sees this guy.
Author's Note: Written for bsg-pornbattle (prompt: shut up you are), originally posted there.
There's a man standing at her window, gazing out into sun and skyscrapers and haze. He's as out of place as a straight, white investment banker in the Village; he's sweaty, covered in dust and engine grease, and his hair curls into a scruffy mop that Liz could swear he's stolen from the costume department. Jack will kill her if he sees this guy.
"What are you doing in my office?" she asks, as authoritatively as possible.
He turns and smiles. The bottom drops out of her stomach, and Liz finds herself wondering if she could somehow use this situation to swing another sexual harassment leave - and then Liz finds herself wondering why it's impossible to think, why her mind is suddenly turning dizzy pirouettes as her visitor steps forward.
"This," he says, taking her elbows gently in his palms, and without even needing to be told he puts his mouth on her mouth. Liz, on tiptoes, deepens the kiss, grabbing the back of his head with one hand. Chief Tyrol knows exactly what he's doing; the lady will have one overpriced VIP ticket to the gun show, she thinks fuzzily as she grips his biceps. He grins and pushes her back into the couch, and when she drops into a sitting position he's already there by her side, leaning over her. Liz spends a frustrating eight seconds arranging her neck against one armrest, and then fists the center of his shirt to tug his heavy and comforting body on top of hers. He growls, hungry. The rumble of it shoots up her spine and back down, between her legs.
"You've got a very swanky office," he murmurs against her neck. "Head writer, huh?"
He drops back to slip off her shoes, to rub his thumbs like an expert in the hollows of her arches. Liz moans.
"Sexy," she hears him say through the stars on her eyelids.
"Shut up," she squeals. "You are."
Liz snuggled deeper into the warm, welcoming, judgment-free folds of her Slanket. Her daydreams had gotten so good since she'd started watching Battlestar Galactica - she'd have to thank Pete, later. Once she was all finished here.
Part: 1 of 1
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica/30 Rock
Word Count: 361
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None, really
Characters: Galen Tyrol/Liz Lemon
Excerpt: Jack will kill her if he sees this guy.
Author's Note: Written for bsg-pornbattle (prompt: shut up you are), originally posted there.
There's a man standing at her window, gazing out into sun and skyscrapers and haze. He's as out of place as a straight, white investment banker in the Village; he's sweaty, covered in dust and engine grease, and his hair curls into a scruffy mop that Liz could swear he's stolen from the costume department. Jack will kill her if he sees this guy.
"What are you doing in my office?" she asks, as authoritatively as possible.
He turns and smiles. The bottom drops out of her stomach, and Liz finds herself wondering if she could somehow use this situation to swing another sexual harassment leave - and then Liz finds herself wondering why it's impossible to think, why her mind is suddenly turning dizzy pirouettes as her visitor steps forward.
"This," he says, taking her elbows gently in his palms, and without even needing to be told he puts his mouth on her mouth. Liz, on tiptoes, deepens the kiss, grabbing the back of his head with one hand. Chief Tyrol knows exactly what he's doing; the lady will have one overpriced VIP ticket to the gun show, she thinks fuzzily as she grips his biceps. He grins and pushes her back into the couch, and when she drops into a sitting position he's already there by her side, leaning over her. Liz spends a frustrating eight seconds arranging her neck against one armrest, and then fists the center of his shirt to tug his heavy and comforting body on top of hers. He growls, hungry. The rumble of it shoots up her spine and back down, between her legs.
"You've got a very swanky office," he murmurs against her neck. "Head writer, huh?"
He drops back to slip off her shoes, to rub his thumbs like an expert in the hollows of her arches. Liz moans.
"Sexy," she hears him say through the stars on her eyelids.
"Shut up," she squeals. "You are."
Liz snuggled deeper into the warm, welcoming, judgment-free folds of her Slanket. Her daydreams had gotten so good since she'd started watching Battlestar Galactica - she'd have to thank Pete, later. Once she was all finished here.