First Fic
Liz Lemon is a Horn Dog (30 Rock)
Liz/M, Liz/F
This is for adults.
I do not own any of these characters.
Note: This is my first fanfic ever. Also un-betaed. That said, be vicious in your criticism.
Liz Lemon is a Horn Dog.
She's still high off her Emmy win the week before so her mysterious situation detector isn't as over-tuned as it usually is. Pete grabs her by the arm and drags her into the retired prop room. She opens her mouth, wants to say something about how no, they cannot take the Michael Jackson wig out yet, it's too soon, maybe in a couple years when there's another celeb pedo trial, and he's kissing her. Pete's mouth is wet and bristly, but Pete is her Robin, her Sancho Panza, her Chewbacca, and she loves him, so she goes with it. The stand holding up the John Kerry dummy topples when he throws her against it, and she thumps into the wall behind. Breathe whooshes between their lips; she's a little winded. His hand is under her shirt, creeping under her waistband, and he finally moves his mouth.
“Pete?”
He stops, and there is warmth on her neck where his head rests. She thinks he's drooling, and gags, but then he sobs again and again, into her neck, and all she can do is rub his back and hope he takes his hand out of her pants before she has to do it herself, because awkward.
“Paula's pregnant again.” He whispers, his lips ticking her neck. He pulls back and finally takes his hand out of her pants. “I don't know if I can handle another kid.”
“You can stay with me for a bit.” What is she supposed to do with her hands? They come away from his neck, where they'd moved, and hang heavily at her sides. She tries to put them in her pockets but she is wearing good pants today and they don't have any. She presses them against her thighs.
“No, I can't do that to her. I-I just. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..”
“Hey, we're cool. Coolio. Cool-a-matic.” She looks at him through the dust they stirred up, and he's still Pete, still good old bald Pete, and they'll never mention this again.
~~~
She drives Toofer home after a run-through goes late and he's missed the last bus. He invites her up for a coffee, and of course it's not decaf, and weird things happen to her when she has caffeine after eleven, and they have sex on his couch. Contrary to what she's always assumed, his dick isn't huge, but he sure as hell knows how to use it. This is the month she's trying out a sex journal, so she goes home and puts in entry number one. Once you go black you are more likely to do so again at some point in the future. Her brain refuses to forget about it, so she proposes a sketch on a similar theme (but of course involving more ladies and racial stereotypes) but Toofer catches her eye and winks and she contributes nothing else to the meeting. She doesn't have a fireplace, so she burns the sex journal in the sink and the alarms go off and so do the sprinklers so she sleeps on the floor while her mattress dries. Next Monday she quietly threatens Toofer while assuring him that it will never happen again and no it was not that good thank you very much.
~~~
She hasn't had sex in a year and she's drunk and it's Christmas, so the thought crosses her mind as she stares across the staff party. Frank's hat says “radical homilies” and she has no idea what that means but knows that if she sleeps with him she might be able to see where he keeps them all. For some reason she pictures a vault. On the other hand, it's Frank, and further, there is a 100% chance, knowing her, that his mom will walk in, and there is no way she could deal with that much humiliation, as practised as she is. She gets another mug of eggnog and a brownie instead.
~~~
She's a little drunk and disorientated by the pounding bass beats so she is slow to react when Jenna plants one on her. This is it, Lemon, you and Jenna are at last going to consummate this weird thing that has never really been sexual but always felt like it could be but no, Jenna pulls away and wakes and winks and tosses her hair, all at the pot-bellied sugar daddy across the bar. She gets up to leave but Jenna squeaks and grabs her arm, so hard it hurts, and she looks closer and Jenna isn't drunk, she's high, so Liz calls a cab. They do end up in bed together, but not in the sexy way. Jenna is snoring and Liz wakes up every half hour to make sure she's breathing and still in the recovery position and in the morning, when Jenna stumbles out of the bedroom to the smell of Liz's industrial strength coffee, she only kisses Liz on the ear and slumps at the table around her mug and Liz knows she doesn't remember.
~~~
Liz has no idea how she came to be bent over Jack's desk as he fucks her from behind and she really can't focus on that dilemma at the moment because apparently what they say about republicans is true. She's a democrat though, and on that note she feels she should step up her game but her game is solely vocal and they are at work. He makes sure she comes first, which is somehow even more embarrassing, and she scrambles to put on her clothes. She will never wear a skirt to work again. She just had sex with her new boss. Good sex. With her boss. She doesn't know if she can ever look him in the eyes again, which is problematic because they will be working together for the foreseeable future and Jack is irritatingly hands-on. He calls out as her hand is on the door and she freezes.
“Turn around.”
It takes a few seconds, but she does, because she's always been stupid like that. His clothes are already on, how does he do that, and the only thing in disarray is his desk. She wrenches her eyes from it, and looks at his tie. Blue today, he's clearly feeling mellow. Clearly. The tie gets bigger and the pattern resolves as he draws closer and she winces when his hand touches her chin, drawing her gaze up. His eyes aren't mocking, not even a little, and he leans in. She flinches even harder, but all he does is drop a kiss on her cheek.
“Not bad, Lemon.”
His voice is soft. She smiles at him and he smiles back and turns to his desk. They are going to be great friends, she knows it.
~~~
None of it, not one misguided or drunken or mistaken encounter, not one compared to kissing in the rain, feeling bricks scrape her back, fire racing through her veins, as Gretchen pressed her against the wall in the alley near her brownstone, the day before Liz avowed an exclusive love for hairy backs.
She doesn't burn things in her apartment any more, so she still has Gretchen's number.
Liz/M, Liz/F
This is for adults.
I do not own any of these characters.
Note: This is my first fanfic ever. Also un-betaed. That said, be vicious in your criticism.
Liz Lemon is a Horn Dog.
She's still high off her Emmy win the week before so her mysterious situation detector isn't as over-tuned as it usually is. Pete grabs her by the arm and drags her into the retired prop room. She opens her mouth, wants to say something about how no, they cannot take the Michael Jackson wig out yet, it's too soon, maybe in a couple years when there's another celeb pedo trial, and he's kissing her. Pete's mouth is wet and bristly, but Pete is her Robin, her Sancho Panza, her Chewbacca, and she loves him, so she goes with it. The stand holding up the John Kerry dummy topples when he throws her against it, and she thumps into the wall behind. Breathe whooshes between their lips; she's a little winded. His hand is under her shirt, creeping under her waistband, and he finally moves his mouth.
“Pete?”
He stops, and there is warmth on her neck where his head rests. She thinks he's drooling, and gags, but then he sobs again and again, into her neck, and all she can do is rub his back and hope he takes his hand out of her pants before she has to do it herself, because awkward.
“Paula's pregnant again.” He whispers, his lips ticking her neck. He pulls back and finally takes his hand out of her pants. “I don't know if I can handle another kid.”
“You can stay with me for a bit.” What is she supposed to do with her hands? They come away from his neck, where they'd moved, and hang heavily at her sides. She tries to put them in her pockets but she is wearing good pants today and they don't have any. She presses them against her thighs.
“No, I can't do that to her. I-I just. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..”
“Hey, we're cool. Coolio. Cool-a-matic.” She looks at him through the dust they stirred up, and he's still Pete, still good old bald Pete, and they'll never mention this again.
~~~
She drives Toofer home after a run-through goes late and he's missed the last bus. He invites her up for a coffee, and of course it's not decaf, and weird things happen to her when she has caffeine after eleven, and they have sex on his couch. Contrary to what she's always assumed, his dick isn't huge, but he sure as hell knows how to use it. This is the month she's trying out a sex journal, so she goes home and puts in entry number one. Once you go black you are more likely to do so again at some point in the future. Her brain refuses to forget about it, so she proposes a sketch on a similar theme (but of course involving more ladies and racial stereotypes) but Toofer catches her eye and winks and she contributes nothing else to the meeting. She doesn't have a fireplace, so she burns the sex journal in the sink and the alarms go off and so do the sprinklers so she sleeps on the floor while her mattress dries. Next Monday she quietly threatens Toofer while assuring him that it will never happen again and no it was not that good thank you very much.
~~~
She hasn't had sex in a year and she's drunk and it's Christmas, so the thought crosses her mind as she stares across the staff party. Frank's hat says “radical homilies” and she has no idea what that means but knows that if she sleeps with him she might be able to see where he keeps them all. For some reason she pictures a vault. On the other hand, it's Frank, and further, there is a 100% chance, knowing her, that his mom will walk in, and there is no way she could deal with that much humiliation, as practised as she is. She gets another mug of eggnog and a brownie instead.
~~~
She's a little drunk and disorientated by the pounding bass beats so she is slow to react when Jenna plants one on her. This is it, Lemon, you and Jenna are at last going to consummate this weird thing that has never really been sexual but always felt like it could be but no, Jenna pulls away and wakes and winks and tosses her hair, all at the pot-bellied sugar daddy across the bar. She gets up to leave but Jenna squeaks and grabs her arm, so hard it hurts, and she looks closer and Jenna isn't drunk, she's high, so Liz calls a cab. They do end up in bed together, but not in the sexy way. Jenna is snoring and Liz wakes up every half hour to make sure she's breathing and still in the recovery position and in the morning, when Jenna stumbles out of the bedroom to the smell of Liz's industrial strength coffee, she only kisses Liz on the ear and slumps at the table around her mug and Liz knows she doesn't remember.
~~~
Liz has no idea how she came to be bent over Jack's desk as he fucks her from behind and she really can't focus on that dilemma at the moment because apparently what they say about republicans is true. She's a democrat though, and on that note she feels she should step up her game but her game is solely vocal and they are at work. He makes sure she comes first, which is somehow even more embarrassing, and she scrambles to put on her clothes. She will never wear a skirt to work again. She just had sex with her new boss. Good sex. With her boss. She doesn't know if she can ever look him in the eyes again, which is problematic because they will be working together for the foreseeable future and Jack is irritatingly hands-on. He calls out as her hand is on the door and she freezes.
“Turn around.”
It takes a few seconds, but she does, because she's always been stupid like that. His clothes are already on, how does he do that, and the only thing in disarray is his desk. She wrenches her eyes from it, and looks at his tie. Blue today, he's clearly feeling mellow. Clearly. The tie gets bigger and the pattern resolves as he draws closer and she winces when his hand touches her chin, drawing her gaze up. His eyes aren't mocking, not even a little, and he leans in. She flinches even harder, but all he does is drop a kiss on her cheek.
“Not bad, Lemon.”
His voice is soft. She smiles at him and he smiles back and turns to his desk. They are going to be great friends, she knows it.
~~~
None of it, not one misguided or drunken or mistaken encounter, not one compared to kissing in the rain, feeling bricks scrape her back, fire racing through her veins, as Gretchen pressed her against the wall in the alley near her brownstone, the day before Liz avowed an exclusive love for hairy backs.
She doesn't burn things in her apartment any more, so she still has Gretchen's number.