Studio 60/30 Rock FF: Kind of like applause (Liz Lemon/Matt Albie, R)
More reposting from oxoniensis's Porn Battle V
Title: Kind of like applause
Fandom: Studio 60/30 Rock
Pairing: Liz Lemon/Matt Albie
Rating: R
Length: 767
Disclaimer: All belongs to Aaron Sorkin, Tina Fey et all
Spoilers: If you've seen an episode of both shows you'll be fine.
Summary: What else would you do when you're not allowed to write? Prompt was strike, originally here.
“Shouldn’t you be in New York?”
“Shouldn’t you be using this unexpected free time to stalk Harriet Hayes?”
“Is there anyone in the world who doesn’t…?” Matt Albie looks around like he’s about to yell for someone, before he remembers he’s on the picket line, and his probable harem of interns aren’t around. Though Danny Tripp’s about somewhere. He’s never liked her. So what if she had slept with Matt that one time, who cared? Even if she’d heard he’d gotten all twitchy and paranoid for a month that she was going to write it into a sketch…
There’s an almighty crash, and someone in the crowd yells, “Yeah, you better get running you whacked out car! I know what you got in that trunk! Damn CIA’s got nothing on me!”
Liz pulls her cap down over her face before anyone figures out that Tracy is her responsibility. She had warned Jack that Tracy didn’t respond well to unexpected loud noises, like, say, cars honking encouragement. The scary thing is, he truly is trying to be supportive. Maybe she can sell the other guys on the notion of all publicity being good publicity?
Matt looks mostly sympathetic. Damn him and his cast with their socially acceptable psychological issues.
Someone is shouting her name. “Lemon!!!” It’s the part of her name that means either Tracy’s in trouble, or Jack’s here, and they’re all in trouble. If anyone could intimidate an entire picket of angry writers, it would be Jack Donaghy.
Matt grabs her arm and drags her backwards through the picket line until they’re crushed up against a side gate. He probably thinks it’s manly and impulsive.
“Matt!” Liz protests.
“Yes?”
“We’re on strike.”
“And I’m… writing? Look, don’t even get me started. Once, once, in my life I was writing for two straight weeks without getting blocked. I’d managed to go a good month without throwing the laptop across the office. And I bet you’re the same, so don’t act like you’re not ready to stab someone with your pen if you don’t get to write again soon. Like your whole body isn’t itching, wanting one of those moments when your fingers go faster than your brain and it’s going to make your idiot friend over there sound hilarious and you just nail it.”
His voice goes strange on the word ‘nail’, or maybe it’s her. But he’s a better writer than she’d credited him for because now her skin really is on fire with the want of something. She manages, “Oh, shut up,” which is not the wit she’s renowned for. They are bad, bad writers and they’ve forgotten solidarity because the picket line’s moved but they haven’t. The other writers and actors have gone to cross the street, wave signs, and come back again. That means they have, “What, five minutes, ten?”
“Good enough.”
Matt Albie is still a neurotic freak, but people who fear being found half-eaten by Alsatians shouldn’t throw stones. There’s just about enough of an alcove that they won’t be seen by anyone not looking closely. She hooks her leg up over his hip and shoves irritably at his pants. He yelps worryingly, and she freaks, “God! Your back’s fixed¸ right?”
“It was,” he snaps, but he’s propped up on the wall now, and the damage is probably done already.
“Shut up, Albie.”
“Liz-”
“No time. Pants. They’ll be back soon.”
“Ever the charmer,” he drawls sarcastically, but he plucks at the fly of her suit trousers, tangling their arms while she goes for his.
Still, God but it is satisfying when she slides onto him. He bucks upwards, off the wall, and mouths damp unintelligible words onto her collarbone. The buttons of his shirt jab into her through her thin tee-shirt, and when she moves, Matt bites out, “God…” and she can feel when he loses it. It’s jerky and unplanned, but that’s the kind of time she’s been having since this started, and she comes hard enough that she’ll wonder later how he held her up.
Feet come stamping back across the street, and Liz can hear the car horns. When the other picketers reach them, she and Matt are straightening up the signs left lying against the wall. JJ Abrams looks at them kind of oddly and she would swear Joss Whedon winks.
Matt taps her arm with a sign. “That was…”
“Almost as good as a laugh?”
Matt grins. “Better than a blank page.”
She nods. “Yeah. Yeah. Hey, wanna help me stop Tracy trying to sexually assault the cast of Desperate Housewives?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
Title: Kind of like applause
Fandom: Studio 60/30 Rock
Pairing: Liz Lemon/Matt Albie
Rating: R
Length: 767
Disclaimer: All belongs to Aaron Sorkin, Tina Fey et all
Spoilers: If you've seen an episode of both shows you'll be fine.
Summary: What else would you do when you're not allowed to write? Prompt was strike, originally here.
“Shouldn’t you be in New York?”
“Shouldn’t you be using this unexpected free time to stalk Harriet Hayes?”
“Is there anyone in the world who doesn’t…?” Matt Albie looks around like he’s about to yell for someone, before he remembers he’s on the picket line, and his probable harem of interns aren’t around. Though Danny Tripp’s about somewhere. He’s never liked her. So what if she had slept with Matt that one time, who cared? Even if she’d heard he’d gotten all twitchy and paranoid for a month that she was going to write it into a sketch…
There’s an almighty crash, and someone in the crowd yells, “Yeah, you better get running you whacked out car! I know what you got in that trunk! Damn CIA’s got nothing on me!”
Liz pulls her cap down over her face before anyone figures out that Tracy is her responsibility. She had warned Jack that Tracy didn’t respond well to unexpected loud noises, like, say, cars honking encouragement. The scary thing is, he truly is trying to be supportive. Maybe she can sell the other guys on the notion of all publicity being good publicity?
Matt looks mostly sympathetic. Damn him and his cast with their socially acceptable psychological issues.
Someone is shouting her name. “Lemon!!!” It’s the part of her name that means either Tracy’s in trouble, or Jack’s here, and they’re all in trouble. If anyone could intimidate an entire picket of angry writers, it would be Jack Donaghy.
Matt grabs her arm and drags her backwards through the picket line until they’re crushed up against a side gate. He probably thinks it’s manly and impulsive.
“Matt!” Liz protests.
“Yes?”
“We’re on strike.”
“And I’m… writing? Look, don’t even get me started. Once, once, in my life I was writing for two straight weeks without getting blocked. I’d managed to go a good month without throwing the laptop across the office. And I bet you’re the same, so don’t act like you’re not ready to stab someone with your pen if you don’t get to write again soon. Like your whole body isn’t itching, wanting one of those moments when your fingers go faster than your brain and it’s going to make your idiot friend over there sound hilarious and you just nail it.”
His voice goes strange on the word ‘nail’, or maybe it’s her. But he’s a better writer than she’d credited him for because now her skin really is on fire with the want of something. She manages, “Oh, shut up,” which is not the wit she’s renowned for. They are bad, bad writers and they’ve forgotten solidarity because the picket line’s moved but they haven’t. The other writers and actors have gone to cross the street, wave signs, and come back again. That means they have, “What, five minutes, ten?”
“Good enough.”
Matt Albie is still a neurotic freak, but people who fear being found half-eaten by Alsatians shouldn’t throw stones. There’s just about enough of an alcove that they won’t be seen by anyone not looking closely. She hooks her leg up over his hip and shoves irritably at his pants. He yelps worryingly, and she freaks, “God! Your back’s fixed¸ right?”
“It was,” he snaps, but he’s propped up on the wall now, and the damage is probably done already.
“Shut up, Albie.”
“Liz-”
“No time. Pants. They’ll be back soon.”
“Ever the charmer,” he drawls sarcastically, but he plucks at the fly of her suit trousers, tangling their arms while she goes for his.
Still, God but it is satisfying when she slides onto him. He bucks upwards, off the wall, and mouths damp unintelligible words onto her collarbone. The buttons of his shirt jab into her through her thin tee-shirt, and when she moves, Matt bites out, “God…” and she can feel when he loses it. It’s jerky and unplanned, but that’s the kind of time she’s been having since this started, and she comes hard enough that she’ll wonder later how he held her up.
Feet come stamping back across the street, and Liz can hear the car horns. When the other picketers reach them, she and Matt are straightening up the signs left lying against the wall. JJ Abrams looks at them kind of oddly and she would swear Joss Whedon winks.
Matt taps her arm with a sign. “That was…”
“Almost as good as a laugh?”
Matt grins. “Better than a blank page.”
She nods. “Yeah. Yeah. Hey, wanna help me stop Tracy trying to sexually assault the cast of Desperate Housewives?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”