things and stuff. also stories.
Jul. 11th, 2009 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pirateygoodnessGuyyys I am so bored, and either the internet needs to do more stuff or I am going to have to find something equally interesting to replace it. Also, because I am really bored, here are two Blake/Leighton ficlets that I wrote for a meme in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
austen's journal:
untitled, 138 words: Blake/Leighton, tan lines
Leighton just stares.
The shape of Blake's bikini bottoms is white across her hips and the tips of her breasts are pale, but the rest of her is golden and sunkissed. Leighton would have paid money to see the looks on people's faces on the beach that day.
(Or maybe Blake tans in the yard, at her parents' place in California - face-down, bikini untied, reading a book while she pulls her hair over her shoulder, lets her bare back heat under the sun.)
"What?" Blake says, half-laughing at the way Leighton's practically leering at her, half-shy.
Leighton leans forward and traces those tan lines with her tongue, until Blake's squirming and giggling underneath her. When she looks up again they're both breathless, and Leighton can't help but smile. "You got a tan."
+++
untitled, 207 words, Blake/Leighton historical AU in which Blake is Leighton's manservant-in-drag.
"We can't," Leighton half-whispers, chest heaving. Her dress is rucked up around her hips, skirts everywhere and Blake's hips in the middle of them, pressing them high and tight across her stomach.
Blake presses another kiss to her mouth, her throat, the tops of her breasts. She tangles her fingers in Blake's short hair and tugs, pulling her head away. It's the proper thing to do, but when Blake is looking into her eyes instead of kissing her, it feels like a loss. "We can't?" Blake asks, and her mouth is far too close to Leighton's.
"I -" Leighton stops for a moment, throat dry. There's something about this, something she never felt with the suitors her parents sent her to ball after ball with, something that makes her feel weak and needy and ready to hitch her skirts a little higher. When she finally speaks, it's with her jaw set and her eyes half-filled with tears. "We can't."
Blake presses a kiss to her forehead, chaste and respectful, and steps back. Her trousers are wrinkled and her shirt is half-open, but she doesn't move to compose herself just yet. "As you wish," she says, and it sounds like I love you.
austen's journal:untitled, 138 words: Blake/Leighton, tan lines
Leighton just stares.
The shape of Blake's bikini bottoms is white across her hips and the tips of her breasts are pale, but the rest of her is golden and sunkissed. Leighton would have paid money to see the looks on people's faces on the beach that day.
(Or maybe Blake tans in the yard, at her parents' place in California - face-down, bikini untied, reading a book while she pulls her hair over her shoulder, lets her bare back heat under the sun.)
"What?" Blake says, half-laughing at the way Leighton's practically leering at her, half-shy.
Leighton leans forward and traces those tan lines with her tongue, until Blake's squirming and giggling underneath her. When she looks up again they're both breathless, and Leighton can't help but smile. "You got a tan."
+++
untitled, 207 words, Blake/Leighton historical AU in which Blake is Leighton's manservant-in-drag.
"We can't," Leighton half-whispers, chest heaving. Her dress is rucked up around her hips, skirts everywhere and Blake's hips in the middle of them, pressing them high and tight across her stomach.
Blake presses another kiss to her mouth, her throat, the tops of her breasts. She tangles her fingers in Blake's short hair and tugs, pulling her head away. It's the proper thing to do, but when Blake is looking into her eyes instead of kissing her, it feels like a loss. "We can't?" Blake asks, and her mouth is far too close to Leighton's.
"I -" Leighton stops for a moment, throat dry. There's something about this, something she never felt with the suitors her parents sent her to ball after ball with, something that makes her feel weak and needy and ready to hitch her skirts a little higher. When she finally speaks, it's with her jaw set and her eyes half-filled with tears. "We can't."
Blake presses a kiss to her forehead, chaste and respectful, and steps back. Her trousers are wrinkled and her shirt is half-open, but she doesn't move to compose herself just yet. "As you wish," she says, and it sounds like I love you.
