alittlemorebite

Could They Get Any Cuter?

2008-03-20T10:35:42Z

Click for bigger shots.

This one cracks me up so much:

More at the source.

alittlemorebite @ 2008-02-25T17:05:00

2008-02-25T09:06:12Z

So fucking cute.

The Sweet to My Mean (South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley, PG)

2007-11-05T16:19:39Z

Title: The Sweet to My Mean
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: South of Nowhere
Pairing: Spencer/Ashley
Rating: PG
Summary: Spencer bakes, works on a crossword puzzle and does yoga.
Author's Notes: Title stolen from Cary Brothers. I wrote this ages ago but it got lost amidst the hundreds of Word documents I have on my computer.

1.

It all starts when Spencer notices the oven.

“Ash?” Her face scrunches up in amused puzzlement. “You have an oven.”

Shrugging, Ashley takes a sip of her coffee and leans against the fridge. “Kyla’s idea. She’s on this whole health trip and wants to make everything herself. I think she actually made tofu brownies once.” It’s driving Ashley crazy, really, having sugar-free, fat-free, carb-free, taste-free substances lying everywhere. She makes a mental note to kick Kyla out if she ever mentions the word ‘decaf’.

Spencer turns away from the oven and smiles. It’s infectious, and Ashley can’t help but crack her own goofy imitation of Spencer’s grin. “What?” she asks, the word tumbling out in a laugh.

“Let’s make some cupcakes.”

A sound, a bubble of a scoff and a snort, escapes Ashley’s throat, and she has to put her mug down to keep the coffee from spilling over. “Um, Spence? I don’t bake. I’m allergic.”

Spencer laughs. “To what?”

“Ingredients?”

Shaking her head, Spencer begins to raid the kitchen.

“This cannot end well.”

***

Half an hour later, Spencer stands proudly over a tray of chocolate cupcakes. “Now all that’s left is the icing.”

“Oh God, we have icing?” Ashley groans, sagging against the island. She’s never understood the appeal of baking, never delighted in sinking her fingers into raw, squishy ingredients and getting bits of food stuck in her hair. Egg yolk, as far as she’s concerned, will never be a crowning glory.

Spencer, meanwhile, spreads icing over the cupcakes with what, to Ashley, looks like an unnecessarily loving touch. After the fourth one, she pauses and picks up one of the cupcakes, biting into it with approval. “’S good. Want one?”

“Maybe later.”

“Okay,” Spencer mumbles, taking another bite. The icing is thick and smooth, and no matter how delicately Spencer tries to eat the cupcake, chocolate finds its way onto her upper lip and nose.

Ashley stifles a laugh and instead, leans across the mess on the island and looks into soft, warm eyes.

“Here, you’ve got some chocolate …”

“Where?”

“Here,” Ashley murmurs, tongue darting out to lick the fleck of chocolate on the tip of Spencer’s nose. “And here.”

They kiss and Ashley smiles, tasting sweetness on the only girl she’s ever baked with.

2.

It’s raining again, the second time this week. Their beach plans are ruined and Ashley feels petulant, almost wants to stamp her foot and whine. Spencer’s lying on Ashley’s bed, riding out the downpour the way she does everything else – with patience. She’s biting her lower lip, frowning at the crossword puzzle in front of her.

“What’s another word for ‘enthusiastic’?”

“I’m so the wrong person to ask,” Ashley responds, her voice grating in irritation. She paces the length of the room, then drops down on her bed next to Spencer, picking at the sheets.

“Spence …”

“Hm?”

“This is a world of suck.”

“I know, baby.” Glancing up, Spencer offers a sympathetic smile and squeezes Ashley’s knee before returning to her crossword.

Ashley frowns. She’s not about to let a crossword puzzle steal her girlfriend. She pulls her legs up onto the bed and sits cross-legged, her thigh flush against the length of Spencer’s body. Pretending to help with the puzzle, she lets her hand wander, skimming over the faint lines of the muscles stretching out from under Spencer’s shirt and disappearing into the waistband of her shorts. She loves the way Spencer is made, with grace woven into the angles of her wrists and softness into the pillows of her cheeks. There’s nothing better than falling asleep in Spencer’s warmth, Ashley thinks, but for now she wants to earn that sleep, and so she bends down and kisses the side of Spencer’s neck.

Sighing, Spencer feigns resistance even as she tilts her head, her cheek an invitation. Ashley accepts, fingers reaching.

It isn’t long before the crossword puzzle gets lost in a tangle of sheets and clothes.

3.

On Saturday morning, Spencer says hi with her head between her legs.

Ashley walks into the living room, staring incredulously at Spencer and Kyla. It’s a strange feeling, watching her girlfriend bond with her sister. She chalks it up to the fact that she’s never had two people to call hers under the same roof.

“Please don’t tell me she got you too,” Ashley says, glaring at Kyla.

“She did,” Spencer admits happily, raising her arms above her head. Her tank top rides up a few inches, baring a sliver of skin. A lazy grin curls the corners of Ashley’s lips. She feels almost triumphant knowing she can touch that skin, that body, any time she wants.

“Hey, Ash, you should try this. It really makes your muscles burn,” Kyla pipes up.

Ashley rolls her eyes. Yoga is slow, she thinks, and patience has never been one of her virtues. She prefers running, loves the way the wind streams through her hair and the hard, fast thumps of her heart. When she runs, she pushes the limits, wants to see how much it takes to outrun all the mistakes she’s ever made.

As Spencer and Kyla change positions, Ashley settles into the couch, pushing her tousled hair off her forehead. “What is this – the Constipated Ape?”

Sighing good-naturedly, Spencer and Kyla ignore her, though Spencer cracks a grin as she catches Ashley’s eye. Spencer stretches her legs, gripping her toes with her fingers, and Ashley can’t help but be amazed at how put-together Spencer looks in the morning. Her hair is glossy, held up in a neat ponytail, and her eyes are bright, her movements fluid. A swell of pride and gratitude bursts in Ashley’s chest, and she entertains the thought of joining Spencer on the mat. On impulse, she gets up and kisses Spencer on the cheek. Maybe she can finally stop running. Maybe she’s finally got one thing right.

You Are the Light (By Which I Travel Into This and That) (Gossip Girl, Blair/Serena, PG)

2007-10-24T11:49:29Z

Title: You Are the Light (By Which I Travel Into This and That)
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Pairing: Blair/Serena
Rating: PG
Summary: Blair recalls three moments in her relationship with Serena.
Author's Notes: Title stolen from Jens Lekman. I had originally intended to write five parts, but law school is kicking my ass and I'm crap at managing my time. If my workload lightens up, I might write one or two more parts.

1.

The first sleepover happened when they were in fifth grade.

Eleanor had left a rack of dresses in the living room and Blair had tried on every one of them. It was fun for a while, but Blair had quickly lost interest in twirling around alone in front of the full-length mirror in her room. Plus, the dresses were about a foot too long and she had no boobs to hold them up. So she picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for Serena.

“S! I just had the most fabulous idea.”

It took only one more phone call to Eleanor (who was stuck in Connecticut, doing things with people Blair didn’t want to think about) to realise the entire night. Betty was to set up the beds and they were going to watch a marathon of Audrey Hepburn’s movies and have their own runway show. Betty had also relented, allowing them chocolate chip cookies in spite of Eleanor’s instructions to not feed them after 8 PM. It was going to be perfect.

At seven, the girls started arriving. Most of them were excited; the only sleepovers they’d had before were frivolous compared to what Blair had done. Only Lucy Holcombe had sniffed, saying that at her last sleepover, her mom had even let them have wine.

Serena threw an arm around Blair’s shoulders. “So we’ll find the key to the liquor cabinet.”

Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at Lucy, Blair followed Serena to her dad’s study. The room was dark and smelt of wood and leather and cigars. It was all straight edges and solid furniture, just like her dad, sturdy and proper. The only incongruous thing was the magazine on her dad’s desk (there was a grinning man in camouflage trousers on the cover, though he didn’t look much like a soldier. Blair decided she didn’t like him; he looked far too much like an extra in a bad movie).

Serena flicked on the study lamp and dropped down into the oversized leather chair. She tapped her fingers on her knees. “Where should we start?”

“I think he keeps it in the top drawer. Try it.”

The drawer didn’t budge. Serena sighed. “It’s locked.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you didn’t do it right.”

“Blair, I think I know how to open a drawer.”

“Yeah, you think you know.”

Moving behind the desk, Blair reached across Serena and tugged at the drawer. “Um,” she mumbled, “maybe it’s stuck.”

“Forget it. Lucy’s probably lying about the wine anyway. I mean, her mom was in rehab. Are her parents really that stupid?”

Blair shrugged, hoisting herself onto the desk. Her legs swung back and forth, kicking Serena in the shins, but Serena didn’t seem to mind. “They’re probably not that stupid individually, but when they come together … well, look at what they made.”

Giggling, Serena leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desk, next to Blair’s thigh. She peered up, eyelashes so thick they looked almost a burden. “So what are we doing tonight?”

“We’re going to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s first, of course, and then we’re going to have a runway contest.”

“Oooh, what does the winner get?”

Blair frowned. “I haven’t decided yet.” Wasn’t being invited enough of a prize? She certainly thought so. Scowling, she began running through a list of items she had no use for anymore. No one had to know they weren’t new (not that they could tell anyway).

A minute passed as Blair rehearsed her pitch in her mind. Then, with her characteristic inability to focus, Serena piped up, “Hey, do you know what a French kiss is?”

Blair wanted to laugh. There wasn’t much difference between Serena and her two-month-old golden retriever, Groucho: They were both incapable of concentrating on one subject for more than five minutes. Rolling her eyes, she replied, “Duh. Everybody knows what a French kiss is.”

“Uh huh. But do you know how to do one?” Serena continued, smug.

There was no hiding the colour in her cheeks, but Blair held her head high anyway and stared at the clock above Serena’s head.

A burst of laughter escaped Serena’s lips, but she clapped her hand over her mouth and suppressed the rest of it. She clutched Blair’s wrist. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to do it.”

“Ew, that’s kind of gross.” Blair made a face, though she didn’t pull Serena’s hand away.

“No, it isn’t. How do you think everyone learns how to do it?”

Doubtful, Blair glanced down at Serena. Her eyes were wide and there was the slightest twitch of a smile on her lips.

“But you’re my best friend.”

“So?”

“So … it’s a little weird. Plus, you’re a girl.”

Serena lifted her hands in the air, falling back into the chair. “Hey, it’s your puhrogative.”

“Prerogative.”

“Yeah, that.”

Shifting uncomfortably on the desk, Blair weighed her options. It wasn’t like she had anything to lose, really. If she kissed Serena, she’d learn how to do it (she knew it would come in handy some day, that was for sure). If she didn’t, they’d just go and watch Audrey and make fun of Lucy’s knocked knees and carry on as always. She licked her lips. Nothing to lose, right?

“Okay,” she said, her voice coming out in the most unappealing way ever, raspy and wavering.

“Okay?”

“That’s what I said. God.” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “Just do it already.”

Standing, Serena closed the space between them, bracing herself with her hands on either side of Blair. Closer still, and Blair felt like she was going to stop breathing altogether. The last thing she saw before they kissed was the oddly stupefying blue of Serena’s eyes and the flutter of golden lashes.

Blair had kissed two boys before, but those kisses had felt entirely different from this one. Serena was gentle, almost chaste. She started with a wisp of a kiss, so light Blair thought she was imagining it. It wasn’t so bad, she thought, and she pressed a little harder, surprised that they weren’t bumping noses or teeth. Then she felt it, something foreign and warm. Serena’s tongue, darting out to touch Blair’s lips. Her tongue flicked again, and Blair felt her heart give a dramatic thump. She knew what she was supposed to do from watching movies, but it was a whole other thing doing it with a real life person. A real life person who was also her best friend.

Stop thinking, just do it, she coached herself, willing her inner voice to rise above the pulsing in her ears.

Slowly, hesitantly, she parted her lips. Serena responded gradually, slipping back and forth in experiment. As they kissed, Blair tried to think of adjectives to describe it, if only to remain levelheaded (she felt like her body parts were disconnected, and it was difficult to hold on to a single coherent thought). The only words that came to her mind were wet and warm and … nice. Strange, and a little too slippery for her liking, but still nice. Serena was nice. Warm, too, with her hands on Blair’s flushed cheeks.

She didn’t know how long they’d been kissing, but when Lauren appeared in the doorway and let out a shriek, they were forced to break apart. Blair’s chest slackened in relief (tightened in disappointment).

“That was … that was nice.”

“You’re welcome,” Serena said simply. Smiling, she held out a hand to Blair. “We’d better get back to the girls.”

When they entered the living room, Blair felt like an exhibit at the Met, scrutinised and judged an abhorrence. She fidgeted with the hem of her pyjamas, wishing she could disappear behind Serena’s taller frame.

“Lauren said you guys were kissing.”

“Not kissing – they were totally making out!”

“Ew!”

Serena took a step forward. “I was just teaching Blair how to French kiss. Do you guys know how to do it?”

The girls glanced at each other.

With a flip of her hair, Serena laughed. “Get in line.”

Sinking into an armchair, Blair watched as Serena began the lesson with Charlotte St. Clair. Eight seconds later, she turned away.

2.

The first time Blair went skinny dipping (in public), she was 15.

All the families were there, at St. Barths – the Waldorfs, the van der Woodsens, the Archibalds, the Basses. The kids had spent the first day as far away from their parents as possible, and despite Eleanor’s half-hearted attempts to get them to have more than one meal together, they remained apart for most of the vacation.

On the third day, Serena had started to whine about the lack of new things to do. She’d gone surfing with Nate and Chuck, painted her toenails three different colours and flirted with the locals. Blair had been content to work on her tan, determined to get as evenly bronzed as Serena. But Serena was insufferable when she was bored, and after ten minutes of putting up with her silent grousing, Blair closed her copy of French Vogue and sighed.

“Okay, Ms. Martyr, what – you’ve already flirted with every boy on the beach?”

“No.” Serena pursed her lips. “Maybe.”

“This is a vacation, S. We’re here to relax.”

“Well, I’m done relaxing. We’re young, we’re tanned, we’re hot. Let’s do some damage!” Leaping to her feet, Serena dusted the sand off her hands. She stood over Blair, clutching her hips.

“You’re blocking my sun.”

Narrowing her eyes, Blair followed the slender columns of Serena’s legs up to her fingers drumming against her hips. And try as she might, she could not help glancing at the lineaments of the slight muscles nestled against the skin of Serena's stomach. A twinge of jealousy pierced her mouth with bitterness. She’d spent endless hours working out, playing tennis, and her greatest achievement was bouncing a quarter off her thighs. Serena’s toughest workout consisted of dancing on tables and making out with strangers. It would’ve been so easy to hate her.

Just as she was about to put on her Chanel sunglasses and sulk behind her magazine, she caught a familiar glint in Serena’s eyes. “Oh no.”

“Let’s go skinny dipping.”

“Ugh, no way.”

“Okay, let’s just go swimming then.”

“I’ve had enough of saltwater in my hair, thank you very much.”

“God, you’re such a party pooper, Blair. You know, it wouldn’t kill you to try to have fun once in a while.”

Petulant, Serena spun on her heel and made a beeline for the ocean. Blair watched her go, squinting until the sun hurt her eyes and she could no longer see Serena’s vivid Pucci bikini. She blinked. There was a splash, and a few seconds later, Serena’s head popped up, a tiny glistening point above the undulating waters.

For a while, Blair had tried to concentrate on an article in Vogue, but every so often she found herself scanning the ocean for Serena. She was reluctant to admit it, but Serena was right: she had been kind of a bore lately. Exasperated, she got up and walked down the beach, stopping three feet away from the glassy waves. Carefully, she sat down and waited for Serena to appear.

When Serena emerged, she was still pouting. Stepping over the waves, she headed towards Blair.

“So you changed –”

“You were right.”

“About what?”

“About me being totally lame. I just – I don’t really know why – maybe it’s –”

“You’re forgiven,” Serena interjected. She held her arms out, breaking into a grin.

Biting her lip, Blair folded into Serena’s arms. There was a soft squish as they hugged, and Blair couldn’t help laughing into the wet tangle of Serena’s hair. She hoped that forgiveness would always be this easy.

Suddenly, Serena pulled back. She turned and ran back into the ocean. And it was only when she saw the tiny white piece of cloth waving in Serena’s hand that Blair knew what had happened. Her hands slapped against her shoulder blades as she clutched herself, blushing furiously.

“Serena, give it back!”

“You’re gonna have to come and get it!” Serena yelled, flipping onto her back.

Unsure of which to indulge in first – humiliation or outrage – Blair glanced helplessly back at the beach. Her towel was a long way off. Walking – no, even running – back there would mean risking wolf-whistles and the leers of the freckled old men on the beach. There was only one option.

As she lowered her arms and the ocean washed over her feet, she muttered under her breath, “Damn you, van der Woodsen.”

Serena had only a bright smile for her. “You know you love me,” she said, and dove back under the water, her tri-coloured toenails winking in the sunlight.

3.

The third time Serena cried – really cried – it was the morning after her 16th birthday.

Lying in bed, Blair contemplated the ceiling, wondering if a fresco would make it look better. Anything but the dull, pale, peachy expanse of it now.

Last night had been a blitz of colours and bodies and tastes. They’d left two clubs staggering in their wake, bellies filled with experimental drinks and scant food, mouths tasting like everybody else’s. Blair couldn’t remember what time she’d got home; all she knew was that she was glad to be in her own, clean bed. Her head was spinning with exhaustion, but she’d slept for barely an hour. Everyone else was at Chuck’s suite, probably dancing in their underwear and swilling champagne.

Blair sat up, leaning against the headboard. She wondered what Nate was doing. He’d spent last night keeping a tight rein on his enthusiasm, though she caught him grinning like an idiot at Serena pirouetting on a table. She scowled. Nate had better have been high. Making a mental note to check on him, she went to bathe and change into her tennis outfit. There was a tournament next week, and she was determined to see that underhanded bitch, Charlotte St. Clair, down on her knees and sobbing her squinty eyes out.

When she finished, she padded back into her bedroom and saw Serena perched on the edge of her bed, still clad in last night’s dress. Even without looking at her face, Blair knew that something was wrong. Serena was slumped forward, the lines of her shoulders quivering.

“Serena? Are you okay?”

Serena’s only response was a shuddering exhale.

Sitting down beside her, Blair took Serena’s hands in her own, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles. In all the time that they had known each other, Serena had only been this way twice. Once, when she found out about her parents’ divorce. The second time was when Groucho had died. Even though Blair had witnessed this before, it was still unnerving to see Serena cry. To see the bow of those lips quaking, tears streaking down splotchy cheeks, the insouciant toss of hair degenerating into a feeble shake of the head. (Serena was supposed to be the strong one.)

“Tell me,” Blair said, to the curtain of blond hair shielding Serena’s eyes from view.

Sucking in a ragged breath of air, Serena pushed her hair behind her ear, though she still couldn’t meet Blair’s eye. “It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not. Tell me.”

“We were all at Chuck’s suite,” she began, shooting a tentative glance at Blair. “And …”

Blair swallowed. Serena would never. “Go on.”

“It was fun, but after a while everyone just passed out. I guess I was really out of it because I didn’t – I didn’t feel … I woke up and he was – he was there, touching –”

Her thumb came to a halt on one of Serena’s knuckles. “Who?”

Serena shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I think he was one of Chuck’s friends.” A short laugh scratched its way out of her throat. Self-deprecation wasn’t one of Serena’s more charming qualities. “It’s stupid anyway. I should be used to it.”

Releasing the breath she hadn’t known she was holding, Blair gave Serena’s hand a squeeze. “You shouldn’t have to get used to that stuff. Not even you, Serena van der Woodsen.”

“It’s just – I don’t know. He was … he was all over me and I didn’t even know his name. And – and I was asleep. He could’ve done anything.” She inhaled. “Sometimes I can’t just lie there and take it, you know? I’m sick of being that thing everyone can just take whenever they want.”

Reaching up, Blair wrapped her arms around Serena’s body (usually a bundle of skittish energy, now a limp frame void of the strength on which Blair had depended time and time again) and held her as she trembled, crying soundlessly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Blair whispered, pressing a kiss to Serena’s temple. “I’m sorry.”

A few minutes later, the tears had dried up. Serena wiped her nose with the back of her hand and glanced at her reflection in Blair’s mirror. “I look like ass,” she remarked, scrunching up her face in disgust.

Blair laughed, gently. “Yeah, you do. But it’s okay – I won’t tell anyone.” She plucked a tissue from her dresser and handed it to Serena, then moved to her sprawling wardrobe and pulled out her favourite Yale sweatshirt. “Go take a bath and put this on. I’ll get Betty to make us breakfast.”

Nodding, Serena rose to head to the bathroom, kicking off her Louboutins as she went.

Blair paused at the door. “Hey, S?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to tell anyone about that jerk? Someone should at least try to put his ass in jail.”

“No,” Serena replied, without missing a beat. “You know. That's all I need.”

With that, she grabbed Blair’s towel and slipped into the bathroom.

Motionless, Blair watched Serena’s retreating form. Her eyes had been bloodshot and puffy, with rivulets of mascara tainting her cheeks. Her normally glossy hair was flat on one side and there was a wine stain on her dress. Over the years, Blair remembered quietly, ashamedly wishing that Serena would fall from grace. She wanted to know if Serena could be broken, if that perfect smile could ever wither, those eyes ever lose their brilliance. This day marked the third time that she had seen Serena damaged and frail, unable to put the fragments of herself back together.

On the morning after Serena’s 16th birthday, Blair realised that she was the only one who had ever held, in her hands, those precious pieces that Serena needed to be whole again.

They Always Come Back (Gossip Girl, Blair/Serena, NC-17)

2007-10-02T10:51:06Z

Title: They Always Come Back
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Pairing: Blair/Serena
Rating: NC-17
Summary: ... despite everything she’s done to run Serena into ruin, she knows that Serena is the one person who still wants her, the one person who’ll keep coming back no matter what.
Author's Notes: Written for femslash_today's porn battle (prompt: balcony)

It’s the third party of the week, the third night that Nate’s baked himself into a giggling mess. His eyes are pillowed with purpling circles and he’s adamantly refusing to dance. Blair bites the inside of her cheek, feeling indignant.

“Come on, Nate. We haven’t done anything all night.”

In response, he shrugs.

Scowling, Blair stalks off, her brand new Manolos clicking a pitiful protest against the thumping music. She cuts through the crowd, rubbing against boys in tuxedos and girls in flimsy dresses. Kati calls out to her, mid-grind against Chuck Bass’ crotch, but Blair keeps moving. It’s hot even in the expanse of the ballroom, and all she wants right now is some air and a cigarette. She grabs a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and heads up the wide curve of the staircase.

On the second floor, two girls snicker at her. But right now she doesn’t care about being laughed at, doesn’t care that Nate isn’t her leading man tonight (not that he’s played the part with even the slightest shred of conviction the entire week). All she wants is the cold comfort of solitude. So she glares at the girls and saunters over to the billowing red curtains.

“Finally,” she mutters to herself, sweeping aside the rich, heavy folds. When she sees the blond hair blowing in the breeze, she stops short. “Fuck.”

Serena turns around and tucks her hair behind her ear. She offers Blair a tiny smile. “Hey.”

There’s no fucking escape. Serena is everywhere. For a moment, Blair considers leaving, but all the rooms are locked and there’s no way she’s going home alone and dealing with her mom’s questions about Nate. Another curse rises and dies in her throat when she realises she’s left her cigarettes somewhere downstairs.

Gritting her teeth, Blair steps up to the balustrade and places the Veuve Clicquot on it. New York City unfolds beneath and above them, lights blinking like manufactured stars, substandard substitutes for the real thing. It smells dirty and clean all at once, and Blair inhales deeply. Whatever its faults, New York is still the only place she can bear to call home.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, grudgingly.

Serena glances at Blair, her expression tentative. “I got tired of dancing.” It’s a crappy lie and they both know it. Serena never tires of dancing. “What about you?”

“Same thing,” Blair lies. It’s better than the truth.

Nodding carefully, Serena avoids Blair’s eye. She gestures at the bottle.

Blair gives a dismissive flick of her wrist. The sushi she had earlier tastes foul in the back of her mouth and she can’t believe that of all the places she could be tonight, she’s on a balcony with her ex-best friend, Serena van der Woodsen, everyone’s soiled little angel. She wonders if Nate knows Serena’s up here. If he wants to bend her over the balustrade and thrust into her just like all those times he did when Blair wasn’t around.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Serena’s popped the cork, drinking straight from the bottle. The polish on her nails is chipped and there’s a loose thread dangling from the side of her dress. No matter what Serena has done, no matter whose lives she has wrecked, she’s still tall and pretty and thin – she is untouchable, she will get away with anything. She doesn’t even have to try. Blair’s stomach clenches.

After a second greedy swallow, Serena wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and offers the bottle to Blair. Serena’s eyes are dark and unfocused; this isn’t her first drink of the night. It isn’t Blair’s either, but for a long moment she considers letting Serena down the entire bottle. Loosen her lips. Pry from that tarnished mouth the apology Blair deserves.

But it’s a warm night, and Nate’s probably downstairs lighting up another joint, maybe even groping clumsily at some insipid girl. So she thinks, fuck Nate, and snatches the bottle, wrapping her lips around the lipstick stain Serena’s left on its opening. She drinks a little too quickly and coughs, wincing as she hands the bottle back to Serena. A few drops of champagne drip onto her dress and when she hiccups, Serena catches her eye and laughs. Were it anyone else, that laugh would howl with mocking pity (poor Blair Waldorf, she’s finally lost it), but it’s Serena – Serena and her infuriating graciousness – so the laugh is kind, the sort of laugh they used to share when they were getting ready for another night out, back when it was just the two of them.

“What are you laughing at?” she snaps, though the words come out funny, like she’s swallowing down a laugh.

Serena smiles. “Nothing.”

Half an hour later, maybe more (Blair’s given up keeping track of time. What does it matter anyway? Nate still hasn’t come to find her), they still haven’t said much. There’s barely any more champagne left and Serena’s restless, stumbling back and forth across the balcony in her bare feet. She’d taken off her shoes, complaining that it was hot with a completely serious face.

Leaning against the balustrade, Blair watches lazily as Serena tries and fails to walk in a straight line, her hands sticking out at her sides. She looks utterly silly, and Blair allows herself a tiny smirk. And maybe it’s the champagne, or the heat, or Nate, but Blair wants to do something stupid, something reckless. Kicking off her shoes, she calls out to Serena.

Midstep, Serena pauses and lifts her head, her blue eyes as dark as the velvet night.

“You know, I’ve always wondered,” Blair says, staring straight into Serena’s eyes.

“Wondered what?”

“What Nate saw in you.” She catches herself. “Sees in you.”

Serena sighs and straightens herself. “I’ve told you – there’s nothing between us. Not anymore.” There’s a surprising clarity in Serena’s gaze, and in her bare feet and tiny gold dress, she’s practically naked, as if she’s driving home the point that she’s got nothing to hide.

A wry smile twists the corners of Blair’s lips. “Hm? What is it about you? Besides the willingness to screw anything with a pulse.” She pushes herself upright, almost violently, and immediately regrets it when her head swims and dips.

“What do you want from me, Blair? How many times have I apologised? I haven’t even spoken to Nate in weeks.”

“And you think that makes everything okay?”

Frustrated, Serena shakes her head. “No, but –”

“I have to know.” As Blair takes an unsteady step towards Serena, she feels it: a rush of excitement, of not knowing what she will do. It’s like standing on a precipice, and there’s more than one way in which to fall. She’s inches from Serena now, and she can smell her perfume and shampoo and, Blair thinks drunkenly, maybe even traces of pot (Nate) on her shoulder. Slowly, she tilts her head. Serena’s standing stock-still. The only moving part of her is her hair, flying about the two of them like a wild sunburst. “I have to know,” Blair repeats, “what he sees in you.”

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this, can’t even begin to guess what she hopes it might achieve, but her belly is warm and everything looks a little blurry around the edges and despite everything she’s done to run Serena into ruin, she knows that Serena is the one person who still wants her, the one person who’ll keep coming back no matter what.

They’d done it only once, two years ago on a cold Christmas eve in Serena’s old home. The boys had gone out to muck around in the dirt and snow, leaving Blair, Serena and a cabinet full of liquor behind. Between fits of giggles, Blair had leaned over and kissed Serena full on the lips. Even then, she couldn’t really put her finger on why she did it. All she knew was that they were best friends and Serena had stuck up for her when old perverted Mr. Travers, their history teacher, had accused Blair of coming on to him. Ultimately, between the two of them, they’d gotten him fired. A kiss seemed like a good way of saying thank you. When Serena kissed her back, it was an unspoken promise that Serena would never leave.

On tiptoes, Blair presses her lips to Serena’s, surprised by her own surety. She flicks her tongue against the slight part of Serena’s lips, demanding a response. It’s almost funny to think that Serena (and her infamous mouth) doesn’t know what to do, now that it’s her erstwhile best friend who’s kissing her. But Serena isn’t one to stay tongue-tied for long, and she lets out a small, tight sound when Blair moves lower, licking the soft skin at the base of her throat.

Serena slips a hand down between them, her fingers just skimming the fabric of Blair’s dress. When she reaches a particularly sensitive spot (and how Serena knows about it, Blair has no idea, and though she aches to ask, she makes herself promise never to give Serena the satisfaction), Blair’s muscles jump. She hisses, batting Serena’s hand aside. She will not be caught with things out of her control. Of this, if nothing else, she is certain.

Quickly, unapologetically, Blair runs her hands up Serena’s body. Her thumb grazes Serena’s nipple and Serena starts, almost as if she’s never felt it before. Her back arches ever so slightly and she presses herself into Blair’s touch, shamelessly begging for more. And though she will never admit it, it is this want, this desperate, frantic pleading from Serena that makes Blair squeeze her legs together, makes her toy with the thought of letting Serena touch her, just once. But she catches herself, stops her train of thought, and palms Serena’s breast through the sheer fabric, thumb circling. She turns Serena around, backing her up against the starless sky, and she pushes her – a little harder than she intends – against the balustrade.

Blair raises her knee, and Serena comes down on it with impatience. She’s hot and slick and impetuous, and Blair feels herself getting wetter, but if there’s anything she’s mastered, it’s self-control. Instead, she reaches down and presses against Serena’s clit, eliciting a ragged gasp.

“Blair.” Serena draws the r out in a purr, her voice low with want.

And Blair sees it (feels it) now, why Serena’s so fucking irresistible. It’s her half-lidded eyes, rolling skyward in ecstasy; her lips, nonsense spilling from them; her hair, a fiery mess; her thighs, those lean muscles contracting with every thrust; her breasts and her fingers and her back and this: total abandon. Head thrown back, Blair’s name hallowed between God and curses. This is Serena in all her glory.

So she moves faster, fingers allowing no time for Serena to fill her lungs. There is no room in Blair’s head for thought; there’s only her mouth, hot and swollen against the fine sheen of sweat on Serena’s skin, and Serena herself, clutching at Blair for support, her long, lithe body a frantic, crazed instrument.

Together, they bend and bow and fight for breath.

In the end, release comes on a delicate breeze, and Serena is human again.

On shaky legs, Serena stoops to pick her purse up from the floor. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. It takes three tries to light one of the cigarettes. She takes a deep drag, then hands it to Blair and leans back against the balustrade, closing her eyes and resting her head on Blair’s shoulder.

“I’ve missed you, Blair.”

With their backs to the city, they share two cigarettes and finish the last of the champagne.

She knows it now, what Nate sees in Serena. What he can’t give up. It’s all over her skin, her dress, her mouth. But as she blows a perfect smoke ring and breathes in the smell of Serena’s hair, Blair knows that in the end, Serena only comes back to her.

So ... South of Nowhere

2007-08-13T05:51:12Z

1) Oh, Spencer. I love you so much for kicking ass and looking so adorable when sleep-rumpled. Your hair is also less big, for which I'm glad.

2) Ashley, you turd.

3) No shit, Aiden. You really should've died.

4) Glen, I think I could actually like you.

5) Much love for Kyla, Chelsea and Madison. Kyla's hair is pretty.

6) Aw, Sean, you'll be missed!

7) Hahaha. Clay was smiling in death.

8) The kiss? Way longer and much better than I expected, but Spencer (Gabrielle?) still lacks urgency when sucking face. Her hand bothers me.

Reversal (South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley, R)

2007-08-09T12:20:44Z

Title: Reversal
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: South of Nowhere
Pairing: Spencer/Ashley
Rating: R

She dances as if Ashley’s hurting her, lips pinched together so they’re a deep red against the pallor of her face. When Ashley runs a hand down her arm, her muscles twitch and she shifts to put some distance between them.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answers for the third time, staring fixedly at the spinning blues and pinks on the wall.

The music changes, and she prays for something pop, something Ashley will hate, so she can escape the confines of soft skin and dusky eyes. Instead, something with an acoustic guitar and a mournful lead singer comes on, and Ashley smiles at the song as if it’s the only kind of song she understands. Fingernails mark out a delicate trail between her shoulder blades; she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from flinching.

It’s been two weeks and twenty-something ‘nothings’, and Ashley still grits out a grin, still calls her ‘baby’ and makes her coffee while she lies in bed. While she waits, she licks her lips to try to taste the change in Ashley, because God knows none of her other senses can detect it.

They dance for a minute before she feels Ashley’s eyes wander, off the dance floor and to the long, lithe body leaned up against the wall.

“You’re sick of this, aren’t you?”

Ashley starts. “What? I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A sigh slips past Ashley’s lips and her hands drop to her sides. The music is left to wail its last plaintive cry as they stalk off the dance floor. Their heels click in discordance, crunching gravel beneath. Car doors slam and tyres spit up asphalt before she finds her words.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” Ashley mimics cruelly, increasing the pressure on the accelerator.

She balls her hands into fists, nails digging tiny half-moons into her palms. Outside, the sky is a blanket of soot, and when they reach home, she knows Ashley will sit at the window and stare up at it until dawn comes, and then she will slip underneath the comforter, fake a warm sigh and murmur something unintelligible. She almost wishes Ashley would stop caring enough to continue this farce.

When they reach Ashley’s house, they enter in silence. Ashley grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge, twists the top off and takes a swallow. There’s a small line between her eyebrows and her back is rigid against the island.

Watching Ashley take mouthful after mouthful of beer, coal-dark eyes boring into ivory marble, Spencer decides she’s had enough.

She hears the faint squeak of her feet against the polished floor before she realises she’s only two steps away from Ashley.

“What are you—”

She answers with a shove, and Ashley looks startled as she cages her in, arms on either side of the quick rise and fall of Ashley’s chest. For a moment, she stares straight into Ashley’s eyes, indulging her senses—the sharp intakes of breath, the warm skin against the insides of her arms, the muted scent of shampoo, the depthless wells of those eyes.

Spencer stares until she’s had her fill, until all she can see is the red curve of Ashley’s lips, all she can hear is the pulse throbbing just below the surface.

A growl quivers in her throat and she takes those lips with hers, thinking she’s not kissing Ashley—she’s bruising, marking, writing her name in flesh, carving it so deep it’ll be the only thing Ashley remembers. The bottle clatters against the island top, and suddenly Ashley’s fighting back with her entire body: nails scratching against thin fabric, tongue fighting for hold, knee pressed up between Spencer’s legs.

But Spencer is tired of being the one who responds, the one who lies and waits in bed for kisses and coffee, so she bites back a moan and thrusts Ashley’s leg aside. Her hands find the rough fabric of Ashley’s denim skirt and lower, the soft insides of Ashley’s thighs. She wastes no time (they’ve spent two weeks caressing and whispering and coming in half-hearted sighs), pulling the damp cotton aside and slipping her fingers into pulsing warmth. There’s a suction of air against her lips as Ashley inhales sharply, and before Ashley can take a full breath, her fingers elicit a stutter of gasps and a splutter of, “Oh my God.”

Ashley’s back is hitting the cabinet now, and Spencer knows she’s hurting her but she doesn’t care, doesn’t want to stop hearing the hoarse whimpers or feeling the muscles clench around her fingers. It’s Ashley who’s gripping and begging now, Ashley who’s powerless.

When she slows, Ashley says, “Please,” and Spencer wants to hold back, stop, but there’s a dot of moisture of Ashley’s lower lip and her eyes are dark with want, and Spencer feels all of it in the ache between her legs. So she curls her fingers and Ashley’s eyes roll upward, tongue swiping away the moisture on her lip.

Seconds later, Ashley crumbles into Spencer’s arms, pressing a kiss to the sticky skin between the swell of her breasts.

alittlemorebite @ 2007-04-25T15:22:00

2007-04-25T07:22:26Z

Well, at least I know LJ hasn't taken over my life.

Loose Ends by the Score, Part 3/? (South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley, R)

2007-03-01T04:53:12Z

Title: Loose Ends by the Score, Part 3/?
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: South of Nowhere
Pairing: Spencer/Ashley
Rating: R
Summary: Pending
Author's Notes: WIP. Concrit is much appreciated.

“Ashley, where are you?”

“Nowhere,” Ashley muttered, switching the cellphone to her left hand and gripping the steering wheel with her right.

“You missed today’s meeting. Are you okay?”

The wind was warm against Ashley’s face, and it felt tangled in her hair, laughing and writhing to find a way out of the mass of long, unkempt curls. Susan was breathing steadily on the other end of the line, no doubt pretending to be patient in hopes of Ashley coming clean without the need for further prodding. Ashley pressed the accelerator to the floor, triggering the clank of old metal struggling to remember what it was like to be young and proud.

“Are you driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you been …” Susan paused. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

“Maybe. I’m so wasted, I can’t remember.”

A burst of static cut through the line as Susan sighed. “Ashley, you were doing so good. You know you don’t have to drink—”

“Save it, Susan. And don’t bother coming to my apartment; I’m not home.”

Tossing the cellphone onto the passenger seat, Ashley narrowed her eyes against the pallid orange sun. She’d been to San Diego once, when she was four. All she remembered was dropping her ice-cream onto a sidewalk and crying until her father had got a bigger, better replacement with a cherry nose and a chocolate sauce smile.

Ashley was glad that she had no other memories of San Diego, no landmark to associate with Spencer. Back home, the beach and the cold, glassy waves had become roaring tyrants, forcing lucid images into her head, stitching them into the insides of her eyelids. Stepping onto the white sand burned her feet; falling into the ocean broke her bones, stole her breath. There was no reprieve.

The clock read 5 PM. She had taken her time driving, letting the old red car roll along at an even pace. In another lifetime, she would’ve had one hand in the air, face braving the rush and cut of the wind with Spencer by her side in the Cayenne. She would’ve dared Spencer to flash a bus full of schoolboys, and when Spencer protested, she would’ve taken both hands off the wheel, lifted her shirt and given the boys an eyeful. She would’ve been fearless, reckless and happy.

She would’ve had Spencer (brave, guileless and unsullied).

Several yards ahead, a little sign marked the turn-off for Spencer’s road. She nudged the steering wheel to the right, coasting down the street, counting house numbers, counting the seconds left until she could lay eyes on Spencer.

Finally, there it was: the second last house, a flimsy structure separating her from everything that she once held so gingerly in her hands, fingers flitting like ghosts across smooth skin, afraid to taint what could, maybe, save her one day.

Ashley killed the engine and stared up at the house with its inoffensive white walls and blue roof. She wondered if Spencer felt safe in there, ensconced in her pitiful, manufactured escapism. Wondered if Spencer still kept photographs and letters and gifts and murmured her name every night, repeating those two syllables again and again, as if to catch them every time they fell. Wondered if, maybe, she’d already tainted Spencer, ripped her open and left her with a gaping wound, never to be healed again.

“Shit.” Her hands had left sticky imprints on the steering wheel, and she could feel her pulse slamming hard against her temples. She turned around and reached for liquid courage.

Sweaty hands clutching at cool glass, Ashley unscrewed the top and took a gulp. The vodka slid down her throat and into her stomach, radiating warmth. Another swig, and Ashley realised she had little left to call hers. Not a mother, not a sister, not a single friend, not a lover—and now, not even courage. Not a damn thing left to lose.

A dry chuckle escaped her lips, muffled by the bottle. For someone who had nothing left to lose, she was a coward.

One final, wretched swallow, and the only tangible difference was the acridity in her breath.

Getting out on unsteady legs, Ashley made her way to the front door. She pressed the doorbell, feet scuffing the inane bunny-decorated welcome mat. Even as she glared at the mat, she had to remind herself that this was Spencer’s home, not theirs. The only thing they shared now was a past (three years, countless kisses and indecipherable words whispered into endless planes of soft skin).

When a voice rang out from inside the house, Ashley couldn’t make out the words, but its timbre permeated every inch of her body, seeping into her veins like the rush of adrenaline, quickening her pulse, drying her mouth. She could have been deaf to the world, and still she knew that voice would always reach her, dissolve into her blood and set fire to every muscle, every cell. She would never mistake it for any other.

Footsteps padded up, a latch was drawn and a doorknob turned. Ashley prayed for the tranquil waters of Spencer’s eyes.

“Hey—” She stopped short, body tensing visibly.

Ashley swallowed. “Um, hey.” Licked her lips, racked her brain. “Spencer.”

Spencer stood still, eyes darkening. “How did you find me?”

“Clay.”

“I told him not to tell you,” she said, more to herself than to Ashley. Her jaw clenched, the tiny muscles rippling once.

“I know.”

Standing on the silly welcome mat, Ashley gritted her teeth. It would be so easy (so wrong) to reach for Spencer, tighten her fingers around those slender wrists, leave an ‘O’ of teeth marks on the bend of that neck, tell her with lips and fingers and teeth how much she wanted, how many nights she’d spent teaching substandard girls to touch, to pretend to love.

“Listen—”

“You had no right to come here.” Spencer gripped the doorjamb, and Ashley had the audacity to note the tauter muscle tone in her arms, the more obvious smattering of freckles on her shoulders. “Not now.”

“Why not? You left me without a word. Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

“God! It’s always about you, isn’t it?” Shaking her head, Spencer laughed shortly. “Two years, and it’s still all about you.”

“Two years, that’s right—two fucking years, Spence,” Ashley snapped, taking a wavering step forward and trying to push past the twinge in her chest. “You could’ve at least left me your number.”

Staring up at Spencer, with her tired eyes and her tangled hair, Ashley saw that this wasn’t the Spencer from two years ago. She wasn’t breakable any longer; she was broken, skin torn open, naked organs wasted away by toxic air; and reconstructed to something new and foreign, messy stitches stretched over parts still raw.

Ashley looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” She could feel Spencer’s steely eyes boring into her, and she wanted to run, pump her legs and burn her lungs until she could find Spencer, sixteen and whole.

“I’m tired, Ashley,” Spencer said suddenly, the faintest quaver in her voice. “I can’t fight anymore.”

A hesitant glance upward, and Ashley winced. “I’ll—I’ll leave. If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.”

Sighing, Spencer’s eyes roamed across the street, following the sun’s lazy fingers as they trailed over the blue rooftops one last time.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, gaze still lingering on something beyond Ashley. “I thought I was done being angry and miserable. Then you show up, and … dammit, Ashley, you can’t just show up out of nowhere and expect me to—”

“I know.”

“Do you? ‘Cause sometimes I really think you don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Ashley said, her voice so small she could’ve sworn it was just the breeze.

“You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

The twinge grew, taking up place in the cavity of her chest, pressing so hard against her ribcage, she thought it might crack. There it was: Ashley Davies didn’t have a fucking clue. Ashley Davies didn’t know how to love, didn’t know how to care, didn’t know how to hold on to the one good thing in her life. All she knew was how to want. And maybe that was enough for Flo and Leah and Bobby and Julie—all the people who’d drowned long ago and had only enough in them to grasp on to whatever was already sinking to the bottom—but this was Spencer. Spencer, who knew how to love, who gave and never took. Spencer, who’d, maybe, finally been tainted. Spencer, who wanted after all.

“I told you I wasn’t easy.”

Spencer released a long, slow breath. “You made it too difficult. Or maybe I just wasn’t strong enough.”

Sagging against the wall, Ashley closed her eyes and thought that if Spencer didn’t look so fragile, so destroyed, she would’ve lunged at her and shaken her until they both cried. And in another lifetime, Spencer would’ve gathered Ashley into her arms, delicate fingers soothing sore spots and rubbing feeling back into numb limbs. It would take only a touch, yearning fingers reaching for their counterparts, to relive what they had. It would be the simplest of actions, it would be what Ashley wanted most.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw Spencer (cheeks flushed, lips as soft as snow, hair a gleaming sun unto its own, eyes as desolate as a storm-wracked sea) and knew that there was no more want left in her. Spencer, sixteen, had wanted, and Ashley had been blind to it. Spencer, twenty-one, was out of Ashley’s reach.

“Did you come here just to see me?” Spencer asked, features contorted into some semblance of indifference.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“To get an explanation, to figure out why you left.” Ashley lifted her shoulders, then let them slump again. “I don’t know, okay? I just needed to see you. I couldn’t be in that shitty apartment anymore.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

Chuckling hoarsely, Ashley brought a hand to her head, tugged at the dark curls. “I have no idea. I have no money and no clue what the hell I’m doing. You were right, Spence. I’m a giant fucking mess.”

Fingers darted out, and just as Ashley felt the sharp rush of breath in her throat, Spencer closed them into a fist and pressed them against her thigh. “We should be old enough to deal with this.”

“Yeah, we should.”

Bracing herself against the door, Spencer held it open, eyes hesitant, mouth tight.

“Are you sure?”

“No. But we should try.”

As she crossed the threshold, mere inches from Spencer, Ashley had to remind herself to breathe. This may have been Spencer, twenty-one and damaged, but when Ashley looked back at her, she knew that Spencer remembered what it was like to be sixteen and whole.

alittlemorebite @ 2007-02-25T19:03:00

2007-02-25T11:36:55Z

What do you do when you're hungover and incapable of writing anything meaningful? Why, you spit out some random things about yourself, of course.

- My name is Alex. A few of my friends cutesy it up by calling me Lexi. I'm undecided as to whether or not I like it.
- I'm going to be a lawyer or a crackpot. Maybe both. Most likely both.
- Some days, I wear glasses. On others, I wear contacts. I hate them both.
- I can never make a list of favourites because my tastes change constantly.
- I babble when I'm nervous.
- I'm not terribly high maintenance, but I can't fix even the tiniest problem with my car or kill bugs.
- I'm certain I'm never going to come out, but I know some of my friends can see my toes peeking out of the closet. A tiny part of the problem is I'm not sure what to come out as. I was thinking 'pervert', but I'm not sure how people will take it.
- I've tried playing the piano and guitar. Until I saw something shiny and ran away to join the circus.
- On days when I feel good, I can be a shameless flirt even though I'm actually really shy.
- If ever I'm broke, I'm blaming it on Starbucks.
- When it comes to music, I'll listen to anything from Portishead to Tom Waits and anything else that comes my way. The song du jour is "Postcards from Italy" by Beirut.

That's it for now. Tell me as many random things about yourself as you can think of. :D

alittlemorebite @ 2007-02-23T16:45:00

2007-02-23T09:20:22Z

Things I have done:

- written Part 3 of Succedanea (which I now hate so much that I'd bite it if I could)
- counted number of years (4) I've been friends with a person who is annoyingly attractive and manipulative and has a gazillion issues and is entirely wrong for me and, well, straight. Blasted hormones. But she teases me so. There should be a law against leggy, pouty brunettes. Especially those who dance.
- 1/10 of my homework. College is evil. It's actually sucked all the angst out of me.
- made a brownie which came out looking like death

To do:

- rewrite Part 3 of Succedanea
- stop thinking about hot friend, especially since hot friend has a boyfriend
- do homework. Or think about doing homework.
- never bake again

Loose Ends by the Score, Part 2/? (South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley, R)

2007-02-15T04:11:05Z

Title: Loose Ends by the Score, Part 2/?
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: South of Nowhere
Pairing: Spencer/Ashley
Rating: R
Summary: Pending
Author's Notes: WIP. Concrit is much appreciated.

“What would you do without me?”

Ashley smirked. “I don’t know—get a call girl?”

“Hey!” With a flick of her wrist, Spencer tossed a piece of lettuce in Ashley’s direction, hitting her squarely on the forehead.

Rooted to her spot on the kitchen stool, Ashley let her jaw drop slowly. “Spencer Carlin—”

“Nuh uh,” Spencer cut in, shaking her head. “If you kill me, there’ll be no one to fix you these disgustingly huge salami sandwiches.”

“Oh, the call girl will do it for a few extra bucks, I’m sure,” Ashley shot back, shrugging. “There’s nothing that money can’t buy.”

“Oh yeah?”

Stepping around the island, Spencer flashed her patented grin—half-coy and half-suggestive, the kind only a girl with Ohio in her blood and tenuous imprints of LA on her mind could pull off. She strutted, making a show out of walking toward Ashley.

Ashley bit down on her lower lip, fighting to keep a smile from breaking through. She held Spencer’s eye, challenge igniting in her own, and crossed her legs primly.

Taking one last step, Spencer came to a stop and placed a hand on Ashley’s knee. Innocent as the touch was, Ashley felt her gaze waver, dropping to the hand that by now had learnt all but one of the buttons to push to educe guttural groans and sacrilegious cries.

Spencer’s fingers flexed, and the slight movement triggered the involuntary beginning of a moan. Embarrassed, Ashley tore her eyes away, but only to find herself staring at a sliver of Spencer’s skin, where hem failed to meet waistband. Catching the flush in Ashley’s cheeks, Spencer’s lips quirked in amusement, and she slid her hand farther up Ashley’s thigh, burrowing under the denim skirt and stopping only when she found the inner curve of a hipbone.

An experimental flutter of fingers, and Ashley realised she was powerless.

“You see, Ash?” Spencer whispered, leaning in close. “There are some things money and call girls can’t do.”

---

This time, she had red hair and green eyes and breath that stank with smoke. She was chosen because Ashley couldn’t see a shred of beauty in her.

The clock read 11.45 AM, but what did it matter when she had no family to make small talk with, no education to pursue, no new bad habit to pick up? Ashley smiled bitterly. Here she was, no longer bound by time (how many people wished they could say that?) and instead of sticking a triumphant middle finger in the universe’s face, she was lying in bed, pinned down by a meaty, heavily freckled arm. (She would’ve laughed if the lining of her throat wasn’t rubbed raw by alcohol and cigarettes and tears that could no longer summon the strength to rise to her eyes.)

Ashley’s only consolation was that Flo—or Jo—had passed out before she could slip out of her hideous hippie skirt.

“Get off,” she snarled, shoving a foot into a wall of deadweight flesh. Writhing, she managed to free herself from Flo’s—or Jo’s—embrace, landing on the floor with her leg twisted awkwardly.

“You fucking idiot,” she muttered, straightening her leg out slowly before blundering toward the bathroom.

In the box-sized space, she stood under the shower, gasping when the cold water pelted her skin. Eyes closed, she scrubbed furiously, imagining the filth of last night falling off in giant, putrid peels.

Her fingernails were long and unmanicured, bits of weeks-old polish chipping away at the ends. She dragged them over her skin, etching red marks down the length of her body, wincing when she passed over a fresh scratch. For the first time in months, she felt dirty. Felt like the kind of dirty that the coldest water could never wash clean.

It started with a bubble of pressure expanding in her chest, constricting her lungs and forcing its way out in a choked sob. The mangled sound reverberated throughout the tiny bathroom, bouncing off the bile-green tiles and coming back to her ears only to stick a pin in the bubble.

Ashley’s legs crumbled, taking the rest of her body down to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her legs, pressing her wet face into her wet knees, coughing and choking as if her body had forgotten how to cry.

A minute later, she heard a door slam.

---

“Jesus,” Ashley muttered, putting on her sunglasses. She squinted against the sunlight, sticking the key in the ignition of the beat-up Ford. With a sputter, the engine came to life and she pulled out onto the road.

She had no plan, no goal. All she knew was that she couldn’t be in the apartment anymore: the harder she tried to turn it into everything that Spencer would despise, the more vivid the memories that came to her each night. There was no escape. Spencer wasn’t a person she could run from; Spencer was in her head, in her heart, in her fingers when she reached down between her legs and tried to remember angles and speed and pressure and time.

Half an hour later, Ashley found herself several feet away from Arthur Carlin’s old office. Standing outside the modest building, she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep the memories from surging again.

(Just beyond that thin, discoloured door: the chairs on which they sat while Ashley scribbled lyrics on Spencer’s hand with a black marker; the copy room, where Ashley had stolen a kiss from Spencer who was so taken aback that she dropped the copies she’d made for her father; the wall on which Ashley had drawn stick figures of herself and Spencer making out in the copy room.)

Two years, and everything was still as bright and clear as it was then. Ashley shook her head.

Enough, she decided, turning on her heel and preparing to leave. Put as much distance as physically possible between herself and this ruined city.

The moment she took a step toward her car, the door creaked, admitting two voices: one deep and rumbling with laughter, the other young and mischievous.

When she pivoted, the man’s smile faded.

“A—Ashley—”

“It’s nice to see you too, Clay,” she interjected, lip curled into a half-hearted sneer.

“What are you doing here?” Clay blurted out, his hand tightening around the boy's.

“Nothing,” Ashley responded, figuring it was as good as “I have no fucking clue”.

Clay lifted his other hand to his face, scratching at his brow. “It’s been two years, Ashley—”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me.”

“—you don’t just show up out of nowhere for no reason.”

“Fuck reasons,” Ashley hissed, distaste welling up in her mouth. “You—all of you—disappeared like that, and you’re asking me for reasons?”

Stiffening, Clay’s gaze hardened into a glare. He glanced from Ashley to the boy, rubbed at his brow once more and bent down, patting the boy on the shoulder. “Hey, Corey, why don’t you go inside and get yourself a Snickers? There’s a vending machine right outside—”

“I know where it is, Dad,” Corey said, pulling a face before trudging back into the office.

Watching Corey retreat, with his red backpack and his curly hair and grass-stained sneakers, Ashley felt a pang of nostalgia. She hadn’t even got to see him grow up. Willing her shoulders to unclench, she exhaled heavily and met Clay’s guarded gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m … I’m kind of a mess.”

For a moment they stood in silence, until Clay echoed her exhalation. “Are you okay?”

A wry smile twisted Ashley’s lips. “I just said I was a mess. Guess you’re not so smart after all.”

Clay laughed shortly, and the sound brought fresh tears pricking at the corners of Ashley’s eyelids. It couldn’t be two years. Not when that simple noise carried with it such lucid images (she and Spencer and Clay playing Scrabble, Spencer arguing vehemently that ‘ear wax’ was two words, not one).

A bee flew by, mere inches from Ashley’s face, halting the stream of memories. She cleared her throat, offering Clay a wan smile.

“You look good,” she said, noting the healthy glow in his face and the neatly-pressed white oxford shirt. He didn’t look that much different from before; he was still as clean-cut as ever, but there was something new in his carriage, a quiet pride. Ashley wasn’t surprised. If anyone was born to achieve, it was Clay Carlin.

“Thanks,” he responded, chuckling in the same self-effacing way he did back in high school.

Another awkward silence, and Ashley began to scuff her shoe against the ground, restless. “Look, Clay, I don’t know why the hell I’m here, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing.” She sighed. “I think—I think maybe I need to see Spencer.”

Frowning, Clay shook his head slowly. “I don’t think you should. She left for a reason,” he said, not unkindly.

“Well I didn’t even know what that reason was!” Ashley threw her hands up in frustration, then let them fall to her side again, slapping against her thighs. “She left, and then all of you left, and no one told me what the fuck was going on. Jesus, Clay, I don’t even have her number. She could be in Alaska for all I know.”

“Ashley, I’m sorry. I really am.”

“But?”

“But you really hurt Spencer. And I don’t think it’s fair for you to hunt her down after all this time.”

“Come on!” A dull hammering began at the back of Ashley’s head, its incessancy ratcheting up her frustration, tensing her jaw and grinding her teeth together.

“I’m sorry,” Clay repeated, his voice gentle.

“Stop saying that,” Ashley snapped, wincing as the pounding in her head magnified. She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a gulp of air and blowing it out through her mouth. It rushed out in a whoosh, alleviating the pressure, giving Ashley back some semblance of coherence.

When she opened her eyes, she had a goal. If every goddamn question led back to Spencer, then what the hell—she was going to meet the answer in the flesh, search those blue eyes for a fucking reason, grab Spencer by the shoulders and rattle her until her teeth fell out, if that’s what it took.

“Look,” she began, “I’m not going to ask for her anything. I’m not going to screw up her life. I just need to see her.”

“Ash—”

“No! It’s been two years, Clay! I can see her after two fucking years.” With the onslaught of tears threatening to burst from the dam, Ashley balled her hands into fists, every muscle in her face straining to keep the tears from falling. “Please,” she added, her voice cracking.

Seconds ticked by as she stared into Clay’s eyes, her own stinging from the glare of the sun and her unabashed desperation.

Finally, as Corey came bounding out the door, and every sinew in Ashley’s body was stretched to its breaking point, Clay sighed.

“Don’t tell her I told you.”

---

“How far would you go for someone?”

“Depends. Do I get to drive?” Ashley jerked to the right, expecting a backhanded whack from Spencer.

To her surprise, Spencer remained still, her brow furrowed.

“I’m serious, Ash.”

“Okay, okay. I know your serious face.”

“So?”

“It really depends on the person,” Ashley said, feeling her gaze being drawn to Spencer’s. She followed the curve of Spencer’s eyelid, marvelled at the long lashes, allowing herself a moment of calm before being pulled into the depths of Spencer’s eyes, depictions of the sea before a storm: grey and thrashing at its core, blue and delicate at the diaphanous surface. Her heart thumped. She’d learnt, not a month ago, that this was a thrilling danger: hovering out on the waters for just a minute too long, quietly provoking the beast for nothing but the rush of witnessing something so beautiful surge and burst in passion.

“Ash—”

“I’ve never really thought about it.” (Thirty seconds: the roiling grey rises against the blue.) “There hasn’t been anyone I would go very far for.” (Forty-five seconds: gushes of grey break through.)

“No one at all?”

“Nope …” (Fifty-nine seconds: the beast claws away the fragments of blue, spitting poison into the air.)

“Reall—”

“Not until you.” (Sixty seconds: today she’s seen enough; she’s convinced.)

A small smile tugged at Spencer’s lips, and as it stretched out, her eyes reverted to their placid, sparkling blue.

“I would go very, very far for you. The ends of the earth. Around the universe. Cross oceans and slay dragons. Whatever it takes.”

Spencer laughed a deep, appreciative laugh, her entire body vibrating with the sound waves. Pressing her hands into the sand, Ashley leaned forward, brushing her lips against Spencer’s, tasting the salt of the ocean.

(Seventy-five seconds: Ashley thinks maybe she doesn’t have to play this game anymore, doesn’t have to keep pushing the limits. She doesn’t want to be swallowed by the sea—there is still a lot to learn, a million kisses and more to drink deep as the waves lap at their feet.)

Ashley blinked against the rush of images and refocused her attention on the road. San Diego was only two and a half hours away, but she felt like she was driving toward the end of the earth, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to get there faster, or drive off the edge of a cliff and plunge deep into the blue waters below.

Loose Ends by the Score, Part 1/? (South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley, R)

2007-02-10T10:03:35Z

Title: Loose Ends by the Score, Part 1/?
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: South of Nowhere
Pairing: Spencer/Ashley
Rating: R
Summary: Pending
Author's Notes: WIP. I'm not much of a planner, so I don't really know where I'm going with this.

Running a heavy tongue over dry lips, Ashley gave in. She rolled onto her back and peered through the fog at the face hovering over hers.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ashley snapped, her voice scratching its way out of her throat. “I’m all yours.”

There was a second of hesitance, but what the girl lacked in experience, she made up for in eagerness. Her hands quickly sought the warm skin of Ashley’s stomach, and her fingers fluttered to match her golden eyelashes. Sighing, Ashley grasped her wrist, snatching the hand away and replacing it lower, along the slight rise of her hipbone.

As fingers slipped beneath the waistband, Ashley wondered how it had come to this. Where was the girl who’d been part of the living? She rolled her eyes toward the dark yellow patch on the ceiling. Was it even the ceiling? It could be the floor, the piss-stained floor, for all she knew. It could be the piss of the twenty or so piss-drunk girls (or boys, or both, or neither—beggars can’t be choosers, after all) she’d scavenged from second-rate clubs all over town. A laugh bubbled low in her parched throat as she wondered how wasted those poor girls were to let her take them to her decaying hole of an apartment, let her nip at their skin and cry out another’s name. How wasted she had to be to blind herself to their rough faces, deafen herself to their cracked voices.

Bending her head, the girl trailed her lips over the expanse of Ashley’s stomach. As the girl’s blond hair tumbled over, concealing her face, Ashley felt a gnawing pain in her side. It bit through the haze of the countless shots of tequila, chewing a relentless path to her lungs, her heart, working at nerve endings she thought had gone numb long ago. She flattened her palm against the girl’s head and pushed it lower. Closing her eyes, she let herself drift back to two years ago, saw the lights flash behind her eyelids. Felt the soft strands of long blond hair skim across her skin.

“I … I, um, I don’t really know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” Ashley whispered, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck, inhaling the clean scent of detergent and freshly soaped skin. “We don’t really have to do anything.”

A frown appeared, and blue eyes glimmered with frustration. “I want to,” she insisted.

Ashley couldn’t help but smile. She lifted a hand, outlining the definition of a high cheekbone. “Are you sure?”

“Ash.” The single syllable spilled from swollen lips, hoarse with restrained desire, and that was all the affirmation that Ashley needed.

Their lips crushed together, hands desperately seeking new ground to roam, stopping only to prolong a gasp or a growl. Ashley gripped her harder, nails digging unapologetically into soft flesh (worries about hurting the other were no longer heeded—pain and pleasure had long since fused into one maddening, growing spark, and all that remained was a need to feel muscles contract beneath heated skin, hear breaths torn from beating chests).

Now unreserved, she moved with urgency, fingers curling to elicit another moan from Ashley. When her tongue darted out and swept a fraction of an inch to the left, Ashley bucked, her eyes widening, all her senses on fire. She murmured words of encouragement, memorising angles and speed and pressure and time. These were not just fingers, not just hands, not just touches; these were acts of selflessness and selfishness, of giving wholly, of claiming every millimetre of skin for her own and establishing possession, ensuring that no other would ever touch her as she had, ever know the sound of transcendent rapture.

When Ashley came, she fell into steady arms, cheek pressed to a wildly beating pulse, hands grasping fistfuls of golden hair.

“I love you, Spence.”

“What?”

Ashley squeezed her eyes tighter, grasping for the fragments of her memory. She wasn’t going to succumb to reality, not when Spencer’s lips were still hot against her neck.

“Hey.” The voice was more insistent now. “Who the hell is Spence?”

A deceptively slender hand latched on to Ashley’s shoulder, giving it a rough shake.

“Fuck.” Ashley blinked. Hard blue eyes bore into her, belying the soft contours of a young face.

“Who’s Spence?”

“It’s none of your damn business,” Ashley spat, struggling to get up on uncooperative limbs.

“You were fucking him, weren’t you? Or her—whatever the hell it is gets freaks like you off.”

Scoffing, Ashley moved to the edge of the bed, holding a hand to her pounding head. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know I’m done with you.”

The girl left the apartment in a rush, leaving behind a fetid trail of disgust.

“Fuck.”

She sat for a minute with her face in her hands, her elbows digging into her thighs. She was spent. Drained, wrung, and flapping helplessly in the wind. The ratty blanket made the backs of her legs itch, and her mouth was sandpaper, and the apartment smelt of old cheese. Old cheese and the death of old Mr. Tan (bless him, though, for she would never have got the apartment for so cheap if his smell hadn’t lingered so indelibly). A wry laugh escaped her lips. Why had she put herself through this again? Why had she chosen to live like a fucking pauper when she could’ve snapped her fingers and had money raining down on her?

Ashley caught herself, shoved the next question to the back of her mind. These questions were already answered. And as far as she was concerned, so was every other question. Every thing, every face, every word, every breath pointed back to a singularity: Spencer.

Spencer in the rum and Coke, Spencer in the sky, Spencer in the dilapidated walls, Spencer in vanilla ice-cream, Spencer in the systole and diastole of Ashley’s perfunctory heart.

Another laugh, and Ashley’s hands began to shake. Reaching for her jeans, she began rummaging through the pockets, pulling out a crumpled business card from the front right one. “Call me any time,” Susan had said, her hazel eyes filled with patient concern. “Even if it’s just to talk.”

Glaring at the silly, loopy script, Ashley thought better of it, and tossed the card onto the bed. With effort, she managed to slip into her clothes, stumbling only once when it seemed like the floor was rushing up to greet her. Head throbbing and limbs unsteady, she grabbed her keys and fled out into the night, seeing Spencer in the starless sky.

alittlemorebite @ 2007-02-09T21:18:00

2007-02-09T13:25:22Z

I've a feeling Gray Matters is going to be a lot like Imagine Me and You, but who cares--because hello, it's not just pretty girls, it's pretty girls kissing. And we know that makes all the difference in the world. I can be deep some other time.

The trailer:

The kiss:

alittlemorebite @ 2007-02-02T16:01:00

2007-02-02T08:08:39Z

I'm so swamped with work, I don't even have time to think about writing fic. Or having a life. Or sleeping. I'm lucky I get to take showers.

Emily Blunt needs to be gay.

Living Colour (South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley, G)

2007-01-19T14:09:42Z

Title: Living Colour
Author: alittlemorebite
Fandom: South of Nowhere
Pairing: Spencer/Ashley
Rating: G
Summary: Spencer is all that burns bright in Ashley’s eyes.
Author's Notes: My first foray into fanfiction, so it's probably brimming with the suckage, but I'd like to see if this is doable. Unbeta'd.

The sky is a blanket of grey, marred in places by darker clouds. Standing barefoot on the balcony, Ashley soaks in the silence, thinking how un-LA the weather is today.

The mirthless grey tints the garden with a faint sepia tone, making the trees seem older than they are. Ashley feels a little older, too, or maybe it’s just the monochrome everything that’s making her feel this way. A year ago, her car had arrived, a sleek, gleaming silver ticket to freedom. She’d alternated between fawning over it like it was a child and pushing it to its limits. Ten years ago, it was a bicycle, beaming red with white ribbons flowing from the handlebars. She’d named it Roxy and rode it so fast, she’d crashed into a telephone pole and wrecked the front wheel.

Thunder groans in the distance but Ashley doesn’t hear it. She thinks about her mother, with her perfectly blended makeup and her red nails and her hard eyes. On a good day, she’s a watery grey, floating in and out of the house, indifferent and transient. On a bad day, she’s coal-black, heartless and impervious to everything Ashley throws at her.

And her father—he’s an explosion of every shade of yellow, orange, red, blue, green, purple and white. He’s scattered and intangible; all Ashley has of him are pieces of his brilliance.

She’s daddy’s little girl and mummy’s nuisance of a daughter. Too young to throw out and too old to keep under lock and key.

Footsteps scuffle up behind her and soft hands cover her eyes.

“Guess who.”

Before Ashley turns around, she can see the gentle blue of Spencer’s eyes and the dark gold of her hair and the pale pink of her lips. Here, in this eternal second, Ashley is not too old or too young; she feels no need to move faster, no need to prove anything.

Everything else fades to black as she turns and sinks into Spencer’s arms. Time has no dominion here, and Spencer is all that burns bright in Ashley’s eyes.