Muse [One Tree Hill, Brooke/Peyton]
Hell, who is she kidding? She doesn’t know a thing about art. She used to think Picasso was a type of nut and she could’ve sworn Rembrandt was a wine.
But she doesn’t need to know anything about art to see that Peyton has something special.
So when she notices that Peyton has gone two weeks without cracking open a sketchbook, she’s understandably concerned.
Brooke lies on Peyton’s bed, playing with the drawstring of her pajama pants, eyeing the art on the walls silently, her lips pursed thoughtfully. Peyton has some of that funny music of hers playing, tapping out a rhythm on her stomach with her fingers. Brooke has painted her nails black an hour or so ago, only because it was the only color Peyton would let her use. She would’ve preferred a soft blue or a dark green; she would’ve liked to see how they looked on her. But, well, Brooke will take what she can get. And, really, tonight isn’t about Brooke.
“So, tell me,” she says slowly, carefully, “have you been sketching anything lately?”
“Sketching?” Peyton looks over at Brooke with her eyebrow raised, her lips quirking upward a bit. Then she looks away, shaking her head, her curls bouncing faintly. “No. No, not really.”
“Hm.” Brooke waits a moment before allowing a small grin to creep across her face, flipping around onto her stomach to flash devious eyes at her friend. “Do you ever draw nudes?”
“What?” Peyton looks at Brooke with wide eyes, laughing incredulously when the other girl waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “No, I-No, I’ve never drawn a nude.”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” she says, reaching up to scratch a bit embarrassedly at the back of her neck. “I guess I have to be inspired.”
“Is that all?” Brooke asks in a low voice that makes Peyton stiffen and look at her, eyes searching, the chuckle trickling from her throat a bit nervous.
“What?”
“Not to worry, P. Sawyer,” Brooke purrs, reaching out to tap Peyton on the nose before hopping up and moving to stand at the foot of the bed. With a wink, Brooke slowly curls her fingers around the hem of her pink pajama top and pulls up, revealing a flat stomach and breasts barely concealed by a lacy bra.
“Brooke!” Peyton laughs uncertainly; Brooke thinks it’s the cutest nervous habit ever. “What are you doing?”
Turning around slyly, Brooke loosens the drawstring of her pants and shimmies out of them. She hears Peyton’s sharp intake of breath and smiles, running her tongue over her teeth salaciously before she replies, “Duh. I’m inspiring.” She reaches around and unhooks her bra easily, quickly, showing off her experience, and hooks her fingers in the edges of her panties, sliding them down her hips, her thighs, her legs, until they fall to the floor. She steps out of them and turns again, proudly, because her body is perfect, she knows, and there’s no way the artist in Peyton can resist-
“Peyton! Uncover your eyes right now!”
Peyton, knees bent and drawn up to her chest and hands covering her eyes, shakes her head violently and mutters, “I can’t believe you just took your clothes off. Oh what am I saying? Of course I can believe you just took your clothes off…”
“Peyton,” Brooke whines, stomping her foot. “Look at me! I’m gorgeous! I’m a muse!”
“You’re psychotic!”
“Well, fine,” Brooke huffs, hands on her hips. “If you can’t appreciate what I have to offer, you don’t even deserve to draw it.”
“Oh, Brooke.” Peyton sighs lightly. “I appreciate it, I really do.”
“No, you don’t,” Brooke pouts, petulant. “You won’t even look.”
Peyton doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then slowly drops her hands to her lap. Her eyes are closed, but after taking a deep breath, she opens them, and she looks. Her face takes on an expression Brooke is used to seeing, but has never seen on her and it suddenly really means something. It’s admiring and lustful and even a bit worshipful, and Brooke loves it.
“No offense, Brooke,” she says softly, “but I don’t feel very much like drawing right now.”
“Oh, no?” Brooke murmurs, letting her hands fall from her hips and climbing onto the bed, slowly but not too slowly, her lashes lowering, her smile fetching. “What do you feel like doing?”
Peyton straightens out her legs as Brooke comes closer, her tongue darting out, perhaps subconsciously, to wet her lips.
“I-I’m not sure,” she says, all honesty and yielding as Brooke’s bare thighs straddle her hips, her hair brushing Peyton’s shoulders as she leans down and Brooke kisses her.
Brooke’s always thought about kissing Peyton. She doesn’t think about kissing girls. Just Peyton. She isn’t sure what she expected it to be like. When she thinks of what artists should taste like, she thinks of charcoal for some reason, but that’s silly, because artists use charcoal with their hands, not their mouths, and she almost wishes Peyton had charcoal on her fingers. But she doesn’t and that’s all right, because this kiss is fantastic.
She stops it only to pull Peyton’s shirt over her head. Then she kisses her again and squeezes Peyton’s breast through her white sports bra. Peyton arches up into her and her cloth-covered crotch bumps against Brooke’s own. Brooke whines against Peyton’s lips and her hands push at the other girl’s bed-shorts. Peyton lets her, hesitates before lifting her hands and bringing them to Brooke’s breasts; her thumbs rub against her nipples, light then firm then light again, and maybe she’s teasing and maybe she’s exploring, but Brooke doesn’t care. She just wants more.
Finally, she’s got Peyton naked and she thrusts her hand down, down between Peyton’s legs. Peyton shivers, her black nails digging faintly into Brooke’s skin, as Brooke plunges her fingers inside. Peyton gasps as Brooke crooks one of her fingers, beckoning, while the others stroke circles. Peyton writhes, wriggles, her chest heaving attractively and Brooke can’t resist. She captures Peyton’s nipple in her mouth, sucking gently, flicking her tongue out with a rapidity that turns Peyton’s breathing fast and shallow.
“Brooke…” The name is a sigh, an encouragement, and a plea all at once, and Brooke can feel the way she’s tensing and knows she’s close.
She’s never done this before, but she decides she likes it as she moves down her friend’s body, mouthing at the skin that stretches from Peyton’s breast to her navel. She thinks they maybe should’ve done this earlier, maybe before Nathan, but she dismisses that thought when the hot, wet scent of Peyton assaults her and her face is right there.
“You ready for this, P. Sawyer?” she asks, huskily.
“I don’t think so,” she replies, breathless, reaching down to entangle her fingers in Brooke’s hair, “but do it.”
And Brooke’s tongue joins her fingers, still buried inside, and Peyton cries out something unintelligible and lovely; Brooke has never been so glad Papa Sawyer is away at sea. Peyton doesn’t taste like charcoal, thank goodness. She doesn’t taste like anything Brooke’s ever tasted before and she laps at her, licks at her, and Peyton’s thighs spasm around her. It’s a wonderful, heady sensation and Brooke has to move her free hand down to her own pulsing pleasure center. Her fingers move fast and her tongue would like to keep up, but it’s doing a decent job, judging by the way Peyton’s clutching, scraping at her scalp.
“B-Brooke!” Peyton groans and Brooke moans inside of her and she’s gone, Brooke following shortly after. “Oh, god…”
Smiling, Brooke moves up the other girl’s still faintly jerking body to curl up against her. Peyton slips her arms loosely around her, cuddling back, and for a while they just breathe, sated, growing drowsy until Peyton whispers, “A muse, huh?” and laughs lightly. And Brooke laughs, too, although she doesn’t know if she really gets the joke or is just guessing, but it doesn’t matter because they’re both asleep within minutes.
In the morning, Brooke wakes up to the sound of a pencil scratching on paper. And all she can do is wish that Inspiration would’ve waited another day or two before striking.
But she doesn’t need to know anything about art to see that Peyton has something special.
So when she notices that Peyton has gone two weeks without cracking open a sketchbook, she’s understandably concerned.
Brooke lies on Peyton’s bed, playing with the drawstring of her pajama pants, eyeing the art on the walls silently, her lips pursed thoughtfully. Peyton has some of that funny music of hers playing, tapping out a rhythm on her stomach with her fingers. Brooke has painted her nails black an hour or so ago, only because it was the only color Peyton would let her use. She would’ve preferred a soft blue or a dark green; she would’ve liked to see how they looked on her. But, well, Brooke will take what she can get. And, really, tonight isn’t about Brooke.
“So, tell me,” she says slowly, carefully, “have you been sketching anything lately?”
“Sketching?” Peyton looks over at Brooke with her eyebrow raised, her lips quirking upward a bit. Then she looks away, shaking her head, her curls bouncing faintly. “No. No, not really.”
“Hm.” Brooke waits a moment before allowing a small grin to creep across her face, flipping around onto her stomach to flash devious eyes at her friend. “Do you ever draw nudes?”
“What?” Peyton looks at Brooke with wide eyes, laughing incredulously when the other girl waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “No, I-No, I’ve never drawn a nude.”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” she says, reaching up to scratch a bit embarrassedly at the back of her neck. “I guess I have to be inspired.”
“Is that all?” Brooke asks in a low voice that makes Peyton stiffen and look at her, eyes searching, the chuckle trickling from her throat a bit nervous.
“What?”
“Not to worry, P. Sawyer,” Brooke purrs, reaching out to tap Peyton on the nose before hopping up and moving to stand at the foot of the bed. With a wink, Brooke slowly curls her fingers around the hem of her pink pajama top and pulls up, revealing a flat stomach and breasts barely concealed by a lacy bra.
“Brooke!” Peyton laughs uncertainly; Brooke thinks it’s the cutest nervous habit ever. “What are you doing?”
Turning around slyly, Brooke loosens the drawstring of her pants and shimmies out of them. She hears Peyton’s sharp intake of breath and smiles, running her tongue over her teeth salaciously before she replies, “Duh. I’m inspiring.” She reaches around and unhooks her bra easily, quickly, showing off her experience, and hooks her fingers in the edges of her panties, sliding them down her hips, her thighs, her legs, until they fall to the floor. She steps out of them and turns again, proudly, because her body is perfect, she knows, and there’s no way the artist in Peyton can resist-
“Peyton! Uncover your eyes right now!”
Peyton, knees bent and drawn up to her chest and hands covering her eyes, shakes her head violently and mutters, “I can’t believe you just took your clothes off. Oh what am I saying? Of course I can believe you just took your clothes off…”
“Peyton,” Brooke whines, stomping her foot. “Look at me! I’m gorgeous! I’m a muse!”
“You’re psychotic!”
“Well, fine,” Brooke huffs, hands on her hips. “If you can’t appreciate what I have to offer, you don’t even deserve to draw it.”
“Oh, Brooke.” Peyton sighs lightly. “I appreciate it, I really do.”
“No, you don’t,” Brooke pouts, petulant. “You won’t even look.”
Peyton doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then slowly drops her hands to her lap. Her eyes are closed, but after taking a deep breath, she opens them, and she looks. Her face takes on an expression Brooke is used to seeing, but has never seen on her and it suddenly really means something. It’s admiring and lustful and even a bit worshipful, and Brooke loves it.
“No offense, Brooke,” she says softly, “but I don’t feel very much like drawing right now.”
“Oh, no?” Brooke murmurs, letting her hands fall from her hips and climbing onto the bed, slowly but not too slowly, her lashes lowering, her smile fetching. “What do you feel like doing?”
Peyton straightens out her legs as Brooke comes closer, her tongue darting out, perhaps subconsciously, to wet her lips.
“I-I’m not sure,” she says, all honesty and yielding as Brooke’s bare thighs straddle her hips, her hair brushing Peyton’s shoulders as she leans down and Brooke kisses her.
Brooke’s always thought about kissing Peyton. She doesn’t think about kissing girls. Just Peyton. She isn’t sure what she expected it to be like. When she thinks of what artists should taste like, she thinks of charcoal for some reason, but that’s silly, because artists use charcoal with their hands, not their mouths, and she almost wishes Peyton had charcoal on her fingers. But she doesn’t and that’s all right, because this kiss is fantastic.
She stops it only to pull Peyton’s shirt over her head. Then she kisses her again and squeezes Peyton’s breast through her white sports bra. Peyton arches up into her and her cloth-covered crotch bumps against Brooke’s own. Brooke whines against Peyton’s lips and her hands push at the other girl’s bed-shorts. Peyton lets her, hesitates before lifting her hands and bringing them to Brooke’s breasts; her thumbs rub against her nipples, light then firm then light again, and maybe she’s teasing and maybe she’s exploring, but Brooke doesn’t care. She just wants more.
Finally, she’s got Peyton naked and she thrusts her hand down, down between Peyton’s legs. Peyton shivers, her black nails digging faintly into Brooke’s skin, as Brooke plunges her fingers inside. Peyton gasps as Brooke crooks one of her fingers, beckoning, while the others stroke circles. Peyton writhes, wriggles, her chest heaving attractively and Brooke can’t resist. She captures Peyton’s nipple in her mouth, sucking gently, flicking her tongue out with a rapidity that turns Peyton’s breathing fast and shallow.
“Brooke…” The name is a sigh, an encouragement, and a plea all at once, and Brooke can feel the way she’s tensing and knows she’s close.
She’s never done this before, but she decides she likes it as she moves down her friend’s body, mouthing at the skin that stretches from Peyton’s breast to her navel. She thinks they maybe should’ve done this earlier, maybe before Nathan, but she dismisses that thought when the hot, wet scent of Peyton assaults her and her face is right there.
“You ready for this, P. Sawyer?” she asks, huskily.
“I don’t think so,” she replies, breathless, reaching down to entangle her fingers in Brooke’s hair, “but do it.”
And Brooke’s tongue joins her fingers, still buried inside, and Peyton cries out something unintelligible and lovely; Brooke has never been so glad Papa Sawyer is away at sea. Peyton doesn’t taste like charcoal, thank goodness. She doesn’t taste like anything Brooke’s ever tasted before and she laps at her, licks at her, and Peyton’s thighs spasm around her. It’s a wonderful, heady sensation and Brooke has to move her free hand down to her own pulsing pleasure center. Her fingers move fast and her tongue would like to keep up, but it’s doing a decent job, judging by the way Peyton’s clutching, scraping at her scalp.
“B-Brooke!” Peyton groans and Brooke moans inside of her and she’s gone, Brooke following shortly after. “Oh, god…”
Smiling, Brooke moves up the other girl’s still faintly jerking body to curl up against her. Peyton slips her arms loosely around her, cuddling back, and for a while they just breathe, sated, growing drowsy until Peyton whispers, “A muse, huh?” and laughs lightly. And Brooke laughs, too, although she doesn’t know if she really gets the joke or is just guessing, but it doesn’t matter because they’re both asleep within minutes.
In the morning, Brooke wakes up to the sound of a pencil scratching on paper. And all she can do is wish that Inspiration would’ve waited another day or two before striking.