(no subject)
I haven't written fanfic in ages - years, even - but I adored the new St Trinian's movie and was inspired. This is also my first piece of femmeslash.
So, fic!
Title: I Write, Therefore I am.
Rating: Hmm, not sure. Probably PG, PG-13 at the very most.
Pairing: Kelly/Polly (femmeslash).
Notes: Betaed by the very wonderful tahira_saki, who also made my icon. :D There's also a very tiny in-joke for plum177 and I. Crossposted to sttrinians and to my personal journal, bethan_b_bad.
Polly Holmes has always liked writing. Sure, her laptop and Blackberry might be omnipresent, but she’s always found something incredibly calming about writing everything out by hand. All her class notes are carefully written out in longhand, not typed on her MacBook, and she has a collection of dozens of pens, all colours all kinds from biros to ballpoints to fountain pens to feather quills - not that she uses those in class.
(The saying might be ‘never tickle a sleeping dragon’, but ‘never tickle a scheming First Year’ is more like it around here.)
When she catches Polly sucking on the end of her pen in class, or when she’s mid-scheme, Kelly teases her about phallic symbols and makes her giggle. She’s always been a solemn little thing, Polly has, but Kelly has always known how to make her laugh.
(Anyway, Polly’s known since third year that she isn’t exactly a phallic symbols kind of girl.)
Kelly. Gorgeous, glamorous Kelly Jones, Head Girl of St. Trinian’s and captain of the hockey team to boot, all dark eyes and pale skin and those utterly fascinating crimson lips. Polly wonders what it would be like to take her very best fountain pen (the one that says j’écris, donc je suis in flowing silver script) and write all over that perfect porcelain skin, to draw swirls and spirals and ancient curling tattoos in gold and silver and blue on that smooth blank canvas. She wonders if Kelly would shiver, if she would blush (Kelly never blushes), if she would turn her head and use those incredibly red lips to pout with mischief or laugh with pleasure.
(When bored in class, Polly used to play join-the-dots with her freckles. She wonders if Kelly has any freckles at all.)
She wonders -
She shouldn’t wonder anything. She really really shouldn’t, because Kelly is her best friend and her confidante, the girl who taught her how to scrap just as she’d taught Kell which St Trinian’s phones were bugged, which First Years would take a bribe and keep their mouths shut and where Miss Fritton keeps the good rum. She can’t wonder, because she’d rather die than lose that.
(She still wonders, even so.)
She wonders even more when Kelly strides into class one day - fashionably late, naturally - a streak of blue ink marring her otherwise-perfect makeup. When Kell slides with arrogant grace into the seat next to her, Polly leans over to warn her.
“Damn. My bloody pen’s been leaking all day.” Kelly reaches up a chipped red nail to rub at the mark, but seems utterly unconcerned.
“Leave it,” Polly can’t quite resist telling her. “It suits you.”
She thinks her heart’s stopped, but Kelly just raises one well-marked eyebrow and smirks.
“You reckon?”
Polly licks dry lips and hopes Kelly doesn’t notice. “Yeah.”
Kelly’s smirk broadens, and she takes her hand away from her cheek. “Well, then.”
Something explodes at the far side of the building, away in the grounds. The entire class - teacher included - drops their iPods and playing cards in order to move in a group over to the windows for a good nose at the First Years’ latest attempt to perfect their technique with the RDX.
But Kelly shows no sign of moving, so Polly stays with her, fiddling with her iPod.
“Nice to ‘ave some company,” Kelly drawls, and Polly just looks up in time to see her smirk again.
By the time the girls return to their card games and cocktails, putting their score cards away (“That Miss McShane’s done ‘em the world of good!”), Kelly’s red lipstick is smeared across her white skin, and Polly, delicately clearing red from her own mouth, is discovering that it is, in fact, possible to smirk and blush at the same time. Kelly tidies her makeup with the speed and skill of long practice, reaching across to wipe away a tiny smear Polly misses on her lips, but leaves the streak of blue ink along with her smirk on her own face.
Polly leans towards her and calmly wipes it away. Kelly responds with a wicked look from her smoky eyes and a brilliant, almost schoolgirlish, grin.
Polly's already planning out the designs to replace the ink.
So, fic!
Title: I Write, Therefore I am.
Rating: Hmm, not sure. Probably PG, PG-13 at the very most.
Pairing: Kelly/Polly (femmeslash).
Notes: Betaed by the very wonderful tahira_saki, who also made my icon. :D There's also a very tiny in-joke for plum177 and I. Crossposted to sttrinians and to my personal journal, bethan_b_bad.
Polly Holmes has always liked writing. Sure, her laptop and Blackberry might be omnipresent, but she’s always found something incredibly calming about writing everything out by hand. All her class notes are carefully written out in longhand, not typed on her MacBook, and she has a collection of dozens of pens, all colours all kinds from biros to ballpoints to fountain pens to feather quills - not that she uses those in class.
(The saying might be ‘never tickle a sleeping dragon’, but ‘never tickle a scheming First Year’ is more like it around here.)
When she catches Polly sucking on the end of her pen in class, or when she’s mid-scheme, Kelly teases her about phallic symbols and makes her giggle. She’s always been a solemn little thing, Polly has, but Kelly has always known how to make her laugh.
(Anyway, Polly’s known since third year that she isn’t exactly a phallic symbols kind of girl.)
Kelly. Gorgeous, glamorous Kelly Jones, Head Girl of St. Trinian’s and captain of the hockey team to boot, all dark eyes and pale skin and those utterly fascinating crimson lips. Polly wonders what it would be like to take her very best fountain pen (the one that says j’écris, donc je suis in flowing silver script) and write all over that perfect porcelain skin, to draw swirls and spirals and ancient curling tattoos in gold and silver and blue on that smooth blank canvas. She wonders if Kelly would shiver, if she would blush (Kelly never blushes), if she would turn her head and use those incredibly red lips to pout with mischief or laugh with pleasure.
(When bored in class, Polly used to play join-the-dots with her freckles. She wonders if Kelly has any freckles at all.)
She wonders -
She shouldn’t wonder anything. She really really shouldn’t, because Kelly is her best friend and her confidante, the girl who taught her how to scrap just as she’d taught Kell which St Trinian’s phones were bugged, which First Years would take a bribe and keep their mouths shut and where Miss Fritton keeps the good rum. She can’t wonder, because she’d rather die than lose that.
(She still wonders, even so.)
She wonders even more when Kelly strides into class one day - fashionably late, naturally - a streak of blue ink marring her otherwise-perfect makeup. When Kell slides with arrogant grace into the seat next to her, Polly leans over to warn her.
“Damn. My bloody pen’s been leaking all day.” Kelly reaches up a chipped red nail to rub at the mark, but seems utterly unconcerned.
“Leave it,” Polly can’t quite resist telling her. “It suits you.”
She thinks her heart’s stopped, but Kelly just raises one well-marked eyebrow and smirks.
“You reckon?”
Polly licks dry lips and hopes Kelly doesn’t notice. “Yeah.”
Kelly’s smirk broadens, and she takes her hand away from her cheek. “Well, then.”
Something explodes at the far side of the building, away in the grounds. The entire class - teacher included - drops their iPods and playing cards in order to move in a group over to the windows for a good nose at the First Years’ latest attempt to perfect their technique with the RDX.
But Kelly shows no sign of moving, so Polly stays with her, fiddling with her iPod.
“Nice to ‘ave some company,” Kelly drawls, and Polly just looks up in time to see her smirk again.
By the time the girls return to their card games and cocktails, putting their score cards away (“That Miss McShane’s done ‘em the world of good!”), Kelly’s red lipstick is smeared across her white skin, and Polly, delicately clearing red from her own mouth, is discovering that it is, in fact, possible to smirk and blush at the same time. Kelly tidies her makeup with the speed and skill of long practice, reaching across to wipe away a tiny smear Polly misses on her lips, but leaves the streak of blue ink along with her smirk on her own face.
Polly leans towards her and calmly wipes it away. Kelly responds with a wicked look from her smoky eyes and a brilliant, almost schoolgirlish, grin.
Polly's already planning out the designs to replace the ink.