ficpost: "Jessi and the Potential Disaster" Jessi/Kristy
Title: "Jessi and the Potential Disaster"
Fandom: Baby-Sitters Club
Pairing: Jessi/Kristy
Rating: R
Spoilers/Timeline: No spoilers; girls are 19 and 21.
Warnings: No mention of Mary Anne or Mallory.
Notes: For ijemanja in the Jessi round of short_takes. She requested hot dancer Jessi, post-high-school.
Summary: Jessi struggles with balance; Kristy just struggles.
Words: 963
Jessi and the Potential Disaster
Kristy held a long and yummy-looking strand of collard greens up to the light. "What is this?" she asked. I've heard she used to spend whole lunch periods rhapsodizing about the grossness of cafeteria food, but luckily I'm two years younger than she is, and never had to eat with her on a regular basis.
But now we were both spending a weekend away from our respective dorms, roughing it in upstate New York. We were trying out for a very prestigious summer sports program ("Jock Camp," Kristy called it), and we were sharing a table at the mess hall.
"Collard greens," I told her. "They're delicious." To prove it, I reached over and ate the greens right off the end of Kristy's fork -- which turned out to be a mistake. "Ugh, ugh, ew. Water!" Kristy passed me a glass of water, trying hard -- and dismally failing -- not to laugh.
"You were saying?"
"The way Momma cooks 'em? These are delicious," I told her.
"Never trust cafeteria food," Kristy said, then lowered her voice and said mysteriously, "Do you think they got this from the swamp we saw? Maybe it's... Swamp Thing Spawn!"
I laughed and punched Kristy good-naturedly. She grinned; with two older and two younger brothers, she's used to affectionate -- and not-very-affectionate -- hitting. I picked up the habit from her, something that drives my parents to distraction. With a laugh, she punched me back, then slyly aimed another spoonful of collard greens towards my mouth. I ducked, the greens went flying, and I imagined that we'd be in the middle of a food fight soon, but before the tennis players at the next table could retaliate, Kristy said, "Let's go practice."
I nodded. "Sure." Two years ago, Kristy would've been more than happy to spend a quarter of an hour flinging food at athletes from all over the East Coast, but since she graduated from high school, she's settled down a lot and gotten serious about sports, which is more than fine with me. I wasn't sure what Kristy meant by "practice" -- softball's her sport and it's decidedly not mine -- but I was more than glad to encourage her in less frivolous pursuits than food fights.
But rather than heading for the softball field, Kristy led me straight back to the cabin we were sharing for the weekend, and as soon as we'd latched the door, her hands were on my shoulders and she had a leer on her face that meant just one thing.
Before you get the wrong idea, I should mention that Kristy's not my girlfriend. I don't have one, and don't intend to. It's got nothing to do with sexuality -- I don't have a boyfriend either. I just have more serious things on my mind. I'm nineteen years old (Kristy's twenty-one), and if I'm ever going to dance on-stage in New York, I need to settle down now to years of serious discipline and daily practice. In fact, sports camp was a serious dent in my plans, but my parents insisted that I do something fun, (and threatened to stop footing the bill) and I figured that this way, at least I'd get my dancing in too.
Right now, Kristy had other things in mind, and her face was just inches from mine. Kristy is attractive, if you're into a very butch, flat-chested kind of girl with a short frizz of brown hair and big, expressive brown eyes-- and I am. Decidedly. She's all muscle and upper-arm strength, and she pinned me effectively against the door until I wrapped a leg around her in retaliation. My strength's in my legs, and Kristy's eyes widened as I led us over to my bunk, spinning us in tight pirouettes.
"You should do this all the time," Kristy whispered, but I shut my mouth around hers, which is about the only thing that'll keep Kristy quiet when she gets this way.
I put my hands on Kristy's shoulders and knelt over her, glad my hair was in a tight bun and hers was so short. There weren't any loose curls or curves to get in the way; our kisses are all muscle and struggle. She pushed up hard against me, and I pushed back until finally her mouth opened and I slipped my tongue inside, and right then I couldn't think of any dance but our tongues' pas de deux.
"See?" Kristy said later. "You're so good at this. You should do it all the time."
"No," I told her.
"At least on a regular basis?" She tried to distract me with the tips of her fingers on my upper thighs, but I ignored her.
"No."
"But you like it, don't you?"
I nodded. "But that's not the point, Kristy."
She sighed. "At least we'll be going to camp together, right?"
"I guess," I said, and started worrying. With a whole month to work at it, and with her mouth and her hands making her case quite effectively, maybe Kristy would convince me to, well, go steady, as she put it. (Abandon all my ambitions and dreams was my phrase for what Kristy had in mind.) And then there'd be a time commitment and a heart commitment and pretty soon a life commitment, and there'd be no space in my schedule or passion in my soul or room in my life for dance.
Kristy got up suddenly, almost hitting her head on the upper bunk, and said, "Well, I'd better go practice for real now. Think about us, okay?"
"I will," I told her, leaning down to touch my toes.
Fandom: Baby-Sitters Club
Pairing: Jessi/Kristy
Rating: R
Spoilers/Timeline: No spoilers; girls are 19 and 21.
Warnings: No mention of Mary Anne or Mallory.
Notes: For ijemanja in the Jessi round of short_takes. She requested hot dancer Jessi, post-high-school.
Summary: Jessi struggles with balance; Kristy just struggles.
Words: 963
Jessi and the Potential Disaster
Kristy held a long and yummy-looking strand of collard greens up to the light. "What is this?" she asked. I've heard she used to spend whole lunch periods rhapsodizing about the grossness of cafeteria food, but luckily I'm two years younger than she is, and never had to eat with her on a regular basis.
But now we were both spending a weekend away from our respective dorms, roughing it in upstate New York. We were trying out for a very prestigious summer sports program ("Jock Camp," Kristy called it), and we were sharing a table at the mess hall.
"Collard greens," I told her. "They're delicious." To prove it, I reached over and ate the greens right off the end of Kristy's fork -- which turned out to be a mistake. "Ugh, ugh, ew. Water!" Kristy passed me a glass of water, trying hard -- and dismally failing -- not to laugh.
"You were saying?"
"The way Momma cooks 'em? These are delicious," I told her.
"Never trust cafeteria food," Kristy said, then lowered her voice and said mysteriously, "Do you think they got this from the swamp we saw? Maybe it's... Swamp Thing Spawn!"
I laughed and punched Kristy good-naturedly. She grinned; with two older and two younger brothers, she's used to affectionate -- and not-very-affectionate -- hitting. I picked up the habit from her, something that drives my parents to distraction. With a laugh, she punched me back, then slyly aimed another spoonful of collard greens towards my mouth. I ducked, the greens went flying, and I imagined that we'd be in the middle of a food fight soon, but before the tennis players at the next table could retaliate, Kristy said, "Let's go practice."
I nodded. "Sure." Two years ago, Kristy would've been more than happy to spend a quarter of an hour flinging food at athletes from all over the East Coast, but since she graduated from high school, she's settled down a lot and gotten serious about sports, which is more than fine with me. I wasn't sure what Kristy meant by "practice" -- softball's her sport and it's decidedly not mine -- but I was more than glad to encourage her in less frivolous pursuits than food fights.
But rather than heading for the softball field, Kristy led me straight back to the cabin we were sharing for the weekend, and as soon as we'd latched the door, her hands were on my shoulders and she had a leer on her face that meant just one thing.
Before you get the wrong idea, I should mention that Kristy's not my girlfriend. I don't have one, and don't intend to. It's got nothing to do with sexuality -- I don't have a boyfriend either. I just have more serious things on my mind. I'm nineteen years old (Kristy's twenty-one), and if I'm ever going to dance on-stage in New York, I need to settle down now to years of serious discipline and daily practice. In fact, sports camp was a serious dent in my plans, but my parents insisted that I do something fun, (and threatened to stop footing the bill) and I figured that this way, at least I'd get my dancing in too.
Right now, Kristy had other things in mind, and her face was just inches from mine. Kristy is attractive, if you're into a very butch, flat-chested kind of girl with a short frizz of brown hair and big, expressive brown eyes-- and I am. Decidedly. She's all muscle and upper-arm strength, and she pinned me effectively against the door until I wrapped a leg around her in retaliation. My strength's in my legs, and Kristy's eyes widened as I led us over to my bunk, spinning us in tight pirouettes.
"You should do this all the time," Kristy whispered, but I shut my mouth around hers, which is about the only thing that'll keep Kristy quiet when she gets this way.
I put my hands on Kristy's shoulders and knelt over her, glad my hair was in a tight bun and hers was so short. There weren't any loose curls or curves to get in the way; our kisses are all muscle and struggle. She pushed up hard against me, and I pushed back until finally her mouth opened and I slipped my tongue inside, and right then I couldn't think of any dance but our tongues' pas de deux.
"See?" Kristy said later. "You're so good at this. You should do it all the time."
"No," I told her.
"At least on a regular basis?" She tried to distract me with the tips of her fingers on my upper thighs, but I ignored her.
"No."
"But you like it, don't you?"
I nodded. "But that's not the point, Kristy."
She sighed. "At least we'll be going to camp together, right?"
"I guess," I said, and started worrying. With a whole month to work at it, and with her mouth and her hands making her case quite effectively, maybe Kristy would convince me to, well, go steady, as she put it. (Abandon all my ambitions and dreams was my phrase for what Kristy had in mind.) And then there'd be a time commitment and a heart commitment and pretty soon a life commitment, and there'd be no space in my schedule or passion in my soul or room in my life for dance.
Kristy got up suddenly, almost hitting her head on the upper bunk, and said, "Well, I'd better go practice for real now. Think about us, okay?"
"I will," I told her, leaning down to touch my toes.