Author's note: I did a minor revamping of the story by erasing Jenny's
existence completely. I adore Jenny on the show, but I didn't feel that
Peyton's affection for Jake should be based on his love for his daughter.
Jenny just doesn't mesh properly with the plot, since Peyton has been
lusting after Jake since kindergarten. Sadly, this removes all possibility
of Nikki attempting to waltz back into Jake's life in order to be there for
"her daughter," and the Brooke/Nikki friendship, which raised many an
eyebrow from sheer bafflement. Brooke and Bar Slut? What the hell?! Thanks
for reading. Hope you enjoy!
I despised her. From the tips of my auburn curls to the very blood coursing through the veins in my toes, all I felt for Peyton Sawyer was the purest loathing. Yet, there she was, lounging luxuriously across my worn-in and broken-down couch, casually sipping the punch I had hastily prepared prior to her arrival (shame I'd misplaced the cyanide capsules), and I was powerless to retaliate.
After all, I had invited the vampire into my home of my own volition. Thus, vampire-human relations protocol demanded I be reduced to my current state of absolute vulnerability. Mechanically, she drained her cup (simultaneously absorbing my essence), addressing me with the merest hint of concern, "Are you sure you can survive this? We still have," she fumbled awkwardly through the mountain of DVDs littering the carpet, the arm of the couch, and every available space, "seventeen more seasons to go."
I gulped audibly, but cheered considerably at Peyton's agonized expression. I wasn't enough of a gentleman to surrender my hatred of the lady simply because she had agreed to do me a miniscule favor... namely, joining me in an All My Children marathon, which would enable me to impress her best friend (the stunning Brooke Davis) with my soap opera prowess.
"How could one woman give birth to all these children? Don't women reach a certain point when childbearing begins to decay the reproductive organs?"
Peyton scoffed at what she christened my 'typical-high-school-boy- mentality' in an unnecessarily offensive manner. I didn't bother to remind her that I knew enough about reproductive organs to appreciate the value of HBO at two in the morning. In a small town, where the options of finding suitable birds/bees was regrettably slim, and, let's be honest, generally negligible, Skinemax "films" were all that ensured a man's continued protection from premature sanility.
"Unfortunately, no. That would certainly solve China's slight population problem though. If you ask me, we could achieve world peace if certain individuals of the female persuasion were born without uteruses. Take her for instance," dramatically she indicated the swooning starlet launching into an obnoxious fit of hysterics, "if only the woman responsible for popping out all of these psychos had been an advocate of abortion, I wouldn't be wasting five minutes of my life listening to her bitch about her half brother cheating on her with the pizza man's second cousin's goddaughter's college roommate's dental hygienist."
I grimaced in agreement, consoling her with a snarled, "Maybe she'll get amnesia." Peyton's eye twitched momentarily. "Of course she'll get amnesia, Jake! They all get amnesia! It's the patented soap opera solution to... EVERYTHING. Since we've got seventeen seasons left, I figure we can look forward to approximately 200 cases of amnesia. Not to mention the disastrous consequences due to these aforementioned memory lapses."
Languidly, I pressed the pause button. Peyton shifted closer to me, in an attempt to better immerse herself in what she must have viewed to be a burst of brilliance. "You should have warned me that I'd be attending Amnesia Palooza; then I would have done something with my hair."
My throat constricted a bit, making my breathing pattern noticeably malfunction. But what the bloody hell is a MAN supposed to do with himself when the opposition insists on batting her eyelashes in his direction and crossing her legs in such a fashion that her miniskirt ascends even farther? She could have saved money by buying a micromini, instead of wasting all that energy "subtly" hiking up her clothing.
"I'm more of a mud wrestling and monster truck girl myself, so I'm not exactly the queen of Amnesia Palooza hairstyles either. Alas! Brooke had to be her sweet, charming self and have no interest whatsoever in horse/feminine ass kicking power." Her hand collided with mine, as she seized the remote control once more, chuckling over my anguished sigh.
"I understand Brooke's aversion to the finesse of the monster truck, but isn't mud an exfoliant?" Peyton raised an eyebrow in amazement, but politely stifled a snort, opting instead to comment about only being certain that mud was an ingredient in her favorite pie.
"Did you ever suffer through this shit with Brooke?" I scooted next to her, until our thighs bumped. However, all I intended to achieve with Peyton Sawyer was a military tactic best described as intimidation. The bitch had stolen the salad bowl I had filled to the brim with popcorn during a lull (as if the entire evening hadn't been fraught with mind numbing boredom thus far) in season six, and I was determined to retrieve it.
"Nah!," she snatched the heavenly munchies from my vice-like grip. "Brooke savored the soaps by herself, unless she persuaded the butler to blindfold me, drag me to her basement (kicking and screaming of course), and handcuff me to the bedpost. You're probably not the least bit curious about all of the escapades involving whipped cream and chocolate-covered strawberries that followed." Peyton's lips caressed my ear, as she whispered conspiratorially, "I was just using her for the sex."
Was I the least bit curious about those escapades? HELL YEAH I WAS! Did I have any delusions about informing Peyton that her confiding in me was sending me soaring into a level of arousal that I had absolutely no idea existed? Not with her smirking like a nerd in the midst of a massive orgy of cheerleaders. Did I care that her idea of a military tactic was verbalizing every sane man's wildest fantasy? Uh....NEVER!
In that instant I yearned, more than I had ever yearned for anything before, to be in that basement, to find myself sweating in that confined space as THE one and only Brooke Davis crooned kinky phrases into my ear, and Peyton Sawyer begged me, while floundering about on her bony knees, to lather her with whipped cream and feed her a strawberry. Being a member of the knight-in-shining-armor breed, I would willingly oblige, solely for the jubilation guaranteed to befall me once I shoved one of those aphrodisiacs down Peyton's perfectly formed throat and witnessed her choking upon it.
I flashed her the most heartbreaking smile I could muster, valiantly forcing the resulting vomit not to form, and suavely suggested, "You're using her for sex huh? I might just have to follow your example, if we ever get around to finishing up the seventeen seasons." With a rather indignant toss of her golden tresses, season nine resumed. My opponent, I was beyond thrilled to note, refused to speak so much as a syllable to me for the rest of the eternally lengthy evening.
I despised her. From the tips of my auburn curls to the very blood coursing through the veins in my toes, all I felt for Peyton Sawyer was the purest loathing. Yet, there she was, lounging luxuriously across my worn-in and broken-down couch, casually sipping the punch I had hastily prepared prior to her arrival (shame I'd misplaced the cyanide capsules), and I was powerless to retaliate.
After all, I had invited the vampire into my home of my own volition. Thus, vampire-human relations protocol demanded I be reduced to my current state of absolute vulnerability. Mechanically, she drained her cup (simultaneously absorbing my essence), addressing me with the merest hint of concern, "Are you sure you can survive this? We still have," she fumbled awkwardly through the mountain of DVDs littering the carpet, the arm of the couch, and every available space, "seventeen more seasons to go."
I gulped audibly, but cheered considerably at Peyton's agonized expression. I wasn't enough of a gentleman to surrender my hatred of the lady simply because she had agreed to do me a miniscule favor... namely, joining me in an All My Children marathon, which would enable me to impress her best friend (the stunning Brooke Davis) with my soap opera prowess.
"How could one woman give birth to all these children? Don't women reach a certain point when childbearing begins to decay the reproductive organs?"
Peyton scoffed at what she christened my 'typical-high-school-boy- mentality' in an unnecessarily offensive manner. I didn't bother to remind her that I knew enough about reproductive organs to appreciate the value of HBO at two in the morning. In a small town, where the options of finding suitable birds/bees was regrettably slim, and, let's be honest, generally negligible, Skinemax "films" were all that ensured a man's continued protection from premature sanility.
"Unfortunately, no. That would certainly solve China's slight population problem though. If you ask me, we could achieve world peace if certain individuals of the female persuasion were born without uteruses. Take her for instance," dramatically she indicated the swooning starlet launching into an obnoxious fit of hysterics, "if only the woman responsible for popping out all of these psychos had been an advocate of abortion, I wouldn't be wasting five minutes of my life listening to her bitch about her half brother cheating on her with the pizza man's second cousin's goddaughter's college roommate's dental hygienist."
I grimaced in agreement, consoling her with a snarled, "Maybe she'll get amnesia." Peyton's eye twitched momentarily. "Of course she'll get amnesia, Jake! They all get amnesia! It's the patented soap opera solution to... EVERYTHING. Since we've got seventeen seasons left, I figure we can look forward to approximately 200 cases of amnesia. Not to mention the disastrous consequences due to these aforementioned memory lapses."
Languidly, I pressed the pause button. Peyton shifted closer to me, in an attempt to better immerse herself in what she must have viewed to be a burst of brilliance. "You should have warned me that I'd be attending Amnesia Palooza; then I would have done something with my hair."
My throat constricted a bit, making my breathing pattern noticeably malfunction. But what the bloody hell is a MAN supposed to do with himself when the opposition insists on batting her eyelashes in his direction and crossing her legs in such a fashion that her miniskirt ascends even farther? She could have saved money by buying a micromini, instead of wasting all that energy "subtly" hiking up her clothing.
"I'm more of a mud wrestling and monster truck girl myself, so I'm not exactly the queen of Amnesia Palooza hairstyles either. Alas! Brooke had to be her sweet, charming self and have no interest whatsoever in horse/feminine ass kicking power." Her hand collided with mine, as she seized the remote control once more, chuckling over my anguished sigh.
"I understand Brooke's aversion to the finesse of the monster truck, but isn't mud an exfoliant?" Peyton raised an eyebrow in amazement, but politely stifled a snort, opting instead to comment about only being certain that mud was an ingredient in her favorite pie.
"Did you ever suffer through this shit with Brooke?" I scooted next to her, until our thighs bumped. However, all I intended to achieve with Peyton Sawyer was a military tactic best described as intimidation. The bitch had stolen the salad bowl I had filled to the brim with popcorn during a lull (as if the entire evening hadn't been fraught with mind numbing boredom thus far) in season six, and I was determined to retrieve it.
"Nah!," she snatched the heavenly munchies from my vice-like grip. "Brooke savored the soaps by herself, unless she persuaded the butler to blindfold me, drag me to her basement (kicking and screaming of course), and handcuff me to the bedpost. You're probably not the least bit curious about all of the escapades involving whipped cream and chocolate-covered strawberries that followed." Peyton's lips caressed my ear, as she whispered conspiratorially, "I was just using her for the sex."
Was I the least bit curious about those escapades? HELL YEAH I WAS! Did I have any delusions about informing Peyton that her confiding in me was sending me soaring into a level of arousal that I had absolutely no idea existed? Not with her smirking like a nerd in the midst of a massive orgy of cheerleaders. Did I care that her idea of a military tactic was verbalizing every sane man's wildest fantasy? Uh....NEVER!
In that instant I yearned, more than I had ever yearned for anything before, to be in that basement, to find myself sweating in that confined space as THE one and only Brooke Davis crooned kinky phrases into my ear, and Peyton Sawyer begged me, while floundering about on her bony knees, to lather her with whipped cream and feed her a strawberry. Being a member of the knight-in-shining-armor breed, I would willingly oblige, solely for the jubilation guaranteed to befall me once I shoved one of those aphrodisiacs down Peyton's perfectly formed throat and witnessed her choking upon it.
I flashed her the most heartbreaking smile I could muster, valiantly forcing the resulting vomit not to form, and suavely suggested, "You're using her for sex huh? I might just have to follow your example, if we ever get around to finishing up the seventeen seasons." With a rather indignant toss of her golden tresses, season nine resumed. My opponent, I was beyond thrilled to note, refused to speak so much as a syllable to me for the rest of the eternally lengthy evening.