Fic: We Saved the World From Pink Pony Gay Bombs (And Also Averted the Fashion Apocalypse) [1/3]
Title: We Saved the World From Pink Pony Gay Bombs (And Also Averted the Fashion Apocalypse) [1/3]
Author: shadowings
Fandom: RPF
Pairings: Bleighton (of course), Penn/Jessica, Ed/Chace, and a cameo from Emily/Jordan from Criminal Minds
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6414
Summary: Blake is the Gayest Mcgay chick you can imagine. Leighton is a dorky nutjob who likes to cast people in movies. They clash together at San Francisco Pride in search for a vanished float! Shenanigans! (Featuring a supporting cast of Penn, Ed, Chace, Jessica, and Taylor, and guest starring Michelle)
A/N 1: A massive thanks to yesssirrr for beta-ing this story. You've been so much help.
A/N 2: Written for little_spies for the Bleighton Summer Ficathon 2009. I hope this AU was insane enough for you, and not just insanely long. =P
A/N 3: I apologize for all the pop culture references.
We Saved the World From Pink Pony Gay Bombs (And Also Averted the Fashion Apocalypse)
San Francisco was an explosion of color. The normally double-yellow lane divider was painted over in rainbow; the street itself was littered with sparkly bits of trash. The cars on the street were adorned with an assortment of rainbow flags, bumper stickers, flyers. The street signs were fucking rainbow. There was enough color to make an emo cry, although they did that often enough on their own.
That's right, Blake Lively thought, San Francisco Pride is hereeeee!!
SF Pride was indeed, as Blake put it so aptly, here. Naked men everywhere danced their way to Facebook infamy. Giant floats rolled down the streets, pumping out upbeat music and gyrating torsos. On the sidelines people of all shapes and sizes bumped cellulite, cheering loudly. In the midst of it was a tall leggy blonde. She was a stunner for sure, and helped boost the temperature in the vicinity by wearing nothing but an almost see-through lacy black bra, a pair of short short daisy dukes, and rainbow flip-flops. She had on a rainbow bandanna that had been folded into a headband, adding a final touch of the gay to her ensemble. Among the throng of overcolored, underdressed queers though, she was just another spectator.
Still, she was quite gorgeous, and quite a standout. Or so a certain five-foot-four dorky-glasses wearing, still quite beautiful brunette by the name of Leighton Meester thought. But only for a moment; her attention was dragged away by a faux-hawked blue-eyed blue-haired skinny fat punk that she also thought was very cute. It was too bad, really; if Leighton had focused on Blake for a few more seconds, perhaps they could have struck up a conversation and then had hot lesbian sex. But probably not.
The problem was, of course, that neither Blake nor Leighton knew each other. They just happened to be in the same thirty square foot area. They also had no reason to talk to each other. When San Francisco Pride was teeming with millions of hot, single queers, well - who had the time?
The solution was, of course, a plot device.
---
Blake surveyed the terrain of SF Pride, soaking up all the eye candy while also keeping a look out for frenemies and exes. She had been to Pride here every year since she had come out at fifteen, and this year was no exception. The only difference, really, was that this year she was alone; Blake had made plans to go with one of her gay friends, but at the last moment he had flaked like a pie crust and decided to go with her ex, Marianne.
Blake scowled at the memory of Marianne. What a bitch. She had broken up with Blake because she claimed Blake played too much Guitar Hero. Blake didn't even play that much, it was like, maybe an hour a day. Or five. Plus, a week later Marianne had hooked up with another one of Blake's exes, Jolie, so Blake suspected that Marianne had just used Guitar Hero as an excuse.
And now she was at Pride with no one, because everyone she could have gone with was either an ex or dating an ex. That was the problem with lesbian circles. Whatever, Blake thought. There are other fish in the sea.
Especially at Pride. Blake spotted a small, sort of kitten-like looking girl with absolute dork glasses who she swore had been staring at her only a few minutes ago. Dressed too sensibly for such a cracked out event, but adorable nevertheless. A taller brunette with blue eyes and long hair who Blake also thought was pretty “bumped” into her, then introduced herself as Michelle.
“Blake,” Blake said, taking the proffered hand with a charming smile.
“Excited for the parade, yeah?”
“You have no idea.”
“I was gonna go get a beer, you want one?”
Score.
“Sure, I'll come with you.”
---
Leighton watched Blake and Michelle depart out of the corner of her eye, having already decided that the faux-hawked punk was Oz. A really gay Buffy, she decided for Blake, and Dawn, for sure, for Michelle. Leighton herself would be Faith, while Chace and Ed would be Angel and Spike, respectively.
Leighton liked to cast other people as characters from TV shows, or sometimes movies of her own imagination. It was what she did to occupy herself. It wasn't that Pride was boring, far from it, but her two friends Chace and Ed (who bore no resemblance to Angel and Spike except for the fact that Chace sang like a banshee, Ed was English, and both were giant poofs) had abandoned her on a quest to flirt with every eligible and ineligible bachelor in the area.
So Leighton played out pretend scenes like the incredibly cute nerd she was, basking in the excitement of everything.
---
At half past ten, after a long procession of floats had passed down the street, Leighton craned her neck to get a glimpse of the float she had been waiting for. It had been advertised as a giant pink pony, with a disco ball dangling from its belly. The belly also dispensed rainbow confetti, and had a platform for dancers, so Leighton supposed the giant pink pony was more like a giant pink trojan. Of course, Trojan did have its logo tattooed on the pink pony's left hindquarters. It was before the Lady Gaga float and after the FBIs on motorcycles, which was after the gay wedding cakes, which Leighton was watching go by right now.
She squinted down the street, looking for the pink pony float. It wasn't there. She cleaned her glasses, cursed their automatic tint feature, and squinted again. It wasn't there.
The motorcycle rumbled by, and Lady Gaga took enough rides on a disco stick to generate a few million Watts. The float still wasn't there.
Chace, who had returned to Leighton's side empty-handed, asked quizzically, “Where's the pony float?”
“I... don't know,” Leighton replied.
They walked over to the information center, which still had the pink pony poster attached to the wall. Conveniently, Ed was there, dawdling with an emaciated dirty blonde.
“Excuse me,” Leighton asked. “What happened to the pink pony float that was partially sponsored by Trojan?”
The person manning the center, a brunette with adorably crooked teeth, (Jordan, her name tag said) looked confused.
“There was a pink pony float sponsored by Trojan in the parade?”
“Yeah, it was supposed to be before Lady Gaga and her poker face and after the fat old men on motorcycles float,” Leighton said impatiently.
“Er, she means the FBIs-on-a-motorcycle float,” Chace amended for Leighton.
Jordan winced.
“My girlfriend Emily is on that float, and is going to be in the dyke march later.”
“I'm so sorry,” Leighton said automatically. She was sorry. That Jordan was taken. Not about what she'd said.
“It's ok,” Jordan said, focusing on the computer screen, her fingers flying.
At length she looked up, even more confused than before. “There was no float matching that description even registered in the parade.”
“But that's impossible,” Leighton protested. “There's even a poster advertising it next to this window!”
She leaned back to point out the poster to Jordan. But it was gone.
She and Chace exchanged what-the-fuck glances.
Time for Sherlock Holmes, she thought. I'll be Sherlock Holmes, Chace will be Watson. We'll crack this case.
---
About ten minutes away (as in, it would take a Leighton-sized person ten minutes to walk over, not Leighton is a time traveling superhero) Blake and Michelle watched the cake procession go by. Michelle had bought a slice of chocolate cake from the Repeal Prop 8 kiosk that sponsored the cake floats, and was feeding it to Blake.
“I can't wait until the pink pony float-- mmphgr,” Blake said, as Michelle shoved a piece of cake into Blake's open mouth.
“You've got some frosting on your bottom lip,” Michelle said, and reached her hand up to wipe the frosting off of Blake.
“Huh,” Blake said. Michelle's middle finger still rested lightly on Blake's bottom lip, parting it slightly so that Blake had classic sexy-face. When Blake made no motion to reject Michelle, she leaned in, licking her dry lips nervously.
She could hear Blake's breathing, shallow and fast, as she got closer and closer. When she was but a scant millimeter away from kissing her, Blake suddenly started, like a fickle horse.
“The float,” she wailed, “the float isn't there!”
“What,” Michelle said, confused and annoyed.
“The pink pony float, with the disco ball and the rainbow confetti,” Blake said. “The one I was telling you about, that I was really excited to see. It's not there!”
Michelle opened her mouth and closed it, struggling to understand how severely Blake was taking it.
“Well, maybe it's later down the parade?”
“No,” Blake shook her head, “It was going to be between the giant dyke on a motorcycle and Lady Gaga!”
“Well, maybe it got rescheduled?”
It was a reasonable idea.
“Well then,” Blake said. “We should go check.”
Michelle groaned. Blake grabbed Michelle's hand and started marching over to the information center. Eight minutes later (because what takes a Leighton ten minutes to walk takes a Blake only eight minutes) they were at the same brick hut of a building with the same adorably crooked-toothed brunette Jordan. She told them the same thing she'd told Leighton.
“Funny you came looking for that float,” Jordan said as they thanked her, “Someone else stopped by just a few minutes ago looking for the same one.”
“Oh,” Blake said, “That's pretty cool.”
She flashed Jordan a brilliant smile, then walked away.
“So,” Michelle asked, “What now?”
“We're going to go find that float,” Blake told her cheerfully. Michelle groaned again.
---
“So, how do you propose to do this?” Chace asked Leighton as they pushed their way through the crowd.
“Do what?” Leighton asked, seeing as she hadn't even said they would be investigating.
“Oh, come on, Leighton, I'm one of your best friends,” Chace said. “The minute we noticed the poster disappeared I saw that gleam in your eye. We're acting out some movie right now.”
“You're Watson,” Leighton said.
“Whatsonwhat?”
“Come on, tell me you've read Sherlock Holmes,” Leighton pleaded.
“Girlfriend, I haven't even read Harry Potter,” Chace said. “But I do know the basic gist of Sherlock Holmes, so yay? Who's Ed then?”
“Ed is sidekick number two. We'll have to give him some other personality, Sherlock Holmes only ever hung out with Watson.”
Chace wiggled his eyebrows.
“Oh, Sherlock Holmes only spent his time with Watson?”
“Yeah, they were probably gay,” Leighton said. “So we can make this a super-gay movie. I'm the female version of Holmes, you're Watson. But in this case we're not actually attracted to each other because that would be really gross, and Ed is a giant flake who always hurts our case rather than helps.”
“How is he hurting our case?” Chace asked.
“Well for one thing, we're pushing through this crowd looking for him, not so I can get to my computer and enslave myself to Google.”
Although Leighton and Chace had met up with Ed at the information center, by the time their conversation was over with Jordan, Ed was nowhere to be found.
They bumbled through the crowd for a very long time. Ed's cellphone had gone straight to voicemail, and no one else they knew had seen him since before the parade started. When the procession of floats finally ended and people started to disperse, Leighton and Chace walked over to their agreed meeting area. Ed still wasn't there.
“Ok, scratch that,” Leighton muttered under her breath, “Ed's been written out of the movie.”
“Ah,” Chace said, smiling in amusement. “Well, now it can be closer to the real Sherlock Holmes?”
“Right,” Leighton nodded, though still angry.
Anyway. Lights, camera, action.
“Let's seek for clues,” Leighton said, in as pompously British a voice as she could manage. She glanced around theatrically, imagining tiny clues to pick up on, like a trail of rainbow glitter, or broken shards that may have been a disco ball, or a giant pink pony float in plain sight.
“You should let Ed be the English one,” Chace said, rolling his eyes.
They went to Leighton's apartment to Google the float, watch Buffy, and eat fat-free ice cream. Leighton imagined the audience leaning forward in their seats, entranced by the mystery.
Now to keep them invested.
---
Blake was sitting in a hipster-infested coffee shop with Michelle, sipping on a double-shot latte. She had brought out her cellphone and called every single number in her address book, having had to deal with some hairy situations involving ex-girlfriends and girlfriends of ex-girlfriends and exes of ex-girlfriends and even a lawyer who threatened to sue Blake for some unknown reason. (Wrong number, that time.)
She didn't know why she was so invested in finding the float. It probably had something to do with the fact that Michelle kept trying to throw herself at Blake at every second possible; Blake was trying to stall. She'd decided she only liked Michelle as a friend.
So Blake kept calling, and eventually Michelle got fed up enough that she simply ripped Blake's phone away, punched her number in, and told Blake to call her. Soon. With a severe emphasis on soon and a threatening stare that made Blake want to curl up and lock all the windows and doors in her apartment.
As soon as Michelle walked out, a short brunette with glasses walked in. Blake stared at her, mesmerized. She faintly remembered seeing the woman at Pride, but at the time there were too many people around, and, well, Michelle had butted her way in.
The woman was wearing a lot less than she did at Pride - she had on what barely qualified as shorts, and a t-shirt with holes in it that was maybe two sizes too small. Her hair was up in a ponytail, which Blake thought made her neck look incredibly elegant. She was also not wearing shoes, and her red varnished toes wriggled freely while she waited in line.
Wow, was pretty much Blake's only thought before her brain left her, sprinting out the window and all the way to Zimbabwe.
Once Blake recovered her senses, she resolved to go over and talk to the woman. Talk about things like, how her boobs looked so perky, how her glasses were really nerdy but also really cute, how she really wanted to spank that ass -
Ok, get your head out of the gutter, Blake thought to herself. Just go over to her, smile, make some small talk, ask for lunch sometime. You're a stud. You can do it.
Blake pushed back her chair and stood up, latte clenched tightly in hand. She took a few steps before Leighton turned to look around the store. Their eyes locked. Blake dropped her drink.
She swore, then grabbed a handful of napkins and crouched down to wipe the mess up. Her moment of suave and glory had been wasted. As she was wiping up the spill someone else plopped down and cleared up the mess with her. That someone else was the brunette.
“Um, hi,” Blake said nervously, all thoughts flying out the window again.
“Hey, I thought I'd help you,” the other woman said, the right corner of her mouth perking up in a playful smirk.
“Ok,” Blake said, focusing on scrubbing the floor instead and not staring at the other woman's boobs, which were maybe a foot from Blake's face.
Unfortunately, there had not been enough latte in the cup to warrant much more than a few seconds of wiping. Soon enough the brunette stood up, her boobs flying away from Blake. Or maybe not unfortunately; now the woman's crotch was right in front of Blake.
“You gonna get up?” the woman asked in amusement.
“Uh, y-yes,” Blake stammered. She shot up, the top of her head colliding with the brunette's left arm.
“Sorry,” she said, and spun around to toss the soggy napkins. She wouldn't keep staring so obviously at the brunette this way. The other woman did the same thing, and their hands brushed together as they headed for the trash.
“I'm Leighton, by the way,” the woman said casually.
“B... Blake,” Blake replied.
“You always so monosyllabic, Blake?”
Only when beautiful women cut off my thoughts, Blake thought.
“That's an awful line,” Leighton said. Blake started, then cursed. She'd said it out loud, hadn't she?
“Um,” Blake said.
Leighton laughed, partly at Blake, partly in embarrassment.
“Well, I should go order my drinks now, Blake. I'm holding up a pyjama party. It was nice to meet you.”
Blake really wanted to be in on that slumber party, especially if everyone was wearing as little as Leighton.
“Wait,” she said to Leighton just as Leighton began to turn back around. “Lunch? Sometime?”
A smile blew up over Leighton's face, and she responded brightly, “Yeah, sure!” After a beat she added, “As long as you promise to talk more next time.”
“Yeah,” Blake said automatically. “Will do.”
She reached for a napkin and scrawled her number down, stuffing it into Leighton's outstretched hand. Blake's hand was a lot bigger than Leighton's, nearly able to envelope her entire fist, but Leighton had much more slender fingers and pretty hands in general.
“Number,” she said, then cursed again. She was failing like a faildog at showing she had a brain that could speak in syllables.
“Thanks,” Leighton said. “I'll call you soon,” with a severe emphasis on soon.
“Oh,” she said, “Also, you can let go of my hand now.”
Blake turned bright red and dropped Leighton's hand like a hot coal. She whipped both her hands behind her back and locked them together to make sure they didn't end up roaming and lingering too long on other parts of Leighton's body. Like her chest. Or her stomach. Or her ass.
This will be an interesting plot development, Leighton thought as she turned around. The audience would be in an uproar. A non-exploitative lesbian romance! She imagined being the headline for a few news articles. Boost the ratings up. Cause a few fundamentalists to implode. All good fun.
Guh, Blake thought.
---
By soon, Leighton apparently meant fifteen minutes later; they made plans for lunch the next day. (In comparison, soon for Michelle meant forty-five minutes later - she called Blake and said she'd stolen the number from Facebook, but would they be able to go to lunch later, like the next day? Blake said no.)
Lunch went surprisingly well. Blake didn't make a fool of herself, and Leighton was Leighton, incredibly hot and incredibly dorky. Blake tried for a second date, and won one with no resistance. She walked Leighton to her apartment, enjoying the San Francisco sun while not enjoying the horrible eighty degree incline hills. She admired Leighton while the brunette fiddled with her keys.
“You know,” Leighton commented, “In movies, this would be about the time where the protagonist kisses their romantic love interest.”
“Are you the protagonist?” Blake asked, chuckling.
“Of course,” Leighton said, “I'm usually the protagonist in my movies.”
“You make movies?” Blake asked, startled. Leighton hadn't mentioned this over lunch - Blake was under the impression that Leighton was a computer repair monkey.
“The ones in my head,” Leighton corrected, turning pink.
“You're a dork,” Blake said, laughing. When Leighton pouted, she reached over and stroked her cheek. “It's cute.”
After another moment she asked coyly, “So I guess I'm the romantic love interest?”
“Well, one of about five,” Leighton replied. She blew a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes. “Because in this movie, I'm like, a giant player.”
“Oh,” Blake said, trying not to show her dismay. She shook it off when Leighton put a hand on her shoulder, though. Blake let the hand that was stroking Leighton's cheek lie still, and she rested her other hand on Leighton's waist, shuffling closer. She angled her head and slowly bent over, until her lips were just a breath away from Leighton's.
Leighton closed the distance, brushing her lips against Blake. Then the kiss became more forceful, Leighton's tongue darting out to run across Blake's teeth, on Blake's tongue, back out again. A sudden push slammed Blake against the wall, and suddenly it was like Leighton was attacking Blake, kissing her jawline, her ear, biting down on her earlobe. Blake moaned as Leighton nipped her way down Blake's neck, biting and pulling and kissing and licking the bruises that formed. Her hands, too, were everywhere: running up and down Blake's sides, gripping her shoulder, tracing designs against her back, subtly-but-not-really palming her breast. Blake registered dimly that they were still in public, although they were mostly obscured by the walls on three sides.
Leighton kissed her way back up to Blake's mouth, and Blake tried to follow Leighton's previous example, kissing her cheek, her nose, her jawline, but every time she strayed Leighton pulled Blake back, forcing Blake to follow Leighton's lead. Blake didn't mind, really. Another moan escaped her as Leighton swirled her tongue in Blake's left ear. She didn't know how long her legs would keep holding her up.
Abruptly Leighton pulled away, leaving Blake panting and trembling against the wall.
“Well,” she said, grinning at the sight of Blake's swollen lips and disheveled hair. “I think that will do for now. Call me?”
“Y-yes,” Blake gasped, still disoriented and panting for air.
“See you soon,” Leighton said, leaning forward and kissing Blake on the cheek before unlocking the door and disappearing.
Blake leaned against the wall for a few minutes more. There had been plans after lunch with Leighton... what were they? In her head flashed images of Leighton naked in various positions; she was halfway home before she recalled the pink pony float.
---
Leighton thought about Blake too as she rode the elevator up to her apartment, although only half of her thoughts were about Blake naked in various positions. The other half consisted of how funny it was that Blake happened to be on the same mission as her: find out what happened to the pink pony float.
Leighton had stumbled across this information a few minutes after her first meeting with Blake in the coffee shop. Googling the pink pony float had led her to Blake's blog, where Blake had discussed in painful capslocks how excited she was for SF Pride and the pink pony float. It had also led to Blake's twitter, where she'd written: PONY FLOAT NOT THERE! Going 2 look for it now. In truth, that was what had caused Leighton to call Blake a mere fifteen minutes after they'd met, rather than an hour or two later. (It was good that she had done so, for if she had gone through with her original plan, Michelle would have snatched Blake up for lunch first)
The information had been floating at the back of Leighton's mind all through lunch, but Blake had kept distracting her by her simple presence. It returned to her with full force now. Leighton frowned as she considered what she'd found out about the pink pony float. It had been advertised and had definitely existed at some point - Google images had come up with the exact poster that was hanging on the wall at the information center, and a few queer forums had threads discussing the float. The problem lay in the fact that after Pride, absolutely no one had mentioned the float and how it had magically disappeared from the parade. Trojan no longer had a page dedicated to the float, and most of the threads on those forums died out before Pride started.
Leighton had replied to a few of these threads asking about where the float had gone, and contacted Trojan about their missing float. She walked into her apartment intent on checking for responses.
Chace, who had still been passed out on Leighton's couch when she'd gone out to lunch, jumped up to greet her. He looked worried.
“Leighton,” he said as he stood up. “Ed is missing.”
“What?” Leighton asked, blinking. “What do you mean?”
“I called Ed a few times again yesterday, but he didn't pick up,” Chace said. “Then I called his friends, and none of them have seen or talked to Ed since the parade.”
“Well, that's not a reason to be alarmed,” Leighton said, frowning. “Maybe his phone died and he's been chilling at home watching too much porn or something.”
“I posted on his Facebook and he didn't respond within an hour,” Chace said.
“Ok we should be worried,” Leighton said quickly. Ed was always, always on Facebook. Him not being on Facebook was like Lindsey Lohan not wearing leggings: it just didn't happen.
Leighton took a breath. “Ok. I was going to check up on my leads on the pink pony float anyway, and meanwhile we'll, I don't know, look around for Ed. I mean, I don't know where we'd begin looking for him, maybe ask if he's been seen at the Starbucks he goes to everyday and enter his apartment, but if we don't find him after tonight we'll file like, whatever it is you file with missing people.”
“You mean a missing persons report?” Chace supplied helpfully.
Leighton scowled at Chace, stuck her nose up in the air, and marched over to her room. Looking for Ed was not supposed to be in the script. If it were a video game it could be one of those tedious sidequests, but as a movie Ed would simply have to be written out.
She sat down in her rolling chair in front of the computer and booted up Firefox. A few moments later Chace joined her, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the screen.
“Huh,” Leighton said, eyes furrowed. “That's weird.”
“What is?”
“Well, the posts I made asking about the float? They've all been deleted.”
She opened a new tab to check her e-mail.
“Also, a representative from Trojan e-mailed me back, saying they never sponsored a pink pony float.”
“Hot damn,” Chace said. “Dude, the mafia or something is totally in on this.”
“Yeah,” Leighton said. “We should dig in deeper.”
“No,” Chace protested. “Are you kidding? This will probably end with getting shot in an alley or something. I don't care about some stupid float that much. I say we just watch The L Word or something.”
“No, I can't watch The L Word anymore,” Leighton said, shaking her head. “It throws me into a homicidal rage.”
“What?”
“Jenny.”
“Oh,” Chace said, that one word conveying how completely he understood. “Something else then.”
Leighton leaned forward, as if putting her face closer to the computer screen would give her more insight into the mystery they'd uncovered. Instead, it caused her eye to water from the glare. She rested her chin in her hand and tapped the table with her fingers sagely. Chace was right, she didn't want to look deeper into this; it was just a float. The only thing that was sad about giving up on the detective work was that she wouldn't get to finish the movie.
Well, there was still the case of the missing Ed. So all hope was not lost? It would just be Sherlock Holmes and looking for an annoying gay man who probably was at a karaoke bar rather than Sherlock Holmes investigating the pink pony mafia and getting shot.
“Let's go look for Ed instead,” Leighton announced.
“Sounds like a plan.”
---
Back at the Lively apartment, Blake sat on a white leather couch, leaning against the armrest. Her long legs stretched out across its length. She was completely naked and covered by a thin sheen of sweat, and when she shifted the couch made the kind of squeaky ripping noises that result from bare sweaty skin being stuck to leather. She had just finished masturbating, and was going through her mail now.
Her bills she tossed on the mountain of paper on the table, hoping it would get lost amid the mess, and that would mean she didn't have to pay her bills anymore. Junk mail and letters from creepy guys she met at Guitar Hero tournaments she balled up and tried to toss into the wastebasket at the far corner of the room. Judging by the number of crumpled balls next to the wastebasket and the emptiness of the wastebasket itself, Blake probably needed a lot more practice. Coupons she dropped on the floor for later, and the remaining mail she actually read.
One letter came in a creamy off-white embossed envelope, and was addressed to Blake from some guy named Foster Oliver. She was on the verge of crumpling it up when she remembered: She'd met Foster before. She had been volunteering for SF Pride a few years ago, and he had been one of the managers. She'd also talked to Foster again in various gay rights campaigns she had participated in since then. Blake hadn't heard from Foster for at least a few months, and was curious as to what he had to say.
Dear Ms. Blake Lively,
Oliver Pianos is hosting the first Oliver Charity Gala on Thursday, June 28th, and would like to invite you and one guest to attend. Enclosed are two passes for the Gala. It will be held at the Parc 55 Hotel on 55 Cyril Magnin Street, San Francisco, CA, 94102. Dinner is at 7:00pm, with Foster Oliver, son of Graham Oliver, the founder of Oliver Pianos, to speak and a reception to follow. This is a black tie event.
RSVP to 3 Gill Ave, San Francisco, 94102, or 415-928-1067 with your name and the name of your guest.
Sincerely,
Oliver Pianos
Blake looked up from the letter and returned to the envelope. She saw the corners of the passes poking out of the envelope and pulled them out, staring at the speckled gold cards.
Blake Lively, it said at the top; Personal Invitee of Foster Oliver, it said at the bottom. That made sense, since Blake could imagine no other reason for which she'd be invited; she worked a bum job as a sports journalist, had no substantial amount of money, and kind of hated trussing up in fancy clothes.
The accompanying pass for Blake's “guest” made her scowl. It said, Male Guest of Blake Lively at the top, and had a blank space which was presumably the Male Guest's corporation or occupation.
“Really, Foster,” Blake muttered under her breath. She had been thinking of inviting Leighton to this thing as a sort of third date; she suspected Leighton enjoyed wearing frilly gowns or whatever it was that haughty rich women wore at events. But the way this second pass was written... was it really necessary to emphasize a male guest? Was it Foster's way of telling Blake that this was a snobby hetero event? Because Blake didn't want to go if that was the case.
She dropped the letter on the ground, sighing, then looked at the next letter. This one was also addressed from Foster, but it was just a plain white envelope this time. When Blake opened it she found a note from Foster:
Hi Blake,
You must be really fucking pissed if you just saw the invitation to the Oliver Charity Gala, and if you haven't, then you will be really fucking pissed once you see it.
I just needed to say here in this follow-up letter, I'm sorry about how the cards are so gendered and everything, but my father was going to blow San Francisco up (okay, this is exaggerating, but only slightly, and if he ever did want to blow San Francisco up we both know he would actually be able to) if the couples that came were anything besides 'prim and proper.'
Now, the reason for this extra note is essentially to convince you to come. I'm sorry you have to deal with this male guest shit, but you really, really need to get your ass to this event. If I could get down on my knees and give you a blowjob to get you to come, (DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE?) I would. Hell, I'll pretend to be straight and perform cunninlingus on you if you attend, although I think we would both prefer that not happen.
Seriously though, Blake. Please go. It's really important.
Kisses and condoms,
Foster
Blake shook her head at the second letter, smiling in spite of herself. That Foster. Genius at pianos, and absolutely crazy. There was a slight air of desperation in his letter that she hadn't been expecting, but there was no way she could refuse his request anyway. She would just have to attend this posh event, then.
There was still one problem. Blake had no intention of bringing anyone other than Leighton as her guest. Absolutely none.
She hummed to herself and rose from the couch, wincing as the upholstery peeled from her skin with a smacking noise. Pacing the room, she wondered how she could smuggle Leighton into the Gala with her.
The idea hit her with the force of a hungry hippo. Blake had a roommate, Penn. Said roommate was about her height and about her size - a little wider across the chest, but that would only help Blake's case. Said roommate had lots of very nice suits because he was a raging metrosexual. Blake's name was gender neutral. She could pretend that there was a mistake in the invitation, in that it should have been a Mr. Blake Lively instead of a Ms. Plus, then she wouldn't have to buy any special clothes for the occasion!
It was a good plan, except for the fact that Blake had a thin reedy voice that only a deaf person would mistake for a man's, but she figured she could circumvent that somehow, because Blake Lively was a giant stud, and studs always made it through in the end.
She called up Penn, who spent fifteen minutes laughing and fifteen minutes planning her outfit.
“You're going to need a hat to cover up your hair,” he said. “Or a wig, but I happen to not own wigs. If you want one, I can stop by the hair salon I go to on the way back, but it will set you back a hundred or so.”
Blake winced. “Let's go with the hat?”
“Well, alright, I've got a Homburg that you can use, but it doesn't match with anything you can look good in... You'll also be more believable with a wig,” Penn said, “And you are going to need to do as much as you can to pass.”
“Hey,” Blake protested, “I think I can pull off your suit pretty well. My boobs aren't too big, and I'm pretty tall, and my face isn't too round and chubby.”
“Yes, but you sound like a twelve year old girl,” Penn said. “And you don't have an Adam's apple, which you can't solve. And your eyelashes are incredibly long, which is great for being a really hot girl, and bad for being a passable man.”
“How do you know how acceptable my eyelashes are? I don't even know how good they are, and I put mascara on them every day.”
“Oh, please,” Penn said. “You only use mascara because I get so many free samples from working at Sephora. If I didn't work there you'd never go out and buy yourself any, and you'd also masquerade in more of those sad potato sacks you call dresses than you already do.”
Blake had no reprise, and so stayed silent.
“Anyway,” Penn continued, “The eyelashes are no big deal, some men have really gorgeous eyelashes. Back to the clothes. A bowtie would be better at drawing attention away from your lack of an Adam's apple than a tie would. You can just pick any of them. I've got a Versace black suit in the closet, on the far left, that shouldn't be too droopy on your shoulders, and should have enough chest space. You can also wear any of my dress shirts, as long as you go with the white ones. Stiff would probably be better than soft. My cuff links are in the top drawer of my dresser; go with something manly.”
“Wow,” Blake said, “I think I only understood half of what you said? How do I tell whether cuff links are manly or not?”
“I'll take care of it,” Penn said. “By the way, how do you feel about some facial hair?”
Blake blinked.
“You can do facial hair?”
“Blake, baby, I can do anything. And I really recommend that wig, by the way. I bet you'll wear it later anyway.”
“Wow,” Blake breathed. “Wow, Penn, thank you so much.”
“You shouldn't really thank me,” Penn said. “The second you open your mouth to speak everyone in the room is going to realize you're not a man, and I'm going to be laughing at you all the way to Timbuktu.”
“I take that back, Penn,” Blake said, affecting annoyance but really grinning from ear to ear. “You've been evicted.”
“Blake!”
“Oh, and Penn?”
“What?”
“Pick out a wig for me on your way home.”
She could practically see Penn light up on the other end, excited to drop more money on cosmetics.
“Will do. See you later, Blakey Blake.”
Parts: Two || Three
Author: shadowings
Fandom: RPF
Pairings: Bleighton (of course), Penn/Jessica, Ed/Chace, and a cameo from Emily/Jordan from Criminal Minds
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6414
Summary: Blake is the Gayest Mcgay chick you can imagine. Leighton is a dorky nutjob who likes to cast people in movies. They clash together at San Francisco Pride in search for a vanished float! Shenanigans! (Featuring a supporting cast of Penn, Ed, Chace, Jessica, and Taylor, and guest starring Michelle)
A/N 1: A massive thanks to yesssirrr for beta-ing this story. You've been so much help.
A/N 2: Written for little_spies for the Bleighton Summer Ficathon 2009. I hope this AU was insane enough for you, and not just insanely long. =P
A/N 3: I apologize for all the pop culture references.
We Saved the World From Pink Pony Gay Bombs (And Also Averted the Fashion Apocalypse)
San Francisco was an explosion of color. The normally double-yellow lane divider was painted over in rainbow; the street itself was littered with sparkly bits of trash. The cars on the street were adorned with an assortment of rainbow flags, bumper stickers, flyers. The street signs were fucking rainbow. There was enough color to make an emo cry, although they did that often enough on their own.
That's right, Blake Lively thought, San Francisco Pride is hereeeee!!
SF Pride was indeed, as Blake put it so aptly, here. Naked men everywhere danced their way to Facebook infamy. Giant floats rolled down the streets, pumping out upbeat music and gyrating torsos. On the sidelines people of all shapes and sizes bumped cellulite, cheering loudly. In the midst of it was a tall leggy blonde. She was a stunner for sure, and helped boost the temperature in the vicinity by wearing nothing but an almost see-through lacy black bra, a pair of short short daisy dukes, and rainbow flip-flops. She had on a rainbow bandanna that had been folded into a headband, adding a final touch of the gay to her ensemble. Among the throng of overcolored, underdressed queers though, she was just another spectator.
Still, she was quite gorgeous, and quite a standout. Or so a certain five-foot-four dorky-glasses wearing, still quite beautiful brunette by the name of Leighton Meester thought. But only for a moment; her attention was dragged away by a faux-hawked blue-eyed blue-haired skinny fat punk that she also thought was very cute. It was too bad, really; if Leighton had focused on Blake for a few more seconds, perhaps they could have struck up a conversation and then had hot lesbian sex. But probably not.
The problem was, of course, that neither Blake nor Leighton knew each other. They just happened to be in the same thirty square foot area. They also had no reason to talk to each other. When San Francisco Pride was teeming with millions of hot, single queers, well - who had the time?
The solution was, of course, a plot device.
---
Blake surveyed the terrain of SF Pride, soaking up all the eye candy while also keeping a look out for frenemies and exes. She had been to Pride here every year since she had come out at fifteen, and this year was no exception. The only difference, really, was that this year she was alone; Blake had made plans to go with one of her gay friends, but at the last moment he had flaked like a pie crust and decided to go with her ex, Marianne.
Blake scowled at the memory of Marianne. What a bitch. She had broken up with Blake because she claimed Blake played too much Guitar Hero. Blake didn't even play that much, it was like, maybe an hour a day. Or five. Plus, a week later Marianne had hooked up with another one of Blake's exes, Jolie, so Blake suspected that Marianne had just used Guitar Hero as an excuse.
And now she was at Pride with no one, because everyone she could have gone with was either an ex or dating an ex. That was the problem with lesbian circles. Whatever, Blake thought. There are other fish in the sea.
Especially at Pride. Blake spotted a small, sort of kitten-like looking girl with absolute dork glasses who she swore had been staring at her only a few minutes ago. Dressed too sensibly for such a cracked out event, but adorable nevertheless. A taller brunette with blue eyes and long hair who Blake also thought was pretty “bumped” into her, then introduced herself as Michelle.
“Blake,” Blake said, taking the proffered hand with a charming smile.
“Excited for the parade, yeah?”
“You have no idea.”
“I was gonna go get a beer, you want one?”
Score.
“Sure, I'll come with you.”
---
Leighton watched Blake and Michelle depart out of the corner of her eye, having already decided that the faux-hawked punk was Oz. A really gay Buffy, she decided for Blake, and Dawn, for sure, for Michelle. Leighton herself would be Faith, while Chace and Ed would be Angel and Spike, respectively.
Leighton liked to cast other people as characters from TV shows, or sometimes movies of her own imagination. It was what she did to occupy herself. It wasn't that Pride was boring, far from it, but her two friends Chace and Ed (who bore no resemblance to Angel and Spike except for the fact that Chace sang like a banshee, Ed was English, and both were giant poofs) had abandoned her on a quest to flirt with every eligible and ineligible bachelor in the area.
So Leighton played out pretend scenes like the incredibly cute nerd she was, basking in the excitement of everything.
---
At half past ten, after a long procession of floats had passed down the street, Leighton craned her neck to get a glimpse of the float she had been waiting for. It had been advertised as a giant pink pony, with a disco ball dangling from its belly. The belly also dispensed rainbow confetti, and had a platform for dancers, so Leighton supposed the giant pink pony was more like a giant pink trojan. Of course, Trojan did have its logo tattooed on the pink pony's left hindquarters. It was before the Lady Gaga float and after the FBIs on motorcycles, which was after the gay wedding cakes, which Leighton was watching go by right now.
She squinted down the street, looking for the pink pony float. It wasn't there. She cleaned her glasses, cursed their automatic tint feature, and squinted again. It wasn't there.
The motorcycle rumbled by, and Lady Gaga took enough rides on a disco stick to generate a few million Watts. The float still wasn't there.
Chace, who had returned to Leighton's side empty-handed, asked quizzically, “Where's the pony float?”
“I... don't know,” Leighton replied.
They walked over to the information center, which still had the pink pony poster attached to the wall. Conveniently, Ed was there, dawdling with an emaciated dirty blonde.
“Excuse me,” Leighton asked. “What happened to the pink pony float that was partially sponsored by Trojan?”
The person manning the center, a brunette with adorably crooked teeth, (Jordan, her name tag said) looked confused.
“There was a pink pony float sponsored by Trojan in the parade?”
“Yeah, it was supposed to be before Lady Gaga and her poker face and after the fat old men on motorcycles float,” Leighton said impatiently.
“Er, she means the FBIs-on-a-motorcycle float,” Chace amended for Leighton.
Jordan winced.
“My girlfriend Emily is on that float, and is going to be in the dyke march later.”
“I'm so sorry,” Leighton said automatically. She was sorry. That Jordan was taken. Not about what she'd said.
“It's ok,” Jordan said, focusing on the computer screen, her fingers flying.
At length she looked up, even more confused than before. “There was no float matching that description even registered in the parade.”
“But that's impossible,” Leighton protested. “There's even a poster advertising it next to this window!”
She leaned back to point out the poster to Jordan. But it was gone.
She and Chace exchanged what-the-fuck glances.
Time for Sherlock Holmes, she thought. I'll be Sherlock Holmes, Chace will be Watson. We'll crack this case.
---
About ten minutes away (as in, it would take a Leighton-sized person ten minutes to walk over, not Leighton is a time traveling superhero) Blake and Michelle watched the cake procession go by. Michelle had bought a slice of chocolate cake from the Repeal Prop 8 kiosk that sponsored the cake floats, and was feeding it to Blake.
“I can't wait until the pink pony float-- mmphgr,” Blake said, as Michelle shoved a piece of cake into Blake's open mouth.
“You've got some frosting on your bottom lip,” Michelle said, and reached her hand up to wipe the frosting off of Blake.
“Huh,” Blake said. Michelle's middle finger still rested lightly on Blake's bottom lip, parting it slightly so that Blake had classic sexy-face. When Blake made no motion to reject Michelle, she leaned in, licking her dry lips nervously.
She could hear Blake's breathing, shallow and fast, as she got closer and closer. When she was but a scant millimeter away from kissing her, Blake suddenly started, like a fickle horse.
“The float,” she wailed, “the float isn't there!”
“What,” Michelle said, confused and annoyed.
“The pink pony float, with the disco ball and the rainbow confetti,” Blake said. “The one I was telling you about, that I was really excited to see. It's not there!”
Michelle opened her mouth and closed it, struggling to understand how severely Blake was taking it.
“Well, maybe it's later down the parade?”
“No,” Blake shook her head, “It was going to be between the giant dyke on a motorcycle and Lady Gaga!”
“Well, maybe it got rescheduled?”
It was a reasonable idea.
“Well then,” Blake said. “We should go check.”
Michelle groaned. Blake grabbed Michelle's hand and started marching over to the information center. Eight minutes later (because what takes a Leighton ten minutes to walk takes a Blake only eight minutes) they were at the same brick hut of a building with the same adorably crooked-toothed brunette Jordan. She told them the same thing she'd told Leighton.
“Funny you came looking for that float,” Jordan said as they thanked her, “Someone else stopped by just a few minutes ago looking for the same one.”
“Oh,” Blake said, “That's pretty cool.”
She flashed Jordan a brilliant smile, then walked away.
“So,” Michelle asked, “What now?”
“We're going to go find that float,” Blake told her cheerfully. Michelle groaned again.
---
“So, how do you propose to do this?” Chace asked Leighton as they pushed their way through the crowd.
“Do what?” Leighton asked, seeing as she hadn't even said they would be investigating.
“Oh, come on, Leighton, I'm one of your best friends,” Chace said. “The minute we noticed the poster disappeared I saw that gleam in your eye. We're acting out some movie right now.”
“You're Watson,” Leighton said.
“Whatsonwhat?”
“Come on, tell me you've read Sherlock Holmes,” Leighton pleaded.
“Girlfriend, I haven't even read Harry Potter,” Chace said. “But I do know the basic gist of Sherlock Holmes, so yay? Who's Ed then?”
“Ed is sidekick number two. We'll have to give him some other personality, Sherlock Holmes only ever hung out with Watson.”
Chace wiggled his eyebrows.
“Oh, Sherlock Holmes only spent his time with Watson?”
“Yeah, they were probably gay,” Leighton said. “So we can make this a super-gay movie. I'm the female version of Holmes, you're Watson. But in this case we're not actually attracted to each other because that would be really gross, and Ed is a giant flake who always hurts our case rather than helps.”
“How is he hurting our case?” Chace asked.
“Well for one thing, we're pushing through this crowd looking for him, not so I can get to my computer and enslave myself to Google.”
Although Leighton and Chace had met up with Ed at the information center, by the time their conversation was over with Jordan, Ed was nowhere to be found.
They bumbled through the crowd for a very long time. Ed's cellphone had gone straight to voicemail, and no one else they knew had seen him since before the parade started. When the procession of floats finally ended and people started to disperse, Leighton and Chace walked over to their agreed meeting area. Ed still wasn't there.
“Ok, scratch that,” Leighton muttered under her breath, “Ed's been written out of the movie.”
“Ah,” Chace said, smiling in amusement. “Well, now it can be closer to the real Sherlock Holmes?”
“Right,” Leighton nodded, though still angry.
Anyway. Lights, camera, action.
“Let's seek for clues,” Leighton said, in as pompously British a voice as she could manage. She glanced around theatrically, imagining tiny clues to pick up on, like a trail of rainbow glitter, or broken shards that may have been a disco ball, or a giant pink pony float in plain sight.
“You should let Ed be the English one,” Chace said, rolling his eyes.
They went to Leighton's apartment to Google the float, watch Buffy, and eat fat-free ice cream. Leighton imagined the audience leaning forward in their seats, entranced by the mystery.
Now to keep them invested.
---
Blake was sitting in a hipster-infested coffee shop with Michelle, sipping on a double-shot latte. She had brought out her cellphone and called every single number in her address book, having had to deal with some hairy situations involving ex-girlfriends and girlfriends of ex-girlfriends and exes of ex-girlfriends and even a lawyer who threatened to sue Blake for some unknown reason. (Wrong number, that time.)
She didn't know why she was so invested in finding the float. It probably had something to do with the fact that Michelle kept trying to throw herself at Blake at every second possible; Blake was trying to stall. She'd decided she only liked Michelle as a friend.
So Blake kept calling, and eventually Michelle got fed up enough that she simply ripped Blake's phone away, punched her number in, and told Blake to call her. Soon. With a severe emphasis on soon and a threatening stare that made Blake want to curl up and lock all the windows and doors in her apartment.
As soon as Michelle walked out, a short brunette with glasses walked in. Blake stared at her, mesmerized. She faintly remembered seeing the woman at Pride, but at the time there were too many people around, and, well, Michelle had butted her way in.
The woman was wearing a lot less than she did at Pride - she had on what barely qualified as shorts, and a t-shirt with holes in it that was maybe two sizes too small. Her hair was up in a ponytail, which Blake thought made her neck look incredibly elegant. She was also not wearing shoes, and her red varnished toes wriggled freely while she waited in line.
Wow, was pretty much Blake's only thought before her brain left her, sprinting out the window and all the way to Zimbabwe.
Once Blake recovered her senses, she resolved to go over and talk to the woman. Talk about things like, how her boobs looked so perky, how her glasses were really nerdy but also really cute, how she really wanted to spank that ass -
Ok, get your head out of the gutter, Blake thought to herself. Just go over to her, smile, make some small talk, ask for lunch sometime. You're a stud. You can do it.
Blake pushed back her chair and stood up, latte clenched tightly in hand. She took a few steps before Leighton turned to look around the store. Their eyes locked. Blake dropped her drink.
She swore, then grabbed a handful of napkins and crouched down to wipe the mess up. Her moment of suave and glory had been wasted. As she was wiping up the spill someone else plopped down and cleared up the mess with her. That someone else was the brunette.
“Um, hi,” Blake said nervously, all thoughts flying out the window again.
“Hey, I thought I'd help you,” the other woman said, the right corner of her mouth perking up in a playful smirk.
“Ok,” Blake said, focusing on scrubbing the floor instead and not staring at the other woman's boobs, which were maybe a foot from Blake's face.
Unfortunately, there had not been enough latte in the cup to warrant much more than a few seconds of wiping. Soon enough the brunette stood up, her boobs flying away from Blake. Or maybe not unfortunately; now the woman's crotch was right in front of Blake.
“You gonna get up?” the woman asked in amusement.
“Uh, y-yes,” Blake stammered. She shot up, the top of her head colliding with the brunette's left arm.
“Sorry,” she said, and spun around to toss the soggy napkins. She wouldn't keep staring so obviously at the brunette this way. The other woman did the same thing, and their hands brushed together as they headed for the trash.
“I'm Leighton, by the way,” the woman said casually.
“B... Blake,” Blake replied.
“You always so monosyllabic, Blake?”
Only when beautiful women cut off my thoughts, Blake thought.
“That's an awful line,” Leighton said. Blake started, then cursed. She'd said it out loud, hadn't she?
“Um,” Blake said.
Leighton laughed, partly at Blake, partly in embarrassment.
“Well, I should go order my drinks now, Blake. I'm holding up a pyjama party. It was nice to meet you.”
Blake really wanted to be in on that slumber party, especially if everyone was wearing as little as Leighton.
“Wait,” she said to Leighton just as Leighton began to turn back around. “Lunch? Sometime?”
A smile blew up over Leighton's face, and she responded brightly, “Yeah, sure!” After a beat she added, “As long as you promise to talk more next time.”
“Yeah,” Blake said automatically. “Will do.”
She reached for a napkin and scrawled her number down, stuffing it into Leighton's outstretched hand. Blake's hand was a lot bigger than Leighton's, nearly able to envelope her entire fist, but Leighton had much more slender fingers and pretty hands in general.
“Number,” she said, then cursed again. She was failing like a faildog at showing she had a brain that could speak in syllables.
“Thanks,” Leighton said. “I'll call you soon,” with a severe emphasis on soon.
“Oh,” she said, “Also, you can let go of my hand now.”
Blake turned bright red and dropped Leighton's hand like a hot coal. She whipped both her hands behind her back and locked them together to make sure they didn't end up roaming and lingering too long on other parts of Leighton's body. Like her chest. Or her stomach. Or her ass.
This will be an interesting plot development, Leighton thought as she turned around. The audience would be in an uproar. A non-exploitative lesbian romance! She imagined being the headline for a few news articles. Boost the ratings up. Cause a few fundamentalists to implode. All good fun.
Guh, Blake thought.
---
By soon, Leighton apparently meant fifteen minutes later; they made plans for lunch the next day. (In comparison, soon for Michelle meant forty-five minutes later - she called Blake and said she'd stolen the number from Facebook, but would they be able to go to lunch later, like the next day? Blake said no.)
Lunch went surprisingly well. Blake didn't make a fool of herself, and Leighton was Leighton, incredibly hot and incredibly dorky. Blake tried for a second date, and won one with no resistance. She walked Leighton to her apartment, enjoying the San Francisco sun while not enjoying the horrible eighty degree incline hills. She admired Leighton while the brunette fiddled with her keys.
“You know,” Leighton commented, “In movies, this would be about the time where the protagonist kisses their romantic love interest.”
“Are you the protagonist?” Blake asked, chuckling.
“Of course,” Leighton said, “I'm usually the protagonist in my movies.”
“You make movies?” Blake asked, startled. Leighton hadn't mentioned this over lunch - Blake was under the impression that Leighton was a computer repair monkey.
“The ones in my head,” Leighton corrected, turning pink.
“You're a dork,” Blake said, laughing. When Leighton pouted, she reached over and stroked her cheek. “It's cute.”
After another moment she asked coyly, “So I guess I'm the romantic love interest?”
“Well, one of about five,” Leighton replied. She blew a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes. “Because in this movie, I'm like, a giant player.”
“Oh,” Blake said, trying not to show her dismay. She shook it off when Leighton put a hand on her shoulder, though. Blake let the hand that was stroking Leighton's cheek lie still, and she rested her other hand on Leighton's waist, shuffling closer. She angled her head and slowly bent over, until her lips were just a breath away from Leighton's.
Leighton closed the distance, brushing her lips against Blake. Then the kiss became more forceful, Leighton's tongue darting out to run across Blake's teeth, on Blake's tongue, back out again. A sudden push slammed Blake against the wall, and suddenly it was like Leighton was attacking Blake, kissing her jawline, her ear, biting down on her earlobe. Blake moaned as Leighton nipped her way down Blake's neck, biting and pulling and kissing and licking the bruises that formed. Her hands, too, were everywhere: running up and down Blake's sides, gripping her shoulder, tracing designs against her back, subtly-but-not-really palming her breast. Blake registered dimly that they were still in public, although they were mostly obscured by the walls on three sides.
Leighton kissed her way back up to Blake's mouth, and Blake tried to follow Leighton's previous example, kissing her cheek, her nose, her jawline, but every time she strayed Leighton pulled Blake back, forcing Blake to follow Leighton's lead. Blake didn't mind, really. Another moan escaped her as Leighton swirled her tongue in Blake's left ear. She didn't know how long her legs would keep holding her up.
Abruptly Leighton pulled away, leaving Blake panting and trembling against the wall.
“Well,” she said, grinning at the sight of Blake's swollen lips and disheveled hair. “I think that will do for now. Call me?”
“Y-yes,” Blake gasped, still disoriented and panting for air.
“See you soon,” Leighton said, leaning forward and kissing Blake on the cheek before unlocking the door and disappearing.
Blake leaned against the wall for a few minutes more. There had been plans after lunch with Leighton... what were they? In her head flashed images of Leighton naked in various positions; she was halfway home before she recalled the pink pony float.
---
Leighton thought about Blake too as she rode the elevator up to her apartment, although only half of her thoughts were about Blake naked in various positions. The other half consisted of how funny it was that Blake happened to be on the same mission as her: find out what happened to the pink pony float.
Leighton had stumbled across this information a few minutes after her first meeting with Blake in the coffee shop. Googling the pink pony float had led her to Blake's blog, where Blake had discussed in painful capslocks how excited she was for SF Pride and the pink pony float. It had also led to Blake's twitter, where she'd written: PONY FLOAT NOT THERE! Going 2 look for it now. In truth, that was what had caused Leighton to call Blake a mere fifteen minutes after they'd met, rather than an hour or two later. (It was good that she had done so, for if she had gone through with her original plan, Michelle would have snatched Blake up for lunch first)
The information had been floating at the back of Leighton's mind all through lunch, but Blake had kept distracting her by her simple presence. It returned to her with full force now. Leighton frowned as she considered what she'd found out about the pink pony float. It had been advertised and had definitely existed at some point - Google images had come up with the exact poster that was hanging on the wall at the information center, and a few queer forums had threads discussing the float. The problem lay in the fact that after Pride, absolutely no one had mentioned the float and how it had magically disappeared from the parade. Trojan no longer had a page dedicated to the float, and most of the threads on those forums died out before Pride started.
Leighton had replied to a few of these threads asking about where the float had gone, and contacted Trojan about their missing float. She walked into her apartment intent on checking for responses.
Chace, who had still been passed out on Leighton's couch when she'd gone out to lunch, jumped up to greet her. He looked worried.
“Leighton,” he said as he stood up. “Ed is missing.”
“What?” Leighton asked, blinking. “What do you mean?”
“I called Ed a few times again yesterday, but he didn't pick up,” Chace said. “Then I called his friends, and none of them have seen or talked to Ed since the parade.”
“Well, that's not a reason to be alarmed,” Leighton said, frowning. “Maybe his phone died and he's been chilling at home watching too much porn or something.”
“I posted on his Facebook and he didn't respond within an hour,” Chace said.
“Ok we should be worried,” Leighton said quickly. Ed was always, always on Facebook. Him not being on Facebook was like Lindsey Lohan not wearing leggings: it just didn't happen.
Leighton took a breath. “Ok. I was going to check up on my leads on the pink pony float anyway, and meanwhile we'll, I don't know, look around for Ed. I mean, I don't know where we'd begin looking for him, maybe ask if he's been seen at the Starbucks he goes to everyday and enter his apartment, but if we don't find him after tonight we'll file like, whatever it is you file with missing people.”
“You mean a missing persons report?” Chace supplied helpfully.
Leighton scowled at Chace, stuck her nose up in the air, and marched over to her room. Looking for Ed was not supposed to be in the script. If it were a video game it could be one of those tedious sidequests, but as a movie Ed would simply have to be written out.
She sat down in her rolling chair in front of the computer and booted up Firefox. A few moments later Chace joined her, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the screen.
“Huh,” Leighton said, eyes furrowed. “That's weird.”
“What is?”
“Well, the posts I made asking about the float? They've all been deleted.”
She opened a new tab to check her e-mail.
“Also, a representative from Trojan e-mailed me back, saying they never sponsored a pink pony float.”
“Hot damn,” Chace said. “Dude, the mafia or something is totally in on this.”
“Yeah,” Leighton said. “We should dig in deeper.”
“No,” Chace protested. “Are you kidding? This will probably end with getting shot in an alley or something. I don't care about some stupid float that much. I say we just watch The L Word or something.”
“No, I can't watch The L Word anymore,” Leighton said, shaking her head. “It throws me into a homicidal rage.”
“What?”
“Jenny.”
“Oh,” Chace said, that one word conveying how completely he understood. “Something else then.”
Leighton leaned forward, as if putting her face closer to the computer screen would give her more insight into the mystery they'd uncovered. Instead, it caused her eye to water from the glare. She rested her chin in her hand and tapped the table with her fingers sagely. Chace was right, she didn't want to look deeper into this; it was just a float. The only thing that was sad about giving up on the detective work was that she wouldn't get to finish the movie.
Well, there was still the case of the missing Ed. So all hope was not lost? It would just be Sherlock Holmes and looking for an annoying gay man who probably was at a karaoke bar rather than Sherlock Holmes investigating the pink pony mafia and getting shot.
“Let's go look for Ed instead,” Leighton announced.
“Sounds like a plan.”
---
Back at the Lively apartment, Blake sat on a white leather couch, leaning against the armrest. Her long legs stretched out across its length. She was completely naked and covered by a thin sheen of sweat, and when she shifted the couch made the kind of squeaky ripping noises that result from bare sweaty skin being stuck to leather. She had just finished masturbating, and was going through her mail now.
Her bills she tossed on the mountain of paper on the table, hoping it would get lost amid the mess, and that would mean she didn't have to pay her bills anymore. Junk mail and letters from creepy guys she met at Guitar Hero tournaments she balled up and tried to toss into the wastebasket at the far corner of the room. Judging by the number of crumpled balls next to the wastebasket and the emptiness of the wastebasket itself, Blake probably needed a lot more practice. Coupons she dropped on the floor for later, and the remaining mail she actually read.
One letter came in a creamy off-white embossed envelope, and was addressed to Blake from some guy named Foster Oliver. She was on the verge of crumpling it up when she remembered: She'd met Foster before. She had been volunteering for SF Pride a few years ago, and he had been one of the managers. She'd also talked to Foster again in various gay rights campaigns she had participated in since then. Blake hadn't heard from Foster for at least a few months, and was curious as to what he had to say.
Dear Ms. Blake Lively,
Oliver Pianos is hosting the first Oliver Charity Gala on Thursday, June 28th, and would like to invite you and one guest to attend. Enclosed are two passes for the Gala. It will be held at the Parc 55 Hotel on 55 Cyril Magnin Street, San Francisco, CA, 94102. Dinner is at 7:00pm, with Foster Oliver, son of Graham Oliver, the founder of Oliver Pianos, to speak and a reception to follow. This is a black tie event.
RSVP to 3 Gill Ave, San Francisco, 94102, or 415-928-1067 with your name and the name of your guest.
Sincerely,
Oliver Pianos
Blake looked up from the letter and returned to the envelope. She saw the corners of the passes poking out of the envelope and pulled them out, staring at the speckled gold cards.
Blake Lively, it said at the top; Personal Invitee of Foster Oliver, it said at the bottom. That made sense, since Blake could imagine no other reason for which she'd be invited; she worked a bum job as a sports journalist, had no substantial amount of money, and kind of hated trussing up in fancy clothes.
The accompanying pass for Blake's “guest” made her scowl. It said, Male Guest of Blake Lively at the top, and had a blank space which was presumably the Male Guest's corporation or occupation.
“Really, Foster,” Blake muttered under her breath. She had been thinking of inviting Leighton to this thing as a sort of third date; she suspected Leighton enjoyed wearing frilly gowns or whatever it was that haughty rich women wore at events. But the way this second pass was written... was it really necessary to emphasize a male guest? Was it Foster's way of telling Blake that this was a snobby hetero event? Because Blake didn't want to go if that was the case.
She dropped the letter on the ground, sighing, then looked at the next letter. This one was also addressed from Foster, but it was just a plain white envelope this time. When Blake opened it she found a note from Foster:
Hi Blake,
You must be really fucking pissed if you just saw the invitation to the Oliver Charity Gala, and if you haven't, then you will be really fucking pissed once you see it.
I just needed to say here in this follow-up letter, I'm sorry about how the cards are so gendered and everything, but my father was going to blow San Francisco up (okay, this is exaggerating, but only slightly, and if he ever did want to blow San Francisco up we both know he would actually be able to) if the couples that came were anything besides 'prim and proper.'
Now, the reason for this extra note is essentially to convince you to come. I'm sorry you have to deal with this male guest shit, but you really, really need to get your ass to this event. If I could get down on my knees and give you a blowjob to get you to come, (DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE?) I would. Hell, I'll pretend to be straight and perform cunninlingus on you if you attend, although I think we would both prefer that not happen.
Seriously though, Blake. Please go. It's really important.
Kisses and condoms,
Foster
Blake shook her head at the second letter, smiling in spite of herself. That Foster. Genius at pianos, and absolutely crazy. There was a slight air of desperation in his letter that she hadn't been expecting, but there was no way she could refuse his request anyway. She would just have to attend this posh event, then.
There was still one problem. Blake had no intention of bringing anyone other than Leighton as her guest. Absolutely none.
She hummed to herself and rose from the couch, wincing as the upholstery peeled from her skin with a smacking noise. Pacing the room, she wondered how she could smuggle Leighton into the Gala with her.
The idea hit her with the force of a hungry hippo. Blake had a roommate, Penn. Said roommate was about her height and about her size - a little wider across the chest, but that would only help Blake's case. Said roommate had lots of very nice suits because he was a raging metrosexual. Blake's name was gender neutral. She could pretend that there was a mistake in the invitation, in that it should have been a Mr. Blake Lively instead of a Ms. Plus, then she wouldn't have to buy any special clothes for the occasion!
It was a good plan, except for the fact that Blake had a thin reedy voice that only a deaf person would mistake for a man's, but she figured she could circumvent that somehow, because Blake Lively was a giant stud, and studs always made it through in the end.
She called up Penn, who spent fifteen minutes laughing and fifteen minutes planning her outfit.
“You're going to need a hat to cover up your hair,” he said. “Or a wig, but I happen to not own wigs. If you want one, I can stop by the hair salon I go to on the way back, but it will set you back a hundred or so.”
Blake winced. “Let's go with the hat?”
“Well, alright, I've got a Homburg that you can use, but it doesn't match with anything you can look good in... You'll also be more believable with a wig,” Penn said, “And you are going to need to do as much as you can to pass.”
“Hey,” Blake protested, “I think I can pull off your suit pretty well. My boobs aren't too big, and I'm pretty tall, and my face isn't too round and chubby.”
“Yes, but you sound like a twelve year old girl,” Penn said. “And you don't have an Adam's apple, which you can't solve. And your eyelashes are incredibly long, which is great for being a really hot girl, and bad for being a passable man.”
“How do you know how acceptable my eyelashes are? I don't even know how good they are, and I put mascara on them every day.”
“Oh, please,” Penn said. “You only use mascara because I get so many free samples from working at Sephora. If I didn't work there you'd never go out and buy yourself any, and you'd also masquerade in more of those sad potato sacks you call dresses than you already do.”
Blake had no reprise, and so stayed silent.
“Anyway,” Penn continued, “The eyelashes are no big deal, some men have really gorgeous eyelashes. Back to the clothes. A bowtie would be better at drawing attention away from your lack of an Adam's apple than a tie would. You can just pick any of them. I've got a Versace black suit in the closet, on the far left, that shouldn't be too droopy on your shoulders, and should have enough chest space. You can also wear any of my dress shirts, as long as you go with the white ones. Stiff would probably be better than soft. My cuff links are in the top drawer of my dresser; go with something manly.”
“Wow,” Blake said, “I think I only understood half of what you said? How do I tell whether cuff links are manly or not?”
“I'll take care of it,” Penn said. “By the way, how do you feel about some facial hair?”
Blake blinked.
“You can do facial hair?”
“Blake, baby, I can do anything. And I really recommend that wig, by the way. I bet you'll wear it later anyway.”
“Wow,” Blake breathed. “Wow, Penn, thank you so much.”
“You shouldn't really thank me,” Penn said. “The second you open your mouth to speak everyone in the room is going to realize you're not a man, and I'm going to be laughing at you all the way to Timbuktu.”
“I take that back, Penn,” Blake said, affecting annoyance but really grinning from ear to ear. “You've been evicted.”
“Blake!”
“Oh, and Penn?”
“What?”
“Pick out a wig for me on your way home.”
She could practically see Penn light up on the other end, excited to drop more money on cosmetics.
“Will do. See you later, Blakey Blake.”
Parts: Two || Three