Fic: Like We Did in the Summer (Ooh La La) (Gossip Girl RPF, R)
Like We Did in the Summer (Ooh La La)
Gossip Girl RPF. Leighton Meester/Blake Lively. R. 2178 words.
For kuteki's prompt over at Real Women Fest.
There’s this moment, in chick flicks or rom coms or whatever, where the Ryan Reynolds, the Hugh Grant lies back, sprawls, looks at the Julia Roberts or the Jennifer Anniston and thinks, oh, this is it. Eyes wide and lips loose and the ba-dum-ba-dum of his heart is audible over the Alanis Morrisette song and it’s dumb, really, because that doesn’t happen in real life.
It doesn’t.
But if it did, Leighton supposes, if she had to pick a moment for cheesy chick songs and convenient lighting and wide, dumb eyes - well.
&
“It could almost be a holiday,” Blake says as the plane skims the runway. “Paris, romance, fashion, beaches. I’m going to have to find myself someone to hang off.”
She looks at her then, hair braided and smile pulling across her face faster than she can stop it. “Some stud,” she tries, fingers loose on Leighton’s wrist, and Leighton, she smiles like she means it, intent on her lips and Blake pressed against her side.
There aren’t any butterflies, but something uncurls in the pit of her stomach, a tension relieving, beginning. Something.
&
It takes two days to film three minutes of film, because Blake keeps laughing, head tossed back and chest rising in the middle of a take. She’s wearing Vera Wang, hair hours of perfect unkempt and make-up that’s really too dark for her skin, painted on thick enough that Leighton wants to trail her fingers through it, trek it.
“Bonjour,” Blake says, yells across to passer-bys and she’s high on whatever, on Paris and filming and a character Leighton can’t wait to see the end of.
“Bonjour, Parie,” and she’s all faux-accent now and fingers reaching back, entwining with Leighton’s own and -
(The first time they fuck (in Paris) is after the first day’s shoot, and Leighton’s dragged off, hand tight in Blake’s and they end up back against a wall somewhere with Leighton’s fingers knuckle-deep inside Blake, until all that she can hear or see is pants and miles of blonde hair that tumble down like Rapunzal’s locks. They’re drunk on accents and horizon lines and views, and the hangover is Blake in Leighton’s bed and Penn’s name in her missed calls folder one, two, six times.)
- and they have a history, Leighton reminds herself, later, much, with Blake trembling as she pulls her panties back up and Leighton watching with heavy lids and parted lips and she wants to reach out, to touch, to brush Blake’s hair back and tell her she got the hint back in the States that one time, but she doesn’t say anything, just waits, bides her time because once turns into twice turns into too many, and Leighton wakes up Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday with Blake in the sheets and memories of sinking through the bed with her in some too acute part of her memory.
In the morning, she smells like sleep and stale perfume and Leighton presses her nose into the skin of her neck to try it out, submerge herself in it and without fail, Blake will roll out, quiet, speechless, dressing too quickly with her hair mussed and her eyes clenched shut.
That’s probably the set up. Act One. Scene one through ten. Repeat for the first half of Act Two.
&
For a second, an instant, she feels like Blair, lost and heartbroken somewhere much too far from home, only her Chuck and her Serena are the same person, her best friend and her greatest love and it uncurls bitterly in the space between her veins. She hopes, quietly, vainly, that Penn stays away.
&
There’s life before the canon, film, and Blake introduces herself, the first time, back in auditions in New York, as “B Lively,” her hair pulled back and her hand outstretched.
Leighton isn’t sure whether to laugh or scathe and so she does both, her nose scrunched and her chest rising and Blake blinks, twice, and flushes.
It wasn’t love at first sight or whatever, but (Blake, with her blonde hair and her hesitant smile and her fucking legs) it was pretty close.
&
Blake’s a mess of hair and sheets and legs that would look so much better entwined with Leighton’s own. Her night dress really just some ex-boyfriend’s too-big shirt that Leighton wants to pull off, to chase away the parts that remind her of everything this isn’t.
It’s early, and Blake’s new movie is playing on pay-per-view and she watches a woman shoot herself and Blake run into the sea, wash up on the beach like litter or a lost siren, broken and perfect.
Leighton changes the channel and the world fades to black.
&
On set, they’re the same.
Blake jokes loud and laughs louder, about nuns on bicycles and frogs in blenders and the faces Leighton makes between takes. She drapes and falls and reaches out with open hands for whatever parts of Leighton she can grab and it hurts, sometimes, but Leighton palms whatever part of Blake’s too perfect skin she can, even if it just reminds her that she has yet to find her way beneath it.
After the working day is done, she showers and sings made-up songs about sunrises and the blonde haired girls that match them, look good in them. They won’t be on any album, but she thinks of writing the lyrics on her arm, on Blake in the middle of the night, just so they’ll be there when they both wake up.
&
She figures all good things have to end and if this is hers for now, then fuck, but she’ll take it.
&
Blake’s mouth is hot and desperate on her neck, collar bone, the sides of her breasts and Leighton is pushing her head down, fingers tangled in ridiculously soft, blonde hair and the phone’s ringing, Blake’s, and “Ignore it,” she hisses, and Blake does, lifting her head only to look up at her, and then there’s lips on her stomach, hips, and it’s still ringing, loud, and Blake says, “Just a second,” as Leighton groans.
Blake’s in a pair of black panties, plain, and that’s all. Her breasts loose and round and soft and Leighton watches as she fumbles for her phone, flips it open and answers, hesitant.
She knows it’s Penn before Blake even says it, watches her push her hair back and avoid Leighton’s eye and fuck it, but it still hurts and Leighton’s pulling her shirt back on and leaving before Blake can call after her, if she even does. Turning point. End of Act Two.
&
The first (and last time) in America is before Paris and albums and nose jobs and sequels to movies about magical travelling jeans, and Blake, wide-eyed and innocent and hard in all the places she’ll later be soft, will gasp and writhe and say, “Oh,” when Leighton kisses her, “Oh.”
Later, she’ll say, “Maybe not again,” into the curve of Leighton’s shoulder and Leighton will leave her fingers curled in golden hair until Blake has to touch her, grab her to pull her off.
&
They’re invited to the Haute Couture show in Paris, and they sit side by side two rows from the front.
Leighton loses herself in the folds of the dresses and the model thin frames, in make-up and hair and shoes and feels like herself. Feels like the line between Blair and Leighton is a mess of colour, bleeding over and seeping under, and for once, she maybe doesn’t mind.
“I like that one,” Blake mumbles, Serena beside her, and it’s nice, the dress, but it’s the model who catches her eye; all big dark eyes and warm skin and blonde hair that finishes where her legs begin. She’s wrong, but she’s perfect, and Blake will disappear amongst a sea of artists and actors and Leighton will spend the night between too-thin legs and narrow hips and tell herself this is enough.
It’ll occurs to her later, after, that Blake probably meant the dress.
&
“I should learn French,” Blake hums, hair braided and magazine open in her lap.
One of the make-up boys makes a joke about knowing it already, at least the important stuff. The kissing stuff. Leighton rolls her eyes, but Blake’s laugh is loud and rolls through her head until it’s all she can hear. They haven’t fucked since Penn called that time, and Leighton’s alternating between fucking skinny blondes and keeping one hand outstretched, waiting for Blake’s long fingers and dumb smile and the way her face crinkles up with it. It’s ugly, and Blake’s perfect.
&
The climax ties neatly with the wrap party of the Paris shoot, convenient, and Leighton feels loose and Blake’s drunk enough to hang off of her, lashes clumped with mascara and lips stupidly red.
“You’re so beautiful,” Blake hums, whispers into the skin of Leighton’s neck, and she smells like vodka and coconut rum and it’s her fingers on the inside of Leighton’s thighs and this isn’t what Leighton wants at all. She doesn’t want to be the mistake or that thing Blake laughs about in ten years with her four golden haired children and Penn’s grandmother’s ring around her finger. It’s not. Leighton pushes, and Blake pushes back, her lips on Leighton’s jaw and this time when Leighton pushes, she means it, shoves enough that Blake’s a long limbed mess on the wooden floors of the bar.
Leighton leaves, and this isn’t a moment when she realises all that she wants, but it is one where she realises what she doesn’t.
Blake doesn’t come into her room that night.
&
It’s days before she sees Blake again, or rather, Blake finds her, sprawled on her hotel bed in a pair of boy-leg shorts and a tank that stretches over her full breasts. Leighton grimaces, ties back her hair, and Blake sighs somewhere behind her, the noise quiet, gentle in a way that Blake always sounds, is.
“I broke up with Penn.”
Leighton doesn’t turn around, eyes unblinking and the words tangle in her throat, and she shrugs, says, “You were wrong for each other,” instead of I love you, I need you, please.
“I guess,” Blake mumbles, and she’s sitting up, tugging at her hair, brushing it between her fingers.
It’s too quiet, the silence unbearable, and Leighton’s heart is in her throat, the pulsing hard in the space behind her eyes, lips, chest. The voice inside her head asking what the fuck she’s waiting for? And when Leighton clenches her eyes shut, all she sees is all the ways this can go wrong.
“I keep waiting,” Blake says, tone hushed. “Waiting for you to tell me.”
Leighton blinks hard, and she starts packing, flinging open her suitcase and dropping in dirty bras and jeans she hasn’t had the time to wear out. “Tell you what?”
Blake just sighs, the noise dumb and pathetic in her throat and it reminds Leighton of breathy moans and the high pitched sighs she makes in the middle of the night with Leighton’s lips on her breasts and her fingers inside her. She shakes her head, turns enough to see Blake over her shoulder, legs tangled in the sheets and hands at the hem of her tank.
“What you want,” Blake shrugs, but her eyes are brighter than Leighton ever remembers, impossibly focused and Leighton pauses in her packing.
“I want to know where we stand,” Blake continues, “Us. That’s what I want to know.”
She blinks, once, twice, says, “There isn’t an us,” quickly, in a voice she barely recognises and she can see Blake moving, from the corner of her eye, see her shift, hesitate, then, finally -
“Do you want there to be an us?”
Leighton turns at that, back against the dresser, and Blake shivers, laughs, but it’s dumb and stilted and Leighton can feel her heart in her throat, the ba-dum ba-dum stuck in her trachea.
“You’re so dumb,” she says, and Leighton moves faster than she ever has, kisses her, reaches across the bed to pull her against her and this is wrong, because they both look like shit and there’s so many ways that this isn’t going to work, but there’s no part of Leighton that doesn’t want Blake, that doesn’t want to touch kiss fuck just have.
And it’s dumb, but this is probably the first time they make love. Or at least, that’s what Blake says in the morning, her breasts stretching Leighton’s favourite t-shirt out of shape as she eats the pancakes they ordered from room service.
&
On the plane home, Blake falls asleep and Leighton hums songs about summer time into her hair, their fingers tangled down beneath the hem of Leighton’s dress.
She thinks of Fiona Apple or Regina Spektor for the end credits. She hopes for the kind of forever promised in Hugh Grant movies, with park benches and grand gestures and quaint British apartments. For now though, she’ll take this, some dumb movie finish on something that’s only just beginning.
Gossip Girl RPF. Leighton Meester/Blake Lively. R. 2178 words.
For kuteki's prompt over at Real Women Fest.
There’s this moment, in chick flicks or rom coms or whatever, where the Ryan Reynolds, the Hugh Grant lies back, sprawls, looks at the Julia Roberts or the Jennifer Anniston and thinks, oh, this is it. Eyes wide and lips loose and the ba-dum-ba-dum of his heart is audible over the Alanis Morrisette song and it’s dumb, really, because that doesn’t happen in real life.
It doesn’t.
But if it did, Leighton supposes, if she had to pick a moment for cheesy chick songs and convenient lighting and wide, dumb eyes - well.
&
“It could almost be a holiday,” Blake says as the plane skims the runway. “Paris, romance, fashion, beaches. I’m going to have to find myself someone to hang off.”
She looks at her then, hair braided and smile pulling across her face faster than she can stop it. “Some stud,” she tries, fingers loose on Leighton’s wrist, and Leighton, she smiles like she means it, intent on her lips and Blake pressed against her side.
There aren’t any butterflies, but something uncurls in the pit of her stomach, a tension relieving, beginning. Something.
&
It takes two days to film three minutes of film, because Blake keeps laughing, head tossed back and chest rising in the middle of a take. She’s wearing Vera Wang, hair hours of perfect unkempt and make-up that’s really too dark for her skin, painted on thick enough that Leighton wants to trail her fingers through it, trek it.
“Bonjour,” Blake says, yells across to passer-bys and she’s high on whatever, on Paris and filming and a character Leighton can’t wait to see the end of.
“Bonjour, Parie,” and she’s all faux-accent now and fingers reaching back, entwining with Leighton’s own and -
(The first time they fuck (in Paris) is after the first day’s shoot, and Leighton’s dragged off, hand tight in Blake’s and they end up back against a wall somewhere with Leighton’s fingers knuckle-deep inside Blake, until all that she can hear or see is pants and miles of blonde hair that tumble down like Rapunzal’s locks. They’re drunk on accents and horizon lines and views, and the hangover is Blake in Leighton’s bed and Penn’s name in her missed calls folder one, two, six times.)
- and they have a history, Leighton reminds herself, later, much, with Blake trembling as she pulls her panties back up and Leighton watching with heavy lids and parted lips and she wants to reach out, to touch, to brush Blake’s hair back and tell her she got the hint back in the States that one time, but she doesn’t say anything, just waits, bides her time because once turns into twice turns into too many, and Leighton wakes up Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Sunday with Blake in the sheets and memories of sinking through the bed with her in some too acute part of her memory.
In the morning, she smells like sleep and stale perfume and Leighton presses her nose into the skin of her neck to try it out, submerge herself in it and without fail, Blake will roll out, quiet, speechless, dressing too quickly with her hair mussed and her eyes clenched shut.
That’s probably the set up. Act One. Scene one through ten. Repeat for the first half of Act Two.
&
For a second, an instant, she feels like Blair, lost and heartbroken somewhere much too far from home, only her Chuck and her Serena are the same person, her best friend and her greatest love and it uncurls bitterly in the space between her veins. She hopes, quietly, vainly, that Penn stays away.
&
There’s life before the canon, film, and Blake introduces herself, the first time, back in auditions in New York, as “B Lively,” her hair pulled back and her hand outstretched.
Leighton isn’t sure whether to laugh or scathe and so she does both, her nose scrunched and her chest rising and Blake blinks, twice, and flushes.
It wasn’t love at first sight or whatever, but (Blake, with her blonde hair and her hesitant smile and her fucking legs) it was pretty close.
&
Blake’s a mess of hair and sheets and legs that would look so much better entwined with Leighton’s own. Her night dress really just some ex-boyfriend’s too-big shirt that Leighton wants to pull off, to chase away the parts that remind her of everything this isn’t.
It’s early, and Blake’s new movie is playing on pay-per-view and she watches a woman shoot herself and Blake run into the sea, wash up on the beach like litter or a lost siren, broken and perfect.
Leighton changes the channel and the world fades to black.
&
On set, they’re the same.
Blake jokes loud and laughs louder, about nuns on bicycles and frogs in blenders and the faces Leighton makes between takes. She drapes and falls and reaches out with open hands for whatever parts of Leighton she can grab and it hurts, sometimes, but Leighton palms whatever part of Blake’s too perfect skin she can, even if it just reminds her that she has yet to find her way beneath it.
After the working day is done, she showers and sings made-up songs about sunrises and the blonde haired girls that match them, look good in them. They won’t be on any album, but she thinks of writing the lyrics on her arm, on Blake in the middle of the night, just so they’ll be there when they both wake up.
&
She figures all good things have to end and if this is hers for now, then fuck, but she’ll take it.
&
Blake’s mouth is hot and desperate on her neck, collar bone, the sides of her breasts and Leighton is pushing her head down, fingers tangled in ridiculously soft, blonde hair and the phone’s ringing, Blake’s, and “Ignore it,” she hisses, and Blake does, lifting her head only to look up at her, and then there’s lips on her stomach, hips, and it’s still ringing, loud, and Blake says, “Just a second,” as Leighton groans.
Blake’s in a pair of black panties, plain, and that’s all. Her breasts loose and round and soft and Leighton watches as she fumbles for her phone, flips it open and answers, hesitant.
She knows it’s Penn before Blake even says it, watches her push her hair back and avoid Leighton’s eye and fuck it, but it still hurts and Leighton’s pulling her shirt back on and leaving before Blake can call after her, if she even does. Turning point. End of Act Two.
&
The first (and last time) in America is before Paris and albums and nose jobs and sequels to movies about magical travelling jeans, and Blake, wide-eyed and innocent and hard in all the places she’ll later be soft, will gasp and writhe and say, “Oh,” when Leighton kisses her, “Oh.”
Later, she’ll say, “Maybe not again,” into the curve of Leighton’s shoulder and Leighton will leave her fingers curled in golden hair until Blake has to touch her, grab her to pull her off.
&
They’re invited to the Haute Couture show in Paris, and they sit side by side two rows from the front.
Leighton loses herself in the folds of the dresses and the model thin frames, in make-up and hair and shoes and feels like herself. Feels like the line between Blair and Leighton is a mess of colour, bleeding over and seeping under, and for once, she maybe doesn’t mind.
“I like that one,” Blake mumbles, Serena beside her, and it’s nice, the dress, but it’s the model who catches her eye; all big dark eyes and warm skin and blonde hair that finishes where her legs begin. She’s wrong, but she’s perfect, and Blake will disappear amongst a sea of artists and actors and Leighton will spend the night between too-thin legs and narrow hips and tell herself this is enough.
It’ll occurs to her later, after, that Blake probably meant the dress.
&
“I should learn French,” Blake hums, hair braided and magazine open in her lap.
One of the make-up boys makes a joke about knowing it already, at least the important stuff. The kissing stuff. Leighton rolls her eyes, but Blake’s laugh is loud and rolls through her head until it’s all she can hear. They haven’t fucked since Penn called that time, and Leighton’s alternating between fucking skinny blondes and keeping one hand outstretched, waiting for Blake’s long fingers and dumb smile and the way her face crinkles up with it. It’s ugly, and Blake’s perfect.
&
The climax ties neatly with the wrap party of the Paris shoot, convenient, and Leighton feels loose and Blake’s drunk enough to hang off of her, lashes clumped with mascara and lips stupidly red.
“You’re so beautiful,” Blake hums, whispers into the skin of Leighton’s neck, and she smells like vodka and coconut rum and it’s her fingers on the inside of Leighton’s thighs and this isn’t what Leighton wants at all. She doesn’t want to be the mistake or that thing Blake laughs about in ten years with her four golden haired children and Penn’s grandmother’s ring around her finger. It’s not. Leighton pushes, and Blake pushes back, her lips on Leighton’s jaw and this time when Leighton pushes, she means it, shoves enough that Blake’s a long limbed mess on the wooden floors of the bar.
Leighton leaves, and this isn’t a moment when she realises all that she wants, but it is one where she realises what she doesn’t.
Blake doesn’t come into her room that night.
&
It’s days before she sees Blake again, or rather, Blake finds her, sprawled on her hotel bed in a pair of boy-leg shorts and a tank that stretches over her full breasts. Leighton grimaces, ties back her hair, and Blake sighs somewhere behind her, the noise quiet, gentle in a way that Blake always sounds, is.
“I broke up with Penn.”
Leighton doesn’t turn around, eyes unblinking and the words tangle in her throat, and she shrugs, says, “You were wrong for each other,” instead of I love you, I need you, please.
“I guess,” Blake mumbles, and she’s sitting up, tugging at her hair, brushing it between her fingers.
It’s too quiet, the silence unbearable, and Leighton’s heart is in her throat, the pulsing hard in the space behind her eyes, lips, chest. The voice inside her head asking what the fuck she’s waiting for? And when Leighton clenches her eyes shut, all she sees is all the ways this can go wrong.
“I keep waiting,” Blake says, tone hushed. “Waiting for you to tell me.”
Leighton blinks hard, and she starts packing, flinging open her suitcase and dropping in dirty bras and jeans she hasn’t had the time to wear out. “Tell you what?”
Blake just sighs, the noise dumb and pathetic in her throat and it reminds Leighton of breathy moans and the high pitched sighs she makes in the middle of the night with Leighton’s lips on her breasts and her fingers inside her. She shakes her head, turns enough to see Blake over her shoulder, legs tangled in the sheets and hands at the hem of her tank.
“What you want,” Blake shrugs, but her eyes are brighter than Leighton ever remembers, impossibly focused and Leighton pauses in her packing.
“I want to know where we stand,” Blake continues, “Us. That’s what I want to know.”
She blinks, once, twice, says, “There isn’t an us,” quickly, in a voice she barely recognises and she can see Blake moving, from the corner of her eye, see her shift, hesitate, then, finally -
“Do you want there to be an us?”
Leighton turns at that, back against the dresser, and Blake shivers, laughs, but it’s dumb and stilted and Leighton can feel her heart in her throat, the ba-dum ba-dum stuck in her trachea.
“You’re so dumb,” she says, and Leighton moves faster than she ever has, kisses her, reaches across the bed to pull her against her and this is wrong, because they both look like shit and there’s so many ways that this isn’t going to work, but there’s no part of Leighton that doesn’t want Blake, that doesn’t want to touch kiss fuck just have.
And it’s dumb, but this is probably the first time they make love. Or at least, that’s what Blake says in the morning, her breasts stretching Leighton’s favourite t-shirt out of shape as she eats the pancakes they ordered from room service.
&
On the plane home, Blake falls asleep and Leighton hums songs about summer time into her hair, their fingers tangled down beneath the hem of Leighton’s dress.
She thinks of Fiona Apple or Regina Spektor for the end credits. She hopes for the kind of forever promised in Hugh Grant movies, with park benches and grand gestures and quaint British apartments. For now though, she’ll take this, some dumb movie finish on something that’s only just beginning.