Fic: Sense Memories: Touch (OTH/GG - Brooke/Blaire, Rated R)
Title: Sense Memories: Touch
Fandom: One Tree Hill/Gossip Girl crossover
Pairing: Brooke Davis/Blair Waldorf
Rating: Mature
Word count: 1400
Written for: villainny’s Sex Is Not the Enemy ( master list here
Prompt: this photo
Note: Follow-up to Sightings, but you don't have to read that to follow this.
Barely two weeks into our relationship I took Brooke to France. We were winding our way through Daddy’s vineyard, strolling down the long rows of vines. At the end of a row of grapes so purple they were nearly black, she pulled me to her and leaned back against a wooden post supporting the vines.
Her fingers made quick work of the buttons on my blouse, pushing the fabric out of the way. She traced my breast along the edge of my bra as she leaned in for a kiss. Her lips, her fingers, soft yet firm. Desperate and needy. When she pulled me down to the dry earth beneath us, I didn’t complain. Not even when I felt fallen grapes burst against my clothing and skin. Later, at dinner, I blushed as Daddy poured wine made from those same grapes, unable to think of anything other than her hands on my flesh, her fingers pressing grapes to my lips, possessing me body and soul.
***
My first year working for Brooke magazine was tense. It didn’t take long for people to figure out I was screwing the boss. But with time I proved myself not only capable, but worthy of the position. And after two years, when the editor-in-chief Harold decided to retire, Brooke promoted me.
Brooke announced my promotion at Harold’s retirement party and no snide comments were made. Instead, when Brooke said, “Congrats, baby” then slid her hands along my jaw and into my hair, holding me as she kissed me deep and long, the only response from the crowd was applause. And Harold’s question of “So when are you two going to make me an honorary grandfather?”
***
When she proposed Chuck as the father of our children, I laughed. But the look on her face… well, she was serious. When she said we should do it the old-fashioned way, I was even more surprised. Brooke didn’t share. When things with Chuck ended the fifth, and last, time, when I made my choice between him and Brooke … that was it. We were over.
So when Brooke helped me into her favorite of my La Perla bra and panty sets, when she presented me with a sleek red dress she’d designed just for me, when she kissed me good-bye at the curb before pouring me into a cab, when she sent me off to the Empire Hotel, I let all my worries go and I went to him.
When I came home, panties caught in the clasp of my small handbag, she greeted me at the door. She pulled me to the bedroom and at the foot of the bed, turned me away from her.
“Did he undress you slowly?” she asked. Her fingernails lightly scraped my skin as she carefully lowered the zipper of my dress down to the cleft of my ass.
“He watched… as I…”
“As you stripped for him?”
I nodded.
“Was he gentle? Did his fingers graze your skin?” She demonstrated by sliding her hands up my bare arms.
“No. He was…rougher…firmer.”
“Did his touch get you wet? Or did it take more?” She pushed my hair aside and pressed a wet kiss to my nape.
“All I could think about was you.” At her touch I could hardly think of anything anymore.
She pushed the dress off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor leaving me in nothing but my bra. She moved around me, bringing us face to face. She raised an eyebrow and asked, “What happened to your panties?”
I felt heat over my body and knew if I looked down I’d see a flush across my chest. “They’re in my purse… They were…soaked through.” I don’t know why I was so embarrassed, so hesitant. It’s not like Brooke had never seen me worked up before. She’d been pushing to me the edge, and over, for nearly three years at that point. But it was different talking about being with someone else. Especially when that someone was Chuck who’d been so important and one time and nothing but a distant memory for what
Brooke dropped to her knees in front of me and nudged my knees apart with her hand. She slid her fingers up the inside of my thigh and I whimpered before she even reached my sex. I was wet again -- a mix of me and Chuck. Brooke kissed my thigh, my hip. She kissed everywhere Melanie at the salon had waxed me bare. She slid her fingers along my slit, spreading slickness up to my clit before licking it off.
“Next time -- if we need a next time -- I’m going with you,” she said as she stood up. She pulled me over to the bed and pushed me down on my back. “I’m going to get you all ready for him, I’m going to touch you and kiss you and love you and only when you’ve come from my hands, my mouth, my attention, will I let him inside you.”
It took three more tries and each time Brooke was there. Over me, under me, inside me, all around me.
Two years later we did it all over again. And Brooke was there.
***
We were at a fundraiser at the Plaza when she first showed her possessive side in public. I was chatting with some boring old society ladies about an equally boring exhibit at the Met when she grabbed my hand and pulled me away, muttering “Excuse us, ladies” without even looking at them. The look she sent me, however, was pure panic.
“Brooke,” came a voice behind us and I looked back to see a man with a scruffy but handsome face smiling at her.
She turned, pulling me beside her as she gritted out “Julian.” She squeezed my hand then let go and moved to touch the small of my back -- my flesh bare form the daringly low-cut dress I was wearing. One of her designs; a one-of-a-kind made specifically for me. At the feel of her fingertips on my skin, I wondered if she’d had this in mind when she made it. Had she hoped to tease me, to set my flesh on fire in public? To remind me that I was hers; to show others that I was hers?
“What brings you here?” Brooke asked.
“Backers,” he said. “For my next film.” His eyes shifted to me. Brooke’s touch, her closeness to me, was not missed. “Who’s your…friend?”
She breathed deep, as did I. “Blair Waldorf, Julian Baker. Julian, Blair.”
He took my hand delicately, as though I might break; I nearly snorted and just managed to not insult him. Instead I gave his hand a firm shake and watched his eyebrows raise to match my challenge.
“Are you two--” he started, but Brooke cut him off.
“Together? Yes. Blair’s my partner. My wife.” Her fingers traced delicate patterns along my spine and I relaxed and leaned into her.
“The mother of her children,” I added. I knew exactly who Julian Baker was. And who he’d been unable to be.
“What does your… uh, what’s Victoria think of that?”
This time I did snort. “I’m a Waldorf,” I said. “Victoria couldn’t be happier.”
***
We were soaking up the sun in Central Park, lying on the patchwork quilt I made out of scrap material scavenged from Brooke’s workroom. She’d laughed at me when I got all crafty during our second pregnancy; still laughed when I pulled out the blanket for afternoons in the park. But her fingers skimmed over the different fabrics the way they skimmed over my flesh at every opportunity.
When we finally put our pasts behind us and moved into a new place all our own, I worried that one day we’d grow tired of each other. That we’d stop touching, stop wanting each other. That married life and children would lead to boredom, maybe even infidelity. But over the years the only thing that changed was becoming closer and more comfortable with each other and ourselves.
Lying in the park with Brooke’s fingers sliding along my thigh, slipping under the hem of my skirt, climbing higher and higher only made me smile and shift closer to her and think of summer afternoons in France and the slightly tannic taste of grapes fresh from the vine.
Fandom: One Tree Hill/Gossip Girl crossover
Pairing: Brooke Davis/Blair Waldorf
Rating: Mature
Word count: 1400
Written for: villainny’s Sex Is Not the Enemy ( master list here
Prompt: this photo
Note: Follow-up to Sightings, but you don't have to read that to follow this.
Barely two weeks into our relationship I took Brooke to France. We were winding our way through Daddy’s vineyard, strolling down the long rows of vines. At the end of a row of grapes so purple they were nearly black, she pulled me to her and leaned back against a wooden post supporting the vines.
Her fingers made quick work of the buttons on my blouse, pushing the fabric out of the way. She traced my breast along the edge of my bra as she leaned in for a kiss. Her lips, her fingers, soft yet firm. Desperate and needy. When she pulled me down to the dry earth beneath us, I didn’t complain. Not even when I felt fallen grapes burst against my clothing and skin. Later, at dinner, I blushed as Daddy poured wine made from those same grapes, unable to think of anything other than her hands on my flesh, her fingers pressing grapes to my lips, possessing me body and soul.
***
My first year working for Brooke magazine was tense. It didn’t take long for people to figure out I was screwing the boss. But with time I proved myself not only capable, but worthy of the position. And after two years, when the editor-in-chief Harold decided to retire, Brooke promoted me.
Brooke announced my promotion at Harold’s retirement party and no snide comments were made. Instead, when Brooke said, “Congrats, baby” then slid her hands along my jaw and into my hair, holding me as she kissed me deep and long, the only response from the crowd was applause. And Harold’s question of “So when are you two going to make me an honorary grandfather?”
***
When she proposed Chuck as the father of our children, I laughed. But the look on her face… well, she was serious. When she said we should do it the old-fashioned way, I was even more surprised. Brooke didn’t share. When things with Chuck ended the fifth, and last, time, when I made my choice between him and Brooke … that was it. We were over.
So when Brooke helped me into her favorite of my La Perla bra and panty sets, when she presented me with a sleek red dress she’d designed just for me, when she kissed me good-bye at the curb before pouring me into a cab, when she sent me off to the Empire Hotel, I let all my worries go and I went to him.
When I came home, panties caught in the clasp of my small handbag, she greeted me at the door. She pulled me to the bedroom and at the foot of the bed, turned me away from her.
“Did he undress you slowly?” she asked. Her fingernails lightly scraped my skin as she carefully lowered the zipper of my dress down to the cleft of my ass.
“He watched… as I…”
“As you stripped for him?”
I nodded.
“Was he gentle? Did his fingers graze your skin?” She demonstrated by sliding her hands up my bare arms.
“No. He was…rougher…firmer.”
“Did his touch get you wet? Or did it take more?” She pushed my hair aside and pressed a wet kiss to my nape.
“All I could think about was you.” At her touch I could hardly think of anything anymore.
She pushed the dress off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor leaving me in nothing but my bra. She moved around me, bringing us face to face. She raised an eyebrow and asked, “What happened to your panties?”
I felt heat over my body and knew if I looked down I’d see a flush across my chest. “They’re in my purse… They were…soaked through.” I don’t know why I was so embarrassed, so hesitant. It’s not like Brooke had never seen me worked up before. She’d been pushing to me the edge, and over, for nearly three years at that point. But it was different talking about being with someone else. Especially when that someone was Chuck who’d been so important and one time and nothing but a distant memory for what
Brooke dropped to her knees in front of me and nudged my knees apart with her hand. She slid her fingers up the inside of my thigh and I whimpered before she even reached my sex. I was wet again -- a mix of me and Chuck. Brooke kissed my thigh, my hip. She kissed everywhere Melanie at the salon had waxed me bare. She slid her fingers along my slit, spreading slickness up to my clit before licking it off.
“Next time -- if we need a next time -- I’m going with you,” she said as she stood up. She pulled me over to the bed and pushed me down on my back. “I’m going to get you all ready for him, I’m going to touch you and kiss you and love you and only when you’ve come from my hands, my mouth, my attention, will I let him inside you.”
It took three more tries and each time Brooke was there. Over me, under me, inside me, all around me.
Two years later we did it all over again. And Brooke was there.
***
We were at a fundraiser at the Plaza when she first showed her possessive side in public. I was chatting with some boring old society ladies about an equally boring exhibit at the Met when she grabbed my hand and pulled me away, muttering “Excuse us, ladies” without even looking at them. The look she sent me, however, was pure panic.
“Brooke,” came a voice behind us and I looked back to see a man with a scruffy but handsome face smiling at her.
She turned, pulling me beside her as she gritted out “Julian.” She squeezed my hand then let go and moved to touch the small of my back -- my flesh bare form the daringly low-cut dress I was wearing. One of her designs; a one-of-a-kind made specifically for me. At the feel of her fingertips on my skin, I wondered if she’d had this in mind when she made it. Had she hoped to tease me, to set my flesh on fire in public? To remind me that I was hers; to show others that I was hers?
“What brings you here?” Brooke asked.
“Backers,” he said. “For my next film.” His eyes shifted to me. Brooke’s touch, her closeness to me, was not missed. “Who’s your…friend?”
She breathed deep, as did I. “Blair Waldorf, Julian Baker. Julian, Blair.”
He took my hand delicately, as though I might break; I nearly snorted and just managed to not insult him. Instead I gave his hand a firm shake and watched his eyebrows raise to match my challenge.
“Are you two--” he started, but Brooke cut him off.
“Together? Yes. Blair’s my partner. My wife.” Her fingers traced delicate patterns along my spine and I relaxed and leaned into her.
“The mother of her children,” I added. I knew exactly who Julian Baker was. And who he’d been unable to be.
“What does your… uh, what’s Victoria think of that?”
This time I did snort. “I’m a Waldorf,” I said. “Victoria couldn’t be happier.”
***
We were soaking up the sun in Central Park, lying on the patchwork quilt I made out of scrap material scavenged from Brooke’s workroom. She’d laughed at me when I got all crafty during our second pregnancy; still laughed when I pulled out the blanket for afternoons in the park. But her fingers skimmed over the different fabrics the way they skimmed over my flesh at every opportunity.
When we finally put our pasts behind us and moved into a new place all our own, I worried that one day we’d grow tired of each other. That we’d stop touching, stop wanting each other. That married life and children would lead to boredom, maybe even infidelity. But over the years the only thing that changed was becoming closer and more comfortable with each other and ourselves.
Lying in the park with Brooke’s fingers sliding along my thigh, slipping under the hem of my skirt, climbing higher and higher only made me smile and shift closer to her and think of summer afternoons in France and the slightly tannic taste of grapes fresh from the vine.