Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top

BY : MrSchimpf
Category: G through L > Gilmore Girls
Dragon prints: 24461
Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls is the property of WBTV, A-SP, DPDHP and Hofflund-Polone, and this story is not meant to profit from their copyrights.



longingffnet



Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter One
| A Table with Quite a View


Author: Nate

Pairing: Paris/Rory, Paris POV

Inspired by: Just something that flew into my mind after a
conversation with Freelance, not inspired by any particular episode. It
does reference most Paris/Rory scenes from seasons two and three. This
is what you end up with after a long drooling session with a fellow
luster
of the French soda monitor. Plaid skirts are going to be the death of
us!

Rating: R (swearing, naughty femslash thoughts, self-pleasuring)

Disclaimer: It's not my world, I just live vicariously through
it. Amy Sherman-Palladino paints the picture, Hofflund-Polone finds the
museum to hang it in, and Warner Bros. Television puts the word of
mouth out to see it, while hoping people decide to study the portrait
in detail, especially those little details that convince you to buy
appliances, breakfast pastries and orgasm-inducing shampoo, then waste
a half-hour of your life watching Off Centre.

Summary: How does subtext taste? Kind of like ranch dressing and
cherry tomatoes. Paris thinks of Rory as she sits across her at the
table during lunch, and looks back at the last year.

Improv: #12 (lips, accent, pain, button, wine)

Archiving: Subtextual Intercourse, Improv, GilmoreGirlsSlash,
and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.

Author's Notes: This is a story I wrote about a year and a half
ago on a whim, and never had plans to sequelize until my Paris/Rory
thoughts came back strong this week with all the talk of the kiss
they're sharing during a dance scene in Girls in Bikinis, Boys Doin' the Twist.
I haven't seen it yet, but I hope to have a second part to this story
out soon after that. I also have plans to use more Season Three subtext
to eventually bring the two together, and POV switches with each
chapter (Paris in the odd-numbered, Rory's thoughts in the even, along
with some combined POVs later on).

My thanks to Freelance
for the interesting conversation about subtext that inspired this
story.
lenglenge words are bolded.

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Really, I don't mind sitting
across from Rory
Gilmore all the time at lunch. It's not as if I have a choice in the
matter however.

It's been in the Chilton bylaws since 1938 that the president elected
by the student body must sit at the same table as the vice president in
the dining hall, and next to them during assemblies in the auditorium,
on stage or in the audience. The reason why is unknown to history, but
supposedly according to a past president, it shows strength and
resilience in the student government when we sit in the same place.

Funny they would say that. Because I feel my weakest when I'm sitting
near or next to Rory.

When I found out the poll results from Madeline and Louise last year, I
panicked like I usually did. I jumped to the first conclusion that I
had, and immediately thought my chances of getting elected were slim to
none. I was going against a boy who promised the world and the stars,
and
a girl who tried to convince the boys to vote for her by trying to pull
a Basic Instinct stunt as I went on about my agenda if I were elected.

My first thoughts after finding out I was universally disliked were
that of promising more than I was actually going to do. Fuck it,
I thought, Little Debbie, sign on the dotted line and turn this
school into Times Square, full of ads for Swiss cake rolls and oatmeal
cream
pies
. Thankfully, my mind thought better.

For awhile.

It went through your general list of candidates who I felt worthy
of being vice-president alongside me. I went through the names I
remembered being in the top thirty of our class. Most of them had
achieved fame in clubs such as chess and the mathlete team. A few were
just quiet students, coasting along and knowing that their mothers
would be happy if they were 22nd in the class and had some tough times
in calculus. A couple of them, forget it. The only reason their grades
were so high was because either they or one of their parents had
succumbed to a teacher's sexual favor.

My mind was up to 15th in class when I directed my gaze over to Rory,
sitting alone in the middle of a sea of chairs in the hall, furiously
writing up her story on how each of us candidates did with each of our
speeches for her op-ed column.

And just like that, I decided to throw my campaign on her shoulders.
Damn her.

When she came two years ago, I was the strong one, able to order her on
command not to do something. Many a time I told her to forget even
bothering to ask for my notes, or to be my partner in a project. But my
grip on
her eventually faded, slowly but surely. A bump here caused by a
misinterpreted date with Tristan, another somewhere else when I was
spurned when I just wanted to go over debate transcripts with her...

Yeah Paris, keep telling yourself you were just going to do academic
stuff with Rory that cool March night. The moment she said no to you so
she could spend time getting to know that ditzy vessel her father
called a girlfriend, you felt a pain rise through your stomach,
and hit you in the heart, where it hurt you the most.

That's right, I'm in love with Rory. And if it weren't for that Sherrie
bitch, I might've been able to finally tell that to her a few months
earlier. It was perfect, a dozen roses delivered to the house,
candlelight dinner with soft classical playing throughout the house. I
had a Eisenhower-era vintage bottle of wine sitting on the work
table in my bedroom, where I hoped to show Rory that she was way too
good for Tristan, and Dean, along with everyone who ever carried an XY
chromosome.

But whenever I get close, something pushes me away from her. So instead
of inhaling her scent as we made love to each other, I sat in my room
in dead silence, the wine glasses put back in the pantry, and the
alcohol
my love and me were supposed to share sitting in my bottom desk drawer
once again. And I sat there, wondering how I could get that bottle
opened
up one day in the future.

So I stayed persistent. I begged for her help when I got a B in class.
I've gotten B grades before, back in 7th grade I took it a little too
easy and slacked off. A B wasn't even a big deal to my mother honestly,
she
just would ask me to try harder next time, honest.

But sometimes when you're in love, you have to lie. I turned on the
Gellar charm (what little of it I have), and told her I'd never even
gotten a B in my life. Sucker, she said she'd help me out a week later.

I decided to stop by her house and see if she would help me out after
school, even after she said she was busy. Funny, she didn't look too
busy, folding her clothes for a night alone with herself. My first
thoughts
as she said that were very perverted. In my mind, it was just her
laying
on that couch with thoughts of me actually initiating a real, truly
passionate kiss as the emergency Romeo in our Shakespeare project. And
her wanting
to take it beyond that boundary, into somng tng truly impure.

I can dream though, can't I?

Just the sound of her voice talking about obscure equations made me
feel weak in her presence. It's those blue eyes that always do it to
me, and the way she bites her lip in concentration as we ponder
a solution to the problem. She can just make me go all aflutter just by
doing her homework in front of me. Thank God she concentrates real
hard, because I was scoping her out as she read the problems to me. She
was laying on that couch in the perfect position for me to just walk up
and sweep her into my arms. I
sat there idly writing notes on my paper, as I imagined what kind of
satin or cotton layer was beneath the fly button and zipper of
her jeans. Or if there was a layer at all. She's way too pure to go
that far though, so I don't even venture to think of her that way.
Well, not that much.

They say to imagine people in their underwear when you give a speech.
With Rory Gilmore though, I do it all the time, even when no speech is
being given. I have an inner pervert trapped inside of me, I swear.

I wished that the hour would go on and on, and that after awhile I
could finally admit my feelings for her. But then the boys who fawn
over her had to come in and ruin my fun once again. Dean and Jess, the
equivalent to two guards standing watch over the gates of my personal
Buckingham Palace named Lorelai Leigh, but who keep denying me access
to her. I had to fake being interested in what both of them said, then
hope the aching I was going to get was light when I had to lie through
my teeth and tell Dean I was
interested in Jess, and that's the reason I came over.

What I really wanted to say was "Hi Dean, do you mind if I get down on
one knee and decide to confide my eternal love for your girlfriend
of eighteen months? It's not as if you're ever going to let her get
past
second base anyways, and I'm sure that us being gay would be something
you'd totally embrace." Love made me numb once again though, and I
didn't
confess my feelings for her that night, even being able to sleepover at
her house, my stomach filled with snacks my mother warned me never to
touch,
and my knowledge of the Pythagorean Theorem being threatened to be lost
forever, replaced by the strains of the opening theme to Muppets
Take
Manhattan
, along with the usual vivid fantasies of us making love
to
each other. Rory is holding my soul hostage, yet she doesn't even know
it.

So who do I ask first to be my partner in crime when it comes to the
Chilton council? My favorite coffee-addicted brunette, of course. I
wasn't going to be stuck with a nobody for a running mate, and Rory fit
the bill perfectly. She was the perfect Al Gore substitute, except for
the stick up her ass and claim of inventing the internet. I was Clinton
out out that whole thing for land deals and chasing every tail that
happened to walk by the Oval Office door.

I had to make an impassioned speech to her about how important this was
to me, and we were totally the perfect campaign ticket. I was so
desperate to get her running beside me I even pointed out we shared a G
in our last names, and it rung off the tongue perfectly. Gilmore and
Gellar; Gellar and Gilmore. I ignored the little voice inside my head
that wanted me to sweep her off to Montpelier and put a hyphen in the
middle of our surnames.

Finally after minutes of her not listening, and with her running out of
the room looking at me as if I just escaped Bellvue, I got the excuse
out of my pocket that was like my get out of jail free card. I brought
up Harvard.

Suddenly she was cooperative, although I could tell she did it
half-heartedly and without much effort on her part. But hey, Cheney
sits on his ass all day waiting for that moment to come out of the
bullpen that is sure never to come, there was an excellent chance Rory
would do nothing in her capacity.

I got to look over the ballots after the voting was finished and we
were declared the winning ticket. Somehow I knew in my mind that it
wasn't the band that saved our hides from being in the loser column.
Everyone
can see that Rory and me have this secret thing going on, that both of
us will just never acknowledge. And I think that won me a lot of favor
I may not have gotten if I ran with a boy. I'm sure that some of those
boys
voted for us because girl/girl tickets inspire corrupted thoughts, and
they
were hoping to hear juicy details of a romance when we came back from
D.C.

Washington. Damn it, if that isn't a waste of a good six weeks to
get the girl, especially when she's sharing a room with me, I sure
fucked
it up big time.

It was my overdone itineraries that did away with any chance of
romancing Gilmore at all. Everything was pre-scripted with the tour
groups, the organizers of the conference, and with the other students
who were in it with us.
By the time midnight had rolled around after a moonlight tour of the
Mall
where the thought of taking Rory with me all alone to the foot of the
Jefferson Memorial and confessing to her my undying love seemed like it
was going to happen, I had to bury it under the excuse of yet another
meet and greet with the loser congressman who represents my home
district and trying to remember all the details of a Supreme Court
decision we were going to be heavily tested on two days later.

And it was on that trip I learned that I dream aloud. Rory shook me
awake one night, and wondered what I was dreaming about that I was
screaming so loud into the night. She said I shouted "Oh baby!" at the
top of my lungs, and I was tossing and turning alot.

I knew what it the mirage was about though. I was having another sexual
fantasy about her. I could tell because the buttons on my nightgown
were undone down to the middle of my breasts, apparently I also
unknowingly
take off clothes when I'm in my dreamworld. Thankfully the heavy
comforter
above me hid the image to the world and Rory. After a little comforting
from her and a sly move by myself to button my gown back up, she went
back
to bed. This as I lay on the bed thanking the Lord for not letting Rory
find out that my dreams were not involving famous Post writers
from
the Nixon administration. It took me three nights to get down that she
was Woodward and I was Bernstein in my rest.

She didn't talk about the boys in her life much during that trip,
so by the third week I knew there was trouble in paradise. I wasn't
going to be pushy about it, so I stayed silent, yet told her if she
needed an ear I'd be there. Sure, I'd have to hear about how well Dean
treated her, yet how rebellious and all-around interesting Jess was in
her eyes, but I felt it would be worth it in the end to be a comforting
influence, and would help her realize that I'm not always bitter
towards her, that I can make a good shoulder to cry on. She saved me
that torture, so for that I must thank her profusely.

By the end of the conference, I found out that a guy named Jamie had
asked me out. He was everything that I would love in a boy, killer
smile araderades, wonderful conversationalist, and someone who I could
see fathering my children someday.

Sadly though, he planned everything out to the last detail, so I was
mind-numbingly bored sig ing in a restaurant frequented by tourists
with him. And sadly, the whole time, I was thinking about Rory, and how
lonely she must be back at the hotel waiting for me to come back so we
could reminisce about the times spent by us in the nation's capital.

I also felt like I was cheating on her. I promised myself the moment
Tristan left that until I could find the True One, I was not to date
any guy or girl. Unless it was Rory, the girl of my dreams. So I sat
there picking at my salad as Jamie went on about how awesome Princeton
was going to be, poking at the cherry tomatoes with my fork, and
pouring the Hidden Valley Ranch on heavy, bathing the iceberg lettuce
in the stuff. All I did during the date was bring up some kind of topic
Jamie could go on and on about, so I could sit there and hear him speak
as I thought about Rory.

I knew I shouldn't have felt that way, after all it was a girl I hadn't
talked my feelings out with yet, I had no obligation to her at all. She
told me to go out and have a blast with Jamie, hell if it was late,
stay out all hours with the guy.

Instead, I brushed off his timid flirtations, told him nicely that he
wasn't my type and it was never going to work out, and thanked him for
the lovely dinner. I then walked back into my room, and with Rory still
reading in the closet, slipped out of my pink dress, and crawled into
bed wearing only my black silk lingerie, dreaming that someday, any
day,
I could finally get it across to Rory that she was the only one I ever
thought
of loving.

I lay in my bed, recalling how her hands felt in my locks as she
brushed it with her fingers, after I asked her how you knew a guy was
right for you. I don't know why I said 'guy' instead of 'someone' like
I planned in my mind so my statement would be gender-neutral. g
wg
was, I didn't want to accent the fact that I was interested in
both sexes to Rory. If I said someone, she might try to start on a
tangent, and wonder why I wouldn't say guy or girl. And I didn't want
to learn then if she was truly straight, with nary a gay thought in
that beautiful body of hers.

Still, her advice to me as those nimble fingers worked my hair into
something I had never before could be formed with my tresses resonated
within me, as I ignored the fact she was applying it to men. "You'll
find
someone who compliments you," she says to me in that tone she uses that
has made me go along with her crazy thoughts. It was then I knew that
Jamie
was someone who could compliment me, but it wasn't enough for me. Rory
has
never seen the negatives in me, and though I know she'll be at home
telling
Lorelai "that nutty Paris is going to be the death of me," it's all in
fun.
In between Louise's biting jabs to weaken her resolve to stay in
Chilton,
and Madeline being over eager to be her friend, I'm downright normal in
her
eyes. I don't let the high life control me like it does those two, and
I'm
conservative on the outside. I'm never going to be frivolous with
money,
because the vices would continue to make me feel empty if I never found
that love.

When Rory is around, I feel full of life. And when she's not around but
in my thoughts at night as I imagine her fingers brushing up inside of
me, her hushed voice tickling my earlobe, she makes me whole. I thought
of her and her voice in that room almost alone that night, my hand
against the wetted dark silk of my crotch, as the fingers on my other
hand brushed slowly against my erect nipples, prone against the lace of
my bra. I prayed to God that I wouldn't be discovered as I drove myself
to orgasm beneath
those blankets, wishing my hands were feeling the soft flesh of Rory's
ass
as her pubic bone crushed into and created friction with mine. Sweated
dripped off my brow as my fingers drifted further inside of me,
thankful that my
passion was silent on this night. If I'm in my room, I'll usually be a
lot
less reserved than I was, laying here on a dorm bed that has had many
more
memories than only mine.

I bite down on my lower lip as the tip of my index finger finds the
spot I imagine her touching one day, that microscopic bit of flesh that
turns me from the studious schoolgirl she usually sees into the
passionate woman who reveres her as the most beautiful girl, and
competitive equal
in my world. I imagine my senses taking in the aroma of her fruity
shampoo which is mixed in with the scent of a wildflower, and can feel
the hair on my head become heavy against my shoulders as the sweat
builds up in
it.

With the thought of fucking her inside of my father's den in his big
leather office chair in my mind, clothes all over the place and the
scent of sex in the air, my pleasuring becomes faster and faster, and
my prayers are now heavier, I'm hoping Rory doesn't hear the sound of
my mattress squeaking and my short little squeaks of enjoyment as I
edge closer to the brink of coming, with her in the room, albeit in a
closet with some walls that don't let sound through easily.

Finally, with a hard tug of my clit, I start coming, and for a minute
and a half, Rory is my entire world, as I ride out the most satisfying
orgasm I've ever had. I imagine her doing the same at the same time in
my arms, the loud utterances of our names with the occasional scream
the
only thing you can hear in the room. Her eyes are shut as she tries to
savor
the moment that I have created for her, and at the same time I thank
God
that he decided to have that girl attend Chilton two years ago. I feel
pleasure
ebb through my entire body, and I try to lengthen it as much as I
possibly
can, furiously rubbing at my groin to finish myself off, thinking of
her
breasts in my hands.

With my orgasm ng ang and my panties completely soaked through, my body
finally starts to settle down, and I lay there as I put the nightgown
next to my bed on, still unbelieving that my most rewarding climax came
but with nary a whisper, I bit on my tongue and lips so hard to keep
myself shut up I swear I can feel an indent from the teeth marks on my
lower lip. With that, I throw on the nightgown, and after a little time
to calm down, take off my bra and panties, and put them in the lower
layer of my overnight bag, hoping that with my bag zipped up my only
episode of self-love in Washington would never be known to anyone but
me. That was one load of laundry I was going to do myself when I got
back to Hartford.

I pretend to fall asleep, and Rory comes out of the closet a half-hour
later, her mind full of knowledge. If only she'd have taken getting out
of that closet literally, I'd be one happy girl. She whispered me a
good night, and proceeded to change in the bathroom, and then go to
bed. She wasn't on to me and my activities that night, thank goodness.

The morning after, she said I didn't dream aloud as usual, and I just
brushed it off as a fluke. Of course, that's because I got my dreaming
in a little earlier than that. As we packed, we talked about Washington
and how we hoped to come back someday. Then she brought up Jamie and
asked
if I enjoyed it. I dodged the question, except to say I had a fine time
with him, and maybe I'd go out with him again sometime. If only to
not
make my mother suspicious
, I thought.

We went our separate ways at Bradley, her for Lorelai and me for
Francisca. I love my nanny like a sister, and she's the only one who
knows about my secret love for Gilmore. She can't tell my mom, who
doesn't understand much Portuguese besides basic commands, and she
knows someone who is gay, so
we both win. I can't come out to my mom because I'm afraid she'll think
I'm
a failure because in a desperate bid for companionship I chose to be a
lesbian. She puts so much self-loathing in me, and keeps convincing me
that the guys she has me date on occasion are the best for my future. I
knew if I admitted my interest in girls, she'd be on the phone to a But
I'm a Cheerleader
-like camp so fast, my head would spin. Keeping up
appearances, she'd call it.

Stifling my sexuality might be a better term.

I didn't see Rory again till after Labor Day and the start of Chilton,
where we wbothboth sworn in as president and vice-president. My agenda,
along with Rory were on my mind as I called the first meeting.
Immediately, things turned sour.

Francine Jarvis, leader of the Puffs and my new worst enemy, asked if I
could put a good word in to Charleston to have the skirt hems raised.
My first thought was definitely not, no way was Miss Perfect going to
get her way with me. I'm still convinced the initiation was a setup by
Francie and her goons to get me and Rory in deep trouble somehow, and
if she liked revenge, I could serve it back to her ice cold with a side
of screw off.

By some means, I knew this wasn't going to be easy to brush off.
Despite my persistence, I knew she'd go to any end to get what she
wanted, but I didn't count on her blackmailing Rory.

Somehow, she managed to know Rory was my weakness. Damn Francie for
that.

With Rory being persistent after Francie brouit uit up, I knew Francie
had influenced her somehow. I knew, but I wasn't going to say anything
because it was such a stupid thing to yell at Rory about. She convinced
me that maybe if I threw Francie a bone, she'd back out. So I decided
to say yes, but only because at the last minute I had an impure thought
of my
brown-hair ingénue in a shorter skirt which I really loved.

So basically the hemline controversy didn't come down to my feud with
Jarvis, nor was it influenced by a group of students begging me to let
the issue pass. It was because my inner pervert screamed out and asked
me
to bite on this hook, line and sinker. I know the day I come out, the
history books will reflect on my decision as 'Miss Gellar wanted more
of a gander at Miss Gilmore's gams.'

Ladies and gentlemen, this is what happens when you hang around Tristan
DuGrey for eleven years, you end up making decisions in government
based on how hot your girl is! Thank you Tristan, wherever in the Tar
Heel State you are, being trained in 55 forms of hand-to-hand combat
and enjoying
food only a mother whose idea of high cuisine is Stouffer's could love!

I keep thinking she doesn't want me; I'm paranoid around her all the
time these days. After an assembly I hosted with her about applying to
college, I realized I had done too much when it came to charity
functions. I called Rory on her cell phone and asked her to reassure
me, but instead she thought I was panicking too much, and hung up on
me. She apologized the next day and said she was in a panic herself.

See, we even get wound up the same way, Blind Date would have a
fucking ball charting how many similarities me and Rory share!

 I sit here across from Rory, reflecting on everything that
happened between us the last eleven months as she sits across from me
in the dining hall, as Madeline and Louise chatter on about who's
hotter, that carpenter on Trading Spaces or a cute geek guy
named Kevin from TechTV that Madeline came across one day while channel
surfing.

They're saying this as both me and Rorck ock over the item we've picked
out for our lunch everyday as a side since the first day of school last
year. Each of us has a salad with quite a few leaves of lettuce, and
cherry tomatoes. And we both slather each of our salads with three
packets of
ranch dressing, the better to get a lot of taste out of it.

I sit there everyday, staring at her salad and the way she eats it, and
she does the same stare for mine, as if the salads connect us in some
weird way. We both take time out of eating if one of us has a little
ranch dressing around our mouths, and we usually eat it in relative
silence,
her listening to her CD Walkman, while I compute a complicated equation
in my mind for a later math class.

Occasionally, our legs brush up against each other, and it takes
everything I have not to just close the distance between us and kiss
her. Her blue hosiery is a tease to me, and one day I hope she decides
to leave them at home, coming to school with her legs uncovered and
naked. The feel of her nylon hosiery is always something I imagine
before I go to bed at night, and hopefully the day she comes wearing
knee socks instead of pantyhose, I can initiate some quiet flirting
with her, and start a cute little game of footsie, with us silently
playing the game in a room filled with 800 other people, no one the
wiser.

And it's now that I realize my thoughts are veering into X-rated
territory, so I stop them in their tracks.

But in anticipation of the day I decide I've had enough of just
dreaming of Lorelai Leigh Gilmore and have her fall in love with me, I
can be content in letting my feelings for her out slowly and surely. We
see each other from sunrise to sunset, and with the winter coming up,
we're sure to be going back and forth between Stars Hollow and Hartford
in our cars for various projects. That time alone with her should be
enough to try to make her fall for me romantically.

For now though, there's a more pressing issue that needs to be taken
care of.

"Rory, ranch dressing, right side of your mouth, you might need to
stretch it out a little this time."

She blushes and smiles at me. "Uh, thanks for pointing that out Paris,
I'm glad we're such good friends."

I smile back slightly. "Not a problem Gilmore."

Now it's time for me to sit back and enjhe she show as Rory works
her tongue around her mouth, removing the offending glob of dressing.
For now, I take delight in the fact that I can imagine my tongue is up
against hers instead of a tangy salad topping.

The Simpsons were dead wrong. You do win friends with salad. And
perhaps, in the not-so-distant future, the eternal love of another
woman.

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To be continued...




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