Tonights episode was good but it saddend me that i got no b+c action at all! not many references either! I dont know about you guys but im sooooo ready for some hard core lovely blair and chuck romance!!! It seems as though ive been waiting forever!!!
Well because of the lact of blair chuck in this episode and due to the anticipation of next weeks steaming episode....instead of writting a review/opinion article like i normally do weekly i decided to share/post a fan fic i found on the internet that i just love ... hope you do too!!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with gossipgirl or this fanfic
Author: ibreak4csi @ livejournal
06 August 2008 @ 11:55 pm
Fic: Shades of Lust and Splendor (1/1)
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Summary: She sighs into his mouth, all lipstick and ivory skin and vanilla scented hair, and she's come back to him again because she's Blair Waldorf and he's Chuck Bass and that is what they do.
Timeline: Starts mid to late first season. No one knows about Chuck and Blair.
Shades of Lust and Splendor
"Fuck you, Bass," she snarls through flawlessly painted lips. How he aches to mar that perfection, to devour her lips with his own, to mark her, brand her. His.
"Why would I when you're so willing to do the deed yourself?"
"Go to hell."
"I'm sure I will someday."
She hesitates for the merest breath of a second, running through her repertoire of comebacks, and stalks off in a dramatic huff when she comes up empty handed, her cherry red Manolo Blahniks tapping determinedly across the empty foyer and echoing off of the staunch, mausoleum-esque walls, leaving nothing in her wake but a cloud of tarnished innocence and perfume.
He doesn't want to follow her. But he really does.
And as he looks down, he sees his feet already moving, propelling him after her.
She pretends not to hear him, radiating anger and disdain from her motionless position directly in front of the elevator which, his lucky day, seems to be taking its sweet time.
He's not going to say it again, just leans there casually against the wall, his trademark sweater protecting him from the chill of the cold, hard marble.
He can see when she begins to waver, her eyes flicking towards him once. Make that two, three, four...
When the universal ding sounds, signifying the arrival of the elevator, the doors slide open, and the 70 year old woman inside sees nothing but an Argyle sweater and a designer shoe lying together, out of place, on the pretentiously shiny tile. "Kids," she mutters, and extends her frail hand with its paper skin and blue veins, presses the button for the doors to slide shut.
Twenty feet and two walls away, they're already half naked, her teeth leaving their vicious mark on his lips, neck, shoulder -- she was always like this, the most whorish innocent he's ever possessed. He loves her for it. Well, not her, of course, but he loves that about her.
Bullshit. He loves her and everything about her and damn it, would his brain just fucking shut up already.
He silences himself by burying his face in the softness of her hair. Because that doesn't prove the point at all...
She looks softer, warmer in the yellow rays of summer.
She feels it, too, as he drags the back of his knuckles across her inner thigh, finding aesthetic pleasure in the sun and salt and sand and skin, his senses heightened and alert...and then it's over, with a gasp and a sting as she slaps his hand away.
"Nate could see," she hisses, perfectly whitened teeth clenched, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses.
"And I'm with him."
"That didn't seem to make a difference this morning."
He doesn't even attempt to keep the smirk from forming, and she doesn't answer, just presses her lips together until they whiten and angles her body slightly away from his.
"Hey, B! Come and join us." Serena calls from further up the beach, and he deliberately lets his gaze slide over the tall blonde just long enough to make the brunette beside him clench her small fists.
"Fucking pig," she mutters under her breath as she stands, and he isn't sure whether she wanted him to hear or not.
They're getting far too temerarious with their meetings.
Luckily, Nate's still Nate, so he doesn't suspect a thing because hey, his girlfriend is sleeping with him, so she couldn't possibly want anyone else.
She couldn't want anyone else while they were fucking at Nate's party, hidden away upstairs in satin sheets and sweat while birthday boy sat downstairs, happy as a clam, waiting for his faithful Queen B to come back from the little girls' room.
She couldn't want anyone else while she kisses Nate, staring at him over gullible little boyfriend's shoulder. She closes her eyes when she remembers she should. She isn't supposed to be in love with him. Hell, she isn't supposed to like him.
But she does. He knows. And he knows she knows it, too, but would rather walk through hell than admit it.
He still parades around with random bimbos on his arm. He's even slept with two or three of them for appearance's sake, made sure they were seen leaving his suite with their rumpled hair and wrinkled garments screaming that they had just spent the night with Chuck Bass. It would be a lie to say that he hadn't enjoyed it.
But it would be more of a lie to say that he hadn't shut his eyes and pictured Blair every time.
It's the first day of their senior year, and the sight of her in that uniform does things to him that he doesn't remember feeling the year before. Apparently, it's a common reaction, and he slams his fist into a brick wall when no one's watching because guys are devouring her with their hot, greedy eyes everywhere she turns, and she is not his to defend. At least, not in name.
That's not going to change, and he doesn't give a damn because he isn't cut out for that shit anyway. But the next morning she has to wear a Hermes scarf tied around her neck to hide his brand, dark and menacing on lily white skin.
"You're jealous." Her voice, tainted with flaunted victory, invades his solitude that afternoon. He doesn't look at her, leans his head back, insouciantly exhaling the smoke to lace its tendrils around his head and watching as it slowly dissipates like fog in the sunrise.
"Go away, Blair."
She just smiles and saunters closer, and she's twisting the end of her scarf around her index finger, confident in the knowledge that she could do the same to him if she wanted. She already is, and he's fucking sick of it and loves it at the same time.
"You sure you mean that?"
"I'm not in the mood."
"Well, aren't we pouty today. Whatever, I'll just go see Nate. It's not like I need you."
"Bullshit." The word slips out inadvertently. He doesn't mean to say it, but there it is. A fortuitous revelation, a gauntlet that is damn ready to be thrown.
He says nothing.
"I do not need you. I don't need anyone."
Again, no words. There's a miniscule raising of the eyebrows, a careless hand flicking away the remnants of a used cigarette.
"God, you're conceited."
"A fact for which you've always known and loved me."
She rolls her eyes and purses her lips in disgust and turns away in a manner to which he has become well accustomed, her words telling him that they're over for real this time because he's such an ass and she can't believe she had even let him touch her to begin with, experience telling him that she'll be back just like she always is.
It's three weeks later and two in the morning when she shows up, a fallen angel returning to stake her claim on his soul.
She sighs into his mouth, all lipstick and ivory skin and vanilla scented hair, and she's come back to him again because she's Blair Waldorf and he's Chuck Bass and that is what they do.
"So does this mean I'm right?"
She smirks against his lips. "Don't push your luck, Bass."
"Wouldn't dream of it."