fic: they're the vanderbilts, not the corleones.
they’re the vanderbilts, not the corleone’s
gossip girl, blair/tripp, rated pg, words 777
“Little Blair Waldorf doesn’t want to play?” Her head turns to meet Tripp Vanderbilt coolly smoking a joint about three feet away from her.
notes: I’m officially a crack fiend, no? this is for mocca_fix_gold.
She sips too fast and far too much and the champagne goes to her head, swirling there like a cloud. It’s not her normal speed, but she wants to keep up with Nate, wants to keep his eyes on her.
She’s always been a fool for fruitless efforts, legs swinging over the side of the cold stone balustrade while she watches Chuck’s scarf and Nate’s blazer trial after a mane of golden hair and her lips twist vindictively when she watches the blonde being tackled to snow.
Chenille never recovers from being wet and she strokes down her own silk skirt with a self satisfied air, eyes trained away from the scene before her. Tells herself it’s worth saving an Eleanor original and her dignity to refrain from hijinks with the boys and she’s just about convinced herself when an arm brushes against her shoulder.
“Little Blair Waldorf doesn’t want to play?” Her head turns to meet Tripp Vanderbilt coolly smoking a joint about three feet away from her.
Her nose crinkles and she turns it away, a little too high in the air even for a Vanderbilt to stomach but Tripp’s all about defying expectations and such so he reaches for her hand.
“You can have fun without crinkling that skirt of yours,” he offers, eyes sliding down to her legs and he’s got this odd sort of smirk that she can’t decide if she likes so she doesn’t look back as she follows him, tiny cold finger tucked into his jacket and she manages to not pretend that it’s Nate’s arm she’s hanging off.
*
All right.
So, she’s definitely visited the Vanderbilt home before and since, Nate’s always been confident that he’s grandfather’s favorite, he’d snuck them into the kitchens once and the cellars too.
Tripp walks over the place like he already owns it and the old man’s cold in the ground and she can’t help but think he’s a tad more brave than Nate.
He pours himself a glass of Bordeaux from the private stash- older than of their ages combined and downs it the way Serena takes water for her hangovers. A chill creeps up her spine.
Definitely braver and possibly more fun, as well as he kicks back his heels on the desk , toasting her profile and the way he say’s “Here’s looking at you kid,” makes her blush a little.
He’s downed another two glasses and she’s still nursing her first when they decide to rummage through the drawers, fumbling paper work, ink and very expensive pens till Tripp seems to find what he’s looking for.
It’s an old fossil and Blair’s disappointed to be honest but he shakes his sandy head with a touch of old bitterness as he recounts exactly what dear old Grandfather said with Tripp wanted take Archaeology. He’s good at this- imitating people and he makes her giggle with his deep intonation even though he doesn’t intend to.
He wears it well, this politician thing- like a blazer that’s cut for him but it’s heavy with years of tradition. He’s weak enough to take it and just about strong enough to carry it but his voice cracks a little when he reaches the part where he’s likened to the hired help, so she puts down her drink and kisses him.
Firmly quickly and on the mouth and he’s just enough of a cad to part his lips and kiss her back and she thinks the drink tastes better in his mouth so she lets him kiss her a little more, since it’s all practice any way. She tilts her head the way she saw Georgina do last week behind the stairwell at Constance and he grasps her hair and tips back her head before pulling away.
He asks her if she’s ever kissed anyone before.
She thinks “no” and “Nate” and noses bumping together under the fireworks, last winter and how he won’t look her in the eye anymore but decides that a little inaccuracy sometimes saves tons of explanation so she shakes her head and her fingers curl on the sleeve of his sweater as he tugs her towards him again.
She slides a hand up his arm, the pin at the cuff of her blouse catching in his green cashmere wool and he laughs and mumbles something about hearts on sleeves and she decides Tripp Vanderbilt can be unintentionally romantic.
Unintentionally wise, too and his liquor coated tongue seeks entrance to her lips and she stores it all away for later information.