Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget [Part XXXI] Georgina/Chuck/Blair
Title: Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget
Author: cynicalshadows (a.k.a. Alicia)
Pairings/Characters: Chuck/Georgina, Chuck/Blair
Rating: R, also M for Mature, and D for DARK - Don't say I didn't warn you!
Chapter: 31?
Word Count: 1633
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: We all have demons we can't escape, and even Chuck Bass had been innocent...once.
Girl every time I see you
You’re with a different man
You tell ‘em that you love ‘em
And then take everything you can
You’re livin’ life in the fast lane
You’re no longer Daddy’s girl
Can’t stay with just one man
You gotta love ‘em all around the world
-Color Me Badd-
She crawls carefully from under the meaty arm draped over her. The likelihood of waking the already snoring oaf from his orgasm induced coma is rather small, but she isn’t taking any chances. She smoothes the rumpled silk of her chemise back down over her hips as she gets out of the king-sized bed, feet sinking into the plush carpet soundlessly. The eager asshole hadn’t even bothered to take it off her first before he started pumping his stubby cock into her, panting foul air into her face as sweat poured from his skin at the exertion his body was no longer used to handling. Thank God the disgusting act was over practically before it began.
With a disparaging sneer at the drowsing idiot she’d left alone on the mattress, she stalks to the bathroom, snatching her crimson and black robe on the way and hanging it on the little hook on the back of the door after she locks it firmly behind her. She desperately needs a shower, to wash his filthy smell and lecherous caress off her, and it would not do if he miraculously got up and decided to join her. She has had enough of the pig for one evening.
If he wasn’t the Prince of Belfort, there is no way she would allow him to touch her in the first place. But he is, and so she does, using the difference in their ages and her pretended desire for him to twist him to her will, wrapping him around her slender fingers.
After all, a man past his prime is pathetically easy to manipulate. He wants to feel robust again, virile, attractive. A nubile young thing spread out beneath him, purring his name like he’s irresistible is just what the vain fool requires in order to delude himself that he is not fat, old, balding, and gross. Of course, the obvious downside of this is that one actually has to sleep with the loser, revolting as the case may be. Sometimes one gets lucky, and the guy is so grateful for the pity fuck that he will more than make up for his lack of youthful vigor by lavishing intimate attention on her for hours, not wanting to disappoint the mid-life crisis fantasy girl in the sack for fear she will turn to some hotter, younger stud to satisfy her needs. Other times, well… If the selfish prick has to rush because he’s too decrepit to get it up for more than a few minutes, he probably shouldn’t be having sex in the first place. And it never fails that these are the imbeciles who act like they are doing her a favor and not the other way around.
What is it about Viagra that makes ridiculous slobs think they are Lotharios between the sheets?
With a smooth motion, she whisks her slip over her head and drops it into the waste basket. There is no way she would willingly wear it again, the luxuriously fine material having absorbed too much perspiration from the obese bastard in the last ten minutes for her to ever consider it clean enough to adorn her porcelain flesh once more. A vigorous washing only can do so much, and why keep it when she can convince him to buy her a dozen replacements?
If she sticks around that long…
She steps under the warm spray, letting the sluicing water rinse all traces of him off her, thinking that things have been getting a bit dull around here, and she craves excitement. She appreciates being treated like a princess day after day, but her elderly prince is shit as a lover however much he indulges her every whim outside the bedroom. And Switzerland itself, for all the fantastic skiing and breathtaking vistas, is not nearly as exhilarating as elsewhere in Europe.
However, her funds are somewhat limited at the moment. Her Goddamned parents had cut off her allowance when they’d discovered she was no longer a participant on the equestrian circuit like they had thought. But it wasn’t like she had had much choice in the matter. She had sold her pony after all. Kind of hard to ride when one doesn’t have a horse.
Then they had demanded she come home, like they had ever given a shit before, and she had told them where they could shove it and promptly skipped town. But she’d make the mistake of trying to access her mother’s bank account in Los Angeles, and the investigative bulldog Mummy and Daddy dearest had hired to track her down was able to find her and force her to return to the Sparks’ country estate. Upon her arrival, she had immediately been sent to rehab! Fucking rehab with all those kooks who had drug problems! It was beyond hellish, except for those few days she got to trade stories with Lindsay Lohan, but then the party girl bailed and Georgina was stuck by herself with all these counselors wanting to have group therapy and talk about her supposed substance abuse issues! Escape became tantamount to survival.
Three weeks, one pervy janitor, and a blowjob later, and she had been able to make a break for it. She’d hitchhiked down the Utah highway, stolen a credit card, and hastily booked a flight to Ibiza. Once on the small Spanish island, she’d met the porky prince, and the rest was history.
Now, though, the thrill of conning a wealthy royal is fading. Soon she will be beyond bored. The time to move onto a bigger, better challenge is rapidly approaching.
She hops from the shower, winding a towel around her head, and slipping into her robe. Tying the sash closed as she tiptoes past the still sleeping lump on the bed, she heads downstairs to the computer room. Logging on, she checks her email, deleting endless spam her junk mail filter never manages to catch, and finding little else of interest, except for one message sent just yesterday.
Georgie,
Thought you’d be interested.
Carter
Below the short note is a link to an outside website. She clicks on it, and the easily recognizable layout of Gossip Girl’s blog begins filling her monitor. Why would Carter send her here? She doesn’t care about what those immature Manhattan brats are up to. She is so over petty high school rumors. The secrets she trades in are ones that that are so closely guarded that nobody, not even Gossip Girl knows about them. Still as the page finishes loading and a picture appears, her eyes widen in recognition.
The snapshot is of Chuck Bass sprawled across the trunk of a limo with Nate Archibald screaming into his face while apparently strangling him.
What the fuck?
She scrolls down further, revealing the text that accompanies the photograph.
- My, my. Looks like Queen B’s been busy. Banging the Boyfriend and the best friend? Classy. And why does this sound so familiar? But for now, it looks like the bromance is over, and B’s throne is vacant. Any takers? -
Holy shit!
Reaching out a manicured hand, she immediately picks up the phone next to her laptop and dials one of the only numbers she has memorized. The instant the other line answers, she grins, “Hello Carter.”
“Georgina! Long time no chat," he greets. “I take it you got my email?”
“Of course I did. Why else would I risk calling?”
“Touché,” he says. “I was just worried that you’d stopped checking your email when you cancelled all your old means of contact.”
“No, I kept this one. Mumsie and Popsie don’t know about it, and therefore cannot trace it.”
“Ah… Still on the run then?” Carter inquires.
“Always,” she sighs. “So why did you think to send me the Gossip Girl blast?”
He chuckles, a sensual sound that makes her insides tighten. “Well I know you used to be quite invested in Bass Jr.”
“As were you if memory serves,” she points out.
He is silent for a second. Then he replies begrudgingly, “So I was.”
“That’s so precious,” she taunts, knowing the motivation behind his pause. “You’re still sore over the prodigal protégé getting one over on you with that gambling debacle.”
“Yes, well your game must really be slipping for you not to have already known what was happening with him in Manhattan,” Carter sneers. “You used to be so much more connected.”
“I am still connected, Carter. Gossip Girl only posted this yesterday. I would have found it on my own without your help.”
“Okay, fine. Since you know everything already, I won’t tell you what else is new in his world then.”
“I…” she starts, gritting her teeth at being led into a position of having to admit ignorance. “You win. Spill.”
He laughs, “Your darling Chucky is getting what he’s always wanted more than the Waldorf.”
Georgina nearly chokes. “Bart Bass is getting married?”
“I told you that you were out of the loop,” he whispers mockingly, rejoicing in catching her unawares. It happens so infrequently. “And it only gets better. Guess who the lucky lady is?”
“Who?” she asks, interest piqued.
“Your other favorite pupil’s mother.”
“Lily van der Woodsen?” she screeches.
“The very same,” he confirms. “I hear they’re even moving in together in a few days. Looks like your babies will have more to bond over than just their hated of you.”
Her fingers curl around the phone so hard her knuckles turn white. “Tell me everything.”
A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. I've been having a horrible couple days and the next part will more than make up for it, believe me.
Author: cynicalshadows (a.k.a. Alicia)
Pairings/Characters: Chuck/Georgina, Chuck/Blair
Rating: R, also M for Mature, and D for DARK - Don't say I didn't warn you!
Chapter: 31?
Word Count: 1633
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: We all have demons we can't escape, and even Chuck Bass had been innocent...once.
Girl every time I see you
You’re with a different man
You tell ‘em that you love ‘em
And then take everything you can
You’re livin’ life in the fast lane
You’re no longer Daddy’s girl
Can’t stay with just one man
You gotta love ‘em all around the world
-Color Me Badd-
She crawls carefully from under the meaty arm draped over her. The likelihood of waking the already snoring oaf from his orgasm induced coma is rather small, but she isn’t taking any chances. She smoothes the rumpled silk of her chemise back down over her hips as she gets out of the king-sized bed, feet sinking into the plush carpet soundlessly. The eager asshole hadn’t even bothered to take it off her first before he started pumping his stubby cock into her, panting foul air into her face as sweat poured from his skin at the exertion his body was no longer used to handling. Thank God the disgusting act was over practically before it began.
With a disparaging sneer at the drowsing idiot she’d left alone on the mattress, she stalks to the bathroom, snatching her crimson and black robe on the way and hanging it on the little hook on the back of the door after she locks it firmly behind her. She desperately needs a shower, to wash his filthy smell and lecherous caress off her, and it would not do if he miraculously got up and decided to join her. She has had enough of the pig for one evening.
If he wasn’t the Prince of Belfort, there is no way she would allow him to touch her in the first place. But he is, and so she does, using the difference in their ages and her pretended desire for him to twist him to her will, wrapping him around her slender fingers.
After all, a man past his prime is pathetically easy to manipulate. He wants to feel robust again, virile, attractive. A nubile young thing spread out beneath him, purring his name like he’s irresistible is just what the vain fool requires in order to delude himself that he is not fat, old, balding, and gross. Of course, the obvious downside of this is that one actually has to sleep with the loser, revolting as the case may be. Sometimes one gets lucky, and the guy is so grateful for the pity fuck that he will more than make up for his lack of youthful vigor by lavishing intimate attention on her for hours, not wanting to disappoint the mid-life crisis fantasy girl in the sack for fear she will turn to some hotter, younger stud to satisfy her needs. Other times, well… If the selfish prick has to rush because he’s too decrepit to get it up for more than a few minutes, he probably shouldn’t be having sex in the first place. And it never fails that these are the imbeciles who act like they are doing her a favor and not the other way around.
What is it about Viagra that makes ridiculous slobs think they are Lotharios between the sheets?
With a smooth motion, she whisks her slip over her head and drops it into the waste basket. There is no way she would willingly wear it again, the luxuriously fine material having absorbed too much perspiration from the obese bastard in the last ten minutes for her to ever consider it clean enough to adorn her porcelain flesh once more. A vigorous washing only can do so much, and why keep it when she can convince him to buy her a dozen replacements?
If she sticks around that long…
She steps under the warm spray, letting the sluicing water rinse all traces of him off her, thinking that things have been getting a bit dull around here, and she craves excitement. She appreciates being treated like a princess day after day, but her elderly prince is shit as a lover however much he indulges her every whim outside the bedroom. And Switzerland itself, for all the fantastic skiing and breathtaking vistas, is not nearly as exhilarating as elsewhere in Europe.
However, her funds are somewhat limited at the moment. Her Goddamned parents had cut off her allowance when they’d discovered she was no longer a participant on the equestrian circuit like they had thought. But it wasn’t like she had had much choice in the matter. She had sold her pony after all. Kind of hard to ride when one doesn’t have a horse.
Then they had demanded she come home, like they had ever given a shit before, and she had told them where they could shove it and promptly skipped town. But she’d make the mistake of trying to access her mother’s bank account in Los Angeles, and the investigative bulldog Mummy and Daddy dearest had hired to track her down was able to find her and force her to return to the Sparks’ country estate. Upon her arrival, she had immediately been sent to rehab! Fucking rehab with all those kooks who had drug problems! It was beyond hellish, except for those few days she got to trade stories with Lindsay Lohan, but then the party girl bailed and Georgina was stuck by herself with all these counselors wanting to have group therapy and talk about her supposed substance abuse issues! Escape became tantamount to survival.
Three weeks, one pervy janitor, and a blowjob later, and she had been able to make a break for it. She’d hitchhiked down the Utah highway, stolen a credit card, and hastily booked a flight to Ibiza. Once on the small Spanish island, she’d met the porky prince, and the rest was history.
Now, though, the thrill of conning a wealthy royal is fading. Soon she will be beyond bored. The time to move onto a bigger, better challenge is rapidly approaching.
She hops from the shower, winding a towel around her head, and slipping into her robe. Tying the sash closed as she tiptoes past the still sleeping lump on the bed, she heads downstairs to the computer room. Logging on, she checks her email, deleting endless spam her junk mail filter never manages to catch, and finding little else of interest, except for one message sent just yesterday.
Georgie,
Thought you’d be interested.
Carter
Below the short note is a link to an outside website. She clicks on it, and the easily recognizable layout of Gossip Girl’s blog begins filling her monitor. Why would Carter send her here? She doesn’t care about what those immature Manhattan brats are up to. She is so over petty high school rumors. The secrets she trades in are ones that that are so closely guarded that nobody, not even Gossip Girl knows about them. Still as the page finishes loading and a picture appears, her eyes widen in recognition.
The snapshot is of Chuck Bass sprawled across the trunk of a limo with Nate Archibald screaming into his face while apparently strangling him.
What the fuck?
She scrolls down further, revealing the text that accompanies the photograph.
- My, my. Looks like Queen B’s been busy. Banging the Boyfriend and the best friend? Classy. And why does this sound so familiar? But for now, it looks like the bromance is over, and B’s throne is vacant. Any takers? -
Holy shit!
Reaching out a manicured hand, she immediately picks up the phone next to her laptop and dials one of the only numbers she has memorized. The instant the other line answers, she grins, “Hello Carter.”
“Georgina! Long time no chat," he greets. “I take it you got my email?”
“Of course I did. Why else would I risk calling?”
“Touché,” he says. “I was just worried that you’d stopped checking your email when you cancelled all your old means of contact.”
“No, I kept this one. Mumsie and Popsie don’t know about it, and therefore cannot trace it.”
“Ah… Still on the run then?” Carter inquires.
“Always,” she sighs. “So why did you think to send me the Gossip Girl blast?”
He chuckles, a sensual sound that makes her insides tighten. “Well I know you used to be quite invested in Bass Jr.”
“As were you if memory serves,” she points out.
He is silent for a second. Then he replies begrudgingly, “So I was.”
“That’s so precious,” she taunts, knowing the motivation behind his pause. “You’re still sore over the prodigal protégé getting one over on you with that gambling debacle.”
“Yes, well your game must really be slipping for you not to have already known what was happening with him in Manhattan,” Carter sneers. “You used to be so much more connected.”
“I am still connected, Carter. Gossip Girl only posted this yesterday. I would have found it on my own without your help.”
“Okay, fine. Since you know everything already, I won’t tell you what else is new in his world then.”
“I…” she starts, gritting her teeth at being led into a position of having to admit ignorance. “You win. Spill.”
He laughs, “Your darling Chucky is getting what he’s always wanted more than the Waldorf.”
Georgina nearly chokes. “Bart Bass is getting married?”
“I told you that you were out of the loop,” he whispers mockingly, rejoicing in catching her unawares. It happens so infrequently. “And it only gets better. Guess who the lucky lady is?”
“Who?” she asks, interest piqued.
“Your other favorite pupil’s mother.”
“Lily van der Woodsen?” she screeches.
“The very same,” he confirms. “I hear they’re even moving in together in a few days. Looks like your babies will have more to bond over than just their hated of you.”
Her fingers curl around the phone so hard her knuckles turn white. “Tell me everything.”
A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. I've been having a horrible couple days and the next part will more than make up for it, believe me.