fic: and one day she won't love you too (gossip girl, blair/georgina)
and one day she won't love you too
(gossip girl, blair/georgina)
no turtles harmed in the making of this study in out of characterness.
"Fuck."
Champagne coats the back of Blair's hand and surely, somewhere, a turtle will mistake the cork for food or a new buddy, maybe even a sister. This just in: Blair Waldorf destroys lives cross-species.
Except this is good, actually.
Not for the turtles, obviously, but it's the beach and it's quiet and, most importantly, there are no witnesses. Serena van der Woodsen tosses the bouquet and all the world is expectant; all the world is a stage, what the fuck not.
Blair cringes and stumbles along the sand, far away from cheers and corny music and curious cell phones. Gossip Girl may stick to a younger demographic now, but their respective engagements and divorces have been thoroughly documented all the same. She'll never forget the hideous picture attached to the update detailing the demise of Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, Chuck and Blair and the secretary, Blair and Chuck and the tennis instructor.
How pedestrian.
(And after tonight, it'll be Chuck and New Mrs. Bass and the maid of honor.)
The first glimpse of actual sea is rewarding. Nate's boat puts a slight damper on it, a way for reality to barge into her fantasy getaway. It is a lady's right to have a private meltdown. Eleanor Waldorf went as far as buying an island to ensure that right; Blair Waldorf only wants fifteen minutes alone in the Hamptons.
So of course she comes across a beach gremlin.
Blair stops, mildly incredulous, moderately drunk and most definitely annoyed. "Why are you still here?"
Georgina Sparks wears crumpled Balenciaga like sand is the new must-have, sitting cross-legged and mumbling around a lit cigarette. A lady knows the proper etiquette for a meltdown, a tramp will sit on the groom's lap until security escorts her out.
Blair tilts her head and furrows her brow. "And what the hell are you doing?" She gestures vaguely at the jade rosary Georgina goes through bead by bead, like she's even remotely serious.
"Praying away my vices."
Blair snorts. "Good luck with that," she says and takes two wobbly steps away, then promptly turns back. "By the way, Serena doesn't want you here."
Georgina is glaring when she looks up, purple eyeshadow unintentionally smudged way past her eyelids. "I don't see her looking for you."
"Touché," Blair retorts halfheartedly and plops down on the sand, with her bottle of champagne and sandals and utter dismay for the situation. Her best friend is marrying a gardener. Her best friend is marrying a gardener on a beach side ceremony in the Hamptons, and halfway through the wedding vows the worst kind of epiphany reared up its ugly head and threatened to offer Blair a second taste of a dozen canapés.
There'd been no option but to flee, really.
She watches Georgina carry on with her praying, which sounds suspiciously like she's just muttering curses under her breath. Blair arches an eyebrow and doesn't make much of the fact Georgina's hands are shaking. Withdrawal or mixed medication or whatever the reason, Blair can't be bothered to care.
"I don't know why she even invited you."
Georgina doesn't even look up, this time. "Planning a way out."
"She doesn't want a way out." Surprisingly, Blair thinks, and gives a slight shake of her head. "No, she looks-"
Happy.
And it's still stunning, in a way. Blair doesn't know for how long she sits there quietly and lets her sentence hang unfinished. Serena had looked happy, and Blair had been fairly sure that was so not the kind of thing that should spark one of those cliché life-flashing-in-front-of-your-eyes scenarios.
Blair sits up straight when the rosary suddenly lands on her lap, and then Georgina is prying the champagne bottle away from her hand with little care for the thoughts she's just disrupted.
"So what's the scheme?"
Blair stares at the shore and tries not to frown. No need to tempt nature. "There's no scheme," she admits, and somehow it sounds solemn.
"Love of your life is marrying a gardener," Georgina says, "and you have no plan." She shakes her head, puffing on what's left of her cigarette. "Honestly, Snow White."
"And just what was your plan?" Blair replies sharply. "Besides whoring it up with the groom and drugging his father."
Georgina snickers, then crushes the cigarette against the champagne bottle. Blair is reasonably sure it's still lit when Georgina tosses it on the sand.
(Those poor turtles.)
"Come on," Georgina says and attempts to stand, but mostly just gets up on her knees. "Let's go steal the boat."
Blair rolls her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous." She only needs to give Georgina's dress a light tug in order to throw her off balance. "Just let her be."
Georgina stares at her for maybe a decade, then makes up her mind and actually relents.
God, they must be getting old.
"Fine," she says. "New plan."
Blair seizes the champagne bottle, only half-interested in whatever Georgina has concocted now. Time has proven which one of them is the superior mastermind, anyway.
Georgina reaches behind her back, and for a moment Blair thinks she's about to produce something absurd-more cigarettes, a weapon-but whatever she does only causes the front of her dress to come loose. Typical.
Georgina lifts her arms to work at the clips holding her hair back, wholly unfazed as purple satin pools at her waist. "Remember Hungary?"
Blair quirks an eyebrow. Time has also proven which one of them is unmatched in the art of subtle seduction. "No."
Georgina smirks and finishes shaking her hair loose, long strands of dark brown that look black in the night. The way she sits there-nude from the waist up; legs curled to one side and covered by gleaming satin-reminds Blair of some kind of-
Sea hag.
"This is very inappropriate," is what Blair says, and she thinks her brows knit accordingly.
Georgina grins like that's a compliment; covers Blair's mouth with her shade of lipstick like she's immune to the sting. It's all very decadent, the way she licks at Blair's lips and tugs at a Waldorf original like she's planning on defiling it. None of it is new, of course. Georgina tastes like champagne and mistakes worn around the edges, the same way Serena tasted of rum and could-never-bes.
Love of her life is marrying a gardener, and Blair kisses back.
(gossip girl, blair/georgina)
no turtles harmed in the making of this study in out of characterness.
"Fuck."
Champagne coats the back of Blair's hand and surely, somewhere, a turtle will mistake the cork for food or a new buddy, maybe even a sister. This just in: Blair Waldorf destroys lives cross-species.
Except this is good, actually.
Not for the turtles, obviously, but it's the beach and it's quiet and, most importantly, there are no witnesses. Serena van der Woodsen tosses the bouquet and all the world is expectant; all the world is a stage, what the fuck not.
Blair cringes and stumbles along the sand, far away from cheers and corny music and curious cell phones. Gossip Girl may stick to a younger demographic now, but their respective engagements and divorces have been thoroughly documented all the same. She'll never forget the hideous picture attached to the update detailing the demise of Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, Chuck and Blair and the secretary, Blair and Chuck and the tennis instructor.
How pedestrian.
(And after tonight, it'll be Chuck and New Mrs. Bass and the maid of honor.)
The first glimpse of actual sea is rewarding. Nate's boat puts a slight damper on it, a way for reality to barge into her fantasy getaway. It is a lady's right to have a private meltdown. Eleanor Waldorf went as far as buying an island to ensure that right; Blair Waldorf only wants fifteen minutes alone in the Hamptons.
So of course she comes across a beach gremlin.
Blair stops, mildly incredulous, moderately drunk and most definitely annoyed. "Why are you still here?"
Georgina Sparks wears crumpled Balenciaga like sand is the new must-have, sitting cross-legged and mumbling around a lit cigarette. A lady knows the proper etiquette for a meltdown, a tramp will sit on the groom's lap until security escorts her out.
Blair tilts her head and furrows her brow. "And what the hell are you doing?" She gestures vaguely at the jade rosary Georgina goes through bead by bead, like she's even remotely serious.
"Praying away my vices."
Blair snorts. "Good luck with that," she says and takes two wobbly steps away, then promptly turns back. "By the way, Serena doesn't want you here."
Georgina is glaring when she looks up, purple eyeshadow unintentionally smudged way past her eyelids. "I don't see her looking for you."
"Touché," Blair retorts halfheartedly and plops down on the sand, with her bottle of champagne and sandals and utter dismay for the situation. Her best friend is marrying a gardener. Her best friend is marrying a gardener on a beach side ceremony in the Hamptons, and halfway through the wedding vows the worst kind of epiphany reared up its ugly head and threatened to offer Blair a second taste of a dozen canapés.
There'd been no option but to flee, really.
She watches Georgina carry on with her praying, which sounds suspiciously like she's just muttering curses under her breath. Blair arches an eyebrow and doesn't make much of the fact Georgina's hands are shaking. Withdrawal or mixed medication or whatever the reason, Blair can't be bothered to care.
"I don't know why she even invited you."
Georgina doesn't even look up, this time. "Planning a way out."
"She doesn't want a way out." Surprisingly, Blair thinks, and gives a slight shake of her head. "No, she looks-"
Happy.
And it's still stunning, in a way. Blair doesn't know for how long she sits there quietly and lets her sentence hang unfinished. Serena had looked happy, and Blair had been fairly sure that was so not the kind of thing that should spark one of those cliché life-flashing-in-front-of-your-eyes scenarios.
Blair sits up straight when the rosary suddenly lands on her lap, and then Georgina is prying the champagne bottle away from her hand with little care for the thoughts she's just disrupted.
"So what's the scheme?"
Blair stares at the shore and tries not to frown. No need to tempt nature. "There's no scheme," she admits, and somehow it sounds solemn.
"Love of your life is marrying a gardener," Georgina says, "and you have no plan." She shakes her head, puffing on what's left of her cigarette. "Honestly, Snow White."
"And just what was your plan?" Blair replies sharply. "Besides whoring it up with the groom and drugging his father."
Georgina snickers, then crushes the cigarette against the champagne bottle. Blair is reasonably sure it's still lit when Georgina tosses it on the sand.
(Those poor turtles.)
"Come on," Georgina says and attempts to stand, but mostly just gets up on her knees. "Let's go steal the boat."
Blair rolls her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous." She only needs to give Georgina's dress a light tug in order to throw her off balance. "Just let her be."
Georgina stares at her for maybe a decade, then makes up her mind and actually relents.
God, they must be getting old.
"Fine," she says. "New plan."
Blair seizes the champagne bottle, only half-interested in whatever Georgina has concocted now. Time has proven which one of them is the superior mastermind, anyway.
Georgina reaches behind her back, and for a moment Blair thinks she's about to produce something absurd-more cigarettes, a weapon-but whatever she does only causes the front of her dress to come loose. Typical.
Georgina lifts her arms to work at the clips holding her hair back, wholly unfazed as purple satin pools at her waist. "Remember Hungary?"
Blair quirks an eyebrow. Time has also proven which one of them is unmatched in the art of subtle seduction. "No."
Georgina smirks and finishes shaking her hair loose, long strands of dark brown that look black in the night. The way she sits there-nude from the waist up; legs curled to one side and covered by gleaming satin-reminds Blair of some kind of-
Sea hag.
"This is very inappropriate," is what Blair says, and she thinks her brows knit accordingly.
Georgina grins like that's a compliment; covers Blair's mouth with her shade of lipstick like she's immune to the sting. It's all very decadent, the way she licks at Blair's lips and tugs at a Waldorf original like she's planning on defiling it. None of it is new, of course. Georgina tastes like champagne and mistakes worn around the edges, the same way Serena tasted of rum and could-never-bes.
Love of her life is marrying a gardener, and Blair kisses back.