Fic: "A Perfect Gentleman," 1/1 GG, Chuck/Blair, R.
I voted for David Cook three times, so I can go to bed with a clear-ish conscience despite Idol's obvious asshattery. And I'm STILL amazed that Supernatural fandom continues to create drama over everything EXCEPT the Wincest. And that's all I'm going to say about the Great Misogyny Wank of May 2008, since this post contains a fic featuring someone who is arguably a bigger dickhead to women than Dean Winchester (which is saying something!).
I present Chuck Bass. And Blair Waldorf. Thank you, and goodnight.
Title: "A Perfect Gentleman" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Rating: R for language and sexual situations.
Word Count: 1800
Disclaimer: Josh Schwartz and the gang own all.
Summary: Takes place shortly after the first season finale, "Much 'I Do' About Nothing." He screws and snorts and gets drunk with household help and Eurotrash just to avoid being this close to anyone.
Chuck skips out on Tuscany for two whole days. He lingers in the city, takes his bittersweet time, carouses like a proper Bass bachelor and ignores the increasingly caustic nature of his incoming text messages. When he does show up in the Italian countryside, less than fashionably late, it's with another woman's lipstick on his collar, the reek of a 12 hour bender clinging to his jacket, and the suspicious traces of what may or may not be coke residue beneath his nose. Blair slams the door in his face.
She opens it a few minutes later, given that she's terribly well mannered …only to try and slam it again. Fortunately, despite his party-dulled senses, his reaction time is good enough that he gets his arm and shoulder through the gap. "Sorry I'm late," he murmurs as he forces the rest of the way in and her big, brown eyes go Queen B. frosty. Blue ones aren't nearly as cold. He's learned that over time. No, La Waldorf is positively Artic and as she crosses her arms over her chest, he does the obligatory slow check out. Silk robe, bare feet --toes painted pink-- and a mouth that doesn't look like it has missed him all that much. Not judging by the faint smears of lipstick, anyway.
"Go to Hell, Chuck," she says, coolly, turning on her heel and walking further into her suite. He can see the bedroom from the foyer, the door half-open, the sheets mussed. But it's not nearly as interesting as the sway of her hips, the places the silk catches and molds to her body. He's hard for her like he's been for the last ten hours. He tried to screw and snort her out of his system, out of his blood, but she wouldn't go away. Like the side effects for the little blue pill, his Blair-induced erection has lasted way, way too long.
"Did you at least wait a while to fuck somebody else?" he asks, stopping at the wet bar to pour himself a scotch from the untouched decanter.
"Is that like waiting to go swimming after you've eaten?" Her eyebrows arch as she flops down on the sofa and feigns casual interest in last month's Italian Vogue. "No, Chuck, I did not wait 'a while.'"
That's the last thing she says for 'a while,' and he drinks in silence, enjoying the view from the sitting room windows and listening to her turn the pages of her magazine. He shrugs out of his jacket and he detects a disgusted forehead wrinkle when he slings it over the back of a wing chair but gets nothing more than that. Not even when he emerges from the bathroom looking a little more scrubbed and sober. Which is a shame, because as he made himself at home swirling his feet in the obscenely large Jacuzzi and using Blair's shampoo as bubble bath, he serenaded her with snatches of that song Dan's father was singing during their oh-so lovely jaunt to Queens. He doesn't even garner applause? Pity.
She studiously ignores him for forty more minutes, through Cosmo and Allure, a phone call to Serena where she doesn't mention his presence in the vicinity at all, and a call to the hotel spa to schedule a seaweed wrap and a massage. During which time he drinks two more glasses of neat scotch, offers to give her a massage for free, and watches a little footie on the plasma TV.
Finally, at minute 42, she simply tells him, "Get out."
"No."
She stands in the foyer, as if she's making for the door despite still being dressed in next to nothing. Luckily, he knows full well that she would never do something so gauche. "Leave or I'll call security."
"The reservation is under my name," he points out, smiling smugly when she goes pale except for the twin spots of color in her cheeks. "Technically, I could have *you* thrown out."
But his smile doesn't last long. Not when Queen B. stalks over to him, her lip bitten and her eyes melting just a fraction. Just enough to show him she's vulnerable, just enough to break whatever pulsing organ passes for his heart. "This is crueler than blowing me off completely," she whispers, fiercely, standing before him in a scrap of silk that covers nothing and everything. "Crueler and lower. You should have just stayed away."
"That's my fundamental problem, Blair," he tells her; taking a tepid, last mouthful of his drink. "I can't stay away from you."
"I wish you would." She's lying. They both know that. The pulse in her throat betrays her. So does the rise and fall of her breasts. She wants him to touch them. To touch her. Even if he's groped a dozen women since the last time he saw her and stuck his tongue down a dozen throats. She laughs, bitterly, adding on a sharp shake of her head. "I was happy for a whole week. A *week*. That's the happiest I have been in a long time. I should have known it was too good to be true."
He shrugs, contemplates his empty glass before setting it down on the coffee table. "It usually is."
"No. It didn't have to be this way." She grabs the remote control, flips off the Premiership match so she can demand his whole attention --probably knowing she had it anyway. "You *chose* to hurt me," she accuses. "Why? Why would you kiss me the way you did at the wedding and screw me over like this?"
He sprawls back against the sofa cushions, staring up at her with his most deceptively dispassionate expression. "Because. I'm Chu--"
"Don't you *dare* tell me you're Chuck Bass," she cuts in. "I know exactly who you are."
"Yeah? You mean you know I'm the guy who's so in love with you that he's dangerously bordering on emasculation and yet he came to Tuscany just to hand you the knife so you could finish the job?"
"Chuck…" Her voice is a warning growl, or maybe another kind of growl entirely. And is it just him or are her Arctic eyes approaching Mediterranean warmth?
"Blair?" he mocks in kind, not so subtly spreading his legs in invitation.
Maybe a minute goes by.
Maybe two.
She says a few words he wouldn't even know were in her polished vocabulary except that he heard them all one night in the back of a limo.
She is so fucking beautiful that it blows his mind. Silk robe, bare feet --toes painted pink-- and a mouth that doesn't look like it has missed him all that much.
But it tastes like it. Oh, sweet Paris Hilton does it taste like it. He cradles her head in both his hands, not even sure when he stood up or when she sat down, but suddenly they're tangled together. Her leg is thrown over his hip and she's grinding against his aching cock and it's a more effective punishment for his sins than the silent treatment could ever be. Because this is what he wanted for days, weeks, months… La Waldorf, hot and wet and waiting for him.
His palms slide down her back, fingers biting into the soft curves of her perfect ass, and when he pulls her more tightly into him, hard enough so that she can feel the ridge of his zipper, she gasps his name and tells him to "go to Hell" again. "Already there, sweetheart," he rasps damply against her jaw, licking his way down the vee where her robe has fallen open. Her tits are Hell. The stiff points of her nipples are Hell. When he closes his mouth around one tight little bud, she answers by tugging on his hair, only she doesn’t quite capture the nuance between "don't stop," and "stop it," and that's Hell, too.
She pulls his shirt from the waistband of his corduroys, jerks at the truly hideous belt buckle that Nate got him in Chinatown shortly after their rapprochement at the Bass-Van der Woodsen nuptials, and isn't the least bit surprised to find that he's not wearing boxers. No, Blair's maidenly vapors are all gone now. He plowed through her modesty, demolished it, and unearthed her inner slut. The slut that was probably under a Tuscan son in the bed not twenty feet where they are right now. Only Chuck can't bring himself to be jealous. Not when he's too busy fumbling for the condoms in his back pocket before she pitches his pants across the room.
A less than graceful tear of foil, some artful maneuvering, and then he's inside her… and Chuck is so goddamn blissful about it that he could cry. Except that he's Chuck Bass and he never cries. No, he screws and snorts and gets drunk with household help and Eurotrash just to avoid being this close to anyone. In fact, after this, he's probably going to have to go do it all over again, because listening to Blair gasp and swear and feeling her so tight --so tight there's no way she went swimming right after dinner-- is the happiest *he's* been in a long time.
It's too fast the first time, too angry and sloppy and messy. She makes a noise of shock when he uses his tongue to clean her off. Everywhere. And then the noises aren't shocked at all, but throaty and raw and completely profane. The second time, he picks her up and carries her to the bed he now knows had nobody in it but Her Highness and her ego and he makes it last as long as possible. Until she's called him every name in the book and some names that haven't even been invented yet and she reiterates her stance that this is crueler than him blowing her off completely. Naturally, he has to blow her off completely for the sake of comparison and her body appreciates his creative interpretation of the metaphor even if her mouth bruises against his and her teeth close around his tongue.
After the third round, she slams the bathroom door in his face.
He lets it stay slammed, listens to the rush of the hot water filling the tub, and knows that no matter how hard she scrubs, she won't be able to get rid of him. He's under her skin. Tattooed. Black ink. A secret vice worse than all the others. She won't get rid of him with a warm soak or a vigorous massage or the entire room service dessert menu. She can't explain him away, shut him out, or pretend she doesn't love him. Even though she'll try.
She'll take her bittersweet time.
And he'll be waiting.
--end--
May 20, 2008
I present Chuck Bass. And Blair Waldorf. Thank you, and goodnight.
Title: "A Perfect Gentleman" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Rating: R for language and sexual situations.
Word Count: 1800
Disclaimer: Josh Schwartz and the gang own all.
Summary: Takes place shortly after the first season finale, "Much 'I Do' About Nothing." He screws and snorts and gets drunk with household help and Eurotrash just to avoid being this close to anyone.
Chuck skips out on Tuscany for two whole days. He lingers in the city, takes his bittersweet time, carouses like a proper Bass bachelor and ignores the increasingly caustic nature of his incoming text messages. When he does show up in the Italian countryside, less than fashionably late, it's with another woman's lipstick on his collar, the reek of a 12 hour bender clinging to his jacket, and the suspicious traces of what may or may not be coke residue beneath his nose. Blair slams the door in his face.
She opens it a few minutes later, given that she's terribly well mannered …only to try and slam it again. Fortunately, despite his party-dulled senses, his reaction time is good enough that he gets his arm and shoulder through the gap. "Sorry I'm late," he murmurs as he forces the rest of the way in and her big, brown eyes go Queen B. frosty. Blue ones aren't nearly as cold. He's learned that over time. No, La Waldorf is positively Artic and as she crosses her arms over her chest, he does the obligatory slow check out. Silk robe, bare feet --toes painted pink-- and a mouth that doesn't look like it has missed him all that much. Not judging by the faint smears of lipstick, anyway.
"Go to Hell, Chuck," she says, coolly, turning on her heel and walking further into her suite. He can see the bedroom from the foyer, the door half-open, the sheets mussed. But it's not nearly as interesting as the sway of her hips, the places the silk catches and molds to her body. He's hard for her like he's been for the last ten hours. He tried to screw and snort her out of his system, out of his blood, but she wouldn't go away. Like the side effects for the little blue pill, his Blair-induced erection has lasted way, way too long.
"Did you at least wait a while to fuck somebody else?" he asks, stopping at the wet bar to pour himself a scotch from the untouched decanter.
"Is that like waiting to go swimming after you've eaten?" Her eyebrows arch as she flops down on the sofa and feigns casual interest in last month's Italian Vogue. "No, Chuck, I did not wait 'a while.'"
That's the last thing she says for 'a while,' and he drinks in silence, enjoying the view from the sitting room windows and listening to her turn the pages of her magazine. He shrugs out of his jacket and he detects a disgusted forehead wrinkle when he slings it over the back of a wing chair but gets nothing more than that. Not even when he emerges from the bathroom looking a little more scrubbed and sober. Which is a shame, because as he made himself at home swirling his feet in the obscenely large Jacuzzi and using Blair's shampoo as bubble bath, he serenaded her with snatches of that song Dan's father was singing during their oh-so lovely jaunt to Queens. He doesn't even garner applause? Pity.
She studiously ignores him for forty more minutes, through Cosmo and Allure, a phone call to Serena where she doesn't mention his presence in the vicinity at all, and a call to the hotel spa to schedule a seaweed wrap and a massage. During which time he drinks two more glasses of neat scotch, offers to give her a massage for free, and watches a little footie on the plasma TV.
Finally, at minute 42, she simply tells him, "Get out."
"No."
She stands in the foyer, as if she's making for the door despite still being dressed in next to nothing. Luckily, he knows full well that she would never do something so gauche. "Leave or I'll call security."
"The reservation is under my name," he points out, smiling smugly when she goes pale except for the twin spots of color in her cheeks. "Technically, I could have *you* thrown out."
But his smile doesn't last long. Not when Queen B. stalks over to him, her lip bitten and her eyes melting just a fraction. Just enough to show him she's vulnerable, just enough to break whatever pulsing organ passes for his heart. "This is crueler than blowing me off completely," she whispers, fiercely, standing before him in a scrap of silk that covers nothing and everything. "Crueler and lower. You should have just stayed away."
"That's my fundamental problem, Blair," he tells her; taking a tepid, last mouthful of his drink. "I can't stay away from you."
"I wish you would." She's lying. They both know that. The pulse in her throat betrays her. So does the rise and fall of her breasts. She wants him to touch them. To touch her. Even if he's groped a dozen women since the last time he saw her and stuck his tongue down a dozen throats. She laughs, bitterly, adding on a sharp shake of her head. "I was happy for a whole week. A *week*. That's the happiest I have been in a long time. I should have known it was too good to be true."
He shrugs, contemplates his empty glass before setting it down on the coffee table. "It usually is."
"No. It didn't have to be this way." She grabs the remote control, flips off the Premiership match so she can demand his whole attention --probably knowing she had it anyway. "You *chose* to hurt me," she accuses. "Why? Why would you kiss me the way you did at the wedding and screw me over like this?"
He sprawls back against the sofa cushions, staring up at her with his most deceptively dispassionate expression. "Because. I'm Chu--"
"Don't you *dare* tell me you're Chuck Bass," she cuts in. "I know exactly who you are."
"Yeah? You mean you know I'm the guy who's so in love with you that he's dangerously bordering on emasculation and yet he came to Tuscany just to hand you the knife so you could finish the job?"
"Chuck…" Her voice is a warning growl, or maybe another kind of growl entirely. And is it just him or are her Arctic eyes approaching Mediterranean warmth?
"Blair?" he mocks in kind, not so subtly spreading his legs in invitation.
Maybe a minute goes by.
Maybe two.
She says a few words he wouldn't even know were in her polished vocabulary except that he heard them all one night in the back of a limo.
She is so fucking beautiful that it blows his mind. Silk robe, bare feet --toes painted pink-- and a mouth that doesn't look like it has missed him all that much.
But it tastes like it. Oh, sweet Paris Hilton does it taste like it. He cradles her head in both his hands, not even sure when he stood up or when she sat down, but suddenly they're tangled together. Her leg is thrown over his hip and she's grinding against his aching cock and it's a more effective punishment for his sins than the silent treatment could ever be. Because this is what he wanted for days, weeks, months… La Waldorf, hot and wet and waiting for him.
His palms slide down her back, fingers biting into the soft curves of her perfect ass, and when he pulls her more tightly into him, hard enough so that she can feel the ridge of his zipper, she gasps his name and tells him to "go to Hell" again. "Already there, sweetheart," he rasps damply against her jaw, licking his way down the vee where her robe has fallen open. Her tits are Hell. The stiff points of her nipples are Hell. When he closes his mouth around one tight little bud, she answers by tugging on his hair, only she doesn’t quite capture the nuance between "don't stop," and "stop it," and that's Hell, too.
She pulls his shirt from the waistband of his corduroys, jerks at the truly hideous belt buckle that Nate got him in Chinatown shortly after their rapprochement at the Bass-Van der Woodsen nuptials, and isn't the least bit surprised to find that he's not wearing boxers. No, Blair's maidenly vapors are all gone now. He plowed through her modesty, demolished it, and unearthed her inner slut. The slut that was probably under a Tuscan son in the bed not twenty feet where they are right now. Only Chuck can't bring himself to be jealous. Not when he's too busy fumbling for the condoms in his back pocket before she pitches his pants across the room.
A less than graceful tear of foil, some artful maneuvering, and then he's inside her… and Chuck is so goddamn blissful about it that he could cry. Except that he's Chuck Bass and he never cries. No, he screws and snorts and gets drunk with household help and Eurotrash just to avoid being this close to anyone. In fact, after this, he's probably going to have to go do it all over again, because listening to Blair gasp and swear and feeling her so tight --so tight there's no way she went swimming right after dinner-- is the happiest *he's* been in a long time.
It's too fast the first time, too angry and sloppy and messy. She makes a noise of shock when he uses his tongue to clean her off. Everywhere. And then the noises aren't shocked at all, but throaty and raw and completely profane. The second time, he picks her up and carries her to the bed he now knows had nobody in it but Her Highness and her ego and he makes it last as long as possible. Until she's called him every name in the book and some names that haven't even been invented yet and she reiterates her stance that this is crueler than him blowing her off completely. Naturally, he has to blow her off completely for the sake of comparison and her body appreciates his creative interpretation of the metaphor even if her mouth bruises against his and her teeth close around his tongue.
After the third round, she slams the bathroom door in his face.
He lets it stay slammed, listens to the rush of the hot water filling the tub, and knows that no matter how hard she scrubs, she won't be able to get rid of him. He's under her skin. Tattooed. Black ink. A secret vice worse than all the others. She won't get rid of him with a warm soak or a vigorous massage or the entire room service dessert menu. She can't explain him away, shut him out, or pretend she doesn't love him. Even though she'll try.
She'll take her bittersweet time.
And he'll be waiting.
--end--
May 20, 2008