Fic: "It's a Small World After All," ATWT/GG, Luke/Chuck, R.
I was itching for fic prompts a while back, and angel_grace suggested Chuck Bass/Luke Snyder slash. It took me a while, but it's finally done!
Merry Christmas, Gracie!
Title: "'It's a Small World After All"
Author: monimala
Fandom: ATWT/Gossip Girl
Rating/Classification: R, crossover, Chuck/Luke, slash, adult language, sexual content, drug use.
Word Count: 1875
Disclaimer: I don't own either character or either universe; I'm just playing in the sandbox.
Summary: "Let's go," the guy says, looking like he expects to be obeyed without question.
Sometimes, to amuse himself, he goes downtown to Chelsea to cruise for guys. It's the city's gay tourist mecca, and the odds of finding some corn-fed Nebraska kid who's never smoked a joint or sucked a cock --but would be perfectly willing to try both-- are always pretty decent. If anything, it's good for a laugh. To slide into a pair of skintight jeans and a $500 t-shirt that fits him like a glove, and pretend he's not Chuck Bass for a while, to see if he can score with just the right placed fingers and the proper choice of words. He knows how Blair reacts when he whispers against her neck, how she ripples like water when he touches her hip, but it's different when he's stalking down Eighth after two on a Saturday and the clubs are bursting with techno beats and too many boys.
He turns on to 17th, knowing that Splash is the most pedestrian, has the easiest marks. It's the Disneyland of gay bars, where uptown boys and their hags crowd in to stare at the shirtless bartenders like they've never seen a naked man in their lives. Chuck always manages to drink for free on the tabs of Wall Street closet cases whose wives pray they're at Hawaiian Tropic Zone ogling bikini girls and gobbling wings. Tonight, he lets one call him "Dan," and buy him a Grey Goose and cranberry as he scans the room looking for a companion who was born *after* John Lennon was killed.
He finds him close to the doors, looking like a tiny little gay deer in headlights. Or strobe lights, as the case may be. Skinny, taller than him but not by much, with floppy blond hair that could use a trim. Looking around the room like he's just been sentenced to riding It's a Small World five times in a row. Chuck knows, right off the bat, that he could have this guy on his knees in the alley in less than five minutes.
Maybe that's why it takes him seven to actually make his way across the room. It heightens the anticipation, stretches it out, and gives the vodka time to soak into his tongue. So that when he's finally in front of the guy --no, the kid, because up close he's younger than Chuck's ever been-- he's both uncomfortably hard and comfortably numb. "Let's go," Chuck says, simply, a single arched brow daring him to say anything besides "okay."
It takes a beat. Almost two. But then dark eyes take his measure and shoulders shrug. "Okay."
**
He's going to kill Reg and Casey. For various reasons, but mainly for leaving him standing in the middle of the tackiest gay bar he's ever seen (not that he's seen many) just to go rustle up some weed and some action. Casey has turned into such a two-drink fag; it's not even funny. Then again, Luke is a five-drink fag twenty-four hours a day now, so who is he to judge? He sways slightly on his feet, still buzzing from when they cracked open the mini-bar back at the hotel.
"Come on, man," Reg had urged home in Oakdale, "you two need to get the fuck out of here for a while. Let's go to New York. It'll be great."
It's not great. It's the farthest from great Luke's felt in a long time. The club is loud and bright and he's been hit on at least six times since he got through the door. He's jet-lagged and he misses Noah and he suddenly wants nothing more than to be home, crashed out on the couch with the girls watching a late-night scary movie.
Except that he hasn't cuddled up with Faith and Nat in days. He doesn't want them to smell the beer on his breath.
He twitches away five minutes, checking his watch and muttering insults at Casey's parentage until he remembers that Tom and Margo actually tried to *prevent* their son from turning out a criminally inclined jackass who can't keep it in his pants. It's then that he realizes he's being cruised for the seventh or eighth time tonight. A guy roughly his own age, dark-haired and dark eyed and looking at him they're already hooking up somewhere dark and dirty. And his t-shirt is *pink*. To pull off that "fuck me, fuck you" glare and a pink shirt takes huge, huge balls-- and a glance downwards reveals that they're more than adequate.
"Let's go," the guy says, looking like he expects to be obeyed without question.
Luke glances around the room one more time, but there's no sign of his so-called friends. He's all alone. Lately, it seems like he's always alone. And he's so goddamn tired of it.
"Okay," he shrugs, before following him out of the bar.
**
He expects it to be easy, for his little midwestern puppy to come to heel the minute he says, "go." They always do. But this one… who bites off, "You can call me 'Luke,'" as if he doesn't even care if Chuck calls him anything at all, proves he's going to be different, and difficult, from the start. He wraps his fingers around Chuck's wrist, tugging him towards Eighth, and the entrances for the A train, with something like purpose. And Chuck can barely mask a scowl of distaste. Please. He may lower himself to troll Chelsea on a lark, but taking the A instead of calling for a limo… that's just beyond the pale.
"No," he says, softly, swaying towards 'You can call me Luke,' as he flips open his phone. "We'll go my way."
Luke doesn't bother with small talk while they wait for the car. Instead, he just stares off across the street, at the couples stumbling by. And he doesn't even have the proper amount of reverence at seeing the stretch limo pull up to the curb. He just shrugs, one eyebrow arching as he glances back at Chuck. "Overcompensating… Dan?" he mocks, bitchily, before sliding across the leather seat and sprawling against the opposite door.
Chuck slides in after him, determined to recover what ground he's lost. And he does it like he does everything: with calculation, with finesse. He waits till the driver has shut the door and is back behind the wheel, and then he lazily peruses the mini-bar. Luke shifts, and he doesn't miss the note of interest as he pours himself some of Kentucky's finest bourbon. "Thirsty?" he purrs, throwing one arm across the back of the seat and suggestively tilting the glass.
"Parched," Luke murmurs, mouth curving into an answering smile. There are only a few inches between them and they're quickly eradicated as fingers slide back around Chuck's wrist and tug the glass closer. Luke takes a swig of bourbon… and then he leans forward and wetly kisses him on the mouth. His lips are sharp and tart, and the bourbon burns when they share it on their tongues. Chuck nearly chokes, how fucking gauche of him, and then he's surging forward, tangling his hand in the hair at the base of Luke's neck and taking control of the kiss.
The bourbon goes somewhere, away, clumsily spilling between them as the glass rolls to the floor. Chuck's fingertips chase the path of the liquor all the way down Luke's striped polo and to the tented crotch of his faded jeans. He squeezes experimentally, earning a gasp and a very un-Nebraska-like swear word in response. "You Cornhuskers are an easy bunch," he murmurs against Luke's throat as he works his zipper. "Not enough action on the farm?"
"Illinois," Luke grinds out, arching up against his palm. "And you should see how I ride a John Deere."
Forget riding a John Deere. At the moment, all he wants is to see him ride a Chuck Bass.
**
It's quick and hot and dirty in the back of the limo, and Luke knows that the driver is probably aware of what's going on, even through the tinted partition, but right now he doesn't really give a good goddamn. The car speeds up Eighth Avenue and Luke straddles Dan's hips, pinning him against the back of the seat as they race to see who can bring each other off first. It's all hands and fumbling and rubbing against each other and for just a second he remembers way too many interrupted nights with Noah at the farm, but then the flash is gone and he's tasting bourbon and sweat and victory.
The guy's smug look is all but gone. It's not "fuck me, fuck you," anymore. It's "oh, fuck," and it makes Luke feel like a king. Or, maybe more accurately, a queen. "This does not happen to me," he says, eyes slitted with a mix of sexual exhaustion and simmering anger. "I never lose the upper hand."
"I usually never have it," Luke notes, unable to keep the note of wry irony out of his voice as he leans in and kisses Dan's pout. "Must be beginner's luck."
For a second, his eyes flash with fury, and Luke is sure he's about to get tossed out on his ass into the wilds of Manhattan. But then warm fingers wrap around the back of his head, teasing the short hairs at the base of his neck. "Care to see if your luck holds?"
It's the best offer he's had all night.
It's the only offer.
**
Somewhere between 4 and 5 a.m., Chuck tells the farm boy that he is not actually Dan fucking Humphrey. What surprises him is the fleeting glimmer of recognition at the Bass name. What surprises him even more is that Luke takes the joint from his lips, goes for a deep drag, and dispassionately mentions that his grandmother's company has done business with Bart Bass in the past.
He glances at him askance, the look way more arrogant than he would've expected from the fresh meat skulking in the shadows at Splash. "Trust me, Chuck, yours isn't the first limo I've ever been in."
"But it's the first limo you've ever been fucked in." Just so they're on the same page here. Not that he's worried for the state of his ego or anything.
Luke's slight nod is the only concession to that ego. "Luciano Eduardo Grimaldi Snyder does *not* do things as pedestrian as fucking in limos," he asserts, caustically, reaching over to grind the last of the spent blunt into an ashtray on the nightstand. "Or wander around Chelsea being picked up by strange young men… except, oops, on nights like this!"
"Then I guess we both got lucky," Chuck murmurs, wickedly, moving to straddle his lap.
And he realizes that the lost little boy thing Luke was working earlier tonight was all an act. Nothing so overt as skintight jeans or a pink t-shirt, but an act just the same. Because up close, naked, the curl of Luke's lip is familiar. So is the bored, haughty look in his eyes, telegraphing that he's only with Chuck because there's nothing better to do.
He's a spoiled bitch.
And just like Blair, he ripples like water when Chuck touches his hip.
--end--
December 23, 2008
Merry Christmas, Gracie!
Title: "'It's a Small World After All"
Author: monimala
Fandom: ATWT/Gossip Girl
Rating/Classification: R, crossover, Chuck/Luke, slash, adult language, sexual content, drug use.
Word Count: 1875
Disclaimer: I don't own either character or either universe; I'm just playing in the sandbox.
Summary: "Let's go," the guy says, looking like he expects to be obeyed without question.
Sometimes, to amuse himself, he goes downtown to Chelsea to cruise for guys. It's the city's gay tourist mecca, and the odds of finding some corn-fed Nebraska kid who's never smoked a joint or sucked a cock --but would be perfectly willing to try both-- are always pretty decent. If anything, it's good for a laugh. To slide into a pair of skintight jeans and a $500 t-shirt that fits him like a glove, and pretend he's not Chuck Bass for a while, to see if he can score with just the right placed fingers and the proper choice of words. He knows how Blair reacts when he whispers against her neck, how she ripples like water when he touches her hip, but it's different when he's stalking down Eighth after two on a Saturday and the clubs are bursting with techno beats and too many boys.
He turns on to 17th, knowing that Splash is the most pedestrian, has the easiest marks. It's the Disneyland of gay bars, where uptown boys and their hags crowd in to stare at the shirtless bartenders like they've never seen a naked man in their lives. Chuck always manages to drink for free on the tabs of Wall Street closet cases whose wives pray they're at Hawaiian Tropic Zone ogling bikini girls and gobbling wings. Tonight, he lets one call him "Dan," and buy him a Grey Goose and cranberry as he scans the room looking for a companion who was born *after* John Lennon was killed.
He finds him close to the doors, looking like a tiny little gay deer in headlights. Or strobe lights, as the case may be. Skinny, taller than him but not by much, with floppy blond hair that could use a trim. Looking around the room like he's just been sentenced to riding It's a Small World five times in a row. Chuck knows, right off the bat, that he could have this guy on his knees in the alley in less than five minutes.
Maybe that's why it takes him seven to actually make his way across the room. It heightens the anticipation, stretches it out, and gives the vodka time to soak into his tongue. So that when he's finally in front of the guy --no, the kid, because up close he's younger than Chuck's ever been-- he's both uncomfortably hard and comfortably numb. "Let's go," Chuck says, simply, a single arched brow daring him to say anything besides "okay."
It takes a beat. Almost two. But then dark eyes take his measure and shoulders shrug. "Okay."
**
He's going to kill Reg and Casey. For various reasons, but mainly for leaving him standing in the middle of the tackiest gay bar he's ever seen (not that he's seen many) just to go rustle up some weed and some action. Casey has turned into such a two-drink fag; it's not even funny. Then again, Luke is a five-drink fag twenty-four hours a day now, so who is he to judge? He sways slightly on his feet, still buzzing from when they cracked open the mini-bar back at the hotel.
"Come on, man," Reg had urged home in Oakdale, "you two need to get the fuck out of here for a while. Let's go to New York. It'll be great."
It's not great. It's the farthest from great Luke's felt in a long time. The club is loud and bright and he's been hit on at least six times since he got through the door. He's jet-lagged and he misses Noah and he suddenly wants nothing more than to be home, crashed out on the couch with the girls watching a late-night scary movie.
Except that he hasn't cuddled up with Faith and Nat in days. He doesn't want them to smell the beer on his breath.
He twitches away five minutes, checking his watch and muttering insults at Casey's parentage until he remembers that Tom and Margo actually tried to *prevent* their son from turning out a criminally inclined jackass who can't keep it in his pants. It's then that he realizes he's being cruised for the seventh or eighth time tonight. A guy roughly his own age, dark-haired and dark eyed and looking at him they're already hooking up somewhere dark and dirty. And his t-shirt is *pink*. To pull off that "fuck me, fuck you" glare and a pink shirt takes huge, huge balls-- and a glance downwards reveals that they're more than adequate.
"Let's go," the guy says, looking like he expects to be obeyed without question.
Luke glances around the room one more time, but there's no sign of his so-called friends. He's all alone. Lately, it seems like he's always alone. And he's so goddamn tired of it.
"Okay," he shrugs, before following him out of the bar.
**
He expects it to be easy, for his little midwestern puppy to come to heel the minute he says, "go." They always do. But this one… who bites off, "You can call me 'Luke,'" as if he doesn't even care if Chuck calls him anything at all, proves he's going to be different, and difficult, from the start. He wraps his fingers around Chuck's wrist, tugging him towards Eighth, and the entrances for the A train, with something like purpose. And Chuck can barely mask a scowl of distaste. Please. He may lower himself to troll Chelsea on a lark, but taking the A instead of calling for a limo… that's just beyond the pale.
"No," he says, softly, swaying towards 'You can call me Luke,' as he flips open his phone. "We'll go my way."
Luke doesn't bother with small talk while they wait for the car. Instead, he just stares off across the street, at the couples stumbling by. And he doesn't even have the proper amount of reverence at seeing the stretch limo pull up to the curb. He just shrugs, one eyebrow arching as he glances back at Chuck. "Overcompensating… Dan?" he mocks, bitchily, before sliding across the leather seat and sprawling against the opposite door.
Chuck slides in after him, determined to recover what ground he's lost. And he does it like he does everything: with calculation, with finesse. He waits till the driver has shut the door and is back behind the wheel, and then he lazily peruses the mini-bar. Luke shifts, and he doesn't miss the note of interest as he pours himself some of Kentucky's finest bourbon. "Thirsty?" he purrs, throwing one arm across the back of the seat and suggestively tilting the glass.
"Parched," Luke murmurs, mouth curving into an answering smile. There are only a few inches between them and they're quickly eradicated as fingers slide back around Chuck's wrist and tug the glass closer. Luke takes a swig of bourbon… and then he leans forward and wetly kisses him on the mouth. His lips are sharp and tart, and the bourbon burns when they share it on their tongues. Chuck nearly chokes, how fucking gauche of him, and then he's surging forward, tangling his hand in the hair at the base of Luke's neck and taking control of the kiss.
The bourbon goes somewhere, away, clumsily spilling between them as the glass rolls to the floor. Chuck's fingertips chase the path of the liquor all the way down Luke's striped polo and to the tented crotch of his faded jeans. He squeezes experimentally, earning a gasp and a very un-Nebraska-like swear word in response. "You Cornhuskers are an easy bunch," he murmurs against Luke's throat as he works his zipper. "Not enough action on the farm?"
"Illinois," Luke grinds out, arching up against his palm. "And you should see how I ride a John Deere."
Forget riding a John Deere. At the moment, all he wants is to see him ride a Chuck Bass.
**
It's quick and hot and dirty in the back of the limo, and Luke knows that the driver is probably aware of what's going on, even through the tinted partition, but right now he doesn't really give a good goddamn. The car speeds up Eighth Avenue and Luke straddles Dan's hips, pinning him against the back of the seat as they race to see who can bring each other off first. It's all hands and fumbling and rubbing against each other and for just a second he remembers way too many interrupted nights with Noah at the farm, but then the flash is gone and he's tasting bourbon and sweat and victory.
The guy's smug look is all but gone. It's not "fuck me, fuck you," anymore. It's "oh, fuck," and it makes Luke feel like a king. Or, maybe more accurately, a queen. "This does not happen to me," he says, eyes slitted with a mix of sexual exhaustion and simmering anger. "I never lose the upper hand."
"I usually never have it," Luke notes, unable to keep the note of wry irony out of his voice as he leans in and kisses Dan's pout. "Must be beginner's luck."
For a second, his eyes flash with fury, and Luke is sure he's about to get tossed out on his ass into the wilds of Manhattan. But then warm fingers wrap around the back of his head, teasing the short hairs at the base of his neck. "Care to see if your luck holds?"
It's the best offer he's had all night.
It's the only offer.
**
Somewhere between 4 and 5 a.m., Chuck tells the farm boy that he is not actually Dan fucking Humphrey. What surprises him is the fleeting glimmer of recognition at the Bass name. What surprises him even more is that Luke takes the joint from his lips, goes for a deep drag, and dispassionately mentions that his grandmother's company has done business with Bart Bass in the past.
He glances at him askance, the look way more arrogant than he would've expected from the fresh meat skulking in the shadows at Splash. "Trust me, Chuck, yours isn't the first limo I've ever been in."
"But it's the first limo you've ever been fucked in." Just so they're on the same page here. Not that he's worried for the state of his ego or anything.
Luke's slight nod is the only concession to that ego. "Luciano Eduardo Grimaldi Snyder does *not* do things as pedestrian as fucking in limos," he asserts, caustically, reaching over to grind the last of the spent blunt into an ashtray on the nightstand. "Or wander around Chelsea being picked up by strange young men… except, oops, on nights like this!"
"Then I guess we both got lucky," Chuck murmurs, wickedly, moving to straddle his lap.
And he realizes that the lost little boy thing Luke was working earlier tonight was all an act. Nothing so overt as skintight jeans or a pink t-shirt, but an act just the same. Because up close, naked, the curl of Luke's lip is familiar. So is the bored, haughty look in his eyes, telegraphing that he's only with Chuck because there's nothing better to do.
He's a spoiled bitch.
And just like Blair, he ripples like water when Chuck touches his hip.
--end--
December 23, 2008