Manhattan is a kingdom, but they don't tell you that.
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Carter Baizen has a smile like a knife-edge, like a danger sign, and Chuck Bass sees it reflected in antique silver, in burnished gold, in a crystal wine glass, takes note, takes it, makes it his own.
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“I don’t know how to love you,” says Blair, her mascara running, “it always feels like too much for just two people.”
“I know,” says Chuck, because he does, doesn’t have the answer, any answer, that Blair would want to hear.
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Daniel Humphrey is nothing, until he’s something, an arrogant little boy from Brooklyn whose dark gaze is always on Serena’s face, and Blair rolls her eyes, and waits for him to go, and waits, and waits, and.
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“You’ll ruin them,” says Dan, and Carter laughs, deep and bitter, says, “I know.”
“Don’t you care?” says Dan, and Carter throws his whisky back, says, “Humphrey, people like us are always ruined. It was just a question of timeSerena has moved on, forever that butterfly, and Chuck sees Dan
( ... )
"You're an asshole," says Dan. He's drunk, and not quite angry. It's been five years since Constance Billard and St. Jude's. Twenty three is not so very old, when all is said and done.
"And for your next trick?" says Chuck, putting down his whisky decanter.
"I used to have integrity, you know," says Dan, in the way you only ever do when it's yourself you're trying to convince.
Chuck pushes Dan back onto the bed; slides his knee between his legs.
"Integrity is cheap," says Chuck, his breath hot on Dan's ear, "it's an illusion, Humphrey."
"What isn't," says Dan, bitter. It's not a question, but Chuck answers it anyway.
"Love, Humphrey. Welcome to Manhattan."
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Blink, and it's 1904. Blair has lace at her throat and her hair piled high. Chuck's waistcoat is a deep red, his pocket-watch gold and flashing. Dan's eyes are starvation-hungry and his fingers are cinereous with ink. Blair is wearing a crown no one can see and Chuck owns Wall Street. Dan is hungry only for the
( ... )
I don't even have words to react to this. I started flailing when I saw you filled this prompt because 1. someone wrote me Chuck/Blair/Dan and I've been yearning for it, and 2. you are definitely one of my favorite writers ever so, yeah. And this did not disappoint, not even a bit, not even at all. This was all I could ever hope for a fill or a fic or anything ever and it took all my feelings and jumbled them and stepped on them and set them on fire and I don't even know what I'm saying anymore but: I love this to pieces with my whole heart and I am forever grateful that you wrote it. Seriously. ♥
I'm even coming back here to say that the Fitzgerald/Hemingway/Zelda mention KILLED ME because Hemingway/the Fitzgeralds is totally my literary OT3 (yes I'm the kind of person who has literary OT3s, don't mind me).
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Manhattan is a kingdom, but they don't tell you that.
+
Carter Baizen has a smile like a knife-edge, like a danger sign, and Chuck Bass sees it reflected in antique silver, in burnished gold, in a crystal wine glass, takes note, takes it, makes it his own.
+
“I don’t know how to love you,” says Blair, her mascara running, “it always feels like too much for just two people.”
“I know,” says Chuck, because he does, doesn’t have the answer, any answer, that Blair would want to hear.
+
Daniel Humphrey is nothing, until he’s something, an arrogant little boy from Brooklyn whose dark gaze is always on Serena’s face, and Blair rolls her eyes, and waits for him to go, and waits, and waits, and.
+
“You’ll ruin them,” says Dan, and Carter laughs, deep and bitter, says, “I know.”
“Don’t you care?” says Dan, and Carter throws his whisky back, says, “Humphrey, people like us are always ruined. It was just a question of timeSerena has moved on, forever that butterfly, and Chuck sees Dan ( ... )
Reply
+
"You're an asshole," says Dan. He's drunk, and not quite angry. It's been five years since Constance Billard and St. Jude's. Twenty three is not so very old, when all is said and done.
"And for your next trick?" says Chuck, putting down his whisky decanter.
"I used to have integrity, you know," says Dan, in the way you only ever do when it's yourself you're trying to convince.
Chuck pushes Dan back onto the bed; slides his knee between his legs.
"Integrity is cheap," says Chuck, his breath hot on Dan's ear, "it's an illusion, Humphrey."
"What isn't," says Dan, bitter. It's not a question, but Chuck answers it anyway.
"Love, Humphrey. Welcome to Manhattan."
+
Blink, and it's 1904. Blair has lace at her throat and her hair piled high. Chuck's waistcoat is a deep red, his pocket-watch gold and flashing. Dan's eyes are starvation-hungry and his fingers are cinereous with ink. Blair is wearing a crown no one can see and Chuck owns Wall Street. Dan is hungry only for the ( ... )
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I know you're already married to gyzym, but, god, marry me.
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PERFECTION
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