crave the rose, grasp the thorn
gossip girl, chuck/serena [because why the hell not] others implied, r, 694 words- these things do not matter; they never have
notes: for bronwyn (moleyneux). title credit to Anne Bronte.
They’ve called her a whore. They’ve called her a slut. They’ve called her things she won’t repeat, even in her own mind, but Serena has always had a limit, a line she will not cross.
Even in the bad old days, when champagne was just a prelude to cocaine, and she spent more time slipping off her skirt than wearing it, the line existed. And the one person most firmly on the wrong side of it is Chuck Bass.
It’s a simple equation, one that has nothing to do with best friends, or married parents, or grilled cheese sandwiches with a side of attempted rape. These things do not matter; they never have, because they cannot obscure the simple truth.
The truth that likes to whisper in Serena’s ear, late at night, in a voice that sounds too much like her least favorite devil.
We’re one and the same Serena, you and I, we’re cut from the same cloth.
She hates that voice, hates that truth, because like all good truths it is false, in its own particular way.
You see Serena has one thing that Chuck, and Blair, and even Nate lack. Serena has empathy, the same sort of empathy that her little brother oozes, except she can, and does, put it aside. Except she ignores it, more often than not, and there’s a good chance that makes her a worse person than any of her morally challenged friends.
&
It happens like this:
Serena wears a green Armani dress to some function in the Hamptons, and it’s been six years since gossip-filled texts, and backstabbing, and high school.
It’s been six years and Serena has a degree, and notebook full of past boyfriends, and really, nothing more than she started out with.
She sips champagne and watches as Chuck talks to Eric with the sort of cadence she’s never had with her brother.
Later comes that moment, when Chuck throws the salacious comment at her, and it’s more habit than anything at this point, but the retort dies on her tongue as quickly as it is born, and Serena finds herself attached to him at the lips.
There have been rumors, for months. There have been rumors of Dan Humphrey and her best friend, and Serena doesn’t believe them, really, because Blair would never do that. Except Serena stopped trying to understand Blair Waldorf the moment they met, except Serena is attached to Chuck Bass at the lips.
Chuck touches to get a reaction, to catalogue where a sigh will arise if he nips here and scratches there. He pushes and pulls, and she does likewise, and a bedroom door gives, and his hands are on her zipper.
There comes that flash of clarity, when the crisp bed linens hit the backs of her thighs, and where most would have doubt, Serena only has a vague feeling of victory.
It happens like this.
&
He’s not naïve enough to think this means anything, and not stupid enough to want it to.
Fact of the matter is, to Serena, fucking him is the same thing as fucking Nate was, all those years ago- the opening of a new chapter. But this time she’s going from lady to tramp, rather than vise versa.
Two hours after her nails find his neck, he leaves her, looking satiated, looking victorious, in a stranger’s bed. Her lips aren’t red and her eyes aren’t dark enough for him to spend the night, and that’s pathetic, but he’s made his peace with it.
In the morning, while he’s running a multi-billion-dollar company, she’ll be well on her way to doing lines of cocaine and screwing random nobodies off the street, and he can’t honestly say he cares.
He’ll see her again, of course, as is the way in small circles, at some party or function, months or years from now.
There’ll be matching exes, his and hers.
So during the cheese course, he’ll slip his hand between her legs and watch her face contort with the pain of containing her moans. Later he’ll put her up against a secluded wall, watch her break apart.
It’s just a fucking cliché.
notes: for bronwyn (moleyneux). title credit to Anne Bronte.
They’ve called her a whore. They’ve called her a slut. They’ve called her things she won’t repeat, even in her own mind, but Serena has always had a limit, a line she will not cross.
Even in the bad old days, when champagne was just a prelude to cocaine, and she spent more time slipping off her skirt than wearing it, the line existed. And the one person most firmly on the wrong side of it is Chuck Bass.
It’s a simple equation, one that has nothing to do with best friends, or married parents, or grilled cheese sandwiches with a side of attempted rape. These things do not matter; they never have, because they cannot obscure the simple truth.
The truth that likes to whisper in Serena’s ear, late at night, in a voice that sounds too much like her least favorite devil.
We’re one and the same Serena, you and I, we’re cut from the same cloth.
She hates that voice, hates that truth, because like all good truths it is false, in its own particular way.
You see Serena has one thing that Chuck, and Blair, and even Nate lack. Serena has empathy, the same sort of empathy that her little brother oozes, except she can, and does, put it aside. Except she ignores it, more often than not, and there’s a good chance that makes her a worse person than any of her morally challenged friends.
&
It happens like this:
Serena wears a green Armani dress to some function in the Hamptons, and it’s been six years since gossip-filled texts, and backstabbing, and high school.
It’s been six years and Serena has a degree, and notebook full of past boyfriends, and really, nothing more than she started out with.
She sips champagne and watches as Chuck talks to Eric with the sort of cadence she’s never had with her brother.
Later comes that moment, when Chuck throws the salacious comment at her, and it’s more habit than anything at this point, but the retort dies on her tongue as quickly as it is born, and Serena finds herself attached to him at the lips.
There have been rumors, for months. There have been rumors of Dan Humphrey and her best friend, and Serena doesn’t believe them, really, because Blair would never do that. Except Serena stopped trying to understand Blair Waldorf the moment they met, except Serena is attached to Chuck Bass at the lips.
Chuck touches to get a reaction, to catalogue where a sigh will arise if he nips here and scratches there. He pushes and pulls, and she does likewise, and a bedroom door gives, and his hands are on her zipper.
There comes that flash of clarity, when the crisp bed linens hit the backs of her thighs, and where most would have doubt, Serena only has a vague feeling of victory.
It happens like this.
&
He’s not naïve enough to think this means anything, and not stupid enough to want it to.
Fact of the matter is, to Serena, fucking him is the same thing as fucking Nate was, all those years ago- the opening of a new chapter. But this time she’s going from lady to tramp, rather than vise versa.
Two hours after her nails find his neck, he leaves her, looking satiated, looking victorious, in a stranger’s bed. Her lips aren’t red and her eyes aren’t dark enough for him to spend the night, and that’s pathetic, but he’s made his peace with it.
In the morning, while he’s running a multi-billion-dollar company, she’ll be well on her way to doing lines of cocaine and screwing random nobodies off the street, and he can’t honestly say he cares.
He’ll see her again, of course, as is the way in small circles, at some party or function, months or years from now.
There’ll be matching exes, his and hers.
So during the cheese course, he’ll slip his hand between her legs and watch her face contort with the pain of containing her moans. Later he’ll put her up against a secluded wall, watch her break apart.
It’s just a fucking cliché.