[round 2: silence] where i sit long after you are gone {blair waldorf; gg}
title: where i sit long after you are gone
fandom: gg
characters: blair waldorf; mentions of serena
rating: g
word count: ~600
recipient/prompt: for lynzie914 who wanted Blair; abandonment issues, comparing herself to Serena/others, her eating disorder; no death or chuck
warnings: discussion of self-harm
setting: general character study that focuses on pre-series Blair
a/n: hope you like it, hon!!
Blair knows the distinct sound of Serena Van der Woodsen’s heels on the sidewalks of New York. Which sounds impossible, but Blair generally doesn’t believe that impossible is necessarily a truth that applies to her. Which is why she is never surprised to turn around and see that blonde hair and that flashy smile and those impossibly long, lean legs.
There is nothing about Blair that is long or lean. Nate liked to wax poetics about the shape of her breasts and when Chuck is sober there’s something in his eyes that speaks of the shape of her legs - but lean is not a word that men use to describe Blair Waldorf.
In the din of New York, Serena’s footsteps echo through Blair’s mind long after she is gone. She is often gone. She is never truly too far away for Blair not to hear.
To Blair’s heightened and fragmented senses, New York is always silent. There’s too many spaces in-between where a memory can catch her. Her friend’s long arms and thin, strong fingers wrapped around her waist. A smile, a flash of blonde hair, that sound of heels on pavement. She is desperate, she is lonely, she is always at the whim of sound in an ocean of empty promises.
Blair Waldorf is older than time and younger than the men watching her would like to guess. Which is either her greatest wound or her weakest strength.
The first time she purged her body of the waste that it was she was drunk on her father’s good scotch. She drank it primarily to piss him off. She doesn’t do anything that melodramatic anymore, she’s smarter now, pays people back in ways that they don’t expect - pays them back, but never signs the check. That’s the difference between a child alone in a Paris flat who still believes in her father, drinks an entire bottle of brown liquid to prove to herself that he’ll apologize in the morning, and the woman who brings down empires with a sly wink at the bartender. She was twelve and alone and feeling empty made her feel powerful, made her feel strong, made her feel in control. As if she could finally decide what left and what stayed.
She was such a child in so many ways.
Serena could hold her liquor like no one Blair knew. When they were all rolling around on the grass and rhyming couplets about stars and sailships, Serena was still dancing. She always had gravity on her side. She was never alone. There was always someone dancing with her, their form parallel to hers as if by the gift of god.
Blair sat on her knees in silence on imported tile and flushed away the remains of the day and patted the emptiness inside of her with a knowing smile. She was godlike, untouchable, unknowable. She drank less than she said, she let it all go and it was everything and nothing.
She never was lean, but at least she was the one in control.
There was a year, once.
One whole year, when she was too young to be strong and too strong to let the world see how young she was, and the world fell apart.
In the din of New York, there was only silence that fell on Blair’s ears. No tell-tale heels on pavement. No laugh that blew the world back into its place. No husky voice framed by soft lips that made it all better.
On her knees, Blair made supplication to the only god she could accept.
On her heels, she didn’t waver. She was empty. The world was silent.
And she was queen.
fandom: gg
characters: blair waldorf; mentions of serena
rating: g
word count: ~600
recipient/prompt: for lynzie914 who wanted Blair; abandonment issues, comparing herself to Serena/others, her eating disorder; no death or chuck
warnings: discussion of self-harm
setting: general character study that focuses on pre-series Blair
a/n: hope you like it, hon!!
Blair knows the distinct sound of Serena Van der Woodsen’s heels on the sidewalks of New York. Which sounds impossible, but Blair generally doesn’t believe that impossible is necessarily a truth that applies to her. Which is why she is never surprised to turn around and see that blonde hair and that flashy smile and those impossibly long, lean legs.
There is nothing about Blair that is long or lean. Nate liked to wax poetics about the shape of her breasts and when Chuck is sober there’s something in his eyes that speaks of the shape of her legs - but lean is not a word that men use to describe Blair Waldorf.
In the din of New York, Serena’s footsteps echo through Blair’s mind long after she is gone. She is often gone. She is never truly too far away for Blair not to hear.
To Blair’s heightened and fragmented senses, New York is always silent. There’s too many spaces in-between where a memory can catch her. Her friend’s long arms and thin, strong fingers wrapped around her waist. A smile, a flash of blonde hair, that sound of heels on pavement. She is desperate, she is lonely, she is always at the whim of sound in an ocean of empty promises.
Blair Waldorf is older than time and younger than the men watching her would like to guess. Which is either her greatest wound or her weakest strength.
The first time she purged her body of the waste that it was she was drunk on her father’s good scotch. She drank it primarily to piss him off. She doesn’t do anything that melodramatic anymore, she’s smarter now, pays people back in ways that they don’t expect - pays them back, but never signs the check. That’s the difference between a child alone in a Paris flat who still believes in her father, drinks an entire bottle of brown liquid to prove to herself that he’ll apologize in the morning, and the woman who brings down empires with a sly wink at the bartender. She was twelve and alone and feeling empty made her feel powerful, made her feel strong, made her feel in control. As if she could finally decide what left and what stayed.
She was such a child in so many ways.
Serena could hold her liquor like no one Blair knew. When they were all rolling around on the grass and rhyming couplets about stars and sailships, Serena was still dancing. She always had gravity on her side. She was never alone. There was always someone dancing with her, their form parallel to hers as if by the gift of god.
Blair sat on her knees in silence on imported tile and flushed away the remains of the day and patted the emptiness inside of her with a knowing smile. She was godlike, untouchable, unknowable. She drank less than she said, she let it all go and it was everything and nothing.
She never was lean, but at least she was the one in control.
There was a year, once.
One whole year, when she was too young to be strong and too strong to let the world see how young she was, and the world fell apart.
In the din of New York, there was only silence that fell on Blair’s ears. No tell-tale heels on pavement. No laugh that blew the world back into its place. No husky voice framed by soft lips that made it all better.
On her knees, Blair made supplication to the only god she could accept.
On her heels, she didn’t waver. She was empty. The world was silent.
And she was queen.