Smiles like a Boldini by Isabelle
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Ship: Chuck/Blair, word IMAGINATION
Quickie: "I have a thing for Boldini." – "I think you have a thing for someone else."
Prompt: for luvzcappietau, who requested it.
He thinks that he's fucked her a million times in the deep crevices of his imagination. And when those memories are over and he cannot recall which are real and which he's concocted, he hungers for more and tosses and turns at night seeking out to make them true, to have a canvas for his next design, for his next Mona Lisa.
He believes she's better off this way, not knowing how he suffers, how he tugs and squeezes himself until he's empty and dry thinking of her lips parting, of her legs giving into their desires.
He longs to go back to that moment, that millisecond when they could've just forgiven and forgotten, but they're stubborn bastards and firmly march on, purposely moving away from one another. They don't stop to consider that the world is round and filled with passages, and that all roads lead to Rome.
He imagines what it'll be like when he next sees her, dressed in Westwood, a thick black sash on her middle that makes her seem like she fell out of a Boldini painting. And his imagination leads him to be obsessed with Boldini. He purchases his paintings like a mad man until his apartments are covered with her, covered with sashes. Covered with Blair.
He's a stubborn man, you see. She's a stubborn woman. Two such stubborn people should never find one another. Should never love one another. Yet they still do. Fuck them and the universe that made them.
He travels the globe, attempting to fuck her out of his system. The more he fucks other women, the deeper she becomes imbedded in his soul. The parasitical memory of her bleeds him dry, and he's often left twitching on empty beds. Empty thoughts. Vivid dreams.
He's decided to keep track of his loss. For every day he spends without her, he drops a shiny penny into a bottle. He has bottles everywhere. Spread all over the globe. Jingling in his pocket. She's heavy as he walks.
He hears of another auction, a painting he's been desiring for a while. So he can place it before his bed and come in his hand as he imagines it being her, bare back, elongated neck turned ever so slightly as she glances at him with that ghost of a smile. It'll do him good.
"You know, she almost looks like… Blair…" Nathaniel tells him casually as they meet in Rome for his prized bidding.
Chuck ignores him because he thinks that if he can ignore the fool, the foolishness will stop.
"Not in a physical way, but almost in the way she is… The way she stands, the way she… I don't know… Looks a lot like all the other paintings you have." Nathaniel is observant today and having children of his own leaves him more placated. Less brooding.
"I have a thing for Boldini," he replies and closes the brochure, holding his bid card tight in his hand.
Nathaniel studies him and, for the first time in years, Charles Bass wishes for the young clueless boy he used to be. This man next to him has become too insightful.
"I think you have a thing for someone else," Nate decides, and Charles Bass pays more than he ought to that day. He denies, denies, denies.
He should not be surprised when she's waiting for him inside of his apartment sixteen days after that moment. True to his imagination, she's in floating ivory dress cinched with a thick black belt. If her back was to him and she glanced his way over her shoulder, he would confuse her with the painting behind her. Her hair is up in a classy chignon, tempting him with the nape of her neck.
From his hand slides a penny. He supposes he won't need it today.
She observes the penny on the floor before turning her eyes to him.
"I waited for you," she explains.
"I waited for you," he returns.
And she smiles softly, shaking her head. "Chuck Bass, you're so predictable."
"Am I?" He comes closer. She's wearing Dior.
"Yes. You're going to come closer, whisper something, and then we'll kiss," she describes the scene with the utmost confidence.
"Am I?" He comes closer, whispering.
"And then you'll take me, over your bed –" she begins, but not before he grabs her and takes her over his bed, over his sheets, all over himself.
When they're done, half clothed and staring at the painting that suddenly is nothing like her – not in the least – she props up on her elbows and stares down at him, running her fingers through the hair on his chest.
"We're stubborn fools," she says, and it's soft, like a cool autumn breeze. Here endeth his summer. "But I still love you."
Damn her. She always says it first. Always beats him to the punch. He'd be damned if he let her lead, but like the many ladies in his paintings, she dares him with a mocking smile to let her be anything but exactly who and what she is. He thinks, he believes, he knows that he's never loved her more. And, God help him, no one has ever loved him more.
"I had imagined this day for a while, Bass," she continues, and now she's playing with his nipple, and he can only focus on her warmth that is so close to his reach. "I just never knew it would take you this long."
"I'm just glad you came to your senses," he replies, and her eyes narrow. She tugs harshly at his nipple, causing him to wince. She's a devious little thing with a firm, perky ass. He'll have to pound that ass one day. "I was running out of pennies."
"I was running out of patience," she retorts, and he can't help but smile. Why God made him a counterpart that was so perfect, he'll never know, but he might as well ride her. She mirrors him in every way. It's not every day a man can claim that they love fucking themselves.
Yes, he knows he's self-centered. But, dammit, so is she.