Greater Love #3
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Warnings: some adult concepts and themes
Author: Lily Zen
Notes: My new guilty pleasure is Chuck/Jenny. I love the idea of them, how Chuck is drawn to her at the beginning of the series, and then eventually how he is the one she loses her virginity to (although not under the most ideal of conditions), and how complicated they both are. This fic deals a little bit with that past, but it is also a future-fic wherein the two of them, much later down the road, reunite.
Disclaimer: Gossip Girl doesn't belong to me. Neither does the poem. It's "XI" by Pablo Neruda, from 100 Love Sonnets. As in the first story, I've broken up some of the stanzas to better flow with my story.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
He was always drawn to her, even when he wasn't.
The memory of her, golden and sweet, hovering anxiously on the edges of a party haunted him, stalked the edges of his subconscious mind. She was fresh, clean; everything he was not. He wanted to touch her, to crawl inside of her brilliance and sleep, basking in her sunshine.
Then he felt sick as he tried not to remember what came next, how his need twisted with the poisons running through him, and became dark, angry. He was leaning over the point of no return.
Now, he says thanks every day that someone was there to pull him back.
She trembled, eyed him fearfully, and for the first time in his corrupt, wastrel existence, felt like a monster.
He was a monster.
All he wanted to do was hold her sunshine in his hands.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Years later the 'what ifs' of that night still plagued him.
Sunshine dimmed, though not because of him (please god, if you're there, if you're listening, not because of him).
He was broken, she was dying; they clung to each other, lost at sea, grasping a life raft that was slowly deflating, all of the air seeping out in an endless hisssssssssssssssss.
She hissed when he broke her open, nudged his way in, and her nails scored his back in retaliation.
"You can stay..."
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
How he wished it had been different, that he had given to her what she deserved, but he was Chuck Bass without Blair, and without Blair he wasn't whole, wasn't human. At least that was what he'd told himself.
Time brought clarity; time brought life; time brought Jenny home, and she wasn't the same bitter, broken girl who'd left it. He wasn't the same drowning man who'd cradled her hips and tried to float.
She was Sunshine, and he was soaking it up, content to lay and doze underneath her, next to her in the park.
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
Some days were hot, some days were cooler, but there was always sunshine even on the darkest nights.
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratúe.
His fingers flexed, parting the pima, seeking heat, warmth, Sunshine.
Her skin was softer than anything. The sheets could have been a thousand thread count, and they would still have felt like sandpaper compared to the satin of the thin membrane that had somehow managed to contain his whole world.
She sighed and shifted a little, beginning to wake up though the sky, the room, the night remained as it was: dark, quiet, intimate. Their children slept on, their high, delighted voices—"Daddy! Mommy! Good morning! Are you up now? Are you up? Can we have waffles? We want waffles for breakfast."—dimmed for now, until the earth finished its rotation and the day began again. Her fingers slid over his forearm, his hand, until they tangled, merged.
Some said he was darkness.
If he was darkness, she was light, would always be light even when she snapped and burned with fury.
But when they merged, she swallowed his darkness, took it into herself, and somehow gave it back pure and clean, through her touch and her words and the glances they exchanged.
Some nights she needed his darkness, and the escape; freedom from being so damn good all the time.
Whatever she needed, he would gladly provide. Yin to yang; right to wrong; light to night; earth and sky.
"Jen," he whispered, his voice low, pulsing, purring, "I need you."
Stirring a little more, his wife—his wife, his wife, his wife!—murmured back, "You always need me." So matter-of-fact, so apt with that edge of humor that cut just as sharp as his own.
"Yes," he agreed with a sibilant hiss, as her slender leg looped over his, as she settled above him, naked and lovely, her golden hair strung with soft moonlight, her body sleek and magnificent. (Perhaps she was the puma now.) "I've always needed you."
Then there was heat, and need; devouring, consuming, feasting until they could handle no more, until they curled up side by side, contented, warmed.