A/N: Don't take me too seriously.
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By the time eleven forty-five rolled around the night before Thanksgiving break of sophomore year, the floor was littered with napkins, cups and empty bottles. Lights were low and the two remaining occupants had changed the XM radio several times, finally resting on an old R&B station. Chestnut songs of love and empowerment filled the room.
Blair Waldorf was sprawled out on the aforementioned carpeting, red tights bunching at the knees, school uniform skirt wrinkled and out-of-place. “Okay,” she said, in-between giggles and sips of cognac, “Okay. So I’m legitimately curious.”
“Are you now?” Charles Bass replied, voice muffled from the fabric his face was pressed up against. “Curious about what, exactly?” He flipped over onto his back, messing up the previously the immaculate perfection of Blair’s bed, folding covers and indenting pillows. Luckily for him, she was too inebriated to notice, much less muster up enough energy to care.
“If you could spend twenty-four hours with anyone on the planet—a girl, I mean—who would you have tied to the bedpost?” She raised her eyebrows in what was supposed to a suggestive fashion. Chuck snorted.
“Irrelevant,” he said, “I could have any girl—any woman—on this planet.”
“False, Chuck-O,” Blair slurred mockingly. “You couldn’t have me.”
“That’s what you think,” Chuck retorted, “I could have you so bad, so bad that…” unable to find a suitable response, he trailed off aimlessly mid-sentence.
“Nice comeback,” Blair sneered. Chuck rearranged himself on her bed, finding himself spread-eagle over the front edge.
“I’m drunk,” he told her, “Leave me alone.”
Blair laughed, and they both sat silently for approximately thirteen seconds, and then, “tell me, Chuckles,” she began, with emphasis on the last word. Chuck blanched. “Who’s the worst lay you’ve ever had?” He too laughed, his expression of disgust at the nickname replaced by amusement at the question directed from her lips.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie.” Blair grabbed a dirty napkin and tossed it in his general vicinity. Unsurprisingly for both of them, she missed. Chuck began to laugh, and then found himself completely unable to stop.
“Hilary Duff,” he practically giggled. Blair sat up straight.
“Don’t lie,” she repeated. Chuck was indignant.
“What! You think she’d be good? She was terrible, let me tell you, all teeth and n—,”
“Ew!” Blair shrieked, cutting him off. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?” Chuck asked, slurring slightly. Blair gave him the finger. Sort of. She actually aimed it towards the side window, and he couldn’t see it anyways, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Like Hilary Duff would allow herself to be roped in by you,” she said, and then “Actually…”
“She was practically begging for it,” Chuck relayed, with a false air of confidentiality.
“I can see that, actually. Hilary Duff is lame.”
“IN BED!” Chuck added, and they both dissolved into fits of rampant laughter.
“Does she still call?”
“I didn’t leave a number.” Blair stood up, the blood rushing to her head as she spun in circles, tumbling face-first onto Chuck, rolling him sideways, their legs overlapping as they drunkenly laughed.
“So, where’d you meet her?” she asked. Chuck ran his fingertip across her shoulder and down her left arm, sending shivers through her body.
“That’s not the point, Waldorf,” he said. Blair giggled.
“Did you go see her in concert or something?” She was beaming at her own seemingly hilarious brilliance.
“No,” Chuck said. Blair leaned in close.
“Did you buy a backstage pass on e-bay?” she whispered seductively into his ear.
“No,” Chuck said.
“Did she spot you in the crowd, front row and center, screaming out every word to every song?” Blair licked her finger and stuck it in his ear.
“No,” Chuck said, and “Eugh, Blair, that’s disgusting.” He frantically wiped at his ear in an attempt to remove Blair’s leftover saliva.
“Did you unwrap your scarf from around your neck, and in a fit of passionate inspiration, throw it up onstage for her to find you with later?” Blair wrapped left arm around his neck, smashing her nose into his chest as they lay together.
“No, I did not,” he informed Blair smugly, “As if I would give such a valuable item to a low-class whore like Hila—what are you doing, exactly?” Blair smiled drowsily, her hair mussed up and tickling his chin.
“Sleeping with you,” she said, and giggled. Chuck laughed, his chest and stomach shaking, which made Blair dissolve into even more hysterical fits.
“I can safely say that you’re not the worst I’ve had,” he said, pulling her duvet up from around his feet to cover them.
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A/N: Anyways, I legitimately can imagine this scene. What I have more trouble envisioning is Chuck and Hilary actually hooking up. But let's make this clear: she would be WAY more into it than he would. Chuck would be like "yeah. okay. whatever", but Hilary Duff would think he's an amazing sex god. Which, you know, he is. LOL
Please leave a review to assure Chuck that you forgive him for being so irresistible, even to celebrities...and Blair! :)
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By the time eleven forty-five rolled around the night before Thanksgiving break of sophomore year, the floor was littered with napkins, cups and empty bottles. Lights were low and the two remaining occupants had changed the XM radio several times, finally resting on an old R&B station. Chestnut songs of love and empowerment filled the room.
Blair Waldorf was sprawled out on the aforementioned carpeting, red tights bunching at the knees, school uniform skirt wrinkled and out-of-place. “Okay,” she said, in-between giggles and sips of cognac, “Okay. So I’m legitimately curious.”
“Are you now?” Charles Bass replied, voice muffled from the fabric his face was pressed up against. “Curious about what, exactly?” He flipped over onto his back, messing up the previously the immaculate perfection of Blair’s bed, folding covers and indenting pillows. Luckily for him, she was too inebriated to notice, much less muster up enough energy to care.
“If you could spend twenty-four hours with anyone on the planet—a girl, I mean—who would you have tied to the bedpost?” She raised her eyebrows in what was supposed to a suggestive fashion. Chuck snorted.
“Irrelevant,” he said, “I could have any girl—any woman—on this planet.”
“False, Chuck-O,” Blair slurred mockingly. “You couldn’t have me.”
“That’s what you think,” Chuck retorted, “I could have you so bad, so bad that…” unable to find a suitable response, he trailed off aimlessly mid-sentence.
“Nice comeback,” Blair sneered. Chuck rearranged himself on her bed, finding himself spread-eagle over the front edge.
“I’m drunk,” he told her, “Leave me alone.”
Blair laughed, and they both sat silently for approximately thirteen seconds, and then, “tell me, Chuckles,” she began, with emphasis on the last word. Chuck blanched. “Who’s the worst lay you’ve ever had?” He too laughed, his expression of disgust at the nickname replaced by amusement at the question directed from her lips.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie.” Blair grabbed a dirty napkin and tossed it in his general vicinity. Unsurprisingly for both of them, she missed. Chuck began to laugh, and then found himself completely unable to stop.
“Hilary Duff,” he practically giggled. Blair sat up straight.
“Don’t lie,” she repeated. Chuck was indignant.
“What! You think she’d be good? She was terrible, let me tell you, all teeth and n—,”
“Ew!” Blair shrieked, cutting him off. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?” Chuck asked, slurring slightly. Blair gave him the finger. Sort of. She actually aimed it towards the side window, and he couldn’t see it anyways, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Like Hilary Duff would allow herself to be roped in by you,” she said, and then “Actually…”
“She was practically begging for it,” Chuck relayed, with a false air of confidentiality.
“I can see that, actually. Hilary Duff is lame.”
“IN BED!” Chuck added, and they both dissolved into fits of rampant laughter.
“Does she still call?”
“I didn’t leave a number.” Blair stood up, the blood rushing to her head as she spun in circles, tumbling face-first onto Chuck, rolling him sideways, their legs overlapping as they drunkenly laughed.
“So, where’d you meet her?” she asked. Chuck ran his fingertip across her shoulder and down her left arm, sending shivers through her body.
“That’s not the point, Waldorf,” he said. Blair giggled.
“Did you go see her in concert or something?” She was beaming at her own seemingly hilarious brilliance.
“No,” Chuck said. Blair leaned in close.
“Did you buy a backstage pass on e-bay?” she whispered seductively into his ear.
“No,” Chuck said.
“Did she spot you in the crowd, front row and center, screaming out every word to every song?” Blair licked her finger and stuck it in his ear.
“No,” Chuck said, and “Eugh, Blair, that’s disgusting.” He frantically wiped at his ear in an attempt to remove Blair’s leftover saliva.
“Did you unwrap your scarf from around your neck, and in a fit of passionate inspiration, throw it up onstage for her to find you with later?” Blair wrapped left arm around his neck, smashing her nose into his chest as they lay together.
“No, I did not,” he informed Blair smugly, “As if I would give such a valuable item to a low-class whore like Hila—what are you doing, exactly?” Blair smiled drowsily, her hair mussed up and tickling his chin.
“Sleeping with you,” she said, and giggled. Chuck laughed, his chest and stomach shaking, which made Blair dissolve into even more hysterical fits.
“I can safely say that you’re not the worst I’ve had,” he said, pulling her duvet up from around his feet to cover them.
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A/N: Anyways, I legitimately can imagine this scene. What I have more trouble envisioning is Chuck and Hilary actually hooking up. But let's make this clear: she would be WAY more into it than he would. Chuck would be like "yeah. okay. whatever", but Hilary Duff would think he's an amazing sex god. Which, you know, he is. LOL
Please leave a review to assure Chuck that you forgive him for being so irresistible, even to celebrities...and Blair! :)
