Lust n. 1. Sexual desire: the strong physical desire to have sex with somebody, usually without associated feelings of love or affection 2. Eagerness: great eagerness or enthusiasm for something (I.e. lust for power)
Author's Note: Oh, my God. I just realized the Leighton Meester (the actress who plays Blair) was in House, M.D.! Does anyone remember her? She was that teen-blond girl, Ali, who totally stalked House. Lol.
07/17/08: Hi, everyone. I just went through this again and fixed some minor mistakes. It really improves the overall effect. I hope you guys appreciate it.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, brand, etc. mentioned. I do not own the descriptions of the 7 deadlies, the Encarta World Dictionary does.
The Seven Deadly Sins of Blair Waldorf
-A Gossip Girl fanfic by: Honour Society-
Out of the corner of her dancing brown eyes, she spotted him. The boy, the guy, the man, the whatever the hell he was, whom she had had sex with. Twice. Even though he was supposedly her ex-boyfriend's best friend. Make sense? It didn't to her either.
It was the monthly Bass family brunch, so Blair had worn her favourite butt-lifting Eleanor Waldorf Original navy skirt and a very low-cut white ruffled blouse. Not that she was trying to impress anyone. No, not in the slightest.
Chuck Bass' left eyelid dropped in the most sexy, unexpected wink that had ever been directed at Blair. She blushed and toyed with the cream-colored napkin folded in her lap.
If only she had worn her limited-edition "stop the world" blinged-out silver Rolex watch. She could've pressed that tiny red button and paused the rest of the Upper East Side, dragged Chuck under the table and satisfied her lust.
Oh wait, Rolex hadn't come out with that one yet. Damn.
Glut-ton-y n. Excessive eating: the act or practice of eating and drinking to excess.
"Happy Thanksgiving," Blair Waldorf hissed under her breath as she stuck her fork into a yummy apple pie, and, crazy parents be damned, shoved it into her mouth, instantly forgetting the etiquette lessons she had taken during her formative years.
In a flurry of roasted turkey with Italian sausage stuffing, pumpkin and yellow split-pea soup, fragrant cauliflower swimming in tomato sauce, curry-roasted butternut squash, honey-glazed root vegetables, smoky kale and olives, green beans with walnuts, cranberry sauce with spiced pumpkin seeds, mashed potatoes with horseradish cream…and, oh…
Pie. Cherry, apple, pumpkin, pecan, angel with lemon, bourbon, cranberry, apple crisp, apple crumble, sour cream, apricot, banana, caramel, banana cream with toasted coconut, chocolate and blackberry.
And, to wash it all down, a crystal flute of champagne. Drink up!
As Blair turned around, she managed to catch a glimpse of her face: so round, so bloated, so blotchy, in the stainless steel of the oven. And she couldn't tear her eyes away. When did she become such an eyesore? Sure, she'd never be as beautiful as Serena van der Woodsen. But she was in no way ugly. Or was she...?
So, she did what she knew best: turned and ran for the bathroom, where she stuck her finger down her throat and threw up all the horrid foods she had put into her body. Surprisingly, this didn't make her feel any better.
Her cell phone felt greasy in her chubby fingers, yes, chubby, that's what they were. Scrolling down her contact list, her heart plummeted and then rose again when she came to SERENA. She clicked talk.
"S? Can you come over. I, uh, did it again. You know?"
Greed n. Strong desire for more: an overwhelming desire to have more of something such as money than is actually needed.
Blair was a greedy person, she knew. It was greedy to put ten items (some costing more than the average New York worker made in a year) on hold at a luxury jewellery store and hope, from the pit of your gut, that your rich boyfriend would buy them, all of them, for your seventeenth birthday.
But that's just the way she was. She couldn't help "stress-shopping" as her one-time therapist, Dr. Milo, had said. When in need, she would buy things. Lots of things. Ten thousand dollar wedding dresses from chic nameless boutiques in London, even though marriage was out of the question at the moment. Classic Akoya pearls rumoured to have been worn by her idol, Audrey Hepburn. Cognac-leather 4,000 dollar Gucci handbags, just because they matched a cute little tweed skirt-suit she had bought. Stuff like that.
Her greed was for more than just clothes and accessories though. She was greedy when it came to men. Wouldn't life be so much easier if she could have both Nate and Chuck? Nate would be her husband, who would smell like musk and whiskey and spend all his time in his study or at his office, where he would run a law firm or something. And Chuck would be her lover, who could ravish her through the day and then go home at seven o'clock (when Nate would come back), talking of butterflies and always wanting more from her but never getting it.
Blair didn't realize it, but Chuck was greedy too. He was greedy for her though. And only her. Sure, there had been other women. Many other women in fact, but none whom he would spend thousands of dollars on necklaces for. It would always be Blair and he would always wish that he could spend more time with her.
He was greedy that way.
Sloth n. 1. slow-moving mammal: a slow-moving mammal found in Central and South America that uses its long claws to hang upside down from tree branches. 2. laziness: a dislike of work or any kind of physical exertion.
"Serena," Blair whined, pulling the white Calvin Klein sheets over her brunette head, "I don't want to."
"Come on, B. You have to tell Natie what happened and that you're sorry. Would you like him to hear from someone else?" Serena, with one mighty flick of the wrists, pulled the sheets covering Blair — dressed in a black nightie — down.
At the mention of him hearing about her sleeping with Chuck — twice —, Blair instantly sat up straight and with perfect posture.
"Serena. You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would. And I will if you don't tell him in two hours."
"TWO HOURS?" Blair ranted, stumbling out of her four-poster and quickly pulling on a pair of navy tights, a black empire-waisted jumper and stuffing her natural curls into a quick n' easy bun.
"Blair. Shh. Keep it down. You don't want Eleanor Waldorfto hear you." Serena faked a hoity-toity, high-society voice when she spoke the name of one of the world's most revered fashion designers and the mother of her best friend. She broke into a fit of self-induced giggles, as she often did, and collapsed on Blair's bed.
"Hey! That is so unfair. If I don't get to sleep in, then neither do you," Blair snapped, her eyebrows furrowing as she dashed over to her vanity and decided to go for the natural look, which involved many Chanel brushes of varying sizes, a compact, several shades of pale pink lip-gloss and some powders.
"Hey is for horses," Serena joked, combing her long fingers through her infamous blond Britney-before-she-went-crazy hair, "Besides, everyone knows that the day after Thankgiving is International Wear The Fat Pants and Sleep In Day."
Blair rolled her eyes, but inside she tightened at the word fat. It wasn't so much that she suspected she would get fat which caused her to be bulimic, but more the fact that she liked having control over something, even if that something was just her weight or where her food ended up. Her mom controlled everything else in her life, and, for once, Blair was in charge.
Wrath n. 1. great anger: fury often marked by a desire for vengeance 2. religion divine retribution: God's punishment for sin 3. vengeance: the vengeance, punishment, or destruction wreaked by somebody in anger (literary).
"Blair. What's with that face?" Nathaniel Archibald was sitting on the plush, overstuffed couch in his luxe Park Ave apartment, when his ex-girlfriend, Blair, stormed in and, wearing her guilty face, timidly said she needed to tell him something. Nate assumed it was about her upcoming debutante ball and if he would still be escorting her or if she needed to find a new partner.
"What face?" Blair cocked her pretty head to the side and, pouting her pink lips a little, tried her best to look utterly confused.
"Come on, Blair. You know. The 'I didn't do anything wrong' face. The guilty face," Nate explained, patting the area on the couch beside him and motioning for her to take a seat. From the look on her face, it would be a while. Might as well get comfy, he thought.
(Ten minutes later...)
"Blair, what the fuck?" Nate cursed loudly, glad that the house was empty but not really caring at the same time.
"Nate, Nate. I told you! I'm so sorry! I — I — I didn't mean for it to happen!" Blair was now crying. Tiny pearls of salty water dripped from her soft brown eyes.
"'Didn't mean for it to happen'? You didn't mean to lose you freakin' virginity to Chuck Bass? My best friend, make that former best friend, and resident man-whore of New York? In the back of a limo, coming from a strip joint?" Nate pulled at the ends of his stringy brown-blond hair. What did he do to make her run, willingly run, into the grimy paws of Chuck Bass? Oh wait, he did break up with her and broke her heart too many times to count. And that stupid photo of him hugging little Jenny Humphrey on Blair's seventeenth birthday posted all over Gossip Girl.
"Victrola is not a strip joint. It's burlesque. And I wore a slip," Blair softly corrected under her breath.
Nate hated the way he was talking to her. He sounded like Captain, his father, talking to his mom.
"Fuck slips, Blair! You can't prance around in your underwear in front of everyone and have sex with Chuck without expecting me to be upset!" Nate was furious now. She didn't get it. No one got it.
"Nate, I'm going to go now. Go punch a pillow or something," Blair bit her lip and strutted out of his apartment, leaving behind hurt, angry, jealousy, wrath, pain and a spritz of Chanel No. 5.
En-vy n. Wanting what somebody else has: the resentful or unhappy feeling of wanting somebody else's success, good fortune, qualities, or possessions.
Her espresso-coloured hair was straightened and swept up in a loose bun. In a silver-white fishtail gown that hugged each curve, baroque-inspired embroidery swirling all over the dress and a clownish oversized bow on her shoulder, she was a vision.
But not like Serena, who had bailed on her debut to society and was probably gallivanting off somewhere in (shudder) Williamsburg with that brunet Humphrey boy, her hair in messy waves, laughing at a joke or a funny sign, having fun. Being carefree. And looking like any teen boy's — or adult's, for that matter — blonde fantasy.
Blair would never be able to compete with someone like her.
And in that moment, just when some usher or someone called out her name, she lagged back, if only for a second, closed her eyes and wished to be Serena. But the Belgian prince who was her escort raised his eyebrows at her, signalling for her to go. She smiled gratefully at him and descended down the stairs…
Pride n. 1. Feeling of superiority: a haughty attitude shown by people who believe, often unjustifiably, that they are better than others. 2. Proper sense of own value: the correct level of respect for the importance and value of your personal character, life, efforts, or achievements . 3. Satisfaction with self: the happy, satisfied feeling somebody experiences when having or achieving something special that other people admire. 4. Source of personal satisfaction: something that somebody feels especially pleased and satisfied to own or to have achieved. 5. The best time: the best condition or period of something (literary) 6. Group of lions: a group of lions, typically consisting of up to a dozen related adult females, their cubs and juveniles, plus from one to six adult males.
If there was one thing she had it would be pride. She brushed her brown locks fifty times even every morning and every night, she took an hour to do just eye-makeup (Was mint-green eye shadow too much for the daytime? Did it really make her eyes look bug-ish like her mom said?), would rather be yelled at by her mom for the rest of her life then get any unsightly scars. For her, looks were the only thing she had going for her.
If there was one thing he had it would be pride. He wore that Burberry monogrammed scarf every day, even in the heat of summer, he knew he could get any girl within a hundred miles. He made sure each strand of dark hair on his head was in its place and would call the Bass' Columbian maid on her day off just to get her to iron his favourite Thomas Pink button-down.
He was proud of what they had now. It was six months since her deb ball, six months since Nate had punched him square in the jaw, six months since he knew he was in love with her.
She was proud of what they had now. It was six months since she kissed him at the Rockefeller Centre, six months since their third time, six months since they'd told the world.
Blair and Chuck were proud people, there's no denying that. They would be proud on there wedding day five years later, proud of their daughter's birth six years later. Proud of their life together. Until the very end, they would be proud.
000
Blair fumbled with her sign of the cross and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other in the stuffy confessional. Clothed in all black, she couldn't help feeling like a widow.
"Forgive me Father for I have sinned; it has been six and a half months since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins. In no particular order: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. Um, yeah. That's it," Blair knew she was in for some heavy penance.
"Miss, those are some serious sins. But I'm glad you've come to confess them. For your penance, you shall say ten Hail Marys. I absolve you in the name of the Father, of the Sun, and of the Holy Spirit. Go in peace."