Chapter One: Prologue
You've got wires, going in.
You've got wires, coming out of your skin.
You've got tears, making tracks.
I've got tears that are scared of the facts.
– Wires by Athlete
She wanted to breathe, and he did too.
They were the same brand of hard liquor, burning down your throat and to your core and to your brain. The same golden, wayward souls. They were both fucked up—but not that much.
His hand curled around hers, rough fingers sinking into her porcelain skin. There were tears in her eyes as the wind whipped at their faces. Music from the party blared behind them. Her heart sunk when his eyes flitted to hers, blazing even in the darkness.
She gasped as her foot slipped on loose gravel.
"It's now or never, Waldorf."
:::
Nine Months Earlier
September 1st, 2007: Somewhere along the Hudson River
As the 6pm Metro North dragged along its lakeside rails, Blair Waldorf could only imagine that this was what it would be like to descend into her very own ring of Dante's Inferno. She'd read the novel, knew it was punishment by exile—and that's exactly what she was being subjected to. An unidentifiable stench filled her nostrils, and the backs of her legs stuck to the maroon seats underneath her. She sighed, rolling her tights up until they reached the very top of her thighs.
"Is this seat taken?"
She glanced up at the pervy old man standing before her, a smarmy grin full of yellowed teeth. His eyes were trained on the dip of her button-down shirt, where the outline of her bra showed through the fabric.
Blair rolled her eyes and dropped her Louis Vuitton onto the seat beside her.
"It is now."
The man huffed, the smile dropping from his face in under a second. He hobbled over to the seat in front of her, grumbling something about prudes and icy bitches.
Blair smirked, shifting in her seat. It was nothing she hadn't been called before. Back at home, Blair Waldorf was, ironically, known as the queen of chastity. While other girls counted the notches on their belts at Truth or Dare, her routine answer always remained.
"I've done everything but."
Blair sighed, raking her manicured nails through her hair. Outside, the day was grim, unpromising, and completely underwhelming. She counted the trees as they whipped by.
One.
She hated Eleanor.
She'd never really pondered the fact that her mother might feel the same way about her (considering that she was the reason why Blair was even on this train). In fact, she rarely thought of her mother at all. She was more of a commonplace entity, a blur in the background, funding the birthday cakes, but never sticking around long enough for the actual cutting. If anything, Blair's heart panged for Dorota, the robust little maid, a transport from Poland who'd so often tolerated Blair's incessant outbursts and rants.
And it was her mother who had shipped her off to Briar House the minute she'd reached junior year, off to where all of the other opulent and unwanted "troubled kids" went to be raised by stern headmistresses with sticks up their asses. It was nearly a given that every student enrolled was a direct implant from the Upper East Side—or some variation of the class in Connecticut or Pennsylvania.
Blair closed her eyes as the train passed under a tunnel, kicking at the seat in front of her. A burly man with a balding head swiveled around, searching for the culprit. Blair smiled sweetly, waiting for him to look away before kicking again.
Two.
She hated Cyrus. He was insufferably sweet, her mother's chosen lag-on to rebut her father's sordid affair. That bald-headed twit had been stationed at the doorway with a sickening smile as her mother droned out the mandatory sympathy spiel.
Really, Blair. Don't give me that look. It all works out for the best. You'll be home on holidays, but you'll get the freedom you always wanted. You'll love it there.
Love.
At that moment, Blair couldn't fathom the word.
Three.
She hated Serena van der Woodsen. She hated blonde hair and blue eyes and fuck me grins. She hated those plump lips ratting her out under the guise of being a good friend.
"I'm really worried about Blair, Eleanor. She hasn't been eating, the bathroom door is always locked, and she has these pills that—"
Blair slammed her hand down on the windowsill, frightening the elder woman across the aisle. She shot her an apologetic glance, Serena's face invading her mind like a virus.
Serena's were the lips that were probably pressed sloppily against Blair's boyfriend's at that very moment.
Four.
She meant ex-boyfriend.
"Blair, I'll always love you," Nate had said, exactly what was expected of him. He'd been wearing a crisp green sweater that day, the one she'd picked out for him herself. It had made her heart leap then, had given her hope. But now she saw it for exactly what it was.
He'd been throwing her a bone.
Nate had leaned in to press a pity kiss to her rosy cheek then, and Blair watched his eyes flicker to the leggy blonde across the room. She knew what glances like those meant. Nate Archibald was finally going to get the girl.
And that girl wasn't Blair.
:::
September 1st, 2007: The Briar House Library
"Well, well," Chuck Bass drawled, straightening out the lapels of his blazer. "Looks like Christmas came early this year."
He stretched out across the window seat, subtly passing Damien Dalgaard his silver flask. The boy took a sip and followed Chuck's gaze to the car that had just pulled up outside. A girl stepped out of it, perfectly balanced on her tall black pumps. Chuck licked his lips, eyes trailing down to the tight fabric of her skirt, how it stretched across her hips. He'd always had a thing for brunettes—he had a thing for every girl, really—but this one had familiar eyes, a crisp, measured walk that tugged at his memory. He inched closer to the window, but she disappeared before he could get a good look.
"A fine addition to Briar's female population," Damien smirked, leaning back against the wall. Chuck eyed his friend with a steady gaze, taking back the flask.
Dalgaard was a convenience.
If Chuck was going to survive in a place like this, he needed a right hand. Damien was a year younger than him, easily dragged along, challenging him only for amusement, but never for an actual prerogative.
"Look," Chuck scoffed. "Leave the fresh meat to those who know how to handle it."
"Man, you're a total pig," Damien laughed, tilting his head back. "How do you even get girls?" Damien paused, glancing at the flask in his friend's hand. "And how did you get that? If the headmistress sees—"
"I'm Chuck Bass."
It had come to be an automated response to most questions. It happened so often, in fact, that he thought of it as impulsively as a twitch or a cough.
Chuck had coined the phrase from his own father, the emperor of Manhattan with an exiled son. Bart Bass had sent him away to the Briar House last year at sixteen—with good ridden.
An addict for an offspring had a way of flattening even the most reputable of men.
Chuck sank back, still tasting the words on his tongue. The phrase was cocky, sure. But it was an illusion of grandeur, the only way to make it to the top. You'd make people believe that you had the answer to every question—
And they'd never doubt you for a second.
Chuck continued, eyes flitting to the abandoned courtyard, the limo rolling away. "I can take anything I want."
:::
September 1st, 2007: Dexter Hall Dormitories
"Hi, I'm Jenny."
The girl looked so startlingly like Serena that it threw Blair off balance the minute she trudged into the room, forced her to blink twice. She studied the mousy blonde's perky smile, the golden ringlets that framed her face, in disgust. This Jenny was exactly the kind of girl that would snatch your boyfriend right from under you—and play innocent while doing it. For the first time since she'd arrived, Blair was grateful to be miles away from her ex.
"This has to be a mistake," Blair sighed, impatient. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hands, comparing it to the gold plaque on the door behind her. 24A. She frowned, turning back to the girl. "I belong in a single room." Blair paused to clarify. "On my own."
"I—um—it's not a mistake," Jenny stammered. "I totally get it—the whole roommate thing kind of blows. Back in Brooklyn, my brother and I lived in this tiny loft, and there were no boundaries. It was just—"
"Brooklyn," Blair murmured, cutting her off. She picked up her Louis Vuitton leather case and dropped it onto the opposite bed. "How quaint." She drummed her fingernails on the cover before snapping it open. Jenny tugged her bottom lip between her teeth as Blair unpacked her pristine piles of clothing and accessories. She splayed them out neatly on her bed before turning her attention to the case's matching trunk, which held a few weathered novels, a makeup case, and a jewelry box—Tiffany blue.
"You're, like, really pretty," Jenny continued, her cheeks flushing scarlet almost immediately. Blair glanced up in surprise. "In person, I mean. I've always known of you, but I've never really—" Jenny drew in a breath, composing herself. Blair wondered if she'd ever learned how to speak in complete sentences. What kind of school was this? "You're Blair Waldorf. You're Gossip Girl famous."
"Please do continue to inform me of things I already know."
"Oh God, I'm sorry. I just—I went to Constance, too. You were—are—my idol."
Blair perked up, glancing back at Jenny's hopeful eyes. Maybe this wasn't as doomed as it seemed. Blair sifted through her bag, finding the sole survivor of her wardrobe cleanse back at home. The gold-encrusted Jennifer Behr headband was wrapped in tulle. Blair stared at it for a moment before slipping it through her curls.
It was then that she took another black band from her bag, this one less expensive, less extravagant, and she silently handed it to Jenny.
"Blair—I can't—I can't take this."
Blair sighed, crossing her arms as she turned to the girl. "Do you want to know how I got to the top, Jenny?"
Jenny nodded, eagerly attentive to her newfound mentor. Blair smirked, tossing the headband onto the blonde's lap.
"You take anything you want. No questions asked."
:::
September 1st, 2007: The Briar House Assembly Hall
Jenny was thrilled.
It wasn't as if she was unpopular at Briar House. She'd only been to the reformatory for a year and had collected a handful of acquaintances, a few hobbies; she was even a designer for the costume department at The Briar House Theater.
But she preferred to keep to herself, fixating on the old-fashioned sewing machine she kept in her closet, making dresses that she could never wear for a girl that she would never be.
So it was like God had finally taken pity on her, sending Blair Waldorf to her door. She'd watched her unpack the rest of their things, admired the framed photograph of Audrey Hepburn that she hung up over her bed. Jenny had practically swooned, biting her lip from admitting that Blair was Jenny's Audrey.
There were other things, too. Like the gorgeous ruby ring that Blair had worked around her finger once, twice, three times, before sliding it off and tucking it into her jewelry box. And then there was another frame, an expensive one that held a picture of Blair and a blonde who Jenny recognized instantly. It was Serena van der Woodsen, Blair's reckless counterpart. She was just about to ask about it when Blair shoved open her desk drawer and threw the picture inside, silencing Jenny immediately.
And now they were making their way to the first assembly of the school year, Jenny close on Blair's tail, adjusting the gifted headband in her hair. She made a mental note to make more of her own, designer knock-offs that might slip past Blair's notice.
"So this is the assembly hall," Jenny breathed, struggling to keep up with Blair. The brunette preferred to remain a step ahead of her, and she obliged. It gave her a chance to observe the way she walked, imitating the confident swish of her hips. Blair had changed into their mandatory uniform upon her arrival. But next to Jenny, it looked like she was donning an entirely different outfit. Her white button-down was fitted perfectly, the thin silver pendant around her neck popping against the material. Her blue skirt was shorter, swishing around her thin legs. Jenny glanced down at her own patent loafers, juvenile compared to Blair's short red heels.
"It looks like the one at Constance," Blair sighed, fighting the wave of nostalgia. She glanced around, eyes focused on the other students. "Who's that?" Blair narrowed her eyes, nodding her head at the girl standing at the center of the small crowd in front of them, a brunette with a long nose and wide lips. A gaggle of girls giggled around her, much like Blair's minions had back in Manhattan.
"Penelope Hayford," Jenny murmured. "She's the…you of Briar House."
Blair rolled her eyes. "I'm the me of Briar House."
"Right, I only meant—"
"Her Balenciagas are last season," Blair remarked. "And that lipstick is ridiculous at any time before the sun sets."
"Ugh, yeah. You're right. You're totally right," Jenny agreed. She followed Blair inside, brushing past as the crowd eyed the new girl carefully. Blair ignored them, eyes searching for a seat and—
"Blair Waldorf."
Oh God. Blair tensed, glancing up at the boy standing in her way. Chuck Bass had clearly hit puberty—and he'd hit it well. His jaw was set firm, his hair tastefully slicked back, his eyes glinted with bits of amber and noir. But his lips, slightly fuller now, were still set in that smarmy grin.
"Chuck Bass," Blair smirked. "I'd almost forgotten that they'd shipped you off to Briar."
"I saw you earlier," he said. "But I thought I had been mistaken. I can't imagine why you would ditch your throne for a place like this."
"It wasn't exactly by choice," Blair murmured.
"Hm," Chuck mused, eyes raking over her. "I see that you've matured well."
Blair pursed her lips. "And I see that you haven't."
It was then that Jenny braved a step forward, glancing between them. "Are you two friends?"
Chuck grinned, keeping his eyes on Blair when he replied, "Oh, Waldorf and I go way back."
:::
August 5th, 2005: The Vanderbilt Pool House in Connecticut
Blair had never seen the point of playing party games. Even at the age of fourteen, it was beneath her, something to be saved for low quality John Hughes movies and rebellious teens stuck in Hicksville. But there she was, sitting in Nate's pool house as her friends fell all over each other on the floor, intoxicated off of William Vanderbilt's fine brandy.
Blair sniffed, turning up her nose.
Abhorrent.
"Come on, B," Serena slurred. "You have to play."
Blair flinched as the blonde threw herself over Nate's lap in a fit of giggles. It seemed that Serena had sprouted another cup size and a will to seduce Blair's crush over the summer. It was true that Nate didn't belong to Blair, not yet anyway.
But that didn't stop the nausea that washed over her in that moment.
"She doesn't want to play," Chuck smirked, his hair unruly at fourteen, his cheeks still slightly ruddy and dimpled. "Waldorf is too much of a prude."
Blair recoiled, willing the heat on her cheeks to disperse. She glared at the devil himself, shooting him the dirtiest look she could manage under her embarrassment.
"Why are you even here, Bass?" Blair snarled, tucking her hands under her thighs. "Don't you have other people to torment?"
Chuck quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. For a fleeting moment, Nate detached himself from Serena to glance up at Blair.
"You're seriously not going to play?"
Blair swallowed, choosing to ignore the condescension under Nate's airy tone. It was then that she lifted her chin, sinking down to the floor between Kati and Isobel, keeping a safe distance from that Basstard. But still, he persisted, making eyes at her, waggling his eyebrows.
"The name of the game is Seven Minutes in Heaven," Chuck drawled.
Blair shifted, growing uncomfortable as her friends squealed in excitement, as Chuck's eyes held hers.
"What?" she hissed.
"Nothing," he smirked. A bottle surfaced from behind him, and he placed it at the center of their little disjointed circle. "Care to spin first, Waldorf?"
Blair glanced up, her throat tightening. "I—"
"I'll go," Serena called, lunging across the small space. Blair rolled her eyes as the neckline of her friend's tiny dress dipped. And Chuck and Nate's attentions were lost.
"S," Blair spat, gesturing at the slip. Serena giggled in apology, doing little to fix herself as she sent the bottle spinning across the floor. Blair held her breath as it slowed on its final turns.
And landed directly on—
"Natey," Serena giggled, throwing her arms around the boy's neck. Nate laughed, hands slipping around her thin waist as he shot the rest of the room a pleased shrug. They disappeared into the hallway, and Serena's giggles ceased, a door slammed shut. Blair seethed, teeth grinding together in a way her mother would have scolded her for. They sat in silence for a whole minute before Chuck spoke up again.
"Well, who wants to go next?"
Blair narrowed her eyes. "Aren't we supposed to wait for them to come back?"
"If you want the game to drag on all night," Chuck retorted. He leaned forward, reaching for the bottle. "I myself prefer immediate gratification." She, Kati, and Isobel watched as the bottle made its rounds. Chuck sat back, awaiting his temporary fate. It truly was a win-win-win situation for him.
And then it stopped on Blair.
"No. I'll pass."
"It doesn't work that way."
"That's too bad. I'm changing the rules. Passes allowed."
Chuck rolled his eyes. "My game, my rules."
"But—"
"Unless you forfeit the game," Chuck challenged, knowing exactly what he was doing. "But last time I checked, queens weren't famous for surrender." Blair faltered, side-glancing at Kati and Isobel, who were clearly waiting for her next move. She wondered what they would think of another thing that Serena was willing to do while Blair wasn't.
Blair swallowed, weighing her options.
And then she was following Chuck into the hall.
They walked past the closet, as it was clearly occupied. The eternal masochist, Blair paused at the closet door, desperate to eavesdrop on the blonde duo. Chuck rolled his eyes, grasping her arm and tugging her into a room down the hall. Blair recognized it as Tripp's bedroom immediately—he was the wisest of the Vanderbilt cousins, and every surface was covered with maps and dusty textbooks. She was just about to comment on it when she felt a wash of hot breath on her neck, hands on her hips.
"What are you doing?"
"Is the object of the game escaping you?"
Blair gulped as he turned her around. Her chest brushed his with an intimacy she couldn't quite grasp. One hand slid lower, and she realized that she'd never been touched so firmly—never with such a clear purpose. Chuck's head ducked, his lips pursed with an obvious destination.
And then she panicked.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Waldorf?"
"I—"
"You slapped me."
Blair rolled her eyes. "Don't be a baby."
"Don't be a bitch." He dropped his hand from his face and glared at her. "Is this why you dragged me in here?"
Blair let out a hesitant breath. "Can't we just—talk?"
"Is that what you think Nate and Serena are doing?" Chuck smirked, cupping his own jaw. "Talking?"
"I don't know," she murmured. "And I don't care."
"Now, we both know that's a lie," he retorted, braving a step towards her. They were silent for a moment before Chuck took a different approach. "You're much hotter than her, you know."
Blair glanced up at him in surprise. "What?"
"Serena." Chuck grinned before he went on. "She's sexy, all breasts and legs, belongs on a cover of Maxim, maybe Playboy—"
"Bass," Blair hissed, exasperated.
"But you," Chuck continued, and there he was again, hands on her waist. "You've got these wild eyes, porcelain skin, curled lips—" Chuck leaned in, whispering the words as Blair held her breath "—so delicate—" She gulped at the connotation of his words. Chuck's hand was on the hem of her crisp white dress, dragging it upwards until her thighs were bare to him, as was the lace of her white undershorts. "So elegant."
His lips descended on hers at the word, and Blair's eyes flew open in surprise before settling into the kiss. Blair had been used to polite pecks, even one from Nate when they were in middle school, but this was different. Chuck's tongue traced across her pale lip gloss, parting her lips with his tongue.
"Oh," Blair gasped. Chuck let out a strangled groan as he pushed her back against the wall behind them, parting her legs with one knee. He smirked when he felt her, damp against his thigh. She clearly wanted him, but her cold demeanor betrayed her desire. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. Chuck reached down to—as gently as a fourteen year old playboy could manage—thread her fingers with his, gripping tight as he ground his hips against hers, thrusting against the barrier of his pants and her panties.
He blinked, digging his fingers into her skin, forcing himself to believe that he was really standing there, practically dry-humping Blair Waldorf as they held hands. Every fourteen year old boy's wet dream.
"We shouldn't," Blair protested. But her hips betrayed her, meeting him thrust for thrust. "I can't—I feel—"
"Don't be afraid of it," Chuck had groaned, barely recognizing the feeling himself. He'd lost his virginity earlier that summer, an unfortunate encounter that had felt nothing like this. To see Waldorf moaning and panting and scratching at his arms as he worked himself against her—it set him off. He tugged her closer, until there was no space left to thrust. He grasped her hair, gently pushing her face into the curve of his neck as he rubbed her up and down.
They were so close. He could feel it as she let out a choked "Chuck" against the damp skin under his ear.
"That's right," he rasped, his movements still broken with inexperience at the age. "Just...right there." His fingers curled into her hair, tighter, pulling, and he was going to—He was just about to—
"Stop," Blair gasped, shoving him away. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin burning. Chuck reached for the bureau behind him as he stumbled back, painfully hard. "Oh God, Oh God."
"Actually, it's Chuck," he deadpanned. But Blair was ignoring him, already fixing her hair in the mirror, straightening her dress.
"This never happened," Blair breathed. She repeated it again and again under her breath like a mantra, her eyes cold.
"Blair—"
"Do you realize who I am?" Blair spat, her hand poised on the doorknob. "Who you are?"
"I'm quite aware of who you are," Chuck replied. "In fact, I was just about to know you very well."
"Don't," Blair hissed. "If tell anyone about this, Bass, I'll ruin you."
Chuck paused for a moment, incredulous. Finally, his gaze hardened. He ignored the odd panging in his chest, the attraction that just wouldn't fade. He squared his stance.
He smirked, beating her to the door before pushing through it himself. "Tell anyone about what?"
:::
September 1st, 2007: The Briar House Assembly Hall
"We're not friends," Blair seethed, brushing the memory away. Chuck watched as her cheeks flared red, relishing in it. Blair grasped Jenny's arm as she tugged her down the aisle, pushing past Chuck.
"I'll see you around, Waldorf."
"I highly doubt that."
"My school, my rules," he called again, not missing a beat. Blair weakened at the familiarity of the words, closing her eyes for a moment. She'd be lying if she said that she'd tucked that memory away, erased it from her various indiscretions. Chuck Bass had a way of flooding her mind when she least expected it. Maybe it wasn't enough to pretend it had never happened.
She glanced back, caught his gaze as they settled into their seats. He winked at her before turning to another girl, flicking the hem of her skirt as she giggled.
Maybe she'd unraveled something that had only just begun.
Things to know before reading this story: Wires begins at the same time the original pilot of Gossip Girl did. Nate, Serena, and Dan will make a few appearances here and there, but Blair, Chuck, Damien, Jenny, Penelope, and Eric are the core cast. Wires is also darker than my other series. It focuses in on Blair and Chuck's individual issues and the mind games that arise when they come together. The writing style is also a bit different, along with mature content (future smut, dark themes, and language).