Tell Me A Lie
Many of those who count indulgence as the most unforgivable sin are those who are themselves the most overindulgent; obsessed. The ones who sweat and writhe and scream with ecstasy, all the while surrounded by velvet and chocolate and blood.
Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass count in that number. They are that number.
Everything either does is provocative, and food is the worst. Food, they come to associate with each other. When Blair is betrayed, she exiles the food from her stomach; banishing it as she wishes to banish him. It doesn't work, of course – she's forever in a vortex of complete and total lust, swirling faster and faster until her eyes snap open and she realises that it's her own hand between her legs, not his. She hates him for that; hates him with a fire that burns brighter in the night, when all else is silent.
For his part, the opposite is true. Nameless girls, useless bodies – nothing will put out the flames, stop her accusing, beautiful eyes forcing themselves further into his soul. When Chuck eats he recognises her scent, her taste, the feel of her skin. The soft, yielding flesh of a peach is Blair. Bitter chocolate is Blair. Heady champagne is Blair. Coffee is Blair, aspirin is Blair, desire is Blair – and he smells and tastes and feels it everywhere he goes, everywhere there is lust and sin and deep, deep darkness.
They become slaves to themselves. Depraved, wanton, disgusted; because love makes you sick, doesn't it? They see each other in empty corners filled with hothouse flowers, in endless turquoise swimming pools, reflected in each and every crystal chandelier. A bowtie appears, and she remembers. A silken headband graces the wrong head, and he tries to forget.
Close your eyes, lovers. There's a space on the bed beside you, a space you can pretend is filled. Take his hand. Stroke her cheek. Feel their heartbeat. Move into a forbidden embrace, ghostly arms wrapped around ghostly bodies and ghostly eyes forever locked. Sweat and writhe and scream with phantom ecstasy. Surround yourself with velvet and chocolate and blood. Trust that somehow, somewhere, she has her phantom hands moving down further and his phantom fingers twisted in your hair.
Fin.