Fic: Woe to the Vanquished
Jul. 25th, 2009 11:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imp3ratrixTitle: Woe to the Vanquished
Category: Gossip Girl
Pairing/Character(s): Tripp/Blair
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Gossip Girl and all immediate characters, themes and ideas are registered trademarks and belong to Cecily von Ziegesar, Josh Schwartz and Stephanie Savage. No profit is being accumulated from this writing piece.
Word Count: 1,660
Spoilers: No (AU fic)
Warnings: Only the timeless art of seduction.
Summary: The Vanderbilt in him could never turn down a challenge.
Notes: Spur of the moment dabble entirely a result of no other progress being made. Contains a feisty Blair, because I miss the real her terribly. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
lokiyan; happy birthday!
Tripp Vanderbilt held no illusions when it came to Blair Cornelia Waldorf.
She was beautiful, yes. She was also passionate, daring and stubborn; an enticing mix for sure, but certainly not for the faint of heart. Revered are her virtues of grace and propriety, but they too are a shrouded veil, and beneath it all she burns brighter than Helios’ light; beckoning caution from the foolish and imprudent men drawn to her like proverbial moths to a flame.
He’s heard the torrid gossip, and knows all too well what emotional ruin she has brought her suitors; his own naïve cousin included. And yet they keep going back despite the heartache, donning knowing glances that cry in silent yearning for her, and her alone. The deadly song of this mortal siren ought to be a warning, but he adheres to a different league – power infinite is his birthright – and the whimsical adventurer in him was doomed to pay little heed to the prospect of ever being burned.
So when her dark eyes meet his from across the room, he doesn’t look away. Courage and fortune go hand in hand, he’s learnt, and the reward awaiting him at the end of this road is not one he could ever hope to ignore. Her eyes darken considerably, the message in his heavy gaze not lost on her and he wonders briefly just how daring she is.
He half expects her to retreat, proper girl that she is, but she holds her own quite adamantly, considers him briefly, and smiles coyly. He’s impressed by her boldness, but not wholly surprised, and the pit of his stomach stirs in wanton anticipation.
He downs the rest of his Scotch, slowly, his gaze never wavering from her slow, regal swagger as she walks towards an exit, the dense sea of people instantly parting for her and he’ll be the first to admit it’s an impressive, if not trivial, display of her power – he’ll later curse himself for not taking her fierce display of authority more seriously. When she reaches a hallway she turns her head back, only slightly, and smiles conspiratorially as her enticing gaze meets his in sinful proposition.
She is a tease – yet he doubts she truly realizes what she’s getting herself into – and he toys with the idea of dismissing her entirely. Though the notion is short lived, for he is helpless – he’ll never admit it, of course – and he doubts any red-blooded male could pass up what the Upper East Side’s resident Queen is offering him so willingly. So with the intent of claiming her completely, of bending her to his will as he would across a bed or desk, he puts down the now-empty glass and rises from his seat. He’ll play her game, and win.
The Vanderbilt in him could never turn down a challenge, anyway.
She leads him into an unoccupied room, and he promptly locks the door behind them. The silence is deafening and it feels like a stand-off. More so when she refuses to turn and face him. So he takes the initiative, and launches the first strike as he rests his hands across her bare back, fingers travelling down her smooth skin with the softest of caresses. She trembles slightly and he grins triumphantly, pleased with having landed the crippling blow so early on. Of course, he’s a little disappointed at how easy it was – and that should have been a sign – but the spoils of war lie in wait before him and little else should really matter.
When he reaches the top of her dress, he proceeds with meticulous care; almost as if he were a fated explorer blessed with some extraordinary discovery. He grasps onto the zipper, bringing it down easily and exposing inch after inch of her beautiful creamy skin; pretending all the while that like some newly-unearthed tomb of old, he is the first to lay eyes upon its breathtaking splendor.
Her dress drops, pooling around her feet as she turns to face him at last, and he takes a step back to admire her heavenly form clad only in black lace La Perla underwear and Christian Louboutin heels. He pauses to engrave the moment into eternity… this moment of victory wherein he conquered a Queen, but his own growing want is a distracting reminder of what means to come next and his patience is at an end.
He harshly sheds his jacket and tie, tossing them aside with little care as he approaches her with the intent of taking his prize. His hands find her waist, fingers dancing against her heated skin like a pianist across a row of ivory keys, and he’s curious to see what kind of sounds he can coax out of her before the night is through. She inhales sharply, a beautiful opening note to this lust-filled concerto, and it ensnares him completely. He is so enamored with her, in fact, that it unleashes his inner bard with textbook recollections that are far too fitting indeed.
“When Caesar first met Cleopatra, he had wholly been expecting to lay eyes upon a Queen,” he begins, breaking their long-held silence. “Nothing more, nothing less. But heralded from divine law, Cleopatra introduced herself not as Queen, but as something else entirely. She was Egypt; impervious and infinite. And even greater still, she was Isis; timeless and immortal incarnate.”
She tilts her head to the side in contemplation as his hands move down further still. “And so, the entire might of Rome found itself in submission not before a Queen, but a goddess.”
“You, Tripp Vanderbilt, never cease to amaze me. I never took you for the dedicated historian,” she teases in that haughty manner that suits her beautifully. “What is the relevance of that story, anyway?”
“That the title of Queen does not become you… not when you are worthy of so much more,” he whispers against her lips, bringing her closer to him.
“Am I goddess, then?” she asks with a grin as he moves to kiss her.
“Most definitely…,” he replies, lips brushing hotly against hers.
“With the power to bring men to their knees?”
“Yes…,” he confirms dismissively, impatiently, pulling her hips roughly against his with bruising possessiveness.
It should have been hard; about dominance and control and all those traits befitting a man of his pedigree. But when his mouth claims hers, he loses himself completely like he never has before. He should have stopped… he should have pulled away because this is not his usual pace, and that should have been warning enough. But the intense passion he is drowning in feels like the most natural thing in the world, and he can no longer hope to retreat.
When she pulls away, dancing easily out of his hold, he instantly feels robbed and it takes a while for his mind to catch up to what is happening. He blinks, and takes a desperate step towards her, brought to a still only when she raises her hand in regal admonition. Her smile is mischievous, the glint in her eyes punishing, and he huffs amusedly at her renewed vigor. Clearly, she still has some fight left in her.
“Kneel then.”
His smile disappears.
“What?”
“On your knees.”
She’s playing him, he reasons, because no one, not even Blair Waldorf, would dare to address him so impertinently. To ask him to act in such a demeaning fashion, as if he were some lowly commoner. Most definitely no other woman he has ever been with – he is always in control – and he makes sure to illustrate his surprised displeasure at her silly request.
“You can’t be serious!” he exclaims with a half-laugh. “You would ask me to–”
“No, I asked it of Nate. I demand it of you,” she states with utter seriousness, all smiles and pretenses gone, and he honestly thinks she’s taking her role and title a little too seriously.
So he stands his ground, crossing his arms with a defiant air. The silence between them is thick as her firm gaze appraises him… tests him. Though it isn’t long before her perfect ruby lips twist into a smirk, and she shrugs nonchalantly. Her sudden indifference is baffling, if not insulting, especially as he had her eating right out of the palm of his hand not so long ago. Or so he thought.
“You don’t want to play?” she asks with a sing-song voice, walking over to him.
He unwillingly swallows as she presses herself against his lean form, running manicured nails down his clothed chest and he instantly clenches his jaw; telling himself over and over again that his resolve cannot break. But he’s underestimated her, clearly, because she’s suddenly forcing a strangled gasp out of him as the warm pressure of her hand meets his aching member.
“Maybe I should leave you alone with this,” she whispers darkly, deviously, her eyes glued to his parted lips before she meets his desperate gaze.
There is no fairness in her eyes, and certainly none in this final, killing strike she’s landed; only fiery determination and a crushing will. He knows now just how dangerous an opponent she is – far greater than the goddess he likened her too – and the final, unbeknownst illusion he held finally vanishes; victory was never going to be an option. Not when she’s reduced him to a mere slave, made only to serve her every whim, like all others before him.
“So, what’s it going to be?”
He considers his options, and finds his answer in the long pages of history; great men have always been undone by even greater women. And even he, is not immune. So with a slight nervous tremor, he silently falls to the ground before her divine majesty… wholly conquered.
“Vae victis…,” he whispers to himself bemusedly, imagining Rome burning in the background whilst she plays a fiddle.
Naturally, only Blair Waldorf could bring a Vanderbilt to his knees.
Fin
Final Notes: I’ve decided to do a small meme to get me back into the spirit of writing. So, if you would like something written, feel free to post your pairing and prompt here.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-25 02:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-25 03:35 pm (UTC)And yes, Blair definitely needs a personality adjustment; it's become so painful watching her as of late... barely a shadow of her former - better - self. *sigh*
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Date: 2009-07-25 10:55 pm (UTC)AMAZING~ Especially love the last line!
no subject
Date: 2009-07-26 01:47 am (UTC)Feel free to drop me a line if you want anything written; I find it's much easier to write when working towards a target.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-26 02:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-26 03:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 06:29 am (UTC)oh.
my.
that is all.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 12:11 pm (UTC)