Audrey Hepburn. Even though he complains every time she forces them to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s together, he really doesn’t mind that much. In fact, it tickles him that it is almost like he is the Holly Golightly to her Paul Varjak. And it does help that she often falls asleep on his shoulder, hugging him close. It does help a lot.
Brown eyes. She calls them plain brown, boring eyes that more than half of America already have, including poor people. He calls them the most beautiful, exquisite eyes he’s ever seen, that he can look into for ages.
Candles. Whenever he gets home from a long, endless day at Bass Industries—it also pisses him off when they call him Mr. Bass, because he keeps on looking behind him, expecting his father—she lights up a dozen candles, turns on the bathtub, lets the bubbles spread, and they bathe together, letting the warm water soak them up as he feels nothing but her softest curves.
Dan Humphrey. He hates him. Really. But he can’t help but appreciate that day when he was an idiot and was off with that (ugly!) model instead of helping Blair through her first day of NYU, Dan had been there to help her out. And—gulp—he will always respect Dan for that. But shh—don’t tell anyone.
Endless. Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck. They will be endless, or he won’t know what to do, because it’s sure as hell not a possibility to live without her.
Fucking. It’s never fucking to him. It’s more than that. He calls it sex, crude and blunt, while she winces, but secretly in his mind, he says making love. And he’s never made love to anyone but her—he can swear to that. Everyone else with a fuck. Her? She was love.
Gorgeous. There are so many things to describe Blair. Actually, there is nothing, because truthfully, Chuck does not believe that there are words on this Earth that can name such a perfect creature that is Blair. But if he could choose one that came close, well, she was most definitely g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s.
Hair. Coffee-colored curls, as soft as satin and always smelled of the most intoxicating vanilla and lavender (he’s got to find out what kind of shampoo she uses). He can bury his face into them for all of eternity. And it is pretty amusing when she slaps him across the face for messing up her precious hairstyle. She could walk around with split ends, cowlicks, and go blonde for all he cares. It only matters that it’s her.
Innocence. Blair Waldorf is the sexiest, most amazing, unbelievable, knowledgeable girl that Chuck Bass has ever known when it comes to sex. The way she throws her head back and her face contorts as she lets out a muffled scream when he does quite inappropriate things to her makes him redden and bite his lip while his throat goes dry every time the thought suddenly comes up during one of his tedious meetings, causing a… ahem, hard situation for him to pass. But nothing denies the way he grins whenever she comes up to him, blushing hard, refusing to go into the next aisle, and forces him to buy one of their much-needed boxes of Trojans for that night.
Jokes. There is no denying it. Blair is not exactly the jokey, laid-back, hahaha lol! type. In fact, she would have been a boring stick-in-the-mud had she not been so rich, determined, bitchy. Oh, and had she not known him, of course. And Blair can not understand even the funniest jokes, much less make one, if it bit her in the ass. However, that doesn’t mean it’s not totally hilarious when she attempts to get a laugh. Especially that night she was drunk and got up on the Victrola stage with the strippers, and everyone expected her to strip—Chuck was stuck between a rock and a hard place that night; either he watch her strip and have amazing drunken sex later that night while everyone watches his girlfriend in her underwear, or he make her stay on the ground and fully-clothed, keeping her luscious body for his eyes only, but face a lonely bed—and started telling knock-knock jokes.
Kids. Whenever she gets on the topic of kids, or the other forbidden word—the future, he avoids it like the plague with a loving kiss and a suck on her weak spot at the base of her earlobe and a bit of touchy-feely. Apparently, she wants a son named Charles Jr., Charlie for short, and two daughters—Isabelle, Belle for short, and Audrey, after… who else? He says he doesn’t give a fuck as long as they get to have sex to make them. But secretly, he favors a daughter—Charlotte—and two sons—Pierre, in honor of her two fathers in France, and Benjamin.
Love. Charles Bartholomew Bass did not think that there was such a thing as love, until the first time Blair Cornelia Waldorf let him kiss her. Then, he did not know anything but love in the form of Blair.
Mind-numbing. Trying to describe sex with Blair… is like trying to describe water. Impossible. It’s just so goddamn fucking amazing that whenever someone actually asks you, “What’s it like?”, you just completely blank. It’s indescribable. And besides, do you really want to share your sex life with anyone, even if it’s clueless Nate (who probably won’t have any idea of anything you’re talking about) or experienced Serena. But, there is one thing he knows about s-e-x when it comes to his Queen B—it’s fucking mind-numbing.
Nape of the neck. It really is his Kryptonite. There has never been an instance in which she lifted her extraordinary curls to reveal the smooth ivory piece of forbidden skin hidden behind her gorgeous strands that he did not feel the familiar and uncomfortable-until-Blair-gives-him-a-‘hand’ tightening of his pants, no matter how loose they’d been seconds ago.
O. The shape his mouth makes every. single. time. She shows up in his boring office in her fuckable Audrey-Hepburn-as-Holly-Golightly style trench coat, and promptly drops it onto the floor as soon as the curtains are down, revealing nothing but her bare body.
Perfect. He thinks that if he could have sex with Blair any way he wanted at least twice a day, had her tell him she loves him an infinite amount of times, and merely had her by his side in everything he did, he would have lived a perfect life.
Queen. No matter where—whether she be at NYU or reigning on the Upper East Side, sunning in the Hamptons or refusing to walk in Brooklyn, Chuck Bass will never believe Blair is anything less than a Queen.
Red. Blair, amazingly, looks absolutely drop-dead beautiful in anything she wears, much less any color. Whether it be midnight black or puke-green, he can not believe how lucky he’d ever gotten to have a girl like her tell him she loves him. But there is something about her in fuck-me red lingerie, barely a piece of cloth that cost a hundred dollars, that makes him lick his lips in earnest and not hesitate to tackle her to the bed and ravish her as though their lives would end the next day.
Sexy. Blair likes to pretend to the world that she is a good-two-shoes, never does anything wrong, is absolutely perfect—that kind of girl. And for most of the world, she is that kind of girl, whether they hate her, love her, or worship her. And yes, there is a difference. And Chuck lets her fool everyone, occasionally teasing her and wondering why she doesn’t just show everyone her sexy-ass side. But in the bedroom, she is a vixen, a sex goddess, with the most amazing moves and the sexiest moans. He would record a CD and it would probably sell millions of copies, but he’d rather keep those goddamn hardening, if you know what I mean, sounds for their ears only. And these times, when she’s absolutely indecent, he’s pretty sure that he wants to be the only one anyway.
Ten. Chuck would rate Serena an seven, and Vanessa a three. Jenny gets a four, and psycho-Georgina gets a negative seven, while Jesus-loving Georgie gets a negative two. He’d give Poppy Lifton a six, and Angelina Jolie… Angelina Jolie deserves an eight, because he wouldn’t dare give her anything higher in fear for his most prized body part. But Blair? He’d give her infinity if he could, but since he is forced to remain between negative ten to positive ten, he would rate her and only her nothing less than her much-deserved ten. And a half.
Ugly. He will personally punch in the stomach repeatedly, kick into a coma, hire an assassinator to kill painfully and slowly, ship the body off to some remote country next to Africa that no one ever puts on the map, and blame the death on their family and friends (because he’s Chuck Bass, teenage trillionaire ((maybe more)), and really, he can do anything he wants) and repeat. And repeat. And repeat this process for anyone who dares call his Blair ugly.
Voracious. He can not deny that every time he watches her step out of his limo and into his suite with her short, tight dress that wraps perfectly around her ass and barely encases her breasts like the minx she is, he devours her voraciously.
Want. He needs her, loves her, can not live without her. He wants her and everything more.
Xerox. There is no other picture he loves to look at more than that secret Xerox copy he did of her butt that boring day at Bass Industries, which he has dozens of copies of posted in the bathroom, in his vault, inside his desk at his office, and several other private locations.
Yale. Chuck does not love any other kind of sex more than their drunken ‘fuck Yale, NYU is the shit! I don’t give a crap about not going to Yale, fuck them! I’ll just fuck you instead’ sex.
Zig-zags. The way his stomach moves in an entirely not unpleasant way whenever he catches the slightest sight of the woman he’ll never imagine life without.
by Charlotte.
