every time I see you everything starts making sense
One-sided Penelope/Nate, some Nate/Blair. 552 words. Set very early in s1, even pre-series.
Summary: Penelope suffers through high school like a particularly lush prison sentence.
Note: Originally posted here. I know I am a few days behind in holiday prompt fills (partially because of LJ's freakout) but I plan on picking them up again tomorrow and posting at least two a day. :)
Penelope suffers through high school like a particularly lush prison sentence. Instead of inmate orange she wears an array of similarly arresting colors that she wouldn't be caught dead in outside of the warden's watch. She keeps her mouth shut and toes the line because she wants to be part of the best of the best and sometimes to do that you have to suck it up and pretend.
That doesn't make it any easier to feign interest in Blair Waldorf's endless drama. The only fun comes when she crashes and burns; otherwise Penelope has to put up with both the smugness and the abuse and, really, that's asking too much.
She considers fantasizing about Blair's boyfriend to be a minor and deeply satisfying form of revenge.
She's not obsessed with Nate, whatever Hazel says. He's just really cute and really sweet, sweet like guys never are anymore, especially to Penelope. She watches him bring Blair flowers and chocolates (that she doesn't eat, taking half a bite of one that she'll later spit out before handing them off, saying, enjoy ladies but don't get fat), watches him kiss Blair's cheek and call her sweetheart. Blair doesn't deserve a boy as sweet as Nate, not when she's so sour.
Every time Blair starts on one of her diatribes, Penelope affixes an interested expression and privately lets her mind wander, imagining Nate in a very well-fitted navy jacket bringing her flowers (daffodils) and chocolates (hazelnut, specifically) and kissing her cheek; or better, pressing close to her in an abandoned corner of one of Blair's parties, hushing her first with a touch and then a kiss. They'll go somewhere – the bathroom, one of the many guest rooms, maybe even Blair's room – and Penelope will be reluctant but not too reluctant, and her resolve to not betray her dear friend Blair will vanish like smoke when his hand slips under her skirt (she's wearing blue, obviously, probably the dress she got last week, the off the shoulder thing).
You're really sexy, Nate will say earnestly, like he means it, looking into her eyes. Penelope will blush prettily and insist she's not at all this kind of girl (except for how she kind of is) as she kisses him again, deeply, fingers tangling in his hair. Music will pick up from somewhere – it doesn't matter where, that's not important – and Nate will say that this definitely isn't just a hookup to him, he thinks she's a really special girl.
Sometimes they all tag along to watch his lacrosse or soccer games, the color-coded pack of them huddled under one giant pink umbrella to keep out of the sun. Nate is like some slow-pop music video, or a commercial – something manmade. He tosses hair out of his oh-so-blue eyes and offers a bright grin in Blair's direction (but, really, with the distance he could just as easily be smiling at Penelope). Sweat sticks his clothes to him and Penelope imagines peeling his uniform off, the way he'd probably grin that grin at her, his eyes bright under his tousled hair. He'd be flushed and there would be the taste of salt in his skin, like beach, like sunshine.
"Close your mouth, P," Hazel says, sounding amused. "You don't want to drool on your Prada."
Penelope glares at her.
One-sided Penelope/Nate, some Nate/Blair. 552 words. Set very early in s1, even pre-series.
Summary: Penelope suffers through high school like a particularly lush prison sentence.
Note: Originally posted here. I know I am a few days behind in holiday prompt fills (partially because of LJ's freakout) but I plan on picking them up again tomorrow and posting at least two a day. :)
Penelope suffers through high school like a particularly lush prison sentence. Instead of inmate orange she wears an array of similarly arresting colors that she wouldn't be caught dead in outside of the warden's watch. She keeps her mouth shut and toes the line because she wants to be part of the best of the best and sometimes to do that you have to suck it up and pretend.
That doesn't make it any easier to feign interest in Blair Waldorf's endless drama. The only fun comes when she crashes and burns; otherwise Penelope has to put up with both the smugness and the abuse and, really, that's asking too much.
She considers fantasizing about Blair's boyfriend to be a minor and deeply satisfying form of revenge.
She's not obsessed with Nate, whatever Hazel says. He's just really cute and really sweet, sweet like guys never are anymore, especially to Penelope. She watches him bring Blair flowers and chocolates (that she doesn't eat, taking half a bite of one that she'll later spit out before handing them off, saying, enjoy ladies but don't get fat), watches him kiss Blair's cheek and call her sweetheart. Blair doesn't deserve a boy as sweet as Nate, not when she's so sour.
Every time Blair starts on one of her diatribes, Penelope affixes an interested expression and privately lets her mind wander, imagining Nate in a very well-fitted navy jacket bringing her flowers (daffodils) and chocolates (hazelnut, specifically) and kissing her cheek; or better, pressing close to her in an abandoned corner of one of Blair's parties, hushing her first with a touch and then a kiss. They'll go somewhere – the bathroom, one of the many guest rooms, maybe even Blair's room – and Penelope will be reluctant but not too reluctant, and her resolve to not betray her dear friend Blair will vanish like smoke when his hand slips under her skirt (she's wearing blue, obviously, probably the dress she got last week, the off the shoulder thing).
You're really sexy, Nate will say earnestly, like he means it, looking into her eyes. Penelope will blush prettily and insist she's not at all this kind of girl (except for how she kind of is) as she kisses him again, deeply, fingers tangling in his hair. Music will pick up from somewhere – it doesn't matter where, that's not important – and Nate will say that this definitely isn't just a hookup to him, he thinks she's a really special girl.
Sometimes they all tag along to watch his lacrosse or soccer games, the color-coded pack of them huddled under one giant pink umbrella to keep out of the sun. Nate is like some slow-pop music video, or a commercial – something manmade. He tosses hair out of his oh-so-blue eyes and offers a bright grin in Blair's direction (but, really, with the distance he could just as easily be smiling at Penelope). Sweat sticks his clothes to him and Penelope imagines peeling his uniform off, the way he'd probably grin that grin at her, his eyes bright under his tousled hair. He'd be flushed and there would be the taste of salt in his skin, like beach, like sunshine.
"Close your mouth, P," Hazel says, sounding amused. "You don't want to drool on your Prada."
Penelope glares at her.