log; ongoing

[tothelibrary.livejournal.com]

When; Evening of the first, post tournament, until God knows when the second.
Rating; Call it R to be safe?
Characters; Chuck Bass [basstardchuck], Serena van der Woodsen [theserenashow], Dawn Summers [tothelibrary]
Summary; Thanks to Nate's memory wiping, Serena van der Woodsen now thinks she's someone else. A very, very drunk and slutty someone else. And wouldn't you know, Dawn looks just like her old friend and partner in crime. Add some lying and Chuck Bass to the mix and there's no way this will end badly, right?
Log;

It's surprisingly easy to get Serena to the club. Getting her out might be a different story, but at least Dawn can keep an eye on her here.

...Chuck better show up. Or Dawn might have to just... knock Serena out and tie her up until her memories come back.

"C should show up sooner or later. Then we can get to work emptying daddy's coffers." She keeps one arm snug around Serena's waist, all possessive smiles. At least Georgina was apparently psycho and touchy. That makes this part easier. "Until then, just you and me, S."

Comments

speak of the devil and he appears

[basstardchuck.livejournal.com]

IT took him longer than he thought to get there, but when he saw Serena and Dawn, he was really glad he made it after all.
He approached their table with his trademark smile and called the waitress with his hand. He ordered scotch on rocks, the only drink that could get him through this and sat down.

"Ladies, you two look stunning. NOt that expected anything less," he complimented them, paying especially close attention to Dawn's dress. IT was oh so deliciously short.

[theserenashow.livejournal.com]

Her shoes are off and she's seated- for not, at least. Savannah reclines in her chair, eyes closed, and dedicates a few moments to her other four senses. There isn't much to do by way of smell and the only taste in her mouth is the aftertaste of gin and cigarette smoke but she can definitely hear and she's working her way toward touch. The music is pumping past her eardrums, through her veins, and in tune with every solitary nerve impulse. Touch. Feel. Dance. Savannah opens her eyes and narrows a suggestive glance towards "Dawn". She drains the contents of the drink in her hand and and sets it on the table. Then she stands and glides away as if on autopilot, not bothering to put her shoes back on as she steers herself toward the dance floor with as much grace as any severely inebriated seventeen-year-old can muster.

Sorry, Chuck. She hardly even noticed your presence.