Notes from the author - Hello fellow Upper Eastsiders, and thank you for stumbling upon my little story :) A while back I had an idea, and so I just went for it. Porcelain is a futuristic story, but its subject matter develops directly after Chuck leaves Blair in 'O Brother, Where Bart Thou?' After that episode, my creativity comes to play so disregard anything past it. Although this chapter may not show it, this IS a Chuck/Blair story. Just bear with me. Rated mature, for reasons obvious later. Any more questions, ask away. Enjoy.

I don't own anything. Except a severe obsession with a certain Bass.

Porcelain

"Heard the rattle from the chains.
This goddamn room it gets so small sometimes.
I had a dream that you were gone.
Woke up and you were gone."
- Silver Coin, Angus & Julia Stone

"I told Norman that we were bound to be triumphant, that is if he did not drink our revenue himself before we were given the chance."

The table roared with laughter. Glasses were raised, then clinked, then rested. The waiter replenished the long empty flutes of the patrons with sparkling white zinfandel. Forks silently toyed with the gnocchi di ricotta on the porcelain plates. Napkins shifted in their folds atop every individual's lap. It was the song that Blair Waldorf-Baizen had heard twenty thousand times before this evening.

And, as she had every song before, she chimed with quiet laughter and took another sip of her wine.

Her husband, the now infamous Carter Baizen, swayed in the seat to the right of her.

The night's dining offered its congratulations to the Baizen & Branson Inc. going international. Founded just four years previous, the names of Carter Baizen and Norman Branson had successfully conceived and developed one of the most prestigious up-and-coming wine and liquor industries in the country.

Carter smirked, and casually slung his arm around this back of Blair's seat. She shifted slightly and awkwardly in the chair, feeling the coolness of his touch against her shoulder. His eyes flashed, and he retracted his arm to return to his glass.

He was drunk enough already.

Blair watched him tilt the glass backwards, before waving down the cameriere for more of his own product.

It was late; far later than she had intended to stay out for drinks and dinner. In years past, Blair had always made it her staple to be among the last to arrive, and the last to leave. Now, she could feel her eyelids growing heavy and she began stifling yawns at anytime later than midnight. Midnight had come and gone an hour ago.

Around her the carbon copies of society enjoyed their meals carelessly. The table had been set for twenty-four, and all two dozen inebriations were in place. Had they been made of porcelain, their faces would crack from the elaborate smiles they painted on for Manhattan to see. But underneath all of the skin treatments money could buy, there were secrets. Secrets that would shatter the shiny exterior they showed off. Blair knew.

Just diagonal to her, opposite her husband, sat his partner in business Norman Branson, with his wife Shelby. The two were practically photogenic in their appearance, but Blair knew. Underneath the David Yurman cuffs, Blair knew there was the perfect dark purple shade of Norman's mighty hand around Shelby's tiny wrist. It caught her eye when raising the toast earlier at dinner.

Blair took another, longer sip of her wine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Clarice Burke, with her husband Sergio. The redheaded diamond tycoon looked as rehearsed as ever, when Blair overheard her in the powder room stall scheduling her abortion for the following week, in Maine. The story she told her husband varied greatly. She was simply taking a spa day in Nantucket, a sure sign that the soon-to-be-deceased fetus growing inside of her did not share Sergio's DNA. Blair fought back the urge to vomit for the second time that evening as Clarice downed her wine. It was despicable in her condition, no matter if it was to be terminated or not.

And there sat Blair in the middle of the performance.

Whether she liked it or not, these were the people that had been appointed to her as companions.

The best society had to offer.

But secrets were not exclusive to her acquaintances. It was only half an hour ago that Blair, who stared listlessly at her spotless plate, was heaving in the lavatory. The forty dollar plate of cherry crepes disappeared with the pressure of her hand on the knob. And when the whole morbid event was done, she had simply exited the stall, adjusted her appearance, popped a mint and returned to her spot at the table. Carter had hardly noticed her absence.

Her hair hung in loose, dark curls around her face, just the way Carter liked it. She wore a gold cap-sleeved tailored dress by Escada, with rose colored Max Kibardin strappy sandals. And around her neck, there hung a delicate single string of freshwater pearls. They were a gift from her husband on the Mother's Day last. The pearls had always been too tight, yet she didn't dare ask Carter to return them for resizing. Instead, they sat snug around her petite neck the entire night, feeling more like a noose than a necklace.

The evening was winding down, when Carter gathered the attention of the table.

"I would like to thank you all again for joining me this evening, to celebrate our fiscal success." His voice was slurring; the glass teetered in his hand, and Blair watched it cautiously. "A toast -" The glass was raised higher. The rest of the table followed suit, including rather reluctantly, Blair. She pasted the same idiotic smile on her face that shined back at her from all angles. Suddenly, she felt Carter's free hand slip down in between her thighs. Her eyes widened as she crossed her legs quickly, her cheeks rosy. No one noticed, thankfully.

"A toast," He repeated. "To American royalty."

"I'll drink to that!" Chimed in Norman. The others laughed vicariously, downing the last of their wine and gathering themselves.

All Blair wanted to do was disappear.

"You weren't one for conversation tonight."

Blair steadied her intoxicated husband to the street outside of the restaurant, where the limo waited. She cleared her throat at his comment.

"I was tired."

The driver rounded the car to open the door. Carter all but fell inside, Blair slipping in after him.

Carter scoffed, eyeing her lazily. "Yeah…. Alright."

Be more convincing. "I was." She urged, forcing a small smile. "It was a rather eventful day. Alexis's ballet instructor called and requested that I bring her by after she got out of school for her photos, when they were originally scheduled for Wednesday. As you can imagine, I had to cancel my appointment with Marina at Fred Segal this afternoon, and practically comb the isle of Manhattan for someone who would alter Alexis's costume on such short notice and with the alloted amount of time-"

"Alright, that's enough." Carter's hand held up and she fell silent. "I stopped giving a shit around ballet."

She watched him lean over to the icebox, and pull out a flask. He poured the concoction in to a spare glass. He caught her watching.

"What? You got a problem with me drinking now?" His tone of voice wasn't something she wanted to provoke.

"I didn't say a word." She sighed and turned towards the window, watching 71st Street zoom past her.

"I didn't think so." He chuckled menacingly, taking a swig of his tonic. "And could you try not to look so stiff at dinner? It makes you look like a frigid bitch."

It's only the bourbon talking. It's only the wine talking. It's only the tonic talking.

Her hand balled up in her lap. She felt the tips of her fingernails dig into her palm; the pain soothed her.

The rest of the limo ride felt like hours, rather than minutes. When the driver opened the door, she climbed out, breathing for the first time since the restaurant. Her husband inched his way off the seat, practically falling in the street. The driver shot down to help him up, as did Blair, but he laughed it off. Pulling out a fifty dollar bill and placing it in the driver's hand, he wished him a nice night. Then they entered, his arm tightly wound over Blair's shoulder as she helped him stagger into the building.

She avoided the shotty eyes of the Crowne staff, as their whispers echoed off of the marble floors. As soon as she was inside the elevator, she leaned her husband's weight against the mirrored walls. His eyes were fluttering, a sure sign that he was soon to be dead to the world. The last sip of his tonic dripping out of the side of his mouth was revolting, but she was still his wife and he was still her husband. She pulled a handkerchief gently out of his coat pocket and wiped his lip. His crooked tie urged her to straighten it, and she followed suit.

There. A vast improvement.

He smiled against the glass. His eyes opened slightly, and he pulled her closer to him.

"I love that dress. Or rather, I love you in that dress."

His hand found its way down her back, molding to her ass.

Blair couldn't help but smile.

"Well, you should. You bought it."

He murmured something she didn't comprehend, and before she knew it, his lips were pressed aggressively against hers. Hard liquor and Montauk wild oysters. She kissed back, of course, but his hands were finding their way to the zipper of her skintight dress.

"Carter- Carter, please."

Anger boiled inside of him. "You're my wife, suddenly I can't touch you?"

"Of course you can. It's just you know Alexis is going to be waiting up for us, she hasn't seen you all day." She avoided the eyes that were just inches away from hers. Instantly, his hands were released off of her. She had angered him.

Explain yourself.

"I just don't want the elevator door to open, and Alexis to see us you know-"

She suddenly felt his hands on her shoulders. Without warning, her head hit the mirrored wall behind her. A shot of throbbing pain. Before she could contain herself, a small gasp escaped.

"Would you rather let her see us like this?" No remorse. No sympathy. Just that small, sinister smirk.

Ding.

"Now get up, I don't want our daughter to see her mother in such a mess."

He stepped out before she had a chance to compose herself. But, she was still Blair Waldorf. So she did what she did every other night. She stood up on her stilettos, and straightened her dress. She turned to fix her hair in the mirror. And she stepped out of the elevator into their happy home.

Carter was already on his knees, his daughter wrapped in his arms. Her bright smile lit up the dark foyer, or rather his bright smile lit up the foyer. She was the spinning image of her father. Same narrow, hazel eyes, same dark hair, same crooked smile. People say that having children changes you, but they don't stress it enough. Once Blair had healed from the birth, and spent six hours a day in a private gym with a trainer named Sigmund, she couldn't imagine loving anything more. Then, when baby Shelton came along, and the whole process was repeated, she couldn't imagine loving anything else just as equally.

Alexis giggled, and almost instantaneously, Blair felt the throbbing pain in the back of her head diminish slightly.

"Butterfly, what are you doing awake?" Carter slurred and tickled her, and she laughed louder in her silk purple pajamas. The nickname 'Butterfly' was something Blair wholly admitted to loving. He had called Alexis that the moment she was released from the maternity ward. It was a lot more endearing without a bottle of Lambrusco behind it.

"But Father, I was just so happy to see you I couldn't sleep!"

Blair saw Carter's eyes advert to their Belgium housekeeper, Nanette, who quietly nodded in agreement with the child. "Tis true, Meester Baizen. She could no sleep a wink." Blair knew that Nanette knew. She met her eyes.

Blair stepped forward, patting Alexis on the head. "Alright, well, it's time for bed now. You've got schooling tomorrow."

Alexis groaned. "Must I? I wanted to stay up and watch VH1." Blair chuckled for a moment, before remembering how terrible VH1 was for a developing mind. Her daughter's eyes met her own, and she just nodded curtly.

"Bedtime, darling." She bent down and kissed her on both cheeks, before patting her towards the stairs that led to the sleeping quarters. Obeying, she disappeared into the elevation.

"And Shelton?" Blair folded her arms, and turned to Nanette.

"He is sleeping like little baby that he is." Nanette smiled. "I give him bottle around eight o'clock."

Blair sighed, relieved. "Thank you, Nanette. You are dismissed."

Nanette gave a small curtsy, and bustled her way down the hallway to her maid's chamber.

They were alone again.

Carter was leaning, only half conscious, against the burgundy wall of the foyer. She took this as an opportunity to end things for the night.

"I'm going to bed."But before she could turn on her heel, he had her wrist. Instantly, she flashbacked to the dinner they shared less than an hour ago. Shelby's arm.

"I want you."He growled in her ear.

The smell of the alcohol on his breath was overwhelming.

"You're drunk." She simply stated, in such a way that should have ended the pursuit right then and there. But this was Carter Baizen.

He snickered without any hint of humor in his voice. "Like that's ever stopped me before." Without an inch of care or concern, he threw his arm around her and yanked her into him.

Fatigue was kicking in. Her toes ached in her heels, and her neck fell back listlessly against his hands.

"Not tonight… I can't tonight. Please not tonight…"

His hand caught hold of her delicate brown hair, jerking her head back forcefully. Her mouth gapped open, but she quieted the cry that rose up in her throat.

"That wasn't a request."

It's only the bourbon talking. It's only the wine talking. It's only the tonic talking.

Quicker than she could comprehend, she was lying on the California king-sized bed that the two shared. Carter hovered over her, eyes lazy but determined. He had already removed his tie, and had moved on to undoing his leather belt. She sank into the golden Isabella Collection comforter effortlessly, staring straight at the exquisite tray ceiling. The belt was thrown carelessly to the side, and he was sliding down the tailored Hugo Boss dress pants. But she kept her visions to the sky; she never realized how intricate the ceiling of their master quarters was. Every night she climbed into this same bed, and every morning she climbed out of it, never paying it any mind. But lying here now, she felt she could stare at it for hours. The fabric of her dress no longer touched her thighs. Inching, it rose over her slender hips, over her stomach and up her ribcage, revealing the scarlet La Perla intimates she wore underneath. Her arms rose mechanically over her head as, in one swift motion, the dress was disposed of. Had she been attentive, she would have mentally noted to tell the maid to take it to the cleaners at once the following morning, or risk the material crinkling. But that would be if she was paying attention. Instead, she kept her eyes on the swirling golden of the crown molding. His hands were on her now. They weren't gentile in their explorations; his fingertips dug into her. Had she been attentive, she would wince. His aggressive growls echoed off of the bedroom walls. She closed her eyes, for just a moment…

How her life had become so progressively tragic was entirely unanswerable.

The holy matrimony of Carter Baizen and Blair Waldorf had not always been so ill-fated. She was only twenty-two years old when he proposed, on the steps of the Metropolitan Opera one winter evening. Of course, her answer had not been an immediate "I do!" She politely asked for a night to think, assuring him her answer would be yes.

When the limo dropped her off at the end of the date, and she kissed him goodnight, Blair burst into tears and all but sprinted to the elevator, greeted by Dorota's arms when she arrived at her floor. Her mother and Cyrus heard the commotion and ran in, fear in their eyes. It took her around half an hour for her sobs to lower their decibels and for her to actually form sentences. She had lain like a child in her mother's lap, Dorota stroking her hair, and Cyrus fetching her hot Chai imported tea.

That's when she told them – Carter proposed.

Eleanor had laughed nervously when she heard that this was the cause of commotion. After all, Blair had been in a seemingly healthy relationship with Carter for over three years. It shouldn't have come to any shock or blow that Carter would want to move things between the two of them to the next level. But a wave of realization overcame Blair the moment Carter bent down to one knee – if she and Carter were to be married, a chapter in her life would be ending indefinitely. And that quintessential chapter was Chuck Bass.

He left.

And he never came back.

Weeks after he left her, curled alone in her covers, she was certain he'd return. Months flew by. And months slowly turned to years.

She hadn't received a single phone call, a single letter, a single hint that Charles Bartholomew Bass was even still alive. Last she'd heard, some merchants for Eleanor Waldorf Designs spotted him entering a brothel in Bangladesh. When her mother told her, even though it had been a hearty year without any contact to him at all, she wept on her bedroom floor until the next morning when Dorota found her. And that had even been years past.

After some extensive therapy, courtesy of Cyrus Rose, Blair had come to the definite conclusion that she was not going to find nor save Chuck Bass. And there was no point in withering her life away, pining for lost love. So, the next morning, when Carter arrived with two dozen long stemmed white roses for breakfast, Blair accepted his proposal.

It had been a whirlwind from there on.

She felt her panties being tugged down to her knees. Stiff and awkward, Blair felt him shift his weight to perfectly mount her. She wasn't ready; too tired, dry and misused. But those were things that Carter had little concern of tonight. He grunted above her. And suddenly, she was stifling her screams.

Too fast, too rough. There wasn't enough time to process it all, before Carter was writhing and passing out on top of her. His breath became even and heavy. Blair sighed.

As she had many nights before, she struggled to roll his body to the other side of her on the bed. It wasn't even morning, and she already felt the soreness in between her thighs. Her undergarments were crumpled in the Egyptian cotton, ashamedly. She quickly retrieved them. After cleaning her husband up and getting him to properly sleep, she climbed into her acquainted side of their bed.

His back was facing her, snores and grunts echoing off of the vast walls.

Blair curled up tightly underneath the sheets. She knew it was a horrible thing to admit. Divorce was something Blair Waldorf would never do – provided her husband didn't come out as a homosexual. She knew that some things just weren't intended to last, her parents as an example to that. But it had broken her heart – the holidays, the birthdays, all without a father. She wouldn't put her children through the same misery. That is why she, horribly and admittingly, wished for dreams of Chuck Bass tonight.

And dream she did.

Did you love it? Was it dreadful? Please, review.

I already have Chapter 2 and 3 ready for reading! I just would like to hear your feedback.

Xoxo.