Author's Note: Lana (rubybass) asked to see what happened after Chuck and Blair have sex in 1x07. Specifically, she wanted to know if Chuck dropped Blair off at home or offered to let her stay at his suite. Since today is her birthday, I really felt like I should oblige. So happy birthday to the lovely Lana in the hopes that she enjoys not only this little story and her birthday but also will have a marvelous year!
Dalliances with the dark side. Ruling with an iron fist. And yet, at the end of the day, Blair Cornelia Waldorf is all the things he's never going to be – perfect and praised and pure. And maybe that's why he's so surprised when she gets upon on that stage and peels off her headband and puritan dress. When she gets up there and sheds that image everyone has of her in their mind.
He could claim it's because of her body because he's sixteen and she's stripping and it's everything he thought he would never get to see. But she still has her slip on, and he's far too enthralled with her face to really be able to get away with that excuse. Because while she's smiling and teasing the crowd, relishing in the way they roar with pleasure, he is raising a glass and dropping his jaw.
She's all quiet and solemn when they climb into the limo, which is fine with him because he's still trying to find a name for this girl he was introduced to tonight. Because that was not Blair Waldorf.
Or maybe it was and this is the real Blair Waldorf. The one kept under lock and key, held back by the crushing weight of her mother's expectations for her, the Archibalds' expectations for her and Nate, and her expectations for herself.
And he feels like he should say something that lets her know that it's okay to let down her hair, that this Blair is far more intriguing and irresistible and—
"Thanks for the lift home."
"You were," he pauses, searches for the right adjective because nothing seems right anymore before finally settling on the one his brain keeps repeating over and over again. "Amazing up there."
She shifts towards him – one scoot across the seat followed by another until her arm is pressed against his and her face is inches from his. Their noses touch and then their lips and—
It's a short kiss; the kind of kiss that she could pretend never happened because it ends before he's even really sure it's begun. Just one kiss and he tells himself that it can be just like all the others that are of no real consequence. He's been kissed before and, in his opinion, the activity is overrated.
And then she is uncrossing her legs, shifting her body closer to him, and he's asking a question he's never really cared about before. Her response is the firm press of her lips against his, and he realizes his mistake the instant it happens because this kiss is anything but easily dismissed. It's fascinating, intriguing, and exciting.
All the things kissing has never been.
Her hand presses against his cheek as she climbs into his lap, as her lips part and her tongue darts out touch his. His hand chases after hers when it falls from his cheek, and he clutches it for just a moment because he doesn't know how to say that he likes it when she touches him there. And then he thinks better of it, tightens one arm about her waist to greedily draw her nearer while the other falls to touch the back of her thigh, to run up those stockings he so admires.
Not once does she stop kissing him. Instead, she wraps her arms about his neck and presses voracious and hungry caresses of lips and tongue upon him. And he rolls them to the other side because he's about to lose the upper hand as she leans into him, into his embrace and blatantly entices them both.
But this is Blair, and he's not going to get away with being in charge so she pushes back until they're back to the middle of the seat. Her fingers stroke the patch of skin just above the collar of his shirt, and his fingers tug and play with the falling strap of her slip.
And he thinks for a moment that she will want to stop as everything slows around them, as the car continues moving forward but the rapidity of her kisses slows. But then her fingers slide up to his hair and her body thrusts against his, and he knows that she is exploring. That she has slowed because she is so wholly engrossed in what's occurring between them.
He lets the strap of her slip fall where it may, slides his hand down her side past her waist to bunch and gather the slip barely covering her ass. He thinks that maybe he should ask again, and just as quickly as that thought comes is the one that wonders why he's bothering asking at all. She's a virgin, yes, but he's had other virgins. Freshmen fresh for the picking and—
This is Blair. And therefore – no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise – it's different. And it's always going to be different. So he breaks the kiss, whispers the question again against her ear.
She doesn't answer him. At least not verbally. Just slides her hand from the nape of his neck down his chest to the small space between them to help bunch and gather her slip, to unsnap her stockings, to invite him in. He follows her lead; finds the soft skin of her inner thigh to be too much of a distraction. And so he holds there for just a moment, moves his fingers ever so slowly back and forth against the silkiness until his fingers brush against a different kind of silkiness.
Their eyes meet for just a moment before he drops his head and takes her lips. This time it is his turn to ravage and ravish, to press and caress as passion and desire meld into a single flame that drives them onward. Her hands move to grasp the lapel of his jacket, to force him to shrug off his suit coat as the kiss continues.
His response is to tug on the hem of her slip, to break away so he can pull it over her head in one swift movement. And, for a brief moment, her confidence disappears because she's wearing only her garter belt, necklace, and La Perlas and she's never felt more exposed in her life.
"You are," he pauses, searches for the right adjective because nothing seems right anymore before finally settling on the one his brain keeps repeating over and over again, "amazing."
And then his lips play on hers and his long fingers play on her skin, tracing her breasts until they ache. His fingers slide away to outline her ribs before falling by her waist; glide over her stomach until it contracts under his palm. And then he presses. Knowingly.
He releases her lips, listens to her gasp. Her hips tilt instinctively, and his lips return to hers as his fingers drift away, trailing up and down her thighs. Trailing down to drag down her stockings. Trailing up to feel the smoothness all over, to encourage her to part them and invite him to touch her.
And when he does, when he touches her delicately as though it is he who worries about being terrible, she kisses him madly and moves her thighs further apart. The shift is just enough to create a gap between her and the band of her La Perlas, and his finger slips in between with ease to touch her soft curls, to become distracted by the realization that he's touching her where no one else has.
She sinks her nails into his back through his shirt and her spine tenses as she waits with expectation, with anticipation. And then his fingers move away and she's left with this cool brush of air, left with nothing but confusion. She opens her eyes afraid of what she might see but watches curiously as he moves to slide off the seat, moves to sit on the floor in front of her on bended knees.
"Wha—"
He anticipates the question before she can even finish and cuts her off, but he holds off from pulling down her La Perlas as he explains what he wants to do. She looks unsure, opens her mouth to dissuade him.
"I'll stop if you don't like it," he promises. "But I really want to go down on you."
And then he waits to make sure she is okay, to make sure she wants to do this. And maybe that catches her by surprise, but the thoughts melt away as her panties are pulled down her legs and tossed aside, as his hands return to slide across her hips and shift against her.
His fingers trace over each and every fold. Over and over again until he finally parts them and opens her, touches the entrance to her body with a single fingertip. She tenses again, and he doesn't press further. Instead, his fingers slide away and settle on tracing and caressing her wet softness, on teasing and tantalizing her nerves.
Attuned to every gasp and every restless shift, he plays her body until she is panting, wanting, and desperate for more. Her head rolls back against the seat, jerks forward and cries out when she feels his lips press to her curls, his tongue touch between.
Chuck grins wickedly against her, uses his shoulders to wedge her thighs even further apart. And he basks in the noises she makes as his fingers, drenched with her desire, slide to clamp about her hips and hold her still as he feasts. Blair bucks against him, brings one hand to press against her lips and smother a scream.
He sees no need to rush, to deny either himself or her pleasure by doing so, and he settles in to teach her more. She gasps, and her free hand clutches on to the edge of the seat desperately as her senses become overwhelmed by the intimacy of his lips there, by the skilled and artful probing of his tongue.
He takes her to the edge and pushes her over until she falls apart, until she screams so loudly that he would imagine Arthur could hear her if he could think of anything else but the taste of her against his lips.
Half-expecting that to be the end, he slides back on the seat next to her, turns his head, and watches her shattered senses mesh back together. Her head lulls to the side, and her gaze meets his for just a moment. And she draws her shaky legs up, presses her knees into the seat on either side of him, and straddles his hips. And her hand slips between their bodies, her nibbles fingers flicking open the button to his trousers, and she reaches down to find him hard and ready, hot and heavy in her hand.
"Stop," he hisses.
And then he wonders when he became the one that says stop, the one that wants everything to slow down. Blair freezes almost immediately, and Chuck reaches out to stroke her jaw reassuringly. He presses a soft kiss against her lips before moving on to battle with the tiny buttons on his shirt, to bump his hands against hers as she tries to assist him in removing his clothing.
When they succeed in unbuttoning the tiny row of buttons, she pushes the fabric open impatiently and slides her hands across his stomach. Drags her nails across the curls of his chest hair before moving to pull down his pants as she feathers kisses against his neck and he lifts his hips to aid in her quest.
"Condom," Chuck murmurs in her ear as his hand slides from her ass to her hips to hold her off for just a moment.
She looks at him with eyes glinting and lips swollen and bruised from their kisses, and he knows he needs to find one pronto because he knows better than to anything without protection. In the past, though, it has always been about protecting him from the unsavory parts of sex, from the parts that end with things unshakeable for a minimum of six weeks or eighteen years or a lifetime. But now, as he searches his wallet for a condom, all he can think about is protecting her, about making sure she's okay.
And when he finds one, he makes a big show out of it only to once again watch her in awe as she takes the package from him, rips it open, and rolls the condom on him. It's not him using a condom or her insisting on a condom, but them using and insisting on a condom together.
His hands move back to her ass, move back to hold her as she guides his rigidness towards her. From beneath her lashes, she watches his face, watches his eyes as his blunt head caresses her slick flesh. She shudders and he shivers at the sensation, at the anticipation. And then his hands move to her hips. move to help her as she rises a fraction higher, edges forward a little more, and slowly guides him inside her.
Lips parted, she breathes quickly and shallowly as she tries to calm herself. And then he turns his head, brushes a kiss against the corner of her mouth before capturing her lips and kissing her deeply, softly as she sinks down further.
"You okay?" He asks through gritted teeth, fighting through the overwhelming sensation of her contracting around him. She nods her head, searches for his lips with her own until a gasp escapes as he moves against her.
His lips leave hers to trail over her jaw, over the sensation skin of her throat to the spot at its base where her pulse is racing. He moves slowly against her, meets every thrust with a kiss against her pulse point, and then slides his fingers back down between her thighs when he realizes he's not going to be able to hold off long enough for her and him both.
It doesn't take long for them to shatter, for him to finish with a roar and her to finish with a breathy purr in his ear. He holds her in his embrace for a moment, feels her breathing steady to a normal rhythm against his chest, and then she shifts and slides away from him.
For the first time since he started having sex, he doesn't know what he is supposed to say or do. And he begins to wonder how close they are to her penthouse versus his suite as she tugs on her slip, as she balls her stockings and panties up in her dress.
"Blair," he whispers. She looks at him, and suddenly he feels foolish for how he's sitting here with his bare ass on the seat, his shirt unbutton, his pants bunched about his legs, and the used condom still on. "I—"
"I should go home," she replies softly, deciding the course of action for them both. And he finds himself nodding his head in agreement, moving to lower the partition just enough to tell Arthur to take them to the Waldorf penthouse.
He works on cleaning himself up, fights the urge to lean over and kiss her again as the limo slows to a stop on Fifth Avenue. Blair opens the door herself, chooses to exit without waiting for Arthur's assistance so that Chuck has no choice but to watch her dart into the entrance of her home through tinted windows.
By the time Arthur drops him off at the Palace, Chuck decides to forget all about this night. He aided in Blair Waldorf's deflowering and, while it was a more active role than he originally imagined, they can all put that little ongoing dilemma behind them. He rides the elevator to his floor, heads straight to the shower when he gets inside his suite.
But then the hot water beats against the scratches on his back until they sting, until he has to shy away from the water in order to make it stop. He gives up without washing his hair, decides that can wait until the morning, and steps out of the shower. He has to lean a bit to snatch a fresh towel from the rack and cannot help but see the angry, red marks on his back reflected in the mirror back at him.
He cannot help but smirk at the markings because he always knew Blair would be feisty in bed, and he finds himself wondering if he left any kind of markings on her in the process. Besides, of course, the lack of a hymen.
He tugs on a pair of pajamas, tries to find the ones that will aggravate his skin the least when there is a sharp knock at the door. The rolling in his stomach gives him pause, and he fights against it as he wrenches open the door.
"Mister Bass," Arthur greets before holding out the forgotten item he found in the limo after dropping Chuck off. "Miss Waldorf forgot her headband. I wasn't sure if you wanted me to drop it off with her doorman or—"
"I'll take that," he replies, snatching the headband out of Arthur's hands and shutting the door. He holds it gingerly in his hands for a moment only to toss it aside on the table when his stomach rolls again. It lands against the decanter of scotch, and he decides to have a drink before calling it a night because sometimes the only way to fight fire to add the fuel yourself.
He shuts off the lights when he's nearly done with his drink, crawls in bed before downing the last bit. And then he remembers his phone, slides back out of bed to retrieve it from the bathroom counter, and tells himself that he's just checking to make sure he hasn't missed a call about Victrola or a text from Nate. Except Chuck sighs when he sees the lack of missed calls or texts, trudges back to bed and places the phone on the nightstand beside his bed.
He bunches up his pillow, lays down his head, and closes his eyes expecting to fall asleep easily. Rolls on his back and then rolls onto his stomach when the marks on his back cry out in protest. He tries closing his eyes again, opens them when all he can see is Blair dancing on the stage, Blair pressing her lips against his, Blair parting her thighs.
Blair. Blair. Blair.
And then the intermittent roll in his stomach becomes unwavering in the relentless beating…tickling…fluttering inside him. He wonders if he's going to have to dart off to the bathroom, wonders if the scotch and the champagne are disagreeing with him. But this doesn't feel like a sickness; it just feels funny, like maybe something that will go away after he eats something.
He calls down to room service and ignores the way his fingers hoover over a different speed dial number before he places his order. The best part of living in a hotel is the speediness of room service, the fact that he can have his favorite dessert delivered to his room almost as soon as he ends the call.
Chuck bites eagerly into the éclair as he signs on the line to add this late night purchase to his father's bill. But something is wrong and the éclair tastes worse than sawdust. He spits the large bite back onto the plate whilst his stomach howls in displeasure. He decides that maybe he isn't hungry after all, decides to go back to bed and sleep off this horrific bug.
But the whole night is spent is restless tossing and turning, in dreams that transport him to the back of his limo over and over again. He briefly considers texting her that he has her headband around three in the morning when he's become so agitated that he's taken to pacing his room, but he tosses his phone across the room in an angry fit because this is not who he is. He's not the kind of guy that hooks up with a girl and then dreams about her, checks the time on his phone so he can also check to make sure she hasn't texted him.
He tells himself this over and over again, tells himself that he doesn't care even as the fluttering sensation in his stomach grows strong, as he tosses and turns in his bed. And then around five in the morning he gives up, decides that he's just going to go by her penthouse and make sure everything is okay because they are scheming partners and friends and it's the only way he's going to be able to ask her what she did to make his stomach feel so wonky, to make it so he can't eat or sleep.
If Arthur seems surprised to be picking him up so early, the well-compensated driver says nothing even after Chuck tells him to drive to the Waldorf penthouse, even after he is told to follow Miss Waldorf on the walk from her home to the nearest Catholic Church. He just watches in the rearview mirror as his employer becomes increasingly agitated and impatient as they wait for Blair to exit the church, as Chuck clutches his stomach and rubs the sleep from his eyes. When Blair exists the church, when she stands on the steps and slides on her sunglasses, Arthur moves the car from its parked position to follow her again and drives slowly as Chuck lowers the rear window and calls out to her.
"Well, this is the last place I'd expect to find you."
But what he really means is that this is the last place Chuck Bass would expect to find himself – sitting in the back of his limo chasing after some girl because he can't sleep and he can't eat and there's something inside his stomach. Fluttering.