Ridiculously inspired by SaturnineSunshine's fic 'Molecular' and by Dry the River's song 'No Rest'. I recommend both to you.
Red Flag
It's starting to feel like
(oh)
Like
(oh)
Like
(yes)
He's incapable
(please)
Of anything other than this. Chuck Bass is starting to wonder whether his plan really is so brilliant after all, whether excess really rules over detox.
(yes…)
So far, she's not buying it.
Blair flops front-first into a pile of pillows which started their life at the head of the bed and are now somewhere in the middle, panting, her skin damp and flushed at the lips, cheeks, every pair of lips and cheeks. She's sore. She's too sore, even the arches of her feet hurt from being bent this way, that way, stand, squat, crouch, kneel, press your palms against the cool glass of the window and catch his eye in your own reflection. She's too sore, deep down in her stomach, and it's from coming too many times (that is a thing, she now knows, that can happen, and you can be halfway through and feel that particular muscle winding tighter and tighter even as it cramps and the whole experience is wonderful and excruciating, the feelings bleeding together like white and red) – he's trying to fuck her into submission instead of talking to her.
There's been the go home, Blair fuck.
The I don't want you here fuck.
The any girl would do fuck.
Such a shame she doesn't believe any of them, any of the thoughts Chuck desperately tries to convey when he pulls her hair and she falls back against him and fits, and then he's kissing her so she kisses him, desperately, over her own shoulder. The bed is a nightmare, the sheets are stained. She doubts she could crawl to the bathroom if she needed it.
Such problems necessitate the move slowly to the left so we can ring room service and not break our streak fuck.
Blair Waldorf is unconvinced.
She knows that not just any girl would do.
The fact of the matter is that when he is actually, physically inside her, within her, inside a locked box she usually hides the key to, his hands are somewhere else, maybe rougher or softer than they would be on another girl. When she twists and wraps her legs around him, she's twisting the knob and turning him to his Blair setting. It's his default, she's pleased to announce, and can only ever deliver perfect results. He's said I love you eighteen times over the last forty eight hours, and they've ignored it each and every time. When he's ready to talk, ready to say it not just because she's clenching around him like Jesus fucking Christ (far more effective than thumbscrews), then they'll talk. Then he'll say it.
He stares at her foot.
Her left foot.
It's tiny and pink and bare.
It's starting to feel like
(breath)
He
(breath)
He
(Chuck?)
Should come
(Chuck?)
Up with something better. He literally cannot take this much longer, otherwise there's going to be ground meat down there instead of a functioning member.
"What?" He snaps back to the room, realises her ankle is in his hand. She rakes her eyes over his expression (he's popped blood vessels in her eyes, for God's sake, how the Hell have they lasted this long?) and presses her advantage.
"Is there anything you want to say to me?"
"No."
A shudder, and a set of rapid blinks, and a bitten back moan. She dives into the mattress, face-first.
"What?"
"I think I just had a spontaneous orgasm – as in, my body is so used to being screwed that it now doesn't even need stimulation."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
Her ass is also pink and bare.
There is a handprint.
Oops.
"When did I smack you?" Chuck demands. "I don't even remember doing that!"
The mattress mumbles. Blair isn't even moving anymore.
"What?"
"I said I'm not done fighting for you yet." She turns her head to the side, her hair long and tangled but still silky enough to shine. "There have been unholy things done in this room, some of which I will add to my repertoire and some of which must never be repeated. You have called me every dirty, kinky, lovely name under the sun and you may have been speaking in tongues at one point. We have had sex on the bed, off the bed, under the bed, in the bathroom, in the bath and on the balcony. Nothing you can do is going to scare me off, no prop, no tantric position, no nothing. You can pretend your heart's out of the equation, but it isn't." The waves of linen crest as she sits back on her heels, as she casually removes a diamond earring forgotten about two days earlier. "And I'm not going home. I'm not leaving Monaco, I'm not even leaving this room. Not until I've waited a year and you've tried to move on and get married and start a family and a new life and everything awful and unfair – and then not even then."
It's starting to feel like
Like
Like
He's incapable
Of keeping the wall up between them. It's probably the tender bare foot, the way he reverently places it back on the sheet.
"I've missed you."
"I've missed you too."
Of fighting back her fighting anymore.
Chuck lies down beside Blair, touches her arms very gently with his fingers, brushes his nose very gently against hers. Her breaths flutter against his tongue, his back is unbroken. They still fit, even if they aren't still banging together, over and over, frantically striking sparks to keep their fire ablaze.
It burns unaided.
It burns still.
Fin.