"I am not leaving this room today."
His reaction is barely that—he's calm and collected, knotting his tie and smoothing down his lapels, attaching the monogrammed cufflinks you bought him last Spring.
"You're not leaving the room." He repeats, a small, almost bemused, smile in place. His tone is similar to that used when treating a petulant child, and it's clear that he's humoring you. "You've decided this."
You tilt your chin up, still clutching the blankets close to you. "I have."
And you have. College be damned, you're not stepping a single toe over the threshold of the magnificently carved, ornate oak door that he had made specifically for your Master bedroom; the same bedroom you've been co-habitating for nearly three months now. Blissfully, you like to think, though you're sure it's just a phase.
"Nothing I say can dissuade you from this... plan of yours?" He asks, tantalizingly slowly, moving closer and bending down until his face is hovering inches away from yours. He trails a finger down her cheek, plants a soft, gentle kiss to your lips. "Nothing at all?"
Eyes closing of their own accord, you let out a ragged breath, his presence as intoxicating to you as always. But you're not to be swayed; not today.
"Nothing at all." And you see the wonder in his eyes as he ponders over this new development.
Finally, he sighs, backs away. "You have school."
"I'll skip."
"I have work."
You arch a brow, "So go."
He sighs again, because you know that he hates the thought of leaving you alone—most especially in bed. "Blair," he begins, and it's almost a plea. "You're making it entirely impossible for me, you realize this? I can't miss work."
"Who's asking you to? You can go. I promise I won't be mad."
And you won't. This isn't a ploy—at least, not a very serious one. Whether he stays or goes, your purpose for the day is set. You watch as he shrugs on his suit-jacket, shooting you discerning glances through his dark eyes.
"You're just going to lay there all day," he clarifies, shaking his head when you nod yours. "You won't make it to noon—you'll be bored to tears."
You smile at him, shake your head. You sit up straight, reach into the bottom drawer of your bedside cabinet and pull out a box of Lady Godiva's finest (kept there for emergencies), and an Audrey DVD. "I have chocolate and Audrey—I'll never be bored."
He's biting back a smile, you can tell, and you know that he finds your stubbornness endearing; he's told you so on countless occasions. He plants a kiss upon your forehead, and moves towards the door, hesitating when he reaches the threshold.
"What about food?" Silently, you wave the box of chocolates at him, and by his frown you know he's not impressed. "I'll have Dorota bring you lunch. I should be home for dinner."
Again, you shoot him a smile, because he's made a conscious effort to always be home for dinner since the two of you moved in, and he's very rarely failed in that. He looks at you pensively then, and you're sure that he's utterly confused by your behaviour.
"You're sure you'll be okay?"
Rolling your eyes, you assure him that you'll be fine. After all, what possible harm could befall you when you don't plan on moving any further than here and your en suite all day?
He leaves, and you close your eyes and begin to drift off. You're woken some twenty minutes later by a dipping in the bed, and you don't need to open your eyes to tell it's him climbing in next to you. He pulls you close, and you can tell by the silkiness of his shirt that he's changed back into his pajamas.
"I knew you'd cave," you mumble, moving so that your head is resting on his chest, and you feel rather than hear the deep rumble of laughter that is his response.
–
You flutter your eyes open a few hours later, a small yawn escaping your lips though you know that you can't possibly be tired. You shiver; the sunlight filtering through the large bay window cold offering no warmth in the cool February months, but you can't bring yourself to move to get another blanket or even your robe. You're dressed only in your sheer silk slip—the mint green one that reminds you both of that night—and you know you look delectable, and you've learned in your twenty years of life that one must suffer for beauty.
Or, you muse, a wicked smirk playing upon your face as you craftily sneak the covers out from under your beau, make other's suffer instead.
"I saw that, Blair Waldorf." His tone is mockingly serious, and the look he gives you is clearly a call to war.
The two of you struggle, literally, in a tug of war for a few minutes—his strength more than doubling yours, but unlike you he draws the line at physical violence, thus both sides are equal in combat—before finally he concedes. Unfortunately, you're still giving it all you've got, and without his counteraction to balance you, you go spiraling backwards off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump.
"Mother-Chucker!" You gasp, a little winded from the jolt.
His face appears before yours as he leans over to check you're okay, a huge Cheshire grin in place. Scowling, and slipping and sliding as you disentangle yourself from the sheets, you get to your feet, the expression on your face telling him that you are most certainly not amused.
"Blair, baby—it was an accident." He reminds you, laughing—quite literally—in the face of death.
Your eyes narrow to slits, though whether it is the loathed petname that slips his lips or his obvious mirth that increases your ire, you're not sure. You glance around, trying and failing to find a suitable weapon. In the end, you're forced to use a pillow, and you get one good hit in before he wrestles it off you, pulling you back into his arms and pinning you to the bed, as you shriek all the while.
"Jesus, B. Thank God we've no neighbors." He looks pained for a moment, as the last of your screams echo in his ears, before returning to the amused smirk that you so love. "You know," he tells you, keeping you pinned even as you struggle against his hold, "if you wanted to play rough, all you had to do was ask."
Breathlessly, you glare at him, though there's no real anger in your gaze. He's holding you tightly, but if you really wanted he'd set you free in a second, regardless of whatever game the two of you are playing.
"Ready to concede?" He taunts, and for once he actually looks his age—hair disheveled and awry, eyes glinting with mischief. In that split second you're transported back three years, to a time where your games were just beginning and your love was as yet unrecognized.
In response, you tilt your head forward and capture his lips in yours, because you loved the sixteen year old him just as much as you love the more mature nineteen year old. His shock at your easy compliance allows you to once again gain the upper hand, and, lips still fused together, you move until you're on top.
"I don't know, Chuck." You say flirtatiously, looking at him through your lashes. "Are you?"
"Never," he vows, and you smile, because you've grown to love that word. It indicates a long period of time; infinity, really, and you're always pleased when it's used in conjunction with your relationship. Because if there's one thing you're certain of, it's the longevity between the two of you.
"Good." And your lips meet his again.
–
"Where did that come from?" You ask, some time later, blissfully spent.
There's a trolley in the corner of the room, laden with a variety of food. The top tier holds muffins and croissants, other such breakfast things, while the second has an assortment of fresh berries and cream, and also holds two large champagne buckets and two glasses. The third and final tier, however, is home to as many cakes and sweets as you'd likely find in a full window display.
"It's been there since this morning," he says casually, playing with a lock of your hair. "Why, are you hungry?" Without waiting for a response, he climbs out of bed and you whimper at the loss of bodily contact even as your mouth waters at the magnificent array of food before you.
"What, did you buy out the entire store?" Your eyes are wide and you're looking at him incredulously. "Chuck, there's no way we'll eat all this."
He winks at you, "Trust me, we'll need our energy for the day ahead."
"I think the day's just about gone," you tell him wryly, looking at the clock, "it's nearly two o' clock. It gets dark at like six now—if that." But you accept the muffin he hands you gratefully, eagerly taking a bite as you wait for him to rejoin you. "And we'll need spoons for the desserts. Plates, too."
"No, we don't." And he raises a brow, dares you to contradict him. You don't, because the look in his eye is familiar, and you know from past experience that it almost always equates in pleasure on both your parts.
You watch silently as he opens the champagne and hands you a flute, filling it to the brim. He doesn't bother with a glass himself, taking a swig directly from the bottle.
"Chuck!" You scold, giggling despite yourself. "That's disgusting!"
He looks at you incredulously, "Out of all the things we've done together, this you find disgusting?"
You flush, thinking about some of those things. Many were his idea, but a few of your more... inventive games were instigated by you, and you blush harder, thinking about that one night in particular...
And he laughs, pulling the trolley within reach of the bed and climbing back in beside you, pulling you close again. "Still so shy," he says, rolling his eyes. "Twenty months later and I still haven't managed to convert you, Serena will be so pleased to hear."
You hit him on the shoulder, silently calculating in your head. "Has it really only been twenty months?" And if there's wonder in your tone, it's because it feels like so much longer than that, feels like you've been together forever.
He thinks for a second, "About twenty-one, actually." And he smirks, "We could have had two kids by now."
You smack him again, harder this time, because you don't appreciate the joke. Especially given that Gossip Girl still hasn't forgotten your little slip in Junior Year and has been on the lookout for a baby-bump since last Spring when you were caught on camera buying baby clothes. The fact that your heavily-pregnant maid was standing beside you at the time was apparently inconsequential.
"If my mother heard you talking like that she'd have a heart-attack," you tell him, and you're serious. "You know that she's already panicking about us living together."
Apparently Eleanor had gotten it into her head that you and Chuck were just a phase, one that you'd eventually grow out of, and so her blessing was given freely. Needless to say, her reaction when Chuck bought the penthouse for the two of you to live in together was comical. Three months later, she's still trying to come to terms with the notion that you're serious when you say that you love Chuck Bass.
"Your mother's lucky I've learned not to take disapproval to heart," he replies, handing you the bowl of strawberries and watching, enraptured, as you lick the cream off of one. "I actually can't wait to see her expression when we announce our engagement."
And you choke on the berry you've just bitten into, because this is the first you've heard of any such thing. "Excuse me?" You splutter, waving your bare left hand in front of his face. "Is there something you might have forgotten to ask me?"
The corner of his mouth twists upwards in a half-smile, "I meant in a few years, Waldorf." He takes a strawberry for himself, popping it into his mouth. "What?" He asks, when he notices you staring at him with a strange expression on your face.
"You've never talked about that before." You tell him softly, and he shifts a little, uncomfortable under your scrutiny. "Us in the future. You've thought about things like that?"
He doesn't meet your gaze, turns the question back on you. "Have you?"
A good offense is the best defense. He taught you that. But you're not going to fight him about this.
"Of course," you admit, because there's no point in lying. He knows that you make scrapbooks about everything—he must have seen your Chuck&Blair one when he went in search of the Prom book. "But I never thought..."
"That I'd consider things like that?" You wonder if you imagine the edge in his voice. "Why? Because I'm Chuck Bass?"
"No. Because you're nineteen."
Even in your world nineteen is young to consider things like engagements and marriages. You and Nate were the exception, because your families had been close and you'd been dating for years. You hadn't planned on even broaching the subject with him for another year or so—not until you were sure of what his reaction would be.
"You're only twenty." He replies, and his eyes darken as he looks at you. "What's the difference?"
The difference is that there's a whole world in between nineteen and twenty, especially for men and women. But you don't tell him that. "Chuck, maybe we should just forget about it..."
"No, I want to know." He presses, still with that look in his eyes. "Why is it so incomprehensible that I'd want to marry you someday? We're in love, we're living together... Marriage is the next obvious step, right? Isn't that how 'The Plan' goes?"
Your breath catches in your throat, because you can't tell if he's being serious or if he's just mocking you.
He moves the food away, rolls so that he's on top of you. He plants kisses down you neck, "Engaged by twenty-three," he whispers, close to you ear. "Married by twenty-five. The obligatory 2.4 kids before you're thirty." His hands move down your body and you stifle a moan as he kisses every bare expanse of flesh he can reach. Suddenly, he pulls away, mouth twisted into a smirk, "What makes you think that I don't want that too?"
"The look in your eyes right now," you tell him, almost fiercely, and he ducks his head. When he looks up again, his expression has softened considerably, but it's just as unreadable as before.
"You're right, I don't want that," he tells you finally, and you blink back tears, try to move away from him. He doesn't let you go, traps your hands in his and lowers his mouth close to your ear again, "I was thinking more like engaged by twenty-two, married by twenty-three."
You're so startled you go limp in his hold, and your eyes roam his frantically for any hint of a lie. "Do you mean that?" And if you sound desperate, it's because you are a little. In the past ten minutes he'd built up your hopes, made you admit your dreams, only to bring it all crashing down around you.
But he's smiling, the true smile he rarely shows, and he kisses your lips gently. "I'd marry you now if I didn't know that you want to have graduated college first before you even start planning a wedding."
For the second time today, you send college to damnation. "No, I don't!" It's a lie; that's always been the plan and you both know it.
"Liar."
"Fine, but I never mentioned anything about an engagement." You think maybe you're pushing it, but once again he's gone from zero from sixty in the space of a few moments and, as per usual, he's brought you along for the ride.
"Blair, you honestly think that you'd be able to wait more than two years to start planning? You're the most impatient woman I've ever met. We'd end up eloping, and you'd never forgive me for it."
You pout, because he has a point, before looking at him slyly, "Can I at least see the ring?"
You're fishing, truly and completely; you don't even know if he's bought one yet. But there's something telling you that he has, and the question catches him off guard enough to confirm your suspicions.
"Oh, my God!" You gasp, and you swear your heart stops. "You have one?"
"I didn't say that!" He hastens to say, but it's too late and you both know it. "Blair, that's not what I said."
"I can not believe this," you say, and you're speaking mostly to yourself. You push him off you, sit up properly. "Chuck Bass has a ring. Chuck Bass wants to marry me." The next thing either of you know, you're hitting his chest. "You Basshole!"
"Ow!"
"Why the hell did you tell me that! How do you expect me to survive the next two years knowing that we'd be engaged by now if it wasn't for school? Basshole!"
He looks at you irritably, rubbing at his wound. "Well I've managed to survive nearly two years with the thing, surely you can manage two years without it." And he freezes, realizing what he's just said.
"You've had the ring for two years!" You hit him again, harder this time.
"What do you think I was doing in Europe for that week after graduation?" He asks, scowling. "I was trying to find the perfect one, but I shouldn't have effing bothered, if this is the thanks-"
His next words are cut off by your lips on his, because even though you hate him right now for torturing you this way, you don't think you've ever loved him more.
–
"I'll drop out," you vow, later that evening after dusk has fallen. "Who needs degrees these days, anyway?" You're only kind of joking.
He kisses your forehead, feeds you chocolate cake with his fingers. "You love Columbia, you're not dropping out."
You sigh, moan again. "Why did you have to tell me?" He rolls his eyes, again, and you think he's going for a world record.
"Blair, if you say that one more time having to wait won't be an issue because there won't be anything to wait for."
You open your mouth to respond but he takes the opportunity to shove another piece of cake in there.
"Basshole," you mumble, mouth full, and he laughs.
–
"Chuck?"
"Hmm?" It's late and he's half-asleep so you feel guilty for keeping him awake, but it's important.
"I could probably manage a year without wanting to plan. And don't think that I didn't notice that you never mentioned kids. I'd discuss it now, but you'll probably make me want a baby, and I've been denied enough tonight."
You can tell he's rolling his eyes, but it's dark so you don't know for sure. "Duly noted, Blair."
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters portrayed in this document.
A/N: This is 3,000+ words of pure, unedited fluff that was the result of a day off sick. Hope you enjoy, and please don't judge too harshly; it's just bit of fun ;)
Oh, also - I'm not watching S4 at this time, due mainly to a complete lack of interest. So I'd appreciate if people respect that in comments. Thanks.