let me be your ruler
blair/jenny
…
It's a whisper against her pale skin in the moonlight, bright red lipstick leaving marks against the throat of her neck. Hollow. Hands silently slipping across her skin like a prayer. Stolen moments in a closed off office and lingering looks across scraps of silk. It's the feeling of excitement bubbling underneath her skin, in her stomach, spreading out across her body like she's sprouting wings. It's dangerous and exciting and it's wrong—it's what Blair tells her, hands underneath her skirt, fingers hooked around her underwear, lips against her neck; wrong, wrong, wrong.
I'm married, Blair hisses. Her ring glinting, the diamond sparkling, makes it very clear. It doesn't stop them. If anything it drives them to keep going; it makes everything more exciting, more dangerous. It's like walking across a tiny tightrope, knowing you're going to fall but the fun outweighs the risk.
Her hands fall back on the table and Blair unbuttons the blouse she'd insulted that morning, scoffing at the cheap fabric and the tight fit; Jenny thinks about all the other times Blair has insulted her clothes—from high-school to high-end businesses. Things never change.
I should go home. Blair tells her, pressing her lips behind the skin of her ear, kissing her fervently before moving to her lips. Before opening her mouth and letting Jenny's tongue slip inside, her hands pressing tightly against Blair's waist, digging her nails in.
Then go. Jenny tells her, pulling away. Blair twists her wedding ring, gold. Twists her engagement ring, diamond. Eyes flickering to the photo on her desk—a smiling son and husband and Blair.
Jenny pulls away completely, moving off of the desk and buttoning her shirt back up. Blair watches her, tapping her fingers on the desk. Pale pink nails to match the innocent pale pink tights, the tweed skirt; the outfit of a women not messing around with the younger designer for her company that she used to bully in high-school.
It's not like this scene hasn't played out a thousand times before—Blair telling her she can't, Jenny moving away, only for Blair to kiss her again, to tell her this means nothing and for them to get lost in each-other for a few hours before Blair runs off back to her life and Jenny packs up the company and walks home back to her apartment to sip wine, watch mindless reality T.V. and play with her cat in her cozy cotton pajamas. Her life so opposite from Blair's.
"We need to stop this—for good." Blair says, looking down at the wood of the desk. Looking at the floor. At her shoes. At anything other than Jenny Humphrey standing in the corner of her office, her lipstick all over her skin and breathing heavily, trying to catch her breathe.
"Okay." Jenny replies, she's not going to fight for this; she's not going to be the girl who swoops in and ruins a marriage and presses for an affair to continue, she's not—she's better than that, and she deserves better than that. It doesn't mean she's not going to take every chance to wipe the lipstick off of Blair, to see her without her designer frocks on, to get underneath her skin and into her head and steal every possible moment with Blair that she can.
"After tonight, this ends." Blair says, walking forward towards Jenny. It goes like this every-time: the two of them pretending that this is it, the final time they'll be together, the last of their affair; only for the next day to skip lunch together to "work" on "designs" for "the new spring collection" only to end up with Jenny's head between Blair's thighs and Blair's hands in Jenny's hair, telling her that this is it, it's over, it's over, it's ov—
"I get it, Blair."
"Don't say my name—what's the rule?"
Jenny presses her hands against Blair's face, too soft, too gentle, too much. "This is mindless sex. It means nothing. So no names or feelings involved." Jenny recites the words Blair told her months ago, three too many accidental late-night office hook-ups.
"Exactly." Blair says, trembling. Jenny's hands are too soft, too soft, too soft—Jenny kisses her, pressing her lips hard and fast against Blair's; this is what they wanted, nothing, mindless fun, nothing that meant anything; just fun.
(It's what they keep trying to tell themselves, burying feelings under layers of clothes and make-up; playing pretend like they've always done. Dressing up and acting, like they're playing the role of high-school queen again; the crowns sitting atop their pretty heads while their hearts are hollow and empty. It's the same as this, acting like this is nothing, that this isn't the only time—when they're together—is the only time they feel anything. That every other moment in their lives are the same, empty and hollow and devoid of meaning and feeling).
It leads to the same end as always: the two of them entangled, limbs everywhere and gasping for air. On the floor. On the table. Pressed against a wall, a window, a door.
Blair leaving in the early hours of the morning, not once glancing at a disheveled Jenny as she leaves to go fix her own appearance. It's a routine-their routine-day in and day out.
"I'm leaving for Milan tomorrow." Blair tells her, rolling onto her side so she doesn't have to look at Jenny; this is a fact that Jenny knows, it's a fact that Blair shouldn't be telling her if this is the last time. "I'll call you." Blair says, getting up and walking towards the bathroom.
Calling means dirty-talk at an hour that suits Blair. It means sneaking around at any hour. It means that nothing is over between the two of them—no matter what Blair keeps telling her, this is her offering the olive branch to continue their affair, to continue sneaking around, to keep pretending that this means nothing at all—
"I don't think that's a good idea." Jenny says, speaking up. Blair looks over her shoulder at Jenny, studies her figure for a second; it makes Jenny feels more exposed than she's ever felt, grabbing her shirt off of the floor and slipping it on. Flipping her hair from out of her shirt and crawling over to grab her underwear and skirt, quickly sliding them on.
"W-what?" Blair asks, in shock.
Jenny twists her body to face Blair, her clothes still on; another rule—only Jenny can be completely naked. Only Jenny can be exposed, heart-bared, naked; it's too much for Blair.
"I can't do this anymore, Blair." Jenny says, softly; the words flow out easily but it hurts, like her throat is tightening and her stomach is twisting. It's the last thing Jenny wants but she can't do this anymore—pretend that Blair means nothing, that sleeping with her means nothing, pretending that she's not in a stage in her life where she wants to date when the truth is she just doesn't want to see any girl that isn't Blair.
Blair freezes, her body turning rigid. Snow Queen. Ice Queen, once more. "I am married."
"You are." Jenny agrees, eyes turning to the ring Blair is twisting around her finger; over and over again like a nervous tick.
"I have a son. A family."
"I know. He's very cute."
"We're thinking about having another baby. I'm off the pill. We want a daughter." Blair says, still going.
"A daughter would be nice for you. Someone you can bring around here for us to all fuss over and dress up in pretty dresses." Jenny knows this game: denial.
"I wouldn't make the same mistakes with her that my mother made with me."
"You'd be very good to her, Blair."
It's saying her name that breaks Blair, switches her out of this zone she's gone into—talking about her family, delving beneath the surface and into a deeper topic than orgasms and sex and steamy make-out sessions.
"I should go. Stopping this," Blair waves her hand between the two of them, following an invisible line that connects the two of them together. "is a good idea. Smart. Something we should have done—"
"A long time ago." Jenny finishes for her.
Blair nods her head, silent as she picks up her bag off of the floor and walks towards the bathroom. Silent as she walks out of the office and away from Jenny.
Don't leave me. Jenny wants to say. They could be happy together—they could have a little family of their own, Henry and a daughter and movie nights on Saturday's, wine and cats and trips to the fashion capitals of the world; they could make it work, carving a life for themselves based on the lives they have now. They could wear Valentino and Elie Saab at events, coordinating their outfits to match but not enough to look tacky, they could be a powerhouse fashion couple; maybe Blair would go back to school, study law or journalism like she's always wanted to. Set up her own fashion magazine while Jenny runs Waldorf Designs, the two of them doing what they love; it's a dream, it's a dream that's never going to come to fruition.
It's like the dreams she had in high-school to be popular and loved and in the in-crowd. It worked for a while, she was accepted until she stole, she was accepted until she wasn't. Would it be the same with Blair? It's not like Jenny would ever get a chance to find out. It's not like Blair could leave her family and give up everything to build a life with Jenny—the affair was meaningless, nothing; it was sex and physical, feelings out the window. For Blair, at least.
Jenny brushes her hair with her fingers, fixes it into a messy bun and buries the leftover feelings from being a young yearning high-school lesbian who didn't understand her feelings and infatuation with the older girls, the feelings she had for Blair and picks up her own bag and her portfolio. Flicking the light off to the office and taking the keys off of the key holder hung up in the office, slipping her heels back on and locking the door behind her.
She turns the lights off to the hallway that leads out from Blair's office, her heels clicking against the floor the only sound in the building, knowing that this time is different; that she's walking away from sneaking around for good. It's in Blair's hands what happens next.