A lot of people seem to be of the opinion that Blair spent the night after Victor, Victrola with Chuck (in a bed, I mean), but if I were him I wouldn't have put any money on her wanting to see me in the morning. Couple that with Blair's early morning church visit and change of clothes, and I reckon that she went home after a more than substantial amount of time in the limo (me, I just feel sorry for the driver. And wouldn't they roll around in there, what with the whole moving vehicle thing? Or maybe that was helpful, I don't know).
Also, I'm in agreement with Dan – for once – that: 'sex is meaningful, like art (and you don't rush art)', and I'm guessing that to start off a love story as epic as C and B's, whatever happened in the back of that car must have been pretty damn spectacular, both physically and philosophically (which is why this piece is more spiritual than sweaty). Plus, I'm not into writing smut – mostly because penis synonyms make me giggle.
Anyway, sorry for the long A/N. Enjoy.
First
Blair's breaths come heavy and short as she stares up at the ceiling with hot, bloodshot eyes. She cannot close them, no matter how hard she tries – she is too busy feeling. Her body has taken control of her mind for once and it is forcing her to stop focusing on consequences and betrayal and how the hell she's going to get Nate back. All she can think about is damp skin and breathing even more laboured than hers is now, a pain so exquisite that she sobbed and sighed and bit into his shoulder.
He hissed, enjoying the first of many wounds she would inflict on him throughout the night, for the rest of his life – with her mouth, with her nails. In supplication, she pressed her lips to the ring of red teeth marks, her cool exhalation almost an apology that she could not be soft even in this, the sweetest and most bestial of acts. He gave her absolution with his kiss – tender, passionate, red hot and never ending. Kissing him was like having a conversation without words, without crowns or headbands or boyfriends or any of the other things which usually tangled them and bent them over backwards.
She felt so small in his arms, so weak and close to breaking. He held her as if he would never let go, as if he would shut out the world so they could build one of their own. Their kisses turned to iron and steel, filling both with rapture and dread as they began to move together, touching, tasting, seeing, smelling, hearing, exploring – understanding. She could close her eyes then, close them and purr like a cat with sheer unadulterated pleasure.
Blair stares at the ceiling with her hot, bloodshot eyes, and with her chapped lips she smiles. This is a world of people who all know Blair Waldorf, Queen B, and now she has something so undeniably hers that it forges a link in the air between them, a bridge that burns brighter than the sun and sets the dark on fire.
Fin.