Warning: I'm going to keep this an M. Language and graphic stuff.

Serena woke up well into the late morning. Though she wouldn't describe herself as awake. Conscious would be slightly more apt. She clasped her face in both hands, blonde tangles helped to block out the tiny lines of sunshine that managed to seep through Chuck's heavy curtains. The throbbing didn't stop and neither did the nausea threatening to bubble over.

There was once a time when she could wake up after a hard night and feel fresh and ready for the new one. Unfortunately she was out of practice and gin may have well as been a freight train; the effect was remarkably similar. She threw off the sheets, trying not to think about the sweat and other bodily fluids they'd probably collected during the night.

She quickly scanned the note by the bed before scrunching it up. Chuck had called in sick for her and left a glass of his (in)famous hangover cure in the fridge. Her nose crinkled when she reached the end.

Your loving brother,

C

It was overkill. She was way too sick to deal with the incest connotations. But that was Chuck; he couldn't do the sweet without the sour.

By the time she was presentable enough to head to the family's suite she wasn't certain what made her feel more ill: the alcohol, Chuck's cure, or herself.

Her life was a disaster. And it didn't get any easier: always living in the eye of the storm. Or maybe she was the storm.

She opened the door quietly, uncertain whether she could handle polite conversation.

She needn't have bothered. Bart stood next to the kitchen table, flipping through the contents of a large yellow envelope. "May I see you for a moment?" he asked without looking up.

Her shoulders stiffened at his tone. With a stony, impenetrable expression he watched as she closed the distance between them.

"What's up?" she asked cautiously, transferring her heels from last night and the rest of Chuck's hangover cure to the table.

"What's up?" he repeated incredulously. He let out a low breath, closing his eyes for a moment to calm himself. "You do realise that I own this building?"

"That does sound familiar," she replied. She didn't like this naughty schoolgirl routine he was forcing her into. Her fingers wanted to fiddle with her clothes (Chuck's shirt and a woman's skinny jeans that she didn't want to know the details of), but she crossed her arms to stop herself.

"So when my stepdaughter comes home inebriated at two a.m., don't you think I'm going to find out?" he demanded, voice held back only with steely control.

Her gaze dropped to the table, and she lost the battle as one hand reached out to fiddle with the scuffed toes of the disregarded stilettos. "I'm sorry. I—"

"Enough!"

She jumped at the sound of his rebuke. He hadn't even shouted, but the tone was nothing she'd ever heard from him. Not even when she came in at four a.m. after making out with bartenders just to annoy him.

"Enough," he continued in his usual reined in manner. "Don't you think I'm going to find out when you come in at two a.m., inebriated, and pawing all over my son?" Each word was drawn out, flung at her like a barb.

She took a step back unconsciously, stunned. Suddenly the room felt too hot, and too quiet. She blinked rapidly while trying to process his words.

His lips sealed into a hard line, watching her reaction with a considerable amount of scorn. "Will you not be content till you've destroyed every last fragment of your reputation and my name? Are you honestly trying to destroy this family?"

"No! I mean, I don't know. I didn't mean to do anything. I don't even remember being in the hotel last night. I just..." She shook her head, agitated when words seemed to fail her. She remembered Chuck, and touching Chuck, and being in the lobby while touching Chuck, but she hadn't been coherent enough to think about the ramifications of getting felt up by her stepbrother in front of his father's employees.

He passed the contents of the yellow envelope to her. Thoughtlessly she flicked through a couple of the photos from the security tape last night. "Sleeping with my son Serena? Do you have no limits?" The words were quieter, more searching than angry.

She preferred anger.

"What do you think?" she asked contemptuously. She wanted to ball up the photos and throw them at him; she'd do anything to make him just stop: stop talking, stop making her feel like this. She felt so guilty she couldn't handle his disdain, couldn't even think about the worry that was lurking somewhere behind his frosty blue eyes.

"I think things are going to change." He took the photos from her hands, even as she clung to them a little too tightly. He shoved them back in their envelope, probably preparing them to go into his safe of secrets and demons. The photos disappeared and so did the last of his emotions. He was Bart Bass again: entrepreneur, billionaire, and nothing close to human. "I think you need to go to college. Brown's second semester doesn't start for another five months, but I'm sure I can get you into some preparatory programs."

"You're sending me away?" She hated how tiny her voice sounded.

"I think the best thing for this family is space. I dismissed Charles because of his behaviour last night."

She couldn't believe he'd do this. It wasn't just about last night, she was sure of it. He wanted her gone from his bed and from his life. And Chuck had gotten in the crossfire: lost his job, and added another nail in the coffin for father-son relations.

He'd been so perfect last night. As she teetered on a dirty bench and looked down at him. His handsome face had watched her with something close to awe. You shimmer he'd whispered, as if he had no idea the words had left his lips.

And she'd tried to tell him, to warn him, that she didn't deserve that look, or those words. But he'd just looked petulant, like a child who couldn't accept Santa Clause wasn't real.

"The two of you humiliated yourselves. He can have a choice of the marines or college." He met her bitter gaze unflinching. "I'm doing what I think is best for the two of you."

"What's best for you, you mean! And your company and your precious name," she hissed.

"It's your name too," he cut in.

She paused, not following his words. "What?"

"It's your name too now," he repeated. "A while ago your mother adopted Chuck and I adopted you and Eric. The papers were processed and I finally got around to picking up the forms."

"Why are you doing this?" She brought a hand up to her forehead, feeling like she needed something to stabilize her.

XOXOXOXOXO

He sat at The Palace bar, not so much drinking his drink as glaring at it. Which was unfair really, because scotch was the only thing he didn't hate at the moment.

He was in a quiet corner table rather than his usual seat at the bar. For once he didn't feel like being seen.

He'd gone to Bass Industries this morning, despite getting two hours of sleep. And his father had called him into his office and fired him. His own father had fired him. For being seen drunk last night and coming in late with Serena.

All of Manhattan had seen him drunk before.

Most of Manhattan had seen a hell of a lot more of Serena than that.

The marines or college. That was the choice his father had given him. But he couldn't even bring himself to think about that. Fatigues or a library, it didn't matter. Either one would probably lead to the same ending. The slow painful elimination of all that Chuck Bass had come to stand for.

And all for her.

His father hadn't said a thing about it, but he knew. His father would have known exactly what he and Serena had done. Even as intoxicated as he'd been he could still remember the feeling of holding Serena up against the wall, his lips on hers, her thigh moving between his while they waited for the elevator, knowing that a security camera was right behind him, knowing that his father would see them. But with mine, mine, mine running through his head, it had seemed like a good idea.

And that's why the bastard had fired him.

He could have handled getting fired. The limo ride home had almost restored his calm exterior. He'd had the rest of the day planned out. He would head to his suite where Serena would still be asleep and naked underneath his sheets. Even hungover she'd look like a goddess in the midmorning sun. He'd coax her awake with a teasing rose down her skin and her favourite berries. She'd be embarrassed and guilty about last night. But he'd remind her of who he was: how he'd seen everything, been there for it all and she'd eventually give him coy looks and sultry giggles. He'd tell her about getting fired and she'd exclaim how much of a prick his father was.

And then he'd graciously accept her sympathy sex.

But that was not how it had gone down.

He'd thought to pick up a change of clothes for her, which he was planning on holding hostage until she'd paid him (he was flexible with payment plans). And then there it'd been.

There they'd been.

Serena wrapped in his father's arms, wearing his shirt, cuddled into his chest like his father was a Humphrey or some shit. And she was crying. He couldn't hear anything, but he could see the slight tremble in her shoulders.

She was probably crying about last night. About how much of a slut she was.

And his father had seen him over her golden head. His hand had paused in mid-motion where it was soothing Serena's hair down. Their eyes had clashed, blue against brown, and Bart had seen everything, every ounce of unrefined anger in his son's gaze. But Bart's eyes had drifted to the girl in his arms and just like that the moment was gone.

And his father had the nerve to go on, to do that right in front of him. Bart's hand continued its journey through blonde silk, lips murmuring something Chuck couldn't make out, probably sweet nothings.

He felt the bile rise to his throat and quickly took another swig of his drink.

And to make things even worse then there she was, sitting down in the only other chair at the table, like she had any fucking right to be near him. She was wearing a loose silk singlet under a pair of waist-high shorts, a leopard print scarf wrapped around her neck. He wished he didn't know for sure that she came through on every promise her body made.

He shouldn't have been surprised, it was a bar and she was Serena. Her liver probably couldn't function without an ocean of gin rushing through it.

She reached out to touch his shoulder, but he eluded her touch. The small smile disappeared from her face, replaced by something cautious. "Hey Chuck."

He returned her greeting with a scowl. Because she was Serena, it didn't faze her; she barely acknowledged his look of disgust.

"I heard about Bass industries." Navy blue eyes shone with sympathy. He remembered the way those eyes looked from inches away: unfocused with pleasure, her warm breath bathing his lips. "I'm sorry."

He let his lips tip into a small smirk. "Sorry for me?" He shook his head as if amused. "Why, because I got fired? Because my father fired me for touching you? Or because he was too busy fucking you to be a father to me?"

Her eyes went wide, hands fl uttering nervously for a moment before wrapping around her own body, like maybe they were the only things holding her together. "Chuck, I—" Her voice faltered, and she licked her slightly parted lips.

It was so much worse now, knowing what those lips felt wrapped his cock, her mouth wet, and warm, and so damn wanting.

"You what? Are some sort of Bass whore?" His lips twisted into something ugly. "I'm well aware of that. Father—mine, yours, whatever—should really put you on the payroll or something."

He stood walking out of the bar as steadily as he could. He'd nearly made it to the elevator, when he heard her long strides following him. He hated her too long legs now. The way they could wrap around his hips, as he forced himself into tight, dripping, heat.

He pressed the elevator button and she reached out to grab his arm, tugging at it until he turned to face her. "What do you want, Serena?" he asked, cold and tired of her games.

It didn't matter who he was, what he was capable of destroying with his name and his brains. With her it all seemed to go up in smoke, delusions of grandeur, while she just had to exist for lives to crumble at her feet. Compared to her he was an amateur, breaking toys while she broke kingdoms.

Queen S was alive and well, still nothing but unadulterated destruction in motion.

Her eyes pleaded with him. I feel broken. "Chuck, I'm sorry," she repeated, this time for a hundred different things. "I don't know what happened, or why. I just—" She held up her hands, palms first in a beseeching gesture. "I do things that I don't mean or understand, and things just happen. And people get hurt. And I'm just so sorry."

He stepped into the elevator without looking at her. "You're always sorry S." He hoped that it would be enough, that she'd know better than to continue this.

He let out an exhausted sigh when she followed him and the doors shut behind her. When had Serena ever known better? She reached out to touch his arm, starting to apologise again. His jaw clenched painfully and he grabbed her wrists transferring them both to one hand, as he pushed her with his body until she was pressed up against the elevator wall. He forced her arms above her head, his shoulder aching where her teeth had drawn blood to stifle screams. This morning he'd wanted nothing more than a matching set on his other arm, but now he gripped her chin between his fingers, glad that she wasn't wearing heels and their eyes were on the exact same level.

"Thing don't just happen," he whispered harshly, inches from her face. "Selfish little girls make them happen, without a thought in their pretty little heads, not for their mother and not for their brother." And not for me.

It wasn't fair, and he didn't care. Her wide blue eyes shined with tears, lips parted as her breath came too fast. "Don't Chuck."

"Why?" he demanded lazily.

"I thought that—" Her head lowered, blonde hair dragging in front of her face.

He smiled, well, bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. His voice came out soft with a charming lilt. "You thought what? That with one lousy fuck I'd play your fool?"

She lost the battle and a few small tears broke her hold. He couldn't look at her like this: all fragile and lost and a lot of it his fault. But he couldn't seem to stop himself from hitting out at her, from making her hurt the way he was hurting. "Did I blink and miss the part where I was supposed to fall in love?" he asked in the same quiet voice.

He captured her lips with bruising force, hard enough that her teeth would leave marks on her own lips. She smelt like tears and his father's cologne. It made him press her wrists harder together, tighten his hold on her face. He wanted something. He wanted her to struggle, to smack him, scream disgusting bastard into his face.

But she didn't.

She just cried harder. He could read the guilt in her face. She wouldn't fight him, because she didn't think she deserved to fight.

The elevator chimed and he dropped her wrists abruptly. He pressed the button for the family's suite on his way out. "Go back to my father." He stepped out into the hallway. He couldn't deal with her when she was like this, when she refused to feel anything, to be anything worthy.

"If he'll still have you."

E/N: Voila! Drama. Let me know what you think, 'cause reviews are coolness.