Title: Thrice Divorced, Once In Love
Rating: R for Mature, explicit sexual situations, DO NOT read unless you're 18.
Disclaimer: Chuck and Blair would be more active if I owned them. Lyrics 'Somebody's Me' by Enrique Iglesias.
Summary: (Chuck/Blair) The last time she kissed his lips she was eighteen. It was the Summer of 2009 and she thought they would last forever. But then again she always thought everything would last forever.
Words: About 3,200
A/N: Special thanks to my BETA, Tati who is as wonderful as they come!!
You, do you remember me?
Like I remember you?
Do you spend your life
Going back in your mind to that time?
It's that man, you know? That man in every woman's life that continues entering it and leaving it until you have to ask yourself if it's mere coincidence or destiny.
The last time she kissed his lips, she was eighteen. It was the Summer of 2009 and she thought they would last forever. But then again she always thought everything would last forever. There was an innocence to them back then—perhaps it was in the way he murmured, 'Blair, I love you,' and it would melt her. Because he wouldn't say it if it weren't true. Maybe it was the way he held her hands as he entered her over and over, eyes small and shiny and staring at her as if he might glimpse her soul. What is a girl supposed to think?
The last time he entered her, she was twenty-four. They didn't kiss because that union was harsh, angry, and frustrated, and she never let him touch her lips. He wanted to, but to kiss him would be to destroy the sweet memory of nineteen. There was no 'I love you.' There was no glimpsing of souls. The moment they were done, they looked at each other, and she ran away. Because he was getting married; because she hated him. She never admitted to Serena that she cried for a week straight.
The last time he eye-raped her, she was twenty-eight. It was on her birthday and he undressed her in his own unique way. Taking off layer after layer of clothing and seeing her completely naked. Not a word. Just a look. That time, they only hugged—a simple hug in greeting, but she felt hot and sticky all night. It wasn't until she went home to shower that the burn was off her. In the shower, the images of him and his wife assaulted her and, no matter how many times her fiancé hugged her and made love to her, the visions invaded her over and over again.
The last time their skins touched, she was thirty-two. He was dressed in a white dinner jacket, leaning against a door frame, staring at her, cigar in one hand and scotch in the other. Like some Humphrey Bogart of old times past, staring down his own Lauren Bacall.
She had not meant to touch him, but their hands brushed accidentally as they passed each other at the party. They both turned to look at each other as they continued to walk away. Always walking away, adverting eyes and never admitting to wanting each other as much as they did when they were just seventeen. They hardly spoke to each other that night. A simple 'Bass' and a leering 'Waldorf' and they were gone, walking away, brushing hands, walking away. She noticed his jaw twitched as he took his newest conquest home.
Because I, I walk the streets alone
I hate being on my own
And everyone can see that I really fell
And I'm going through hell
Thinking about you with somebody else
So when she found him walking towards her two years later, she never admitted to adding a bit more swagger to her hips, hoping her lip-gloss was still in place.
He stood before and she had her own West Side Story dream moment. Would he sing 'Maria'? But they weren't in West Side Story. The only thing keeping them apart was his endless string of women, his inability to grow up, and her refusal to tell him how much she loved him. How she had loved him from the moment his lips first touched hers, because a man can't burn you that much and it mean nothing.
"Waldorf," he said, scotch in hand, breath like cigars, and eyes dark.
"It's Stellar," she said, drinking her martini, looking around because his eyes were wrong. So very wrong. They evoked things in her that she had buried long ago.
"Married?" He asked, not a hint of anything in his voice. This pissed her off.
She nodded. "Last year."
"Next week." She admitted. What was the use of hiding?
"Shame," he said, drinking his scotch.
"Divorced?" She asked.
"Twice," he admitted. This she knew.
"Happy?" She asked.
He looked down at her, and she could only avoid his eyes for so many lifetimes.
"If you're lucky." And she walked away. He was watching her, eyes dark, eye-raping her. Damn him.
Adam Brash was her mother's investor. He began to paw her at half past eight, and she felt the devil shine his eyes on her. So she let Brash brashly grab her and brand her with his thick lips to the back of her neck.
She watched Chuck as Brash's hands held onto her, holding her from behind, becoming bolder, brasher, and cockier. She should've shoved him off. She should've stopped him, but she was challenging Chuck. How long? How long will he let her get touched? How many more years will he let her slip from his fingers? It was a plea. A 'come save me'.
It didn't take long: he drank the rest of his scotch and marched up to them. Her heart in her throat, her skin ablaze but then… He grabbed the skinny-blonde in front of her. The woman went willingly, knowing all too well who this Bass was.
She should've known. Chuck would never be the hero.
Somebody wants you
Somebody needs you
Somebody dreams about you every single night
Somebody can't breath without you, it's lonely
Somebody hopes someday you will see
That Somebody's Me
He took the woman out of the room and out the fire exit. She shoved Brash off her, leaving the man confused, and hard as hell, and went to fish for Bass. Or a fight.
She found them by the gray stairs, his hand halfway up her dress, blond head thrown back in ecstasy. Blair grabbed the blonde's arm and pulled her off him. Because he was hers.
"What's your problem?" The woman shouted. Blair didn't have to say a word, not one.
"Get out," he said to the blonde. The woman rolled her eyes and waltzed out.
Once they were alone his eyes were darker than ever, and he stared her down, challenging her.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He shouted.
She slapped him and before he could retaliate she pushed him up against the wall and charged at his mouth. He responded eagerly and she rubbed herself against him, tightening her fingers in his hair, pulling him down. Teeth clashing, moans turning to panting whimpers. Her fingers found his zipper, and in went her hand. Closing around him and pumping him hard and fast. It didn't take much until he was as hard as ever, eyes dark, desire burning through her. She glared at him as she closed her small hand around him. He was hers and hers alone, and now she held him in the palm of her hand.
He grabbed her skirt and shoved it up, easily breaking through her thong and grabbing her hips. She embedded herself on him, sinking in as quickly as she could. His eyes were now wide, mouth opened – he tasted like scotch and cigars, and she kissed him again.
And they stumbled down a few steps of the stairs, him holding her hips so he wouldn't slip out as she held on to his shoulders. They fell on the stairs, digging into his back and she began to rock back and forth, letting him in and out of her, grabbing fistful of his silk shirt and pulling, yanking, tearing.
"I fucking hate you," she cried, and she didn't admit to having tears in her eyes. He kissed her; he kissed her hard, and flipped her over so he could properly pound into her, grabbing one of her legs and tossing it over his shoulder, getting deeper and deeper inside of her.
The edge of the stairs dug into her back and she cried out; pain and pleasure. That's what they were.
"I fucking hate you," she was crying now, angry tears. His face twitched and he pounded harder into her, bending down to lick her tears.
"I fucking hate you," she said, but her words were blurry in her tongue.
"I fucking love you," he said harshly, and his words sent her over the edge, holding onto nothing and just falling. She dimly felt him cum also, twitching inside of her, giving her everything and nothing. The tears stopped because something was growing in her chest. He still loved her.
His head was resting on her sequined dress, his breath so hot that it burned through the fabric, exposing her to the reality.
Her hands were still holding onto his hair when she realized her name was Blair Waldorf. He was still in her, limp and comfortable, and she shoved him.
How, How could we go wrong
It was so good and now it's gone
And I pray at night that our paths will soon cross
And what we had isn't lost
Cause you're always right here in my thoughts
"Get off me," she demanded and he lifted his head, not moving and glared at her.
"I'm not done," he said, and it left no room for questioning.
He pulled the straps from her dress and exposed her bra. She stared at him and he took her in, pink dress bunched at her waist.
"Shut up," he stated as he unhooked the front clasp of her bra and exposed her breasts. He studied her chest, and the intensity of his gaze got to he. Her groin twitched. He also twitched inside of her.
"Touch them," he commanded. She looked up at him, challenging him.
"Touch them," he repeated.
When she didn't, he grabbed her hand and placed it over her breast.
"Show me how you touched them when you thought of me," he whispered huskily.
He was doing more than twitching inside of her. He was getting hard and he was doing it fast. She was right there with him. In his words, in his gaze…He was going to kill her, she was sure.
She obeyed him, touching herself – at first unsure, but as he renewed his slow-rhythmic thrusts she became more and more uninhibited.
His eyes darkened once more. As she massaged her right breast, his mouth found her left one. Tongue first flicking out and tasting, then capturing the small pink bud between his teeth. She arched up and groaned.
"Say it," he said, bud still in his mouth.
"No," she replied, trashing her head from side to side.
He gave the bud a slow, luxurious suckle and pulled back to lap up his own saliva.
"You taste like vanilla ice cream," he said again.
"You hate ice cream," she murmured, eyes closed, loving every minute of his ministrations.
He chuckled and grabbed both her hands, pinning them on top of her. She stared up at him, wide eyes and breathless.
"I fucking love you," he whispered and began licking the space between her breasts and she arched back, wanting his mouth to move either a little to the east or a little to the west.
"Tell me to fuck you," he growled.
"No," she panted, meeting his rapidly increasing strokes.
"Want me to stop?" He asked, and she almost saw him smile.
"No." Her eyes were hungry. Her soul was hungry.
"Tell me to love you," he thrust harder. She wrapped her legs around his waist, ignoring the pain in her back.
"Yes," she whispered, eyes glazed.
He let go of her hands, pulling her head up and invading her mouth, thrusting his tongue in and out, imitating what was happening between her legs. Her hands grabbed his hair, his back, his shirt, anything.
"Tell me you love me," he said against her ear.
"Tell me!" He growled.
"I do," she finally said, and with him looking at her the way he did, with him pounding into her the way he did, they came. Eyes locked. Breath on each other's faces.
"Fuck," he hissed. He landed on top of her and she groaned, stairs making their presence known once more. He quickly realized this, pulling her on top of him while he remained inside of her, once more limp and comfortable. Like this was where he belonged.
Her hand was in the crook of his neck, holding on to his collar. She liked holding on to his collar. She loved him in blue.
They lay there, cold and warm, confused and at peace.
"I can't help myself," he finally whispered. His hand buried itself in her hair.
You'll always be in my life
Even if I'm not in your life
Because you're in my memory
You, will you remember me
And before you set me free
She knew what he was talking about. Years later, and they still wanted and needed each other as much as they did first time.
Age seventeen. Back of a limo. Too much champagne.
Age thirty-four. Dirty stairwell. Too much repression.
Still in love.
"I'll take you home," he said against her hair. There was such sadness in his voice that she that to close her eyes against that typical fear that tended to bubble in her chest.
"Then take me wherever you're going," she finally said, and he held closer.
He covered her with his jacket and he was able to get them out the back door, the limo waiting to whisk them away. He never stopped holding her, holding her against him, and she never stopped touching him.
He no longer lived in a hotel. He lived in a proper penthouse, like a proper UES bachelor. Slick furniture, rare art, hardwood floors, granite counters, recess lighting and honeymoon bed.
When they entered his home, he showed her the bathroom and went to order them some delivery. He spoke in a quiet tone as she washed her face. She looked at the shower, which was large and marble. She was sticky and felt the need to wash. She shed his jacket and her dress, and stepped into the shower. She was about to grab the bottle of shampoo when she felt him slide in behind her, kissing her shoulder and then licking her ear.
"You're wet," he said and she smiled.
She felt the soft hairs of his groin brush against her butt and it made her involuntarily lean back against him.
"Let me wash your hair," he whispered, and she turned around to look at him.
"How very Redford of you," she smirked and he ignored her as he poured the liquid to his hand.
"Close your eyes," he murmured, and she did, smiling as he kissed her temple before his hands got to work.
Her hair was shorter than in high school, but she still kept her shoulder-length brown curls. His hands massaged her scalp as she felt his very talented fingers slowly creating suds n her hair. He began kissing her then, pulling back every so often, kissing her eyelids and nose. She was so entranced by his hands and kisses that she didn't feel the abandonment of one hand.
Suddenly she felt the same fingers softly enter her and she gasped, eyes opening and looking into his smirking face. He played with her, entering her and pulling out, her hair forgotten, his other hand slowly caressing her collarbone. His eyes never left hers. She was still slick from their previous encounter.
"The last time you touched me, I felt your heat for days," she confessed, closing her eyes and letting the pleasure of his fingers take over her.
"The last time we touched was two years ago," he murmured.
"I've been feeling it ever since," she said and kissed him, pulling his head down.
He pulled back and then both his hands were in her hair, pushing her head back and commanding her to close her eyes. She did as he carefully washed the soap out of her hair.
Whoever said you could wash a man right out of your hair never had Chuck Bass wash it because she was pretty sure this cemented him there. For the rest of her life, whenever she washed her hair, she would think of him. And he knew it.
He stopped his ministration and she looked at him questioningly, a sound of protest escaping her lips.
"Food's here," he murmured and pulled away from her, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his hips. She quickly conditioned her hair, annoyed that he had left her all wet and needy. The conditioner was slick in her hand, and she closed her eyes.
She arched her brow and let her hand slowly slip down her body, lightly touching her breast, her belly and down between her legs. She spread her legs slightly and then pressed her back against the marble as she caressed herself, thinking of the encounter on the stairs. She came quicker than she had ever done in the past –perhaps because the feel of him inside of her was still so very clear in her head. She sagged against the marble and opened her eyes to see Chuck standing there, watching her, eyes dark with hunger.
"Lonely," she replied and he quickly came to her, shedding the towel and picking her up, hand around her waist, swiftly entering her and pounding her against the shower wall. She was aroused once more and eagerly met his thrusts, gripping his shoulders for the lack of anything else to grip. He came quick and hard, almost hurting her as he entered more brutally than she'd ever been entered. She bit hard on his shoulder and she cried out in pleasure, coming for the fourth time that night. The water was turning cold. He pulled her out, and then they wrapped themselves in warm towels.
"Starving," she replied with a smile. There was a bag from Antonio's 56 on the table and she eagerly went to it.
"It's probably cold," he murmured, pulling out the food.
"Chicken tastes good cold," she assured him, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist and playing with his chest hair. She watched him serve the food in plates. "Just one plate," she instructed.
"You're going to feed me?" He inquired, brow raised.
"No, you're going to feed me," she smirked, and he watched her as she coyly walked to his bedroom.
"Chicken's never been so interesting," he smiled after her.
They did get to eat, the plate was on the floor, and they now lay, stuffed on the bed, leaning against each other, unable to move.
"You ate like a pig," she commented.
"Do you know how much energy it takes to keep up with you?" He asked, giving her a sideways glance.
"I supposed you might've needed protein," she said, flippantly. That's when she noticed a framed photo on his night table. It was of a little boy, smiling at the camera with a slick look that Blair knew immediately who it was. More like whose child it was.
"You've discovered Arthur," he commented next to her, watching her closely. "Arthur Bartholomew Bass."
"How old is he?" She asked after a while.
"Five. Turns six this year," he said quietly.
"Where is he?" She inquired, picking up the frame. He looked down at the photo, and she swore she saw sadness in his eyes. For the first time that night.
"With his mom in Switzerland." Chuck said, touching the frame slightly. "First marriage. It was chaos."
"What went wrong?" She asked, even though any other woman who was half naked and in her right mind would not want to know. Much less ask.
"What went wrong with yours?" He countered.
"I didn't love him," she said simply.
"Same here," he admitted and took the photo from her, placing on the other night table.
"Do you wish you would see him more?" She asked, leaning into him, resting her wet head on his shoulder.
"Of course. I see him every three months or so." He played with her hand. "I actually head out tomorrow evening to see him. In Paris. Neutral territory."
"It's that bad?" She let out a laugh.
"Yes, his grandmother has to escort Arthur, and I pick him up in Paris," he said and she felt the bitterness in his voice.
"That's horrible," she said quietly, playing with his fingers.
"So what are you doing tomorrow?" He asked, nonchalantly.
"I'm flying to Paris with you."
He stopped playing with her fingers and looked down at her.
"And the divorce?" He inquired.
"I heard you own a private jet. Get me back in time to sign the papers," she shrugged.
He tucked his finger under her chin. "With one condition."
Her eyes were wide as she searched his.
"Next time you marry? It's going to be me."
She slowly smiled, taking his hand from her chin. "I would've married you at nineteen."
His eyes darkened. "You mean to tell me that I could've been having awesome sex since I was nineteen?"
She let out a laugh and captured his mouth before he could chastise her any further.
Because there's never enough BC sex scenes. The more the merrier.