Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N - I know. FINALLY. I appreciate the interest and thank you to everyone who encouraged me to finally get back to this. I hope it doesn't disappoint. Please let me know what you think.
*You will have to reread "Rubber Chuckie". Or else you will be lost. I had to reread it several times myself. LOL.* PS. Yes - the title is crap. Think of something better? Tell me!
PS. Yes - the title is crap. Think of something better? Tell me!
"Dude, are you even paying attention?"
Enough attention to know that you're riding a full house, Nathaniel.
"Yes," I reply absently.
"Umm...." Brooklyn stutters and I spare him a glance.
He looks confused instead of judgmental. I glance back at Nathaniel and discover that, yes, all is still right with the world and my blonde best friend (soon to be God father to my twin boys – and yes, I can just hear Blair rolling her eyes and protesting from our room down the hall) still looks as though the cards he's holding have mathematical equations written on them instead of numbers and suits.
"What?" I snap, because no matter that the man is technically my brother-in-law, he is still, and will always be, Humpty Dumpty the boring and tasteless Brooklynite. Best man at my wedding, or not.
Unless I'm drunk – which I never am – and even then (it was one time), he's only bumped up a rung to Brooklyn Dan.
Forrest Gump and Gin should not be mixed. And I still maintain that Blair slipped me something so that she could 'position' us a la Ross and Joey – her reference, not mine – to obtain the black mail photos I know that she has taped to the underside of our bed frame.
"You're phone," he tells me like I can't hear the damn thing buzzing and beeping incessantly myself.
It's my lovely bride. Again. I swear that woman will be the death of me. Which, yes, I know is the epitome of irony – Chuck Bass complaining about a hot, sexy, tight little....wanting me to...
I clear my throat and adjust myself as inconspicuously as I can because there suddenly is a lot less room in the crotch of my custom tailored pants. Nathaniel catches me, and yes, the world does begin to spin backwards just then because not only does he shoot me a knowing look (which I didn't even know he had in his arsenal), but he's attempting to hide a smirk – yes, smirk, and no, not a brooding scowl – with a none to subtle chin/jaw scratch/molestation.
It's hard to tell with him sometimes, really. Most often I catch him just starring off into space and running his fingertips along his own jawline. I think the action is supposed to be considered 'pensive'. Or at least that is what someone told him once, probably Poofy. Yes, Poofy. Punky Brewster has been upgraded. Or downgraded, as the case maybe.
I'm horny as hell, I can not be expected to be fully coherent – much less witty – while that much of my blood supply is, as my effing hot wife would say, in my 'little brain' instead of my 'big brain'. And yes, I still have the dent in my shin from the last time I made a crack about just how BIG my 'little' brain was, thank you very much. Whoever invented pointy-toed shoes in the first place should be drawn and quartered. No matter that they make her legs look like they go on for days... or that she sometimes will surprise me after a long day at the office in just her 'fuck me' heels and boustier...
"Ffff-ooey," I mumble half under my breath before I can catch myself. Nathaniel can't hide the smirk at that one. Even Brooklyn cracks a smile. I growl at them both, daring either one to say it – to say anything.
Nathaniel, apparently, does not value his life.
"Fffffffffoooooey?" he sing-songs. Sing-songs. I may be horny, but I'm not blind; there is definitely something up with Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald. And yes, I'm ignoring the fact that they just caught me censoring myself – Gosh darn (God DAMN!) Blair and her "The babies can hear you!" "Man, did you really just say that!?"
Yes, I had. NO, I wasn't going to admit to it. "You need to have your ears checked, Nathaniel. I did nothing of the sort."
My phone beeps and buzzes in my front pocket again (yes, front pocket, and yes, you can probably figure out why. Women aren't the only ones who enjoy it when plastic vibrates near their privates. Oh, for ef's sake. 'Privates'? Really, Bass? She's not even in the effing room. Fucking! For God's sake just say fucking! Or cock! Fucking cock! Fu-...)
I'm wet and ready and want it. NOW.
I take it back, 'effing privates' is just fine. 'Effing privates' doesn't make me picture B's legs wrapped around my waits... or her mouth wrapped around my...
Oh, good lord.
I have half a mind to think she's developed some sort of superhuman mind reading ability, and from down the hall, no less. Using that word now. But enough blood finally makes it to my 'big brain' for me to realize that, no, that isn't exactly possible. Which makes me wonder if she's broken bed rest and can see me, see that I'm about this close to ruining a pair of perfectly good pants. Or worse yet, give in.
-I'm sorry, baby -
And I am. I really, really, really am. We haven't had sex in two years. (Or two weeks. Whatever. If you were to ask my balls, they would agree with the first estimate.) I'm sorry that I can't strut in there right this fu – effing minute and screw her sideways right into next week. I'm sorry that I can't devour her mouth while slowly massaging her breasts – not too roughly, they've been sensitive since her 35th week and I would rather lob off both by boys before putting her through a second of unnecessary pain – but with just enough pressure that it draws that breathy little sigh from her full, perfectly rounded lips. I'm sorry that I haven't been able to bury myself inside her all the way to the hilt since two weeks prior to the start of her imposed bed rest.
She thinks that I think that my weight a top her would hurt the boys and she'd laugh at me if she knew the real reason why I was holding back (literally), probably poke fun at my man hood and say that there was no possible way that I could reach that deep inside of her, deep enough to harm my boys. But I can't help it. Call it genetics, call it a caveman need to protect what is mine at all costs – which she would, by the way – but I have not been able to bring myself to fuck her lately the way I have wanted to do day and night since I bullied her into taking the pregnancy test in the first place.
There is just something about her when she's knocked up. When I've knocked her up. She glows, and every time I catch her palm unknowingly making its way to rest against her stomach, to cradle our boys – well, let's just that that if I ruined the pants I'm currently wearing by coming in them, which is becoming more and more of an imminent possibility, it wouldn't be the first time. I haven't gotten off by something other than my left hand in so long that I can barely see straight.
"Chuck?" Oh, yea. The card game, must be my turn to... hit? Stick? Pick up two? I suddenly for the life of me can't remember what the hell game it is that we are playing.
"Hmm?" I mumble, pretending to be seriously focused on making my next move, hoping that the lone brain cell that isn't currently picturing my wife naked and in the shower will be able to feed me the necessary information to properly play my hand in whatever game we are playing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the confused look that Nathaniel shoots Brooklyn. "Uhh..." he starts, but Brooklyn shrugs a shoulder in a way that I know he thinks to be passive and dismissing, but comes across looking like a monkey with Tourette's. In bad clothes.
I make a mental note to buy my niece a new wardrobe, which distracts Barney, my lonely brain cell, and whatever wisp of realization that was just beginning to take form disappears as he scrambles to find a pen and paper.
I think it may be poker. More often than not, it's poker. But my sister sometimes decides that Marcel (again with the friends reference – thanks, B, really) needs to tone down the gambling, and threatens to cut his hair if he doesn't comply with her demands. I over burden Barney with the addition of 'get Blair to bring Serena's threats into this century – or at least past puberty' and ' look up when the hell the crazy hormonal mood swings end in baby book' to the list. I can almost hear his slow, agonizing death.
This must be how Nathaniel feels.
"Uhm...." and I'm just about to make some half assed mumbled cross between 'gin/hit me/I fold' when my phone buzzes again in my pocket and Nathaniel randomly blurts something I hadn't been expecting.
(Ironic, I know – for more reasons than just the usual one, too.)
"Vanessa's pregnant." He's grinning like an idiot, or just grinning like Nathaniel, I guess.
Horny!Chuck is cranky to begin with, and if Nathaniel has gone and gotten his wife up the duff... well, he'd have to have been having sex with her to do it, now would he? I do not enjoy being horny as hell and reminded of it constantly. And by Nathaniel no less. (Or being jealous of aforementioned getter-up-the-duffer.)
"That's great news, Man," I tell him, because I know they've been trying for a while now (despite the fact their kid is going to have the worst head of hair this side of the of the Pacific), and break out the bottle of Crystal I have stashed in the desk that we are currently using as a gin rummy/black jack/poker table.
My phone wiggles and sings again, reminding me that I have yet to take a peek at Blair's latest booty call text and I harden further because the amount of times I've heard the hum of her vibrator from down the hall over the last two weeks has turned me into one of Pavlov's dogs. But instead of drooling whenever I hear a bell, I pop a fucking boner whenever anything buzzes within a five mile radius of my dick.
I reluctantly fish my cell phone from my pocket.
I need your help.
I snicker. I'm sure she does.
I don't think so, Blair. Nice try. I'm not buying it. You've been ordered to remain flat on your back...
Oh, the mental image that would normally call to mind, but my amusement is quickly heading into worry as I realize that her text sounds less like a change in tactics and more like a genuine request.
But help with what? Arranging furniture? Contemplating the ceiling? Or...
Holy Fuck. Could she have...? No?! I had always pictured her waddling down the hallway to my office screaming about my spawn ruining her vintage night gown when her water finally broke and she went into labor. Not once had I pictured her calmly texting me that she needed my help.
It doesn't cross my mind as I mumble something about having to go and vault from my chair and race from the room, the sound of wood scrapping against wood echoing after me, that it could merely be her evil plan to lure me into her lair. If there is even the slightest of chances of her having gone into labor, I'm there. I don't want to miss a second of it. I want to be there from the very beginning, I want to see everything from the first twinge of pain in her eyes as the contractions hit to the very last as our boys are born.
When the hell did this fucking hallway get so God damn long?
"Blair?" I pant when I finally burst through the door. "What's wrong? Are you alright? Is it time?"
She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to. I can tell by the position she's placed herself in that it was indeed just a well played ruse to lure me away from Nathaniel and Brooklyn and into her clutches: she's scooted down to the edge of the bed and has pulled her nightie up and her panties off and is currently tracing slow, tortuous circles around her clit.
I barely register that the low, animalistic growl is my own and not hers before my hands are suddenly wrapped around her ankles and I'm tugging her down the bed until her ass nearly hangs off the edge and am pushing my straining erection (that has somehow freed itself from my pants without me knowing it, it seems) deep inside of her.
And this is how it's supposed to be. Chuck and Blair; man and his woman. This is how it always should be.
I throw her ankles over my shoulder and grasp her hips tightly.
And I'm not thinking about the fact that I left Nathaniel and Brooklyn Dan high and dry or that I'm currently buried so deep inside my wife's heat that I past high hilt two inches ago; I can't even think about how fucking much I love the woman who's wrapped so tightly around me that it sometimes makes me wonder if she weren't made specifically for me, especially for this reason and this reason only. I can barely even remember to be gentle with the nipple that I'm tracing slow circles around, because she's making these breathy, needy little moans that I've never heard her make before. Extremely pregnant or not. It's sending lighting down my spine and curling my toes. Not to mention the pressure it's building in my balls.
I bend to kiss her hard on the lips because I'm seconds from emptying myself inside her and I want her lips pressed against mine when I do. She rocks her hips, drawing me even further into her – though I didn't think it possible, and I can feel her beginning to shatter around me.
My vision starts to fade, my cock hardens almost painfully, and then all I see are stars.
Vibrant, colourful, blindingly bright stars.
I cry out her name, my palm moving unconsciously to cup her extremely swollen abdomen, and then, as her walls begin to clench around me, something happens that I, Chuck Bass, have yet to experience in my vastly illustrious sexual career.
I come again.
Faster, harder, longer than I ever have before. Than I just did not one minute ago.
God, I love this woman.
And if I could form a single coherent thought in my head, I would make a mental note to keep her knocked up for the rest of our natural born lives.
Before my legs completely give out on me, I lean down to kiss a chaste kiss just bellow my palm on her belly, to our boys, and then to her lips before I collapse onto the mattress beside her.
"I guess you were right," I manage to say throw a yawn, "we didn't hurt the boys."
At least I don't think we did. But it's not like I'm ever going to ask them; "Boys, did you ever feel Daddy's peepee poke you while you were inside Mommy's tummy?"
I hear the mattress groan and creek (funny that I hadn't heard it, despite the ravenous display of acrobatics just carried out atop it, until just now) as she shifts her weight beside me. "No, we didn't hurt Bass or Waldorf," she replies, and I have just enough energy left to shake my head and roll my eyes beneath my closed lids. "I told you you were just being silly, Chuck. Dr. George said it was perfectly safe to have sex this late in the third trimester."
But there is something about the way her voice isn't quite level and holds the slightest hint of what sounds like pain that has alarm bells going off in my brain.
"B? Baby, everything alright?" I barely even notice that the pet name has slipped past my lips because the twinge of pain that I had referenced earlier actually is in her eyes now. "Honey?" And she really would kill me for calling her that (and the hand that she's shot out to grab my fingers with, the one that is squeezing them like a vice grip, doesn't quite count – though I'm about half a second away from amending that verdict.) But she's too focused on drawing in what our Lamaze instructor would call 'deeply, sooooothing breaths.' Which, I can tell you, is bull shit. They aren't soothing either one of us.
"Uh, guys?" Nate steps tentatively into the room then, but I'm too busy pulling Blair to her feet and trying to grab for her clothes to realize that I'm still rather naked myself. "Do you need me to...uh... like, call an...um... ambulance?"
"Yes, Nathaniel, this is my penis. You have one two, only smaller. Please stop staring at it and help me get my wife to the hospital."
"Ambulance is on the way," Brooklyn cuts in from the doorway, where he, too, has suddenly appeared.
Where they listening at the door, for fuck sake? What the hell ever happened to privacy!
"Thank you, Dan." And I can't believe that that came out of my mouth. It might be the first time I have ever thanked Humphrey without it being dipped in sarcasm first, or called him by his actual name. But I don't have time to take it back or draw it out until it sounds more like 'Daniella', because Blair is squeezing my hand again and beginning to sound like she's hyper ventilating.
"It's ok, Waldorf," I slip into the old habit of calling her by her maiden name when distracted (ok, yes, by the minute amount of fear skittering down my spine), "they're on their way, Sweetie."
Nate shoots me a funny look, no doubt wondering when the hell I developed the need to call her every pet name in the book, and I glare at him. Which is how I end up flat on my face, having tripped over the shoe I hadn't even registered that I'd taken off to begin with. (The fact that my pants were still around my ankles had nothing to do with it, thank you very much.)
Everything happens in a blur after that. Blair screams as the pain rips through her belly, and without my hands to steady her through the contraction, she stumbles. Nate lunges forward and grabs her just as her knees give out, pulling her up into his arms and Dan, who somewhere in between me breaking my nose against our hardwood flooring and Nate playing superhero has managed to pull a blanket from the wooden chest at the end of our bed, wraps the blanket snuggly around my wife.
Dammit, I'm going to have to thank the bastard again, aren't I? Which is a hell of a thing to be thinking when you're laying face down with your bare ass still hanging out while your best friend and brother-in-law carry your very pregnant, and very much in labor, wife out your bedroom door.
"Aren't you coming, Bass?" I can barely hear Brooklyn (I'll thank him later, if I have to, but for now I'm content to focus on the atrocity he calls his fashion sense) over Blair's mix of frantic whimpers and enraged rantings on how she'll never let me touch her again.
"Yea," I reply, and he can actually hear me say it, because I've finally kick-started my brain enough to shove myself to my feet. But not enough to have yanked my pants into place until after I stood there looking like an idiot for just long enough for Humphrey to also be jealous of Chuck Jr.
"I'm right behind you, Blair," I call after Nate's retreating form.
I just have to wipe my nose and change my shirt quickly before she sees the blood that has stained it. There is no way I am letting her worry about me for a second when she should be focused one hundred percent on herself. And seeing the blood would only send her into hysterics, and the book says that stressing the mother out – particularly during childbirth – is not good for the babies or the mother. I want my wife with me: happy and healthy and raising our boys.
It's something I haven't allowed myself to think about; the possibility of losing her during childbirth. And I refuse to think about it now.
I cross to the closet, grab at a random shirt, throw it over my head and jog back across the room to the closest night stand – which happens, by chance, to be Blair's – to stop the bleeding with as many tissues as it takes. And that is when I notice that the book she's been writing in furiously this past week is actually my Journal. (NO, not 'diary'. Diaries are for twelve year-old girls and men who wax their chests.) Or my fake journal, I should say. Pregnancy really does kill her brain if she thinks the one she found in a box in our attic marked "PRIVATE AND PERSONAL – KEEP OUT WOMAN" is the real thing.
Please, the real one is locked safely in the boys' nursery. And contains my latest entry. The one that lists everything that has ever been known to induce labor (sex...spicy food...the works); the one that lists recipes for the spiciest foods that I could find (because yes, I had believed the sex option to be too 'dangerous'.) The one that would allow her to put two and two together and realize that my bullshit line about her hormones altering her taste buds was just that – bullshit, and that there has indeed been quite a few spicy dishes on her plate as of late.
It also has the contract – or the amended contract, I should say, since I switched the terms around when she wasn't looking – regarding our birthday bet and the boys' middle names that has been singed by us both and notarized. Yes, notarized.
Because I know my wife. Bet Blair Waldorf she can't do something – like deliver the boys on any day but their actual due date – and she will find a way to do it, find a way to prove you wrong.
Come Hell, high water, or Chuck Bass.
A/N - If you are confused, Chuck bet her that she would deliver the twins (sex undetermine despite amount of times he calls them boys) on their actual due date, and if she did, he could give them their middle names. He had her sign a contract stating as much - or what she thought stated as much, but in reality he switched it so that if she delivered on any day BUT the dute day (which is what she tricked him into having sex with her for - to jump start labor) he wins.
Yes, complicated. Sorry. And, I am working on the next update so that you will FINALLY see the birth of the twins and FINALLY get to know their sex(es). Thank you for being super, super, SUPER patient. You all rock.