Ritualistic Wall Pounding by Isabelle
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Quickie: When a fight gets so bad that it leaves him watching her walk away.
Prompt: for vanecalifornia who requested it
A/N: Special thanks to Tati who did the BETA.
"When there's nothing else to burn, you have to set yourself on fire."
Yes. There was blood everywhere that night.
They broke. They bled, inwardly, until their souls poured out of their veins and slithered to the bottom of the soles of their shoes and there stared at them as the last of life, love and the pursuit of happiness disintegrated before them.
No more words. No more tears. No more shivers.
"I want you to go."
And she grabbed her purse and turned to the door. And he went after her and pinned her, face first on the dark mahogany, his chest on her back, his hips angled just right, his nose in her hair, breathing life, tasting blood.
"Stay," he breathed. Scent on fire, life, denial.
She gasped, little tiny breaths – dying breaths. Closing eyes, pouring rain. It snows here in the summer.
His hands, large hands, slithered up her body until they cupped her breasts, and he squeezed because they were his.
She gasped, little tiny breaths – dying breaths. Opening eyes, sunny skies. It's hot here in the winter.
Her hands snaked around him, grasping his hair, pulling it as his mouth found her neck.
"Fucking stay," he yelled, a harsh whisper against the paleness of her skin. He's so fucked up. She's so fucked up. They're just bare. Souls be gone.
She yanked his head down and, in a twisted morphing of the human body, his mouth found hers and their tongues tangled together until the very souls that animated their flesh melted against the wet, grainy skin.
She couldn't go. She couldn't go if she tried. She'd be pinned. Not by his arms, his hips, his stare – but by the memory of something so very strange and previously unrecorded that it chilled her until all of her childhood dreams burnt to ashes on the Persian carpet bellow her heeled feet.
And they were fucking. There, against the wall, harsh pounding, punishing, begging, ordering, pleading, wishing on a falling star.
And he pressed his solitary tear against her face so she knew, so she could feel that he was real. That he was human and lowly and flesh and bone, not arrogance and cigars. That words may come and go, arguments remembered and forgotten, but he was still and always would be madly in love with her. She had broken him. Because the blood was now gone, and all that was left in Chuck Bass' veins was Blair Waldorf. She ruled the thumping of his heart.
And if this was love, then he'd like to fuck it too, because love was beautiful in its ugliness and brutal in its innocence. It elevated and killed and destroyed, and the more he thought of her leaving him, the more he decayed and no amount of liquor would help him forget. Watching her walk away made him see endless nights, weeks, months, years – all without her. And he couldn't breathe. He would bleed to death. Internally.
She was clawing at him, holding onto him as he pounded into her, reminding her, reminding himself of just how perfect their pelvises fit against one another – how could they forget?
"I'm not going anywhere," she murmured over and over into his hair, into his ear, until his shaking subsided and they were floating and just breathing and calming down from the terrifying 3.4 seconds of anguish at the thought of it all being over.
"I won't let you," he finally stated, and they were sprawled on the carpet, bags forgotten, hate vanished.
She tugged at his collar and tucked her nose into his neck, finding a missed spot in his daily ritualistic shaving. A little bit of stubbly hair that scrapped her nose ever so lightly.
"Fine. You win. We'll get married in the fall," she finally agreed, and he slowly smirked.