Platonism

Hello Hamptons, late summer sunlight soaking, drenching, heavy light on turquoise water, clear gin spilled all over the bar as the clouds roll over. She has her hands on her belly, craving alcohol and sipping something foul and maternal instead. It's supposed to make her uterus stronger, but you'd think after all the fucking it took to get here she'd be ironclad inside, capable of firing like a machine gun. Oh no, don't think about fucking. Horny pregnant women should not be thinking about being on top the night before, sweat and stickiness between her thighs, asking, begging –

A snore.

"Get off my lawn, Humphrey," she says, pushing her sunglasses back up her nose.

"Shut up, Blair."

"Don't you dare go to sleep on my lawn. I had it landscaped so my offspring could commune with nature, not so you could use it as an organic futon."

"You're the one who invited me over for cocktails – you, the six months gone pregnant woman."

"You need to be capable of fixing a proper martini if you wish to remain part of my life. Besides, I'm living vicariously through you. The only consolation that comes from being pregnant, other than bringing the miracle of life, is having massive amounts of sex that, to be honest, is only enhanced by the fact that I'm huge."

He winces. "First, your sex life: no thank you. Second, as to that: why are you so big?"

"Twins."

"Ah."

"He's a Basstard," she announces lazily. "So much so that he had to knock me up twice just to prove he could."

"Scarily virile."

"Don't even let your mind drift towards my husband's reproductive anatomy, Humphrey. You may become enamoured with what you find, and I'd hate to send you back to Serena in pieces."

"For the last time, I'm not gay!"

"And yet you so enthusiastically described Derek having sex in Inside…if that's the way you feel, you shouldn't deny it. Go dancing with Eric, let your chest hair down. Let Serena down gently now before she finds you in the gazebo playing bitch for the pool boy."

"Pregnant you is cruel."

"I'm well aware." A happy sigh, a stroke to the spot that has most recently been kicked. The baby gravitates towards her fingers. She's quite determined to push them out, for all they tell her she's too small to do it, and she has been promised drugs to get the job done. So so many drugs. She loves her husband a little more each day when he suggests Thai massage, a water birth, aromatherapy, paying off doctors so they won't object when she hurls anything within reach. She's been promised something pretty for every hour that labour drags on, something that shines.

What she wants is her son and daughter, bloody, screaming, perfect.

Her family.

What she wants is him to love them, forever.

"Serena isn't cruel to me."

"Serena is painting her miniature bump with rainbows and swirls and will birth an angelic child while looking angelic herself. I come from a long line of messy births, and so does he. It's family tradition to scream and moan and make a fuss about it."

"What will their name be?"

"His. We agreed on that."

"No hyphen?"

"No hyphen," concurs Blair Waldorf-Bass. "He doesn't have many things of his own he hasn't bought, you see. He has me. He has them. He deserves them, name and all. He deserves the greatest achievement bearing his name not to be a block of glass and steel and rainforest shower cubicles for the proles to exult over when they stay."

"You love him."

"I do." Her glass is almost empty, and one more gulp will fulfil her What to Expect When You're Expecting quota for the day. "You love her."

"I do."

They stare at the sky, immovable blue ether, immutable, thick summer scent mixed with thick liquor scent and perfume insects wouldn't dare to approach nor sting nor bite the skin beneath. Her lower lip flutters with a slow breath; Dan Humphrey raises his head at the sound of footsteps. This person is supposed to be thinking philanthropically about his next project, not about fucking, never about fucking, not about the shape of breast beneath a white sun dress – and fuck again, he hopes he didn't leave bite marks on the flesh below her heart. Fair is fair, though.

She has her teeth in his.

"Get off my lawn, Humphrey," says Chuck Bass, picking up his wife plus a few extra pounds and receiving a drowsy prod for his trouble.

"Shut up, Chuck."

Fin.


Neither Agape nor Graceless nor this have Chair interaction, but they're still Chair fics. Their main focus is on how Blair feels about Chuck and vice versa, so no hate on Dan, please. And if you plan to hate on Chair, why are you in this category?