I got a request for a second chapter based on the CW's extended promo - think of this not as the same scene recut, but as round two of twisting.
Let's Twist Again
They get off on this: winning, taking down, going down.
Her heart's beating between her thighs now.
They got off on this, once upon a time in New York: cheating the house, not paying up but being paid off. They're success stories who don't deserve to be given the time of day. They're dirty rotten liars.
Heart between her thighs, heart on the cards, diamonds, diamonds, diamonds, flush.
Curious how her clothes come off with one searing look, how she doesn't remember where they fall. There are chips digging into her spine and he's showering her with victory before even removing his jacket. She's braced, knees up, hands off – for now. She wants to watch the perfection of him coming towards and sinking into her, breast to chest, kissing, mouth, cheek, throat. He prowls like a panther along her outside, but she needs to feel his triumph on the inside.
King beats queen beats world.
He thrives in that position, the place where he is now. She was on top but can't be, must be held, must be wrapped up and tortured and pushed beyond a poker face she can no longer keep up. This, he could keep up for her, finding places to torment with his teeth as her head thrashes from side to side and she pulses all the way down to the bone. It's the slow building burn as his heart, his club finds friction and uses it to wring her out.
Diamonds, diamonds, diamonds.
Wet, wet, wet.
Their muscles work together in well-practised harmony: it's how they know knaves and whores may come and go, but diamonds and spades are forever. They're too ready, too ready to explode outwards and end up over the walls, the floor, each other. He's nothing more than the winning number clenched inside her fist, growing tighter and tighter as his heart forces out beats and the wheel spins faster in this game of roulette, Russian roulette since they're both going to die any second, damn the rules, fuck the rules, fuck the living daylights out of – red, her lips, black, her eyes. Red black the polish on neatly painted toenails on neatly boned toes curling in on themselves until they cramp and crack.
The world is softer, afterwards, and saner. He rolls onto his back and her ribs swell and a small fortune rolls onto the floor. It's all sticky like the stickiness of their fingers, fingers which grab and take and do not ask. She did not ask to be taken, except with her tongue, writing assent on the roof of his mouth, and her hands, stroking his face, shaping his cheekbones, and the words she said out loud. She did not ask, technically, and he took her. She took him, all the way to the hilt of the sword, staving off loneliness, starving for pleasure, cupping the site of his true heart and trying to reach through and touch it as coins bounce and buck with the motion of the bed.
"Do –" Chuck is only just off her, only just in his right mind.
"That –" She pants, pale beauty, icy hot bitch.
"Again." He accedes.
Blair's cry, her own sweet victory, sounds like the trumpet voluntary.