Gossip Girl Fic: five rings, five rooms, five lines from his mouth to hers
five rings, five rooms, five lines from his mouth to hers
“What are we doing?” a gasp and a laugh, her neck tilting back, “Seriously.”
gossip girl. blair. blair/chuck.
seventeen candles; future fic. 682 words, pg13.
for thisisironic.
1.
Click on the coffee table and Chuck laughs thickly, his mouth brushing against her throat with fingers tied around her hips. A quiet chiffon spreading against her thighs as she leans forward, Mother and - his name, that boy, he’ll be a mark within reason but Chuck doesn’t need to know everything.
“And you’ll say yes?”
She’s trying not think about it, a wisp of gold from her throat to her hand; there’s a weight, her expectation still singing wrong one, wrong one as his hands slide under her dress and around her thighs.
“Still not a good thing,” she tries for the lazy afterthought, “Bass.”
He smirks.
2.
Nathan is a coffee shop, a rope around the block in the car as she remembers, slowly, the weight of her future and once upon a time, the strained smile of his mother.
Her fingers click against the mouth of her phone, her nails scraping against the buttons, and god, she’s thinking about it. Years later, years before, and all he gives her is a in town, see you again? with coloring anxiousness. So very European.
Blair makes a call. “I think -”
And Chuck’s voice rests too easy, her imagination stretching to an office or a tie, his hands against a desk. There’s a pen, perhaps gold or silver, the Bass family had their quirks and every birthday, it’s a pen or two. She’s given him several, when she runs out new surprises.
“You do what you want,” second pause, thick, and she doesn’t even remember dropping to the greeting, but he continues, “but you and I both know that indiscretions are indiscretions and you, sweetheart, never let that go.”
Her nails slide against the glass instead. “Six o’clock then?”
There’s a laugh and the car pulls from the sidewalk; old habits turn to wait, she thinks, and wait and wait and wait. But then again, there are always other things now.
A six o’clock is a confirmation; he stays steady, always early.
3.
Every year they’re seventeen again and Chuck’s mouth slides over her breast, his tongue rolling against her nipple. There’s a mew, her fingers twisting in his hair with an arch of her hips to press against his.
“What are we doing?” a gasp and a laugh, her neck tilting back, “Seriously.”
And questions and answers have never been their strongest, word for word heightening and around everybody else’s business but their own. His fingers slip between her legs, his thumb running slowly against her panties.
He’s soft. “Commiserating.”
It’s resting against the bed table.
4.
Serena finds the second gift, years later and together, the curve of her first child; it’s improbable, the idea for Blair and children, tying them together for herself. There’s her mother, years after mother, and she’s happy for Serena, as always, and for the plausibility that someone can be happy.
“A ring?”
Her mouth thins. “A funny story.”
And a disappearance - he said something like got things to do, B, the world to see as I please and it’s always been about his father, their parents; it’s the cycle, you know, the cycle of the world to be.
Serena brushes her mouth against her forehead. “I bet.”
5.
“Happy birthday,” she murmurs into the room, the dark color, and they can still hear the party lingering about. People are fading, her hair sliding against her throat, “Happy birthday to me.”
His fingers spread against her stomach, sliding up and down; as if they’ve done this before, but implications are dangerous as is much like the motions of his hands. They’re too warm, too there, and she’s relaxing to dismay. She sighs, turning towards him and not away -
“Don’t,” he says.
Not without lacking concern and it’s strange, she avoids, the idea of that concern, Chuck’s, sheltering over her. She doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know if she should do anything at all.
Her eyes close. “You’re right.”
Blair’s hands are blank, cued and lost for the moment, as her future becomes another misnomer for the post.
Isn’t this easy?
-
“What are we doing?” a gasp and a laugh, her neck tilting back, “Seriously.”
gossip girl. blair. blair/chuck.
seventeen candles; future fic. 682 words, pg13.
for thisisironic.
1.
Click on the coffee table and Chuck laughs thickly, his mouth brushing against her throat with fingers tied around her hips. A quiet chiffon spreading against her thighs as she leans forward, Mother and - his name, that boy, he’ll be a mark within reason but Chuck doesn’t need to know everything.
“And you’ll say yes?”
She’s trying not think about it, a wisp of gold from her throat to her hand; there’s a weight, her expectation still singing wrong one, wrong one as his hands slide under her dress and around her thighs.
“Still not a good thing,” she tries for the lazy afterthought, “Bass.”
He smirks.
2.
Nathan is a coffee shop, a rope around the block in the car as she remembers, slowly, the weight of her future and once upon a time, the strained smile of his mother.
Her fingers click against the mouth of her phone, her nails scraping against the buttons, and god, she’s thinking about it. Years later, years before, and all he gives her is a in town, see you again? with coloring anxiousness. So very European.
Blair makes a call. “I think -”
And Chuck’s voice rests too easy, her imagination stretching to an office or a tie, his hands against a desk. There’s a pen, perhaps gold or silver, the Bass family had their quirks and every birthday, it’s a pen or two. She’s given him several, when she runs out new surprises.
“You do what you want,” second pause, thick, and she doesn’t even remember dropping to the greeting, but he continues, “but you and I both know that indiscretions are indiscretions and you, sweetheart, never let that go.”
Her nails slide against the glass instead. “Six o’clock then?”
There’s a laugh and the car pulls from the sidewalk; old habits turn to wait, she thinks, and wait and wait and wait. But then again, there are always other things now.
A six o’clock is a confirmation; he stays steady, always early.
3.
Every year they’re seventeen again and Chuck’s mouth slides over her breast, his tongue rolling against her nipple. There’s a mew, her fingers twisting in his hair with an arch of her hips to press against his.
“What are we doing?” a gasp and a laugh, her neck tilting back, “Seriously.”
And questions and answers have never been their strongest, word for word heightening and around everybody else’s business but their own. His fingers slip between her legs, his thumb running slowly against her panties.
He’s soft. “Commiserating.”
It’s resting against the bed table.
4.
Serena finds the second gift, years later and together, the curve of her first child; it’s improbable, the idea for Blair and children, tying them together for herself. There’s her mother, years after mother, and she’s happy for Serena, as always, and for the plausibility that someone can be happy.
“A ring?”
Her mouth thins. “A funny story.”
And a disappearance - he said something like got things to do, B, the world to see as I please and it’s always been about his father, their parents; it’s the cycle, you know, the cycle of the world to be.
Serena brushes her mouth against her forehead. “I bet.”
5.
“Happy birthday,” she murmurs into the room, the dark color, and they can still hear the party lingering about. People are fading, her hair sliding against her throat, “Happy birthday to me.”
His fingers spread against her stomach, sliding up and down; as if they’ve done this before, but implications are dangerous as is much like the motions of his hands. They’re too warm, too there, and she’s relaxing to dismay. She sighs, turning towards him and not away -
“Don’t,” he says.
Not without lacking concern and it’s strange, she avoids, the idea of that concern, Chuck’s, sheltering over her. She doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know if she should do anything at all.
Her eyes close. “You’re right.”
Blair’s hands are blank, cued and lost for the moment, as her future becomes another misnomer for the post.
Isn’t this easy?
-