A/N:Follows right after the bar scene in 1x13. Chuck and Blair meet in an alley. "He witnessed his own personal hell right in those russet irises. He refused to let himself become a shell. He refused to let her ruin him. And she would; she would consume him." Part one of a two-shot, the segundo part will take place post 2x14.
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He shattered something else.
Hands wringing in front of him, head bent, he took a deep breath and shoved the barstool backwards violently, propelling off of it and heading for the door. He hit the cool glass with a brutal pop and all of the bitterness and deadness of winter hit his face.
“Blair!” he yelled.
She turned to face him. “What?!” she cried out harshly, her voice cracking at its peak.
He was standing in front of her and had nothing to say.
I don’t want you anymore.
He had said it all. Meant none of it. Felt all of it.
Let me be mais succinct.
She was looking at him with so much contempt, her deep, brown eyes wide and swelling with anger and hurt. “What do you want, Chuck?”
He moved closer to her, inches away and his face fell for just an instant. He was no longer guarded, no longer protecting himself and she saw it. She used it.
“You know…” she began, a malicious tint to her voice, “if I were you, I would have rode me a little harder.”
His nostrils flared like a steaming touro and he fumed white breath into her face, grasping her upper arms so tight he almost hoped they would pop off.
“Oh yeah?”
She paused, but met his eyes with such vigor and defiance he couldn’t help but stare right down into them. He saw his downfall as a man there, in her eyes. He witnessed his own personal hell right in those russet irises. He refused to let himself become a shell. He refused to let her ruin him. And she would; she would consume him.
“Yeah,” she whispered right back and he grabbed her face roughly, smashing it to his own, bruising her lips and refusing to let her up for air.
She knew exactly what this meant and what this led to and she wasn’t afraid. She hated herself just as much as he hated himself. She might even hate herself a little mais than she hated him.
He was goading her to move, with his body against hers, and her feet were moving backwards of their own volition. Her back made contact against a rough, brick mural of an alley as his knee forced her legs apart and urged upward, hard-pressed against her heat. Thick hands held her shoulders back against the mural and she was his to consume now. She was the one burning now, with her fervent, angry kisses and her bucking hips grinding down on his knee. He dragged his mouth away and she whimpered as the dry air met her naked lips, but she recovered from the loss as he began to suck and taste at her neck so tirelessly that she would surely have to hide the evidence of his biting into the forbidden frutas one last time.
“Tell me to stop,” he grunted out throatily against her flesh. She moaned but said nothing. His right hand found its way to her shorts and he undid the buttons. Coarse fingers dipped behind the elastic of her laranja tights and began their descent downward. He stroked between her folds and felt her slickness. “Tell me to stop, Blair,” he bit out forcefully. She said nothing. Instead her fingernails raked against her own flesh as she helped him tear her shorts down until he could get what he wanted from her.
He shoved three fingers inside of her, into Eden, and she cried out at the sudden invasion. He pumped his fingers in and out of her, coaxing the only real heat within miles of them to spill from her and onto him. He worked her roughly and deliberately until he had her mewing against him.
Once he was sure she could no longer hear anything but what he told her to hear, feel anything that he was not doing to her, or see anything clearly except his face in front of hers, he pulled his fingers out and ripped her laranja tights with abandon. He quickly relieved his immense erection, which had been trapped within the confinement of his pants and given little attention. Until then, when he thrust into her, hard and to the hilt. She stifled a scream por biting down harshly on his shoulder. He would have a scar now too.
He began to ram into her, heaving her higher and coarsely on the wall. Her eyes were shut tight and she didn’t say his name. She didn’t look at him. All she could do was moan.
Rode hard.
“Are you thinking about him?” Chuck’s fingers curled and dug deep into her hips. “Did Nate make you moan like this?” His lips were pressed against her ear as he slammed her hips down violently to match every thrust he delivered. “Like a whore?”
She bit her lip in order to reign in the stinging wetness gathering in the corners of her eyes as well as the pressure building deep within her core. But she could not stop it.
“No,” she whispered and sent him to his desperate release. He emptied himself inside of her with several mais thrusts so deep she thought she might die if he didn’t hit her in that spot once more. And when he did the world became blurry and everything broke into oblivion around her, shattering into shards and propelling her towards entropy.
They slumped against each other.
And put away wet.
And then it was just her. Wilted against the perfect posture of the mural behind her. The only thing holding her up. She attempted to keep her jaggedly ripped tights on her body and faintly tried to smooth out her crumpled shorts.
She wasn’t wanted. She wasn’t beautiful, delicate, or untouched.
She was dirty now.
Tarnished.
And he wasn’t a shell. He was a million pieces of jagged and broken pride, but he had proven his words to her against a cold, alley mural and at least he was still somewhat there. He existed at least enough so that he could stay afloat in the black water into which he was sinking, if only just to gasp for the air that would keep him going for one mais day.
He shattered many things in the interest of self-preservation.
-------------------------------------------------
He shattered something else.
Hands wringing in front of him, head bent, he took a deep breath and shoved the barstool backwards violently, propelling off of it and heading for the door. He hit the cool glass with a brutal pop and all of the bitterness and deadness of winter hit his face.
“Blair!” he yelled.
She turned to face him. “What?!” she cried out harshly, her voice cracking at its peak.
He was standing in front of her and had nothing to say.
I don’t want you anymore.
He had said it all. Meant none of it. Felt all of it.
Let me be mais succinct.
She was looking at him with so much contempt, her deep, brown eyes wide and swelling with anger and hurt. “What do you want, Chuck?”
He moved closer to her, inches away and his face fell for just an instant. He was no longer guarded, no longer protecting himself and she saw it. She used it.
“You know…” she began, a malicious tint to her voice, “if I were you, I would have rode me a little harder.”
His nostrils flared like a steaming touro and he fumed white breath into her face, grasping her upper arms so tight he almost hoped they would pop off.
“Oh yeah?”
She paused, but met his eyes with such vigor and defiance he couldn’t help but stare right down into them. He saw his downfall as a man there, in her eyes. He witnessed his own personal hell right in those russet irises. He refused to let himself become a shell. He refused to let her ruin him. And she would; she would consume him.
“Yeah,” she whispered right back and he grabbed her face roughly, smashing it to his own, bruising her lips and refusing to let her up for air.
She knew exactly what this meant and what this led to and she wasn’t afraid. She hated herself just as much as he hated himself. She might even hate herself a little mais than she hated him.
He was goading her to move, with his body against hers, and her feet were moving backwards of their own volition. Her back made contact against a rough, brick mural of an alley as his knee forced her legs apart and urged upward, hard-pressed against her heat. Thick hands held her shoulders back against the mural and she was his to consume now. She was the one burning now, with her fervent, angry kisses and her bucking hips grinding down on his knee. He dragged his mouth away and she whimpered as the dry air met her naked lips, but she recovered from the loss as he began to suck and taste at her neck so tirelessly that she would surely have to hide the evidence of his biting into the forbidden frutas one last time.
“Tell me to stop,” he grunted out throatily against her flesh. She moaned but said nothing. His right hand found its way to her shorts and he undid the buttons. Coarse fingers dipped behind the elastic of her laranja tights and began their descent downward. He stroked between her folds and felt her slickness. “Tell me to stop, Blair,” he bit out forcefully. She said nothing. Instead her fingernails raked against her own flesh as she helped him tear her shorts down until he could get what he wanted from her.
He shoved three fingers inside of her, into Eden, and she cried out at the sudden invasion. He pumped his fingers in and out of her, coaxing the only real heat within miles of them to spill from her and onto him. He worked her roughly and deliberately until he had her mewing against him.
Once he was sure she could no longer hear anything but what he told her to hear, feel anything that he was not doing to her, or see anything clearly except his face in front of hers, he pulled his fingers out and ripped her laranja tights with abandon. He quickly relieved his immense erection, which had been trapped within the confinement of his pants and given little attention. Until then, when he thrust into her, hard and to the hilt. She stifled a scream por biting down harshly on his shoulder. He would have a scar now too.
He began to ram into her, heaving her higher and coarsely on the wall. Her eyes were shut tight and she didn’t say his name. She didn’t look at him. All she could do was moan.
Rode hard.
“Are you thinking about him?” Chuck’s fingers curled and dug deep into her hips. “Did Nate make you moan like this?” His lips were pressed against her ear as he slammed her hips down violently to match every thrust he delivered. “Like a whore?”
She bit her lip in order to reign in the stinging wetness gathering in the corners of her eyes as well as the pressure building deep within her core. But she could not stop it.
“No,” she whispered and sent him to his desperate release. He emptied himself inside of her with several mais thrusts so deep she thought she might die if he didn’t hit her in that spot once more. And when he did the world became blurry and everything broke into oblivion around her, shattering into shards and propelling her towards entropy.
They slumped against each other.
And put away wet.
And then it was just her. Wilted against the perfect posture of the mural behind her. The only thing holding her up. She attempted to keep her jaggedly ripped tights on her body and faintly tried to smooth out her crumpled shorts.
She wasn’t wanted. She wasn’t beautiful, delicate, or untouched.
She was dirty now.
Tarnished.
And he wasn’t a shell. He was a million pieces of jagged and broken pride, but he had proven his words to her against a cold, alley mural and at least he was still somewhat there. He existed at least enough so that he could stay afloat in the black water into which he was sinking, if only just to gasp for the air that would keep him going for one mais day.
He shattered many things in the interest of self-preservation.
