Title: Autoregressive
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Pairing: Serena/Blair
Rating: M, SL
Word count: ~3550
Author: Harper
Disclaimer: They’re not mine. I mean no infringement. I simply mean to enjoy myself.
A/N: This is set at a non-specific time somewhere in the first season after Blair’s encounters with Chuck and Nate. It’s more smut because that’s all I want to write for these two. I just want them to have dysfunctional sex all the time. I don’t know why the thought makes me so happy.
You’re the one who is usually in charge of these kinds of things. You’re the one who gets drunk and a little bit reckless, who scrambles onto the lap of the nearest pretty face and puts on a show.
Not Blair.
Blair doesn’t get carried away. She doesn’t get intoxicated to the point of recklessness. She doesn’t make a spectacle of herself, doesn’t have eyes that glitter and burn just a little too brightly and cheeks that flush the lightest shade of red.
And fuck, where did everyone else go?
Metaphysics aside, it’s impossible to be in the midst of a crowded club and yet somehow be completely alone. It’s impossible that there is no one around to help you figure out what to do with Blair Waldorf when she has obviously lost her mind.
She’s slurring out something. It doesn’t make sense, is full of vitriol and confused, pleading accusations, but you can’t focus on that. Not when she’s slipped the barely there straps of your flimsy little baby doll dress down your shoulders. Not when she’s got her hands on your breasts – and seriously, when did that happen? Not when she’s panting against the shell of your ear and sinking her teeth into the pulled tight tendon running down the side of your neck.
You have to get her out of there.
There’s got to be a back door or a side exit, something you can stumble out of without drawing every eye in the place to you.
There is, you realize suddenly. There, in the shadows to your left, is the vague outline of a door. It leads to an abbreviated stairwell that leads to a slightly elevated floor that turns out to house what you suppose is Chuck’s office. It’s full of oversized black leather furniture and lined with a bank of one-way mirrors that overlook the floor of the club, and the door – for better or worse – has a lock.
“Blair…” You think you’ll try reason, try to ferret out the root cause of this explosion of uncharacteristic behavior, but there’s no time. You stumble out of your shoes as she pushes you back into the glass, and it’s as cold against your back as she is searing against your front.
“Everybody,” she’s saying, the words little more than a spiteful hiss. “Everybody. It’s always you, Serena.”
This should be a fight, you think. This should be a showdown, a hair-pulling, face-slapping battle of epic proportions. After all, it’s been a long time coming, born of a volatile stew of a litany of indiscretions that can’t be wished away, but the fight is happening in a surreal otherworld where, instead of punches, you have Blair’s lips against your neck, forceful and relentless, and her nails digging viciously into the dip of your back.
Maybe it’s not even happening. Maybe you’re passed out face down on a table in the back of Victrola and this is all a hallucination.
Maybe, too, your thong isn’t suddenly tangled around your thighs.
You catch her hand, her fingers entwined with your own so that your own knuckles are pressing up against what you are surprised to find is wetness.
“Blair,” you gasp. It comes out as a pleading, breathless question, but you don’t even know what you’re asking.
Her eyelids are at half-mast. Behind them, her eyes are dark and unreadable, burning with a swirl of emotions you can’t pick apart. “Come on, Serena,” she mutters caustically, though she doesn’t struggle against your grip, “I thought you’d spread for anyone.”
That’s when it hits you. This is some kind of punishment, then, a boon that Blair is demanding as redress for your sins. And do you, like a benevolent (suffering) martyr, allow her to exact her revenge in flesh?
You guess that you will because your grip has gone slack around her wrist. Despite that, the feel of her fingers on you is still a shock, and you jump slightly, your shoulders bumping into the glass behind you as you gasp. Her eyes are on your face, the sharp curve of her lips turning her smile feral and the expression tugs at your belly in a way you hadn’t anticipated. It makes you want things, makes you dip your chin and look at her from under lowered lashes, makes you bite your bottom lip and groan and will her to actually look at you. It makes you want to flip things around so that she’s pressed against the glass with your hand moving steadily under her skirt, but that’s not the way this is going to play out. You’re the prey, the one who has to bare your neck in surrender, so you let her press against you and let her touch you and you let her win.
The hand not currently drawing an involuntary whimper from deep in your chest is tugging gracelessly on your dress, and you tell yourself that it’s only concern for your clothing that prompts you to help her remove it. The excuse doesn’t quite stretch to slipping your bra down your arms and tossing it to the side, but you choose not to focus on that.
Such blatant surrender isn’t your usual style, even with her, and you feel compelled to fight back. “I want this,” you say defiantly, pressing your hips forward so that her fingers slip away from your clit and instead dip into you shallowly. “You’re not taking anything from me.”
She looks puzzled for a moment. And then she shrugs coldly; the gesture is ruthless in its blatant unconcern and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
“Of course you do,” she says blandly, reaching forward to lazily run her nails down the length of your chest, starting at the base of your throat and ending just below your belly button. She does it again, watching the path her nails make with distracted intensity before looking up at you again. “You hand it out to anyone but still, this is what everyone wants,” she continues, shaking her head in bemused consternation and laughing blandly and thrusting up so hard that you can’t hold back the wince. “Like it’s something special. Like it’s something that matters.”
She takes a moment to just look at you, one hand balanced on your sternum as the other pushes up and into you again and again, graceless and rough and with more strength than you would have believed she has. The strain of her movements shows in the tightening of her lips and the way her hair slips inexorably forward, blocking her eyes from you as she spits out scornfully, “Like being inside of you is some kind of transformative experience.”
Your hands tighten into fists at the words, the urge to do some sort of violence suddenly overwhelming.
“You won’t forget it,” you grunt out, wrapping both of your hands around the back of her neck. Unable to sublimate your impulse to hurt her, you let your nails dig into her skin with enough force to bruise. You want her to kiss you. She hasn’t yet, not on the lips, and you refuse to be embarrassed by how much you want it.
Derision drips from her words like venom. “Tourist attractions have never really held any special appeal for me.”
You see red. You’d always thought that was a metaphor (or some other literary device – you’re not particularly worried about accuracy at the moment), but for a moment your gaze tinges over with a miasma of rust and blood. You’re stronger than you look, and when you flex your biceps, she’s got no chance of countering the force. So you get what you want – her lips on yours – as she crashes into you.
Taking full advantage of your momentary predominance, you kiss her deeply. You kiss her like a long-lost lover, like the only thing in the world you want is this embrace. The taste of her on your tongue is illicitly thrilling and you shiver slightly, moaning into her mouth and melting into her even though this is the polar opposite of what you had intended to do. You wanted to tame her, or at least somehow claim her, but you’ve failed spectacularly on both counts.
Regardless, the move must startle her because she freezes into stillness; the only part of her that continues to move is her chest, rising and falling rapidly and shallowly. She doesn’t return your kiss but she doesn’t push you away either, and something about the way she is breathing, through her nose in short, panicky bursts, makes you feel like you’ve somehow got the upper hand.
When you finally pull away, you ask the question you should have asked in the first place. “Why are you doing this, Blair?”
She doesn’t answer you and something about the look on her face, a mix of anger and confusion, lets you know that she isn’t going to. So you sigh, leaning forward so that your cheek is pressed against hers and your lips are brushing against her ear. “Is this really the way you want this to happen?” you ask sadly, nuzzling against her as if this were a tender and heartfelt shared moment instead of a brief interlude in an otherwise seemingly heartless encounter. “We’re more than this, Blair.”
She takes a shuddering breath as she pulls back. In contrast to only a few minutes before, she looks helpless and lost now, insecure in the way that only you get to see her, and despite the situation, it makes you want to cry.
“I hate you,” she says finally, after searching your face for what seems like eons. You try to be open, try to let her see how much you care, how much you love her – because you do, though maybe you aren’t really prepared to look at the particulars too closely – but you don’t know if she’s ready to see it. “I hate you,” she says again, but both the words and her eyes are soft and full of anything but her professed distaste. “I hate you so much.”
And then she stumbles back, horrified, nearly tripping over your involuntarily abandoned shoes. A second later and she’s headed for the door, fumbling with the lock and then disappearing into the darkness of the stairwell, and you curse. She’s got a definite advantage over you. You can’t chase after her, not naked, and the time you waste struggling back into your clothes is more than enough time to allow her to escape completely.
“Have you seen Blair?” you demand. You don’t care if you look frantic and slightly crazed. You don’t care if Chuck is smirking at you or taking advantage of the view offered by your considerably askew dress.
“It must have been one hell of a fight,” he says smarmily, and he looks so insufferably smug that you want to hit him. “Blair looked even more demented than you, which, and I’m going to be honest with you, is a pretty impressive feat because you, S, are obviously utterly fucked up.”
“I don’t have time for this,” you say lowly, your voice a warning. It’s rare that you actually manage to pull off threatening, but something in the way Chuck inches back slightly, a look of surprised appreciation briefly flitting across his face, lets you know that this is one of those times.
A split-second and he’s unflappable again, already painted in bitter shades of ennui when he shrugs and offers an apathetic, “Whatever. She’s already gone.”
And then you really start to panic because… gone? Gone where? Home? To Nate? Blair doesn’t have a tether these days, what with everyone she knows betraying her, and you can’t get the image of her stricken face out of your mind. She needs someone; she needs you.
You’re out on the sidewalk, frantic and jittery and probably two seconds away from being arrested for public intoxication because you just can’t stop spazzing out – pacing ten steps forward and ten steps back in an abbreviated path that really isn’t helping you find anything – when you get the text.
“It never happened,” it reads, and you can almost see the icy denial in Blair’s eyes. She’s already started the process of sublimating it, of rationalizing it away. She’s probably already drafted about a hundred excuses and if you don’t find her, if you give her enough time by herself, then her assertion might as well be truth. You’ll never speak of it, never acknowledge it, and certainly never follow up on it.
You’re not sure what, exactly, you want, but that’s not it.
“It did. I’m coming over,” you fire back, hoping it doesn’t scare her into hiding. You’re taking the chance that she headed home to sanctuary, and are already flagging a cab when your phone vibrates again.
“Just leave it.”
You don’t bother replying. You’re not going to do this over text; even if you don’t know precisely what this is, you’re going to do it face-to-face.
When the penthouse doors open, Dorota meets you with a small, nervous smile. “She said not to let you up,” she whispers, looking both contrite and resolved. “You are fighting?”
“I need to see her,” you offer, giving her a cajoling, conspiratorial smile in return. You don’t answer her question because you don’t know the answer, don’t know what you’re doing at all.
Dorota looks at you and then up the stairs, imagining the wrath of Blair Waldorf should she fail in her mission to keep you away. It’s not fair and you realize that, realize that you’re only going to be making Dorota’s life harder when you slip past her, but you’re damn sure not going to stand at the bottom of the stairs and bellow up at Blair as if you’re rehearsing for a Tennessee Williams’ play.
“Don’t worry,” you say as you flit past her, throwing an apologetic smile over your shoulder. “I’ll make sure she knows it wasn’t your fault.”
Blair is lounging on her bed, already in her nightgown and idly flicking through a magazine when you burst into her room. She knew you’d come, obviously, or at least highly suspected that you’d follow up on your intention to do so and has had plenty of time to work on perfecting the blithe disinterest she’s displaying with aplomb.
“I don’t know why you’re here. There’s nothing to discuss.” She beats you to the punch, not even bothering to look up from her magazine. Her voice is cold, practiced, and you count to five, quietly turning the lock on her door before squaring your shoulders and mentally deciding on a course of action.
In less than ten seconds, you’re across the room and on her bed, straddling her thighs. Her magazine lands on the floor with a thump, followed shortly thereafter by your dress, and you get a thrill out of the way she gasps in surprise and tries to scramble away. The headboard stops her progress quickly, and you catch her hands, forcing them down so that they’re resting along the tops of your thighs as you lean in close. Her lips part and her eyes widen, pupils dilating in contrast to the protest you know is about to be issued but this time you’re the one cutting her off.
“Don’t you want to finish what you started?” you ask, and your voice is husky and low and as much as this is about proving a point, your body doesn’t care about the rationale. Your body just knows that it’s on edge, that there’s no way you can stop the subtle roll of your hips or the tightening of your nipples. “Don’t you want to teach me a lesson?”
There’s a tension in her arm that makes it less than easy to bring her hand to your center and you’d feel bad about this, feel dirty and wrong, if she were actively trying to pull away. But, you know Blair. She doesn’t want this to be her fault or her responsibility. She can explain away the events from the club, convince herself that it was revenge. But, she couldn’t explain this away, couldn’t blame it on anything other than her own desire to do it, so you’ll take the blame. You’ll talk about it later, hopefully, after you’ve had enough time to figure out how to make her admit to and accept the things that have really driven you both to this point, but now isn’t the time for deep, searching conversation.
You didn’t need confirmation that you were right but you get it anyway. As soon as her fingertips meet your skin, she submits aggressively to the inevitable. You’re still wound up from before, fully aroused and anxious at the same time, so it isn’t long before your forehead is resting against her shoulder and your arms are wrapped tightly around her back and you’re reduced to moaning out senseless, keening whimpers. You want to kiss her but you don’t have the coordination to pull it off so instead you dig your fingers into her back, one hand catching hold of her long hair and pulling absently, gracelessly, and turn your face into the side of her neck. It’s not enough, so you dig your teeth into her skin lightly, holding on even as she flinches away, because this way your grip on her is complete. Her skin is a little salty against your tongue and you know you’re probably as far away as possible from the practiced seductress she was most likely expecting, but you can’t help it. The sudden reality of this happening has dismantled you. You refused to be embarrassed about the way your body is reacting, about the way you’re shivering and surging into her helplessly.
You want her to know what she’s done to you so somehow you manage to dislodge your teeth and pull your head up so that your lips are against her ear. Your breath catches, shuddering on an indrawn breath before disappearing into silence as everything in your body begins to tighten. The tension has reached a point where it’s almost painful, where you’re certain that your veins have to be ripping in two before everything uncoils suddenly and you’re panting against the shell of her ear and she’s whimpering and shivering and squirming underneath you and you hope that she’s feeling this too.
You find that you can kiss her now and so you do. Your hands are buried in her hair and your tongue is in her mouth and this time she kisses you back. It’s enough to give you hope, so you let your hands start to wander slowly, almost aimlessly, until your thumbs are brushing against the sides of her breasts. Her breath hitches and her body pitches forward and you’re just about to ease your hands over so that you’re cupping them when her hands find your wrists. This time her grip is tight. It lets you know she means it and so you still, gentling the kiss before finally pulling away. You want to see her eyes but she turns away from you immediately, forcing your arms down so that they’re hanging by your sides, and you sigh. You know this Blair too, and there will be no talking about what just happened. At least, there will be no talking about it now. Right now she isn’t going to say a word, no matter how hard you try, and even if she did, the words wouldn’t mean anything.
That doesn’t mean you’re leaving. She recoils when you lift up and you try not to let the movement get to you but you can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. You can act like you didn’t see it, though, and you do, finding the light switch behind her head and plunging the room into darkness. She’s a little more malleable in the dark, letting you maneuver around so that you’re spooned up tight behind her, one arm thrown possessively around her waist. She even lets you place a soft kiss against the back of her neck and you let it linger, needing the connection in the face of her earlier rejection.
You won’t let her get away with the evasive routine tomorrow. You will talk about it then. You will make her acknowledge what you’ve just realized, that the two of you are right together and that failing to recognize it has caused you both nothing but problems. Odds are you’ll have to be persuasive. Blair doesn’t like to take chances. She doesn’t like to put herself on display, doesn’t like to invite speculation and criticism. She’s desperately afraid of any number of things and this will be chief among them; you don’t fall for the invincible façade. You know her better than that.
Despite this, you’re not particularly worried. You’ve got a secret weapon, something to level the playing field. She loves you and you know it, and as long as you’ve got that, she’s fighting a losing battle.
You pull her tighter, pressing your face into the curve of her shoulder and breathing in deeply. You love her too, and you know she knows it. All you have to do is make her believe that it’s enough.