Title: In the Home Stretch
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Rating: M, LS
Word count: ~3500
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit.
A/N: This is set during epi 17 of season 1, where the wonder trio (Blair, Nate and Chuck) bands together and comes to Serena’s aid in the midst of the whole Georgina mess. Serena has, of course, coped with her stress by getting spectacularly wasted, and Blair has rushed out to find and save her before gathering the troops. This presupposes a sexual relationship between S&B that predates Serena’s year long sabbatical at boarding school. Warning: It is also purely smut.
It shouldn’t have gotten started in the first place, but Serena’s always been both clumsy and amorous when drunk. Blair hates having to ride in to the rescue, except for the part where she kind of likes it, so the dance they do when she tracks Serena down is one that has been choreographed and practiced on so many occasions that they have it perfected – a reckless pas de deux performed with the facility and grace of a pair of professionals.
The first phrase is a familiar refrain. As always, the limo door is open and Blair is standing just beside and inside of it, with Serena on the curb, towering above her. Her hands are wrapped around Serena’s as she urges the blonde inside, a few halfhearted tugs accompanied by a scowl and a threat and the impatient tapping of her foot against pavement. And Serena laughs, the sound clear and joyous and damnably infectious, and shakes her head, lips pursed in an enticing pout as she tugs in the opposite direction, eyes glinting as she urges Blair back inside the club with her.
Serena makes a few promises – most variations of a beguiling ‘But it’ll be fun’ and appeals to the good old days, as if they’re even old enough to have them – but when Blair gives a mock frown and a sharp tug, fed up with playfulness and instead growing increasingly impatient as she tries in vain to avert a scene, Serena laughs in capitulation and stumbles forward. There’s a grace in her gracelessness, in the way that long limbs turn coltish and unsteady, and it takes the steadying pressure of Blair’s hands on Serena’s waist to avoid catastrophe.
At this point the choreography always devolves into freestyle but, if she’s lucky, Blair manages to get Serena in the limo with a modicum of fuss. This night she isn’t so lucky. She finds herself sprawling back against the seat in an undignified slouch, Serena’s long limbs tangled intractably with hers. She grunts in irritation, pushing up on her palms so that she is in a half recline, flashing the driver a look sharp enough to cut. It prompts him to get them out of there, the divider between the back and the front seats going up under the sharp jab of Blair’s thumb, and soon she’s trying to corral a lapful of giggling, writhing Serena.
“S, what are you…” The question seems futile, so she doesn’t even bother to finish asking it. Instead, she sighs and slaps sharply at the hand creeping up to palm her breast, glaring at the dopey smile on her inebriated friend’s face.
Serena doesn’t jerk away, scorned, in the way Blair had hoped she might. Instead she nuzzles into Blair’s neck, doing that secret thing that she’s done before that always makes Blair whimper.
Blair hates to whimper. It’s completely undignified.
She does it anyway, the sound morphing into a full-fledged moan as Serena moves up her neck and to her ear, hot breath brushing against sensitive skin as she sucks indelicately on a delicate earlobe. “I know you’ve missed this,” Serena murmurs, and Blair hates how utterly pleased with herself and insufferably arrogant Serena sounds. It makes her want to slap her again, but somehow the move transforms in the midst of execution and she finds that she’s dug her fingernails into the curve of Serena’s hip instead, the fabric of her dress catching and bunching under her grip.
It’s apparently as much of an argument as Serena is prepared to make because she abruptly abandons Blair’s earlobe for her lips. Blair is already kissing her back before the first press of their lips together, and Serena chuckles low in her throat, one hand coming up to cup the back of Blair’s neck as they quickly skip through levels of intimacy to land squarely on familiar but still breathlessly exhilarating. Her hair is spilling over her shoulders, the ends brushing silkily against Blair’s skin and tumbling down around them like a curtain, and Blair feels desire spike through her. This is one of the things that has been missing in her sexual encounters since Serena left. There’s been no glorious fall of hair, no soundtrack of gasps and giggles to match her own.
God, she thinks disgustedly, that’s so fucking gay. Which, she amends quickly, no offense to the gays, but if she’s going to be labeled anything, she’d prefer ‘Bitch Queen of the Universe’ and not, certainly, something in any way related to occasionally fucking her so-called best friend who had also, not coincidentally, fucked her ex-boyfriend.
Because, no. Serena van der Woodsen does not get to make her gay.
“Stop it,” she hisses, because it’s taken her a minute to remember why they aren’t going to do this anymore. She pulls back, trying to find some way to wiggle herself free of Serena’s weight and the jigsaw puzzle of their limbs, but Serena’s like a fucking giant, arms and legs and torso blocking Blair every way she turns. And Serena won’t stop kissing her, won’t stop pressing her lips indiscriminately against any bit of flesh she can manage to snag, and her hands have improbably made their way under Blair’s skirt, fingers tickling against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs and it’s enough. Just enough.
Her fingers dig into that soft mass of hair and pull hard. She’s gotten mean – or, perhaps more accurately, meaner – since the last time they did this.
“Stop it,” she says again, grinning in devilish delight at Serena’s sulking glare and muttered ‘Ow’. Another painful tug and she’s got enough room to sit up and she grins in triumph for a split second before there’s a drunken flurry of motion that ends with her once again pinned to the seat.
Serena’s straddling her lap, knees on either side of Blair’s hips, and she’s so tall that her head has to bend at what looks like an uncomfortable angle just to fit in the suddenly cramped backseat of the limo. She’s grinning again, the expression an odd mixture of goofy determination and focused seduction, and Blair sighs. Again. And then she lets out a little yelp of frustration and puts her hands against Serena’s shoulders, more than prepared to shove the blonde off of her lap and into a heap on the floor, but Serena’s got mass and gravity on her side.
Blair finds herself kissing Serena again. The blonde has apparently decided to counter disinterest with enthusiasm and her tongue is everywhere and she tastes like vodka and lime and it shouldn’t be good. It should be messy and sloppy and amateurish, but it’s not. Somehow it’s made Blair moan again, and Serena is rolling against her in the least subtle way possible, kissing her and riding her and making noises that sound like she’s about to die and Blair stops trying to pretend that she’s not aroused. She forgives herself for the slip because it’s honestly not her fault. It’s Serena’s fault, with the way she’s whimpering and grinding herself against Blair with a complete lack of shame and at this point, Blair acknowledges she would be a fool not to take advantage of what’s so clearly being freely offered.
What makes it undesirable, though, is how much She Wants This. It’s emphatic, capitalized in her mind, as big as the Hollywood sign and totally unacceptable, which means that she has to give this whole rejection thing at least one more try.
“God, Serena,” she mutters, finally managing to tear herself away. Serena is still looming over her, panting, her eyes glittering and glassy, and Blair tries to ignore how breathless and turned on she sounds. “Can’t you just pass out or something?”
For a moment, Serena just looks at her blankly. But then she smiles a wide, wondrous smile and ducks down so that their foreheads are pressed together, and when she speaks, Blair can feel the heat of the other girl’s words against her lips. “It’s okay,” Serena says soothingly, almost lovingly, and there’s a shine of deep affection in her gaze. “You’ve always made me work for it.”
Blair is on the verge of taking offense to the words when Serena kisses her again. She’s managed to rein it in a little and Blair starts to panic because it’s right. It’s so, so right, with just the right amount of pressure and just the right amount of tongue and just the right amount of Serena in it, and she arches into the kiss even as she commands her body to remain still on pain of death. It’s the kiss she remembers, perfected what feels like a century ago, and it leaves her defenseless. It’s unfair, an underhanded trick, a weapon that Serena shouldn’t use. And then there are short nails teasing the skin at the nape of her neck and silky blonde hair is brushing against her cheek and she shivers, arousal rushing through her body and out through her mouth on a deep, pleased moan.
She gets lost.
The dress is as hard to get out of as it is to get into, so Blair can’t quite understand how Serena has it at her waist, pulling impatiently in an effort to remove it completely. She wonders where the interim steps have gone, wonders when her hands drew the fabric of Serena’s gauzy dress up to bunch at her waist. She wonders when Serena’s mouth left her own, when it found her ear and left her gasping and writhing as shamelessly as Serena was only moments before.
There’s a fleeting moment of clarity when she remembers that they shouldn’t even be doing this in the first place, but that since they are, Serena shouldn’t be this good at it. Not as drunk as she is, stopping occasionally to giggle, burying her face against Blair’s skin, and Blair kind of hates her for it. She hates her in that way that makes her want to hurt Serena, so she presses her fingers hard into the skin above Serena’s hips, nails digging cruelly into her flesh, and bites roughly at her shoulder. And then she drags her nails viciously, hard enough to leave angry red lines along the curve of Serena’s lower back, but the blonde just bucks and whimpers and pulls Blair’s face into her chest as she spills out a slur of words in a low keening cry that make Blair wonder if she’s already about to come.
The response infuriates Blair.
She begins to push in earnest, whipping around in the small space like a fury. Serena laughs uninhibitedly, quickly losing her balance and tumbling off her perch, taking Blair with her as they slump together in the small space on the floor in an ungainly tangle of limbs. And Serena just keeps laughing and keeps kissing her through the ensuing scramble, this one as undignified as the first, and somehow, by the time it’s all over, Blair’s dress is in a heap on the floor and Serena’s hands are pushing her bra up, the fabric a rough sting as it passes over her erect nipples.
And it’s, god, it’s not right. It’s tacky, with her bra bunched uncomfortably beneath her neck and her panties pushed down low on her hips, but Serena’s mouth is on her again, tongue rasping against her nipple in a way that makes her squirm, and she’s got her hands fisted in thick blonde hair. The sounds coming out of her mouth are patently embarrassing, wanting and needy and quivering, so she tugs harder on Serena’s hair in retaliation.
Blair has had sex in the back of a limo before, but this time, it’s positively indecent. She’s got one bare foot braced against the side window. They’re tinted – dark enough to make it impossible to see what is happening inside, she hopes – but somehow she knows that the pale outline of the bottom of her bare foot is visible against the glass.
And then, fuck, she’d forgotten what this felt like.
Serena is curled up beside her, somehow lodged between the seat back and Blair, murmuring things like, “I’ve missed this,” and “You always feel so good,” in a low, rough voice that makes the words sound disturbingly true. Her long legs are sprawled, one of Blair’s between them, and bent at a sharp angle to accommodate her length. Serena’s skin burns into her side, and she finds another thing to hate in the way the blonde is suddenly looming over her, her head propped on one hand while the other works with expert precision between Blair’s legs.
It’s enough to make Blair grit her teeth, and her palm slams into Serena’s hip with a sharp slap, fingers digging painfully into the other girl’s flesh. Her nails tighten, leaving deep indentions in Serena’s skin as she searches for some kind of anchor, and Serena’s hips are moving, are rocking against the curve of Blair’s ass in an almost unconscious rhythm. So Blair slides her hand down, fumbles for a second with a silky scrap of fabric, and then feels her fingers slip immediately into searing wetness. Serena gasps and bucks against her hand and Blair wastes no time. She finds Serena’s clit with unerring accuracy and presses down hard. Her wrist starts to ache almost immediately; the angle is wrong and her pace is blisteringly fast, but there’s no way she’s going to take the time to rearrange. Instead she uses her free hand to pull Serena down to her, and this time the kiss is sloppy. It’s inelegant and hungry and part of that is her fault but Blair doesn’t care.
Soon it’s devolved into something that isn’t even a kiss. It’s just them with their lips pressed together, panting roughly. And then Serena lets out a tiny, “Oh.” It’s followed by another one, and then another and soon they’re running together in one long, continuous cry, punctuated sharply with each indrawn breath and Serena’s touch is getting sloppy just when Blair needs it to stay sharp. So she rolls her hips, tries to readjust the angle on her own, and somehow it’s just what she needs. Somehow she’s there, and her foot is pressing up so hard against the glass that it causes a dull ache to spread through her ankle and she’s shivering and gasping. Serena’s fingers still and through her haze Blair can feel how close the other girl is, so she keeps moving even though it’s all she can do to remember what it is she’s supposed to be doing, and then Serena is silent for one long, protracted moment.
She doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even move, before suddenly she’s reanimated, the air rushing out of her lungs as her body convulses. Her fingers twitch and start to move once more and it’s just enough to catch the tail end of Blair’s orgasm and bring her right back.
A minute later and they’re still panting. Everything seems like it’s wrapped in a layer of cotton, and Blair shakes her head slightly, trying to bring the world back into focus. Her hearing has faded out slightly, as if she’s been at a concert instead of fucking her ex-best friend in the backseat of a limo and she lets the hate wash over her again. Serena’s the only person who’s ever left her this way, exhausted and a little shell shocked, and it’s so monumentally unfair. It just… it just is.
Serena, of course, is in no condition to be making infuriating realizations. Instead she sighs, snuggling into Blair’s back sleepily as she murmurs, “This is so much better when you’re actually here for it.”
At the words, Blair snorts, unable to help herself. The implication is clear.
It makes her feel incrementally better until she realizes that the limo is at a standstill. She searches her mind, wonders how long they’ve been stopped and just how the driver knew not to disturb them, but labels the endeavor fruitless after a moment. She stares out the window into the darkness, trying to orient herself, and after a few blinks, she realizes that they’re home.
Serena’s breathing has evened out into moist little puffs against the back of her shoulder, and Blair rolls her eyes. It’s going to be her responsibility, of course, to pull her dress back on and make the both of them presentable enough to survive the trip from the limo up to the penthouse. She’s sweaty now, which doesn’t help, and the dress sticks to her skin, refusing to slide over her hips or onto her arms, and she grunts in frustration even as Serena flops onto her back, mouth hanging open slightly as the smallest of snores escapes.
Blair lets loose a scream of frustration and pounds her fist down against the seat.
“Wake up,” she snaps sharply, refusing to be charmed by the way Serena blinks dizzily into consciousness. The blonde stretches, palms and feet bumping into the windows on either side of her, then looks up at Blair as if she doesn’t remember the last half hour, as if it makes no sense why Blair would be sitting there half-naked and glaring at her.
“Are we here?” she asks dumbly, rotating her head from side to side as if she were a tourist in Central Park straining to catch all of the sights, before refocusing hazily on Blair.
Blair doesn’t deign to answer. Instead she presents Serena with her back, her words strained and clipped as she says, “You took this off. Figure out how to put it back on.”
Like everything else, in Serena’s hands, the task becomes ridiculously easy. Soon Blair finds herself once again safely cocooned in couture, and she’s beginning to regain a slight bit of balance when she feels Serena’s arms wrap around her from behind. The blonde nuzzles against the nape of her neck as she chuckles once again, leaving a trail of soft kisses there that Blair tries desperately to ignore. Instead, she straightens her spine, grows as stiff in the embrace as she knows how to do, and wraps her hands around Serena’s wrists to pull the other girl’s arms away.
“Inside,” she says, and she ignores the way the word is rough and raspy.
Serena shifts easily with Blair’s attempt to unlock herself from Serena’s embrace. Now she’s leaning against Blair heavily, cheek pressed tightly against her back, and the brunette can feel the rumble of her words up and down the length of her spine. “Good,” she mumbles happily, shifting closer, “and then I’ll have you in a bed.”
Blair fights back the urge to do serious bodily harm.
For Serena, it’s fine now, because she’s forgotten she’s with Dan and forgotten about whatever scheme Georgina is attempting to pull, but Blair already knows what tomorrow will bring. Serena will look sheepish. She’ll give a shy little smile, looking up at Blair through her lashes, and offer a barely perceptible shrug of her shoulders. Maybe she’ll bite her bottom lip and shift from foot to foot like a little kid begging for forgiveness, and it will be no big deal. Nothing that hasn’t happened before, nothing that really means anything, and Blair will remember why she kind of hates Serena and why she was never going to do this again, but she won’t show it. Instead she’ll smile in return, will slip out from under the weight of the unwieldy and awkward moment gracefully, and will offer them both the easy way out.
She could point out this inevitability, could throw some sort of tantrum to snap Serena out of the haze of alcohol and sex in which she’s thoroughly enjoying wallowing, but she doesn’t. Instead she slips free of the blonde’s grasp, pushes open the limo’s door and steps out into the relatively cool air of the early, early morning. Her driver is standing in front of the hood of the car, attention politely directed elsewhere, and Blair shrugs off the dark fingers of embarrassment, sure he’s encountered worse. And then she reaches back into the limo and hauls Serena out of it with all of the grace of a bodybuilder, nearly falling over as all of the blonde’s weight lands squarely on her before Serena manages to find some semblance of footing.
“Why don’t you sleep it off and then we’ll see,” she mutters darkly, angrily, knowing that Serena has already forgotten her suggestion of a moment ago. Knowing that by the morning, Serena will have forgotten everything that matters.
“Okay,” Serena agrees happily, canting over so that her cheek is resting against Blair’s shoulder as the much shorter brunette struggles to control her stumbling and get them into the lobby before they perform a tandem dead drop face first onto concrete. “Anything you want, Blair. Always. You’re the only one that matters.”
Blair considers dropping her then and there, considers letting her sleep it off on the sidewalk and wake up the next morning without anyone present to pamper and console her. Instead, she pulls Serena’s arm tightly across her shoulders, redistributing their weight, and presses forward.