Title: Coming Out On Top
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Rating: M, LS
Word count: ~800
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit.
A/N: I’ve been in something of a blocked state recently. This isn’t much, and what little of it there is is poorly realized smut, but I needed some sort of stimulus. This may (or may not) provide it.
She’d seen porn before, of course. Everyone had, whether they liked to admit it or not. Some watched it in secrecy and privacy, the sound turned on low and the curtains pulled tightly shut, dug deeply into their secluded little pit of eroticism and shame. Others pointed and giggled as it flickered on screens at bachelorette parties, another sucking sip of pina colada followed by breathless, girlish exclamations of faux outrage with a gasped “Oh, my god,” and an occasional “Eww,” thrown in for propriety’s sake. Some people, and here she always pictured Chuck, treated it as a business, with gigs of computer memory subsumed via clips and favorites carefully organized in folders and subfolders by type, fetish, and participants.
Blair, on the other hand, had snickered.
God, how fake, she’d murmured, lips curled up in a delicate smirk and eyes full of derision. Because honestly, she’d never be one of those girls, red-faced and sweaty and moaning, choking out an occasional “Yes,” or “Fuck me harder,” or something equally as undignified and unimaginative. She’d never, ever allow herself that particular vacant stare of wanton pleading, that glassy eyed emptiness that was designed (because she absolutely refused to believe that any of it was real) to intimate that all traces of humanity had fled the girl who was on her back or her knees or chained to a wall or bent over a desk or whatever.
Guys liked to believe that. They liked to see it, obviously, which is why images of it pervaded adult video stores and the internet (and, god, the internet… she didn’t think there was anything you couldn’t find on there.) They liked to think that they could drive women to that state, where they were nothing but panting, lusting, ever-so-willing empty and vacant vessels waiting to be filled. They liked to imagine looking down into eyes that stared back up at them with adoration and awe, liked to pretend that they possessed skills of such superiority that they were able to reduce normally powerful, articulate, and ever-so-competent women to brainless, begging fucktoys.
She acknowledged that there might be a feminist rant buried somewhere in her feelings about it all, but honestly, she didn’t care enough to try and find it. And anyway, it was probably a good thing she wasn’t too overly invested in the argument, because she was definitely sweaty. Like, she’d just spent an hour at the gym doing moderate to high intensity cardio sweaty, in a kind of gross and icky way that she, ironically, wasn’t finding at all gross and icky. She could feel wet hair sticking to her neck and the side of her face and from the heat she could feel radiating from her cheeks, she was uncomfortably aware that she was probably an unbecoming shade of red.
She absolutely, positively did not care.
After all, she wasn’t staring up in adoration like a mindless bimbo.
No, she was fairly sure that she was leering, and that maybe it was almost an ugly, evil leer, of the teeth-bared and lips curled kind. And her eyes weren’t vacant. No, they were calculating and arrogant, and fuck, but she hated knowing that she was one of those stupid boys who got off on this kind of thing.
Because, really… the begging and the careless nails digging into her shoulders and leaving arching lines of angry red? It’s hot. It’s way hot. She can’t even deny it.
The twisting and the writhing and the, “Please, Blair. God, please.”
That’s hot too.
So it’s a good thing she doesn’t really have any scruples about clinging to philosophies – because there’s nothing that could convince her that this moment is anything short of perfection, with Serena’s long legs sprawled out on either side of her as she crouches between them, one hand buried deep in the mattress just above Serena’s shoulder and the other just buried deep within Serena.
Anyway, yeah. Whatever. And if she ever does look like that, mindless and glassy eyed and desperate – well, Serena looked that way first and that’s all that matters.
(Because, okay, she kind of does want to look like that, but only just a little and only because it looks like fun. And only, only because she thinks that Serena might totally make it worth her while. Or, at least she better, because Blair’s not going to hand out the mindless look of lust-filled adoration for just anything. She’s expecting, and will accept, nothing shy of a virtuoso performance. And if that creates some kind of performance anxiety, then Serena will just have to deal, because honestly, it’s really not that hard.)
Either way, she isn’t opposed to further practice. There will, however, be no recording devices of any type involved.
She’s almost sure of it.