Author's Note: This is an incredibly belated response to the prompt for the six day of the third Chair Week – Disney. More importantly, though, it is a belated birthday present for my good friend Maritza (possitivetension on tumblr) who goes through life with more grace than anyone else I know.

"Obviously, it can," she huffs answering her own question as to whether or not things could get any worse. The puff of air blows a lock of rapidly dampening hair from her forehead, and she drops her chin to her chest in resignation to her fate. Brown eyes meet hers – the unknown man watching her curiously from where he lays on the ground below – and she shrieks in surprise scrambling backwards towards the trunk of the tree.

Roots and vines seem to tangle around her feet pitching her forward as she struggles to gain her balance, and her arms flail uselessly in an attempt to keep her from face planting onto the ground below. But the man manages to break her fall steadying her balance with the point of his index finger against her chest and pushing her with just enough force that she falls backwards onto her ass rather than her head.

"Stay back," Blair snaps as she scoots backwards until her back smacks against the tree trunk. She grips onto either side of the tree, lifts her left foot up and presses it against his bare chest. The action causes her yellow dress to slip down her leg towards her knee revealing bare skin; her stocking and shoe lost somewhere in her dash from one vine to the next.

The immodest reveal catches his attention, and his gaze drifts towards the bare foot as he crouches on bended knees. Big hands with their long fingers move to envelop her toes, to pull and touch until her protests become punctuate with a series of giggles because that tickles. Her eyes drift shut as she laughs, but open wide again when she feels a breeze blow down her bare thigh as he lifts the fabric of her yellow dress from her knee.

"Get off," she shouts pushing her foot reflectively against his chest and smacking him in the face, instead. He leaps backwards in shock, watches her curiously before slowing approaching towards her on hands and knees again.

"You stay away from me," Blair instructs as she pulls her dress over her knees tucking her knees up against her chest and gestures with her white-gloved hand for him to stop right there. "Be a good wild man and stay – no, no, that's close enough."

Her instructions fall on deaf eyes – although, she has no idea if he is purposely choosing to ignore her indicts or if he even understands English – as he moves closer to her, as he reaches out to cup her cheek with his hand. The presumptive insolence of such a gesture sends her own hand flying outward towards his cheek ready to land upon it with a satisfying smack, but he seems to anticipate her movements curling his large hand around her tiny wrist and stopping her from landing a blow against him.

He twists his grip turning Blair's hand left and right as his eyes become intense, focused like she had never seen before, and she watches with baited breath as he slowly tugs the glove from her hand exposing her bare palm to his gaze. He seems almost hesitant, unsure for a moment, and her eyes drift from her splayed fingers to watch how hesitation gives way to surprise across his features at the meeting of a stranger like him as he unfurls his fingers and presses his palm against hers.

His hand is larger than hers; his fingers extend far beyond the tips of her manicured nails. And yet their hands seem to match, their fingers seem to know exactly which way to move in order to mesh together until she is holding hands with him.

He lifts his gaze to meet hers, to allow her to see the million and a half questions flying across his features as he moves closer towards her. Her brain tells her hand to move; her fingers refuse to release their grip. Not even when he presses his ear to her chest, when his cheekbone rests in the space between her best, when she can feel his hot breath blow across her nipple through the fabric of her yellow dress and the bra beneath.

"Oh my god," she breathes in shock. The words are repeated once more when he reaches up with his free hand to slide his fingers into her brown lock and again when he tugs her head forward to press her ear against his own chest.

For a moment, she cannot hear anything over the steady rain hitting the vines curled around them and then, suddenly, the steady beating of his heart consumes her attention. The sound is somehow, some way familiar to her, and she finds her body relaxing despite the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. The shock that she would give herself over to such peace rather than fight for control jolts her, and she breaks their connection pushing herself away from his chest and relinquishing her grip on his hand.

He seems surprised at her rejection of him, and his gaze somehow becomes even more intense. Her self-consciousness overwhelms her sense of self-preservation; paranoia causing her to reach up and try to fix the hair falling out of its complicated knot at the base of her neck. The change in climate, the derivation in temperature from her homeland leaves her with little choice but to twist her hair into some kind of knot and hope it stays. Leaving it down only invites the vines to snag upon it or, worse, the humidity to puff it up until she looks like her best friend on the days Serena hasn't showered.

"Lovely," she mutters to herself thinking of the effect the rain, which has become a drizzle rather than a downpour, will have on her appearance as she runs her fingers through her locks of brown hair. Her fingers become horribly tangled when she twists her head – eyes wide in shock – after he repeats her single word back to her.

Blair's emotions dance from elation that he can speak to annoyance that he ignored her and back to elation again when he smiles at her, when the skin around his eyes crinkles as he watches her in silent reverence. Her words bubble forth skipping from one emotion to the next until he presses his index finger against her lips and silences her for the moment.

"Tarzan," he says pressing his curled hands against his chest in a gesture of introduction before repeating himself once more slower this time. "Tarzan."

"Blair," she replies softly gesturing to herself. His brows knit together in confuse so she repeats herself once more pointing to her chest. "Blair."

The name falls easily yet reverently from his lips as he moves to touch her chin. His thumb and forefinger trace her jaw bone slowly, and her breath hitches once more as he repeats her name back to her. Her heart pounds louder – residual adrenalin, she tells herself – when he moves to cradle her cheek in his palm, when his thumb brushes against her cheekbone, when her head tips back and her eyes meet his gaze.

"Lovely," he states as stares into her eyes, as he moves to thread his fingers through her hair. And then he bends down closer still showing a complete lack of regard for personal space as he brushes his lips against her forehead and then across her cheek before finally pressing them against her lips.

She should push him away again; she should smack him in the face with her foot again. But the combination of that single word and her name with the gentle caress of his lips against hers causes her to relax instead of tense, and she moves her hand to brush her fingers against his neck. Her right hand rises to curl around the other side of his neck, but he catches it with his left and hands that match despite their variation in size clasp together.

Blair holds on tightly as he tips her backward, as he carefully cradles her head so it does not smack against the trunk or the roots or the vines. And only when she is laid out on the ground before him, when his tongue distractingly traces against her lips in a plea for her to open, does he remove his hand from behind her head and use it instead to lift the hem of her yellow dress.

His fingers trail between her legs – one covered in a stocking, the other not – and he repeats the two words he knows – lovely Blair – when she shivers against his ministrations. His fascination with her and her body begins to compete for dominance with her fascination with the so-called wild man as his fingers explore the inner skin of her thighs, the swell of her ass, the wet folds.

Blair shifts her legs in an effort to show him who is the student and who is the teacher. She breaks the kiss and, with her lips, she traces hot kisses along the vein in his neck nuzzling her chin into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder so she can feel the pounding of his heartbeat against her skin. He lifts their joined hands over her head, presses hands clasped tightly together into the dirt as he dips his head and moves to feather kisses against her breasts through the fabric of her yellow dress. And still the fingers of his free hand trace until, lashes lowered and lips parted, she affords him better access as she lifts her hips off the ground.

"Don't tease," she instructs him hoping that this will the one instruction he actually follows when he stills his hand against her thigh, when he begins to pull it away. He mimics her words, and Blair's groan becomes one of frustration because she wants to play a different game now.

Her groans are silenced by the way he captures her lips, by the way his lips slowly caress against hers before moving to nip gently against the nape of her neck. He seems unperturbed by the high neckline of her dress, and she would be surprised if she had not seen the way he marveled over how well their hands matched, if she did not feel his free hand moving against her hip as he tries to free himself.

From what, she could not say. The cloth he wears is brown but free of labels, and her mind if far too busy right now comprehending the sensation of his quick nips against her neck to ponder the question for too long. And she could care less about pondering the question any further when her dress becomes bunched up around her hips, when she feels his hairy legs brush against her bare skin. Their bodies align just as their hands had moments before; the match more than obvious when he bends his head as she stretched upward to meet his kiss. But he hovers his lips above hers in close proximity for just a moment long, just long enough to watch her with intense and focused eyes as he slides inside her before greedily swallowing her gasp of delight with a searing kiss.

They hold a slow, steady rhythm; no need to rush in a world where it is just them. Her fingers splay against his neck clutching onto him when he breaks the kiss; his grip on the hand holding his tightens when he drops his head to nip his teeth against her neck once more. The action causes her wrap her legs about his hips, to angle her hips so a shivering, shuddering sigh falls her lips as the name that was not the one he used to introduce himself escapes.

"Chuck."

He grins wickedly against the skin of her neck before rewarding her failure to follow the script with fingers that slip under the fabric of her dress and tease her to completion, to a place that some people claim is a fantasy. His rhythm increases in tempo as Chuck follows her lead, as Chuck falls into the fantasyland where the only thing that is real is them – Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck – and the way they feel about one another with a capitulated roar. The kind Blair had wanted him to do for this role.

He lies slumped against her body for a moment listening to the beat of her heart, to the way it matches the cadence of his own rapid rhythm. And then when he feels her fingers sliding through his hair, he rolls onto his back wincing as the roots below dig into his spine and pulling to her drape over him. Her turn to nestle her head to his chest; her turn to listen to the beating of his heat.

They keep their hands entwined, although they do slacken their grip on one another so they can twist their hands and find a more comfortable angle to hold hands at, and he gently runs his fingers through her hair as savors the quiet moment between the end of the scene and the director's chastising for how it went.

"You didn't follow the script," she murmurs against his bare chest as she curls her free hand around his shoulder and presses herself harder into his body. The yellow fabric pools around them shielding the back of her bare legs and the front of his, well, everything from the heat of the sun peeking through the vines above their heads.

"Neither did you, Not Jane," he reminds her pointedly.

"You know I don't like it when you say another woman's name during sex," she informs him in a queenly tone. He starts to tell her that has never, ever happened – he might blurt out an 'I love you' but he always knows when it's Blair – but the trumpeting of an elephant interrupts him, and he drops his gaze down to meet her surprised one.

"Taking the role playing to a new level, are we?" Chuck ask smarmily as his hand skims over her back side.

"That wasn't—"

The elephant noise interrupts her, and the distinct sound of something whacking against the vines sends her scrambling to her feet. She tugs on her dress, tries desperately to smooth out the wrinkles as she kicks the bag she stashed under one of the vineyard trees nearby earlier this morning towards him. But Chuck moves at sluggish pace never one to care about being caught no matter where they might be, and he only manages to put on the cheap brown boxer briefs he was passing off as a loin cloth and freshly pressed pants pulled from the bag before a band of explorers step through a ticket of vines further down the row.

"Did you see which way the elephant went?" Roman asks Chuck and Blair in heavily accented English rattling his plastic sabre at them.

"Don't tell him, Mommy," Henry instructs gravely from where he sits perched on his Grandpa Harold's shoulders. Wide, brown eyes he inherited from his mother are barely visible under the safari hat that is somehow still too big for his head. "He's a poocher."

"Poacher," Blair's father corrects automatically with a menacing look towards his husband as he plays along with his grandson's game.

"Grandpa Harold and I are explorers," Henry informs his parents not batting an eye to the fact that his father is missing a shirt for the little boy is far too excited to finally be outside romping through Harold and Roman's vineyard after so much rain. He gestures to the shorter gentleman standing beside Harold wearing a matching hat to that of Henry and Harold. "And Zayde Cyrus is a professor. He's come to study gorillas and monkeys."

"Monkey, huh?" Chuck replies. "I think I saw a monkey a while back."

"Where?" Henry exclaims excitedly. His father instructs him to the other side of the vineyard, to the last place they saw Monkey eating rotting grapes off the ground. Henry grins eagerly surveying the vineyard from underneath the brim of his hat as he instructs his grandfathers to hurry, to get there before Roman the pretend poacher can find Monkey.

Henry does not turn around to look at his parents, but Cyrus does taking in the stain on the back of Blair's yellow dress and his son-in-law's disheveled appearance. And the shorter man turns to the pretend poacher with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips as they both follow after Henry and Harold.

"She takes after her mother, you know," Cyrus states before letting out another trumpeting blow as he happily engages in Henry's pretend play as both professor and elephant. "Henry, I think we might have just seen Tarzan and Jane playing in this jungle."