gossip girl. dan/blair. 1500 words. r. Despite the four messages instructing him not to, Dan still shows up at Blair’s door at eight fifteen on a Thursday night for what he has come to regard as their standing movie date.
Despite the four messages instructing him not to, Dan still shows up at Blair’s door at eight fifteen on a Thursday night for what he has come to regard as their standing movie date.
The door is shut. He hears a muffled voice through it, cursing softly at him and then a thin slit is allowed to give way and the top of her head, forehead pale and shiny with sweat and pair of bright dark eyes comes into view.
“What do you want, Humphrey?”
“To come in.”
“You can’t. I’m contagious. And it’s all your fault.”
“Look, Blair – I know biology has never been your strong suit but a basic understanding can’t have passed you by. The only way I could have given you mono is if I had – “
“Well, I must have gotten it from those acidic cocktails in plastic cups at the party you took me to last week. In Brooklyn,” she adds, dragging the word out in the old disdainful fashion, one she hasn’t employed in a while because she had been spending so much time there that part of him believed she’d finally begun to accept that it was in the same city as the Upper East Side. Dan rolls his eyes, pushes harder against the door, trying not to smile when it gives way. She has, grudgingly, released the chain.
“What do you want?” she repeats, sulkily, putting her chin up.
He takes in the sight of her, the old lacrosse shirt, stained plaid shorts and a surgical mask covering the lower half of her face (that explains the filtered nature of her voice earlier, the strange distant breaks in the sound). Her bare ankles knock together impatiently as he lifts his wares up for inspection.
“I brought Wes Anderson,” he informs, gesturing to the pile of films in the brown paper bag that he is cradling to his chest, “And bagels.”
“You can leave them by the door.”
“Come on, Blair,” he protests, “You know you want my company.”
“You gave me mono,” she insists, her resolve privately weakening.
He shakes his head, “Are we going to have to go over the biology portion of this evening again? I did not give you – “
“Oh, shut up. You can come in.”
And so he does, grinning over his own meager victory as he pushes past her and sets up the movie, bringing out an array of paper plates and plastic cutlery that he knows she will complain about but be secretly thankful for later.
“You know,” she drawls, lying back against the couch, “This isn’t going to get you any good boyfriend points. Any ass could have brought over a hipster movie and some greasy food that is probably bad for my condition anyway, did you even check – “
She looks affronted. Dan comes around the coffee table to kneel in front of where she is spread on the couch. He props his hands on her knees and she affects a flinch before relaxing to the touch and arching her ankles up into the warmth of his palms.
“I didn’t bring the films to earn any points with you,” he informs her calmly, “Or the food,” still rubbing patronizing (if soothing) circles into the tender flesh behind her knees. She didn’t know rubbing someone’s skin could even be patronizing before Dan did it but of course, he follows the action up with “You probably shouldn’t strain your voice, you know” in that maddening voice and she has to resist the urge to knock her foot into the back of his head.
“Well, you’ve deposited the food and entertainment now, so you can probably leave,” she starts, primly, “I’m not really in the mood to make conversation with you – what are you doing?” she gasps, breaking off.
His hands have travelled up the back of her legs to hook fingers gently against the waistband of her shorts and he is beginning to drag them slowly down, the rough material grazing her skin slowly as the item of clothing comes off and then her hips are bare, ass resting in his hands, his thumbs tracing curves against the protruding bones of her hips. She shudders against the leather, cold against her skin and the quick, startling contrast it provides to his touch which is moves now like a fever, hot and quick and sending her blood into little jumps through her body.
“What – Dan, what are you doing?” she repeats, incoherently, his fingers curling between her knees to pry her legs further apart and she looks down at the top of his head, the opening sequence of The Royal Tenebaums on the screen behind him and can just make out his head lifting up for a brief second, that odd sarcastic smirk that he reserves for sex and literary criticism.
“Earning boyfriend points,” he informs her, before his mouth presses lightly against her cunt and the effect sends her head toppling back against the couch cushions instantaneously.
She can feel his mouth bend into another smile against her before it relaxes, easing slowly against her folds, his tongue mapping out a path roughly and slowly to her clit and laying siege there in a manner that causes her to release the kind of stream of moans and curses that ought to be illegal outside of the harlequin romance novels that she and Serena used to take to the Hamptons when they were fourteen. Lately, she swears in French when her senses are being assaulted in this fashion, something that Dan isn’t entirely convinced she didn’t pick up as a gimmick during her brief engagement to the prince but she suspects that despite its implications, he also finds it a turn on, her voice husky with throaty foreign curses that he can only half grasp the meaning of. She thinks it fits in with his narrative of her, as the lost puzzle piece to his genius; the mysterious heroine who comes from nowhere and disappears into the same abyss, leaving behind a dubious identity and broken hearts. She has come to realize that she doesn’t really mind this overmuch; after all, his fantasies aren’t so different from her own and if they are more subtle than the games she is used to playing with Chuck than they also affect their actual relationship less on a day to day basis. For all, she thinks, pressing his head closer to her, that Dan romanticizes her, he never really treats her any differently than he used to before they were going out. There is still the same acid humour, the banter – just more of, well, this.
She is so distracted by his attentions on her clit that she doesn’t notice his fingers when they slide up, parting her gently, teasing against her before slipping in and this is when her voice gets guttural, Dan playing her with his fingers like an organ that releases a certain series of sounds and he pauses briefly, to pant against her, catch his breath (his cheek is warm and flushed against her thigh) and then, he is back at the spot with renewed determination, playing out his aria till it’s final, grand climax, with her nails scratching lightly against his scalp.
She swallows his name when he comes, biting down the word and replacing it with a meaningless string of syllables, all linguistic cunning momentarily paused and he stays there, for a moment, the warmth of his face against her and then the chilly flood of air when he raises his head.
“How many points does that win me?” he asks, his hands travelling back to cup at her knees. The gesture is intimate and almost sweet, but the shape of his mouth is smug and she sighs, archly, pressing the tips of his fingers to the corner of his lips, deepening the sound when they come away damp.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she informs him.
“Well, in a manner of speaking.”
“Hush, Humphrey,” she murmurs, jostling the side of his face with her naked thigh, “Watch the movie.”
He shakes his head with a choke of laughter and joins her on the sofa, the food growing cold in front of them. Blair tugs her shorts back on, not looking at him.
Her eyes are fixed on the screen or on the plate that she has lifted to her lap, mouth closing around a bite. Her lips twitch behind the mask. She resists the urge to mock him, for all this, the contents of his bag now revealing a gas mask that she is thankful he didn't wear when he was going down on her and a copy of the handouts for a lecture she missed this week; it all feels too textbook and she is loath to admit it but this? this is uncertain ground for her (she has grown to be more at ease where the stakes are high and the drama loud). It would be only to easy to send it all toppling over at this point, so she settles for a snide "I hope you’re not expecting reciprocation," and then turns back to the film.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” And under his breath, “Wouldn’t want to get whatever it is you – “
“Shhh,” her breath is an arching stage whisper, with a veiled smirk, “This is my favourite part.”