At exactly twelve midnight, there's a knock on Dan Humphrey's door. He's sprawled on his couch, laptop on his knee, trying desperately to write lines for Sabrina when all he can think about is the inspiration for her best friend.
He jumps up, having fallen into a procrastinating doze, and shoots a faintly reproachful glare at the door. Then he sighs and rises to open it, unconsciously straightening his shirt and smoothing his hair.
She's clutching her handbag, a sure sign of nervousness he's only seen once or twice before. Her pale face is expressionless, but she looks at a loss for what to do.
"Blair? What're you doing here?"
He expects her to brush past him, waltz on inside with some explanation about Serena in trouble, or Chuck's latest sin, or her mother's cutting remarks. Instead, she answers in the smallest voice he's ever heard, "I don't know."
He stares for a moment, wondering why Uncertain Blair is such a turn-on, and stands wordlessly aside to invite her in.
"I thought you were spending the night with Louis?"
"I was." She's not big with the words tonight, another rarity Dan can't explain, and she looks so small stood primly in the middle of his loft that he can't help but love her.
Did he really just think that?
"Okay… well, do you want a drink?"
"No, no, I'm fine. I had loads of champagne at the ball."
"I didn't know limos turned into pumpkins." He grins, trying to lighten the mood or at least make her crack a smile. She looks like she might, then shakes her head, hiding her face from him. "So what do you want, Blair?"
"You." He barely has time to register what she said before her arms are around his neck, her lips warm and wet against his, and his hands have flown to her waist on their own, reveling in the warmth of holding Blair Waldorf.
After an indecisive nanosecond, he's kissing her back, lips moving soft and slow against hers, tongues dancing not fighting between them. His hands move from her waist to her hips, as hers tangle in his hair.
Finally, they break for air, and some of her trademark confidence is back. Her hands go straight to unbuttoning his shirt, while his try to figure out the zipper on the back of her ball gown. He, amazingly, is successful first and her dress just falls away, revealing a slim expanse of creamy, perfect skin, hidden only by a lacy bra and panties.
His shirt slides off him without his notice, as he gathers her up in his arms and carries her to the bedroom. It all seems somehow spellbound, this midnight tryst, as they both work furiously at his belt buckle and fly, finally relieving him of his jeans.
He wants to savor this moment. He wants to kiss her tenderly, tease and delight every inch of her for hours, make her cry out his name over and over again with just his fingers and tongue. But she's taken the upper hand again - she always does, he realises, in any given setting - and has divested herself of her knickers and taken hold of his stiff cock, pulling him up inside her.
She's hotter and wetter than he could have imagined, and somehow she manages to short-circuit his brain so that words no longer exist. The world is reduced to sensation: warm and wet and hot and the slight, delicious pain of her fingernails on his back, her light nibbling on his earlobe, the feeling of her legs wrapped around his sides, the sound of her pants and whimpers in his ear.
He can't last much longer, he can feel his balls tighten, feel himself careening for that edge, but he can't let himself go and not take her with him. So he opens his eyes, looks down at her flushed, beautiful face, and makes deep eye contact. He reaches down between them and finds her clit, taking it between thumb and forefinger and rubbing gently, then harder, in time with his thrusts in and out of her until he sees her eyes squeeze shut, and feels her clenching hard around him
He holds her, pounds erratically into her as she rides out her orgasm and he reaches his own, climaxing into her and breathing her name against the skin of her neck.
He collapses next to her, and almost wishes he was a smoker just so he could have a cigarette right about now. He doesn't know the protocol: is it even safe to try and cuddle with Blair Waldorf? He half expects her to get up and get dressed, and leave without a word.
"So, was that what you wanted?" He finally asks, at a loss for what else to say.
She scoffs, "What do you think, Humphrey?"
"So that was the plan? Show up, fuck my brains out then laugh at me?" He isn't annoyed or angry, just curious. Her plans are always amusingly complex and baffling to the mere mortal.
"No, the plan was to get in my limo, go home, and pack for Monaco."
"Well, supervise the packing process, anyway."
"So where did it all go wrong?" He turns onto his side and props himself up to watch her, and finds her mirroring his movements.
"I don't know. I got in the limo, and this address came out instead of home."
He's floored. "So, wait, this isn't part of a grand scheme? I thought scheming was like oxygen to you."
"So did I!" She cries, plaintively, "I mean, I'm the Queen Bitch of Manhattan, right? You don't get there without strict rules and planning." She flops onto her back, "And here I am, in bed with Dan Humphrey in Brooklyn."
"Your schemes do seem a little… half-hearted, these days." He conceeds, "I haven't seen you plot someone's social destruction in months."
"I know! Oh, God, this is such a problem."
"What us?" He raises an eyebrow, "Cause that's a major understatement. This is the Mt Everest of problems."
"No, not us, we're good," to his surprise, she seems entirely serious, "I mean the lack of scheming. I don't even want to scheme anymore. I used to love remembering the look on your sister's face the night I took her down. Now it just feels kind of pointless and petty. Watching people suffer because of me almost feels… bad now."
Dan has to laugh, "Wait, Blair Waldorf grew a conscience?"
"No, I think I just… grew up."
"Really? I have to agree, this all feels very, you know, adult."
She has to laugh at that, "I just mean this whole thing, it's so… mature, you know? I don't even mean the sex, I mean the talking on the phone and the trust and the friends-first thing. Even the secrecy isn't a turn on."
"So what is the turn on for you, then? Slumming it?"
"No," he can see the honesty on her face, and it seems foreign and wonderful, "It's just you."
"Oh." He hates to acknowledge the huge, hedonistic, scotch-drinking, date-raping elephant in the room, but feels it's kind of now or never, "What about Chuck?"
"Chuck was… is… I don't know." She runs a hand through her tousled hair, "We fell in love because we loved the game. He still does, you know. He'd see you as a way for me to make him jealous. I used to get these goosebumps remembering us, remembering senior year and torturing ourselves and just playing the game."
"And now?" He's absently stroking her arm, unable to stop himself from touching her in any way he can.
"Now? It seems stupid that we wasted all that time when we could have been happy and in love. I had a good thing with Nate, but Chuck brought out the dark side and I followed him. By the time Nate came back I was too far gone to notice how dark everything really was. I thought it was game over when he said he loved me, but he kept playing."
Dan nods, understanding perfectly, "I had Serena on a pedestal, but when we started dating I took her down and saw her how she was, or tried to. But she's never seen that: to her, I'm still a worshipper at her feet. She'll never see me on her level, she'd see this as…"
"Me being manipulative and jealous. She wouldn't blame you."
"That's the problem, isn't it?"
"Chuck would blame me for getting in the way. Serena would blame you for using me."
"Aren't I? I don't even know why I'm here."
"Your wish is my command." he half-shrugs, "Well, mine and about half the rest of New York's." He makes a decision she seems too scared to make, "Now, roll over, and get some sleep. We can work it out in the morning."
Amazingly, she complies, and rolls onto her side to be the little spoon. "Mmm, night Humphrey."
"Night Girly Evil."