fic: come nightfall you'll be waltzing through my door (dan/blair, chapter 3)
title: come nightfall you'll be waltzing through my door (part 3). part 1 part 2
fandom: gossip girl
characters: dan humphrey, blair waldorf
pairings: dan/blair, implied chuck/blair, implied serena/dan
wordcount: ~2100(/7200)
rating: NC-17
disclaimer: i don't own gossip girl or the title of this fic
warning: i wrote this. it has internal monologues and something masquerading as plot and nothing much ever happens.
for: ever-neutral and vergoldung who wanted adultery. (who doesn't, really)
a/n: PART THREE, a year or so after part 2. also, i have to say, this is definitely the most self-indulgent porn i've ever written. english-majors-slash-wannabe-writers are the best/worst kind of people, tbh.
in the previous chapter:
She turns her back to him then and she's wearing black lingerie and he always loved it when she wore black lingerie and her naked legs still look as fantastic as they always have when she’s walking away from him. She walks to his room and he follows.
(He shouldn’t.)
(It doesn’t matter. He does it anyway. He was always going to do it anyway.)
Her fingertips pull away from his and she sashays into his bedroom, a perfect picture of confidence and determination; the way she doesn't look back to check if he is following, her hips ocean waves even out of water. In his mind, she's never needed water. He does this as easily as ever, following her lead. He bends down, abandons his shoes and socks in the living room and he follows. The wooden floor is warm below his toes and he would like to be able to call it cold - it would have seemed more fitting, Sir Humphrey of Brooklyn walking through ice and cold to get to the Princess and save her. His life is still not a fairytale, though, so he gets warm toes, he gets creaky wooden floors instead of magnificent fairytale landscapes. He gets to need to be saved instead. As he crosses over the threshold of his room, she stops and turns around to face him, her hands on her hips and then crossed over her chest and then wrapped around her shoulders. Titanic was sunk by less than Blair Waldorf.
"You alright?" he asks, voice softer than he intended it to be. He worries and he's not sure he should. She untangles her arms from herself and nods, "Shut up and kiss me Humphrey." and he's nineteen again, nineteen and in love with Blair Waldorf and this, this is everything.
The floor is still warm beneath his fingers.
He wonders briefly what she'll taste like, he didn't concentrate on her taste the last time, his senses and basic brain function mostly brought down on their knees by her, but he'll make it count this time, make note of the hypnotizing silkiness of the skin of her back where his fingers linger carefully, ready to escape at the first sight of Blair changing her mind, Blair waking up and smelling reality and seeing this for what it is - fraud, deceit, trickery, he can list the words and their synonyms in his head, it comes with ease after this much practice at playing at being a writer.
It's only a few seconds later, when she abandons his lips and kisses his chest that he realizes he is talking out loud, liaison, fling, affair.
She plays her part well, still, she pauses for an infinitesimal moment and he lowers his lips to her neck and she pushes him onto the bed.
"You taste - " he starts, his voice breathy. Her hands are on the zipper of his pants, pulling down,
"Yes, Humphrey?" she prompts.
"Refined," he manages.
"Refined? For a man of as many novels as you," her voice lilts, teases. He removes her hand from his zipper than, leaves his pants half unzipped and half pulls half pushes her onto the dark blue sheets with a new found determination. He motions for her to lie down and she does, so he takes a second to take in the sight of her, legs, cheeks, smile, eye roll, all she's ever been. He doesn't take off her panties, not yet, but lowers his lips down to her and hallowed, his voice is husky, now, his fingers are tracing the outline of her panties and he's sure he can hear both of their heartbeats clearly and Blair's shallow breathing. He hooks his finger to the edges of her panties and pulls them towards him, off her legs and feet and gently lowers them besides them.
"Solemn", he goes on, and his tongue reaches out and touches her then, silk and steel, his tongue slow and delicate. Blair whimpers and Dan smiles.
"Ecclesiastical", he goes on, changes pace, presses harder, and Blair is louder.
"Transcendent", he finishes.
"Fuck", Blair exhales, and he's trailing his tongue up her stomach, over her ribs, under her breasts.
"I'm on the pill", she says. She doesn't look him in the eyes, but he takes off his pants anyway and she pulls him into her.
"Merciless", he mouths to the skin below her ear.
"Euphistic", his tongue in her mouth, his whispering goes on.
"Magniloquent", she turns them over, and she's on top of them now. (She's always been on top of them.)
"Prurient", he smiles. She's dictating the tempo now, and he's closer to home with every thrust.
"Por - tentous", his voice fails him, just a little, and it's her turn to smile now.
"Iniquitous". His hands are on her hips now, helping her, his hips finding hers, and she places her hands in his and he lets out
"Arcane", and her fingers dig into his hands and she moans and he comes. (He's always been as easy as that.)
The first drops of Paris evening rain start dropping on the open windows, a fitting soundtrack perhaps, raw and unassuming. Neither of them bothers to get up and close them. Dan is sweaty and so is she, though he likes the look better on her than on himself, the sweat making her skin glisten.
She's lying on her back, arms above her head, breathing getting deeper, which is good, he's always liked his ability to make her relax, ease into whatever life throws at them. He leans over her and kisses her cheek then, and rolls himself off the bed. He has some mid-quality French wine in his fridge and he gets out two glasses out of his kitchen cupboard. When he comes back into his room, she's put on his black bathrobe.
He'd like to say he doesn't think of Serena at that moment, that everything is so pure and true that he doesn't have the heart or the mind to bring into this moment Serena making him try on the bathrobe in the store and insisting on buying it even when he kept rolling his eyes, doesn't bring back the light touching of her skin against his later that night, when she made him put on the bathrobe and make them pancakes at two in the morning and danced with him in their kitchen to -- he doesn't remember what exactly, but something upbeat, something catchy -- something Serena.
"Serena bought that - " he stops himself from something, he's not sure how that sentence made it out of his mind to his lips, and he doesn't like that. He looks away from Blair, he should not be saying this to her. He's not sure why exactly he stops himself, though he could think of plenty enough reasons to do it.
Blair leans on the windowsill and he would have written her to roll her eyes then even if she hadn't done it herself.
"I'm not a child, Humphrey. Or an idiot. I didn't forget you're married to her. Or that I'm married."
"I know, it's just -- maybe I did."
Blair doesn't react further, not in any way he picks up on anyway, and he likes to think he would have picked something up if it had been there. But still, when her gaze falls on the glasses in his left and then on the wine in his right hand, he takes a breath to stop and look at her mostly unobserved: there's street light behind her back, she is a silhouette now more than anything else, a immaculate homage to every femme fatale that ever was. Hints of skin lit and visible, a waist so slim underneath the tied knot of the belt of his bathrobe, her body seemingly so small and fragile, he is not sure he would believe her able of any significant movement at all if he had done felt it on himself.
All the scene's missing is a strong red glow of a cigarette, but he's almost sure not even he's ready to be that much of a cliche.
She's sitting on the windowsill, legs crossed, a bare foot left dangling in the air, and it's only when he focuses on setting the glasses and the bottle on his nightstand and opens the drawer to search for a wine opener does she say
"I hate him," with a voice so small his throat clenches and he can't breathe.
He stops moving.
"Did he - ?"
"Still such a pedestrian, Humphrey. No, he doesn't hit me. Really, it's as if a man needs to hit a woman to make her hate him. I think he might even love me."
Dan's fingers move and feel the wine opener.
"Maybe not all of us, I mean, maybe I wasn't supposed to actually, you know, marry my soulmates. Maybe not all souls can handle that."
He gently places the wine opener on the bottle. He's careful not to say it. He opens the bottle.
"Did you? Marry yours?"
He pours wine into the first glass. A drop misses the glass. Tires screech outside. A woman curses.
"I don't know."
He brings her a glass, and she takes it, and moves to her right, making room for him to sit down next to her.
He brings the glass near his lips, but she still hasn't moved hers. He's about to ask something, and he lowers his glass, just as she raises hers and empties all of it in seconds. (Blair Waldorf's always been thirsty. Mostly, her problem was just that she didn't know what she was thirsty for.)
"I couldn't think of anything I'd like to toast to," she says as an explanation.
He kisses her shoulder because it's safer than saying it.
He guesses he did it too gently, too nicely, or some other thing Blair's occasionally not known how to handle, because she leans over to set their glasses on the floor and then she unties the bathrobe and straddles him. She bites his ear, hard, and pushes her hips into his. She takes both his hands and places them on the upper window frame and he holds steady, he's not sure he entirely trust her not to make him fall. But he lets her go on anyway, nods in response when she stops to look at him, and then she touches him again, takes his cock into her hand and pushes it inside herself and holds herself up by putting one arm around his neck for balance. Her fingers dig into the skin of his neck, and she is going to leave bruises, he's sure.
"No, not enough - " she says then, and takes his hands off the window and points to the floor.
"Down," she says.
He lies down without saying anything.
She's so beautiful and determined when she sits down on his face, he feels himself harden. She's soft, and a bit sharp, and a step away from breaking him. Body, soul, whatever. This is Blair.
He tries holding her hips up, for better balance, but she pushes his hands away and he lets them fall to his sides.
So he flattens his tongue, and he makes circular motions. He stabs her and penetrates her. He breathes, he kisses, he makes pauses, he builds a rhythm, he worships.
She doesn't look at him when she comes. It's alright, maybe - he's not really sure she wants her to see him anyway, not like this, not when his all his wounds are bleeding again and he doesn't know how to bandage hers.
"My life sucks," he says when she's rolled off of him and onto the floor, the bathrobe spread around her, her nipples in line with his eyes.
There's not much poetry to this. He'd like there to be poetry.
She laughs then, her whole body shaking, her palm on her forehead, scooping hair away from it.
"You're an Upper East Sider, Dan. Of course it does."
She gets up, unceremonious, and it worries him he can't see any noticeable change on her now that she's up and walking again, especially when he's not sure if his legs would allow him to get up now, even if he wanted to. Isn't there supposed to be something, he's wondering. Something of significance, something painting on her body a trace of this night, of him. Something at least a bit permanent. She doesn't provide any explanation before walking out of the room, but when she comes back, she's carrying something in her hands.
"Jenny said I couldn't go to Paris without these," Blair says and holds up a pack of Gauloises cigarettes and a lighter.
Dan laughs, heartily. He can't remember the last time he's laughed like this.
"What?" Blair asks, but he waves his hand and says, "Nothing."
"Everything's perfectly alright."
Blair puts two cigarettes between her lips and lights one, and then the other. He thinks she's seen two many movies, and this is an old move, but he won't tell her that. She hands one cigarette to him and inhales hers.
They sit on the floor, backs against his bed, eyes set on the awakening Parisian streets, Blair's hand on his thigh.
The floor is still warm.