Entry tags:
Fic: Elevator Love Letter (Gossip Girl, Jack/Blair)
Title: Elevator Love Letter
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Pairing(s): Jack/Blair
Word Count: 1335
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She's well bred, cultured, and she has a good education. It's not that hard.
Notes: Written for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oxoniensis' Porn Battle VII. Spoilers up to episode 2:15 - Gone With The Will.
He corners her in the elevator, the doors sliding closed a second after he darts between them. Standing all the way over in her corner, so close she can smell his cologne and probably his shampoo, if she tried, even though they're alone and hardly wanting for space.
"Yes?" she asks, trying to put as much I'm not interested and as little one too many glasses of champagne on New Year's Eve into the word as possible. She's well bred, cultured, and she has a good education. It's not that hard.
He doesn't say anything, just kind of smirks, and this, she thinks, is where he differs from Chuck. Chuck, who's always talking, talking girls out of their underwear, their virginity, their common sense. He's good at talking.
Jack doesn't talk, and it drives her crazy. He just looks at her, sometimes, or he does this stupid thing where he's not quite smiling, and it's supposed to be charming and make her fall all over herself or something. And, okay, that one time, it worked. But Blair, she knows boys - and Jack, for all that he's twice her age, is really just a boy - and she isn't going to be won over that easily.
Besides, her heart is totally taken. At least, she thinks it is.
"Can I help you?" she prompts, when he's still just looking at her. Normally, she wouldn't mind if he wanted to be seen and not heard, except she'd rather not see him, either, and the whole staring thing is getting kind of creepy. Well, the whole thing is kind of creepy, really, starting with the age difference and ending with the idea that if she ever married Chuck -
(And no, for the record, it's not what she wants. With Nate, everything was fairy tales and movies and the perfect white dress that her mother would actually say she looked nice in, immaculately planned seating arrangements and cake she'd never throw up, afterwards. With Chuck, it's the backseat of his limo and rescuing him from hookers and opium dens, and oddly, she kind of prefers everything this way. But that, really, is neither here nor there, and is totally beside the point.)
- she'd have slept with her uncle, which might be fine for Dan and Serena, but god, if she ever starts emulating Dan Humphrey, she's going to shoot herself.
Or, well, overdose on vodka and a bottle of pills, because her mother would have a fit if she couldn't have an open casket.
Jack doesn't seem to have gotten the memo, though, because he steps forward, settles a hand above her hip like she invited him or something. Or maybe he doesn't care that he wasn't invited, because Chuck was always kind of sketchy on that kind of thing, and he had to have gotten it from somewhere, right? He leans in, and she really wishes she couldn't smell his cologne, because it smells good, reminds her of -
Well, she's not going there. Bad enough she has faux-uncle issues; she's not going to add daddy issues to the list.
"What are you doing?" she asks, and her voice isn't quite as cool and forceful as she'd imagined. Actually, it comes out kind of breathy, which is so not what she needs. She can't afford to send mixed signals, when Jack probably couldn't read a huge flashing neon sign that said stay away from me.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he asks. And if he wants to play coy, she really wants to tell him that it doesn't look like he's doing anything, because she standing so close she can't actually see him, but it feels like -
Well, it feels like he's feeling her up, which is exactly what he's doing. And not at all in a subtle way, either.
It is, however, highly effective.
She hits the emergency stop button on the wall beside them, which she figures is probably a good idea no matter what she's planning on doing. Considering the number of things she'd like to yell at him right now, it might take a while. But Jack, of course, takes it as encouragement, draws his hand up to graze the side of her breast, and if her breath hitches a little in her throat, it's not like she asked for any of this. It's an involuntary reaction. Kind of like a gag reflex.
If she could throw up on him right now, that might solve everything. But she hasn't actually eaten, and anyway, he'd probably just bill her for the dry cleaning.
"Stop," she says, and to his credit, he does. Sort of. One of his hands is still trailing lazily up and down her thigh, but he's making no move to take it further.
Now would probably be a good time to think of something to say. It's not like she can rely on him to speak first.
"This," she says, putting all the authority she can muster into her voice, "is not happening. Got it?"
"Got it," he says. He doesn't move his hands off her.
She reaches up, tugs a little at his lapel; draws him forward towards her, biting at his lower lip. "I mean it. None of this ever happened. And if you breathe a word of it to anyone - especially Chuck - I'll cut your balls off with a dinner knife and mail them back to you in Australia. Understand?"
She can feel him recoil a little, but he nods, and there's the smirk, again. "I understand perfectly."
"Good."
She kisses him in earnest, pushing his jacket back off his shoulders, her fingers curling unadvisedly in the expensive silk of his tie. He reaches down, bunches her skirt up over her hips; she'd complain, but Dorota should be able to manage the wrinkles. Breathing heavily in her ear, against her neck, he pulls aside the fabric of her underwear, slides his fingers across her clit and then up into her. She knows, already, he has no patience once he gets started, but she assumes most men are the same; it's not like she has much to compare him to.
(Nate, who was gentle, perfect, and stilted; Chuck, who hurt her and made up for it.)
But it's not like she complained before, and she's not complaining now, either. It may be crass, but it's effective, and she comes as silently as she can manage, thinks about algebra and Audrey Hepburn to maintain her composure.
As soon as she's done, as soon as her head stops spinning a little, she hits the button on the wall again, and the elevator roars to life. She pulls her skirt back down, smoothes her hair, and arches a carefully manicured eyebrow at Jack, who's staring at her, openmouthed.
"What are you doing?"
If he can play coy, so can she. It's a better look on her, anyway. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks like you're starting the elevator."
"Wow. It looks like your brother didn't get all the brains in the family."
He presses forward, hard against her thigh. "What about me?"
She waits a careful second, keeps her voice neutral, as if he could be talking about anything in the world. "What about you?"
His response is to reach for her again, and for a second, she allows it.
Then the elevator doors slide open.
"I'm sorry," she says, in her best professional voice. Always behave as if you have an audience. "I'm kind of busy right now. Maybe you could take care of that yourself?"
His expression, as he stares back at her, is totally worth it. Even if he tells Chuck.
But then again ...
She takes a step back towards him, almost whispers in his ear. "I have your room number. And if you promise to never, ever approach me like that in public again, I might even come by."
He doesn't need to say it for her to know she has his full attention.
Fandom: Gossip Girl
Pairing(s): Jack/Blair
Word Count: 1335
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She's well bred, cultured, and she has a good education. It's not that hard.
Notes: Written for
oxoniensis' Porn Battle VII. Spoilers up to episode 2:15 - Gone With The Will.He corners her in the elevator, the doors sliding closed a second after he darts between them. Standing all the way over in her corner, so close she can smell his cologne and probably his shampoo, if she tried, even though they're alone and hardly wanting for space.
"Yes?" she asks, trying to put as much I'm not interested and as little one too many glasses of champagne on New Year's Eve into the word as possible. She's well bred, cultured, and she has a good education. It's not that hard.
He doesn't say anything, just kind of smirks, and this, she thinks, is where he differs from Chuck. Chuck, who's always talking, talking girls out of their underwear, their virginity, their common sense. He's good at talking.
Jack doesn't talk, and it drives her crazy. He just looks at her, sometimes, or he does this stupid thing where he's not quite smiling, and it's supposed to be charming and make her fall all over herself or something. And, okay, that one time, it worked. But Blair, she knows boys - and Jack, for all that he's twice her age, is really just a boy - and she isn't going to be won over that easily.
Besides, her heart is totally taken. At least, she thinks it is.
"Can I help you?" she prompts, when he's still just looking at her. Normally, she wouldn't mind if he wanted to be seen and not heard, except she'd rather not see him, either, and the whole staring thing is getting kind of creepy. Well, the whole thing is kind of creepy, really, starting with the age difference and ending with the idea that if she ever married Chuck -
(And no, for the record, it's not what she wants. With Nate, everything was fairy tales and movies and the perfect white dress that her mother would actually say she looked nice in, immaculately planned seating arrangements and cake she'd never throw up, afterwards. With Chuck, it's the backseat of his limo and rescuing him from hookers and opium dens, and oddly, she kind of prefers everything this way. But that, really, is neither here nor there, and is totally beside the point.)
- she'd have slept with her uncle, which might be fine for Dan and Serena, but god, if she ever starts emulating Dan Humphrey, she's going to shoot herself.
Or, well, overdose on vodka and a bottle of pills, because her mother would have a fit if she couldn't have an open casket.
Jack doesn't seem to have gotten the memo, though, because he steps forward, settles a hand above her hip like she invited him or something. Or maybe he doesn't care that he wasn't invited, because Chuck was always kind of sketchy on that kind of thing, and he had to have gotten it from somewhere, right? He leans in, and she really wishes she couldn't smell his cologne, because it smells good, reminds her of -
Well, she's not going there. Bad enough she has faux-uncle issues; she's not going to add daddy issues to the list.
"What are you doing?" she asks, and her voice isn't quite as cool and forceful as she'd imagined. Actually, it comes out kind of breathy, which is so not what she needs. She can't afford to send mixed signals, when Jack probably couldn't read a huge flashing neon sign that said stay away from me.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he asks. And if he wants to play coy, she really wants to tell him that it doesn't look like he's doing anything, because she standing so close she can't actually see him, but it feels like -
Well, it feels like he's feeling her up, which is exactly what he's doing. And not at all in a subtle way, either.
It is, however, highly effective.
She hits the emergency stop button on the wall beside them, which she figures is probably a good idea no matter what she's planning on doing. Considering the number of things she'd like to yell at him right now, it might take a while. But Jack, of course, takes it as encouragement, draws his hand up to graze the side of her breast, and if her breath hitches a little in her throat, it's not like she asked for any of this. It's an involuntary reaction. Kind of like a gag reflex.
If she could throw up on him right now, that might solve everything. But she hasn't actually eaten, and anyway, he'd probably just bill her for the dry cleaning.
"Stop," she says, and to his credit, he does. Sort of. One of his hands is still trailing lazily up and down her thigh, but he's making no move to take it further.
Now would probably be a good time to think of something to say. It's not like she can rely on him to speak first.
"This," she says, putting all the authority she can muster into her voice, "is not happening. Got it?"
"Got it," he says. He doesn't move his hands off her.
She reaches up, tugs a little at his lapel; draws him forward towards her, biting at his lower lip. "I mean it. None of this ever happened. And if you breathe a word of it to anyone - especially Chuck - I'll cut your balls off with a dinner knife and mail them back to you in Australia. Understand?"
She can feel him recoil a little, but he nods, and there's the smirk, again. "I understand perfectly."
"Good."
She kisses him in earnest, pushing his jacket back off his shoulders, her fingers curling unadvisedly in the expensive silk of his tie. He reaches down, bunches her skirt up over her hips; she'd complain, but Dorota should be able to manage the wrinkles. Breathing heavily in her ear, against her neck, he pulls aside the fabric of her underwear, slides his fingers across her clit and then up into her. She knows, already, he has no patience once he gets started, but she assumes most men are the same; it's not like she has much to compare him to.
(Nate, who was gentle, perfect, and stilted; Chuck, who hurt her and made up for it.)
But it's not like she complained before, and she's not complaining now, either. It may be crass, but it's effective, and she comes as silently as she can manage, thinks about algebra and Audrey Hepburn to maintain her composure.
As soon as she's done, as soon as her head stops spinning a little, she hits the button on the wall again, and the elevator roars to life. She pulls her skirt back down, smoothes her hair, and arches a carefully manicured eyebrow at Jack, who's staring at her, openmouthed.
"What are you doing?"
If he can play coy, so can she. It's a better look on her, anyway. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks like you're starting the elevator."
"Wow. It looks like your brother didn't get all the brains in the family."
He presses forward, hard against her thigh. "What about me?"
She waits a careful second, keeps her voice neutral, as if he could be talking about anything in the world. "What about you?"
His response is to reach for her again, and for a second, she allows it.
Then the elevator doors slide open.
"I'm sorry," she says, in her best professional voice. Always behave as if you have an audience. "I'm kind of busy right now. Maybe you could take care of that yourself?"
His expression, as he stares back at her, is totally worth it. Even if he tells Chuck.
But then again ...
She takes a step back towards him, almost whispers in his ear. "I have your room number. And if you promise to never, ever approach me like that in public again, I might even come by."
He doesn't need to say it for her to know she has his full attention.