I have a load of OUAT prompts to work with, and yet my brain produces Dair. So here, some fluff for all the wonderful Dairlings around here!

Blair likes Dan's loft.

It's warm, cosy, and safe like nowhere else in the world can be.

She likes how good it makes her feel, to know that she likes it here. To feel that snobby, seventeen-year-old bitch wrinkle her nose in disgust, as the mature adult now in control crosses the threshold, and breathes a sigh of relief.

She likes that it looks messy and bohemian, even when it's actually pristine and ordered.

She likes that everything here smells of Dan, that she can pull on one of his sweaters to keep her warm, and the scent will linger on her skin.

She hasn't left the loft in days; neither has he.

They spend their time watching their old favourites on the television. He walks her through every movie they ever watched together, and tells her what she said before, repeats every moment that made him laugh, every little exchange that made him fall in love with her.

She wears nothing but her French lingerie and his sweaters and shirts, and one evening – when it is unseasonably chilly and he leaves a window open – a pair of his old joggers.

They eat waffles and drink all the wine in the cupboards. They dance to old records, pretend to be royalty one night, hippies the next.

Here she is not Blair Waldorf, the society heiress, Gossip Girl's Queen B and high bitch in charge of the Upper East Side. She is not Chuck Bass's ex, or the recently dethroned Princess of Monaco, or Serena's overshadowed best friend. She's not Blair Waldorf, who has emerged from the last five years bruised and reeling.

Here she is just Blair, Dan Humphrey's best friend and lover and everything in between.

She never wants to leave.

She knows that, when she ventures outside, the spell will be broken. Out there await demons with sharp teeth and sleek, dark limousines, and princesses with long blonde hair who become witches when the lights go out.

Out there is a life of insecurities, of a million moments she wishes she could change.

Here she is beautiful, and loved, and happy.

Dan's loft becomes more home in three days of midnight movies and sleepy morning sex than anywhere else in a whole lifetime spent on the Upper East Side.

Here she can close the blinds, and take off Dan's shirt and sweatpants slowly, run her hands over every inch of his exposed skin, and forget that anything exists beyond these walls.

She even switches off her phone; Dan does the same.

They have a landline, and an Internet connection used solely for Netflix.

And for the first time in forever, Blair feels completely free.