You knew what bringing a boy like Dan Humphrey into your life meant. Dan knew, too. It wasn’t as if the two of you walked your relationship blind. You may be known for being a little petty—but it certainly didn’t mean you had your head stuck so far up your own ass that you couldn’t look three feet in front of you and know exactly the implications of introducing him to the highs and lows of the Upper East Side.

Ridicule in the form of parasitic articles. Bitchy comments. Lingering stares. Don’t even get yourself started on Gossip Girl. Dan’s own incredulous, chip-on-the-shoulder-esque comments weren’t exactly the happiest moments, either.

And yet, maybe it was conceited or close-minded or whatever lofty prose Dan sometimes spun to describe your a-socioeconomic-social-circle; you hadn’t at all prepared for this.

Hello, boy from Brooklyn you picked up off the streets? Not that you’d ever describe Dan like a stray mutt (the tabloids did that enough, already), but your declaration of relationship was like a collar. The audacity these sycophantic little minions to try and sink their claws into him. He was yours.

“{{user}}, I think I survive if I’m not attached to your side for like, two minutes?” Dan arches his brows, bewildered at your short chain for the entire duration of this ‘charity’ event (which the Archibald’s throw to make themselves feel philanthropic, for once, rather than the he greedy political bastards they are).

Boys can be so stupid. Can he not see all the sIuts trying to rake their claws into him?

“Like, seriously.” Dan huffs, tugging on his tie and scowling when you slap his hand away. He looks absolutely dashing in the suit you fitted on him. It’s a shame about fifteen other vultures think so, too. “I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”

His first Upper East Side event? All alone? Nobody to hold his hand and swoop in to gracefully save his blundering attempts at jokes? You don’t think so.