Based on bluseyy's headcanons at bluseyy . tumblr . com . post/125047589133/blusey-first-kiss-if-blue-wasnt-cursed .
She once dreams of kissing him.
She can't recall if they were on the hood of the Pig underneath the stars or on his unmade bed back in Monmouth Manufacturing or sitting beneath the beech tree in 300 Fox Way, just out of view of the porch windows, or all three at once. It's all just a dream, so she guesses it doesn't really matter.
All she remembers is his sweaty palms dancing a path on her spine and her fingers grazing his lower lip and the spirit of his pulse jumping at her touch. He looks at her with a sort of fire in his eyes, something thrilling and terrible and everything in between. Although she definitely likes scholarly Gansey the best, Blue thinks that this other Gansey, this wild and insensible Gansey, comes in a close second.
Even in sleep, a small voice reminds her harshly that this, this is NOT allowed, but she can't help it; her body moves out of its own accord, ignoring all reason and curling into his warmth. She is Blue Sargent; she is less of her, and then she is more, much, much more, more than she's ever been. She feels reckless and powerful and just as insensible, and it is positively the best feeling she's had lately in a season of very unpleasant happenings.
This isn't allowed.
She wonders if she should care.
And yet, his hands are so, so careful, holding her firmly despite their trembling. Dream Gansey knows this isn't allowed either.
Can a dream kiss kill a dream Gansey?
It'll be okay. He says as if he's read her thoughts, but his voice cracks at the last syllable.
It takes only a moment of hesitation before Blue decides to hell with the curse.
It's messy.
Perhaps, messy is too weak a word.
They're too nervous; she feels the jitters all the way down to her stomach, echoing on his skin and his breath. They bump foreheads and mash noses. She uses too much tongue, and he, too much teeth. It's wet and awkward and rushed, although not entirely unpleasant.
After a while, his hands finally leave their place on her spine to cup the back of her neck, trying to bring them closer than they already are. Her own seek his hair with a certain urgency, fingers tugging at the strands behind his ears and curling around his nape.
At once, she pulls too hard, making him break away with a swear on his tongue. A bit of guilt creeps in and she opens her mouth to apologize, but the words don't come as realization swiftly hits her. They stare at each other, eyes wide and cheeks flushed—he's still alive, the curse can't reach us here—and then they're giggling.
She realizes that they haven't laughed like this in a long time. She notices that dream Gansey laughs just like the real Gansey, that is to say, he snorts very un-Aglionby snorts in between chortles and his eyes crinkle until they almost disappear and he's a dork, an absolutely adorable dork, she thinks. The thought makes her giggle even more.
Try again? His eyes seem to say as they catch their breaths. Up close, she feels the warmth and scent of him, of mint and sweat and the Henrietta sun. His hair stands in every which way thanks to her efforts and his lips are tipped upwards in invitation. A hand comes up to tuck her hair behind her ear; the attempt is fruitless, but he does it again anyway.
This time she doesn't think, just leans in at an angle and closes her eyes.
His lips are softer than a boy's lips should be, she wonders, and then abandons that concept completely as they move over hers deeply, slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Her fingers resume their place in his hair, this time running through them in gentle apology. His mouth curls and presses deeper into hers in response.
It is all she wants, really, to be able to kiss his mouth like this without having to worry about accidentally killing him, but she never imagined how painful it would be. The softness of everything is enough to make her chest burst, a strange heaviness amplified when she remembers that this is only just a dream.
It'll be okay. He whispers into her mouth. Again, an answer to her unspoken thoughts, although this time, it sounds more urgent, more real...
And then it ends.
Without ceremony. Without fanfare. A dream.
So why is her heart in her throat?
She opens her eyes to the white of her ceiling, although in the shadows, they seem a bit blue in hue. She blinks once, then twice, and then three times for good measure, her body still ringing with adrenaline while her mind tries to grasp her surroundings.
It takes a few moments for her pulse to slow, but she can't forget the memory of his lips; the softness of them burns vivid in her mind, making her shiver. Throwing her covers off, she gets out of bed and pads silently into the phone/sewing/cat room.
Her fingers fly over the numbers in tactile memory. Real Gansey picks up on the first ring.
"How do you feel about late night orange juice runs?" Already, the Pig is roaring to life in the background.
In spite of herself, she laughs. This isn't allowed.
"Actually, I prefer cranberry myself." A pause, and then, "Come get me."