Gossip Girl FIc: i woke up on a bench outside
i woke up on a bench outside
do this for your father. around ten years later, they’re still laughing the same laugh, sighing the same misfortunes, and drinking the same highs. gossip girl. future fic. ensemble. 1018 words, pg13. for saint_renegade.
“Do this for your father,” hangs Nate after seventeen, splitting his lip to a permanent tattoo against a bottle of Jack.
The power erupts into too thin of a layer to drown him, the circles swinging under the weight of his eyes. Visits have thinned him past coy.
He doesn’t say much; Mother does it better, gripping his pair of wives, a difference of years between them, as he coaxes the family legacy with slurs and sealing contracts with sensation! over ghosts. There’s no memory, but mother reads longevity and livelihood at the same pace and he finds wife three.
Tonight, there’s a gold tag and a sullen smile under cindy stretching across her breast. The uniform is too thin and the hotel nameless after the second and a half drink, the sway of his smile straight. He thinks about it, palming her hip with his hand and leaning over her. Her nose wrinkles, the cart keeping the door to his room open.
And his mouth creases over her breast of a potential third spot in is drive to sink the fortune; maybe he is seventeen still.
His tongue sighs over her skin. “Can I call you, Blair?”
-
It feeds on her after graduation, the sudden wave of people’s words unfolding as she passes and laughs.
Dan is long gone, Dad sitting with a long smile and the wrong wife; her refusal to reach that point induces the rest of her addictions, seamless and coy. That is the vow, like any other daughter, to never be her mother, to be her father, and split herself, falling in love this way. She dives to her highs instead, freshman year of college speaking in blowjobs and Jimmy Choos.
They’ll tell her. “Why do you do it?”
And Jenny will merely smile, guilt far from the curl of her mouth.
-
He buys an apartment in Brooklyn.
Dartmouth feeds the dropout in him for two years, his lack of interest swaying to the sheer isolation that follows him from the city. Never Hemingway or Ginsberg, he might try and keep to the parchment of lacking movement. He swears himself to starve, the artist seeking the epic fever that pens articles weekly in the times.
And so the novel scrapes a novel by hand, isn’t ready Instead, and it’s night school and i’m not you, dad to finish and then grab a Masters for the merit. He turns teaches High School English instead of mistakes, lacing each lesson with soft you might learn to placate his self-indulgence.
He keeps the pictures in boxes, never to be open, and will think of her, word over word in volumes of journals dying under the frame of his bed.
“Haven’t heard anything,” Jenny’ll say cheerfully.
He pretends he never knows what she means.
-
She has an idea before the rests of them, but loses it over pitches for pretentious idealism to take cash as the next great thing.
Set to prove them wrong, she thinks, always and in that motions; she still has the inclination to go backwards, backwards where that win tasted so easy, so there, and within her complete reach.
But remembering the could have been is the best Vanessa does, hunched over replays and plays, scripts, and edits. It’s never going to be enough.
Then again, she knew this too.
-
Fuck them all.
Of course, he’s nowhere near this crass - but it’s a funny story.
A father and a son break in the middle of it all, the grand idea falling to a lack of luster. He’s always been uneasy, Chuck, and hazy through the scheme of stories with when i was your age.
Instead, he leaves them all behind and from scratch, he’ll take everything back; you might ask him if he thinks of her too, the slow turn of her name shifting a blink and maybe, just two.
He swears off inevitability, the chance of moments opening a small line of principle and grounds to something more.
They’ll ask - “Did your father have a role?”
“No,” he grins. And he sings for a new Rome instead.
(Tonight’s girl might just let him change her name.)
-
Blair doesn’t look back.
The record states that she was more than just coy, a sullen smile splitting her mouth for her mother’s sake as whispers passed problem and indefinite around. She’s graceful with a shrug, a tilt of her head as she circles away from Nate and trap of indefinite circles. She favors no glances or pieces of regret and smiles an escape to the hall.
She does think about old friends and numbers in a series, who she can still talk to and satisfy a common trust. But the desire shifts and disappears, a sense of earnest freedom slipping into her favor. There have always been plans, is the point, and maybe, this moment defines her no different than the others.
For once, she carries no weight on her hand.
-
Repetition haunts her. For fun, so she says, she takes a train from Boston to home; her eyes tease close and still, still she remembers the way things would brush pass her, from the flow of people to the lazy spin of cities and towns.
Serena endures that slight romanticism, out of his habit, and calls to wonder over her boyfriend’s answering machine with a slight i'll be home tonight, certain with a lie. It is distance, back and forth and through the station, she arrives, walking straight with every intention of retracing steps.
She doesn’t see him again, but he sees her and there’s a shy hand between them as she shifts a soft disbelief to her mouth.
“Hey.”
He sighs a nervous smile. “Hi.”
She carries a long pause, her fingers stroking her hips through the pockets of her jackets. She ducks quietly and suspends any conscious carrier of rationality.
“We should get to do this right,” she half-blurts.
The words feel kind of funny, over heavy, and stark when she glances up at him. Dan says nothing back, but nods -
He takes her bag first.
_________________________________
do this for your father. around ten years later, they’re still laughing the same laugh, sighing the same misfortunes, and drinking the same highs. gossip girl. future fic. ensemble. 1018 words, pg13. for saint_renegade.
“Do this for your father,” hangs Nate after seventeen, splitting his lip to a permanent tattoo against a bottle of Jack.
The power erupts into too thin of a layer to drown him, the circles swinging under the weight of his eyes. Visits have thinned him past coy.
He doesn’t say much; Mother does it better, gripping his pair of wives, a difference of years between them, as he coaxes the family legacy with slurs and sealing contracts with sensation! over ghosts. There’s no memory, but mother reads longevity and livelihood at the same pace and he finds wife three.
Tonight, there’s a gold tag and a sullen smile under cindy stretching across her breast. The uniform is too thin and the hotel nameless after the second and a half drink, the sway of his smile straight. He thinks about it, palming her hip with his hand and leaning over her. Her nose wrinkles, the cart keeping the door to his room open.
And his mouth creases over her breast of a potential third spot in is drive to sink the fortune; maybe he is seventeen still.
His tongue sighs over her skin. “Can I call you, Blair?”
-
It feeds on her after graduation, the sudden wave of people’s words unfolding as she passes and laughs.
Dan is long gone, Dad sitting with a long smile and the wrong wife; her refusal to reach that point induces the rest of her addictions, seamless and coy. That is the vow, like any other daughter, to never be her mother, to be her father, and split herself, falling in love this way. She dives to her highs instead, freshman year of college speaking in blowjobs and Jimmy Choos.
They’ll tell her. “Why do you do it?”
And Jenny will merely smile, guilt far from the curl of her mouth.
-
He buys an apartment in Brooklyn.
Dartmouth feeds the dropout in him for two years, his lack of interest swaying to the sheer isolation that follows him from the city. Never Hemingway or Ginsberg, he might try and keep to the parchment of lacking movement. He swears himself to starve, the artist seeking the epic fever that pens articles weekly in the times.
And so the novel scrapes a novel by hand, isn’t ready Instead, and it’s night school and i’m not you, dad to finish and then grab a Masters for the merit. He turns teaches High School English instead of mistakes, lacing each lesson with soft you might learn to placate his self-indulgence.
He keeps the pictures in boxes, never to be open, and will think of her, word over word in volumes of journals dying under the frame of his bed.
“Haven’t heard anything,” Jenny’ll say cheerfully.
He pretends he never knows what she means.
-
She has an idea before the rests of them, but loses it over pitches for pretentious idealism to take cash as the next great thing.
Set to prove them wrong, she thinks, always and in that motions; she still has the inclination to go backwards, backwards where that win tasted so easy, so there, and within her complete reach.
But remembering the could have been is the best Vanessa does, hunched over replays and plays, scripts, and edits. It’s never going to be enough.
Then again, she knew this too.
-
Fuck them all.
Of course, he’s nowhere near this crass - but it’s a funny story.
A father and a son break in the middle of it all, the grand idea falling to a lack of luster. He’s always been uneasy, Chuck, and hazy through the scheme of stories with when i was your age.
Instead, he leaves them all behind and from scratch, he’ll take everything back; you might ask him if he thinks of her too, the slow turn of her name shifting a blink and maybe, just two.
He swears off inevitability, the chance of moments opening a small line of principle and grounds to something more.
They’ll ask - “Did your father have a role?”
“No,” he grins. And he sings for a new Rome instead.
(Tonight’s girl might just let him change her name.)
-
Blair doesn’t look back.
The record states that she was more than just coy, a sullen smile splitting her mouth for her mother’s sake as whispers passed problem and indefinite around. She’s graceful with a shrug, a tilt of her head as she circles away from Nate and trap of indefinite circles. She favors no glances or pieces of regret and smiles an escape to the hall.
She does think about old friends and numbers in a series, who she can still talk to and satisfy a common trust. But the desire shifts and disappears, a sense of earnest freedom slipping into her favor. There have always been plans, is the point, and maybe, this moment defines her no different than the others.
For once, she carries no weight on her hand.
-
Repetition haunts her. For fun, so she says, she takes a train from Boston to home; her eyes tease close and still, still she remembers the way things would brush pass her, from the flow of people to the lazy spin of cities and towns.
Serena endures that slight romanticism, out of his habit, and calls to wonder over her boyfriend’s answering machine with a slight i'll be home tonight, certain with a lie. It is distance, back and forth and through the station, she arrives, walking straight with every intention of retracing steps.
She doesn’t see him again, but he sees her and there’s a shy hand between them as she shifts a soft disbelief to her mouth.
“Hey.”
He sighs a nervous smile. “Hi.”
She carries a long pause, her fingers stroking her hips through the pockets of her jackets. She ducks quietly and suspends any conscious carrier of rationality.
“We should get to do this right,” she half-blurts.
The words feel kind of funny, over heavy, and stark when she glances up at him. Dan says nothing back, but nods -
He takes her bag first.
_________________________________