I will wash away all your pain with all my tears [R] for novagirl
Title: I will wash away all your pain with all my tears.
Author: slimybunny
Rating: R
Pairing: Blair/Captain Archibald
Word Count: 1079
Recipient: novagirl
Disclaimer: Gossip Girl is the property of Cecily von Ziegesar, Josh Schwartz, Stephanie Savage, and the CW.
Warnings: Age disparity. Underage sexual content.
Summary: You go to her christening.
You go to her christening.
You’ve heard her talking about graceful exits out of ripping wombs and diaper commercials that conveniently never make it on air but you know better. You were there and she was like all other babies-wrinkled, pink, shitting all over the place; ugly.
You had one two weeks prior and have been waiting for the sentimentalities of fatherhood ever since. Nate. Nate ‘aint that great. Anne had tapped you lightly on the arm in that mock-playful way that teenagers do when they’re just looking for an excuse to touch each other-that was back when you touched each other-and frowned at the baby to commiserate his latest grammatical error. You can take the boy out of town but you can’t take the townie out of the boy she’d laughed-that was when she still laughed-until you joined in too-that was when you knew how.
Eleanor hands It to you and you thrust It at Anne. The Vanderbilt silk is finer than anything you’ve ever worn; no baby’s going to get near that. Anne frowns, places it back into your hands, and you think again, that’s one ugly baby.
Nate grows up.
He wants to cry, eat, shit, laugh, crawl, bite, walk, hop, jump, skip, and dangle me from the monkey bars Daddy, dangle me!
But you can’t because you’re busy.
Anne rests her hand on your shoulder, engagement ring sinking you as you punch another number or make one more phone-call. The ring's not yours. You bought her a small one, earned with money from the mill and hours of ‘aints and fucks and cheap beer. She loved it-she loves it-but now she wears his above your wedding band. She smiles at the compromise-you’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are-and you don’t bother telling her that he bought that too.
But one day, when Nate’s about eight, Anne’s out at a luncheon and you’ve just closed a deal so you take your son to dangle him from some fucking monkey bars.
Turns out he doesn’t dangle from monkey bars anymore, he climbs them just fine. Instead, he’s holding on to the leg of one Charles Bass while two little girls hoist the other. All three shout encouragement at the little boy who looks green as he cautiously lets go of one bar for the other; together they make it all the way across the jungle gym. Once they’re all the way through and the soles of Baby Chanel are touching solid ground once again, Nate points over at you with a toothy grin to a girl in a pink dress. She bounds over to you; she’s Nate’s girlfriend.
She curtseys and you laugh. Later you take Nate out for ice cream and you sit by the docks discussing the love life of an eight year old.
It’s a good day.
You talk about that one day for the next six years.
She grows.
It’s not like one day you look at her and suddenly she’s all long legs and red lips and ohgodIneedyounow. At thirteen she sits before you, nails bitten until blood emerges and it’s so disgusting but when Eleanor slaps her hand you find it endearing instead. At fourteen her arm brushes against yours at the table and she turns red, eyes cast downwards, a soft “sorry” bunched at her lips.
At fifteen she’s beautiful.
Her legs brush against your pant leg and you freeze-but she just giggles, barely acknowledging you, her eyes dancing back to her friends mid apology. Anger seizes you painfully by the stomach and stabs you quick, one-two, until you are breathless.
Somewhere, someone asks you to pass the salt. Everyone’s eyes are on you when metal clangs against the ceramic of your plate.
She laughs.
The thing is, you’ve always known marrying Anne was a bad idea.
In spite of the rumors you were never looking to become a trophy husband. When you fought for Anne, you fought for the girl who chewed all her pen caps and twirled her hair around her index finger until it turned purple and looked at you with stars in her eyes and glitter in her heart when you replaced the caps and gently untwined that finger. You fought for a girl you loved, and six-foot-two-football-star-turned-biker maybe you fought little for yourself, but never for her money.
Then slowly, slowly, the Vanderbilt blood that you both knew was there the whole time creeps through her body, running through her heart, and she stops spinning hair around her fingers and chewing her pen caps. Slowly, slowly, the Vanderbilt blood comes for you too until you stop fighting, stop thinking you can fight, stop remembering what it is you’re fighting for.
But you’re still a man; really, really, you are.
You take her into your library.
Is the signed copy of The Great Gastby here?
The books are Anne’s and they reek of Vanderbilt money-you’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are-they stink.
Yes.
A finger slips into her before she even turns around.
Mr. Archibald.
You don’t breathe out her name; that would be wrong.
Slowly she turns around and your heart squeezes in your chest, you’re done for-you’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are-she’s going to scream.
But she says nothing, finger still in her pussy.
It’s only when you come, do you realize it was a dream.
“You should marry her,” you tell Nate once, twice, thrice, before you lose count.
“You should marry her,” he spits back one day.
The Vanderbilt ring weighs on him too.
It’s on a Tuesday.
You got married on a Tuesday, but that’s beside the point.
She’s on top of Nate, legs open, straddling, inexperienced hands everywhere. You always knew she had it in her-is it wrong to be proud? Then she lets out a moan and you pinch yourself one-two-three times-count them-to make sure it’s not a dream. It’s not, but it is.
You-face stern, eyes hard, cock in place-enter.
Nate scrambles out from under her, face red but adorned with a crooked grin, and begins pulling on his shirt. Sorry, he says, sorry. He grabs her hand and begins pulling her out of there.
Blair.
There’s a second-barely there-of doubt before Nate lets go and exits the room.
For a second-barely there, maybe longer-you let yourself touch her.
You’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are.
gossipwriter is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.
Author: slimybunny
Rating: R
Pairing: Blair/Captain Archibald
Word Count: 1079
Recipient: novagirl
Disclaimer: Gossip Girl is the property of Cecily von Ziegesar, Josh Schwartz, Stephanie Savage, and the CW.
Warnings: Age disparity. Underage sexual content.
Summary: You go to her christening.
You go to her christening.
You’ve heard her talking about graceful exits out of ripping wombs and diaper commercials that conveniently never make it on air but you know better. You were there and she was like all other babies-wrinkled, pink, shitting all over the place; ugly.
You had one two weeks prior and have been waiting for the sentimentalities of fatherhood ever since. Nate. Nate ‘aint that great. Anne had tapped you lightly on the arm in that mock-playful way that teenagers do when they’re just looking for an excuse to touch each other-that was back when you touched each other-and frowned at the baby to commiserate his latest grammatical error. You can take the boy out of town but you can’t take the townie out of the boy she’d laughed-that was when she still laughed-until you joined in too-that was when you knew how.
Eleanor hands It to you and you thrust It at Anne. The Vanderbilt silk is finer than anything you’ve ever worn; no baby’s going to get near that. Anne frowns, places it back into your hands, and you think again, that’s one ugly baby.
Nate grows up.
He wants to cry, eat, shit, laugh, crawl, bite, walk, hop, jump, skip, and dangle me from the monkey bars Daddy, dangle me!
But you can’t because you’re busy.
Anne rests her hand on your shoulder, engagement ring sinking you as you punch another number or make one more phone-call. The ring's not yours. You bought her a small one, earned with money from the mill and hours of ‘aints and fucks and cheap beer. She loved it-she loves it-but now she wears his above your wedding band. She smiles at the compromise-you’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are-and you don’t bother telling her that he bought that too.
But one day, when Nate’s about eight, Anne’s out at a luncheon and you’ve just closed a deal so you take your son to dangle him from some fucking monkey bars.
Turns out he doesn’t dangle from monkey bars anymore, he climbs them just fine. Instead, he’s holding on to the leg of one Charles Bass while two little girls hoist the other. All three shout encouragement at the little boy who looks green as he cautiously lets go of one bar for the other; together they make it all the way across the jungle gym. Once they’re all the way through and the soles of Baby Chanel are touching solid ground once again, Nate points over at you with a toothy grin to a girl in a pink dress. She bounds over to you; she’s Nate’s girlfriend.
She curtseys and you laugh. Later you take Nate out for ice cream and you sit by the docks discussing the love life of an eight year old.
It’s a good day.
You talk about that one day for the next six years.
She grows.
It’s not like one day you look at her and suddenly she’s all long legs and red lips and ohgodIneedyounow. At thirteen she sits before you, nails bitten until blood emerges and it’s so disgusting but when Eleanor slaps her hand you find it endearing instead. At fourteen her arm brushes against yours at the table and she turns red, eyes cast downwards, a soft “sorry” bunched at her lips.
At fifteen she’s beautiful.
Her legs brush against your pant leg and you freeze-but she just giggles, barely acknowledging you, her eyes dancing back to her friends mid apology. Anger seizes you painfully by the stomach and stabs you quick, one-two, until you are breathless.
Somewhere, someone asks you to pass the salt. Everyone’s eyes are on you when metal clangs against the ceramic of your plate.
She laughs.
The thing is, you’ve always known marrying Anne was a bad idea.
In spite of the rumors you were never looking to become a trophy husband. When you fought for Anne, you fought for the girl who chewed all her pen caps and twirled her hair around her index finger until it turned purple and looked at you with stars in her eyes and glitter in her heart when you replaced the caps and gently untwined that finger. You fought for a girl you loved, and six-foot-two-football-star-turned-biker maybe you fought little for yourself, but never for her money.
Then slowly, slowly, the Vanderbilt blood that you both knew was there the whole time creeps through her body, running through her heart, and she stops spinning hair around her fingers and chewing her pen caps. Slowly, slowly, the Vanderbilt blood comes for you too until you stop fighting, stop thinking you can fight, stop remembering what it is you’re fighting for.
But you’re still a man; really, really, you are.
You take her into your library.
Is the signed copy of The Great Gastby here?
The books are Anne’s and they reek of Vanderbilt money-you’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are-they stink.
Yes.
A finger slips into her before she even turns around.
Mr. Archibald.
You don’t breathe out her name; that would be wrong.
Slowly she turns around and your heart squeezes in your chest, you’re done for-you’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are-she’s going to scream.
But she says nothing, finger still in her pussy.
It’s only when you come, do you realize it was a dream.
“You should marry her,” you tell Nate once, twice, thrice, before you lose count.
“You should marry her,” he spits back one day.
The Vanderbilt ring weighs on him too.
It’s on a Tuesday.
You got married on a Tuesday, but that’s beside the point.
She’s on top of Nate, legs open, straddling, inexperienced hands everywhere. You always knew she had it in her-is it wrong to be proud? Then she lets out a moan and you pinch yourself one-two-three times-count them-to make sure it’s not a dream. It’s not, but it is.
You-face stern, eyes hard, cock in place-enter.
Nate scrambles out from under her, face red but adorned with a crooked grin, and begins pulling on his shirt. Sorry, he says, sorry. He grabs her hand and begins pulling her out of there.
Blair.
There’s a second-barely there-of doubt before Nate lets go and exits the room.
For a second-barely there, maybe longer-you let yourself touch her.
You’re going to make something of yourself, you know you are.
gossipwriter is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.