Fic: Heaven Doth the Devil Yearn (1/4)
Jun. 7th, 2009 01:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imp3ratrixTitle: Heaven Doth the Devil Yearn
Category: Gossip Girl
Pairing/Character(s): William/Blair, Nate/Blair
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Gossip Girl and all immediate characters, themes and ideas are registered trademarks and belong to Cecily von Ziegesar, Josh Schwartz and Stephanie Savage. No profit is being accumulated from this writing piece.
Word Count: 4,668
Spoilers: Yes (Up to and including Valley Girls)
Summary: She’s spent entirely too much time loathing herself and hating the world, pinning her dreams on silly little boys so lost themselves… and on the empty promises they make in the hope she’ll stay. He does not offer dreams, but realities.
Notes: Really, if you’re going to do Eyes Wide Shut, at least do it right! Anyway, this is the first part of three(?), because this fic is long. Epically long.
She’s twelve when he firsts meets her in the midst of a Thanksgiving celebration; dolled up in cream lace, pearls – a gift from her doting father – and oh so pretty. She holds her head high, all haughty and pursed lips as she clutches Nathaniel’s hand possessively. The boy knows – has learnt – his place, and by her side he remains, ever the dutiful and chivalrous companion and he wouldn’t have expected anything less.
She’s intelligent and awfully witty for her age, and he instantly approves; she would make Nathaniel a great wife one day. But wife is a title that does not become her, he quickly learns, and he likes her even more because of it. Beneath veneers of chaste innocence and exquisite grace, she burns and burns some more, and he can’t miss the fierce determination and iron resolve that consumes her mortal being. And the insecurity that plagues her fragile soul; her mother’s judging gaze and harsh words are never too far away. He tucks that piece of information away for future use, for weaknesses are meant to be exploited.
They talk and she answers all of his questions confidently, laying out her future plans of Yale – he nods approvingly – and a life with ‘Nate’. He commits to memory each and every one of her dreams, as childish and fairytale-esque the majority of them happen to be. After all, knowing what her heart desires will ensure the Devil’s future offers are far too tempting to ignore.
So he decides he likes this girl – for his grandson, of course – and finds himself looking forward to her many future visits to the Vanderbilt estate, and her eventual addition to the family. It has nothing to do with an increasing desire to see her again, he tells himself simply.
It is on this day of thanks that William Vanderbilt meets one Blair Cornelia Waldorf; a father’s princess, a mother’s scorn, a boy’s ‘love’, and a Queen all of her own.
* * *
She’s sixteen and she’s blossomed into a truly beautiful creature.
It’s been a while since he’s seen her last, but there they both are; at a charity gala with the same quintessential Upper East Side crowd in the guise of sheep’s clothing, all in the name of ‘good will’, for one night only. He’s largely disinterested in the crowd, only half-listening as a Rothschild drones on and on to their small out-of-the-way group about falling share prices, an unsteady global market and nothing else he hasn’t heard before. So he stands there, sipping on his glass of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti and nodding when appropriate as his eyes continually seek out a certain brunette.
He finds her easily, and with Nathaniel close in tow just as he’d expected. He didn’t think it was possible, but she walks and talks with an even greater air of superiority then the last time they happened to be in the same room together. He notes quickly that a certain wild and attention-seeking blonde is curiously missing from her usual cluster, and he smiles knowingly as the pieces fall together. She’s in her element; the Queen’s throne hers – like he always knew it was – and her title all but secure for the foreseeable future. It’s one less thing to worry about.
He appreciates the striking black halter she’s chosen, modest and elegant, and it suits her perfectly. But then his eyes move to the white expanse of her bare back, and suddenly his mind is plagued with thoughts so impure that even a priest would refuse him absolution. He closes his eyes as the picture book of images continues its relentless assault, and his rationality says he ought be doing something to still their intensity – his moral conscience should be telling him how so very wrong they are – but it’s as if a dam has broken and there’s little he or anyone can do to cease the resulting torrent.
When he reopens his eyes, he finds that she’s met his gaze with her own and for a moment he ceases to breathe. But then she smiles politely in acknowledgement and his eyes move to those luscious red lips and he is undone. Nothing else exists... no one else exists, just the two of them in a world of their own twisted making. And there, he finds such clarity that he almost thinks he’s reached Nirvana – but God’s favourite son fell from Heaven, forever exiled and doomed never to return. He blinks at the thought, at the calm suddenly encompassing him, but he isn’t deluded; there’s always calm before a storm.
He returns her smile, lifting his glass as if in toast; she is, after all, a Queen.
The girl breaks eye contact first, turning to his grandson and beginning an enthusiastic commentary; so he gathers from the evident glint in her eye. He turns to Nathaniel then, and notes that despite the polite veneer of charming boyfriend, all smiles and occasional nods, his eyes retain a certain emptiness and aloof indifference. He swallows a mouthful of the expensive white wine in his glass, but his palate finds it incredibly unappealing all of a sudden.
He decides he needs to have a talk with Anne to ensure that Nathaniel’s priorities are in order. The boy is his grandson, but his father’s an Archibald; failure, and the propensity to destroy anything of value are thus in his nature.
* * *
Nathaniel surprises him with a visit to the Vanderbilt estate for their annual family reunion, and it’s truly a joy to see the boy again after so long. After all, for a family as old as theirs, so steeped in tradition, little else matters beyond each other.
He’s looking forward to seeing Blair, naturally, but is surprised when he fails to see her by his grandson’s side. Instead he is introduced to a couple of nobodies from what he comes to learn is Brooklyn, both of them Nathaniel’s friends and the young lady his current girlfriend. His expression hardens at the news, and he’s suddenly calculating just how low his grandson has fallen. Still, he tells himself he shouldn’t be surprised, and that he shouldn’t blame the boy; between that business with his sorry excuse for a father and the subsequent self-imposed alienation from the family, he was bound to lose track of what was truly important. But the lost sheep had returned to the flock, all on his own, and he would see to it Nathaniel found proper direction in his life once more.
He’s a courteous host, and so he takes Nathaniel and his friends on a tour of the manor, making sure to place particular emphasis on the Vanderbilt legacy; it shows Nathaniel’s friends, particularly the young lady, how different their worlds are, and too reminds his grandson of just who he is. He decides it’s time to see where the boy’s head is at, so all but ignoring the Brooklyn duo, he turns to his grandson and asks the first all important question.
“So tell me Nathaniel, what are your plans for next year?”
* * *
The family has gathered in the back garden for a classic game of touch-football, and it occurs to him that his grandson has become entirely too comfortable as of late; moving through life in an almost pot-induced haze. It’s not becoming and he’ll have none of it; Nathaniel needs to be jolted awake, so he tells Tripp to be extra attentive as they play. The young man smiles that knowing smile, so like his own, and nods his consent before running off to join the rest.
The tackle is hard and brutal, and it sends Nathaniel into the air before he lands painfully upon his back. He gets up, mildly surprised by his silence and stalks towards him inquiringly.
“What, there’s no penalty?!”
Indeed, the boy has become far too soft. He should know better, should know how the Vanderbilt’s play: hard and dirty. And then he remembers Blair’s absence on that day, and he’s furious at Nathaniel for being stupid enough to let her go… to replace her with a girl not even half as brilliant. And he’s suddenly longing to see her again but he’s been denied, denied, and it’s such a foreign concept and totally unacceptable. And it’s all because of this stupid pubescent boy, and he quickly decides Nathaniel never truly deserved her.
“You want me to call that?” he asks with a raised brown, testing him, challenging him. But all the boy does is huff and walk away, exasperated. His quick submission is a sign of weaknesses in itself, and he almost grunts his displeasure at the display.
As the game goes on, his thoughts wander onto the party taking place tomorrow night, and he decides he ought to double check and ensure that Blair Waldorf’s name is on the list of attendees.
He won’t be denied.
* * *
She’s eighteen and a picture of perfection.
He marvels at how she has grown… a girl no more but a woman of refined beauty and devious intent. Utter perfection.
She’s chosen a short, tight little number for the evening, and it highlights each of her curves perfectly... sinfully. His fixated eyes trace a path from her beautiful chocolate locks, to her red coloured lips, over her exquisitely sculptured rear, and linger upon her bare, creamy thighs as his mind pictures them wrapped perfectly about his waist. The pit of his stomach tightens unmercifully, and his glass of Dom Pérignon is empty before he even realises it.
It isn’t an ideal time, he needs to remain focused; Nathaniel’s standing right beside him with the Vanderbilt crest – a symbol of power, pedigree, and prominence beyond that of mere mortal reach – on proud display and the cameras are never too far away. He pauses for a photo with his grandson, all unassuming smiles and words of praise, but the echo of gasps and hushed banter catches his attention soon enough.
So he turns his head and watches with barely contained amusement as the siren’s biting tongue reins havoc upon New York and Connecticut’s elite. He’s never seen her burn so brightly before, and he can’t even begin to imagine the inferno taking place within the deepest recesses of her being.
Hell hath no fury indeed.
He’s intrigued as to what has warranted this uncharacteristic display, but her performance is spectacular nonetheless.
No inhibitions.
No mercy.
He thought he’d had her figured out, but the Upper East Side’s resident Queen has shown him she still has some surprises left up her sleeve; that there’s more to her than simply her name and title, and with that knowledge comes an underlying respect for the fiery siren.
She disappears, dragged away by one of her friends he doesn’t recall having approved an invite to, but the path of destruction left in her wake cannot be missed. Scandalous gossip and feigned cries of disbelief are heard throughout, but she has little to worry. Like some phoenix incarnate, she’ll burn till there’s nothing left, and then, from the ashes she’ll be reborn, more brilliant than ever before.
She is Blair Waldorf, after all.
* * *
He has taken a short leave from all the commotion and insufferable New Yorker’s, only to witness his grandson and Blair in deep conversation within one of the unused ballrooms. He watches them through a barrier of glass, and it looks entirely too raw and deep even from where he stands, new drink in hand. He’s surprised; he never thought Nathaniel could do ‘deep’. Surprised too, that the scene bothers him so much.
His jaw is tight and narrowed gaze hard as he takes it all in, particularly the genuine smile gracing her lips – he’s never seen her smile like that, and it stirs something deep within – as she turns back to look at the boy, handing him his forgotten blazer. He should be pleased; there’s progress being made and Nathaniel’s becoming every bit the Vanderbilt he expects him to be. But the idea of the two of them together doesn’t sing quite so loudly anymore.
He turns to leave before Nathaniel has a chance to step out and see him, his thoughts centred upon spilled chocolate locks, parted red lips and a string of creamy-white pearls. He’s almost certain a storm is brewing.
The champagne in his glass is long gone.
* * *
He is the Vanderbilt patriarch; all legacy, wealth and power. Avenues exist for men like him to fulfil their deepest desires, however carnal and debased they may be. Avenues long steeped in tradition and practice, catering to those select few greater than God himself. New money and modern mavericks find paradise in their ‘Gentlemen’s Club’, with its tawdry façade and hollow walls, and it keeps them well appeased simply because they lack the capacity to dream. To envision greater things still. They are not of ‘The Chosen’, and true Eden has and forever will deny them.
The chilling chorus of the backward Mass is a haunting piece to be heard, stirring the ominous shadows till one can all but feel the Devil’s eyes upon them... but he’s always found it strangely soothing. Eyes closed, he disappears in the wrongness of it all; vile and blasphemous yet so alluring. It’s been too long since he felt the need to attend such a ceremony, but the dreams and visions of that dark haired temptress – oh, the things she does to him – have awakened a beast, and it’s all he can do to keep his mind in one piece.
His eyes settle upon a suitable candidate, so close in stature to her that it’s almost surreal; all regal poise and fatal confidence. Whilst modesty evades everyone around him – they may as well have been taking part in some mass Roman orgy of old – he leads her into an empty foyer because all things considered, he is still a gentleman on some level.
He pushes into her hard from behind, over and over again with an untamed urgency and it still isn’t enough. His mind is a blur of countless images whirling about and despite the inability to hold onto just one, he knows they all involve her. Her, and nothing else. He is a mental mess, he knows, pining after a girl his grandson’s age… a girl his idiotic grandson has, clearly, always adored. But she is mortal perfection; a revered trait so hard to come by this day and age, and oh how she sings to him. So much so… and rationality be gone.
He can feel the finale of this sinful crescendo fast approaching, the relentless rhythm nearing its peak. His gaze drops to the large gold-framed mirror on the wall before him, and he sees her looking back at him; her gorgeous face where a decorated mask should be. Her eyes sparkle and her lips curl into that coy little smile that suits her so well, and it’s enough for a demon to be unleashed. He grunts as his pace increases, all the while staring into the siren’s enticing eyes. It’s merciless, domineering; his mind’s in a frenzy through it all and then… the world goes white.
His breathing is deep but measured as he comes down from a sweltering high, his hand tangled in a mass of brown hair and it all seems too real. But then he looks into the mirror, and it’s a masked face staring expressionlessly back at him.
The fates are not so kind, but the illusion will suffice.
* * *
Tripp and Maureen’s wedding rehearsal goes on without incident, and he can breathe a sigh of relief that he has at least one grandson competent enough to embrace a future befitting of a Vanderbilt. So his thoughts move onto Nathaniel and he wonders what he’s going to do to with him, for despite several current disappointments – and he curses the name Archibald with a vengeance – the boy is a Vanderbilt and the family’s reputation won’t tolerate further setbacks and disappointments. The news of Columbia plays on his mind, and he considers how best to deal with it.
His gaze falls on none other than Blair Waldorf, the supportive girlfriend, sitting unhappily on her own and watching everything tiredly; but of course royalty could never handle not being the centre of attention. If Nathaniel had never given up on her to begin with, he may have been pleased to see them back together again, despite having fallen so far down the proverbial pit of licentious fixation. But he is not one to waste time contemplating ‘what ifs’; he stands by his belief that the boy is not worthy of her.
And envy never looked good on him.
“Hello Blair,” he says simply, taking a seat close to her. “Good to see you.”
It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said, and being near her again, speaking to her again after so long, is an exhilarating affair. She smells of roses and Chanel, and the intoxicating scent does little for his already overworked senses. His eyes linger on her lips as she smiles politely before greeting him, and he contemplates how easy it would be to lean over and sink his teeth into her bottom lip. To wind his hand in her beautiful locks while the other makes its way up....
She’s suddenly gushing about the wedding, forcing him out of his reverie, but her tone is a little too forced and sweet – all of this must be killing her inside – but it hardly bothers him. Rather, it makes the pit of his stomach clench wantonly like only the sound of her voice can.
He wastes no time, distractions aside, and brings up Columbia. She dances around the question, and he would have considered her predictable, supportive response endearing a few years ago. When he brings up Yale as the appropriate choice, she momentarily goes quiet, and he can see the plethora of painful emotions consuming her being reflected in her eyes. Nathaniel had told him of her situation – it helped provide insight into her amusing self-destructive tirade from the week prior – and clearly the wound still ran deep.
But she’s awfully sceptical of her influence over the boy, and her reply is dismissive when she states the decision is ‘Nate’s’ alone to make. It’s not what he wants to hear, but he always gets what he wants. He knows her weaknesses well, and exploit them he will, so he plays a different card.
“Tell me, what are your plans for next year? I know you put off college,” he brings up, effectively disarming as well as reminding her of her current quandary. “Any word from the Junior Committee for the Whitney?”
It would be far too easy to offer Yale on a silver platter, but she’s not ready, nor is it time, to make that deal yet. For the time being, he needs her on edge and largely dissatisfied, so that when he does offer paradise, there will be little or nothing she wouldn’t do for it. So he dangles trivialities before her – when she deserves so much more – only to test her will. Curious indeed he is to see just how far she’d be willing to go for a mere spot on the society pages, as temporary as it would be. After all, Blair Waldorf, Queen among her peers, is no socialite.
“Actually, they didn’t accept me,” she says quietly as her face falls.
“Ah. I think that must be some kind of a mistake,” he offers, watching in veiled delight as her features morph from despair, to curiosity, to cautious surprise at the realisation of what he can give… of what he can give her still. “I’ll call Agnes Chiseller immediately and clear that right up.”
“...Really?”
“For a friend of my grandson there’s nothing I wouldn’t do,” he tells her sincerely, emphasising ‘friend’ and ‘nothing’ especially.
Her shock quickly turns to elation, and he’s pleased to see a spark in her eye once more. She’s spent entirely too much time loathing herself and hating the world, pinning her dreams on silly little boys so lost themselves… and on the empty promises they make in the hope she’ll stay. He does not offer dreams, but realities.
“Yale is an amazing school,” she says with a smile, and he can practically see the gears of her mind working in lieu of the opportunity that has presented itself. She knows the game, and plays it well. “And Nate would look dashing in bulldog blue.”
He’s barely up and out of his seat before she demands to be a bridesmaid; so certain and unwavering, and it is Blair Waldorf before him once again. She never disappoints. He playfully narrows his eyes at the fierce display, content beyond measure to have been the one to bring her out of her harrowing sleep, like some storybook knight of old. It’s a little cliché, and he’s reminded of boyish princes and the fairytales she romantically clung to in youth. But then he remembers that the light bearer too was a knight before the tragic fall, and he smiles nostalgically at the thought.
“I think… she might have room for one more.”
So he offers her his hand, the devious smile still in place as he waits for her to seal their contract and her fate along with it. It’s the beginning of something sinfully promising, so worth the wait, and he appreciates the fitting irony that it should all unfold within the house of God himself.
Her small, delicate hand finds itself atop of his without fail, the deed done, and rapture is quick to consume him. He helps her up like the gentleman he is, and her arm slips into the crook of his all on its own – the fit so perfect and right – as they walk side by side down the nave for the altar ahead.
Another angel has fallen.
* * *
The evening celebrations are underway, and it isn’t long after he asks Blair if there’s a problem with persuading Nathaniel to accept Yale, to which she assures him there isn’t, that the little bastard raises his glass in mock toast and attempts to make a fool out of him in front of his guests. Another disappointment, lined with impeccable timing and his patience is wearing thin. So he sees only red, the murmurs and whispers of shock testing his nerves, and for a moment he thinks the glass of champagne he’s holding will break under the sheer force of his death-like grip.
Someone’s head would roll for this.
His gaze falls on Blair, following after the stupid boy, and he’s so furious at that moment he can barely think straight. He quickly stalks after the brunette, stopping her mid-step as he grabs onto her arm and forces her around.
“Did you know about this?” he all but demands, his face mere inches from her own and so focused on her that he hardly registers the stares from those around.
She’s only momentarily startled by his brusque tone before going on the defensive. “What? No! Of course not.”
He isn’t interested in excuses, and hearing them only increases his ire. The hold he has on her arm tightens, and he pretends he doesn’t see the quick flicker of pain in her eyes.
“You have five minutes to fix it.”
She looks at him then. Really looks at him. And she mustn’t like what she sees because she meets his hard gaze with a look so full of reproach, so full of disbelief and antipathy, that he wouldn’t be surprised if the Devil himself were standing there in his stead, answering for his crimes.
“Did you really turn in the ‘Captain’?” she asks cautiously, judgingly, watching his face closely for a reaction.
But he doesn’t appreciate her sudden bout of self-righteousness, particularly when she doesn’t even understand the circumstances, and he’s incredibly disappointed in her – more so than his foolish grandson because he expected better from her – for such a lapse in reason. She’s in no position to pass judgement, and he makes sure to remind her of that. His grip tightens.
“Before you take a stand on principle remember what you have at stake. Or do you plan to spend next year sewing buttons at your mother’s atelier?”
She’s speechless, looking up at him with wide eyes, and is that a hint of fear he sees in them? She knows well enough what he’s capable of; he is not one to make idle threats. He could give her anything her heart desires, and just as quickly take it away. It’s a ruthless lesson, but one she needs to learn; the world isn’t fair, particularly to Queens in danger of losing their throne.
He notes that she’s mentally come to some sort of realisation, so he releases her arm and tells her to go. He hopes, for her sake, she’s come to the right one.
But the foolish are many that night.
He eyes the couple like a hawk as they converse, swallowing what’s left of his champagne in one go, and is met with the resulting outcomes; Nathaniel’s placated smile, and the tender kiss they share when all is said and done. Clearly, she’s chosen to side with the boy; a most unwise decision. Dejected isn’t a good look on her, but he is not one to easily forgive such disloyalty; she needs to learn what comes to those who cross him. Alas, the storm he foresaw had finally arrived.
“Nathaniel,” he calls out as soon as Blair walks off to collect her coat, leaving him rooted in place.
He ignores the boy’s rude and dismissive attitude – he’s truly forgotten his place – and tells him the truth regarding that pathetic father of his. Tells him how he begged Howard to stop, for Anne’s sake and his own, and of the way the fool ignored his warnings to continue with his underhanded dealings. Tells him how he had no choice but to turn him in, before matters got any worse. And, he tells him how he’d do it again. He finds having to explain himself incredibly unnecessary, but Nathaniel was never the brightest, and he won’t sit idly by and let the boy insult family whilst defending a selfish criminal. It’s unbecoming.
“Why couldn’t you have just told me this?” he asks with barely contained naivety.
“Is that what you want Nathaniel, the truth?”
“Yes! I’m just so tired of people lying to me, and going behind my back.”
“Okay. Let’s start again, nothing but the truth,” he begins with a placid tone, content with having reined the boy back to where he should be, and eyes Blair one last time. “Well in that case, there’s something you should know.”
Nathaniel notices his gaze, and turns to look at his girlfriend, or better yet, his soon-to-be-ex. When he has his attention again, he tells him everything, sparing no detail. He watches in almost sadistic satisfaction as his grandson’s eyes widen, so full of hurt, betrayal and anger, and it’s all so very predictable. When he’s divulged the last of it, his lips part as if to say something, but no words are uttered. Clearly, the poor boy’s still in shock.
Nathaniel finally mumbles something noncommittal after several quiet moments, before turning around and making his way to the exit. Out the door he disappears, and into a waiting blizzard of goodbye and heartache.
He couldn’t be more pleased.
* * *
He dreams that night.
Dreams of Blair Waldorf spread out across the Lord’s altar, her nails drawing bloody marks on his back as he fucks her mercilessly in an empty church. It’s amazingly raw and everything he’s wanted since he first laid eyes on her, and when he looks down into her dark eyes, burning with passion – passion for him – he is gone.
Damned forever more.
* * *
no subject
Date: 2009-06-06 04:54 pm (UTC)You know I've been waiting for this and it's AMAZING. You flawlessly incorporated Grampie's role in GG into this and I can't wait to see what you make of it. Update soon!
no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 01:27 am (UTC)I'm glad to hear I've done William's character justice; he's definitely interesting to write. I am close to finishing the entire thing, so the next part will be up fairly soon.
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Date: 2009-06-07 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 01:44 am (UTC)William/Blair is such an unorthodox pairing - but damn, they do work so well together - so I'm happy to see there are others out there that can enjoy them too. And more is coming soon!
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Date: 2009-06-07 04:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-08 01:33 am (UTC)I thought it would be fitting to set the stage with a good lead up. Not to give anything away, but there will be more William/Blair interactions, naturally, coming up next (should be up tomorrow).