Blair Force One [PG-15] for missedshapes
Title:
Blair Force One
Author/Artist: bond_girl
Pairing: Blair/Tripp, some Blair/Nate
Rating: PG-15
Word Count: 2500
Recipient: missedshapes
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies
Warning(s): Guns
Summary: The one where Blair is a Secret Service agent and a handcuff enthusiast, and Tripp Van der Bilt keeps running - away from her and for president.
Author/Artist Note(s): Many thanks to my dear beta P to whom Nate owes his cameo, handcuffs and all, and also to D who encouraged this lunacy at crazy o'clock in the morning.
Serena recruits Blair over a cappuccino in Butter.
"Think of all the royalty you'll meet, B," she crosses and uncrosses her mile-long legs in an inches-short sequined skirt and a distracted waiter spills coffee in someone's lap. "Private jets, trips to Europe and Martha's Vineyard, best seats at the opera, and men of power wearing bespoke. Beats spending Friday night with a truffle assortment while your phone is getting drunk-dialed by Chuck."
Blair agrees over an éclair and in three months, she knows a hundred ways how to kill a man. With her well-manicured pinky.
The girls-only boot camp for Secret Service agents is in the socially relevant part of Connecticut. Ten miles east from the van der Bilt compound but Blair hasn't seen Nate ever since he became Vanessa's trophy boyfriend, moved to Hollywood to support her quote-unquote film-making career, and joined a clean energy patchouli party.
Blair graduates on top of her class, first in marksmanship and deception, and Serena flies from London to celebrate it with a case of Dom Perignon and a Cartier headband that can double as a switchblade. They get a taxiful of shoes and dance on the city rooftops barefoot. Serena always gets great assignments, like being a bridesmaid at Will and Kate's royal wedding or a sheikh's fourth wife with a thousand and one gold bracelets. Blair can't wait to body-guard her first prince or at least a starter French prime minister.
Of course, she has the worst of luck.
Her first job is in foggy, dirty Washington, D.C. and this town makes her skin crawl - calling yourself a state when you don't even have a senator. The driver seems to have his mouth wired permanently shut by a non-ironic moustache, the Secret Service style, but he carries her Vuitton suitcase and a matching rifle bag. When Blair gets out of the government limo, she is perfectly ladylike, both ankles together, and silver star buckles on her red and blue Mary-Janes. She is surrounded by a wall of men in black so tall, she can't see the national historic landmarks.
Her job is to protect the new presidential candidate who has been receiving death threats. Blair is being debriefed about it on the run through a maze of beige carpeted corridors by a woman who wasn't informed about the dangers of shoulderpads.
The guy at the window is a reminder why politicians are in fashion this season. He looks like a GQ spread, his sleeves rolled up over handsome arms and the loosened knot of his tie is carelessly elegant. A chunky Swiss watch, no ring. When he lifts his head from a stack of printouts with scribbles and exclamation points in red all over them, he has clear blue eyes and all the preppy charm of Blair's first mistake.
It's not Nate but it's almost as bad. Tripp has been a curse word for Blair ever since Serena worked him through her Marilyn complex.
"Step away from the window," Blair tells him in her best headmistress voice. "If I were on the other side of the street right now, you would be short of an ear." Tripp makes one of those adorably confused Nate faces and Blair thinks, this is going to be hard.
It turns out to be a no-good, bad, dangerous assignment.
Tripp acts suicidal every other day and thrives in anti-sanitary conditions. He keeps hugging stray puppies and children with cleft palates, he insists on jogging in public parks too early for everyone's beauty sleep and he always arranges his meetings in loud journalist diners where edgy bloggers, escaping up from their mothers' basements, come for a breath of smoky air. Blair hasn't as much as seen anyone with a measly crown but too many common people who think Tripp is the Jesus of healthcare reform and energy solution. And not that anyone has even been trying to assassinate Tripp, as he's walking knee-deep in people's love and on water. Only ninety more days till the election, and Blair's trial-run job will be over, one way or another. She'd be promoted to guard the heirs apparent with delightful, European names.
So she rolls her eyes and bears with Tripp's lifestyle, watching how his earnest, concerned face launches a thousand more voters to booths with every shining smile. Rallies in the rain, town hall debates in cabbage-smelling halls, trying to see past the blinding camera flashes and past some freaky facial hair styles, all in a day's job.
Until one day Blair breaks down and cries over the calorie count of a chain restaurant meal. When she looks up, Tripp's face looks genuinely guilty or maybe her mascara is bleeding into her eyes. Tripp pays the bill, offers her an arm and takes her to the best table in town, in a limo. They are both under-dressed but the flattering candlelight and salmon with a warm pink center make life bearable again.
From that night, Blair is in charge of dinner venues. Some nights, they just stay in and get room service - feet tucked underneath herself, she reads Dorothy Parker or texts Serena in Hong Kong while professionally eyeing the door, and Tripp catches up on sports and regales her with exaggerated numbers of his voter conquests.
Blair doesn't count days to the end of the assignment anymore.
~
Nate comes back East with a surfer tanline and an agenda. An environmentalist one, and like a good van der Bilt, in family connections he trusts above the assorted deities. His first stop in DC is the axis of new hope and old money power - Tripp's headquarters.
When Tripp's secretary leaves the Secret Service head bitch in charge and the candidate's cousin alone together, Nate's curiosity towards Blair's new calling is ten kinds of inappropriate. He keeps looking around as if a hidden camera crew is going to jump out at him from behind a box of Vote van der Bilt! badges.
"Come on," he laughs, all manbangs and dimples. "You can't be packing heat under this Chanel jacket."
Blair's sharp eyebrow curve tells him not to test this theory but Nate has never been all that good with telling between even Blair's basic faces like 'come hither' or 'pay attention'. Like a child, Archibald needs to touch things with his hands to believe them. Unlike Tripp who believes in the intangible.
So Nate takes a step towards her, with open arms, and Blair takes great pleasure in throwing him smack down on the hardwood floor. She sits on top of him and handcuffs him like a pro, her red-soled Louboutin heels digging deep into the sides of his thighs. She doesn't expect him to start laughing, "If I knew you were this kinky, we would have still been dating."
"You're lucky these are fur-lined," huffs Blair and doesn't move until his begging starts to sound duly impressed. It makes her feel really good, maybe she should be doing it more often.
When she relents, she helps him up and Nate steals a kiss on the top of her head as he readjusts her cherry satin bow headband, slightly askew after their skirmish. It's not patronizing but knee-buckling sweet and it would be something Tripp would do, and so Blair doesn't break any of Nate's pretty bruised limbs, for old times' sake.
~
It is all very nice and dandy until Tripp runs away from Blair and all the president's men during the masquerade ball.
Blair should have known because Serena is working the event on the arm of the Grammy-winning, motor-mouthed, tabloid-selling hip-hop star. They're both dressed as Swarowski-studded pirates. As soon as Serena flips her mermaid hair and the brief silence falls over the ballroom as its curtain sways in slow motion, like a shower of golden galleons over her bare back, Tripp is poof and gone. Blair brushes Serena's stray hair off her Jimmy Choos and has to poof after her charge, away from the caviar and a gangly red-headed Scandinavian prince, third in line to the throne.
The Secret Service looks for the runaway Tripp all around the town until Blair pauses at a stoplight and asks the fiercely bald driver to take her back to the hotel. The suite windows look dark but Blair has x-ray vision when it comes to sexual or romantic tension. There is a supernova of re-opened wounds behind those curtains and it's Blair's duty to protect the nation's new hope from melting down like a heartbreak gallon of Häagen-Dazs.
When she opens the door into the dark room, the light cuts it in half like in an old master's painting. Tripp is sprawled in a tufted velvet armchair, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers and an old hits radio station crooning in the background.
"For the first time since forever," says Tripp from the dark. "I don't love her anymore. I thought it called for a celebration. I'm glad you could make it."
All Blair can see are Tripp's parts, his nervous hands, his coin-ready profile when he leans into the light. When she puts them together as puzzle pieces, they don't make a familiar face. Tripp is no longer Nate's cousin who always had dirt under his nails after digging in the Grandfather's backyard for Indian artifacts. He's no longer her trial assignment, an all-American politician on the Vote Tripp posters. Good thing Blair has stopped believing in Prince Charming because this here is an amazing likeness.
Sinatra starts singing 'Fools Rush In', and this has to be why Blair lets Tripp take off her headband and slowly twirl her around the room. By the third song, they somehow start kissing and his mouth is hot and hungry against hers, nothing like Blair expects.
His fingers skim and stroke along her thigh, under the lacy hem of her dress. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, his palm slides up, warm and wide, and Blair's knees start buckling and-- with the worse timing ever, Tripp finds where she keeps her gun. Its Gucci calf leather holster is strapped to her garter, Bond girl style.
The steel is cold and unyielding, making them both freeze, and she wants to die. Yet he smiles against her mouth and carries on, ignoring this chastity belt. So she bites her lip and finds out that Tripp, who once has got lost behind the scene of a theater, doesn't need a map and a walkthrough to make her moan.
"Waldorf," interrupts a lazy, familiar voice behind her. But it's the click of a gun that makes her snap her head.
"Thank you for making this easy," Carter drawls out. "I've always thought you'd rather be Jackie but here you are, tucking into Serena's leftovers. How considerate of the Secret Service to give you two some privacy. Step away, I only need to kill the President Charming. Nothing personal, Congressman, I have debts and you have generous enemies." He's either drunk or strung out, monologuing like an amateur, and his hand is trembling as he's trying to aim at Tripp's head.
Tripp, with a not unpredictable van der Bilt-Archibaldean streak of a testosterone-misguided initiative, tries to turn them around, to put his body between the shaking gun and Blair. It helps her to pull her own gun out.
It's hard to point a loaded weapon at someone you know, from playgrounds and proms. But Carter's white-knuckled finger starts tensing on a trigger and Blair shoots at him. Both hands, clear eyes and cool head, textbook. When he falls, it looks like he's spilled red wine over himself. Carter, always trouble. 'It'd never come out,' Blair thinks and then she sinks to her knees and starts crying.
Tripp sits next to her and rocks her gently, cradles her head, whispering into her mussed-up hair, until the cavalry arrives.
~
Carter doesn't die in the end but he might as well have.
In a room without windows, a power-suited woman reads to Blair a chapter on damage control, word for word from the manual. Even if she hasn't lost a client in the line of duty, Blair is taken off the job and shipped off to Siberia - or in her case, to a Starck-designed, exclusive resort on a tiny Carribean island. Effective immediately, until further notice.
Under the palm trees, her days trickle down like molasses and her watch's hands get glued together by boredom. Among her fellow luxury inmates, there is a post-rehab movie star, half a dozen post-plastic surgery Barbies and Kens, a drug kingpin, and a prince of a tiny Mediterrenean country that is a popular geographical quiz question. Blair accepts all manner of virgin cocktails from his Majesty but even the dainty umbrellas can't stir up enough of her interest in his bushy eyebrows. She has the oddest craving for a burger and cold cigarette smoke, the bergamot Bond No. 9 cologne and fresh printer ink - or what Tripp smells like.
Sometimes, she only wakes up at noon to breathy love confessions from an old black and white movie channel that she's left on all night. Sometimes, she flips through Vogue without looking at the pages and sometimes, she walks straight into the ocean, until the water is up to her chin. Often, she wants to turn on her cell and call S to the rescue but she is afraid to find no voicemail from someone else, so she doesn't touch it.
Until one morning, a basket of pink roses arrives, with a card saying ''And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like I love you" in a familiar, run-on hand.
Blair packs light, hacks into the hotel security system with a pearl hairpin, and flies home incognito under her oversized dark sunglasses. She's going rogue.
By the time she lands at JFK, it's the election day. Brushing raindrops off her prim trench, she opens the door to Tripp's party's New York headquarters just when fifty TV channels and almost as many US states are all declaring the van der Bilt victory. Tripp turns around, dark circles under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers but his raised fist that of a challenge champion.
For some reason, he starts making his way across the packed, cheering room, through a swirl of hugs and microphones, towards Blair who is trying her very best not to start running towards him. She's wearing heels, after all, and she's already once tried to turn her life into an old Hollywood movie. A few feet left between them, she loses this battle and throws herself into their hug that doesn't quite let go.
Not until their engagement announcement on the very top of the wedding section of the New York Times, and well into their honeymoon that gets cut short by a Defcon alert malfunction but this is another story.
By the time Blair is done being the First Lady, no one remembers Jackie O.
gossipwriter is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.
Author/Artist: bond_girl
Pairing: Blair/Tripp, some Blair/Nate
Rating: PG-15
Word Count: 2500
Recipient: missedshapes
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies
Warning(s): Guns
Summary: The one where Blair is a Secret Service agent and a handcuff enthusiast, and Tripp Van der Bilt keeps running - away from her and for president.
Author/Artist Note(s): Many thanks to my dear beta P to whom Nate owes his cameo, handcuffs and all, and also to D who encouraged this lunacy at crazy o'clock in the morning.
Serena recruits Blair over a cappuccino in Butter.
"Think of all the royalty you'll meet, B," she crosses and uncrosses her mile-long legs in an inches-short sequined skirt and a distracted waiter spills coffee in someone's lap. "Private jets, trips to Europe and Martha's Vineyard, best seats at the opera, and men of power wearing bespoke. Beats spending Friday night with a truffle assortment while your phone is getting drunk-dialed by Chuck."
Blair agrees over an éclair and in three months, she knows a hundred ways how to kill a man. With her well-manicured pinky.
The girls-only boot camp for Secret Service agents is in the socially relevant part of Connecticut. Ten miles east from the van der Bilt compound but Blair hasn't seen Nate ever since he became Vanessa's trophy boyfriend, moved to Hollywood to support her quote-unquote film-making career, and joined a clean energy patchouli party.
Blair graduates on top of her class, first in marksmanship and deception, and Serena flies from London to celebrate it with a case of Dom Perignon and a Cartier headband that can double as a switchblade. They get a taxiful of shoes and dance on the city rooftops barefoot. Serena always gets great assignments, like being a bridesmaid at Will and Kate's royal wedding or a sheikh's fourth wife with a thousand and one gold bracelets. Blair can't wait to body-guard her first prince or at least a starter French prime minister.
Of course, she has the worst of luck.
Her first job is in foggy, dirty Washington, D.C. and this town makes her skin crawl - calling yourself a state when you don't even have a senator. The driver seems to have his mouth wired permanently shut by a non-ironic moustache, the Secret Service style, but he carries her Vuitton suitcase and a matching rifle bag. When Blair gets out of the government limo, she is perfectly ladylike, both ankles together, and silver star buckles on her red and blue Mary-Janes. She is surrounded by a wall of men in black so tall, she can't see the national historic landmarks.
Her job is to protect the new presidential candidate who has been receiving death threats. Blair is being debriefed about it on the run through a maze of beige carpeted corridors by a woman who wasn't informed about the dangers of shoulderpads.
The guy at the window is a reminder why politicians are in fashion this season. He looks like a GQ spread, his sleeves rolled up over handsome arms and the loosened knot of his tie is carelessly elegant. A chunky Swiss watch, no ring. When he lifts his head from a stack of printouts with scribbles and exclamation points in red all over them, he has clear blue eyes and all the preppy charm of Blair's first mistake.
It's not Nate but it's almost as bad. Tripp has been a curse word for Blair ever since Serena worked him through her Marilyn complex.
"Step away from the window," Blair tells him in her best headmistress voice. "If I were on the other side of the street right now, you would be short of an ear." Tripp makes one of those adorably confused Nate faces and Blair thinks, this is going to be hard.
It turns out to be a no-good, bad, dangerous assignment.
Tripp acts suicidal every other day and thrives in anti-sanitary conditions. He keeps hugging stray puppies and children with cleft palates, he insists on jogging in public parks too early for everyone's beauty sleep and he always arranges his meetings in loud journalist diners where edgy bloggers, escaping up from their mothers' basements, come for a breath of smoky air. Blair hasn't as much as seen anyone with a measly crown but too many common people who think Tripp is the Jesus of healthcare reform and energy solution. And not that anyone has even been trying to assassinate Tripp, as he's walking knee-deep in people's love and on water. Only ninety more days till the election, and Blair's trial-run job will be over, one way or another. She'd be promoted to guard the heirs apparent with delightful, European names.
So she rolls her eyes and bears with Tripp's lifestyle, watching how his earnest, concerned face launches a thousand more voters to booths with every shining smile. Rallies in the rain, town hall debates in cabbage-smelling halls, trying to see past the blinding camera flashes and past some freaky facial hair styles, all in a day's job.
Until one day Blair breaks down and cries over the calorie count of a chain restaurant meal. When she looks up, Tripp's face looks genuinely guilty or maybe her mascara is bleeding into her eyes. Tripp pays the bill, offers her an arm and takes her to the best table in town, in a limo. They are both under-dressed but the flattering candlelight and salmon with a warm pink center make life bearable again.
From that night, Blair is in charge of dinner venues. Some nights, they just stay in and get room service - feet tucked underneath herself, she reads Dorothy Parker or texts Serena in Hong Kong while professionally eyeing the door, and Tripp catches up on sports and regales her with exaggerated numbers of his voter conquests.
Blair doesn't count days to the end of the assignment anymore.
~
Nate comes back East with a surfer tanline and an agenda. An environmentalist one, and like a good van der Bilt, in family connections he trusts above the assorted deities. His first stop in DC is the axis of new hope and old money power - Tripp's headquarters.
When Tripp's secretary leaves the Secret Service head bitch in charge and the candidate's cousin alone together, Nate's curiosity towards Blair's new calling is ten kinds of inappropriate. He keeps looking around as if a hidden camera crew is going to jump out at him from behind a box of Vote van der Bilt! badges.
"Come on," he laughs, all manbangs and dimples. "You can't be packing heat under this Chanel jacket."
Blair's sharp eyebrow curve tells him not to test this theory but Nate has never been all that good with telling between even Blair's basic faces like 'come hither' or 'pay attention'. Like a child, Archibald needs to touch things with his hands to believe them. Unlike Tripp who believes in the intangible.
So Nate takes a step towards her, with open arms, and Blair takes great pleasure in throwing him smack down on the hardwood floor. She sits on top of him and handcuffs him like a pro, her red-soled Louboutin heels digging deep into the sides of his thighs. She doesn't expect him to start laughing, "If I knew you were this kinky, we would have still been dating."
"You're lucky these are fur-lined," huffs Blair and doesn't move until his begging starts to sound duly impressed. It makes her feel really good, maybe she should be doing it more often.
When she relents, she helps him up and Nate steals a kiss on the top of her head as he readjusts her cherry satin bow headband, slightly askew after their skirmish. It's not patronizing but knee-buckling sweet and it would be something Tripp would do, and so Blair doesn't break any of Nate's pretty bruised limbs, for old times' sake.
~
It is all very nice and dandy until Tripp runs away from Blair and all the president's men during the masquerade ball.
Blair should have known because Serena is working the event on the arm of the Grammy-winning, motor-mouthed, tabloid-selling hip-hop star. They're both dressed as Swarowski-studded pirates. As soon as Serena flips her mermaid hair and the brief silence falls over the ballroom as its curtain sways in slow motion, like a shower of golden galleons over her bare back, Tripp is poof and gone. Blair brushes Serena's stray hair off her Jimmy Choos and has to poof after her charge, away from the caviar and a gangly red-headed Scandinavian prince, third in line to the throne.
The Secret Service looks for the runaway Tripp all around the town until Blair pauses at a stoplight and asks the fiercely bald driver to take her back to the hotel. The suite windows look dark but Blair has x-ray vision when it comes to sexual or romantic tension. There is a supernova of re-opened wounds behind those curtains and it's Blair's duty to protect the nation's new hope from melting down like a heartbreak gallon of Häagen-Dazs.
When she opens the door into the dark room, the light cuts it in half like in an old master's painting. Tripp is sprawled in a tufted velvet armchair, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers and an old hits radio station crooning in the background.
"For the first time since forever," says Tripp from the dark. "I don't love her anymore. I thought it called for a celebration. I'm glad you could make it."
All Blair can see are Tripp's parts, his nervous hands, his coin-ready profile when he leans into the light. When she puts them together as puzzle pieces, they don't make a familiar face. Tripp is no longer Nate's cousin who always had dirt under his nails after digging in the Grandfather's backyard for Indian artifacts. He's no longer her trial assignment, an all-American politician on the Vote Tripp posters. Good thing Blair has stopped believing in Prince Charming because this here is an amazing likeness.
Sinatra starts singing 'Fools Rush In', and this has to be why Blair lets Tripp take off her headband and slowly twirl her around the room. By the third song, they somehow start kissing and his mouth is hot and hungry against hers, nothing like Blair expects.
His fingers skim and stroke along her thigh, under the lacy hem of her dress. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, his palm slides up, warm and wide, and Blair's knees start buckling and-- with the worse timing ever, Tripp finds where she keeps her gun. Its Gucci calf leather holster is strapped to her garter, Bond girl style.
The steel is cold and unyielding, making them both freeze, and she wants to die. Yet he smiles against her mouth and carries on, ignoring this chastity belt. So she bites her lip and finds out that Tripp, who once has got lost behind the scene of a theater, doesn't need a map and a walkthrough to make her moan.
"Waldorf," interrupts a lazy, familiar voice behind her. But it's the click of a gun that makes her snap her head.
"Thank you for making this easy," Carter drawls out. "I've always thought you'd rather be Jackie but here you are, tucking into Serena's leftovers. How considerate of the Secret Service to give you two some privacy. Step away, I only need to kill the President Charming. Nothing personal, Congressman, I have debts and you have generous enemies." He's either drunk or strung out, monologuing like an amateur, and his hand is trembling as he's trying to aim at Tripp's head.
Tripp, with a not unpredictable van der Bilt-Archibaldean streak of a testosterone-misguided initiative, tries to turn them around, to put his body between the shaking gun and Blair. It helps her to pull her own gun out.
It's hard to point a loaded weapon at someone you know, from playgrounds and proms. But Carter's white-knuckled finger starts tensing on a trigger and Blair shoots at him. Both hands, clear eyes and cool head, textbook. When he falls, it looks like he's spilled red wine over himself. Carter, always trouble. 'It'd never come out,' Blair thinks and then she sinks to her knees and starts crying.
Tripp sits next to her and rocks her gently, cradles her head, whispering into her mussed-up hair, until the cavalry arrives.
~
Carter doesn't die in the end but he might as well have.
In a room without windows, a power-suited woman reads to Blair a chapter on damage control, word for word from the manual. Even if she hasn't lost a client in the line of duty, Blair is taken off the job and shipped off to Siberia - or in her case, to a Starck-designed, exclusive resort on a tiny Carribean island. Effective immediately, until further notice.
Under the palm trees, her days trickle down like molasses and her watch's hands get glued together by boredom. Among her fellow luxury inmates, there is a post-rehab movie star, half a dozen post-plastic surgery Barbies and Kens, a drug kingpin, and a prince of a tiny Mediterrenean country that is a popular geographical quiz question. Blair accepts all manner of virgin cocktails from his Majesty but even the dainty umbrellas can't stir up enough of her interest in his bushy eyebrows. She has the oddest craving for a burger and cold cigarette smoke, the bergamot Bond No. 9 cologne and fresh printer ink - or what Tripp smells like.
Sometimes, she only wakes up at noon to breathy love confessions from an old black and white movie channel that she's left on all night. Sometimes, she flips through Vogue without looking at the pages and sometimes, she walks straight into the ocean, until the water is up to her chin. Often, she wants to turn on her cell and call S to the rescue but she is afraid to find no voicemail from someone else, so she doesn't touch it.
Until one morning, a basket of pink roses arrives, with a card saying ''And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like I love you" in a familiar, run-on hand.
Blair packs light, hacks into the hotel security system with a pearl hairpin, and flies home incognito under her oversized dark sunglasses. She's going rogue.
By the time she lands at JFK, it's the election day. Brushing raindrops off her prim trench, she opens the door to Tripp's party's New York headquarters just when fifty TV channels and almost as many US states are all declaring the van der Bilt victory. Tripp turns around, dark circles under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers but his raised fist that of a challenge champion.
For some reason, he starts making his way across the packed, cheering room, through a swirl of hugs and microphones, towards Blair who is trying her very best not to start running towards him. She's wearing heels, after all, and she's already once tried to turn her life into an old Hollywood movie. A few feet left between them, she loses this battle and throws herself into their hug that doesn't quite let go.
Not until their engagement announcement on the very top of the wedding section of the New York Times, and well into their honeymoon that gets cut short by a Defcon alert malfunction but this is another story.
By the time Blair is done being the First Lady, no one remembers Jackie O.
gossipwriter is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.