#one thing i like is how shes always basking in her fond childhood memories..in the garden when her parents were still here l | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stargazer-balladeer · 4 years ago

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December 11: Going to a Tree Lighting Event (Ace Attorney)

Characters Included: Phoenix Wright, Miles Edgeworth, Franziska von Karma, Apollo Justice, Athena Cykes, Sebastian Debeste, Simon Blackquill

Notes: Time to get back to writing :D. I also realized while doing this that most of this characters have sad backstory and then there’s Phoenix- 😃😃 Hope ya’ll like this!

Warning: none

December Fics | MAIN PAGE |

Phoenix Wright

Phoenix is literally a child in a man. He would basically drag you outside when it starts to snow. You can see literal stars in his eyes whenever snow falls around you two.

Even though he might be busy with his job as a Attorney, he would always make time for you. He might overwork himself a bit during these times, though whenever you mention this, he would only say that he will finish all of his work so that he could spend more time with you-

I believe its his idea if you two go to a tree lighting event. It’s basically a tradition for him to attend one of this in a nearby town, with his family. And now, he wants to experience it with you. Because he wants to share something precious to him with you.

“Look, Nick!” You excitedly said as the tree started to light up before you. Whether it’s your first time or not, it always feels you with glee whenever the tree started to light up. Phoenix laughs as the crowd started “ooh”-ing at the sight.

Instead of looking at the lights, Phoenix was staring at you. His face filled with adoration and love. He wraps his arm around your waist and pulled you close to him. He pressed his lips to the side of your head. “I love you so much.”

“You’re being too cheesy right now.” “Aren’t I always?” “.. touché.”

Miles Edgeworth

Miles isn’t one for childish things, so he’ll be indifferent to things like snow. However, that was when he was still with von Karma. Now that he’s free from his mentor, he can finally relax and enjoy the simple things in life.

Miles might be very busy since he’s the Chief Prosector, but he’ll do his best to make time for you. It’s just that his work usually takes up all of his time, so it’s basically up to you to drag him away from his workaholic state-

Miles isn’t into childish things, but he enjoys seeing the tree lighting event. Him and his father usually watch this when he was young, and it was a good memory that Miles keep in his heart. So it’s mostl likely that he’ll be the one inviting you to the event.

You two watch from the distance as the tree started to light up. You were standing at the far end since you knew that Miles isn’t too fond of being in a crowded place. You don’t really mind as you watch in awe as the lights light up.

Miles have a smile on his face as he breathes out, making a puff of cold smoke. The memory of his father clouded his mind as his gloved hand tighten on yours. You noticed as you lean on him, making him stiffined. “Your father is very proud of you, you know. He wouldn’t want you to be sad on such a jolly occasion.” You softly mumbled as you gaze at the tree.

Miles looks at you in the corner of his eyes before smiling again. “Perhaps. Shall we go and walk around then?” “Are you saying that because you’re already cold?” “Nonsense. Let’s go.” “You’re blushing~.” “You’re imagining it.”

Franziska von Karma

Similarly to Miles, Franziska isn’t one to be into childish things. But unlike her adopted brother, she doesn’t have any memory of anything special. All her life, she’s been mentored by Manfred von Karma, kept inside all of the times. She was raised to never indulge in her desire. So now that she is no longer in his watch and now with you, she’s honestly lost. Though she would keep up her ‘know-it-all’ attitude.

Franziska is constantly busy with her life of being a Prosecutor and being with the Interpol. So she might not have much time with you. Whenever she’s free, she usually spends it with either still working or relaxing with you. So it’s best if you schedule when you two will go out so that she’s aware of it and can clear out her schedule.

No doubt that you’ll be the one suggesting it. Though there’ll be a low percent chance that she might suggest it, about 5%- Either way, Franziska would join you. She’s actually excited to see one, but she wouldn’t outwardly show it- 👀

You stared at Franziska as her eyes go wide and sparkle at the sight of the tree lighting up. It warms your heart to see her lowering her guard and let the child inside her run free. It’s rare to see Franziska like this so you basically bask at the sight of her awe face. (Though you secretly want to kill Manfred- 😃🔪)

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” You said as you put your attention the humungous tree. Franziska blinks before coughing and looking away, with a tint of pink in her cheeks, clearly embarrassed to show such awe face- “it’s.. alright. Though I still think it’s foolish to waste time here instead of doing something else.” Franziska said. You sighed while smiling, same old Franzy-

“However, I would admit.. this is rather enjoyable.” She mumbled. You smiled widely as you intertwine your hands with hers. Even though she was looking away from you, you can tell she’s embarrassed with how red her ears are. “See~ I told you that this is enjoyable!” “Only a foolish fool would think like that.” “Then, that means that you’re a ‘foolish fool’ as well, Franzy!” “!! I- That isn’t what I mean-!”

Apollo Justice

Apollo tries to act mature but he really isn’t. He also doesn’t have any fond memories in his childhood years, but he did remembered that there was one time that Clay dragged him to a tree lighting event. He still remembers the awe as they watch the tree lighting up. Of course, when he grew up, he forget about his childish innocence. But it slowly resurfaces when he saw something related to the event.

Apollo is busy with paperwork, and heading the Khu’rain’s judicial system alongside Nahyuta. Even though his supposed uncle, half-brother and half-sister and the queen is helping him, it still result in him overworking. Nahyuta basically asks (force) you to drag his poor excuse of a brother to take a rest—

It doesn’t matter who invited who, Apollo is bound to forget about it. Can’t blame him really. This guy has a lot going in his plate so don’t fault him if he forgets about it—

You look at your watch as you frown sadly. “He’s late.” You mumbled sadly as you look up to look for your workaholic boyfriend. He promised he’ll be here to watch the event, but it doesn’t appear he’ll be appearing any time soon. And the event is about to start.

You sighed as you continued to wait, gazing at the tree while doing so. Your ears pick up some crunching noises and someone huffing, you turn around to see Apollo running towards you. You brightened up as you stood up properly instead of leaning on the wall and meet him halfway. He was huffing heavily while staring at you apologetically.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t think that the trial would take so long-! Or that the cab that I’m riding would break down—“ “calm down, Apollo. It’s alright. I get it.” You reassured him as he manages to catch his breath. He looks like he was about to apologize again but you cut him off. “Look! The tree lighting is starting! C’mon!” “Woah! You almost made me fall-!” “Call it a payback for making me wait for so long!” “I thought you said you get it?!” “I take it back.” “[Y/N]-!”

Athena Cykes

Obviously, Athena is excited for this event. She never had a chance to go to one of this event, since she was basically kept inside the facility with her mother. Her childhood is basically black-and-white (similar to a certain samurai 👀). So it isn’t much of a surprise to see her bouncing up and down when she heard of the event-

Athena isn’t that busy since she finishes her work very fast. So she has plenty of time to spend it all with you. Though sometimes, she would get caught up with her work. But rest assured that you wouldn’t wait for too long since Athena is a fast reader and writer 😃

No doubt that she’ll be the one suggesting it- though she wouldn’t ask you to go with her, she drags you over there- no matter what your response is, you are going with her whether you like it or not 😃

“Are you excited to see the lights?!” Athena said as she pulls you towards the center of the plaza. You giggled at her enthusiasm as you tried to match her fast pace. “Ooh! This is my first time seeing it in person! I usually see it in the TV and stuff-!”

Her excitedness seems to radiate much more, as its started to rub on you. You manage to match her pace and walk beside her. “Well, let’s make this a memorable one then!” You were surprised to see Athena’s already wide smile widened some more as she side hugs you. “Yes!!”

“Why don’t we buy some candy first to snack while watching it?” “Aren’t you hyper as it is-?” “Nah, I mean.. a little sugar wouldn’t hurt, right?” “And when you mean ‘little’, you mean one bag, right?” “.. maybe.”

Sebastian Debeste

Sebastian would surely be surprised to hear about such event, since ya know, with his father and childhood- when he either asks you about it or research about it, his eyes would sparkle as he continued to listen/read. He would basically ask you if you two could go and see one (protecc this bby TwT-)

Sebastian is busy studying and doing Prosecutor work, afterall, he is being mentored by Miles Edgeworth. Though, Miles would grant him a vacation so that he could enjoy the holidays. However, I think Sebastian would still continue studying words and stuff so that he wouldn’t be much of a burden. It would be wise to drag him away before he overwork himself-

Sebastian would (shyly) ask you if you two could attend this event because he really wants to see one in person. Unless you don’t have a heart, your heart would melt at the sight of him. Please bring this poor child to the tree lighting event already-

Sebastian stares at the tree in amazement and awe as the lights started to dance around. He pulled your sleeves slightly. “Woah! How does the light do that?!” “Professional. Magic.” You said in a sarcastic tone. Though Sebastian didn’t hear it as he’s busy watching the lights.

You smiled at the sight as you let your hand intertwined with his. His ahoge shot upwards as he looks at you. You smiled gently at him. He blushed as he quickly revert his eyes back to the lights. You chuckled at him.

“We should do this more often.” “.. yeah, we could go kahooting!” “... you mean snowboarding?” “Oh.. um, yes! That’s it!”

Simon Blackquill

Simon is the kind of guy that looks like he doesn’t care about the holidays but he secretly likes it- even though he despises it because Taka can’t fly freely since its too cold for her/him to fly. He still likes the scenery and the coldness of it. As for the tree lighting event, it is kind-of a tradition for him and his sister to go to one. But ever since the UR-1 incident, it vanished. So he might go there in memory of the times where he and his sister fought while waiting for the event to start.

Simon is constantly busy with work. He is usually in-charge of interrogating witnesses and stuff, and he has paperwork to sign. He’s a workaholic like Miles, but he also spend his time practicing his samurai skill. But other than that two, he would find time to spend it with you.

He would not obviously say it outwardly, but he would hint about going there. So you either pick that up or you genuinely want to go there even if Simon doesn’t want to- either way, he isn’t complaining. This time, he’ll be seeing the tree lighting up with you instead of his obnoxious older sister.

“Are you sure you want to watch the tree lighting with me?” You asked as you two walk towards the plaza. He huffs before looking at you in the corner of his eyes. “If I’m not sure, then why would I be here?” You sighed. “Well, it’s hard to see if you are obligated to be here because of me or you’re here on your own free will.”

He stayed silent, so you decided to let it go. You two continued to walk, when you felt his hand over your shoulder, slightly pulling you towards him. You look up at him but couldn’t see much. “Hey, what-?” “If you don’t hurry up, we’re gonna miss it.”

You blink before chuckling. “Is this your way of saying you’re here because you want to?” “Let your mind think what it wants to think.” “Then my mind is thinking of how adorable you are.” “Oh really now?” “Hmhm.” “You have a weird mind-“ “You are the definition of weird.” “Touché.”

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nightshade-minho · 4 years ago

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-Nightmare- (13)

Warnings: mentions of abuse and domestic violence. smut, again. emotional sex, outdoor sex, v. slight degradation, fingering, oral (m. receiving), possessiveness, unprotected sex, overstimulation, creampie, light pregnancy kink.

Wc: 5.5k

As soon as you finished crying, you sat up, sniffing as you grabbed the bottle of water on your bedside table, chugging the liquid down. Wiping your lips, you slipped off the bed. Maybe you overreacted earlier...

You told yourself you had every right to be angry at him. He was playing with your feelings, driving you crazy.

Sometimes, he looked at you in ways that made the tiniest bit of hope bloom deep within you. But every time you let yourself hope, he let you down cruelly, unknowingly. Hope was a dangerous thing. You had to accept it would never happen.

Were you being selfish? You frowned as the thought settled itself in your head. He needed a best friend, but you had to ruin it by confessing...you knew things could never be the same now, even if the two of you somehow managed to make up for the 100th time. There were unspoken emotions crackling between you, the tension so tight and painful. It was tiring, frustrating.

When you lied to him, telling him that you didn’t love him after all...you’d noticed the disappointment in his eyes. It had made you curious. What if...what if he did like you? The way he seemed almost jealous during your short-lived relationship with Juyeon...

No. You shook your head. You wouldn’t allow yourself to hope again. Minho was a good best friend. And that’s all he’ll ever be. You knew you had to apologize for your outburst.

Standing, you wiped your eyes, making sure your face was dry before opening your bedroom door, only to be greeted with an empty living room. Frowning, you walked over to his door, knocking.

No response.

***

Minho sat in his car, drumming his fingers on the wheel. Everything had to be perfect. This was his last chance to tell you how he felt. He couldn’t afford to fuck this up...if he didn’t get to confess this time, he might as well give up.

He turned his head as his phone pinged, eyes scanning the text message he’d just been sent. Perfect.

***

Two days had passed, and Minho still hadn’t returned to the apartment. You felt empty. You couldn’t really blame him for leaving...but how long would he be gone? Was he out of your life forever? What if when the doorbell rings, it’d be him, coming to gather his things and move out?

The thought made you want to cry again. Your eyes were red, tired. Over the past few days, you’d thrown yourself into your work, finishing a lot of assignments in a very short time. All you wanted to do was apologize to him, have him back.

Your phone rang, and you sat up to take it, hoping it was him. Your heart dropped when you saw it wasn’t. Sighing and shaking your head, you lifted it to your ear.

“Hi, mom...”

“Hello, dear. I hope you’re doing well? How’s Minho?”

You swallowed, fiddling with the hem of your blanket, your mouth open and ready to lie.

But...you just couldn’t. It came out before you could even think about it.

“I’m in love with him, Mom.”

“And?”

You frowned, sitting up a little further. “What?”

“Honey, we know. We’ve known since you were 12.”

“B-but-”

“None of that matters. How are you guys?”

“Mom...”

You gulped, starting to spill. You told her everything that happened over the past few days, the heavy weight in your heart lifting slightly as she listened patiently.

Once you were done, you panted, rubbing your eyes. “Yeah...I don’t mind, Mom. I don’t care if he doesn’t like me back. I can’t lose him...but I think I just did. I haven’t seen him in two whole days.”

There was more silence, before your mom quietly spoke. “Darling...how about you come over this evening? You can have dinner here, maybe stay the night.”

“It’s an hour-long drive...and I don’t have a car. Minho’s gone, so I can’t make him drive me there either.”

“Take a bus. Surely you’re not that broke.” She chuckled. “Come on, I wanna see my baby girl...”

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “Okay.”

You hung up after a few minutes of small talk, buzzing with excitement to go back to the place where you grew up. You realized belatedly that everywhere you looked, you’d be reminded of Minho.

You stood up to go change, digging through your wardrobe. There was still a slight ache in your heart, but you pushed it aside for now.

***

This was the longest the two of you had ever spent apart. Two days, and Minho was already feeling like he’d spent an eternity away from you. He sat on your bed, eyes scanning the walls of your childhood home.

The posters on the wall remained the same, the walls still painted a pale pink. His eyes drifted to the polaroid collage on the wall, some of the polaroids missing. He knew you’d taken your favorite ones when the two of you left for college...he liked seeing them whenever he was in your room. Each one brought back a different, wonderful memory from your childhood.

He stood up, walking over to the wall and scanning the pictures with a fond, sad smile on his face.

You hadn’t taken his favorite one, though. It was a selfie you’d taken under the willow tree years ago, one in which you were making a goofy face to the camera, the necklace snug around your neck. It was a day after your 13th birthday...and probably the day he realized you were the only girl for him. He was gazing down at you in the photo, the way he usually did when he thought you weren’t looking. He still remembered the way he’d felt that day...his dad had been particularly aggressive when he’d gone home. It had been so scary. He had had a restless sleep that night, his heart torn and his brain hazy even as he woke up the next day, walking to your house.

But seeing your face had gotten rid of all that.

***

You lifted up the wicker basket, waving as Minho walked over to you.

“Finally! You’re here!”

“Yeah...”

“What’s wrong? You look sad...” Your expression turned concerned, smile disappearing as you took in his dark features. He felt his heart quiver, cocking his head to the side. He didn’t want you to be sad...and you would be, if he told you what happened. Your happiness was more than enough to make him forget all his worries.

“Nothing. What’s that?” He pointed at the basket.

You frowned. “It’s a picnic baske- never mind that. You’re not fooling me, Minho. Tell me what’s wrong, or I won’t share this with you.” You warned, hiding the basket behind you. He chuckled, coming closer to ruffle your hair. “Yeah yeah, okay. I don’t want to do this in the middle of the street, though.”

You nodded, walking down to the tree, Minho following you silently. You sat down, pulling the plate of sandwiches you’d made out of the basket, and handing one to him.

He took it with a sad smile, sighing and looking down at his lap. “It’s just...the same old, you know? Last night, he was screaming. I heard glass breaking and things being thrown around. I checked on her before coming here, and she seemed fine, but...” He glanced at you, trailing off. Just as he’d expected, you looked like you were trying hard to not look as distressed as you were.

He sighed. “I don’t know.” He took a bite of the sandwich, closing his eyes and humming. “This tastes goo-”

He was interrupted by the feeling of your arms wrapping around him. He opened his eyes, looking down at you as you pressed your cheek to his chest, mumbling. Breathing in deeply, he used his free hand to pull you into him, leaning back onto the trunk and patting the small of your back.

A comfortable silence followed as Minho stretched his hand out to grab your sandwich from the plate on the grass, giving it to you. The two of you ate quietly, tangled up in each other, your touch conveying what your words couldn’t.

***

The photo was a reminder. You always knew just what to do, always made him feel at home in a world where he felt like he didn’t belong.

He belonged to you. You belonged with each other.

It might have taken years for him to realize, but now that he knew, he wasn’t going to give up.

***

You left the bus-stop, making your way to your childhood home. You pressed your lips together as you neared it, a heady mix of sentimentality and uneasiness fueling your exasperation with your decision.

It’ll be okay. Seeing your parents would make you feel better. Just...don’t think about him, for now at least.

You unwrapped your scarf from around your neck as you reached, tapping your foot as you rang the doorbell. You waited for your mom to open the door, exhausted, having spent the whole bus ride standing.

Your eyes widened as the door finally opened.

The last person you were expecting to see was standing right there, the familiarity of his face springing tears to your eyes.

“Minho?!”

“Y/n.” He smiled sadly. You frowned. Confusion, anger and relief filled you, as your brain fought between wanting to hug him, or kill him.

You chose the former.

Surging forward into his arms, you cried into his chest as you hugged him tightly. He stroked your hair, shushing you. “I’m sorry...” You apologized brokenly, sniffing.

“No.” He said firmly. ‘You’re not allowed to be sorry, because you had every right to be angry at me. I’m the one...I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“You’re my best friend, Minho. We’ve been through too much together to let things like this faze us.”

He bit his lip. “Things like...love?”

You paused, looking up at him and frowning. “W-well, yeah. Our friendship goes past silly things like love.” You laugh nervously, trying to hide the emotions bubbling up in you.

He blinked, swallowing. “Y-you think love is silly?” He asked, his tone as even as he could manage.

“W-well...I mean...” You trailed off, shrugging.

He sighed, shaking his head as he pulled you away from him.

“No more of this.”

“W-what?”

“No more dancing around the subject.”

“What subject?”

He remained silent. Grabbing your hand, he led you to the willow tree you knew the way to all too well. His grip around your wrist was too tight as he walked quickly.

Confused, you let him pull you along, squinting as you tried not to fall over from how fast he was pulling you.

He stopped suddenly as the two of you reached, slowly letting go of your wrist.

You panted. “What are you...” your voice grew faint, eyes still fixed on him. Your heart throbbed as he leaned in a little, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

He looked away from you, smiling slowly. You followed his line of sight.

A small gasp left your lips.

He’d strung fairy lights from the willow tree’s branches, the space below it bathed in soft gold. There was a checkered picnic blanket on the grass, a familiar wicker basket lying on top of it. It looked beautiful.

The tree looked different from the last time you saw it...but it was still somehow the same. A wave of nostalgia washed over you, making you even more emotional as you glanced up at him, then back in front of you.

“When did you...why-”

“Shh.”

He dragged you over, sitting down on the blanket and tapping the spot next to him. “Come on.”

You hesitated, your heart beating loudly as you sat down. “Minho, I...I don’t know what to say...”

“So don’t.” He sighed, blinking as he inhaled, psyching himself up. It was time. There was a potent mix of fear and trepidation in him as the weight of what he was about to do dawned on him.

“I can’t do this anymore, Y/n. I can’t stay friends.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, tilting your head. You felt a sharp pain in your heart as you nodded, discomfiture settling on your face as you tried to smile. So, this was it. You’d really fucked everything up. “T-that’s...okay. I can understand why-”

He groaned in frustration, his heart a mess of emotions as he watched you look at the grass, blabbering as you tried to hide your heartache. “That’s not what I meant.”

You looked back up at him. “Then what did-”

He scooted forward, grabbing your cheeks. “I...”

He sighed, tearing up at the sight of your face. Seeing you cry always made his heart weak.

He couldn’t hold it back anymore.

He brushed your hair out of the way, lip trembling as he felt the tears keep coming. He opened his mouth, heart pounding.

“I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

As soon as the words left his lips, your face turned blank, your brain unable to comprehend what he had just said.

It felt like fire had just been set to your heart. You’d just heard the words you’d been yearning to hear from him for years...and you were unsure how to react, your mind still trying to digest it.

He...he loved you? Was this another one of your dreams that ended with nightmarish twists?

Minho exhaled, smiling, his teary eyes sparkling. God. it felt good to finally tell you that.

He looked back down at you, smile slowly dropping as he saw your expression.

“Look...I’m okay if you don’t like me back.” He said, his heart slowly breaking as you stayed quiet, your expression still shell-shocked. “I’m fine with staying b-”

You interrupted him, pressing your lips to his.

Tears were still streaming down your face. You just couldn’t take it anymore. He emitted a soft sound of surprise before melting into the kiss, his tears mixing with yours as he fell back, pulling you on top of him. The very real feeling of his mouth against yours confirmed that you weren’t in a dream, after all. This was real.

He kissed you like his life depended on it, breathing heavily as you gently deepened the kiss. His lips were soft, nipping at yours as he pulled away just a little.

Minho held your cheeks, inhaling as his eyes searched yours, the raw emotion in them blowing you away. You wondered why you’d never seen it before. Stroking the side of your head with one hand, he pulled you into him once more, his lips finding yours again as he closed his wet eyes.

“I love you.” He whispered against your lips, nudging your nose with his. “I love you I love you I love you.” Breathless, he swallowed. “I love you...”

The dam had been broken, and now all he he wanted to do was say what he’d been holding back for so long.

Your chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as you stared at him, his grip on your waist growing tighter as you felt yourself shake.

“P-please, don’t play with my feelings. Minho- Please, I can’t take it. Do you...do you really mean it?” You choked out, still in disbelief, even as he cupped your cheek, eyes boring into yours.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this.”

You shook your head, wiping your wet cheek as you sat up a little. Getting off him, your eyes drifted up to the river as you turned around. The water was still, the moonlight reflecting off of it.

He sat up as well, watching as the light breeze tousled your hair.

“I...Minho.”

“Mm?” He said, heart still pounding. He knew it was selfish of him...but he wanted to hear you say it, too. Yes, it was hypocritical, considering how long it had taken him to finally confess, but he couldn’t help it.

“I lied before. I mean...I lied about lying.” You groaned, struggling to formulate your words. “What I’m trying to say is...I’m in love with you too. And I have been for the better part of two years.”

A torrent of emotions rushed into him as he blinked rapidly, unable to comprehend it for a second. It should have been happiness, mainly, but there was also this heavy sense of hurt and guilt gripping him. So all the pain that had been caused over the past few weeks...it was all for nothing. The two of you had hurt each other over and over again, unaware of your true feelings. If only either of you had the courage to say something...all the heartache could have been avoided.

“Y-you are?”

“Yeah.” You sniffed, back still facing him. He watched as your body quivered, slowly realizing that you’d been through the same anguish as him...and for longer.

Shifting a little closer, he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. For...for everything.”

“I am, too.”

You turned slightly, breathing in as you made eye contact with him. Staring at each other, you felt the weight on your heart disappear completely. Calmness filling the two of you as the once-unspoken truths lingered in the air around you, electricity sparking as you turned to face him completely.

You watched as his gaze drifted down from your eyes to your lips, his tongue darting out ever so subtly as his gaze turned heavier.

He leaned in, lips hovering over you.

“Tell me. Again.” He whispered, bottom lip brushing against yours as he surveyed your face, eyes turning darker.

“I l-love you.”

He growled in satisfaction, his lips claiming yours quickly. You whimpered as he pulled you onto his lap, his insistent lips parting your shaking ones as his tongue gently met yours.

Neither of you could help it. He was consumed with an ardent need to show you just how much he loved you. Minho had never been good with words...but there were other ways to prove one’s sincerity. Slowly making out, the two of you completely forgot how to breathe as the sweet fear from before melted away, surrendering completely to the passion. His hands were all over you, squeezing your skin, touching you as if you’d disintegrate at any moment.

“Minho...”

He gazed up at you, the ardor in his eyes catching you off guard as you opened your mouth to speak, hesitating.

“Promise to me...that we won’t ever hurt each other again. That we’ll...we’ll spend the rest of our life together, no matter what happens. Please.”

“Y/n...I don’t think I can let you go. You’re mine and I’m yours. We’re meant to be. I just wish it hadn’t taken me this long to realize. I wish I hadn’t turned into the one person I’m most afraid of. I’ve always feared history repeating itself...tried my best to avoid it. But here I am, hurting the girl I love.”

He sucked in air, eyes closing as he tried to drive away the bad memories.

“I won’t deny that you hurt me, but it’s not like I was much better. We both made mistakes, Minho. I’m prepared to make up for them, though. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying, if you’ll let me.”

You traced your finger over his cheek as he spoke. “I guess neither of us are perfect.”

You nodded. “I love you, Minho. All of you, including your flaws. I wanna take every part of you, and...I w-want you to do the same for me.”

He gave you a weak smile, kissing you yet again. He just couldn’t get enough of the feeling of your soft, wet mouth moving against his own...the feeling of being able to kiss you without any residual apprehension. It made him feel light-headed, your hot tongue sliding against his...the sensation causing him to groan against your lips as he adjusted you on his lap.

You pulled away to breathe. Minho’s eyes were already too far gone...and as you shifted slightly, you felt his thick bulge brush up against your core, softly gasping.

“N-need you, Y/n.” He breathed, resting his forehead against yours as his eyes welled up further. “If you’ll allow me...please, wanna claim you as mine...”

He really didn’t have to beg. Just the sight of him, breathless and wanting, sent sparks shooting through you. You needed him just as much as he needed you.

You let your lips trail down to his jawline, kissing along it. You hoped you could convey every inexplicable emotion you were feeling through each kiss you laid on his skin.

He caressed your back as you continued your ministrations, relaxing slightly. However, after a few minutes of you sucking tenderly down his neck, his impatience grew, and you could tell by the way he kept bucking his hips intermittently.

In a second, he rolled over so he was on top, admiring the way your face shone in the dim glow of the lights, hair splayed out on the grass. You looked so beautiful under him. He wanted to appreciate you even more, but the hardness between his thighs was making him increasingly aggravated.

Needing to be inside your warmth, his hand founds its way under your skirt, pressing the pad of his thumb to your clothed clit. He let out a moan as he felt how wet you were, delighting in the fact that it was all for him.

He stroked you through your underwear, eyes fixed on you. Your mouth was slightly open, eyes fluttering closed as you whimpered, needing more.

“Minho, please...” You spread your thighs apart a little more, hoping he would give you what you wanted. He leaned in, nibbling on your ear as he pushed your panties to the side. His fingers dragged through your slick folds, collecting as much wetness as he could before lifting his fingers to your mouth. You immediately parted your lips, sucking on his fingers as you squirmed, his tongue laving your earlobe.

“Kitten...” He whispered in your ear, the breathy neediness from before replaced with a cool confidence as he settled into his role. “So needy for me, even though we’re just a few minutes away from your childhood home...are you that desperate for my cock?”

You mewled, his words turning you on even more as he groaned, lifting off of you to scan your face. Your eyes drifted downwards, the sight of his concealed erection making you lick your lips.

“Wanna...wanna taste you...”

Minho’s eyes glinted, burning with fervor as he observed you, incandescent with desire. He’d never seen you like this before.

“Alright, kitten...”

He got off you, moving so that he was leaning against the tree’s trunk next to you. You turned slightly, fiddling with his zipper as you took his cock out, almost too eagerly. You got on all fours, pulling down his boxers to free his length.

Holding his girth in your hand, you admired it for a second before bending down and licking his slit tentatively, the taste of his pre-cum making you shudder. His hand smoothed down your back, lifting your dress and pulling down your panties just enough for him to access your core. You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, shivering as his middle finger circled your puckered rim a few times before drifting down to your pussy.

You sucked on his tip, loving the way he tasted. You were glad you were fully sober this time, and in the right head-space to truly see, feel and taste him. Swirling your tongue around him, you moaned as he slid two fingers into your heat.

Minho grunted, the feeling of your warm walls clenching around his fingers combined with your wet tongue running repeatedly over his slit making him snap. He shoved his cock into your mouth, catching you by surprise. Groans left him as the pleasure washed over him, the speed of his fingers driving into your pussy increasing in time with his thrusts into your mouth.

You whined as he took his fingers out of you, pulling you gently off his cock. His eyes darkened even more as he admired your fucked out features, strings of drool and pre-cum connecting his tip to your mouth.

“You’re so pretty. I’m so lucky to finally be able to call you mine.”

You blushed, heart palpitating as you got on his lap again, hand wrapping around his cock. Minho placed his hands on your hips, pulling you forward a little so that your clit was pressed right up against his shaft.

“Wanna fill you up.” He mumbled, mouthing at your neck. “Make you mine.”

He lifted you up slightly, aligning your entrance with his tip.

“He didn’t...didn’t fuck you, did he?”

You shook your head, watching as Minho’s eyes flashed, satisfied with the answer. He entered you steadily, his cock filling you up deliciously. You let out a soft moan, feeling him slide deeper as you lowered yourself completely.

His fingers came up to your waist, pulling you against him, your cheek on his shoulder as he muttered obscenities.

“Good. This pussy belongs to me, and only me. Along with the rest of you.”

You whined helplessly, inaudibly agreeing as Minho chose that very moment to thrust up into you.

“You’re so beautiful. So breathtaking. Nothing- fuck, nothing can compare to this...” He mumbled, hiking your skirt up and clutching at your ass as he started making love to you, his pace steady yet deep.

It was different from the first time.

For one, this time you were fully aware of each other, senses flooded with love and pain and relief. He took it slow, loving the way your pussy sucked in his cock, plunging his length into you powerfully, each thrust sending rumbles of pleasure through your body.

Minho took his hands off your ass, gripping at the hem of your sweater as he continued rolling his hips into yours. He slid it up your torso and over your boobs, making you blush as his eyes fixated on your chest.

“Gorgeous.” He whispered, eyes darting up to meet yours as he leaned in to suck on your nipple, tongue dragging over your bud. Pressing kisses all over your chest, he kept fucking up into you.

“M-Minho...you feel so- fuck,”

He let go of your nipple with a pop, making you shudder as the cold air hit your wet bud.

“Are you going to cum, baby?”

“Mm.”

“Cum for me.” He purred, suddenly standing up, still inside you. Turning around, he pressed your back to the tree trunk gently, driving his cock slightly faster and burying his head in the crook of your neck.

You could feel wetness against your neck, realizing belatedly that they were Minho’s tears. You couldn’t blame him...there were tears filling your eyes as well.

“I love you so much, Y/n.” He breathed, pulling away after a while to look at you. You nodded, hands drifting to tug at his hair. “I love you too Minho. In a way that words can’t express- ah~”

You whimpered, feeling the pleasure build in your lower half. Minho’s eyes instantly turned darker, any vulnerability in them lost as he focused on making you cum.

You felt the head of his cock rubbing against your sweet spot, each thrust drawing out long, breathless whines from you. You felt so full, his cock so thick inside you, filling you up the way it was meant to.

“Angel- I’m c-close...” He grunted, twitching inside you as he pressed his lips to yours once again, biting on your swollen bottom lip as he pinched your nipple gently. The sharp pleasure caused the final wave that pushed you over the edge- you hit your high with Minho’s name hot on your tongue.

He followed not long after, pounding into you now. You clenched around him, still in the throes of your orgasm as you incoherently repeated his name.

He slammed into you one last time before filling you up with his cum, throwing his head back as he came.

“You feel like...like heaven, Y/n...” He gasped out, supporting you with one hand as the other ran through his sweaty hair.

Eyes drifting down, he noticed the way his cum was leaking out from around his cock with a groan. Unable to control himself, he fucked his cum back into you, head dropping as you whimpered at the overstimulation.

Satisfied, he pulled out, tucking himself back in. He set you down, chuckling as your legs wobbled. He caught you before you could collapse, dragging you down to the grass with him.

“I take it you can’t walk back home right away.”

You laughed weakly, shaking your head. “No. Wanna stay here with you for a while.”

He hummed in content. “Okay.” He wrapped his arms around you. “Oh...I almost forgot about this.” He grinned, grabbing the basket from your side and pulling out two sandwiches.

Your eyes widened in recognition as you took one from him.

“These are the same ones I made that day...though I thought we agreed peanut butter and apricot jam just doesn’t cut it.”

“Shut up, it’s for nostalgic purposes.” He laughed, taking a bite and immediately screwing up his face in disgust. “Blegh. Okay, fuck nostalgia...I should just have made Nutella.”

You giggled, watching as he dropped the sandwich back into the basket. You put yours back in too, twisting to face him.

“So...when did you do all this? Was that why you were missing?”

“I’ve wanted to confess to you for a while...I just didn’t know how to. It was just so scary.”

“Yeah. Trust me, I know.”

He stroked your hair, sighing. “The day after your thirteenth birthday party, we came here like we usually do. I realized that day, my feelings for you went beyond what one should typically feel for a best friend. I just...chose to repress them, because I was scared you didn’t feel the same.” He cupped your cheek, exhaling.

“I thought if I recreated the scene from that day, I’d finally have the confidence to confess. The fairy lights were a last minute addition, though. I just thought it’d be more...romantic.” He smiled awkwardly.

“Well, it really is.” You returned his smile, tilting your head as you took him in. “I’m still sorry about the things I said to you.”

“I am, too. I hate myself for all the pain I’ve caused you...but I’m ready now. Ready to be someone who deserves your love.” He tucked your hair behind your ear again, smiling at you.

“Your mom helped a lot.” He laughed. You gritted your teeth, snorting. “Yeah, I could kinda tell. She doesn’t usually invite me over this spontaneously.”

You were interrupted by Minho’s stomach growling.

“I guess we have to go home...I think I feel a little better now, actually.” You sat up a little, getting to your feet shakily. He got up with you, hands steadying you.

“You sure?” He smirked, holding onto your wrist.

You nodded firmly. “Come on. I’m craving homemade food.”

***

You sat in your too-small childhood bed that night with Minho, who was flipping through one of the scrapbooks the two of you had made years ago.

He pointed to a picture of 8 year old you with a baby doll, chuckling lowly. “I bet your mother would love for you to recreate this one, but with an actual baby instead of a doll. I could make that happen.”

You glared at him, shoving his shoulder.

As soon as you’d walked through the door, holding hands with Minho, your mom had been all over the two of you, cooing and asking about grand-kids already. You knew she meant well, but it was still so fucking embarrassing.

You looked up at Minho, pausing as you saw his eyes turning darker.

“Why not, though? You’d be a great mother. I know I’d love to fill you up with my seed one day and get you pregnant...see your belly all swollen with my child...”

You meekly avoided eye contact, his words affecting you in a way you couldn’t quite place.

“M-maybe one day. I don’t know how I feel about having a mini-you running around, though. I already suffer with just one of you.”

He laughed, slowly trailing off as his face turned serious, a sadness settling itself in his eyes as he turned away.

“We’d take such good care of it...” He gulped. “I d-don’t know how good I’ll be at parenting...but I know I’d try my best to be a good father. The kind a child deserves.”

You looked at him, heart clenching as you took his hand.

“You’ll be an amazing father. I know it.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, placing the book on your bed side table, and getting under the covers with you. He turned off the table lamp.

Pulling you close, Minho kissed you for the last time that night. You felt the warmth in your body spread...your heart finally content, safe in his arms.

“It’ll be okay...” He mumbled, fingers gently running through your hair, watching as you drifted off to sleep due to the soothing action.

“As long as you’re by my side, everything will be okay.”

***

( Note: Ah, finally. This series is over. :’( I’m so thankful to everyone who stuck with this till now, and enjoyed it. There were times when I wanted to scrap it, especially because I was getting hate for it at one point? Anyway, I hope those anons are happy now. And my lovely readers, I hope the ending was satisfying enough. Love you all. )

***

#minho smut #lee know smut #minho angst #lee know angst #stray kids angst #minho fluff #lee know fluff #skz angst #skz fluff #skz smut #stray kids smut #stray kids series #kpop smut #kpop imagines #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids fluff

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cassandraclare · 5 years ago

Photo

Cassandra Jean’s illustration for this month’s Chain of Gold flash fiction — this one’s about Will and Gideon, and features James, Thomas and Jesse as little kids. It’s a two-parter, so here’s part one!

LONDON, 1889

Will Herondale was full of Christmas spirit, and Gideon Lightwood found it very annoying.

It wasn’t just Will, actually; he and his wife Tessa had both been raised in mundane circumstances until they were nearly adults, and so their memories of Christmas were of fond family memories and childhood delights. They came alive with it when the city of London did, as it did every year.

Gideon’s memories of Christmas were mostly about overcrowded streets, overrich food, and over-inebriated mundane carolers who needed to be saved from London’s more dangerous elements as they caroused all night, believing all trouble and wickedness was gone from the world right up until they were eaten by Kapre demons disguised as Christmas trees. Just for example.

Born and raised a Shadowhunter, Gideon, of course, did not celebrate Christmas, and had always borne London’s obsession with the holiday with bemused indifference. He had resided in Idris for most of his adult life, where the winter had a kind of Alpine profundity, and there was nary a Christmas wreath or cracker to be found. Winter in Idris felt more solemn than Christmas, so much older than Christmas. It was a strange facet of Idris: where most Shadowhunters ended up celebrating the holidays of their local mundanes, at least the ones that spilled out into street decorations and public festivals, Idris had no holidays at all. Gideon never wondered about this; it seemed obvious to him that Shadowhunters didn’t take days off. It was the blessing and the curse of being one, after all. You were a Shadowhunter all the time.

No wonder some couldn’t bear it, and left for a mundane life. Like Will Herondale’s father Edmund, in fact.

Perhaps that was why Will’s Christmas spirit annoyed him so. He’d come to like Will Herondale, and consider him a good friend. He hoped that when their children were older they too would become friends, if Thomas was all right by then. And he knew Will deliberately presented himself as silly and rather daft, but that he was a sharp and observant Institute head, and a more-than-capable fighter of demons.

But when Will insisted on taking them all to see the window displays at Selfridge’s, he could not help but worry that perhaps Will had a fundamentally unserious mind after all.

“Oxford Street? Days before Christmas? Are you mad?”

“It will be a lark!” Will said, with the slight lilt into his Welsh accent that meant he was a little too excited for his own good. “I’ll take James, you take Thomas, we’ll have a stroll. Have a drink at the Devil on the way back, what?” He clapped Gideon on the back.

It had been a long time since Gideon was last in England. As one of the Consul’s most trusted advisors, Gideon not only lived in Idris but rarely found opportunity to leave. He also remained so that his son Thomas could breathe the healthy air of Brocelind Forest, and not the air of this filthy, foggy city.

This filthy, foggy city, his father’s voice echoed in his mind, and Gideon was too weary to silence his father’s voice as he usually did whenever Benedict crept in. More than ten years dead, yet he had not shut up.

His brother Gabriel lived in Idris, too, and for less obvious reasons. Perhaps it was not only the bad air; perhaps they both were happier with a good distance between them and Benedict Lightwood’s house. And the knowledge that its current resident would barely speak with either of them.

But now Gideon had come to London, with Thomas, just the two of them, leaving Sophie and the girls behind. He needed advice about Thomas, people with whom he could discuss the problem discreetly. He needed to talk to Will and Tessa Herondale, and he needed to talk to a very specific Silent Brother who was often found in their vicinity.

Just now he was wondering if that had been a good idea. “A good bracing walk” was exactly the kind of English nonsense he’d half-expected Will to suggest for Thomas, but “a good bracing walk down the most crowded shopping street in London three days before Christmas” was a level of nonsense he had not been prepared for. “I can’t take Thomas through that crowd,” he said to Will. “He’ll get knocked around.”

“He isn’t going to get knocked around,” said Will scornfully. “He’ll be fine.”

“Besides,” said Gideon, “we’ll get looks. Mundane fathers don’t usually walk their babies in prams, you know.”

“I shall carry my son upon my shoulders,” said Will, “and you carry yours on yours, and Angel protect anyone who complains about it. Fresh London air would do all of us some good. And the windows are meant to be a spectacle, this year.”

“Fresh London air,” said Gideon dryly, “is thick as molasses and the color of pea soup.” But he acquiesced.

He had left Thomas in the nursery, where Tessa kept a watch over him and James. A full year older than James, Thomas wasn’t always good at understanding what James could and couldn’t do or understand. Tessa had been concerned that James would end up hurt. Gideon, though, was more concerned about Thomas, who was still smaller than James, despite the difference in their ages. He was paler than James, too, and less sturdy. He had only recently recovered from the latest of his terrible fevers, which had brought a Silent Brother, unfamiliar to them, to their house in Alicante to examine him. After a time the Silent Brother declared that Thomas would recover, and left without any further conversation.

But Gideon wanted answers. As he picked up Thomas now, he couldn’t help but think about how the boy was hardly any weight at all. He was the smallest of all “the boys,” as Gideon thought of them – of James, and his brother’s son Christopher, and Charlotte’s son Matthew. He had been born early, and small. They had been terrified the first time he caught fever, convinced it was the end.

Thomas hadn’t died, but he hadn’t fully recovered either. He remained delicate, weak of constitution, quick to illness. Sophie had fought harder than anyone to drink from the Mortal Cup and become a Shadowhunter, but now she was forced to fight a far worse battle against death by their son’s bedside. Over and over again.

Sighing, he took his son to fetch their coats for their bracing Christmas walk.

As expected, Oxford Street was a madhouse of pedestrian shoppers, carriages, gawkers, and menacing groups of roaming carolers. Gideon would just as soon have glamoured them all invisible from mundane eyes (although one of the groups of carolers were obviously werewolves, who had exchanged Acknowledging Looks with Gideon), but Will of course wished to bask in the experience.

James also seemed mostly intrigued by the noise and lights, giggling and yelping at the merry scene around them. A London boy from birth, thought Gideon, and then thought, well, but I was a London boy from birth, and this is too much commotion for my liking. For his own part, Thomas was quiet, watching with wide eyes, clutching onto his father’s shoulders. Gideon wasn’t sure how weakened Thomas still was from the last fever and how much he was overwhelmed by the crowds. In some ways, when he wasn’t sick, Thomas could be guilt-inducingly easy to care of; he rarely made a fuss, just looked out into the world with those large hazel eyes, as if aware of his own helplessness and hoping not to be noticed.

Will waited until after they had already joined the crowds at the windows of Selfridge’s and Will had made a number of nonsensical exclamations of delight of the “By Jove!” variety. He had held James right up to the glass to examine the scenes in detail, which seemed to revolve around some blond children ice skating on a river. Gideon had pointed things out to Thomas, who had smiled.

Only once they had stopped to purchase some hot cider from a man hawking it down a side street did Will say, “I heard about Tatiana’s son Jesse. Dreadful business. Have you spoken to her?”

Gideon shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to Tatiana in nearly ten years, or been back to the house.”

Will made a sympathetic noise.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” said Gideon.

“What?” Will said.

“A coincidence,” said Gideon. “That both her and I have children who are—sickly.”

“Gideon,” said Will reasonably, “forgive me for saying so, but that is a load of codswallop.” Gideon blinked at him. “For one thing, you have your beautiful daughters, neither of whom were more than usually ill when they were babies. For another, all of what happened to your father was his own doing, and happened long after you were born, and neither you or Gabriel were sickly.”

Gideon shook his head. Will was so kind, so eager to spare him the consequences of his family’s sins. “You don’t know the extent of it,” he said. “The extent of Benedict’s experiments with dark magic. They were ongoing, from as long as I can remember. The demon pox just sticks in the memory, because it is rather lurid.”

“And also we were there,” said Will, “when he turned into a giant worm.”

“Also that,” said Gideon grimly. “But two sickly sons, small and frail—I cannot say with certainty that it is a coincidence, that it has nothing to do with the depredations of my father. I cannot risk the possibility.” He looked at Will imploringly. “It took Jesse years to become ill,” he said, “and Thomas has been ill so much already.”

There was a profound silence. Quietly, Will said, “You sound as if you mean to do something.”

“I do,” said Gideon with a sigh. “I must look at my father’s papers, his records of what he called his “work”. They are at Chiswick, and I must go and ask Tatiana for them.”

“Will she see you?” said Will.

Gideon shook his head again. “I don’t know. I hoped her anger would cool, over time, and her resentment. I hoped the fact that the Clave gifted her with all my father’s wealth and possessions would help her find peace.”

“Well,” said Will, “if you go, you absolutely must leave Thomas with us.”

“You wouldn’t want him to meet his aunt?” Gideon said innocently.

Will looked at him seriously. “I wouldn’t want him, or any of my children, on the grounds of that house!”

Gideon was taken aback. “Why? What’s she done to it?”

Will said darkly, “It’s what she hasn’t done.”

Gideon could see Will’s point. Tatiana hadn’t done anything to the house. Nothing to change, or clean, or preserve it in any way. Rather than restoring it or redecorating it to her own tastes, Tatiana had simply allowed it to rot, blackening and collapsing in on itself, a ghastly monument to Benedict Lightwood’s ruination. The windows were clouded, as though fog were seething indoors; the maze, a black and twisted wreckage. When he opened the front gate, the hinges screamed like a tortured soul.

It did not bode well for the emotional state of its resident.

When Benedict Lightwood died in disgrace from the late stages of demon pox, and the full history of his infamy was revealed to the Clave, Gideon laid low. He didn’t want to answer questions, or hear false sympathy for the damage done to his family name. He shouldn’t have cared. He’d known the truth of his father already. Yet it stung his pride, when he shouldn’t have had any pride left in his besmirched name.

The houses and the fortune were taken away from Benedict’s children by order of the Clave. Gideon could still remember when he had found out that Tatiana had brought a complaint against him and against Gabriel for the “murder” of their father. The Clave had first confiscated their possessions, and finally laid out the situation: Tatiana Blackthorn had petitioned the Clave for Benedict’s fortune to be given to her, as well as the Lightwood’s ancestral house in Chiswick. She was a Blackthorn now, not the bearer of a tainted name. She made many accusations against her brothers in the process. The Clave said they understood that Gideon and Gabriel had had no choice but to slay the monster their father had become, yet if they were to speak of technical truth only, Tatiana might be considered correct. The Clave was inclined to give Tatiana the full Lightwood inheritance, in hopes of settling the matter.

“I will fight this,” Charlotte had told Gideon, her small hands tight upon his sleeve and her mouth set.

“Charlotte, don’t,” Gideon begged. “You have so many other battles to fight. Gabriel and I don’t need any of that tainted money. This doesn’t matter.”

The money hadn’t mattered, then.

Gabriel and Gideon discussed the matter, and decided not to contest her claims. Their sister was a widow. She could live in the former Lightwood manor at Chiswick in England, and at Blackthorn Manor in Idris, and welcome. Gideon hoped she and her son would be happy. As it was, Gideon’s memories of the house were, at best, ambivalent.

Now he waited at the front door, its paint mostly peeled off, with deep gouges here and there, as though some wild animal had tried to get in. Maybe Tatiana locked herself out at some point. After a time it swung open, but waiting behind it was not his sister but a ten year old boy, looking somber. He had the midnight black hair of the father he’d never met, but he was tall for his age, willow-thin, with green eyes.

Gideon blinked. “You must be Jesse.”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” said the boy. “Jesse Blackthorn. Who are you?”

Jesse, his nephew, after all this time. Gideon had asked so many times to see Jesse when he was a child. He and Gabriel had tried to go to Tatiana when she had the child, but she turned them both away.

Gideon took a deep breath. “Well,” he said. “I’m your Uncle Gideon, as it happens. I am very glad to make your acquaintance at last.” He smiled. “I was always hoping for it.”

Jesse’s expression did not improve. “Mama says you are a very wicked man.”

“Your mother and I,” Gideon said with a sigh, “have had a very…complicated history. But family should know one another, and fellow Shadowhunters, as well.”

The boy continued to stare at Gideon, but his face softened a bit. “I have never met any other Shadowhunters,” he said. “Other than Mama.”

Gideon had thought about this moment many times, but now found himself struggling for words. “You are…you see…I wanted to tell you. We have heard that your mother doesn’t want you to take Marks. You should know…we are family first, always. And if you don’t wish to take Marks, the rest of your family will support you in that decision. With the—the other Shadowhunters.” He wasn’t sure if Jesse even knew the word Clave.

Jesse looked alarmed. “No! I will. I want to! I’m a Shadowhunter.”

“So is your mother,” murmured Gideon. He felt a slight twinge of possibility there. Tatiana could have disappeared like Edmund Herondale, abandoned Downworld entirely, lived as a mundane. Shadowhunters did, sometimes; though Edmund had done it for love, Tatiana might do it out of hatred. That she had not gave Gideon hope, although, he was sure, foolish hope.

He knelt down, to be closer to the boy. He hesitated, then reached out for Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse stepped back, casually avoiding the touch, and Gideon let it go. “You are one of us,” he said quietly.

“Jesse!” Tatiana’s voice came from the top of the entrance stairs. “Get away from that man!”

As if prodded with a needle, Jesse leapt away from Gideon’s reach and retreated without a further word into the shadowed recesses of the house.

Gideon stared in horror as his sister Tatiana drifted down the stairs. She wore a pink gown more than ten years old. It was stained with blood he well knew was more than ten years old as well. Her face was drawn and pinched, as though her scowl had been etched there, unchanged for years.

Oh, Tatiana. Gideon was flooded with a strange amalgamation of sympathy and revulsion. This is long past grief. This is madness.

His little sister’s green eyes rested on him, cold as if he were a stranger. Her smile was a knife.

“As you can see, Gideon,” she said. “I dress for company. You never know who might drop by.”

Her voice, too, was changed: rough and creaking with disuse.

“Have you come to apologize?” Tatiana went on. “You will not find exoneration, for the things you have done. Their blood is on your hands. My father. My husband. Your hands, and your brother’s hands.”

And how was that? Gideon wanted to ask her. He had not killed her husband. Their father had done that, transformed by disease into a dreadful demonic creature.

But Gideon felt the shame and the guilt, as well as the grief, as he knew she intended him to. He had been the first to cut ties with his father, and with his father’s legacy. Benedict had taught them all to stick together, no matter what the cost, and Gideon had walked away. His brother had stayed, until he saw proof of their father’s corruption he couldn’t deny.

His sister remained even now.

“I am sorry you blame us,” said Gideon. “Gabriel and I have only ever wished for your good. Have you—have you read our letters?”

“I never was fond of reading,” murmured Tatiana.

She inclined her head, and after a moment Gideon realized this was the closest she would get to inviting him in. He stepped across the threshold nervously and, when Tatiana did not immediately shout at him, he continued inside.

Tatiana led him to what had once been their father’s office, a sculpture in dust and rot. He averted his eyes from the torn wallpaper, catching a glimpse of writing on the wall that read WITHOUT PITY.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Gideon said as he took a seat across the desk from her. “How is Jesse?”

“He is very delicate,” said Tatiana. “Nephilim like yourself wish to put Marks on him, because they are intent on killing my boy as they have killed everyone else I love. You sit on the Council, do you not? Then you are his enemy. You may not see him.”

“I would not force Marks on the boy,” protested Gideon. “He’s my nephew. Tatiana, if he is that ill, perhaps he should see the Silent Brothers? One of them is a close friend, and could come to Jesse at our house. And Jesse could know his cousins.”

“Mind your own house, Gideon,” Tatiana snapped. “Nobody expects your son to live to Jesse’s age, do they?”

Gideon fell silent.

“I expect you want Jesse to marry one of your penniless daughters,” Tatiana went on.

Now Gideon was more confused than offended. “His first cousins? Tatiana, they are all very young children—”

“Father planned alliances for us, when we were children.” Tatiana shrugged. “How ashamed he would be of you. How is your grubby servant?”

Gideon would have struck any man who spoke of Sophie so. He felt the rage and violence he’d known as a child storm within him, but he’d desperately taught himself control. He exercised every bit of that control now. This was for Thomas.

“My wife Sophia is very well.”

His sister nodded, almost pleasantly, but the smile quickly became a grimace. “Enough pleasantries, then. You came to Chiswick for a reason, did you not? Out with it. I know what it is already. Your son is like to die, and you want money for filthy Downworlder remedies. You’re here as a beggar, cap in hand. So beg me.”

It was strange: Tatiana’s obvious, undeniable insanity made her insults and imprecations undeniably easier to bear. What was she even saying? What Downworlder remedies? How could remedies be filthy?

Had Benedict destroyed Tatiana as well? Or would she always have been like this? Their mother had killed herself because their father passed on a demon’s disease to her. Their father had died of the same sickness, in disgrace and horror. Will Herondale could dismiss it all as nonsense, but could it be a coincidence that Tatiana’s son, and his son, were both sickly? Or was it some weakness in their very blood, some punishment from the Angel who had seen what the Lightwoods truly were and passed his judgment upon them?

“I need no money,” Gideon said. “As you well know, the Silent Brothers are the best of doctors, and their services are always freely available to me. As they are to you,” he added with emphasis.

“What, then?” Tatiana said. Her head cocked slightly.

“Father’s papers,” Gideon said in a rush of expelled breath. “His journals. I think that the cause of my son’s illness might be found there.” He found he didn’t want to say Thomas’s name in front of his sister, as though she might decide to conjure with it.

“A man you betrayed?” Tatiana spat. “You have no right to them.”

Gideon bowed his head to his sister. He had been prepared for this. “I know,” he lied. “I agree. But I need them, for the sake of my child. You have Jesse. Whatever our differences, you must understand that we could both love our children, at least. You must help me, Tatiana. I beg you.”

He’d thought Tatiana would smile, or laugh cruelly, but she only gazed at him with the impassive, mindless stare of a dangerous snake.

“And what will you do for me?” she said. “If I do help?”

Gideon could guess. Get the Clave to leave her alone, to let her do as she wished with Jesse, for one thing. But in Tatiana’s madness, who knew what she would come up with.

“Anything,” he said hoarsely.

He lifted his head and looked at her, at his mother’s green eyes in his sister’s pitiless face. Tatiana, who would always break her toys rather than share them. There was something missing in her, as there had been in their father.

Now she did smile. “I have just the task in mind,” she said.

Gideon braced himself.

“On the other side of the road from this estate,” Tatiana said, “is a mundane merchant. This man has a dog, of an unusual size and vicious temperament. Quite often he lets the dog run free in the neighborhood, and of course he comes straight here to make mischief.”

There was a long pause. Gideon blinked. “The dog?”

“He is always making trouble on my property,” Tatiana snarled. “Digging up my garden. Killing the songbirds.”

Gideon was utterly positively sure that Tatiana did not keep a garden. He had seen the state of the grounds on his way in, left to crumble as a monument to disaster no less than the house itself.

There were definitely no songbirds.

“He’s made a disaster of the greenhouse,” she went on. “He knocks over fruit trees, he throws rocks through windows.”

“The dog,” Gideon said again, to clarify.

Tatiana fixed her piercing gaze on him. “Kill the dog,” she said. “Bring me the proof you have done this, and you will have your papers.”

There was a very long silence.

Gideon said, “What?”

#gideon lightwood #will herondale #tlh #the last hours #chain of gold #cassandra jean #flash fiction #cog2 #november

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vhsrights · 4 years ago

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so idk how to do this or if you have already done this but......jemily at the beach? btw idk how asks work so ❤️❤️❤️

i haven’t but i think this idea is really cute :) i really like this one! THANK YOU

Maybe The Heat Isn’t So Bad

WC: 916

Heat was not Emily Prentiss’ thing. Despite having lived in some of the hottest countries in the world, she preferred the chilling breeze of AC any day.

Heat was not Emily Prentiss’ thing. Despite having lived in some of the hottest countries in the world, she preferred the chilling breeze of AC any day. She learned from a young age that she wasn’t inclined towards outdoorsy activities, or at least that she wasn’t allowed to be, where some of her less fond memories had been made. Emily pushed aside those thoughts. She found herself sinking further into the burning sand with each step, hoping to get close to the water before she set their stuff down. JJ had convinced her that going to the beach on their trip down to Myrtle, South Carolina was a good idea.

The blonde was several steps ahead of her, already standing by the tide line. Her two-piece was a baby blue bikini with little doodled butterflies on it. Her hair blew back slightly with the wind, the wavy, blonde locks framing her angular face well.

Emily finally reached where JJ had put the rest of their things. She sighed and took in the sight in front of her. The sand faded into the water only a few feet in front of her. The sun sat high in the sky, proudly engulfing them in its light. JJ was only a little way in front of her and Emily’s world felt complete. Her toes pushed the sand around her feet away and she was starting to understand why her wife loved the beach so much. Realizing that she had the opportunity to scare JJ, the brunette deftly tip-toed up behind her.

She grabbed JJ into a tight hug from behind and startled the woman. JJ had been lost in the motion of the waves and forgotten that her wife was there. Since she was a child, water had always had a calming effect on her. Water was something that nobody could be without, yet still had the power to do catastrophic things. It was intriguing to the blonde. It gave her something to believe in. Spending time by it like this reminded her of the dangerous simplicity of life.

“I gotcha!” Emily threw her body weight forward, pushing both women deeper into the water.

“Ah, Emily!” They made it a few steps deeper, where the water was up past their knees.

“I thought you were a highly trained Agent. Shouldn’t you be able to sense when someone is behind you?” Emily teased the blonde, knowing her wife’s abilities were way above par.

“Oh, shut it. I happen to be on vacation with my wife right now. Who, by the way, is acting very childish.” JJ rolled her eyes, preparing her next move as she finished her sentence.

“Oh yeah?” Emily replied amused.

“Yeah.” JJ’s hand slapped the water, splashing it onto Emily.

“No! You didn’t.” She simply looked back at the blonde in astonishment, JJ feigning innocence in her eyes.

“Didn’t what?” JJ smirked at Emily, watching the woman’s eyes widen.

“Oh, you’re not getting out of that one.” Emily jumped forward and pushed large waves of water towards JJ.

The women played in the water where they were for several minutes. Neither was one to back down from a competition, especially between themselves. They walked back and forth through deep and shallow waters, not allowing the other to escape. Playful screams rang out as Emily ran after JJ and when JJ turned the tide on her. The air felt light with playfulness and both women could feel their hearts glow with love for the other. Occasionally, Emily would trip on rocks on the ocean floor, disappearing into the water with only her anchor-decorated swim trunks visible.

JJ hadn’t been able to enjoy a beach quite like this since Roslyn. When she was a kid, she and her sister would go back and forth for hours, not even thinking of having a reprieve until their mother’s voice rang in their ears. That was another beautiful thing about Emily and their relationship. No matter what it was, her wife’s dedication helped JJ enjoy things as she had once done in her childhood. Emily brought out the truest parts of JJ as JJ did for her. They truly were soulmates in her eyes.

After roughly 2 hours, the tired women trudged out of the water. They landed on their towels, glad for the warming rays of the sun and their fully stocked food basket. Wasting little time, Emily pulled out the sandwiches that JJ had made earlier in the afternoon. She had insisted on bringing them and was glad she had. JJ cracked open the two chilled beers they had brought.

The couple relaxed and basked in the sunlight, their comfortable silence filling the air. They had planned the day to be able to watch the sunset over the horizon. As the sky was painted in robust pinks and oranges, Emily pulled JJ close. The blonde nestled closely into her side and let her heart ease.

Cool air blew as the darkness spread in the sky. Both women made quick work of gathering their things so they could turn in for the night. Emily spoke, the love in her heart heavily weighing on her words.

“Thank you, Jen. I loved today and you made things perfect, just as you always do.”

“Of course, Em, always. You do the same for me. Now come on, let’s get you inside.”

JJ smiled and wrapped her arms around the brunette as they walked to the car.

Maybe the heat wasn’t so bad after all.

#prompts #writing #jemily #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #cm #userjemilyology #beach #mc content hours

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years ago

Text

The Rose

Summary: “She’s fifty today, and in Dean’s opinion, there’s never been anyone more beautiful.” An alternate Dean reflects on the life he’s led.

Warnings: SEASON 15 SPOILERS, bit of angst.

Author’s Note: A follow-up to “Dear Mr. Fantasy,” which introduces this Alternate Dean. Beautiful header by @there-must-be-a-lock , editing and general flailing by @there-must-be-a-lock, @thoughtslikeaminefield , @fangirlxwritesx67, and @cracksinthewalls .

Word Count: 1573

ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

The Rose

She’s fifty today, and in Dean’s opinion, there’s never been anyone more beautiful. The day is pleasantly warm for this far into autumn, and she basks on the flannel blanket he spread out in the (more or less) exact spot of their first date some thirty years earlier. Thirty of the best years, he believes to his bones, that he doesn’t and could never deserve, and yet here they still are.

And he just can’t keep his eyes off her.

“Any regrets?” she asks. She tilts her head back, eyes closed, soaking in the afternoon sun with a carefree abandon that never fails to steal his breath. She’s not talking about their afternoon off (he only closes the shop this one day a year, outside of Sundays and holidays).

She means everything.

He knows his answer already, but still, he stops to think it over before saying anything. He’s getting more thoughtful in his older age, but even so, she always deserves his full consideration.

The wind shifts, a breeze ruffling the dark tendrils of hair that have escaped her braid. She cracks an eye open, glancing over as she waits for him to speak. She’s always been so patient with him, giving him time to gather his thoughts, knowing when he needs a push and when he just needs room to think.

Dean doesn’t tend to regret, in general. Sure, there are some things he planned on turning out a little different. When he was a teenager, he always dreamed of traveling around, maybe taking Sam on a coast-to-coast road trip when the younger Winchester graduated high school.

But then Dean got it into his head he needed to learn bikes, John Winchester talked to his friend Danny Elkins, and Dean got started at Danny’s motorcycle shop. Four months later, she showed up with her dad’s forgotten lunch.

He wouldn’t call it a life-changing moment so much as finding the north for his internal compass.

Kids were always on Dean’s radar, a big raucous family to drive the two of them wild and leave them exhausted but content (at least, he always figured his mom and dad were content), but for whatever reason, offspring just wasn’t in the cards for them.

They’d spoken occasionally of adopting, but the shop needed more attention when Danny had his heart attack, and then Mary needed extra help around the house when John had his own. And though both men pulled through, Dean always felt obligated to stick around a little more, give a little more of his time and himself.

After all, Sam had his wife and kids and college classes to teach. And once a month, when they were still young enough, Dean got full custody of his twin nephews and their younger sister while Sam and his wife went off to whatever getaway they could find within driving distance.

Dean’s always suspected they simply holed up at the house, turned off their phones, and slept, but he could never find any hard evidence.

And now even Sam’s kids are more or less grown and working on their own lives. The twins diverged from their childhood inseparability, with one working for an environmental non-profit while the other makes more than a decent living as an electrician. And though Dean’s niece is still in high school, she works in the shop on weekends (as long as she keeps her grades up) and is showing a clear affinity for the family business.

So, yeah, once upon a time, he’d figured he’d wanted kids, but when it didn’t happen, they made the best of what was given, and neither of them was irrevocably torn up. She’s it for him, always has been, even when he didn’t know it. He’s never needed anything else.

“None big enough to mean anything,” he murmurs, turning and squinting towards the setting sun.

The breeze picks up again, sending a cold thrill down his spine. He can’t keep the crease from between his eyebrows, so maybe he can hide it for just a little while longer. He hears the rustle of grass, feels the blanket shift, and then she’s lifting his arm to drape it over her shoulder.

Yeah, there’s no hiding anything from her.

“Then what’s eatin’ at you, baby?”

He pulls her closer reflexively, tucking her against him in that spot that he swears was made to fit her. She smells of apples and nutmeg, and he knows that, even though it’s her birthday, there will be a hand-made pie waiting for him when they get home.

He can see her perfectly in his mind, slicing up apples or rolling out pastry while she sings whatever song is stuck in her head that day. Bette Middler has been big for her lately, and while he’s definitely had his fill of Beaches, he’s pretty damn fond of hearing “The Rose” in that particular, melancholy way she sings when she’s distracted.

“God, I love you.” The words just spill out sometimes, and Dean stopped feeling embarrassed long ago.

She takes his free hand, twining their fingers together, and waits.

“It’s the dreams again,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

He’s not scared (Dean Winchester doesn’t get scared by something as immaterial as a nightmare), but something akin to worry gnaws his gut too often recently.

Dark dreams, dreams of hunting and being hunted, but by nothing of this world; dreams of blood and loss and a cold, cruel creator with no thought for anyone’s wants except his own.

For as long as he can remember, Dean has dreamed of other lives, other hims, adventures and dangers, and life and death. Sam is always there, always by his side, sometimes for the good of them both, but sometimes for the detriment of... well, everything.

Time runs differently in those other lives: sometimes he’s a kid again, sometimes he’s middle-aged. He never dreams of older selves anymore, though, not since he hit his forties.

But in all those other lives, all those other worlds, all those other Sams and Deans, there’s never another her.

And that’s enough to have him thankful to wake with her in his arms every goddamn day of his mundane, adventureless, utterly perfect life.

In the last few years, the last few months especially, the dreams have changed. Some have gotten worse: the monsters are bigger, faster, more vicious. Sometimes the other Deans have lost too much, lost their Sam, lost their family, lost everything. Sometimes they’ve given in to the drink, to the despair, to the siren call of the darkness and become monsters themselves.

But the worst ones are the empty dreams. He’ll spend what feels like hours staring into starless voids, places he knows used to be teeming with life. Sometimes he’ll get an echo of which Dean, which dream used to exist there. A flash of a memory, a laugh, a scream, but mostly it’s just vast, empty stretches where everything is…

Gone.

Dean shivers again as the wind picks up, creeping through his denim jacket with the thrill of the inevitable. She rubs the knuckles of his right hand just as the usual ache begins, and his lips curl up slowly as he meets her eyes.

Dreams are exactly that, whether they’re the day or night kind: ephemeral ideas that mean nothing unless you let them.

And she’s the only dream he’s ever found that can stand up to the light of day.

“Same dreams. Just need to shake ‘em off, get my head back on my shoulders where it belongs.”

“Well, Mr. Winchester,” she says, turning in his embrace and trailing very real, very warm fingers over his cheeks, “I can think of another place you can put that pretty head of yours, if you like.”

He lingers in their kiss, takes the time to trace the fine lines next to her eyes, to soak in the sight of her, golden and radiant and absolutely his. His calloused fingers brush over her cheekbones, tuck a stray hair behind her ear, tilt her chin up just so.

He drinks her in slowly, savoring rather than submerging, no matter how the seed of desperation in his gut sprouts and grows.

He can feel the change in the wind, not just here in the meadow, but in his bones. Something is changing, has changed already, but hasn’t quite caught up to them, and it’s not going to be good. Dean knows it with the same certainty that he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

But here, in this field, with the love of his existence in his arms, that dread seems too massive to comprehend, too immaterial to give consideration.

“I’m here, baby,” she murmurs.

She can’t hear what he’s thinking (god, he hopes not), but she knows him, knows when his mind isn’t all in, and she deserves better.

He shuts the door on his nightmares, one and all, stuffs the dread down deep in a place where it will stay until he falls asleep.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he whispers gruffly against the crown of her head, his heart and throat tight.

He takes in a breath that only shakes once before forcing the last bit of shadow from his thoughts. This is her day, and she deserves so much more than half his attention. She deserves everything he’s got to give and more.

For however much time they have left.

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busterkeatonfanfic · 4 years ago

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Chapter 15

The day after the party, Nelly stayed in her apartment waiting for a phone call from Buster that never came. She left only to return the green dress, still smelling of Buster, to Carmela’s. His jacket hung on her coat tree. She buried her face in it and inhaled before she went to bed that night, and all of the sensations of the previous night flooded back in an intoxicating wave.

The next day she went to work reluctantly. She knocked on her neighbor’s door as soon as she got home to see if anyone had called for her. They hadn’t.

A week passed without a call, then two weeks. She thought that Buster would at least want his jacket; it didn’t look inexpensive. But November went by with no call.

It was a while before she could admit to herself how silly it had been to nurture the hope that the kiss with him had meant something. In hindsight, her naïveté was obvious. He was drunk, she was convenient, and since he couldn’t convince her to go to bed with him, that was that. It hurt her, of course. She’d replayed the memory of the night in her head countless times, how he’d led her to the grass and handed her the glass of whiskey, how delirious she’d felt when he bit her neck, how he’d held her hand on the loggia while they waited for his butler to bring the car. She felt sure she had not hallucinated the husk in his voice when he’d invited her into his bedroom. In the first few days following the party, the memory drove her crazy. Lying in bed or in the bathtub, she would pretend that her hand between her legs was his.

December came and went. She spent Christmas alone in the apartment, but it didn’t feel like Christmas with the sun shining and the temperatures hovering near seventy. She was used to the bleak December cold of Evanston, shopping with Ruthie and her mom in downtown Chicago as snow slanted down, stinging their faces, and the frigid wind bit through them. The opportunity to be in The Battle of the Sexes never arose, but on the third of January she received a letter from the casting office telling her that she had been chosen as an extra in John Barrymore’s Tempest. To say she was flabbergasted was an understatement. As she stared at the letter, she became more and more convinced that Buster was behind her turn of fortune. She couldn’t prove it. He was no longer near the United Artists lot, so she couldn’t ask him even if she wanted to—and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Her dashed hopes after the party had caused heartache enough and moving on was the sensible thing. Whenever she thought of him, she reminded herself that he was a married father and that even if things had gone further, it would have been to no end. The smartest course of action was to forget him and concentrate on the reason she’d come to California in the first place.

The first night of filming for Tempest came a couple of weeks later. First she and the other girls were buttoned into ball gowns made of sumptuous combinations of taffeta, chiffon, satin, lace, and beads. Her gown was of cream-colored satin, and a makeup woman twisted her hair into an intricate chignon with braids that undergirded the rest of her hair. A girdle pulled her waist to half its size and dainty beaded slippers with a modest heel rounded out the ensemble. Not since Buster’s party had she felt so ravishing.

When costume, hair, and makeup were in order, they were driven to the set in Studebakers with two rows of seats. It was now a quarter to six and dark. The girls gabbled in anticipation, but Nelly’s thoughts were in such a tumult that she was too distracted to join in. John Barrymore would be in that ballroom and she looked stunning. She wondered if he would notice her and if he did, how their conversation would go. Most of all she wondered whether she would feel anything toward him. There was no mistake that she had felt something the night that she had danced with him, though it had been eclipsed by her more potent encounter with Buster. Well, she had an angle with Barrymore and it was no better or worse than the angle Buster had played to try to get her into bed. If she was in the same ballroom as John Barrymore, if he chanced to recognize her, she would take advantage of it.

The palace ballroom was a breathtakingly huge set on the United Artists lot, every bit as real as the actual thing. The exterior was squarish and looked Roman in style, with an open-air stone porch and columns that were forty feet high. She and the other extras went up wide stone stairs through a set of towering arched double doors. Inside, there were ceilings even higher than the columns outdoors. A chandelier the size of a small elephant hung from the main ceiling. There were more columns inside, looking as big around as the sequoias she’d seen in her childhood schoolbooks. The ceilings and higher parts of the walls were adorned in frescoes and friezes. Candles burnt in candelabras affixed to the walls. On one end of the room was a bar and a long white table lined with countless glasses, a large, deep punch bowl, and a tub filled with ice and champagne. It was a dazzling sight.

Nelly knew a little bit of the premise of the film. Camilla Horn played a Russian princess. John Barrymore, a peasant turned military officer, was in love with her. The ballroom scene would be the first time they had met since Barrymore’s station in life had changed.

She located her partner Bradford standing against a wall with his arms folded behind his back. They’d been practicing for the past week in a large ballroom on the United Artists lot, and she was relieved that her average dancing skills had drawn no attention. Bradford was good-looking, brown-haired and of medium height, but she had noticed throughout their rehearsals that he was not interested in girls. There was no delicate way to convey to him that she had known many homosexual men back at the Vista and that it wasn’t a big deal to her, though she always tried to do her best to put him at ease. Still he remained stiff and aloof.

“Some place, huh?” she said.

“It’s something,” Bradford agreed, barely looking at her.

“Barrymore here yet?” she ventured.

Bradford shook his head. “Haven’t seen him, but I don’t think Mr. Taylor’s here yet either.”

They fell into silence and watched everyone greet each other and the women compliment each other’s dresses. Bradford would never engage in more than small talk and Nelly was too excited to join in the other girls’ prattle. She liked them fine, but since she spent most of her time in the prop department, there was little opportunity for her to socialize other than in the canteen, where she listened quietly to the day’s gossip, having nothing to contribute herself and wanting to hear the latest lurid rumors. Barrymore’s marriage was indeed on the rocks as Buster had said and she found herself thinking about this fact more than was probably appropriate.

It was another twenty minutes before Barrymore and Camilla finally appeared, coming through a side door with Mr. Taylor and an entourage. Camilla was wearing a white satin gown with a full tulle skirt, a wrap to match, and earrings that brushed her shoulders. She looked every bit the princess she was playing. Barrymore was in black trousers, matching shiny knee-length boots, and a white officer’s coat with gold buttons. Her pulse quickened when she saw him and she wondered, not for the first time, if she could grow as fond of him as she had lately of Buster.

However, she had no more time to be fanciful because Mr. Taylor was soon directing them to the dance floor, spacing them at intervals and telling them to remember what they’d practiced the previous days. Someone put a waltz on the Victrola. It played tinnily into the cavernous room and was soon swallowed by the sound of footsteps and rustling skirts.

The first half hour was a thrill. Nelly relaxed, basking in the feeling of being in the midst of the greatest splendor Hollywood had to offer. All of the cameras were distant, focused on Barrymore who gazed penetratingly at Horn while she danced with a young officer and cast him contemptuous, conniving looks. There was no need to worry if she missed a few steps; trained on Barrymore and Camilla, the cameras could hardly have noticed.

Camilla was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood that Nelly had seen yet, blonde, slender, and big-eyed with perfect Cupid’s bow lips.

She could not have imagined how tiring the evening would become as the half hour wore into an hour, and the hour dragged into a second. After performing endless dances with Bradford under that dizzingly high ceiling, having always to smile and look gay, she was hot and thirsty and hungry. Her feet were swollen in her delicate shoes. Though the extras were permitted short breaks every half hour, the communal pitchers of water weren’t sufficient to quench everyone’s thirst and they were forbidden to touch the plenitude of spirits laid out in the tub and on the long tables draped with white tablecloths. The beer, champagne, and other drinks appeared to be for Barrymore’s benefit alone. One scene had him standing at the bar with cameras grouped around as he drained glass after glass. He appeared to be drinking the real thing. She could steal looks at him, but only over Bradford’s shoulder and they couldn’t be long lest she spoil the scene.

Around the third hour, now close to ten o’clock she guessed, she ceased to care about Barrymore at all. He had by now moved onto the floor with Camilla and the Victrola was trying to be heard over the dancing again. Nelly had only mind for her thirst and exhaustion. She wondered how much more of it she could take. Her lips were chapped and her smiles now felt more like grimaces. Bradford’s eyes looked glazed, though his steps were as sure and strong as ever.

Suddenly, there was a little shriek, a cry of “Mein Gott!, and the echoing sound of something hitting the floor. Bradford stopped and so did Nelly. They followed the other dancers’ eyes to the center of the room. Camilla was sitting on the floor on her behind wearing a look of shock and looking like an upended wedding cake in her disarranged white dress. The cry had been hers. Barrymore was on his hands and knees, laughing and trying to get up. One of the male dancers had to assist him, and when he was on his feet again he swayed. There was no disguising that he was really drunk. After two male extras had helped a ruffled-looking Camilla to her feet, he reached for her waist and again lost his balance, almost taking them both down again. She couldn’t say why, but Nelly was seized by the conviction that Buster had warned her that John Barrymore was like this.

Bradford dropped Nelly’s hand, clearly sensing that this was more than a momentary disruption. Mr. Taylor appeared, standing between the two parties and talking to them and his crew, his face serious. Someone brought a chair for Barrymore and he sat heavily in it. His face looked red. A few of the other dancers attempted light conversation as if the spectacle in front of them wasn’t taking place, but Nelly had no energy to pretend she was interested in anything else. The reprieve from dancing was a blessed relief.

Little by little, chatter began to filter back to Bradford and her: Barrymore was indeed drunk as a skunk and to avoid the cost of reshooting the scene on another night when he was sober, Mr. Taylor was trying to come up with a solution for him to finish his dance with Camilla.

“I need to sit down before I faint,” Nelly said.

Bradford nodded as if barely hearing her. The pitchers of water had been brought out again, so she grabbed a glass, filling and draining it twice. After the edge was gone from her thirst, she walked to the coatroom to find her handbag, keeping the glass so she could refill it in the washroom.

The washroom was empty save for one other girl. Nelly used the toilet and set to touching up her makeup once she’d washed her hands and had another two glasses of water. Somewhere in the echoing hall outside of the washroom, a clock chimed the half hour and she remembered standing in Buster’s foyer looking at his grandfather clock. Vaguely, she wondered if every famous man in Hollywood drank as much as Buster and Barrymore and, if so, what they were trying to escape from.

She was carefully coating her lips in Vaseline to address the fine cracks that hadn’t been there three hours earlier when he came in, blundering through the door like an ox.

“Mr. Barrymore!” she said, utterly amazed to see him.

“Oh, hello. Jack, please,” he said, as if he hadn’t just walked into the women’s washroom. His cheeks were rosy with color and his gait was unsteady.

He stumbled to one of the sinks and she watched in disbelief as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers. Before she had time to do much more than look away, he was urinating into the sink. She couldn’t seem to move.

“What the hell are you doing in the men’s lavatory?” he said, swaying in her peripheral vision.

Her face was hot. “Sir I’m sorry, but it’s the ladies room,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

The appalling sound of urine splashing into the sink seemed to go on for hours. “Why in the hell would they have urinals in the ladies room?” Barrymore boomed.

She didn’t like the sense she was getting, one of being around a powerful, dangerous animal. “Sir, they’re sinks.”

“I’ll be damned.” In the corner of her eye, he shuffled and ran the tap. He had finished urinating.

Her thoughts went back to their dance at Buster's party. She’d had a drowning sensation then and had considered whether she might be love-drunk. That feeling seemed very far away now. She looked over and he was picking his nose in the mirror, wiping the contents on its edge. She couldn’t believe she was seeing what she was seeing.

“We met at Buster Keaton’s party in October,” she said, because she was embarrassed and could think of nothing else to say.

“Did we,” Barrymore stated, sounding disinterested as he peered into the mirror.

“Yes,” she said. “We danced and I told you about wanting to star in a talkie of The Taming of the Shrew.”

He narrowed his eyes, as if struggling to remember it. The approaching sound of giggling and the subsequent appearance of two extras through the door saved her just then.

“Mr. Barrymore!” said one of the extras, looking bewildered.

“By Jove, this is the ladies room!” said Barrymore. He’d finished picking his nose and was propping himself up with one hand on the sink.

“He was confused,” said Nelly. “We should take him back to Mr. Taylor.” A little voice in the back of her head asked why she was bothering to defend him at all. “Come here.” She took him by the elbow and gestured to one of the other girls to do the same. He stank of booze and she thought she caught a faint whiff of urine as they led him down the hall and back through one of the sets of arched double doors. She was no longer awed by him. Rather, she wanted to dispose of him as fast as possible.

In the crowded room, Nelly located Sam Taylor by searching out Camilla’s distinctive white dress. She and the two extras led Barrymore to them. Mr. Taylor raised an eyebrow when they approached.

“I think he needs an eye kept on, sir,” Nelly said, her arm still in Barrymore’s.

“Found me in the fucking ladies room!” said Barrymore, chuckling.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Taylor. Nelly could tell he was trying not to betray his annoyance at Barrymore.

She could have stayed and offered more of an explanation, increasing the director's chances of remembering her face, but she’d had enough of playing angles and wanted to get as far away as possible from the dangerous animal that was John Barrymore. As soon as she found Bradford again, she poured out her entire tale.

“He’s a pig!” she concluded.

“Good God,” said Bradford, making a face. She wondered if he had found Barrymore as handsome as she once had and was now reconsidering.

“You’re telling me.”

“They’re building him a sort of carousel now in the courtyard for him and Miss Horn to sit on since he can’t stand straight,” Bradford said. “They’re going to film the dance that way.”

“Looks like we’ll be here all night,” said Nelly, her spirits sinking. If she had gone back in time and told the Nelly Foster of last July that the idea of spending prolonged hours in the same room as John Barrymore would cause her intense dread, she wouldn’t have believed herself for a minute.

Her prediction turned out to be true. The clock chimed one before Mr. Taylor had the footage he wanted. Nelly was surprised that the carousel hadn’t made Barrymore vomit, but although he swayed off in the direction of the washrooms several times more, he kept down whatever he had drunk.

She piled into one of the Studebakers with the girls and fell asleep for the brief duration of the ride. Back at the United Artists costume shop, she degowned, redressed, and shoved her aching feet back into her own shoes. She lined up for a streetcar with the other girls and sank wearily into a seat when it opened its doors. It was another forty-five minutes before she was home. By now the hour was two a.m. and she had to be up at five-thirty to catch a tram in time for her seven a.m shift in the prop department. She felt like Perrault’s Cinderella, but the magic had vanished before midnight and she was, all in all, relieved to be among her rags and ashes again. Notes: You can watch Tempest here. John Barrymore really did get so drunk during the ballroom scene that he couldn’t stand. “And when we were dancing together in one scene, he fell down with me on the floor because he was so drunk. So they had to build a carousel affair for us, it was a sort of criss-cross arrangement, and we put our arms around each other, looked deeply into our eyes and somebody moved the carousel around so it looked in the film as if we were lost in each other’s arms.”

-Camilla Horn quoted in Tony Villecco’s Silent Stars Speak: Interviews with Twelve Cinema Pioneers (McFarland & Company, 2001) 32. The same page also quotes Priscilla Bonner as saying that Barrymore picked his nose all the time and his face got red with blotches when he was drunk. I did read somewhere too that he once stumbled into the women’s room by accident. Fun fact: Buster’s later paramour Dorothy Sebastian was originally cast in Camilla Horn’s role! Incidentally, the book cited here also has one actress calling Buster sweet and wholesome.

#Buster Keaton #John Barrymore #fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Golden Age Hollywood #silent film #Camilla Horn

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tlhnetwork · 5 years ago

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NOVEMBER’s Chain of Gold Flash Fiction by Cassandra Clare

A Lightwood Christmas Carol, Part 1

LONDON, 1889

Will Herondale was full of Christmas spirit, and Gideon Lightwood found it very annoying.

No wonder some couldn’t bear it, and left for a mundane life. Like Will Herondale’s father Edmund, in fact.

But when Will insisted on taking them all to see the window displays at Selfridge’s, he could not help but worry that perhaps Will had a fundamentally unserious mind after all.

“Oxford Street? Days before Christmas? Are you mad?”

“He isn’t going to get knocked around,” said Will scornfully. “He’ll be fine.”

“Besides,” said Gideon, “we’ll get looks. Mundane fathers don’t usually walk their babies in prams, you know.”

“Fresh London air,” said Gideon dryly, “is thick as molasses and the color of pea soup.” But he acquiesced.

Sighing, he took his son to fetch their coats for their bracing Christmas walk.

Only once they had stopped to purchase some hot cider from a man hawking it down a side street did Will say, “I heard about Tatiana’s son Jesse. Dreadful business. Have you spoken to her?”

Gideon shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to Tatiana in nearly ten years, or been back to the house.”

Will made a sympathetic noise.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” said Gabriel.

“What?” Will said.

“A coincidence,” said Gabriel. “That both her and I have children who are—sickly.”