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clanoffetts · 3 years

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Tales From Bespin, vol. I: The First Time

Lando Calrissian x fem!Reader

summary: the first in a collection of stories about Reader and Lando’s adventures in sex in Cloud City, starting with their first time together.

warnings/tags: 18+; not proof-read lol; piv; unprotected sex; tooth rotting sweet sex; lando is a fuckboy but, like, a nice one; puthy eating bc Lando is a man of taste; porn with like some plot but it’s, like, stupid plot. no seriously i don’t really remember much of the plot

word count: 3.5k

“Do your rooms still suit you?” Lando asks as you eat breakfast together. He’s asked this every morning since you arrived a week ago. In that week, you’d learned that Cloud City was gorgeous in the morning and that Lando Calrissian was very concerned with your happiness. You were glad, of course, as you’d come to Bespin on his request, the both of you hoping that something more would develop.

You nod. “Of course,” you say. “I feel like a princess.”

“Good,” he chuckles. “It’s what you deserve.” Something had begun to develop, you ate meals together, walked the city together, watched holos together. But at the end of the evening, you’d leave his rooms, and you’d assumed you were replaced with someone who would, frankly, fuck him. You knew Lando was a bit of a playboy, talk of Cloud City orgies was common legend amongst teenagers in the Outer Rim, and you usually didn’t go for playboys. But he was charming. Yeah, all playboys are, they have to be, but Lando was different. You could tell he was sincere.

So, when his two week stay on Naboo was coming to a close, he’d invited you to Cloud City to live with him, and that you could continue your clothing designer dreams on Bespin with high fashion.

“They love your dresses,” Lando says, taking a drink of some kind of juice.

You smile. They didn’t have much high fashion on Bespin, most of the population weren’t concerned with expensive clothes and the rest were rich with nothing to buy. “I’m glad. Thank you for helping me sell them, helping me build my reputation.”

“I told you that you need to stop thanking me, beautiful,” he says, voice smooth as always. “A new episode of that holoseries we binged comes out tonight.”

“Yeah I saw,” you say. “We’re watching it together, right?”

He smiles as he cuts up some of the meat on his plate. “Always, sweetheart.”

Lando had a busy day. Usually, you’d walk the halls, Lando telling you stories of the art on the walls and how they came to be in his possession or attend a water opera, but today there was none of that. So you sat in your rooms, a little cozier now than when you arrived. You’d decorated the walls with tapestries and art, adding some color to the tradition Bespin sleek white walls. Your furniture was all white and so were the blankets and pillows. You’d have to sew and embroider some new ones at some point, the plainness of it all was boring. Especially to someone from Naboo, where everything was vibrant and richly embroidered.

You lay on your bed, staring up at the blank white ceiling, thinking about Lando. There were many women about the place, scantily clad Twi’leks, humans, and Togrutas, and you knew why they were here. You didn’t feel jealous, per se, because you knew your thing with Lando, whatever it was, was not an exclusive relationship. But you did feel a bit surprised that he’d invite you here on the hope of something more, and continue with his habits.

Did you actually know Lando was sleeping with these women? Well, no, but one could safely assume, right? Especially if you weren’t putting out like women were expected to, though Lando never gave any indication that he was upset by the lack of sex. Maybe you were upset with the lack of sex, pent up and yearning for this man since he arrived on Naboo a month ago. Maybe you were going to change that.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Lando says, sitting down on one of the lush couches of the front room of his chambers. The furniture in here had dark wood from Kashyyk, a gift from one of Lando’s Wookie friends, he’d said. There were pillows in styles from all over the galaxy. The room was eclectically Lando: rich in more than one sense.

He’d brought snacks with him, sitting them down on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Born ready,” you tell him. Under your clothes were the sexiest things you owned. Maybe it was a bit sad that the sexiest thing you owned was just a matching black bra and panties, but you didn’t really have a need for lingerie. Matching was the best you could do.

The holodrama premier episode is one and a half hours, and over that course of time you’d eaten more types of candy than you can count, and inched closer to Lando until you were almost on top of him. He had an arm around you, your head resting on his chest. When the commercials for new bacta patches or some kind of Imperial propaganda interrupted the show, you’d tilt your head up to look at him, he’d tilt his down, and you’d kiss. Each kiss tasting a little different than the one before as fruity candies passed between both of your lips.

“You like the blue ones,” you say as you break the kiss before the commercials are over.

“And why do you say that?”

“Your lips have tasted like the blue ones more than any other,” you say, your tone very matter-of-fact.

He chuckles. “Very astute observation, sweetheart. Though I can’t say I was too focused on your taste,” he says. “I paid more attention to the feel.”

You sit up a little more now, pressing your lips to his again, not giving a damn that the show was back on.

“Very eager, sweetheart,” Lando murmurs, his lips traveling from your lips, down your jaw, to your neck.

“I could say the same,” you whisper as he presses kisses to your neck, trying to find your sweet spot. This has been a long time coming. You feel his soft hair against you, lost in the feel and the scent that when his lips finally find that spot that makes you gasp, it catches you off guard.

Lando notices, and says, “Can I mark you up, beautiful?”

“Please,” you’re breathless, at his politeness, at his pet name, at everything he is.

He sucks a mark onto your skin, teeth coming after to give light bites to the forming bruise. “So polite,” he says. “I like manners.” You giggle a little, but are quickly cut off by his lips back on yours. Lando kisses sweetly, just how you expected him to. He’s not rough, he’s not hard, but he’s soft and sweet and passionate. That man oozes passion, especially right now.��

Your body is hyper aware of everything, his mustache brushing against your upper lip, the feel of the cape lined in shimmersilk brushing your arms as his arms wrap around you. You moaned into his mouth, and you felt him smile into the kiss. Lando was always a smug motherfucker.

He pulls away from the kiss, hands wandering to the straps of the loose sundress you wore. “Can I?” You nod, and he pulls the straps down, freeing your breasts. “So gorgeous, sweetheart.” His head lowers onto your nipple, gently sucking and swirling, taking note of everything that made you writhe. His hand cups the other breast, kneading gently, thumb occasionally swiping over your nipple. Everything was so slow, he was such a tease, and it was obvious that Lando Calrissian knew what he was doing.

“We’ve never done this before,” he says, pulling off of your breast. “Do you want this?”

“Can I ask you something first?” He nods. You’re nervous, but you ask, “I know this might not be the right time to ask, but have you been sleeping with other people while I’m here?” You cursed yourself as soon as you said it. You weren’t his girlfriend, you had no right to know this, and yet you needed to know. To know that he was in this, for real.

“No, darling,” he says. “I’m pursuing something serious, if that’s what you want.”

Your body relaxed, and you’re positive that Lando could tell. “Yeah, yeah I do want that,” you say. “Now fuck me, please.”

“So very polite,” he comments, bringing his mouth to your other nipple. This time there’s a little teeth, but he’s still painstakingly slow. “You want to go to the bed?”

You nod, and he’s already up, taking your hand in his and leading you further into his rooms. You notice the bulge straining against his expertly tailored pants, and he notices you staring. “Manners starting to slip, sweetheart? It’s not polite to stare.”

You shake your head, face beginning to heat up as it dons on you that not only are you staring at his bulge, you’re also walking around with your tits out. “Don’t get shy, now, sweetheart,” he commands with a gentle tone as he leads you to the bed.

The bed is massive, with large fluffy pillows and nice fuzzy blankets strewn over it. “Maker, Lando, this is huge.”

“The size of this bed is where the Bespin orgy stories come from, my dear,” he winks. “Though this isn’t where they happen.” He drops your hand so you can hoist yourself up onto the large bed, and he follows suit, though he’s a lot more graceful.

“Now,” he says, gently pushing you to recline against the pillows. “Where were we?” He lays down next to you, attaching his mouth to the side of your breast, sucking harshly. Another bruise would form there, and your core ached at the thought of getting to admire them the next morning in the ‘fresher mirror.

Your whimpers seem to echo in the big room, and Lando loves it. “Let me hear you,” he murmurs against your stomach before sucking another bruise. “Love to hear you.”

And, boy, do you let him hear it. So used to muffling your own noises in places with thin walls, it was a strange freedom to be as loud as you want. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

His hands are balled up on the dress. “Fuck, yes, please,” you tell him, eager for him to get closer to your cunt, to give you the direct stimulation he’s made you crave. He pulls the dress down your body and off your legs, tossing it to the other side of the bed. He unclasps the cape and removes his shirt, tossing them as well. And, kriff, he’s gorgeous. He’s toned, but not overly muscular in the way you find scary. His skin looks smooth, though covered in hair, and you reach a hand out to drag across his stomach.

You expect him to ask to take your panties off next, but he doesn’t. “I bet your pussy is pretty, sweetheart. Everything about you is pretty,” he says, one hand cupping your cunt, the warmth burning through the thin fabric, and the other stilling your hand on his abdomen. All you can do is whine a little, the light pressure on your pussy making you ache even more.

Lando leans down to kiss you, pressing his blue-flavored candy lips against yours and returning your hand to the mattress. When he pulls away, he lowers himself down between your legs, eye-level with your cunt. “Open these up more,” he coos, pushing your legs open and up towards your chest.

He places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your clothed cunt, giving a deep chuckle when you gasp. “She’s already swollen, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ve not even done much. Just sucked your tits.”

“Yeah, but you did that for, like, ever,” you breath out, and he laughs.

“I like to tease my girl,” he says before bringing his lips down over the fabric again. But you can’t focus completely on that right now, not when your mind is repeating his voice calling you his girl. But eventually you snap out of it when his mouth is replaced with his fingers, running over the fabric of your panties, there’s enough friction to tease you but not enough to truly please you.

“I think it’s time I see this pussy,” he says, placing some kisses on your thighs. “Don’t you think so, sweetheart?”

You whine out a yes, and he makes quick work of removing your underwear. The cool air of the room hits your slick as Lando returns your legs to their open position. “Just like I thought- gorgeous pussy” he says, using a finger to collect your arousal, bringing it to his mouth and closing his eyes as he cleans his finger. “Taste better than the blue candy, sweetheart. I think I need another taste, don’t you?”

You nod, and before you can even utter a ‘please’, his mouth is on you. “Stars, Lando,” you whimper as he sucks on your clit. His tongue is swirling around in patterns that made your whole body shiver, his hands are on your tits and stomach, groping at any soft flesh he could grasp. Everytime you whine out a word, he hums around your clit, sending a wave of vibration straight to your core.

“And to think I’ve traveled to a hundred confectionery shops when the sweetest candy in the galaxy is right here,” he says, pulling your lips further apart so he could admire his candy. With a growl, he dives back in, this time at your hole, letting his nose take care of your clit for now. His tongue pushes inside you with force, Lando eagerly lapping up your juices, your moans escaping in unison with his.

When he decides his nose occasionally bumping your clit isn’t enough and replaces it with his fingers, rubbing small circles, you feel the wave of your orgasm start to roll in. “Gonna come, Lando, fuck-”

He hums, low and gravely against your cunt, and it pushes you over the edge. You’re loud, moaning and writhing under him, but his mouth stays attached to your slit with determination, following your hips wherever they go. Lando does this until your body stops shivering and you’re left with labored breathing on the bed in a mess of pillows.

“Stars, Lando, you’re good at that,” you giggle as he climbs up your body to press a kiss to your forehead, nose, lips. You taste yourself on him, not something you’d describe as the best candy in the galaxy, but you could see where he was coming from.

“Glad you liked it, sweetheart,” he replies. “I’m a people pleaser at heart.” Your hands wander down to the buckle of his belt, trying to undo it but the clasp is foreign and your mind is cloudy. Lando sits back on his haunches between your legs, undoing the clasp and freeing his cock from his pants. Lando Calrissian didn’t wear underwear, apparently. “Is this what you wanted, beautiful?”

You nod frantically, the voice in the back of your head telling you you looked pathetically horny, but you couldn’t care. “Please, Lando,” you whine. “Want you inside me.”

“Stars, sweetheart, I’ve wanted this since back on Naboo,” he says, shedding his pants and adding them to the stack of clothes accumulating on the side of the bed.

“Been so enamored by you for so long,” he sighs, lining his cock up with your entrance. “Ready?”

“Yes,” you beg, “Please.”

“There’s my girl, with her manners,” he groans as he pushes his cock inside you, ever so slowly. “Gotta savor your pussy, sweetheart. Been wanting it for so long.”

You moan as he bottoms out, “Wait, my implant expired, I’m sor-”

He cuts you off, “I have one. Don’t you worry, sweetheart.” His voice is strained with pleasure as he drags his cock in and out of your aching core, you swear you can feel each vein against your walls.

“Fuck, Lando, please,” you whine, wishing he’d give you a little more, even if it was just enough to come.

He gives you that smug smile, “Please what?”

“Faster, Lando,” you whimper, bringing your legs around his waist in an effort to push him into you quicker.

He tuts. “Where’s your manners, sweet thing?”

“Please,” you beg. “Please, please, please.”

He kisses your nose. “Since you’re so polite, I think I might just have to oblige.” And he does. His hips don’t snap hard against you like the other guys you’d fucked, though they hadn’t been very good, maybe that was why. He wasn’t so hard like the holoporn videos or the stories you’d read on the ‘Net. But it’s so good.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” His voice is breathy now, though still deep.

“Full,” you whine, and his fingers come to your clit, causing you to gasp and clench around him. “And stretched.”

His lips are painted with that smug smile again, “Just like you want, sweetheart. Just like you deserve.”

His voice deep in your ear, his cock deep in your cunt, and his fingers moving with grace across your clit just about send you to the edge again. “I think I’m gonna come Lando,” you moan, “Fuck I want to come, please!”

“Come, then, sweetheart,” He grunts. “I’ll always give you anything you want.” That was it, the final straw, and your body began to shiver and shake. Your arms clasped around him and your legs pushing him deep inside you, you come with such force that you can hardly make any noise. Your mouth is open, your eyes are wide, but there’s no sounds, just complete and utter bliss. “I’ll always give you what you want,” he pants again as you come down from your high, still relishing in his cock fucking you open.

“Then give me your cum,” you demand.

There’s a twinkle in his eye now, “Your wish is my command,” he says. His thrusts are a little quicker now, though more shallow and sloppy, and you continue to moan his name and clench your walls around him until he’s grunting in your ear that, “I’m going to fill you up, sweetheart, just like you asked.”

And he comes, also with force, losing control of his thrusts and your heels dig into his ass, holding him inside you as he paints your walls white. “Fuck, just what I wanted, Lando,” you coo, running a hand over his back as he lay on top of you trying to collect himself. “Treat me so well, like a princess.”

He gently pulls out, both of you wincing, and he rolls onto your side. You shift to face him, trying not to move too much so you don’t spill cum over what you assume are expensive blankets and bedding.

“Spread your legs a little, sweetheart,” he says softly. You do as you're told, and he slips a finger between your legs, just outside your slit where he collects your mixed cum. He licks some, though not all, off his finger and hums. “Second sweetest candy in the galaxy. You want a taste?”

You nod, sticking your tongue out with an eagerness that should’ve been embarrassing. He holds his finger out and you lick it clean. “I think that’s the sweetest,” you say, savoring the strange yet satisfying taste. “But to each their own I guess.”

“Did you enjoy that?” Lando has you lying against his chest, now clad in one of his silk sleep shirts and he wears the matching pants. He’d cleaned you up nicely, brought some sweet Alderaanian toniray- a rare commodity these days- for you to sip on.

You nod. “It was amazing. I’ve never come twice with someone before.”

He looks almost offended at your statement, “You’ve only been with guys that make you come once?”

“Sometimes not even once,” you admit. “That’s not normal?”

He shakes his head. “Kriff, no, sweetheart, you’re supposed to come. And the bare minimum is once in my book. In fact, I regret only making you come twice tonight. Got too caught up in my own pleasure.”

“Well, you’re supposed to feel good, too,” you point out.

He nods. “Yes, but I should also make you feel good. I get off on making you feel good.” He’s shaking his head again. “Only come once,” he mutters. “Atrocious, dear, absolutely atrocious.”

You let out a sleepy giggle, drawing patterns with your nail on his chest. “Well you can make up for all those missed orgasms another time,” you say, finishing with a yawn. “You’ve worn me out, Calrissian.”

“As you should be, sweetheart,” he says. “Get some rest, yeah?”

You nod against his chest, the quiet darkness of the room and the beat of his heart already lulling you to sleep.

tagging those who showed some interest (i promise boba threesome is coming in the next few days, i’ve already written over half of it lol)! @delusionsxfgrandeur @fuckyeahbeskar @sleepwithacommunist @tibbietibbs @hansonveggieclub

#lando calrissian #lando calrissian smut #lando calrissian x reader

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written-musings · 4 years

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Excerpt from my Obidala fanfic: when Padmé is unexpectedly reunited with Obi-Wan

You can find the story here.

✦✦✦

Several years ago on an ecumenopolis planet, the Senator of Naboo found herself on another tirade of escaping a death warrant once again after taking a walk in a courtyard relatively close to the Senate building. Padmé insisted to Captain Typho that she go alone and Artoo Detoo could accompany her with the programming she installed – she had eventually become familiar with technology and understanding the works for the sake of curiosity and her life. She had left the actual Senate building between sessions to distance herself from her work and to finally find some ‘fresh’ air with the aromas of greenery and flowers that would take her back to her home where the rolling hills and mountains decorated the landscape as waterfalls were merely ornaments against the backdrop, with flowers and greenery sprinkled the remaining spaces with colorful textures. Although it was nice to have something resembling those images that were forever in her head, making her homesick, it was nowhere close to the real thing.

Times were stressful, especially since they were voting on a piece of legislation that involved the Trade Federation…

But she remembered what a dear friend once told her and closed her eyes.

Before she could even think about the stars of the galaxy, something or someone snatched her from her feet and onto a cruiser. She did not even have time to scream from surprise, and they were quick enough to take off without any effort or opposition. The helmeted figure restrained her, cuffing her hands behind her back as one drove and the other stood over her, making sure she wouldn’t move…

Padmé Amidala was not scared, only annoyed, because this would occur during a big vote of legislation that dealt with the Trade Federation, she was far away from surprised. In fact, she was quite peeved.

Internally rolling her eyes, she maintained her composure as she remained stoic while lifting her chin in defiance, scrunching her eyebrows, “I am Padmé Amidala, Senator of Naboo and I demand you release me in the name of the Republic and democracy!”

“Yeah, yeah…” The masked sentient in front of her shook what sounded like his head. “Aren’t you too young and pretty to be a Senator?”

She really wanted to laugh at that remark, truly. How shallow and misogynistic it is for beings to assume that young women should be up to other things that do not involve intelligence and power – that they are not capable or passionate enough to accomplish such feats! It was such an ignorant and shallow statement to make, and it gave her just enough assurance that they were the idiotic ones, not her.

Scoffing, she suppressed a laugh, “You say that as if I have not heard it before.”

“For the love of the gods, will you please shut up?!” Then what also sounded like a younger male driver scowled in annoyance as they sped through the endless skyscrapers of Coruscant, expeditiously passing ships and cruisers left and right, causing her to flail in the backseat due to the reckless driving.

It seemed that she was more likely to die from falling out of the vehicle than what they were going to do.

But this Senator was clever. She always hid a pick in the cuffs or bangles of her dresses for situations like this. Honestly, nothing surprised her anymore, especially after her ‘more than warm’ welcome to the Senate when she first arrived as a rookie, a newcomer, the easy target.

“Hurry up!” The kidnapper in front of her turned their head and yelled at the driver, giving her the opportunity to start picking at the locks of the restraining cuffs ever so slightly. The endless hours of training for escape and self-defense with her and her handmaidens had truly paid off – especially learning how to discreetly pick cuffs… And she also managed to press her comlink to alert Typho and her handmaidens of her active location. She couldn’t help but smirk. “We are running out of time!”

“I know what I’m doing. Give it a rest!”

But it was too late, the police cruisers were following them in pursuit, making the beloved Senator smile rather cheekily.

Shaking her head, she chuckled, “I can tell that you have quite the expertise.” Her tone was quite condescending as she finally broke free, but continued to have her hands behind her back. The person in front of her turned towards the driver, revealing what looked like a… jetpack? “But know that I’ve been captured in more… Impressive ways.”

Glancing at the back of the driver, it appeared he had one too based on the protrusion of something from their back on the side of the chair. The police were gaining and fast, the sirens ringing in her ears. Tones of the sirens grew closer and closer to the point where she was able to see the blue and red lights in her periphery.

“Sit down!” The driver hissed at the form that was standing over her, “We cannot fail. We promised.”

He sat in the passenger seat in front of her, “It’s not that hard to kill a Senator.”

Padmé raised her eyebrows, “You’d be surprised by how many people have tried to kill me.” Her cleverness and intelligence would always prevail at a time like this, “And they failed… every single time.”

The police surrounded them side-by-side, and Senator Amidala shook her head with a curl in her lips, thinking about the many hours she spent jumping across cliffs in her heavy dresses and headdresses. She eyed the officer in the cruiser to her right, giving the nod of her head and leaning forward to reveal that she had freed herself. With this revelation, she came to the realization that she was going to jump between two cruisers going at least 150 kilometers per hour between skyscrapers that penetrated the atmosphere from the pits of the unknown. An unsuccessful jump would entail falling hundreds and hundreds of kilometers to an inevitable death. Everything had to be meticulously calculated in her head as she analyzed the space between the vehicles, the two sentients in the seats in front of her, their speeds, the drop, and the possibility that if she does jump the driver could rev the speeder to the other side.

She had to think very carefully as time was quickly running out.

There was an overwhelming sense of confidence in her, and she did not know where to pinpoint it. But it was the Force – calming and soothing her when her decisions meant more than she could possibly fathom. But the Force was going to make this decision for her despite her stubbornness and independence as a natural-born leader of her planet, her sector, but also in the Senate. For many others listened to her and her words had the power to sway millions of sentients across the galaxy. It was a gift the Force bestowed upon her whether she realized it or not.

As Master Yoda would say years later… The Force was strikingly strong with her and for this very reason, this gave the Senator the realization of what she really had to do.

Little did she know… there was a hooded man walking out of a familiar diner after speaking with his good friend Rex over some fried tuber sticks and something sweet to drink to cut off some steam, but to also ask some questions. Obi-Wan Kenobi had very little time to go on this side of town, but something led him to this spot on this very particular time of day where he happened to have the free time. He bid his friend a farewell as the light from the outside greeted his face, with the rumbles of the speeders and ships zooming above his head. Something had overcome him to make him stop on the curb and just look at the clouds in the smoggy, polluted sky as the sun had begun its descent into the afternoon and early evening, thus concluding another day. He took a deep breath, smelling the fried food and the interesting aromas of the city that surrounded him.

It was during this time, the sounds of sirens had grabbed his attention as they neared him. Fixatedly looking up, he saw the masked figures at the front of the speeder and the law enforcement surrounding them. However, he did not see the woman adorned in purple jewels on her head and an elegant dark dress with hand embroidered purple flowers decorating the green vines, a true homage to her home planet. But he felt her. Surprisingly, he did not even move or try to get on the ship that awaited him to follow. He waited… He had this feeling in the pits of his stomach and chest to stay despite the fact that his mind told him to go.

The Senator knew she was running out of time as the masked men whispered amongst themselves. She knew that they could not fail, because if it was up to the person that had orchestrated another attempt to end her life, she knew that their lives were also on the line if they were to fail. Maybe there was no line at all, it was both she die and they live and get payment or she lives and they die… Whatever plan they had was miserably failing and she was able to decipher what little options they had left. Looking left and right at the speeders right next to her, she discreetly gripped her blaster that was hidden in the layers of her clothing.

Unknowingly, the Force validated her and her decision. In fact, the higher power that flowed through the universe had everything in place for this moment – the moment for Senator Amidala to shoot her blaster at the controls of the speeder and the man in the passenger seat before he could shoot her, blaster still in his hands with his index finger on the trigger. She quickly jumped out of the high speed vehicle in between them and the police as they kept moving, smoke trailing from the speeder as it kept going and eventually colliding with a building in a gruesome explosion in the distance.

But the driver escaped, flying out of the chaos just in time before it was too late. He had to find the Senator dead to make sure his mission was complete.

She fell hundreds of meters, her front facing the ground as it came closer and closer as other ships and speeders dodged her. Tears fell from her eyes as if these were her last moments, but a sense of satisfaction overcame her, as if she did what she had to do and was validated in that fact that she evaded capture. The air traveled through her face and the thick layers of her clothes, chilling her to the core as her fate drew closer and closer.

Obi-Wan Kenobi watched as the speeder approached, hearing the blaster shots over the sirens as the vehicle kept moving to see a figure fall right in front of him as the smoke trailed in front of him. He merely lifted his arms up in the air and allowed the Force to flow within his entire body to his hands and outward toward the figure falling, falling, falling directly in front of him. It took so much strength and power to focus on an object moving that fast, but he narrowed his eyes and scrunched his eyebrows in such an intense concentration that he finally connected with her lifeform as she was merely five meters from the ground.

Her eyes were squeezed shut as the ground was closer and closer, but something stopped her in midair and she opened them to find an endless sea of blue, just like the lakes of Naboo right before her – a familiar hooded figure with an auburn beard that embellished his chiseled face, making it surprisingly sharper than it was prior to the last time she had seen him in the Senate building a couple years ago by chance. His eyes also met hers, the luscious melted chocolate nearly hypnotizing him before he heard the explosion of the crashed speeder. Their moment was unfortunately cut short as onlookers on the street watched with shock and curiosity, but the blush was still splotched on their cheeks whether they wanted it or not. But both Padmé and Obi-Wan knew that seeing each other was a surprise, if not a pleasant one.

Still in midair, he pulled her towards him as he sensed another presence returning back to this very spot. He moved so fast and with such intention she grasped onto his broad, firm stature. Suddenly, they were concealed in a dark, isolated alleyway as the masked figure with the jetpack circled the area where she was supposed to fall to her death. Both were catching their breaths in the shadows, holding on to each other so tightly that their chests touched as they breathed together, hearts ferociously beating frantically as the adrenaline continued to pump in their veins. Their faces where only a centimeter apart, their noses barely touching as their breaths caressed each other’s faces as they desperately sought to find the answers in each other’s eyes.

He saw fear in her as the sentient was looking for where she could have been, she nearly gasped as they thought he looked this way. Padmé shuddered despite the fact that he held her close to him, releasing his grip with one arm; he placed his index finger on her pink trembling lips – so soft, so tempting. They tingled from his touch as the heat returned to her cheeks. It was almost calming to actually feel him touch her after all of these years. It was merely the tip of the iceberg and she wanted more. No, they wanted more.

What had he done?

“Sh…” He breathed onto her face, his warm breath somehow assuaging her as his calloused fingers brushed her red, hot cheeks, still sizzling under the light yet comforting touch that merely ignited the flames. “Padmé, look at me, nowhere else.” His velvet voice soothed her as his lips curved into a light smile, his beard concealing the cute dimples he once bore, but she remembered them perfectly as if she had just seen him yesterday – two young souls turned on their sides looking at each other before one had to train a boy and the other had to rule a planet.

He ducked in front of her, to conceal her and make it seem like they were just a typical couple having an intimate moment. It seemed to work, because whoever was looking for her had disappeared, leaving two very confused humans alone together in a dark alley, sweating in each other’s arms despite the cool day. The moment they never left each other’s eyes seemed like an eternity, but also only a second and they knew that it would not last, but they relished every single moment they could grasp just by studying each other’s faces. Both, Padmé and Obi-Wan had grown up over these past years apart, their faces matured and more intense as ever – their confidence was unwavering, but their hearts on the other hand…

An abrupt beep interrupted them, coming from Padmé’s comlink on her arm. Obi-Wan finally cleared his throat and they let each other go quite awkwardly, now failing to meet their own eyes.

“M’lady, are you there? Are you alright? Are you safe?” A deep male voice bellowed from the small speaker.

Padmé cleared her throat and realized she had to go back into reality, “Yes, Captain. I am alright, I ran into an old friend who happened to save my life.”

“I told you not to go alone…” He reasoned with her as calmly as he could, but still expressed his distress and worry.

“Captain, I can assure you that I am fine. I broke free from the cuffs, shot one down, and made sure the cruiser was destroyed… Then Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi was coincidentally in the area and came to my rescue.” She briefly looked up at the still-hooded man with a big grin, her bright teeth still shining in the darkness.

They could hear Captain Typho’s sigh over the intercom, “We have your location. Do you need us to come get you?”

“That will not be necessary, Captain.” Before Padmé could answer, the Jedi had already intervened, “I will escort her back to her apartment while you take security precautions necessary for the evening.”

“Thank you, Jedi Kenobi.”

“My pleasure,” He responded cheekily, with a smirk on his face as he turned to her, causing her to blush.

Is it possible that she got even more beautiful?

Padmé cleared her throat, “Amidala out.” She turned off the comlink and looked up at the man as he removed the hood over his head. His hair was longer than when she had seen him last at the senate building a couple of years ago… Oh, how things have changed.

Is it possible that he got even more handsome?

“Follow me to my ship, it’s just over there.” He pointed at the ship that was in front of the diner – his delta-7 starship that only had one seat to fit one passenger…

Padmé was having a very difficult time shielding herself with the façade of diplomacy and regality as more blood rushed to her cheeks, “Obi-Wan…” She trailed off, not wanting to touch the subject, “There is only one seat in your ship… There it would only be suitable for one person.”

“Now, now… Senator… Just because there is one seat does not mean it can only fit one person. There is plenty of room.”

He greeted his red astromech, R4, as he prepared the ship to use, opening the windowed dome to the cockpit bearing the single seat.

She shook her head, as she followed him. Raising her eyebrow, her voice was soaked with sarcasm, “You say that as if you speak from experience…”

Turning toward her, his deep blue eyes were open wide by surprise from her remark, “I’d never take any woman into my cockpit!”

Obi-Wan jumped in his seat, pressing the buttons and controls as he talked to R4 about where they were headed next, to her apartment. She had never had any man there before… Well, besides her staff, but that does not necessarily count… Clovis never came to her apartment either, she wanted her life to be separate from her work and… even personal matters. And Obi-Wan was not going to really come in, unless he wanted to, but he had other things to tend to, so he probably did not need to come inside.

“Are you going to stand there and glare at me or go home?” His Coruscanti accent was quite strong with his twisted sarcasm and humor, just as he used it with her years ago to make her laugh. It did make her smile, ever so slightly…

“Well…” She placed her fingers between her chin with a childish smirk, “It’s not every day a Senator gets to ride on a Jedi…”

Padmé neared the ship and proceeded to easily climb into the cockpit and into his lap without any struggle. She had managed to fit despite the many layers she wore and the large skirt that filled in the rest of whatever space remained for her to sit. Her back leaned into his warm, firm chest as she hugged her torso to prevent touching any of the buttons by mistake. Obi-Wan had no place to put his hands other than around her waist after he put on the headset to communicate with R4.

He could not use any of the controls to start the ship. There was only his droid, because she was in the way. Not that it really mattered, Obi-Wan would not have been able to concentrate on the controls with the beautiful woman in his lap anyways, so regardless it was better this way.

As the dome closed on top of them, they realized that the air was much warmer and stuffier than they had anticipated. For they were breathing and using the same air, and with their nervousness and close proximity to each other, the blood rushed throughout their bodies as the ship twirled through the skyscrapers of Coruscant. They did not really say a word, how could they in a time like this? They had never really been this close to each other before in such a…. particular way. It was rather awkward and yet, they both enjoyed it at the same time despite the fact they would never really realize or admit to it.

When Obi-Wan yelled at R4 to make a last minute turn, causing them to abruptly shift, he steadied her with his hands at her hips, making her almost tremble. But she looked back at him, knowing her headdress was in front of him the entire time. Little did she know how close they were once she turned, because their noses touched, causing both of them to nearly lose their breath. The startled Senator quickly turned around to face the front to avoid losing it, her headdress whacking him directly in the face, with a sharp slap causing him to yelp.

“Blast!” He cursed under his breath, loud enough for both the astromech and woman to hear.

R4 beeped as if they were laughing at the situation. However, Padmé felt truly terrible for what had just happened and carefully turned around to look at him again with sorrow in her eyes, “Obi-Wan! Please forgive me, I sometimes underestimate how large my hair can be in these pieces. I am usually not in close proximity to others like…” She trailed off as he sheepishly smiled at her, the youthfulness from their times on Naboo still present on his aged features, noticeable enough to where she almost lost her train of thought, “… this.”

“If you are going to look in a direction, choose one.” He stated as his lips were only a few centimeters from hers.

Padmé gulped nervously.

She had never kissed anyone with a beard before… Oh how she secretly wished to know what it would feel like!

Their eyes were interlocked for several seconds as they both debated about what they would do next, but the ship landed on her balcony with the Captain and her handmaidens waiting. In just an instant, they snapped back into their realities where she was a Senator and he was a Jedi. They felt each other’s emotions – they sensed it within their very core, yet they did not know how to address them.

How could they?

Everyone ran up to the ship to retrieve her as Obi-Wan helped her stand and climb down the ship. After they gathered her, he decided to step down and talk to Captain Typho about what had just happened in front of Rex’s Diner. But the beeping from his comlink prevented him from speaking.

Clicking the button, he greeted the caller, “Kenobi speaking.”

“Greetings, Kenobi. We were informed about the assassination attempt on Senator Amidala and that you were involved. Are both of you alright?” Master Mace Windu’s voice beamed from the comlink, full with flatness with just a hint of curiosity beneath the surface.

“Yes, Master. I was visiting an old friend during my down time and happened to be present when Senator Amidala jumped from the perpetrator’s speeder and I stopped her fall just in time.” Obi-Wan responded with clarity in his voice, glancing up at the Senator who was speaking with her handmaidens that were fixing her dress.

Without him knowing, she turned back to look at him standing against the cityscape in his Jedi robes, his face stern and serious.

Master Windu cleared his throat, almost as if he knew that Obi-Wan Kenobi was distracted. Focusing back on the current event at hand, the Jedi Master continued. “We just finished speaking with the Chancellor and he strongly suggested that a Jedi watch over her for the night until this situation is resolved. Since you happen to be a good friend and you are already at her quarters, the Council suggested that your presence be requested.”

“That is perfectly fine, Master. I am there now with Senator Amidala’s staff and security.”

“Good. We will be expecting you to brief the Council tomorrow morning. I’ll tell Skywalker you will not be back until tomorrow.”

Anakin.

“Master?” Obi-Wan hesitated about this, but he knew it was necessary to ensure that the boy would not be distracted… Or even jealous, “Make sure that Anakin does not know I am with the Senator.”

“Of course. This matter has only been discussed with the Chancellor and the Jedi Council. It is to remain secret.”

“Very well,” Obi-Wan nodded as he acknowledged Master Windu’s words, “Until then…”

“May the Force be will you, Master Kenobi.”

“You as well, Master Windu.” He bid him a farewell before the device beeped, signaling that he had left the conversation.

Obi-Wan Kenobi briefed Captain Typho about the situation as Padmé was taken away by her handmaidens to do gods knows what... But he could feel her anxiety from the other side of the apartment from the other side of the door to her bedroom, and even a sense of confusion? Regardless, he knew that this situation was quite a scare for her and if he had not been there at the right time, her jump could have ended her life.

Why did she do it? He thought. She must have done it knowing that her life would end upon impact… Unless she knew someone was going to be there and save her…

The Jedi shook his head at this nonsense. She was not force sensitive – doing something dangerous and life ending with the preeminent knowledge that someone would be there waiting to save her would give him that indication. But it was impossible… unless the Force was strong with her regardless of her sensitivity to it, which could have been the case. So maybe it was possible she was strong with the Force, but maybe in a different way.

The sun had begun its quick descent beyond the horizon, causing the polluted sky brimming with exhaust and aerosols to scatter the angled light just enough to portray yet another beautiful sunset with intense colors of pink and orange with lovely hints of salmon. It reminded him of that final sunset he saw during his last evening of Naboo – it was the last night he had spent with her after meeting on the Nubian space yacht destined for a no-good dust ball on the depths of the Outer Rim.

But watching her step out of her room in her casual attire of a silk nightdress with her natural caf-colored curls down the square of her back, he realized that even lovely things spring out of desolate places. It was then he had met a young queen who was mourning the state of her planet as she cleaned a droid that would become her friend, where he would sneak her a comlink so they could keep each other sane, only for him to realize who she really was – deep down. From the dust grew a beautiful rose of Naboo, a relationship they both treasured so much they did not want to water it too much, for it could die.

But the sparse moments they watered it were truly cherished, whether it be a brief smile upon passing each other in the Senate building or gardens or it be situations like this. They secretly treasured them despite all the chaos of the galaxy that abounded consistently in their lives. It was merely a friendship, nothing more, because attachments were forbidden.

Yet Obi-Wan Kenobi felt the roots go deeper more and more as time wore on and more water was added. The more he looked at her, the more roots there were in the barren soil, and he wondered how much more they could penetrate the earth until it was too attached for it to leave. He did not want to know, only that he was glad to see his friend grow into a politician that he actually admired and trusted with his life, and she hers.

He sat alone in the living space on leather couches facing one another as she discussed the security plans for the evening with her staff and handmaidens. There would be guards outside her door, but nothing more because the Jedi could sense all the presences in and around her apartment throughout the entirety of the night. He would need a lot of caf for this. Thanks to his friend, she introduced it to him on the way back from Tatooine to this very planet as his new Padawan slept under layers of blankets in the corner. He had been stealthily addicted ever since, well not addicted, but not having any caf in the morning entailed a morning full of headaches from fifteen year-old Anakin and he avoided them at all costs.

Once the beloved Senator dismissed the remaining of her reluctant staff, she retired to the living area to find her friend sitting on the couch with his eyes closed and hands on his lap – meditating on the spot. She turned around to leave him, but he opened his eyes to see her back.

“You are not intruding, Senator, do not worry.” He could not help but smile at her.

She returned the gesture, placing a curly lock behind her ear with the happiness in her sparkling eyes, “Alright.” She took a deep breath as her petite shoulders moved with her, “I think a day like this calls for some wine.”

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrow, surprised by her remark. She really was not the young woman he had met during a blockade crisis of Naboo. She was now the former queen of Naboo and the Senator of Naboo and the entire Chommell Sector – she was a full-fledged grown woman. It seemed she had moved on from an evening caf to an evening glass of wine. Not that he protested, he loved a good red wine on a quiet evening, but it would not be as satisfying on in evening in which he vowed to protect her. He could not let his guard down; however one glass could not hurt either of them, especially since they had a couple years of catching up to do since they saw each other last in the Senate building just a few months after she had started her term as Senator.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” he stretched his arms before standing and following her into her magnificent kitchen.

His ocean eyes widened at the sight of an entire wall dedicated to the storage of wine bottles. He did not blame her – if he was a Senator for the Galactic Republic, he was quite sure that it would quickly lead him to a rash spout of alcoholism. Caf would not be enough to alleviate stress; in fact sometimes the caffeine would cause more anxiety.

Padmé’s porcelain gown dragged on the marble floors of the kitchen as she partially pulled out bottles to observe the labels before putting them back. The pale off-white color of the gown contrasted her olive skin and dark hair, making her even more striking. Obi-Wan even noticed the bareness of her back as he followed behind her, making him catch his own breath. But he stopped himself, trying to be one with the Force as he watched her concentrate. Clicking her tongue and placing her hand on her chin, she was deep in thought, oblivious to Obi-Wan’s eyes and wanting to make sure that she found the best and oldest wine she had for her honored guest. Why? Because she did not want this assignment to seem like a burden or a job. If anything, the woman longed to see her friend again, for it to be like old times for his sake, for her sake.

After a few minutes, she eventually pulled out two bottles of red wine – most of her collection consisted of dark reds, which impressed the Jedi as he observed each of the bottles quite carefully. He could sense the conflict in her, not knowing which one to open first and he could not blame her. It was better seeing her stress over which bottle of wine to open over a vote in the Senate, which she obviously was not able to make, unless…

Oh, yeah. Jar Jar…

Looking at both of the bottles by the tilt of her head, she looked up at him and took a few steps closer, “What are you feeling? An Alderaanian dry red with hints of their mountain berries or a Naboo sweet red with hints of Theed nectar?”

Her. He involuntarily thought in his sub-consciousness before he could even stop it and he hated himself for it, truly.

Jedi must not form attachments. He told himself over and over again.

He was so deep in his thoughts that Padmé stepped even closer to him to get in his view, “Obi-Wan? Did you hear me? Are you alright?”

Startled, he focused on her lovely face again, “I gravely apologize, Senator.” He ran his fingers through his longer hair – Oh, she wondered what it would be like to run hers through it… “I think a wine from your home planet is in order. I have heard the vineyards of the Naboo hills are the talk of the galaxy and the wine is quite difficult to come by…”

“The sweet red it is!” She held up the bottle and placed the other one back with a clink of glass hitting the wood before she found the cabinet with the wine glasses, only they were too high for her to reach. Before she could ask Obi-Wan to reach for them, he had beaten her to it. His chest pressed against her bare back and entire body, causing her to instinctively shiver from his touch.

He stepped back before anything else could flood him with emotion – he couldn’t, he wouldn’t.

Padmé walked past him and towards the living room with a jaunt in her step, ready to taste the sweet liquid once again and to finally relax with a familiar, warm presence. The moment she opened the bottle, the aromas filled the room and she closed her eyes, envisioning herself in Varykino in the Naboo Lake Country. But she opened them, realizing who was there with her, his deep blue eyes searching for her. She had not been home in nearly two years, and had tried to find it here in her apartment and taking strolls through a myriad of gardens on the upper-levels of the planet. Yet for the first time in a long time, she looked at the man in front of her and felt like she was finally home.

And she hadn’t seen him in years!

She told herself that she was crazy as she opened the bottles and poured both of the glasses nearly to the top.

Kenobi realized how much was in there and knew it was too much, “Senator…” He attempted to protest, but she handed him a glass with a warm smile.

“Obi-Wan, I really would appreciate it if you would not call me that. You are not a colleague.” She held up the full glass, the red liquid glimmering in the light.

“To staying alive,” she declared, making a toast.

“And outsmarting the capturers every time.” He added to her statement with a smirk, raising his glass to clink against her own.

And they drank – more than a glass of wine. Enough to tap into the second bottle they had considered. They talked and laughed about Anakin’s rashness and cockiness, not to make fun of him, but to see how he had grown up and how he still was a kid before everything fell apart. Slowly, but surely they gradually moved closer to one another sipping and sipping like the night was not supposed to end. Obi-Wan actually had a high tolerance of red wine, but after this glass it was enough. His duty came first and he most importantly knew that given the circumstances before him.

He was not sure if it was the aroma of the wine or her, but whatever it was, it was entirely intoxicating to the point where he could not stop inhaling it. He wanted more and more. It also seemed that the Senator had a high tolerance, too, as if she had been drinking bottles of wine quite frequently by herself, which she would not ever admit to. She was not an alcoholic, per se, but she knew how to hold down her alcohol quite well. Both had consumed enough to the point where they were blatantly open with each other, talking about previous affairs, particularly Satine.

“Did you ever sleep with her?” She asked him.

He looked at the last of the glass, regretting many things he wished had done with Satine, the woman he would never admit that he loved. It plagued him every single day, “Never even kissed her.”

Padmé turned her head as if she was studying him, “Have you ever kissed anyone?” She asked quite honestly, sincerity etched into her deep brown eyes.

Obi-Wan did not want to admit this, for he felt too embarrassed to talk of these personal things in front of her when she had so much more experience. His lack of response gave her a clear answer, “Not even platonically? Like a friend?”

He sighed, placing the unfinished glass on the caf table in front of them, their faces close, “No.”

Everything about her was tempting at this point. It took everything within his being to think of anything else, or even distract himself. Obi-Wan even used the Force to try to get a grip, yet it did not let him. Suddenly he was slipping. He wondered how soft her skin was or whether she had anything on under her silk gown, but he quickly snapped out of it. However, it was not fast enough for her not to notice the feelings stirring within him – the temptation.

He had so many regrets in his life when it came to the woman he loved – and one of his closest friends was here with him now, this would probably be the only moment he would ever have to experience something like this with a woman so beautiful. The Jedi was tired of dwelling on the past and desperately needed to focus on what was in front of him.

She was stressed because people were always after her life and because she felt like the democracy she had been fighting for was being compromised because of the disputes across the galaxy. He had the ‘Chosen One’ to train. There was a sense of tension that had built up over the years and they needed this – two friends releasing steam.

She neared him, her finished glass in her hand, smelling of Naboo roses and sweet wine, drawing him closer and closer to the point where there was no control. They were in the middle of a grass field in the midst of the worst drought in centuries, yet they ignited a match that caused a fire burning bigger than they could have possibly imagined. No amount of water would quench it.

Their eyes never left each other, their breaths harsh as their hearts hammered in their chests, the fire made it unbearably hot beyond their belief.

It was just lust, that’s all it was.

Or was it?

“Obi-Wan?” She looked at him, her eyes serious as she wondered whether she was crossing any boundaries. Padmé feared that she had ruined whatever friendship they had by asking too many intimate and personal questions to the friend she trusted the most.

Even in the end, when she could not even trust her husband years later.

But he already knew, what she was asking before she even said anything. They were good friends, and that was all it was. There was no attachment other than the memories of friendship they had over the years. Who knew when he would see her next?

Before he could respond to her, his soft lips desperately crashed into hers as his beard tickled the crevices of her face, her arms wrapping around his neck as she was taken by surprise from his gesture – it was firm yet, sweet, making it even more intoxicating than the wine they drank. However, she tasted better than the sweet wine and it was nothing like he had ever experienced before, leaving him wanting more and more. Her fingers restlessly rummaged through his red, thick hair as their lips never left each other. He opened his mouth wishing to taste more and more of the forbidden fruit and she obliged, the fire burning within her as his hand lingered on the strap of her gown, slowly drifting towards her supple breast.

Moving the strap down her shoulder, her single breast was revealed to him, making the blood in his body rush somewhere he had not felt in quite some time. She was addictive and he could not get enough. Soon his lips traveled off of her lips to her jaw, soft caressing her with each one, leaving a permanent burning mark as he moved to her neck, down to her collarbone and to her nipple, which the overtly sensitive skin hardened from the contact as he gently sucked her.

She could not help but release an instinctive moan as she tightened the grip of his longer hair, as no man had ever done this to her before.

She wanted him.

He wanted her.

No strings attached.

And they thought they weren’t breaking the rules.

#obidala #obi wan x padme #obi wan smut #obidala is real #star wars fanfiction #padme x obi wan #padme deserved better #padme smut

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taotrooper · 5 years

Text

Colorful horizon

Title: Colorful horizon Series: Mo Dao Zu Shi Pairing: wangxian Summary: Wei Wuxian wants to make Lan Wangji's life more fun, so he decides to make kites just for them. An afternoon together teaching his husband how to fly a kite under the breeze of a perfect sky, smiles and song and words of love on their lips, proves to be truly special. Notes: For visual aids, this is the novel's description of WWX's kite back in Yunmeng. There are more pics of pretty Chinese kites that inspired me on the AO3 link.

🍃 On AO3

"What a cruel man," he pretended to be offended. "I worked for three days and you mock my beast. Is it too silly to you? Too tacky? Too childish?"

"No," Lan Wangji replied. "It is in fact extremely well done."

"Well, I would hope so. Then why did you laugh at it?"

"It suits Wei Ying."

Silence fell. Wei Wuxian frowned. He turned the head around and leveled its large eyes with his. While it was a great dragon-like creature, that wasn't exactly a beautiful animal. Unbelievable. Lan Zhan was teasing him once more!

"It is lively and bright and loud," his husband continued. "It takes the entire sky, fills it with color and horror, and it's impossible to look away. It suits you."

************

Wei Wuxian leaned back. He stared at his work and sighed in relief. His nimble fingers were covered in ink, paint of every possible hue, paper cuts, and even splinters after hours of work. The desk was a real mess that could attest to the intense creative process. However, it was worth the effort if he could say so himself. Not bad for his first and second attempts at this craft! It wasn't as gentle as Shijie's brushwork or as sturdy as Uncle Jiang's frame, true, but he felt pride in his chest as he raised both toys to the light for a final inspection.

But would the elegant Hanguang-Jun consider them worthy?

'Well,' he thought with a cheeky grin, 'he ended up liking me. His taste isn't that graceful or refined as he'd like to think.' He couldn't wait to see his beloved's reaction to those masterpieces.

The crazier the kites, the more fun you have flying and shooting them. That's just a fact.

************

The wide blue sky over his head was clear, with barely some white clouds spread across. Yet the wind was both gentle enough to refresh the summer heat, and strong enough to lift anything weightless —the grass under his boots, the clothes he was wearing, hopefully papercraft— into a disarray. In short, it was the perfect afternoon to fly a kite.

A strangely-shaped white shape moved closer and closer into the azure. As it reached the little valley, it was evident to the eyes that it was but a man. Patterns of blue clouds were embroidered into his white garb. For Wei Wuxian, the sight of that beauty warmed him more than the sun and shook him more than a gale.

Lan Wangji effortlessly unmounted his sword with a poised hop and pulled Wei Wuxian into his embrace right away. They joined lips, ignoring the distracting weather and taking their time to kiss in bliss.

"Did you wait long?"

"An eternity! What took you so long, Lan Zhan?"

"I was punctual."

"But I was early for once and I missed you..." A pout was quickly replaced by a mischievous laughter. "Ah, no matter, it's okay! You're mine for the rest of the day."

Lan Wangji tilted his neck to try to look at the pouch Wei Wuxian hid behind his back. "Will you tell me what you've planned, Wei Ying?"

It was natural he was curious. Three days of secret work, locked in a corner of the Library Pavilion, fingernails red and golden underneath. Of course his husband knew he was scheming and preparing something special, with this little date as the culmination of his labor. Anyone else would have been concerned to see the Yiling Patriarch crafting anything at all, yet Lan Wangji gave him space and trusted him, and never demanded to be told what that was about.

"Yeah, now I can say!" the devious artisan grinned. "We're flying kites! I made us some really cool ones since we didn't have any. Let's play, Lan Zhan."

Lan Wangji blinked in surprise. "Mn," he just said before reaching again for a final soft peck that made the other one purr.

Reluctant, Wei Wuxian let go and opened his pouch wide. He offered it to Lan Wangji, who took it. "Hold it, I need both hands to get them out."

After some rummage, Lan Wangji's eyes opened wide as a red monstrosity came out of the bag. It was all face and tail, the longest kite he had ever seen. The head was almost as large as a human's, with sharp horns and fierce eyebrows on top, bulging eyes, pig-like nostrils, and tusks coming out of a huge open mouth. While the base paint job was crimson, a plethora of vibrant colors adorned the flying beast's semblance.

Even though it should have looked intimidating or majestic, Lan Wangji's lips curved upwards and the softest chuckles were born and died in his throat in an instant. Wei Wuxian was left breathless, any outrage gone by the joy he felt, by the miracle that was making the stoic Hanguang-Jun laugh.

"What a cruel man," he pretended to be offended. "I worked for three days and you mock my beast. Is it too silly to you? Too tacky? Too childish?"

"No," Lan Wangji replied. "It is in fact extremely well done."

"Well, I would hope so. Then why did you laugh at it?"

"It suits Wei Ying."

"It is lively and bright and loud," his husband continued. "It takes the entire sky, fills it with color and horror, and it's impossible to look away. It suits you."

Whether he was saying it earnestly or trying to fix his comment to hurt Wei Wuxian's feelings less, the latter didn't know. He gaped, looked at his husband, looked back at the kite, and looked up again. He decided not to say that not only the design wasn't his, but also Jiang Cheng's kite was basically the same with slightly different colors.

"So... do you really like it?"

"Mn. It's perfect."

Beaming, and the weight in his stomach loosened a bit, Wei Wuxian turned the kite around and made the beast's mouth give a little nudge on Lan Wangji's cheek.

"Are you ready to see your own kite?"

Lan Wangji's face didn't change, but his shoulders tensed.

"Hahahaha, don't be alarmed! I made something completely different for you! Something pretty, I promise! Let me take it out."

Wei Wuxian put down the red beast on the ground and rummaged inside the pouch again. It didn't take him that long to fetch it, but he stalled and kept moving his arms for a while to increase the suspense. After building enough expectation, he pulled it out and rose it to Lan Wangji's face's level.

"Take it! It's yours now!"

Lan Wangji grabbed it with the utmost care, as if it was made of glass or silk instead, and glanced at it. The kite was larger than the targets that sect disciples and civilian children flew, but was still a more conventionally shaped kite than the beast. Bird shapes were already a current popular motive. Lan Wangji's kite was a rooster, which wasn't that usual nonetheless. It had a white body, a red comb on the upper tip, and a colorful tail made with long strips of different papers which simulated feathers. Its eyes and beak were painted. Its wings were part of the shape of the sail.

By itself, the rooster was quite beautiful. But Wei Wuxian didn't leave it there. Over the bird's body and wings, he had painted flower designs. Large pink peonies with small blue gentians around them, decorated the otherwise jade white canvas.

Lan Wangji's eyes shone bright like gold, full of emotion and wonder. With his free hand, he slid delicately his fingers across the paper, stopping on each of the peonies with tenderness. Wei Wuxian could see with delight that the tip of his ears had turned to a softer shade than those flowers'.

He didn't need to ask if Lan Wangji liked it.

"I told you it was pretty, see?" he said instead. "I gave it a lot of thought, and I think it suits you. Are you pleased with this kite, Lan Zhan?"

"Very much so," Lan Wangji spoke in a whisper, his eyes fixated on his present, on the tail feathers. "Wei Ying, it's gorgeous."

The weight in Wei Wuxian's stomach was completely gone, replaced with satisfaction. He would cherish Lan Zhan's delighted reaction forever in his memories.

"Why a rooster, of all things?"

Wei Wuxian contained a laughter. He saw that question coming and he was prepared. Of course, he couldn't just say it was because his husband had stolen two chickens the third time he had gotten drunk with him, therefore giving him a chicken kite was a highly amusing idea to him. Instead, he just pointed out at the toy.

"Turn it around and you'll see the answer."

On one of the bamboo sticks of the frame, there were three characters engraved in the wood. They read 'Lan Wangji', except wang was written with the character for watch, and ji was written with the character for chicken and rooster. As soon as Lan Wangji groaned at the pun, Wei Wuxian couldn't take it anymore and sat on the grass next to his own kite, holding his belly as he cackled.

There were so many layers to that rooster joke. Cocks, obviously —and a quality Wei Wuxian admired in his man. Not to mention, in a more serious sense, that it was a lucky, auspicious animal that symbolized wisdom, goodness, loyalty, and courage —all qualities Wei Wuxian admired in his man. It was really easy to keep the connection fun without making Lan Zhan losing face. Lan Wangji crouched next to him and held his shaking waist gently, waiting in silence for his fit to end.

"Come on," said Wei Wuxian afterwards as he took the hand offered to lift himself up. "Let's fly these handsome babies before the wind goes away."

"Mmn."

Wei Ying then took the pouch again and started to take out the two sets of bows and quivers. Lan Wangji tensed up again, his face looking angry and dismayed.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think? It's to shoot them."

"No."

"You do know, right?" Wei Wuxian threw his arms in the air, exasperated at the curt, stubborn negative. "It's an archery target game, right?"

"...You worked hard on them!"

"They can be fixed or made again. Shijie took care of ours all the time."

Lan Wangji fiercely protected the rooster in his arms as if it were a masterpiece, very much like his drunken self with the actual birds. "Nonetheless, I refuse to damage it."

"..."

They glanced at each other. Wei Wuxian understood: he saw it as a mere toy but it was something he made for Lan Wangji, who treasured everything related to the man he loved with zeal. It was just unthinkable to open holes in them. With that point of view, he felt a tug in his heart and he offered a conciliating smile while he put the bows back in the pouch. Time for a compromise.

"You win, Lan Zhan. There are other games we can play anyway: which one flies it for the longest time, or which can reach higher. And we can just be boring and look at them! That's nice, too."

"Mn." Lan Wangji had the hint of a smile in his eyes.

Wei Wuxian put his arms around Lan Wangji's shoulders. "Next time I'm bringing a few little cyclopes we can shoot into shreds. I kinda want to see which of us does better. You will shoot normal training kites, right?"

"I will, yes."

"Good boy!" He dived for a long kiss, licking his husband's lower lip before breaking apart. "Now let me show you how it's done by a true kite champion."

Lan Wangji followed his instructions carefully and emulated the way he had to run with nothing short of perfection. The rooster shot upwards and did well at first, but after he stopped in one spot it started to jerk down in the changing currents of gust.

"Do I give it more line?" he asked, glancing at the spool in his hands.

"Yeah but put... Ah, it's more complicated than that. Hold on, let me..."

Wei Wuxian quickly went and positioned himself behind his husband. He cupped each of his hands with his own, and gently moved his arms into the correct position.

"Like this, Er-gege," he murmured into flushing ears. And it would've been tender and erotic to fly the kite like this together for a while, their hands intertwined and their bodies against each other, but the breeze had another ideas. Lan Wangji's perfect silky mane was whipping against Wei Wuxian's face, not allowing him to see ahead or talk without eating hair.

He would be really annoyed if that hair didn't smell like sandalwood. He couldn't stay mad at that soothing scent. After some chuckles and coughs, he broke contact for a moment in order to grab the hair and shove it under Lan Wangji's collar. Then the lesson resumed until the kite was stabilized and the other man had learned the basics. As good as the embrace was, Wei Wuxian was itching to fly his own creation.

Soon a black-garbed man ran across the green, and a big red creature rose up behind him across the blue. Wei Wuxian managed to move so he stood up right next to Lan Wangji, but with enough space for the two kites.

"Lan Zhan~"

"Wei Ying?"

They glanced at each other, but careful not to leaving the kites completely unsupervised.

"First time flying a kite?"

"Mn."

"Have you shot kites, though?"

"I have. Archery training with moving targets is a group activity for junior disciples."

"But as a class, I assume? Not as a game with the other kids during your free time?"

"Indeed."

Just as he thought. He didn't expect Lan Wangji to share that common childhood experience. That was the real reason that drove him to get paper, scissors, paint, bamboo, string; to make something both fun and beautiful for a wonderful person who craved, deep down, for childish excitement he never had.

That, and the fact that during their drinking session last week, an inebriated Lan Wangji had demanded for kites after seeing children playing during the day. Wei Wuxian couldn't provide even one in the middle of the night and distracted him with a hide-and-seek game. Even if in the morning his husband had forgotten, he couldn't.

"Haha, look!" Wei Wuxian smirked and pointed above. "My red fury is flying higher than your white cock! I'm winning."

"Mn."

Lan Wangji was now looking at the kites closely. Even though the face remained with the same serious expression, he was mesmerized by the two figures. There was a happy shine in his eyes that told Wei Wuxian that he did not mind if he wasn't victorious. The same shine was in Wei Wuxian's eyes with that sight, infectious and endearing.

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan!"

"Wei Ying?"

"You're having fun, aren't you?"

"Yes. More challenging to keep it balanced than I thought."

An overwhelming emotion of joy filled Wei Wuxian's already puffed chest. Lan Wangji was having fun.

"Yeah, it's way less dull than I thought. And you're doing amazing for your first time, Lan Er-gege. Talented in everything he does, that's my husband."

"I have a talented instructor," Lan Wangji replied. Wei Wuxian guffawed, his cheeks flustered. Ah, that Lan Zhan was getting better and better at flirting and quips. His heart couldn't take it.

"Oh, yeah? I heard he was a champion or something."

He glanced again at Lan Wangji's direction, who had said all that without taking his eyes off his kite. Wei Wuxian's eyes wandered to his man's hands and how he was unwinding the line slowly, with care and dexterity. Then he dropped his voice to a hoarser tone. "Honestly, I wish I were that kite, to feel your fingers all over my spool until you take me to the heavens."

Lan Wangji almost dropped his kite, but he quickly recovered.

"Shameless."

"Ahahahaha!"

"...I will do that later."

"I know you will, my sweet Lan Zhan," he winked. "And I will make you fly so high as well, but let's play for a while while it's windy. After all my efforts to make these guys for us."

"Mn, let's."

He noticed that Lan Wangji was now looking at him with longing eyes.

"Are you envious of my kite, too?"

His husband didn't answer for a few seconds, weighing the question. "No need. You're the wind underneath my sail."

It was the red beast's turn to shake violently. He pouted, his face matching his own toy in color. "Argh, Lan Zhan! You're definitely doing it on purpose! And he has the audacity to call me shameless?"

But despite his complaints, this was truly happiness for Wei Wuxian. As he recovered altitude, a few notes from a tune that always calmed him against all turmoil came out of his lips, resonating in his throat and chest. Lan Wangji hummed back the following notes. It sounded so natural in his velvety deep voice, just like that time over a decade ago when the song was born out of reluctant young love in bloom. Wei Wuxian joined him for the next verse, and they kept singing along in an improvised duet.

The playful breeze made everything sway to the melody. The vibrant tails of the kites danced. Wei Wuxian's red ribbon and Lan Wangji's white forehead ribbon danced. The sleeves of their robes, their hair as dark as ink, the green grass around them. Even their souls danced to the wind and the music.

When the sky exploded in the soft colors of twilight and it was too late to play, they packed the kites; it was their time to glide in the air. Balanced on top of Bichen, Lan Wangji carried Wei Wuxian in his arms all the way home, both enjoying the sunset. Wei Ying's head rested on his beloved's shoulders. They couldn't wait to unravel in each other's hands, to make the other one reach those familiar heights.

#mo dao zu shi #wangxian #wei wuxian #lan wangji #$fanfic

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queermequeeryou · 5 years

Photo

Rubi was lying in her bed, awaken by early rays of sun that were playing around. She did not want to continue sleeping but neither she stood up. She was focusing her gaze on the beautiful woman that was sleeping next to her. She felt very happy that Angie was so close and that they met again, after five years to be reunited in a new way. Rubi admired her boldness to fight for being real. They were very often talking about her transition process and Angie was always eager to open up to her even though nobody besides her father knew about the fact she was transgender. Later on, they have also decided to tell Rubi’s parents and as expected, they had no issue with that at all. They were well-educated and their daughter’s sexual preferences or gender identity of her fiancé were not important to them as long as she was happy. Rubi was thinking of officially proposing but she was already treating Angélica very seriously and was referring to her as ‘my fiancé”. She was sure her future was with her. When Angie woke up she kissed her good morning and they talked a bit about their plans for the upcoming weekend. Usually, Angie was not staying over for the night when Dolores Johnson was at home but this time she went away as well because she has had a painting session in Barcelona with her friends. That was a Friday morning but they have had a day free of theatre therefore they decided to have a cozy night before their trip to Seville. “I love you, Angie” said Rubi and kissed her girlfriends cheek. I tasted fresh and sweet. Rubi loved her natural smell which reminded her of their acting school times when everything seemed to be easy and careless because they were teenagers. “I’m so lucky that my love is mutual” she replied with a smile. “I will put on my makeup and prepare some breakfast for us”. She woke up but Rubi stopped her and held her hand gazing into her eyes. Rubi knew that Angie still had these doubts sometimes about being feminine enough. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world and I’m the luckiest one” said Rubi and kissed Angie’s hand.

They spent the morning lazily, eating and packing up for the trip. They worked till late hours yesterday because they were acting in a play. Shortly after midday, Rubi got her oldtimer, classic car out of the garage and they got on the road to Seville. They could not wait for this time. They always treasured this short weekend travels. Rubi put on a cassette. It was Bryan Ferry’s “Boys and Girls” album from 1985. Since Rubi could remember she has always had a taste in vintage things. That suited her perfectly. The weather was quite hot therefore she was wearing a colorful, oversize shirt and elegant suit pants. She packed her suit anyway as they were planning to go out in the evening. Angie was in a beautiful, summer dress, with flowery print on it. She decided to read a book as she used to do regularly. Sometimes, she read out loud so Rubi could also hear the story but sometimes like today, the butch was more into thinking mood. She got into the rhythm and smoke a cigarette. She was not a regular smoker but sometimes she was letting herself engage in this guilty pleasure. That song that have just started she loved a lot. “Slave to love”. It reminded her of impossible perfection, of first time she used to dance with Angie looking how her hips was smoothly moving while she was getting carried away in the rhythm of the song. However, she usually did not think about Angélica in particular when she was listening to it. Sometimes, she got reminiscences of heating times however not only with her. She was seeing in her mind some girls she met for one time in New York. She was recalling her previous girlfriends. This song was a definition of guilty pleasure for her.

When they arrived to Seville, they went to leave their luggage in the hotel room. First sight of the city has made them very excited to explore it therefore they quickly freshened up and went out. They started with a dinner. It was about four p.m when they were eating pasta and talking like always. Afterwards, they decided to attend the exhibition in Centro Andaluz de Arte Contemporáneo - Andalucian Museum of Contemporary Art. Soledad Sevilla’s installations has made Rubi feel indifferent and alone inside which was strange but she used to engage herself deeply in art. When they finished the tour, they had a coffee in the museum café) and discussed about their impressions. They both decided it was very touching and impressive as well as the other exhibitions that were on. Rubi has bought herself a Soledad Sevilla’s catalogue and Borges’ book “El Aleph” she was meaning to read for ages. Angie chose Caravaggio album in English. Then, they went for a long walk through the Real Alcázar gardens. Rubi has taken many beautiful shots of her love and they done few polaroids as well. They were definitely amused by Seville’s beauty. In the evening they went back to the apartment to change clothes and prepare for the night out. Rubi has put on her beautiful, dapper suit in black and matching suspenders. She looked elegant and handsome. Angie chose a red, shiny dress on straps. It was very much giving the 90s vibes. Alongside she had black high heels and huge, gold hoop earrings. She did not put a lot of makeup - she just done eyeliner, glued eyelashes and used a lip gloss. They had a light salad because they have eaten their lunch late today but did not want to have drinks with empty stomachs.

They decided to go to the quite common burlesque club to see a show and drink there. They wanted to go to an elegant place, not just dance to modern radio hits. They just got inside and Rubi has already enjoyed. The smooth music, velvet sofas and lightning - everything was perfectly fitting her taste. Angie ordered martini, Rubi took jack on the rocks - their classic choices. When she turned over she realized a sophisticated looking lady in a black pencil skirt, white shirt, with hair tied into a bun and lips painted sharp red. She was sipping a Manhattan and was looking at her. The elegance of this woman overwhelmed Rubi. She felt the heat running through her as she could not take away her gaze. “I will go to the bathroom” said Angie and left her for a moment. Rubi was staring from distance as that woman untied one of the buttons of her shirt showing how perfectly aware of being observed she was. Another sip of whiskey. Rubi could not simply leave this situation at that. It was too much to resist. She went to the bar close to the lady and asked for same drink. “Enjoying the show?” asked surprisingly the woman while fixing her hair. “I have just arrived but so far it seems to be pretty impressive frankly speaking” replied Rubi and took her drink. “You’re not from Seville, are you?” her stare was strong, flirtatious, hard to get away from but at the same time it seemed like a regular behaviour. “No. I’m from Madrid” replied Rubi catching woman’s gaze, switching it from her eyes to her cleavage. The lady laughed boldly. The butch took her wallet in order to pay but she held her hand. It was warm and strong. “That’s on the house, darling” she said and took away her hand. “Blanca. I’m the owner of this place”. Rubi felt even more heat than before. The touch of her palm seemed to not be fading away. Rubi could not stop looking into her eyes, she wanted everything but her to disappear for a moment. “It’a s pleasure to meet you. I’m Rubi” she said finally. Blanca put her hand on Rubi’s shoulder. “Enjoy your night” she said in a tempting voice but went away giving a look to Angie who has just came from the toilet. Perfect timing, she was not able to realize anything has happened during her absence. “Come on, the next performance is going to start in seconds” Angélica was having fun already and she liked the place a lot. They were able to find a seat very close to the scene and the gig has started. A young, brunette girl, very Dita Von Teese style was dancing in the streams of water and golden glitter to a song “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell. It was a very good number. Then, Blanca went on stage to greet everybody. Her look rested on a butch woman again. She realized she was looking at her cautiously as well despite the fact her beautiful girlfriend was leaning on her shoulder and holding her hand. When a lady was getting off the stage, Rubi saw that Blanca was wearing stockings and a tiny bit of the buckle was visible underneath the skirt. The next gig was announced and about to start. That was a woman, about forty years old, very attractive and she was dancing using a chair to a song “When The Doves Cry” by Prince. Blanca sat in the first row where there was also two other women, her producer and a director. The performer had her hair pinned which made her look quite similar to Blanca. As she was taking of her clothes on stage she also took off a clip from her hair. Rubi realized how Blanca was looking at the performer and she saw the lust in her eyes. However, she heard the owner was married with a man. It all continued til the point where the dancer was having just a lower, heavily embroidered lingerie and two decorative things covering her nipples in the same silver shade as the clip was. Few more gigs were also intriguing but not that memorable for Rubi. When the show finished, Angie started to clap her hand energetically. “It was great!” she said to Rubi. “Thank you for taking me here”. She smiled and started giving her kisses. Blanca was watching them as Rubi has observed. The lady was putting on long, transparent gloves and probably about to leave. The butch felt a stroke of pain and disappointment in her heart. Blanca stood up, took her bag and went out. “Now, I need to go to the toilet, excuse me” Rubi said to Angie and followed a woman instead. She caught her outside lighting a cigarette. They looked at each other for a moment. Rubi came closer to her and to her surprise heard that Blanca’s heart was beating heavily and she immediately took a step back as like being afraid of something. She recollected herself though, looked around and not seeing much people outside got back to the same position. “You followed me?” she asked in the same provocative tone. “I wanted to see you before you left” said Rubi focusing her eyes on a lady. “Certainly, you wanted to see me” Blanca accented the phrase ‘see me’ and inhale some smoke towards Rubi. Blanca took her hand again looking at her rings. “You have beautiful signets. They look very elegant. Are you a model or something?” she asked massaging her hand softly meanwhile. “I’m an actor” said Rubi and saw a smile of satisfaction in Blanca’s eyes. “So am I. Or at least I used to be. Now, I just run things, keep them in order. And sometimes get new talents to the spotlight. Like those talented girls from tonight but I also have a little theatre.” “Are you suggesting me a job?” Blanca laughed in the same bold manner again. “Suggesting you a job. You’re so vain. I like this. Cocky people make the best artists. I would say, you can come and see. We do auditions all the time. You can just come there and say you are interested. Because we believe in talent and we give opportunities but we rarely hire people. It requires a lot. I don’t know if you have it but something tells me you could” she inhaled and exhaled her cigarette again. “Whenever you’ll be in Seville next time, maybe without your girlfriend then because the audition is long and we don’t allow guests. Also, we do plays part-time, it’s not like a 9-5 job so it doesn’t require living there. We usually have rehearsals on the weekends and after preparations a premiere and few other times when we play it also during the weekends. We have two actors from Madrid as far as I remember” that was insane how much class, charisma and sophistication Blanca had. “I will come definitely” replied Rubi still looking into her eyes. “Well, so I guess I’ll see you that time” Blanca was about to leave when Rubi put a hand on her waist and with other took her cheek closer, then giving her a passionate kiss. When she finished, Blanca looked at her and gave her a slap. She looked around though and then gave back the kiss. Rubi touched her face again wanting to continue kisses like in a trance but Blanca licked her finger instead while looking deeply into her eyes. Then, she moved away her hand. “See you next time” said the lady and left. Rubi did not know how much time has passed but she had to come back and look for Angie.

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maedarakat · 7 years

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Forced marriage tuff and dagur 💍

For Whump!Prompts: (Forced Marriage)

—–

As far as letters went from the Berserker tribe, this one was completely confounding. A real conundrum. Not to mention a huge step backwards for Viqueendom-kind. Which may or may have not been an actual word, but that was beside the point.

All this time thinking that Dagur was maybe a decent guy, not to mention completely awesome and terrifying, with a great laugh … and for what? So he could prove to be an utter creep?

Tuffnut’s eyes narrowed as he read over the letter again. The same letter that demanded his sister’s arrival for a Berserker wedding, along with her hope chest full of embroidered napkins and quilts and tailored clothing (as if she could even thread a needle let alone sew; he did all the sewing!) and a wedding dress fit for a Chieftain’s bride.

Poor Ruffnut had been crying since she’d heard the news - his poor dear sister was beside herself once again, not wanting to live a violent, short, but likely happy life on an island of crazy Berserkers without getting a choice in the matter.

Their own parents had orchestrated this entire thing; clearly gouging Dagur for a bride price, since Ruff was the only Viking maiden on Berk not yet betrothed. Apparently the pressure had mounted on him to find a wife, since Oswald was in Valhalla.

Tuff felt for the guy, he really did, but he didn’t see why Ruffnut’s own freedom and happiness had to be dragged down the latrine as well. This was all boar-dung! Not only had his parents turn a deaf ear to his protests (which he delivered by song, stridently and off-key at their bedroom door, all night) but Stoick had not helped either.

“Son,” the man had said, putting a hand on Tuff’s shoulder. “Our tribe needs allies more than ever, and so do the Berserkers. Dagur’s people have had a long hard road to recovery, and they want to see their young chieftain settled down and married. It’s time for Dagur to start a new life and family of his own, and he chooses to do that so his own sister won’t have to take in the burden of being the sole heiress of her tribe. He’s doing this so Heather can marry for love, rather than duty.”

“Oh, wow, good for him! He’s doing it for his sister, so mine can just eat a whole load of spotted ice pike, I guess,” Tuff had ranted, not soothed at all. He’d stormed off after that, and Stoick had let him, knowing he’d come around eventually.

In an awful way, it made sense. Tuff couldn’t pretend he would do the same for his sister, if their roles were reversed - give up his own happiness, marry Heather and ruin her life, just to spare Ruffnut any and all possible disappointments.

He thought about that for a while, and finally realized what he had to do.

—–

The kohl, honestly, was the grossest stuff that had ever gotten in or near his eyes, and that wasn’t counting the many bugs that had drowned in those gray storm-cloud irises. It gave him a slightly raccoonish look, as though he’d been the one crying all week, and he was worried the powdered lip color was the wrong shade as well.

At the very least, his dress was totally on point, and he’d had Dogsbreath help him with his hair - tying it up in a bun, with beautifully carved yak bone pins holding it in place. It had taken some work to comb out his matted locks, not to mention endless egg shampoos to get it clean, before it fell past his shoulders to his backside - ending in soft and natural curls.

Tuff had even put some flowers and last minute embroidery on his dress and veil, then sweet-talked Thuggory (who didn’t recognize him at all) into lashing the hope chest to a Nadder’s saddle. He didn’t want to ruin his dress, after all, or deprive Ruff of Barf’s company, though it nearly rent his soul in twain to say goodbye to Belch. Not to mention Chicken, though he knew his little fricasse had found herself a new family.

Just like he was going to have to make for himself, unless he could be so awful and utterly heartless that Dagur would want to divorce him. Hmm. Yeah, Tuff was fairly certain he could give that option a try.

He’d left a note for Ruff before he left. Hopefully she’d get the hint and mess up her hair, take up an insane personality and bad-smelling lifestyle. She’d have to; otherwise the jig was up, no matter how feminine Tuff could make himself.

He arrived on Berserker an hour before the wedding, narrowing his eyes as he saw Dagur standing at the decorated battlements, where Ruff had been directed to land. He reached down before he landed to yank on the ropes tying the hope chest in place, and was darkly satisfied to hear Dagur’s frightened yelp as the heavy cedar box nearly landed on his head.

It landed with a crash as Dagur nimbly leapt out of the way, but didn’t splinter, built sturdy enough to survive a lifetime of Nutt antics.

The Nadder landed smoothly, more or less, and Tuff spent a moment to make sure his hair and makeup were in place before gathering up the trails of his wedding dress and hopping down.

Dagur was standing there just staring at him, rather than hastening to help him down - the big oaf. Tuff had to remind himself that Ruff wouldn’t care about that sort of thing and just smoothed out his dress, sighing. “So,” he asked, trying to sound like his twin. “Where’s the big shindig at, anyway? And how much food are we talking?”

“Ruffnut, there’s … something I gotta say first.” Dagur was approaching, gazing at him with the saddest greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Oh boy. Where was this going?

“I know this wasn’t - that I wasn’t your first choice. Your parents are likely forcing you to do this, your brother and his Chicken probably hate me, and I’m sure when Heather gets back from her journey following our father’s notes, and finds out I married you without your singular permission, she’ll throw me off the highest peak of the island. But please hear me out - a wedding is what my tribe needs to heal. To move on past the wounds that life has … ”

Dagur paused and winced. “That I have inflicted upon them all. I know it isn’t fair to you, or Tuffnut, but my sister is reeling from losing the chance to ever meet her father again.

“She needs a familiar face on this island of - well, complete strangers. She got along with you just fine, right? I mean, she was best friends with Astrid, but she told me how much of a family you guys were to her. All of you. I can’t ever bring back our father, any more than I can do for our mother. Or any of her tribe … or foster parents … but I can at least bring her a small piece of the happiness she knew with all of you. You can hate me all you want - make my life a living hell - I completely deserve it. But will you at least do me the honor of being a kind and loving sister to Heather?”

Tuff would have dearly liked to believe that nothing in Dagur’s speech moved him, certainly not enough to forgive this arranged marriage foolishness. It was a completely ill-thought out and ridiculous way to bring some mediocre comfort to one’s grieving sister …

Sort of like … like stealing one’s sister’s identity … and going off to her wedding without a fair warning or really any way for her to keep living her preferred lifestyle as herself, and also sticking her with the fallout if anyone found out and accused her of being part of this potentially alliance-ending plan.

Oh, Thor …

Tuff couldn’t help his eyes filling up with tears and spilling over, making his kohl streak even worse (he was absolutely never buying makeup from Johann ever again; that man did not know his cosmetics as well as he claimed to.)

“I’m so sorry!” he bawled, no longer disguising his voice at all as he dropped to his knees before Dagur. The man jumped, startled. “I have made an error!”

“Wait a minute - Boy-nut?! What in Thor’s name –?!” Dagur sounded furious, and Tuff couldn’t blame him - not really. This whole thing was ruined because of him, and now Dagur would have to call it all off and he’d be embarrassed and Heather would find out anyway and definitely still throw Dagur off the highest peak. And it would all be for nothing, because she would still be alone and unhappy.

Dagur’s hands wrapped around his throat, but didn’t squeeze, not yet. “Tell me why you did this?! Was this you and your twin’s idea of a joke?!”

Tuffnut sobbed in answer, but couldn’t shake his head no because of Dagur’s grip. He took a few gasping breaths, and confessed everything - his sister’s unhappiness and how nobody was even trying to stop her from having to go marry against her will, and how alone and helpless she felt.

“Ruffnut is a free and wild unreckoning spirit of chaos - she’s too good to be forced unwilling into the chains if an unwanted bond! That and she deserves a chance to realize she’s way better than everyone’s last choice!” He sniffled and curled down further as Dagur let him go, shocked.

“My sister deserves every happiness too,” Tuff hitched. “Just -just as much as Heather! And even if you killed me right here, right now, in one of your awesome Berserker rages, I’d do it all over again if it meant I could give her that!” He sniffled, and wiped at his eyes with his knuckles, scowling as they came away black. “Except … I’d definitely wear better makeup. This stuff is terrible.”

A soft chuckle made him look up, to see tears in Dagur’s eyes. The Berserker wiped his own eyes and then sighed kneeling to put gentle hands on Tuffnut’s shoulders.

“I think maybe we understand each other more than either of us are thinking. Tuffnut … we both care about our sisters. We love them and we’ll do anything for them, as only brothers can. If you want, I won’t tell my Berserkers anything tonight. We’ll fix your makeup - which doesn’t look too bad, except for the eyes - and have this wedding exactly as planned. It’ll be binding, meaning your sister will be off the hook, and my sister will just have to settle for a familiar brother-in-law.”

“I … yeah, I can do that. I’m all in and dressed to stun. But what if your tribe finds out -?”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t. There’s the matter of kids, but that’s for later. Right now everyone’s just clamoring for me to find a spouse and throw a really great wedding.

“By Loki, I’m sure everyone will be relieved you and I can’t have kids,” Tuff remarked.

Dagur snorted, and broke out into full fledged laughter, which Tuff had to admit was rather contagious. He stood up, pulling Tuff to his feet with a gentle tug on his elbows.

“Come on, then. Provided your sister doesn’t come crashing the wedding just to kill me, we’re going to have long and interesting night.”

“Neither of us can really back out now, can we?” Tuff asked, listening to the cheering of Berserkers from the lantern-lit main square. There was already faint music swelling, the smell of cooking food. Dagur had gone all out for this, and his people sounded so happy. "Let’s go face that music.”

Dagur grinned and scooped Tuff up in his arms, taking care to keep the train from dragging across the dusty cobblestones. “Want me to call you husband, when we’re alone?” he asked softly.

He felt a blush creep across his face and fiddled with the lacework on his sleeves. “Actually, I would like that …” Tuff murmured, as he was carried to Dagur’s hut so he could freshen up. “Heh. Husband-nut.”

It was going to be a long night … but so far, not such a terrible start to a marriage.

#rtte #spoilers #post season 5 #tuffnut #dagur #tuffgur

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undermycitadel · 7 years

Text

The Hollow Living Room

Summary: “If you do xreader requests, can I request one where Mick meets the reader, a young American heiress, and is low key crushing on her but she is wary of his intentions. So he writes her a song.”

Pairing: Mick Jaggerxwhoever

Word Count: 3,054

A/N: God bless your patience, and enjoy.

And I still remember her well from that dull and tedious day. The glaze in the air was warm and damp, perhaps a rain had fallen the night before, and the hot air was soaking up the dewdrops in the grass. In the prime of the room where the blinds let in enough light to shed shine into the entire room. I could see the dust floating midair apart from my cigarette smoke in the light that poured through the scarcely parted blinds. The hardwood was an ash color and brought me back to my cigarette’s draw every time I went to take a puff but was cool unlike it, yet, as unwelcoming as such. And the walls were still fresh with paint. A walnut oil mixture of white we painted over the yellowed worn in white from the house’s previous owner. Other decorations were hardly acceptable for what I thought my guest deserved; dark baroque fireplace, long glass coffee table atop a long fur rug, a embroidered couch, again, blessed with great length, and two wooden chairs opposite the couch embroidered with texture. Was I supposed to have shipped mountains of furniture, fixtures, and fittings the moment I bought it or was I to foresee the visitor days before her arrival to prepare as best I saw I should? I should have, should I have? Because I was the one who invited her, however, I did not she would, understanding her social class versus mine.

I woke up earlier than usual. Once every blue moon, when the Fall made everything chilly, my alarm clock would sneak around my schedule and wake me with its unrelenting clashing of two metals but I would somehow wake before it and stammer to deactivate the alarm before ever ruining my mood. But three-thirty seven was a far cry from six-thirty, so what was I to do in my spare three hours before the day starts for every person around me? My tired gait pulled me past the light switch of my bedroom, through the narrow hall, over ice-wooded floorboards, down the metal stepped staircase that felt like hours of stairs, and to the hollow living room. There, over my lack of furnishing lay a packet of ground beans to last two servings. Coffee. I made a cup with the warm water of the tap. I brought it with me to the couch in the living room where I could barely see the cup in front of my face. Luckily I had the sense to light the gladly working fireplace pre-supplied with wood fit for burning. From there, it was a bunch of sitting. Sitting and waiting for three hours to pass. There were no clocks around. I hadn’t bought any yet but I knew that around six that the sun said hello, so I would wait for the sunlight to replace the need for the fireplace.

I went back to bed after the coffee and was rather disappointed by its false advertisement on the packaging. “’Guaranteed to wake your eyes’,” I remembered the packaging’s claim after waking up four hours later. “’Guaranteed’ my ass,” I grumbled, wiping the sleep from my eyes. My fingers raked my itchy top and laced easily through the tangles near the ends of my hair almost overdue for a trim. Had my fringe pass my lips, I would have tended to them the moment I noticed, but to the media, it was a very ‘rock and roll style’. Whatever that meant. In the way of my peripheral lay a stack of crumbled neatly folded papers and notes. There were others as well, such as boxes taped tenderly, bubble wrap over unpackaged items of the miscellaneous category that could have easily peaked my interest as to what stood underneath the coating but another odd paper stood out. I rubbed my eyes a final time before breaking the bed to pick up the paper and remember when I’d jotted whatever on it. I couldn’t comprehend why I wrote down with a scratchy pen the telephone number of a girl named Jolie. I thought nothing of it, even scrunched my face over the responsibility of another slip of paper with the phone number belonging to a girl I would not remember in two weeks. Figuring it was another part of the job, I crumbled the paper up and tossed it aside anywhere on the floor before climbing back onto my space in the bed. My lack of clothing, that being underwear, was compensated by the thick blanket on the mattress. It felt like the pressures of everything was away. The remaining drowsiness was massaging my shoulders, and for a while, I felt good. Then I remembered where she came from and was jolted from a sudden sleep. I couldn’t explain why my heart was racing but I felt an urge of fear. That feeling drew me to my knees on the hardwood where I looked through nothingness to retrieve the paper. Once the slip was in my possession I rushed to press and flatten it so I could read out the entire name.

The number became more familiar as I read and reread it over again in my head. “760-588-8633,” I read aloud. My eyes tread up the paper a bit and I followed suit with the name that was causing me the utmost stress. “Jolie Quar-Quar, what the fuck? Qurratul Ann- Ayn?” My hopelessness was close to pathetic. Besides the first name, the only other part of the entirely too long name was the surname; Preity. Realization overpowered by drowsy, eventually clearing a path for some train of thought. It came clear. Preity, she was, and pretty, was she. I remembered at once her Preity-ness from our most recent encounter, almost one week past this morning. I went back deeper, father to remember that month we’d first met eyes. But I couldn’t. Pulling back to deeper concentration, I pulled my knees under my chin and held them together with the glue that was my overlapping arms. In that fetal position, although comfortable, was doing nothing for my memory. I set aside the paper and rose from the bed, because what good would it do me to hold onto something I was probably too in over my head to reconcile with? A number of occasions of which this happened were far too often. Girls came and went, most of them were often basic looking girls with undeveloped blossoms for their age. Jolie is like all the rest, I thought, trying to convince myself before I fell into the trap was I warned about many times by my dear friends and apparent ‘experts at the game’. I wouldn’t allow myself the strain of another Chrissy Shrimpton. The day already commenced, and I was past it, or, I had to be past it because past my foggy remembrance of Jolie’s distant features, I did remember the date of my studio sessions that were to take place less than two hours from now. I raised my arms over my head and stretched them over my head until I felt the satisfying pop of my joints. If I had the sense to throw out the paper, I would have. But unfortunately, I was too stubborn to let go the mystery that was Jolie, But I could only go so far.

The day wouldn’t wait for me to remember the woman from whenever before that morning, so I pushed aside my hesitation and took care of my hygiene ritual. I had to lump it for a cold shower because no phone calls had been made yet, brush my teeth with peroxide because ‘where were my things?’, and wait for my hair to air dry and get poofy because that’s just how it came to be. Somewhere in a box marked ‘Snazz’, I plucked out my outfit. I chose a gray turtleneck, khaki trousers, and my puffy coat for the walk to the studio not far at all from where I lived. My only concern was not getting pneumonia from the few blocks I would pass and the terribly strong wind raping the air, I slipped on my shoes, and the slip of paper into my pocket before leaving. I would be sure to ask my mates if they had any recollection of her to spare.

We had great fun that day. I remember because not an ounce of work had been done. We were not in a hurry to record, no deadlines were needed to be matched. For once we had free time to do what we pleased. Practicing covers were the easiest, as you may tell because there was little to no thinking involved. Sure a bit of pizazz and a little change to your vocals were necessary so you wouldn’t be considered a poser, but that time was much too far into the future to worry about, I could have gotten drunk and made a mistake but instead, I wanted to pick the brains of my companions. Jolie was burning a hole in my pocket, practically begging the question, ‘Who am I?’ I was resting easily on a foam padded rolling chair by the mixing tables, tempted by the important looking buttons that lay scattered on the surface. To the left of me was the door that enclosed the recording area that I often locked myself in to get just the right sound or record mimicking vocals of Little Richard, and one time, record Andrew’s Blues. Not a soul passed by there that day, Not even to light a joint in privacy. And to my right was a very narrow Keith Richards. He was not occupied, rather, he stood at the replica platinum albums on the wall just staring. Staring at nothing but the thin layer of dust overtop the faux vinyl. There was no point in waiting, then, we were due for another seven hour day, and so I popped the question.

“Keith,” I established my ethos, “c’mere for a bit,”

He stayed fixed to the wall for a while, and I began tot think he’d dodged my attention entirely at his lack thereof, but not to my dismay, he came eventually, sporting an easy smirk. Obviously, he’d partaken in the grass that had been passed around. And about the only thing fun about the boring day was the herb. “What man?” he asked, extending his vowels. “I was just checking out that paint dry. Fucking fantastic,” he held up an ‘okay,’ gesture with his hand calloused from the day before. I knew his tolerance was high enough for me to pick his brain. So I did with as much care as a friend desperately seeking out information.

I groped inside my pocket for the paper and held it before his eyes. He blinked one time, then another, then pulled my hand closer into his peripheral, his hand nearly scraping mine clear to blood. “Hmm…,” he ingested the name and number, probably remembering where he’d seen it before. “…I think…isn’t this…Jolie?” ‘Duh,’ I wanted to say but refrained. It was good, though. He was onto something, and it was good. So I let it be.

“Yeah, but, but do you know where you know her from? You have a good memory. Sure you can bring up a date.”

“Hmm… From what I can recall, we met the bird last week at that fucking art auction or whatever the fuck it was Robert Fraser hosted.” I waited for him to continue but he stopped as if the bit of information he told was all he had memorized. He looked satisfied with his answer.

“…and?” I beckoned my hand in my lap.

“…and?” he mimicked.

“Do you by any chance remember how-” I plucked the paper, “this fell into my possession?”

“How could I forget it? That party was a gas.”

“Tell me about the girl, then. I could care less about the bloody party.”

Keith shifted his weight after taking the paper in his palm. And he told me the story, of which I had no recollection of ever being present in the fictional tale of how I supposedly met Jolie. The day would not last forever, and though I could definitely waste the day in the studio, it was too much of a bore for me to stay past due. I walked home. And it wasn’t until fifty-seven steps in the direction of my house that I was caught dead in my tracks. In the center of the concrete tile, I stood paralyzed with realization. Suddenly it was all clear to me, the picture, the number, the girl, everything was vivid in my head and once again, I knew.

She was at the art auction and I’d spotted her. it was the second floor of the venue where the sculptures and such were poised for our viewing pleasures. In her hand was a sparkling cider, and on her body was a cream colored silky opulent wrap dress. Her features were dewy and soft and the lips I saw painted the purest red drew me in. I acknowledged my own attractiveness and knew she would be open to talking to me. I was no stranger to the crowdś reactions at our performances. Iḿ a ladies man, and if the trait is something out of manipulation then you are not a very good one. I was the manipulator, the operator behind the grand scheme of my image. Every move was calculated, every word carefully placed, and every glance was littered with the boyish charm that would come to sexualize me later.

I followed her to the balcony where I found her looking quite dramatically out into the night stars. She turned around almost as my first foot made a tap onto the marble. I didn’t expect for her to speak. She may have walked away in embarrassment and I would have been okay with that, but for some odd reason, she had the audacity to give me the time of day. Her hands move from her front, interlocked, to the ledge of the balcony, smoothing over the surface. “Hi,” she said. And like a breath of fresh air, her voice fed me. “Aren’t you that Jagger fellow I’ve been hearing on the radio so often?”

“In the flesh… And who might you be?” I invited myself further beyond the golden arches of the doorway for an easy conversation with the pretty thing.

“You haven’t heard of my family?” she asked, raising a brow. “Obviously I must show my face more often,” she sprouted a grin with her lips full of collegian. By then, word went like a revolving door about my pump kissers, and hers were well over mine in size. The thought came where she may have come from, as I never saw the average groupie with lips as vivacious as hers. But then again, she was no groupie, but apparently of an importance by her word.

“I can’t say that I have. What may I know them by?”

“Um…” she swirled her tongue in her mouth, “have you heard of Frank Lloyd Wright?”

Dumbfounded, I said, “no.” Luckily, she didn’t mind.

“He was a famous architect and created a bunch of them. My mom married his son and was drew into a fortune. I don’t know how it works, honestly, but I’m not exactly supposed to worry about that right now.”

“How old are you?”

“Just turned twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“I should know that by now. My littler sisters are actually obsessed with you.”

“Really?” I didn’t care. Only about her, and wanted nothing more than to hear her.

“Yeah, I don’t see why, though.” The tease in her soubrette voice was enjoyable despite the playful puncture in my side. Still, I didn’t want a dry conversation.

“Why is that?” I continued with the questioning.

“Oh, please. Don’t be so coy, Mick.” Jolie dipped her head back to laugh. “You’ve grown a bit of a reputation for yourself there.”

“Oh please,” I mirrored, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But I did. I was no stranger to the media, as she probably was no stranger to chunks of change in the purse of her mother. But anything to on the talk. “What harm would it do for you to be my girl?”

Her eyes widened. Taken aback was she, and folded were her arms. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you! Do you know what that could do to my family’s reputation? To meddle with yours? I’m sorry Jagger, but I already know your intentions.” And I have to say, those beautiful words stuck to me. And as she handed me the slip of paper out of mid-air, she whispered another phrase that once I remembered burned through me. “Call me when you’ve got your act together.”

Many nights I spent since then awake, thinking of a way to redeem myself. I had no form of talent besides music and business talk with older Americans, and I knew my verbal skills would lead me to no avail. Instead of talking her into being with me I opted for what paid the bills and the space for the venues some nights. I would write to her from my heart a song from what I thought of her. What little I knew of her, I wrote carefully, skillfully on an ink blotted notepad. Many times I restarted in order to get it perfect and left it untitled, for I did not know how to spell her last name and did not think of peeking at the paper to copy it down. When I was satisfied with my poem, I phoned her to invite her for a cup of tea. I did not tell her of my intentions, although she may have assumed so as the night of our first meeting, however, I was not fibbing about the promise of tea and flowing conversation. That is if I could clear my mind of doubt and grit. And once that day came, I sat in my bare living room to meet her once again. To prove to her that I was not some bloke with a sly smile and bad boy moves. Because that was a strict rule. The one I was never to ignore until after our final goodbye.

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the memory of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than five large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colors, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian, in whom the romantic temperament and the scientific temperament were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it.

In one point he was more fortunate than the book’s fantastic hero. He never knew–never, indeed, had any cause to know–that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water, which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy–and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place–that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat over-emphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and in the world, he had most valued.

He, at any rate, had no cause to fear that. The boyish beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him (and from time to time strange rumors about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs) could not believe anything to his dishonor when they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensuous.

He himself, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, would creep up-stairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and often with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, [66] wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.

There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately-scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the Docks, which, under an assumed name, and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul, with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life that, many years before, Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.

Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little dinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often dreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to belong to those whom Dante describes as having sought to “make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." Like Gautier, he was one for whom “the visible world existed.”

And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and Dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that he affected from time to time, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.

For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the “Satyricon” had once been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or [67] the conduct of a cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles and find in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.

The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than ourselves, and that we are conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through History, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self- denial, whose origin was fear, and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape, Nature in her wonderful irony driving the anchorite out to herd with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions.

Yes, there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new hedonism that was to re-create life, and to save it from that harsh, uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was to have its service of the intellect, certainly; yet it was never to accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment.

There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make one almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of revery. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. Black fantastic shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we have left them, and beside them [68] lies the half-read book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been re-fashioned anew for our pleasure in the darkness, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain.

It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object, or among the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardor of temperament, and that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it.

It was rumored of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic communion; and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and with the priest, in his stiff flowered cope, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, and raising aloft the jewelled lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the “panis caelestis,” the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins. The fuming censers, that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers, had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals, and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the tarnished grating the true story of their lives.

But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a [69] season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their mysteries to reveal.

And so he would now study perfumes, and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily-scented oils, and burning odorous gums from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one’s passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots, and scented pollen-laden flowers, of aromatic balms, and of dark and fragrant woods, of spikenard that sickens, of hovenia that makes men mad, and of aloes that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul.

At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of olive- green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad gypsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave yellow-shawled Tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while grinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums, or turbaned Indians, crouching upon scarlet mats, blew through long pipes of reed or brass, and charmed, or feigned to charm, great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert’s grace, and Chopin’s beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the mysterious juruparis of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not allowed to look at, and that even youths may not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chili, and the sonorous green stones that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when they were shaken; the long clarin of the Mexicans, into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh turé of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in trees, and that can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three leagues; the teponaztli, that [70] has two vibrating tongues of wood, and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the yotl-bells of the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a description. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the Opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt pleasure to “Tannhäuser,” and seeing in that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.

On another occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. He would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wire-like line of silver, the pistachio-colored peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous four-rayed stars, flame- red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone’s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of color, and had a turquoise de la vieille roche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.

He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso’s “Clericalis Disciplina” a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander he was said to have found snakes in the vale of Jordan “with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs.” There was a gem in the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and “by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe” the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep, and slain. According to the great alchemist Pierre de Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her color. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly-killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire.

The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the Priest were “made of sardius, with the horn of the horned [71] snake inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." Over the gable were “two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,” so that the gold might shine by day, and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge’s strange romance “A Margarite of America” it was stated that in the chamber of Margarite were seen “all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.” Marco Polo had watched the inhabitants of Zipangu place a rose-colored pearl in the mouth of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over his loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it away,– Procopius tells the story,–nor was it ever found again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown a Venetian a rosary of one hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped.

When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII. of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantôme, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with three hundred and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II. had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing “a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses.” The favorites of James I. wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. Edward II. gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armor studded with jacinths, and a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parsemé with pearls. Henry II. wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove set with twelve rubies and fifty-two great pearls. The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was studded with sapphires and hung with pear- shaped pearls.

How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.

Then he turned his attention to embroideries, and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescos in the chill rooms of the Northern nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject,–and he always had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up,–he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained his flower-like bloom. How different it was with material things! Where had they gone to? Where was the great crocus-colored robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked for Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, on which were represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot drawn by [72] white gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought for Elagabalus, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of Pontus, and were figured with “lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters,–all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature;” and the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning “Madame, je suis tout joyeux,” the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, a square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy, and was decorated with “thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the king’s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold.” Catherine de Médicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen’s devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed had stood under it.

And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought, with gold-threat palmates, and stitched over with iridescent beetles’ wings; the Dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the East as “woven air," and “running water,” and “evening dew;” strange figured cloths from Java; elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought with fleurs de lys, birds, and images; veils of lacis worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades, and stiff Spanish velvets; Georgian work with its gilt coins, and Japanese Foukousas with their green-toned golds and their marvellously- plumaged birds.

He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for, and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He had a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine- [73] apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the coronation of the Virgin was figured in colored silks upon the hood. This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart- shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and colored crystals. The morse bore a seraph’s head in gold- thread raised work. The orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He had chasubles, also, of amber-colored silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and fleurs de lys; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices to which these things were put there was something that quickened his imagination.

For these things, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and had draped the purple-and-gold pall in front of it as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate pleasure in mere existence. Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of rebellion that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling, with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own.

After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and gave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where he had more than once spent his winter. He hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, and he was also afraid that during his absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate bolts and bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.

He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn from that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had not painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? Even if he told them, would they believe it?

Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great [74] house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendor of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already suspected it.

For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. He was blackballed at a West End club of which his birth and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the Carlton, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It was said that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as if they were determined to discover his secret.

Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies (for so they called them) that were circulated about him. It was remarked, however, that those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Of all his friends, or so-called friends, Lord Henry Wotton was the only one who remained loyal to him. Women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if Dorian Gray entered the room.

Yet these whispered scandals only lent him, in the eyes of many, his strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of security. Society, civilized society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and charming. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and the highest respectability is of less value in its opinion than the possession of a good chef. And, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for cold entrées, as Lord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject; and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays charming. Is insincerity such a [75] terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities.

Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray’s opinion. He used to wonder at the shallow psychology of those who conceive the Ego in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country-house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by Francis Osborne, in his “Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James,” as one who was “caressed by the court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company.” Was it young Herbert’s life that he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in Basil Hallward’s studio, to that mad prayer that had so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt- edged ruff and wrist-bands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armor piled at his feet. What had this man’s legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of her temperament in him? Those oval heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord Sherard, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred within him. How curious it all seemed!

Yet one had ancestors in literature, as well as in one’s own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There [76] were times when it seemed to Dorian Gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of wonder. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own.

The hero of the dangerous novel that had so influenced his life had himself had this curious fancy. In a chapter of the book he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables, and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui, that taedium vitae, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles of the Circus, and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold, and heard men cry on Nero Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with colors, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon from Carthage, and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.

Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the chapter immediately following, in which the hero describes the curious tapestries that he had had woven for him from Gustave Moreau’s designs, and on which were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom Vice and Blood and Weariness had made monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife, and painted her lips with a scarlet poison; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase living men, and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding beside him, and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and minion of Sixtus IV., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve her at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine,–the son of the Fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the name of Innocent, and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a [77] Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta, and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to Ginevra d’Este in a cup of emerald, and in honor of a shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles VI., who had so wildly adored his brother’s wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who could only be soothed by Saracen cards painted with the images of Love and Death and Madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthus-like curls, Grifonetto Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him.

There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning,–poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.

#DorianGray

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