#drew this as yet another rendering practise

[bluegiragi]

equal opportunity voyeurism

early access + nsfw on patreon

[kenzieluvsnanami]

girl i want a cozy nanami drabble with some smut.... NOW.

autumn ☆

cw // vv self indulgent, set in cold, cold autumn, you guys come home from work and he eats you out and then you eat (FOOD) dass it. (18+) // wc 2.4k

it was the finallly end of a long work day. you could feel a dull ache in the soles of your feet as you made the laboursome, arduous (it was only 20 minutes) walk back to your apartment.

your apartment.

it was weird to think of the place in which you resided as such. if we wanted to get technical about it, this was your boyfriend's residence originally.

the only reason why you could call it yours was his insistence on spending as much time as possible with you - your dates spanning days on end as the two of you were reluctant to separate at the end of them, preferring to just pack an overnight bag so you could spend that much longer with each other.

eventually it got to the point where the overnight bag started to look more like you were ready for a long-haul overseas flight, with your dates turning into life together, meeting up and the end of each others’ respective shifts and waving each other off at the start of a new one the next day. it was once you realised how perfectly your lives intertwined that you made the last ever trip to your apartment, belongings packed away in boxes rather than bags as you began your new life in what was now your apartment.

you fumbled clumsily for the key in your coat, silently cursing the cold, crisper climate of autumn for forcing you to bundle up so excessively - brown woollen coat buttoned down with the belt tied tight, a cream scarf encircling your neck and the lower portion of your face to keep from freezing your ears off.

even though it was not yet winter, as soon as you could feel that temperature change from summer to fall, the winter coats, boots, scarves, hats and mittens all got pulled out from the back of the closet. whilst your coat and scarf had kept you nice and cosy on your walk home from the office, they were now severely hindering your escape from the harsh cold to the protected warmth of the apartment.

plunging your hands into the ungodly amount of pockets you were now discovering your coat had was taking up most of your attention, which is probably why you hadn’t noticed a presence behind you; an arm leisurely reaching over your shoulder and unlocking the door with a practised ease that only one person could possibly hold…

your head whipped backwards to see who this intruder was, only to catch sight of a face that you had grown to know all too well - umber eyes slightly crinkling in amusement at your shock as he leaned forward to greet you properly and apologise for the panic caused, a soft kiss pressed to the side of your pouted lips.

that one kiss quickly turned to another and then one more, creeping slowly towards the centre of your lips. you tried to stay unrelenting to his advances, still annoyed that he’d been able to scare you like that. large hands cupped your face as he drew you closer to his downturned face, slightly turning your face to the side, allowing his tongue better access - running along your firmly closed lips; seeking out a vulnerable point that would let him in.

unfortunately, your stubbornness could only last so long as a soft stroke of his fingertips along the edge of your face caused you to gently sigh, the warmth of his hands on your icy face rendering you defenceless. sliding his tongue in with a muted moan as he allowed his hands to lazily meander down your frame, smoothing down your coat over your curves. hands coming to a rest at the small of your back, firmly pressing you into his front as the two of you leisurely made out on the porch - the opened door casting a golden light on you.

after what felt like hours, your boyfriend slowly pulled himself away, his swollen, pink lips quirking up as he took in your dazed expression; an improvement from your previously furrowed brows.

“did i startle you?” he queried, well intentioned but you could both hear the hint of amusement in his voice.

whilst you wouldn’t call your boyfriend a comedian, when the opportunity allowed he could be… amusing.

in his defence, he had been walking quite loudly - a slight turn of your head allowed for you to see the trail of crunched leaves left in his wake which would have normally given you an apt amount of time to be alerted to his presence… if you hadn’t been so occupied by your stupid pockets.

“ken..i swear to god, do not do that again”

the hallway was filled with muffled chatter as the two of you discussed your individual days - lamenting about lazy bosses, entitled coworkers and broken copiers.

whilst both of you shared, kento much preferred to hear about the specifics of your day than share about his own; his follow up questions to your small quips leading to lengthy discussions in the kitchen as the two of you deliberated on what to eat tonight.

“welll, i mean i never thought about what her home life was like. i guess i just thought she was just a bitch for no reason” a rich laugh rumbled from his chest as you said that, the bluntness of your words being something that he found endearing.

you were perched on the marble island, intently watching your boyfriend chop the ingredients for what was going to soon be dinner.

you didn’t know what looked more delicious - the food or nanami; blazer discarded on the sofa, leaving him in just a crisp, white shirt and a pair of strained slacks. he had rolled up his sleeves to avoid staining his shirt exposing muscular forearms that slightly strained as he chopped. his large stature was emphasised by the way his back seemed to taper in, tailored shirt hanging of broad shoulders and getting slimmer as you get further down his back.

now whilst you hated to see your boyfriend go, you also loved to watch him leave, especially when he was wearing these slacks, the way they wrapped around his thighs and butt making him look like a christmas present that you just couldn’t wait to get your hands on. as he glided around the kitchen, you found yourself getting more and more hungrier but for something a little less edible.

you honestly had no idea how long you’d been sat there just staring, your thoughts being interrupted by the deep, resonant baritone of your boyfriend's voice -no clue what he’d actually said, wordlessly following him into living room as he waited expectantly.

“don’t you want to sit down?” an eyebrow quirked as he looked you up and down, your shifty expression usually meaning you had been caught ogling - but as far as he knew, that was as far as you wanted to go.

you slouched into your usual position in the corner of the sofa as kento nestled himself next to you, arm reaching around the back of your head to pull you in closer. whilst this affection was lovely… it definitely didn't help keep the thoughts in your mind pure, resorting to squeezing your legs together to alleviate some of the pressure that was starting to build up.

now if you hadn’t been so wrapped up in your own thoughts, you would’ve caught the side-long glance your boyfriend had been giving to you, trying to gauge why you had such a vacant, antsy expression - impassively watching what he thought was a movie you had really wanted to see.

now that he’d thought about it, he’s definitely seen that look on your face before, the slight scrunch in your brows only visible when you couldn’t have something you really wanted... and if it meant what he thought it meant, there was only one way to proceed.

“my love, you told me your feet were quite sore. did you want me to give them a massage?” innocently probed your boyfriend, your legs raising themselves as you shuffled down to allow them to lay limp in his lap.

his fingers skilfully worked, rubbing and kneading out the discomfort from your soles; the warmth radiating from his hands combined with massage felt sooooo good, eyes falling shut as your head lolled back.

once satisfied he had fully dissipated the discomfort in your feet, your boyfriend decided to test the waters, lifting up the leg closest to him and pressing a kiss into the inner ankle - not missing the way you slightly shuddered under his grip. hazel eyes scrutinising your small frame; the exaggerated rise and fall of your chest, the way your face was scrunched in pleasure and the way you tried to subtly rub your thighs together…

his first theory was correct.

he moved away, a whine falling from your lips at the loss of contact, eyes opening to see why only to find blond tresses nestled between your legs; nipping and licking on the smooth skin.

ah.

you’d thought you mastered the art of subtlety but it seems that as always, your boyfriend had painfully seen through you. although you weren’t all too upset about that fact, the way his mouth his travelled up your legs making you feel more and more flustered.

soft moans escaped your lips as he finally reached your upper thighs, fingers digging into the fat of them as he teasingly looked back up at your dazed expression.

“seems like someone felt a little needy today, hm?” his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through you, your legs hooking around his shoulders and pressing into his back, in an attempt to force him into the one place where you needed him.

“that’s not how you ask for something, darling…” whilst nanami tried to put up a front as if he was not at all affected by your yearning, you could see this was not the case - his pupils dilated as he gazed upon your leaking cunt, shallow breaths fanning across your inner thigh.

“let’s try to use our words, okay?” tone switching from his usual coolness to a much more heated, authoritative one as you tried to calm yourself enough to formulate a coherent sentence.

“tell me what you want me to do” he ordered as slender fingers hooked into the sides of your underwear, pulling them down at an agonisingly slow pace.

“i- i want you to…. ngh…” your breaths had turned into pants as your panties had been pulled off, oozing cunt getting more and more sensitive as it was exposed to the cooler air in the room.

your boyfriend paused, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

“….eat me out” your voice trailing off into a whisper, the room falling completely silent for a moment - the only sound being your combined heavy breaths.

seeming pleased with your answer, you watched in awe as your courteous, sweet boyfriend gathered a fat wad of saliva in his mouth and allowed it to gradually dribble down his lips onto your twitching cunt, eyes locked onto yours as his saliva slid down across into the vast expanse of your inner thighs.

you felt slightly emboldened under his gaze, biting your lip as you removed your blouse; leaving you in just a skirt and lace bra. you didn’t miss the way his eye faintly twitched at your movements, his head positioned in a way so that he could still hold eye-contact as he dragged his tongue along your inner folds, close to your throbbing clit but just around it - teasing you.

“mmmh, you always taste so good” murmured nanami as he continued his teasing licks around your pussy, your back arching into the sofa as you threaded your hands into his blond tresses, desperately trying to guide his head to your swollen bud.

your nails scratched at the back of his head as you tugged on his hair, drawing out an extended, low groan that reverberated back into your sensitive cunt; the stimulation becoming so intense.

your boyfriend finally decided to move to your neglected bud, spit and slick sodden lips dragging along to your clit - sucking hard.

your mewls had increased in volume and pitch as the pleasure became so overwhelming, your orgasm creeping up on you; the pressure seeming to almost all gather at once as you cried out

“ohmygodddddddd, ken im g-going to…” you were gasping for air at this point, eyes screwed shut in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, anything to prolong the blissful experience of feeling your boyfriend's plush lips slide along your swollen cunt.

“mmh hmm baby, just let go for me” murmured your boyfriend, the vibrations of his voice pushing you over the edge; head lolled back over the side of the couch as you came hard, walls spasming around nothing as you fell deep into the mind-numbing pleasure of your orgasm.

after what felt like hours, you opened your eyes to find yourself clean and changed, work clothes swapped out for your favourite set of pyjamas. the delicious aroma of what had to be dinner being what roused you from your light slumber, slippers padding along the hallway as you crept back to the kitchen.

“something smells good…” you mused aloud, stepping further into the kitchen to be greeted with two heaving bowls of pasta on the dining table.

“someone was sleepy, hm?” nanami raised an eyebrow in jest as he placed large palms on your shoulders, gently guiding your weary body to the chair he’d pulled out for you - tucking you in as you sat.

he silently filled both of your glasses as you contentedly ate, your conversation getting more and more animated as the food hit your empty stomach, a blissful smile on your boyfriend's face as he watched you hurriedly slurp down the glass of merlot he’d poured, slender fingers sliding his own glass towards you, knowing your penchant for a deep bodied wine.

dishes were washed and left on the drying rack as the two of you quickly cleaned the countertops and stove, eager to clamber into your shared bed and properly rest.

you washed your faces and brushed your teeth in tandem, your boyfriend crouching down slightly so you could properly apply your snail serum under his eyes and temples, your skincare routine becoming something that the entire household was expected to adopt.

finally it was time for bed. the small lamp was on as your boyfriend wore his small reading spectacles, eyebrows slightly furrowed as he immersed himself in the latest victorian novel to his collection. you nestled yourself deeper into your cashmere sheets as you felt yourself being drawn deeper and deeper into a heavy, peaceful slumber… in your apartment.

a/n :: currently in my inactive era 😩 schools been kicking my asssss and its only been a few weeks.... pt!sukuna willl come soon but honestly i can only write when im in the mood and recently i haventtttt been 🌚 anyways this was inspired by all the incredible nanami ff ive been greedily guzzling down the past few days on ao3

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Shaw’s S2 R&S - What is known as amazing the world

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a Rumours & Secrets, 所谓一鸣惊人, which has not been released in EN! 🍒

This R&S features S2 Shaw, but no knowledge of S2 is required to enjoy this~

In terms of sequencing, this is Shaw’s third S2 R&S!

[ Chapter One ]

When mentioning the tutor of the Archaeology Department in Loveland University, Professor Shen deserves greatest respect. Precisely because of the high academic requirements, he had not recruited graduate students in recent years. However, he didn't find anything wrong with this. He occasionally taught undergraduates, then immersed himself in his own academic research. His days followed a pretty regular pattern.

During such an ordinary time, Professor Shen met Shaw for the first time.

The day he interviewed Shaw was also the warmest afternoon in the late spring of Loveland City. The sycamore trees on both sides of the road were working hard to produce new buds. Professor Shen carried a pile of materials, walking across the sunny open space to the building where the graduate students were sitting for the second round of examinations.

So far, he had re-examined five students. Their performances were very mediocre, and there was still quite a lot of distance from his expectations. However, the student to be re-examined later was slightly different. The materials showed that he was directly recommended to him by Loveland University. Based on his age, he should be a young student. Amidst the twenty-five, twenty-six, and even older re-examinees, he had subconsciously left an impression on Professor Shen.

After dusting off the sycamore puffs that had fallen on his shoulders, Professor Shen entered the classroom. Before long, what accompanied the hands of the clock reaching 2pm were two beeps at the door of the classroom.

"Hello teacher, my name's Shaw.”

Hearing this, Professor Shen lifted his head. The boy at the door was indeed very young, but his flamboyant bluish purple short hair, incomparably avant-garde clothes, and flat expression without much of a smile rendered Professor Shen stunned for a second or two. But he quickly smoothened his expression, warmly beckoning Shaw to enter.

The student named Shaw wasn’t reserved at all. He sat down naturally on the chair in the middle, placing a black schoolbag casually at his feet.

Whether he was making judgments based on appearances or was no longer holding much hope, at that moment, Professor Shen thought that this was another interview where he would simply go through the motions. He raised some standard questions. Unexpectedly, Shaw actually answered them decently. Professor Shen's spirits gradually rose.

"What you wrote about in your undergraduate thesis was..." Professor Shen flipped through the materials in his hands. Just as he found the information, a clear voice sounded fluently. "《A Statistical Analysis of the Age and Gender of Human Skeletons Unearthed in Xushan》. It includes the basic condition of the unearthed human bones, any damage, pathological changes, as well as an analysis of the population and health of that period.”

"Does this mean you’re interested in physical anthropology?" Professor Shen pushed the glasses on the bridge of his nose, staring at Shaw with interest. "In that case, why did you apply to be my graduate student?" He needed to know that Professor Shen’s research direction was mainly on the appreciation of ancient appliances and field archaeology.

Faced with Professor Shen's sharp and intense gaze, Shaw didn’t panic at all. He shifted his overlapped legs, arching his eyebrows slightly. “Physical anthropology is a field that I wasn’t really familiar with, so I wanted to challenge it to learn more. Teacher's research direction is what I’m truly interested in." After he finished speaking, he added, "By the way, if I have the chance, I’d like to participate in field work a few times."

"Oh? The graduation thesis is such an important aspect. Isn’t challenging a new field very risky?" Professor Shen continued to probe.

Hearing this question, the corners of Shaw’s lips slanted, revealing his first smile of the day. However, there was an incredibly serious look in his eyes. He didn’t give a direct answer, but spoke leisurely, word by word. "Archaeology has always been a risk where expectations may end up fruitless. Don’t you agree?”

The re-examination and what Shaw said greatly exceeded Professor Shen's initial expectations. Outstanding schoolwork, comprehensive knowledge and an open-minded attitude. Except for seeming rather brash and conceited, Professor Shen wasn’t able to find fault with him at that moment. He drew a circle on Shaw's materials, then lifted his head to ask the final question:

"Student Shaw seems to be a young man with a lot of personality. So why did you choose the archaeology major that most people find boring?”

-

[ Chapter Two ]

The new semester has commenced for almost two weeks. For Professor Shen, aside from the need to attend a few more professional courses, his teaching life doesn’t seem to have changed much. He hasn't taken a graduate student in two years, and he hasn't gotten used to it yet. Fortunately, Shaw has never been someone who would simply wait passively.

After class this morning, Professor Shen returns to the office. Right after opening the stack of archaeological reports he’s been reading recently, there’s a sudden knock at the door.

"Shaw, is there a problem?" Professor Shen removes his reading glasses and asks composedly.

Shaw has a black backpack slung over one shoulder. He strides over to Professor Shen's desk. Scratching his own hair casually, he speaks with laziness in his tone. “Professor, you gave too little homework. Can’t you assign more?”

Professor Shen suddenly chuckles. Even though it’s only been two weeks since school started, he has already seen Shaw's agile mind and excellent learning speed. Professor Shen isn’t surprised by Shaw's request. But in his opinion, being overly eager isn’t always a good sign to rely on.

Professor Shen ponders for a moment, puts on his glasses again, then says to Shaw, "There’s another assignment, but I don't know if you’d be willing to do it.”

“Tell me about it?”

“You could draw pictures of the flowerbeds in school and objects in the classroom, then practice your fundamental sketching skills.”

Treating flower beds as ruins and objects as appliances is a method that many archaeology students use when practising sketching. But when this assignment comes out of Professor Shen's mouth...

Shaw sweeps a glance at the genial Professor Shen as he sits behind the desk. He purses his lips. Without a word, he hauls up his backpack and turns around, walking towards the office door. Just as he’s about to leave, he turns slightly with a soft “hmph”.

He doesn’t know if Professor Shen heard this sound, nor does he care that much. After all, he has once again immersed himself in the pile of archaeology reports.

-

Just after 5pm, Professor Shen hurries to a research meeting while carrying documents.

The sky at the end of summer is still very bright, clear and azure, without a single shadow of dusk. Professor Shen turns around a corner, and suddenly finds that the back not too far ahead is very familiar - the bluish-purple hair is one of the few in the whole of Loveland University, and he knows at a glance that it’s Shaw. And in front of Shaw, facing Professor Shen’s direction, is a girl with short hair and dressed in a delicate manner.

Professor Shen walks closer and closer. He’s unable to hear what the girl says, and only sees the shy expression on her face.

“Hey, I’m rushing to the band. You’re in the way.” Shaw’s voice is very cold, and even somewhat impatient. The girl seems a little reluctant to withdraw, and reaches out to grab Shaw. However, Shaw turns sideways and steps backwards, dodging instantly. At this point, Shaw knits his brows tightly, his eyes dyed with a sharp and impatient light. “I’ll repeat myself for the last time. I’m. Not. Interested.”

After saying this with a decisive attitude, Shaw walks away.

Walking from behind Shaw to a different branch of the corridor, Professor Shen grips the documents tightly. Actually, whether a student likes to be in a band or is adored by girls, these things belonging to the private lives of students aren’t what he’s interested in nor what he has ever interfered in. To him, what students place value on most are the quality of learning and professionalism. As for other things...

Professor Shen glances at his watch and subconsciously speeds up his pace. While he hurries, he hopes that his original judgment was correct, and hopes that Shaw is indeed a good successor worth cultivating, just as he appeared during the re-examination.

-

[ Chapter 3 ]

A week passes by suddenly.

Sitting at the desk which receives plentiful sunlight, Professor Shen flips through the stack of sketching assignments that Shaw had just handed in, an imperceptible smile of satisfaction on his lips.

In addition to printed computer drawings, another half are hand-drawn sketches by Shaw using a pen, and they are of pretty good quality. Over the years, Professor Shen had seen too many young kids neglecting hand-drawn sketches because they relied too much on computer drawings. No matter what decade it is, the most primitive and foundational skills should be the most solid.

The sense of gratification causes Professor Shen to sigh. However, the page he just flipped to causes him to stop abruptly - this is obviously not part of the drawing assignment. It looks like an analysis report... Professor Shen props up his glasses, reading it carefully from the beginning. Then, he realises that this is an analysis of archaeological reports. Flipping to the back roughly, he finds that coincidentally, this analysis is targeted at the stack of archaeological reports Professor Shen had been reading recently.

With no time to be surprised, Professor Shen straightens his back in an instant, sits up straight, and reads the analysis written by Shaw from start to finish carefully. Whether it’s the standardised writing format, the hypothesis proposed in response to pictures and existing materials, or the objectivity of the comparisons drawn, they can already be regarded as the standard of a professional. 

Even though he doesn’t know where Shaw obtained the archaeological reports, what is undeniable is that he used his "little brain". But what is even more undeniable is that just by skimming through the analysis, Professor Shen can see Shaw’s solid foundational and expansive knowledge.

Through this unassigned piece of homework, Professor Shen feels that what he sees isn’t just a very young student who’s just beginning graduate school. What’s displayed before his eyes is Shaw’s undiscovered potential and possibilities.

Professor Shen gets a full glass of water from the water dispenser, and Biluochun leaves twirl and dance in the transparent glass. He walks over to the window, blowing at the mouth of the cup. Then, he takes a few sips of tea slowly, appearing to be in a good mood.

In his mind, he recalls the content of the analysis report, as well as Shaw's appearance when he came to submit his assignment early in the morning.

At that time, his steps were confident and full of vigour. He walked straight to the table to set down his assignment, then raised his eyebrows in glowing spirits. "Professor, remember to read till the end."

Now that he thinks about it, Professor Shen seems to taste the unhesitating confidence and the unwillingness to admit defeat in Shaw's eyes that he didn’t notice before.

It looks like this kid felt that he was being underestimated before. Full of pent up grievances, he wanted to prove his capabilities! This was simply his slightly awkward yet incomparably confident demeanour...

Professor Shen sighs softly, then can’t help but chuckle.

Before him, the sun is still climbing up at 10am, but the radiance of sunlight is already incomparably dazzling.

-

[ Chapter Four ]

After a few autumn rains, Loveland City gradually turns cooling. Professor Shen's body isn’t very good, so he puts on a thick coat early.

On this day, Professor Shen comes to the office with a briefcase as usual. He methodically prepares Biluochun, takes out his materials and pen, and puts on his glasses. Just as he’s about to start work, the new young lecturer Xiao Fu suddenly turns to his desk while holding his phone. “Professor Shen, look at this quickly. This boy in the middle looks like your graduate student!"

“Why do I feel as if he might be that student of yours?" Teacher Fu looks increasingly certain that he’s correct. "I met him several times before. It’s that cool and triumphant look. Even the colour of his hair matches!"

Professor Shen lowers his head, pulling down his glasses, and the image on the phone screen is displayed in an instant. It seems to be a video of a performance. The musicians on stage are very lively, and the atmosphere under the stage seems to be extraordinarily enthusiastic. The person playing the bass intently and fervently in the middle - who else could he be but Shaw?

Even before Professor Shen speaks, Teacher Fu has already affirmed to himself. “That’s right, it’s him! I remember someone mentioning that he was in band, but I didn't expect him to look like this...”

Professor Shen's eyes are still focused on the phone screen. In the video, Shaw has the youthful vigour that he can only have at his age. He’s full of spirit, rebellious and eccentric, and exudes fervent vitality. He can attract everyone’s attention almost instantly, as though he's a natural focal point.

But such a Shaw seems slightly foreign to Professor Shen. In the past two or three months, the Shaw he has seen is a graduate student who rushes to and from school, but is very earnest in his specialised course, and is also very meticulous in research.

Teacher Fu has already taken his phone away and returned to his own desk. Professor Shen’s gaze returns to his materials, but there are still some emotions stirring in his heart.

The more interactions he has with Shaw, the more Professor thinks that he’s akin to a treasure. Although he may make someone feel conflicted, he always brings unexpected surprises to others. Initially, Professor Shen thought there might only be jade here. But after more digging, he found calligraphy and paintings and utensils. Thinking that this would be the end, taking a turn resulted in the digging of gold, silver, copper and iron. As for whether there would be other treasures in the future...

Knock knock.

Hearing knocks at the door, Professor Shen lifts his head instinctively - truly, speak of the devil.

"Professor, I came to ask about something." Shaw strides over. Standing before the desk, Shaw looks at Professor Shen with an indifferent expression, as if he’s just speaking thoughtlessly. "I heard that the excavation and inspection of the Hou Yin Tan site will be carried out soon. Anyway, my usual assignments aren’t urgent. I’m thinking of strolling around the area with you.”

Through the spectacle lenses, Professor Shen looks at the seemingly expressionless Shaw, and can’t help but chuckle.

He thinks to himself - perhaps no one has told Shaw that even though he always uses nonchalance as a cover, the insuppressible earnestness in his eyes are unable to conceal his genuine anticipation.

-

[ Chapter 5 ]

The excavation work has commenced for over a month, and everything is proceeding on tenterhooks and in an orderly manner.

Field excavation has always been a bitter and boring part of archaeological work. In addition to digging for long hours in a desolate field, it’s also common to find nothing after digging till the end. At the very least, Shaw has already experienced it several times this month.

It’s another cold and windy morning. Professor Shen comes to the excavation site early, only to find that Shaw hasn’t arrived yet, which is rare. Something noteworthy is that Shaw has been coming here earlier than him every day. But within a few minutes, Shaw appears, walking over while talking on the phone. Something is said on the other end of the line. Shaw arches his eyebrows in his signature style. "Tch, so long-winded... Got it.”

Professor Shen notices a cute rabbit pendant dangling from the bottom of Shaw’s phone, though he doesn’t know when it first appeared. He shows a smile of understanding, no longer paying attention to Shaw's actions, lowering his head to start a new day of work. After a while, a number of villagers from the vicinity also come over and they all greet Shaw first.

This is also something Professor Shen noticed on hindsight. At some point in time, Shaw had established a rapport with the villagers. Having the villagers in the vicinity cooperate and even participate in an amiable manner is another very important part of field excavation. In this aspect, Shaw's performance can be regarded as attaining a satisfactory full marks.

"Professor, leave the rest of the shaving to me." Shaw squats down beside Professor Shen, holding a shovel in his hand. Professor Shen doesn’t immediately express his opinion. Instead, he smiles slightly. "Finished your call with your girlfriend?" Shaw averts his eyes in a hurry, which is rare. He purses his lips. “Who said that she’s... Professor, don’t get infected by Mr Fu’s gossip.” Professor Shen chuckles while standing up slowly. Then, he pats Shaw on the shoulder. "I'll take a look at the pit."

Shaving is time-consuming and hard work, let alone shaving in winter. In spite of thin sunlight, the bitter cold wind hovers over the site, causing Shaw's nose to redden unknowingly. His ripped jeans have long since been covered in dust, and even his originally shiny earrings are coated in ash. Even so, Shaw simply kneels on the ground with ease, cleaning the ground while holding the shovel firmly, shovelling the ground and four walls carefully.

The shaving takes five hours.

Dinner naturally consists of a group of people eating together. When Shaw arrives, he has already taken a shower and is restored to a clean and refreshed state. However, when using chopsticks to pick out vegetables, Professor Shen notices his unusual behaviour immediately: he rarely moves his chopsticks, and he has been picking the vegetables slower than usual. After a few more glances, Professor Shen realises that his hands had turned swollen during the five consecutive hours of shaving.

Despite this, even after the meal is over, Shaw doesn’t say a word or complain at all.

Professor Shen is even more satisfied with the only graduate student he has. He can’t help but compliment him coolly. "You’ve done a good job recently. If you want to learn archeology properly, you must have this earnestness and inextinguishable momentum."

Shaw pauses for a second, but still has that triumphant expression when he speaks. "That goes without saying." But Professor Shen clearly sees how Shaw's eyes had lit up in an instant, and how his brows raised involuntarily.

Professor Shen smiles while shaking his head, looking at Shaw whose words don’t match his genuine feelings. He doesn’t know what Shaw experienced, and perhaps his cynicism is to some extent a defence mechanism. As long as he pretends not to care, there will never come a time when his expectations come to naught. And this also gives him a chance to rewind the situation. Even though amazing the world with brilliant feats bring with it surprises, it occasionally makes Professor Shen feel that what he’s doing is akin to a child looking forward to rewards...

With this thought in mind, Professor Shen smiles while walking away.

-

When Professor Shen arrives the next morning, many people are already surrounding the area. There’s an interview with the TV station today, and Professor Shen had long since pushed Shaw out. A young man with such an advantageous appearance is suitable to be on TV.

As expected, the host is holding the microphone and conducting the interview. Looking at Shaw’s knitted brows, Professor Shen can't help but laugh, knowing that he’s trying his best to answer patiently. At this moment, the host suddenly asks a rather familiar question. "Why are you studying archaeology?"

This question seems to pull time backwards to more than half a year ago, when Professor Shen met Shaw for the first time -

"Student Shaw seems to be a young man with a lot of personality. So why did you choose the archaeology major that most people find boring?”

Shaw arches his eyebrows. "Because I like it." He lifts his chin slightly, showing a determined smile. "Isn't liking something the greatest display of personality?”

More from S2: here

[moss-eyes]

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

By Edgar Allan Poe - Published 1847

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was atthe thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipeof what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!""I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --" "Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--" "I have no engagement; --come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," he said. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --" "Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said, "a sign." "It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado.""Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.

The voice said-- "Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -- "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again -- "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

thank you anon for the freshman year flashbacks

[peanut-butter-and-kelly]

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

By Edgar Allan Poe - Published 1847

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was atthe thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipeof what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!""I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --" "Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--" "I have no engagement; --come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," he said. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --" "Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said, "a sign." "It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado.""Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.

The voice said-- "Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -- "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again -- "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

I've had this in my inbox for I don't even know how long trying to decipher it and at some point I completely forgot about it

To whoever send this, thank you and sorry for taking so long to respond. I still don't know what it means and why you send it but I appreciate it

P.s. I couldn't read the whole thing, my brain gives up on long texts also please tell me if this is supposed to mean something

[aromantic-goldfishdeactivated202]

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

By Edgar Allan Poe - Published 1847

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was atthe thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipeof what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!""I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --" "Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--" "I have no engagement; --come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," he said. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --" "Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said, "a sign." "It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado.""Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.

The voice said-- "Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -- "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again -- "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

I’m very confused but I did just read that whole thing and there was no meme so thanks for tricking me into reading part of Edgar Allen poe?

[hhjs]

kismet.

pairing ⇨ yoo taeyang x reader.

alternatively ⇨soulmates, royalty. more specifically, prince!taeyang + royal librarian!reader.

In both a hopeless desire to love and admiration for a blatant stranger, Taeyang finds love by a twist of fate.

wherein, soulmates are bounded together by shared scars.

warnings ⇨ elaborate descriptions of wounds.

word count ⇨1.9k

type ⇨mini fic.

The gash on his palm was a pink, golden stretch, giving the illusion of a simple graze. It used to look as though an animal had dug its claw in and tore it open - and he imagined it, imagined the scenarios his soulmate put themselves in to acquire such a dramatic wound.

He envisioned the sharp pain of a kitchen knife running along their palm in the split second while they're committed to a harmless task of chopping vegetables. He often found himself smiling at the thought, imagined himself rushing to help, cleaning it as he scolded them, these images helped Taeyang fill an endless hollow inside his chest that was evidence of his remoteness, even if the relief was temporary.

His innate brevity and intense inability to produce dramatic expressions of his emotions subsequently reduced him to a limping thing going through a abundance of unspeakably articulate individuals, someone who was to carry the weight of their despondence like it was the only thing that mattered and his world, a world of war and peace, the endless crowns passed down to his father and his father's father, a world that conditioned him to hide his true self under the unspoken bravado of being a prince, it had.

The library was a dramatically architectured room, giant shelves stretched for a few thousand feet, spines of a wide variety of novels sticking out, some new, some old, some shoved upside down. The tables were wide, even the relatively small ones designed for one person, little lamps perched up on each corner.

Behind them, laid different stories, of concentrated faces of scholars, astronomer, flustered faces of couples who've secretly kissed behind the foreign literature section, faces struggling to keep their focus and resorting to tapping their fingers and frowning - he's seen it all and he couldn't quite name what which category you belonged to.

"Like this." Placing a neem leaf between the pages, you beamed up at him in a way that made him feel as though he couldn't ever forget you. He said nothing, staring down curiously, in an umpteenth attempt that week, to act on his desire to act on his attraction for you, "That'll keep bookworms away."

Sensing his excessively lengthy stay, he finally nods, reaching out to accept the thick spined novel and just for a second your fingers brush up against his knuckles and linger, in a barely-there, airy gesture.

It's in this sudden ephiphanous moment, Taeyang decides that his concern for being absurdly lonely was less important than chancing upon you again.

…

"Watch where you're going." The tone of your voice was surprisingly chirpy for someone who just knocked over a heap of novels whilst they carried on a careless pursuit of practically leaping to their destination. It amused Taeyang.

In a confused fashion, he furrowed his eyebrows, pursing his lips as you attempted to collect the items quickly, piling them again into an unsteady heap. "You bumped into me." The calm reminder came from him, insinuating that you ought to take your own advice.

The sheepish design of your face greatly piqued his interest, if not the way your eyes widened when you immediately recognised him by his princely position and subsequently rendered an apologetic smile. It was different from the usual veil of confidence you wore when you worked tirelessly at the library. "Pardon me!" You quickly exclaimed, blinking profusely.

"You're pardoned."

Taeyang noted the immediate look of relief on your face whilst he knelt to your position, picking up the remaining set of the dropped elements with great care - but instead of returning them to your expectant hand, he held it snuggly against his chest. "if...if you let me help." He added, peering up at you from behind his lashes, only to find that you were nodding, in all but a poor attempt to bite down a gigantic smile.

...

Taeyang will admit that he doesn't rely on the truth to make "coincidental" visitations to the royal library - he just wanted to see you and in his defence, there was no way to be honest about how he felt without potentially embarrassing himself by blubbering nonsense he'd come up with whilst thinking over elongating conversations with you.

All he knew was he liked the way your eyes travelled over the ups and downs of words, sentences and how you pressed his thumb against the corner of a page before flipping it so there wouldn't be any creases.

He liked that you could always strike up a chat about the most random things, liked the way your mouth quivered when you'd try to stop yourself from smiling, liked how you two always forgot to take note of time, sitting hours tangled in a mix of silence and long stretches of talking deliberately with him, in the course of time, he developed the courage to grow closer to you just as he attempted; albeit, regardless of the fact that you seem to have become increasingly close, you never talk about your soulmate, or your scars or produce typical impassionate harangues about how fated you were to someone - not that it mattered.

In fact, whoever his soulmate was, he was sure he couldn't possibly grow half as fond of them as he is of you.

A bed of wet grass pressed up against his back, it was too cold and too dark and the moist earth was undoubtedly going to leave a nasty imprint on his milky tunic - but he didn't care, he didn't care about those trivial, unimportant, stupid things.

Because you were with him.

"Don't you ever wonder what it'd be like if they showed up? Your soulmate?"

Your question sounded more like a test than it did a question - dipping cautious toes in uncharted waters to see if the crocodile would leap and bite.

He tilted his head to you even though not a thing was visible in the intense black of the night.

It gave him immense pleasure to know that in spite of his hindered vision, he could still picture what your face might look like now, the slope of your nose, the anxious pinch of your eyebrows and a lopsided frown.

He shrugged, "Not really."

"Why not?" You asked, albeit the cheery ring to your voice seemed to determine that you were quite pleased with the answer, as if you've gained something in knowing he wasn't looking for someone else.

He scoffed in an offended fashion, like the answer's just that obvious, like you shouldn't have even asked, not allowing a single beat of silence to pass, he felt for your fingers in the dark and easily slipping his own ones, holding the interlaced pair up like it meant something to to him. "This." He said, "is more important to me than being lumped together by fate."

...

"Still practising, huh?"

Even in the acute quietude, vaguely disturbed by the distant sound of buzzing crickets and the slight crunch of twigs under his feet, the sudden sound of your all too familiar voice didn't startle him.

Taeyang pressed his finger down on the arrow's shaft and slowly retracted from a shooting position. Perspiration had effectively glued his fringe down to his forehead and he could feel his body slowly give away to overexertion. But it wasn't uncommon for him to push himself to a point of absolute lethargy when he put his mind to perfecting something, Taeyang was hardworking by nature.

Your face was yellow from the oil lantern you were holding up, your free hand was behind your back. Looking over his shoulder like this, he could make out that you were donning a look of utter worry, the colour barely found the lopsided curve of your mouth and disappeared all the way down to your throat, to the slope of your neck.

His chest heaved upwards and downwards from the heavy intakes and outtakes as he watched you in masked endearment.

Taeyang blinked, his curious expression replaced by a sudden look of apparent conclusion at the way your head's poised to stare at your toes. "Is something the matter?"

You produced a non committal hum and it startled him, the possibility of upsetting you when he hadn't intended to, Taeyang opened his mouth to say something but didn't know what exactly that something ought to be, so he closed it again.

You drew your hand from behind your back and held a digit up in the air, where the light caught on and he could clearly see a fresh scar atop.

It was earlier that day when it happened.

You ran your fingers along the smooth spine of a bent novel sticking out rather ungracefully.

All you could hear was nothing but the nervous ringing of your ears, the involuntary tremors of your excessively careful hand.

It wasn't like you to be so anxious at an unsuitable time like this. But there was an unsettling feeling inside your chest, like something was about to go wrong and yet you had no idea what that thing may be, the roaring and clapping and grumbling lightning before a cyclone hits.

You hissed, taking your injured skin into attention once you realised a deep wound had torn open on the tip of your index, it had an abysmal sting to it, the kind of sting that jolted up your spine and gave you a headache - but you stood frozen in your spot.

But you hadn't whipped your head about rapidly, searching for another person who could've been whelping in the aftermath of the same injury. Like you always did before.

You wonder when it came to this - when you stopped looking for your soulmate. This love, you told yourself, was enough, even if it wasn't perfect, even if you weren't fated. The way you care about him is deliberate, the way you're falling in love in spite of the unnerving fear of losing him is intentional and purposeful. And nothing in the world could replace this.

"I don't care for it." You said quickly and honestly, the sincerity in your voice so weighty that he could understand you meant this statement.

Taeyang's smile, of all things, wasn't something you quite anticipated, sensing that it was a gesture he just couldn't fight, he put the down instrument on the wet grass, padding closer to where you stood. It was a strange thing that bound you together, something indescribable, that led him to recognise that he needed to be in your proximity at all times.

And now he had a name for it.

It was earlier that day when he'd absentmindedly pricked himself while sharpening an arrow tip, the injury was apparent, a reflection. You blinked, once and twice. And then you smiled a big, wide smile.

"It's you." He said, mimicking your gesture. "It's always been you."

Shadows of his outstretched digits crawled along your face, reducing the splatter of light to mere speckles, he made a careful work of caressing your face, wiping away a thin layer of mist against the cool skin with the calloused pads of his thumbs. (And then he kisses you and it feels like something erupted inside the depth of his belly, a knot tightening and tightening and tightening, and this is something he's always wanted. To love someone, to love someone so much he thinks he could die for it, had fate put him to the test.)

...

[traditional-with-a-twist]

xxv. Beauty and Her Beast

@bubblesthemonsterartist  sometimes, I swear it’s like you’re reading my mind, your character insights are always so ON POINT - yeah, maybe if they had been working as a team this whole thing would have turned out differently…

@the-pompous-potato everything about writing feels worthwhile when I read reviews like yours T_T <3 thank you!

<<Previous || first arc || AO3 || Next>>

The stage was set for Shirayuki's entrance.

Everywhere the castle was in a bustle, with only hours of daylight and one long night separating them from the grand event.

In Izana’s private audience chamber, however, all was still.

...

At his right hand, he had placed Lord Haruka: grimmer and more emphatic than ever as he inwardly grappled with a yawning sense of dread while outwardly striving to bring order, impose calm, and bear fruit for the kingdom.

At Izana’s left hand, Kiki presented like marble: exquisite, bearing up under tremendous pressure without any signs of strain--except that she was almost translucent with weariness.

Izana himself presided with that unearthly calm that rendered him fey-like in its inhuman concern for the shock and consternation he might send radiating through his companions.

He had carefully selected the cast of the little drama to be enacted then dismissed everyone else. 

Except for these three, the room was empty.

...

Outside the door, the prince’s trio of guards had special instructions to admit no one - no one besides the star of the show, the special guest of the performance.

As soon as Shirayuki appeared, they beckoned her inside without even waiting for her to request entrance.

Shirayuki was perfectly cast for her role. For her, it would be complete improvisation.

She had no idea that the others would be operating according to a script prepared meticulously in advance.

...

For Lord Haruka, the script was not so much written as absorbed: a way of life so deeply ingrained that he obeyed its dictates without conscious thought.

Kiki possessed too independent a spirit to mindlessly adopt a role assigned to her, but she had nonetheless lived the life long enough that she recognized her cues when they came and knew what they meant.

Izana was in his element, playing the part he had mastered since childhood: a laughing enigma with deadly intent.

The only difference was that these days, much of his humor had dwindled, locked away along with the one living creature he had allowed himself to cherish, now resting in the family vault.

...

With the stage set and the players assembled, the spotlight fell on Shirayuki, awaiting her first move.

She had assumed a familiar pose: back straight, hands folded, eyes bright, chin high. Her attitude spoke deference yet courage - that inner conviction that empowered her to walk through fire and water to do what was right.

She had been adrift for so long, tossed among waves of doubt and indecision, but now she thought she had spotted land.

A sense of purpose shone like a lighthouse beam on the waters; she trusted it was no trick of the moonlight.

She was ready to act.

...

Shirayuki dropped into a curtsey - not so difficult now that she practised it daily - then rose and looked Izana in the eyes.

He was her superior, it was true -- in rank (even now), in fortune, in experience -- but he had offered himself to her as a man, an individual, so she would answer him in kind.

“Prince Izana,” she spoke in a clear, firm voice, “I wish to thank you for the honor of your proposal.”

...

Lord Haruka regarded her with open dislike as she spoke. 

It was infamy - elevating an ignorant girl like her to a position of power and prestige.

She had no idea of the damage she would cause to the fragile peace that generations of royal and noble blood had labored to build - so recently struck a grievous blow and even now teetering between recovery and oblivion.

...

“I thank you,” Shirayuki repeated, “but I cannot accept.”

...

Kiki listened tight-lipped. 

Shirayuki’s eyes had brightened on entering the room and finding the lady knight within but it was hard to feel any answering enthusiasm when Kiki knew she was watching her friend walk into a trap.

What could Kiki do? Izana would not have permitted her presence if he judged it likely that any intervention on her part could thwart his intentions. 

Besides that, Shirayuki had chosen her own path.

What could Kiki do, besides wait and watch and be there for the fallout?

...

Shirayuki finished simply: “I have promised my hand to another.”

Izana received the rejection of his suit with equanimity. He even smiled, his eyes twinkling down on her.

“I understand, Lady Shirayuki,” he answered gently.

...

Her face lit with hope.

It had never been Shirayuki’s intention to wound or upset him, but it had been beyond her most optimistic hopes that he would accept her choice so graciously, unflinching, without a murmur of protest.

Heart full, she drew breath to thank him in all the sincerity of her earnest nature -- but he had not finished.

...

“You do not wish to give offense,” Izana spoke soothingly, “you would not discredit Clarines, your adopted homeland, through any imprudence -- nor compromise your duties for selfish motives.”

Shirayuki hesitated, faltering, but he continued to smile on her as before.

“Have no fear. I would not permit you to commit such a blunder.” Izana spread his hands in a benevolent gesture. 

“Consider this a gift...for our beloved prince Zen.”

...

The name passed through her like ice, mortifying the protest that rose to her lips, freezing her in place.

Kiki’s eyes darted between them, measuring Izana’s performance against Shirayuki’s response.

Lord Haruka had turned his face away.

...

“I know my brother,” Izana continued, “would not wish to see his hard-won alliance with Tanbarun endangered.”

Shirayuki trembled under the double assault of Zen’s name and awful political implications.

She had long dreaded any connection between the two, resolved never to harm Zen and least of all in that way, but now she found herself caught in a labyrinth of dire possibilities.

What could she do but tug on the string that Izana waved enticingly?

...

Shirayuki looked into his smiling face and ventured, her voice now small and uncertain: “Endanger?”

“Endanger,” Izana agreed, “perhaps irrevocably, by a grave insult: marrying the Friend of the Crown to a man of no rank.”

A man of no rank? 

As Shirayuki started to ask again what he meant, the truth struck her: He was talking about Obi.

...

Her guard, her friend, her betrothed - Izana had taken all of this and reduced it to the blank space that followed Obi’s name. 

He was not a Wisteria, a Shenazard, or even a Seiran - he was just Obi. 

Here, in Izana’s chamber, according to the prince’s script, that made him nameless, an uncredited role: a man with no rank.

...

“No, it can never be.” 

There was nothing threatening in Izana’s air; he did not even rise from his seat.

He pronounced this edict conversationally, as if confiding in Shirayuki, as if he meant to reassure her, lay her doubts to rest -- and expected nothing but harmony and content in reply.

“You are a woman of danger, Lady Shirayuki... and so you will be until you are married. For your safety and for the safety of my kingdom, I will take your hand in marriage.” 

Izana was the picture of kindliness as he added, “Rest assured that no one will judge you ill for preferring my suit.”

...

Shirayuki feels tears starting. She looks around, but neither Haruka nor Kiki return her gaze. 

Resignation blankets them.

Izana’s voice reaches her, disembodied as her vision blurs, like a prophecy of fate: “We will announce our engagement tomorrow, at noon.”

She turns and runs from the room.

The curtain has fallen.

[bitch-ass-bangtan]

The one about how you met.

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 3k

A/N: ay yo figured I could share my writings for once instead of just writing it and then never looking at it again like I normally do, hah. Anyways, enjoy some good ‘ol fluffy Yoongi. I wrote this at 3 am and never bothered to edit because I figured I would lose it between all the other stories but guess who just played themselves? And to be honest I can’t really be bothered to edit now because I’m lazy lmao. Also, please message me I have 0 ARMY friends and I want some to cry share all the memes with because oml.

Yoongi watched from where he was sat at his desk, smiling contently, as you slept peacefully on the sofa in his studio. An overwhelmingly sickening feeling of love and luck coursing through his veins. His stomach turned as he realised just how lucky he was to have found someone so pure, so beautiful, so content with just being with him. He slowly drank in every bit of you from the way your hair was sprawled out over the back of the armrest, to the way your arm was thrown over that same armrest, slightly covering your face. He smiled slightly as he heard you sigh contently in your sleep.

Yoongi didn’t realise how long he had been staring until his computer screen went black, indicating he hadn’t touched his mouse or keyboard in at least fifteen minutes. He didn’t even bother to get it to light back up, nor did he take the time to close it down properly like he know should do. He just simply stood up and sauntered over to the sofa. His heart hammered in his chest, the overwhelming feelings not fading in the slightest. In fact, they seemed to intensify with every step he took towards your sleeping form.

In the single year you had been in his life things had changed for him. He never knew how much impact a love interest could have, only knowing the incredibly romanticized version of the movies he would sometimes watch. The ones he would always deny to have seen whenever he was asked about it. But here you were, sleeping soundly on his sofa, and her he was, heart hammering against his ribcage at the reality of him having you here.

As soon as he was in reach he stuck out his arm, the back of his hand softly caressing your cheek as he crouched down next to your sleeping form. His touch seemed to have tickled as you scrunched your face and turned away from him, your body fully turning so that you were on your side. Your face was pressed into the back cushion of the sofa and your arms crossed in front of your chest.

Yoongi smiled, not even bothered by you turning away in the slightest. He knew he should wake you, get you to bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so quit yet.

He enjoyed the peace and tranquillity that coated the room like a thick blanket. Completely silent apart from your heavy breathing.

He looked at your back, his eyes resting on the exposed skin of your lower back where your- or in all fairness his- hoodie had risen up slightly. Once again Yoongi couldn’t help himself as he reached out to touch the exposed skin. It was cool under his warm touch and he smiled slightly at the goose bumps that appeared as he ghosted his nails over your skin.

His mind drifted once again as he absentmindedly drew patterns. He thought back to how you met. Your wide eyes, a bit anxious and full of wonder, still fresh in his mind as you took in him and his bandmates. At first he had thought you were a fan, stunned by seeing them in person, but as you stuttered out for your manager to come and help you he realised the only reason you were so shocked was because Namjoon had spoken to you in Korean and you –at the time- didn’t speak a word of it. Namjoon had apologized profusely, none of the boys realising you didn’t speak their language, and you had just smiled politely before telling him not to worry about it.

It had peaked his interest. He had wanted to know why you were working in Korea when you clearly didn’t speak a word of Korean. Hell, you didn’t even know how to greet someone in the language.

So, the next day, after Yoongi had left his room key in his room and closed the door by accident he found it a good enough reason to saunter back to the hotel lobby. He had felt so dumb as he slowly walked up to the desk, his cheeks slightly tinted pink as you were the only one there and he had to test his English abilities without help of his friend Namjoon.

You had greeted him with a smile, asking him how you could help him, and Yoongi had stuttered. Slight panic was evident on his face as he pondered over his words.

“I- um, I left my keys.” He nodded firmly, confirming to himself that it was in fact a solid English sentence. However you had frowned at him.

“You mean you lost them?” You questioned.

Yoongi shook his head. No, if he had lost them he wouldn’t know where they were.

“It’s in my-uhm.. room.” Proud of yet another sentence he met your eyes.

You smiled brightly at him, amusement radiating off of you as you nodded.

“Do you want a new set or do you want me to walk up with you to unlock your door?”

Yoongi had lost you there. He had no clue what you just had said, the words had flown out your mouth way too quickly, so he just sheepishly stood there.

“Yes?” he tried, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

This time you couldn’t help it as you let out a small laugh.

“I’ll just walk with you to unlock it, then,” you nodded.

Yoongi smiled at you as you made your way from behind the desk. Your master key card was hanging from a keychain around your belt and you tapped it in confirmation.

“What room were you in again?” you asked, leading the way to the elevator. Yoongi followed you, stumbling over his feet as caught up to you.

“Uh- one, five, three, nine?” He really hoped he had the correct translation to the numbers, otherwise this would turn out to be an even more awkward experience. And if he was honest, he really wasn’t looking forward to that, especially not at 1:15 in the morning.

Yoongi watched as you pressed the button for the elevator to come down. He kept a respectful distance, his eyes studying your movements.

The elevator dinged as its doors opened and both you and Yoongi got in. You went to press for the number 15 but Yoongi had beat you to it, resulting in an awkward touch of hands and an even more awkward elevator ride.

Yoongi cleared his throat as he folded his hands together, looking up at the ceiling. He was silently praying for God to end his misery already.

The doors to the elevator closed and the ride up begun.

Yoongi couldn’t stand the tension in the small space and cleared his throat again, desperately searching for a way to start up conversation. If only he had studied harder with his English, he thought.

“Why-,” he started, grabbing your attention, “Why you in Korea?”

You smiled at him, his attempt to speak English endearing you.

“Adventure,” you had simply shrugged, and it had peaked a whole new interest on Yoongi’s part.

“You learn Korean?” Yoongi, even though he still felt awkward, felt his ego grow as he realised he was having a conversation in another language. The boys would never believe him when he’d tell them.

“I want to, yes,” you smiled, trying to keep you sentences short so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed with foreign words.

“Maybe I can teach!” he smiled happily. You smiled back, his smile was contagious. Eyes crinkled and cheeks puffy.

“Maybe,” you mused.

The elevator dinged, indicating you had reached the right floor, and this time it was Yoongi who led you through the corridor. He stopped in front of his door and waited patiently for you to unlock it.

“Thank you,” he smiled, nodding at you.

“You’re welcome,” you had smiled back.

The two of you had stood there rather awkwardly, simply just smiling at each other, before you cleared your throat.

“Well, have a good night, sir.” You spoke politely before turning around. Yoongi didn’t reply, as he didn’t know how, and just watched your retreating form until you rounded the corner.

He pursed his lips, biting the inside of his cheeks as he entered his room. He really wished he could have spoken more to you.

After that it had become a habit for Yoongi to leave his key in his room, but only when he knew for certain you were at the front desk. Every night he would saunter down to the lobby with a sheepish smile and a little shrug.

By the third night you had caught on to his little act, but you didn’t say a word about it as you both stepped into the elevator.

On the fourth night you had surprised Yoongi by asking how he was doing in Korean. Your foreign tongue was evident, but Yoongi had been so impressed by it that he answered without even thinking about it. You had chuckled sheepishly as you told him you weren’t able to understand his replies yet, and Yoongi had laughed loudly at that.

On the fifth night Yoongi came down you were already waiting for him. You had grinned at him, waving your key card, and he just grinned back shook his head in response. You were surprised when he threw a bag of snacks onto the marble top of the front desk. He leaned on the marble surface with his elbows and smiled sweetly.

“I would take you out on a date but you’re working so this is the next best thing.”

His English had been so perfectly that you were rendered speechless. For a second you were convinced his entire broken English thing had been an act. But Yoongi had smiled as he opened up the bag.

“I practise that all day,” he had stated proudly, holding out the bag for you to grab some chips.

You had smiled brightly, a slight blush on your face. You couldn’t believe he had been practising just to talk to you and it made you feel special.

“So this is a date now, huh?” you asked, leaning forward in your seat.

Yoongi simply nodded, not even questioning whether you were okay with it. He figured if you weren’t you would have told him.

“Cool.”

On the sixth night Yoongi came down, but he wasn’t alone. Namjoon had caught on to what he was doing and was adamant to come down with him to make sure Yoongi would be too embarrassed to  do it again.

You were slightly confused as you saw the two of them together, Namjoon dragging towards the front desk Yoongi by his arm.

“Hi! Sorry to bother you but Sugahyung seemed to enjoy his midnight adventures so much that I just wanted to join and see for myself!” The tall man had smiled brightly.

You had been too taken aback by his appearance and behaviour that you completely failed to see Yoongi shaking his head with pleading eyes.

“Sugahyung?” You questioned, choosing to focus on just a tiny bit of his sentence.

Namjoon smiled brightly, letting go of Yoongi’s arm, and nodded.

“It’s what we call Yoongi, but anyways; so what do you guys do? I find it hard to believe it’s talking.”

The silent jab by Namjoon made you frown and look at Yoongi for the first time in a while. He just looked at you guiltily as he grabbed his elbow and pushed his arms into his chest. You instantly felt sorry for him just by looking at him.

“We speak a lot, actually,” you shrugged looking back at Namjoon.

The tall boys eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Really? How?” He questioned, his smug and annoying attitude faltering for a second. It was only just a second, though, because Namjoon quickly remembered why he had come down here in the first place.

“Anyways, Yoongi-hyung keeps falling asleep during the day because he thinks his night time adventures are more important than our careers, care to tell him anything about that?”

You just frowned and shook your head.

“Namjoon, please,” Yoongi felt ashamed as he begged his friend to back off.

Namjoon turned to Yoongi fully and shook his head at the uncomfortable looking man.

“No, you have to understand that wasting your sleep just to get some ass is not the way things work!”

Yoongi looked shocked, eyeing you and praying you didn’t understand a word they were saying.

“Stop, that’s not what we do,” Yoongi spoke, his voice weirdly monotonous for the argument they were having.

“Right,” Namjoon nodded with a scoff, “you two talk.”

At this point you had had enough, the initial shock had worn off and you really didn’t like the way the dude was talking to Yoongi as if the poor man was 5 years old.

“Look, excuse me,” you started, catching both of their attention. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I would really appreciate it if you’d act like an adult here, we don’t want to scare away our clientele now, do we?”

Your voice was sickly sweet, the typical customer-service voice, as you smiled at Namjoon. The man looked around before looking at you like you were insane.

“There is literally no one here.”

You just simply shrugged, “My lobby, my rules.”

Now it was Namjoon who was taken aback.

The corner of your mouth quirked up at the fact you finally got to quote Mr. Mosby before you looked at Yoongi. He just mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again as he looked at your completely mortified. You just smiled calmly at him, wishing you could fix this situation for him.

“Look, just tell him to stop coming down here after 10 at night, or something,” Namjoon all but whined.

“Once again I’m sorry sir, but I am not mister Min Yoongi’s mother.”

Namjoon just scoffed as he looked between you and Yoongi, the latter not being able to hide a small smirk at how worked up you had gotten his friend. It was quite impressive if he was being honest.

“Please, it’s nothing personal,” Namjoon tried again.

“I think mister Min Yoongi is very capable of making his own decisions, sir,” you nodded with a polite smile.

“Oh, drop the act!” Namjoon cried out. “No need to use the customer-service voice on me.”

You just smiled, not giving the man a single inch.

“Fine,” the tall man huffed, “have it your way, then.”

He stomped off towards the elevator and Yoongi looked at you apologetically.

“I’m sorry for this,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

You smiled brightly at him and shook your head.

The seventh night you hadn’t expected Yoongi, and you couldn’t blame him either. But when the elevator dinged at 2 AM and a smiling Yoongi stepped out you couldn’t contain your smile.

“Second date, huh?” you questioned as he neared the front desk.

Yoongi smiled brightly, his eyes turning into slits, and nodded before throwing a new bag of snacks on the marble counter.

“If you still want, yes,” he spoke, his smile faltering slightly.

You snorted and without a reply ripped open the bag, causing Yoongi to smile brightly yet again. If the single most embarrassing thing that has ever happened in his life didn’t scare you away he had a good feeling about it.

“You learned new Korean?” he questioned, popping one of the sweets into his mouth. Both of you choosing to not mention the previous night as you fell in conversation with each other.

Yoongi cringed at the memory of that faithful night where Namjoon had acted like some psycho father. It had taken a whole lot convincing on his end for you to start liking Namjoon once the dates you two had turned into something more serious.

Right now, though, he was happy with the way you liked his bandmates. You all got along greatly and he wouldn’t wish to change things for the world. It was very important to Yoongi to be able to share his entire life, his highs and lows, with you. And BTS was a part of that. A huge part.

The fact that your Korean had gotten better to the point where he hardly even needed to speak English anymore filled him with pride. You were so smart, and beautiful, and loving, and funny, and persisted in learning Korean just so you could talk with his parents when you met them, and he was completely whipped; but he couldn’t give a shit about it.

Yoongi’s hand ghosted through your hair and you whined softly, alerting the man that you were waking up.

As you turned your body towards him, stretching in the process, and Yoongi couldn’t help but smile. You smiled back tiredly, your face scrunching up as your supressed a yawn.

“Hey,” you mumbled, closing your eyes again.

“Come on, it’s late, we should go to bed,” he mumbled, his hand stroking through your hair again.

You sighed, enjoying his touch, and nodded. The sofa was comfortable, but it was nothing compared to Yoongi’s bed.

“I love you,” you stated lazily, still not moving and eyes closed.

You suddenly felt his lips touch your own as he captured you in a kiss that made you feel so incredibly loved you almost cried. When Yoongi pulled back you opened your eyes to stare up at him with big eyes.

“I love you, too,” Yoongi smiled, his eyes looking into your own.

You reached out to touch his face, a smile breaking through on your own. Yoongi leaned into your touch as you cupped his cheek. You pulled him back down for another kiss, your arm wrapping around Yoongi’s neck while the other grabbed his sweater.

Yoongi chuckled through his nose at your response and pulled you up, never once breaking the kiss until you were stood up straight. As he pulled away you whined softly, missing the feeling of his lips on yours.

“Let’s go to bed,” Yoongi spoke lowly, a tiny smile gracing his lips.

“Yeah, let’s.”

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Cask of Amontillado

Edgar Allan Poe (1847)

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!" "I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --" "Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--" "I have no engagement; --come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," he said. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --" "Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said, "a sign." "It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado." "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.

The voice said-- "Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -- "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again -- "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

[imaginebeatles]

Art and Obligation | Chapter 23

Pairing: John/Paul, Paul/Jane

Rating: Nc-17 (PG-13, for this chapter)

Set in: 1820s (au)

Summary:  John Lennon works as the apprentice of a well-known portraitist and is tasked to do the picture of the young Mr. Paul McCartney. He is the son of Jim McCartney, a wealthy and powerful landowner, and has the reputation of an arrogant, spoilt brat with a pretty face, who has a way of wrapping anyone around his finger. But soon John finds that things are not as straightforward as they may seem.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.

Author’s note: After far too long, here it is finally is: Chapter 23 of Art and Obligation. I seriously hope I can manage to start posting more than just once a month soon because this is getting ridiculous. At least the chapters are getting longer, so I hope that makes up for something at least. 

On a positive note, I only have two weeks of uni left before the Christmas holiday starts, so hopefully the extra time will help me get more done. And at least here I actually have Christmas vacation (back at home, we still get homework and stuff and we often need to do a research project and collect data during the holidays, which is just not fair if you ask me). 

Also, I have something special planned for Christmas, so get excited for that. The next thing I’ll write will be the next chapter of Poetry Nights and after that’s posted, I’ll continue this again. Let’s hope it won’t take another 2 months... Seriously, I am sorry... Thanks so much for the support. 

I have also been thinking of only posting on AO3 and only posting a link to there on tumblr. Let me know what your thoughts are on that. It would just make everything a lot easier for me... I’ll probably have all the links to the chapters and fics ect. on here (like in my fanfiction page right now, which I really ought to update...), but not the actual text. Yeah, let me know. 

Oh and just as a side note: I do not condone hitting your children as a way of discipline. 

Winter had arrived in Liverpool, making the grand old manor house feel cold and drafty as the piercing wind rushed over the sandstone blocks, forcing its way inside through little cracks and crannies in the window frames along with the icy rain that crystallised at night when the temperature dropped to close to zero, creating intricate little patterns on the cool glass which could be seen in the early mornings with the sunrise before they melted away. It was particularly cold for late November and the weather seemed to have dropped on the city without warning. The McCartney household staff had been reduced by half due to people falling ill, catching colds and fevers, and committing them to their beds. George’s wife Pattie had fallen ill as well, and George had worried endlessly about her and the fate of their unborn baby until Paul had been forced to send him home to look after her. His father had been none too happy with this decision, but Paul had not for a moment regretted it, glad to have at least bettered someone’s life, especially now his own was in such a dire state.

The fireplace in his bedroom was roaring constantly, keeping the room warm and pleasant despite the bad condition of the age-old windows, which didn’t seem to do much for keeping the cold out, and for once Paul was glad his room was situated above the kitchens below, the heat from the stoves travelling up every evening and warming his bed. All in all, Paul considered his bedroom to be one of the more pleasant rooms during these rough winter months and Martha seemed to agree, laying ever curled up on the rug Paul had laid out for her by the fire, snoring contently and refusing to move. She had never been one for cold dreary weather like this and was more than happy to curl up in bed with Paul at the end of each day to share body warmth. It was one of the few positives the winter weather brought with it.

While Martha lay fast asleep by the fire, occasionally letting out tiny barks and growls as she dreamt, her body jerking and twitching in that way that would usually have Paul watching her with an adoring, yet slightly worried, smile, Paul sat behind his desk, pen in hand and a multitude of tiny white papers in front of him, waiting to be written on. Next to him lay an extensive list of names and addresses, all of which needed to be specified on each of the little cards as Paul wrote the same combination of words over and over again until his hand began to complain. The task proved dull and tedious, and the fact that every word he wrote onto the clean white paper in his neat and practised hand, was a harsh reminder of the ever looming inevitability of his upcoming marriage, made the whole ordeal a tiring and highly stressful endeavor. But, as with many things in his life, he had no other choice but to do as told, his father having given him till the end of the weekend to finish them. The list of names, however, appeared never-ending, as did the stack of cards.

Two weeks had gone by since John had met with his father to discuss the portrait and Paul’s marriage. According to him, Jim had given him another six weeks to finish the portrait, which at this point meant they only had another four weeks left together, their last meeting being scheduled just two days before the ball for which Paul was currently writing invitations. The convenience of this timing left Paul with little doubt in his mind that his father intended to reveal the portrait during the ball, marking it the perfect celebratory end to Paul’s life as a bachelor.

He shook his head at the thought. He didn’t want to be this negative about the whole affair, knowing it wasn’t fair to Jane, who had already been forced into this uncomfortable position, which she did not deserve. She deserved more than a husband who did not love her with a family that did everything to regulate his behaviour and make sure he did not step outside the lines drawn out for him since the day of his birth and which had only gotten more restrictive at the first signs of his “unfortunate fault” as his father called it. She didn’t deserve any of it and Paul figured the least he could do was to make it as pleasant and “happy” for her as possible, not just the marriage but the engagement as well. He did love her, even if his love lacked some of the most essential aspects required in marriage.

He feared, however, he wasn’t doing enough.

Although the wedding itself would not be until late February, his father was set on making their engagement known as soon as possible and as open and public as he could manage without risking the danger of less perfect aspects of their relationship - especially in terms of his son - seeping through the cracks. The timing of the ball however, it being less than four weeks away, left the guests with little time to prepare for it and to make the necessary arrangements if they had any other engagements. His concerns about this had been met with a dismissive gesture of a hand and his father’s reassurance that if people had other obligations on the evening of December 20th, they would cancel them. Paul had to admit he was most likely right.

His hand, however, would have been eternally grateful for some extra time to write the invitations. It was covered in ink, and his fingers hurt whenever he tried to stretch them, having grown accustomed to the constant crutching hold he had on the pen. More than once he had needed to stop for a moment due to cramps and his eyes had grown tired from the constant, intense focus on every sentence, word and letter he all but drew onto the spotless white paper cards, every single drop of ink needing to be absolutely perfect and nothing less. Two days he had been working on them, and he only had this afternoon and evening left to finish them. The end seemed nowhere near yet.

Sighing, he finished another card and carefully put it on the stack with the others and crossed the last name starting with “O” off the list, before taking a new card, which, he saw, glancing at the list of names, would be made out to the Peterson family. He didn’t know why his father insisted on his writing every invitation personally; he didn’t even know the Peterson family! Still, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and wrote their names in a neat and steady hand, minding every angle and curve and doing them exactly how he had been taught.

He jumped in his seat as he felt a hand on his shoulder, having been too focused on his writing to have heard anybody come in. The movement caused his hand to slip on the paper, and a thick black line of ink now stretched across the whole of the card, rendering it unsalvageable. Paul cursed under his breath and turned to see who had caused him to make this horrid mistake. More work was the last thing he needed right now.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Paul. I thought you heard me come in.” It was Jane. She was standing beside him, holding a cup of tea which Paul hoped was for him. He could do with one. Though annoyed, he forced himself to smile and shook his head.

“No, it’s okay, Jane. I wasn’t happy with it, anyway,” he lied, but Jane looked unconvinced. Still, she didn’t say anything about it and instead put the cup of tea down on the desk in front of him. A biscuit lay beside it on the saucer.

“I brought you some tea. I thought you could use it. You’ve been up here for hours. So long, in fact, I’ve had to resort to your dear brother for company. He’s good enough company, although I would have preferred yours, of course.”

“I’m sorry, Jane.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been busy enough as it is without having to look after me as well. How are the invitations coming along?” she asked, perching herself on the edge of his desk as she picked up the stack of written cards and began flipping through them. Paul sighed, exhausted, and rested his head in his hand as he placed his elbow on the desk and watched her, following the movements of her eyes and fingers as she read all the names, her eyes occasionally coming up to look at him. He was glad she’d come up to see him, appreciating the distraction she offered. The way she was handling the cards was somewhat unnerving, however, making him worry she’d ruin one by accident somehow - either by tearing it or dropping it or smudging the ink with her fingers - and make him have to rewrite it. He didn’t ask her to put them down, though, secretly wanting her to.

She didn’t.

“Briefly said? Slowly. In case you were hoping for a longer answer: I’ve started on the invitations for the people whose names start with ‘p’ just now, and I am convinced my hand had developed a mind of his own and is plotting against me now, hoping to overthrow its master and stop him from writing anything more ever again.”

Jane gave him an empathetic look in return as she finished flipping through the cards and gently pushed them back into a neat little stack, which she placed back on the desk. “If you need any help...” she suggested, reaching over to pick up the list of addresses and her eyes widened as she saw the length of it. “It’s hardly seems possible for you to write all of them!”

“Darling, I agree, but you know my father insists I write them all myself and I wouldn’t put it past him to inspect them after I’ve finished them. I’m going to be the head of the household soon - my household - and this is what I’m going to have to do from now on. It’s only good manners.”

“As if anyone is going to notice…” Jane remarked, mumbling, and Paul grimaced at the numerous times he had said those exact same words himself to his father whenever he made him help writing the invitations. “For practise” he would say, and Paul had always been met with the same basic explanation whenever he would question the need for it. It was an explanation he gave Jane now too, and he hated himself for it.

“Good manners often go unnoticed. It’s the point of them.”

Jane scoffed.

“Paul,” she said, reaching out to cup her fiance’s cheek in her hand, gently turning his head to make him look at her, “this isn’t you.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice. You don’t have to be like your father.”

Paul shook his head and turned back to job at hand, picking up a blank card from the pile and dipping his pen into the ink again before starting over, writing “Dear Mr and Mrs Peterson” in neat cursive letters at the top of the page. It didn’t look quite as perfect as the original, but it would have to do.

“Did you talk to John about it, yet?” Jane asked. She had gotten up and was now sitting on the sofa by the fire, her arm stretched out to pet Martha, who leaned into her touch and gave her wrist a lazy lick out of thanks, eager for some attention as she lay dozing. The sight of her, sitting comfortably on his sofa, in her light blue dress, her copper hair tied up loosely on her head, petting his dog as they spoke, was both beautiful and terrifying as Paul realised that was going to be his life from February onward. In a little more than a year with the added image of a baby in her arms. He had to look away.

“Talk about what?” he asked and he could practically feel the disappointed look on her face as she looked at him, both knowing Paul had understood her perfectly.

“The ball. And what it is on the occasion of?” she said as if she was speaking to someone exceptionally stupid. Paul hummed, shaking his head.

“No. Not yet.”

“Paul-”

“I’ll tell him!”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“You said that two weeks ago. Paul… he has the right to know. You don’t have much longer. What else are you going to do? Break it off on the day itself?” Jane said and Paul sighed as he put his pen back down, sliding the card away from him so he would not accidentally ruin it, and turned to look at Jane again.

“It’s not that easy, Jane. You don’t-” cutting himself off, Paul took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. “What benefit does knowing have? It only distracts you to know.”

“You know that isn’t true, Paul! And you had a fixed end date before this, didn’t you? Our wedding? Or did you plan on continuing it after that as well?” Jane asked and Paul sighed as he took his head in his hand, feeling a headache coming up.

“I wouldn’t do that, Jane. It would put him in too much danger. Not to mention it wouldn’t be fair to you. I know I have to tell him, but…” It wasn’t the same. Jane didn’t understand that, but how could she when he barely understood it himself. And knowing did distract. It distracted him! He’d prefer not knowing if he had a choice; to continue without knowing until one day it would be over.

“You don’t want to hurt him, do you?”

“Jane-”

“I know it’s hard, Paul…” she whispered, ignoring his faint attempts to contradict her and catching his eye. Her voice was soft and gentle and for a moment they merely looked at each other, sharing the same air. Paul was reminded of all the times he had been with John like this: close, touching, breathing in each other’s air, feeling the other’s warmth. He knew something ought to happen, but he felt nothing. He wanted to pull away, but before he had had the chance to, Jane had leaned in and kissed him.

Her lips were soft, her movements careful, as if trying not to spook him, and her breath tasted sweet on his tongue, like caramel, but with a hint of bitterness from the tea she had been drinking downstairs. Her hands were still holding his, and although there was nothing about it that was bad , it didn’t feel good either, and it made Paul want to cry. He pulled away, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry…” he said, forcing his eyes closed as he let his head hang in disappointment, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. It wouldn't help. It wouldn’t solve anything. Nothing could solve anything. Jane, God bless her, could not solve anything. “I’m sorry.”

“No… No, Paul… I’m sorry,” Jane whispered in return, shuffling even closer to him, and thus causing Paul to jerk away from her, needing space, needing to get away. He was surprised at his own reaction, the intensity of it. Never had he really minded his attraction towards the wrong sex. Never had he been bothered by his lack of attraction to women. Never had he felt disgusted by himself. But now… he did mind, he was bothered, and he was disgusted... “Paul.. it’s fine. It’s okay. I know.”

“I- I can’t, Jane. I just can’t!”

“I know. I know,” Jane repeated, as she began to retreat from him. Her warmth was the first thing that vanished, but unlike what he had thought, this didn’t make Paul feel any better either. He wanted to reach out for her, pull her to him, kiss her and hold her and hug her and feel. Feel something. Anything! But he was frozen in place, knowing that wasn’t going to help either. Nothing would. It would only hurt him. But maybe that was what he deserved. Was this his punishment? “You know you’re going to have to eventually? You and I, I mean,” Jane said, her voice suddenly a lot colder and Paul nodded frantically.

“Yes… I- I will. I just… I need time.” You’ve had 22 years already. Jane didn’t say it, but Paul could hear her think it, and he didn’t even blame her for it. She was right. He was a failure and a coward who couldn’t even kiss his future wife without dissolving into a whimpering mess. His father was right. There was something wrong with him. He was a disgrace to the family and if anyone was ever to find out… He swallowed thickly, not even daring to continue that thought. He was a weak and filthy disgrace and God hated him. His father hated him.

Jane was retreating. Paul could feel her move away from him, staring at him, a mixture of empathy and misunderstanding in her gaze. Jane - sweet, gentle, kind-hearted Jane - she could never be angry with him or disgusted like she had every right to be. She ought to loath him, fault him for tricking her into this life of love-less marriage, constant adultery, and unhappiness. Paul would have preferred her to despise him, to hate him, be disgusted by him like everyone else. He didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve John.

“I don’t understand you, Paul,” Jane said finally, her voice quiet but angry, causing Paul to look up at her, wide-eyed, guilty, ashamed. “I try… Fuck, I try … But sometimes… I just can’t.”

“Jane, I do love you,” Paul said, though he didn’t know why. Jane shook her head.

“No, you don’t. Not in the way you love him,” she said and Paul swallowed thickly at that. He didn’t love John. He wanted to tell her, but something kept him from forming the words. After a small pause she added, “You know, I almost began to understand you. But the fact that you cannot even admit how much you love that man… not just to me, but to yourself… that’s what baffles me most.”

“Jane…” Paul tried, but she shook her head.

“I need a moment, Paul. I can’t- It’s not just about you, this marriage. It’s not just about you…” she said and with that, she turned around and left, leaving Paul, broken and guilty, behind.

               She came back late that evening. Paul had been asleep for over three hours when he was awoken by the sound of his bedroom door opening.

“Paul?”

Groaning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he pushed himself up onto his elbow, turning his head towards the half-open door. It was too dark in the room to see, and Martha growled impatiently beside him as she too raised her head, ready to protect her owner if needed and Paul gently petted her to let her know it was alright.

“Paul? Are you awake?” Jane’s voice came again and Paul sat up even more as he recognised her. He growled something unintelligible back at her, his voice was still too thick with sleep for him to produce anything more than some grumbles.  Clearing his throat, he tried again.

“Jane? What are you doing here?” His voice was still barely more than some low growling, but at least he seemed to have made himself audible. Martha jumped off the bed to investigate, her paws clattering on the wooden floor as she snuffled her way over to the door, finally pausing as she reached Jane. When she didn’t bark, Paul knew for certain it was her.

“Can I come in?” she asked and Paul frowned, finding it difficult to comprehend words at the moment, his mind still fuzzy from sleep. Eventually, as the words began to make sense to him, he nodded and growled an affirmative response, though he was not any less confused. Jane hadn’t spoken to him all day after she had left. What was she doing here now?

He could hear the door close in the dark and he shuffled over to make room on the bed, leaning across to his bedside table to light a candle. Before he could, though, Jane stopped him.

“I like it dark,” she whispered as the bed dipped, her voice closer than Paul had expected it to be, and he complied. They sat on the bed together for a while in silence, a wide gap between them, both afraid to speak, and Paul wondered what she was doing here.

“I just…” Jane started after a good couple of minutes, and Paul could hear her taking a deep breath beside him to steady her trembling voice. “I’m sorry. For what I said.”

“No. You were right. I-”

“No, Paul,” Jane interrupted him, and Paul fell silent at the intensity of her voice, having heard it like that only a handful of times before and never directed at him. She took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said what I’ve said. It was unfair. It’s just… sometimes it’s hard for me, to think about the fact that my future husband doesn’t only not love me, but does not find me attractive in the slightest - and no, don’t say you do love me, because that’s not the kind of love I’m talking about. But whatever I’m dealing with… I can’t blame you. Neither of us wanted this.”

Paul hummed at that, not sure what else there was to say. Jane, however, wasn’t yet finished.

“What I mean to say, I guess, is that it frustrated me, to see you so caught up in another person, another man, and when you didn’t react positively to me… I just… I’m sorry. You don’t disgust me and I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I know this is difficult for you and if you need time, then I understand that.”

It remained silent between them after that. For a moment there was no need for words, just silence, and Paul smiled as Jane moved to curl up around him, laying her head on in his bare chest.

“If anyone were to find us like this,” Paul could not help but point out, “I bet they’d be thrilled.” Jane chuckled at that and nodded, before softly sighing, rubbing her head in his chest.

“I’ve been thinking...” she started, pausing to think about the best way to phrase this. Paul looked at her curiously. “If you wish to take a - well, I suppose ‘mistress’ wouldn’t be the correct term in this case, but you know what I mean - I would not mind.” She raised her head to look at him, eyes gentle and Paul stared at her for a moment, before shaking his head.

“Jane, I don’t-”

“I mean it, Paul. I wouldn’t be opposed to it, both of us taking a lover.”

Paul didn’t say anything in reply to that, not knowing what to say or think and simply laid his arms around her with a sigh. Jane, however, looked serious.

“At least think about it,” she said, running her hands over the naked skin of his chest in a comforting gesture, and Paul nodded. He knew Jane meant well suggesting they would both find their sexual gratification elsewhere, but to Paul it felt like another sign of defeat, another sign something was wrong with him, for the idea of Jane spending the nights with another man didn’t hurt his pride as much as he knew it should. If anything, he felt relieved, and if that wasn’t sickening, he did not know what was.

              Paul let his head rest on John’s naked thigh for a moment to catch his breath and smiled as he felt John’s fingers running through his hair, gently combing through it as he whispered soft words of encouragement under his breath, as if afraid he would stop. To appease him, Paul tightened his hold on him and angled his head up to press a light kiss to the underside of the reddened tip, drawing a moan from the man above him that made him chuckle, finding it rather adorable.

It was still early in the afternoon, and they were lying in John’s bed, clothes strewn around the room from the haste and eagerness with which they had rid each other of their clothing, aching to have the other naked now they had a rare moment alone, the house being deserted except for the two of them. Once they had tumbled into bed, however, their haste had melted away and had made room for slow, languid kisses, lingering touches, and deep, low moans as they had explored each other, movements unhurried, taking their time to just be for once.

The idea to make their two-hour session, a three-hour one had been John’s, and despite Paul’s initial reluctance to it, fearing it would draw suspicions, he now declared the man a genius, enjoying the time they now had to explore and to feel and enjoy without a sense of hurry. He revelled the warm touch of the other man against his naked skin; the puffs of hot breaths that mingled with his own when they kissed or stared into each other’s eyes, their lips inches apart; the slight chill of the room against his heated body; the way the sheets rustled against his skin as they moved together; the way John held him; caressed him; smiled at him; whispered and moaned and gasped and muttered his name.

He had taken his time with John, kissing and caressing him all over, needing to feel he was still there with him, physical, tangible, his . He had worked him open slowly, dragging it out, bringing John to the brink before pulling him away again, had spent what felt like ages inside of him - though it had only been twenty minutes, twenty-five at the most - moving slowly, letting John feel every inch of him, thrusts smooth and direct, but too gentle, too soft and too slow to tip him over the edge, merely bringing him there again, until finally, Paul had come inside of him, leaving John unsatisfied on the bed. Before he had had the opportunity to complain, however, Paul had made himself comfortable between his legs and gingerly sucked the head of his cock into his mouth, and there it had been till now. He still found himself relishing in having John beneath him like this: beautiful, nonresistant and yielding to his every will as long as he wouldn’t stop touching him.

To make it even better, all this was his to enjoy without the incessant nagging of the voice in his head, which he had been hearing since he had first realised his interest in boys at the young age of eleven, telling him to be careful, to be aware, to not make the wrong move and to hurry up before they would be caught. He preferred this, wished it could always be like this, and it hurt to think they could only have this now, with the end so near-at-hand. It was unfair and Paul would stay here forever if he could. If only…

He hummed contently as John’s fingers began massaging his scalp, and peppered kisses all over John’s inner thigh in return as he stroked him, occasionally licking at the salty skin, enjoying the taste of him and savouring it, knowing some day soon it would be the last time he would have the other man like this and wanting to appreciate every second they had together. Turning his wrist, he changed the angle of his strokes and let his fingers dance rhythmically over the length as he glanced up at the other man through his lashes, wanting to see what he was doing to the other man.

John looked stunning as he lay there, eyes half-open, dark with lust and arousal as he stared down at him, taking in the sight as he groaned, voice deep and thick as his orgasm drew near after what must seem like an eternity. This time Paul would give it to him, and he could see John knew it too. His thighs tensed as he wrapped his legs firmer around Paul, refusing to let him go until he had finished what he had started. Not that Paul would have pulled away if he had had the chance; he would never be that cruel.

He caressed him, letting him know he was there for him, that he had him, that he could let go, and raised his head to take John back into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the head and sliding them all the way down to the base as his tongue worked at the thick vein that ran along the underside of the shaft, licking and pushing and massaging as John let out a prolonged whine in response, his hips inching desperately off the bed. Repressing a smirk, Paul continued to hollow out his cheeks and started sucking, drinking him down as he moved his head up and down, pleasing John in the exact way he knew he would find the most satisfying.

John was getting there. It was easy enough to see:  John’s cock lay throbbing on his tongue, his legs were shaking, his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, and his fingers tightened their hold on Paul’s hair, letting him know all he needed to know. He could read John like a book, knew exactly what he needed, what he wanted most, and Paul was more than happy to give it to him. So, holding his gaze, he opened his throat and went down, causing John to tremble under him.

“Paul…” he muttered, his eyes briefly falling close before they snapped open again, landing right onto Paul’s, watching him with hungry eyes as Paul devoured him, his left hand coming up to fondle his balls, applying just the right amount of pressure he knew would get John there. Sure enough, the man’s eyes fluttered close again, another breathless moan escaping his lips, and his eyebrows creased in concentration as he thrusted up to meet Paul’s movements, his hand tangling in the sheets beneath him while his other pulled at Paul’s hair, bringing him even closer and keeping him there, refusing to let go.

He was a mere inch away from orgasming. Paul would only have to apply the exact right amount of pressure with his hand, suck just hard enough, or simply hum and John would come. Just one more deliberate, well-timed suck... and that was exactly what Paul gave him: a suck, a hum and a squeeze, all at once, only to cough as his lover came with a cry and a hot spurt of cum shot out of his member and down Paul’s throat.

Keeping his eyes open and breathing through his nose in order to keep himself from gagging, he swallowed it. He held John as far down his throat as he could manage as he let him shoot rope after rope into him, swallowing it all as he let out a moan himself at the warm, familiar taste. Once John had finished, he pulled off with a plop, made quick work to lick him clean, chuckling at the occasional jerks John’s body made from overstimulation, and moved back up to lay beside him, where he was met with a long, lazy kiss.

“Call me a genius again,” John asked as they broke apart and Paul laughed as he rolled over, grabbing a shirt from the floor and slipping it on, feeling chilly, the winter cold having invaded John’s room as well. He didn’t bother buttoning it, though, and simply let it hang from his frame as he laid down on the bed with John, turning to him with a good-humoured grin.

“I don’t think so, love. You might begin to believe it if I do,” he said, rolling over onto his side to face him, his legs resting against John’s. He wished he had something to smoke, feeling the familiar itch in his throat, but they had nothing at hand. Instead he simply lay there for a while, looking down at where his legs lay tangled with John’s, chuckling drunkenly as he noticed his legs weren’t only longer than John’s, but more hairy as well, John’s legs being smooth with only a few light hairs covering them. They appeared almost hairless and Paul liked them that way, liked how soft they felt to the touch.

Smiling at the thought, he glanced up to see John was looking at their intertwined legs as well, but instead of a smile, a frown lay on his face. He looked lost in thought, and Paul wondered what he was thinking of that could have caused such a serious frown. He had seen that particular expression on him more and more during their last meetings, and Paul had often caught him staring at him as well, to which John responded by quickly averting his eyes.

John tended to stare, always had, even during their very first meeting, and Paul doubted the man was even aware of it most of the time, but neither of them had ever minded, and never had John looked away when Paul had caught him doing so, choosing to respond with a smile instead. But now, he only looked embarrassed.

Generally, Paul was used to people staring at him, from awe or something more negative, it didn’t matter, and he had learned to be flattered either way. It was a sign of status, of power, of influence. His mother and father had always told him that when he had complained about it. “Your pretty face will only benefit you in that respect, Paul. You’d better look after it,” he remembered his mother telling him when he had been about five years old and had become fed up with people - especially girls and older women - fawning over him. He had taken that advice at heart and since then he had used his looks to get what he wanted, not just from those girls or those women with their cheek pinching, but his parents as well, something he had had difficulty with when his mother had passed away.

But with John, it was different. John looked at him in admiration, with a look of tenderness rather than one of fear and respect. Or at least, that is how it had been. But when he caught him staring now, he saw something else in there, something he had a hard time figuring out. He wanted to ask what he was thinking, hoping it might explain why he was acting strange, but already he knew what John would say, so he didn’t.

A strange and sudden feeling overcame him as he lay there a moment longer, the thoughtless haze of sex fading as he lay thinking, wondering, while staring at John and listening to his heavy breathing as he caught his breath. He felt odd, and he wasn’t sure if it was a feeling of happiness or sadness. It was like a combination of both, a strange kind of melancholy he found hard to place. Somewhere he felt happy - he recognised it in the way his lips would curl despite himself when he touched John, or noticed the little marks he had left behind on his pale skin - but yet something felt wrong - off. Something was nagging at him, and Paul could not put it aside. Mostly because he knew exactly what it was.

It was the same feeling he had felt that day with Jane, but to a lesser extend. He could hear her voice in his mind, talking to him, reminding him of what he still had to discuss with John. He didn’t want to though, and that only made the feeling worse. He had to regain control over the situation; he had lost it in Paris when John had first persuaded him to continue their affair back home in England, despite Paul’s better knowledge of how dangerous that was, that it was a mere prolonging of the inevitable. He could say he had lost it long before that, on the evening when he had gotten drunk and first kissed him, or even when he had invited John to come to Paris with him in the first place, or even when he had allowed himself to be caught with the stable boy - he had already forgotten his name - and the more Paul thought about it, the more he wondered if he had ever had any kind of control over any of his affairs. And now Jane had suggested they could have separate lovers! Going along with that was asking for trouble.

He did know, though, that if he was going to have an affair during his marriage, it couldn’t be with John. He had let himself get too caught up with him, and although he wasn’t certain what it was about the man that made him have such a strong influence on him, he knew it was dangerous. He had to end it, regain control, be the son and heir his father wanted him to be, the husband Jane needed and deserved. But he didn’t want to. Something was stopping him. It didn’t make any sense.

Even so… he had to.

“Paul? Is everything alright?”

A moment passed before Paul registered the words. They sounded far away, and once Paul had understood the meaning of them, the usually simple question seemed impossible to answer. He focussed his eyes on John and forced a smile.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” he said, though his tone carried a weight with it that undid everything he had just said. The smile felt painful and fake on his lips, and slowly it faltered. A lump formed in his throat as John reached out and laid a comforting hand on his naked thigh, and with a sigh, he gave in. John would not like this, and Paul doubted he would even understand, but he had to tell him. He had to regain control.  

“There is a ball coming up. In a little more than three weeks from now,” he said, deciding to start out easy. It gave him a little more time to think about how he was going to let John know he would need to end their affair two months early without hurting him too much. He wondered, rather unwillingly, if John had hoped their affair would have continued even after his marriage, or whether he had even thought that far ahead at all. Maybe he simply took it day by day and didn’t think about how it would end or when or why. He found it hard to imagine John either way and didn’t know which one would be preferable, knowing John would react badly regardless. “My father’s organising it. Family, friends, acquaintances, complete strangers… they are all going to be there. I’ve been writing invitations for it all weekend.”

“I thought you liked dancing and social gatherings and things like that?”

“I do. Ot at least, as long as my family isn’t there and I can be free enough to dance with whomever I please.” He caught John smiling bashfully at that, and Paul knew he was thinking about the dance he had taken him to in Paris, which in turn made his chest tingle at the knowledge John knew he was talking about him specifically.

Those days seemed long ago, a distant memory Paul couldn’t even be certain had truly happened, and he often wondered if he hadn’t dreamt it all up. But seeing John, smiling and looking at him like that, he knew it had happened, and he could almost feel the press of John’s body against his own as they danced, the firmness with which John had held him, and how easily he had let Paul guide him. He hadn’t been much of a dancer compared to other people Paul had danced with - both men and women - and yet there was something about the other man that made Paul want to dance with him rather than anyone else.

“Besides,” Paul continued, swallowing thickly as he pushed the memories away, not wanting to think of that now, every thought of John and him together making it even harder for him to say what he needed to say, “my father expects me to be there with Jane… as… a couple. An engaged one.” Paul wanted to clarify what he meant exactly, but before he could, John had already spoken.

“I see..” he said, even though Paul highly doubted that he did. “And you’d rather be dancing with someone… closer to your interests than her?”

There are many things I’d prefer doing with someone closer to my interests than her, Paul thought, but only nodded.

“Maybe,” John continued, a mischievous little smirk on his lips as rolled over and curled his hand around Paul’s hip, pulling him closer as he began to move on top of him, letting one of his legs fall between Paul’s, “maybe I should come too, then?” Paul blinked up at him in surprise, failing to understand what he meant.

“You? Come too?”

“Yes! Maybe I could come to the ball as well and make it a little more interesting for you. We could… oh, I don’t know! Sneak off somewhere, perhaps, dance in secret like we did in Paris, steal some food and hide under the table to eat it, make fun of people’s silly dresses and suits, drink ourselves into a stupor, I could… make the whole evening more pleasant.” John wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said that last, making it more than clear what he meant exactly and Paul almost gasped at the mere suggestion of it. John had completely misunderstood what he had meant!

“You’re not serious!”

“Well, maybe I am,” John replied with a wink, but Paul could only stare at him. “Might be fun. And it will keep you happy during the whole affair.”

“Are you insane?! We could get into some serious trouble! Not to mention it’d be highly inappropriate, whisking me away from my own party like that. People expect me to be there. The ball, it-”

“You will be! But in between you talking to all those boring people and dancing with your beloved future wife,” John reached out to take Paul’s hand and pressed his lips against the back of his fingers, before kissing his way up to the man’s bare arm as he looked up at Paul with a heated gaze that caused a warm feeling to spread from Paul’s stomach to his groin, “I can make sure you’ll enjoy the evening in many different ways.”

“By dancing with me and stealing food?” Paul asked, voice tight, and John grinned at him as he finally reached his shoulder, pulling Paul’s arm around his waist and guiding his hand to his arse.

“Amongst other things,” he said in a suggestive tone of voice that would usually have Paul melting in his arms. Before Paul could object and explain what he had meant exactly, John had leaned down and captured his lips in a soft and teasing kiss, deliberately keeping it chaste yet with a hint of sexual passion that never failed to leave Paul wanting more. He found himself moaning against John, his fingers subconsciously squeezing John’s arse as he relaxed against him, pulling him closer despite himself.

He shouldn’t be doing this. It was clear John had not understood what the purpose of the ball was and why it was being thrown at all. But then again, did it truly matter? In the end, John knowing the function of the ball would not change anything, and maybe it would be better not to tell him, to just enjoy their last weeks without having to worry about those things, to just enjoy and be with each other, like now. Knowing would do nothing but distract from what was truly important.

“We could sneak off,” John continued, pressing Paul down into the mattress as he climbed on top of him, legs on either side as he straddled him, causing Paul to let out a heated moan as he sat in his lap.

“We could find an empty room somewhere, somewhere secret,” John whispered, his voice low and hoarse, as if he had been held balancing on the edge for hours, and Paul let out another moan as John leaned in and kissed the side of his mouth. His lips were soft and firm, and Paul’s eyes fluttered close for a moment as John’s lips trailed down to his jaw, sucking on it. “Somewhere no one will bother us...”

His fingers, persuasive little things, moved up over Paul’s arms and chest, gently rubbing his nipples whenever he passed one, making Paul hotter and hotter as he let John do what he wanted, letting out the occasional gasp whenever John did something that felt especially good.

“I can make you feel better,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, sending shivers down Paul’s spine, “I could suck you off, or eat you out, right there and then, with so many people just a few rooms away, wondering where you are. And you’d be with me, hard, wanting, whispering my name, grunting it while you bend me over a table or push me against the wall or a bookcase or onto the piano and fuck me, take me hard, because you need me.” His mouth was only inches from Paul’s ear as he whispered to him, his hot, damp breath ghosting over Paul’s skin, and the younger man gasped in pleasure as John closed his lips around it. He sucked and nibbled lightly as he rocked his hips down into Paul, letting Paul’s half-hard dick slide between his firm, round arse cheeks, and pulling another heated growl from his parted lips.

“John-” Paul tried, his hands coming up to push at the man’s shoulders, but he found little motivation to pull through with it, liking what John was doing to him too much. John felt so good against him, warm, firm, soft, yet hard in the right places, and although Paul had only just come and still felt exhausted, he was miraculously growing hard again.

“I know you’d like that. And the afterwards you go back and dance with your pretty lady and talk to all those boring posh people, and no one would know just what you’ve done to me, and why I wince whenever I sit down, so I remain standing, and you’d know why. You’d know it was your fault. You’d know how much I like it and how I would let you do it all again. You’d only have to say so...”

“John, it’s not…” Paul tried once more, but couldn’t bring himself to say it, his word cutting off in a pained groan. John paused his movements as his words reached his ears and pulled back to look Paul in the eye, a frown on his face, seeming completely out of place on his otherwise flushed and aroused expression. “The ball… it’s-”

“It’s what?”

“It’s just…”

“Come on, Paul. You know I’m joking. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I just thought it’d be nice for you to have some mental support if you’re that nervous about it. I know it can’t be easy having to put up that mask all the time, the lying, pretending to be the happiest couple in the world… I just thought it might be nice if I were there with you. You don’t have to fuck me against the wall in some deserted room, if you don’t want to.”

Paul smiled at that, but felt something tugging at his heart, painful and unforgiving. It was sweet how much John cared, that he would doubt Paul wouldn’t be into that - he was, though he wasn’t sure if he would actually want to do it, the chances of being caught too high for him to want to risk it. But there was something inside of him that kept him from saying what he needed to say, that made him doubt whether he should even say it at all.

What difference would it make if John knew? The final end result would be the same: they would finish off the portrait and either end it there, or John would come to the ball and they would end it after that. Paul didn’t know when he had decided to accept John’s proposal to come to the ball. It would be too dangerous and could only end in disaster. But it would be nice to have him there, have him as support, some kind of safe haven Paul could run to if it got too much.

However, he doubted John would be willing to come if he knew what the ball was for, and that afterwards their relationship would be over and they would never see each other again. It did not seem fair. Perhaps John would want to end their relationship right now if he knew they needed to end it once the portrait was finished. Perhaps John would see it as a waste of time, and would want to focus on finishing the actual thing he had been asked to do the last few week insteads.

Frankly, Paul had more to lose than to gain if he were to tell John the truth. If it were to end in a fight, it didn’t matter, did it? Because they would never see each other again. It was like it had been with his mother’s death: knowing what was going to happen would only take away from joy and happiness they had now. It would ruin it, leave a sour taste in his mouth, and although it would hurt in the end, it would’ve have hurt regardless.

“No, I… I’d like you to be there,” he heard himself saying, glancing up at John with a self-satisfied smirk as he stared into his eyes. “It might be fun to see how far you’re willing to go to live up to your promises. As long as you make sure you look handsome and well-dressed, of course. My father will kill me for inviting you otherwise.”

“I think I might have invited myself, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure to look pretty and worthy of an upper-class gentleman like yourself,” John said, fluttering his eyelashes and Paul smiled at that, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of nausea in his stomach.

“I can’t wait,” he said, and John chuckled as he leaned in and pressed their lips together again.

“Want to enjoy the remaining one hour and twenty minutes together before you’re going to have to leave and I’m going to have to sneak off to finish your portrait in secret?” John suggested, muttering it against Paul’s mouth and Paul eagerly nodded, his fingers tangling themselves into John’s sweaty locks and keeping him close, needing his touch and kisses, to have him with him now he still could. He was here with John and they were going to enjoy the last few weeks they had together. It would be worth it. John was worth it.

              Paul paced nervously back and forth in front of the door to his father’s office, hands clutched behind his back, gathering courage as he felt like he was eight years old again. His heart felt as if it was stuck in his throat, making breathing difficult and whenever he swallowed, he got the extreme urge to throw up. He had never liked having to speak to his father in this way, whether it was from his own initiative or because his father had called him to him. Although the man was very different outside his office, inside Paul always felt he was under constant scrutiny and attack, making an actual amicable conversation with him all but impossible, which is why Paul would always try to talk to him outside of it if he could manage. Today, though, he had no choice.

Since he had been young, his mother had told him not to disturb his father unless it was absolutely necessary, because he was such a busy man, and while he now knew she had only told him that to stop him from running into his father’s office during important meetings to show him a drawing he had made or to insist he’d listen to something he had learned on the piano or hear him recite a poem he had learned from the top of his head or something similarly silly, the fear of disturbing his father had never quite gone.

As he had gotten older, and as a result had gotten into a lot more trouble, going to his father’s office more often than not resulted in marks on the palms of his hands or a sore arse depending on his father’s choice of punishment for that day, and soon Paul had started to avoid the room as much as possible. At first, Paul had been able to charm his way out of most of them, but once his mother had passed away, the spankings had gotten worse and more frequent.

He still felt those same old nerves whenever he stood in front of the door - not that his father had stopped his punishments with him, like he had with Michael, though one hard slap would now usually suffice - the memory of those rare but painful spankings coming back to him. His father wasn’t a cruel man, but he believed a disciplinary spanking or hit when he was pushed to such measures. Paul doubted he’d have any reason for such measures now, though, as he doubted he’d be punished for inviting someone to his own ball. The chance, however, was there, especially if his father were to find out about the true nature of his relationship to John. That could not happen.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax and knocked on the door. His father wasn’t busy. Mike had told him that himself. He would be fine.

“Yes?” James McCartney’s harsh voice came through the door, and Paul swallowed thickly.

“It’s me, Paul. Can I come in for a moment? There is something I have to discuss with you.”

It remained silent for a moment behind the door, and Paul could hear some light stumbling and cursing as he pressed his ear against the door, trying to listen for any indication of his father’s mood. He had to hastily take a step back as the door suddenly opened and his father appeared in the doorway. Paul tried to keep a straight face as he looked up at him, trying to look casual, and although his father narrowed his eyes at him for a moment and it seemed for a moment he would make a comment about the rudeness of listening in on people, he then stepped aside and beckoned Paul to come in.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I thought you were Garrow. He's been bothering me all afternoon. Something about chewed up curtains or something similarly unimportant. Now, what is it you want to discuss?” he asked as he moved to sit behind his desk again with a sigh, and Paul bit his tongue to repress his nerves as he went inside and closed the door behind him, hoping it hadn’t been Martha who had ruined the curtains. Mr Garrow already did not like her, claiming she made his life and job as butler ten times harder. Paul had tried disciplining her, but in all honestly, he would not mind if he was talking about those awful curtains in the dining room. He would be glad to see them gone.

Unsure whether his father wanted him to sit down or not, he remained lingering in the back of the room near the door, not wanting to intrude or do anything that would give cause to his father to be annoyed with him. He needed him as unassuming as possible if he didn’t want his father to be suspicious about his motivations for inviting John.

“Well, I er… went to see Mr Lennon-” Paul started, but his father immediately interrupted him, barking at him to take a seat.

“Don’t just stand there. You’re my son, for God’s sake, not an employee,” Jim said and Paul blinked at him a few times in surprise, before he hastily did as told. Once he had taken his seat, his father motioned him to continue.

“Right… Well, I went to see Mr Lennon earlier today,” he repeated, fighting the smile that was daring to creep up onto his lips at the mere mention of him and what he had done to him after he had invited himself to the ball - the man had an impressive imagination even Paul could learn from, “and I erm… I thought it would be polite to invite him to the ball, to show some gratitude for his hard work on my portrait.”

His father looked at him in surprise, his head cocked to the side, and Paul forced a careful smile, repressing the urge to say any more, knowing it was best to make it seem as normal and self-explanatory as possible. He had spent his entire way home thinking of a good reason for why he would have invited John to the ball, fearing his father would otherwise suspect something, and this was the best he had managed to come up with. It wasn’t the best lie, even a weak one when thought about for too long, but there was only so much he could work with in this case and he hoped his father would buy into it, against all odds and expectations.

It already was a miracle his father didn’t insist on someone accompanying him to his meetings with John in the first place, seeing as he was a handsome young lad of a similar age as himself, and Paul didn’t want to give him any reasons to start doing that now, as it would make for a greatly unsatisfying end to their affair. He crossed his legs and sat up a bit more, taking on a more confident pose as he looked his father directly in the eye, but with the meekness and respect his father expected to see in him.

“You invited Mr Lennon to show him your gratitude for the portrait?” his father repeated and Paul nodded as he kept his eyes on him, knowing one wrong move, look or word would mean the end of this, and worse, the end of his relationship with John.

“I thought it would be the appropriate and courteous thing to do, considering the high quality he’s delivering, while only being an apprentice. Not to mention we asked him to finish the portrait an entire month early, to which he agreed without so much as a word of objection. He’s been most polite and accommodating and so I thought it would be suitable to thank him for that,” he said with more confidence than he felt, and Jim hummed as he sat back in his seat, looking at his son with narrowed eyes as he studied him.

“Is that so?”

“You always taught me it was important to be thankful and polite. Besides, I er… I thought you would have the portrait displayed somewhere perhaps, alongside your own, and… well… it would be fitting for the artist to be there when it's first admired, don’t you think? It’s important to give him some recognition for his efforts. It would help his career as well. I thought it would be the least we could do for him.”

“And you think inviting him would be fitting? It’s not just any ball, after all.”

“He and I have become good acquaintances during the weeks we have spent together. He would not be out of place,” Paul readily replied, and immediately wished he could take those words back and rephrase that sentence, fearing his father would see through him. Fortunately he only hummed again and folded his hands in his lap as he nodded, thinking. Paul swallowed thickly, but refrained from looking away. “What I mean to say is-”

“I know what you mean to say, Paul,” his father interrupted him and Paul fell silent immediately, a cold shiver running up his spine, fearing what he father thought, his mind spinning as he tried to think of anything that might save him at the last moment.

For a moment, Jim remained silent, but then a small smile broke on his lips, and he sat up with a proud shimmer in his eyes. “I have to admit, that was very thoughtful of you to do, to think about him. Yes… Yes, let him come, why don’t you! He seems like a nice enough young man when I met him. Just… make sure he dresses and acts properly. I don’t want anyone disturbing the evening. It is one for celebration after all! We don’t want want one person’s presence to leave a sour taste.”

“Yes! Thank you, father,” Paul said, with slightly too much enthusiasm than what might have been appropriate, but his father didn’t comment on it. “I’ll make sure of that, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt it, son,” Jim said, smiling and Paul felt his chest expand with pride as he father regarded him like that. He hadn’t seen that look in his eye for a long time. He could hardly remember when. Surely it had to be before his mother had passed away… “Now, write him a formal invitation and let him bring his young lady if he has one. Do you know if he has a young lady, Paul?”

“No, it er… it never came up in conversation,” Paul said, checking himself to keep his cheeks from flushing. His father hummed, though Paul could not discern if it was a positive or negative hum.

“Well, either way, he can bring someone if he likes. Now, Paul, I have some other business to attend to before dinner. If you please...” Jim said motioning towards the door and Paul nodded as he got up and hastily made his way out of the room, eager to get out, excitement rushing through his body. Before he could close the door behind him, however, his father called him back.

“Oh, and Paul?” he asked, and Paul winced softly before turned to face him. “I am proud of you. It seems you have picked up more of my advice and lessons than I had thought. Your Mum… she would have been proud too.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, smile faltering slightly and his heart thumping in his chest as he said it. He nodded at him and hurried out of the room as his father turned back to the stack of papers on his desk, giving him leave to go with a wave of his hand.

As soon as the door was closed, Paul collapsed against it, groaning softly to himself, feeling his heart creep its way back up, as if trying to crawl out of his throat. His dad had been proud of him… It had been the first time he had said that in years, and the reason why was a lie - a lie that could have him be disowned if his father would find out.

He was a terrible son.

[fullmetalcarer]

Arranged Marriage / Soulmates AU - Part 2

(link to Part 1)

King Charles and Prince Erik met every day in the fortnight prior to the wedding. As was customary, they were attended by hordes of courtiers. Every time they met Charles was rendered speechless and stupid with possessive lust. Every time they met Erik leant towards him like a sapling in a high wind, "accidentally" touching Charles' fingers, or nudging his shoulder, or brushing his arm. Every night Charles jerked off frantically, picturing Erik in a variety of erotic poses.

Conversation was stilted at first, with Charles inquiring about such inspiring subjects as Erik's journey, the weather in Genosha as opposed to the Westchestrian climate and comparative farming practices. Erik gave monosyllabic answers.

The war was an obvious conversational no go area. Erik had fought in his country's wars from the age of sixteen. Charles was a seasoned campaigner; first as a guerrilla fighter against the usurper, Kurt Marko, then in the civil war against Kurt's son, Cain, and finally as a commander and participant, despite the pleas of his generals, in the war against Genosha.

A chance reference to chess changed everything. Conversation flowed as they discussed, and argued about, their preferred strategies. They adjourned to the library to use the ebony and whitewood set that had belonged to Charles' long dead father. It was a close fought game. Eric won. Charles had never been so happy to be beaten in his entire life. Admittedly, he had been distracted by Erik's habit of rolling the pieces between his long, tanned fingers. They played daily from then on. Honours were about even.

The conversational floodgates had opened. They talked about books (Erik favoured factual works, Charles preferred novels and poetry), the sciences (Erik was fascinated by metallurgy, Charles by the study of living things), the rights of omegas (in Westchester omegas had virtually the same rights as alphas, in Genosha they were very much second class citizens, except that they were expected to fight, which was rare in Westchester) and the lands they had travelled (Erik described the icy fastnesses of the north, Charles waxed lyrical on the tropical jungles of the south).

Erik was well on the way to beating him yet again, which would put him three games ahead, when Charles noticed him rubbing at a broad scar on the inside of his wrist.

"Old war wound?" he asked, forgetting the war was out of bounds.

"No," replied Erik, tone somber.

Charles was just about to apologise for asking when Erik continued:

"It's where my soulmark was."

The Genoshans were remarkable for removing children's soul marks as soon as they appeared. Soulmarks were considered a frivolous distraction from the serious art of waging war. Soulmarks encouraged people to waste time searching for their perfect mate when they could be usefully serving their country.

"When . . . when did you have it removed?"

"I was three."

"Did it hurt?"

"I don't remember. I don't remember what it said. It was a man's name, I know that."

"Do you regret losing it? I don't mean to offend. I know it is the way of your people and would not be the custom if they did not feel there was good reason for it. Forgive me, I express myself badly."

Erik smiled, not the fierce grin that ignited a fire in Charles' groin, but a soft, sad thing that stirred something painful in his chest.

"You express yourself well and I am not offended. I know we are the only people to remove our soulmarks. When I was young I thought nothing of it, it was the way things were. As I grew older, I was glad it was gone as I knew my marriage would be arranged and a soulmark might make it harder to accept. Recent events have made me wonder . . . oh . . . many things."

Recent events could only mean their impending marriage.

"I have my soulmark still and I swear I could not feel more strongly for my soulmate than I do for you," said Charles.

He took both Erik's hand's in his. His fingers were cool between Charles' heated palms. His scent intensified, the rain on green, growing things smell particularly strong.

"I have no soulmark, but I care not for I have you," Erik whispered, voice husky with need.

They were falling into each other, lips within inches of meeting, when a Genoshan courtier coughed meaningfully. It was the Regent, Shaw. Fucking bastard. They drew back and carried on playing, the match descending into a messy draw.

Their conversation was never so intimate again, but Charles repeated Erik's words in his head night and day.

"Stopped moping about your soulmate, have you?" teased Raven.

Charles blushed and told her loftily "you should have more respect for your King."

She blew a raspberry and sprinted off before he could retaliate.

The day of the wedding came at last. Charles was ritually bathed and dressed as was the custom. Erik would be going through the same ritual. Charles was clad in gold, Erik in silver. Only alphas and betas were permitted to attend to Charles and only omegas to Erik. Raven, as a beta and his nearest relative, despite being a half sister only and a bastard at that, had the duty of girdling him with his sword belt and placing the crown upon his head. She looked unusually serious as she did so, the solemnity of the event affecting even her high spirits. Neither Charles nor Erik would eat until the marriage feast.

Charles struggled to keep his temper. He should be meeting Erik in the library right now. They'd be playing chess and talking and Charles would gently tease his omega and Erik would pretend to be offended, then burst out laughing. Logic said he'd see Erik in just a few hours. His alpha nature curled his fingers into claws and put a growl in his throat at the delay. He managed not to swear at anyone or punch his attendants by saying as little as possible and practising breathing exercises.

He processed through the castle - which took hours, it was a bloody big castle - and then through the streets. The people cheered and threw flowers. There were a few boos and sullen faces because some of his subjects resented him marrying the Genoshan prince who'd waged war on their land. In most kingdoms the people would have been afraid of openly expressing their displeasure, but Charles had always been determined Westchester would be different. The vast majority seemed to be celebrating. Of course that might be because free food and drink had been laid on.

Erik would be making his way to the cathedral by another route. As an omega, he would be in a carriage, rather than on foot, and hidden from the gaze of the crowd, which was ridiculous as the public would be seeing him all the time once they were married. Something primitive in Charles rejoiced that his omega would be concealed from prying eyes. He'd arranged to have the Erik's route strewn with yellow rose petals, as his prince had mentioned in passing that he preferred them to the more traditional white.

Both processions arrived at the cathedral at the same time. Charles handed Erik down from the carriage. Erik's fingers were cold and trembled slightly. Charles gave them a reassuring squeeze. Erik squeezed back. He had strong grip. His scent - lemons, cloves, new mown hay - washed over Charles, hypnotic and entrancing. Erik was draped from head to toe in a fine silver veil. Once the massive cathedral doors had slammed shut behind them, Charles unveiled him.

"You are as beautiful as the moon," he whispered.

Erik smiled and whispered back, "You are as magnificent as the sun. Oh, and yellow roses, you remembered."

"I remember everything you say."

The Regent made a sort of "ahem" noise. God, Charles disliked the man, plus he was an alpha so shouldn't be anywhere near Charles' omega, but he was perfectly right, they were keeping three thousand people waiting.

Charles led Erik down the aisle. The huge, echoing space was brilliant with a thousand candles. Light streamed through the stained glass windows, painting the pale stonework in a myriad of jewel colours. The right hand side of the nave was hung with blue Xavier pennants, the left with Lehnsherr green and silver. Above the altar two great banners were joined in a complex knot, symbolising their union.

The priest began speaking of "the alpha taking into him the omega and the omega cleaving to the alpha." Charles didn't take in much of the service. Erik was too distracting.

He repeated the ancient words:

"I, Charles, rightful King of Westchester, Lord of House Xavier, take unto me Erik, anointed Prince of Genosha, Lord of House Lehnsherr, to be my omega. I pledge on my life and my crown to love, honour and protect him, forsaking all others, even into the end of our days."

Erik gazed at him with shining eyes.

"I, Erik, anointed Prince of Genosha, Lord of House Lehnsherr, give unto Charles, rightful King of Westchester, Lord of House Xavier, myself, as offering to my alpha. I pledge on my life and my crown to love, honour and obey him, forsaking all others, even unto the end of our days."

They exchanged rings, silver for Charles and gold for Erik, and drank from the cup of joining, Erik's fingers clasping the jewelled handles, Charles' hands atop Erik's.

"And now, your Majesty, your Royal Highness, you may exchange the kiss of binding."

Charles placed one hand on Erik's cheek and the other on the nape of his neck. The short hairs tickled his fingers. Erik's hands fastened on Charles' waist. Erik bent his head - he was half a head taller than Charles - and their lips met. Erik's lips were soft and warm. His scent intensified - he smelt like an orangery hung with drying spices - and Charles' scent - earthy, musky, smoky - mingled with it. Charles was on verge of slipping his tongue into Erik's welcoming mouth, when the priest cried:

"People of Westchester and Genosha, behold King Charles, the Third of His Name, and Prince Consort Erik, the First of His Name. Alpha and Omega, may they rule long and well under God's grace."

Charles disengaged and he and Erik turned to face their cheering people with dazed faces. Erik had tear tracks on his cheeks and it wasn't until Charles saw them that he realised his own face was wet.

They were married.

Part 3 to follow

[fluffy-yellow-birb]

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

By Edgar Allan Poe - Published 1847

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was atthe thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipeof what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!""I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --" "Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. "Come, let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--" "I have no engagement; --come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," he said. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!" My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --" "Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said, "a sign." "It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado.""Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --" "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.

The voice said-- "Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -- "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again -- "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

I'm pretty sure i remember reading this in 8th grade. That's all I'm gonna say

Thank you anon.

[anotherlifefic]

Chapter 42: The Guardian of the Triforce

„Her… other half? Like her lover?“, I asked, not being able to make sense of what Lana was telling me.

„‘Other half‘ as in ‚She and I used to be the same person‘“, she corrected me. „We got split in two when she decided to leave behind her role as the Guardian of the Triforce.“

„Guardian of the Triforce? I have never heard of something like that… and I‘m reasonably well versed in the lore sorrounding the Triforce. I‘m not an expert, but I‘m sure that if there was a Guardian of the Triforce, people would know.“

And said guardian would have stopped Ganondorf from getting his third of the Triforce. And thus made sure none of the terrible things that could have happened had any chance to ever happen.

Lana sighed. „She could observe, but never interact. That‘s why people just… forgot about her, I suppose. Like they forgot Hylia. And the Glaces.“ Her eyes wandered down to my left hand, which was resting on the table and was sorrounded by a thin layer of ice by now. „And many other powerful people and races. A lot of things just end up lost to time. History warps itself, as it is always told by people. And people make mistakes, and forget things, or embellish or change the way they tell it to suit their needs.“ She shook her head once more, as if to clear her thoughts. „But that‘s not important now. She has broken her vow to remain a silent watcher of the world, and decided to interfere with it to a dangerous degree. While the Hero marrying anyone but the Princess wasn‘t part of the plan, it also didn‘t render him unable to perform his duty as a hero and protector. But Cia brainwashing him most certainly does. And while Ganondorf may be dead, the evil that drove him to do what he did is not killed this easily.“

„What? There was something making Ganondorf do these things? I mean, apart from his own greed.“

„There are powers at work that far exceed the greed of a single man“, Lana replied. „It is a long story, one that you will undoubtedly learn when the time has come. But now, we have to focus on freeing the Hero from Cia‘s spell. And for that, we have to fight Cia. Your powers should prove useful for that.“

I looked at my hand, then at Lana. „I don‘t know how to use them yet.“

She took my hand into hers. „Then allow me to show you.“

We walked outside again, and Lana led me to the middle of the unkempt field. It was kind of sad to see this farm abandoned like that. Who could it have belonged to?

„Concentration“, Lana said. „That‘s the key. Concentration and visualisation. You have to imagine the ice sprouting from your fingers. It has to be a clear image. And then you have to concentrate on it.“ Then, she let a beautiful frost flower sprout from her hand. It shattered, and she came up to me. „Now you try it. I‘ll hold your child while you do.“

I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. „You do not honestly ask me to hand my son to a stranger who just confessed to be connected to the woman who brainwashed my husband, do you?“

She sighed. „It‘s only natural to be distrustful after what happened. But we really don‘t have the time for this. Would you rather just set him down and have him crawl away while you work?“

„I could hold him“, said someone who had just joined Lana and me. We turned around, and I almost cried with relief. „Jenna! You‘re here!“ Then I stopped. „Wait… why are you here?“

„I always visit my old home right after returning from Hyrule“, she replied, but there was no smile on her face. She looked sympathetic, if anything. „I just saw Link while riding through the village, and he had a weird… woman with him. I said hello to him, but he didn‘t even seem to hear me, and didn‘t look at me either, even when I stood right in front of him.“ Her facial expression made it perfectly clear that „woman“ hadn‘t been the first word on her mind when trying to describe Cia. „I asked some of the villagers about you, and they said that they saw you follow another woman here. Rebecca, what is going on? And why are you two practising magic in the middle of my family‘s farm?“

I looked around. Ow, now it all made sense „I didn‘t know it was your family‘s farm. Sorry.“

„Me neither. It looked abandoned, so I thought it would be a good place for us to train“, Lana explained.

„Look, Jenna. Link isn‘t himself right now. And he needs help.“ I flexed my fingers, trying to get rid of the thin coat of ice covering them. „Help that may or may not involve fighting Cia. The woman you saw with him earlier.“

„Great, I‘m in. It‘s already enough to have you for a rival, but that Cia? No way we‘re losing Link to HER.“ She pumped her fist in the air. „Let‘s show her what the true women in Link‘s life are capable of!“

I handed Gareth to her. „Thank you, Jenna. Your support means a lot.“

„As the old saying goes: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And don‘t actually condone adultery, which is what Cia is doing right now.“

„Oh?“, I asked.

„Yeah. I mean if Link ever fell in love with me, I would talk him into divorcing you before we did anything.“

„How very comforting.“

„Ladies“, Lana said, clapping her hands to gain our attention. „As touching as this friendly reunion is, you really need to get some practice with your magic before you can even think about confronting Cia.“

„Right. On it.“

For the next few hours, Lana made me do a few basic spells. Like the one she had showed me first; making a frostflower appear on my hand. It all felt… strangely natural. As if the magic had always been there, and I just hadn‘t known.

I occasionally glanced over my shoulder to see how Jenna and Gareth were doing. She was sitting on a big rock nearby and was having a very lively „conversation“ with him.

The sun soon began to set, and a pair on horseback. My stomach dropped when I recognized Link on Epona. And Cia… on Glory!

„What in the name of Farore‘s green crabs is this witch doing on my horse?“, I yelled out, beyond furious. And then my hand just slipped.

The ball of frosty energy blasted ahead and hit Cia dead in the face, knocking her off Glory and appearantly temporarily snapping Link out of his brainwashing. He looked from me, to Glory, then to Cia, and back. Then he rode up to me and dismounted. „Rebecca!“

„Link!“, I sobbed, throwing myself into his arms.

Glory approached us as well, causing me to let go of Link and hug her. „Oh Glory! I‘m so sorry you had to carry that woman on your back. Don‘t worry, I‘ll give you a very thorough grooming once we‘re back in the village.“

„You… little…“ Cia got up, her face reddened from the ice I had blasted her with. „You are meddling in affairs that don‘t concern you, Glaces! Why don‘t you go back to your frozen wasteland and let my hero and me have our happily ever after?“

Link drew his sword. „Get lost. Now. Before I make you.“

Cia blushed and cupped her own face with her hands. „Oh Link, I love it when you‘re being so forceful! Don‘t worry, sweetheart. I will remove this relic from our sight. Then we will continue our journey to the Temple of Souls!“

„Who‘re you calling a relic? I‘m not the one who has been wasting away in the same place for thousands of years.“

Cia‘s sharp gaze wandered over to Lana. „Lana… so you told her.“

„Link doesn‘t love you, Cia. He has chosen a love for this lifetime. We must respect his choice.“

„His choice should have been the Princess. If he can ignore the rules, so can I.“

I couldn‘t help but notice that Cia sounded like a petulant child.

„Do I sound like that when talking about Link?“, I heard Jenna mutter somewhere behind me.

Cia turned her attention to me again, pouting… and then turning away. „I really don‘t want to have to deal with you. Oh Volga!“

From seemingly out of nowhere, a massive red dragon appeared, which then turned into a man in red  armor.

Cia pointed to me, barely lifting her arm, as if I wasn‘t even worth the effort. „Get rid of that woman for me, will you?“ Then she looked over to Jenna. „The other woman and the brat, too. I do not allow my future children with Link to have any half-siblings from a worthless mother.“

Link gripped his sword tighter. „You will not touch my wife or son, witch! And neither will your servant!“

The man named Volga scoffed. „Servant? A dragon does not serve anyone.“ Then he drew his spear. „You better start praying to the Goddesses, boy.“

„Go ahead, have your fun“, Cia cooed. „I will come and collect my hero once you‘re done.“

Link looked over his shoulder to me. „Rebecca, take Gareth and run!“

„I won‘t abandon you!“, I insisted. „I have my magic! I can help!“ I gathered the magical energy around my hands for emphasis, feeling the air around me grow colder.

The dragon-man‘s gaze wandered over to me. „You are quite bold, Glaces. Very well then. Let‘s see how your ice fares against my dragonfire.“

Link stepped in front of me. „You will not harm her!“

But Volga just sneered. „Step aside, Hero. I have challenged the Glaces, not you. Do you intend to bring dishonor upon your wife?“

„Link“, I said firmly. „Step aside.“

„But Rebecca-“

„I am not the fragile woman I was before. Protect Jenna, Lana and Gareth, and leave Volga to me.“ I drew my naginata, feeling my magic flow into the weapon until its blade was covered in an icy blue aura. I raised my voice. „I shall accept your challenge, Dragonknight.“

He smirked. „Well spoken.“ Then he rushed towards me, engulfed in flames. I parried the blow of his spear with my naginata, the frost of my magic clashing against the blaze. A shower of sparks erupted from where our weapons met.

I jumped back, gathering energy for another strike while moving off to the side to dodge any attacks Volga might throw at me. We prowled around each other in a deadly dance, until I spotted an opening and attacked, striking a crack in his armor that was undoubtedly a scar on his dragon body. He stumbled, and I let the frost creep up on him, engulf him, until only his head was free.

Then I carefully approached him, weapon still readied in case he would attack once more.

But his pitch-black eyes were only sizing me up with an almost admiring look in his eyes.

„Where has the witch gone?“, I asked, trying to ban the slight shiver of my voice.

„Hyrule“, he replied with not the slightest hint of defiance. „She initially intended to imprison the Hero in the Temple of Souls and then attack Hyrule Castle to make sure the Princess wouldn‘t try to free him. But now that the Hero broke free from her spell, she changed her plans and will now try to get rid of the Princess first.“

Link and I looked at each other in horror.

„Zelda!“, we both gasped at the same time.

Jenna approached us. „What will we do? It‘ll take days to get back to Hyrule, even if we don‘t take a single break!“

„I will open a portal“, Lana said confidently. „Take your horses and step through it. It will lead you right to the castle.“

„Alright.“ I turned to Jenna. „Jenna, would you please take care of Gareth just a little longer? Just until we made sure that Zelda is safe?“

„Of course“, Jenna replied gently. „I will find a hiding place close to the castle and wait for you there.“

„The Great Fairy‘s Fountain“, Link said. „Not even Cia would dare try to defile it. We‘ll drop you off there on our way to Zelda.“

[freecreatorlady-blog]

A Rare Gathering of Bigwigs

It was a rare assembly of political, traditional, academic and retired military bigwigs. They came from all parts of the country and beyond.

The masses of the people from every community in Jukun land were also there. As usual, yours sincerely, a typical reporter of the old breed genre, was there on duty with his ears and eyes wide open to report the events faithfully as they happened.

I’m talking about the three major events of the previous week which happened in Wukari and Takum in Taraba State and in which Taraba State Governor, Arc Darius Dickson Ishaku played the important role as chief host and keynote speaker.

What eventually turned out to be one of Ishaku’s recent most tasking schedules started Wednesday March 15, with an unexpected trip to Abuja for the meeting of state governors with President Muhammadu Buhari the next day.

He returned to Jalingo Thursday evening in company of General T.Y Danjuma (Rtd), one of Nigeria’s most respected statesmen who is better known and adored back home as “Father of Taraba.” Both men accompanied by their wives – Barr. Anna Ishaku and Senator Daisi Danjuma headed for Wukari as early as 7.30 am Friday, March 17, for the events.

Wukari was a two-in-one event that lasted for two days. The first was the 40th anniversary of the Aku Uka, Dr Shekarau Angyu Masa-Ibi, on the prestigious traditional stool of his fore-fathers while the second was the maiden convocation ceremony of Kwararafa University. Wukari, I was told, had never seen a crowd of that magnitude in its entire history.

All hotels in town and in neighbouring towns such as Ibi and Donga were fully booked and open fields and classrooms in the numerous schools in the town became temporary homes for those who couldn’t find accommodation.

The oozing sound of music and dancing from the city announcing the commencement of celebration could be heard five kilometres from the town while the ceremony lasted that day.

The newly constructed convocation arena of the Kwararafa University was the venue for the two events. The Aku Uka’s anniversary was a unique outing and display of the complete paraphernalia of Jukun culture and tradition.

As early as 6 am, men and women half clad in Jukun native attires hit the roads on foot for the long but slow procession from the city centre to the Convocation Square.

They were accompanied by masquerades, and I counted no less than 50 of them, amidst singing drumming and dancing. Several state governors, deputy governors, ministers, members of the National and state assemblies and a powerful delegation of traditional rulers led by the Sultan of Sokoto, Dr Mohammed Sa’ad Abubakar, who was also chairman of the occasion, graced the event.

A loud ovation announced the arrival of Governor Ishaku at the arena at about 10.30am and that also signalled the beginning of the day’s proceedings. From thence, it was music, dancing and speeches.

President Muhammmadu Buhari who was represented by the Minister of Sports, Mr Solomon Lalong, praised the Aku Uka for living up to the expectations of his people, most especially during the peak of the serial communal crises inTaraba State in 2013 when he mobilised the people in support of government’s peace initiative.

Governor Ishaku, in his speech, eulogised the Aku Uka as a man of impeccable character and epitome of creativity and good leadership.

He said under the traditional leadership of the traditional ruler Wukari had grown rapidly to become the centre of education and learning with two universities and a campus of the National Open University.

The need to strengthen peace that has been achieved by his administration featured elaborately in his address. He urged all Tarabans to see the promotion and sustenance of peace as a responsibility they owe themselves and the state.

“Let us promote those things that unite us and give no room to those that divide us. We must continue to foster and strengthen our friendship with our neighbours”, he said.

The convocation was yet another historic event attended by many of those high profile personalities who graced the event of the previous day. Kwararafa University is a private institution established in 2006 to help facilitate access to higher education for children of the area.

Ishaku, a foremost Nigerian architect, drew the master plan for the institution. More than 2000 students were conferred with degrees and diplomas in the various departments.

Eminent Nigerians such as Sultan Sa’ad Abubakar, Daisi Danjuma, Prof. Okojie and Alhaji Ahmadu Aliyu Oga Onawo who is the Chancellor of the university were conferred with honorary doctorate degrees.

In his speech at the event, Governor Ishaku advised the graduating students to see their graduation as the beginning and not the end of a journey.

“For those of you graduating today, the journey begins today. You will be tested and you must be prepared to apply all that you have learnt”, he said. He urged the students to aim at the highest and the top always and “you will learn more as you continue to practise what you have learnt from school.”

General Danjuma who had earlier been requested to take over the institution and assume its ownership demanded in his speech for a formal letter of offer and the conditions that must be met to enable him take a decision on the request.

From the convocation ground in Wukari, Governor Ishaku’s convoy moved to Takum to await the grand finale of the 2017 Beth-El Conference of the Christian Reformed Church – Nigeria scheduled for the next day. It is an annual evangelical event which draws participants from all parts of Taraba and its neighbouring states.

The entry of Governor Ishaku and Anna, his wife, into the large arena that Sunday morning of March 19, was an act of great happiness and exhilaration for the over 20,000 participants. They rose from their seats, waved and cheered as Taraba’s First Family alighted from their car and took their seats.

The event was an opportunity for the church leaders to express their gratitude to Ishaku for all his achievements in road construction, the provision of water and the remarkable improvement in electricity.

But they were most impressed – and every speaker of that day did not forget to mention it – about peace that is being enjoyed now in the state and without which their gathering for the event would have been impossible this year.

Ishaku told them that he was committed to changing the very ugly situation of things he met on assumption of office.

“We are doing a lot for you. We have done 100 boreholes in various communities across the state. This year, we are doing 150 more. We have built several roads despite the poor financial situation.” He said Chanchagi – Takum road has been rehabilitated to make driving on it smoother. The road is to be awarded for reconstruction soon.

He told them that the Taraba State he inherited on assumption of office was a state in pieces, rendered so by the crisis of that time and that he was happy that the state is now in peace.

That portion of his speech saw the entire congregation rising again on their feet in appreciation of this achievements.

He told them that he was not unaware of the fact that he was not liked by some people in the state because he was not prepared to put the state’s money on the table to be shared. “Let me assure you. I will never share government’s money to individuals.”

He called for patience even in the face of extreme provocation by the Fulani herdsmen. “Retaliation will lead to bloodshed. We don’t want that. Give government the chance to resolve such problems.

That is the only way we can guarantee the sustenance of peace that we have won for the state.”

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[imaginebeatles]

Art and Obligation | Chapter 11

Pairing: John/Paul, Paul/OC

Rating: Nc-17 (PG-13, for this chapter)

Set in: 1820s (au)

Summary:  John Lennon works as the apprentice of a well-known portraitist and is tasked to do the picture of the young Mr. Paul McCartney. He is the son of Jim McCartney, a wealthy and powerful landowner, and has the reputation of an arrogant, spoilt brat with a pretty face, who has a way of wrapping anyone around his finger. But soon John finds that things are not as straightforward as they may seem.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.

Author’s note: I am actually not entire sure how I feel about the writing in certain parts, especially the last bit... Sorry if it’s not as great as usual. I tried my best and every fic probably has chapters that are not as fantastic as others. Also, Paris...

His knees were weak and trembled as he was guided upstairs to the second floor of the left wing by the young girl, who supported his weight with surprising strength, allowing him to lean on her shoulder as she held onto his arm and gently pushed him forward, her free hand resting firmly on the small of his back. His mind was still spinning as he thought about his father’s words and actions, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else, causing him to sway on his feet and occasionally stumble, being unable to see clearly where he was putting his feet as he walked, his vision blurred and out-of-focus. His cheeks were still stinging from his father’s hits, and he could not help but worry about the bruises that would appear in a few minutes’ time once the initial redness had drained away. It hadn’t been the first time something like this had happened, and although he had expected worse when he had seen his father’s face at the stables upon being caught – he had gotten worse for less - he could not get used to the anger and disgust in father’s gaze as he had looked down at him and given him that first blow. Even now, the sight of it was still hovering before his eyes, making him feel nauseous.

He hated it when his father acted this way with him, he hated how foolish and worthless he made him feel with his disparaging words and cutting blows, making him feel as if all his former wounds had been torn open once again and he was bleeding out. Unlike what his father thought and often claimed, he did try to be a good son and a worthy heir of the family legacy, but no matter how hard he tried, his efforts always seemed to go unnoticed by his father and paled in comparison to what were apparently his many faults. At moments like these, however, Paul found it difficult to care about any of that, when his own happiness seemed to be rendered unimportant by it and he found himself wishing there was another option.

It had been a while since his father had last caught him with any of his lovers or sexual interests, especially now he avoided brothels and rent boys – his father had eyes all over the city that would be more than happy to inform him if they saw him with any, as he had found out soon enough – and he shuddered to think what his father might have in mind for his punishment this time, knowing he would endeavour to bring an end to his affairs, current and future ones, for once and for all, and being unable to think of anything he could come up with himself. The uncertainty of it made him anxious.

Once they reached the door to his bedroom - or rooms, seeing as his private quarters did not only consist of a more than generously proportioned bedroom with a sitting area and desk, but also a separate study, a dressing room, and a grand bathroom – Paul untangled himself from the girl’s grip and straightened himself out as a took a couple of deep breaths to regain control over himself. He smoothed out his clothes and ran a hand through his hair to push it back into place as he waited for the girl to open the door for him, only to push past her without another word and step inside as soon as he was able to. He walked on towards the dressing room, intending to examine his face and see how he looked, and was shocked to see how much he was shaking as he raised a hand to turn the doorknob. Taking another deep breath, he tried to get his body to calm down, and cursed silently when it did not help.  

“Sir?” the young girl asked, sounding unsure. Paul could hear her coming in after him and closing the door behind her, her footsteps tentative as she approached him.

“I’m alright. I’ll er… just be in here for a moment. Make my bed while you’re here, why don’t you? And light a fire. It’s cold.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” she hastily replied. Paul did not look back at her as he pulled the door open and went inside, glad to be able to have a moment of privacy, feeling like he could break down at any second and not wanting to have to go through that with her present as well.

The room was rather generous for a dressing room, richly decorated with light green wallpaper, a large closet on one wall and a large mirror with a dressing table underneath it on the other. Opposite the door there was a small window that looked out over the gardens at the side of the house and part of the driveway if he looked at a certain angle, his rooms being situated at the front of the house, so he could see carriages coming and going and, if he looked far enough, catch a glimpse of the front gate. For now, he drew the curtains as to provide himself some privacy and sat down in front of the mirror, letting a tiny whine escape as he saw how he looked, his eyes immediately snapping down, being unable to look at himself. For a brief moment he felt the need to cry, the pain he felt, heightened so suddenly by the sight of his own bruised face, being too overpowering, but he managed to suppress those feelings, knowing they would not help him with this. He had to stay strong.

Looking up again, he studied his face to see how bad it really was and where, if he could trust his experiences with them, the bruises would start to form and whether he could camouflage them superficially with makeup. Upon evaluation, he had to admit he did not look as bad as he had initially believed: his face had paled and his eyes were red and wet, which would be gone in a few minutes, and his cheeks were red and rough, making it more than clear to him that they were going to bruise, but overall it seemed his father had spared him. He had avoided his eyes and lips, as well as any other place on his body, like his neck, arms and sides, and neither had he broken the skin. His wrist still felt sore from when his father had grabbed him, but Paul doubted he would be left with anything more than finger marks, which could easily be hidden by the cuff of his shirt. Still, somewhere he was glad his father had ordered him to stay in his room for the remains of the afternoon and evening, preferring not to let anyone see him when he was looking like this, considering his cheek would have to heal for a short while before he could apply any make-up over it to cover it up if he did not want to cause any irritation.  

Tomorrow, however, he had an appointment with Mr. Lennon for the portrait, and he was certain that if he had been able to spot the love bite last time, which he had not even been able to see himself, he would be able to see the bruises as well. John would not accept any of his weak excuses like last time either; Paul could still remember the look of doubt when he had made an excuse about the bruise on his cheek not long ago, and he knew he would go against him if he felt the need to. Normally, he wouldn’t have thought twice about cancelling any of his appointments whenever something like this had happened, he had done so plenty of times with his piano lessons, but with this it felt different. He did not want to cancel the appointment at all, but neither did he wish for John to see him like this, afraid of the questions he might ask and the weak lies he would have to tell in response to them.

He considered his options for a while, before coming to the conclusion that he did not have one in the first place. He reached out to take a piece of paper from the stack on the edge of the table – he always had a stack of papers lying around in case he came up with an idea for a drawing, poem or a music piece that he wanted to remember – and picked up the fountain pen that lay beside it as well. He thought for a moment on what he wanted to say, before writing the first two lines down in a well-practised hand, occasionally pausing to think about the wording before continuing. The lines after that, however, flowed easily from his hand onto the page.

 Dear Mr. Lennon,

It is with my sincerest apologies that I must inform you I shan’t be able to attend our meeting tomorrow afternoon as some more pressing matters have unexpectedly arisen that require my attention. With consideration of the deadline my father and I have proposed, I would like to know if it were at all possible for us to reschedule this meeting to a later date. Naturally, I would understand if your own schedule does not allow for this, and would therefore also be content with seeing you again coming Wednesday according to our regular schedule, although I cannot help but stress that I would be very disappointed if that would be the case. Please, hand your response to the young lady who handed you this letter. She will make sure I receive it.  I hope your aunt is in good health and that you have managed to find a proper use for the money I gave you. I look forward to your answer.

James Paul McCartney

 Paul read the letter a couple of times, wanting to make sure there were no errors or misspellings, before calling out for the young girl again, telling her to come to him for a moment and leave her duties for later if she had not yet finished them. As he heard the doorknob turn, he swiftly folded the letter and wrote down the address, before turning and offering it to her.

“Sadie, is it not?” he asked her as she took the letter from him. She nodded in reply. “Could you- I would like you to deliver this letter for me.”

“A letter, sir? Now?”

“Yes. I have written the address down for you. It is for a certain Mr. John Lennon. Please make sure you hand it to no one else but him, you understand? And most certainly do not show this letter to my father or ever mention it to him. I do not want this to cause him any worry. Oh, and wait for Mr. Lennon to have read the letter, as it is more than likely he will wish to send me a reply, and hand that back to me immediately.”

“But I am expected in the kitchen to prepare dinner in half an hour, sir,” the girl objected as she stared down at the letter in her hand, reading the address, a worried and confused frown on her forehead. Paul, however, did not care about her responsibilities.

“That won’t be a problem. I will vouch for you if they come to inquire about you. Please, deliver this letter for me. It is important,” he said, stressing his words as he searched for her eyes, looking deeply into them once he had her attention. The girl thought for a moment, before giving in with a nod. Paul smiled back at her, and told her leave him and take the family carriage, which she did right away, pulling the door shut again behind her, as he watched her go, suddenly nervous about the response he would receive.

The response in question arrived sometime after dinner, while Paul was reading one of his favourite books as he sat by the fire, hoping to be able to distract himself with some light entertainment as he waited not only for his father to inform him about his punishment, but also for John’s reply. The pain in his cheeks had subsided, leaving them only feeling sore when he ran his fingers over the skin, thought the first purple patches had already appeared, looking ugly and painful. The prints of his father’s fingers on his wrist, however, had gone and they had not begun to bruise either, for which Paul was glad. He had, on the other hand, not been able to relax, and his head shot up as he heard someone knocking at the door, his heart speeding up in the apprehension of who would be behind it, his father or Sadie.

“Come in,” he called and smiled as he saw Sadie come in, a letter in her hand. John’s reply, Paul thought, and he sat up in his seat as he beckoned her over, eager to read what it said.

“Mr. Lennon asked me to give you this, sir,” she said and Paul nodded as he snatched the letter from her fingers and folded it open, impatient to know what it read.

“Yes, thank you, Sadie. Sit down while I read, would you? I might need you still,” he said and Sadie did as she had been told and waited while Paul read the letter, written in a messy hand that could only be expected from the older man. Paul already had to smile at the first few words, amused, as he shook his head in disapproval.

 Dear Paul,

Your decision to send such a lovely girl to deliver your mail was very considerate of you, though I would have preferred to see you in person tomorrow, but alas. Sadly, I am unable to reschedule the appointment, because Mr. Edwards is to come home after the weekend and I will need to prepare for that. My aunt is in great health, thank you for asking, but what I bought with your money, I cannot tell you, as I think you would not approve of my choice. Do know that it was greatly enjoyed. Your letter does beg the question, however, what could possibly be more pressing and important to you than me. It seems the world continues to surprise me.

Your humble servant,

John

 Paul snickered to himself as he read the letter once more, before asking for another sheet of paper and his pen, so he could write his response:

 Mr. Lennon

For someone who not only seems to take pleasure in going against authority and all rules of English etiquette, but who also has a dislike for his addressee, you are awfully concerned with my personal life. As with most inquiries on such subjects, the answer is rather simple: that is not important, nor is it any of your business. Though, of course, I can understand your curiosity, as such an instance of my finding anything more important than you, would be a rare occasion.

Paul

 He smiled to himself as he folded the letter and handed it to the girl, who put it in the pocket of her apron without another word, already understanding what was required of her. She had been about to get up and leave, reaching for his empty plates to take with her to the kitchen, when Paul stopped her, taking a hold of her wrist to catch her attention. She stared at him, eyes wide, as if wondering what she had done wrong.

“Thank you, Sadie,” Paul said to her, smiling to make her feel more at ease as he released her wrist. “You can deliver this one in the morning, if you would prefer. I realise it is getting rather late and it would not be fair of me to ask you to go into town at this hour.”

She nodded in response and uttered a thank you before picking up his plates and turning to leave a second time, this time without being called back. Paul sighed and leaned back in his seat as she pulled the door shut behind her, rubbing his temples with his fingers as he tried not to think about his father, or anything that had happened today, any longer. He was feeling exhausted, drained from his energy from all the stress and tension of the day; it seemed like ages since he had been sitting with Martha in the window seat in the library, going through his Latin book, studying his tenses, and he wished he could go back to that moment, when everything had still been good and peaceful.

He wondered what Stanley was doing in that moment, not having heard from him at all since he had last seen him at the stables, and wondered if he was doing okay. He felt sorry for him, not having wanted him to lose his job like this, but what struck him most was with how much ease he accepted the fact that he would never see him again. Of course, he was upset the affair was over, and he had liked Stanley a lot and wished him all the happiness in the world, but yet, it was not so much the fact that the affair with him had ended, but that an affair had ended. He missed the feeling of someone else’s touch, the feeling of someone else’s lips against his own, ghosting over his skin as they would lay in bed, he missed the intimacy, the talks, the feeling of having someone close, someone to talk to, someone who cared for him, but that hole did not have to be filled by Stanley, but just someone. He had not only not loved Stanley, but he barely even missed him at all. Perhaps, he thought, as he stretched himself out with a yawn, there was something wrong with him after all.

The last letter came to him late in the afternoon that Saturday by post, and came as somewhat of a surprise, as Paul had not expected anything after Sadie had come back empty-handed that Friday. In fact, he had been lucky he had been about go out for a morning stroll when the letter arrived, hoping to find his friend George to talk to him about both the end of his affair with Stanley and his failed attempt to ask his father for a raise, knowing his father would not agree to that suggestion after what had happened. He was in the main hall and had just pulled on his coat when the head butler came in with a small stack of letters, browsing through them all as he made his way towards his father’s study, intending to leave the mail there as he usually did. He halted, however, when he spotted Paul, and hurried over to him as he got a single letter from the small stack in his hands and offered it to him.

“This one is for you, sir. There is no return address, which is curious,” the man said and Paul frowned as he took the letter from him, though he quickly realised who it was from once he saw the handwriting, which was so messy he could recognise it at once. He repressed a smile and thanked the butler for bringing it to him, before excusing himself, turning away from the other man as he opened the letter, not wanting anyone to see it but him. The butler got the hint, and walked away with a polite “certainly, sir”, leaving Paul alone to allow him the privacy he wanted. To Paul’s surprise, the letter was short, consisting of only one line, that made him both frown and smile at the same time, being unsure what exactly John meant by it.

I do not dislike you.

 The words were so simple, and yet, Paul found it hard to fully grasp the extent of them. He stared down at the letter a short while longer, before he was interrupted once more, this time by a young lady, as he could hear from her voice.

“Mr. McCartney, sir? Your father wishes to speak with you in his study,” she said and Paul glanced at her over his shoulder, before he looked back at the letter in his hand with a displeased murmur, knowing what that meant.

“Does he? What does he look like?” he asked.

“Sir?”

“My father? What is his emotional state like? Was he angry? Gloomy? Stressed?” Paul clarified as he folded up the letter and pocketed it in the inside pocket of his blazer, before turning around to face her, waiting impatiently for an answer. The girl looked somewhat taken aback and Paul only realised now he was talking to Sadie again.

“No, sir. He seemed rather pleased, actually,” she said and Paul swallowed at that, thinking that could not bode well for him, seeing as his father was rarely pleased about anything, especially things that had to do with him.

“Alright,” he said after a brief moment of silence, “I will come with you.”

          The book in his hand felt heavy as John attempted to focus on what under normal circumstances would be an interesting and engaging story, finding it difficult not to let his mind wander into other directions, one of which was especially pressing. He knew it was unreasonable to expect an answer back from Paul already, seeing as he had only sent his letter yesterday as a special delivery, which meant he would have received it this morning, or perhaps the afternoon, at the earliest, but he could not help but worry about it. He had felt unsure about his answer from the moment he had written it down, asking himself if perhaps he was pushing it too far, the words being rather suggestive if one thought about it for longer than a second and he was unsure how Paul would react to that. He had intended for it to shock and unsettle him, enjoying teasing him and pushing boundaries like Paul had said, but he worried about what would happen if he could not see the humour in it and did not appreciate it. Perhaps he shouldn’t have written that.

“John, dear, why don’t you put that book of yours away and join Stuart and me in our game? Your mind is looking far too occupied, and I don’t like it,” Cynthia said from across the room, catching John’s attention, who looked up over the edge of his book to look at them as they continued to play their game of chess and enjoy a glass of inexpensive scotch. It appeared to be Stuart’s turn, judging by the serious look on his friend’s face as stared at the pieces and bit his nails, going through every possible move and outcome in his head before tentatively moving a piece, only to put it back in its original place when Cynthia made a disapproving noise.

“Chess is a game for two, Miss Powell, as you well know,” John muttered, grinning at the look of despair on his friend’s face before he picked up a random pawn and moved it one step forward without any further thought, only to whimper as Cynthia took his last horse without so much as looking at the board, leaving is king exposed.

“Oh that does not matter. You can help me!” she told John, crossing her legs as she took a sip from her drink, a smug grin hiding on her lips as she watched Stuart contemplate his next move.

“Please, if there is anyone who deserves my help it is Stuart, but he is already a lost cause for this game and I would very much like to save myself the embarrassment of losing to you in a game of two against one. I do have some dignity.”

“John? What is bothering you?” Cynthia asked with a sigh, as she got up and took a seat on the sofa next to him, resting her arm on John’s drawn up knees as she glanced past them and into his eyes, making it difficult for him to look away from her. From the corner of his eyes he could see Stuart move some chess pieces around, probably trying to create a situation for himself in which he could, miraculous as it was, win.

“Stuart is cheating,” he told Cynthia, hoping to distract her so he would not need to tell her, not wishing to discuss matters that had to do with the McCartneys with her or Stuart, or anyone else for that matter. Cynthia, however, looked unimpressed and shrugged at the information.

“Yes, he does that a lot. It is the only way he can still manage to win. Now, tell me what is not your mind.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“John-“ Cynthia started, but she was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. About a minute later, the door opened and Dot came in, looking rather flustered as she turned to John.

“Mr. McCartney is here to speak with you, Mr. Lennon. He er… he is not looking very good, if I may say so. Should I let him in?” John blinked at her in surprise a few times as he let the words sink in, and glanced at Cynthia and Stuart who were staring at him, looking just as surprised if he was, if not more. Finally, John nodded.

“Yes, Dot. Let him in. I’ll speak with him in the hallway. Cyn, could you put on some tea for us?” he said as he started to get up onto his feet, trying hard to ignore the look of disbelieve on his friend’s face.

“Tea? John, you are not really going to let him in, are you?”

“Well, I can’t very much let him stand outside in the cold, can I?”

“Of course you can! You don’t even know what it is he wants. I thought the next meeting was Wednesday afternoon.”

“Yes, but I can’t know what he wants without speaking to him first. It will be fine, Cyn. Just put on some tea and be nice to him,” he said and without another word, he followed Dot into the hallway where Paul stood waiting for him. He still had his coat and hat on, and his scarf hid most of his face from view, but John could see something was wrong straightaway from how the man was holding himself, the tension in his body making it more than clear to John something had happened. The suspicion was only confirmed when Paul turned around and caught his eye, the usual softness in those colourful irises having turned hard and cold. He took off his hat and moved the scarf away from his mouth before he began to speak.

“I… I apologise for coming here unannounced, but… you said I was always welcome here, so I figured… But I can leave if you would prefer. I do not wish to interfere with anything,” he said as he nodded into the direction of the living room, letting John know he had heard what Cynthia had said about him at the announcement of his presence. John, however, quickly shook his head at that.

“Don’t be silly. I told you, you were always welcome here, and I will not go back on that now. Let Dot put away your coat and we can have some tea, if you like. My friend, Miss Powell, is making us some,” John said, but to his surprise Paul shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary, John. Actually, I only had one thing I wanted to ask you and I do not wish to impose on your free evening anymore than I need to.”

“Ask me?” John repeated, curious now as he looked Paul up and down as if he could deduce from his looks what the question could possibly be. Paul nodded once more and took a deep breath before looking up to catch his eye and asking a question that made John blink up at him in surprise, momentarily rendering him lost for words. 

“How do you feel about Paris?” 

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