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bamsywrites · 4 years

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Mistakes Like These

Summary: Kakyoin never paid much attention to the younger Kujo. Who knew stockings and short skirt were all it would take change that

Rating: 18+, nsfw

Words: 4877

Warnings: cannabis mention, alcohol use

Tags: afab, fem pronouns, modern!au , doesn’t follow the canon like at all, very au, brother!jotaro x sister!reader, kakyoin x reader, soft dom kak, lots of pet names, plus size reader

Notes: I haven’t written any fanfiction in over five years so this might be rusty. I’m sorry for any mistakes made or if its not how the characters would act. I’m still new to the Jojos fandom but had this idea pop in my head and decided to get it out. I want to turn this in to a multi part story and have several parts already planned out, I just want to have feedback to see if people actually like it.

“Have a happy Holidays. Make sure to check in with your financial advisor about the spring semester.”

A sigh escaped your lips as you read the most recent email in your student inbox. Patience may be a virtue, but it was sure one you didn’t possess. At least not right now anyway. Tsking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you moved the mouse over to the refresh button and clicked. Your eyes followed the downloading icon in circles, fingers tapping anxiously over the desk.

“Have a happy Holidays. Make sure to check in with your financial advisor about the spring semester.”

You exhaled angrily through your nose and leaned back in your chair. Your eyes fixed on the ceiling for a few moments before you looked over to your bed where your cat, Miso, had woken up from his nap.

“I know I should be more patient. But this grade is what determines if I move on to the next course which I need if I want to graduate soon and get out of this apartment.” You spoke as if your cat had scolded you for your impatience.

Your apartment was nice. Super nice. Your friends often described it as “apartment goals.” You could have never afforded it on your own. Hell, you couldn’t afford it even when you graduated and got a job. Two large bedrooms with a spacious living room, modern kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked the cities skyline. There were only two major downsides: there was only one bathroom which had to be shared with your roommate and your roommate happened to be your older brother, Jotaro.

Now, you didn’t exactly hate your brother. He was like any older brother, he thought you were extremely annoying and wanted nothing to do with you most of the time, though there were times growing up where he’d come home with scrapes and bruises after dealing with someone who picked on you at school. As you were both older, you found each other more bearable than you did when you were younger. That didn’t mean, however, you wanted to live with him. Especially while you were in college, which was supposed to be your time to let loose and have fun while still receiving an education, of course. Your grandfather, however, had other plans.

Joseph Joestar was a real estate mogul and had some serious money to his name. He loved to dote on his two grandchildren and was upset that for the most part your parents chose to give you a “normal” life without the extravagance that he offered. Birthdays and christmas he would buy you each a present, until Jotaro turned 15 and started asking for money instead. He made your mother an offer that he knew she couldn’t deny: he would pay for the entirety of your schooling, from associates degree to PhD if thats what you wanted, in order for the two of you to focus on your studies he’d also give you a weekly allowance so that you wouldn’t have to work, and he’d buy you each your own apartment and pay to furnish it how you liked. Holly couldn’t turn down the offer, what kind of mother would deny her children an opportunity like that? However, she did ask that her father only buy a single apartment for her children to share. Her hopes were that it would strengthen your relationship and it also meant she could see both her darling children whenever she desired.

You didn’t want to seem ungrateful at all for what Jiji had done for you. You knew you were extremely privileged to have the opportunities that he provided you but, fuck, sometimes you wished you had your own place. You wanted the independence, to know you earned something but also because sharing a bathroom with Jojo was infuriating. He always moved your stuff, never cleaned the shower, and he never had patience for you to get ready in the mornings. A wishful sigh left your lips as you thought of your future, with just you, Miso, and the ability to use the bathroom whenever you wanted.

Your eyes moved back to the computer screen, clicking refresh, and rolling your eyes when you read the same email from the dean again. Like you expected anything different, you just turned the term paper in yesterday. You brought your cup of tea up to your lips but furrowed your eyebrows when you realized there was none left.

Pushing yourself up out of your chair you formulated a plan for the rest of your evening. You would refill your cup of tea, hop back on your computer to play Overwatch with your friends until the early hours of the morning, and then cuddle up with Miso and look at TikToks until you fell asleep. It was foolproof. No way that you would even think about your term paper grade.

And if you did, you could always refresh your email in between matches.

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Your finger tapped your lip as you looked over all the snack foods in the pantry. While waiting for your tea, you realized that the only thing that could make your plan better was a good snack. You had just gone shopping so it meant that all the poky, ramen, and chips you desired were on the shelves and it made the decision extra hard.

In the middle of your contemplation, you heard the front door turn and the sound of your brother and his friends entering the apartment.

“You know it's true, Jotaro. Your apartments bigger. Its nicer. It has that view that drives the ladies wild. Our apartment is cramped and it smells like weed.” Polnareff’s voice was the first you heard as the trio entered the house.

“Don’t forget the upstairs neighbors who are always playing loud polish music.” Kakyoin added, plopping down to sit on one of the chairs in the living room.

You heard your brother sigh and could feel his annoyance. You never understood how the trio became friends, it was a mystery to everyone including them but they had been together since their days in primary school and the bond they shared was one that intrigued you.

“Yes, yes. The polish,” Polnareff nodded. “Known around the world for their ability to ruin the mood with a hurdy-gurdy.”

There was silence, and you could tell your brother was not budging a bit. A party was not Jotaros thing. Kakyoin wasn’t a partier either, from what you gathered he’d much rather stay at home playing video games and smoking weed. Sucking your bottom lip in your mouth, you made your decision, grabbing a bag of chips and a box of strawberry pocky. You did your best to hold those in one hand and your cup of tea in the other.

“Feel that Christmas spirit, Jo. Help Pol in his never ending crusade to get laid. The poorman is gonna end this year with, what, a batting average of zero. He’ll be a disgrace to French men everywhere.” The teasing tone Kakyoins voice almost made you laugh.

“Hey! Batting average of 3. You know this,” Polnareff shot back, causing his roommate to throw his hands up in mock surrender.

“Jotaro,” The french man turned his attention back to your brother, who simply turned on the TV in what seemed to be an attempt to drown out the sound of his friend's voice, “C’mon. I’ll buy your cigarettes for a month…..Two months?” His voice was getting more desperate, his head turned toward you. A smile stretched across his features as he jumped off the couch and threw his arms around your shoulder.

God, you just wanted to go to your room.

“New deal,” Polernaff declared, squeezing you to the side of his body as you tried not to splash your tea all over the floor. Kakyoin looked away from the TV, eyebrow raised, Jotaros attention never faltered from the knock-off Viagra commercial. “If you agree to a Christmas Eve party I will buy you cigarettes for three months, I will never ask anything of you ever again, and I will stop flirting with your sister.”

Kakyoin snorted, shaking his head and turning his attention to Jotaro. Since you had moved in with Jotaro, the frenchman hadn’t stopped making comments about how beautiful he thought you were or just giving you flirty winks whenever you walked through the room. You found it annoying at first, but you quickly got over it when you realized he did the same thing with every girl, and boy, that he saw.

“Good grief,” Jotaro sighed. “Its a deal.”

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“I can’t believe you agreed to this.” Kakyoin mumbled as he and Jotaro watched their friend place the final touches on the decorations and food for the party. Y/N had already put up Christmas decorations earlier that month, there was some snowmen set out on the dining table and a cute tree with some presents neatly wrapped under it. However, Polnareff had decided that wasn’t enough. He had hung up snowflakes to come down from the ceiling, there was garland hung on every wall, and so much fucking mistletoe.

Polnareff had even requested that his friends dress festive. Jotaro, of course, didn’t listen and wore what he always wore. Kakyoin decided to humor his friend and wore a Santa hat along with a dark green v-neck and dark wash jeans.

“You don’t need the money, right? Grandpa Joestar’s allowance has to be enough for cigarettes.” He continued, watching his roommate place a bowl of peppermints by the door.

“I just wanted to get him to shut up,” Jotaro said with a roll of his eyes.

“You think he’ll actually follow through on leaving Y/N alone?”

Jotaro shook his head, “Out of all the people in this city, you’d think he’d leave the only one of limits alone.”

Kakyoin simply nodded, taking a sip of his drink.

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You smoothed your hands over your outfit, turning to the side to get it from a different angle. You couldn’t decide if you liked it or not. The sweater was cute, it was red with a deep green christmas tree that had colorful little puff balls as the ornaments. Your make-up and hair looked nice, too. That wasn’t what concerned you. It was the white pleated skirt and tight red stockings that caused you pause. You grabbed at your love handles that spilled over the top of the skirt a bit and your eyes traveled to how your thighs looked in the stockings.

Polnareff had told you you could invite some friends over. Which, of course you could, this was your apartment and you didn’t need his permission. You had told him as such and invited over your three closest friends.

You turned around to your bed and looked at Miso, who was comfortably curled up. “How do I look?” You waited a moment before turning back to the mirror and smacking your lips together. You were tempted to take off the skirt and tights and throw a pair of jeans on but something changed your mind last minute. Instead of heading to your closet to change, you instead grabbed the reindeer antler hand band and slipped it on top of your hair before heading out of the safety of your bedroom.

You were so distracted with the new decorations that you didn’t notice the pair of eyes that were glued to your form.

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Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime was playing for what seemed like the fifth time. Kakyoin had never hated Paul McCartney more than he did now. He was just now starting to feel the buzz of all the drinks he had had but it didn’t make the party any more bearable.

“She,” Kakyoin pointed to a blonde girl in a Santa dress, “is gonna hook up with him,” He pointed to a dark haired main that had for some reason felt the need to take his shirt off.

Jotaro simply grunted before eyeing more of the members of the party. This was a game they’d been playing for the past hour and a half, making bets on who was gonna hook up with who and who was gonna get the most shit faced.

“He’s gonna end up passed out in my bathtub,” The dark haired man stated, pointing to the only person dancing to the playlist Polnareff had created.

Kakyoin broke a smile as he watched the clearly wasted man's horrible dance moves. His attention was brought away from the scene by the sound of Y/N’s laugh. For what had to be the millionth time that night, the red haired man eyed her up and down. That outfit looked so fucking good on her but the smile streched out across her lips looked even better.

I wonder what the lipstick would look like smeared on my cock.

The thought slipped into his head and he couldn’t stop from staring at the red painted on your lips.

Does she feel as soft as she looks?

He took a sip from his cup. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about his hands running over her thighs or his fingers digging into her hips. It was strange that he was having these thoughts. He’d never viewed Y/N as more than just Jotaro’s younger sister. He never thought she was ugly, in fact there were multiple times that he thought she was down right gorgeous but it had never turned sexual. Something about that outfit had sent him over that edge.

The sound of Last Christmas brought him out of his trance. Kakyoin almost immediately rolled his eyes. He almost missed the hurdy-gurdy.

“Good grief,” Jotaro mumbled and grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the coffee table. “I’m heading out for a smoke.”

Kakyoin watched as his best friend got up but instead of heading for the balcony, Jotaro went out the front door. The red haired man was tempted to follow but as soon as that thought popped into his mind he heard the drunk voice of his other best friend call to him.

“Kak, you gotta show these guys the cherry thing!”

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It was well past 3. The party had ended and most of the attendants took an Uber home. The only people in the apartment were you, Polnareff, and Kakyoin. Jotaro had still not returned from that smoke he said he was going to take hours ago. The buzz had long worn off and the reality sank in that you had to clean the disaster of an apartment that was left in the christmas party’s wake.

There were red solo cups strewn about various surfaces and all over the floor, glitter seemed to have gotten everywhere, there were plates of food left half eaten, and there was a candy cane just stuck to the wall. Looking at the destruction, you almost wondered if the fun you had had was worth it. With your parents coming over tomorrow...or, well, today…..for Christmas, you had really no other option than to clean it, with that thought in your head you grabbed a garbage bag and started cleaning.

After a few minutes, you heard the familiar rustle of plastic as someone was opening a trash bag and you turned to see Kakyoin helping you with your task.

“Thanks,” You told him as you threw a plate of half eaten cake into the bag.

“No problem. Pol is passed out in the hallway and I gotta make sure Jo makes it home safe, so I’m kinda stuck here.”

You simply nodded in response and kept about your task in silence. A silence which seemingly bothered Kakyoin because a few minutes later he cleared his throat and broke the silence.

“So I, uh, noticed your man wasn’t here tonight.” He almost smacked himself for asking the question. You thought he was just making small talk, the thought of him having more devious reasons behind asking if you were single hadn’t crossed your mind.

“My….My man?” You quirked an eyebrow, looking back over your shoulder at him.

“Yeah, your man. I saw you with some guy a while back,” Kakyoin had put down the now full trash bag and was leaning against the counter top with his arms crossed as he spoke.

“Oh,” You suddenly realized who exactly he was talking about, “Yeah, um, we broke up six months ago,” You said with a laugh.

“Oh...Six months?” He titled his head to the side, “Are you sure? Hmm… Well, sorry I didn’t notice...I uh guess I should be more observant.

You shook your head, placing down your own bag and heading past him to the pantry to grab another. “Its alright, I’m not offended. I’m sure you find me as annoying as I find Jotaros friends.”

Kakyoin raised his eyebrows at your statement, “You find me annoying? I mean, Pol, I get. Yeah. He’s one of my closest friends and even I can’t handle him sometimes. But me? I never talk to you.”

You had busied yourself with cleaning the rest of the cups off the counter, “ I don’t know. You’re just…” You looked up and noticed his eyes quickly flick down to your lips before making eye contact with you again. “I mean, you did one time give me oregano and told me it was weed.”

“First,” Kakyoin started, his body shifted so it was turned toward you, “Thats not annoying. I would call that immature, maybe. But annoying? Nah. Second,” he threw up two fingers to emphasize his point, “ In my defense, you were 15 and I was worried about you finding our stash under Jo’s bed and I thought it would lessen that chance if I gave you your own stash.”

You laughed, setting the bag down and turning to look at him. You couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in that dark green shirt but you quickly willed that thought away. “Kakyoin, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Hey, at the time it did.”

You tilted your head to the side, you had plenty of stories that you could use as proof that he was annoying, “ What about that time you and Jojo left me stranded at school because the new playstation came out?”

“Thats not fair,” He noticed the playful hint your voice was taking and it caused a small smile to tug at his lips.

“How about the time that you threw up in my make up bag?”

“Hey, that was all Frenchie. Not me.”

“Or…..” You were silenced by Kakyoin pressing a finger to your lips. You hadn’t noticed that the two of you had just kept moving closer and closer as you were talking. You could get a better look at him now, his eyes looked tired but there was a mischievous glint to them, proof to you that he found this just as amusing as you did.

“What about you, huh? You saying that you’ve never been annoying?” He cocked an eyebrow, giving you a knowing look that let you know he had as many stories about you that you had about him.

“Look, I never once implied that I wasn’t annoying. I’ll own up to it,” You shrugged, “I was a total brat.”

Kakyoin snorted, “Don’t act like you’re not still a brat.”

“How?!” You looked almost taken aback, “How am I still a brat? You hardly see me!”

Kakyoin loved banter and teasing with his friends, it was kind of his thing. It was how he showed affection. If he didn’t gently bully you how was he supposed to show that he cared? But this, this teasing between the two of you was different. It made the room seem hotter and his pants feel tighter. That coupled with how fucking cute you looked in that damn outfit, even if your make up had worn off a bit and the lipstick was smugged. He couldn't deny it was doing things to him.

“I see you now,” His voice was deep, his tongue sticking out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes trailed you up and down.

Your cheeks immediately turned a blushy pink and your skin was hot under his gaze. Your lips parted but no words came out. This was Jotaros best friend, there was no way he was flirting with you.

Kakyoin took a few steps forward so he was as close to you as he could be without touching you. “I see you now,” He repeated in the same low voice, this time keeping eye contact with you, “And I see a brat.”

He pushes a few strands of hair out of your face and behind your ear, a gasp hitching in your throat as his heated skin touched your check briefly, “Unless you’re gonna show me otherwise.”

“I…” You swallowed the lump in your throat, suddenly weak at his gaze. “H-how?”

You look into his eyes and you can see it. You can see how much he wants you and how intense that want is. No one has ever looked at you that way before and it made your stomach erupt in butterflies. Quickly, you turn your head away not being able to handle the intensity of his stare. You feel his fingers on your chin guiding you to look back up at him, holding you there so he can take in all the features of your face. Its like he’s looking at you for the first time. His fingers move gently from your chin down to your neck, your breathing hitched in your throat when you felt the soft pad of his thumb move across your lips.

“If you want me to stop, tell me sweetheart,” He’s eyes had gotten a few shades darker and his voice seemed more strained than usual. Kakyoins free hand traveled under the sweater your were wearing, fingers lightly dancing along your side as his other hand stayed on you face, gently tracing the outline of your lips with his thumb. “Tell me right now and I’ll go back to pitching solo cups and scrubbing counters.”

In the pit of your stomach you knew you shouldn’t. You knew that if Jojo ever found out he’d flip, he’d always done his best to keep you and his friends separate. You always thought it was because you annoyed him and he didn’t want to have to be around you more than you already were, Kakyoin knew that it was because no matter how the man acted, he deeply cared for you and would do anything to protect you. These thoughts of Jotaro’s reaction filtered through your mind but your brother wasn’t here right now.

You acted on impulse, your tongue peaking out of your mouth to coax Kakyoins thumb between your lips. He watched with heavy lidded eyes as you gently sucked on the digit, swiping your tongue along the length of it. His breathing picked up for a moment before mumbling a quiet, “Fuck.”

Almost instantly you were hoisted on the counter with his lips against yours and wasting no time to swipe his tongue into your mouth. His hands quickly traveled up your thighs, pushing your skirt to pool at your hips and quickly ripping the stockings down the middle. Your legs hooked around his waist, pulling him as close to you as possible as your fingers worked at undoing his belt.

He pulls away from your lips for a moment to help you pull down his boxers and jeans. You licked your lips as you admired his cock, already hard and glistening with precum. You felt his fingers on your face again directing you to look at him.

“My cock needs to be inside you, sweetheart. Can I do that?” He was breathing heavy, he had never wanted someone so much in his life. All he wanted right now was to feel your pussy around his cock. Consequences be damned. “Can I fuck you, princess?”

You whine when you hear him speak, his voice is like nothing you ever heard before. Lust and want seemed to be dripping off every word. The whole situation leaves you speechless. At the nod of your head, Kakyoin pulls your panties to the side and slides inside you. His moan and your whimper are the only noises in the quiet apartment, his eyes watching your face intently for any sign of discomfort or desire to stop.

“Fuck me,” You breath out when your vocie finally comes to you. “Please, Kakyoin. Fuck me.”

He groans and happily obliges, rocking his cock in and out of you. Your small gasps and whimpers only egg him on more as he increases the speed of this thrust, your hands bracing yourself against the countertop. His eyes break from your face to watch his own cock slide in and out, the sight of his cock slick with your wetness makes him moan.

“Thats a perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart.” He breaths out so soft you almost can’t hear him over the slick sound of his skin on yours. His eyes find yours again, hand moving back to rest on your jawline and hold you in his gaze. He leans close and sucks your lip into his mouth, his teeth nipping at the soft flesh before soothing it with his tongue.

“You’re such a good girl,” Kakyoin tells you before pressing his lips against yours again. He picks up the pace because, goddammit, he wants to feel you cum on his cock. He pulls aways, resting his forehead against yours. Your moans are soft and the whimpers that follow cause him to smirk.

“Oh, fuck. That feels so good,” You whisper, looking into his eyes. He can see you getting closer and closer and its making it hard for him to keep composed.

“You take a cock so well, princess,” His lips brush against yours, he tilts your head to the side so that he can kiss down your neck, and then back up again. His lips find the lobe of your ear and gently suck on it. Your moans are getting more and more erratic, every now and then you’ll gasp out his name.

“You gonna be a good girl and cum on my cock,” Kakyoin whispers into your ear, his lips brushing against the shell of it. “Shit, sweetheart, I wanna feel that pretty fucking pusy come on my cock.”

It’s the sound of his voice whispering those dirty things in your ear that sends you over the edge.

“Thats it, princess. Fuck, sweetheart…I’m...shit. Can I….?” The red heads voice is ragged and incoherent but you knew what he was asking.

“Fuck, yes, please,” Its all you can do to get the words out. “Please, I wanna feel you come in me.”

You both come hard, his fingers digging roughly into the skin of your thighs and loud moans filling the space of the kitchen. The warmth of him spilling inside of you is enough to make you want a round two. After a few moments the two of you are left breathing heavy, his forehead resting on your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.

You stay like that for a moment, trying to regain your composure and come to terms with everything that had just happened. This was a development in events that neither of you ever saw coming. Its you that make the move to separate, pushing against his chest and moving off the counter. You avoid eye contact with him, flating your skirt back down and picking up your, now ruined, stockings off the tiled floor. You could feel his cum drip out of you down to your thighs.

“That was….” Kakyoin broke the silence, buckling his belt and running a hand through his hair. You noticed he too was looking at anything but you.

“Yeah,” You nodded your head in response.

“You know we can’t uh…-”

“Yup.”

“Like, ever.”

“Trust me, I’m aware.”

“H-Happy...Happy Christmas.”

You just nod and quickly retreat to your room, throwing yourself on your bed and groaning into your pillows. After a moment, you crawled under the blankets and pulled your cat into your chest.

“Miso. I think I’m a slut….”

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Kakyoin watched as you retreated away down the hallway, his mind still wrapping around what had happened. The fact that he was the one that instigated it. He was the one that made all the moves and god, he shouldn’t have. But he had wanted to. He had wanted to get you in that position all night.

It was at that moment that Jotaro entered the apartment again, smelling of cigarettes and….perfume? Kakyoin was gonna have to ask him about that one later. “

“The prodigal son has returned,” The redhead teased his friend, doing his best to hide the guilt he had for what he had just done.

“Shut up,” Jotaro mumbled. He eyed his friend curiously, he was very observant and it was very naive of Kakyoin to think that he wouldn’t notice the change in his friend. “What’s wrong with you?”

I just busted a big one in your sister. And would probably do it again if the chance presented itself. No biggie.

“I’m, uh, I’m just tired.”

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Thank you so much for reading this! I appreciate it very much. Let me know what you think of it and if I should continue the story. Merry Christmas!

#kakyoin x reader #noriaki kakyoin #noriaki kakyoin x reader #kakyoin #jjba #jjba x reader #jotaro x reader #jotaro kujo #jotaro #jojo #stardust crusaders

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anoriathdunadan · 3 years

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Where the Stars are F***ing Strange

Pairing: Aragorn-Estel-Strider / OC Rating: Explicit Genre: Modern OC in Middle-earth, reader insert, gender neutral reader, 25th Gray Companion, copious references to The Princess Bride (because why not?) Warnings: so much swearing, canon levels of xenophobia and violence, character death, feral chickens Summary: Plucked like a fish out of water, you try to make the best out of a bad situation in Bree. Then, one day, this Hozier-looking dude showed up at The Pony.

Chapter 14 - A Day in the Life of a Fish

Wherein our fish is played foul.

“Coming through!” you call, slipping out of the path of a man backing out of the crowd loitering by the bar and raising the empty tray over the heads of a company of dwarves as you duck beneath one of the oil lamps hanging from the beams of The Pony’s common room. The dwarves glance up briefly from a game involving dice, figurines of dragons, engines of war, trolls, dwarves, and bands of orcs, and a painted cloth that they’ve rolled out on the table between them. Coins change hands swiftly with the rolling of the dice and they are back to it even before you’ve passed by.

Against the sound of thunder and rain pounding the cobblestone outside the open casements, there’s a loud babble of voices, mostly male, and a drunken voice, also male, raised in an off-key rendition of something that’s supposed to be slow and heart-tuggingly sad, but mostly is, just, well, sad. The place smells like a frat house during rush: way too many unwashed bodies pressed together, way too much tobacco and lamp smoke drifting in a cloud just overhead, and way too much spilled beer souring underfoot. The heavy air of a very damp night has a lot to work with here.

You take a detour to the pipe rack on the pillar next to the bar, selecting two of the long-stemmed clay pipes for rent and filling their bowls with tobacco from the drawer before you tuck them into your apron pocket.

You then squeeze between two men sitting on tall stools, their packs nestled between their feet, and, setting the tray on the high bar, hop up to lay over it to peer through the smoke for Barliman.

Ah, there he is, just past the door into the buttery behind the bar, wrestling a keg away from its mates and rolling it on its edge along the floor.

Well, hmm. Yeah. Best to just hang out and wait, then. He’ll not thank you for interrupting him once he’s decided what track he’s taking. The man’s brain is a perpetual loop of the Trolley Problem.

While you wait, someone in the corner starts cranking a hurdy gurdy and its droning drowns out the singing and a burst of music from the pipes and drums break out in some spritely something that’s got the crowd around the musicians in the corner by the empty hearth tapping their feet. There’s a cry and they clear out a space among the tables for a couple who clasps hands. There’s a fair amount of hopping backward and forward across the cleared space and kicking their feet to the side as the watching crowd claps their hands in time, all while the musicians steadily increase the tempo of the music.

It’s got to be uncomfortably warm back there in the buttery with no windows, what with all the body heat crowding the room. Barliman’s already florid face practically glows with the effort of raising the keg to his shoulder. Once he’s got it settled on the bar, he uses the bottom of his apron to scrub at his face before taking up the tap and rawhide mallet.

A loud crash of pottery against the floor turns heads throughout the room and Barliman looks up and raises his voice over the shouting and jostling from a knot of men on the opposite side of the bar. “Hi there! Stop with your nonsense. There’ll be none of that. Should you break my crocks and bend my cups, you’ll pay for them as well as your fare, and extra for my pains in finding somewhat to replace what you’ve broke.”

It’s a rowdy crowd tonight, mostly out of towners, with only a few of the locals dotted here and there, and very few Little Folk and even fewer women than there were earlier in the evening. Not a good sign. It’s going to be a rough night.

Once Barliman’s filled the pitcher he was after and set it on the bar, that’s your cue.

“Hey! Mr. Butterbur!” you call and bang on the wood of the bar with your open hand to no avail. He’s deep in conversation with the next customer lined up at his end of the bar and no doubt the shouting and clapping and pounding of dancing feet covers about everything outside a six inch radius of his ear.

A piercing whistle sounds beside you and you twist about to find the man at your left pulling his fingers from his lips. “Hiya! Barley!” he shouts and Barliman jerks about, frowning. Your companion points at you as you wave for his attention.

Barliman lifts his eyebrows to his hairline and looks at you expectantly in place of attempting to raise his voice over the noise.

“Four ales, please!” you yell, cupping your hands about your mouth, and then hold up four fingers. Barliman nods, his face clearing.

“So you must be Hala, then,” says the man to your left. He’s a pleasant-seeming older dude with brown and gray wiry hair and huge fucking sideburns brushed carefully away from a face that would make Abraham Lincoln cry.

“That I am. The one and only,” you say and really hope his answering smile means something good. Wait! You squint at him and take a closer look. How does he know to call you-

“Bert’s the name,” he says, offering his hand and you shift about so you can take it. He leans in, keeping his voice low. “Said you go by Fish to those who know you here, that man of yours, Strider his name is, I mean. Met him on the Road outside The Forsaken Inn not two weeks ago,” he says. “That there’s Tim.” He nods to the man on your other side, a big solid bald fellow with a well-kept, luxurious black beard nearly down to his waist who seems more interested in downing his pint in one long swallow than your conversation. “Did me and my friend here a good turn, he did, your Ranger. He said to keep it mum, but he talked favorably of you,” Bert goes on, his eyes literally twinkling in the lamp light.

Well, damn. You hardly know anything about Estel other than what he shows you in Bree. So fucking weird to hear news of him outside of that.

Bert gives you a wink and a small private smile, as if he were telling you a joke only you two would get. “Must have been the most he said the whole of our acquaintance, and that the only thing he said that didn’t sound like he had just spat out a mouthful of vinegar.”

You snort and laugh. Yeah, you can just see that. Bert leans away and chuckles.

“Said to keep an eye out for you should we be in Bree and give you word he’ll do what he can to return ere the winter,” he goes on.

Well. Fuck. It’s not even quite fall yet.

You’re about to thank Bert when there’s a roar behind you and one of the dwarves thrusts himself to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. With a shout and a sweep of his hands, he clears the table of board, figures, dice, trenchers, spoons, tankards that are, luckily, well-drained, and, even more luckily, the party’s eating knives. He shouts something you can’t quite make out and jabs his finger at the dwarf across the table who in turn leaps to his feet. And now the whole party is a jumble of dwarves on their feet, reaching over each other and the table and chairs and pulling the combatants, red-faced and spluttering curses, as far apart as they can in the crowded space.

Shit. You should probably do something about that - see if you can’t charm them into cooling down with another pitcher for their table.

“Mr. Butterbur!” you lean back over the bar and yell, banging on the wood of the bar to get his attention, but before Barliman turns around, two very impertinent hands grab your ass, one hand per cheek, and give each a full on, knead the dough for an hour before covering it and letting it rise in a warm dark place in your kitchen, squeeze.

Without a thought, you leap off the bar and down comes the flat of your tray on the offending hands with a shockingly loud slap.

“Ow!” cries the offender, a short, wiry man with a leather cap, all afront and innocence. He clutches his hands to his chest, rubbing at his stinging knuckles and wrist bones. You walloped him good this time. “Troll’s blood, Fish! What was that for?”

“Keep your hands to your fucking self, Harvey Tunnelson or next time I’ll fucking break them for you!” you yell, poking him in the chest. Fucking rat-boy Harvey and his fucking fingers and his fucking friends standing behind him sniggering.

“I meant naught by it,” he protests, smirking. He then throws his arms magnanimously wide like he’s inviting you in. “Come now, Fish. Give us a kiss and all will be forgiven.”

“Fuck you, Harvey,” you say, “you and your sniveling little rat-faced friends.”

His grin turns sly. “That could be arranged!” he says and one of his friends puckers up his lips and the other mimes casting a line into the water. “Come now, Fish, you’re in want of coin and I’ve got enough should you wish to earn it.”

Fucking fuckers think they’re so fucking funny. Let’s see them try it. One day you’re going to forget you shouldn’t assault Barliman’s customers if you want to keep this job. Today just might be that day.

“I believe you are being told no, friends,” comes Bert’s voice from behind you. Seems he and his traveling companion have slid from their stools to stand at your elbows. They’re a lot taller than you thought. Jesus! Black beard is built like a linebacker.

Well, fuck. You can handle little rat-bastard Harvey. He’s fairly easy to manage if he thinks you’re not a threat, but these two? White knight one and white knight two? Definitely on his shit-list now. Oh yeah, here we go, Harvey’s puffed up his chest like he just pulled out his dick and a ruler and is feeling pretty good about his chances. His friend feels about his waist in a not so subtle move toward the knife tucked in his belt. God damn it.

“Listen,” you say and step between the men, using your tray like a shield against rat-fucker #2.

“Hi, now! What’s all this?” demands Barliman’s voice behind you.

“Fish here owes me an apology,” says Harvey, jerking his chin at you, to which Blackbeard Tim grunts.

“If Fish here owes you an apology, then I’m the High King returned,” he says with a surprisingly light voice. “Where I come from we don’t take kindly to men like you who make too free with their hands. Count yourself lucky should you walk away from this one, friend.”

There’s a lot of looming going on, with you caught in the middle. You hold off Blackbeard Tim and jostle Harvey back with a jab of the elbow of your other arm. Give you a little more room and you’d have a better chance of taking his knife-wielding friend down if the fucker tries to lunge around you.

“Harvey Tunnelson!” cries Barliman, jabbing his finger at the man and raising his voice. He’s so angry that his hand is shaking and he’s fairly spitting with his shouting. “You’ve been at it again, have you?” he yells. “Not enough for you that you scared off my best help last spring, but you’ve gone to attempting your tricks with the next, too? You leave my folk be, or I’ll ban you outright for the rest of your days. And that goes for the rest of your like, too.” He takes in the lot of them with a broad sweep of his fingers.

There’s general protests and affront, but “Out! Out!” Barliman cries and points to the exit. “And take your friends with you. Don’t make me send for Harry and his dogs.”

Barliman slaps his palm on the wedge of the bar top that lifts away on a hinge. “In here with you!” he yells at you once Harvey and his friends slink away, turning back and making not so surreptitious threatening gestures to both you and Bert and Tim.

You shrug awkwardly at them. Boss calls. What can you do?

Bert gives you a crooked smile and you slap him on the meat of his shoulder in thanks as you pass.

Two fresh pints of ale appear before Bert and Tim, foam slopping over their sides, who waited until Harvey and his friends disappeared down the long hall to the road before turning their backs on them and resuming their seats.

You duck beneath the break in the bartop with your tray and meet Barliman at the kegs.

“You take Bob with you when you leave tonight, aye?” he says as he draws the ale you requested.

You nod. “Sure.” You shrug. Not like Bob can do anything to protect you that you can’t, but you suppose there is a certain credibility in having an audience who can back up your version of events if something should happen.

“Rough crowd tonight,” you say and Barliman sighs. He’s got two mugs by the handles in one fist and shifts the empty mug beneath the tap.

A great shout breaks out. Seems the dwarves have decided to settle their differences in the form of an arm-wrestling match that somehow also involves shots of whiskey at the same time.

He taps his fingers against the keg and shakes his head, troubled. “Aye, Fish, I don’t suppose you expect that Ranger friend of yours, Strider, back soon, eh? I’m as like to have half my crocks broke and the place set afire as not, tonight. He’d come in a mite handy, for all his strange ways.”

Well shit. Guess the cat’s out of the bag on that one. If Barliman’s picked up on the fact that Estel’s been gone longer than usual, he’s not the only one.

You shake your head. “Sorry.”

“Ah, well, naught for it, then. He’ll come and go as he pleases, as ever, with none of us the wiser,” he says and plunks the mugs down on the tray and takes up another set. “Though I wouldn’t wonder should he wish himself better thought of, he’d lend a hand now and again more regular like.”

He wipes at his brow with his sleeve. “Bless me, but I’m unsure should I wish winter sooner on us to clear out the Road, but I don’t know what good folk will think! Time was when I could welcome a guest from the Outside and not worry should they destroy my wares and chase good and regular folk from my door. Whatever the world is coming to I don’t know, but ’twas not like this in my father’s time. Don’t know what things are coming to. I should have cast Harvey and his lot out for the rest of their natural life, last spring. Aye, what’s done can’t be undone. And I mean to put a word or two in the ears of your two gentlemen friends there. Master Tunnelson might weigh as much as a wet cat, but he’s the temper and claws to match and that friend of his is quick with his knife. I’d not want to come upon him in the dark with naught around, no I would not.”

Welp. One day Barliman is going to actually hire someone as a bouncer, but it certainly isn’t today. Not that he’ll listen to you if you suggest it.

“Do you want me to get word to Harry and have some of his men come hang out in the bar?” you ask instead as he slides the remaining mugs onto the tray.

“I suppose I should slow the sale of the stronger spirits if this keeps up, though they’re as like to fight over that as aught else. No, no,” he says and wipes at his hands with his apron. He shakes his finger at the crowd about the bar. “If this lot gives me any trouble I’ll take my cudgel to them and break a head or two, that I will, or my name’s not Barliman Butterbur. This is The Prancing Pony, not The Forsaken Inn! We’re good folk, here. I’ll have a word or two for them,” he says with a grim look on his face as he wipes away the drops of ale on the bar with his rag.

“All right, boss.” You shrug. “Your call, but let me know if you change your mind and I’ll make the run.” By this time, you’ve got the tray of mugs balanced on your palm.

“Ah!” He flaps his hand at you. “Get on with you now. And help Cook in the kitchen once you’ve got your rooms settled,” he says to your back, and then raises his voice to follow you, “and should you see that slowcoach Nob send him back here from wherever he has got to and tell him to bring a broom!”

With that, you slip through the opening in the bar, letting the hinged top bang down behind you and turning for the kitchen door at the back of the room.

And there you are face to face with Bill Ferny, his short black pipe, and his fucking sneer.

God damn it! Of course he’s hiding back here. Fucker probably placed himself there knowing you’d have to pass by. Perfect spot from which to view everything that just transpired, too. Heard and saw everything, if that smug look of his is anything to go by.

Fucker. One day you’re going to wait until he passes out at the bar and pluck every single one of those dark hairs of his unibrow out one by one.

“Why hallo there, Fish,” he says, lounging against the wall next to the door. “’Tis a pity Stick-at-naught’s washed his hands of ye. ’Tis not right, leaving you on your own as ye are. I’d not abandoned you to fools like that Tunnelson and his kind.” He sucks on his pipe, giving you a speculative look.

Fucker.

You back your way into the kitchen door. “Go suck on a toad, Ferny.”

“That’s Master Ferny to ye, now!” he calls after you as you let the door slap closed behind you.

Whatever.

“What you got for me?” you call as you spin the tray onto the end of the worktable and Cook glances over from where she’s bent straining over the high hearth and reaching deep into the oven.

Oh shit.

You spring over the pile of coals and ash below her step stool and take the handle of the iron rake.

“Let me get that,” you say and with a soft groan she straightens her back, relinquishing the rake to you without protest.

A wave of heat from the arch into the brick oven hits you when you reach in to rake out the ash and coals from deep within its depths. Poor Cook practically has to lay on her belly on the raised hearth to reach all the way to the back. The kitchen wasn’t really built with a hobbit in mind.

“Oof,” Cook says as she presses the heel of her hand on the edge of the brick hearth and eases herself down to the floor.

She stretches her back. “Och, Child, what I’ve got is a bad back and hips that ache,” she says, shuffling over to the work table. She doesn’t bother stepping up onto the riser built along the table but takes up the wooden peel by its handle, carefully balancing the heavy meat pies on its broad end. You shovel the ash and coals on the floor into the gap below the brick hearth, freeing up a path for her and she hikes herself up on the step stool. With a jerk, she expertly jostles the pies off the peel and onto the oven floor.

“These, too?” you ask before she has a chance to do more than grunt and find a cool spot on the hearth to push herself upright. You nod at the work table.

“Aye, those, too. There’s a dear,” she says and hands you the peel. “Och, I am so behind, what with that crowd coming in ere sundown. These should have been done and baked and ready to be served hours ago.”

You know better than to try her trick with the peel, so once you’ve loaded its broad surface with the rest of the pies and rested it on the floor of the oven you pass the handle on to her.

With a twist and a jerk, she leaves the pies nicely arranged with the others.

“Would you be a dear, Fish, and fetch the-“ she begins while fussing with the placement of the pies, poking at them with the peel, but you are already there, dripping water from the thick wooden door you plucked out its bucket.

“Oh!” she exclaims in surprise and then motions at the oven. “Well put it over the hole should you be so eager.”

You offer your arm once done and the oven is closed up and snug, but she all but rolls her eyes at you, using the handle of the peel like a walking stick to support herself off the stool and onto the floor instead.

On the other end of the long hearth hangs a pot from one of the many and various swinging hooks built into the wall of the oven. There it keeps company with clay pots with round bellies sitting on racks over small fires and a griddle. Steam rich with sausage, spices, and wine seeps from under the lid of the biggest pot while a low fire burns on the brick hearth beneath its belly. Shit. You’ve not eaten since your early breakfast of an apple on your way to work and then the toast and wild strawberry jam and tea Cook laid out for you mid-morning.

Fuck. Enough of that. You swallow your drool and take up the hot poker you’d laid in the fire before you went into the common room for the ale.

“How many years you been doing this, Cook, do you think?” you ask when you return to the work table where Cook drops the lid back on her spice box and turns the key in its lock. You plunge the poker into one mug after the other and the contents froth and boil up rapidly, sending the scent of hot ale and pumpkin spices up your nose.

Cook snorts and pulls her mortar and pestle toward the edge of the table where she can reach it better. “Long enough my feet are so swole I can’t fit none of my shoes,” she says and takes up pounding on the green leaves within the mortar. “There’s not a part of me that has not pains nor complaint when I attempt to make use of it. Not that Barliman will hear of it. The fool. He’ll not get me help.

“He could come in this very door,” she goes on and jabs a finger at the door into the common room, “and find me in a lump on the floor and unable to rise, and ask me should the sweet pottage and cream be ready for his guests to break their morning fast, that he would.”

“A wonder you’ve kept that sweet temper of yours, then.” You grin and, leaning the rest of you out of reach, give Cook a swift peck on the cheek on your way back to the hearth.

Cook grabs up a towel from the table and flaps it at you as you pass. You skip out of her reach, chuckling. She’s stuck on the riser that runs along the length of the table and brings her to a height she can work on it comfortably.

“Now none of your foolery, Fish,” she calls over her shoulder, returning to her work. “Pull the big pot off the fire once you’ve done with that and bring it here. I’ve got this to finish or else ye’ll have naught to take those clucking hens in number ten for their meal.”

“Are you kidding?” You lay the poker back on the fire and cast about for something to cover your hands. “They’re awesome. They rarely complain even when we screw up, pretty much clean up after themselves, and they never send anything back. What’s there not to love?”

“Aye, well, ’tis no surprise ye think so, Fish. You’re sweet on them because it’s always you they ask for.”

You grin. As Estel would put it, there is somewhat of truth to that. You grab up a towel and haul the pot off its hook.

“Would not be so bad should they not stay up all hours making themselves hungry with their gossip,” she says.

Well, yeah, they do like to “fill in the corners” off and on throughout their visit. “I think they’re just happy to not have to cook their own food for once,” you say and drop the pot on the pad Cook slides across the worktable for you.

Cook snorts. “Aye, there’s the dream,” she says in a soft, faraway voice.

“Yeah, right,” you say as Cook spoons the green mash from the mortar into a cloth and pulls the corners together. You lift the lid to the pot of sausage stew for her. “You’d never put up with anybody else’s cooking and you know it. It’s you and your food they come to The Pony for, not me. There isn’t a single person in Bree, Archet, Combe, or Staddle who would dare cook for you.” You should know. You attempted it once. It went about as well as you would imagine.

Chili really isn’t any good without, you know, chilis. To be fair, it had been your second choice.

“Mayhap one day, Fish,” she says and pinches your cheek with her free hand once she’s squeezed the green juice into the pot and watches as you stir it in, “I shall be so disgusted with the lot of them I shall even let you free in my kitchen to do all your heart desires.”

“Only if you let me try making pizza this time,” you say but a sour look flashes across her face. She looks like a cat that just got its paw wet and now doesn’t know what in hell to do with it. A “mess of grease” and “poor use of dough” she called it when you had described it for her.

God damn brick oven being put to waste right over there.

Ah well. You’ll wear her down eventually. In the meantime, you’re feeling a little faint drinking in the steam from the stew you’re spooning into its serving bowl. Damn it smells good. Spiced sausages, wine, and ginger in a golden sauce thickened with bread crumbs and egg.

By the time you’ve got that done, Cook has set your tray with two other lidded bowls, a wheel of cheese, crisp golden apples, ham sliced so thin you can practically read through it, loaves of bread, and a fat little bowl of butter.

“Okay, I think that’s it, right?” you ask, but a sudden sound from Cook stops you.

“Now, now, hold up, there is one thing more ere you go,” she commands and dunks whatever it is in her hand in the pot. “Come close, now, else it will end up all down your apron and ye’ll not be fit to be seen.” She holds up a sausage rolled in a thin slice of bread and dripping with the sauce over her cupped hand.

Oh god. Is she…

Fuck. You groan at the first bite she places in your mouth. The flavors hit your tongue and you think you’re going to start crying right there and then. Fuck, it tastes even better than it smells.

“Can’t have you looking as piteous as a starved pup when you lay out the food for our guests, now can we,” she says, patting you on the shoulder and smiling at the fact that you’ve practically collapsed onto the worktable, leaning over your arms.

“I take back everything I’ve ever said about you being fussy about what comes out of your kitchen,” you say around your food and take another bite, chewing slowly. You want to savor every single loving crumb.

“You take the back stairs up to the rooms.” Her voice has grown sober and you glance up to find her looking at you earnestly. “Mark my words, now,” she says, “you be careful with your flirting out there, Fish. I know it eases a man’s purse strings, but I’d watch my words and not invite attention tonight.”

You fiddle with the last bite of sausage a bit before you eat it, not liking the direction this is going at all. “Yeah?” you ask, “Why’s that?”

Cook sighs, and takes in the kitchen about you, worrying with the ends of the strings of her apron tied about her middle. Not like anyone is lingering nearby and the roar from the other room could still cover what she says if someone is lounging by the doors or window, no matter how muffled the voices and music is by the sturdy oak of the door into the common room. She’s clearly uncomfortable.

“Aye, well,” she leans in close and, lowering her voice, says, “that Bill Ferny’s got his friend with him tonight and they’re feeling more than a little flush. Bought a whole jug of whiskey between them, or so Nob says.”

To your relief, you think she’s going to stop there. That’s not any new news. Ferny is always worse when that new friend of his is with him. But she goes on, her eyes latched onto you, “He’s been asking for you, Ferny has. Not that Nob told him aught but aye, ye are working tonight. That Ferny would learn on his own soon enough.”

Well. Fuck. You wish you’d brought your hickory staff along with you tonight. First thing you’d made on your own here, carving and smoothing it down while you watched over Mistress Thistlewool. Thicker and longer than a walking stick, you’d wanted something that felt like it might do some damage.

“Now, don’t you fret,” she says and pats at your hand. “Once we thought him a nuisance and naught more, but aye, well,” she halts, wiping at the tip of her nose with the back her wrist abruptly and then fussing at the pot, tapping at its top before she sniffs and then smooths down the front of her apron in quick succession. “Well, we don’t rightly know what happened to Ruby last spring, but she left soon after he started asking around for her.”

Holy shit. The legendary Ruby, known and beloved by all, and she’d not found a way to fend Ferny off.

Cook shakes her finger at you. “Now don’t you go repeating what I said and starting rumors, Fish.” She waves her hand in the general direction of the common room. “We’ve arranged it, Nob and Bob and I. He’s to work the common room and you’re to help me in here, aye? And Bob is to walk you home before close.”

“All right all right,” you say and attempt a smile. It might be a little off if that look of pained regret that flits across Cook’s face is any indication.

“I’ll save all my flirting for you, then.” Your smile this time is a lot more genuine as this makes Cook laugh.

“You mean me and my fixings, no doubt!” she cries, smacking your hand. “Oh, aye, I’ll put more aside for you for when you come back down.”

You grin. That had not been at all what you had been intending, but you are so not going to protest. There’s a reason Barliman pays Cook as well as he does. She’ll retire very comfortably once she’s finally decided she’s had enough.

“Maybe you can teach me a thing or two while you are at it, yeah?” you say and wink at her as you pick up the tray. Damn, it’s heavy.

“Oi! Off with your saucy self now and take that up the stairs,” she cries. “I’ll thank you not to serve my food cold.”

And so off you go, up the back stairs and down the hall, flickering light and voices seeping about the doors as you pass. It’s a full house tonight. You can hardly complain. It’s exactly why you are there working.

There’s a general cry of delight and clapping once you tap at the door and elbow your way into the parlor at number ten. It warms your heart and so by the time you reach the large, round table near the hearth you’re grinning and in a much better mood. Round the table they sit, six hobbit matrons of the merchant class of Archet, Staddle, and Combe in their floofy linen caps and stays and brightly embroidered clothes, here for their monthly night out in the big city of Bree. They burst into action at your appearance, gathering up their playing cards, scraping pennies off the tablecloth, moving candles and cups about the table to make room for the serving dishes, draining the last of the ale or wine from their cups so you can take the empties downstairs for refills, and pulling out their spoons and knives from their belts and purses.

“Good evening, ladies,” you say as you ease the tray onto the stand by the hearth. “Welcome to The Pony, where your belly’s never lonely.”

This is greeted with some laughter and smiles about the table.

“Now Lily, I see those fingers of yours,” you hear behind you as you pull the towel off your shoulder.

“What?” comes the outraged cry in response.

“That’s my penny, not yours! You’ve won enough of them already, I’ll thank ye not to steal them, too.”

“I would never!”

“Now, now,” you say, lifting the basket of apples and tray of ham over their heads. “Sweeten your tongues, ladies, I have just the thing for them. Who’s playing host tonight?”

With that, a hobbit with dark curling hair cascading from her cap raises her hand, a smug smile on her face; the aforementioned Lily, who apparently took them for all of their money at cards and won the honor. Onto the table goes the basket of apples, tray of ham, butter, bread and mugs of ale. You then set the serving dishes arrayed in front of Lily, with the pile of shallow bowls at her elbow.

“Ah, and what have you for us this evening, Fish?” asks Lily, surveying the table as if it were her kingdom. It pretty much is. She gets to determine who is served what and how much tonight. She looks like she can’t wait to wield the power of her ladle.

“Very well, milady,” you say, bowing to her and then to the table. You begin lifting lids, twisting them quickly upright to capture the water condensed against their surface. “Here we have a pot of greens of various provenance with garlic and sherry and here is a spiced sausage browned in its own grease, then simmered in wine and honey, flavored with ginger, pepper, and saffron, with a fine finish of sorrel juice.” You lift the lid and the smell of wine and sausage wafts through the room to the sound of various overly exaggerated oo’s and ah’s and scattered applause around the table.

“Ah, but here, ladies,” you say and, with your fingers on the lid of the final serving bowl, move in close and lower your voice. They quiet and lean over the table. “Here we have the pièce de résistance, culled from the forests of Chetwood by yours truly and prepared by The Prancing Pony’s one and only head chef just for you,” you say and then, standing, remove the lid with a flourish, “mushrooms sautéd with shallots, thyme, and garlic in a cream sauce served over grilled toast with a nice, sharp cheese shaved on top.”

The silence is deafening, every face caught in delighted shock.

Lily’s so overcome with the leverage you’ve just given her over her table-mates that she can do little more than pat at the ample bosom that overflows her stays.

“Oh, Fish,” says Marigold at Lily’s left elbow, clasping her hand about the base of her neck, “how you do spoil us!” If there were pearls there, she’d be clutching them.

They’d also be throwing elbows to get there first if it weren’t for Lily’s firm grasp on the serving ladle.

“Were it within my power I would do so, milady,” you say, bowing to Marigold, “but I am afraid ‘tis Cook who spoils you. I but give her the means to do it.”

This is greeted with laughter and a few knowing looks here and there. Far be it from you to hold back on your flirting with the matriarchs of the far flung hobbit clans. You saw all those pennies on the table. Play it right and a few of them might become yours by the end of the night.

You know better than to get between hobbits and their food, and so, with a call for which drinks needing refreshing, a tucking of the clay pipes into their slots in the rack on the side table for their after-dinner enjoyment, and a promise to check on them in a little, you bow your way out of there. You slip through the hallways, keeping alert for any sound or shadow out of place and the tray ready to use as either a shield or a weapon depending on what you come upon as you round the corners. But there’s nothing more to be heard than the sound of voices muffled by wooden doors and no shadows other than your own, and so you trip down the backstairs for your promised meal. It’s not just the food waiting for you that speeds you there.

Fuck. Poor Ruby. They never talk about her. You’d always assumed she’d taken off and fled into some marriage someplace. Jesus. Disappeared? And nothing but rumor and innuendo to explain it? No wonder they’ve been more attentive than usual. Jesus. What kind of fucking place lets it’s people disappear without raising hell… Well. Yeah. A place that’s just like every other place if it’s the right people involved.

You are so fucked.

It’s with relief that you push through the door into the kitchen. Cook’s waiting for you there and sets you to washing dishes, which you suppose is fair enough, what with the work it’s going to take Nob to clean up the common room after close. And yes, Bob keeps you company on your way home, the flame from his oil lamp flickering about your feet as he tells you stories about the various small, everyday adventures his wife Poppy gets into. You make it through the evening and then to home without further incident, no one waiting for you behind The Pony at the staff’s entrance, no one jogging up behind you on the Road.

For all of the noise and activity of the inn, it’s a quiet night in Bree, what with the rain that failed to let up until near moonrise. You tuck your pennies away in the little purse in your hiding place between the window frame and the wall, and replace the daub that hides it from view. Well, you’ve made it home. One problem down. You really want to go to bed. You shouldn’t though. Not tonight. Not yet.

You’re not really all that surprised when you hear voices speaking low and footsteps scuffing through the gravel on the path outside your door.

The rumor of Estel’s presence at your hearth had warned Ferny off from his late night visits. Fucker’d get some whiskey in him and he’d start thinking that a little detour on his way home from The Pony would be a wonderful way to end his evening. He’d make cracks behind your back where you could overhear him about wanting to “go fishing” and how long it’s been, and how much he missed it, and there’d he’d be, sneaking around your front door.

This time, you’re waiting for him.

You’ve completely had it. You’re done. You’ve had enough of a reprieve from his visits that the thought of going back to them makes every bone in your body hurt. No more jerking awake at every little sound. No more freezing in place, eyes wide and ears straining, holding your breath to hear the better. No more skin crawling when he calls your name and urges you to come out.

Fucker.

You’ve tried ignoring him, going out there and staring him down, yelling at him, threatening him, and complaining to Harry at the gate and his men, all to no avail.

This time, it ends. You are not going through this again.

And so, once you get home, you sit on the edge of your bench with your staff across your knees, and wait. This time, you leave the door unlatched.

And then you hear it. Giggling, breathless and low and cut off suddenly.

“Shh!” and then the rustle of grass and the patter of a stone kicked from its place.

Fucker.

“Fish,” comes a low voice right outside and moving about your house. “Fish, Fish, Fish, Fish,” he calls and then stops on breathless laughter and something else you cannot make out.

There’s silence for a little then someone trips over something and you hear the thud and a curse coming from the back of the hut.

God damn it. He’s a bit bolder this time. He’s not tried going through your gate and into your garden before, which may be why he’s bumping into things in the dark. Either that or he’s drunk. Either one, there’s no way into the hut from there and after a while of bumbling about, you hear the creak of your gate and the rustle of feet through the grasses against the side of your house.

“Oh, Fish,” you hear just outside the wall of your house. He’s practically got his face pressed against the wattle and daub. “Here, Fishy, Fishy,” and then giggling and the voices move. “Come, Fish, I know you’re awake,” you hear, closer now, coming down the side of the hut. “Come out. I’ve got food and drink. A merry time for all,” comes his voice again, just behind your back.

Fucker. Your skin crawls but you keep still and breathe softly through your mouth. Not yet.

“Where are ye, Fish? Come out now. Are ye not lonely? We could cure that. Give you company,” comes Ferny’s voice and finger worm at the shutter over the window and you flatten yourself against the wall.

Then there’s a tell-tale creak of withies straining against the shutter ties. The light’s too dim in the shade on that side of the house to tell, but it’s not like it’s hard to figure out what he’s doing. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to take a peek through the crack between the shutter and the window frame. You probably should just slam your walking stick against the corner of the shutter there. If he injured his eye in the process, so much the better. You’re all tensed up and ready to spring into action when the shutter creaks again and he’s muttering and moving on. What for, you’re not sure.

That’s when you hear it; the patter of water against your door.

What the fuck?

And that’s when the smell hits you.

Motherfucker!

In the next breath, you’ve launched yourself at the door and swung it wide to the sight of a man’s form dark against the moonlit path, dick in hand, pissing on your doorstep, the stream of urine glinting in the light.

It’s picture perfect what you do next. Hip and shoulders in alignment, you wind up and raise your staff in a batter’s up, Babe Ruth pointing to the left outfield, Serena Williams winding up to serve a sonic boom as you take aim at every door closed when you drew near, every path taken across the Road to the other side as you walked down the street, every refusal to meet your eye when you stumbled about shivering and begging for work in the snow, every mocking whisper, every sneering look, every slimy insinuation Ferny’s ever made, and all your helplessness to do a damn thing about any of it. Down whistles the staff in an arc that catches him right under the chin on the way up and down he goes in a blow that lifts him from his feet and lands him with a thud in the dirt.

“Och! What have ye done!”

You spin about to find Ferny behind you at the corner of your hut, standing there, looking for all like he’d just stepped from the shadows where he’d been waiting.

What?

What the fuck?

Wait.

You spin back around. Whose ass did you just hand to him?

Oh. Fuck! It’s his friend. What’s his name.

Whatever. Who gives a shit.

Ferny’s up on you now and you take a stronger grip on your staff, raising it. “Get the fuck off my property, Bill Ferny!” you yell.

“You’ve done it now, Fish,” he says as he goes to his friend and gives him a shake, and you couldn’t care less what the fuck he thinks and who you’ve pissed off. Either he leaves or you’re going to beat the crap out of him. You’re not sure if you care which one it is.

“Yes I have! Now get your ass out of here and take him with you or you’re next. Do you feel me?” you roar, bouncing on your toes and lifting your staff like it’s a bat and he’s a grapefruit pitched at you nice and slow.

There’s a banging of a door down the Road and a voice yells, “Quit with your racket, Fish! Or I’ll send Harry to quiet ye. It’s the dead of night!”

“Get Harry if you want,” you yell back. “In fact, yeah, go get Harry and bring him here. He’d be very interested in seeing this.”

That, at least, seems to light a fire under Ferny, and he pulls his friend to his feet, a little dazed but moving about and answering questions. You genuinely hope his head hurts like a mother and every single little sound or glimmer of light is like a fork scraping along his brain.

Ferny hustles him away and off they go limping down the Road. A door bangs shut and the light from your neighbor’s window gutters and then goes out. And that’s that.

Still, it’s not until you’ve sloshed water over your door and washed your face and readied yourself for bed that your heart finally stops pounding.

Your knees give out and down you go onto your bench. You sit there for some time, staring at the sliver of light from the moon peeping through the gap between shutter and window frame as it plays on the bundles of reeds and the limewash on the far wall.

Shit.

What have you done?

#LOTR #fanfiction #aragorn #aragorn/oc #aragorn/reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #Where the Stars are F***ing Strange

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justthishumanheart · 4 years

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The distinctive feature of everything extant is its monotony. We partake of food at predetermined hours because the planets, like trains that are never late, depart and arrive at predetermined times. The average person cannot imagine life without such a strictly established timetable. But a playful and sacrilegious mind will find much to amuse it imagining how people would exist if the day lasted ten hours today, eighty-five tomorrow, and after tomorrow a few minutes. One can say a priori that, in England, such uncertainty with regard to the exact duration of the coming day would lead first of all to an extraordinary proliferation of betting and sundry other gambling arrangements. One could lose his entire fortune because a day lasted a few more hours than he had supposed on the eve. The planets would become like racehorses, and what excitement would be aroused by some sorrel Mars as it tackled the final celestial hurdle! Astronomers would assume bookmakers’ functions, the god Apollo would be depicted in a flaming jockey cap, and the world would merrily go mad.

Unfortunately, however, that is not the way things are. Exactitude is always grim, and our calendars, where the world’s existence is calculated in advance, are like the schedule of some inexorable examination. Of course there is something soothing and insouciant about this regimen devised by a cosmic Frederick Taylor. Yet how splendidly, how radiantly the world’s monotony is interrupted now and then by the book of a genius, a comet, a crime, or even simply by a single sleepless night. Our laws, though—our pulse, our digestion are firmly linked to the harmonious motion of the stars, and any attempt to disturb this regularity is punished, at worst by beheading, at best by a headache. Then again, the world was unquestionably created with good intentions and it is no one’s fault if it sometimes grows boring, if the music of the spheres reminds some of us of the endless repetitions of a hurdy-gurdy.

—Vladimir Nabokov, La Veneziana

#vladimir nabokov #la veneziana #literature

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natromanxoff · 4 years

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Queen live at Hyde Park in London, UK - September 18, 1976 (Part-1)

An interesting bit about the Hyde Park gig (thanks to Jane Palm-Gold): "The white boiler suit Fred wore coming onstage was especially chosen by him so that he could be seen from miles away (because white stands out at a distance) and even better (and this is great but you have to know this place really - a London landmark for many years) it was acquired at Lawrence Corner at Euston (!), a tatty second hand clothes /hire place where a lot of clothes /outfits were hired from for band promo shoots - for instance they had a lot of military stuff there."

(x)

After the success of A Night At The Opera (and not to mention how the weekly Sounds readers' poll elected the band #1 in the best album, best single, and best band categories), Queen wanted to pay the British fans back for back their loyalty and support over the last few years. Whilst in Japan earlier in the year, they came up with the idea to stage a massive free concert. With the help of record industry entrepreneur Richard Branson (creator of Virgin Records/megastores) they started making plans for the Hyde Park show, which turned into a mini tour along with the Edinburgh and Cardiff shows. It is estimated that between 150-200 thousand people turned up at Hyde Park, which is still a record for the venue to this day. This show cemented their position in the top bracket of rock bands. The stage used was the same stage that was constructed for the Rolling Stones concert at the Knebworth Fair a few weeks earlier.

Queen's first huge show at home brought certain areas of London to a grinding halt, and space on public transportation was at a premium. The concert took place on the anniversary of Jimi Hendrix's death. A banner hung from a tree that read "Hendrix Lives," and at one point in the show Brian May noticed it with much appreciation. The band are seen in the photos above arriving at the venue, where they were joined backstage by Pink Floyd's Roger Waters. Supercharge, Steve Hillage, Rufus, and Kiki Dee (along with a cardboard cut-out of Elton John, who couldn't make it to join her for Don't Go Breaking My Heart) played before Queen (Be-Bop Deluxe and John Miles were supposed to be on the bill as well, but were axed for some reason). A pro-shot video of Steve Hillage's performance exists as well as Queen's. There was a fight in the audience during Hillage's set, during which he played extended trippy versions of It's All Too Much by The Beatles and Hurdy Gurdy Man by Donovan. Also notable is Supercharge's singer Albie Donnelly parodying Freddie Mercury in a white leotard and a half mic stand. The first half of the A Day At The Races overture is aired publicly for the first time (the upcoming album had been partially recorded by this point). The usual Bohemian Rhapsody opening sequence then commences for the last time. The band make their entrance, and everybody near the stage stands up (the audience had been seated on the grass for the opening acts). This angers many fans who are further back (roughly 90% of the audience now cannot see the stage), so they start lobbing cans, bottles, or whatever else that can be thrown. After a few songs, Freddie asks everyone simply to calm down: "I have been requested by the constabulary for you not to throw little things around, tin cans or whatever. So make this a peaceful event, ok? Sit on your arses and listen." Brian, after his solo spot in Brighton Rock (he stutters a bit, revealing that he's still nervous): “From one piece of nonsense to another, I’ve said it before. This is something we wanted to do with the London Philharmonic but they didn’t show up, so we will do the ethnic version of a song called '39." He is seen in a dazzling new outfit tonight, which he'd wear every night through Japan 1979. It would become the outfit he'd change into during the opera section of Bohemian Rhapsody. "Clap along and stuff," he urges the audience, as he plays the intro of what he'd later describe as the first song about Einstein's general theory of relativity. After '39, Freddie audaciously performs the as-of-yet unreleased You Take My Breath Away alone on the piano, even hitting many of the falsetto notes that he'd excise in 1977 versions. He then gets cheeky and introduces The Prophet's Song as "a little shorter number from our album A Night At The Opera." Perhaps he still had You Take My Breath Away in his head, as he begins the a cappella section with what would become the first line of the A Day At The Races ballad instead of the usual "oh, people can you hear me?" bit. He also references Death On Two Legs, as he had done a few times earlier in the year. After Stone Cold Crazy, the band play Keep Yourself Alive and Liar, having dropped Doing All Right and Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon from the set. The combination of these three heavy numbers would prove to be very effective, and they would stick with it for their following North American tour. Liar is a great version, with many great Mercuryisms throughout. Before the last song, Brian coyly says, "This is In The Lap Of The Gods, or something like that." The band play a similar set to the ones they did in Edinburgh and Cardiff, except they drop Doing All Right, Lazing On A Sunday Afternoon and Tie Your Mother Down. They intended to perform their usual encore of Big Spender and Jailhouse Rock, but the show had run a half hour past its scheduled ending time (a curfew strictly enforced by the authorities). The police threatened to arrest the band if they went back on stage, and Freddie was later quoted saying how he would prefer not to be stuck in a jail cell in his leotard. And so, Bob Harris was left with the unenviable task of announcing to the crowd that the show was over. He later recalled how difficult and nerve-wracking it was to tell an audience of this size who had waited for about ten hours that there would be no encore. Now I'm Here was the first encore every night around this time, making this the one time between 1974 and 1986 where the song is not performed. The liner notes of Live Killers suggest that Now I'm Here was dropped from the set for a while, but that is patently untrue. People in one section of the audience chanted "Why are we waiting," all in good fun, knowing full well the show was over. The police soon turned off the main power feed to the park, forcing hundreds of thousands of people to make their way out in sheer darkness. Their reasoning was that it was the only way to "control" such a large number of people who had been rowdy throughout the day. In a 1977 interview with Capital Radio, Brian recalls the day: "It had a great sunny day for it, and everyone had a good time. There were still altercations on the day, and there was a big thing with the powers that be because they wouldn't let us go on and do the encore, about which we were very upset, having worked up for months and prepared for all that. They got very frightened because there were 150,000 people in Hyde Park in the dark, and they thought they were going to get out of hand. But in fact, there was no possible danger happening at all. Everyone was peaceful and having a good time."

This show is what epitomized their popularity in Britain, and when they felt they "had really made it," as Brian would later recall. On another occasion he said, "I think that Hyde Park was one of the most significant gigs in our career. There was a great affection because we'd kind of made it in a lot of countries by that time, but England was still, you know, we weren't really sure if we were really acceptable here. So it was a wonderful feeling to come back and see that crowd and get that response." Despite the fact that the audience had been there all day watching the various opening acts and waiting, the band delayed the show as long as possible just so it could get dark enough for their lighting and various other effects to make their full impact (as demanded by Freddie). Throughout the show, the band's nervousness and excitement for the occasion are evident. Most of the audience couldn't see a thing during Queen's set, since the stage was barely elevated. "The smell of the dry ice and the sound are the only sensory memories I have of this show," recalls Jane Palm-Gold. Here is an article from the day of the show,

and a review from a week later (both were submitted by Boris Arkhangelsky).

Tonight would be the final performances of Flick Of The Wrist, Son And Daughter, and the (almost) full The Prophet's Song. A snippet of The March Of The Black Queen would be performed only once more in 1978, but a different part of the song.

Here is a Virgin Records flyer.

The second pic is the famous overhead shot that appeared in the October 9, 1976 Melody Maker. Pic 5 was submitted by Janneman, and pics 6 and 7 were submitted by Lukáš Bosík.

Fan Stories

“Well, I was 13 years old and had got into Queen through Night At The Opera and THAT video. I'd never been to a gig before and it took a lot of convincing of a sceptical mother to let me go to Hyde Park on my own. After answering the inevitable "no, I won't talk to strange men mum" questions I was allowed to go. The morning came and I was up at 6am, got my packed lunch together (can you imagine going off to a gig now with your sandwiches and orange juice!) and headed off to Hyde Park. I remember getting there so early that I was right by the crash barriers at the front and determined to try and hold my spot all day. As the day progeressed however I ended upmoving backwards slowly as people pushed in. I can remember savouring the whole build up, the support bands, everything. As dusk started to fall, the stage went dark and the dry ice started up. I broke my mums don't talk to strangers bit and a very nice bloke put me up on his shoulders so I could see them come on. I just remember the crash of light and sound as they came on as if it was yesterday (and not 27 years ago!). The rest of the gig was amazing and that was it, I was hooked on Queen and rock music. I saw Queen on every tour they ever did in England (and a few in Europe) after that but nothing compares to that first gig for me.”

- Andy

Part-2

Part-3

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #queen concerts

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theda-rison · 4 years

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Thursday Night Link Roundup - December 3rd

Hello! Happy end of Nanowrimo! I hope you won, and if you didn’t win, I hope you learned something important that will help you win next year :)

So I had to cool it on the Thursday Night Link Roundups for a bit; I just didn’t have the time to devote to arranging and having opinions about stuff (and then writing them down for you guys to read) between work and Nano. But, at least until the stuff for my Steno Keyboard gets here, I have nothing to do now (aside from work, but it’s not like I do that for fun or anything).

Anyway, let’s jump into it. *bad green screen of me jumping into the internet, à la a 90s infotainment VHS about the internet*

If you haven’t already watched it, here’s the third part of Ms Luna Oi’s series on Dialectical Materialism. After all the things she discussed in the other two videos, she discusses the three basic rules of Materialist Dialectics.

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Since it’s been a while since I watched this video (because of my unintended break) so I can’t remember too much detail on it, but it is a good video.

This video… I can’t tell how old the two people in it are: they go back and forth between sounding like old codgers (at least) in their 50s and “the youngin’” because of all the Minecraft references. I am so confused. Untitled Engineering Disaster Podcast-like content Episode 1: The Silver Bridge Disaster by donoteat01, which later went on to become a podcast called Well There’s Your Problem, which has its own youtube channel.

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I had no idea about all of this stuff about bridge building. I knew some of the details of the Silver Bridge disaster, but I didn’t know about the eyebars (or I forgot about it) or the rocker towers. Like… I can’t imagine the thought process that goes into “what is the towers themselves moved?” when like… normally they don’t? I’m not an engineer but it seems like such a weird way to solve a problem. “What if this gigantic, heavy thing weren’t solid and needed to be held up by these precarious chain links?” is not a thought I could imagine crossing my mind even if I were an engineer.

Also: the sheer inanity of making something that you don’t have the technology to detect problems (the hairline crack in the eyebar).

I can’t understand why no one blamed the company who built the bridge, btw. They built a shit bridge and should have been sued.

When I was in my early 20s, I remember justifying my dropping out of graphic design “college” (it wasn’t) by saying something like, “Why the fuck would I want to spend my life convincing a bunch of people to buy shit they don’t need with money they don’t have?” when one of my parents’ friends told me I could have gone into advertising. Not the first time I’ve had thoughts of a popular philosopher in my youth without having heard of them beforehand. (“Do I exist because I think? IF I STOP THINKING, WILL I STOP EXISTING??” suddenly popped into my head and caused an existential crisis for a few days when I was in junior high.)

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Tom Nicholas explains the Society of the Spectacle, which partly involves the explanation of how advertisement companies are selling an image rather than an actual product. Trying to game the “Keeping up with the Joneses,” idea, if you will.

I, like many kids, read Dr. Seuss books. They might be one of the things that really made me love the English language, just because of how he bent and shaped it into the amazing poetry that went along with his strange and wonderful art. I distinctly remember reading And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry street in the grade “before I was supposed to be reading it” and being asked by the teacher how I was even understanding it (I guess the rest of the class was on “See Spot Run” type of books or whatever). I can’t even remember my answer. Probably a shrug and then wishing they would leave me alone so I could get back to reading, lol.

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But Dr. Seuss had even weirder art that I can appreciate now as an adult. Solar Sands’ video, The Secret Darker Art of Dr. Seuss, shows off some of his “Midnight Paintings” that he painted for himself. I need to see if there was ever an art book published of all or any of it, because they’re so interesting. You can still see his strangely whimsical style, many but with darker colors that almost make them seem more… horror-ish.

I forgot that I had the first part of this ProZD video in the list before this. Here’s the next part.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sasdCg4da4o

Ahh…. I miss Vine.

Songs of the Week:

KILL BILL (The Lonely Shepherd) by Luca Stricagnoli

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6ghK-z3qsY

I don’t know what the contraption is that this guy made, but it sounds really cool in the song. Also, props for making a whole little set to play in, lol.

Lamb of God - Grace (hurdy gurdy cover) by Michalina Malisz

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-W-s6yHlbtA

I will admit, I do not listen to Lamb of God, I’m not sure why but it’s a band I’ve never gotten into. However, I love the way this song sounds on Hurdy Gurdy and I might check out the actual band now. If I don’t like it, I’ll just listen to this cover over and over.

Also, how is there not a Doom Metal or Ambient Black Metal hurdy gurdy band yet? Some amazing musician, please make this.

Djent 2018 by Jared Dines

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYrN7EIeXmY

I don’t know if I’ve ever even heard a Djent song before. Like, I could not tell you the name of a Djent band, and then all of a sudden - I guess around 2018 - my feed was filled with people making fun of it. I don’t know, I like the way this song sounds at least? Maybe there’s something about the vocals that makes it suck? I have no idea. I have no desire to investigate further.

I don’t know, it’s giving me strong Gojira vibes in certain spots.

Unlike my desire for a Doom Metal (or Ambient Black Metal) hurdy gurdy band, I’m fine with just this.

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darthlorddiamond · 4 years

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Part of

This is the epilogue of the Black Diamond story, if you want to read the previous episode you can check my Masterlist.

Summary: Be a part of the First Order was certainly not what Black Diamond thought it would be and, after a time of isolation at Starkiller Base, she decided that it was time to take things in charge.

Words: 3,735

Reading Time: 15 min

Category: Bio

Warnings: None

__________________

Part of

The reception I had upon arrival at Starkiller Base was the opposite of warm. Not that I was expecting fanfare upon entry, much less a presentation parade, but after all the trouble Hux and Phasma went through to find me, at least I thought I would be presented to the other generals and high ranks of the Order. I traveled light, my luggage consisted of my collection of sabers, the hurdy-gurdy and a suitcase with my best suits, I assumed that being at my destination I would be provided with the other items for my basic needs, I shouldn´t have made such an assumption.

Immediately, upon my arrival, I was directed to my quarters, which were much more modest to the luxury I was already accustomed to having; It was a medium-sized room, with a small living-dining room, a rather small kitchen, a single bed in the back and an extremely small bathroom, with no windows. I didn´t miss the opportunity to demonstrate my discontent to Hux, letting him know that if, he was going to have me on that cold planet, which already seemed extremely annoying to me because of its resemblance to Hoth, the least he could do its make me feel at home.

My comment caused him to thunder his mouth and mutter under his breath, however, my posture was stronger, for no reason was I going to live in that place, fact that I showed him crossing my arms without putting a foot inside. After a few minutes of constant complaints from him, he had no choice but to agree to my whims, requesting a new location for my quarters, close to his, and a list of all the items I wanted, it was indisputable that, although the idea of giving me special treatment was not much to his liking, but he knew perfectly well that I wasn´t going to access to his types of treatments, since at any moment I could grab a ship and leave them behind because they had no power over me.

My first week I spent it walking around the entire base, locating where the areas of my interest were, likewise, I took the opportunity to explore the outside of it, once again entering the forest and the snow. It had been a long time since I had had such direct contact with the cold in that way, and, what in my youth I found extremely aberrant by the memory of betrayal, now I found it extremely pleasant. I restarted my meditations inside the forest, trying to reconnect with those things that I tried to avoid and forget in my youth; By this point I had already understood that, if this was the path I was going to take, I would gain nothing by blocking and ignoring all the pain I felt in Hoth, on the contrary, I had to find a way to elevate it and integrate it in to myself as a functional part of the person I was now.

During my tours I managed to perfectly locate where the Command Bridge, the Hux office, the training room, the dining room, and the Med Bay were; outside these places, the other spaces weren´t of my interest. Until then, almost all my communication was with Hux, who wasn´t in the least pleased to have to be my liaison with his superiors, and to be honest, I quite enjoyed complicating things, forcing him to look for me all over the place.

Our communication was quite unstable, depending on the mood in which we woke up was the type of words we vocalized, I wasn´t going to deny that, just by sharing the same workspace, I liked the man, on the contrary, I never lost an opportunity to point out that his presence seemed unpleasant to me, a fact that he returned, making an endless circle by trying to demonstrate who of the two imposed greater authority. Until that moment I didn´t know who the Supreme Leader was, nor had I been introduced to the other members of the Command Bridge and not to mention the precious son of Leia, in that place, at that time, we were simply Hux and I, ironic.

Within a month of arriving, I made the training room my second home; I spent most of the day there, which Hux liked quite a lot since it was much easier for him to find me. I soon learned that this space had very defined schedules. In the early hours of the morning, the largest and most common room was used by the troops, while the private rooms were reserved by someone whom I didn´t know; In the middle of the morning, lieutenants and captains came, from mid-day until afternoon, occasionally Phasma come with a group of soldiers to train them in combat, and at night, eventually, the high command made use of the facilities. For me, the training room was a very curious parade of people, whom I could observe all day to get to know more of them without the need to speak a single word to them.

I must admit that, at first, I was spending my time within the hours that I knew Phasma would be present, just to make her uncomfortable with my presence; During these hours I took the opportunity to do a few exercises while observing how she did her work, and I must admit that I was quite surprised at what I saw, without a doubt her combat style had improved a lot and all her troops showed her impressive respect; I may have been a little jealous at first to see her that way, but leaving my pride aside, I was quite amusing, to put it in some way, to see the person she had become, yet that I didn´t leave aside the resentment that I still felt towards her person and that, I was very sure, would never leave.

One afternoon, I was in the training room doing a few exercises with one of my sabers, the room was empty, it was one of those few occasions when everyone was doing some other important activity, of which I was unaware and they didn´t take up their time to train.

Finishing my routine, I walked to a bench where I sat down to rest for a moment, took a drink from my water bottle and grabbed one of the towels I was carrying to wipe the sweat off my forehead when someone approached me "I've been thinking for days on you…” I looked up to find Phasma standing in front of me, I didn´t quite understand what she wanted or how she dared to approach me, so I decided to ignore her and I continued to wipe my face "I understand perfectly that you aren´t in the least interested in what I have to say..." in fact, I didn´t care about what she had to say and I was beginning to irritate by her mere presence "What do you want? Stop wasting my time and speak clearly" was the only thing I said to her as I took my bottle again to take another sip, I could see how she hesitated to continue speaking, her whole body showed hesitant signs "I´m not coming to apologize for anything, as you said I did what I had to do to get to where I´m now..." I rested my elbows on my knees while my gaze remained fixed on her, who wore her chrome armor and held her helmet under one of her arms "You still don't like me at all and I still don't understand how you got to where you´re..." I gave a small mocking laugh that made her purse her mouth a little "I been watching your way of training while we were here..." I began to thunder the bones of my hands and her eyes strayed to observe it, adopting a defensive posture, I suppose she thought that at any moment I would come on top of her, however, seeing that I remained in my place, she continued with his speech "I must admit, it's pretty impressive...".

She swallowed so deeply that a hollow sound came from her throat, she must have had a hard time admitting something like that, she certainly had to put her pride aside enough to introduce herself to me and speak me like that, a fact that I was enjoying too much and, although I too saw in her a breakthrough, I would never tell her "Do you think that with your non-apology and your flattery you´ll ingratiate yourself with me?" Phasma fixed her eyes on mine again with notorious annoyance "Not at all, I still feel a deep disgust and hate to your person" another small laugh and a smile were painted on my lips "The feeling is mutual" she just remained standing quietly for a few more seconds, maybe her pride was coming back and it would no longer allow her to finish speaking, so I decided to dig a little more into that temporary sore to see if I could discover something else “I don't understand the purpose of coming here to tell me this, what are you waiting for?” she shook her head a little and ran one of her hands to wipe off some of the sweat that was forming on her forehead "Maybe I didn't think very well about going here..." I raised one of my eyebrows, she, unsure of something that she was doing? "What do you want Phasma?" I put the most serious and annoyed expression I could "I thought, maybe, I could find another ally in you, apart from Hux..." now it was not a small laugh, it was a huge laugh that I let out while my back was completely arched, throwing my body back for an instant before returning to a straight posture and fixing my eyes on hers again with a highly inquisitive look "Ally me, with you? With the person who murdered the man, I was going to marry? You didn´t think about it well…” that must have been the drop that spilled her glass, because she held her helmet tightly, turned around and started walking towards the exit with a firm step, but before she reached the door I interrupted her way "But yes, I would like someone who knows how this place works, and who can articulate more than three words, unlike Hux".

Immediately she turned to see me while a mischievous smile was painted on my lips "Just to clarify, we still hate each other, correct?" she pointed at me with one of her fingers “Of course Captain” it was the first time since all this began, that I had seen her smile, I couldn't let her go out with that petulant victory spirit, so I stopped and started walking to her while she put on her helmet, preparing to leave "Captain, one more thing..." I began to rub her armor with one of my hands, while looking at my reflection in it "If I discover that all this little game of the ally has another background, well…” I fixed my eyes on the visor of her helmet and gave her the best of my smiles “I hope you likes music” and taking a few steps back, without turning her back on me, she resumed her way and left the room.

After my little reunion with Phasma, I received a datapad in my room, which helped me a lot to liven up my days, and to inquire information about the Order, it was evident that she had been in charge of sending me this present. Also, I intensify my little walks around the base, taking advantage of the new information I had, covering new areas that I didn´t know. In this new scoutings, I began to encounter a group of men who had some relationship with the Force. Most of our encounters were light glances in the hallways, nothing ever went beyond that. Since, at that time, I was still blocking part of my abilities, they never paid me too much attention, surely for them I was only an officer or something similar, although I could see that sometimes I caused them discomfort or curiosity, because my clothing was radically opposed to dress code of the other members or soldiers. It seemed quite striking to me that this whole group always dressed in black with helmets covering their identity and none of them emitted any word, without a doubt they were some kind of elite group, which reminded me of my men in Harloff Minor.

Laughingly, sometimes, in my head I found the presence of that gang comical and, in my mind, I formed the idea that the Supreme Leader perhaps liked to collect Force users, as a kind of bizarre and personal zoo, about which he could exert absolute strength and power to demonstrate his superiority, surely trying to hide some kind of complex, but although that thought entertained me a lot, I knew that, within that group of men, there was surely Ben, so I began to track them down at the distance to make our meetings, I don't know, part of this futile effort was due to my immense boredom and another part was due to the need to locate him, to know who he was, to be able to approach him, which, at that time, turned out to be completely useless.

I chose to stop wasting my energy trying to find someone I didn't even know who he was, I supposed, he would eventually introduce himself to me, so I went back to my meditations, which were deepening, it was evident that being surrounded by others Force-users had awakened in me some kind of connection or bond that potentiated all my actions. In the beginning, I didn´t know very well how it was happening or the consequences that this could bring, so I decided to handle this situation as cautiously as possible. Little by little, I was able to identify that the source that intertwined with me at night, during my meditations, came from a single person and not from a group as I originally thought, however, I didn´t know very well who it could be, and although this made me feel somewhat frustrated, at the same time I could feel relief: if I didn´t know whose energy was brushing against mine, it was very likely that the other person couldn´t identify my presence, so at that moment I felt comfortable and safe using this bond as a potentiator of my energy, curious to see where this type of exercise could take me.

After a month more without activity or contact with other people, I got tired of waiting that someone introduce me properly, I had reached the limit of my patience and my discomfort was starting to grow every day, I needed to start doing something more than fooling around in the training room or hanging around the halls, so I decided to break into the Command Bridge to introduce myself. I dressed in one of my best suits, leather pants with a long raincoat open to my hip and with a small corset at my waist, a belt where I attached one of my sabers and long knee boots with silver details, I refined my makeup, something simple, red lips and a black outline; once ready, I left my room and walked to my destination.

Everyone was busy in their work, there was enough activity on the Command Bridge, I took a quick look around me to see who was there, I was extremely excited, without a doubt my actions were going to cause a scandal among all those present and there would be no way for them to continue to ignore me after this, so I positioned myself in the center of the room and cleared my throat, causing a few people to turn to see me "Good afternoon gentlemen..." this was going to be so much fun "My name is Black Diamond and I´m...", suddenly a hand grabbed my arm tightly and I turned to see who was.

By the gods! Hux's face was priceless! He was completely red and I could see how some veins were formed in his hundreds “What are you thinking about? Are you crazy?” he pressed his face to mine to such a degree that I could feel the heat that his words emanated through his mouth "No, I'm just bored" I rolled my eyes, the pressure his hand exerted on my arm was getting stronger, he was extremely angry and quickly started pulling me across the Command Bridge, at no time did he stop holding my arm "Hux!" I raised my voice as I tried to wriggle out of his hold, which lasted until we reached his office. The door opened and he pushed me inside.

How did he dare to treat me like that? I was beginning to get quite annoyed by the way he was behaving, once both inside and with the door closed, he approached me, his body was only inches from mine, he radiated fury, he was uncontrolled, undoubtedly my actions were going to bring him consequences and momentarily my anger low to give way to a pleasant feeling of success. Maybe things didn't go as I thought, but seeing him that way, on the verge of losing his temper, made me quite happy. “Bored? Don't you know what you just did?" here comes one of his litanies about order and discipline "Honestly, I don't care" I replied as I crossed my arms and took a breath, demonstrating the nuisance he caused by his supposed punishment.

Hux separated from me and walked to his desk, where he took a seat. A few minutes of silence passed, so I take the time to snoop around his office, everything was impeccable and extremely ordered, I stopped at one of his bookshelves to see what he had, I was quite surprised to see that the General was also a lover of literature.

As I took out some books to see their titles, I could feel his gaze staring at me again, apparently he was curious about the way his shelves captured my attention. “What do you want? Is it not more than enough that I already fulfilled all your whims?” still holding one of the books I took, I went to one of the seats that were in front his desk and without taking my attention from its pages, I replied "No, as I already told you, I´m bored" Hux brought one of his hands to his face, where he rubbed the bridge of his nose "And what am I supposed to do?" I looked at him askance, still with the book in my hands "Starting, I would like to meet the rest of the High Command..." his eyes widened "And after that, I would love to have something to do... Hmm... What's its call? Oh yeah! A job" I closed the book in unison with his scream "No!" I stood up from my place and walked to his desk where I left the book "Then I don't know what I'm doing here..." I leaned over his desk so that our noses were inches away, staring into his eyes, causing him discomfort, I could see how a few drops of sweat ran down his forehead "Obviously I don't have any kind of role here..." I brought one of my hands to his chin and ran one of my fingers over the line of his jaw as he swallowed and started to blush "Then, you don't need my presence..." I separated from him to sit on his desk.

I could see how his eyes again traveled the curves of my body, I smiled slightly, I had his full attention so I followed the game a little more, with one of my hands I stroked gently, smoothing, the surface of his desk with my fingers, Hux only brought one of his hands to the knot in his tie "I think I'll go back to Harloff Minor" I whispered as I turned to playfully look at him "No!" all the color disappeared from his face in an instant and he started to babble.

I took advantage of the fact that he was debating between maintaining a serious posture while his eyes were still fixed on my body, so I slowly unbuttoned a few buttons on the top of my blouse, pretending that I had some heat "Alright..." he threw his whole body on the back of his chair while closing his eyes and holding his nose again "But you will work under my charge. I will give you a team to train, just like your men" I got up from the desk in an I jump from to see him head-on “Perfect! You see? It wasn't that difficult. When do we start, boss?” I giggled along with my last word "Tomorrow. I´ll reserve one of the training rooms..." he kept trying to regain his composure while I adjusted my raincoat "It will be not necessary, we will train in the forest..." he turned to look at me in confusion "Tomorrow, 0600 hrs in the meadow at the north exit, make sure them be punctual, I don't like to waste my time” I had achieved what I wanted so I didn't have anything else to do in his office, so I turned around and went to the door “One more thing…” he got up from his place and surrounded his desk, where he supported his hip in the same place where I had sat, I looked at him raising one of my eyebrows, I was waiting to know his conditions "You´ll report all your activities and results exclusively to me, is this it clear?” I nodded and left his office with a feeling of victory and excitement, I had accomplished my mission and incidentally had made the General quite uncomfortable.

It may not be the best of jobs or the best of assignments, but at last, I had something to do: a whole troop under my charge and it was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate all of them my skills.

Finally, after 2 months of arriving at this place, it could be said that I was part of the First Order.

Note: I would like to especially thank @kyloren-theprince, @thetorturerwrites & @kylorengarbagedump who took time to read this first part of my saga and sent me observations with all the patience in the world.

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creativity-is-rebellion · 6 years

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Top 10 Creepy/Scary Songs

I know it isn’t Halloween, but really, we can do this kind of thing any time of year, because I like discussing scary things. The following list is an eclectic mix of songs from varying genres that have creeped me out to varying degrees over the years. Enjoy!

'Acid Rain' Lorn (2015)

The the music video clip features zombie cheerleaders dancing their final dance for their onlooker (presumably Death himself) around an abandoned diner before they pass on into the afterlife. You-Tubers and Reddit users alike believe that the video depicts “Native American traditions that believe when Death comes you have the chance to dance your last dance, and Death has no choice but to watch. The wooden Native American looking into the distance in the diner for the video is a tell tale sign of this artistic vision.” Symbolism aside, it is hauntingly mesmerising.

In addition, and aside from the music video, the lyrics "daylight in bad dreams" makes me think that the subject of the song has bad dreams about living their everyday life, and that he doesn’t want to wake up, because his day-to-day drudgery is one long nightmare. This unsettles me, because it reminds me of the quote by Hannah Arendt, who discussed the banality of evil, within the context of Nazi Germany. Horror doesn’t have to be fantastical when reality is horrific enough. Which brings me to my second song....

'This is America' Childish Gambino (2018)

The music video for this song went viral at the beginning of 2018 for its shock value and controversial symbolic imagery. Several YouTube videos have been dedicated to deciphering the meaning behind both the video and the lyrics. The video and the lyrics are primarily dealing with the plights of African-Americans, and also seem to depict the careless handling of gun violence in America, in the wake of seemingly endless massacres and shootings. The laws don’t change, despite the damage that these events do. All of these issues create a horrific landscape for modern-day America, which can be far more terrifying than any supernatural phenomena.

'If I Had a Heart' Fever Ray (2009)

Also the theme song for the TV series 'Vikings,' the music video for this song by Swedish-Norwegian folk group Fever Ray depicts children fleeing with creepy-looking shamans from what appears to be a massacre in a palatial mansion, where bodies are strewn across the living room and even across the empty pool in the back garden, all while a demonic voice utters “more, give me more, give me more.” It appears that it may be Death itself panning his eyes across this visual landscape, watching it all unfold, and always wanting “more” death. It also fits the TV series it is a theme song for, as it could also be seen as an ode to human greed, as seen in the lyrics, “this will never end because I want more.” The whole song makes for eerie, ethereal listening.

'Theme Song' American Horror Story (2011)

Speaking of theme songs for TV series, the opening theme for this FX anthology series is one of the most disturbing I have witnessed, and of course, the one that had the most impact was the intro for the the first season, Murder House. Baby heads in jars, along with other body parts, a gruesome cellar, and a lot of creepy child pictures flash on the screen sporadically as the theme song plays at the beginning of each episode. The discordant, spooky sounds set up an uneasy vibe for each episode, making audiences constantly on edge

'The Carnival' Amanda Jenssen (2012)

Also featured as a song in AHS Freak Show, this song has a foreboding, long intro before Ms. Jenssen’s moody voice kicks in, and, thanks to Freak Show, I will always associate this song with Twisty the Clown, and those scary teeth he has. The lyrics fit well with Jenssen’s album that they were featured on, entitled, “Hymns for the Haunted.” Give it a listen.

'Hurdy Gurdy Man' Donovan (1968)

If you've ever seen the 2007 movie 'Zodiac,' you'll know what I mean. But even before this movie came out, I remember travelling in the car with my parents and listening to this song playing on the radio, or on one of their cassette tapes on a long road trip, and even if it is not supposed to be a creepy song, it always sent shivers up my spine when Donovan sang the lyrics, “Down through all eternity, the crying of humanity.” It just felt so final and nihilistic, and that the Hurdy Gurdy Man was not the answer, but rather the cause, of all this endless sorrow. Call me weird, but this song definitely fits that shooting scene in Zodiac, if only because of how it mirrors the helplessness one would most definitely feel if being shot at unarmed, or if trying to calm the eternal cries of humanity.

'House of the Rising Sun' Lauren O'Connell (2012)

There are many versions of this song, the version by The Animals in being the most well-known and popular, but it’s Lauren O’Connell’s version (also featured in AHS Coven) that is the creepiest rendition of all. It’s slow, moody and builds tension in a way that makes you feel that the “House in New Orleans” is definitely a godforsaken place that no-one would want to end up in, and that all who go there face certain doom. Let’s just say the AHS franchise does creepy songs well.

'Turn Around, Look at Me' The Vogues (1966)

Made creepy by Final Destination 3, and probably one of the best things about this dismal instalment to the Final Destination series. Every time this song comes on the radio or over a loud-speaker, we know that the protagonist and her pals are in for a rough time, and the final time it plays on the train, when a guitarist disembarks, you feel as if Death itself is singing the song, and it is a memorable omen for the devastating events that follow. What can I say, I just really appreciate a well-placed song in a movie that creates the right atmosphere (or more appropriately, “atmosfear”). This song in this movie does exactly that.

'Missing' Everything But the Girl (1996)

Seriously, just listen to the lyrics behind this dance-y track. The singer asks pretty early on if the subject of her song “could be dead.” Other depressing lyrics are hidden in this seemingly upbeat Eurodance track. I like that lyrics such as this can exist in what appears to be a cheerful song. It gives it layers, and I appreciate layers as much as I appreciate symbolism.

'Every Breath You Take' The Police (1983)

The ultimate stalker song. I read that Sting was inspired by some sort of Cold War version of a Big Brother situation, and I never got why there were people that thought this was such a romantic song they played it at their wedding. It’s musically pleasing, but the lyrics give off a suffocating vibe, and I cannot help but think the stalker in the song got the upper hand in the end, probably in some sort of Nick Cave “Where the Wild Roses Grow” scenario. Brrrr.

And that concludes my list for now. There might be a part two somewhere down the track. Adios, and pleasant nightmares.

#creepy #creepy songs #favorite lists #symbolism #music #creativityisrebellion

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quentinsquill · 5 years

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Fic: “It’s a Wonderful Pride” (The Magicians)

It’s a Wonderful Pride

Author: Lexalicious70

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: R (language, brief descriptions of violence)

Word Count: 4,272

Genre: Canon divergent, crossover, (Good Omens) fic challenge entry

Summary: It’s pride month but Eliot, still grieving for Mike, can see little to celebrate about his sexuality. Can a fussy-yet-benevolent angel reignite Eliot’s flame and show him the light before he sinks into depression, booze and drugs?

A/N: This is for the @whitespiresarmory’s Armory Challenge, week two: “Pride.” I don’t own The Magicians or Good Omens; this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic, and as always, enjoy!

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19358269

It’s a Wonderful Pride

By Lexalicious70 (all_hale_Eliot)

“You really aren’t going? El, come on!”

Eliot looked up from his third glass of wine in 40 minutes to find Margo standing over him, her hands planted on her slim hips in a way that told him, (if he cared,) that she was annoyed with him.

“I’m really not going.”

“We haven’t missed New York City Pride in the three years we’ve known each other! It’s a bigger deal than our trip to Ibiza!”

Eliot closed his eyes and Margo hesitated before she sat down on the arm of the couch.

“I’m sorry. But El . . . I feel like getting away from Brakebills, even if it’s just for the parade, would be good for you!”

“Because I should celebrate.”

“It couldn’t hurt!”

“And what exactly am I supposed to celebrate?” Eliot drained his glass. “The sound of Mike’s neck snapping? His body rolling to the floor like some fucking marionette with its strings cut? My complete naivety about our relationship?”

Margo’s upper lip thinned out and she nodded.

“Okay. I get that you’re mourning, and maybe I even get your necessity to literally turn into a living wine decanter. But I’ve told you already, El, that what happened wasn’t your fault! How long are you going to torture yourself over this?”

Eliot swung to his feet, picked up his glass, and took refuge behind the cottage bar.

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

Margo threw her hands in the air.

“Fine. Skip Pride, start denying who you are, marry a nice girl from Yonkers! I’ll be in the city if you change your mind.” She turned and swept up the steps and Eliot poured himself another glass of Chardonnay before returning to his prone position on the couch. Some wine slopped out of the glass and stained his paisley shirtsleeve and he frowned at the affront before taking a long draw on the glass.

“Maybe I will marry a nice girl from Yonkers,” Eliot muttered as people began to filter out of the cottage, leaving it silent. His hand tightened around the glass and he resisted the urge to hurl it against the nearest wall. “Fuck knows it’d be simpler than—” He made a vague gesture to the empty air and drained the glass. His stomach clenched in protest and he frowned at it. “Oh, nut up. I’ve put you through worse.” He set the glass aside and threw an arm over his eyes to block out the sun pouring through the cottage windows. His pulse pounded in his ears, but the sound of his abused body was infinitely more preferable to the sound Mike’s neck made when Eliot had twisted his head around, like stepping on a dry tree branch on a November hiking trail. Eliot heard it all the time, as if the echo had imprinted itself on his brain synapses and played constantly on a hesitant loop that ground out the sound, a faceless something that cranked a distorted hurdy-gurdy of loss in Eliot’s ear each time silence ruled his senses.

“Oh my,” a voice said in Eliot’s ear, “have I been sent to Clutter Cottage? But Druridge Bay is so damp!”

“Fucking—!” Eliot yelped, sitting up, his sock-clad feet drumming on the couch cushions. He turned, the room slightly out of focus, to find a slight, and rather fussy-looking man staring around the common room. He wore his curly pale blond hair short and stood before Eliot in tan slacks, a blue button down and a brown vest, a cream-colored waistcoat, and a wide plaid bowtie that might have looked silly on anyone else, but this man wore it as if it were as much a part of him as his skin. It was impossible to guess his age. He didn’t seem to notice that Eliot had spoken.

“It’s so glaringly bohemian,” the little man continued. “Rather too much so for Northumberland!”

Eliot blinked to assure himself he wasn’t sliding into the hallucinatory stages of acute alcohol poisoning.

“I’m sorry? I wasn’t—who are you, exactly?” He asked, and the man gave him a benevolent smile.

“I do apologize for not introducing myself. I was just rather surprised to be called here so suddenly.”

“Called? Who called you? Was it Margo?” Eliot asked, wondering in a dazed sort of way if she had called some sort of AA wingman or grief counselor before leaving for the city. The man shook his head.

“My supervisors. You may call me Aziraphale, and you, dear boy, would be Eliot Waugh, correct?”

“Yes,” Eliot nodded, the man’s correct way of speaking and upper-class British accent cutting through some of his drunkenness. It reminded him of the way some of the professors at Brakebills spoke, as if they wanted to be British and constructed their sentences so instead of affecting a phony accent. This man, though, seemed to be the genuine article.

“Excellent. Well! Let’s be off then.”

“Off? To where?”

“To correct some misconceptions you have about your life, Eliot.”

“Miscon—I’m sorry, who are you again?”

“Aziraphale,” the man said with what seemed like endless patience. “Come along now!” He held out a hand and Eliot took a step back with a flat chuckle.

“Recent events would warn me not to go anywhere with strangers who might be disguised as the Beast.”

“The Beast!” This Aziraphale huffed. “Well! That’s—how rude!”

“Is it? Because I—wait, what?” Eliot frowned. “You know about the Beast?”

“I know of him because of my line of work, but to suggest that I go around disguised as him?” The man eyed him. “Despicable!”

“I’m sorry?” Eliot’s wariness made it a question. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant . . .” Eliot blinked and lost his trail of thought as this odd little man caught his gaze and held it. The blue eyes held no trace of obvious wicked intent and Eliot realized they were kind—extremely kind, and in a way that threatened to slam through every alcohol-soaked brick of the multiple emotional walls he’d built since Mike died.

“I do apologize,” Aziraphale said after a moment. “There was a bit of a mix up, but now I understand. I am not your Beast, my boy, but you are as in just as much danger now from your own thoughts as you were from it when it attacked.” The man held out his hand again. “Now do come along, it’s getting late.”

Eliot reached out his hand and slid his fingers between Aziraphale’s, and the little man paused.

“Whoops! Can’t have you inebriated for this venture—” He touched Eliot’s forehead and a peculiar sensation filled his body, as if someone had discovered and flipped a reverse switch somewhere in his abdomen. The wine bottles he’d left near the bar began to fill and the drunken fog he’d been in for nearly three days began to lift. “There we are!”

“What—how did you—”

“Your magic and my miracles are somewhat related. Like cousins, almost. I believe that’s why they sent me. You feel as if you are to blame for Michael McCormick’s death—”

“How do you know about Mike? And I am responsible! I broke his neck! He was in thrall by the Beast and I—I murdered him!” Eliot wanted to shout, but it seemed the brazen, bitter attitude he’d given Margo had deserted him along with the alcohol.

“I saw it when I looked into your soul.”

Eliot tugged on the little man’s hand. His skin was pale and soft, with no evidence of calluses or the particular muscle tone most magicians had in their fingers and arms. No, this Aziraphale wasn’t a magician. He—

“Wait.” Eliot gasped out a breath that was tinged with jagged amusement. “Did you say ‘my miracles?’”

“I did.”

“So you’re . . . uh . . .” Eliot gestured with his free hand, and Aziraphale nodded.

“An angel.” He smiled and touched Eliot’s cheek. “You believe that the world you know would be a better place if you weren’t the person you’ve become, that your sexuality has been a blight on the people around you . . .that believing in Pride makes no difference to the future because you are contemplating cutting that short. But you’re mistaken on all fronts, and I’m here to show you why. Shall we?” Aziraphale made a slight motion with one hand and in a rapid swirl of color, Eliot found himself standing outside of Dean Fogg’s office.

“What are we doing here?” He asked, and Aziraphale nodded toward the door.

“You think your influence on others causes negative effects? Look there.”

The door to the office slammed open and Margo marched out, her expression set, thunderclouds and damnation in her dark eyes. Eliot took a step forward.

“Bambi? Hey, what—”

Margo never slowed. She walked through him as if he were made of mist, and Aziraphale watched.

“We don’t exist to them, Eliot. This is a universe where you never came to Brakebills, never had the courage to become who you are meant to be.”

“Your expulsion and mindwipe will take place immediately, Miss Hanson,” Dean Fogg snapped as he followed on her heels. “We do not tolerate theft of Brakebills property from anyone, least of all a first-year student who decides to practice forbidden magic!”

“You can kiss my ass!” Margo shouted, turning on the dean, her expression a mask of hatred and fury. “I don’t need this! I don’t need any of it! Mindwipe me? Wipe your ass, you pompous nobody!”

“Jesus,” Eliot muttered as Fogg called security and they hauled Margo away even as she continued to hurl insults at him. “What happened?”

“This is what would have happened to Margo if you two had never met during your first year. She arrived here brimming with fury and forging an emotional suit of armor no one would have ever broken through. But then she met you . . . your obvious flair, your refusal to settle into the background, it turned her away from all that anger, softened her edges. Because you would not accept a minor role in the Brakebills community, it caused her to become protective of you. And in that, she learned to curb the anger that would have otherwise shut her out of the magical community forever.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the scenery morphed; they stood outside a grimy building, its brick surface painted a fading urine yellow.

“Where are we now?”

“New Jersey,” the angel replied, “twenty years in the future.” He took Eliot’s hand and they walked through the aging wall. Inside, about half a dozen girls tended to what looked like a failing clothing store geared toward tween and teenage girls. Circular metal racks of clothing, their bases tarnished, littered the floor like elderly soldiers. The beige walls carried the distinct stain of nicotine, and a few customers poked through the merchandise, most of them being the kind of thirtysomething Jersey Shore-loving mothers convinced they could wear their daughter’s clothing. An office door banged open somewhere in the back and Eliot swallowed a gasp as Margo emerged. Her dark hair wasn’t so much pulled back as it was being forcibly strangled, and deep frown lines cut into her complexion. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand, and Eliot noticed that her fingernails, which she’d always kept filed and lacquered, were brittle, broken and gnawed to the quicks. Her dark eyes, ensconced between gaudy green eyeshadow and deep bags that cast bruise-colored shadows beneath them, darted around the room, unblinking.

“Rene!” She bawled, her voice lined with a rough edge of years of tobacco use. “Why the fuck isn’t that order out on the floor yet? Are you stupid and slow? Huh?” She cut through the store like a torpedo, the cigarette trailing out smoke behind her. The young salesgirl flinched.

“No Mz. Hanson, I’ll unpack it now, I was just helping a customer—”

“What you were helping was your useless ass out of my shop! Go on! Beat it!” Margo brandished the clipboard she carried and the shopgirl fled as she burst into tears. “Yeah, go on, cry about it on the unemployment line, honey!” She then turned her baleful stare on the other girls. “And what the fuck are you dizzy cunts looking at, huh? Get back to work!”

“That’s what Margo turned into without me?” Eliot asked, watching her slam back into her office, where they could hear objects being hurled around.

“Without you, she never learned kindness or trusted anyone enough to soften her edges,” Aziraphale said. “It was your bond that helped mold her into the Margo you know now.”

Eliot pushed a hand through his dark curls.

“That seems awfully cut and dried,” he argued. “Besides, even if I did influence her for the good, that’s only one instance out of many where it didn’t fuck up someone’s life! And—and then later, we . . . I mean, she and I, and Q . . .” Eliot felt his ears flush with heat. “I can’t say this to an angel! And anyway, isn’t God a homophobe?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and sparked with humor as he chuckled.

“Oh, my dear boy, no! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“About 90 percent of Christians I’ve met.”

“Ah. Well that’s the fault of those who wrote the Bible, you see. Many of our admirers believe it’s the direct word of God. But it’s the desires of men, Eliot, men who want to control and erase much of what the lord has created, especially those like yourself. It’s something we never quite expected once Adam and Eve were sent out into the world to raise humankind. Now. Tell me about this Q.”

“Quentin,” Eliot sighed. “We’re—well—I don’t know what we are now, since he says I ruined his life. And he’s probably right.”

“Well. Let’s go have a look, shall we?” The angel flicked his wrist and transported them into Margo’s bedroom, where she and he and Eliot had all shared a dalliance just a few days before. Margo was applying a vicious smoky eye as Quentin sat with his hands clasped between his knees.

“And it took me awhile to realize what I was so pissed about,” Quentin was saying, and Margo flicked a glance at him.

“I could have told you why, Q.”

“I know you could have, but I had convinced myself that Eliot fucked up my life that night because—because, uhm, well . . .”

Margo waited, busying herself with her compact, and then Quentin blurted it out in that stammering way that Eliot found both frustrating and adorable at the same time.

“Because I wasn’t upset about what Eliot and I had done! It—it was Alice, it was how she looked at me, the way she called me a whore, it—because I felt like one, waking up and seeing her sitting there! But before that, when I woke up and felt Eliot’s arm around my waist and his body up against mine, it—it felt right, Margo! The way our legs tangled together, the way he looked when he was asleep.” Quentin ran a hand over his face. “It let me know what I’ve been questioning about myself for years, ever since I went through puberty and developed a serious crush on my best friend James—and then one on Julia.”

Margo nodded.

“Congratulations, Q, you’ve figured out you’re bisexual.” Her full lips twisted up into a smug yet affectionate smile. “Welcome to the club.”

“What? You mean you—”

“Bi, pan, girls, guys . . . hot asses that go bump in the night.” She shrugged. “Call it what you want, Q. But El is your sexual lightning rod. Without him, you might never have figured it out and ended up with some frigid, narcissistic bitch because you thought it was supposed to happen that way. Or kept on thinking you were meant to be with Alice which, by the way, I think you’ve both figured out was the result of Mayakovsky’s fox spell, the bastard.”

“And what if El and I were just emotion magic and booze?”

Margo set her compact down and pinned Quentin with her gaze.

“Do you seriously believe that?”

Quentin scowled and tucked his feet up under his thighs.

“No,” He sighed. Margo brightened and ruffled his floppy hair.

“Good! And don’t sweat our sex, Q . . . I really don’t remember it and was out of the game for good once El came around and found you willing.” She rose from the bed and looked over her shoulder. “Want to come to Pride with me?”

Quentin lifted his head and the frown lines on his forehead smoothed.

“Yeah!” He nodded, and Margo rolled her eyes at him even as a smile curved across her painted lips.

“Then get your bi ass in gear, Coldwater!”

Eliot watched them leave the room together before he turned to his guardian angel.

“Is this something that could have happened, like the other thing you showed me?”

“Oh no, not at all. We’re looking at the present, dear boy.”

Eliot closed his eyes a moment as that night came back to him in flashes that burned with a halo of booze; Quentin climbing into his lap, his naked skin filling Eliot’s field of vision, their mouths meeting, the way the back of Quentin’s neck, slender and fragile, fit in his hand as he gripped it to claim Quentin’s mouth once, twice, who knew how many times. He glanced at Aziraphale and then away, and the angel smiled and touched his arm.

“I’m an angel, not a priest. You needn’t confess anything to me.”

“The way he reacted the next day, I thought I’d forced him. That I’d ruined his life because of my own selfishness.”

“No. He was embarrassed and guilty because Alice found him out. And if not for you helping him discover his true nature, he might have never found a path to happiness.”

Eliot nibbled on his thumbnail as he gathered his thoughts. They were more lucid than they’d been in days, but that sound, like the snap of a dried branch, weaved its way through them.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to show me,” he said at last. “But it’s because of who and what I am that Mike died. There’s no way around that—” He groped for the name and the angel gave a sigh borne of patience.

“Aziraphale.”

“Right! Aziraphale. Unless you’re going to tell me that Mike was the reincarnation of Hitler or the next mass serial killer, he didn’t deserve to die because I loved him.” Eliot felt the tremble on that last word and clenched his jaw. “And that’s what they want me to go out there and celebrate? That me being attracted to men got an innocent person enslaved to the point where I had to—” Eliot wrung an open palm over his mouth.

“Oh, my dear boy. You sweet child,” The angel almost sighed it, and his tone caused a crack in Eliot’s walls. The cracks began to leak and then they burst open slowly, like a decrepit dam giving way to the onslaught of a flood. The emotional impact caused Eliot’s knees to buckle and he slapped both hands over his face in one last attempt to stem the tide, but it roared forth anyway. He began to sob, rocking back and forth, all his personal wards and defenses blasted away. A rustling noise registered in his consciousness and then smell of something sweet and warm, like the return of a childhood blanket, filled his nose before it seemed to enfold him. A wall of white, its touch like the sweep of his mother’s chenille housecoat, drew him into it. Eliot found the strength to raise his head and found himself cradled in Aziraphale’s left wing. It was enormous and he welcomed it, burying his face in feathers that were at least each a foot long. He groaned softly, his sinuses clogged, an acrid taste in his mouth, like rotten cloves.

“I didn’t want to kill him!” Eliot cried into the soft recesses of the angel’s feathers. “I only wanted to stop him but then I saw what he really was and how the Beast had fooled me and all the pain, it was like it rolled out of me and . . . oh God, Aziraphale, I didn’t mean to kill him!”

“No, child. What you wanted to kill was the agony of what you felt when you realized your lover was held in thrall. But, listen to me now . . .” The wing tip dipped under his chin and raised it so Eliot was looking into the angel’s eyes, so infinitely kind. “Mike isn’t dead because of who you are. He’s dead because of what the Beast is. He is an evil thing, twisted beyond all comprehension. It was he who put the poor boy in thrall, and it was he who sent him into your path. Yes, perhaps he understood your desires, as many evil things do, and he likely understood the temptation a handsome gentleman with your interests and tastes would represent.”

“I should have seen through it!” Eliot cried, and Aziraphale smiled.

“Many people say such things after the fact. But that doesn’t make it true. I believe the Beast chose you because you’re strong, and yet you have a great capacity for love. However, you must remember, Eliot, that he could have sent a thrall to Margo, or Quentin, or any other person on campus who might have fallen for a person of another gender. Your sexual preference isn’t the reason that boy is dead, Eliot.” Aziraphale reached out and brushed a few tears away from his damp, chapped cheeks. “He’s dead because evil works in ways that are just as surprising and mysterious as the Lord’s. You cannot deny who you fought so hard to become. You cannot throw away your pride. And something at Brakebills is waiting for you. Something real, a someone who loves you. One you will have several lifetimes to know and explore—but oh, dear, I can’t give away too much.” The angel helped Eliot to his feet and then the wings were gone, tucked away wherever they were kept. Eliot considered his words.

“You mean Quentin—wait, did you say several lifetimes?”

“Did I?” The little man cocked his head and gestured the question away with a careless motion of one hand. “Well! Never mind. It’s time for me to shove on, now, I have other people to see.” He touched Eliot’s cheek with the gentle manner of a loving father, a touch the magician had never known before. “Go find your friends, Eliot Waugh, and remember that you must always fight to remain the person you worked so hard to become.”

Aziraphale was gone before Eliot could reply, but that phantom touch remained on his cheek. Eliot put his fingers to it and smiled before he left Margo’s room and headed for his own.

***

“So this is Pride? It’s, uh—it’s crowded!” Quentin shouted to make himself heard above the joyful noise of the parade passing him and Margo. She whooped and hollered as she caught a set of beads thrown by some passing drag queens, and Quentin blinked. “Are those men?”

“Yes, duh!”

“They’re so pretty!”

“That’s the idea! You’re such a dork!” Margo grinned and looped one of the shiny sets of beads over his head. Quentin rolled his eyes and then jumped as a long arm dropped onto his shoulder and a voice spoke in his ear.

“Anal beads? I hope they’ve been cleaned!”

Margo turned, her dark eyes wide as another equally long arm slung itself over her shoulders. Eliot grinned down at them, resplendent in black drainpipe jeans and a tight white tank top that spelled out I YNY. The heart gleamed with rainbow colors. Reflective Ray Bans covered his eyes and his dark curls spilled over his forehead in a way that was artfully careless.

“El!” Margo threw her arms around him. “You shit! You came!”

“What made you change your mind?” Quentin asked, leaning close so Eliot could hear him. It was as simple as turning his head, and his mouth met Quentin’s. The younger man’s dark eyes widened in shock and then slipped halfway closed as Eliot pulled back slowly.

“The thought of doing exactly that!” He grinned, and Quentin blinked.

“You mean you—”

“Yeah, Q. It’s more than booze and emotion bottles this time.” He took Quentin’s hand, entwining their fingers, and Margo turned away so Eliot wouldn’t see the glee in her expression. Eliot pulled them both close, kissing each of their cheeks in turn before turning his face up toward the sun. Long rays of sunlight were breaking through the clouds and leaving smeary wisps behind.

To Eliot, they looked like angel’s wings.

FIN

#Whitespire's Armory #fic #The Magicians #my fic #Good Omens

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