#avowed comes out soon

[acefaeth]

Over a hundred hours later and I'm ALMOST done with Witcher 3 + DLCs so now i've gotta pick what game to play next, but there's too many choices !!!

[crownkillers]

so excited to be nearly done with veilguard because i can't wait to start rogue trader

[ramp-it-up]

Worth the Fall

Summary: James Bucky Barnes WAS an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. You came along and knocked him on his face. Despite the fact you have questions about Bucky and your parents’ conversation at Thanksgiving, you’re hitting your groove as a couple, but there is no time for alone time.

Word count: 3.4 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This part of the story is getting everything caught up to a month ago, lmao. Thank you for continuing to rock with this story. And let me know if you like it (I hope you do!)

This fic is in the Knock You Down AU, and comes immediately after both You've Got Me Thinking and the Steve Rogers fic Peach III.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Initial angst, Steve and Peach, Bucky’s anxiety. No time for nookie! Flirting Intimations of sexting and phone sex. Praise kink, fluffy Bucky, horny Bucky, dom Bucky. F@cking versus making love, wall time, sex with clothes on, raw p in v, creampie, after care, intimations of oral (f receiving!) dirty talk, Bucky applies for a second job. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

————

You walked along the sand and inhaled the ocean air.

You were shaken to the core. 

Bucky Barnes had surely just taken your parents out to ask for your hand in marriage. But it was so soon, how could he be so sure?

Also, you were an independent woman. How dare he talk to your parents before he asked you to marry him!

He wasn’t your feudal lord.

You were scared witless and turned to the waves to try and calm down. 

“He loves the hell out of you, you know.”

Steve had fallen in beside you as you stared at the ocean. You looked up at him, trying to smile, but failing. To Steve you looked terrified.

“It’s just so….”

Steve smiled to himself, remembering that Bucky had purchased the ring weeks before, after just a few days of knowing you. But that wasn’t his story to tell.

“Just know that I’ve never seen him like this. And I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s never been so open, so determined with a woman before. You make him a better man. It’s truly amazing.”

Steve looked so earnest. Your cousin had done quite a number on him.

“You don’t have to be scared. You are ‘The One’ for him.”

This time you managed a smile and an arched eyebrow. You had a feeling that he wasn’t just talking about his best friend.

Steve chuckled.

“Gah. Don’t look at me like that. You and Peach and that eyebrow.”

You laughed at that and grinned, more relaxed now.

Steve looked off into the waves himself.

“So fucking cute…”

He looked down and kicked a rock, a small smile on his face. You could tell he had it bad.

“Thanks for the pep talk Steve-o. And I get what you’re saying. I love Bucky Barnes with all my might, making every other relationship I’ve ever had seem… trivial.”

You glanced at Steve, who was nodding at your sentiment.

“I’m just spooked at the possibilities. I mean…this seems…like a lot.”

“I know. Bucky gets intense.”

You rolled your eyes at him. 

“Understatement of the year. And you’re a lot like your friend.”

Steve looked at you, one eye closed from the sunlight in his eyes. He didn’t have any sunglasses and the sun highlighted his windswept hair and the planes of his handsome face. You were squinting at him and you could totally see why Peach let him touch her goodies. 

Steve was kinda hot.

You sighed.

“Listen. I’ll be alright. Bucky and I just need to chat.”

Steve smirked.

“Chat. Is that what the kids call it now?”

You laughed and swatted him on the arm as you continued walking again.

“Fuck you, Steve. But for real. Thank you for checking on me. I appreciate it. And I love you for it. I just wish my cousin could see this side of you.”

Steve scoffed.

“Fucked that up good, didn’t I?”

“Not gonna lie, she’s kinda blinded by rage right now. But don’t give up on her. She’ll come around.”

Steve looked at you skeptically and you shrugged.

“80– 75% chance she’ll come around.”

You both laughed.

“Just remember what I said yesterday. She’s a tough nut, but she has a huge heart behind that wall. She is determined about the success of that dance school and she is competitive as fuck. You know what to do.”

Steve grinned. 

“Yes ma’am, I do.”

—-

You and Steve re-entered the kitchen laughing, you holding on to his arm. 

Peach was at the table drinking coffee and dedicated to ignoring Steve.

“Thanks again for the pep talk Steve. I appreciate it.”

You gave him a long hug and when you separated, you saw Peach’s eyebrow cocked in what you could only imagine was the way Steve described. You stifled a giggle and leaned up on your tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“You better stop before Bucky comes back and chops me in the throat.”

Peach humphed, and you knew exactly what she was thinking.

You laughed at Steve as he headed toward the stairs, ignoring Peach right back.

“I’m gonna go get my running shoes. A turn down the beach will help me get some of this tension out.”

You watched Peach as she watched Steve roll his neck and stretch on his way out of the room, her coffee stalled in mid air. Her head was on a swivel as he walked out of the room, checking out his formidable ass. She sighed and then remembered that you were there.

You looked at her and she looked at you.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I didn’t say a word, cousin. Yet. But we will talk later. Any coffee left?”

—-

The week ended up smoother than when Bucky and Steve arrived, and before you and he and Steve left on the jet back to New York, Bucky surprised everyone with an invitation to Vermont for Christmas. 

Your heart did a funny little thing because why would he invite your entire family on an all expense holiday vacation from Christmas Eve to New Years unless he was going to…

You couldn’t dwell on what ifs, and you didn’t want to spook yourself. You just decided to appreciate the moment.

It was funny watching your cousin’s face and the corresponding look on Steve’s. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be stressful at all.

Perhaps there would be entertainment.

—---

Later, back in Brooklyn, there was a whirlwind of activity as the Rebirth Foundation geared up for the annual summit and gala. 

During the second week in December, Rebirth Endowment recipients (which included your cousin this year!) flew in, were oriented and toured around New York City. The two culminating events were the summit, held at NYU, where there was an art lecture series, a panel, and the gala. 

Steve usually participated in the summit by himself, with Sam or Natasha sometimes joining him on stage along with the city’s movers and shakers in the art scene.

But this year Bucky was participating.

He said he wanted to be more prominent in the Art community moving forward as a path toward legitimacy, and you knew that tangentially, that had something to do with you.

When you got back from Thanksgiving, there was a week to prepare for the activities. Your Arts and Culture Alliance in Brownsville, as a part of Rebirth through the Howard Benson exhibit, was a stop on the tour, and you had a ton of work to do. 

Bucky and his three partners obviously had their own long list of to dos, but he also needed to be there for Steve, who was a wreck at the thought of Peach coming into town. 

Steve was so far gone.

But James Buchanan Barnes.

You’d never seen Bucky Barnes shook. 

Sure, you’d seen him excited, impatient, horny, angry, and a little irritated, but never truly nervous.

And you shouldn’t have thought it, but it was adorable. 

Friday night, you met your cousin at the airport and witnessed the beginning of her downfall. The cocktail reception later at the hotel had her, and by proxy your own, head spinning. 

You grinned at the way Steve was handling everything. 

Bucky was beautiful and you admired him as he toasted the guests, his beautiful tenor a nice contrast from Steve’s baritone as they both gave their salutations. Only you knew how anxious he was to speak in front of people and for everything to go well. You felt privileged.

You realized that James Buchanan Barnes was a good man who just wanted to be better for you and for his community.

And suddenly you were not afraid of a future with him.

—-

During this time, you two shared brief cuddles and quick kisses, furtive touches and brief bouts of handholding when you saw each other at events. The mornings meant salacious pictures and quick phone sex to take the edge off, but you weren’t able to luxuriate in each other as you usually did.

You missed Bucky’s full attention, but the fact that you were working together on something worthwhile was the shit. You loved this man and you wanted to work beside him as an equal, not just be his sex toy.

This was the week that you fell completely in love with Bucky Barnes.

Thursday was the day of the Rebirth Art Summit and Bucky was pacing up and down his home office, reading glasses switching locations from perched on top of his head, to his delectable mouth, to his handsome face as he reviewed his notes.

You looked up from the ones in your hands with which you were quizzing him and smiled at him.

“Jamie, it’s going to be okay.”

He stopped to look at you, a faint smile on his face. He came over and pecked you on the lips and gave you a hug.

“‘M so glad you are here tonight, even though you tried to stay away.”

You sighed into his chest and took a deep breath, inhaling his Bucky smell.

“I wasn’t trying to avoid you, I was just giving you space. I know tomorrow is important to you and I don’t want to distract—”

“Frumoasă. You don’t distract from anything. If anything, you add to my life. You add so, so much. I love you. And I miss you. I want you here with me tonight.”

You melted into him, chuckled and shook your head as he held you. This feeling was crazy.

“What?”

You heard his voice in his chest, but he didn’t move, except to sway just a little, as if soothing you. It worked.

“I love you too, Bucky. And I miss you too. So much. It’s wild to feel so much in such a short amount of time.”

You and Bucky had only been together about three months, but you knew this was it.

“When you know, you know, my love. And we shouldn’t waste any more time.”

You hugged him tighter. What was understood didn’t need to be said.

He kissed the top of your head and then moved back so he could see into your eyes.

“And having you in my space while I get ready for an important event is everything.”

You looked him in the eye, thinking of sucking his dick for being such a dream.

“Bucky…”

Bucky took your hand and raised it to his lips.

“Don’t look at me like that, Frumoasă. I will be forced to fuck you all night long, something that is long overdue.”

He kissed your forehead.

“But there is much work to do.”

You cast your eyes down and whispered, “You’re right.”

Bucky took you in, looking so demure and being so patient with him. It was such a turn on.

“Such a Good Girl for me.”

You wanted to fall to your knees, but you just bit your lip and went to sit back down, crossing your legs as you began quizzing him again. 

Soon, you told your pulsing pussy. Soon.

You worked late into the night and soon dozed on the leather couch in his study. The next morning, you woke in Bucky’s bed with a sweet note on your pillow. You smiled and knew that he’d carried you to bed and held you all night long.

—--

“You look like that damn heart eyes emoji, ya know.”

You sucked your teeth at your cousin’s comment, but you didn’t pull your gaze away from Bucky up on the dias the next day at NYU. 

You were proud and in awe of your man. Your smirk turned into a grin as he glanced at you and started to speak.

You were down bad. And Bucky was too. After almost two weeks with little to no physicality, your energy was at supernova strength and about to cause a black hole in the universe.

That’s how intense this thing was. 

You were wet and hard and soft in all the right places.

Bucky had to pause frequently for the interpreter, and it gave you a chance to make googly eyes at each other. You ignored Peach’s subtle retching noises as you concentrated on Bucky. But you cut your eyes over to her while Steve spoke and found her visibly eye fucking him. You smirked when she noticed you noticing.

“Bucky is pretty much the man.”

She was trying to distract you. You laughed.

“Fucking-A.” 

You nodded up at the stage.

“Steve is the shit too.”

You were shocked as hell when she responded.

“He’s amazing. I had no idea everything that he does. Have to say, I’m impressed.”

You elected not to tease her about her response. It seemed as if Steve was working the plan.

You resumed watched as Bucky did his thing. He was glowing, handsome and impressive as hell. No one would believe he was as introverted as he was. But he was flourishing in the spotlight, seemingly born for his. He exuded confidence. 

It was such a turn on.

—-

Bucky watched you watching him and talking to your cousin and knew your tells. You were probably wet and ready for him. He briefly thought of what he was going to do to you later before he refocused on the task at hand. Knowing you were there for him was such motivation.

When he made his way back over to you, you were an angel, giving him a huge hug and exclaiming, “You were so fucking good up there, Jamie! I’m so proud of you.”

Bucky felt his heart explode and although someone was pulling him away from you, he mouthed a promise in your direction.

—-

“Later...”

You definitely read those sexy lips and your heart started racing. You looked around for your cousin, expecting to be roasted, but she was nowhere to be found. You shrugged and made your way to the subway, assuming that she was gathering with the other recipients. There was more work to do in Brownsville and you were busy anticipating the night.

You waited all day for Bucky’s text to tell you what time Nico was picking you up, but it never came. The rest of the day flew by and by the time you were walking home, daydreaming of dressing up for the gala tomorrow night and what Bucky might wear, you happened to check your phone and saw messages he’d sent just 10 minutes before:

You looked so good today. Especially this morning. Good enough to eat.

I’ll be at your place in 30. Wear that bra, no top, that skirt, no panties, and those heels.

You blushed and thought of the mirror selfie of the cream lace lingerie set you were wearing underneath your cream colored cowl neck sweater and grey wool pencil skirt that matched your grey wool coat.

Yes, Daddy, you replied and picked up the pace to make it to your brownstone ahead of him, your heart beating a mile a minute.

You thought you were prepared when you opened the door after Bucky knocked, but you weren’t.

In fact, you were shaking with anticipation.

There he was, bundled up from the cold, but those blue eyes sparkling down at you.

Bucky stared at you for a beat, and then walked toward you, taking your face in his hands and backing you up against the entryway wall, kicking the door closed behind him.

“My Frumoasă. So good. So perfect”

And then he leaned down and kissed you.

—-

Bucky had the strangest thought as you opened your door.

I’m home.

Although this was not his place, he realized that you were his home and that he couldn’t wait to make you his wife. His eyes swept down your form, pleased that you had followed instructions. You were such a badass, capable woman and partner and he just had to be inside you soon. 

He complimented you and his cock stiffened as your mouth parted in desire. He knew your praise kink very well. Bucky cradled your beautiful face and moved inside to kiss you.

His demanding mouth parted your trembling lips, sending tremors through your body. You clung to the lapels of his coat to tether you to earth as his tongue invaded your mouth. You suckled it, previewing what you wanted to do with his cock later. 

He pulled away, his bright blue eyes blazing, and his jaw clenched so tight as he shrugged out of his winter coat. If you didn’t know him so well, you’d think he was angry, but the look was desire. 

And only for you. You grew warm from the inside out.

“I can’t wait. Wanna make love to you, but I have to fuck you now.”

Bucky bent his knees and grabbed your thighs, prompting you to wrap your legs around him and hold on to him as he walked you over to your couch.

You attacked his face as you were sat down firmly on the bulge in his pants and Bucky accepted your assault, chuckling as you kissed him from his hairline, to his forehead, down his nose, each cheek, skipping over his lips to his stubbly dimpled chin and finally back to that mouth. When he kissed you again, his hands were everywhere, starting at the nape of your hair, pulling so your neck was exposed as his mouth moved down to mark you up, then trailing down to your fine lace bra cups.

Bucky palmed your full breasts, weighing them in his hands and watching your face as he twisted your nipples. You nipples tightened under his touch and you arched your back, moving and giving him a view of what was underneath your skirt. He admired your ardor, you squirming and moaning on his lap.

It was his dream come true.

“So fucking hot, Frumoasa. I’ve been craving you. All day. All week. Ever since Thanksgiving. Since I first laid eyes on you.”

“Bucky…need you.”

You grasped the lapels of his jacket as his hand traveled down your torso and as he leaned down to travel under the hem of your skirt. Your soft fingers peeled his jacket away and unbuttoned his shirt. You opened it and ran your hands down his chest, rubbing his nipples with your thumb and trailed your hand down to his happy trail and proceeded to try and undo his belt buckle.

Bucky grew hot at the warmth of your thick thighs and the way your cunt was so hot that he could feel it through his pants. 

He had to have it. 

Panting now and desperate, Bucky tugged your skirt up, flashing your bare pussy, but it was difficult to get rid of because it was still buttoned. It slipped out of his hands and he grunted in frustration.

“Ah, poor baby…” 

You leaned forward, brushing the locks of hair that had fallen into his flushed face, grazing your nipples across your chest with a sexy smile.  Bucky whimpered and you smirked at his desperation. You slowly reached behind you to your zipper, pushing your chest toward Bucky’s face. He licked his lips and pulled your bra cups down, causing your warm breasts to spill out and his hands to be drawn to them again like magnets as he watched you loosen your skirt.

When you grabbed the hem to bring it over your head, he released you, watching as the fabric moved above your crotch.

Your pussy. Fuck.

Bucky could never get enough of staring at it, the dark petals, which were spread open for him as you sat on his lap were calling his name. He licked his lips, suddenly parched.

“What are you thinking about, Bucky?”

You had a pretty good idea, but you wanted, no needed, to hear Bucky’s voice right now. You reached behind you again as you unclasped your bra and suddenly you were naked on an essentially fully dressed Bucky Barnes.

It was sexy as hell. 

“I’m thinking that your pussy is a work of art, Frumoasă. It’s perfect. I’m thinking that I want to spend at least eight hours a day between your legs, make you cum over and over again, make you beg me to stop, and to start again. How I want you to taste you and make you squirt so I can swallow you down…”

You moaned and started grinding on his bulge, causing Bucky to curse.

“Damn, Baby. You’re gonna make me jizz in my pants like a teenager.”

Bucky grabbed your ass and reached between you to tease your clit, feeling how wet you were.

“Fuuuuuck, you’re so wet.”

Bucky’s eyes rolled as he grabbed your waist and lifted you to your knees on either side of him as he unzipped his pants and pulled them and his underwear just down past his ass to get his cock out. He grabbed your cheek as he stroked himself and rubbed his thick cock head in your juicy pussy.

“Fuck me Frumoasa. Slide down this dick for me.”

You brushed Bucky’s hair off his forehead again as you nodded and started to slide down his fat, hard cock. Your head lolled back on your neck as you reached the root of him.

“Oh… Bucky… Fuck….”

You could feel Bucky pounding inside you, long thick cock battering your cervix and you whined, leaning back and working your hips as Bucky fucked up into you and thumbed your clit while the other hand guided you up and down his dick. 

His jaw was clenched and his eyes were shining as he looked up at you. You knew he was close and you couldn’t take it.

He started to speak and you knew it was over.

“Frumoasă. I-I’m gonna need you to… oh holy fuckkkkkk!”

His stutter made you start to cum.

As soon as your pussy started spasming around him, Bucky started shooting his spend all over your warm walls causing you to convulse and hug his head to your chest. He clutched you to him, whimpering as he held onto you for dear life as he came.

He collapsed backwards, taking you with him as you became boneless in his arms. You rolled off of him and curled up on the couch as Bucky stood and untangled himself from his clothes.

You closed your eyes for a minute as he got up and went to the bathroom, returning with a warm cloth to clean you up. When he finished, he kissed your forehead and gathered you up in his arms.

“You turn me on like no one else, Frumoasă. You’re it for me. I love you.”

You cuddled into him as he lay you in your bed.

“Me too, Bucky. You’re my one. I love you, too.”

Bucky kissed your forehead again, and then proceeded to move down your body.

“Good, now. I need to clock into my main occupation. Hour one of eight.…”

—-

If you like it, hit Reblog! ☺️

Read the next part, Peach IV (SR)

[paradiscake]

Cregan Stark vs Borros Baratheon (sincerity vs thinly-veiled backstabbing)

Lord Borros Baratheon called his banners and assembled near six thousand men at Storm's End, with the avowed intent of marching on King's Landing... only to lead them south into the mountains instead. His lordship used the pretext of Dornish incursions into the stormlands to justify this, but many and more were heard to whisper that it was the dragons ahead, not the Dornishmen behind, that prompted his change of heart.

Little did Lord Lefford suspect that he would soon face a stiffer test, for an army of fresh foes was descending on them from the north: two thousand savage northmen, flying Queen Rhaenyra's quartered banners. At their head rode the Lord of Barrowton, Roderick Dustin...His host was made up of grizzled greybeards in old mail and ragged skins, every man a seasoned warrior, every man ahorse. They called themselves the Winter Wolves. "We have come to die for the dragon queen," Lord Roderick announced at the Twins, when Lady Sabitha Frey rode out to greet them.

Fire and Blood

Both Cregan and Borros had problems to deal with back home (Cregan with harvesting their crops and the upcoming winter, Borros dubiously CLAIMED he has problems with Dornishmen) but Cregan still sent 2000 warriors down to Rhaenyra's aid. Borros Baratheon stayed out in nearly the entirety of war, never sending even one man to Greens' aid when it mattered.

The men Cregan sent were extremely capable and won one major battle for Team Black and Roderick Dustin slew two Hightower generals. 2000 men ON HORSE, all veteran warriors.

See the difference? If Cregan hadn't wished for Team Black success, if he hadn't been sincere in his commitment, he could've pulled a Borros Baratheon. But he didn't and sent his powerful Winter Wolves.

Cregan was devoted to Jace.

[mostlylemonbased]

An Open Letter to (soon to be) Former President Biden.

President Biden,

Back in 2022 you told transgender Americans: “Your president has your back.” Apparently, rather than meaning that you would protect us, you meant instead to stab us. It must be disappointing for you, who claimed to fight for civil rights, that likely the one legacy of your presidency that will be left intact after you proprietously hand power to a fascist, will be your implementation of the first piece of federal anti-LGBTQIA legislation in nearly 30 years. And while it’s disappointing for you, it’s deadly for my brothers and sisters.

It always feels deeply ironic to me that the Democrats attempt to claim the high ground on LGBTQIA issues. While advancements have pretty much invariably come from Democrats, Democrats have also rarely defended those polices, and have also been happy to vote to remove them. It was a Democratic President that passed the last piece of federal anti-queer legislation enacted in the US – The Defense of Marriage Act. And today it was a Democratic president that stripped healthcare from trans kids.

At the end of the day it seems the Democratic position is the same as with virtually every other significant minority issue. Democrats avow themselves protectors of minority groups until the moment when they’re challenged from the right. At that point the majority of the Democratic Party will, instead of defending policy positions, lurch violently in the direction of the criticism.

The Democrats have done little to undo Republican’s horrific actions on the border and deportation. If anything, both yourself and President Obama legitimized right-wing anti-immigrant acts: funding internment camps and border actions that have horrific impacts for those fleeing violence. And it is the Democrats who have continued to fund the militarization and built the power of a deeply racist police force which has shown utter unwillingness to reform.

And at the end of your presidency we find ourselves here: We know that more than forty percent of trans youth will attempt suicide. We know that states that passed anti-trans legislation have seen increases in suicidality of, in some cases, more than 70 percent. And yet just two years after you promised you had our back your legacy is increasing the number of trans kids and adults who’ll attempt to kill themselves. Your legacy is politely rolling out the red carpet to a fascist who would and will attempt to legislate us out of public life, and whose policy platforms are encouraging our deaths. Policies where the cruelty and divisiveness is the point. And that’s the policy you signed into law on December 22nd.

124 Democrats had sufficient strength to stand up against these attacks in the house, just ten in the senate, and apparently you lack the strength or willingness to defend us.

So it seems fitting that your abject failure will be your legacy.

[lesmisletters-daily]

The Bishop In The Presence Of An Unknown Light

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.1.10

At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits.

In the country near D—— a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G——

Member of the Convention, G—— was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of D—— A member of the Convention—can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other <i>thou</i>, and when they said “citizen.” This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost’s court, on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture.

Was G—— a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France.

He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman.

Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said, “There is a soul yonder which is lonely.”

And he added, deep in his own mind, “I owe him a visit.”

But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment’s reflection, as strange, impossible, and almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and the old member of the Convention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement.

Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But what a sheep!

The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction; then he returned.

Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young shepherd, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had come in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was gaining on him, and that he would not live over night.—“Thank God!” some added.

The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too threadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out.

The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind lofty brambles, he caught sight of the cavern.

It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the outside.

Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the armchair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun.

Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the old man a jar of milk.

While the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke: “Thank you,” he said, “I need nothing.” And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the child.

The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life.

“This is the first time since I have been here,” said he, “that any one has entered here. Who are you, sir?”

The Bishop answered:—

“My name is Bienvenu Myriel.”

“Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?”

“I am.”

The old man resumed with a half-smile

“In that case, you are my bishop?”

“Something of that sort.”

“Enter, sir.”

The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:—

“I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to me to be ill.”

“Monsieur,” replied the old man, “I am going to recover.”

He paused, and then said:—

“I shall die three hours hence.”

Then he continued:—

“I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one’s caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight.”

The old man turned to the shepherd lad:—

“Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired.”

The child entered the hut.

The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himself:—

“I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors.”

The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at “His Grace,” was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort “citizen.” He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a mood to be severe.

Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust.

The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the member of the Convention with an attention which, as it did not have its course in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. G——, calm, his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mistaken the door. G—— seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G——, at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale of the Orient who was flesh above and marble below.

There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt.

“I congratulate you,” said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. “You did not vote for the death of the king, after all.”

The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning underlying the words “after all.” He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face.

“Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant.”

It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity.

“What do you mean to say?” resumed the Bishop.

“I mean to say that man has a tyrant,—ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man should be governed only by science.”

“And conscience,” added the Bishop.

“It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we have within us.”

Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which was very new to him.

The member of the Convention resumed:—

“So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said ‘no.’ I did not think that I had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child. In voting for the Republic, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumbling away of prejudices and errors causes light. We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy.”

“Mixed joy,” said the Bishop.

“You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work was incomplete, I admit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there.”

“You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath.”

“Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity.”

The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:—

“Yes? ’93!”

The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation:—

“Ah, there you go; ’93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial.”

The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the matter. He replied:—

“The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error.” And he added, regarding the member of the Convention steadily the while, “Louis XVII.?”

The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop’s arm.

“Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Grève, until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV.”

“Monsieur,” said the Bishop, “I like not this conjunction of names.”

“Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?”

A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken.

The conventionary resumed:—

“Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, <i>‘Sinite parvulos,’</i> he made no distinction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys.”

“That is true,” said the Bishop in a low voice.

“I persist,” continued the conventionary G—— “You have mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than ’93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people.”

“I weep for all,” said the Bishop.

“Equally!” exclaimed conventionary G——; “and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering longer.”

Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony. It was almost an explosion.

“Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that is not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that signifies nothing: clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You have told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a bishop; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends,—the bishopric of D—— fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand francs,—who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are a prelate,—revenues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?”

The Bishop hung his head and replied, <i>“Vermis sum</i>—I am a worm.”

“A worm of the earth in a carriage?” growled the conventionary.

It was the conventionary’s turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop’s to be humble.

The Bishop resumed mildly:—

“So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off behind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that ’93 was not inexorable.”

The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away a cloud.

“Before replying to you,” he said, “I beseech you to pardon me. I have just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future.”

“I thank you,” said the Bishop.

G—— resumed.

“Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me? That ’93 was inexorable?”

“Inexorable; yes,” said the Bishop. “What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?”

“What think you of Bossuet chanting the <i>Te Deum</i> over the dragonnades?”

The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to him; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of minds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic.

The conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on:—

“Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing. Apart from the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human affirmation, ’93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you give to Montrevel? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Bâville? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes, if you please? Duchêne senior is ferocious; but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tetê is a monster; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound, naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child kept at a distance; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish; the little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized; the executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse, ‘Abjure!’ giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to that torture of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir: the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its wrath will be absolved by the future; its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage; moreover, I am dying.”

And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words:—

“Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, this fact is recognized,—that the human race has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed.”

The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from this intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu’s resistance, came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning:—

“Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race.”

The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek, and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself, while his eyes were plunged in the depths:—

“O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!”

The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.

After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said:—

“The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be without limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it would not exist. There is, then, an <i>I</i>. That <i>I</i> of the infinite is God.”

The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with the shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had spoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching.

The Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he had come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion; he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold hand in his, and bent over the dying man.

“This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain?”

The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance.

“Bishop,” said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength, “I have passed my life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies existed, I destroyed them; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France was menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have been one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver; I dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have succored the oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true; but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to my powers, and all the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at, scorned, cursed, proscribed. For many years past, I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me; to the poor ignorant masses I present the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred, without hating any one myself. Now I am eighty-six years old; I am on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask of me?”

<i>“Your blessing,”</i> said the Bishop.

And he knelt down.

When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had become august. He had just expired.

The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the Convention G——; he contented himself with pointing heavenward.

From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers.

Any allusion to “that old wretch of a G——” caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did not count for something in his approach to perfection.

This “pastoral visit” naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of comment in all the little local coteries.

“Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil.”

One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual, addressed this sally to him, “Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap!”—“Oh! oh! that’s a coarse color,” replied the Bishop. “It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat.”

[alexanderwales]

Disclaimer: this is a very long ask. Please feel free to ignore it if you're busy, or for any other reason - 'I love your work!' is a decent summary. Hello Mr. Wales! And belated welcome to tumblr from someone else who also spent years seeing tumblr screenshots on reddit and twitter before joining.

I read Significant Digits a while back (immediately after reading HPMoR) and enjoyed it a lot, so thank you for that! More recently, I've tried doing some writing myself, with middling success (a HPMoR, Delve, Mother of Learning and Mage Errant crossover).

One of my readers left a long and fascinating comment on my fic, in which they quoted your review of HPMoR at length: https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/a-call-to-the-dark-city-delve-mother-of-learning-hpmor-mage-errant-multicross.127432/post-30801851

I found that I disagreed with your thoughts quite a bit, which surprised me! My response is in the next post in that chain, but the gist (ignoring context specific to my fic) is this exchange:

Harry does not win the climax of the fic by having overcome his flaws, he wins it through brutal murder. The biggest organic change he undergoes is from believing in the value of truth to advocating for multiple conspiracies against both the wizarding and muggle worlds, and if that's character growth, I find it ugly.

My (shortened) response:

As Alexander Wales notes, Harry *does* change in HPMOR: he becomes less open, less willing to share information widely, and shifts focus from local issues (people and ethics near him) to what he considers global risks and outcomes. As a reader, I'm not too interested in whether or not the change in Harry's character is in a 'good' direction, or whether or not he becomes a better person, or whether or not his views over time gradually approach my own. For me, the most important thing in a story is that it is *interesting* - and I find Harry's arc in HPMOR very interesting.

I'm curious about if you have thoughts on the general debate there - to what extent do you think writers should prioritise faithful simulation of characters and setting vs. giving the characters an arc with an emotionally satisfying conclusion? Or is deciding initial conditions such that accurate simulation leads to a satisfying character arc and emotional conclusion *the real puzzle*?

Thanks again - I've enjoyed your writing a lot over the years, and expect to enjoy it more soon! (About 10 of my readers have independently recommended that I read Worth the Candle based on the stories I've included in my fic, so it's pretty close to the top of my reading list :p )

(I am obligated to point out that Significant Digits was not mine. I wrote a very short epilogue here, but nothing of the length or complexity of any of the notable fan sequels.)

I've been thinking about how to answer this for a bit, but I think what it comes down to for me is that I want a story to have a clear thematic, emotional, or intellectual through line. I want a story to be about some specific thing, and then take that thing through its paces, and to have us come out the other end having explored that thing in its fullness.

To some extent, I like stories best when they're driving at some singular vision, which I know as a sprawling webfic author probably seems insane. So if the ultimate conclusion is "yes, we should commit conspiracies against people for their own good" then I would like for the early parts of the story to show us why that's the case, ideally by having some truth be put out into the world that causes damage, or by showing how a lesser conspiracy worked to protect something, or whatever else. Or contrarily, if it's the work's position that conspiracies are bad things, then it should show us how and why they're bad, and why this character is making that decision anyway. Or if the work isn't sure how it feels about this thing, I still want them to explore it, to see the different scenarios and thoughts.

I'm an avowed fan of HPMOR, and I am unfortunately the sort of fan that has a lot of critical takes about the things that I enjoy. My biggest problem with HPMOR is that it's not thematically "whole": the individual parts don't feel like they mesh that well together (in my opinion). With that said, I haven't reread HPMOR in a very long time, and my arguments are rusty, so I don't want to give them here.

I think my desire for thematic cohesion is probably work-dependent, but even so, is also probably at the far end of reader preferences. Some people are perfectly happy to read things that are more simulationist in nature: a character does things because that's what they would do, and if this doesn't build up to some grand theme or climactic showdown, so be it. I do think a lot of the trick of writing is making character stuff work in harmony with plot stuff, because you don't want people to feel like "oh, he just did that because the plot demanded it" (though they will say that about almost anything, in my experience).

I don't think that HPMOR is fatally flawed for its thematic wanderings, and I do think there's some sense in which it's best read as a you'd read a TV show with multiple "seasons" which are individually about something but don't necessarily have as solid of a through line. It's just a personal preference thing, I guess.

[eruscreaminginthedistance]

If modders don't immediately create a spider replacement mod as soon as Avowed comes out I might die. Modders please I beg of thee

[modern-day-bard]

Other Duties As Assigned: A Joel Miller AU Fanficiton

Content Warning: 18+ This story includes mature themes such as drinking, stalking, violence, and explicit smut. Minors, do not interact.

Chapter 15: Breathe

word count: 3.4k

Gwen

I would never admit it to anyone who would bother to ask, but I barely slept last night. It’s bad enough to be back in my father’s house, across the hallway from my mom’s music room that hardly anyone ever visits. Surrounded by memories so fond that they make me physically ill. And now, these walls feel even tighter. I spent almost the entire night scrolling through my comment section on every platform I’ve ever been a part of, trying to find someone who wrote something similar to the note. Remembering to grab my mom’s sweater out of my closet last night was a small comfort at least. I kept it tucked under my arm like a child with a blanket while I scrolled. It’s useless, of course. You can’t gather someone’s voice from four sentences or one comment on one photo. But, logic loses the battle all night, and I kept scrolling anyway.

I still had on my blouse from yesterday which was now more wrinkled than all of the executive board members combined. At least I thought to slip out of my slacks before climbing into bed. Waking up here felt like a time capsule nightmare, like finally leaving was the dream, and I woke up eternally trapped in this cold house. I want to leave for the office as soon as possible.

After a very quick shower, there seems to be no amount of makeup that will cover my under eye bags. I choose to leave it as is, my physical avowal of fear still peaking through two layers of concealer. I just hope no one I interact with at the office knows anything about last night.

I put my mom’s sweater back in the bag I brought with me last night, along with the photo album from my closet. I decide to hide it under a throw blanket while I’m gone. If anyone comes in here today, it will probably just be one of the housekeepers, but I don’t even want them to see it.

I grab my jacket, taking as deep of a breath as possible before opening the door.

As I step out, my foot gets caught on something, and I tumble forward into the hallway.

“Shit,” I gasp, putting my hands out in front of me to brace for impact. By some divine grace, I’m able to press against the other side of the wall quick enough to balance myself. It might not be lithe, but it beats falling head first onto the floor.

“AH,” a loud grumble sounds from the doorway.

“Mr. Miller?” I glance back at him, stepping over his curled up form so I’m not two degrees away from doing downward dog anymore. “What are you doing on the floor?”

It only takes a second longer for me to put two and two together. His jacket is rolled up by his head as a make-shift pillow, and his eyes are the sleepiest I’ve ever seen them. I can imagine how peaceful he’d been only a minute ago, and I wonder if that line between his eyes softens in sleep. It’s certainly pretty deep now that he’s been stepped on.

“I thought,” he clears his throat, “I thought you might feel better if I were out here.”

“Oh,” I exhale, feeling something tighten in my throat. I steady myself against the wall as he sits up. “I thought I told you not to worry about my feelings.” I mean it to come out strong and authoritative, but if anything, it sounds like a meek reminder.

Joel runs his hands through his hair, clearly trying to rouse the sleepiness off of himself. It makes me remember his hair for the wedding, slicked back and styled, and how good his shampoo smelled in that closet…

“Fine. Then I guess I thought this runner looked comfortable.” Joel is grumpy in the morning. Noted. And…I don’t totally hate it. Also noted.

“I could have brought you a pillow if you told me.”

“You would have told me not to sleep here.”

He’s right, I would have told him to get lost and stay in one of the guest rooms. But I wouldn’t have meant it. Not that I want to see him on the floor. I’m not sure how old he is, but that can’t be good for any spine above thirty years old. Still, it does make me feel a bit more…comfortable, knowing he was outside.

“Well, hopefully it’s not for long. Did you find out anything new?”

“I texted with Amari last night. I’m going to speak with Teddy today and review the camera footage. Phillip and Silas will stay here with you for the day so—”

“The day? I’m going to work. I’ll go with you to meet with Teddy, too.” The thought of him leaving me with two of my father’s security guards fills me with dread. But I don’t have time to examine that now.

Joel eyes me carefully, one forearm resting on top of his knee. “Are you sure about that? It’s likely whoever left you the flowers is watching the place. They may see you, or you might not like what we see on the footage.”

One thing I appreciate about Joel? He says things like that without being condescending. I get the sense that he genuinely wants me to pace myself, not that he thinks I’m incapable. He’s just…protecting. Doing his job.

“I’m sure. When are you going to see Teddy?”

He glances down at his old watch. “Eight. So we’d have to leave soon. If you want to get something to eat first I can–”

“Perfect. We’ll go to the office afterwards.”

“Alright.” His tone doesn’t sound alright, but I ignore it.

“Feel free to use the bathroom down the hall. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

I trot off before he can give me another disapproving nod.

- - -

I’ve known Teddy for years, and the last time he was this nervous to talk to me was when a designer sent me a PR package and it was given to one of my neighbors by mistake.

And I don’t think Joel’s demeanor is helping the situation.

Both palms spread out wide across the counter in the lobby, looming over Teddy like he’s being cross-examined. I peer around him to address Teddy directly.

“You don’t remember anyone handing you flowers over the weekend?”

Teddy glances up at Joel as if he’ll need permission from him to speak to me.

“I got about three deliveries this weekend. None of them were for you, Miss Russell.”

“It was a pretty large bouquet. I think I would remember someone bringing in a vase that large of purely white roses, wouldn’t you?”

“Easy, Mr. Miller,” I pat his arm, shoving him a little so that I can actually stand next to him instead of using him as a shield from the world's most unassuming doorman.

“Do you remember anyone you don’t recognize?” I ask.

“Several people. Everyone has guests, madam.”

“Was anyone wearing a service uniform? Anyone who looked particularly lost?” Joel’s voice has softened, if only a little.

“No, no, I mean, not that I remember.” Teddy looks back and forth between us before pointing at the computer screen. “I have the footage. One of the guys last night asked me to retrieve it.”

“Let’s see it,” the gravel in Joel’s voice makes me want to lean against him, to abate it somehow. Instead, I take another step to my right.

Teddy lets us around the counter, and the three of us hover over the screen, watching a grainy video of the lobby. It starts at midnight, and even sped up to the highest speed, five minutes of watching this feels like five hours of nothing. There’s a couple of neighbors I’ve seen before, delivery drivers that drop their packages at the desk and leave. We pause a few times on the boxes, just to see if there is anything resembling a florist box, but there isn’t. Even if there was, it doesn’t explain how they ended up in my apartment.

Joel takes note of any of the visitors Teddy doesn’t recognize, leaving him with his email to send the footage to.

“Thank you,” He huffs, maneuvering out from behind the counter and waiting for me to follow.

I place my hand on top of Teddy’s, smiling at him as best I can after the letdown. “This isn’t your fault, Teddy. Thank you.”

Teddy nods, returning my smile, but obviously a little shaken up. If the PR package mishap made him anxious, this must be on another level.

Joel is ten times worse making our way to the car than he’s been in the past. His left arm is hovering near my lower back, his right one outstretched as if to push away nonexistent fanatics.

Once we’re back in the car with Rod, he turns around to address me.

“You believe him?”

I scoff, “Of course I believe him. Teddy’s only vice is neurosis. He takes his job seriously, and he’s always been…discreet about things. Do you really think, even if he wanted to, that he could get up to my floor?”

“No. But we don’t know him.”

“I’ve known him for at least five years.”

“You don’t know him, Miss Russell. Not really. I’m not saying we need to persecute him, we just need to be careful.” He faces frontwards as if that settles the conversation in any way.

“I’m not saying I trust him, Mr. Miller. But you’re missing the fact that we didn’t see him leave his post except to use the bathroom the entire day. What is he going to do? Give someone a key he doesn’t even have?”

I know I shouldn’t be arguing with someone who slept in the hallway to ensure my safety. There’s just something about his specific robotic-ness today that is boiling my blood. I didn’t like the way it made me feel when he shielded me like that, all tingling and wanting to return the favor to some degree. It was foreign. Something I’d never experienced with anyone on Amari’s team. I don’t want to be driven to the point of distraction from his voice alone. It wasn’t just a foreign feeling, it was a pathetic one.

Joel clenches his fist around his armrest—another image I’m going to have to push from my mind later-–and sighs. “Let’s just get through the rest of today.”

He’s just angry because he knows that I’m right.

Once in the office, the radio floor is buzzing. Same as when we had been making our way to the car, Joel is even closer to me than usual. I don’t think he’s as excited by the hectic floor as I am. I go to Paul's office straight away, knuckles rapping quickly on the door before entering to see his startled face.

“Gwen,” he gives me a once-over, “Uh, I’m surprised to see you.”

“Hey, Paul. I wanted to see what the fuss was all about. I’m sure Julian will know but you’re connected to entertainment as well and—”

“No, no,” Paul lowers his voice to a whisper, “I didn’t think you’d be in today. After, you know, what happened.”

I give him a quizzical look. Maybe he means the scare at the wedding? How could he already know about—

“The flowers,” he whispers again. “The stalker breaking in.”

“Oh,” I blink, taking a millisecond to recover before giving him a forced smile, “Well, I can’t let them determine my day. How did you hear? That’s not what the excitement is about, is it?”

“Cyrus told me. And no, RenCo Radio in London acquired the rights to exclusive Wimbledon coverage. If they can get their football next, it means we will have a chance to trump ESPN here. Everyone is working their tail off to be ready for it.”

My smile suddenly turns genuine.

“We’ll have leverage for exclusivity over American football if the UK office pulls this off.”

“Precisely. And if we have the rights for the radio coverage, we’re one step closer to a full entertainment package. TV, podcast, radio, digital media. It would be huge.”

I don’t care much for sports, but this could blow one of our biggest competitors in that sector out of the water. And it couldn’t have come at a better time, now needing distraction more than ever.

“That’s good news. I’m assuming Julian will have an attack plan?”

“Most likely, or he’ll need you to help create it.”

The idea of a legitimately important task almost makes me feel back to normal. Real work, a real goal. One that doesn’t make me feel like I’m still an intern, or just my father’s daughter in the other room with a babysitter.

“Great. Thanks, Paul.”

I almost bump into Joel when I turn around, having forgotten that he was waiting in the doorway this time, and not in the hallway. When I get to my office, he still hovers a few feet inside.

“Mr. Miller, I don’t think anyone can get to me in here.”

His big brown eyes take in the entirety of the room in one sweep. “I’ll be outside, then.” Still he lingers, watching my face so carefully I want to hide behind my monitor.

“I know,” I say, opening up my laptop like a room divider. I pretend to be looking up something important until I hear the door click behind him. After getting my heartbeat back down to a normal pace, I message Julian so we can prepare our attack.

- - -

I forgot to eat dinner until Joel walked in with a sandwich from the cafeteria downstairs. I probably didn’t thank him as much as I should have, because there’s no way I would have had the energy to stay here until nine if he hadn’t done that. When I’m finally done, I can’t help but shift around uncomfortably in the car on the way to my dad’s. It’s a large house, I know that. But every minute spent there it feels smaller and smaller until there’s no room to come up for air. I did have a bone to pick with him though, and after that, I want out. I don’t see the point of laying awake in that bed all night long again.

“I’ll meet you upstairs. I want to talk to my father for a minute.” I tell Joel once we’re inside.

Joel hesitates. “I’ll wait for you at the end of the hall.”

I suppose that’s as good as I’ll get from him.

I find my father exactly where I expect him to be, in his office, surrounded by documents and three computer screens.

“Hi, Dad.” I take a seat across from his desk before he can shoo me away.

“Guinevere. How are you…holding up?” He doesn’t look up from his computer, but I’m still surprised he asks.

“Fine. But that’s actually why I came to see you. I need you not to tell anyone about the flowers or the stalker or anything else. We can’t risk news like that getting out.”

This gets him to meet my eyeline. “I didn’t tell anyone. Amari told me once he heard from your guard. They brought me to the office while they searched the place.”

Oh. Would Amari have told Cyrus?

“Well, some people on the board know. Just try to keep a low profile on this one, okay?”

He chuckles. “You’re going to lecture me on keeping a low profile? In what world?”

“The world where I hold our company together by entertaining, or better yet, distracting the news cycle when the time calls for it.”

His eyes narrow, trying to find meaning in between my words. “It’s certainly distracting.”

“This isn’t one of those times. I don’t need anyone else drawing attention to it.”

“Fair enough. I’ll continue not to tell anyone.”

I sigh. Honestly, I don’t believe that he didn’t tell the board. He would say it in passing, I’m sure. I wonder if he looked up from his work when he knew I had a stalker, or if he asked Amari if I was safe this past weekend.

“Did you know I was okay?” The question comes out before I can screen it.

“Excuse me?”

“This weekend, when I was hiding in a closet. Or last night, when I came here and you were gone, after my apartment had been searched for an intruder. Did you know? Did you even care?”

In completely uncharacteristic fashion, my father’s face grows red. His fist squeezes tightly together on top of the desk.

“Of course I did. How can you even ask that?” He hisses.

“Because how would I have known?”

His breathing is coming in shallow, and beyond the obvious anger, the closest thing I’ll ever see to hurt flashes in his eyes.

“Do you think it was only Arthur who suggested the need for your own personal security? You would have resisted any of it. But I had a better shot if Arthur delivered the news, if you thought it was entirely his idea,” He gauges my reaction, and I do my best not to show any of the surprise I’m feeling. “You always seem to have a soft spot for him that never makes an appearance for me. If you think I'm really that cold, then you’re more naive than I thought you were.”

I feel a lump form in my throat. Surely the lack of sleep is making this feel worse than it really is. But of course I think he’s cold. He’s been cold for over ten years. Though I had no idea he had a significant part in recruiting Joel, or that he noticed my affection for Arthur. I need to get out of here before this lump leads to anything more visible.

So I get up to leave, turning only to say, “I asked about you. As soon as I was taken away, I asked about you.”

I close the door behind me, inhaling through my nose in an attempt to push back any prickling I feel behind my eyes. Joel is watching me from the middle of the hallway, not the end of it. How much did he hear?

I clear my throat as I approach him. “I’m going to bed.”

His typically stoney eyes are soft, which immediately puts me in an even worse mood. He heard something, that’s for sure. Either that or he’s just come to pity me at all times since the flowers.

I make a beeline for the foyer, Joel’s expression turning from confused to alarmed.

“Miss Russell, I thought you were going to bed.”

“I am. We’re going back to my apartment.” I’m nearly jogging toward the door now, as fast as my heels allow.

Joel’s hand wraps completely around my forearm, the force of it spinning me so that I crash against his chest.

“Um, excuse me?” he’s holding my arm to his chest, the only barrier keeping us from being entirely pressed up against each other.

“I can’t allow that.”

“Allow? You don’t allow me to do anything!” I meant that he doesn’t have the right to do so, but it ends up sounding like he has total control over me, and only gives me a short leash. It’s his fault, since at this moment he does have total control. Of my body, at least.

“We haven’t even gotten the prints back yet. It’s dangerous. You can go upstairs, relax, take—”

“You don’t understand,” my voice cracks, and all I know is that, “I cannot be here. I can’t. I need to get out, I need…”

Joel’s thumb traces slow circles on my forearm, bringing it back down to my side. Then, both of his large hands grip both of my shoulders, continuing the circular motions.

“Breathe.” He commands. I do as he says, closing my eyes for a moment before he continues. “You are not trapped. I’m just asking you to wait for a minute. Just pause. We can figure it out.”

I look away from his face, suddenly very aware that we’re in the foyer, and any of the staff could walk by and witness my meltdown. The thought of it only makes my heart pound more, and my palms start to sweat.

“Hey,” Joel says in that same quietly dominant tone, “Can you do that for me? Just pause?”

Looking into his eyes for another moment, I nod slowly.

“Good,” he releases me just as cautiously, not taking a single step back. “We don’t have to stay the whole night. Let’s just go upstairs and figure out our next move.”

And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I let Joel lead the way.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Secret Meetings

@cilil Here is the result of so many late-night discussions...Firebird, another ship you've injected into me with a long, scary needle haha

I hope this is to your liking <3

Characters: Eönwë x Gothmog

Words: 2 410

Warnings: tension, trauma, attempted masturbation, a handjob, and an abduction, NSFW

“This is a terrible idea,” Mairon hissed, eyeing the Balrog in front of him with evident dismay. “Why would you heed the call of that feathered fool?”

Rolling his eyes, Gothmog shrugged lopsidedly; he had come to inform his superiors of his appointment, not to ask for their permission. The perimeter was safe, and all the regular guards were at the ready—there was consequently no reason for him to stay in Angband when he was needed elsewhere.

“Let him have fun,” Melkor intervened, hanging off his throne in a contortion that was both exceedingly enticing and truly alarming to his lieutenant and lover. “It’s so boring here anyway.”

“He might have important information,” Gothmog grunted, trying to save face.

“You’re going to fuck the bird—you know it, we know it, everyone except Manwë knows it,” Thuri commented in a bored tone, making Gothmog jump. He had hitherto not noticed his colleague, hanging from the rafters, and—with her in the mix—he could but accept his defeat and slink out of the fortress in mortified silence.

In his heart of hearts, he was torn—he had never actually done the deed of which they all spoke so flippantly, but it seemed easier to just let them labour under that misconception than to explain what was really going on.

In truth, he had clandestinely met Eönwë—herald to Manwë, the Relentless—more than once, and he had always been struck by three things: firstly, the bird was mouth-wateringly appetising, secondly, he was incredibly skilled in warfare, and thirdly, Eönwë was suffering from an insidious, evidently crippling kind of trauma.

Even now, Gothmog could not fully comprehend what folly had moved him to offer his help initially—he surely had never expected Eönwë to take him up on the offer—but he had always known that he would heed the call if it ever was to come.

Of course, he also did agree that it was potentially reckless and definitely dangerous to meet an avowed foe without the support and reinforcement of at least a few of his minions.

Nevertheless, he didn’t want to spook Eönwë, and so he sallied forth bravely, once again failing to realise that he was being followed by the sneaky, lethally silent bat; Thuringwethil was often exasperated by his antics, but she was also a true friend and would never have allowed him to put himself in peril without back-up.

“Bird?” Gothmog called as soon as he reached their secret rendezvous spot, hidden between forbiddingly jagged rocks and dense, dark trees. “Are you there? What’s the matter? Did the pile of shit your Master calls a tower collapse?”

He sniggered at his own joke but was startled out of his merriment by the sudden appearance of Eönwë, looking absolutely wretched. His clothes hung limply off his muscular frame as if he had been doused in water before taking off, and his sensual, full mouth was downturned and tense.

“What happened? Are you all right?” A different kind of alarm made Gothmog’s scales tingle as he took in the picture of abject misery before him.

“You are an amoral demon, right?” Eönwë asked, his voice so absurdly hopeful that Gothmog was not sure how to answer. Despite the words being undeniably insulting, it was clear that Eönwë was hoping for a confirmation.

“One might say that,” Gothmog finally replied cautiously. “Why? Are you in need of amoral deeds?”

When the winged hero merely nodded, the fire spirit almost burst into flame out of sheer confusion and astonishment.

“I am in a…tough spot,” Eönwë muttered, looking at the ground beneath his feet as if bowed by unbearable shame. “The predicament has gone on for quite some time now, and I really don’t know what to do anymore.”

On account of the considerable size difference between them, Gothmog decided to sit down on the cool, rocky ground to be less threatening—he certainly did not want to give Eönwë the impression that he was judging or patronising him for whatever absurd confession he was about to let loose.

As a matter of fact, he had heard the most nonsensical and alarming things from the winged Maia before—from letting his Vala do unspeakably questionable things to him to being afraid that someone might steal his soul if he enjoyed a kiss too much—so the Lord of Balrogs was struck dumb by this new, entirely unexpected peak of naïve idiocy when it was finally put into words.

“I…can’t get it under control,” Eönwë murmured sorrowfully, pointing at his groin. “I just feel—strange the whole time, and I…am afraid that someone will notice and—”

The distended breeches—looking suspiciously soiled already—unambiguously told a tale of woe and discomfort which drew a clucking, empathetic sound from the tight throat of the Balrog; he was no stranger to the painful throes of unwanted and untimely arousal, and his heart went out to the disconsolate bird.

“Did you try to…you know…take care of it?” Gothmogh then asked sheepishly, mimicking vigorous masturbation.

“Yes, but I think I am not doing it right—it’s not working! Can I show you? Maybe you’ll have some pointers for me.”

The tremulous note of reluctant trust and utter despair in his voice made Gothmog suppress a guffaw of disbelief; instead, he nodded very seriously and leaned back on his elbows, schooling his face into a mien of benevolent neutrality.

He had never seen Eönwë entirely naked thus far, so the vicious, almost angry struggle of the herald with his own fine garments was another welcome but highly disconcerting surprise.

As soon as he had cast off his raiment, Eönwë proceeded to encircle his half-hard cock in a vice-like grip and tug at it brutally.

Jumping to his feet, Gothmog closed his own clawed fingers around the white-knuckled hand. “Slow down, bird. Do you want to tear it off?” he said, trying to make his voice sound playful and light.

“Maybe,” Eönwë groaned. “It has certainly caused me enough trouble to warrant such a drastic step.”

With a regretful, reprimanding shake of his impressively bulky head, Gothmog pried Eönwë’s cramped fingers off his by now fully erect cock and lifted them to his fiery maw.

“Look here, bird, you have a lovely body there. Truly, that is a truly admirable, charming form which perfectly complements your sweet nature,” he cooed, pressing little kisses on the trembling hand of his inveterate enemy. “You are so much closer to the other Valar—I’d recommend consulting Yavanna, Vána, or even Aiwendil about this. Maybe, it’s just your…well…season.”

Huge, blank eyes gazed into his pleadingly, and Gothmog felt his heart mellow.

“Now, I understand that this is not a nice state to be in—especially after everything you’ve told me about the expectations and rules of your home—but if you’d let me, I can try to help.”

“Yes,” Eönwë almost sobbed. “Yes, I thought that you might be able to assist me. You’re—you don’t care about these things, do you?”

It was an insult, an accusation, and a touchingly vulnerable plea all at once.

“Tell me what it is like,” Gothmog asked gently and accepted without protesting when Eönwë wrenched his hand free and turned around as if he was unable to bear being perceived during the stammering, halting explanation of absolutely natural and normal experiences of carnal lust.

“I just—I wake up and it is there, this need, this yearning, and I don’t understand. It’s like being expected to know the answer to a question that has never been put to me, and it annoys me. Throughout the day, I feel as if I am about to burst into flame—no offence to you—and yet I am so paralyzingly cold all the time. Something is missing, and I know I need it, I’ll die if I don’t find it, but I don’t even know where to start looking or what I am seeking.”

Humming in sympathy, Gothmog pondered these words for a long moment.

He had the overwhelming urge to speak to his masters for—while Melkor knew and understood needs and impulses better than anybody else—Mairon would know exactly how to proceed; he was a prodigy in the making and pursuing of plans.

Unfortunately, neither one of them was available, and so Gothmog simply followed his instincts.

“Let’s start with the easiest part,” he rumbled comfortingly and pulled Eönwë onto his lap and wrapped his solid, warming arms around that shivering frame. “Better?”

“Yes,” Eönwë admitted. “You are so hot—warm, I mean, but also—”

He hiccupped frenetically. “See? I am doing it again! I am bad—all my thoughts and actions are despicable!”

“Don’t worry, so am I,” Gothmog laughed and carded his sharp claws carefully through the dense, fluffy feathers covering Eönwë’s broad wings. The full-body shiver and suppressed moan this tiny caress provoked emboldened him, and he repeated his movement with a little more pressure. “Do you feel closer to that answer now?”

“Maybe a little?” Eönwë squeaked in a breathless voice as his head tilted backwards to come to rest against Gothmog’s smouldering, gem-covered shoulder with a muted thud. “I should not enjoy this—”

“But you do? Tell yourself that I am just one of the terrible, wicked defilers Manwë always warns you about,” the Balrog whispered, denying his own deeper, better nature in the name of bringing succour to one in need. “None of this is your fault!”

“Will you steal my soul if I let you kiss me?”

“Yes, but just a tiny bit. You know, we Balrogs love evilness so much that we will suck it out from others to have more of it,” Gothmog fibbed even as he snaked his hands around Eönwë’s torso to let his gleaming claws rake across the taut skin of his stomach all the way up to his woefully neglected, oversensitive nipples.

“You may then,” Eönwë moaned, arching into that first touch with self-forgotten eagerness and twisting his head—taking full advantage of his nature’s mobility—to welcome the searing, blinding kiss that was pressed upon his trembling lips.

“Let’s try this again,” Gothmog groaned, willing his own cock not to breach containment in some ludicrous way that would freak Eönwë out.

Then, taking that shivering white hand into his own, he guided it towards the gently swaying, abundantly leaking cock and wrapped Eönwë’s fingers around it loosely once more.

“This is not your enemy,” he hummed. “I am.”

“I don’t like this,” Eönwë cried, jerking his arm to pull back. “This is wrong—I don’t want to do this.”

Then, a mere moment later, he added pitifully, “Can’t you…do it?”

No, Gothmog had never penetrated Eönwë, and—by the way this meeting was going—he would not do so anytime soon either, but he obliged happily, replacing the reluctant hand of righteous justice with his despicable paw of depravity.

“Nice and slow,” he said as he started pumping carefully. “You are good; thus, you deserve to be treated well, even by yourself.”

For some reason, it was tremendously important to him to get that point across. Once he got back to Angband, he would scour the few resources they had at their disposal and maybe even throw himself at Thuri’s mercy for information, but, for now, he would simply try to quench the torturous fires roasting his little bird alive.

Small gurgling sounds of dismay and involuntary rapture escaped Eönwë despite his best efforts to withstand and defy the menacing wave of red mist burgeoning in his befuddled mind.

One hand stroking a shivering wing and the other curled carefully around Eönwë’s cock, Gothmog peppered tiny, nipping kisses—the only concession he made to his disavowed desire for the creature writhing in his lap—onto that gleaming, overstretched throat, thrumming with mounting tension.

“It’s all right, bird,” he promised. “I am exactly the kind of demon who’d take advantage of your rare moment of weakness.”

Ground to dust under the pressure building in his core, Eönwë whined softly. “No,” he then said in a rough pant. “No, you’re helping me. You’re being—hmmm—so good to me. This—it’s the answer.”

For the first time since this whole ordeal had started, he felt light enough to take flight without wearing himself out—his whole body felt tense and powerful, warmed to the core by the heat emanating from the Balrog’s embrace, and Eönwë’s confused, contradictory senses told him undeniably that he was finally safe.

With a resonating shout, he bore down on Gothmog’s groin with all his weight as he came undone, spraying hot seed across their entangled legs and the unforgiving, uncaring ground.

Of course, he knew nothing of the agony he had put the other through when he collapsed against a rock-hard chest and tucked his golden-haired head under an angular chin like a fledgling taking refuge from a storm.

“Well done, bird,” Gothmog crooned. “Are you feeling better? Do you think you can go home and sleep? If you ever need me again, I am just a message away.”

He smiled wistfully at the barren rock and the ominous trees—he was far from satisfied, but his heart was at ease.

“The hell you will,” another voice cut in. “The bird is in heat—everyone can smell that from a mile off.”

“Thuri,” Gothmog screeched, startled and distraught. Of all the citizens of Angband, she was the one he did not want to be caught by with his pants down.

Eönwë as well bristled and dazedly groped for his weapon which he had discarded rather carelessly at the beginning of this most healing of experiences.

“Relax, chicken,” Thuri laughed. “Winged solidarity here. Gotty, listen, you cannot send him back like that. It will get a lot worse before it gets better, and he’s been one miserable sentient drumstick since he arrived here despite your ‘help’.”

“What do you propose then?” Gothmog snarled—the outburst would have been much more threatening if he had been standing rather than cradling a boneless Eönwë on his burning lap.

“In the name of the Dark Forces of Angband,” Thuri declared, her eyes flickering with delight, “I officially take Eönwë, Maia of Manwë, hostage. Come, bird, Gotty will draw you a hot bath and get you some nice seeds. And then, I hope, he’ll fuck you silly, because whatever this pity play was, it was painful to watch!”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November

[emahriel]

Can I ask if you're going to play Avowed when it comes out? Are you excited? I love Obsidian rpgs so I'm very hyped!

Omg you made me look up its release date... I didn't know it was coming out so soon??? I've been patiently waiting for this game ever since its first trailer, v excited about it! Not sure if I'll get it when it releases, but I'm definitely buying it at some point 👀 I HOPE YOU HAVE LOTS OF FUN W/ IT and that it lives up to your expectations!!

[shadowlink06]

So I just wanted to put a little update because I haven't done one in a while! I'm still around and try to keep up with what our little Tumblr group does. Sadly, I still have my medical issues. And while that is part of the reason that I've not been as active with Home related matters, the other is that I've gotten pulled into Honkai Star Rail/other games and been writing my own fanfictions again. I'm a writer at heart, always have been and it's why I've been critical of Home. However I do have to acknowledge that when you consume great products or write your own material, after you view shoddy works like what Kique does, it puts you in an awkward position. 

On one hand, from a creative standpoint, you should invest your time on what you love. Investing in Kique's story and IP (intellectual property) takes time away from working on my personal stories and enjoying my favorite games. On the other, bringing awareness to bad media has a dual effect. First it allows upcoming creators and consumers to understand why a story doesn't work and to not fall into the same pitfalls. Also, since Kique just will not allow public criticism it shows that people actually do have strong opinions to what he is doing and the comic isn't as perfect as one would think. 

While I try not to allow IRL politics/gaming discourse into what I do online it has gotten so bad lately that I'm starting to wonder if competent writers will still be around in a few years. I say that because there is a noticeable drop in quality within the entertainment industry. If you want to see examples, see what is happening in the DC/Marvel comics scene, see how Disney has degraded it's “live action” stories of the Golden Age and Star Wars, see games such as Dustborn, Concord, Dragon Age: Veilguard, Assassin's Creed Shadows, and Avowed. See how Visa/Mastercard force Japanese and other companies to enforce censorship measures or they won't do business with them. Yes, there are good games that have come out that have done exceptionally well, but the amount of BAD games/media is alarming. 

So what does this mean for me? I do want to still contribute to Home because what I'm seeing in the newest pages leaves a lot to be desired. But I'm not going to delude myself into believing that I can do my videos, which has been the medium that I've been using up until this point. Part of that again is my medical problems, my computer also needs to be replaced,  and the other is a lack of time. Compiling the pictures needed is a very time consuming task for the videos. I'm a one person army and it can become a daunting task. I do like the video format because it seems to be what a lot of people enjoy, but I just can't commit right now. 

What IS easy for me however, is writing. So what I'll be doing for the time being is dropping my video scripts. They can range from a specific topic that I'm interested in exploring, or a complete chapter breakdown which I actually enjoy doing. If time ever allows, I will make a video to accompany them with pictures and other important details but I need to do what is feasibly easier to crank out. 

So that is what you can expect for me for the time being. I'm getting my thoughts together and finishing the script for the Antagonist piece I was doing so I'll drop that as soon as I finish it. Again, these won't have pictures as I'm running them like a script but I'll try to include page numbers/links for references. 

~shadowlink06

[itzrafee]

One Piece Chapter Discussion (Chapter 1122)

This week's cover page is in honour of My Hero Academia’s last chapter. The drawing of Smoker a recreation of fanart that Horikoshi sent Oda when he was young. Back when Oda first found out that one of his contemporaries was a fan of his that had sent in fanart, I remember both Oda and One Piece fans being ecstatic. It must be such a unique feeling for a fan to rise up and be a colleague essentially. And now it’s ending. Jujutsu Kaisen also seems to be nearing it’s end so the landscape of Jump will look very different soon. At least among the Simulpub series there isn’t much else other than One Piece and Chainsaw Man that are at similar levels of popularity or cultural relevance. Personally, I don’t think that’s the worst thing either. While I don’t think anything nowadays really matches the relevance or impact of the Big 3, that concept holds water because it’s something that’s cross cultural and relevant across many mediums. I hope Shonen Jump doesn’t trip over itself to establish the successors to these as something organic as well as thoroughly vetted will probably be better for the medium as a whole. With the prevalence of Manga and Anime these days, it might be beneficial for one or two series like One Piece and Chainsaw Man to be the face and ambassador of Shonen Jump and manga as a whole. This is an idea I want to explore further sometime later but for now let’s jump into the chapter! Thoughts below the cut!

Just like how Whitebeard and Roger set people off towards the One Piece, so too does Vegapunk, though with a twist. Whereas before, the One Piece only attracted Pirates, now everybody seems to be aware and many are after it. We are no longer in the age of mock town. Of Dreamers and Cynics. We are in the age of Believers. But with that Belief comes panic. I feel like Vegapunk instilled within not only us and the pirates but also everyone else, the urgency to seek out the One Piece because he wants as many people in the way of the World Government and Imu. Cause let’s be honest, Pirates aren’t the most altruistic sort. Telling everyone is basically hedging the bets. Letting the citizens know is also this huge act of rebellion as the powers that be would rather it’s citizens be in the dark so that they can continue their rule unopposed and unquestioned. 

Also the fact that Oda redraws flashbacks is so apparent here as there isn’t a one to one to that panel of Luffy’s face and Koby used to look much dorkier, with his glasses having huge straps on the side. 

I also think Koby’s declaration and determination here shows one of One Piece’s central theses, that dreams aren’t meant to be static. They are meant to end. To be achieved so that you can grow and find a new one. And Koby fulfilled his initial goal of joining the navy a long time ago. Now he wants to build it into a just place as he believes the navy is a vehicle for that. It’s why he’s a part of Sword. And it’s why he now too wants the One Piece. I find it funny how now everyone’s goal is the same as Luffy’s. Was it inevitable or is it through Luffy’s sheer force of will that he’s brought attention to it. Before him, the world was at a stalemate between the great powers. Whereas before Luffy was moving through an actively changing world, it’s him now that moves it. I also find it funny that Luffy’s goal exists beyond the One Piece, his true dream something ridiculous and unimaginable. I like to think he wants to explore space but who knows.

As an avowed Buggy stan, it’s always a treat to see him like this. He’s my Pirate King (￣^￣)ゞ

I fucking love this clown <3<3<3

Getting back to Emeth, possibly the first proper crew member of Joyboy’s we’ve seen, we learn a lot of small details that make the bigger picture a little clearer. While we don’t know Emeth’s full story we can already get a glimpse of how tragic it is. Emeth seems really kind and innocent, kind of like a cross between Chopper and Oars Jr, and it’s obvious that he misses his old friend. It seemed like Joyboy was a lot like Luffy or Ace where he was always protecting the people he loved. It seems that Emeth wasn’t confused at the time period but more that Luffy looks exactly like Joyboy, so much so that he hoped he’d survived the centuries like Emeth himself. And here those feelings of betrayal and failure rise up again in regards to Joyboy. Joyboy had failed his promise to the Fishmen. And Zunesha committed a crime and was forced to wander the earth for centuries. And finally here we learn that Emeth failed to make Joyboy King. What kind of king could that be? Could it be that Joyboy never was the king of pirates or is it something else? Could it be that Roger himself never fully achieved it either? Luffy’s definition of the role of the Pirate King is that they’re the freest person in the World. And how can you achieve that if the world itself is oppressive. So by any metric, as long as Luffy dismantles the current oppressive structures of the world, as the promise seems to be, he will be the greatest king of the pirates, if not the first. 

It’s curious that both Emeth and Zunesha recall the drums of liberation with fondness and nostalgia. It seems to be something that’s a lot more important than we even realize now. It’s this magical beat that can be felt and heard by everyone nearby, especially those who align with values of freedom. And alongside that, the magical seeming storage capabilities really highlight the magic side of One Piece in an arc about Science. I think very often Oda tiptoes the line between explaining everything and making it seem scientific and having a sense of unexplained magic in the world, with how unquantifiable things like Haki and Devil Fruits can be. And with a combination of both weather magic and haki, Oda goes all in on magic here. I think also making the ancient technology seem simplistic in comparison to the current world adds to that as well. The return of the knots also reminds me of the dials from Skypiea in that they may be another ancient technology. 

Emeth’s explosion of Haki also shows a lot of things. One, that the beast version of the Gorosei almost coat them like armour. Two, that they themselves are kind of like impermanent summons in that they can be sent back to where they came from. If you remember, Saturn actually came to Egghead himself. And Three, either Joyboy’s haki is felt by Imu, or more likely, he has a connection to the Gorosei on a physical level. Also we get a look at Imu’s silhouetted attendant once more as well, maybe hinting that they’ll be important near the end too. This reveal of Joyboy’s powerful and sealable haki also gives us a hint towards where Luffy could develop and how he could learn to fight the Gorosei and Imu, who seem untouchable right now. Also it seems like Emeth always talked to Joyboy through the voice of all things. I wonder what Emeth really is?

Also if we look at Emeth’s hand there’s a cross/X on it. It kinda calls back to the X’s on the Strawhats arms but also the idea of the Jolly Roger and the Marine and World Government Flag as well at the idea of the Road Poneglyphs being used to triangulate the One Piece. 

Also if we look closely at Joyboy's Silhouette, the first time we've got a proper look at him, we see that his right hand and right leg look a little odd. My first thought was that he had a peg leg and an artificial hand that kinda looked like a lego arm if that makes sense? Oda once said that when we see a character with an eye patch we'll know One Piece is near it's end. So this makes me wonder if this flashback isn't set sometime after the war and the war having taken it's toll on Joyboy, left his right side damaged, from his leg to his arm to his eye, making him the first character we could see with an eyepatch. I do think Luffy could get one too eventually. Also Joyboy's prosthetics also reminded me of Nami's original design so I wonder if there will be any crossover there. The perspective is a bit skewed but it doesn't look like the giant strawhat Imu had would fit Joyboy. Unless Joyboy changes sizes a lot or Imu is a lot smaller than we think.

Finally it seems like we’ll be moving on from Egghead soon as the Strawhats and Giants are all together on the water and in the clear. It seems like the Strawhats have a tendency to fly through the air with their ships. This moment being kinda reminiscent of them leaving Skypiea and Wano. As the Strawhats seem to begin their journey, Emeth is faced down by Saturn. It looks like the last attack by the Gorosei took out the transponder snail so the transmissions is at an end. I think all that remains is to see if Emeth is alive and what Saturn will do to him.

[ramp-it-up]

Knock You Down: IV

Photo credit to @thebluemage. Edit mine.

Summary: James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. But when he meets you, he finds out that sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down. Finally! Date Number Threeeeee!

This is a follow up to Part III

Word count: 3.5 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This is the final part! (For now) I think that this is one that I will definitely write in answer to asks. I just love these two so so much! Thank all of you for rocking with me on this one. This was in part inspired by Seb Stan's latest pics and this press run 🫠, and partially inspired by an old song by some problematic people, lol. This is the result. As usual, I am Basil Exposition, so this is broken into parts.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. SMUT!!!! The end of the Slow burn, now it's burning very fast 😅. Cursing, flirting, jealousy, apologies, Bucky cooking (a warning!), kissing, dry humping, dirty talk in both English and Romanian, voice kink, oral sex (m and f receiving), protected sex (yay Bucky!) And these two are so fucking fluffy. I'm scared, y'all. I want it to be good enough for the build up.

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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

As soon as he entered the Brownsville Arts and Culture Center, James Bucky Barnes was hot. Blood was rushing to his ears and he needed a drink. He wasn’t sick; his symptoms were all due to you.

The black dress that adorned your body contained all of his hopes and dreams, but you seemed to be flirting with another man, twirling for him and then giving him a hug. To add insult to injury, you had the nerve to laugh and smile with the punk. 

You in that black dress was everything in the world that Bucky could want, except maybe you out of that black dress. As his eyes traced down your form, he noticed the 5 inch red bottoms that you had on. Yes. You, out of that dress with just the red bottoms. That was what he needed in his life.

But first, he had to take care of that other man.

—-

“Benson’s work emphasizes the subjects’ spiritual essence over their physical appearance, don’t you think?”

You turned around at the sound of the deep baritone. 

“Well hello, Mr. Rogers. How are you today? Delivering an art analysis given to you by AI? Oh. I forgot. You are an ‘art dealer.’ An art dealer who goes to Soul Cycle in Brownsville all of a sudden?”

Steve clutched his heart.

“Ah. I’m hurt, Y/N. I thought we were cool. But I guess I deserved the air quotes.  I do actually love art. I took some art classes when I was a kid and I still love to sketch.”

“Hmmmph. Okay. I’ll give you that. But how is it that you popped up in my Soul Cycle class? Don’t play me, Steven.”

Steve raised his eyebrow at you and grinned. He understood why Buckiy was so drawn to you. Not only were you gorgeous, you were a spitfire. That was hot.

“I would never try to play you, Y/N. I also actually love Soul Cycle. Used to teach a class in Park Slope.”

“I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?”

Steve’s eyes slid over you appraisingly.

“Speaking of. You look very, very nice today.”

You twirled for him, feeling as safe as you would your brother.

“Nice. Okay, listen. I’m sorry about the other day. I was just trying to protect my friend. And you.”

Steve sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve never seen Bucky like this. He’s never been this smitten with someone before and let them into his life. But I get it now.”

Steve’s blue eyes were almost as beautiful as Bucky’s.

“Bucky is my family. Since we were kids. He’s always taken care of me. And I will do anything for him.”

He raised his eyebrow at you.

“I can see now that means that I will do anything for you, because I have a feeling that you’re gonna be around a lot. So do you forgive me?”

You considered Steve. He was not too different from his best friend, and you couldn’t hold a grudge. Not after Bucky laid it all out to you last night You opened your arms.

“Let’s hug it out.”

Steve chuckled and gathered you into his warm embrace. You pulled back and giggled, grinning at him.

“So what makes you think I’m gonna be hanging around?”

“Well, judging from the look on Bucky’s face, he’s serious about you.”

Steve nodded behind you, toward the door. You looked that way and saw James Bucky Barnes headed straight for you. 

And he didn’t look happy.

—--

“Good morning, Frumoasă. You look stunning today. The exhibit is amazing, the space looks great and it seems that the right people are in the building.”

Bucky came up and placed his hand on the small of your back as he spoke to you, ignoring Steve. His blue eyes were storm clouds at the moment, and his touch was electric.

“Thank you, James. You’re so observant, I appreciate that. And you look very handsome today.”

You looked him up and down and bit your lip, meeting his gaze and the way he kept eye contact as he inclined his head in response. 

Bucky was attractive as hell in his black on black shirt, blazer and slacks. You noticed that his collar was unbuttoned; the medallion hanging on his chest made you want to take it between your teeth. You stared at it for a moment, imagining such a scenario where that could happen and then met his eyes again, prompting desire to roll through you as Bucky licked his lips. He was right there with you.

You smiled at him in a way that you didn’t smile at Steve. Who was Steve Rogers, anyway? You could hardly remember meeting him as your mind went to the feel of being in Bucky Barnes’ arms.

You sensed an air of proprietariness as Bucky took your hand and kissed it, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Possessive Bucky Barnes felt like a sin you wanted to indulge in. You cleared your throat and looked at Steve, as if surprised to find him still standing there, watching the show.

“Well, I see some board members over there, I’m going to go do my job. Talk to you later, boys.”

You walked away and gave them a wink over your shoulder, and you caught both of them looking at your ass. You shook your head and chuckled as you went on your way.

“You trying to steal my girl?”

Everyone stopped when Steve laughed, his deep boom a distraction. Bucky still wasn’t amused.

“Oh. So you’re in love.”

“What?”

“You’ve never worried about me taking your leftovers or vice versa before. Hell, we’ve even shared–”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Bucky snapped at Steve who put his hands up.

“Whoa, there. Just yanking your chain, buddy; I know she’s special. I wouldn’t dream of making a move on her. Not that she knows I’m alive. When you walked up, I thought I was going to have to take off my jacket so you two could fuck on the floor.”

Bucky was barely listening to Steve as his eyes followed you around the room. One thing Steve said was echoing in his mind: “So you’re in love.”

—-

You floated through the rest of the day on a cloud. The exhibit was a smashing success with the 

Board of Directors in attendance. Securing Howard Benson’s penultimate work from Rebirth was the feather in your cap. 

And you had Bucky to thank for it.

Bucky’s visit was also a hit; he and Steve charmed the board members with the help of Sam and Nat, who arrived later. They all made amends for what occurred that week and you were left very impressed with James Barnes.

After a couple of hours at the event, Bucky came over to let you know he was leaving.

“I will see you later, Frumoasă. I have much to prepare for tonight. Nico will pick you up at 7:30.”

“See you soon, James.”

He kissed your hand again.

“See you soon, Y/N.”

—---

“It is actually insanely attractive how you handled yourself in the kitchen.”

You were seated with Bucky on his couch in his living room, looking over the New York skyline from his Brooklyn penthouse. The dessert had been delicious and the wine in your hand was spectacular. 

“I was sure you’d order something in and just play it off. But I watched you create a meal in front of me, and I should have known that if you said you were going to cook, that you would do just that.”

Bucky’s heart beat double time at what you were saying. He wanted so much for tonight, but most of all, he wanted it to flow naturally. He saw that you were relaxed and open to him, which pleased him immensely.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Frumoasă. I enjoy cooking for my friends and family. Cooking for a beautiful woman is a treat.”

Bucky’s eyes slid over your form. You had changed to jeans and a color block sweater that just put your cleavage out there for the world, which was Bucky Barnes, to see. You also wore the same red bottoms from that day, and Bucky was beginning to think he had a foot fetish as you took them off at his entryway.

You took a sip of wine.

“How often do you do that? Cook for a woman?”

You barely hid your curiosity.

Bucky smiled and drained his glass, reaching over to refill it.

“Not as often as you’d think. Never had any other woman over here. Food is not usually the top priority with them.”

You pouted, which was so cute. Your spark of jealousy inspired Bucky.

“But I don’t want to talk about anyone else. Tonight is about me and you.”

Any uncertainty that arose was quelled by his assertion. You grew warm, so you finished your wine and rose to go to the window. 

“This is the most gorgeous view I’ve ever seen.”

“Absolutely agree.”

You looked behind you and Bucky was still sitting on the couch, hands spread out on the back of it, checking you out. You gave him one of your adorable smiles and he came to stand behind you, and took you in his arms. 

“I want you to know that you deserve everything, Y/N. To be cheered on and protected every day. And thoroughly ruined every night.”

You turned around and his hands went to your hips. It was the perfect moment.

“James?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

Bucky’s eyes dilated, and he moved his hand to your cheek. He licked his lips as he looked deep into your eyes.

“Ah, Frumoasă. I thought you’d never ask.”

His first movement was a subtle brush of your lips. He pulled back to assess the situation, and you didn’t know why, but that made your nipples tighten into stiff peaks. You gasped as Bucky watched you hungrily. 

The air seemed to change around you, and you shivered. He lowered his head so his lips could meet yours again, and this time his mouth was gentle but demanding. You gasped at the spike of electricity that flared between you and Bucky took the opportunity to dip his tongue into your mouth, scorching your lips and soul. With a low groan, he shifted your angle, bending you backward a little to kiss you deeper and ripping a moan from you as you melted against him. 

Good lord, could the man kiss. 

At that point, he was holding you up, one hand on your hip and one hand on the back of your head as you molded yourself against him. Bucky’s fingers dug into you, sure to leave bruises the next day. You relished the thought as you moaned into his mouth again, giving him the opportunity to continue destroying your soul. 

Bucky dragged his lips from yours reluctantly and stared at you, eyes almost black with desire. He brought his thumb up and wiped the moisture from your bottom lip. Motivated, you captured his digit, drawing it into the hot wetness of your mouth. He stared at you, mouth open, as you looked him straight in the eye and started sucking.

Bucky moaned as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth, and walked you back to the couch. He extracted his finger, watching the show your lips put on as he pulled it out, leaving them in a delectable pout. 

“More,” Bucky demanded as he crouched down and took your head in both hands as he kissed you again. 

His hands wound up in your hair, tugging gently, then on your back, then your ass as you arched your back to fill his palms. Bucky picked you up, then deposited you on his lap as he sat down on the couch, and you felt how aroused he was. His thick length was where you needed him most.

“Fuck! That feels good.”

Bucky was watching you grind on him like it was the best show on earth. Then he looked up at you.

“Yes, yes it does.”

He leaned forward and captured your bottom lip between his teeth, a preview of how rough he wanted to be with you. Then, he went in for another kiss. That continued for a good five minutes until he pulled away to stare at your swollen lips, and down to your cleavage, which was practically in his face.

When his eyes met yours, you were entranced.

“You good? You want this to happen?”

You nodded and took his hands in yours, guiding them up to your breasts, squeezing yourself with his hands. You rolled your hips, causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

“Like you said, James. More.”

You continued to grind on him, causing him to just gape at your body moving on his.

“I’ve dreamed of this so many times…”

“Yes? Tell me about your dreams, Baby.”

His hands moved to find your nipples through the lace of your bra and the wool of your sweater. He found them in no time, and pinched them lightly, then more roughly when you moaned.

“Mmmmnnnn. So fucking hot.”

Bucky kissed you again and then pulled away as he stared you down and tortured you. 

“I dream about marking you up,” he kissed your neck under your chin, “to your clavicle,” a kiss there, “and all over this beautiful flesh until I get to your nipples.” 

He looked at you for any signs of discomfort as he slipped his hands under your sweater to find the thin lace there. He found your hard peaks again and started rolling them both in his fingers.

“Then I want to kiss and suck them until you come in my arms.”

“Holy god, Jamie….”

Bucky’s eyes rolled at the second pet name you called him and continued.

“Wake up so fucking hard every morning since I met you. Then, I daydream about how wet and tight you will be after I made you cum, and how good it would feel to… to give you my cock. Do y’like that idea, Frumoasă?”

“Y-yesssss!”

“O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă.”

You almost came right then.

“D-don’t know what you said, but yes to whatever you just suggested.”

Bucky pulled you to him, and then chuckled into your ear.

“It means that I want to make you cum over and over again on my cock.”

You were already making a mess in your jeans, but you knew he could feel you soaking them at the moment.

“Please. Give it to me?”

Bucky groaned and kissed you again, this time encircling your waist in his grip and pressing you down on his bulge. 

“You know I can’t deny you anything. Are you certain?”

“Yes, James. Please…”

He lifted you easily, kissing you as he walked you down the hall to his bedroom, depositing you on his bed. 

“Y’look so fucking good.”

He crawled toward you on the bed and settled between your thighs as you hitched your leg over his. You pressed your core against his bulge and it had you muttering.

“Too many clothes.”

Bucky leaned up and you were fumbling with his button and he with yours. You looked up and laughed. 

“Maybe faster the other way.”

“Agreed.”

You two made quick work of your own garments, flinging them around the room between frenzied kisses. The way your eyes widened when Bucky got naked made his chest swell. He wanted you to always look at him like that.

“Wow…,” you said as your eyes roamed his physique.

His cock seemed massive as it slapped him on the abs.

“Wow, indeed,” replied Bucky as he took you in hungrily.

Your white lace underwear looked amazing against your skin and against your cunt it served to make him hungry.

He moved toward you again, kissing up your leg until he got to the edge of your panties and nudged his nose there, making you squirm.

“Smell so good, look so good…”

Bucky kissed at the edge of your underwear,

“I just know you’re gonna taste good too..”

He moved to the center of you, placing a kiss over your lace-covered sodden slit. Then, he looked up at you and smirked before he leaned down and licked you over your panties. 

“Fuck.”

He pulled your panties to the side and gazed at you there. 

Those blue eyes threatened to steal your soul as he gazed at you and confessed, “This is the most gorgeous pussy I’ve ever seen,” and proceeded to lick a rude stripe up the center of you after he tore your panties away.

“Oh my god, James.”

You rolled your hips again and reached down to feel Bucky’s soft hair. He pulled your hips closer and his lips suckled you with more pressure, adding one finger, then two to stretch you out. 

“Gotta get you ready for me, my love.” 

Your eyes rolled back into your head as you moaned through Bucky thrusting his tongue inside you, then pulling back to focus on your clit.

“I c-can’t.. I–”

“Give me my cum, Frumoasă!”

You locked eyes with him as he buried his face in your cunt and shook against him as you came embarrassingly fast, pulling on his messed up curls.

“So fucking delicious. Taste.”

He took your head in both hands and kissed you deeply, and you responded by sucking your essence off of his tongue. You reached down and started stroking his cock, overjoyed and a little bit scared that your fingers didn’t meet around him as he unclasped your bra.

Bucky whimpered as your thumb came up and stroked his sensitive head, spreading his precum over the wide, mushroom cap.

“You’re so fucking huge, Bucky…”

Bucky pulled you toward him as he reached into his bedside drawer for a condom and a bottle.

“And you’re so wet, Furmoasa. We will make this work. Believe me…”

You continued to stroke and watched him as he brought the wrapper to his teeth and him tearing it open was about the hottest act of sexual protection you’d ever seen. Somehow, your mouth ended up sucking his tip as you watched his eyes roll back into his skull.

“That beautiful mouth…”

Bucky put his hand on your head as you tasted him experimentally, wondering if you’d ever be able to take it all. He seemed to read your mind as he spoke next.

“Don’t worry, I plan on us having a lot of practice with this later, but if you don’t let me put this condom on, I’m gonna cum all over your face, Frumoasă…”

You looked up at him and grinned as his cock jumped in your mouth, but you finally pulled off of him with a pop.

“I need to feel you around me when I cum love. S’all I’ve been dreaming of all week.”

Now his chest was heaving as he rolled the condom on, and he pushed you back onto the bed as his hand went to your core once again. You were even wetter than before and Bucky smiled at you, lining up and kissing you on the forehead as he began to breach your folds.

When he slid inside, your fingernails curled into his shoulders and your eyes grew wide. Bucky stopped, concentrating while his cock pumped, barely inside you.

“There is nothing. In the world. Like being inside your soft, wet, cunt.”

“Fuckkkkk!” 

You became even wetter and he slid fully inside you. There, Bucky waited for you to get adjusted around him.

“So fucking tight. And hot. Just like I knew you would be.”

“More, Jamie!”

Smiling, Bucky started moving and you gripped him as he stroked in and out.

“Please don’t stop. Harder!”

Bucky grabbed the headboard and gave you what you wanted. His other hand pulled your hair and his strokes became more intense.

“Wanted to last longer, but I can’t, Baby. So beautiful. Pussy made for me. Cuming soon, but later… O să te fac să vii pe penisul meu iar și iar, Frumoasă. I never make a promise I can’t keep.”

You orgasm whited out your vision and your throat burned as you screamed. Bucky roared, filling the condom with copious amounts of cum. Your cunt was milking him and he hoped it would hold. He stayed sunk into you as long as he could before he had to get up and rid himself of the prophylactic.

He was only in the en suite for a few minutes as you floated in and out of sleep, lust drunk and exhausted.

Bucky climbed back into bed and got both of you situated under the covers, whispering in your ear.

“Stay tonight.”

“Of course. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

Both of you chuckled, because you knew it was true. Bucky kissed your ear and waited for your breath to even out. When he thought you were asleep, he whispered again.

“I’m going to be a better man for you, Frumoasă.”

“You are exactly who you need to be, James Barnes. Just keep moving forward. Tomorrow is another day to do that.”

After a few more minutes, you spoke again.

“Tomorrow will only be a week that we’ve known each other. Imagine that.” 

Bucky buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent.

“Guess I better wait until tomorrow to ask you to marry me.”

You laughed a sleepy laugh.

“You got jokes.”

“You know me, Frumoasă. A professional comedian.”

But somewhere in the dark of Bucky Barnes’ closet, a diamond found some light and sparkled.

——

The next morning is here ;)

Please, please! Let me know!

[dragonflight203]

Mass Effect 2 replay, Lair of the Shadow Broker:

-Normally I’d play this later, but I want to do Miranda’s loyalty mission and I don’t want her to have slam. This unlocks the ability to reassign squad points.

I’m on insanity, every enemy has protection. Warp and overload only.

-Nassana dying has increased the stock price of her company. Everyone figures it will be more stable now.

Damn. You know the CEO is shitty when their dying is good for the company.

-Liara has no chill. If she’s in, she’s all in.

Shepard’s dead? Unacceptable. Time to find someone that can perform necromancy.

Feron’s dead/captured? Unacceptable. Time for revenge/rescue.

Everything else? Sidelined.

-Earlier on, Liara refused to speak plainly in her office because she assumed someone would listen in.

As soon as she sees a photo of Feron, she’s spilling all her past and future plans.

Not sure if her earlier evasiveness was because she didn’t want to speak to Shepard, or if learning Feron’s alive threw her off her game.

To be fair, the Shadown Broker immediately puts a hit out on her after this, so her paranoia was correct.

-Liara’s apartment is huge. I assume Nos Astra has prices similar to New York, so that must cost a pretty penny.

Again, how the hell is she this successful of an information broker after less than two years?

-Shepard should have asked Tela Vasir why she was there.

Why would a spectre be investigating Liara’s death? How did she get on the scene so quickly?

A bit of curiosity or suspicion on Shepard’s part would have saved a lot of trouble.

-To repeat myself, ME2 was a boon for the asari. Tela Vasir genuinely comes across as powerful and dangerous. She doesn’t even have the same feel of trying too hard that Aria does.

-Why does Liara have paper scattered around her apartment?

This is the far future. If it needs to be secure, use a datapad that had its wifi chip removed.

-There is a ton of autodialogue through this mission.

Similar to how Bring Down the Sky had autodialogue more typical of ME2 than ME1, Lair of the Shadown Broker has autodialogue more typical of ME3 than ME2.

-In the Dracon Trade Center, the Security Office is empty. Because of the explosion? Or were they agents of the Shadow Broker and bailed beforehand?

-In the far future, there are still cubicle farms. That’s just sad. Let the office workers telework.

-Why is there a Salarian Embassy in a trade center?

I could almost excuse a Volus Embassy since they’re the setting’s merchant race, but a Salarian Embassy? Did they get lost?

-Tela Vasir shoots the Shadow Broker agent so she can lie to Shepard. Cold.

-She also sounds very fake when Shepard meets her, particularly when asking if Shepard had found Liara’s body.

-Her eyeroll when Liara recounts her actions is gold. Love her.

-In universe, it’s ridiculous that you can’t take both of your companions when you and Liara chase after Tela Vasir. That car can seat at least four.

Also, what does the other companion do? Just chill at the trade center and go shopping on the floors that weren’t blown up? C’mon, I’m sure Kasumi could “borrow” one of the other cars and follow me.

I suspect that what “really” occurs is Shepard went to Liara’s apartment alone, and the game only lets you take companions to make the combat easier.

-In the Azure hotel, the asari in the room with the human where the movie plays is labeled “dancer”.

Uh-huh. Sure, Bioware. If it makes the censors happy.

-As Tela Vasir points out, Shepard is quite the hypocrite. Shepard working with Cerberus for the “greater good” isn’t an improvement over Tela Vasir working for the Shadow Broker.

When you meet them in ME2, the Council explicitly refers to Cerberus as “an avowed enemy of the Council”. As Tevos notes, Shepard is borderline committing treason by associating with them at all.

And while Shepard may not be doing Cerberus’s dirty work for them, they are enabling Cerberus. Everything they learn on their missions is passed back to them. The notes at the end of each mission detail how TIM plans to use the knowledge he acquired from it. And all that salvage you get paid for finding on missions? To Cerberus for research.

On top of that Shepard is certainly helping Cerberus’s PR – the hero of the Citadel is working for Cerberus! They can’t be that bad. Be like your hero and join Cerberus.

How many of the Cerberus agents that Shepard kills in ME3 joined Cerberus because they heard Shepard was with them?

-Shepard: Spectres don’t blow up buildings full of innocent people.

Shepard in Arrival: Destroys a solar system to stop a greater evil.

You can play Arrival before Lair of the Shadow Broker. I take it a colony is less important than a building?

-Also, Shepard is going after the Shadow Broker for personal reasons. They’re not doing this to protect the galaxy or on behalf of the Council. They’re doing this as a favor for a friend, and causing quite a bit of collateral damage.

The Shadow Broker is a major political player. Did it occur to Shepard the Council might want to know before they potentially make a major change to the political scene?

-To be clear: I don’t agree with Tela Vasir’s actions. I just don’t think Shepard makes good arguments when debating her.

-Tela Vasir references that Cerberus killed Shepard’s unit on Akuze. One of the few rare references to Shepard’s background in ME2.

-After taking out Lair of the Shadow Broker, Shepard attempts to have a heart to heart with Liara about her changes from ME1 to ME2.

It’s good to see this explicitly acknowledged and discussed, but it really should have been in the base game.

Still, it boils down to what can be pieced together from the base game – Liara has survivor’s guilt and is not handling it well.

-I know Lair of the Shadow Broker is a fan favorite, but I don’t enjoy it. It feels too much like a long corridor of shooting.

The Shadow Broker’s ship is the worst of it. Just endless fights in repeated environments, than a boss battle.

-This playthrough is particularly frustrating. No ammo is dropping. I’m using a shotgun, I need frequent ammo refills!

-It’s very clear that in “reality”, it’s just Liara and Shepard on the ship. The game literally knocks out your other companion so they can take out the Shadow Broker together.

-At least the fight with the Shadow Broker isn’t very hard. The battles leading up to it were more challenging.

The cutscene of Liara bringing down the ceiling is very impressive.

-While I’m skeptical of Liara becoming an expert information broker in two years, the scene of her becoming the Shadow Broker is well done.

-It’s clear Liara is still crushing on Shepard, even if Shepard doesn’t reciprocate.

Feron and the other companion leaving the room so they can be alone just hammers it home.

-It’s interesting how making Liara the Shadow Broker sets her up to be a supporting NPC in ME3, maybe a main quest giver.

However, ME3 turns around and makes a squad member again anyway.

It’s like ME3 was determined to use absolutely nothing that ME2 gave it, even in the DLC.

Shadow Broker Base

-According to Miranda’s dossier, the Shadow Broker planned to assassinate TIM and destroy Cerberus.

Wish he had done so. Would have spared everyone a lot of problems.

-Why can’t Miranda have a child? Unintentional side effect of her genetic engineering or intentional?

I’m leaning towards intentional. One more way for her father to control her, and prevent undesirable complications.

-Jack’s life continues to be one giant tragedy. Cerberus is such a wholesome organization that it’s stolen numerous babies for experiments.

-Jack’s quite the poet. Still sad, though – she compares herself to the dangers of nuclear energy.

This is not a place of honor.

No esteemed dead are buried here.

-Garrus listening to music during firefights makes me shake my head. That cannot possibly be a good thing. Surely it’s better to hear what’s going on?

-Of course the turian imperial anthem is “Die for the Cause”.

Ah, turians. My favorite empire.

-Samara’s dossier is so damn sad in a different way.

Her feelings of personal obligation to hunt down Morinth are understandable, but should that be done at the price of essentially abandoning her two other children?

I honestly don’t know. I’m leaning towards not – did she have to become a justicar to hunt down Morinth? - but I can understand why she felt the need to do so.

I hope I’m never in such a situation.

-“Ardat-Yakshi” remind me of the dark triad often assoicated with serial killers. It’s a trait that strongly suggests the person will be a serial killer, but it doesn’t necessarily mean they will be.

The asari handle it by banishing them to monasteries, and strongly discouraging more from being born. (by stigmatizing pureblood asari). ME3 adds that some are permitted to rejoin society if they’re deemed trustworthy.

If humanity ever finds the gene – or, more likely I suspect – combination of genes that result in sociopaths, will we make the same choice? Isolate them for the “good” of society, only let a rare few participate in mainstream society, use eugenics to prevent more from being born?

It only takes a passing knowledge of serial killers to understand why would be done. But would it be right?

Not all sociopaths become serial killers. Some live normal lives. The potential for harm is high, yes, but should the innocent be imprisoned just because they may be dangerous?

I’m obviously leaning towards no, and this parallel isn’t a great one because ardat-yakshi do kill every partner they have by definition. I do think it raises interesting questions that may need to be answered within our lifetimes, however.

-Thane is medically advised to stay active to stimulate lung movement.

Good to know Thane is medically cleared for a suicide mission.

-Bailey’s dossier notes there’s a lot of potential blackmail on him. How is being a corrupt cop working out for you, buddy?

Also, Bailey is promoted to commander in ME3. It’s just wonderful that a man that can easily be blackmailed is rising through the ranks.

-I love that Aria takes planning the Afterlife events so seriously. She’s a crime boss AND a club owner. The club is not just a cover.

-Hmm. The Alliance Navy believes that Shepard wasn’t dead for the last two years, and wants to know what he was up.

Reasonable. I do have questions about why they felt this would take several months.

Hackett, however, is just happy to have his errand boy back and tells the Navy to fuck off.

-The yahg remind me of turians. Both pack species, and the strongest commands the pack.

The key difference seems to be that turians expand “pack” to include other species. The yahg assume other species to be subservient.

I’m curious about the first contact team to the yahg – what species made it up? What went down? If another team made contact and could take out a yahg alpha, would the yahg accept them as their leader?

-The conversation with Feron has a ton of autodialogue.

I’m getting the strong vibe that Bioware has a particular story they want to tell, and don’t want players going off the rail.

-That said, Feron should have joined Liara on the Normandy. I would have like having him around.

They could have claimed he was still recovering from his injuries, or was permanently damaged and could no longer be a field agent.

-All the foreshadowing for ME3 was in the DLC.

Liara says the Shadow Broker was researching Protheans – he thought they may have other plans besides the warning they sent out and the conduit.

This is a clear reference to the Crucible.

[leam1983]

Random Batman Brain Fart

It's established in the canon that Oswald Cobblepot is incurably jealous of Bruce Wayne, but that his jealousy only really involves his wealth and connections. Depending on the writer, you'll get Oswalds who compensate for physical disabilities with trick umbrellas, Oswalds who only look out of shape but who can fence with an umbrella kick and transition into Capoeira flip-kicks while holding their top hat in place, and overtly monstrous Cobblepots who can't compensate for shit but who have a following of their own.

I've always thought that Oswald's airways would've also contributed to his ostracized status. In every version I've ever seen or read, he has the exact type of schnoz that makes me think he's a mouth breather, and a potential Sleep Apnea sufferer.

Imagine courting one of his more genteel versions. Everything is going swimmingly, he's maybe just a little too much into this Fred Astaire crap for 2023, but you can't fault his chivalry for being a breath of fresh air. A few pleasant dates in, you agree to spend the night.

Again - picture perfect. He's attentive to your every need, slow and considerate, and even offers you to use one of his guest rooms, the first few times, which you do.

Eventually, however, there's been enough time for the both of you to be interested in amping things up. The sex is surprisingly vigorous, coming from a guy his size, but his breathing gets a little wheezy and a little noisy near the end. A little bottle of eucalyptus oil spray is waiting in his bedside table, which soon fixes the issue. You learn he used to have crippling asthma attacks as a kid, but that he's now mostly under control after establishing a decent cardio regimen - hence the stamina.

You settle in for the night. Again - perfection. There's even a little too much of it, honestly, with him showering you with pet names - all avian - after hitting third base. He's even a little clingy, you find...

Then come the snores. Poor guy snores like a shoebill purring or an injured loon trying to find its mate. It's loud, it's unsubtle, it doesn't leave you any space to actually nod off...

Add the morning lapdog routine and renewed forced gallantry and you're soon running out of polite ways to head out. At first you try and settle on dates in other places or at your own place, but Cobblepot is dead-set on taking you back to the Lounge's private floor. You humor him a few times, duck out on a few others - ha! - but you can't get past the front he's erected. All you get to see is Oswald Cobblepot the Early Twenties' Man of Wealth and Taste, Oswald the Self-Avowed Snob - but never the actual man. Once you get bored of being treated like a flapper-to-be or a secret same-sex dalliance, you figure you'll try and provoke something out of him.

You mention his snores, how you can barely sleep in the same bed with him. The drool on the pillow, the occasional morning nosebleeds, his refusal to see another ORL despite you mentioning it...

You'd think he'd explode. Turns out he's named the Iceberg Lounge well enough. He turns frosty and distant. Within weeks, the number you were given is disconnected. Eventually, you cross paths with him again and try and see if he's at least worked on this, if he still cares.

He acts like he doesn't recognize you at all.

Of course, on the day you made him lose patience, you didn't pay the price for your own words. Some poor chump who'd failed one of his lieutenants did; with their own teeth, a fractured right foot and a close break to their left femur, and three precise gunshots....

The GCPD'll find his corpse two weeks later.