#whisky-frisky

[elioslover]

Masks On (Harry Styles x reader x smut).

Premise: Harry finally visits a sex club and what are the chances, you just so happen to be doing the same thing.

Word Count: 8k+ / Other Writing

Warnings: Smut from start to finish. P in V, Unprotected sex, literally all the sex things, just pure FILTH. Afab 2nd person (minimal OC description).

Also, shout-out to @justmeinatree for the encouragement and @caramello-styles for being such a sweetheart!

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Harry feels the energy shift as soon as he steps out from the mass of thick, velvet curtain that worked to shield the utter filth that lay just beyond. The club- as referred to, looks more like a converted condo, with walls dyed with deep hues, ultraviolet lights instead of harsh bulbs, and purple and red bounce across the room- the floors, the ceilings.

Though the room is busy, everyone is scattered, and it feels spacious enough. Harry observes the array of beds and sofa’s instead of tables and chairs; people are going at it, moans mixing in with the deep bass emitted from nearby speakers.

Patrons- dressed in only bowties and Grecian inspired masks, carrying trays of beverages and sex toys with a formality that seemed foolish for a play like this. The pretty penny Harry had paid to be here was clearly being put to good use.

The entire thing screamed ‘filthy rich fun’, which, even for Harry, seemed almost awestriking; it was the type of elite secrecy one would never dream of, and if he had any doubt about joining this evening, it was erased the minute a waiter appeared before him, offering up a glass of whisky he wasn’t even sure he had ordered.

To be fair, after such an effort to simply enter this place, plenty of hoops to jump through and many questions to be answered and confirmed, it only made sense that the owners would ensure it was more than worth it.

Harry put the crystal to his lips, downing its contents in an anxious bid for comfortability. Instead, it burned at his chest and sent a long shiver down his spine; he shuddered, his skin sprinkled with goosebumps.

Ridding himself of his blazer, white tank top, leather loafers, and other personal belongings when he arrived, assured they would stay safe in his absence, Harry now stands in only a pair of black briefs. They cling to his thighs, pinching at the meaty expanse of his soft skin, diffing into and trapping a few of the hairs growing at the base of his pelvis.

But Harry could be fully nude for all he cares- the platinum, Phantom of the Opera mask that covers the top half of his face and stops at the bridge of his nose has him feeling invincible and fucking frisky. He feels like the god he impersonates, ready to delve into the mass of bodies stroking and loving on one another, his cock twitching against the restricting cotton as confirmation.

The beds are king-sized, holding space for at least four, and a few are evidently occupied by many more than that. Sheer material is draped across the ceilings like a canopy, creating a cosy and inviting atmosphere. Harry heads over to an empty velvet green chaise lounge, plopping down lazily, his legs spread out, thighs splayed, his one arm resting on the armchair, his other palm laying out across his lower stomach.

He turns his attention to the nearest bed, only a meter away, and begins watching as a throuple of two males and a female are switching positions. The girl lays on her stomach, flat against the bed, ass up, as the first man crawls up, spreads her ass cheeks apart and rubs his cock against her once before thrusting himself up into her. They reach a smooth rhythm, skin slapping as the second man lines up behind them, wrapping his arm around the torse of the first man; with a loud moan, the first man bucks forward, only moaning louder as the second man falls into position and starts fucking into him.

Harry hasn’t noticed the way his hand has lowered, palming himself through his briefs, his body shifting to get more comfortable. On the same bed, another couple goes at it, a woman vigorously bouncing atop the cock of a man donned in a lion mask.

In the midst of it all, bodies thrusting and shifting- you are resting sweetly, sitting atop your folded legs, disguised by a black, sequined silver mask, stopping above the nose, your eyes so sharp that Harry spots them immediately, hooked on the way the fluorescent lights flicker the reflection of filth he has succumbed to. His first thought is about who you are, his second is why you’re currently here, and the third is the only one that really matters; how the hell can he get his hands on you?

Dressed in only your underwear, you have had your gaze set on Harry from the moment the curtains had pulled back and revealed him in all of his glory. He was a mass of chocolate curls and tattoos decorating a chiselled and muscular figure that had you wishing you could get your hands on.

For a while, he had seemed nervous, and that only had your curiosity blowing through the roof, your body aching to wrap around any part of him up for grabs. As he made his way over, your heart was in your throat, attention completely thrown from the couple you had intended to participate with just moments prior. They were going at it regardless, bumping up against you, but your focus would be unwavering, your mouth watering at the view of his thighs, thick and spread out just for you.

He seems to be looking your way- maybe just observing the other couples, but something tells you by the way his body shifts, his eyes hidden but holding your own gaze, makes you feel like he might want you just as you want him.

A woman, her hair long and auburn, hidden behind a green dragon mask, drops onto the bed beside you, her knees softly hitting the mattress as she whispers suggestively into the shell of your ear. Cheeks flushed, your gaze remains on Harry, with the way he managed to stir such wanting in you, all by just sitting across the room.

His intrigue seems to pique, waiting to see what your plan was- were you going to entertain the woman next to you? Her cool fingers tickling their way up your spine, your body an eruption of goosebumps.

And you wish he would just come over or that you had the confidence to greet him yourself, but he seems comfortable and unwavering, leaving you to turn your attention back to something actually tangible; the woman currently pressing her lips to the nape of your neck.

Shifting your body to greet her own, you sit up on your knees and boldly wrap your hands like a chain around the back of her neck. She leans into your touch, anticipating your next move, a soft gasp escaping her lips as yours pressed on firmly, tongue licking into her own.

Your eyes have fluttered shut, your body soothed into the sultry kisses sucking at your bottom lip, but your thoughts wander over to the man on the couch, hoping to some god that he might be watching, that he might be regretting the choice to stay put.

Lips parting for deep inhalation, the woman’s hands are soft and static as they trail the soft mounds of your skin, and when your eyes finally open in the hopeful search of the man, you are more than surprised to find him much closer now, standing at the end of the bed.

His gaze is certainly set on your own, and you want to feel bashful at the circumstances, but the erotic stimulation happening all around you and the way Harry is looking at you hungrily, his muscles flexing involuntarily, only dampens your panties further, has your thighs clenching tighter.

He must notice because his pupils are blown, and he is crawling over now, slowly stalking out his prey, happily trapped in the arms of an auburn woman. He is more than welcome, though, your back pressing into the woman's chest, her lips still tickling at your throat, and when he comes to a halt at the base of your knees, you feel zero embarrassment as they part as a welcoming gift, offering him anything he desires.

“Well, hello pretty girl.” He greets, his cock throbbing as your chest raises and you take a sharp inhale, blinking at him in a way that has him feeling like a sinner- and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Hi handsome.” You respond, doing your best to keep your voice from cracking, almost completely distracted by the look of arousal in his eyes that seems to be increasing at just the sound of your voice, like a siren song only luring him further into the ocean in which you resided.

Harry can hardly stop himself from sighing out, from snatching you up and fucking you into submission, instead taking his time in luring you closer, his cock pleased at the ease with which you opened up for him, mind a mess of where to start.

He taps your thigh as an instruction, satisfaction shivering at his spine as you comply, spreading your legs, bum pressed flat to the mattress. Harry can't stop himself from wrapping his palms around your ankles, tugging you forward with enough force to have you exhaling a squeak, the woman’s grip tightening around your chest.

He looks at you like you are supper, his hands trailing their way up your calves, stroking slowly; as he reaches your thighs, he gives them a selfish squeeze, crawling his way over until he is almost face-to-face with the white lace of your panties.

His breath is cool as it fans over the heat of your lower abdomen, legs threatening to quake, and his grip only tightens, his stern stare never wavering, watching your every breath, the way your chest rises and falls in anticipation.

With the gentlest of kisses to your panty-clad crotch, you cannot withhold the deep sigh that slips past your lips, a keen whine whistling its way over to him, his stomach clenching, blood rushing to his cock. Harry’s tongue slips past his plump lips, licking a firm strip up your damp lace, his mouth watering in synch.

His left hand finds a firm home on your hip, helping to keep you pinned between the bed and his touch; his right-hand trails tauntingly along your sternum, fingers dancing into the dip of your belly button, playing your hipbones and pelvis like a harp before a sudden gush of coolness catches you off guard and his thumb hooking into the slit of your panties, tugging them aside in one firm go.

Your eyes widen with lust, unable to look anywhere but at the holy sight below you; the woman cradling your torso presses her lips wherever space omits, travelling in search of the mounds of your breasts, and your entirety is begging to turn to mush in the arms of pleasure as Harry leans forward and gives your pussy the gentlest of kisses, your eyes fluttering shut as he presses another, then another, his tongue joining in to lap at you, dipping into you.

He holds you in place with ease- where the hell would you rather be right now? And as the auburn woman latches her teeth around your pebbled nipple, your leg’s part even further- if possible- prompting Harry to release you from his prior grip, to hold you at the waist, his body pressed into the mattress, his cock flush and swollen from even the slightest of friction.

He can't stop from thrusting forward as a soft mewl slips past the gaps in your teeth, tongue pressing into you, gliding up your slit, flicking at your clit before his free hand cannot help but join the mix, massaging at your inner thigh, teasing at you as you buck your hips up in anticipation. 

It's difficult to keep from sighing out in pleasure, but you try your best, harshly capturing your bottom lip between your teeth, tugging harder as Harry continues licking into you, flattening his tongue, flicking it against your clit, dipping into your entrance. 

He has died and gone to heaven; his chin is coated in you, glistening under the neon lights, and with one hand still stroking and squeezing at your inner thigh, Harry uses the other to hook into the bands of your panties, hastily guiding them down the hills and valleys of your body and you assist, ass raising from the mattress, balancing on one leg as he slides the material along and off of your skin. 

Discarded and dismissed, you are bare and spread for him, a sight Harry will be committing to memory, and he looks at you hungrily- you’re ready to be ravished.

Your pussy is practically dripping, and Harry’s hand must be possessed because it reaches out, and his finger glides through your slit, quickly dampening. The sigh you release is almost sinister, and Harry has his face buried between your thighs in an instant. 

With his tongue licking at you, the almost forgotten auburn woman is still trailing kisses along your neck, her fingers tweaking and squeezing at the skin of your breasts. You are officially a mess of pleasure, ready to beg for more- anything- all of him. 

It’s like he reads your mind as his fingers start to tease at your pussy, rubbing back and forth, his tongue focusing on your clit, swirling circles, his middle finger slipping past your entrance with such ease that Harry mutters, “fuck me” and lets it slide all the way in, curling upward. With such positive reception from yours truly, he keeps at it, all of his focus dedicated to pleasing you. 

With the way his one finger becomes two, pumping into you with such vigour, you are writhing beneath him, thighs threatening to clamp around his head like earmuffs, blocked by his one hand keeping you put. 

Your head starts to lull back into the auburn woman’s lap, but Harry is quick to correct this, pulling out his fingers completely, sticky and wet, his mouth changing from loving on you to scolding, 

“Uh, uh.” He taunts, his brows furrowed, “Eyes on me, princess.” 

You do everything in your power to comply, staring at him with all your might as he gets back to work, a satisfied smile still lingering on his lips as his tongue laps at your pussy, his fingers fucking back into you, curling, picking up the pace. 

His fingers are in complete rhythm with his tongue- they are on a mission. And by the sounds currently escaping your lips, chest rising and falling needily, Harry is certainly succeeding.

But each moment that passes is becoming agonizing for him, desperate to substitute his fingers for his cock, currently aching to bury itself inside you. 

Harry tries to pacify his cock by grinding up against the mattress, but this only has him moaning against your pussy, which in turn has you doing the same, your hands fisting the sheets. 

He can no longer hold on, flattening his tongue to give you one last good licking before he removes his fingers and then himself, leaving you in absolute awe and confusion- a spark of panic flashing across your features. 

Harry doesn’t want to startle you, but you can't stop the yelp that escapes you as his hands wrap around your ankles, and with one tug, you are before him, his face aligned with your torso. 

He stands, holding out his hand to assist you in doing the same. You do, and once your feet are safely planted on the floor, Harry’s hands are kneading at your waist and hips. He permits you a moment to stabilise before his hands find the back of your thighs, and he hoists you up into your arms, legs wrapping around his waist. 

Pussy bare and pressed against his torso, the five-step walk over to the sofa feels endless, so when he finally sits, safely cradling your back, you lower with him, coming to a rest atop his cool thighs, knowing he will be slick with wet by the time you’re finished with him.

Arms wrapped loosely across his shoulders, your fingers play with the loose curls at the base of his neck, and you lean, the outline of your mask bumping up against his own as you finally retrieve what you’ve been after all along, pressing your lips to his, tongue taking out all of your prior frustrations as it tangles with his own, scrapes along his teeth, traps and tugs his bottom lip until he is left begging for breath, lips plump and freshly-stung.

Going in for more, your palms find the sides of his face, sandwiching him between lustrous kisses, your chest pressing to his own, a whine bubbling at your throat when his grip tightens, holding you hostage and creating a gap just small enough for his hands to slip from their place on your back and to cup your breasts, squeezing and palming them as his tongue continues to lap at your own.

With the feeling of your nipples perking up so nicely beneath his thumbs, Harry cannot resist the urge to start trailing sloppy kisses along the nape of your neck, your clavicle, his open mouth leaving a trail as it makes its way down your chest, his tongue licking at the valley of your breasts before his lips finally catch your nipple, flicking at it, your body arching back desperately, pleading for more.

With a harsh nip, his tongue soothes your swollen skin, his hands squeezing at the mounds of your breasts, and your body has a mind of its own now, jutting up against him, your pussy sad to be met with only the friction of his briefs, desperate to grind your wetness across his cock, feel him slipping between your folds.

After the third time, your body glides down into contact with his own, a frustrated sigh slipping past your lips; Harry seems to catch on and woefully unlatches his mouth from your skin, but with more than just happiness, he shifts beneath you- and you also shift to allow him better access- his fingers hooking into the bands of his briefs, tugging them down in one swift motion to settle around his mid-thighs.

His cock springs up, swollen with relief and flush with freedom. Your gaze never wavers, hyper-focused on how pretty the man sitting beneath yours truly is- all of him is just too good to be true at this point.

You want to spend eternity, or at least a moment, marvelling and taking him all in, but he is closer than ever, and your pussy is clenching at just the sight of him- practically screeching to have him buried deep inside you.

With that, you reach out and give him one mandatory stroke, to soothe both him and yourself, and by the way his mouth parts, his eyes hooded, body jolting and then relaxing back into your touch, you sling your leg over his lap to straddle him, his face level with your chest, his hands instinctively coming to a rest on the pillows of your hips.

Your arms become a noodle around his neck like in preparation for dancing the salsa, your hips rocking forward without hesitation, pussy skating along the length of his shaft, leaving him slick with just one stroke.

Harry doesn’t even try to stop the string of mutters he sings out into the crevasse of your breasts, breath fanning chills all along your skin just as your hips buck again, sliding up against him, squeaking out as the tip of his cock rubs up against your clit.

You push on into an agonisingly slow rhythm, dragging out each stroke until Harry is so frustrated that he works extra hard to avoid rutting up into you- oddly satisfied letting you take the lead- so his mouth begins leaving sloppy kisses along your chest, your shoulders, the creases of your neck. And whilst the idea of holding onto this sense of control was something you really wanted to indulge in, you cannot stop your body from picking up speed, ever so slightly upping the rhythm.

Harry is struggling to keep himself from turning the two of you over and fucking you into the sofa cushions, taking out his agitation by unexpectedly spitting on your chest, and both of your gazes drop to watch as the dribble of spit travels like a delicate stream down the valley of your breasts, meandering towards your bellybutton.

You rut up against him with force now, pupils swelled and hungry. At the last minute, Harry commands his pelvis not to thrust, taking a section of skin on your breast between his front teeth, nipping and sucking at it until it stings, giving you one last tug before pulling back, his tongue slipping out to softly lap at the blooming bruise. Tiny and speckled with red and purple, this mark will serve as a reminder of the scandalous events of this evening.

More so, this mark is the last straw, your lips angrily finding his own, tongues arguing for domination- Harry’s succumbs the second one of your hands reaches down between your laps, grabbing at his cock and guiding him into you without a second thought.

You take him in with ease, but he is a stretch the further you slide down on him, your belly feeling full as your body finally comes to a sitting on his cock. Harry’s head has tilted back, his eyes fluttering open and shut.

He wants to thrust up, he wants to watch your breasts and body bounce about atop of his cock, needs to see the way your skin jiggles and stretches for him, the way your face crinkles up in pleasure and satisfaction… but Harry lets you do anything you want, lets himself be at your mercy.

And fuck, you make the idea of losing control feel really good, raising your body until only his tip remains inside of you, threatening to leave him out in the cold, but at the last moment, you grind back down, letting him fill you up gluttonously, easily finding a groove, your backside slapping against his thighs, skin-to-skin creating the beat of a drum, and with each smack, you only want to go faster, harder, unable to resist the need to tease and drag things out.

Harry is a mess of moans, only making you feel like you are being cheered on during a marathon, encouraging you to up your stamina and reach the finish line in record time. His hands are all over you, tugging you closer, one hand wrapping tighter around your waist, guiding you up and down his cock, desperate to hear you whine louder, to let others know how good it felt to be riding him. And you want everyone to know, too; you want them to know that they could all leave, and you would be more than happy to just let Harry spend the rest of the evening fucking you into a semi-permanent coma.

Harry shifts, spreading his legs to offer you a new angle, ready to drool as a dragged-out sigh slips out from deep within you, and he knows he’s just hit a good spot.

So, as any good boy would, Harry bucks up into you again and again, motivated by each moan, putting his all into making you sing for him, your hand digging into his biceps, then his back, down his torso, squeezing at his thighs as your stomach starts to clench, heart rate picking up and when you start to feel lightheaded, you welcome the wave of euphoria threatening to wash over- you hear nothing but the soft praises Harry mutters for your pleasure, your body grinding down on his pelvis desperately chasing your high, whining out as his hand spreads your cheeks, guiding you through a long-anticipated orgasm.

Coming down, your head slumps against his damp shoulder, cheek pressing into his warm, soft skin. You can hear his heartbeat; it’s as fast as your own- if not faster; his breaths are scattered, and Harry wonders what will happen next.

He wants to revel in the moment but is hit with disappointment as you slowly and carefully guide him out of you, and he wants to hiss out at the cruel loss of contact.

Your leg swings over and off of his lap, standing tall and gazing down at him with a curious brow furrow that has Harry ready to question his entire existence, but when your arm extends out to him, offering to wrap his hand in your own, Harry feels butterflies beating at his belly, and he accepts in an instant, ridding himself of his briefs, tossing them aside with little to no regard before grabbing your hand, feeling fuzzy at the visual of how small it looks cradled in his own.

Trailing behind you, willing to let you drag him just about anywhere, it seems you have targeted a bed sitting empty in a quaint corner of the room.

But your ass is bouncing with each step you take, and with gravity offering him such a gracious gift, Harry's hand reaches out with the need to grab, settling with a soft slap to your left cheek, a chuckle slipping past his lips as you let out a little whimper of surprise, body jolting forward, thighs jiggling for his absolute pleasure, and all thoughts of the bed are forgotten as Harry pushes your bodies into the nearest pillars. The look in your eyes adjusts from surprise to arousal at the newfound feeling of your body being backed up into the icy marble, turning into a tornado as Harry's simmering skin keeps you mounted like a shiny trophy.

Harry thinks he's really got you now, your skin so silky, your muscles contracting against his own, keening into his hold, lashes batting up at him like he holds the keys to the garden of Eden; with softness, he presses a breathy kiss to your own parted lips, and now that he has you so perfect and patient, he hasn't the faintest clue where to start.

It would be polite to give him a moment to gather his thoughts, perhaps plot his next move, but you know exactly what you want- no, need- next, and with Harry's head so preoccupied with the idea of you that his hold isn't strong enough to stop you from slipping out from his trap, turning around, your palms pressing flat to your chest as you gift him a gentle, but firm push, his back smacking into the same marble you had just escaped.

Harry feels awestruck, unsure what to think, but his cock is certainly pleased, throbbing at the unfamiliar shift in dynamic, desperate to see what you might do next. And when his eyes, swollen with lust, focus on your own, there is a glimmer of certainty that has him almost keeling over; the need to get on his knees and beg for you is killing him.

But it seems that you are the one who will be on your knees as you keep one palm against his chest, unsure of whether he's willing to stay put, and your body drops to the floor, knees happily greeting the tiles.

With your left hand still holding him in place and your right hand coming to a rest on his waist, fingers squeezing into his fleshy cheeks, Harry's head lulls black in bliss, throat bobbing, both of his hands casting a shadow over your own, wrapping around your wrists like pretty bracelets.

Leaning forward ever so sweetly, your lips pucker and place a polite kiss on the tip of his cock. Harry's hips buck forward without his consent, and your hand leaves his chest, gliding lazily down his torso until it comes to rest on his shaft.

Thoughts of how perfectly he fits between your fingers are blurring your vision, but at the sound of Harry pathetically hissing from above, your grip tightens, body shuffling closer, his own hand settling like a scarf around the back of your neck. His hand stays statuesque, unsure of pushing your boundaries and frightened of catching your hair in one of his many rings. But when you reassuringly nuzzle your crown into his palm, Harry finally relaxes, his fingers- still carefully- slip into and massage the hair at the base of your neck.

You’ve got him right where you want him, and there’s no time to waste as you close the last of any remaining space, bowing forward and closing in like at communion, mouth opening, ready for the catholic wafer but instead closing your lips over the tip of his cock, your tongue darting out to swirl at his head and loving the way he tries to resist bucking into you, stop himself from hitting the back of your throat. 

Just the idea has you dripping, fulfilling the desire to take him further in your mouth, your free hand slowly pumping his cock, holding him in place as you suck him, slowly taking in as much as you can manage before slowly pulling back, letting your tongue trail along his shaft in your wake. 

Right as Harry begins to fear that you might release and leave him high and dry, you swallow him again, bobbing and creating a rhythm, a small sliver of spit slipping past your lips as you take him as far as your mouth will permit, tongue lapping at him, your hand pumping the base of him as Harry huffs and puffs above you. 

And when you can’t help but glance up at him from beneath hooded lashes, the way Harry cusses out and rolls his head back against the pillar is enough to have you picking up the pace, swallowing him with vigour, desperately trying to fit as much of him possible into the hollows of your cheeks.

Slowly, your head begins to bob, taking all of his cock in before pulling back, then again, and again, your hand still pumping him, spit gliding along his shaft and soaking your fingers. 

You release his cock from your mouth, still gliding your hand back and forth, pumping him and peering up at him with doe-like eyes.

“Fuck.” Harry whines, the back of his head bumping against the pillar, “Y’gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

With a mischievous grin, you place a gentle but menacing kiss on the tip of his cock before flattening your tongue and licking his shaft from base to tip before taking all of him in your mouth once more, creating the perfect rhythm, your other hand leaving his thigh and cupping around his balls, massaging him, head grooving up and down his cock. Harry is a complete mess, his muscles flexing with each suck and release. 

You guide his cock to the hollow of your left cheek, brushing him against your mouth before ever-so-softly gliding his head along your bottom teeth and rubbing him against your right cheek. He is still moaning above you, and when you suddenly tilt forward and take him so deep that his cock brushes the back of your throat, Harry is cussing out, his hand tightening around the base of your neck. 

You lean your head back into his palm as a form of encouragement, and Harry thinks you may be the most perfect creature of planet Earth itself. He cautiously begins guiding your head, testing the waters as he becomes a guide for his cock, sliding into your mouth. 

Happy to oblige, you try to remain as still as possible, your pussy throbbing each time he brushes against your throat, and when you almost gag, Harry has officially died and gone to heaven. His pace quickens, forcefully- but so carefully- bucking into you, loving how soft and plump your lips are, how well you take him- how deep. 

The thought of his cum dripping down your chin has him in utter shambles, and that is not how he wants this evening to go- yet. So, with one last thrust and grunt, he ruefully removes himself, hissing at the rush of cool air that greets his tip and almost crying at the sight of the string of spit connecting from your lips and his cock. 

Using the back of your hand to dismiss the spit, you peer up at him curiously, rather proud of your work but still hoping to have more of him.

Harry guides your head as a gesture, hissing at the rush of air that greets the tip of his cock, and this only causes his impulses to increase- so, as soon as you have found your feet and are looking up at him with blown-out pupils and puffy pink lips, Harry finally reclaims control, his hands wrapping you up and spinning you around in one swift motion and you are now facing the pillar, your palms pressing flat against the cool surface. 

His hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into your fleshy skin and, on instinct, your back arches, ass desperate to press up against him. Harry releases his right hand from your hip, wrapping it around his stiff shaft and guiding it towards your entrance. Ass up, spine curved, your breasts press into the icy pillar, your body scooting up against the pelvis, and when the head of his cock glides along your pussy, just stopping short of your entrance, you moan out enthusiastically. 

Harry gives you one last tease, his tip slipping into you before pulling back out, but before you have the opportunity to whine out, he thrusts into you, and instead, you arch out for him even more, sighing out, breasts squishing into the pillar. 

He guides his cock in and out, painfully persevering, taking his damn time, but after a third deep and forceful thrust, you shuffle back into him impatiently, and Harry wants to chuckle aloud at your lack of patience now that he has you pressed up against him. 

But your neediness is too tantalising to resist; Harry can’t stop his hips from bucking up into you, almost drooling at the hum of satisfaction you reward him with as he thrusts again, this time harder, his arm reaching around to rest his palm on your stomach, keeping you pinned as he proceeds to fuck into you. 

Harry keeps going, huffing in sync with each thrust, his stomach clenching as you mewl against him, your palms pressing into the pillar and holding on for dear life. His hand slides down from your stomach to the back of your right thigh, raising it until your knee bumps up against the marble, and when he’s certain you plan on keeping it there, he releases your leg and proceeds to pound into you, his hand snaking around until it finds your pussy, fingers gliding along your wetness, seeking out louder moans, desperate whines. 

And you are- unable to hold yourself back any longer, overcome with the electric current coursing through you with each thrust, each time his thumb brushes against your clit. You are chasing another orgasm, pushing your palms against the pillar in an attempt to get closer to him.

Harry kindly obliges, pressing his chest into your back, pulling you flush against his damp and flexed torso as he keeps at it, bucking up into you with all of his willpower, hands grabbing at you, adamant to have you as near as possible. 

Right as you feel yourself about to tip over the edge for a second time in just minutes, Harry interrupts by pulling out and wrapping you up in his arms and hastily turning you around to face him. Concern flashes across his features as your back bumps up against the pillar, but when you only whine out, your left leg lifting up, calf wrapping around his waist, Harry guides his cock back into you, bucking up with commitment and determination to have you come unravelled against him once more. 

And you are unravelling, chemistry at play as your body becomes a mix of ecstasy and euphoria. You are grabbing at every part of him, never wavering for too long, tugging at his hair, squeezing at his biceps, pressing your pelvis up against his own. Harry is doing the same, feeding off of your needy whines, unsaid pleas for him to keep going, and when you can’t help but turn them into verbal pleas, asking him so sweetly to fuck you “just like that”, he is in an absolute state, 

“Yeah?” He confirms- only for the sake of hearing you speak up again, 

“Yeah.” You stutter out, nails digging into the nape of his neck, scraping along his shoulder. 

Harry is enamoured, you’re being such a good girl for him, and he wants to reward you for being so. But he also wants to be a little testy and has the urge to see how much nicer you’re willing to be for him, so he deems it necessary to hold out on you a tad longer.

He wraps his arm around the middle of your back, pressing you into him, and he bows his head and leans in as close to your ear as possible, his warm breath fanning over the nook of your neck and clavicle, ensuring you hear him loud and clear, 

“Ask me nicely.” 

Your head snaps up, looking at him with incredulity, but too desperate to do anything other than give him what he wants. One of your hands finds his torso, palms trailing along his chest as your other hand tightens around his neck in physical protest, which is the last thing that would ever slip past your lips. Trying your best to give him your politest plea, your mouth plump and puckered, mousey eyes flickering playfully up at him, 

“Pretty please.”

And that’s all Harry needs, thrusting into you with repayment, revelling in the way your body accepts his reward so enthusiastically. He picks up the pace, pounding into you and making certain that you are more than welcome to come undone all over him, 

“Such a good girl for me.”

You’re nodding at him desperately, body crumbling with each praise he is granting you, and when his palm slips down between your bodies, landing on your pussy and lazily swirling loops atop your clit, you are a shaking mess- in a frenzy and falling over the edge, coming all over his cock, softly chanting, “yes, yes.”

“So, so good.” He reminds you, holding onto you, keeping you secure and satisfied. He can feel the familiar stirring in his stomach, his cock twitching and tempted to come all over you.

But there’s no way he’s done with you, and he cannot fathom finishing now. 

Your bucking has slowed, head lulling into the crook of his neck, trying to steady your breathing, and instead of giving in to an impending orgasm, Harry pats your bum firmly, wrapping an arm around your thigh, encouraging you to jump up into his arms. 

He is still fully inside you and doesn’t plan on changing that, effortlessly guiding you up into his arms, one of his hands still on your backside, the other cradling your back. With great care, Harry starts to walk, staying slow and peering over his shoulder to make sure he’s going in the right direction. 

Thankfully, the pillar was already the halfway point to the bed you had targeted earlier, and with your lips lazily trailing kisses along his torso, your nails digging into his back, Harry was overjoyed when his feet bumped into the base of the bed. 

Impressively, he bows forward- your bodies still bound- his knees denting the mattress, lowering your bodies onto the bed until your back is pressed into the sheets and Harry is hovering over you, balancing on his forearms, his forehead brushing against your own.

“Ready to go again, princess?” His cool breath fans across your features, and you are nodding as if your life depends on it, your pelvis bucking up against him.

Harry’s brows furrow in amusement, his head bowing, lips brushing up against the shell of your ear, “Use your words, lovely.” 

“Fuck.” You huff out, your right leg tightening around his waist, one of your hands digging into his bicep and the other tugs at his hair, “Please.” And just so he really gets the message, you add, “I want you.” 

“Want me to what?” He drawls, tongue tickling your neck as one of his hands massages your breast. 

“Fuck me.” Your reply is emotionless, stern and impatient, “Want you to fuck me.”

“Sassy little one, aren’t you?” Harry chuckles, squeezing your thigh endearingly. 

You roll your eyes as if he hasn’t just stated the obvious, lifting your pelvis up to rub against him. His pupils are blown, and you want him inside of you- now. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” you ponder, nails dragging along his shoulder, “Or do I need to find someone else?” there is nobody alive that you could want more than him; he should know this from the way you are so eager to please him, but the mere suggestion has Harry thrusting into you mercilessly.

You whine out in both stupor and ecstasy, your back arching off of the bed, your breasts pressing into his chest. With one of his arms still holding him in place, Harry’s free hand comes up to cradle your face, your foreheads slick with sweat and sticking together. 

His hands are about as big as your head, and that alone contributes to the next sigh you release, bucking up into him, meeting his thrusts in the middle, your pelvises slapping into one another. 

Harry marvels at the way your bodies seem to so easily find a rhythm each time like you were made for him, and he for you. His thrusts are deep and with intention, stretching your pussy with satisfaction. 

“Christ.” He huffs in astonishment, “Y’ feel so fuckin’ good.” 

You can only moan out in agreement, at a complete loss for words. The only thing you feel is satisfaction sparking throughout your wholeness, and the only other thing you can think about is how badly you wish you knew his name- hoping to call it out to him as he pounds into you, desperate to reward him for doing such a good job. 

Harry can't remember ever feeling so engaged in fucking someone- was there a time? Nothing before or after this moment matters; he could now die a happy man. You feel so warm and worked-up, pressed into him, grabbing at any part of him available for the taking. 

He wants to let you, doesn’t mind if you spend hours or even days exploring him, poking and prodding his limbs and skin for reactions, having him like putty in your hands- all yours. 

“More.” You huff out when it seems that Harry is getting caught up in his thoughts, and he thrusts into you so generously that your head lulls back to greet the mattress. 

But now you are too far away for Harry’s liking; he needs to see those pretty eyes and pretty flushed cheeks, needs to see how good of a job he’s doing at pleasing you. His hand cradles the back of your neck, guiding your head back up, his lips waiting to latch onto your own. 

Breathy kisses become open-mouthed ones. Harry’s tongue is dancing all along your mouth, biting on your lip and sucking on your tongue. Still, in a battle of kisses, Harry’s hand sweeps along your face and his pointer finger slips into your mouth. You suck on him like you were born solely for this purpose, and it’s Harry’s turn to stop his head from rolling back. 

He keeps on at it, licking into your mouth while his cock rams into you relentlessly, each thrust accompanied by skin slapping, deep moans, hums of satisfaction and a stirring in your chest that only increases as Harry bends your leg and pins it to your chest, fucking into you from an angle that feels so good that you begin slipping away into a realm of pure pleasure. 

“Like that?” Harry pants out, each thrust more purposeful than the last. 

“Just like that.” You nod vigorously with gratefulness. 

“Good girl.” He praises with a sloppy kiss, “Look so good like this.” 

Harry keeps thrusting, and it’s not long before the look on your face starts morphing with frustrated delight, your eyes threatening to squeeze shut. But you don’t want to look away, instead glancing between your grooving bodies, in awe of the sight of his cock coated with all of you, pumping in and out so gracefully. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and cum for me?” He is kissing your neck, tongue wet and trailing along your skin. 

And that is all you need to guide you back into another orgasm, your hips raised off of the bed and grinding up against his pelvis in a circular motion, hands holding onto him for dear life. 

Harry groans, almost growls out, pushing into you, trying to pull you closer than physically possible, “Just like that, sweetheart.” You are definitely a sucker for his praises, desperate for more, and he obliges, “So good for me.” 

With a surprising twist, Harry is forced to confront his impending orgasm as you pose a rather prolonged request, “Want you to cum for me.” 

He wants to panic, the thought of this being over is simply heinous, but you only chuckle at the obvious distress beginning to warp his features and reassure him, “I still have plenty in store for you.” And for good measure, you add, “Unless you can’t… keep up.”

Harry knows you’re only taunting him for the fun of it, but the suggestion is obscene, and he seeks to prove you wrong. You are still grinding up against him, whimpering at the sensitivity, nevertheless needy for more, so he picks up the pace, ramming into you with everything he has to offer, his arm bending further into the bed to get closer, and your arms wrap around him to assist, tugging him flush against you, teeth nipping at his neck. 

“Gonna let me swallow you, pretty boy?” You blink up at him innocently, “Wanna taste you so badly.”

His thrusts are getting sloppier, slower and more determined. Now that the offer of an orgasm is on the table, lying beneath him, so pretty and so tasty, Harry can’t resist pushing into you harder, deeper, grunting and huffing along, skin shivering at the feel of your nails tickling at his torso. 

And when you tilt your head and aim your teeth for his ear, nipping his earlobe only to soothe it with the flick of your tongue, you ask one more time, “Pretty please.” 

“Fuck. Fuck.” Is all Harry can muster in between a mess of moans, struggling to keep his weight from coming down on you, his free hand wrapping around your waist to hold you still, his cock wailing for release.

And he gets exactly what he’s been searching for, thrusting into you once more, treasuring it as he pulls out, stroking at his cock as the two of you shuffle around and you are quickly on your knees, mouth spread wide, tongue flat and pushing past your lips. 

Harry doesn’t think he has ever seen something- someone- so beautiful, and he doesn’t stop thinking this as he starts to cum, spilling onto your tongue, his cock throbbing at the sight of you swallowing him so kindly, at the glistening of your swollen lips, the bobbing of your throat. 

You wear your satisfaction with pride, and for the first time, you wonder if Harry actually can keep up. He hadn’t said so, in words, at least. But he is still close and starts edging closer, desperate to have his hands back on you. He gets what he wants, and you shuffle closer, following his gaze as it shifts to the nearest patron, using his free hand to gesture for their attention. 

Before you get the chance to get too confused, the patron steps closer, and you can now clearly see the contents of his silver platter. Staring up at you is an array of toys, small and large, feathered or leather or even metal. You don’t even need to glance over at Harry to tell him you are definitely game, instead reaching out with an item already in mind. 

Harry watches as you select your weapon of choice, turning back to him with satisfaction and a cheeky smile, the chosen toy on display is just begging to be played with, and it seems that both of you are ready to oblige. 

🍒

Forgive me for I am a sinner and I feel zero regrets. Hell can have me because I am DONE. I hope you guys enjoy this one! It's been a while since I've blessed the children with smut and I hope I have succeeded lmao. - Emmy. xo 💞

#not opposed to writing a pt2 #its 1 am again #so this is unedited #I'll fix it tomorrow I swear #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles x y/n #elioslover #harry x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfic #harry styles concept #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagines #harry styles writing #harry styles masterlist #harry styles fic rec

[buckyalpine]

Redemption

Bucky x reader, Morgan & Tony Stark, Alpine!

A/N: Been sitting with this idea for a while and I finally decided to write it. This doesn’t follow the events in the movies. Always wanted to see something where Bucky feels like he redeems himself with Tony, and Tony accepts Bucky. The ending felt a little rushed, might go back and edit this later but I hope you enjoy it! Please like, comment, reblog <3 

Warnings: Angst (some violence), fluff

Word count: 3.4k

Bucky padded down the hall, wondering how come the left side of his bed was cold and empty this morning, though he had a sneaking suspicion of why.

“Alpine? Where’d you g-”

Bucky smiled, shaking his head as he entered the living room, watching Morgan set up her tea party, her stuffed animals and Avengers actions figures all lined in a row. In the middle, was a large fluffy cushion with the special guest of honour.

“Did you want Friskies or Temptations today Alpine?” Morgan held up two treat bags she had snuck out of Bucky’s room, nodding when Alpine pawed at the chicken treats.

“Chicken for you, shawarma for daddy’s friends, cheese burgers for daddy, Mr. Snuggle, you’ll have to share with me, I only have 1 chocolate chip cookie”

Morgan put 3 teats in a dish for Alpine, setting it in front of her. Alpine sniffed the bowl, waiting for Morgan to give her permission to eat.

“Let’s see, scotch for daddy, Thor I have Asgardian mead for you, and for Alpine- oh! I forgot your water bowl, let me go get it!”

Morgan got up, making a bee line to Bucky’s room, turning back to make sure the little white ball of fur stayed in her seat.

“Just give me a second Alpi- Oof!” She collided with a large wall of muscle, two strong hands safely catching her before she stumbled back.

“Hi Morgan” Bucky smiled softly, setting her back down “Whatcha doing?”

“Hi Mr. Barnes” grinned sheepishly, knowing he was looking for his fur baby “I’m having a tea party! But not a boring one, we can have alcohol! Did you want to join us, Alpine is the special guest”

Bucky snorted, nodding his head; he’d noticed Alpine getting slightly fuller from the many tea parties she’d attended but he didn’t mind. Alpine certainly didn’t seem to mind, enjoying the pampering and head scratches she got for hours on end.

“Is it okay if I get Alpine her water bowl?” Bucky nodded, sitting on the couch, smirking at the way Alpine stretched out, basking in the morning sun slowly blinking at him making sure he knew she loved the extra treats and extra attention.

“Here, whisky for you,” Morgan poured apple juice into a tiny tea cup, handing it over to Bucky as she continued to fill the other cups.

“Thanks Morgan” Bucky sipped from the cup, watching Alpine get up, sauntering over the Morgan’s lap while looking at looking at him, purring to her heart’s content as Morgan rubbed her furry tummy. Bucky narrowed his eyes at the dramatic feline; Alpine had taken after his personality. Quiet, reserved and picky with letting people touch her. Unless she liked them. “Spoiled princess”

 The sound of footsteps echoing through the hall caused Alpine to scamper away back to the safety of Bucky’s room as you, Tony and Steve returned from another week long mission, however this one had left you shaken.

“Daddy!” Morgan shot up, running into Tony’s arms, allowing him to scoop her up, peppering her face with kisses.

“Hey princess, what have you been up to?” Tony smiled at the little set up he saw in the living room, his smile faltering as he saw Bucky on the couch.  

“Havin’ a tea party. Alpine was just here, where she go Mr. Barnes?”

“Uh- probably went to use the little box, I’ll go check for you, okay?”

Bucky got up from the couch, quietly making his way back to his room shutting the door behind him. Tony swallowed thickly, as he continued to fight the conflict that plagued his mind. No it wasn’t Bucky’s fault over what happened to his parents. Hydra wasn’t his fault; the Winter Soldier wasn’t his fault. Nothing was his fault and yet when he saw him he only saw the life leaving his mothers eyes, his father’s last breaths. He fought with himself to see it differently but it was easier to keep his distance. Tony walked over to the now empty couch, setting Morgan down with him, who was now handing him his tea cup.

“Daddy?”

“Hm?”

“How come you don’t like Mr. Barnes?”

“I- who said-” Tony shook his head, his daughter was insightful and it wasn’t the first time she had asked this question, unhappy she was never given a straight forward answer.

“He always leaves when you come and you don’t stop him” She mumbled, disappointed Alpine hadn’t finished her treats and disliking the tension that filled the air. “He always stays for the tea party until you come”. Tony sighed, deciding to change the subject, placing his helmet on her as you made your way over to your shared bedroom with Bucky.

You knocked on the door softly, not wanting to bother him if he needed time to be alone, only getting silence in return.  Your hand rested on the doorknob, noticing it had been left unlocked; something Bucky had started doing when he had nightmares and needed you by his side. He left the doors unlocked to silently let you know he wanted you with him. You opened the door, your heart breaking at the sight.

Bucky’s eyes were red and puffy as he sat against the bed, tears streamed down his face, his eyes refusing to meet yours. His metal arm clenched as he stared off at nothing, his mind racing over the people he’d killed, the screams, the families he’d destroyed, the people that wished he were better off dead, the loved ones he’d never be able to bring back.

“Baby…” You walked over to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping away the tears that spilled down his cheeks. You kissed his forehead as he closed his eyes, his forehead resting against yours, his breaths ragged. Your thumbs caressed his face silently letting him melt against your touch, wishing you could take away the pain that haunted him.

“I’ll always be him” His eyes squeezed shut as he saw flashes of his cell, the wires and needles that injected him, the chains and locks that caged him in place.            

“Bubba, you’re not him, this is different. Not everyone sees you that way anymore; you know he’s forgiven you its just…” Your voice trailed off as Bucky nodded. He didn’t expect Tony to ever fully forgive him for what he’d done. He was grateful he’d been allowed to stay at the compound but he always felt out of place knowing the pain he caused whenever Tony looked at him. Bucky pulled you into his lap, resting his head against your chest and you rocked him, kissing his hair.

“I miss you when you leave” His voice, barely above a whisper, wrapped his arms tighter around you, the only place he felt safe, wanted, loved. “How was the mission?”

Your breath hitched, curling into Bucky’s lap as he held you, shaking, recalling the mission that left you reeling. The hydra base was empty but it was what they’d left behind that haunted you; thousands of files with footage from the compound; Pepper and Tony’s wedding, images from the training rooms, you cuddling with Bucky on the couch, the day Tony brought Morgan from the hospital. Steve had to remove Tony from the facility as the footage showed Morgan in her bed, a red laser pointed at her sleeping form before cutting off. They wanted you to see the footage. They wanted you to know they were watching. You closed your eyes, clinging onto Bucky, your heart racing over what was going to come. “It’s not over, they’ll be back”

                                                         ***

The next few weeks were uneventful though Tony had reset all the security systems, updated the compound system to respond quicker to emergencies and increased surveillance.

“Daddy you said we could play with the jet pack today” Morgan clung onto Tony as he reluctantly suited up, responding to an urgent call from Fury.

“I know, I promise I’ll take you as soon as I’m back okay?” Tony placed a kiss on her forehead, setting her down beside you. “I love you 3000”

“I love you 3000”

You giggled looking at Morgan’s pouty face as she tugged you back to the living room, plopping down onto the couch, sighing. You sat down beside her, contemplating on just how much mischief you’d both be able to get up to without getting into too much trouble.

“We have the whole compound to ourselves Morgan, what do you want to do?” Steve and Nat had left with Tony, Bucky had been in the training room with Sam and Pepper was busy in the lab. You grinned as you saw the gears in her head turning, her previous pout replaced with a toothy grin.

“Can we make cookies?! And watch movies?”

“We can do anything you want Stark jr.”

Morgan hopped from the couch running to the large kitchen, pulling out ever possible ingredient she could think of along with all the bowls and measuring cups. You’d managed to bake 3 batches of cookies without causing too much of a disaster, saving a small bowl of cookie dough to eat for the movie night.

You settled beside Morgan in the living room, deciding on a Disney movie, as you both built an elaborate pillow fort to sit in while watching. You laid out all the snacks and cookies along with the cookie dough, and some milk.

Bucky walked through the living room, smiling at the heap of pillows and sheets that were piled in front of the large screen, soft giggles emerging from you were curled under. He passed by to see you and Morgan curled under a large fluffy blanket.

“Hi Mr. Barnes! Did you want to join us? We’re watching Beauty and the Beast” Morgan smiled at him hopefully; he was always a gentleman at her tea parties even if he didn’t stay the entire time.

Bucky shook his head, knowing it wasn’t his place to stay, his heart breaking as he saw her smile fall. “Next time sweet heart; have fun with y/n, okay?”

Morgan nodded, snuggling into your side, her eyes widening as she remembered something.

“Wait! Here!” She grabbed a cookie, shoving it into his metal hand, “We made them today!”

Bucky smiled, ruffling Morgan’s hair and giving you a quick peck on the cheek before going to his floor.

You were heavily engrossed in the movie when the screen went blank for a moment; seconds later the entire compound going dark. You sat up feeling around the floor for your phone, confused about why the backup generators hadn’t immediately started up. Something wasn’t right. Morgan clung onto you as you turned on a flash light, your heart racing as you heard movement from outside.

“Morgan, I’m going to take you to your room and then see why the power went out, okay? Don’t open the door for anyone, I’ll come and get you”

Morgan nodded, silently clinging onto you as you carried her to her room, closing the door softly, instructing her how to manually secure it from the inside. Sam met you in the hall with Bucky, suited with his Falcon wings as red wing detected a number of Hydra agents surrounding the compound.

“There’s at least 30 of them and they’ve hacked all the systems, there’s nothing to keep them out”

You ran down the hallway to get your gear, hardly making it to your room before running in the first agent, swiftly breaking his neck with a kick before grabbing your knives and loading your guns. You quickly suited up, sprinting down the hall where Bucky had left a trail of 5 bodies.

A harsh red light flooded the compound entrance as more agents emerged from a jet, each one steadily moving towards the building. Sam flew through the air, successfully wiping out two jets, before more of Hydra could attack. You pulled your knives out, precisely slicing through agents, leaving them to bleed out, hoping the danger would remain outside.

The sudden explosion from inside the compound sent you flying, cement and glass cutting your skin, your ears ringing, blood clouding your vision. The bomb had caused shrapnel to fly through the air, lodging into Sam’s wings as he fell to the ground, his suit damaged from the impact. You lay on the ground, your breaths laboured as Bucky ran over to you, kneeling by your side, his hands frantically wiping the blood away from your face.

“Y/N, Baby, baby look at me, talk to me sweet heart, say something ”  His voice pleaded with you as you struggled to speak, dust clouding your lungs and you coughed, your mind immediately racing to Morgan who was still inside.

“M-Mor…” You coughed, blood dripping from your lips and you weakly pointed to the raging fire that engulfed half the building. “S-she’s inside”

Bucky eyes widened in horror, giving into the blood lust he kept inside, no hydra agent that stood in his way left alive as his metal hand grasped them, quickly snapping the life out of them. He ran towards the compound, the heat and smoke burning his skin as he made his way upstairs. Bucky sprinted through the halls, fire nipping at his skin, the smoke filling his lungs as he reached Morgan’s room.  He didn’t waste time breaking through the door as Morgan hid under her sheets, eyes wide as she held Alpine, who had snuck into her room earlier.

“Morgan, it’s me” Bucky said softly, lifting her into his arms, his heart racing as he tried to figure out the safest way to get her out. Morgan clung on him, Alpine tucked in her arm as she sniffled.

“I’m going to take you outside, okay sweetheart? I need you to hold your breath for me until we get outside, don’t look up, close your eyes”

                                                       ***

Sam groaned, seeing a faint red and gold figure land nearby, running to his side. His eyes focused as he saw Tony’s wide eyes, looking down at him, panic on his face.

“Tony…” Sam struggled to speak, groaning as he lay on the ground, while Steve and Nat fought off the few agents that had escaped Bucky’s wrath.

“This was their fucking plan, the mission was a distraction” Tony’s heart raced as he saw the destruction around him, hydra agents littered all over. His ability to breathe stopped as he saw Peppers blue and gold suit trapped under rubble, running to her side. He managed to blast the larder bricks of cement, pulling her out, his ability to think clearly faltering “FRIDAY, I need medics sent to the compound, NOW”

                                                          ***

Morgan nodded, taking a deep breath, her arms clinging around Bucky’s neck as she buried her face in his shoulder. Bucky wrapped his leather jacket around her before speeding down the hallway, his large arms shielding her from the flames, smoke burning his lungs as he panted. He felt deep gashes on his skin as the ceiling began the crumble. His metal arm cradled her head, protecting her from the burning pieces that continued to fall.

“You’re…you’re doing good Morgan,” Bucky’s breaths were labored as he struggled to breathe from the fire, the exit a few steps away, “Just…just a little…just a little more, o-okay?”

                                                          ***

“Morgan? WHERE’S MORGAN” Tony cradled Pepper, as the medics ran to her aid, whisking her away along with you and Sam. He stood up, ready to enter the compound as he saw Bucky run with Morgan in his arms. Bucky managed to get to Tony, his footsteps heavy, vision blurry, barely able to set Morgan down before collapsing to the ground. Steve ran to Bucky’s side as Tony cradled Morgan, looking over her for injures.

“Honey look at me, are you okay, did you get hurt?”

Morgan shook her head, as she kept herself wrapped in Bucky’s large jacket, hugging Alpine as she mewed, trying to escape and check on her favorite super soldier.

“I’m okay daddy, Mr. Barnes came to get me”  

Her face fell as she saw Bucky on the ground, medics struggling to revive him, swiftly taking him away to the med bay that hadn’t been destroyed.

                                                        ***

“You’re a hero Bucky, you saved Morgan, and Morgan saved your little fur baby”

“Bucky, wake up, Pepper’s here to see you”

“Alpine misses you, she won’t leave your Henley alone, and she’s taken up your side of the bed”

“I love you bubs, please say something”

Bucky hadn’t woken up in three days; the serum worked quickly to heal the gashes on his skin but hadn’t been as successful with the smoke inhalation. As soon as you were treated, you stayed by his side, insisting that your stitches would heal just fine without needing bed rest for your injuries. You cradled his face, your fingers brushing over his scruffy cheek the way he loved, hoping he’d be able to hear everything you said to him over the last few days even if he was unconscious.

                                                           ***

“Daddy?” Morgan poked her head in Tony’s lab as he tinkered with his helmet, a habit he’d picked up on when his mind worked faster than he was able to comprehend. “Hey Morgan” Tony set down his helmet, noticing the way his daughter shifted on her feet, her little hands struggling to hold the giant card she had behind her back.

“Where’s Mr. Barnes?”

“He’s…did you want to go and see him?” Morgan nodded, smiling as Tony carried her, making his way over to the infirmary.

“WAIT!” Morgan shimmied out of his hold, running towards the stairs.

“Where you going Maguna?”  

“I have to get something from Mr. Barnes’s room!”

“Wait, I don’t think he-

“I’m always allowed, he said its okay!”

Tony shook his head in amusement, recalling number one rule of no one being allowed in Bucky’s room with the recent exception of y/n (and Alpine).

                                                               ***

“Please wake up baby” Your pleading voice caused Bucky to stir. He felt the side of the bed dip softy, a small hand holding his arm and 4 tiny paws clambering onto his chest. His eyes struggled to adjust to the light; three fuzzy figures were near him, a particularly fluffy one significantly close, nuzzling his face.

“Hey Alp” Bucky’s voice was rough, his lungs and throat stinging, still recovering. He turned towards you, immediately showered in soft kisses all over his face.

“We missed you baby” Tears streamed down your face as Alpine made herself comfortable in the crook of Bucky’s neck. “You have another visitor”

Morgan smiled softly, her hand holding Bucky’s metal one. A giant card was placed in his lap along with a small basket of plums with some balloons tied to the handle.

“I made a card for you! Daddy helped me pick some of the plums from the tree; we used his suit to get the ones that were all the way at the top!”

Bucky squeezed her hand gently, nodding as she smiled proudly.

“Thank you for coming to get me”

“Anytime, sweet heart”

Morgan took Alpine in her lap, petting her as Bucky closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as you gently stroked his forehead.

Tony leaned by the door, watching what he almost lost because he wasn’t there, his heart racing again because he knew what would have happened if Bucky didn’t rescue Morgan. He felt something new; clarity. He took a deep breath before walking in, he wasn’t one to feel nervous but the thought of almost losing his daughter had him on edge.

“I- Thank you Bucky”

Bucky’s eyes shot open as he heard Tony’s voice, he wasn’t sure if he was unconscious again. He still felt your touch, Morgan and Alpine sitting on the bed and the weight of the basket, he was very much awake. Bucky looked over at Tony’s soft face, his throat tightening, eyes stinging because he had chased redemption for so long. For the first time he heard warmth in Tony’s voice. Acceptance.

“I’m sorr-”

“No. That wasn’t you. It was never you” Tony stopped Bucky before he could finish, he felt guilt; it shouldn’t have taken this incident for him to completely forgive Bucky for what happened to his parents. “I don’t blame you. For anything” Bucky nodded, his heart feeling lighter, a weight lifted off him; he was more than the Winter Soldier.

-

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barns imagine #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes angst #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #the avengers #Iron Man #tony stark #morgan stark #bucky alpine #bucky barnes au #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky fluff #bucky angst #avengers angst #marvel angst #marvel x you #iron man angst #tony stark angst #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x avenger reader #marvel fanfics #marvel fanfic #avengers fanfic #bucky barnes gif

[mintwithchoco]

Glad to see you checking in on this blog from time to time 😊

Have some bouncy Yeji

Do you still keep up with K-pop? Or just loosely following your main group(s)?

aye it do be frisky my favorite whisky

i still follow kpop from time to time, mainly in terms of music. like right now, i'm into enhypen's bite me, and le sserafim's new album. looking forward to txt's new single too by next month. but overall, my time have been spent more on my new work and adapting to a new environment.

glad that you're still here following this blog. i promise that i'll check in more often <3

oh, and thanks for the bouncy yejis too (she's been really bold recently woo)

#asks #yeji #friskyriskywhisky

[bandcampsnoop]

4/1/24.

Seriously, has anyone been more prolific than Momus (Nick Currie, originally from Edinburgh, Scotland, and now currently based in Berlin). I feel like I own a lot of Momus, and I probably own less than 20% of his recorded output. I just looked on Discogs and I count 36 full length releases since 1986. And before that Currie recorded an album as The Happy Family (with 3 members of Josef K).

"Yikes" is available from American Patchwork as a double CD. The other CD ("20 Frisky Whiskies") is a "compilation of remakes, outtakes and misshapes from the last decade or so of Momus."

At this point it's safe to say that Momus sounds like Momus. But if you separate yourself from this obvious statement you can hear echoes of David Bowie, Roxy Music, The High Llamas and The Divine Comedy.

You can buy this 2 CD from Darla Records.

#Momus #Nick Currie #Edinburgh #Scotland #Berlin #American Patchwork #Josef K #The Happy Family #David Bowie #Roxy Music #The High Llamas #The Divine Comedy #Darla Records #Bandcamp

[milla984]

Bari Ninnanne Bayasuvenu (I just want you)

Summary: Three years after joining Rocky as a business partner, Reader is forced to admit she's developed feelings for him. What she doesn't know is that Rocky has been keeping a secret of his own

Pairing: K.G.F. Rocky x fem!reader

Category: smut (NSFW, 18+, MDNI)

TW/CW: kissing, fingering, handjob, brief mention of drinking

Word Count: 3k

You checked the skirt of your plain evening dress as you made your way to the dining room, admiring the design of the marble tiles on the floor; you bumped into Mallamma in the main hall and she jumped, startled, while she tried to balance three empty scotch glasses on a tray. You knew Rocky was familiar with the habit of drinking whisky before a meal – any meal – but three glasses were not the norm. “Am I too early?” 

“Oh, no no…” she replied, nervously gesturing for you to go, “he’ll be with you in no time.”

That wasn’t the norm, either: if she was trying to get rid of you it only meant one thing, so you took a deep breath. Now that you were paying more attention to your surroundings you could hear muffled voices coming from the corridor; Mallamma grabbed your wrist, a silent plea to just keep walking and wait for your host to join you for dinner. You caressed her arm and shook your head in return, then you opened the door she’d closed behind her a few moments before and stopped in the middle of the foyer to eavesdrop on the conversation going on only a couple of feet away from you. 

“I don’t care if she’s granting you deals with the Americans. That’s never been part of our plan.” 

Andrews, you snorted. His hunger for a bigger slice of Narachi was making him impatient, even though you could actually smell the hesitation in his words. And you were sure Rocky could, as well. “It’s my job to make sure this company progresses. Not yours,” he replied. 

“Now, hold on… you come from nothing,” Kamal’s voice chimed in, and you felt your blood boil, “we should be the ones to decide. This is our legacy, you owe us respect.”

The room went quiet for an instant, then you heard a tsk-tsk sound and immediately pictured Rocky pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Spoken like a spoiled boy who doesn’t know respect must be earned. Your position here has nothing to do with merit,” he retorted, “I come from nothing, yet I have achieved something you can hardly imagine.”

It would have been the perfect occasion for Kamal to shut up, though he’d never been a clever man. “I’m going to do better than you, soon” he laughed, “the only thing I’m missing is a bitch on a leash… maybe I could borrow yours.”

This time after a relatively short pause came a squishy noise followed by a high-pitched whimper and a soft thud on the carpet. In almost three years of business partnership you’d never witnessed Rocky disrespecting a woman or allowing his associates to do so – Mallamma was one of the few people he trusted the most and he’d never even raised his voice in her presence. Also, he may or may not have been responsible for the broken arm and hand of one of Shetty’s henchmen, when he’d gotten too frisky with the sister of one of the boys working for him.

“Why. Can’t we. Just be nice,” Rocky quipped. “I’m trying to be nice to you! I don’t call you a dog… and trust me, the first thing that comes to my mind when I look at you is actually a pooch. All bark and no bite.”

Kamal was breathing so heavily his rage was palpable through the walls. “You… you need to be shown your real place—”

“Enough,” Andrews’ voice snapped. Unlike his younger companion he knew when to give up a fight with a much stronger opponent. “We helped shape this place the way it is. Remember who we are before you make your next move,” he added as his head popped in the archway, with Rocky and Kamal in tow.

“Oh, I will… but right now I’ve got far more pressing issues to take care of,” Rocky said before they all noticed your presence, and the simple fact he wasn’t no longer paying attention to them enraged the two even further. 

Andrews brushed past you, the grip on the chain with the cross pendant so tight that his knuckles were turning pale; Kamal stood at your side as he followed, then leaned forward to whisper in your ear. “One of these days I’ll show the world who the real leader of K.G.F. is.”

You kept your eyes fixed on Rocky, but you didn’t miss the bruises on Kamal’s face. “I am already looking at him,” you declared and he eventually admitted defeat, striding out of the foyer and wiping the back of his hand under his nose to stop the bleeding.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “You’re late.”

Rocky gave you one of his best smirks at the sight of your attire.

A couple of hours before a large box had appeared on the covers of the queen-size bed in the guest room you’d been assigned to, containing a green saree embroidered with exquisite golden details – his smile was the confirmation he’d gotten your message loud and clear: you were not his bitch, nor a plaything to doll up as he pleased.

“Last minute, unplanned meeting,” he apologized, with a very unapologetic attitude, “so many people are still obsessing over losing this place to an outsider like me.” 

“How many of your ‘last minute, unplanned meetings’ end with someone being punched?”   

Rocky rolled his eyes, almost as if he was reflecting thoroughly on the answer. “Only the informal ones.”

You approached him and sighed. “So… care share the juicy details?”  

“Suryavadhan was not wrong. A single man can’t possibly rule an empire by himself, he needs reliable partners. The thing is… how can I trust my partners, if they are the main reason why I got here?!”

He had a valid point, without doubt. “What are you thinking?” he inquired a few moments later, while he tugged at his beard.

“Well, I was under the impression you already had your mind set on pitching them against each other.”

He smiled, mischievously. “Next step – putting ideas into action, correct?”     

You stared at him, as you had been doing for the past months during your frequent visits at the mansion. You’d watched him closely – falling asleep on the veranda with the constant whirring of the fan blowing his hair off his face on a hot summer afternoon or standing on the top balcony as the sun was setting, his statuesque figure projecting a long shadow behind him – and secretly hoped he’d been watching you in return.

“Eh, cinna… something wrong?! You seem worried,” his voice brought you back to Earth, “they’re not going to touch you, they wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m not worried,” you replied, unsure of how to approach the situation. You had no reason to believe your presence in his life had to do with anything but a profitable work collaboration. “Why did you really hit Kamal?” you asked, lowering your gaze. “Was it my name you were defending or the business partnership you’ve signed up for?”  

“I hate that kind of language as a general rule,” he explained, and you shrugged in a feeble attempt to hide your frustration. “Also, it’s a good thing they probably think I was defending my investment.”

As you were about to leave he winked at you and cupped your cheeks with his hands, gently raising your chin. “I didn’t want them to be the first to know you mean so much more to me, priyatame.”

Your head started spinning fast. “But you’ve never—”

“I can be patient, if the situation requires it,” he whispered on your lips.

You stood on your tiptoes and let him squeeze you tighter; he always wore his shirts unbuttoned and now you could tell the heat radiating from his bare chest was almost divine. His arms went around your back, drawing you closer. 

“Uhm… dinner is about to be served,” said Mallamma, behind you, and Rocky smiled before he turned his head in her direction.

“Give us ten minutes…? Thank you,” he requested in a soft tone, “and close the door, would you?”

You were still nestled in his embrace when you caught a glimpse of Mallamma nodding and blushing as she walked away; you giggled, in turn, but Rocky was quicker to claim your mouth for himself.

His beard felt good on your skin – so good you had to fight the urge to grab a chunk of his hair and let yourself crumble to the ground under the weight you were desperate to have on top of you. He was taking his time, though, conveying weeks of yearning in a delicate kiss; there was a sweetness to him that clashed with his strong public persona and that he only showed to those he really cared about. Knowing you were among them made your heart melt. 

You were still basking in the afterglow of this epiphany when the warmth of his breath and the hot intrusion of his tongue sparked in you the desire for another part of him, so you let your fingers run blindly to his belt. Out of the blue, a thought crept into your brain: truth to be told, the fair possibility that everything about him was very well proportioned to his imposing physique concerned you a little. You jolted at the flimsy satin being ripped all of a sudden, an indication that he was clearly done with fighting his own urges.

“Rocky!! So much for being patient!” you complained while he lifted you up to make you sit on his desk and helped you out of the top portion of the gown, the sleeves and the bodice gathering in your lap in a cascade of shapeless fabric.

He snorted. “I can get you new ones. You’ll never wear the same thing twice.”

You pushed his hair back as you looked into his beautiful dark eyes. “That would be something fit for a queen, not for me.”

He smirked at you for the second time, then his fingers crawled under your pleated skirt to trail up and latch onto your panties, pulling them down. You were not prepared to the sensation of the pure gold finishes cold and smooth under your ass, but what left you gawking was Rocky tucking your underwear in the front pocket of his jacket. “Here you are mine.”

“I don’t care about being a queen,” you replied, “I just want you.”

He showered your shoulders with light pecks, tracing the outline of your collarbones and moving up towards your ear to nuzzle at the earlobe while he spread your legs; he ghosted the back of his hand along your inner thighs so he could playfully ran his fingertips through the hair you kept neatly trimmed and you squirmed in anticipation. You were craving his touch and he was enjoying every second of it, yet he let out a muffled yelp when you dug your nails into his neck.

“How come you’ve never told me…?!” he joked, and you squirmed again after he reached for your folds. He marveled at your wetness with a delighted laugh, a low rumble in his throat that echoed deep within your soul. You pulled him towards you to demand another kiss and Rocky eagerly complied, squeezing the lacing of your bra with his free hand – a large hand. Concern about his real size once again popped in your mind, only to be pushed aside by the exquisite torment he was inflicting on your tender flesh.

He kept dancing around your outer lips to part them and tease you at a slow pace. You had to catch your breath for a second after he started to stroke your clit with his thumb, soon followed by his long finger slipping inside of you. You whimpered when he added another one and curled them up, getting them covered in your slick arousal on every in-and-out movement.

“Wait… dinner’s ready,” you managed to articulate, in between breaths.

“…so?!” he questioned as he pressed his forehead on your temple.

You purred. “Are you not hungry?”

Rocky removed his fingers, hovering them on your mouth so you could bite them and taste yourself, then dropped down in front of you with his palms flat on your knees. You rolled your skirt up but he stood still, waiting for you to grab his nape again and guide his face between your legs.

Something you had never pictured in your numerous fantasies over the past months was a less than elegant technique that involved sucking and lapping on every inch of you he could find – a lack of finesse that didn’t stop you from swaying your hips to the rhythm of his best efforts, because his groans resembled the humming song of a man famished for your pussy. Without even realizing you lowered your elbows on the desk, resting your forearms on the surface while you pushed yourself against his mouth to get more of his beard tickling your most sensitive spots.

You both moaned loudly when he sealed his lips around your clit, forcing you to throw your head back; the swirling of his tongue made you discover it was possible to get even more excited than you already were, and your body went limp as a rag when he brought it to your core and flicked it rapidly. As soon as he stiffened it to push it deeper, back and forth, you arched your back and came, filling the silence in the office with a repetitive and mostly unintelligible litany of his name. 

He didn’t let up until he felt you relax and continued to plant butterfly kisses on your overstimulated clit, then he jumped to his feet and admired the results. For a moment he seemed mesmerized by the writhing mess he’d turned you into, your legs open wide and your breasts frantically heaving, but he didn’t know he was a tantalizing vision as well: he’d gotten you so wet his beard was now glistening in the semi-darkness, an image so lustful it nearly gave you another orgasm.

“Can I…?” he whispered, fumbling with the zipper fly.

Still dizzy and weary you nodded, only to snap out of the momentary torpor as the hard cock nudged at your inner thigh. Rocky held you by your waist, pressing at your entrance before he popped the head in: the confirmation he was definitely well proportioned sent your senses in override and you winced in surprise and discomfort. He’d been more than thorough in making sure you were ready for him, but you were tensing up nevertheless.

“Easy,” he cooed after you gripped his wrists. Figuring that maybe the position he’d worked you up into was not ideal he carefully prompted you to lower your hips, still he struggled to slide further without hurting you. He couldn’t have been more than a third of the way in when he sighed and pulled out, causing you to whine at the unpleasant stinging.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, almost on the verge of tears, and he put his arms underneath you to make you sit on the desk again and envelop you with the sweetest hug possible.

“Sshh, it’s alright…”

The considerate attitude in his voice was the living proof he was ruthless with his enemies and also extremely protective of the people he’d sworn to take care of; you knew he deserved just as much attention and devotion. 

“Please… please, let me…” you begged as you gathered some of the juices that were still pooling between your legs and rubbed his shaft, wrapping your fingers at the base to start moving up and down. At each stroke his skin slid under your palm, silky smooth and sticky due to the mixture of your arousal and the copious precum that was already leaking. You walls clenched around the emptiness he’d left inside of you, so you brushed his tip over your clit and he grimaced as he inhaled sharply.

“Harder, pritiya… harder,” he demanded, a good sign you were driving him over the edge. 

You tightened your grip and jerked faster, with the lascivious sound of your hand working his length covered only by his feral growls. Rocky kissed you – sweetness and affection replaced by the desperate need for release – and twitched one, two, three times. Hot, thick spurts drenched you and you continued rubbing yourself with his cock while you sucked on this tongue, but what really brought you to your second climax was the idea you now belonged to each other.

Once you were both spent he collapsed on the desk and finally trapped you under his weight, caressing your face to get rid of the rogue locks that had fallen on cheeks and tickling you with his perfectly shaped beard, even though he was almost out of breath. Then he looked down between your bodies and realized the state your clothes were in. “I guess this means we’ll have to skip dinner.”

“A small sacrifice for a higher cause,” you smiled, wiping your hand over the soiled skirt.

Rocky stood up to take off his jacket and drape it over you, and you stared at him fixing his trousers with the intention of searing that memory of him into your brain: he was already one of the most seductive men you’d ever seen, but with the addition of the scruffy after-sex hairdo and the shiny droplets of sweat trapped on the dark fuzz on his chest he was something to die for. You were still contemplating his sheer magnetism so you didn’t react right away when he lifted you up and cradled you to carry you out of the office. “Excuse me…?! I’m not a child, you know?” you protested.

“You were supposed to wait for me in the dining room, not snoop around,” he retorted, back to his regular impertinent self. Though you didn’t like being babied the moment he squeezed you closer you realized how touch-starved you’d been for years. Since there was little sense in trying to rebel, you buried your nose in the crook of his neck and closed your eyes as he made his way to the main hall.

“Now you need a hot bath and I’m afraid you could get lost again,” he added, “I can’t risk that. I’m taking you to your room.”

@ramcharantitties, @astrafangs

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

#kgf rocky #kgf rocky fic #kgf rocky x reader #kgf rocky x fem!reader #kgf rocky smut #yash as kgf rocky #smut #mdni #minors do not interact #not beta read #originally posted on my sideblog infusedchaos #reposting here bc i deactivated the other one #milla writes n*s*f*w*

[codebreaker-0]

"My Dog Speaks More Elegantly Than Thee."

"Look, When Britain Taxed Our Tea, We Got Frisky. Imagine What Gon' Happen When You Try To Tax Our Whisky."

-Hamilton himself

Bitch it’s eloquently

[golddustwoman777]

Corn makes whiskey

Whisky makes my baby frisky

-J.M.K 🌽

#greta van fleet #josh kiszka #jake kiszka #danny wagner #sam kiszka #dreams in gold tour 2022 #rhinestone diary

[sliptohk]

Prompt# 28: Blunt

Some favored an empty sweetness. Meaningless words to fill their bed, Then morning after swiftly fled. False hope of a true completeness, Matching soul which loves and needs us. Katja favored the direct, Where wants and wishes intersect. Words painted with smokey whisky, Approaching one also frisky. No illusions, no disrespect.

#FFXIVWrite2023 #FFXIVWrite #Katja Revel

[cataboliac]

Hope you're enjoying that whisky Cata! 💖

These Wendies were cuteeeeeee. Always the best Frisky

[lorriloo1109]

THE CAT WHO GOT INTO SOME WHISKY

A cat who got into some whisky Felt a little bit frisky He fell off a wall It was a big fall And he said My that was a bit risky

View On WordPress

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 11-12

CHAPTER XI

WHEN I was a kid, one time I had an old-maid teacher that used to tell me, "Buzz, you're the thickest-headed dunce in school." But I noticed that she told me this a whole lot oftener than she used to tell the other kids how smart they were, and I came to be the most talked-about scholar in the whole township. The United States Senate isn't so different, and I want to thank a lot of stuffed shirts for their remarks about Yours Truly.

Zero Hour, Berzelius Windrip.

BUT there were certain of the Heathen who did not heed those heralds Prang and Windrip and Haik and Dr. Macgoblin.

Walt Trowbridge conducted his campaign as placidly as though he were certain to win. He did not spare himself, but he did not moan over the Forgotten Men (he'd been one himself, as a youngster, and didn't think it was so bad!) nor become hysterical at a private bar in a scarlet-and-silver special tram. Quietly, steadfastly, speaking on the radio and in a few great halls, he explained that he did advocate an enormously improved distribution of wealth, but that it must be achieved by steady digging and not by dynamite that would destroy more than it excavated. He wasn't particularly thrilling. Economics rarely are, except when they have been dramatized by a Bishop, staged and lighted by a Sarason, and passionately played by a Buzz Windrip with rapier and blue satin tights.

For the campaign the Communists had brightly brought out their sacrificial candidates—in fact, all seven of the current Communist parties had. Since, if they all stuck together, they might entice 900,000 votes, they had avoided such bourgeois grossness by enthusiastic schisms, and their creeds now included: The Party, the Majority Party, the Leftist Party, the Trotzky Party, the Christian Communist Party, the Workers' Party, and, less baldly named, something called the American Nationalist Patriotic Cooperative Fabian Post-Marxian Communist Party—it sounded like the names of royalty but was otherwise dissimilar.

But these radical excursions were not very significant compared with the new Jeffersonian Party, suddenly fathered by Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Forty-eight hours after the nomination of Windrip at Cleveland, President Roosevelt had issued his defiance.

Senator Windrip, he asserted, had been chosen "not by the brains and hearts of genuine Democrats but by their temporarily crazed emotions." He would no more support Windrip because he claimed to be a Democrat than he would support Jimmy Walker.

Yet, he said, he could not vote for the Republican Party, the "party of intrenched special privilege," however much, in the past three years, he had appreciated the loyalty, the honesty, the intelligence of Senator Walt Trowbridge.

Roosevelt made it clear that his Jeffersonian or True Democratic faction was not a "third party" in the sense that it was to be permanent. It was to vanish as soon as honest and coolly thinking men got control again of the old organization. Buzz Windrip aroused mirth by dubbing it the "Bull Mouse Party," but President Roosevelt was joined by almost all the liberal members of Congress, Democratic or Republican, who had not followed Walt Trowbridge; by Norman Thomas and the Socialists who had not turned Communist; by Governors Floyd Olson and Olin Johnston; and by Mayor La Guardia.

The conspicuous fault of the Jeffersonian Party, like the personal fault of Senator Trowbridge, was that it represented integrity and reason, in a year when the electorate hungered for frisky emotions, for the peppery sensations associated, usually, not with monetary systems and taxation rates but with baptism by immersion in the creek, young love under the elms, straight whisky, angelic orchestras heard soaring down from the full moon, fear of death when an automobile teeters above a canyon, thirst in a desert and quenching it with spring water—all the primitive sensations which they thought they found in the screaming of Buzz Windrip.

Far from the hot-lighted ballrooms where all these crimson-tuniced bandmasters shrillsquabbled as to which should lead for the moment the tremendous spiritual jazz, far off in the cool hills a little man named Doremus Jessup, who wasn't even a bass drummer but only a citizen editor, wondered in confusion what he should do to be saved.

He wanted to follow Roosevelt and the Jeffersonian Party—partly for admiration of the man; partly for the pleasure of shocking the ingrown Republicanism of Vermont. But he could not believe that the Jeffersonians would have a chance; he did believe that, for all the mothball odor of many of his associates, Walt Trowbridge was a valiant and competent man; and night and day Doremus bounced up and down Beulah Valley campaigning for Trowbridge.

Out of his very confusion there came into his writing a desperate sureness which surprised accustomed readers of the Informer. For once he was not amused and tolerant. Though he never said anything worse of the Jeffersonian Party than that it was ahead of its times, in both editorials and news stories he went after Buzz Windrip and his gang with whips, turpentine, and scandal.

In person, he was into and out of shops and houses all morning long, arguing with voters, getting miniature interviews.

He had expected that traditionally Republican Vermont would give him too drearily easy a task in preaching Trowbridge. What he found was a dismaying preference for the theoretically Democratic Buzz Windrip. And that preference, Doremus perceived, wasn't even a pathetic trust in Windrip's promises of Utopian bliss for everyone in general. It was a trust in increased cash for the voter himself, and for his family, very much in particular.

Most of them had, among all the factors in the campaign, noticed only what they regarded as Windrip's humor, and three planks in his platform: Five, which promised to increase taxes on the rich; Ten, which condemned the Negroes—since nothing so elevates a dispossessed farmer or a factory worker on relief as to have some race, any race, on which he can look down; and, especially, Eleven, which announced, or seemed to announce, that the average toiler would immediately receive $5000 a year. (And ever-so-many railway-station debaters explained that it would really be $10,000. Why, they were going to have every cent offered by Dr. Townsend, plus everything planned by the late Huey Long, Upton Sinclair, and the Utopians, all put together!)

So beatifically did hundreds of old people in Beulah Valley believe this that they smilingly trotted into Raymond Pridewell's hardware store, to order new kitchen stoves and aluminum sauce pans and complete bathroom furnishings, to be paid for on the day after inauguration. Mr. Pridewell, a cobwebbed old Henry Cabot Lodge Republican, lost half his trade by chasing out these happy heirs to fabulous estates, but they went on dreaming, and Doremus, nagging at them, discovered that mere figures are defenseless against a dream... even a dream of new Plymouths and unlimited cans of sausages and motion-picture cameras and the prospect of never having to arise till 7:30 A.M.

Thus answered Alfred Tizra, "Snake" Tizra, friend to Doremus's handyman, Shad Ledue. Snake was a steel-tough truck-driver and taxi-owner who had served sentences for assault and for transporting bootleg liquor. He had once made a living catching rattlesnakes and copperheads in southern New England. Under President Windrip, Snake jeeringly assured Doremus, he would have enough money to start a chain of roadhouses in all the dry communities in Vermont.

Ed Howland, one of the lesser Fort Beulah grocers, and Charley Betts, furniture and undertaking, while they were dead against anyone getting groceries, furniture, or even undertaking on Windrip credit, were all for the population's having credit on other wares.

Aras Dilley, a squatter dairy farmer living with a toothless wife and seven slattern children in a tilted and unscrubbed cabin way up on Mount Terror, snarled at Doremus—who had often taken food baskets and boxes of shotgun shells and masses of cigarettes to Aras—"Well, want to tell you, when Mr. Windrip gets in, we farmers are going to fix our own prices on our crops, and not you smart city fellows!"

Doremus could not blame him. While Buck Titus, at fifty, looked thirty-odd, Aras, at thirty-four, looked fifty.

Lorinda Pike's singularly unpleasant partner in the Beulah Valley Tavern, one Mr. Nipper, whom she hoped soon to lose, combined boasting how rich he was with gloating how much more he was going to get under Windrip. "Professor" Staubmeyer quoted nice things Windrip had said about higher pay for teachers. Louis Rotenstern, to prove that his heart, at least, was not Jewish, became more lyric than any of them. And even Frank Tasbrough of the quarries, Medary Cole of the grist mill and real-estate holdings, R. C. Crowley of the bank, who presumably were not tickled by projects of higher income taxes, smiled pussy-cattishly and hinted that Windrip was a "lot sounder fellow" than people knew.

But no one in Fort Beulah was a more active crusader for Buzz Windrip than Shad Ledue.

Doremus had known that Shad possessed talent for argument and for display; that he had once persuaded old Mr. Pridewell to trust him for a .22 rifle, value twenty-three dollars; that, removed from the sphere of coal bins and grass-stained overalls, he had once sung "Rollicky Bill the Sailor" at a smoker of the Ancient and Independent Order of Rams; and that he had enough memory to be able to quote, as his own profound opinions, the editorials in the Hearst newspapers. Yet even knowing all this equipment for a political career, an equipment not much short of Buzz Windrip's, Doremus was surprised to find Shad soap-boxing for Windrip among the quarry-workers, then actually as chairman of a rally in Oddfellows' Hall. Shad spoke little, but with brutal taunting of the believers in Trowbridge and Roosevelt.

At meetings where he did not speak, Shad was an incomparable bouncer, and in that valued capacity he was summoned to Windrip rallies as far away as Burlington. It was he who, in a militia uniform, handsomely riding a large white plow-horse, led the final Windrip parade in Rutland... and substantial men of affairs, even dry-goods jobbers, fondly called him "Shad."

Doremus was amazed, felt a little apologetic over his failure to have appreciated this new-found paragon, as he sat in American Legion Hall and heard Shad bellowing: "I don't pretend to be anything but a plain working-stiff, but there's forty million workers like me, and we know that Senator Windrip is the first statesman in years that thinks of what guys like us need before he thinks one doggone thing about politics. Come on, you bozos! The swell folks tell you to not be selfish! Walt Trowbridge tells you to not be selfish! Well, be selfish, and vote for the one man that's willing to give you something—give you something!—and not just grab off every cent and every hour of work that he can get!"

Doremus groaned inwardly, "Oh, my Shad! And you're doing most of this on my time!"

Sissy Jessup sat on the running board of her coupe (hers by squatter's right), with Julian Falck, up from Amherst for the week-end, and Malcolm Tasbrough wedged in on either side of her.

"Oh nuts, let's quit talking politics. Windrip's going to be elected, so why waste time yodeling when we could drive down to the river and have a swim," complained Malcolm.

"He's not going to win without our putting up a tough scrap against him. I'm going to talk to the high-school alumni this evening— about how they got to tell their parents to vote for either Trowbridge or Roosevelt," snapped Julian Falck.

"Haa, haa, haa! And of course the parents will be tickled to death to do whatever you tell 'em, Yulian! You college men certainly are the goods! Besides—Want to be serious about this fool business?" Malcolm had the insolent self-assurance of beef, slick black hair, and a large car of his own; he was the perfect leader of Black Shirts, and he looked contemptuously on Julian who, though a year older, was pale and thinnish. "Matter of fact, it'll be a good thing to have Buzz. He'll put a damn quick stop to all this radicalism—all this free speech and libel of our most fundamental institutions—"

"Boston American; last Tuesday; page eight," murmured Sissy.

"—and no wonder you're scared of him, Yulian! He sure will drag some of your favorite Amherst anarchist profs off to the hoosegow, and maybe you too, Comrade!"

The two young men looked at each other with slow fury. Sissy quieted them by raging, "Freavensake! Will you two heels quit scrapping?... Oh, my dears, this beastly election! Beastly! Seems as if it's breaking up every town, every home.... My poor Dad! Doremus is just about all in!"

CHAPTER XII

I SHALL not be content till this country can produce every single thing we need, even coffee, cocoa, and rubber, and so keep all our dollars at home. If we can do this and at the same time work up tourist traffic so that foreigners will come from every part of the world to see such remarkable wonders as the Grand Canyon, Glacier and Yellowstone etc. parks, the fine hotels of Chicago, & etc., thus leaving their money here, we shall have such a balance of trade as will go far to carry out my often-criticized yet completely sound idea of from $3000 to $5000 per year for every single family—that is, I mean every real American family. Such an aspiring Vision is what we want, and not all this nonsense of wasting our time at Geneva and talky-talk at Lugano, wherever that is.

Zero Hour, Berzelius Windrip.

ELECTION day would fall on Tuesday, November third, and on Sunday evening of the first, Senator Windrip played the finale of his campaign at a mass meeting in Madison Square Garden, in New York. The Garden would hold, with seats and standing room, about 19,000, and a week before the meeting every ticket had been sold—at from fifty cents to five dollars, and then by speculators resold and resold, at from one dollar to twenty.

Doremus had been able to get one single ticket from an acquaintance on one of the Hearst dailies—which, alone among the New York papers, were supporting Windrip—and on the afternoon of November first he traveled the three hundred miles to New York for his first visit in three years.

It had been cold in Vermont, with early snow, but the white drifts lay to the earth so quietly, in unstained air, that the world seemed a silver-painted carnival, left to silence. Even on a moonless night, a pale radiance came from the snow, from the earth itself, and the stars were drops of quicksilver.

But, following the redcap carrying his shabby Gladstone bag, Doremus came out of the Grand Central, at six o'clock, into a gray trickle of cold dishwater from heaven's kitchen sink. The renowned towers which he expected to see on Forty-second Street were dead in their mummy cloths of ragged fog. And as to the mob that, with cruel disinterest, galloped past him, a new and heedless smear of faces every second, the man from Fort Beulah could think only that New York must be holding its county fair in this clammy drizzle, or else that there was a big fire somewhere.

He had sensibly planned to save money by using the subway—the substantial village burgher is so poor in the city of the Babylonian gardens!—and he even remembered that there were still to be found in Manhattan five-cent trolley cars, in which a rustic might divert himself by looking at sailors and poets and shawled women from the steppes of Kazakstan. To the redcap he had piped with what he conceived to be traveled urbanity, "Guess 'll take a trolley—jus' few blocks." But deafened and dizzied and elbow-jabbed by the crowd, soaked and depressed, he took refuge in a taxi, then wished he hadn't, as he saw the slippery rubber-colored pavement, and as his taxi got wedged among other cars stinking of carbon-monoxide and frenziedly tooting for release from the jam—a huddle of robot sheep bleating their terror with mechanical lungs of a hundred horsepower.

He painfully hesitated before going out again from his small hotel in the West Forties, and when he did, when he muddily crept among the shrill shopgirls, the weary chorus girls, the hard cigar-clamping gamblers, and the pretty young men on Broadway, he felt himself, with the rubbers and umbrella which Emma had forced upon him, a very Caspar Milquetoast.

He most noticed a number of stray imitation soldiers, without side-arms or rifles, but in a uniform like that of an American cavalryman in 1870: slant-topped blue forage caps, dark blue tunics, light blue trousers, with yellow stripes at the seam, tucked into leggings of black rubberoid for what appeared to be the privates, and boots of sleek black leather for officers. Each of them had on the right side of his collar the letters "M.M." and on the left, a five-pointed star. There were so many of them; they swaggered so brazenly, shouldering civilians out of the way; and upon insignificances like Doremus they looked with frigid insolence.

He suddenly understood.

These young condottieri were the "Minute Men": the private troops of Berzelius Windrip, about which Doremus had been publishing uneasy news reports. He was thrilled and a little dismayed to see them now—the printed words made brutal flesh.

Three weeks ago Windrip had announced that Colonel Dewey Haik had founded, just for the campaign, a nationwide league of Windrip marching-clubs, to be called the Minute Men. It was probable that they had been in formation for months, since already they had three or four hundred thousand members. Doremus was afraid the M.M.'s might become a permanent organization, more menacing than the Kuklux Klan.

Their uniform suggested the pioneer America of Cold Harbor and of the Indian fighters under Miles and Custer. Their emblem, their swastika (here Doremus saw the cunning and mysticism of Lee Sarason), was a five-pointed star, because the star on the American flag was five-pointed, whereas the stars of both the Soviet banner and the Jews—the seal of Solomon—were six-pointed.

The fact that the Soviet star, actually, was also five-pointed, no one noticed, during these excited days of regeneration. Anyway, it was a nice idea to have this star simultaneously challenge the Jews and the Bolsheviks—the M.M.'s had good intentions, even if their symbolism did slip a little.

Yet the craftiest thing about the M.M.'s was that they wore no colored shirts, but only plain white when on parade, and light khaki when on outpost duty, so that Buzz Windrip could thunder, and frequently, "Black shirts? Brown shirts? Red shirts? Yes, and maybe cow-brindle shirts! All these degenerate European uniforms of tyranny! No sir! The Minute Men are not Fascist or Communist or anything at all but plain Democratic—the knight-champions of the rights of the Forgotten Men—the shock troops of Freedom!"

Doremus dined on Chinese food, his invariable self-indulgence when he was in a large city without Emma, who stated that chow mein was nothing but fried excelsior with flour-paste gravy. He forgot the leering M.M. troopers a little; he was happy in glancing at the gilded wood-carvings, at the octagonal lanterns painted with doll-like Chinese peasants crossing arched bridges, at a quartette of guests, two male and two female, who looked like Public Enemies and who all through dinner quarreled with restrained viciousness.

When he headed toward Madison Square Garden and the culminating Windrip rally, he was plunged into a maelstrom. A whole nation seemed querulously to be headed the same way. He could not get a taxicab, and walking through the dreary storm some fourteen blocks to Madison Square Garden he was aware of the murderous temper of the crowd.

Eighth Avenue, lined with cheapjack shops, was packed with drab, discouraged people who yet, tonight, were tipsy with the hashish of hope. They filled the sidewalks, nearly filled the pavement, while irritable motors squeezed tediously through them, and angry policemen were pushed and whirled about and, if they tried to be haughty, got jeered at by lively shopgirls.

Through the welter, before Doremus's eyes, jabbed a flying wedge of Minute Men, led by what he was later to recognize as a cornet of M.M.'s. They were not on duty, and they were not belligerent; they were cheering, and singing "Berzelius Windrip went to Wash.," reminding Doremus of a slightly drunken knot of students from an inferior college after a football victory. He was to remember them so afterward, months afterward, when the enemies of the M.M.'s all through the country derisively called them "Mickey Mouses" and "Minnies."

An old man, shabbily neat, stood blocking them and yelled, "To hell with Buzz! Three cheers for F.D.R.!"

The M.M.'s burst into hoodlum wrath. The cornet in command, a bruiser uglier even than Shad Ledue, hit the old man on the jaw, and he sloped down, sickeningly. Then, from nowhere, facing the cornet, there was a chief petty officer of the navy, big, smiling, reckless. The C.P.O. bellowed, in a voice tuned to hurricanes, "Swell bunch o' tin soldiers! Nine o' yuh to one grandpappy! Just about even—"

The cornet socked him; he laid out the cornet with one foul to the belly; instantly the other eight M.M.'s were on the C.P.O., like sparrows after a hawk, and he crashed, his face, suddenly veal-white, laced with rivulets of blood. The eight kicked him in the head with their thick marching-shoes. They were still kicking him when Doremus wriggled away, very sick, altogether helpless.

He had not turned away quickly enough to avoid seeing an M.M. trooper, girlish-faced, crimson-lipped, fawn-eyed, throw himself on the fallen cornet and, whimpering, stroke that roustabout's roast-beef cheeks with shy gardenia-petal fingers.

There were many arguments, a few private fist fights, and one more battle, before Doremus reached the auditorium.

A block from it some thirty M.M.'s, headed by a battalion-leader— something between a captain and a major—started raiding a street meeting of Communists. A Jewish girl in khaki, her bare head soaked with rain, was beseeching from the elevation of a wheelbarrow, "Fellow travelers! Don't just chew the rag and 'sympathize'! Join us! Now! It's life and death!" Twenty feet from the Communists, a middle-aged man who looked like a social worker was explaining the Jeffersonian Party, recalling the record of President Roosevelt, and reviling the Communists next door as word-drunk un-American cranks. Half his audience were people who might be competent voters; half of them—like half of any group on this evening of tragic fiesta—were cigarette-sniping boys in hand-me-downs.

The thirty M.M.'s cheerfully smashed into the Communists. The battalion leader reached up, slapped the girl speaker, dragged her down from the wheelbarrow. His followers casually waded in with fists and blackjacks. Doremus, more nauseated, feeling more helpless than ever, heard the smack of a blackjack on the temple of a scrawny Jewish intellectual.

Amazingly, then, the voice of the rival Jeffersonian leader spiraled up into a scream: "Come on, you! Going to let those hellhounds attack our Communist friends—friends now, by God!" With which the mild bookworm leaped into the air, came down squarely upon a fat Mickey Mouse, capsized him, seized his blackjack, took time to kick another M.M.'s shins before arising from the wreck, sprang up, and waded into the raiders as, Doremus guessed, he would have waded into a table of statistics on the proportion of butter fat in loose milk in 97.7 per cent of shops on Avenue B.

Till then, only half-a-dozen Communist Party members had been facing the M.M.'s, their backs to a garage wall. Fifty of their own, fifty Jeffersonians besides, now joined them, and with bricks and umbrellas and deadly volumes of sociology they drove off the enraged M.M.'s—partisans of Bela Kun side by side with the partisans of Professor John Dewey—until a riot squad of policemen battered their way in to protect the M.M.'s by arresting the girl Communist speaker and the Jeffersonian.

Doremus had often "headed up" sports stories about "Madison Square Garden Prize Fights," but he did know that the place had nothing to do with Madison Square, from which it was a day's journey by bus, that it was decidedly not a garden, that the fighters there did not fight for "prizes" but for fixed partnership shares in the business, and that a good many of them did not fight at all.

The mammoth building, as in exhaustion Doremus crawled up to it, was entirely ringed with M.M.'s, elbow to elbow, all carrying heavy canes, and at every entrance, along every aisle, the M.M.'s were rigidly in line, with their officers galloping about, whispering orders, and bearing uneasy rumors like scared calves in a dipping-pen.

These past weeks hungry miners, dispossessed farmers, Carolina mill hands had greeted Senator Windrip with a flutter of worn hands beneath gasoline torches. Now he was to face, not the unemployed, for they could not afford fifty-cent tickets, but the small, scared side-street traders of New York, who considered themselves altogether superior to clodhoppers and mine-creepers, yet were as desperate as they. The swelling mass that Doremus saw, proud in seats or standing chin-to-nape in the aisles, in a reek of dampened clothes, was not romantic; they were people concerned with the tailor's goose, the tray of potato salad, the card of hooks-and-eyes, the leech-like mortgage on the owner-driven taxi, with, at home, the baby's diapers, the dull safety-razor blade, the awful rise in the cost of rump steak and kosher chicken. And a few, and very proud, civil-service clerks and letter carriers and superintendents of small apartment houses, curiously fashionable in seventeen-dollar ready-made suits and feebly stitched foulard ties, who boasted, "I don't know why all these bums go on relief. I may not be such a wiz, but let me tell you, even since 1929, I've never made less than two thousand dollars a year!"

Manhattan peasants. Kind people, industrious people, generous to their aged, eager to find any desperate cure for the sickness of worry over losing the job.

Most facile material for any rabble-rouser.

The historic rally opened with extreme dullness. A regimental band played the Tales from Hoffman barcarole with no apparent significance and not much more liveliness. The Reverend Dr. Hendrik Van Lollop of St. Apologue's Lutheran Church offered prayer, but one felt that probably it had not been accepted. Senator Porkwood provided a dissertation on Senator Windrip which was composed in equal parts of apostolic adoration of Buzz and of the uh-uh-uh's with which Hon. Porkwood always interspersed his words.

And Windrip wasn't yet even in sight.

Colonel Dewey Haik, nominator of Buzz at the Cleveland convention, was considerably better. He told three jokes, and an anecdote about a faithful carrier pigeon in the Great War which had seemed to understand, really better than many of the human soldiers, just why it was that the Americans were over there fighting for France against Germany. The connection of this ornithological hero with the virtues of Senator Windrip did not seem evident, but, after having sat under Senator Porkwood, the audience enjoyed the note of military gallantry.

Doremus felt that Colonel Haik was not merely rambling but pounding on toward something definite. His voice became more insistent. He began to talk about Windrip: "my friend—the one man who dares beard the monetary lion—the man who in his great and simple heart cherishes the woe of every common man as once did the brooding tenderness of Abraham Lincoln." Then, wildly waving toward a side entrance, he shrieked, "And here he comes! My friends—Buzz Windrip!"

The band hammered out "The Campbells Are Coming." A squadron of Minute Men, smart as Horse Guards, carrying long lances with starred pennants, clicked into the gigantic bowl of the auditorium, and after them, shabby in an old blue-serge suit, nervously twisting a sweat-stained slouch hat, stooped and tired, limped Berzelius Windrip. The audience leaped up, thrusting one another aside to have a look at the deliverer, cheering like artillery at dawn.

Windrip started prosaically enough. You felt rather sorry for him, so awkwardly did he lumber up the steps to the platform, across to the center of the stage. He stopped; stared owlishly. Then he quacked monotonously:

"The first time I ever came to New York I was a greenhorn—no, don't laugh, mebbe I still am! But I had already been elected a United States Senator, and back home, the way they'd serenaded me, I thought I was some punkins. I thought my name was just about as familiar to everybody as Al Capone's or Camel Cigarettes or Castoria—Babies Cry For It. But I come to New York on my way to Washington, and say, I sat in my hotel lobby here for three days, and the only fellow ever spoke to me was the hotel detective! And when he did come up and address me, I was tickled to death—I thought he was going to tell me the whole burg was pleased by my condescending to visit 'em. But all he wanted to know was, was I a guest of the hotel and did I have any right to be holding down a lobby chair permanently that way! And tonight, friends, I'm pretty near as scared of Old Gotham as I was then!"

The laughter, the hand-clapping, were fair enough, but the proud electors were disappointed by his drawl, his weary humility.

Doremus quivered hopefully, "Maybe he isn't going to get elected!"

Windrip outlined his too-familiar platform—Doremus was interested only in observing that Windrip misquoted his own figures regarding the limitation of fortunes, in Point Five.

He slid into a rhapsody of general ideas—a mishmash of polite regards to Justice, Freedom, Equality, Order, Prosperity, Patriotism, and any number of other noble but slippery abstractions.

Doremus thought he was being bored, until he discovered that, at some moment which he had not noticed, he had become absorbed and excited.

Something in the intensity with which Windrip looked at his audience, looked at all of them, his glance slowly taking them in from the highest-perched seat to the nearest, convinced them that he was talking to each individual, directly and solely; that he wanted to take each of them into his heart; that he was telling them the truths, the imperious and dangerous facts, that had been hidden from them.

"They say I want money—power! Say, I've turned down offers from law firms right here in New York of three times the money I'll get as President! And power—why, the President is the servant of every citizen in the country, and not just of the considerate folks, but also of every crank that comes pestering him by telegram and phone and letter. And yet, it's true, it's absolutely true I do want power, great, big, imperial power—but not for myself—no— for you!—the power of your permission to smash the Jew financiers who've enslaved you, who're working you to death to pay the interest on their bonds; the grasping bankers—and not all of 'em Jews by a darn sight!—the crooked labor-leaders just as much as the crooked bosses, and, most of all, the sneaking spies of Moscow that want you to lick the boots of their self-appointed tyrants that rule not by love and loyalty, like I want to, but by the horrible power of the whip, the dark cell, the automatic pistol!"

He pictured, then, a Paradise of democracy in which, with the old political machines destroyed, every humblest worker would be king and ruler, dominating representatives elected from among his own kind of people, and these representatives not growing indifferent, as hitherto they had done, once they were far off in Washington, but kept alert to the public interest by the supervision of a strengthened Executive.

It sounded almost reasonable, for a while.

The supreme actor, Buzz Windrip, was passionate yet never grotesquely wild. He did not gesture too extravagantly; only, like Gene Debs of old, he reached out a bony forefinger which seemed to jab into each of them and hook out each heart. It was his mad eyes, big staring tragic eyes, that startled them, and his voice, now thundering, now humbly pleading, that soothed them.

He was so obviously an honest and merciful leader; a man of sorrows and acquaint with woe.

Doremus marveled, "I'll be hanged! Why, he's a darn good sort when you come to meet him! And warm-hearted. He makes me feel as if I'd been having a good evening with Buck and Steve Perefixe. What if Buzz is right? What if—in spite of all the demagogic pap that, I suppose, he has got to feed out to the boobs—he's right in claiming that it's only he, and not Trowbridge or Roosevelt, that can break the hold of the absentee owners? And these Minute Men, his followers—oh, they were pretty nasty, what I saw out on the street, but still, most of 'em are mighty nice, clean-cut young fellows. Seeing Buzz and then listening to what he actually says does kind of surprise you—kind of make you think!"

But what Mr. Windrip actually had said, Doremus could not remember an hour later, when he had come out of the trance.

He was so convinced then that Windrip would win that, on Tuesday evening, he did not remain at the Informer office until the returns were all in. But if he did not stay for the evidences of the election, they came to him.

Past his house, after midnight, through muddy snow tramped a triumphant and reasonably drunken parade, carrying torches and bellowing to the air of "Yankee Doodle" new words revealed just that week by Mrs. Adelaide Tarr Gimmitch:

"The snakes disloyal to our Buzz We're riding on a rail, They'll wish to God they never was, When we get them in jail!

Chorus:

"Buzz and buzz and keep it up To victory he's floated. You were a most ungrateful pup, Unless for Buzz you voted.

"Every M.M. gets a whip To use upon some traitor, And every Antibuzz we skip Today, we'll tend to later."

"Antibuzz," a word credited to Mrs. Gimmitch but more probably invented by Dr. Hector Macgoblin, was to be extensively used by lady patriots as a term expressing such vicious disloyalty to the State as might call for the firing squad. Yet, like Mrs. Gimmitch's splendid synthesis "Unkies," for soldiers of the A.E.F., it never really caught on.

Among the winter-coated paraders Doremus and Sissy thought they could make out Shad Ledue, Aras Dilley, that philoprogenitive squatter from Mount Terror, Charley Betts, the furniture dealer, and Tony Mogliani, the fruit-seller, most ardent expounder of Italian Fascism in central Vermont.

And, though he could not be sure of it in the dimness behind the torches, Doremus rather thought that the lone large motorcar following the procession was that of his neighbor, Francis Tasbrough.

Next morning, at the Informer office, Doremus did not learn of so very much damage wrought by the triumphant Nordics—they had merely upset a couple of privies, torn down and burned the tailor-shop sign of Louis Rotenstern, and somewhat badly beaten Clifford Little, the jeweler, a slight, curly-headed young man whom Shad Ledue despised because he organized theatricals and played the organ in Mr. Falck's church.

That night Doremus found, on his front porch, a notice in red chalk upon butcher's paper:

You will get yrs Dorey sweethart unles you get rite down on yr belly and crawl in front of the MM and the League and the Chief and I

A friend

It was the first time that Doremus had heard of "the Chief," a sound American variant of "the Leader" or "the Head of the Government," as a popular title for Mr. Windrip. It was soon to be made official.

Doremus burned the red warning without telling his family. But he often woke to remember it, not very laughingly.

#hellsitesonlybookclub #bookblr #sinclair lewis

[ear-worthy]

6 Degrees Of Cats Podcast Launches Season Two: Witches, Whiskers & Whisky

Did you know that 29 percent of all households in the U.S. owned at least one cat? That is a potentially large audience for a cat podcast. 

 I understand that if you are a "dog" person you may not care. Or if you're fascinated by coy ponds or parrots, a cat podcast may not catch your interest.

 On Halloween, cats occupy an important mythological significance for this holiday. It is particularly appropriate, then, that I offer you 6 Degrees of Cats. The podcast bills itself as "the world's #1 (and only) cat-themed culture, history and science podcast."

Thankfully, for listeners, the show lives up to its boast.

The podcast launched in Spring 2023 and has returned this Fall on October 31 with its season debut episode, "Witches, Whiskers and Whisky: Re-introducing the Original Cat Lady of Halloween!"

This episode showcases an impressive panel of expert guests, including Dr. Megan Goodwin, host of hit religion and history podcast “Keeping It 101”; culinary historian and author of “Endangered Eating” Sarah Lohman; and Kings County Distillery founder and writer Colin Spoelman. 

Listeners have described 6 Degrees of Cats as "educational, thought-provoking, meditative AND fun" and praise host Amanda B.'s hosting as "...not only informative but highly engaging and entertaining". Tink Media's Lauren Passell named “6 Degrees of Cat” as a "...well-written and researched cat show…” and host Amanda B. as “...spunky and and playful with audio."

In this second season,"6 Degrees of Cats" will offer listeners an international lineup of leading voices in fields such as animal welfare, music, history, religion, and even pizza. Notable guests this season include “My Cat From Hell” star Jackson Galaxy, global rock sensation Malina Moye, Islam scholar andHead on History podcast host Ali Olomi, and founding pizza czar Anthony Falco.

Throughout the nine-episode season, new episodes will be released biweekly on all major podcast platforms and YouTube. There is a companion newsletter, "The Captain’s Log," for exclusive bonus content and opportunities, and listeners can subscribe.

6 Degrees of Cats has a lot of things going for it as an ear-worthy podcast. First, it's not a "cat lady" podcast where cat lovers, mostly women, tell super-cute stories about their cat Mittens. The show looks at cats in history, mythology, and culture. For example, I loved the April 25th episode about Vikings and cats. Norse folklore expert Terry Gunnell will fascinate listeners with his tales of cats and the Viking culture. 

Second, the podcast has an infectious intro music "Josie & The Pussycats" beat, and the show manipulates sound with purpose and to great effect. I personally commend any podcast that fully uses its greatest asset -- sound. Third, the host, "Captain Kitty" aka Amanda B. is terrific. She's smart, funny, informative, and has endless energy. Amanda B is a Korean American transracial adoptee based in Brooklyn, New York. She was selected into a cohort of 10 out of 18,000 applicants to go through Spotify's first Sound Up podcast accelerator for women and non-binary podcasters of color in 2018. As a musician, she has supported international performing artist Peaches onstage for The Samantha Bee Show’s 2017 Not the White House Correspondents Dinner broadcast, and recently released a sophomore full-length album with her rock ‘n’ roll bandLeathered. Amanda B consults for clients including The Podcast Academy to produce and facilitate community and professional development programs, and volunteers forOkaySo, a free mental health app for young people.   

I am a self-confessed cat person. I have two cats, Moogie, an extroverted cream-colored barn cat, and Tinker Bell, a Calico who chips like a "tortie." They both listen with me and give it four paws up.

What I like most about 6 Degrees of Cats is its scholarly intentions toward cats, the hosting skill of Amanda B, and the catchy friskiness of its audio.

#podcast #podcasting #cats #history

[maltrunners]

Glenburgie 10 Year (2007) SMWS 71.45 "Frisky as a kitten"

Review by: The Muskox In my quest to hit 1000 scotch reviews before my friend u/b1uepenguin, I poured one extra dram on Christmas. I’ve already reviewed 71.43 and loved it, but that was matured in a refill sherry cask. This one might be a bit more austere, and, uh, frisky. Distillery: Glenburgie. Bottler: The Scotch Malt Whisky Society. Region: Speyside. ABV: 60.3%, cask strength. Age: 10…

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#Glenburgie #Independent Bottling #Rated 75-79 #Scotch #Scotch Review #Single Malt #SMWS #Speyside #The Muskox #Whisky Review

[beyondthedram]

Where to buy Frisky Whiskey

Curious about where you can buy #FriskyWhiskey? Well, search no more with our #guide on the subject.

Frisky Whiskey is an incredible brand of whisky that’s flavoured with caramel and vanilla. It goes for the taste of a well-aged whisky over a youthful one, and that’s why it stands out. However, it can be hard to track down a bottle. This article explains where to buy Frisky Whiskey, so you can get your hands on a bottle as soon as humanly possible. Did you know Frisky Whiskey is the only black…

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#Frisky Whiskey

[gangigungi]

THE DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

Keeping record for 3000 years,

An archive on all the guests fears.

Paper,

Metal,

Carpet,

Wood,

Curtain,

Stone.

Who hasn’t trembled with fear in a shady hotel? [1]

The smell of coffee and that of whisky

Dance in a rhythm quite frisky.

[1] Serres, The Parasite

[meowmaids]

Yes yes God is in churches, and smiles of old friends but they were also in this steak sandwich that had garlic bread as the bread!!!

Like I’d never thought of that in my whole life but the Frisky Whisky bar did and I hope they know God dwells among them