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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

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Anonymous asked: Your cool literary takes on James Bond made me want to ask you this. I have to wear a tuxedo for a special occasion, can you give me some advice? I would welcome some style pointers from you as I respect your refined taste. What are your thoughts on men wearing the tuxedo? I think it’s a dying tradition because here in the US, where the tux was invented, it has all but disappeared as the choice of evening wear for any social events. Great blog posts but I only wish you would post more.

Thank you for your kind words about my most recent posts on Ian Fleming’s James Bond and also generally liking what I post. I too wish I could post more but unfortunately my time is taken up with the reality of work and other things even during these tough times of the Covid pandemic. But when I get a moment to myself I do enjoy posting as a way to detox from the pressures of work. I appreciate your continued support.

I got this question before Christmas so the thought had occurred to me that you were asking because you had a decision to make over the festive period. If so, I am sorry for tardy lateness of my response. But I trust what little advice I can give will help you in the future.

I always remember the maxim by the fashion designer, Tom Ford, who said, “Dressing well is a form of good manners.”

To me, for a man to wear black tie (or tuxedo) is the height of good manners. It used to be the case that every gentleman had one and it was perhaps the first suit to pack into a suitcase. Perhaps one of the few times I was ever envious of my older brothers as men was accompanying them with my father the first time they went to get fitted for a bespoke black tie at Henry Poole & Co - the Savile Row tailors that had been the regular choice of my grandfather and father for their clothing attire. Although both siblings later gravitated to other Savile Row bespoke tailors as they got older, that first Henry Poole black tie lasted them for a long time. The whole ritual around taking measurements took on a hushed sacred tone of a liturgy. Looking back it felt like a rite of passage for them as they passed from boyhood to adulthood.

The choice of wearing a tuxedo epitomises the desire - among people of means and social standing - to be fresh, clean and as attractive as possible when meeting on evening social events and attending high spirits affairs. This tradition was maintained also with the beginning of the use of the automobile, when there was no practical justification.

Before the Second World War, tuxedos and tails were still considered the only appropriate clothing for all the elegant social evenings. However, after the war, the traditional suit, or the work suit, began to be accepted more on informal evening and daytime occasions, and so the use of the tuxedo was limited to just formal evening gatherings only.

The tuxedo was completely remade in disco's image by the 1970s. A young, revolutionary generation looked at the conservative styling of the tuxedo and threw out nearly everything, keeping only the vague silhouette. Huge, floppy bow ties, colourful patterned jackets, shirts with ruffles and lace, and trousers that looked more like bell-bottoms became much more prevalent. The typical tuxedo in the '70s usually had at least two of these elements, if not all of them.

By the 1980s, a return to classic styling had thankfully re-emerged and tuxedos started looking more conservative.

By the late 2000s, as dress codes became diluted and misunderstood, formal-wear took another hit. Business-casual was the predominate dress code of the workplace and shiny black suits with matching ties had nearly supplanted traditional black-tie. Coloured dress shirts also began to trend in this era. Those who continued to wear traditional black-tie made it as simple as possible to match the casual aesthetic that a new generation preferred.

These days I think more and more young men are adopting the black-tie styles of the '30s and '40s. Midnight blue tuxedos have even made a comeback. I think high quality period dramas like "Mad Men" are at least part of the reason for the shift, with men growing nostalgic for a bygone era of neater, more crisp look.

People forget, as often as they do, that the original purpose of this elegant clothing was to replace the suit worn all day, allowing men to leave behind the dirt and smell of a day spent on horseback, not to bring it around the dining table.

These days the emphasis on informality has made it easier to make excuses for men (and women) to dress down to a street level of casual indifference (laziness) that I find aesthetically displeasing.

Moreover I find it a tad disrespectful to the sense of occasion and also an unkind ingratitude to the efforts made by the host or hostess in organising such an event. For those who think wearing black tie is a sign of social superiority, then respectfully they have not understood its true purpose. In following the dress code, it is in effect a sign of respect towards your fellow guests, as it has been put in place to ensure attendees are on the same level.

The origin of the tuxedo is a controversial subject of conversation in some circles. I know in the US it’s common to assume the tux was invented there but many have pointed out it was in England that its origins lie. Some fashion historians trace it back to the 17th Century as a tailless ‘smoking jacket’. In England during the 17th century, after dinner the gentlemen might put on a smoking jacket and retreat to a den or smoking room. Indeed in the beginning it was believed that the purpose of the ’smoking jacket’ ensured that their evening coat would not be burned by ashes nor absorb the smell of tobacco which the women found distasteful.

However these days there remain two theories about the first ever proper tuxedo that we would recognise today. In the first theory the tuxedo was invented by Pierre Lorillard IV of New York City according to one school of thought. Pierre Lorillard's family were wealthy tobacco magnates who owned country property in Tuxedo Park, just outside of New York City. At a formal ball, held at the Tuxedo Club in October 1886, the young Lorillard wore a new style of formal wear for men that he designed himself. He named his tailless black jacket the tuxedo after Tuxedo Park. The tuxedo caught on and became fashionable as formal wear for men.

The second theory, according to English clothing historian James Laver, has it that the idea of wearing black for evening wear was first introduced by the 19th Century British writer, Edward Bulwer-Lyttonn who wrote in 1828 that "people must be very distinguished to look well in black." It was only until later in the century that a village resident of Tuxedo Park, New York, James Brown Potter vacationed in England in the summer of 1886. Potter and his wife, Cora were introduced to the Prince of Wales {who later became King Edward VII} at a court ball in London. Potter asked the Prince for advice on formal dress. The Prince sent Potter to his own Saville Row tailor, Henry Poole & Co. Potter was fitted with a short black jacket and black tie that was unlike the formal tails with white tie that was worn in the United States for formal occasions.

The new tailless formal wear was said to have been designed by the Prince of Wales. It was Edward VII who in 1865 commissioned to his tailor Henry Poole to create a short blue evening jacket (midnight blue), to be used for informal evenings in his country estate of Sandringham. The Prince and his tailor drew inspiration from the British military uniforms of the time, which used short jackets with black ties.

This is where the two origins meet. James Brown Potter took the design back to the Tuxedo Club, where Pierre Lorillard modified it, named it, and made it popular during the Autumn ball. And so from that blessed bespoke collaboration between the Prince and Henry Poole & Co was born the ancestor of what everyone call today as tuxedos, the English ‘dinner jacket’ and the Americans ‘tuxedo’ - because of its original word spread starting from the homonymous village of Tuxedo Park.

Whatever the exact truth of its origin, black tie remains the evening attire par excellence. I’m flattered that anyone should ask me for style tips, especially regarding grooming and clothing for men.

I like to think that the true purpose of a man wearing black tie was to help the man show the humility to be an unassuming gentleman in effortlessly blending into the background so that his female companion could shine more by his side. A man in black tie was a gentleman who stood steadfastly there with an outstretched arm to make women feel more beautiful, but also to reassure them that all is right in the world.

If you get the opportunity to wear black tie then do please take it. The fact that you desire to wear one is already a great choice that makes you stand out from the loud bling-bling hoi polloi. But please don’t confuse wearing a black tie with snobbery. It isn’t, it’s just good manners. Manners maketh man as they say and so it’s not something one is born with but can only be learned. And don’t confuse fashion for style. The two are very different. Fashion is what you copy from others and style is what you express about yourself. Don’t conform to the passing fancies of the day (the loud, the garish, the attention seeking), or as Coco Chanel put it, ‘elegance is refusal’.

Always remember that style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.

In theory, the elegance of the tuxedo stems from its simplicity - it’s an ultimate classic, the one outfit one doesn’t mess around with. In practice, many men find the rules governing this suit and its accoutrements to be annoyingly complex and complexly annoying.

My basic rule for men is ‘kiss’ - Keep It Simple, Stupid.

Rule 1: Buy, don’t rent

It’s better if the black tie that you have is yours, and not rented. For one thing it’s a question of comfortability. You’ll be comfortable in your skin if you’re more comfortable in a suit that actually fits. Secondly, a rental doesn’t mean it’s good quality. The fabric is an important consideration.

In an ideal world you should get a bespoke tailored black tie made - ideally from any of the excellent tailors on Savile Row. But not all tailors are equal. Henry Poole & Co would be the traditional choice. I know for my older brothers they prefer Gieves & Hawkes and Huntsman because they have a more military draped cut, traditional but not stuffy.

In the long run it’s a once in a lifetime worthy investment if you take in consideration the cost of each potential rental along with how many times you would be wearing one throughout the coming years.

But I understand for many that may be an impossible proposition. The next best thing is to get a less expensive ‘made-to-measure’ black tie which is an increasing and welcome avenue for men to still have a suit or black tie made to fit them.

I would hesitate recommending buying off the peg because many high street brands have a rather relaxed attitude to tailoring and quality. If you must buy off the peg or rent then make sure the fabric is wool.

Rule 2: Black or Midnight blue and no other colour

Your black tie should be, to state the obvious, black. Not only is it the correct choice, it is the stylish choice. You can never go wrong with black. But if you’re feeling a tad adventurous go with Midnight blue. Midnight blue, being blacker than black, is not merely an exception to the rule but an exceptional choice for shimmering with distinction under the moonlight.

But what about white dinner jacket so beloved of James Bond or Indiana Jones? Yes, quite.

Traditionally, white was worn in place of a traditional black suit to deflect heat. This made it the perfect alternative for black-tie events that were held in the afternoon, during the Summer or at sea. The white jacket variation of black tie began was adopted in the early 1930s as a way for well-heeled vacationers to dress formally in the tropical heat without having to endure the heavy and dark-coloured fabrics that were standard for evening wear at the time.

While dinner suits have become much more lightweight since then, the light-coloured jacket has remained a popular warm-weather alternative to its ebony progenitor. However, without a proper understanding of its form and function, the white dinner jacket easily becomes a flashy gimmick. Subtlety and restraint are the keys to the successful execution of this classic variation.

Avoid other colours like the plague. I do notice from time to time in the shop windows here in Paris (as well as London and elsewhere) that some menswear boutiques display bright coloured dinner jackets.

Usually it’s the Italians (like Canali and Brunello Cucinelli who give in to their worst Italian impulses to show off their peacock flair) and others who really should know better (yes, the wine red velvet dinner jacket is very fetching but it belongs by log side fire, a cigar, and a cognac, so thank you Tom Ford). I even think some of them look nice and charming but it’s not black tie.

Besides a non-traditional black tie will be much more vulnerable to the whims of passing fashion where as traditional unfussy black tie can give peace of mind that it will never go out of style and thus will last longer.

Rule 3: Put yourself in a straight jacket

The first thing to decide is single or double-breasted and number of buttons. A safe and elegant option is one-button single breast which is both timeless and classical. Two buttons are fine, worn with the lower button undone. Double-breasted styles of any button configuration are also appropriate, but keep in mind that double-breasted jackets add some ‘bulk’ to the body. So take a hard look at your body type before you decide which one best flows off your shoulders. The buttons should be fabric-covered.

Hand in hand with the button style goes the lapel. The classic, formal option is peak lapel. Shawl lapel is somewhat less formal, but perfectly suitable. Shawl has become very popular, especially in slim versions. Notch lapels are frequently seen on off-the-rack tuxedos, but this is a more casual style, which should be reserved for suits. My preference would be to go for the peak lapel but make them sufficiently wide and not too slim.

The jacket was traditionally without vents, to keep seams (i.e. details) to a minimum, but double vents are also acceptable, providing comfort and movement. The pockets should be straight piped (slit without flap) and there should be a breast pocket.

Rule 4: Trousers, brace yourself

The trousers are ideally made without pleats or cuffs, with straight pockets following the side seam, in order to make them less visible. Black tie attire should never be worn with belts, so skip the belt loops. Traditionally one would use suspenders (braces) as it straightens the body shape as well as holds up the trousers. Choose black or white braces in fabric, rather than in leather, or in any case they should be matching the colour of the tuxedo. But I should note that side-fasteners are also a convenient option for some flexibility in the waist. The front closure should be clip-only, avoiding the button. Classically, the trousers will have a satin silk stripe covering the outer side seam on each leg, matching the lapel facing. This is a lovely detail, but nowadays sometimes considered old-fashioned. For this reason alone I would insist on it.

Rule 5: Don’t get shirty

The shirt should be plain white cotton, with a few distinct features. It should always have a ‘bib’ running down to front, which provides starchy stiffness (i.e. a higher level of formality). I’ve seen shirts in which vertical pleats in matching fabric are designed. I think they look plain and boring. Similarly if someone suggests to you a fly-front placket panel that covers the buttons and leaves a clean look then walk away immediately. Both these kind of shirts are for the lazy because they both want to avoid having to deal with those troublesome studs where the buttons would be.

I would advise always make sure your shirt has a starch like ‘bib’ that is attached made up of a textured pique fabric (pin dots), usually called Marcella. They look so much more elegant and classy.

Many would say that collar can be a normal Kent variety or a wing collar, which has little points turned down where the collar wings would be, but otherwise exposing the collar band. I personally think a wing collar is subject to whims of fashion and something best left in a 1920s set movie. Some can wear them very well (see Paul Newman in The Sting) but it depends on the girth of your neck. I think the wing collar can portray a man’s neck in an unflattering way.

I think the normal Kent collar is cleaner and classical, and it will never go out of style. The Duke of Windsor made the Kent collar hugely popular in his prime.

The cuffs should be double (French cuff), to accommodate cufflinks.

Many people also forego the buttons on evening shirts, instead leaving holes where you can attach studs (often matched with the cufflinks). If you are going to do that make sure that they’re mother of pearl studs.

Rule 6: Accessories are in the details

The shirt should not be visible at the waist, which calls for a something covering the gap between trousers and jacket, unless you opted for a double-breasted jacket. Traditionally, this is non-negotiable, but these days you often see people wearing no waist covering. My advice is unless you’re wearing a double breasted black tie (for which there is no need to wear a cummerbund) then always wear a cummerbund with a single breasted black tie.

You either use a cummerbund matching the bow tie (a cummerbund folds upwards, for convenient opera ticket storage) or a waistcoat. Please don’t commit the faux pas of making your cummerbund a colour other than black. Often people match their bow ties to their cummerbunds in garish bright colours which just defeats the object of why one wears black tie in the first place.

For the waistcoat, there are a few style options. Often, black tie waistcoats will have a rounded (horseshoe) cut with shawl lapels but a regular cut waistcoat is also acceptable. The key is to go simple and match the jacket fabric, facing and buttons. The back can be wool or lining, where we’d recommend the latter, to make the ensemble cooler. A stylish fob watch with chain would be a nice little detail that one can drop without telegraphing it loudly.

Consider having a white silk pocket square. You can fold it any way you like, but the so-called straight presidential fold is simple and sharp looking.

Socks must be knee length. Make them black. Again, the principle is one of clean lines and elegance. Disruptions below the trouser leg - stripes, shins, whatever - threaten to ruin the whole effect.

Shoes. Your shoes must always shine. This is one detail many men neglect. The shoes should be black patent leather. My preference would be for high quality Oxfords. I know some purists would insist that only opera pumps walk the one true path, but it is obvious on its face that those precious ribboned things, also called court shoes, are not completely in step with modern life. I know too that bit-toe loafers (thank you Tom Ford) are also more of the modern rage but I find them a little effeminate. So while I don’t see it as a style concession I do think Oxfords shined to a high sheen is the modern and best choice I would opt for a gentleman to go for. To me being comfortable in your shoes is also an equal and valid consideration.

Cufflinks and studs should be simple and classic, luxury metals and mother-of-pearl or onyx insets are nice touches. I know some punt for more personalised cuff links - like their regimental or college or some other institutional affiliation - and there is nothing wrong with that but I am on the fence about this. Generally I would leave that for your day time business suits. Showing off defeats the ethos of wearing the black tie in the first place.

Rule 7: ‘Sprezzatura’ up your bow tie

‘Sprezzatura’ is a gorgeous Italian word - first appearing in Baldassare Castiglione's The Book of the Courtier in 1528 - that means a disheveled elegance by way of studied carelessness. This perfectly sums up how one should wear the centre piece of the black tie - the bow tie.

Don’t be taken in by the very modern fad - thank you Hollywood and modern music pop stars - of wearing long neck ties (even if they are in black) as part of your black tie attire. Just don’t. It doesn’t matter how swish you may look you still are a prat for not dressing in real black tie.

Plain black silk and entirely self-tied. That’s a real bow tie.

Anyone and his dog can always identify a pre-tied bow tie by the fact that it's just a little too studied. Perfectly straight, perfectly symmetrical, and perfectly balanced. Just like plastic surgery, clip-on bow ties just look too perfect to be real. It is one of the most obvious signs that you're a style amateur.

Avoid pre-tied bow ties (and its ugly sibling the stick-on bow tie) like the plague....unless you’re a child who is unable to tie his own bow tie. But what if you don’t know how to tie a real bow tie? It’s never too late to learn. It’s the same level of difficulty as tying your shoes. If you don’t know ask someone who does know. If you’re buying a bespoke tailored black tie the tailor would most definitely show you how to do it. Easy peasy.

Remember bow ties are supposed to be imperfect and worn. That’s what makes the wearer authentic.

Perfect symmetry is not a goal worth pursuing here. Being an elegant gentleman is.

And that’s it. Those would be my informal rules for any man wanting to be a gentleman wearing black tie for a special occasion.

Thanks for your question.

#question #ask #black tie #tuxedo #dinner jacket #menswear #fashion #style #bespoke #savile row #gentlemen #culture #personal #henry poole #bow tie #monarchy #edward VII #etiquette

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moss-eyes · 4 years ago

Note

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

By Edgar Allan Poe - Published 1847

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thank you anon for the freshman year flashbacks

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peanut-butter-and-kelly · 4 years ago

Note

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

By Edgar Allan Poe - Published 1847

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

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

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

#ask #sorry for the delay #long post

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aromantic-goldfishdeactivated202 · 4 years ago

Note

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

By Edgar Allan Poe - Published 1847

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

#legit very confused but not angry I’m just ?#I vaguely knew the plot of this before bc I watched a YouTube video about it but 🤷 this sure was an ask to wake up to #mads asks #long post

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years ago

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COVID-19, Negligent Manslaughter, and a Timeline of Tory Indifference

“I feel sorry for Boris Johnson. He is doing the best he can in the situation and I don’t think anybody else could have done a better job.”

[exhibit A: a gem somebody that I’m Facebook friends with reposted earlier]

It’s a sentiment that I cannot quite wrap my head around. I sit here hopeless and furious and trying to hold back tears because it’s been almost a year since England first went into lockdown and yet here we are, almost 100,000 dead, in an even worse position than we were before whilst other countries begin to slowly return to normality. It is clear to me who is to blame for this, however there are a large proportion of people who don’t want to “politicise” the actions of the PRIME MINISTER with regards to his approach towards handling a virus sweeping the country he GOVERNS.

Typically, these kind of posts making the rounds on social media will be accompanied by some kind of photo of Boris Johnson looking somber as if to suggest that the way things have played out were beyond his control and that he is some kind of broken man beleaguered by the suffering he has, despite good intentions, inadvertently caused.

This one in particular of Johnson with his head in his hands is a staple. In reality, this is a photo taken back in 2018 whilst he was receiving flack from party members for comparing Theresa May to a suicide bomber (for her handling of Brexit, ironically) as well as from the papers due to his rumoured (now also proven, in a completely non-surprising turn of events, to be true) affair with his former aide, Carrie Symonds.

So let’s shut this narrative-where we should feel for Boris because he’s doing his best, and apparently a better job than anybody else could’ve done in his situation- down right here. In a supposedly developed country with one of the world’s largest economies, if we’re talking by proportion, our COVID-19 death toll is up there with the worst of them. It seems that every other state figurehead (bar a small handful), and I mean almost every single one of them, is doing a better job. People love to throw figures out there about how densely populated we are to combat damning statistics as if we haven’t got just as many factors playing to our advantage, as if it’s unfair to compare our response to Germany’s or Japan’s or Singapore’s (both of which are far more densely populated) or New Zealand’s or Vietnam’s, but we are an ISLAND with world-leading technology and infrastructure and healthcare equipment and professionals and a relatively high standard of living. In what world is almost 70,000 dead in a country with abundant time and means to prepare a response reflective of said country’s leaders doing a good job?

Apparently we’re supposed to believe that Johnson feels some sense of moral responsibility for this astronomical failure. A man who refuses to acknowledge the multiple children he has fathered outside of his marriages and who has had repeatedly engaged in affairs and one-night stands throughout said marriages. A man who continued to cheat whilst his most recent wife was receiving treatment for cervical cancer, for fuck’s sake. Yep, a real stand-up guy.

So where does this idea that Johnson must feel remorseful for this catastrophe come from? We haven’t seen a second of remorse or a hint of accountability for the lives lost from him nor any members of his cabinet. That much is really no surprise; I have this hypothesis, and it’s not a stretch, that these people do not have an ounce of empathy in their bodies. These ridiculously privileged, privately-educated individuals who have had everything handed to them their entire lives simply cannot put themselves in the shoes of the average working person and that is the problem. Unable to recognise that what distinguishes them from most others is little more than the luck of being born into wealth and the abundance of recourses and connections that has entailed throughout their lives, they see us as beneath them-as less intelligent, less driven, and thus less deserving of the status and respect they enjoy. They see us as a bunch of whining, unmotivated idiots who do not recognise the chokehold they have over our media nor the fact that everything they do is a desperate grab to keep money and power within the hands of a select group of people, an exclusive members club from which most of us are barred (just take a simple Google search and watch Jacob Rees-Mogg’s opinion of the Grenfell victims or the buried Johnson speech where he talks about how inequality is essential). They know that we will squabble amongst ourselves about who is to blame rather than wising up to the truth which is that every decision they make is fuelled by cronyism and the inability to make and follow through with difficult choices, the pandemic being no exception. The supposedly self-made elite see the life of the average working class person as having far less value than their own, and their parties actions over the last 10 years have made that very clear.

It was in December 2019 that the first case of COVID-19 was declared to the World Health Organisation and on March the 11th that they announced they considered it as a pandemic. In Wuhan, people were dying of pneumonia in their clusters. And what was Boris Johnson doing in this time? Well for starters, here in the UK we didn’t even have a pandemic committee-Johnson had scrapped it six months before. If years of benefits cuts and defunding of the NHS in favour of funding nuclear weapon programs, keeping British troops on other people’s lands, and tax breaks for the mega corporations that donate to their party didn’t convince you that the Conservatives have little regard for human life, them getting rid of this committee-whilst a pandemic has been declared year after year as the greatest threat to mankind-should have been the first sign of trouble. As if that wasn’t enough, he also skipped five of the COBRA (meetings are made up of a cross-departmental committee put together to respond to national emergencies and PMs routinely attend those pertaining to crises on the scale of COVID-19) meetings addressing the situation. Whilst other countries were closing their borders and stocking up on PPE, Johnson and his ministers were selling PPE abroad and simply telling people to wash their hands to the length of the tune of happy birthday. Their only policy was one of “herd immunity”, which was in fact not a policy but just an abandonment of their party’s public duty disguised as one, intentionally obfuscated with pseudoscientific jargon.

Even thinking the absolute worst of politicians you would hope that when it came to the point where the UK’s non-response to COVID-19 was becoming an international disgrace, Johnson and his ministers would take proper protective measures if only to save face. But when they eventually seemed to do so, it became clear that the priority was not the safety of the ordinary people affected by the virus. Outsourcing their test and traces system to companies such as Serco, Sitel, Deloitte and G4S rather than public health services, Conservative ministers could not resist attempting to line the pockets of their friends and benefactors in the process. According to the Guardian, instead of reaching out to the experts or using publicly funded services to handle COVID containment measures, the Conservative party has awarded a disgusting £1.5 BILLION WORTH of contracts to businesses with explicit connections to its MPs and donors, the majority of which lack any relative experience of the tasks they’ve been trusted to carry out. Unsurprisingly, the National Audit office found that when awarding contracts relating to the production of COVID-19 protection measures and treatment needs, there was a “high-priority lane” for suppliers referred by senior politicians and officials; companies with a political referral were 10 times more likely to end up winning a government contract than those without. On top of this, it is not hard to draw a link between the late initiation of lockdown measures and preemptive openings of pubs and restaurants against scientific advice to the interests of frequent donors such as Wetherspoons owner Tim Martin. Even if one chooses to ignore the blatantly obvious correlation between the owners of the businesses whose profits were prioritised over safety concerns and the number of those owners who donate to the Conservatives, party officials at the very least were reluctant to follow the lead of many other countries in financing furlough schemes themselves and instead avoided this responsibility by using loose lockdown measures to leave it down to the discretion of small business owners, who couldn’t themselves afford to furlough staff, whether or not to stay open.

Time and time again, as the government flounder and fuck about, favouring personal desires to keep their powerful, high-paying jobs and to satisfy the corporate allies who make this possible, blame has been shifted from the public to care homes to NHS workers and back again whilst we, the public, make the biggest sacrifices of all under the illusion that we were being guided out of this pandemic rather than lied to and thrown under the bus. Whilst the elite continue to pick and choose what rules apply to them, it’s students and the elderly and the vulnerable paying the fines and scrabbling to afford basic living costs and hoping that they don’t lose someone dear to them.

Don’t get me wrong, a large proportion of the public have contributed to the spread too with their selfishness and entitlement and the arrogance it takes to develop a sudden refusal to acknowledge basic science from experts who have studied in the field their whole lives so that they can justify their need to go to the pub (speaking of, it’s absolutely HILARIOUS how many “mental health advocates” are suddenly coming out of the woodworks on football avi Twitter after they’ve spent years calling people on mental health Twitter attention seekers). And don't get me wrong, there were inevitably going to be casualties of this pandemic. But it didn't have to spread to this many people, and there didn’t have to be so many deaths due to a lack of preparation, and this wouldn’t have been the case if it weren’t for the inherent apathy of the Conservative party towards the lives of people of lesser status than them, the reluctance to put those lives before party interests. I wish I felt like there was an end in sight, I wish there was some positive takeaway from all of this, but even now, we continue to see corners being cut with the vaccine lauded as our saving grace and anti-maskers gathering outside hospitals to chant about how “oppressive” it is to be urged to wear a bit of cloth over their faces for the short periods of time in which they leave their houses and all I can think of is the selfishness that runs like poison through our country. It makes me sick and leaves me to question desperately where we go from here. I don’t like unanswered questions, I don’t like feeling politically directionless, and I don’t like the growing fear I have about the state of the world which seems to intensify every single day. In the UK at least, it’s starting to feel like nothing will ever change-we’re told we live in a democracy and yet mainstream media is owned by the people whose interest is to keep their Conservative friends in power. The stronghold they have over print media in particular allows them to continually get away with smearing and defaming every person who comes along and seems to want to actually help ordinary people, without being challenged, to the point where the only kind of “opposition” we’re left with promises nothing but a big boss approved tactical reshuffling of the status quo (which they call “electability”); it doesn’t feel like democracy when the majority of the country are being fed misleading information and convinced against voting in their best interests.

This is the result of that. The state we find ourselves in is the inevitable result of being manipulated into helping the elite build their protective wall whilst the rest of us scrabble to get in and step on each others heads along the way, the people inside shouting over that it’s those even more vulnerable than ourselves that are taking our places. Outside the wall, the earth is falling from beneath our feet, and instead of throwing over the ropes to help us out, the people inside are stockpiling them so they can secure their firm place above ground and then later flog the rest. How many more people have to die before we reach some kind of widespread realisation of that? Where do we go from here and what do we do? Well for one, we can stop spreading those god-fucking-awful textposts on Facebook and get our heads out of our arses. Wear our masks over and wear them over our fucking noses. Have some fucking consideration for others. Don’t wait til an issue affects you personally to give a fuck about it. AND START HOLDING THE FUCKING PRIME MINISTER AND HIS MINISTERS AND HIS ENTIRE PARTY AS WELL AS THE OPPOSITION MPS THAT HAVE SAT BY THE SIDELINES AND ALLOWED THIS TO GO ON WITHOUT PROTEST ACCOUNTABLE. That would be a good start.

I’m so tired. Things didn’t need to be this way, and yet because of the selfishness of the few, thousands upon thousands are dead. It’s not about “throwing around blame”, it’s not about “throwing around” anything, it’s about expecting a leader to do his best to protect lives. If that is “throwing blame”, let’s get things clear, I have no issue with hurtling it torpedo style at those who handed out a death sentence to so many in this country rather than do anything that might compromise their own privilege. Honestly, pass me the shovel after and I’ll happily bury the wreckage in the ground. Who wants to join?:-)

#rant #politics #anti capitalism #anticapitalist #covid-19 #covid #england #labour #socialism #fuck the tories #fuck the torys #fuck boris #rant post

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caiuscassiuss · 6 years ago

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An Event | Richkid! Jaehyun

(A Paradiso Epilogue)

Description: You and Jaehyun aren’t exactly society’s favorite couple, but you’re a couple, in love, and that’s all that matters.

Genre: fluff WC: 1.1k Warnings: Mentions of adultery, mentions of rehab

(A/N: For the follower milestone event! This ficlet was requested and based on my 2018 summer fic Paradiso. Thank you so so much @won-markiepooh-woo for your excellent beta-ing skills. This ficlet takes place after the events and epilogue of Paradiso, where Jaehyun and Y/N are both happily married and doing rich people things :))

Miss Ada Thomsworth stared surreptitiously around the canopied tent of the Royal Enclosure, sipping on a mimosa while the fans hum noisily in the background. This is the 3rd year the young socialite has attended the Royal Ascot, a premier racing event in the UK, with her second husband, Oliver. Well, soon to be second ex-husband.

Oliver is far too occupied with trying the curry flavors of the MP’s (members of Parliament), who were currently gathered at the event. None of them look very pleased at the weedy young man trying to lobby for a tax bill, especially when they were trying to relax and bet on the horses.

Ada sighed in defeat, as she drummed her fingers on top of the table. Dear, sweet Oli was easy to lure into marriage. But, despite being the son of a major British financier, he was socially inept and prone to stepping on people’s feet: physically and figuratively. Soon enough, Oliver would offend the Queen and her social standing would be ruined.

Unfortunately, the Royal Ascot was no place to go husband-hunting. With the scrutiny of the unforgiving press and the presence of British royalty, Ada could not use her feminine wiles to sink her claws into some unfortunate, loaded bloke.

However, cheers from the entrance of the tent drew the beautiful blonde woman’s attention. Her liddedneyes caught sight of a well-built young man: tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in the mandatory morning suit. He greeted Henry Abbott and his Korean wife, Soo Ah, while distinguished members of the peerage swarmed to greet him. She caught a glimpse of his brown hair and pale skin, paired with high cheekbones, and the realization clicked into place.

Jung Jaehyun. An unusual, old money foreigner.

Unlike the nouveau-riche Chinese or Koreans that swarmed the UK after the 2000’s, Jaehyun’s family has been well-connected to the British society since the 70’s. His aunt, Soo Ah, married Henry Abbott in 1987, whom was an Earl very close to the royal family. Jaehyun was even more well-connected after attending Eton and then Oxford, consorting with the global elite that previously attended these prestigious schools.

Ada could remember the gossip that surrounded his first marriage with that damnable Carolina Xue. They married far too quickly and privately. She wondered if the bitch had gotten pregnant with Jaehyun, but, after 2 years and no baby, she had to conclude her suspicions weren’t true.

However, she wouldn’t have been surprised. Carolina had been a type-A bitch in finishing school and none of the truly respectable sort liked her. There were vicious, vicious rumors that wondered how someone like Carolina Xue snatched up someone like Jung Jaehyun.

Then they divorced.

The blonde socialite truly could not remember what had happened during the time since she was in a “medical spa” for rehab. Later, she’d heard Carolina’s parents were furious, demanding a ridiculous amount for alimony. Meanwhile, Jaehyun’s conservative Korean parents were still not on proper speaking terms with him.

It’s a shame, really. Ada would’ve tried to snatch him up, if his parents were still talking to him and he hadn’t married again so quickly.

Ah, there she is. Y/N L/N. Ada’s red lips turned up in a snarl as she stared at the woman’s beautiful peach-colored tea dress that wrapped around her shape like a second skin. To the socialite, in many ways, Y/N was worse than Carolina. Ada remembered her from boarding school as well. She was wicked smart, charming, and rich; yet, she never tried to be wanted--unlike Ada, the forgettable daughter of a minor Baron. She’s constantly had to grasp and cling onto what she wanted, while Y/N easily floated through life.

Secretly, she felt a sort of vindictive glee when the couple were completely ostracized by the conservative, old biddies that ruled the social scene. Those old women did not invite the newly-wed couple to many events and today’s Royal Ascot was the first major social event of the season they had attended since they first got married. It was only by the grace of his Uncle and assorted colleagues that he was sponsored for a membership with the Royal Enclosure.

“My god, is that the Jung boy and that L/N girl? Showing their faces here?” Ada’s seatmate, Oliver’s mother, sneered as she ate her 4th scone of the morning.

“Dear me, it is! Look, Carolina was and still is an utter cow, but that kind of thing is simply not done. What happened to the days where you worked together? Kids these days! Hmph! They seem to divorce at the drop of a hat!” another woman nearby commented, waving her fan. As Ada felt their eyes on her, she felt herself sinking into her seat.

Jaehyun’s aunt, Soo Ah, overheard the comments and rolled her eyes. What sort of issue did they have? Jaehyun and Y/N were educated at good schools and had impeccable manners. Both were from respectable families with clean reputations. Besides that, they were both deeply in love.

A grin lifted her lips, as she spotted Jaehyun speaking softly to his new wife with secret smiles on their faces. Perhaps the two didn’t quite have the overwhelming atmosphere that usually surrounded newly-wed couples, but anyone who had been in love themselves could feel their deep affection in their bones.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Jaehyun was not, in fact, speaking words of affection in his beloved’s ear.

“God, you don’t know what you do to me in that dress of yours. When I lift your prim and proper dress, will your underwear be prim and proper as well?” Jaehyun growled softly, his lips brushing the edge of your ear.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks and and bite your tongue. “Not now, Jaehyun. Prince William is literally right there!”

He chuckled softly, moving a strong arm around your waist. “You forget he attended Eton like me, sweetheart. An Etonian would never blab on another fellow. He wouldn’t mind.”

You sighed in defeat and moved your head to lean against his shoulder, the boutunniere’s fresh scent wafting to your nose. “You and your mysterious English ways, dear husband.”

Under your hands, you could feel his toned chest rumble in laughter. “You love me for them, dear wife. Now, stop avoiding my question.”

You lifted your head up and grinned far too smugly. “Who says I’m wearing any underwear?”

#neowritingsnet #nctwriters #jaehyun #jaehyun x reader #nct x reader #jaehyun imagine #nct fluff #nct #nct 127 #nct imagine #jaehyun fluff

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karinahimed · 4 years ago

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Rave Culture and Style

Rave culture began in the 1980s and the term "rave party". Rave parties were all-night parties with exceptionally talented DJ's that played mostly techno and trance music. Not only were these celebrations, but it was also famous for its involvement in medication such as cocaine, ecstasy, ketamine, and 2c-b. These parties are full of ravers, sporting-led gloves, equalizer t-shirts, el shirts, glow sticks, and led lights. It would help if you were well prepared with the proper rave equipment or rave wear for any rave party.

Many ravers take part in mild oriented dances during the celebration, also called glow sticking, glow stringing, gloving, and light displays. Other kinds of dances consist of microlights, led lights, and blinking strobe lights. Many ravers enjoy buying the new finger lights with a blue, red, green, and yellow light on every finger that produces a mini party in your palms. But still, to this day, glow sticks and LED's are used for dancing effects because most ravers take part in open-air raves also called techno parades that are held in the dark. These parties are stored in the dark as everyone wants to show off their led gloves, dance, and glow sticks.

The rave scene has changed significantly since the underground evolution of British warehouses. However, one thing is sure; it carries a similar message of youth subculture immunity against official mature parental and social authority. North American ravers have been compared to the hippies from the sixties era and the eighties' distinguishable new wave. This is due to the frequent interest in non-violence and free love of self-pleasuring and songs. It signifies losing of mind and body expectations at the multitude of both minded people against whatever culture expects of someone. This begs the question of whether the rave style is anti- 'the man'.

As such most youth and teens have been experimenting with unique concepts in clothing like leading or low-emitting diode on the wear. It's been getting a great deal of attention as it's affordable and emits more light compared to other substances giving rave parties a whole lot more life- hence the usage in glasses. To be a part of the rave culture, one must go together with the latest fad, thus the word rave wear or 'rave gear'.

Ravers wear clothes or equipment that's flexible and largely underclothes. This is because raves involve plenty of movement while dancing. As a result, the wear includes lightweight clothing that's body-hugging but loose simultaneously. In terms of RAVE GEAR, clothes that come in layers allowing one to peel them off as the environment heats up, is common.

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admiralty-xfd · 5 years ago

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the whole truth

This is chapter 8, to go back to the beginning click here.

Diana “miraculously” recovers but finds herself in even deeper with the Syndicate. How does her presence affect the events of Fight the Future?

Chapter 8: The Turn

46TH STREET

NEW YORK, NEW YORK

JUNE 1998

Gibson sat alone in a small office that reeked of cigarette smoke and musty old furniture. His grandfather back in the Philippines smoked and that’s what the room reminded him of… the way old people smelled.

He didn’t belong here, but between his twelve-year-old self and escape was a room full of old men. Dangerous old men. He was terrified. Nothing any of them had planned was anything good.

“. ..We have an opportunity now, a good one, to get Mulder on our side... ” came one of the voices from through the door.

"X-Files shut down…”

“Agent Mulder…”

Agent Mulder. He was the guy with all the romantic drama going on. Gibson could tell from their single meeting he was a nice man, a decent man. In situations such as the one he found himself in, he was desperate to know who his allies were.

Gibson got up and went to the door, opened it a crack. He could see three or four men from this vantage point, but could hear several more. The cacophony of voices was easier to understand when people didn’t talk over each other. And it helped that these men did not interrupt. But it was difficult to tell which words were thoughts and which were voices because they all lied.

It was always difficult to tell with liars.

"...already separated them...”

“They’re not a problem for us anymore.”

“If you believe separating Mulder and Scully will diminish them, you haven’t been paying attention,” the tall man with the cigarette spoke up. “Splitting them up professionally hasn’t worked. Creating a real divide is going to take… a unique approach.”

Gibson opened the door a tiny bit wider and got a pretty good view of the dozen or so men in the room. Now it was much easier to distinguish the words in their minds from the words on their lips.

“And what approach do you suggest...” “...Wanker?” the British guy said. Thought.

“Agent Fowley will be quite useful to us in that regard,” the cigarette man said simply.

“She’s too smart for that...” “She’d never allow herself to be maneuvered in that way,” came the thought, then the voice of another man.

The smoking man smiled. “She won’t have to be maneuvered,” he explained. “Agent Mulder and Agent Fowley have a history together. I have a feeling all we’ll need to do is move the pieces into place.”

“Fowley’s circling the drain,” said another man. “Her doctors say there’s nothing to be done.”

"...Practically dead on arrival...”

“My man has excellent aim,” the smoking man declared. “Agent Fowley’s current condition was planned and executed perfectly. She’ll survive.”

Gibson wasn’t sure what he meant by that, how exactly he could know something like that. This man, the biggest liar of them all, was incredibly hard to read.

“I’ll take care of it,” the cigarette man said firmly.

“Like you took care of Mulder.” “Just kill him already,” one of the men said, then thought.

“Nuisance…”

“Nothing but trouble for us…”

“I have taken care of Mulder,” the cigarette man insisted. “The X-Files have been shut down and he’s been neutralized.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, why neutralize him? Why not dispose of him?” a man with a foreign accent asked.

The cigarette man took another drag. “Mulder is useful at best, a distraction at worst. His reckless actions with the attorney general have been his own undoing. Every time something like this happens he loses even more credibility. Mulder is not a problem, especially without his partner by his side. And like I’ve always suggested, he might be convinced, if given the proper motivation, to join our cause.”

“We do not have time for these games,” a big man with a raspy voice said suddenly. “We need to decide what is to be done with the boy.”

“There’s only one thing to be done with the boy,” the smoking man said. “Contact Dr. Openshaw. Prepare Cassandra for a new experiment.”

Gibson’s head ached in reluctant anticipation. More experiments. More tests. More pain. He just wanted all of it to stop.

“Cassandra Spender?” a voice came. “Your wife?” “Are you certain this is the proper course?”

Gibson didn’t have to see the smoking man’s glare. He could feel it.

“You’re asking me if I’m certain? Don’t ask me to repeat myself. Make the preparations.”

VIRGINIA HOSPITAL CENTER

ARLINGTON, VA

JUNE 1998

Diana jerked awake, her heaving, ragged breaths restoring her consciousness. Pain, then none, then she was staring up into the eyes of a hulking figure. The man had blond hair, a square jaw and a dead eyed stare. His hands were upon her shoulder, where the bullet must have gone clean though.

She knew immediately what this meant.

“You’re incredibly lucky to be alive, Agent Fowley,” a familiar voice came from across the room. She turned her head to look towards the source of the voice and even in the bright lights of her hospital room somehow Spender had found a place to sit cloaked in shadow. Hospital or no hospital, he held a lit cigarette in his hand. She knew better than to question it.

“Luck?” she scoffed weakly, as the alien bounty hunter exited the room. “Is it, really?”

“I was surprised,” he explained casually. “The man I sent is usually more...accurate. The bullet was meant to be a near-miss. A believable threat to get the child back into our hands. It wasn’t meant to hit you and it certainly wasn’t meant to hit a main artery. You’re lying in this hospital bed because of a simple mistake.”

“Some mistake,” she replied, wincing. “I can’t feel my shoulder.”

Her shoulder was completely numb. The pain was gone but she felt heat radiating throughout her body. She knew of the aliens’ healing powers, had seen it demonstrated before. But this was the first time she’d been on the receiving end.

“No, Agent Fowley. The mistake was putting you on this case at all. Thinking you could handle the responsibility. That you could handle Agent Mulder.” It was the first time he’d referenced her relationship with Fox, their connection, since all those years ago in Blevins’ office. “Far be it for me to interfere in your… personal affairs. But involving Mulder in this case has led to some unwanted attention.”

“If you anticipated this being a problem, you should have warned me he’d be here,” she pointed out. “Agent Spender told me he had specifically excluded him.”

“We weren’t expecting him to catch wind of this case. Our leak was AD Skinner and that situation is being… addressed,” he explained. “I have Alex Krycek handling it. But Agent Mulder has made the attorney general aware of this boy. ”

This surprised Diana. She shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t, I was trying to convince him not to.”

“I suppose he didn’t take your advice,” Spender said. “Fortunately for us, the Justice Department hearing ‘Spooky’ Mulder’s tale had the very effect I’d hoped for. They don’t take him seriously, they never have.”

Listening to Spender talk about Fox made her uncomfortable, so she changed the subject. “I didn’t realize you wanted the kid dead,” she said honestly. She felt foolish for not putting the pieces together that perhaps the Syndicate had wanted Gibson dead from the start.

Maybe she did know. Maybe she just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Spender shook his head. “I’m not in the business of killing children,” he countered.

She tried to ascertain if he was telling her the truth by looking into his eyes as she usually did but this man’s eyes were so difficult. Her talents were wasted on him.

“There are members of the group who would rather destroy him to eliminate the risk of exposure. But we’re different, Agent Fowley, you and I. There’s so much we can learn from the boy.”

She agreed with this. Gibson fascinated her: his abilities, his implications. Oddly she thought of Agent Scully’s comment on the matter, and how she’d been absolutely correct. Besides the obvious moral conflict, it would be a waste to kill him.

“So where this leaves us, Agent Fowley, is that the X-Files are closed. And it’s bought us some time.”

“Time for what?”

“To continue our work, without Agents Mulder or Scully getting in the way.”

“Have they been… reassigned?” she asked hopefully, but as casually as she could muster.

“Yes, but keeping them apart has been difficult. They’re… quite attached to one another, it seems.”

She’d suspected as much, but hearing it from Spender was like a punch in the gut. Hearing how “attached” he was to another woman only made her want him back more. This desire was highly inconvenient, given her circumstances. She had no choice but to continue to lie to Fox, especially now that Spender had saved her life. She’d always followed orders, but now she was particularly indebted to him.

She sighed, lying back into her pillow. She ached everywhere. She wished she’d never been asked to work this case. Inserting Fox back into her life was only confusing matters. Europe was sounding better and better by the minute.

“Are you sending me away, then?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “No. You’re needed here. But while you recover, I have some reading material I think you’ll find quite illuminating.” He pulled a book from within his long trench coat, looked down at the cover and touched it admiringly. He handed it out to her, and she looked at the title, confused.

Native American Beliefs and Practices.

“Sir? What is this?”

“I want to remind you that what you’re a part of is bigger than anything you could possibly imagine. In these pages you’ll learn why.” He grinned. “It’s a story about the original shadow government.”

She flipped a few pages. What on earth was he talking about?

“You’re a believer, aren’t you, Agent Fowley?” he asked, sensing her confusion. Believer in what, he didn’t specify. “Read this, and you’ll know exactly why the boy is so important to our cause.”

She was completely confused, but she trusted him. Perhaps there was something she’d been missing, something important. And if there was something contained in these pages that could help make a difference, she wanted to know about it.

“I’ll be in touch.” He blew out a plume of smoke and put his cigarette out on the table next to her bed.

He stood up to leave, but she stopped him. “Sir?”

He turned around slowly, removing another cigarette from his pack that he certainly planned to light as soon as he left the room. She set the book down on her lap and asked the question that had been on her mind for a while.

“If Agents Mulder and Scully are such a problem, why have you kept them alive all these years?” It wasn’t that she wanted them dead: of course she didn’t. But she was well aware the Company would murder for far less. There must be something about Agent Mulder, or tangentially Agent Scully, that he wasn’t telling her.

He smiled. “It’s all a game of chess, Diana. You have to know when to sacrifice every piece. And Fox Mulder is a king. To truly capture him is a long, tedious process.”

She wasn’t stupid, she knew Fox was a threat to the work if they couldn’t get him on their side. But Spender’s words sent a chill up her spine. It was the way he always spoke, choosing words carefully, grinning as mysteriously as a Cheshire Cat. The edge in his voice made her nervous.

She wondered about this man often, about his life. About his childhood. Where had he come from? Why was he the way he was? And why was he so obsessed with Fox?

Most importantly, would she ever be able to get out from under him?

She closed her eyes in resignation, knowing any option she might have once had to remove herself from this situation was no longer tenable. He’d saved her life. She owed that life to him now.

The only way out is through.

He placed the cigarette between his lips. “Get some rest, Agent Fowley,” he said around it. Then he was gone.

***

It had been several days since the X Files office had gone up in flames. A wave of hopelessness had washed over Mulder in a way he hadn’t experienced before. He was feeling directionless, rudderless. Perhaps that was why he found himself on his way to see Diana in the hospital.

“Arlington, please,” he told the cab driver.

The driver nodded, adjusting the rear view mirror. Despite the fact that Diana was most certainly in no state for a visit, Mulder was determined to check up on her himself. He was honestly unsure if she would even survive; all the reports he’d heard so far had been extremely dire.

When he arrived at the hospital and peered around the doorframe to her room she was sitting up, which he hadn’t expected. In fact, he hadn’t expected to talk to her at all.

“Hey,” he said gently, entering her room.

“Hi,” she said. There was a look on her face that he couldn’t decipher.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” he told her. “The doctors feared the worst.”

Diana looked away, uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, I suppose my number wasn’t quite up.” He had the distinct impression she looked disappointed, but surely that couldn’t be the case.

He sat down in a chair by her bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good, actually. Thanks for coming.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

“It’s… strange being back here,” she admitted.

“How was Europe?” He found himself making small talk with her, which felt odd. Other than a couple of conversations about Gibson Praise, the last time they’d spoken she was ripping his heart to shreds.

“I liked it there,” she said. “But out here is where I was needed.”

He wondered what she’d meant earlier when she’d said there were things at home she’d been wanting to get back to. From the look in her eyes he’d thought he was probably one of the ‘things’ she’d been referring to at the time. But perhaps he’d been mistaken.

“You’ve always been so dedicated to your work, Diana,” he pointed out. “It doesn’t surprise me in the least you’d follow it wherever it led you.”

“Even if it led me back to you?” she asked.

His throat constricted, and his eyes searched hers for her meaning. He wasn’t sure exactly what her intentions were with him but having her back in his world made him nervous.

He decided to make light. Chuckling, he answered. “Sorry about that.”

She smiled warmly but looked down, as if she were suddenly uncomfortable. No matter; he didn’t need another distraction right now. It was difficult enough trying to figure out her place in his life at all, let alone having to worry about navigating a romantic interest. He wasn’t sure how he felt at the moment.

“Have you… heard?” he changed the subject carefully. “About the X-Files?”

Diana looked blank. “No. What happened?”

It hurt to even think about it, let alone say it out loud. “Someone torched the office. Burned everything to the ground. They’ve shut us down.”

“Fox,” she said gently. She reached out and took his hand, not letting go. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve been assigned to domestic terrorism.” He shook his head. Bullshit.

“It’s not so bad,” she smiled. “I know it’s not exactly your forté, but you can still do a lot of good.” She looked away distractedly. “A lot of good.”

“I know that, but it’s frustrating,” he explained. “You have no idea how many times this kind of thing has happened to us. We get so close to something big… then, nothing.”

Her face changed just then, and he wondered if it was because he’d switched from I to we. Having his ex around was awkward enough without worrying about what she thought of Scully and their partnership.

“I suppose you can take some comfort in that, though,” she pointed out. “You must be getting close to something if someone is trying so hard to stop you.”

He looked up at her, serious. “I won’t stop, Diana.”

She smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

He chose his next words carefully because he didn’t want her to think he was only checking in on her for information. “Do you… remember what happened? To you and Gibson?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t see anyone. I’m sorry, Fox, I wish I could tell you. The shot came through the window. I woke up here.”

He nodded, and they sat quietly for a minute. Then he released her hand and stood up. “I’m glad you’re okay, I truly am. Do you know how long they’re keeping you here?”

“No idea. I’m at their mercy, unfortunately.” Her eyes flickered with meaning. He wondered what that meaning was.

His phone rang just then, and he looked down. Scully. “Hello?”

"Mulder, it’s me.” He held up a finger, hold on, and took a couple of steps away.

“Hey, Scully. What is it?”

"We’re being called to Dallas. There’s been some kind of a bomb threat.”

“This is a Bureau matter? Why us?”

“I don’t know, Mulder, but they want us out there. Flight’s at four thirty.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you at the airport.” He hung up. “I’ve got to go to Dallas. But can I visit again? Sometime? Would that be okay?”

“Of course, Fox,” she said. “Anytime.”

FBI HEADQUARTERS

WASHINGTON D.C.

JULY 1998

Diana’s recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, and that didn’t shock her, considering the method by which it had occurred. But she was fortunate. There were many at the Company, at Roush in particular, who hadn’t seen all of the things she’d seen. She was valued, and she knew she’d been spared because of that value.

Lying alone in a hospital bed day after day wasn’t the ideal scenario for her restless mind, however. She hadn’t wanted it to happen, but the fox had once again found its way inside, burrowing deep down towards her heart.

She wasn’t sure why, exactly; he was still the same Fox, chasing the truth from below the ground floor. And he was content that way. All the reasons she’d left him all those years ago still remained the same.

But she had changed significantly. She knew things now, amazing things, and although she could not share them with him his quest felt far more justified now than it had long ago. And she found herself having the same feelings she’d had for him then, only now she felt she understood him a bit better. It made her believe it was possible for them to try again, start over. Maybe fix what had been broken.

If only she could make him see the truth: if somehow he could come to that knowledge on his own, it would be a huge step in bringing him into her fold. Spender had told her Fox was playing an important role in his grand plan and the fact that the older man had kept the problematic agent alive all these years must mean killing him wasn’t necessarily part of that plan.

Perhaps she could be the one to bring him over. Then everything she wanted could finally come to fruition. She could tell him the truth. There would be no more secrets.

Maybe then they could be together.

It was her first week back at the Hoover Building and Diana stepped into an empty elevator. She was still settling in, and although she was working mostly for the Company, it was important she show her face at the Bureau as much as possible: be seen by her fellow agents. Keep up appearances.

But there was one agent she was not looking forward to seeing.

Diana had been so lost in thought she’d forgotten to press the elevator button. She watched the doors slide open to reveal Agent Scully standing in the hallway, apparently also deep in thought, who glanced up and registered her presence with surprise. Every time her face appeared it reminded Diana she had competition, and although she wasn’t exactly sure what was going on between Fox and his partner, she’d seen something that was utterly undeniable. A spark, a camaraderie. She’d be a fool to assume this other woman wasn’t a threat.

It was beneficial, however, being in Diana’s position. She knew the two of them had been in Dallas, what had gone on there, and that they were being split up, reassigned. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit it thrilled her.

Agent Scully pursed her lips together, appearing to debate entering the elevator at all. But she stepped in, pressing the ground floor button. “Agent Fowley,” she said. “Nice to see you’re back at work.”

Her voice was polite, but Diana wasn’t stupid. She could sense the diminutive redhead’s hostility every single time, like she was a dog with its teeth bared, ears back.

“Thank you, it’s good to be back.”

The elevator began its descent and Diana watched the smaller woman surreptitiously smooth her hair back and straighten her suit. Upon second look, she did look a bit disheveled and Diana wondered if Agent Scully had come directly to the Hoover Building from the airport.

“How’s Agent Mulder?” Diana wasn’t sure why she’d asked. Honestly, the only thing she and Agent Scully had in common was him, and this saddened her. Being a woman at the Bureau was difficult enough. It was unfortunate they’d become enemies by default.

“He’s fine,” Agent Scully said curtly.

“I heard through the grapevine you two are getting reassigned. I’m sorry to hear that,” she lied.

Agent Scully said nothing, and Diana wasn’t sure if she was being evasive, or if she just had nothing to say.

She decided to do a little fishing. Besides, how often was one presented the opportunity to get under the skin of a competitor for a man’s affections?

“It’s probably for the best,” Diana pressed. “From what he indicated, you two haven’t been seeing much progress.”

It was deliberate. She wanted to get a reaction out of Agent Scully. But it didn’t work. The other woman stared straight ahead at the metal doors, seemingly not acknowledging Diana. The elevator was taking a particularly long time today.

“But it must be hard, disagreeing all the time,” Diana continued, undeterred. “You both must feel such a relief to be free of that. To not feel… so held back.”

She knew she was being bitchy, but she was also dead serious. She and Fox couldn’t even have a successful partnership, and their minds were so similar. How on earth had these two lasted six years?

“We make it work,” Agent Scully said shortly.

Diana couldn’t help but notice she’d referred to their partnership in the present tense. She still thought of Fox as her partner, regardless of the fact they’d been split up. Diana found it extremely annoying.

An ugly jealousy rose up inside her, over their obvious bond, their closeness, but also triggered by the sheer audacity of her words.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve got it all figured out,” Diana scoffed. She couldn’t help it. Life with Fox had been impossible, despite her own desire to ‘make it work.’ “His passion, his drive. His mission. It’s all wonderful until you realize it’s not aligned with your own.”

The elevator light signaled they were about to reach the ground floor. Suddenly she was aware that an opportunity had presented itself. She might never get the truth from Fox but perhaps Agent Scully could be of assistance.

She only had one more second to deliver the fatal blow, and she was feeling particularly merciless today.

“Just be grateful it never went further than a work partnership,” she said, boring her eyes into the side of Agent Scully’s face. “He’s tough to shake.”

The shift was almost imperceptible but Diana Fowley was more perceptive than most. Agent Scully turned pale, even paler than she already was, and her body leaned ever so slightly towards the door.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and Agent Scully stepped out more quickly than Diana thought her short legs were capable of.

“Goodbye, Agent Fowley,” she said without turning around.

Diana meant to get out at the ground floor, but instead let the doors close. Her lips curved into a smile. That tiny sliver of suspicion she’d had about the presence of something romantic between these two had completely disappeared.

Fox Mulder was indeed available. And Diana planned to make herself available, too.

2630 HEGAL PLACE

HALLWAY OUTSIDE APT 42

ALEXANDRIA, VA

Diana Fowley hadn’t even been on Scully’s mind. In fact, the events of Dallas and being wrapped up in yet another exciting mystery with Mulder had cast thoughts of the other woman out completely.

But their confrontation in the elevator had planted doubts in her mind about Mulder and how he felt about her value to their partnership. Had he and Fowley discussed Scully behind her back? She felt sick about it.

Diana’s words rattled around her brain. You both must feel such a relief to be free of that. To not feel… so held back.

Scully had allowed the words of this person she barely knew to put her so off guard, to doubt what she really had with Mulder. Words that had made her feel ineffective, unimportant. Devalued.

“You don’t need me,” she’d said to Mulder before she left his apartment approximately ten seconds ago. “I’ve only held you back.”

Maybe what Diana Fowley had said was actually true. Maybe he didn’t need her, after all.

Scully hated admitting that this woman had any kind of power over her whatsoever. But she did. Scully had never thought of herself as an insecure person. In relationships she’d been in before, she’d always felt as secure as she needed to be. And with Mulder, for five years they’d had only each other. Their unit had been unassailable, impenetrable. It was the way she liked it. And now she felt as if it were dissolving, slipping from her grasp.

She didn’t know what to do, how to react. She felt like she was losing Mulder, and the Bureau wanted to split them up anyway. Why did everything feel so hopeless right now?

She wanted to cling to him, to grab hold of him tightly and hang on for dear life.

But she also wanted to run.

She didn’t want to have to face any of this: that she wasn’t the partner he wanted or needed, and they both knew it. It was year after year of a never ending stalemate: not only in their work but in their inability to express anything real to each other. And as she walked away from him she had the terrible thought that she might never look him in the eyes again.

The thought was only fleeting, however, because she heard his footsteps approaching her. He wasn’t going to let her leave.

Why wouldn’t he just let her go? Why was he making this all so difficult?

She whipped around and he began to close the gap between them, between the door to his apartment and the elevator that would take her far, far away from him. Perhaps forever.

Mulder looked hurt by her declaration. She could tell he hadn’t wanted to hear it, to hear her put it out there: what had to be the truth. That he would go further without her. That maybe he needed someone who thought more like he did. Maybe he needed someone like Diana Fowley.

She hated feeling this way, so out of control. Mulder had always been the one constant in her life; his unpredictability and spontaneity as reliable as anything. And she expected him to lash out, to be angry at her for bailing on him; for leaving him in the lurch this way.

But then he spoke.

You saved me. You kept me honest. You made me a whole person.

He said things to her he’d never said before, the words coming at her almost too fast to process.

I owe you everything, Scully, and you owe me nothing.

She might never know if he meant what he said, if it was the truth or just something he knew would make her stay. But one thing was perfectly clear: he didn’t want her to leave.

I don’t know if I want to do this alone. I don’t even know if I can. And if I quit now, they win.

He was telling her exactly what she’d needed to hear from him all these years, something she’d always felt from him but that he’d never actually articulated. And he’d done it right on time. For once in their lives, just once, the stars were aligning.

She fell into his chest, helpless, as he wrapped his strong arms around her, anchoring her to him. And she held his neck with her hands and kissed him chastely on his forehead, a kiss that felt safe yet still so, so intimate.

But then he pulled back and looked at her, perhaps more intensely than ever before. He leaned in, slowly, and her mind reeled as she looked into his eyes; eyes once full of doubt and fear and uncertainty but which now told her that what he wanted was exactly the same thing she did.

This is happening, this is finally really happening, she thought, imagining the softness of his lips against hers, the heat of his mouth opening to her own. Her feet were planted on the floor, and she wanted to close the distance: devour him like her last meal, slam him against the wall of the hallway and give his neighbors the show of a lifetime. But she was paralyzed.

In the few seconds it took them to reach each other time slowed down, Zeno’s Paradox in action. The closer they got, the more space there was to travel, as if they’d never get there. As if five years wasn’t enough. It would never be enough for the two of them.

She could almost feel it, for a split second: the relief of sweet contact between their lips, when a jolt of pain suddenly surged through her body from the base of her neck. Her neck. The epicenter of everything that had ever gone horribly wrong: her abduction, her cancer, and now even her fucking love life.

This isn’t fair, she thought, and feared it may truly be the last time she looked into Mulder’s eyes as the blackness swallowed her. But when she awoke again, it was those very same eyes drowning in relief that she could see through frozen glass.

#the x files #txf #msr #fanfic #diana fowley #my fic

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supersoldiersruined-me · 6 years ago

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Caelus

A/N: This is my entry (super late yet again) for @ruckystarnes Summer of AUs challenge! And for a lack of inspiration, the titlte is space in latin! loll I had an inital idea when I signed up but this honestly took me so long to grasp and then it just poured out! So here it is, thank you for being so patient love! 💖 Beta: babyboo @eyesfixedonthesun22 Warnings: language, smut, gay sex, mention of blood Word count: 5714 Prompt: Space AU, Stucky

Main Masterlist | Challenges Masterlist

“Steve, you jackass! Come back!” There’s no point in yelling twice. Bucky knows. But his best friend is storming towards the recruiting line-up with a mighty will. When they had denied him to join the army, Steve jumped on every last occasion to prove himself.

Not two weeks ago, Stark Industries announced a new advanced project that would allow a select group of candidates to participate in a space camp tryout. They’d be secluded into experimental ships, given some basic training and then experts would monitor their behavior, their reactions to simulated situations. If they made it out alive - and sane - a month later, they’d be taken to Stark’s secret facility and given proper training and instructions. Every boy in New York reached out like little kids given the gift of their lives.

So Bucky is standing there in the busy streets of Brooklyn, arms up in disbelief. The sick boy was going to go against the odds once more. He was a foot shorter than the men around him. Arms frail, and thrown into an asthma attack once he reached the building. Security threatened to keep him out - much to his safety - but Steven Grant Rogers does not back down because of some disability.

“I swear to God,” Bucky mumbles under his breath as he begins to make his way towards the atroupment of testosterone.

“There’s no reason for me to be doing less than these men!” Comes as a shout out of Steve’s mouth. He’s red and Bucky isn’t sure if it’s the rage or yet another one of his problems surfacing.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s go home,” he tries to reason with him.

“No Buck! Don’t you get it?” Steve turns back to the guard. “I’ll fucking die anyway! Might as well it be doing something important…” His face winces at the thought; he’d never mentioned his illness as something so weighing, so dark.

“Steve…” He brings his hand to his best pal’s shoulder as he tries to comfort him. “Your value isn’t measured with what you can do for the world. You take care of me and that’s plenty.” Steve sighs and accepts defeat.

“Fine,” he looks into Bucky’s eyes, tears of anger filling his own, “I guess we can go.”

They turn towards the street and start walking home. As he looks over his shoulder at the line of people still hoping to get a shot, he sees a strange man scribbling down a notepad, looking at the two of them leave with a smile. Round glasses frame his face, he hasn’t shaved in a week. From his outfit and his demeanor Bucky knows he’s German. He shrugs it off and turns his attention back to his friend, throwing his arm around his neck.

It’s a week later when a knock at the door startles the boys out of their sleep. It must be around three in the morning, as far as Steve can tell. He turns on the lamp on his nightstand and looks over at Bucky in annoyance.

“Jerks,” he whispers as he recalls the nights of torment the kids from the neighbourhood had him endure - it was the reason Bucky had moved in with him.

“Let me take care of it,” the dark haired man replies.

“Bucky, stop. I can take care of myself.”

“See, the thing is, you don’t have to.” He shakes his shoulder before walking over to the door. There’s a paper taped to it, bright and clear texts surround a pointy, metal ship image. There’s the Stark logo on it, and it makes him shiver in excitement.

“Steve…” He trails. “Get your ass over here.”

He hands him the poster and gives him a minute to read. It begins to tremble in his hands when he reaches the last sentence: “We are glad to announce that you have been selected to participate in an experimental camp supervised by the Stark Industries.”

There’s a place and time for them to be the next day, and they spend the rest of the night getting their luggage ready, along with making up stories and tripping out over the opportunity.

The rustic walls of brick have transformed into sterile steel. The floors are made of a plastic-like material - something easy to clean, Steve notices. It would be impossible to reach the ceiling and he’s wondering how they even managed to build this facility anyway. It’s highly distinct from the level of ingenuity of the current construction standards. The white building stands out absurdly in its secluded forest location.

Robots roam around, tacking and bolting steel plates to one another. Prototypes of deadly weapons are hung on the walls as they walk behind a seductive lady to what they presume is the reception. Their stuff, along with themselves, go through metal detectors - something they had only heard of until now - before making their way to a large office.

“Good evening, boy.” There’s a thick accent to the greeting, one that both can easily distinguish. “I hope we haven’t given you too much trouble.”

“Not at all, um...” Bucky begins, words failing him as he’s still processing the amount of discoveries they are about to do. He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping.

“I’m Dr. Erskine. Responsible of the Biological Enhancement department here at Stark Industries. This here is Lady Carter, she’ll be assisting you on your journey.” The voluptuous woman nods their way and it has them both swallowing hard. She has a confidence they had never witnessed, and it has them nearly humiliating themselves.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve manages to say as he struggles to gain composure. He hopes she doesn’t notice him drying his palms on the back of his pants.

“Likewise,” she says. Her British accent runs a shiver up Bucky’s spine.

“Now, we wouldn’t want to keep you up too late. If you please follow Miss Carter to your assigned pod. We’ll go through the logistics in the morning.” The German man hands them a pair of overalls; nothing flattering, Bucky thinks.

It takes only three weeks for the boys to be fully independent, allowing them to be part of the first team to launch the program. Their uniforms along with their tools and weapons get a significant upgrade. They’re already anticipating the look of their new quarters.

“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” Steve mentions.

“Really? After twenty-something attempts I would highly believe that you’d be given a chance,” Bucky answers with a hint of sarcasm. They both laugh until a voice requests them to be at the main quarter in the next ten minutes.

The spaceship is a hundred feet tall or so, its body is quite narrow and it feels pretty sturdy. They gulp nonetheless, this would be for real and they couldn’t just drop out with a snap of their fingers. The team of eight wait by the cabin door, ably putting on their masks and equipment.

“This is it!” Bucky shouts.

“We’ve been working so hard for this. Maybe a few years after this we’ll be able to finally see what Earth looks like from up there.” Doug, who’d been the fittest one of them until he took Bucky under his wing and made him an even bigger beast, contemplates the unimaginable.

“Remember when just last year they presented the concept of flying cars and it failed. Seems like they were either lying to us or they made phenomenal progress since then…” Bucky remembers his astonishment after the Stark Expo; he was always a fan of progress and technology used for the good of the population. This journey would be an experiment of a life-time.

“Alright everyone settle in.” The German accent demands over the intercom. The small group walks into the ship and find their respective seats. With his wit and quick thinking, Steve was assigned board commander. Bucky was in charge of the combat tactics. It felt like, for once, their lives had meaning and it was an honour to be going through this together.

“‘Til the end of the line.” Steve captures his friend’s hand in his.

“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky answers. They feel the ship ‘shake off the ground’, and the team howls in enthusiasm.

Once the orbiting procedures are done, they find their way into their seperate quarters, each sharing rooms in teams of three, except for Bucky and Steve who have the room to just the two of them. They walk to the door as they chit chat. Their smiles fade when the door slides before them and they notice the size of the room.

A large window gives out to a realistic CGI galaxy. The moon roams by slowly and it’s enough to have them holding their breaths, eyes watering at the beauty.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. He turns to see his friend nodding at him, his lower lip bitten as he tries to hold in his emotions. “This wouldn’t have happened without your stubborn little head.”

“You deserve this as much as I do Buck.” They turn around and freeze at the sight of the one king sized bed that sits right in the middle of the room. Around it is a flowy drape they can pull closed - something to keep the sun out as it never sets, they think. At the corner of his eyes, Steve can see Bucky blush. His body shivers, his numerous dreams coming to his mind again.

“Is, um. Is that okay with you?” He asks.

“Yeah. Yeah it’s fine Stevie.” He walks over and sets his bag on a small bench. They begin to set their things in the abundant storage space. Neither of them talk for the next couple of minutes, too shy, perhaps. Too caught in their own fantasies to acknowledge their separate peaks at the one bed as they eyeball the distance that will be left between them.

“I’m exhausted. I’ll hit the showers and be right back.” Bucky is first to say, a foot already out the door.

Steve sheds his clothes, leaving only his briefs on. The sheets are the softest thing he’s ever touched. Everything is plushy and so welcoming. There’s Bucky’s sweatshirt on the left side pillow; he’s tempted to take it and wear it, knowing he’s always cold at night. But he only pulls it close and brings it to his face, feeling the material on his heating cheeks, inhaling the masculinity of his best friend. It’s inevitable he’s growing hard at the thought of being able to smell it directly from his neck. To have his head on his chest.

His free hand reaches under the band of his briefs, tentatively groping himself to try and relieve some tension. He loses himself in it though, and starts moving and twisting his hand faster. He’s staining his underwear but he doesn’t care. He knows Bucky’s hand would feel much better, much more unforgiving. There’s a pinch in his gut at the thought of teaching him all his sweet spots - or worse even, letting him discover them as he becomes a panting mess on this very bed.

“Shit,” he whimpers into the balled up sweater. His hips find a slow rhythm to go along his hand movements. His dick is out of its hiding spot by now; he’s big for his frame and he needs the extra room to pump harder. The door opens but he’s too lost to notice. There’s another muffled moan before he hears someone clear their throat.

“Steve, I-”

“Fuck! I’m sorry.” No no no! he thinks. “Buck I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine Rogers, just... Maybe finish in the bathroom?” He suggests with an uncomfortable smile. He’s scratching his scalp, looking anywhere around the room but the bed. When Steve doesn’t budge, he allows himself to look down. His friend had simply pulled the cover over his head, and he knows Steve is cursing himself for being careless.

“You can keep the hoodie, if you’re cold.” Steve nods no and doesn’t move. “Alright,” he adds before shuffling into his spot. He’s careful to stay along the edge of the bed, enough not to fall off but granting his friend personal space. He closes his eyes and tries to let his mind wander into sleep. It’s no use now that he’s seen his pal touching himself like that. Not that he’d never imagined it - he was much smaller in his mind though. He didn’t sound as heavenly either. Bucky had caught Steve jerking off already, their apartment being quite small for two people, but it was always discreet and he mostly had to spy on him to see anything.

The more he thinks about it, the more each scenario comes out clear. Steve had touched himself whenever they had been close, like when they got back home from the drive-in, or if Bucky walked around shirtless after a rather intense training. Steve had touched himself every time he felt bothered with Bucky’s presence, and fuck if that wasn’t something he’d dreamed about.

He inhales deeply before shifting to face Steve. His hand slowly lifts and comes to rest on his friend’s shoulder, which surprisingly relaxes under his touch rather than tense up.

“Bucky, it’s late. I’m sorry, okay?” It’s a half plead, half demand as the physical effects of his actions still haven’t dissipated. Bucky knows from the speed of his heart when his Stevie is nervous of agitated. Or in this case aroused.

“No. I’m sorry Steve.” Without turning completely, Steve gives him more of his attention. His silence is enough to note his questioning. “I should’ve realised before.”

“Wh-what do you mean, Buck?”

He answers with his body rather than try to explain his thoughts out loud; Bucky could be the clumsiest person when his mind got hazy. His hand moves to Steve’s chest, and in a swift pull he brings him closer. Close enough to kiss along his shoulder, then up his neck, until his nose tickles the base of his scalp.

“Buck,” Steve shivers.

“Let me. Please Stevie,” he says, his breath warm on the poor boy’s frigid body. When he doesn’t feel a protest, he lowers his hand onto his stomach, takes extra time just under his navel before he ventures under the waistband of his briefs. He’s perfectly hard under his touch, it takes a longer stroke than he anticipated before his thumb can reach the soaked tip. Steve hums deep in his throat. Bucky’s hip jerks forward in response. He’s already a mess and he’s only been touching him for a few seconds.

“Yes,” Steve whimpers. It earns him a soft bite to the shoulder; tender action meant to stifle a moan. “Bucky, don’t hold back.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear this,” he answers.

He’s got Steve on his stomach as soon as he’s done answering, a low grunt escapes his lips when he kneels over Steve’s legs, admiring the boy’s slender body. He snakes his hands over his shoulders, over his arms. He feels every inch of his skin as if he’d seen it for the first time. It feels new, strange even, to be able to give his pal what he’d always dreamed of; but it’s the best sentiment he’s ever experienced. From the soft moans he can pull from Steve, Bucky knows he’s enjoying this as well. Once the muscles under his touch have gone slack, he proceeds lower, kissing the trail he makes in the valley of his back. Steve jerks his hips up slightly when Bucky’s thumbs come to rest over his back dimples. He’s longing for what’s next; for the frightening act of intimacy.

“Bucky, you don’t-” He’s cut short in his suggestion by the inevitable. He moans Bucky’s name over and over every time his tongue flattens over his puckered hole. Bucky’s at work like a hungry man who’s just discovered the sweetest fruit. He licks and sucks and pokes intently at the flustered mess of man underneath him; and /he’s/ already done for. He’s rock hard in his own boxers at the way he can get Steve to squirm.

“Ja-james! Ah!” Steve’s got both hands fisting the sheet and his face flat into his pillow. He moves his hips along with the tactful intrusions. There’s a sticky mess already glueing his stomach to the mattress but he doesn’t care. If anything it allows for the lack of friction on his aching dick. “More. Please,” he pants.

He can hear Bucky spit but his rear is already too worn out from the previous actions to feel a thing. There’s a light poke, then a sting as Bucky’s slowly inching two fingers into him.

“So fucking tight, Stevie. God… You’re going to ruin my cock, aren’t ya?” His words send shivers up their bodies.

“All yours Buck,” Steve adds before choking on his words when he feels a third finger joining the others. “Always been yours.” With that said, Steve stretches back as best he can and brings a hand to the brunette’s hair. He plays with the curls, eyes fixed on the icy blues and his stomach tightens when Bucky leans into the touch. He moves his hand to his chin and pulls him up so their eyes are leveled.

“Will you let me take care of you now?” Bucky asks and regrets the way he phrased that.

“I can ta-”

“No, punk.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “It’s not about bullies anymore Stevie. I want you to feel wanted. Desired. It always pissed me off to see how the ladies treated you. They don’t know what they’re missing.” There’s a moment of silence while Steve turns around and sits straighter. His brows furrow but he doesn’t argue.

“Bucky, it’s fine. Those girls didn’t really have anything going for me, anyway.”

“So… Will you?” He’s still not looking at Steve. Afraid that maybe this was all he could allow himself to take. He ruined his chance, he thinks. But then Steve’s thumb comes to his chin and he’s forced to look up. The pretty blond is all smiles; the sweet pink on his cheeks warms Bucky’s heart. Steve dives in and crashes his lips to his friend’s. His boyfriend? Lover? He isn’t sure yet but that doesn’t matter for the night.

“Would that include letting me come before the morning?” There’s a gasp coming from Bucky as the question comes out, but he smiles and nods stupidly at Steve’s confidence. He pounces on him, their lips meeting again in a heated kiss.

“Only if it’s while I’m fucking that prefect little ass,” he taunts.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Steve answers.

The following nights are spent identically. Several years of hidden feelings are finally being rewarded and the boys know exactly how to make up for lost time. Most of their breaks are spent in their room, in the sauna or in the private lounge each team gets to share alternatively. Between trainings and meals, before, during and after showers. It’s an insatiable feeling to be wanted and taken care of, which never came easily to Steve until the very moment Bucky had his face between his hands and seemed to dwell into his eyes. Everything went on so quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, for Bucky soon found himself feeling guilty. Dirty. To be filling his needs with his favourite boy, while he knows he’s building a really fragile castle around them. To be imagining a life of happiness that had no place to be. Amongst the group, none seem to have caught up on their shenanigans. They were safe. Safe in the confines of this ship until the mission was over and they’d have to go back to being best buddies; friends since playground. It’s a thought that has Bucky’s stomach churning. He’d been glued to bed with a pounding headache for two days, and a raging boner he kept denying Steve. This has to stop, he thinks.

The curtains rush open, startling him out of sleep. Through the bright, manipulated daylight he sees Steve’s silhouette standing in front of their window.

“What’s up, Stevie?” His voice barely makes it out of him.

“I could ask you the same,” Steve accuses right away. He can hear Bucky fall back into his pillow and grunt.

“Care to explain…”

“You’re unbelievable.” He paces, his hands on his hips. “What’s so hard for you to accept? I thought you realised that we had been hiding these mutual feelings. I thought you were on my side, Buck. You haven’t touched me, haven’t even looked at me in the eyes for a week…”

The anguish in his voice has Bucky up on his feet in a second - he’s ready to lay down his point of view but Steve retorts faster.

“Look around! We’re in a fucking ship that’s meant to be in space, man.” His finger taps the glass behind him. “Everything around us is astonishing progress.”

“Yeah, simulated,” Bucky says.

“But progress nonetheless. Forget what people think. Gosh I wish this thing could take us to the future. Maybe things would have changed…” Bucky takes a step closer and he’s ready to fold. He wants Steve in his arms. Wants to keep his word and hold him tight. He reaches his arms out but quickly retracts when a sharp object flies over his upper arm.

“What the-”

There’s a rush of wind that sends a dozen more pieces their way. The back wall of their room is fractured, smoke coming in from the adjacent room, followed by a muffled scream. The strident screeching of metal makes it hard to focus. Alarms have gone off and an external team is running around, trying to find everyone.

It suddenly becomes hard to breathe but the medics have surged to rescue the guys who were stuck behind the flames. When Bucky turns around to grab onto Steve, he finds him lying on the ground, hands clenching his stomach and he swears that even through all the back-alley fights he’s never seen Steve’s face so contorted. A piece of steel bigger than his hand pokes out of a gash just under his left rib. Bucky knows not to pull it from him. He’d seen the consequences first hand on the field.

“Don’t move, don’t move.” He’s got a hand on his shoulder and the other beneath his head. There’s a glance around his body before he’s sure he can lift him up. Luckily, Steve’s about half the size of the guys Bucky had to carry in boot camp. He makes sure to keep the wound close to himself, and he heads towards the nearest door, the floor plan of the ship something he knows like the back of his hand.

“I got you Stevie,” Bucky says when he hears him weep.

Bucky’s fidgeting on the chair around the corner of two narrow hallways. His arm still burns from the alcohol-drenched bandage someone put on him while he was passed out. He turns to the one on his right. It’s bright from all the fluorescents and much too lifeless to his liking. The same nurse keeps shuffling through the different doors with a pad in hands. His head is about to explode from all the beeping of the life support machines and the aftermath of inhaling so much smoke. Someone at the end of the hall in front of him keeps coughing and Bucky’s throat is suddenly tingling. He’s a moment away from bolting up from his seat when Peggy walks out of the room.

“Barnes.” She has an apologetic look, but she offers a sweet smile. “He’d like to see you.”

There’s a blink before he can react, before blood goes back into his legs and he can head towards her. She reaches for his arm and guides him over, stopping just before the curtain around the bed.

“Now,” she begins. “We’ve had to um… They did someth-”

“He’s fine?” He practically screams.

“Yes. Yes James he is fine.” She takes a step back and stretches her arm to direct him forward. He takes a deep breath, flattens his shirt over himself as a habit and nervously pulls onto the edge of the curtain.

His heart skips a beat when he lays eyes on him. He recognizes the flowy blond hair; he wants to run his hand through it. But he’s taken aback when he gets closer. The under shirt they put on him is about to burst from the width of his shoulders. His jaw, man, his jaw is square and strong, just like the rest of him. He scans him up. Once. Twice. He thinks it’s the illusion of Steve being laid down, but he knows he’s gotten taller. Before he can wonder further a hand comes to his shoulder.

“Stark. What happened?” He asks, not taking his eyes off his friend.

“The infection spread like wildfire. His frail disposition made it impossible for him to surpass this. He needed a little...boost...if I can say so.”

“Well, a boost he got!” Bucky answers a tad enthusiastically. He sees Peggy smirk and his cheeks heat up. “Sorry,” he mouths.

“Yes. Well. We had this experimental serum going around for a while. A project run by Dr. Erskine. It was meant to help soldiers heal faster. Make their ability to bulk up easier. Let’s say we might have dosed up a little on him.”

“Is it permanent?”

“So far.” Peggy joins in.

“Did it... hurt?” There’s a new concern in Bucky’s voice. The same gut wrenching feeling he had whenever he found Steve beat up to the ground. He closes his eyes to keep the imminent tears from spilling out.

“Did it like a champ,” comes Steve’s voice next.

“Steve, listen,” Bucky begins as they walk into their apartment, bags of groceries in arms - the first one since they’ve been back from the mission. He’s walking behind him, still astounded by the two inches Steve has won. Their elbows bump as they walk around in the kitchen - they’ve yet to adjust to the two of them taking a lot of space; the conversation of them moving out into a new place was impending.

“Bucky, stop. I know you didn’t want to hurt me.” He means it, but Steve continues to set the things away without looking at him.

“I got caught off guard, Stevie. The lady asked the question but the tone in her voice made me uncomfortable. I should have s-”

“Yes. You should have said we were together. But it’s fine,” he adds. Bucky steps up and grabs one of the blonde’s hands. He brings it to his chest, over his heart, and his eyes begin to water when they get lost in his. There’s a synched deep breath before Bucky composes himself.

“I’m sorry.” Steve’s shoulders loosen at the small admission - he watches as Bucky kisses his fingers one by one before leaning into him. His lips come to his neck and Steve can’t help but shiver. The serum surely had enhanced everything.

“Why is it still so hard for you to acknowledge this,” Steve says as he rubs Bucky’s back. “Every time you say ‘friend’ my stomach flinches.”

“Strict family. It’s been coded into me when I was young. Every time I would hang out with you I’d get deathly stares at the dinner table.” Steve hugs him tighter. Bucky had never mentioned this before. Never said a word about being roughed around as a kid. He feels guilty. A feeling of remorse stikes through him as he recalls the numerous times he asked Bucky to pose for his sketches. Or when he needed a hand climbing somewhere and Bucky would hold onto him /just that way/. He didn’t know that his father was overlooking their every move from his office window. Didn’t know that his own mother was being lectured about their behavior.

“Plus, I still look at you and kind of freak out that I don’t have my little Stevie anymore. But you know… I’m really looking forward to what /this/ Steve can do.” He takes a step back to better look at him. His hands are on his hard chest, making their way onto his shoulders and he can feel Steve relax under his touch. One hand moves up to his nape before settling onto the side of his face; the other has made its way south, tracing every muscle on the way down.

“How about you knock some sense into me?” Bucky taunts, eyes dark and glimmery. It takes Steve out of his thought - pulls him out quite harshly in fact - but he lets the brunette palm him through the thick fabric of his chinos.

“But, Buck. We always-”

“I know. But I want to, baby. At least once…” There’s a soft whine along Bucky’s words and Steve melts into his embrace. Their lips stand close, waiting patiently for the right opportunity; though Bucky’s hand has made its way past Steve’s zipper by now. “For once, Stevie...please fuck me.”

It’s beastial. The way Steve picks his lover like he’s not heavier than a pillow. How he has him pinned to the wall by their room - they had finally started sleeping in the same bed, and eventually turned the spare room into a small art studio.

It takes a minute for Bucky’s hand to land onto the door handle, and another second for his mind to command it to turn it open. Steve’s grunt follows when it finally pries wide, allowing them to adventure further. Three steps later, Bucky finds himself thrown onto the stiff mattress, shirt gone missing while strong hands are already working at the button of his pants.

“Don’t break anything, Rogers.” He lifts himself onto his elbows to look down at the brusque man between his legs.

“The only thing I might be breaking is the bed,” he begins, his words muffled as he bites down on his tongue in concentration. He looks up at the headboard. Surely this was the first time they’d be intimate since ‘the change’. It most likely frightens Bucky more than it does Steve. A grin autographs his next words. “We need a new one anyway.” And with that he hooks his fingers into the waistband of both Bucky’s pants and underwear, and glides them off his thighs.

“Always so fucking hard for me,” Steve growls. “No wonder, you had /me/ on my back like that. I could get used to this view.”

“Don’t linger, Stevie.” Bucky’s words are low, but stern. His hips buck in agreement.

“Was I so whiny all the time?” They both chuckle before Bucky swats him on the chest.

“Only when I was balls deep in that fantastic ass,” he answers, both hands on the plump flesh he mentioned. The action causes Steve to grind into him - and he’d be lying if he said that wasn’t the plan all along. Bruises would appear on his shoulders the next day with how hard Steve’s biting down on them.

“I swear to God-" The enhanced man has his prey on his stomach in a flash, barely taking a breath of effort. He reaches forward to present two fingers to Bucky who gladly coats them in a generous amount of saliva. A hum rumbles into his chest when he feels them swipe over his hole, Steve taking his turn in exploring his man. The stretch is new, although Bucky had done this to himself in the past. The sweet tickling feeling of the intrusion is brain numbing. He's not sure he’s going to last. Surely Steve’s new physique could give more than he bargained for.

“Holy shit,” he cries when he feels the head of his dick press against him. They both moan when Steve inches into him with ease until his hips meet with Bucky’s ass and he stops, giving both of them a moment to adjust.

“Never thought it would be this good,” the blond grunts, eyes shut as he focuses on not painting the walls that so tightly envelop him. He pulls out just a tad, before pushing back in and establishing a smooth rhythm. Bucky contorts and mewls beneath him, his eyes go white as they roll to the back of his head.

“Like that, huh?” Steve asks. “I sure as hell fucking like it.”

Bucky can only make faint noises. Steves and ahs and what not escape his lips in the smoothest symphony Steve has ever heard. He’s fucking him relentless, unsure of how he can even get his hips to move this way as he never found himself in this exact position. But he’s going. And going. And he’s loving every moment, so much so that he’s not sure he can ever go back to the old ways. Inevitably him or Bucky would succumb. Both giving and receiving felt amazing, but he’d always be James’ little Stevie.

“You take me so well, fuck,” he adds.

“Ste-eve.”

“I know. Poor little face is all red and hot. You’re so close, love.” The praise comes naturally from Steve, but it seems to have Bucky blushing even more. He bends down and snakes an arm under Bucky so his hand can come around and hook onto his neck. His right knee spreads his legs even further, allowing him to bottom down into him; the head of his cock nudges that sweet spot and as if the words weren’t enough, it has Bucky pulsing and making a mess on the bed.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” He exclaims as he empties himself completely while Steve still pounds into him. He reaches back and grabs his lover by the head to bring him in for a heated kiss. A moment later it’s Steve’s turn to fall over the edge. He groans and shakes as he gives three more thrusts before pulling out and letting his seed splatter over the spent brunette’s back. Hot spurts reach up to his shoulders and onto his cheek. Steve is quick to lean forward and lick him clean.

“So good,” he says.

“Stevie, that’s your own cum,” Bucky replies with a shy smile. Who’d have thought Steven Rogers would be the kinky one.

“Mmm. And?”

“And… I want some.” They both chuckle before Bucky can grab onto the man’s broad shoulders and fetch what he wanted.

#rae'sausummer #rssummerofaus #challenge entry #my writing #stucky smut #steve x bucky #space au #stucky space au

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vaguely-concerned · 6 years ago

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Temeraire let’s read: Crucible of Gold AHOY!

- lol I’m glad hammond is back, he is phenomenally funny. I do love me a bureaucrat character who won’t let trifling things like dignity, morality, politeness or common sense get in the way of their job

- it is a CRIME that Tharkay had to leave before he got to see Laurence all sun-bronzed and casually dressed and golden haired and relaxed, I wish to petition the universe itself on his behalf to correct this injustice

- hahaha shen li is the best; a buddhist dragon would be the greatest party pooper among her own kind

shen li, serenely: attachment to material things can only bring suffering

literally every other dragon, dripping bling from every available surface: um actually

- . . . without the clinging stink of murder and treachery which seemed to have by slow octopoid measures attached itself to his life. laurence I understand where you’re coming from on this but you have served colonial britain since you were like twelve. this has been an extremely slow process of waking up to smelling dem roses (fatherhood changes your perspective on your life situation I guess)

- awwwwww laurence finally studying some more chinese while temeraire helps him... no no this is just rain on my face yes I know I’m indoors it’s just me and lady allendale sitting here with our arms around each other crying about our boy reading poetry of his own freeish will

- oooh I really like how novik writes the way hammond talks -- it can be hard to write a character who constantly breaks up their own dialogue and interrupts themselves and continually couches their words without it being hard to read and annoying, but she really nails communicating that he’s a) completely graceless and with no dignity but also undeniably intelligent, b) definitely a Diplomat but not a total weasel, if only by a hair, c) hilarious

- pour one out for laurence’s civilian beard with me guys, gone too soon and dearly missed (and again tharkay didn’t even get to see it! this continues to be the greatest tragedy of these books let’s hope he grows it out again later when they’re all settled down.)

- . . . These were distinguished from the others mainly for their having had less time in their careers to demonstrate a lack of initiative or skill, so he could have some small hope of uncovering some previously hidden talent. OH MY GOD LAURENCE the straight up savagery

- DAD!LAURENCE!!! DAD!LAURENCE!!!!!!! (aaah it’s so interesting that when he gets a bit more stern you can definitely see sides of his father peeking out, but he deeply remains his mother’s son -- he’s acting from a place of affection, feeling of responsibility and concern for their futures, not the weird controlling shit lord allendale routinely pulls)

roland is such a teenager at this point oh my god. also laurence’s whole speech to demane about respecting her boundaries and agency... *chef kiss emoji* and ALSO demane is so sympathetic in this still because who HASN’T wanted to dangle some asshole over a cliff for being a creep to your friend/crush... they’re all good and perfect and I love them actually

- ...I’ve managed to put it out of my mind in the last few books but with the allegiance going down like that I keep remembering there were so many actual children onboard and now I feel ill

being an adult and realizing the full fuckedupedness of these things sucks haha

- 1) the description of seeing the ship sinking from underwater is hauntingly beautiful and 2) as I have said many a time before, thank god for demane

- see this is the other side of the coin of these books making you care so deeply about the characters; I know that no important characters die in this book but I am still so fucking stressed out by all of this D:D:D:

- well well well if gong su’s ludicrous competency wasn’t suspicious before it certainly is now, I guess china trains its spies well in the culinary arts haha

- I mean uh. what a way to symbolically and literally sever laurence from his former life and former self, I guess. you’d be hard pressed to do so more explosively at least

- something extremely bad happened to granby, we can tick that off the list

- I feel like the prose and writing in general is super improved in this one? it feels sharp and purposeful in a way the last few haven’t quite been

- He hoped Riley would be mourned; Riley deserved to be mourned ahfksahsdajklhsajkfhaslkjfhsakjdfhdaslkfhakj pain :(:(:( I’m so sorry laurence and I didn’t even like the guy. I can’t believe that the first thing this madman does after trying to secure their survival as best he could is writing letters -- on dragonback!!! hands stiff from cold so he can only work in five minute increments!!! -- to make sure riley’s memory isn’t blackened how can he be like this

- emily roland is so smart and capable and amazing my heart is blooming with pride

- iridescent feathered dragons... holy shit this is awesome

temeraire has a little feather envy tho and also maila casually eavesdropping so he can chat up (literally) hot babes... I know they’re prisoners of war and everything but this is all pure unadulterated gold

- oh temeraire darling no have no fear hammond has no self respect whatsoever, that will not be what stops him

- I can’t believe laurence is actually taking time to tie himself in knots over not following perfect procedure around his officers’ future career options while they’re FUCKING MAROONED with a bunch of asshole sailors fkdfhsjdh

- GET YOUR DIRTY FUCJING HANDS OFF DEMANE OR I’LL CHOP THEM OFF FOR YOU YOU SWINE

sipho is like eleven and a nerd and ready to run at all these grown men armed just with a branch PAIN

- granby’s unending exasperation at laurence not knowing all the stuff that seems self-evident to him having grown up with dragons fksjdhfskajd

- aw laurence finally having a little dad talk with roland ;____; and demane has proposed to her repeatedly and she would agree in a moment under other circumstances ;________________; and it never even occurred to me that that’s why she was so upset about him taking on his own dragon but of course that would fuck everything up if that’s what she was planning OH NO ;_________________________________________________;

laurence confirmed for boytoy & hideously embarrassed about it flasdfsdkjhfksd

“But I don’t want someone I want, if I can’t be sure of seeing him one week in the year” crack crack goes the sound of my heart breaking

I hope they find a way to solve this eventually :(

- really interesting what a clear view emily has of roland and laurence’s relationship tho, considering he’s basically her father figure -- like there’s clear affection, physical attraction and camaraderie there but it never feels particularly romantic & they both have other shit to do. (and laurence knows it too on some level, considering his main emotion when she refuses his proposal is relief lol. it really shows off this central conflict he has where like... he has a very clear idea of who he feels he should be and managed to convince himself he was for a long time, and what that man wants and needs (namely very little, emotionally) and is loyal to. aaaand then there’s the person he actually is, who’s been fighting his way to the surface since temeraire showed up in the very first book and sort of woke him up by giving him something he actually loves and values with all of himself and can’t compromise on. proper gentleman/navy!laurence feels like he has to do what society deems decent and marry roland to be a good person, actual!laurence seems to know that what they already have isn’t wrong or immoral in any way as long as they’re both happy with it. ugh I love him and I hope his last remaining character development includes realizing that who he really is is not only acceptable but actually a better man than that imagined perfect self ever could be and how many people love him for who he is already A N Y W A Y onwards)

- the incan dragons continue to be dope as hell

it’s super interesting how they’ve grown to value people -- and not just one special person, like british dragons, but whole groups of people -- over gold and jewels. like the tendency is there in dragons from other cultures; temeraire loves The Bling but would still easily prioritize laurence and his crew over it. presumably some of it is cultural and some of it must stem from the sheer trauma of losing so many people within a few centuries, which is basically living memory for a dragon (which makes it equal parts sympathetic/heartwarming and juuuuust on the edge of being too creepy and possessive haha).

- jeez this book is doing a good job at showing what a haunting fucking sight it must be to enter a land where like. 90% of the people are dead in plague and their cities stand abandoned

- fhasdklhfaskljfhs hammond going full diplomat on the dragons squabbling... he truly is something

and laurence apologizing to demane because he was out of line and he is a fellow captain now T_____T lord allendale could never

- haven’t had a lot to say for a while because I’m just so entranced with the world building and stuff haha, I find the irl history of this area super interesting as well

- ambassador iskierka........ what a time to be alive

poor poor poor granby hahahaha

- if these books were named harry potter style this one would be ‘william laurence and that time he tried to put off wearing his ceremonial robes for as long as humanly possible’

- granby being good at drawing but having atrocious handwriting is such a good little character detail, novik is just so expert at nonchalantly plopping them in

- temeraire is being haunted by a green-eyed monster the size of a continent huh lol fair play to maila tho, he’s given it his sleazy all right from the start

I can’t believe gong su invented dragon ice cream solely so temeraire could eat it out of a tub over this... the real mvp

- awwww granby <3 I’m glad there’s some actual canonical queer rep in this series as well (as for the technically not stated straight(heh) out in canon... listen my friends if you can come up with any kind of heterosexual explanation for normally extremely sensible tenzing tharkay gazing at his friend and thinking shit like ‘in the fading light he was a statue gilded by sunlight’ and ‘it was a pang not unmixed with pleasure to look on him, as ever’, you are free to try to come at me with it but I won’t believe you lol. also laurence has the most potent disaster bisexual energy of any man in modern media even if he hasn’t quite caught on to it himself)

tbh I know it’s mostly in desperation but they should come up with some new kind of medal to give granby for having this particular Talk with william laurence, one of the most awkward men to ever walk this earth... braver than any us marine etc.

- temeraire and iskierka in this scene STRONGLY evoke dirtbag teens sneaking off to make out in the backseat of a car or something god bless

- ...I guess you can’t fault the empress for siding with the dude already crashing like a natural catastrophe over his own home continent and who is eyeing the other six like a starving eagle would a pack of mice. all the europeans suck but I guess it’s sort of her best bet to ally herself with the biggest bully on the playground, especially since forces in her own court would be hard pressed to do anything about the situation. respect sister & congratulations granby lol

- hahahahahahaha leave it to hammond to be forcibly adopted by a dragon

poor churki tho she’s a grownass adult and she only has one weird coke-addled diplomat and three basically adolescent dragons to work with here

- GRANBY SETTING SOME BOUNDARIES FINALLY I’m so proud of him ;__; this book really does have a lot to say about dragon/human relations huh

- LETHABO!!!!!!!!!!! man i’m so happy she’s doing well, she fucking deserves it and she’s doing good work

- laurence has evolved to his ultimate form of give-no-fucks-do-some-good laurence and hammond was not prepared lol

“You forget yourself, Captain Laurence,” Hammond said . . .

“I forget nothing,” Laurence answered . . .

im crying b/c he literally has forgotten before but remembers himself at the end of victory of eagles b/c of tharkay and and aaaaaaaaaaaaaugh here he is refusing to do the dirty work he’s handed once more

- lily and maximus! this is not a drill it’s the good good kids back at it again. also temeraire’s phenomenally misplaced sense of superiority re: his reaction to kulingile growing bigger than any of them fkshdfksahdfkj

- berkely <3

- poor harcourt :( ah well she’ll survive it tho he wasn’t that important it’s not like she lost her dragon lol (I honestly can’t feel that bad about riley considering y’know how he was not only chill with but actively for the institution of slavery)

- YOOOOOOO GONG SU! and temeraire is so happy they’re going back to china aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah I love this (laurence’s stammering outrage at this reveal is also highly entertaining “he STAYED in my father’s HOUSE!!!!!!!”)

- man that entire last battle scene was so cool in the context of the rest of the series; the sheer effort and ingenuity that went into avoiding a bigger battle and slyly aiding the only worthy cause in the situation (the tswana and freeing the slaves) is so satisfying, especially after VoE

- holy shit I really enjoyed this one! It had a good balance of travelling/character moments and giving us time with the culture and characters of the Inca and their dragons, as well as driving the overall plot forward splendidly! I also feel like we got some more meat to the laurence POV (in hindsight it feels like it was mostly temeraire POV in tongues of serpents, which is fine but I do love our golden boy and his slow burn character development too)

on to blood of tyrants! I don’t know anything about this one except a) amnesia and b) some Very Important Lines I’ve already picked up along the way, I’m not sure I’m prepared (as a trope amnesia can be pretty hit or miss for me, so it’ll be interesting at least!)

#temeraire #meta #his majesty's dragon #yes hello I am back on my bullshit

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