#I think Spenser is not only doing great
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Why Spenser Starke is a Fantastic Horror GM (and the Core Fantasy in Candela Obscura)
So, I have seen some rancid takes about Spenser Starke online. Less so on this webbed site, largely because people around here are not in a pissing contest to prove who’s the most cynical, superior, and dickish. But there have still been some mind-blowing ones, from “he says UM too much” (guess who else does that? Brennan, but I don’t see these people criticizing him), or “he describes scenes like shots in a movie and that’s BAD WRONG” (while you might not stylistically enjoy it, I for one adore seeing a new interpretation of how to narrate while GMing, and think he’s doing great).
But the two that rub me the wrong way most are that he “controls the narrative too tightly” and doesn’t allow the characters to meander too long before throwing them back into the narrative, and that he’s “too harsh” in that even mixed successes tend to net characters damage of some sort. I saw accusations of “GM vs Player” mentality, but everyone was clearly enjoying themselves and the experience.
And that, I think, highlights the fundamental disconnect between these complainers and what’s actually happening on the screen: they don’t understand the core experience.
They have likely never played horror TTRPGs. They may have never played TTRPGs period, and instead are armchair DMs based purely on how Matt and Brennan DM, not really understanding that there are a thousand other ways to DM. But if they have played TTRPGs, I would guess that they’ve exclusively played D&D or its ilk. And I say that because there’s a very clear belief here that empowerment and ‘winning the game’, as well as wandering about freely to create your own narrative at your own pace are all fundamental parts of the TTRPG experience as a whole. But they aren’t. They’re fundamental to D&D, yes, but this is not what players come to a game like Candela Obscura for.
Each TTRPG has a central fantasy playing out. In D&D it’s heroic empowerment. D&D is mechanically built around getting more and more power and eventually defeating the big bad. A good GM in D&D, like Matt Mercer, focuses on giving out challenges, but always helping their players strive to overcome and grow and become better. This self-actualization is at the heart of the experience.
Horror games are not about that at all. The closest to that fantasy is something like ‘Vampire the Masqerade’ or other World of Darkness games, which do feature power growth, but the core fantasy is actually about learning that you are a monster. And embracing power will lead to even greater monstrousness. The horror in games like this is both political and personal, and the system is mechanically built to accommodate that horror.
And if you watch LA by Night or NY by Night, you’ll actually see that Jason Carl employs a fairly similar narrative tightness to his storytelling as that of Spenser Starke. Because a huge part of horror is about establishing and maintaining a mood. To do that, a DM has to keep a tighter rein on pacing, cutting from scene to scene and moment to moment in a way that is more directed than in D&D, because that helps establish and maintain the vibe being created.
Candela Obscura plays, thematically, a lot like one of my favorite games to run: ‘Call of Cthulhu’. CoC is a game all about disempowerment. The power differential between the players and the monsters is vast. Combat is vicious, short, and deadly, and direct combat almost always ends badly for an investigator. There is an entire chapter devoted to running away for a reason.
Both CoC and Candela are built on danger, vulnerability, and a constant sense of tension. And Spenser is fantastic at all of these. He keeps his narrative laser focused, moving between moments rapid-fire to keep up that tension, and to introduce new dangers. He is a ‘vicious’ DM only in so much as even mixed successes hurt. But this also keeps the tension up by keeping the characters and players on the edges of their seats. They are almost never safe. They are almost never well. They are constantly juggling dwindling resources. They are underpowered, vulnerable, and afraid.
And that’s the core fantasy here: exploring fear in a safe way. Being stressed out in a way you can leave behind as soon as the scene is done. Constantly living on the edge, fighting the odds, and knowing that you likely won’t succeed or will only do so at great cost. And he is masterfully keeping that intensity running through each session.
He gives characters time to talk about themselves, time for scenes to play out, until he feels the tension begin to flag, and then he pushes on. He never lets the air go entirely out of the narrative sails. He has a great sense of when a character needs a moment (his use of the red PTSD lighting exemplifies how closely he’s paying attention to his players and adjusting the setting to fit their moods). He sometimes pushes on, gets pushback from a player who wants another beat, and is always happy to give that to them. He keeps the pace up, but is always very careful to make sure his players have what they need to still enjoy this particular experience.
All this is to say that Spenser is absolutely killing it at being an exemplary horror GM. His sense of pacing and tension, his ability to direct action while still always embracing player autonomy, and using the mechanics of the system to never allow them to feel entirely safe are all great tools in a horror GM’s toolkit.
Horror games are not for everyone. Certainly there are plenty of people who only ever want the hero fantasy of D&D, but I think it’s important to recognize what the goal of a game is, and what constitutes success within those parameters, rather than parameters that only exist in an audience member’s mind, because they don’t really get how horror games work.
#candela obscura#spenser starke#I was frankly shocked at how many people were bitching about him#and all their whining mostly boiled down to him not GMing a horror game like one would DM D&D#it was just a fundamental misunderstanding of how horror stories sort of have to get told#in order to actually scare your players#and give them the core experience of HORROR that they came to the table to feel#I love running horror games#I think Spenser is not only doing great#but he’s got quite a few tricks I want to try out myself#This is not DM vs Player mentality#this is literally just how you play these sorts of games#constantly being close to death or running out of resources
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If you've read that recent article on polygon about Candela Obscura - "Critical Role’s Candela Obscura fails to differentiate itself enough from its inspiration" (6 November 2023) - I don't know much about the other systems and have trouble being objective about things I love, I was wondering what your opinion is
Hi anon!
I have! I will also admit I don't know Blades in the Dark terribly well, or rather, I have roughly the same BitD knowledge as I have Candela knowledge: I've watched (or in this case, listened) to a actual play show run in it (TAZ Steeplechase) and I've looked at the SRD. The Candela full rulebook doesn't come out for a week, so I really can't judge it for myself. So this isn't going to be objective either, but hopefully it will point out what I think the flaws in this article are regardless of the merits or failures of Candela Obscura as a game.
I think my overall issue is what I said about Polygon on the whole earlier this week: it really feels like their metric is first, is this innovative; and second, "does this reinforce my pre-existing political values in a way that allows me to feel warm and fuzzy and virtuous because I played a fun game/watched a fun show and lets me continue to ignore that I haven't actually engaged in any of that tiresome and inconvenient meaningful anticapitalist action."
I also, for what it's worth, think that this mentality very explicitly conflicts with what Critical Role is doing. I think a lot of people interpret the whole "a group of friends playing games" image as encouraging parasocial behavior (which, frankly, is weird in that while the CR fandom has had a parasociality problem, it's no different than any large fandom - Laurisha shippers or the Twinnies & Husbands crowd are literally just the Actual Play Fandom equivalent of Gaylors and Larries; also like, the pitch for WBN earlier this year was basically "hey, we're four friends playing games" and no one has blinked at that, nor should they have) when I think it's intended to mean "we are friends having fun making and playing the games we want to play; it's great if you'll join us but we're doing what we want." Given that Polygon has shown something of a bias towards those shows that give them early access, I do think it might be that they're just cranky they're not being given any special treatment or catering by an actual play show they've been shitting on for years, and this is simply a vicious cycle.
All that aside, more importantly in this case, I think the article shows a notable lack of Ebert's law: "A movie is not about what it is about. It is about how it is about it." Samantha Nelson, the author of this article, appears to be both incapable of evaluating Candela Obscura outside the context of Blades in the Dark - which is frankly, in my again admittedly limited opinion, vastly overstated as an influence (the Forged in the Dark engine is certainly a strong influence, but that's purely mechanical and also it's still only an influence - more on this later) - and also seems to want Candela Obscura's rulebook to flesh out Newfaire and Oldfaire in the same way that Blades in the Dark fleshes out Duskvol.
The thing is, those wide-open spaces and the vagueness of OldFaire? That's deliberate. The Looper interview with Spenser Starke and Rowan Hall as well as the Tabletop News interview both make this clear. The aim of Candela Obscura is to be very easy to pick up, to not have a bunch of intimidating lore that players and GMs need to know before they jump in (and I say this as someone who, when invited to her first D&D game, was the person who read the PHB and sent the other new players a brief summary of each race and class; I love intimidating lore), and to accommodate a wide range of styles. They considered making Oldfaire much more detailed in the book and then decided not to so that GMs felt more free with the world. Again, my knowledge of Blades in the Dark is heavily skewed by an actual play of it that's explicitly not in Duskvol (which I think is a very interesting commentary, namely, maybe Nelson just really fucking loves Duskvol but no one else gives a shit). I genuinely think they are, as more and more Polygon TTRPG/Actual Play coverage seems to be, barely paying attention to what's in front of them and just deciding based on who put it out.
As I said in my earlier posts I do think Candela distinguishes itself from BitD in a number of ways mechanically. The gilded dice mechanic is obviously one of the biggest ones. The lack of flashbacks - a pretty core element of Blades in the Dark - is another. The fact that scars change your stats rather than dealing a permanent penalty (as Trauma does in BitD) is seen as a flaw, as is the lack of lair-building, but I think these things work in tandem. Blades in the Dark is very much about growing territory and becoming a more and more powerful crime syndicate; while four traumas will take you out of the game the same way scars will, there's a lot more opportunities to heal and I believe you have much more room to take stress. Candela Obscura, as another interview I read states (ScreenRant), is a gothic/eldritch horror game about normal people in unfathomable circumstances. You don't really get much better! You adapt, but progress against these monsters is always a long shot. Candela as an organization has been operating for millennia, and the war seems to be one of attrition, and the mechanics, from what I know from the show, reflect that.
The bit about the criminal crew and the lair is honestly kind of funny to me, because in the TAZ Steeplechase wrap-up I listened to last week the McElroys noted that the lair element of BitD was actually really hard to incorporate and they largely ignored it. Obviously that's not true for everyone, but famously D&D in the earlier editions guided high level play towards running one's own dungeon, and there is a reason that hasn't survived to the newer editions, namely, that shift from being a crew out there doing wild and exciting heists and adventures to painting the walls of your clubhouse and hiring guards is not actually fun for a lot of people.
So in summary: I really don't think the author of this article paid a single scrap of attention to the motivations behind design choices, is mad the horror game doesn't give them a kiss on the cheek and tell them they're So Good at Leftism (the comment about not understanding that the restrictions on scarlet aren't tied to anti-immigrant sentiment is particularly egregious), and generally is like "why is this game that shares some similarities but ultimately rather different goals than Blades in the Dark not literally Blades in the Dark but with slightly more aggressive ghosts."
#answered#Anonymous#candela tag#m's ongoing one-sided vendetta against polygon's coverage#man i have another rant in me i was going to write before i got this very good question; i'm going to go to the gym and see that fixes it#long post
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Rogue & Gambit Week 2023: Arranged Marriage
Marian and Robert are Rogue and Gambit’s past lives.
These scenes also set up “Enemies to Lovers”
Robert stared at his mother with a great deal of displeasure across the long dining table.
“Marian Creed? Are you joking?” he said. “The Creeds are the biggest monsters there are.”
Elizabeth Lord picked up her glass of red wine. “I admit that young Victor is as uncouth as his father, but Marian is a delightful girl.”
“Yes, I’m sure she’ll be very delighted when she stabs a stake through my heart on our wedding night.” Robert tossed his napkin on the table, put off his food entirely.
“She won’t do that.”
“Mother, I don’t think I’ve ever said even two words to her, but I already know that if Marian Creed was ever confronted with a real vampire, she would definitely drive a stake through its heart.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Of that I have no doubt.”
“Then why would you marry me off to her?”
“Because she has the good sense not to believe that nonsense.”
“Oh really? And how can you possible know that?”
“Because I have spoken more than two words with her. She’s intelligent, outspoken, a little hot-headed, but kind.”
Robert snorted. “Kind? None of the Creeds are kind. Hell, none of the Spensers are kind either. If Marian is kind, she’s the black sheep of the family.”
“Then I suppose she is the black sheep.” Elizabeth sliced off another piece of the fish on her plate. “Eat your dinner, Robert.”
Robert very reluctantly picked up his fork. “You can’t seriously expect me to marry her.”
“I not only expect it, I insist on it. Unless, of course, you had someone else in mind for a wife?” Elizabeth fixed him with a long, hard look.
“You know there isn’t anyone. Even when I do have the chance to meet other people…” he trailed off.
He’d gotten used to being the hidden son. The one whose alabaster white skin and red eyes were a shame and embarrassment to the family. His brother William was supposed to be the heir, but he and their father had died.
“All the more reason why you need a strong wife,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Marian might not be considered the prime choice for a wife by your contemporaries, but she is perfect for you.”
“Ever think my contemporaries might be onto something?”
“No.” There was finality in Elizabeth’s tone.
Excerpts from Marian’s Diary
Today I got married.
I had expected to feel excitement and happiness. I anticipated writing about the small, secret ceremony Max and I had. I wanted to write about how wonderful our wedding night was.
Instead, the only thing of the above that happened, was that the ceremony was small, and secret from myself. They told me the date was set for next week, but no, it happened today, as I found out when Margaret and Clara came into my room and presented me with my wedding gown.
Don’t even get me started on the wedding gown. I’m quite certain they deliberately made something they knew I would hate and look terrible in. I look forward to burning it, preferably in front of them.
We were so close. Just two more days and I would’ve been gone with Max. Just two more days, and I would’ve been Mrs Eisenhardt, and there would’ve been nothing they could’ve done about it.
The only good thing about this whole mess is that I no longer have to interact with the Spensers. I’m sure they’re just as glad to be rid of me as I am of them. Mother will probably try to get in, I expect. I don’t doubt she wants to get her claws into the Lord’s family fortune. Well, she is never moving in, and I’m certainly not going to ever even allow her to visit. I hope she enjoyed the wedding because that’s the last social occasion I ever intend to spend with her. I don’t know if it was her or grandfather who changed the date, but they can both burn in hell.
As for Robert, he hasn’t said a word to me he wasn’t obligated to. And on this our wedding night he hasn’t even bothered to consummate our marriage. He’s ignored me since we got here. Given all the build up to this moment, I don’t know if I’m angry or relieved. I suppose I’m more confused than anything else. Was he against this marriage also? Did they lie to him about the date too? Or perhaps he’s just shy? He has been sheltered his entire life, hardly ever seen in public. Perhaps he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.
I suppose I should count my blessings.
Oh Max. I’m so sorry Max. I hope you got my message. I love you.
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look, i need to say this somewhere or i'll explode. candela obscura spoilers kinda.
to say that i disagree with spenser's game decisions would be an understatement. in this essay i will,
(first off, don't read this if you liked the guy's style! i'm not about needless pettiness, i just need to get this off my chest so i can go to sleep tonight. i see you, and i respect you, and i'm genuinely glad you enjoyed something i wasn't able to!)
but anyway
two main things i disagree with:
he doesn't honor player choices, choosing his own narrative over the top of their actions every time
he doesn't honor player successes. even on a six (full success) he still deals out a frankly preposterous amount of damage. invariably, on a mixed success they also will ALWAYS take damage. this fucks up the statistics.
there's a bunch more little things (dodging player questions, refusing to allow clever tactics - general hallmarks of the frustrating gm) but these are getting into nitpicky territory so i won't go on.
my analysis of the issue boils down to this: spenser is a good horror storyteller. but he is a bad horror game master.
let's break that down. the point of a game is to be an experience. and the point of horror, as a genre, is to be scared in a safe environment. to have an outlet for rage, and fear, and all ugly emotions.
all games are concerned, at their core, with a simple question: what does this game choose to punish or reward? sometimes it's in the rules, e.g. 'killing monsters gives you loot'. sometimes it's an unspoken question, e.g. 'my gm likes when we think our way around things rather than fighting all the time'.
the way spenser runs his game - always punishing mixed successes, and sometimes even punishing full successes - he destroys the core of a punishment/reward system by reducing it entirely to a system of punishment.
this might sound fine for a horror game. (for some people, i bet it is). but as a person who enjoys playing punishing games (pathalogic cough) a great deal of the appeal is that your struggle has meaning beyond your own survival. when the struggle is simply futile no matter what, well... why bother at all?
in other words, when you punish everything your players attempt to do, you encourage them to do nothing. in real life, this is when people walk away from the table, or develop suicidal characters
so much for game design. here is how he fails on a storytelling level. his goal, in most scenes, is to kill his characters. so there's no wider stakes. oh, he creates tension, and frustration - sure. man knows how to ramp up a scene. good storyteller, remember? but it's not his story that matters to us. it's the characters.
spenser refuses to honor player choices in a meaningful, narrative way.
in fact, that is the exact cause of our frustration!
and as far as spenser would have it, the characters will die, or remain helpless, and so our frustration has no outlet.
still, having laid all that out, i wonder. maybe there is catharsis in this kind of hopelessness. to become so deadened by tension and rage that you slip into a darker mental space, and you begin to long for any escape at all... you long to utilise the only agency you possess: that is, where exactly you choose to die. is there agency in that? you have to believe it, right? otherwise, what's the point? yes - why bother at all?
and maybe the story could be something. if spenser engaged with this idea. if he let go of the need to punish. but when his characters die, i have no expectation it will be anything other than inglorious, and possibly even accidental. and we will have lost a valuable story in what they might have done, if he'd let them. what answers they might have found to that age-old question: why should we bother?
to reiterate: the point of a game is to be an experience. and the point of horror, as a genre, is to be scared in a safe environment. to have an outlet for rage, and fear, and all ugly emotions.
when the goal of the game is survival, and you create an environment so punishingly tense that your characters are no longer scared of dying, they lose interest in the goal. games kinda need goals, you know? anyway, this is the experience spenser fails to deliver
to quote marisha, s2 e2. 'throw the whole quickstart guide out! throw it all away!' or at least, get a better dm to try and sell it! because i've read the guide front to back, and it's not a hopeless game system. but having a hopeless dm... yeah, you couldn't pay me to play at his table lol
rant over, keep scrolling. if you're one of the people who liked his style, that's okay and i respect it! i wish i had half the masochistic streak you do ^^
#candela obscura spoilers#i have a great deal of empathy for his position#its not easy#i get that#this is a great deal of pettiness that i hope he never sees#and you know what? i found his incompetence useful#in learnign what i don't want to do#and the kind of gm i never want to be
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Speaking of fin de siècle end-of-history texts, I’m perpetually on the verge of finally reading through Sexual Personae, though there always seems to be another philosophical work half its length or a novel of comparable size to read… In any case this will be the year I think. I’ll confess based on the little Paglia I’ve read always pegged her as the last of the great intellectual trolls, but we’ll see. I was amused to discover recently that she herself identifies as transgender while opposing gender ideology, which throws a rather different light on a joke once I made (in the fashion that all properly educated people do, throwing around the names of thinkers whom they’ve not read comprehensively and have only a mental caricature of) that my own position on gender is the dialectical synthesis of Butler and Paglia.
You don't have to read the whole book, though, just the long first chapter, which is the "theory" part. The rest are almost freestanding critical essays on the literary or artistic exempla of the theory; they can be visited and revisited whenever you're actually reading Spenser, Shakespeare, Dickinson, Wilde, etc. I'm sure I've read every page, some many more times than once, but I've never sat down and read the book qua book cover to cover. The "cancelled preface," collected in Sex, Art, and American Culture, is really fun too:
I pity the poet or novelist in this age of mass media, but my envy is frank and unconcealed for the musician, who is able to affect the audience with such emotional directness, a pre-rational manipulation of the nerves. I long for a prose of Classic structure yet Romantic fire, as in Monteverdi or Chopin. A prose with both clarity and passion, eternal opposites of Apollo and Dionysus, a harmony of brain hemispheres. My domination by music is total. Sexual Personae could be subtitled, after a 1972 Stevie Wonder album, Music of My Mind. My "reading" of Western civilization was directly inspired by the four Brahms symphonies, which entranced me in college—in particular, the third, which I listened to hundreds of times while writing this book.
Her transgender provocation is similar (which is to say maybe I stole it from her) to my own probing at the nonbinary category, since it seems to me that I am nonbinary if anyone is, and yet I am really not, and I would pretty much die if anyone called me "they." I'm just not going to go back to the playground where brutes and mean girls said my tastes, interests, and disposition meant I wasn't a man!
The "dialectical synthesis of Butler and Paglia" is, I think, already more or less contained entire in Paglia underneath the shock rhetoric, not that I've ever been the world's great reader of the turgid and humorless Butler. Paglia does believe in the autonomy (thus necessarily the performativity) of human culture, except that for her it's (1) constrained more than it is for a poststructuralist like Butler by a biological base and—this is the far more important part—(2) subject to aesthetic criteria rendering illegitimate the kind of clumsy, coercive interventions activists and bureaucrats dream up. I know she said "you can't change sex" recently, but I think that whole question is an angels-on-pinheads abstract imponderable of no great relevance to on-the-ground questions of, say, civil liberties or pediatric medicine—themselves two distinct and separable issues, by the way, which I say as a strong civil libertarian who strongly distrusts technocratic institutions.
(P. S. The last time an anon used the phrase "gender ideology" on here, I got yelled at for an entire day by a graduate student, who, following Butler, called me a "fascist." I couldn't care less about the phrase "gender ideology," and if it bothers anybody, please substitute a more neutral label for what is, after all, an extant phenomenon, namely, the anti-essentialist critique of gender and sexual categories. I am practically a pacifist who doesn't give anybody a grade lower than "B" for finished work. If people think I am a fascist, I really hope they are able to remain sheltered and therefore never encounter the genuine article.)
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(Long Post quoting) NY Review of Books:
This year marks exactly four centuries since the publication of William Shakespeare’s First Folio, the giant two-volume set of thirty-six plays that reframed his work in “overtly literary terms,” as Catherine Nicholson puts it in our Sixtieth Anniversary Issue. Nicholson’s writing about Renaissance literature—including in books on the formation of a vernacular tradition (Uncommon Tongues: Eloquence and Eccentricity in the English Renaissance) and on The Faerie Queene (Reading and Not Reading The Faerie Queene: Spenser and the Making of Literary Criticism)—flashes with a rare combination of historical precision and fresh insight. Her essays for the Review so far include considerations of Edmund Spenser, John Milton, and what we’re able to know about childhood in the sixteenth century; a characteristically sharp line on Milton notes that his “nonchronological narrative design” in Paradise Lost “teases us to think, perhaps God is Eve-like.”
Nicholson’s essay on the First Folio, “Theater for a New Audience,” traces the contingencies that have helped to shape our idea of Shakespeare through the big posthumous book of his plays, revealing among other things how our understanding of foundational texts can be enlarged by studying the history of their reception. It also touches on a number of literary questions that could have formed a separate essay on their own, and this week she discussed a few of them with me via e-mail.
-Catherine Nicholson
Jana Prikryl: We have no evidence that Shakespeare, who died in 1616, had anything to do with the First Folio, which was published in 1623. In your essay you criticize Chris Laoutaris’s Shakespeare’s Book for speculating that the Bard himself instigated the folio project. It’s tempting to imagine something of the sort, since otherwise we have a Shakespeare who was recklessly indifferent to the survival of his own work. What’s your own theory for why he, as you put it, “seems to have had no such ambition”?
Catherine Nicholson: I’m not sure we need to think of Shakespeare as recklessly indifferent to the survival of his plays so much as possessed of a different sense of what survival might mean—firstly in the repertory of the King’s Men, and only secondly in the market for print. And survival within a theatrical repertory often entailed a great deal of change: lines, scenes, characters, and so on might be altered, cut, or added as a script was adapted to the resources of the playing company, the shifting tastes of audiences, and the demands of a particular performance occasion. The playwright might be enlisted in making those changes, or he might have no say at all. Since, at the time, playscripts were the legal property of playing companies, publication happened at a still further remove from authorial control. The version of a play fixed in a printed edition might be the one the playwright intended or preferred, or it might simply be the one the printer could get his hands on. And many, many plays never made it into the hands of any printer: the diary of the Elizabethan impresario Philip Henslowe mentions 280 plays, of which thirty survive in print. Some may have been printed and then lost, but it seems clear that most plays written in Shakespeare’s lifetime lived exclusively in the theaters.
That environment must have shaped Shakespeare’s relationship to his work. No doubt he did sometimes find it frustrating to have his words altered without his say-so. Hamlet’s irritable injunction to the players—“let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them”—gives us a glimpse of the sometimes fraught relations between writers and performers, especially those with the most license to improvise on stage. But that speech itself runs quite a bit longer in the 1603 quarto (Q1) than it does in the 1623 folio: in 1603 Hamlet goes on to recite a string of random comic catchphrases exactly like the ones he doesn’t want forced into his own play. I don’t have an opinion on which version of the speech belongs in a modern edition or performance: the folio version is certainly more elegant and concise, but the ironic effect in Q1 is one I cherish; it suggests that Shakespeare was wont to poke fun at any impulse toward authorial control, even his own.
I have a similar response to, say, Sonnet 55, which begins, “Not marble nor the gilded monuments/Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme….” That poem channels the voices of Ovid and Horace to make an extravagant claim for the undying power of Shakespeare’s verse, and it’s hard to read today without a shiver of appreciation and awe: he was right (so far)! But when I teach the Sonnets, I always point out to students that these are poems that circulated in manuscript for over a decade before making their way (with or without Shakespeare’s knowledge and approval) into print; moreover, they are in a poetic form that already, in the mid-1590s, was a bit passé and in a vernacular almost no one outside of England spoke or read. The idea that these verses would retain their meaning and value for all time—“Even in the eyes of all posterity/That wear this world out to the ending doom”—has got to be shot through with some pathos, implausibility, or even humor.
Can you talk a bit about the kinds of new readings that became available after the plays moved from performance to the page?
In some sense, the shift from playhouse to page must have seemed like an impoverishment: the media of performance are so vivid and multisensory in comparison to the medium of text. One of my favorite recent works of scholarship on early modern drama is Claire Bourne’s Typographies of Performance in Early Modern England (2020), which reveals how painstaking and ingenious early modern printers were in devising typographic conventions to make playbooks legible both as books and as plays. At the turn of the sixteenth century, the resources for communicating dramatic structure and dramatic action were limited: the first playbook printed in England, a Latin edition of Terence’s Comedies, included an editorial note telling readers what an act and a scene were and urging them to imagine actors moving on- and off-stage as they read. By the time Shakespeare’s plays were being published, printers had devised an incredibly sophisticated repertoire of typographic conventions, from act and scene divisions to speech tags, italicized stage directions, printed marks like dashes and pilcrows (the symbol that marks a paragraph break), and woodcut illustrations, all of which helped readers to imagine the text in performance.
But printing a play also creates all sorts of new opportunities for engaging with it, beyond the shared temporality of performance: reading a bit at a time, for instance; stopping to look something up; marking and returning to a favorite passage; noticing the recurrence of an image, phrase, or word across a wide expanse of text; annotating in the margins or copying passages out into a commonplace book. Add those modes of readerly engagement together, and you begin to get something like literary criticism: an approach to a play that can coordinate character and plot with features of the text that would be hard to pause over or even register in performance.
To what degree Shakespeare anticipated or sought that kind of engagement from readers of his plays is an open question. In his 2003 book Shakespeare as Literary Dramatist, the scholar Lukas Erne argues that the length of a number of Shakespeare’s plays suggests he wrote them, at least in part, with print publication in mind, lavishing care on passages he knew would likely never make it on stage. On the other hand, maybe the length of the plays as written reveals that Shakespeare was far less precious about his own words than we tend to be; he knew they might be cut and adapted for performance, and he wrote freely in expectation of that winnowing. In either case, the looser, nonlinear, potentially discontinuous temporality of reading allows for all sorts of lingering and reading across or against the narrative grain that I, at least, can’t fathom doing without. And the First Folio encourages that kind of reading—not simply of each play, but of the plays as a dynamic and interrelated whole.
In the first piece you wrote for the Review, on Edmund Spenser, you called The Faerie Queene “the emblematic textual commodity of an age in which book ownership expanded from the domain of aristocrats and scholars to become a bourgeois expression of taste.” When the First Folio was published twenty-six years later, would you say it was comparable in status?
I’d guess that both the 1590/1596 quartos of The Faerie Queene and the 1611 folio of Spenser’s Works were more immediately recognizable to readers and book buyers as prestige literary commodities. The full title of the latter—The Faerie Queen: The Shepheardes Calender: Together with the other Works of England’s Arch-Poët, Edm. Spenser: Collected into one Volume—takes for granted both the author’s preeminence among English poets and the value of assembling his writings into a unified corpus. Contrast that with the mocking reception in some quarters of the 1616 folio of Ben Jonson’s Works (“Pray tell me Ben, where doth the mistery lurke?” inquired one anonymous wit, “What others call a play you call a work”), which suggests the difficulty seventeenth-century readers still had in conceiving of vernacular stage plays as literature.
But there’s a nearly seventy-year gap between the first and second folios of Spenser’s Works, while the Second Folio of Shakespeare’s plays appears just nine years after the first, in 1632. And by the middle of the eighteenth century, their fortunes have decisively crossed: The Faerie Queene is, increasingly, a book to own—or, perhaps, to study—but not to read, while editions and adaptations of Shakespeare sell in a wide variety of formats and at a range of price points. In that sense, too, textual fixity or bibliographic iconicity isn’t the same as influence or survival: change remains the lifeblood of literary tradition.
I don’t want to give away the brilliant ending of your piece, but its reading of The Tempest made me think of other times in the plays when characters rely overmuch on textual sources: the several letters intercepted in King Lear, the fatefully undelivered letter from Friar Laurence in Romeo and Juliet, the comically bad poems Orlando pins to trees in As You Like It…. Is it too much to say that it seems, in Shakespeare’s worlds, as if things written down are inferior to those acted out?
I don’t know about inferior—Shakespeare is keenly alert to the perils and pitfalls of dramatic reenactment—but certainly subject to error and misapprehension. Sometimes those misapprehensions are disastrous; other times (I’m thinking of poor Malvolio deciphering what he believes to be a love letter from Olivia, in Twelfth Night) they are deliciously comic; occasionally, as with the letter that mysteriously surfaces in the final moments of The Merchant of Venice, restoring Antonio’s lost fortune, they are redemptive. Like Spenser, Shakespeare seems to delight in scripting encounters that anticipate the possibility of his own misreading by others, and misreading is not always figured as a catastrophe; sometimes it offers the wayward path to a happy ending.
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#shakespeare#william shakespeare#playwright#first folio#plays#dramatist#refrigerator magnets#refrigerator magnet#for educational purposes only
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Birthday Girl (NSFW)
Clay Spenser x Reader
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This Months Writing
Happy birthday for tomorrow darlin’, @theysayitscrazy hope you have a great day and my gift to you is some Clay smut 😜
Clay looked around the room, the low lighting made the fairy lights stand out. A smirk played on his lips as he took in his handy work. It may have taken him all day but this was one thing that he wasn’t going to fuck up on. It was bad enough he was being deployed on your birthday so the least he could do was make the night before special for you.
No one knew about his romantic side, he kept that reserved only for you.
The sound of the front door closing brought him out of his thoughts, pulled his shirt off, leaving him standing there in his sweatpants that hung dangerously low and his cap turned backwards.
“Clay,” You shouted, “You home baby?”
“Bedroom,” He shouted back, as he laid on the bed, propping his arm behind his head, waiting for you to walk through the door.
The moment you walked in, you roamed your eyes over your husband’s body, biting down on your bottom lip as you took in his sculpted body. Instantly feeling weak at the knees.
“Whats all this?” You asked, finally pulling your gaze off him and looking around the room, the fairy lights made his blue eyes sparkle and you could see the mischief behind his smirk, on one bedside table there was a tray of crab legs and on the other a couple of Vodka seven’s and to top it off your favorite film at the moment, practical magic, paused on the TV.
“I thought we would celebrate your birthday tonight, seeing as I am being deployed tomorrow.” He hummed, watching as you stripped out of your work clothes. “So what do you want first baby girl?” The playfulness dripped off his voice as he spoke.
“I can think of one thing I want first,” You purred, kneeling on the bed, slowly crawling up to him, before practically straddling him. The feeling of his skin on yours instantly made your body heat up. “The food and the film can wait.”
Clay didn’t say anything, he instantly started placing open mouthed kisses along your neck, gently grazing his teeth along your skin making you moan softly, reaching his hands around, unclipping your bra and tossing it across the room. In one quick movement he flipped you over, his sculpted body pressing you down into the mattress as he worked his way down your body. With every kiss, your skin burned under his touch and you squeezed your thighs together to gain a bit of friction.
Clay knew he never needed to go much to get you turned on, and he loved it. He loved the power he had over your body and how it reacted to his every touch.
In slow movements he pushed your lace thong down, slowly licking his lips as he gazed over your naked body.
“So beautiful,” He hummed as he ran his fingers through your wet folds, making you squirm under his touch, a smirk playing on his face as he locked eyes with you. A he dipped his head between your thighs, gently kissing and nipping at your skin, moving his way towards your core.
The moment his mouth connected with your clit, you arched your back into him, tossing his cap across the room so you could tangle your fingers in his blonde curls. You grip tighten as he slowly slipped a finger into your core making you moan loudly at the feeling of his finger and tongue working simultaneously, both matching the same rhythm and you were pretty sure you would be seeing stars or passed out by the end of the night.
“Fuck Clay,” You gasped as he eased another finger into your wet pussy. The feeling of him stretching you out felt amazing but nothing would feel as good as his thick cock pounding into you, Your mouth was watering at the thought of his dick. “Clay I need you to fuck me,” You whimpered, “Please.”
“Well as you asked so nicely,” He smirked, licking his lip before move back up to your face, grabbing your cheeks and kissing you with so much passion it made your head spin, that pair with the taste of yourself on his lips made you into a more hornier mess than you actually were. He had his shit eating grin on his face as he pushed his sweatpants down letting his solid cock spring free. “Happy birthday wifey,”
@chibsytelford @mrsmarvelous1995 @supervalcsi @talicat713 @disasterfandoms @bravo-four-seal-team @jasonbabymama @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @lotsoflovefromlea @seik-o @velvetcardiganbucky @phoenixhalliwell @pancakeisreading @itsonautopilot @pinkrockstar19 @galaxysanduniversesinmymind @softi92 @abby-splace @theysayitscrazy @thelovelyleo23 @innerpaperexpertcloud
#clay spenser#clay Spenser x reader#clay spenser imagine#seal team#seal team x reader#seal team imagine
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Dive in Deeper: Allegory
Hello, hello! Hope everyone is doing well! Long time no see!
On my last post, I wrote about the 22 essential literary devices. In case you missed that post lnk right here.
Today, I will be going a bit more in-depth in one of the devices, I mentioned — allegory.
What is an allegory?
Allegory is a literary device used to express large, complex ideas in an approachable manner
comes from the Latin “allegoria,” meaning speaking to imply something else
it is a simple story that represents a larger point about society or human nature, whose different characters may represent real-life figures
What Is the Purpose of Allegory in Writing?
is used in writing to express large, sometimes abstract ideas, or to comment on society
allegory gives the author cover to talk about controversial ideas that otherwise might be too dangerous to talk about explicitly
What Are the Different Types of Allegory?
Biblical allegory. Biblical allegory invokes themes from the Bible, and often explores the struggle between good and evil. One example of Biblical allegory is C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. The lion, Aslan, represents a Christ character, who is the rightful ruler of the kingdom of Narnia. Aslan sacrifices himself for Edmund, the Judas figure, and is resurrected to rule over Narnia once again. Biblical allegory can also refer to allegorical interpretations of the Bible, which differ from literal interpretations, and were popular in the Middle Ages.
Classical allegory. One of the best known allegories in classical literature is Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. In this story, Plato imagines people living in a cave, only ever seeing objects as shadows reflected on the wall from the light of a fire—rather than seeing the objects directly. Plato used the cave as a symbolic representation of how humans live in the world, contrasting reality versus our interpretation of it.
Modern allegory. Modern allegory includes many instances of a phenomenon called “allegoresis,” which refers to the interpretation of works as allegorial without them necessarily being intended that way. For example, there is an ongoing debate among readers about J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings series, and whether or not the books were written as an allegory for World War I.
What Are Some Examples of Allegory in Literature?
George Orwell, Animal Farm. Animal Farm is a great example of allegory, and is often taught in high school English classes to introduce the concept. In this farm fable, animals run a society that divides into factions and mirrors the rise of Leon Trotsky and the Russian Revolution. The story can be read as a fable of farm animals running a society, or it can be interpreted as the author’s criticism of communism.
Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene. The Faerie Queene is an English epic poem published originally in 1590. In this poem, Spenser established the Spenserian stanza. The poem follows several Arthurian knights, and explores twelve virtues. However, the poem was widely read as a commentary on the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. (Whether the commentary is positive or negative continues to be debated by academics and critics today.)
Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter. In Hawthorne’s novel, set in the 1600s but published in 1850, Hester Prynne is forced to undergo public humiliation, including wearing the scarlet letter “A” (standing for “adultress”) after she becomes pregnant out of wedlock. The scarlet letter is itself an allegorical representation of sin, and how society punishes it. The novel can be read as a criticism of the hypocrisy of a Puritanical society.
Aesop’s Fables. These fables were originally part of an oral tradition in ancient Greece, and are credited to an ancient Greek slave named Aesop. They are a collection of fables, often aimed at children, that offer guidance on a wide variety of social, political, and religions topics. Aesop’s Fables are allegory in the form of instructive lessons—stories that teach children how to behave and what to value.
5 Tips for Using Allegory in Writing
Think of an important idea you want to share with your reader. It should be something large and complex, and something that relates to the society you live in on a large scale.
Once you’ve decided on a topic, plan out your allegory. Think of how you will translate these real-world ideas into fictional scenes and characters. Carefully assign characters: animals are common, as in Aesop’s Fables and Animal Farm, but there is no rule about what sort of characters to use.
Whatever you choose, remember that your audience will be trying to figure out who each character represents in real life, so try not to confuse them with unrelated characters whose purpose is not clear.
Be sure to let your reader know how to read between the lines. You will need to leave clues without over-explaining your message. Don’t be so subtle that the readers will miss the point of the allegory.
The surface story must stand on its own. While the underlying message can be a bit abstract, this isn’t an essay or a speech. The top layer must still make sense and be intriguing in its own right.
There you have it. Like, comment and reblog if you find this useful.
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#writing#writing advice#writing tips#original writing#writers on tumblr#writerscommunity#writersconnection#writersofig#writersofinstagram#writings
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Chapter Three:
Once Kara had given the guys the all-clear to head into Clay’s room, they went in pairs, and Metal convinced Kara she needed to get some food. Jason had to marvel at the relationship between Metal and Kara. He’d never seen Metal act like he did with Kara, like he genuinely cared about her; and Kara seemed to let her walls down whenever Metal would ask her something or call her out on her selfcare.
Jason was headed down to the main entrance of the hospital with Ray, Metal, and Kara. As they walked into the waiting room of the Emergency Room, Hawkins called out to them from across the room. Kara smiled as he and Nic walked over. “Hey, how’s Clay doing?” Nic asked with a friendly smile.
“He’s doing okay,” Kara answered easily. “The guys are with him. I’m gonna head out with these guys for a few to get some food.”
Hawk tilted his head and looked at her. She stared right back him, clearly daring him to say something. “He’ll be fine,” Nic spoke up, looking between the two of them. “We’ll keep an eye on things.”
“Besides, Hawk,” Metal drawled, staring right at Hawkins. “Our girl here needs to take better care of herself, right?”
Hawkins nodded once but didn’t look away from Kara. “Right.”
As they were standing around in circle talking, Kara looked to the left and glanced at a dark-skinned man wearing a heavy jacket and talking on a cell phone. He was speaking a language Jason didn’t know. Her eyes darted back to Hawk as she tilted her head to listen better.
“What’s happening?” Hawk asked her, watching her intently.
“How’s your Swahili?” she questioned him.
“Not great,” Hawk narrowed his eyes on her. “You?”
“Fluent,” she shot back immediately.
“Alpha Seven, sit-rep,” Metal immediately demanded, voice low.
Kara snapped into action, her eyes stayed on Hawk as she spoke, a small smile graced her face. “Fighting age male, dark-skinned, wearing a heavy black coat, speaking Swahili on the phone. He specifically stated that he was wearing a vest and was ready. 2nddark-skinned, fighting aged male twelve o’clock, also wearing a heavy dark coat. It’s 85 degrees outside. There are 34 people in this room. 6 children, 15 women, including Nic and myself, and 9 men not including the four of you. Of the 15 women, 3 are geriatric.”
Jason was immediately on alert. The moment she started speaking and rattling off the statics of the room around them, Jason was able to zero in and see what she had seen in a moment’s notice. Sure enough, there was 2nd possible tango near the wall of windows that overlooked the parking lot beyond the hospital.
“You caught all that the moment we walked in here?” Ray asked.
“Kara can see the matrix,” Metal explained.
Jason turned to Metal and raised an eyebrow. Metal only nodded back at him. Jason looked down at Kara who was still looking at Hawk with a slight smile on her face, being completely inconspicuous. “Alright, how do we handle this?” Jason asked, differing to her and Metal for a plan.
“Hospital policy dictates in a potential hostage situation to immediately call 911 and avoid contact,” Hawkins stated and pulled out his phone from his pocket.
“We need to go into lockdown,” Nic said. “Keep people from entering the building. We could pull the fire alarm,” she suggested.
“We do that, and every door closes and locks, and we’ll be trapped in this room with two true believers and roughly 40 victims. No, we alert the staff and do a compacity close,” Kara turned to Nic. “Nic, send out a code 8 alert. Close the hospital to all incoming ambos and patients. It’ll lock all exterior doors.”
Nic immediately pulled out her phone and started texting.
Kara turned back to Hawkins, “Call 911, discreetly explain the situation,” Kara ordered.
Hawkins walked away, phone pressed to his ear and purposely going in the opposite direction.
“Won’t that draw suspicion?” Ray asked.
“Not if we play off the overcrowding,” Nic answered looking around.
“I’m gonna need you guys to blend in,” Kara said, and glanced at Metal.
He nodded once to her, clearly trusting her.
Kara glanced around the Emergency Department and sighed. They had gathered attention. Both men were watching them. Kara suddenly laughed and grabbed Nic’s hand in an exaggerated belly laugh as she doubled over. “Oh my god! You’re right!”
Nic immediately followed and laughed too, clutching Kara as they stumbled away from their little group over to the check in desk.
The girls finished what seemed to be a lively conversation in front of the reception desk before they both looked down at the check in sheet. Jason, Ray, and Metal headed dispersed amongst the crowded waiting room, looking for a seat that would allow for a clear line of sight in case they needed to do anything. Without weapons though, it was going to be hard.
Jason could see Nic talking to the check in girl who nodded once before she stood up and headed into the room behind the reception desk.
Kara picked up the sign in clipboard and looked it over before she then looked around the room. “Alright everyone, listen up!” she called out loudly over the noise of the waiting room. She waited briefly for the noise to die down before she continued. “Welcome to Chastain Memorial Hospital in Virginia Beach, Virginia, USA,” Kara drawled, adopting her best gameshow host voice, and letting her eyes make a slow and casual sweep of the room. “My name is Dr. Kara Spenser. As you can see, we are quite busy here in the Emergency Department. Yes, Emergency department. It is no longer classified as just the Emergency Room; we are a whole department. A whole department dedicated to ensuring you get the absolute best care you so rightly deserve. So, I have one rule, and one rule only here in my E.D. and that is, ‘My way or the highway. My word is law.’ If you don’t like that rule, I don’t really care. I’m not here to be your friend, I’m here to ensure that you do not bleed out. And there will be no blood on my E.D floor,” she smirked at Hawkins, who had walked back in the room with his phone nowhere to be seen. “So, this how we’re going to things,” she turned toward Nic. “This is Dr. Nevin, she’s going to take our children directly up to pediatrics. Why wait here, when you can wait there?”
There was a bit of a grumbled from the parents of the children, but they slowly gathered their things and their children and followed after Nic, roughly clearing out a dozen people.
Ray’s throat tightened when he saw Naima walk out of the back room behind the reception desk and glance around.
Kara glanced over at her briefly before she launched into her next spiel, “Next we have our lovely elderly patients. You’ve done a lifetime of waiting now, so we’re gonna get you up and out of my E.D. The lovely nurses Naima and Brenda here, are gonna assist you lovely ladies on up to our geriatrics ward.” There was a shuffle as Naima and Brenda helped the three patients to their feet and they shuffled out.
Kara started to pace the room as she continued. “The rest of you, I apologize for the wait. Dr. Conrad Hawkins and I will be with you shortly. We have your check in information. We will go down the list according to who checked in first.”
Jason had to admit he was impressed with Kara’s quick thinking. She managed to clear half the people out of the room, including Naima and the front desk woman Brenda. All the children and elderly were evacuated. All that was left was the four trained Navy SEALS, Hawkins, Kara, two armed men, and roughly ten others that they could hopefully get out of harm’s way before the men decided they were done waiting.
As she finished speaking one of the men, the one that had been talking on the cell phone, had decided he was done waiting and stood up managed to grab Kara as she was walking by. He managed to get an arm around her neck and pull out a gun before Kara could even move. She froze and flashed her gaze to Metal, as the gun was waiving around in front of her.
The gunman started yelling and chaos erupted in the E.D.
“Hey, hey,” Jason tried to call over the yelling of the room, but the gunman yelled louder.
A hush finally settled over the crowd in the E.D while the gunman assessed the situation around him. He was flighty and waiving the gun in front of Kara. His other arm was locked in a headlock around Kara’s neck. She was clawing at his arm to no avail.
“Come on man, let her go,” Metal’s voice was soft and gentle in a commanding sort of way.
Kara’s eyes left Metal’s and landed on the other man in a coat in the room. The man stood up, pulled out a 9mm and turned his back on the crowd behind him. With his back turned, it took Jason all of a second’s decision making to tackle the man.
His gun went flying out of his hand and scattered across the floor at Kara’s feet.
She made a split-second decision and a tossed her head back into her assailant’s head, with a sickening crunch in her ear, his nose broke. He broke his hold on her and she dropped her weight and lunged for the 9mm lying at her feet.
In a trained and liquid move, she grabbed the 9mm, rolled onto her back and with both hands on the weapon, fired off two shots into the extremist’s chest in a tight pattern. His body hadn’t even hit the floor before she turned her body and eyed Jason struggling with the man in the vest. With the gun trained on them, she watched the extremist knock Jason off his back and reach for his torso.
Kara fired off a single shot, straight through the skull.
There was a moment of deafening quiet in the E.D before Kara got to her feet, holding the gun down and aimed at the ground as she assessed the situation around her. Both assailants were dead, everyone else in the room was crouched down, except for the SEALS that were on their feet also looking around for a threat.
Metal slowly walked over and pulled gun out of her hands and flipped the safety into place before he pulled her into a hug. She didn’t even hug him back, just rested her forehead against his chest and breathed in deep, taking in his familiar and comforting scent. “Good work, Alpha Seven,” he stated clearly as he pulled her against him.
Kara had to chuckle softly as she shook her head. “Fucking hell,” she grumbled and wrapped an arm around his waist.
#Seal Team#Seal Team Fan Fic#Clay Spenser#Clay Spenser Fan Fic#Clay Spenser x OC#Sonny Quinn#Ray Perry#Brock Reynolds#Full Metal#Scott Carter#Trent Sawyer#Conrad Hawkins#The Resident
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Fixations and love.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (I’m fairly sure I didn’t include any pronouns so it can be read as gender neutral)
Summary: Just fluff honestly, it’s quite short but it’s pretty much just Spencer coming home from a case, you’re making bread and lots of cuddles and kisses. Pretty much just fluff with plot.
Word count: 1674
Warnings: None just a load of fluff.
Prompt: 7. “Well the probability of that is 0 but knock yourself out”
A/N: Thank you so much for the request. i posted this like 10 days ago but it was unedited and honestly awful, I haven’t had any inspiration to write in ages, i tried to fix the mess that this was but I still don’t think its great, its ok but anyways. I’m going to try and get out of this slump.
A/N2: My old account got deleted so I'm just reposting my fics I would appreciate if you could bust this so i could get back to where my account was thank you for your time.
God you hated mornings. They are just horrible, people that like them should not be trusted, they must have issues if they enjoy leaving their nice warm bed.
That’s why you always stayed up late, it had always been that way, when the sun was down is when you felt your happiest and most productive.
And that is why you are currently up at 2am making bread in your kitchen, well attempting. You had wanted to have had the bread done by now or at least by the time Spencer got back home from their latest case. But maybe your plans to bake in the morning got pushed back by the fact you slept until 2pm (it’s the weekend so no judging) and then had some work you brought home to finish so yeah, you’re doing it now. But better late than never.
You were currently sitting on your couch watching greys anatomy while you let your dough rest (for the third time because you may or may not have been very unsuccessful thus far but third times the charm right).
While you were completely wrapped up in the current episode you heard the keys turning and your front door opening to reveal your very handsome boyfriend finally home from a weeklong case.
As soon as you both made eye contact smiles appeared and you rose from your spot and ran straight into his open arms were your face buried into his chest welcoming his familiar smell and he buried his into the top of your head letting the smell of home engulf him, your smell.
You stood there for a minute or two like you always did. After every case when Spencer came home to you, you hugged him, you held each other because that’s what you needed what you both needed, sometimes longer than others but without fail you needed to feel him to feel that he was there and that he had gotten home safe.
He needed to feel you to feel at home and grounded and at peace, he needed to feel the happiness you could only bring to him in contrast of the sadness and horror he was stepping away from.
Spencer was the first to break the silence as you gripped his cardigan , he kissed your temple before speaking “I don’t think I will ever get tired of coming home to you” you smiled at that, home you loved it when he called you home, “I truly hope you don’t, I know I will never get tired of coming home to you” you said the last part as you looked up at him and saw he was already looking at you with a love sick smile, he brought one of his hands up you cup your cheek and you leaned in welcoming the familiar touch.
“I love you y/n” you smiled, god you had heard him say it so many times but it would never fail to make you smile, and so you leaned up and capture his lips in a kiss that said more you ever could.
The first kiss after a case was always all consuming, it was filed with so much love, lust and emotion. It was powerful and wonderful; it was everything you couldn’t share while you were apart and everything you did; all the I love yous and the I miss yous shared over the phone all in one kiss all to show that even though he you couldn’t always be together physically the love and care would always be there. It made you feel loved and any insecurities you or he had about themselves or the relationship were wiped away. It was a dream.
You pulled away first cursing your lungs for needing air, neither you or Spencer opened your eyes just leaned on each other’s forehead basking in the moment and relishing in the love just shared, “I love you too spencer, so much”.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spencer had gone to shower a little after and you were making coffee, currently adding his mountain of sugar. You had gotten him to cut back on it a little, but it barely mattered he still took it like there was no tomorrow.
You heard him coming out of the shower and approaching you, your back was still to him as you made the coffee so he hugged you from behind and rested his head on your shoulder leaving light scattered kisses on your neck his half dried hair tickling you as he did you giggled.
“Spence stop your tickling me” you giggled while wriggling in his hold, “fine but only because I see coffee and I haven’t had any in too long”.
You half turn around to pick up his mug while now being caged in between the counter and him and handing him his mug.
He takes it from you with a grateful smile and takes a sip “thank you love, it’s perfect” he says after tasting it and kissing your cheek, you reply with a simple and very cocky ‘I know’ before picking up your own mug and taking a sip. Spencer simply sighed out a breathy laugh and shook his head.
Spencer set his cup down on the counter behind you and rested his hands on your hips one hand mindlessly making its way under your shirt, circling your left hip with his thumb without even thinking about it more of just an instinct to need to feel you in any way possible, you both stood like that in comfortable silence.
Spencer broke the silence as the thought popped in his head “so, what were you up to so late” your eyes widen with excitement, you had completely forgotten about the bread dough, it should be ready by now. Jumping up and setting your mug down you practically ran to where you had left your dough to rise.
“Oh, I nearly forgot” you paused in front of the bowl and looked at Spencer who was looking at you with an amused grin, while leaning on the counter and sipping his coffee. So, you explained plainly “I’ve been making bread”.
He raised a questioning eyebrow at you and repeated your statement but as more of an amused question than a statement. “You’ve been making bread?” you just scowled at him and answered very overexaggeratedly, “yes Spencer I have been making bread” you answered strongly, and he just gave you a look before you continued.
“Fine it hasn’t been very successful but this time I know it will be perfect I just need to check that my dough has risen”.
Spenser loved how you got these hyper fixations, you would obsess over shows and hobbies, you would have so much joy and passion for each of them and he loved you even more for it. This time it looks like it was bread, but he quickly saw your face drop as you took the cloth of the top of your bowl.
“Did it not rise” you simply huffed and looked ultimately defeated as you leaned on the counter behind you crossing your arms looking like a sad puppy, you looked up when you heard steps and saw Spencer making his way to you.
“I don’t get it I followed the recipe exactly why do I keep messing it up” Spencer hugged you once he had reached you and rubbed circles onto your back “it’s alright love, bread is a really difficult and delicate thing to make, I’m sure you’ll get it.” This didn’t really make you feel better, you simply grumbled and inaudible response as your face was buried in his chest, Spencer tried his best not to laugh, you were just so adorable when you were tired and slightly grumpy.
“Tell you what love, its late why don’t we go to bed and try again tomorrow”.
You just grumbled into his chest again and this time he couldn’t hold back a tinny giggle, you knew he was right, you were tired plus you had run out of flour so tomorrow would be the better option.
You could feel Spencer’s chest move as he laughed at your response “come on love I’m sure you will get it tomorrow; I don’t have work so I can help you it will be fun” you simply replied a slightly less muffled response from your spot in his chest “Well the probability of that is 0 but you can knock yourself out“.
“Oh, come on grumpy boots, it will be fun you’re just tired just wait until tomorrow evening when you get your energy back”. “Fine Mr 187 maybe you’re right”.
“Yes I am, now come on I’m tired too, plus I’ve missed sleeping with you in my arms”.
You removed your face from his chest and looked at him while moving your arms up around his neck playing with the damp hair in the nape of his neck “I missed having you in my bed too, your hoodie isn’t the same, it smells the same, but it isn’t you”.
Spencer looked at your sad eyes recalling the nights alone “I know but I’m here now and I don’t plan on leaving your side while I am, now come on”.
You squealed as Spencer swiftly grabbed the top of your thighs and picked you up your legs wrapping around him out of habit. “Spencer I can walk”.
Spencer smirked and patted you bum with one of his hands as you hid your face in his neck to hide how flustered he was making you, “yeah well I want to carry you, I told you I’m not leaving your side while I’m home with you, I’m keeping you as close as possible”.
And with that he walked you to your shared room and laid you down, having already been in pj’s you didn’t need to change, he got under the covers with you and you held each other sharing kisses and I love yours until you drifted of feeling complete once again now that you were back together.
#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fluff#spencer reid#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fluff#spencer x reader
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Some and Others, 1/?
Bucky wasn’t looking for a relationship, he was looking for a good night’s sleep, but when he found you he got more than he bargained for.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 5,758
Content: swearing, soft smut (18+ only), Bucky being clueless, IW and EG just didn’t happen? idk, everyone’s alive and living in the compound #classic, also me fitting in a bunch of information that probably wasn’t necessary for the first chapter but what’s a story without a sturdy foundation?
After a mission, Bucky is some kind of way. Steve is too careful with him, but he doesn’t exactly blame the captain. Plus as an uncommissioned officer, 70 years without promotion, who is he to disagree. Maybe he isn’t ready for a life of avenging. Certainly isn’t ready for the questions that will follow another sleepless night, so Bucky didn’t stay in. He went out.
His memory wasn’t what it used to be, but Bucky recognized your street the second he’d stepped onto it. He’d parked his bike in the grassy alley on his right, gotten coffee at the Caribbean supermarket across the street when he finally left that afternoon. Technology wasn’t his strong suit, despite his depth of interest in it. There was etiquette and a way to do things that were as nuanced as they were mysterious. Bucky often wondered if people just lived by their own set of rules, leaving everyone else in the dark and only interacting with the persistent few who engaged correctly. He didn’t have the patience for that sort of thing. Shuri reminded him of that more than he cared for, but in terms of debts owed, he could smile through her jokes for a lifetime after the second chance she’d given him.
Bucky Barnes was a ladies man… at some point in his life, but more accurately, his life had been colored with women stronger than him since the day he was born. His mother was the first to hold him, followed shortly after by the older sister who tried to sell him to the milkman. Luckily Mr. Spenser wasn't in the market for a throw away babe and Bucky got to grow up in a house dominated by women. His sister, his mother, his grandmother with the accent that was just gibberish outside of their living room, the two more sisters that were welcomed in after him, though he’d never dream of bartering them away for bubble gum. They were all loud, but kind and could always bring a smile to his face. Even still. Rebecca, the most distant in age, but the closest in spirit, was still living. His baby sister was all grown up to the point of growing back down, shrinking in on herself the way old women do. Bucky made regular trips to the Alzheimer’s care center, sitting with her and loving her as only a brother could. Though her recollection of recent history was gone, Rebecca Barnes could still pinpoint the exact moment that all her girlfriends fell in love with her brother, which made Bucky shake his head and laugh. Her CNAs were worried for her mind when Rebecca introduced them to her big brother, looking closer to a man in his 30s than a man from the 30s, but he assured them that she was correct. He hadn’t changed a bit, she told him with two wrinkled hands on his cheeks. In appearance, not as much as he should have, but in all the other ways people usually mean, Bucky couldn’t feel more disconnected from the man he was when Rebecca was all bright eyes and secret kisses under the corner store awning. Bucky had no problem leveling those boys with a stare back then, but now most of them wouldn’t think twice before using their canes as a switch across his shins just for cocking an eyebrow in their direction. Talking to his mother wasn’t possible anymore and his sister wasn’t in a state to give out girl advice. Shuri was on another continent. Natasha… was Natasha and he would never ask for her help with something like this. Wanda was usually awake late at night when he was, but she was still so young.
Bucky looked up from the street, noting your second floor windows were dimly lit. Golden squares stood out against the bricks, blackened by the late hour, and through the gauzy curtains he spotted movement. Without his mother to advise against it or Shuri to give him something better to do, Bucky reached for his phone and scrolled through the recent calls. You’d called yourself before he left, but thinking that he wouldn’t see you again, Bucky hadn’t actually saved the number. Something of a bad habit, he noted, scrolling through lines and lines of unrecognized and unsaved phone numbers, hoping he’d just know it when he saw it. He didn’t.
Until one appeared on its own, presenting him a choice. Answer or reject. A simple question with unknown consequences. Rejecting the call seemed safer, so Bucky pressed the red circle and resumed his search.
“Weren’t you a spy or something?” Your voice drew Bucky’s eyes up from his phone screen to the now open window above his head. You were leaning out a bit, the posture helping your voice to carry over the surprisingly still busy street.
“Somethin’,” he grinned, pocketing the useless device. Both hands secured in his jacket, Bucky tipped back on his heels to get a better look at you. “Gonna invite me up?”
You shrugged and planted your palms against the window sill to lift yourself up. Even from that angle, Bucky was transfixed by your cleavage. Subtle under the tank top you wore, but he remembered it fondly. As if you could hear his thoughts, your arms snapped closed over your chest, bringing the colorful wings of a kimono with them, shielding yourself with floral patterns and defensive body language that made him take a step backwards. “You didn’t call…” you said and though accurate, your accusation made Bucky regret what he was about to do. After waking from the best night’s sleep of his life, he said he’d call you. No amount of self love could bring that much refreshment into his life and the feeling of waking up after a deep and dreamless sleep was enticing enough. The sex was good for a one off sort of thing, Bucky would even say great, but the sleep that came after… he hadn’t been able to replicate it yet. The lure of a good night's sleep and the softness of your body against all of his rough edges were too strong to stop him now. He was committed to this indiscretion, but before he could defend himself, you’d moved on, already smiling again. “And you just ignored my call.”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed and lifted in quick succession before he pulled the phone from his pocket again. Saved. And for good measure, he pulled it up to his ear again. You frowned, turning away from the window, presumably to look for your phone. The glass slid shut behind you and Bucky bounced on the balls of his feet while he waited for the metallic purr in his ear to be replaced by something even better.
“What are you doing?” You said over the line.
“Hey, it’s Bucky-“ he heard you stifle your own laughter with a choked ‘oh my god’ in the background. “Remember me?” You hummed and Bucky waited with his eyes on your window. When you didn’t return, he kept talking. “I know it’s late, but I was just in the neighborhood-“ another quiet giggle made him smile as he spoke. “You up?”
“Is this Bucky Barnes’ first booty call?” You asked.
“I guess it is…” he said, half his mouth curving up even though you couldn’t see it. “How’m I doin’ so far?” There was a pause and Bucky started moving toward your door on instinct. It was illogical to think something had happened in those few seconds, but after the day he’d had Bucky didn’t feel confident ruling it out. “Making me nervous out here, doll.”
“You’re doing just fine,” you assured him and Bucky leaned back against the door in relief. “I was about to go to bed… but since you came all this way-“ the end of your sentence was cut off by the loud buzzing in his ear as the lock on the door disengaged from above. Bucky stepped into the first hall, street lamp making the small row of Golden mailbox fronts glitter, and leisurely took the first few steps up. “Better hurry,” you sighed and Bucky stopped, foot hovering over the next step. “Door’s unlocked and I’m already naked.” Bucky was in your apartment and snapping all three locks into their closed position before you’d had the chance to hang up from his impromptu phone call.
You fucked him slowly that night. The rush he felt taking your stairs two at a time dissipated once he was in your bedroom. It wasn’t as frantic or fumbling as it had been the first time and Bucky was happy for the change. When he’d followed you home from the bar, it seemed that both of you had an understanding. One night only, so make it count. It was hard and fast, but so so good. Even the next morning’s repeat and the finale in your shower before he finally pulled away sated had been more like back to back sprints than whatever this gentle marathon was. As if you could feel the stress that Bucky needed to let go of, you moved carefully around him. Totally bare in the bluish glow of the bathroom plug in that lit the scene before him, you took your time undressing Bucky and placing his hands back at his sides whenever he tried to help move things along. When you dropped to your knees, leaving him open and vulnerable standing naked in the middle of your bedroom, he made a sort of wounded noise that made him want to bolt, but didn’t seem to bother you. If anything it spurred you on, drawing more whispers from his rosebud lips until he couldn’t take it anymore. For the first time in his life, Bucky begged for more attention. Not the teasing he did on street corners- come on, baby, you’re breaking my heart here- when a dame tried extra hard to resist his charm. This was real pleading as if he thought he’d die frozen in place without your heat to revive him.
He’d made the right choice. Bucky decided while lying across your bed, one hand twisted up in your pillow case while the other was splayed across your bare thigh, that he’d done the right thing coming to you for this. He could have gone back to that bar or a different one and gone home with another girl just like he had with you, but then he’d be missing the view from under you. Having a new girl everytime Bucky found himself feeling restless sounded exhausting. He’d also determined that his mother would be incredibly disappointed in him if he had rows and rows of unsaved phone numbers from girls that didn’t know they were being used. Finally and maybe most importantly in that moment, Bucky didn’t want to start over with someone brand new. He liked your crumpled linen sheets, liked the smell of ink from the printing studio beneath your apartment. While you rode him to mutual satisfaction, he liked the way your hips rolled sensually over his, liked the slick grind and the dull bite of your nails against his stomach. He liked that after your first, when he asked you to slow down again and extended his hands to you, you took each of them without hesitation. Supporting your weight on outstretched arms, Bucky got to enjoy your hands in his while you gasped out a second. If it had been your first time sleeping together, you’d probably be too prideful or embarrassed to admit that you were tired. He wouldn’t have gotten to hear that whine when you asked if he was close and he replied -smugly- not at all. If it had been your first time together, he’d probably be too prideful or embarrassed to ask you how you wanted him. He wouldn’t know how sweet it felt to have your back pressed up against his chest and he wouldn’t have known to turn you onto your side so he could slip in from behind you. Bucky was so comfortable in your bed with your knee hitched up over his hip, body totally open to his roaming hands. He made the right choice coming back to you and as he finished with a grunt, both arms wrapped around you tight while your arm was bent over his head, gripping his hair with the perfect amount of tension, he’d already decided to make it again.
The next morning, Bucky was refreshed, feeling like a brand new man. That was the feeling he’d been chasing last night or rather very early that morning, but the tightening in his lower body followed by ultimate release was a fine way to get there. Just like last time, he’d woken up alone only to find you in the bathroom, washing sleep from your eyes and fixing your face. His enhanced hearing meant he could listen to the tap running and the echoing “puh” of you spitting into the sink without having to open his eyes. Comfortable and naked against your pillows letting the familiar sounds tell the story of your morning routine. He didn’t mind waiting as long as you crawled back in beside him like last time. Bucky only peeked twice before he heard the zipper of your makeup bag close and the magnet on your medicine cabinet snap shut behind the mirror. You were back with him in a moment and he turned toward your scent, aloe fresh deodorant and sharp minty breath beckoned him closer and he hummed against your lips. If he cared to move, he’d swallow down the remainder of your mouthwash then swap cool kisses until his tongue tingled against yours, but he was so comfortable. Even more so once you’d laid across his chest, bumping your nose and chin against his until he opened his eyes. Bucky dropped his arms heavily across your back, keeping you planted against him, though you hadn’t struggled or made any moves to leave him. He couldn’t have that with someone new. If he swapped your number for someone else’s, he’d have to flirt and wade through the post sex awkwardness again. He’d have to go out more and hope his charm would work on another. He’d have to perform for them the way he had for you the first two times. The third, in your shower, was messy and wet and fun despite the soap in his eyes, which you wiped away for him while his hands were occupied by holding you up. He wouldn’t have that with someone new until he made it happen and frankly he didn’t want to make it happen. Not yet. Not when you were still cute and still into him and still happy to hear from him even at 2 in the morning when he looked like a creep under your window. Why trade all that just to say he could have another then another? Sex was good. That morning stuff was good too. If it was the orgasm that made him feel alive again, then the warmth of your bed and your lips drifting lazily down his chest was what made life worth living. One gal was enough for him. You were enough.
Bucky hadn’t even noticed that he was drifting off again until you spoke. He didn’t hear you, but he sure it didn’t matter and responded with some ta sentiment of his own. “Thanks. For this.”
“Thank you,” you corrected and he smirked at that, eyes still blissfully closed. “Hey, uh— Bucky…” You sounded nervous and he had to force his eyes open at the sound of your voice shaking around his name. You must have noticed his sudden concern and placed a hand soothingly over his chest. “I just…” you bit your lip and Bucky watched the wheels churn behind downturned eyes. It was sweet, the way you could flip from bold and sexy to this. An errant curl fell out of its place and he felt the desire to pull that twisty rebel between two fingers before moving it back to follow the part you’d intended all the up to his second knuckle. Your hair was the kind he wanted to touch over and over. Not because it was your hair per se, but rather because it didn't have that acrid home perm smell or a hundred little pins holding it in place like his sisters and the other girls he ran around with. They spent hours on their waves and rolls, but you flipped a fist full to one side, fluffing it with your fingers when you wanted his attention and damn if it didn’t work everytime. Before he knew it, a vibranium finger against your temple, following the curve of your ear. Your stunned look made Bucky chuckle. He even patted your cheek in encouragement. After a beat, you were gathered again. Another breath and you spoke. “I just wanted to say, I don’t really do this sort of thing.” His eyebrow shot up at that and you scrambled to correct yourself. “Not this,” you half laughed then gestured to his naked body and yours, hardly clothed. “The bringing strangers home from bars thing. I definitely wasn’t expecting to see you again- not that I didn’t love it- I just didn’t want you to think-“
“I think you’re amazing,” he said quickly to assure you he didn’t think anything else. He wouldn’t either. Couldn’t even imagine anything else after making an ass of himself at your first meeting. He’s felt so out of place and vulnerable and ridiculous trying to take you home the night you’d met, but you hadn’t made him feel wrong or silly for it. For that alone he was grateful. For the sex that followed, even more so. You’d met him with just enough teasing to keep him engaged, but not so much that he felt like he was an unwanted addition to your night and whenever his eyes drifted away like he wanted to run and forget the whole stupid idea, you gently guided him back, eyes and words making it clear that you wanted him too. It was a mutual feeling of desire, as simple as it was complicated. Bucky wanted to keep it simple though, if for no other reason than to keep seeing your awkward smile duck into his neck at the eagerness in his voice. He touched your face again and repeated himself. “I don’t think anything… just that I’m glad I met you… and I’d like to keep seeing you.”
You smiled at him and whatever silliness he felt in his confession evaporated. It was the right thing to say. You sighed and leaned in again like you were going to kiss him, before stopping short and looking up at him through your lashes. “I don’t think I can say no to you.”
“Then don’t,” he said, but it felt like begging again as he hoisted you higher up on his chest to kiss you again. The conversation was over and if you weren’t going to say no to him, then he wanted to start his morning with as many breathy yeses as he could get.
Random serendipitous encounters became less random and serendipitous with every passing week. Bucky was feeling lighter, yet somehow more whole. Boy, did he need that. A woman’s lovin’ will do that for you. He vaguely recalls one soldier or another making similar remarks while he was in Italy. Bucky’s blue eyes belonged to the nurses back then, as his own innocence slowly died with each body dropped by his own marksmanship. This new world, new century he now had to navigate was so different. His enemies weren’t always flesh and blood, even the ones that did bleed bled out in black and blue not Nazi red. Aliens, other worldsmen, some very human psychos with eerily familiar ideologies about who was of value and who was not. Bucky fought next to his friend, spilling blood of all colors when necessary, bearing the stains that Captain America couldn’t as a paragon of justice and honor. Then when the ringing in his ears got too loud, he sought you out. Over and over again. He never showed up unannounced and you always answered his call, even when you shouldn’t. You truly didn’t know how to say no to him and he truly didn’t want you to.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky knew it wasn’t love, but he didn’t care. It felt good and it felt right and against his better judgment it helped him sleep at night, knowing you were only a half turn away, hugging your pillow, but content to wrap your arms around him instead as long as he asked. And he asked. When he wasn’t in your bed, it helped him stay sane, knowing that someone in the world was waiting on him, caring from a distance, maybe praying for his return. In the Big War, his mother prayed for him. His sisters too. In these mini wars, fought stealthily around the globe, he had you.
Rebecca was still blessedly alive, but his baby sister only remembered him when she saw his face. He would bet that you remembered him even as he schlepped through the mountains of Siberia for the last time. Always Siberia. Evil men must be allergic to sunlight. Sam had jokingly asked him why he always went back and Bucky had jokingly thrown the Falcon’s coffee away, leaving Sam’s hand empty and his mouth full of indignant teeth sucking. That briefing was blessedly brief and Sam didn’t need the rest of his coffee anyways. The flight via jet was longer, but not as horrible as it could have been. Steve’s sympathetic glances were unbearable. It’s the last time, Buck. Yeah, OK. The mission was a success, if you could call it a mission. Sam spun magnificently through the mouth of a cave while Bucky fired back into it, detonating the whole mountainside and leaving this particular Cold War remnant under an avalanche of snow and well kept secrets, never to be reborn. Steve dealt with the press. He had the face for it. Reputation too. Sam soaked up the due praise that came along with it, the next Captain America with his wings and his wit to carry avenging into the 21st century. Bucky, however, peeled off his heavily armed get up and peeled out of the compound without any formal announcement.
When Bucky left for long periods, most assumed he was doing what Steve Rogers would do. Ride around in his bike, traipse through the old neighborhood noting how much it changed. Captain America was the old man, the icon. He had the luxury of wandering. Bucky hadn’t gone anywhere without a mission in mind since the 40’s. He was a soldier, a weapon and while his mind could no longer be weaponized against him, Bucky was still the guy taking care of things that just wouldn’t wash out of Captain America’s shiny cowl. So when he left the compound, no one asked questions. At least not directly to him, something he was thankful for on the hour or so ride to your place. The Bronx apartment was considerably closer than a nostalgic walk through Brooklyn and he got a lot more out of it. He had no mission in Brooklyn, but you were waiting for him and that was enough.
This particular mission was no different. Steve asked him to stay on site and he declined politely as he could without actually stopping to talk to his friend. Natasha called out his hurried steps and followed him halfway to the garage before giving up at his request. It was glaringly obvious to Bucky how they got along so well. Steve and Natasha were quite the pair. Tenacious friends, like the kind of friends that never give up and definitely won’t let you give up on yourself. He saw it in her fierce allegiance and protectiveness over Clint. Now that Steve was huge and well connected in the Avenging community, Bucky supposed that made him the Barton to Steve’s Romanoff. They were insufferable do gooders too. Sure, Natasha had her fair share of red in her ledger, but once she was with the good guys, she was the best of them. Neither one would hesitate to throw themselves on a grenade or over a cliff if it meant someone else’s chance to live. They were do it or die trying people. Sam was… Sam was Sam. And when he spotted Bucky making a beeline to the exit, he just waved and shouted “have a good ride.” The wink was uncalled for and made Bucky question how much Sam really knew. He was a deadly intuitive little shit and despite Bucky’s best attempts not to even think it… one of the best people he’d ever known. Not that he felt the need to tell Sam that. He probably already knew it. Blessedly, Bucky ran into no other superheroes on his way through the compound. The garage, more like a hangar, was empty. Only the most expensive toys in Tony Stark’s arsenal and a high tech key coded workshop that Bucky felt so out of place in he kept a small tool box of his own so he wouldn’t have to wander through it. God forbid he go digging for a socket wrench and laser one of his fingers off. Anything was possible on Stark property.
Bucky zipped across the Hudson and sped toward the zoo, stopping at the deli on the corner and looking up two floors at the flat corner window. You weren’t waiting for him like usual. He’d pulled off the road once he got away from the compound and called you like he always did, giving you plenty of advance warning. It would be more gentlemanly to ask your permission before leaving home, but you hadn’t turned him down yet and if you ever did, he figured he’d keep driving anyways just to be away from everyone else for a while. Most times, when Bucky rounded the corner, slipping his bike into the space between your building and the overgrown lot next door, you found your way to that window, waving him up and putting a little something extra in his steps. You weren’t there, but you knew he was coming, so he made his way to the building’s entrance. A call, a buzz, a knock and Bucky was in your space again, taking a deep breath and inhaling the sweetness from your kitchen.
Your back was turned to him, having opened the door for him before rushing back to your place at the counter without a formal greeting, and Bucky watched curiously as you dropped little chocolate chip cookies onto a paper plate. You waved your fingers around after using your bare hands to pull them off the parchment paper and sucked your thumb between your lips to rid it of a rogue chocolate dripping. Bucky eyed the plate presented to him then looked up into your eyes.
“I googled you,” you said proudly. Bucky nodded and said okay, like he knew what that meant. It sounded sexual, but he hadn’t seen you in a week and frankly, he was more interested in googling than cookies. “It’s your birthday, Bucky! Why didn’t you say anything?” You looked delightfully scandalized and held out two cookies for him, which he accepted with a half smile. They were warm and started to fall apart between his fingers, so he shoved both into his mouth before making a gooey mess of himself. While his mouth was full, you cleaned up your tiny kitchen and dropped the plate onto the coffee table in the living area, talking about how embarrassing it was that you hadn’t thought to look him up sooner, but how lucky you felt that you’d thought about it after he called. You wished you’d had time to make a cake, but wanted to be home when he arrived, so freezer cookies were the best you could do after work.
You weren’t dating. Not really. That was why Bucky hadn’t mentioned it. Steve and Natasha wanted to make a big stink out of it, but he wanted no part of that. He just wanted to see you and get some of that good sleep he only got in your apartment after wearing you out two or three times. Sitting on the couch next to you, he took another cookie from the plate. They were better than they looked and he planned to clear the whole dang thing before taking you to bed. Maybe he’d save a few for the refractory period. You’d need sustenance too. So Bucky took his fourth cookie, which made you smile even wider and pledge to leave the rest for later.
The truth was, Bucky hadn’t celebrated a birthday in decades. The last one he could remember being awake for was in the seventies. He waited outside the governor's mansion in Bermuda for hours, watching a dinner party eventually lull and disperse. The Winter Soldier had no clue of the cruel irony watching another man’s party on one’s birthday, the asset’s only focus was quickly killing the governor and his companion once they stepped out of the house for a walk. He’d spared the dog though, a massive and beautiful beast without a single aggressive bone in its body who loped away from the scene whining. You hated that story when Bucky confessed it. He hadn’t felt the need to go into much detail regarding his time as the fist of Hydra. At first because he didn’t care for you to know. It was a fling. Fun. What pieces he did remember from those days were anything but fun. After determining that he liked you, really liked you, Bucky kept his trap shut for fear of scaring you. You knew who he was in theory, but as long as he wasn’t relaying his bloodiest days to you like he was now, maybe you wouldn’t look at him like the monster he didn’t want to be anymore. To his surprise, you hated that he sat in a tree watching people eat and drink and laugh the night away on his birthday, regardless of whether he knew it at the time. However, you zeroed in on his attempts to spare the dog, filling in the blanks that somewhere deep within the Asset, he had maintained some of his humanity. Some of his Buckyness.
“I don’t know if that helps… or if it makes everything worse…” you said, hesitating to go on, but he caught your meaning. Was it better to think that Hydra succeed in wiping him clean, using only his body and latent memories, discarding his mind all together? Or was it somehow hopeful, to think that in all their trying to eliminate Bucky Barnes in order to free their Asset, some piece of him had remained intact? Bucky wasn’t sure he could stomach the idea that any part of him had been present during grizzly assassinations, nor could he ever fully shake the idea that he wasn’t. Either way, these conversations weren’t what he came to you for.
While you were still looking shy, wondering if you should have stopped him from telling his story, Bucky kissed you. It was sweet, not just from the chocolate on his breath. “Thank you,” he said softly, thumbing a brown smudge at the corner of your mouth. “For the cookies. For listening.” His eyes passed over each of yours in turn. “Thanks for being here.”
“Of course,” you smiled. It wasn’t as obvious as you made it sound, but he liked that you felt it was. “I could be around more, you know.” Bucky didn’t know what you meant, but that became clear in a matter of moments. You sucked in your lips and started again. “I know we haven’t talked about...uh, well, what this is, but you’ve been coming over for a while now and I guess…”
“You guess?” Bucky prompted you to continue, when you trailed off.
“I didn’t expect you to still be calling me, so I guess I’m asking,” you said. “Asking what we are now?”
“Oh.” Bucky hadn’t meant to say it like that, but it came out like that and your eyes widened immediately. He scrambled, grabbing your hands quickly and holding them both in a firm pile against your thigh. “Oh, meaning, I didn’t think that’s what we were doing here, so this is unexpected.”
“Oh,” you respond and Bucky imagines you meant it exactly how it sounded. Disappointed and the single syllable precursor to his being disinvited from your apartment. And your bed. And your everything.
“But, I like the idea,” he supplies quickly, but he can see your look is hesitantly hopeful. “Of more, I mean. Seeing where… ya know.”
“Yeah,” you smile and Bucky breathed out his relief. “So we’re together…?”
“As together as we can be,” he said, having no clue what he meant by it, but it seemed to be the right thing considering how you kissed him. You pulled your hands from his to wrap behind his neck and fit yourself into his lap. Bucky’s hands went to your thighs, spread wide over his hips, and he squeezed his way up the backs to your jean pockets, slipping his hands inside to squeeze again. “Here or…” Bucky pulled away to catch his breath and nod in the direction of your bedroom.
“Take your girlfriend to bed, Bucky,” you laughed, kissing him again and he stood with you still in his arms, legs clinging to his lower back. Girlfriend. Okay, Bucky decided in a snap. He could work with that. Especially if it meant chocolate chip cookies and birthday sex. Which reminded him and you giggled as he turned back around, hoisting you higher up on his torso with the vibranium arm below your butt and stooped carefully to grab the plate of cookies with the other before taking you and your cookies to bed.
His first relationship in the 21st century had surprised him. Come out of nowhere and nothing. One moment he was standing at a bar, nursing a beer that wouldn’t affect him at all while he listened to talk about your job before not so subtly asking about his, the next it was his birthday and he had a mouthful of chocolate chip cookies while you had a mouthful of him. It’s funny how fast life changes. If only he’d known just how quickly his new relationship would fall apart.
A/N: I’ve been cooking up this series for a while now and I thought, why not post the first bit and see what happens. First time writing for this fandom, so we’re diving in head first with a feckin’ long series and some foolin’ around. I do welcome tags if you’re interested.
Masterlist
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky x reader#bucky fanfic#Bucky Barnes fanfic#idga fic#some and others
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do it again - clay spenser x reader
To say you were surprised when Clay showed up at your door was an understatement. He was dressed casually in a black tee shirt and blue jeans. A nervous look covered his face, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. His eyes scanned the length of your body and you were suddenly self conscious of the shorts and sweatshirt that you had chosen to wear that day. It had been a minute since the last time you two had seen each other. It was a right person, wrong time type of situation that left you both empty and alone. That was almost six months ago. Since then the two of you had only spoken a few times when he was leaving for deployment. In complete honesty, you missed Clay, but you wanted the timing to be right. You wanted to be able to support him fully while he was serving. When you first met, you were finishing school, trying to move out of your parents house, in the process of getting a job. Life was...busy, too busy for a relationship. Now, things had finally began to settle down allowing you catch a breath and take a break.
“Clay, hi.” Your voice was soft as you greeted the seal. Your familiar smile caused Clay’s heart to skip a beat as he sent you a soft smile back. “You, uh, you wanna come in?”
He nodded and you opened the door a little wider allowing him to step inside. His eyes raked over your apartment. The dark blue pillows complimented the light gray couch in the middle of the living room. Your computer and a notebook sat on the glass coffee table next to a cold cup of tea. You had always gotten too caught up in work to eat, something that Clay was constantly reminding you of. He followed you into the kitchen where he sat down at the island, taking the bottle of water you handed to him.
“So, what’s the latest with Clay Spenser?” you asked tugging on your hoodie strings. It was a habit you had when you were nervous or anxious.
“Nothing much. I got about three months off before my next deployment, thought I’d come see my favorite girl.” The light blush covering your cheeks didn’t go unnoticed by the blonde. “What about you? How’s your family? How’s work?”
You sighed hopping onto the granite counter top. “I’ve been doing alright. Work is good, keeping me busy though...but at least I’m not bored.” Clay let out a soft laugh, nodding for you to continue. “My family is doing good too. They ask about you from time to time.” Your family had loved Clay and your mom was almost positive he was going to put a ring on your finger one day, but you guys never made anything official.
“I miss seeing them.”
“They miss seeing you. You should come over for dinner sometime. They’d love to have you there.” You had missed Clay more than anyone, except maybe your mom. You swore she would drop your dad in a heartbeat for Clay’s baby blue eyes. You watched as Clay remained silent, his hands rubbing the material of his jeans. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?”
“There’s nothing wrong, Y/n.”
You shook your head, knowing that the blonde was lying. “Clay, you don’t have to lie to me. You’re doing that thing with your hands and biting your lip which you only do when you’re nervous.” You made your way over to the other side of the counter, sitting down next to the seal. “You can talk to me.”
The blonde sighed. The last week had been tough and the last thing he wanted was to be a burden. “I- um, I kinda need a place to stay...until I can get back on my feet. You’re the only person here that I could think of. I’d ask one of my teammates but they all have families. Living with my dad is not an option and neither is living in a crappy apartment 30 minutes away from base. I understand if-“
You placed a hand on Clay’s shoulders grabbing his attention. “You can stay here for as long as you need to.” You had a spare bedroom and if you needed a place to stay, you knew Clay would be the first to offer up his home. “Let’s get you settled in, yeah?” The blonde followed you down the hall to the room across from yours. It was simple and clean, just like Clay liked it. A flatscreen sat ontop of the dresser across from the bed. “Everything is empty. There’s towels, soap...pretty much anything you could possibly need in the bathroom and closet.”
“Thank you for doing this, Y/n.”
“Anything for you, Clay.”
The first two weeks of Clay staying with you was spent with you tiptoeing around each other. You both wanted to give the other space, not be a bother. Clay spent a lot of time trying to figure out your routine. You woke up between nine and ten every morning, made yourself a cup of coffee, watched the news, before making breakfast for both Clay and yourself if he wasn’t gone. You’d start your work day around eleven, answering emails. You were a travel nurse recruiter which required you to be on the phone almost 24/7. When Clay left, you were on the phone and when he got back you were on the phone. He admired you for being such a hard worker. You just wanted to make the lives of your travel nurses easier.
After the first couple of weeks, you two became more comfortable around each other.
“How was work?” Clay asked, shutting your front door. He noticed that your computer was shut and your eyes were glued to whatever Netflix show was playing on the TV.
“Exhausting,” you sighed. “What about you?”
“Have you eaten?” You rolled your eyes giving Clay your answer. “Y/n, if you’re going to overwork yourself, you have to at least promise me that you’ll eat.” He walked over to you placing a kiss on your forehead. “What do you want to eat? I’ll go pick you something up.”
“I’m alright, Clay.”
“Burgers it is. C’mon. You’re coming with me.” The blonde grabbed your hands pulling you to your feet. A small smile tugged at your lips. Clay was so kind and his love for people was so great. Despite everything that had happened to him, his heart was still so full. Slipping on your shoes, you let Clay drag you to the car your fingers intertwined with his. Even after you had gotten into the car, his hand found yours. You were kinda surprised. Over the past few weeks neither of you had engaged in physical contact, not knowing where the line crossed. However, you didn’t mind. In fact, you couldn’t lie and say that you didn’t love the way Clay’s hand felt in yours.
The burger joint in downtown Virginia Beach was pretty busy, but the wait allowed you to take in the beauty around you. You hadn’t left your apartment much lately and it wasn’t until now that you realized you needed to get out more. The sun was just beginning to set, painting the sky a fast canvas of pinks, oranges, and blues. The sight nearly took your breath away. As more and more people crowded the downtown area, Clay had made his way behind you, his front pressed against your back. His arms hung over your shoulders, your hands playing with his as you waited for your names to be called.
“Thank you for getting me out of the house. I needed that,” you said softly sliding into the passenger seat. You had decided to stay and eat outside of the burger shack instead of taking it back to the apartment. The two of you talked about everything you could think of, from family to high school memories.
“You’re welcome,” Clay replied. “Um, hey, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“My dad is on his book tour and he’s stopping here tomorrow night. He wants me to go, but I- I can’t go alone.” You knew how broken Clay’s relationship was with his dad. His family had always been a touchy subject.
“I’ll be there.”
You hadn’t met Clay’s dad until that day. The amazing Ashland Spenser didn’t seem to be all that amazing. The intro that was given portrayed the former seal as someone to be worshipped. No wonder all the guys gave Clay a hard time.
“Well, who do we have here?” Ash asked, extending his hand to you. “Clay didn’t tell me had a girlfriend.”
“Oh..we’re not dating. I’m Y/n, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.” You shook the older man’s hand gently, sending him a small smile. Clay was quick to wrap his arm around your waist, tugging you into his side.
“She’s a beauty, son. Thanks for coming out tonight. Dinner soon?” Clay nodded and Ash offered him a pat on the back before excusing himself.
The blonde was quiet most of the way home. He had given you the keys to drive, so you knew that he just needed sometime to think. After you had gotten to the apartment, he silently made his way to his room and shut the door. You respected that Clay needed his space. He hadn’t seen his father in months and you knew it probably opened up old wounds. Ones that Clay thought he would have to stitch up on his own. It was over an hour later when you heard the door to Clay’s room open. You were busy over the stove cooking Clay’s favorite meal in hopes that it would cheer him up.
“It smells good in here,” the blonde complimented, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. The action made your heart skip a beat as you relished in Clay’s warmth.
“I’d hope so. I made it for you.”
“You’re the best.”
“I know,” you said cheekily turning around in Clay’s arms.
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And the guys call me cocky.”
“You do come off as very self-obsorbed,” you said, as a matter of factly. Clay let out a soft laugh before letting his eyes settle on yours. “You alright?”
He knew you were referring to his dad. “Yeah, I just- seeing my dad leave just reminds me that he didn’t even try to mend things when I was younger. Now, it feels forced...like he’s doing it because it looks good.”
“I’m sorry that you have to go through that, Clay.”
“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control. I’m better of without him. Besides, I’ve got everything I need right here.” The blonde squeezed your waist, tugging you closer. You two were so close that you could see the specks of greens laced in Clay’s blue eyes. You raised your head slightly, your lips brushing over the blondes. Your breath hitched in your throat as Clay’s fanned out over your face. “I- um, I’m gonna kiss you now,” Clay informed, his voice deeper than normal.
Before you could get out a reply, Clay’s lips were pressed against yours. Your lips moved together in sync, your head hazy, the feeling of Clay’s body pressed against yours clouding your mind. His hands ran the length of your torso before they settled underneath your shirt, fingers digging into your hips. You let out a groan as he pulled away, pulling his face to yours again. He laughed against your lips, placing a few pecks on the swollen skin before resting his forehead on yours. Yours eyes fluttered shut as he trailed a few kisses down your neck before meeting your lips again.
“What the hell?” Your voice was shaky as you spoke.
“What?”
“You just kissed me,” you replied.
“And I will do it again,” Clay shot back quickly, a smug smile playing on his lips.
“Please do.”
And he did.
••••
taglist! @lotsoflovefromlea @tvseriesimagine @dilangleywritesfanfic
if you were tagged it’s because i was looking for seal team fics and you guys were all that i could find! i figured i would share the love. i hope you all enjoyed this!!
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Email From the past brought to the present.
Co-Written Series with @disasterfandoms
Tags:
@galaxysanduniversesinmymind @rebelwrites @chibsytelford @mrsmarvelous1995 @disasterfandoms @jasonbabymama @velvetcardiganbucky @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @pinkrockstar19 @softi92 @thelovelyleo23 @itsonautopilot @supervalcsi
@abby-splace @theysayitscrazy
Summary: 2019 and Ashley finally reads Trent’s response.
Find the first one here: Email with a side of regret
"Ashley"
She didn't like that tone at all, removing her headphones and looking up she grinned "Hey baby what's up?" She asked, "why is there only one unread email from Trent in your inbox?" Metal asked, raising an eyebrow, the marine frowned.
That email was sent in response to her reaching out to the one she held off reading, not wanting to see the 'Stay out of my life' message. She knew her brother took pity on her when he saw the state she was in, sure they spoke and got along with each other.
But it wasn't being siblings, it was more like a friend you didn't want to get too close to.
"Oh that, it's nothing," she said with a shrug, turning back to folding up her things "Ashley," Metal said in a slightly harsher tone "Why haven't you read this? It's dated 2017"
"Uhm… because it was in response to an email I sent Trent, after being freed from Captivity"
Metal fell silent. Looking at her, trying to figure out if she was being serious? “Why haven’t you read it?”
“Dude, you are just back. Get off my back about it.” she snapped getting up from her spot on the floor “It’s not your business” she says, going to grab the tablet, but Metal held it up higher.
“Are you ever gonna trust me enough to let me in?” Metal states “Ash it’s 2019. This was what? Almost Two years ago.” he says, watching her, he would have made a comment about his ‘kids’ being his cats following her like ducklings but was more focused on the fact she was avoiding this “You should read it” he urges.
“Scott Enough” She states turning to glare at the taller man. “I have to prepare to leave for base, you and your SEAL buddies are meeting with that blondie, who got hurt in the Philippines.” she says, moving past him only to be stopped “damn it, Scott, that's playing unfair!”
“Baby calm down, you don’t gotta rush, you’ll get to base in plenty of time” he states, keeping his grip on her “Take a breath, calm down and talk to me about what's going in your head,” he says, feeling her stop trying to pull away “It’s nothing ok? That email is from 2017, I got a response to an email I sent after my captivity...I don’t want to open it to find out it just says F off” she whispered. “Don’t wanna see what it said. I already know he took pity on me, when he saw me in the street that day.”
“Your brother cares about you, it won't say that '' Metal says.
“Look I know you're just back from deployment and helping get the guy who hurt Spenser, and I'm preparing to leave, 6 months away from here, I just can’t read that email ok?” she says, glancing up to meet his gaze.
“Then what about I read it, and let you know if it's ok, then maybe you’ll work on your relationship with him more?” the SEAL suggests, Ashley sighed, nodding “ok but I need to go now, see you when I see you,” she says.
-------------------------------------------------
She's sitting on the plane, scrolling through her mail on her tablet when she sees the new message from Metal with: read it as the subject line, taking a breath she clicked on it, watching the words come up on the screen, slowly reading through it, she could feel the anxiety making itself known.
People are sleeping around her, unsure of how to react, she would need to talk to Trent about it, but she knew one thing, both Amelia and Scott were right - Trent Cared.
-----------------------------------------------------
The Response
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Surprise Bitch I lived. (plz open this)
Ashley.
First, the subject line? It is unprofessional...Somehow very you.
I don’t even know how to start, I am very happy that you are alive, which means I can let that worry go that I’ve been carrying for the past 5 years, I can stop checking obituaries, memorial plaques, and the Marine fallen sailor pages. My girlfriend Amelia (who you met! You followed her home, Ashley! Are you insane?!) telling me how you visited her, how you told her that you’ve worked with Bravo and been on the same base and avoided me. You should have just spoken to me, kid.
Thank you for apologizing, but I know the whole truth. When I divorced her, she told me everything that happened, but a year had passed, and you had changed your contact numbers. Because of her, I lost my baby sister.
Mom told me about your falling out, in 2013, god Ash, you’ve been alone all this time with no one to lean on or come home to, I can’t imagine how difficult that would have been. I’m sorry, I wish I had tried to find you sooner.
I’m glad you were rescued, that you are safe, I heard chatter around the base from Marines for the past few months, but no names were mentioned, and working the job I do, we weren’t given any indication of who was taken. When you are clear to return to Virginia, give me a call, my number is still the same, I’ll pick you up and you can spend the rest of your recovery with myself and Amelia.
I think you two will get along great, and yes, I am happy, I don’t feel like I need to pretend to be someone else, my teammates can crash here with no judgment from her, then again, she understands the lifestyle I live, her brother is also in the Navy.
Of course, I want to have our relationship back, you are my sister, nothing will ever change that, I want to know everything, where you have been, people you met, tragedies you encountered, things you learned, I want to know how you have been, relationships. No matter what Ashley. You are my sister, you are my family.
I know you joke about things with Mom and Dad, I know they disowned you, but you always have me. No matter how mad I am at you, or upset, I will always be there for you. I’ve missed having my little sister around, it would be nice to introduce you properly to some friends and Amelia, I told her about you, things you did as a kid, things I taught you.
I know you didn’t expect a reply, if roles were reversed, I’d be the same. I can’t lie, I thought about not responding, the thing is, we lost one of our teammates 4 days ago, I can’t go into detail. But your email was a surprise, and when I received this it was about 5 am.
Take care kid. I'll see you soon. Give me a call when you can, if you can.
Do not punch your Gunnery Sergeant.
Trent.
#Trent Sawyer#OC: Ashley Sawyer#scott full metal carter#OC: Amelia Carter Mention#Seal Team#ao3 series#No Beta we die like men. Lol.
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The Poem Series (2) “My Love is like to ice, and I to fire” - John Wick
The woman sat wit her other friends and John watched from afar. He turned back to the bar and led out a sigh. Addy takes note and finally approaches John. While wiping the bar with a small cloth she asks John:
“What has gotten the boogeyman to sigh?”
“Self-Contemplation”
“for…?”
“For daring to imagine a life”
“With her?”
“Would she?”
“If you ask her”
John scoffed. He has not asked out any woman on a date before. He never thought he is a man to be tied down. He was an assassin. He was the one who was feared. He was cold, ruthless, feared, and taciturn. How could a woman be with him. In his world he was like Hades. This woman who had just sung on stage was unaware of his life, his past, his tragedies. She had become his Persephone and like Hades, he would make her love him. He would win her heart buy offering her his. He would carve himself open and offer everything he has for her. John became stiff. His body was an outcome of years of discipline. He had a pronounced jaw, with dark beard decorating it. He imagined her with him saying his name and his body jolted. Yes, he decided. I will go and talk to her right now.
John turns around. He looks at the table. There is no one seated at the table. The waiter is picking up the plates and glasses. John looks around with a hope to find the mystery woman named Diana. He hoped that he might catch her before she leaves. Around the entire club, he cannot find her or any of her friends. She has left. John is now restless. For a few moments, he felt he was not alone. He was honest with himself. He thought about her, he felt about her, he dreamt but now that dream is vanished. John knew that it would be difficult to win her for she is a free woman, but he knew he could never again be a free man. Her presence, the few moments with her were enough to drive him to madness and bring the boogeyman to his knees. John finished his whiskey and asks Addy
“Did you see where she went?”
“No. I was talking to you”
“Do you know who she is?”
“I haven’t seen her here before. Perhaps she is new to the place? What are you thinking John?”
“Her name she said was Diana”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t tell her last name.”
“No. She didn’t. You seem smitten John” Addy finally teased him.
“No Addy. I am not smitten. I am just curious” With this, John gets up and leaves.
John had never been a man of many words. He has never spoken much to anyone. He knows in his heart that he is not just curious. The moment he saw her, heard her, a part of him walked out of his body and wrapped itself around her, and there it still remains. How will he find her in this vast city. There are so many women named Diana. He cannot take the resources of the High Table for anyone who interests John will become a target for his enemies. He cannot risk his beloved’s life. He will find her himself. John’s determination however gets riddled with doubt when he thinks, what will he say or do when he finds her. John has not been trained for this. He is confident in his abilities as an assassin but it is not what is needed now. John further thinks, if he asks her, if she agrees, if they are together, what will he say he does for a living. Would he tell her the truth? Would she accept it? She will be repulsed by him, or worse, she will be scared of him. He does not want to lie to her. No. He will not lie to his beloved. He sat in his car and goes to his house.
John’s house is away from the city. He is a private man. He is serios and stoic and rarely speaks more than necessary. He prefers actions over words. His home is a place where can be what he is for real, John. It is a place where is just John. Even his dog, a black pit-bull, is called as just “dog”. John changes his clothes and goes to his basement. He needs some time with his hobby. John enjoys book-binding. He got into book binding from the orphanage he was in. He found restoration and binding of books, soothing, peaceful. With each book he bound, he felt as if he restored part of himself. Through many books that he restored, he was able to find a sanity that resulted in him falling hard for a woman whom he barely knew. John smiles as he binds the first edition of Pride and Prejudice. He thinks about the woman named Diana and does not know whether he is regretful that she didn’t sleep with him or charmed by her singing. Every cell in his body for telling him that she was his happily every after. John puts in the finishing touches on the book and keeps it with the others. John then goes to sleep thinking of her.
It is a new day and John is now up. After having breakfast, and feeding Dog, John has decided to go to the bookstore. It is not so much a bookstore as an antique store. John often takes books from this place and restores them. The shopkeeper, Harold, knows John. More than his name, John, Harold also knows the Boogeyman. John takes a look into the shop for other old books. As he looks around he recollects the innocent face that he came across the previous night; The innocent face with that heavenly voice. The small interaction between John and Diana can hardly be called a meeting but she etched herself in John’s mind. She has tattooed herself on his heart. Yes, John was sure that he was in love with her. Unconsciously, John picks up an old book. It’s a poetry book, and on one of the pages John reads,
My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
It was a poem from Edmund Spenser. John does not understand much of poetry or literature ut somehow those lines intrigued him. He wondered what were they about. Lost in his thoughts, John keeps looking around the shop when the sound of the bell on the shop door rings. John leaves out a sigh. Another customer, he thinks. John is not a fan of crowds or people. He is a loner. He sighs. He will come at a later time. He is about to leave when he hears a voice, a very familiar voice, the same voice that has consumed him for the past few hours.
“Hello. Do you have the first edition of The Little Prince?”.
For a few moments, John is in disbelief. Is fate suddenly kind to him? Should he test it? With reluctance and hesitation, John turns and thanks to all the powers in the universe. It was her. It was her, standing on the counter, talking to Harold.
“I have been looking for the book all over. I checked a few other antique shops. DO you have it?”
“Let me check”
Harold goes around to check for the book, as she, the woman who had captured John Wick’s heart stood on the counter waiting, while John stood again in a fix. He has another chance. Should he take it, Should he talk. John is about to talk to her when Harold returns.
“I am sorry, we don’t have it.”
“Oh. Its okay. It’s a hard edition to find. Anyway, thank you.”
With that Diana turns around and faces John. John swore that he would never let those eyes lose their sparkle.
“Hi. John Wick, right?”
“Yes”
“I am..”
“Diana” John interrupted, earning a smile from her and he knew, he would kill another hundred people to see her smile that way again.
“Yes. That’s right. Fancy seeing you here.”
“I could say the same thing”
“I am just looking for a book. Do you live around ?”
“Yes a few blocks away”
“Oh my! And who is this little guy” Diana comes closer to Dog and scratches him behind his ear, earning a whine and woof.
“this is dog”
“Might I say, its an apt name”
“I loved your song yesterday”
“oh. Thank you. It was better than the other thing. I am not usually that forthright with men”
“do you sing professionally?”
Diana blushed and John’s heart raced. “No, I teach literature. Music is just something I enjoy”
Diana’s attention goes to the book John has in his hand. She observes that he has put a finger on one of the pages. She cannot resist and asks.
“What have you got there John?”
“Just some random book I picked up”
“Looks like an anthology of poetry, may I see it?”
“Yes Of Course”
John extends his arm to give the book to Diana. She takes it carefully, not mixing up the page that was opened by John’s finger. As she took the book, Johns hand brushed against hers. John closed his eyes momentarily. Her skin next to his skin, He has had women before, in all ways, in all forms, but when was the last time he was touched? He wondered. The one second that his hand brushed with hers, John knew what he craved. He craved her mouth, her voice, her hair. He was silent and starving. He used to prowl through the streets, and he realized its not the food or money of the killing that would nourish him now. Dawn and dusk disrupt him. He now craves the nourishment of his soul that he will find only through her. He is hungry for her sleek laugh. He is hungry to become the reason for it. He has been pacing around like a hungry, deprived, soulless body all through his life. She was his rain and his harvest. John could go on but he was brought to reality when he heard the voice.
“You are reading Spenser.”
“It is a random page. I don’t even know what it means.”
“would you like to know?”
“know what?”
“What the poem says”
“Yes”
Diana slowly reads the first four lines again. My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat?. She almost whispers the last line. Then she looks up at John and says,
“ its about two lovers John. The poet says that he is like “fire” inside, but his love is comparable to “ice”. Mainly because he is unable to express his love the way he wants to. When he says, But harder grows the more I her entreat We realize that the two lovers are fundamentally very different people. But then the love of the man is so great that it will not stop them from coming together. Spenser is laying that love has the power to change everything. It has the power to alter anyone’s life”
John could not believe what just happened. Was this fate carving him a path towards this woman. He did not open this poem. He has not read poems in his life and when he opened the opened a random book, it was a poem about love and lovers that expressed his feelings like he never could. John’s heart raced. Yes, he decided. He will pursue this woman. He doesn’t know how, but he knows he will bring the worlds together to win her heart. Finally he spoke.
“its beautiful”
“Yes it is”
“I am not a very talkative person”
“I can see that John. Do you want me to leave you be”
(No never. Consume me, set fire to me. Burn me with your words, your voice, your presence. Take every bit of me, destroy me, build me and destroy me again. Consume me like the fog engulfs the city. Consume me like death devours the soul. You are what resides before, beyond and betweeneverything I am now. I am only a fragment of your magic John thought, but he just looked down, smiled and said)
“Would you like to go for a cup of coffee?”
#john wick fanfic#john wick x ofc#john wick x original character#john wick#john wick x original female character#fanfic#fanfiction#the boogeyman#the continental#john wick fanfiction#john wick fluff#john wick x reader#john wick x y/n#y/n#keanu reeves fanfiction#keanu reeves#keanu reeves fanfic
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English Literature
1. Father of English Novel ---
→ Henry Fielding
2. Father of English Poem--
→ Geoffrey Chaucer
3. Poet of poets ---
→ Edmund Spenser
4. English Epic poet ---
→ John Milton
5. Both a poet and painter ---
→ Blake
6. Famous mock heroic poet in English Literature
---
→ Alexander Pope
7. The poet of nature in English Literature
---
→ William Wordsworth
8. Poet of beauty in English Literature ---
→ John Keats
9. Rebel poet in English Literature ---
→ Lord Byron
10. Poet of Skylark and Winds---
→ P.B. Shelley
11. Father of Modern English Literature ---
→ G.B. Shaw
12. Most translated author of the world ---
→ V. I. Lenin
13. Bard of Avon ----
→ William Shakespeare
14. Poet of Love/ Metaphysical Poet---
→ John Donne
15. Father of English Criticism ---
→ John Dryden
16. Father of Romanticism ---
→ Coleridge & Wordsworth
17. The Founder of English Prose---
→ Alfred the Great
18. First Sonneteer in English Literature ---
→ Sir Thomas Wyatt
19. Poet of Supernaturalism / Opium Eater
---
→ S.T. Coleridge
20. Father of English Tragedy ---
→ Christopher Marlowe
21. Father of English Eassay ---
→ Francis Bacon
22. The Greatest Modern Dramatist ---
→ George Bernard Shaw...
*#LITERARY_FORMS*
#AND
*#MOVEMENTS*
◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼
🍁 *What is a round character?*
A round character is a complex and dynamic. In this character improvement and change occurs during the course of work .
🍁 *What is a soliloquy?*
Soliloquy is a device use in drama in which a character speaks to himself or herself (thinking loud) by showing his feelings or thoughts to audience.
🍁 *What is Neo-classicism?*
Neo-classicism is a eighteenth century western movement of art, literature and architecture. They got inspiration from ancient Greece and ancient Rome.
🍁 *What is a mock-epic?*
Mock-epic is a poem in which satire, exaggeration, irony and sarcasm is used to mock the subject or used the epic style for the trivial subject etc.
🍁 *What is a complex plot?*
A complex plot according to Aristotle is that have ‘peripeteia’ (reversal) and ‘anagnorisis’ (denouement) without these is a simple plot.
🍁 *What is interior monologue?*
Interior monologue is the expression of internal thought, feelings and emotions of a character in dramatic or narrative form.
🍁 *What is blank verse?*
Blank verse is a form of poetry that written in iambic pentameter but un-rhymed.
🍁 *What is Art for Arts’ sake?*
“Art for Arts’ sake” is nineteenth century literary movement which gives importance to aesthetic pleasure instead of moral, didactic or utilitarian function of literature.
🍁 *What is Epistolary novel?*
Epistolary novel is a narrated work. In this type of novel the story is narrated through letters sent by the observer or by those who participating in the events. Example: 18th century’s novel ‘Richardson’s Pamela and Clarissa etc.
🍁 *Differentiate between novel and novella.*
Difference between novel and novella is length of the narrative work. Novella is shorter than novel and longer than short story but novel is long narrated work.
🍁 *What is the difference between “Open form poetry” and “Closed form poetry”?*
Close form poetry used the fix pattern of stanza, rhyme and meter etc. For example: sonnet, limerick, haiku and sestina etc. Open form poetry does not use these fix patterns.
🍁 *What is the structure of Spenserian stanza?*
Spenserian stanza consist of nine lines, eight lines are in iambic pentameter and followed by single line in iambic hexameter. The last line is called Alexandrine.
🍁 *Differentiate between ‘Blank verse’ and ‘Free verse’.*
‘Blank verse’ follows the fix meter like iambic pentameter and un-rhymed but ‘Free verse’ is also un-rhymed and does not follow the fix meter.
🍁 *How can you define “Pastoral elegy”?*
Pastoral elegy is a poem about death. In this poem poet expresses his grief for the dead in rural setting or about the shepherds.
🍁 *What is ‘Point of View’?*
‘Point of view’ is an opinion, judgment or attitude on a matter. It may be against are in favor.
🍁 *Define plot.* What are its various elements?
Plot is a logical arrangement of events in a story or play. The exposition, rising action, climax, falling action and resolution are the elements of plot.
🍁 *What is conflict?*
Conflict is a problem or struggle in a story or play. It occurs in rising action, climax and falling action. It creates suspense and excitement in the story or play.
Define black comedy.
Black comedy is a humorous work in which human suffering regards as absurd and funny..
🍁 *What do you mean by Theater of the absurd?*
Theater of the absurd is one kind of drama in which absurdity emphasized and lack realistic and logical structure. For example: “Waiting for Godot” by Samuel Beckett.
🍁*How can you differentiate between flat and round characters?*
A round character is a complex and dynamic. In this character improvement and change occurs during the course of work but flat character are uncomplicated and remains unchanged through the course of work.
🍁 *What was the Oxford movement?*
Oxford movement starts in 1833 and for the revival of Catholic doctrine in Anglican Church. It is against the conventional understanding of the religion.
🍁 *Define Puritanism?*
Puritanism is the religious movement starts in sixteen century and the goal of the movement is to purify the church of England from its Catholic practices.
🍁 *What is Imagism?*
Imagism is a movement of Anglo-American poets started in early nineteenth century in which they emphasize the use of clear images and simple and sharp language.
🍁 *What is meant by Stream of Consciousness?*
Stream of Consciousness is a technique of narration in which the series of thoughts in the mind of the character are presented. “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf is one example.
🍁*What is meant by Gothic Novel?*
Gothic Novel is one type of novel. In this type the cruel passions and supernatural terror is presented. Example: Monastery or Haunted Castle etc.
🍁*What is Metaphysical Poetry?*
Metaphysical poetry is a highly intellectualized poetry with the use of wit, imagery, conceits and paradox etc. It is obscure and rigid. For example: “John Donne’s poetry.
[5/27, 3:58 PM] +92 300 2730009: (Solved)M.cqs. ENGLISH LITERATURE ☘🌸🌸👇🙋♂🍁🍁🍁🍁
1. Who, among the following poets, was a precursor to Romantic Poetry?
Answer: Robert Burns
2. Which novelists is widely known for his use of the stream-of –consciousness
technique?
Answer: James Joyce
3. Which year in the social history of England is associated with the Restoration?
Answer: 1660.
4. Which British dramatist attempted to reform English spelling?
Answer: G.B.Shaw
5. For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love
Which poem of Donne begins with these words
Answer: Cannonisation
6. How many pilgrims figure in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales?
Answer: 29
7. In which year was Henry VIII acknowledged the Supreme Head on the Earth of the
English church?
Answer: 1534
8. Identify the tragedy written by Ben Jonson
Answer: Sejanus
9. “…though we cannot make our sun / stand still, yet we will make him run”. Identify
the source of these lines from Marvell.
Answer: To His Coy Mistress
10. Which book of Paradise Lost opens with these lines:
‘Of Man’s first disobedience , and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world?
Answer: Book I
11. Who said of Chaucer’s characters: ‘it is sufficient to say, according to the proverb,
that here is God’s plenty?
Answer: Dryden
12. Which poem begins with these lines :
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
The lowing herd win slowly o’er the lea
The plowman homeward plots his weary way”?
Answer: Elegy written in a Country Churchyard
13. “ To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears”
In which poem of Wordsworth would you come across these lines?
Answer: Ode: Intimations of Immortality
14. Which novel of Joyce begins with these words: “once upon a time and very good time
it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was
coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo….?
Answer: A Portrait of an artist as a Young Man.
15. In which novel would you come across this line: “Ralph wept for the end of
innocence, the darkness of man’s heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise
friend called Piggy’?
Answer: Lord of the Flies
16. Name the first novel of Dorris Lessing.
Answer: The Grass is Singing (1950)
17. Which novel of D.H.Lawrence ends with these words: “But no, he would not give in.
Turning sharply, he walked towards the city’s gold phosphorescence. His fists were
shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow
her. He walked towards the family humming, glowing town, quickly.”
Answer: Sons and Lovers.
18. “They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once
more!”
Who makes this observation in Waiting for Godot?
Answer: Pozzo
19. What is the title of the second section of The Waste Land?
Answer: A Game of Chess
20. In which poem of Owen would you come across the following lines?
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- only the monstrous anger of eth guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons?
Answer: Anthem for the Doomed Youth
21. Which African American spoke about ‘Double-Consciousness’?
Answer: W.E.B.Du Bois
22. I too, sing America
I am the darker brother
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes”
Whose words are these?
Answer: Langston Hughes
23. Who is the author of Invisible Man?
Answer: Ellison
24. Who wrote In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens?
Answer: Alice Walker
25. Who is the first African American to be named poet laureate of USA?
Answer: Rita Dove
26. You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise
Whose words are these?
Answer: Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise.
27. Who is the young man in Hawthorne’s “My Kinsman, Major Molineux”?
Answer: Robin
28. “In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to
us with a certain alienated majesty.”
Answer: Emerson from Self –Reliance
29. What, according to Poe in ‘The Philosophy of Composition’, is the ‘proper length’ of a
poem?
Answer: About one Hundred Lines
30. When was Uncle Tom’s Cabin published as a book
Answer: 1852
31. “I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
For what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”
Answer: Whitman form Song of Myself
32. In which novel do you come across Starbug and Queequeq?
Answer: Moby Dick
33. In which play of Arthur Miller do you come across the line
“A man is not an orange. You can’t eat the fruit and throw the peel away”?
Answer: Death of Salesman (Willy to Howard)
34. Which poem of Elizabeth Bishop begins with these lines:
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
So many things seem filled with the intent
So be lost that their loss is no disaster”?
Answer: One Art (first three lines)
35. In which novel would you come across the Shepherdsons and the Grangerfords?
Answer: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
36. Who wrote the essay “The Art of Fiction”?
Answer: James
37. Who wrote ‘The Awakening’?
Answer: Kate Chopin
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12 Prompts of Christmas - #10 Santa
TEN - Santa
Standing on the New York City sidewalks wearing jeans and an oversized red Santa coat, Richard Castle gathered together the group of pre-teens trailing behind him and lined them up against the side of the building to address them. They were all festively dressed in some way: one girl had a headband that also mimicked elf ears, another had a hair clip fashioned out of a Christmas wrap bow, and a third wore a festive sweater beneath her purple coat. Rick’s own child was fully decked out with a green ribbon in her hair, Christmas tree shaped earrings, and bells tied onto her shoes with red ribbons.
Smiling down at them, he asked, “Okay ladies, are we ready?”
“Yeah!” they chorused back to him.
“Great. Then we’re all ready to go but remember: stay close to me while we’re inside. You wouldn’t want someone to accidentally think you’re a police officer,” he told them with a dramatic wink.
“Dad,” his daughter, Alexis, groaned.
Rick held up a finger signaling for her to hold on a moment. Then, he donned his red Santa hat and from his pocket he pulled out a white fake beard which he hooked on using loops that went over his ears. Once it was in place, he reminded her, “Not Dad—Santa.”
Now fully outfitted, Rick led the parade of kids into the police station, proud he was getting to spend his afternoon not only helping the hard-working members of the NYPD, but also teaching impressionable young girls an important lesson about giving back and being kind.
Inside the police station Rick walked up to the welcome desk and pleasantly said, “Good afternoon.”
The cop at the desk eyed him a bit suspiciously and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, I called ahead. Richard Castle. The elves and I are here to deliver Christmas cards to the brave officers of the NYPD,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing towards the four girls clustered around him, who each held a shopping bag filled with goodies.
Now smiling, the female officer nodded and reached for the telephone on her desk. “Ah, right. Hold on, I’ll call an escort for you.”
“Thank you very much.”
The group waited patiently for about five minutes before a woman dressed in a black business suit approached them and asked, “Hi, I’m Denise from PR; are you from Spenser Academy?”
“That’s us!” one of the girls exclaimed.
The woman smiled at her, then addressed the group as a whole, “Well on behalf of the NYPD I’d like to thank you for your generous gifts. What have you brought us today?”
“We have about three dozen holiday cards and some handmade ornaments and decorations to hang up if that’s okay,” Rick said to Denise.
“Absolutely! We appreciate everything you’re willing to give to us. Let’s go to the third floor, okay? they haven’t had any Christmas visitors yet.”
“Have you had many other schools visit this year?” Rick asked as they shuffled their way towards the elevator. He knew there were several other groups from Alexis’s grade as well as the one above hers participating in the holiday cheer project, though some were donating décor and cards to fire stations and hospitals as well as the NYPD. He also believed other private schools in the city were participating in similar projects.
“Just one other one here so far, but I’ve had several others at other precincts.”
“That’s nice. It’s such an important time of year to give back.”
“I agree. You’re a teacher at the school?”
Rick checked and put his hand on Alexis’s shoulder. “No, no—parent volunteer. This is my daughter, Alexis.”
“Hi,” the young redhead said demurely.
Denise smiled down at her. “Hello. Well, we do appreciate your time.”
Rick nodded in appreciation. He had always enjoyed volunteering at Alexis’s school and never really thought of it as a chore or even an obligation. As someone who loved children, he found it a joy. Plus, as his career enabled him to be both a full-time writer and a full-time stay-at-home Dad, he always felt a duty to volunteer for what he could because he knew that many of Alexis’s classmates had two working parents, and it was not always possible for them to chaperone field trips or organize bake sales like he could.
When the elevator’s doors opened again and Denise led the way out into the hall, Rick asked her, “What department is this?”
“The homicide division.”
“Ah,” Rick said hesitantly. While he wouldn’t have minded poking around that floor, he wasn’t sure it was entirely appropriate for ten- and eleven-year-old girls. Nevertheless, their visit was not intended to be a long one, so he stepped forward and turned so he could address his group. “Well, okay ladies, here we go. How about…Paige and Hannah hand out the cards while Alexis, Ryder, and I hang up some decorations, okay?”
Their girls swapped their shopping bags around to match up with Rick’s duty assignments and then the two with the holiday cards scampered off. Meanwhile, Denise directed Rick and the remaining two girls to a room centrally located on the floor. “You can hang your decorations here in the break room.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” Rick said to her and led the way inside the room. It was empty save for an officer talking on a cell phone, who walked out the opposite door when they entered. Rick led the girls over to one of the tables in the room and they opened up their shopping bags and began to unload the decorations. From the bag he carried, Rick pulled out a few rolls of tape. He handed one to Ryder and told her to hang up the snowflake decorations they had on the break room windows. Then, he turned to his daughter and asked, “Do you want to hang up the snowmen?”
She nodded. “Yeah, let’s put some on the cabinets,” she said, pointing towards the kitchenette in the room which had a sink along with a counter that had a coffee maker, toaster oven, and microwave. Off to the side was a refrigerator, all of which was surrounded by cabinets.
“Sounds good.”
Alexis put a snowman centrally located on each of the doors to the bottom row of cabinets. Then Rick brought a chair over from one of the tables so she could climb up on it and reach the upper cabinets. She was still too short, though, so he had to help hang the last row of snowmen.
He was about halfway done when he heard the breakroom door swing open and a female’s voice say, “Oh! I didn’t realize anyone else was in here.”
“Yep, sorry; we’ll be done in a minute,” Rick said as he struggled to get the sticky tape out of the dispenser.
“We’re decorating!” Alexis said.
“I can see that,” said the female voice.
With the last snowman tacked into place, Rick stepped back, helped his daughter off the chair, then quickly grabbed it so it was not in the way if the woman wanted to access the kitchenette counter. “Sorry about that,” he said again, only glancing briefly in her direction, “Alexis, what else do you want to hang up?”
“Let’s put the stars on the refrigerator,” she suggested.
Rick hesitated and glanced over his shoulder to see what the woman was doing. When he saw her at the coffee pot, he agreed with, “Okay, but let’s make sure not to stand in this nice lady’s way.”
“Oh, it’s fine; I don’t need to get into the fridge,” she assured them. With her mug now full of coffee, she turned to face them and Rick finally met her eye. Immediately, he felt like he’d been smacked in the chest. Her face…he knew her face, but from where?
“Are you a police officer?” Alexis asked the woman as she hung up the stars.
“A detective, actually.”
“Ohh!! I’m in fifth grade, but I might want to be a detective when I grow up—a private detective, just like Sherlock Holms!”
“Oh wow, that’s neat!” the detective said.
“Santa, I finished hanging the snowflakes. Santa? Santa!”
“Wha—oh, sorry Ryder,” Rick apologized, when Ryder tugged on the sleeve of his coat. He’d been too busy staring at the female detective wondering where he’d seen her before. “What do you want to hang up next?”
“Um…maybe some of the garland chain along that window ledge?”
“Sure thing.” Rick walked over to the shopping bags and pulled out the long chain of “garland” the girls had made, which consisted of round circles of alternating light and green construction paper all stapled together to form a chain. “Alexis why don’t you come and help Ryder once you’re done with those stars?”
“Okay, Da—Santa!” She grinned at him then ran past him to help her schoolmate.
When Rick turned back around, he was pleasantly surprised to see the female detective was still in the breakroom, eyeing him curiously. “Sorry, ah, this is our first year as a decorating committee; we’re a little rough around the edges.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I think what you’re doing is really nice. Are you…are you also associated with the two girls running around giving away Christmas cards?”
The writer frowned behind his Santa beard. “Oh no are they running? I told them not to run.”
She laughed and said, “It’s fine,” but the words barely registered in his mind because with her laugh came the solid recognition he’d been seeking. Yes, he definitely recognized her, but he could hardly believe it was her—her—the woman he’d encountered so briefly their interaction felt more like a dream.
So caught up by the sudden recognition, Rick failed to realize he’d gasped, “Oh—it’s you!” out loud until her brow wrinkled and she asked, “Excuse me?”
“Sorry, sorry. I mean—you’re Kate, aren’t you?”
Her brow crinkled further. “Do we know each other?”
“Yea—oh, sorry. Crap! Sorry!” he grunted as he tried to strip off his fake beard and hat, which until that moment he had forgotten that he was wearing. No wonder she didn’t recognize him!
With his face fully exposed her confused expression melted into one of surprise. “Oh! Rick. H-hi.”
“Hi,” he echoed, his grin a bit dopey. Once again, he had run into this mysterious, beautiful woman by chance and he could not say he was remotely disappointed about it. Since they’d first met, five Decembers prior, he’d thought about her occasionally over the years, mostly over the holidays, but occasionally during trips out to his beach house since the water combined with the vacation atmosphere connected it and the lake cabin in his mind. He’d never gotten to the point of actually trying to find her, but he’d thought about it several times. Now, it appeared fate was nudging him and he wasn’t going to deny it.
“We’re done!”
His daughter announcing the completion of their task pulled Rick back to the present and he stammered a bit. “Oh, um, ah, yeah—is there anything left to hang up, girls?”
“No,” Alexis said. She gazed around the room and frowned slightly, adding, “I guess we didn’t have that much to decorate with.”
“Oh no—I think it looks much more festive in here,” Kate chimed in.
Rick gave her a grateful expression then turned back to the girls. “Okay, ladies, why don’t you gather up the bags and tape dispensers and then let’s go find the others, okay?”
“Thank you for decorating our break room,” Kate said to them before heading towards the door. Before she could open it, Rick stepped towards her.
“Wait! I mean, um, how are you?”
Looking slightly amused she said, “I’m okay, how are you?”
“Good, good. Um, I was just…well, wondering if I might be able to take you out for coffee and, um, pick your brain a little bit about the NYPD. Always doing research,” he confessed with a little shrug. In reality his heart was racing, and he felt like a teenager again. God, what was he doing? He wasn’t even trying to ask her out on a date as his romantic situation was…complicated…at present.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “If I recall correctly: you already did that.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “But you weren’t a detective then.”
She chuckled lightly and then waited about seven seconds before agreeing, “Okay, sure. Coffee.”
“Great!” Rick said, elated. He fumbled for a moment, trying to get his wallet out of his back pocket when the bulky Santa coat hung down over it, but he managed. Then he handed her a business card and said, “Call me, please? we’ll set something up.”
She took the card with a nod. By that time, the girls had collected their bags and had joined them at the breakroom door, so Kate pushed it open and let them all walk out. As they did so, Alexis wished her a merry Christmas and she reciprocated with, “Merry Christmas to you, too; and thanks again for the decorations.”
“You’re welcome!” Alexis said cheerfully.
After giving Rick a head nod, Kate walked off. He watched her disappear into the crowd of her coworkers until the high-pitched squeal of a ten-year-old girl drew his attention and he knew he needed to get back into chaperone-mode before the girls caused too much more chaos for the homicide floor.
#castle#caskett#castle fanfiction#castleficathonwinter2020#12PromptsofChristmas#my fic: 12 Prompts of Christmas
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