Republicans Must Hate Supernatural. Every Time Destiel Happens, A Democrat Wins Another Seat

when destiel goes canon this thursday then you’ll all see

Dean: *unconscious*

Cas: Sam! Dean’s not breathing!

Dean: *wakes up, slowly sits up*

Cas, who’s not looking: I have to give him mouth-to-mouth

Dean: …

Dean: *lays back down*

the thing is. i like the idea of dean and cas vaguely talking about their feelings and being like. when the time comes. when the time comes. but the time never comes

chilean poet, pedagogue, lesbian, rebel, gabriela mistral, who should be remembered not only as an female icon of chilean literature (as opposition of neruda, who was a rapist, abuser and dead beat father) but as a woman who loved another woman, despite being forced in a asexual box by men who couldn't accept such an incredible woman not being straight.

the woman who gained a nobel in literature, who wasn't appreciated by her own country because she was a woman.

I remember her, today and ever.

(gabriela mistral on the left, her partner doris dana on the right)

Glossary of Quotes, References, and Allusions in 'And This, Your Living Kiss'

INTRODUCTION

I’ve put together this official glossary for my fic due to multiple requests. Please read the whole introduction before you explore it.

First and foremost, I am a lover of literature and music but I’m not an expert. Dates are mostly taken from Wikipedia; definitions are in my own words but whenever I doubted myself I confirmed and/or adjusted using The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, fourth edition.

What this glossary is:

A list, in order of appearance, of any reference I/the characters have made with links and receipts when necessary EXCEPT for Supernatural references. There are very many of those and are meant for fans of the show to enjoy. A handful of extremely obvious references (e.g. Moana) have also been skipped.

What this glossary is not:

—Me explaining why I/the character chose to make that reference

—Me either endorsing or condemning any of these works and/or their creators

However, in order for people to make informed decisions, I have added a few Caveat lector warnings (reader beware) wherever I am aware of egregious negative themes. Use your own discretion from there. Please also understand I may be ignorant of some things myself in which case no warning will appear.

I’ve tried to keep the editorializing to a minimum. That said, if you have questions or want me to expand on anything contained herein, drop an ask and I’ll do my best to answer.

To navigate:

Each entry begins with phrases copied as written from the fic in order of their appearance. Therefore this will probably be the most helpful to read if you have both fic and glossary open on your screen; otherwise use your browser’s “find” function for keywords. People/works that are mentioned more than once only appear in the glossary the first time. Likewise, if it is defined in the fic itself I generally did not add it here, so double-check if you think something was missed.

Lastly, please enjoy!

opal <3

TITLE

“And This, Your Living Kiss”: a line from the poem “If I Was Dead” by Carol Ann Duffy (Scottish, b. 1955) and included in her collection Rapture(2005). You can read the poem in full here at the Scottish Poetry Library.

CHAPTER ONE: ARISE

He didn’t care where, just far. : A riff off a line from the song “Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)” by Deftones, off the album Around the Fur (1997). [youtube link]

The cheap perfume of the girls as they walk by, all dressed in their summer clothes… : A riff off a lyric from “Paint It, Black” by The Rolling Stones, off the album Aftermath (1966). [youtube link]

the usual oversold things like Patterson and Cussler : Bestselling American writers James Patterson (b. 1947) and Clive Cussler (1931-2020).

Dean scanned past Emerson and Erdrich, Ferlinghetti and García Lorca, until he paused on Allen Ginsberg. : Ralph Waldo Emerson, American writer (1803-1882); Louise Erdrich, Ojibwe/American novelist and poet (b. 1954); Lawrence Ferlinghetti, American beat poet and cofounder of City Lights, a San Francisco bookstore and publishing company referenced throughout this fic (1919-2021); Federico García Lorca, Spanish poet and playwright (1898-1936); Allen Ginsberg, American beat poet (1926-1997).

a book that just said Howl : Poem written by Allen Ginsberg and published in the collection Howl and Other Poems by City Lights in 1956. It’s made of four parts (three sections plus a footnote). Read it here, and don’t forget to click to the footnote at the bottom.

and it wasn’t the tiny black and white City Lights paperback : City Lights has a “Pocket Poets Series” whose design is pretty iconic. Read about it and see an example here.

HOWL, it read, Original draft facsimile…Facsimile? What did that even mean? : In the world of poetry a facsimile usually refers to a reproduction of a poem with all its extant drafts, including any markings made on them. They’re incredibly helpful in studying the craft/process of poets.

He wasn’t some elite sitting in his little Robert Frost cabin in the woods : Robert Frost, American poet (1974-1963).

discussion of the obscenity trial that nearly stopped it from being printed : Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Shig Murao were put on trial for publishing and disseminating Howl and Other Poems on the charge of the material being obscene. Obviously, they won the case.

Am I mad that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? / I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. : A couplet from the long poem “Locksley Hall” (1835) by English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892). Caveat lector: If you intend to read it, be warned it is an excellent example of his complicated legacy. That is, he has written some of the best verse to grace the English language, influencing it in many ways (“better to have loved and lost,” most famously), and yet he was a hella British imperialist with all the attendant racist and colonialist views. Arguably queer and proto-feminist, still some of the POVs he writes from, like the narrator of this poem, are very sexist and patriarchal.

Do I dare? : A famous quote from the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1915) by T.S. Eliot (American-British poet, 1888-1965). Caveat lector: This poem is a fantastic read, but be aware that if you venture into his other poetry his anti-Semitism does make appearances.

was like a waking limb, pins and needles? : Another lyric riff, this time from “Nice to Know You” by Incubus, off the album Morning View (2001). [youtube link]

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. : Another Tennyson quote, this time from his epic poem Maud: a monodrama (1855). Read it here. Click “next” at the bottom of the page for the rest of the poem.

CHAPTER TWO: JUVENILIA

Juvenilia : Term used to refer to the early works of a writer, generally unpublished until they’ve become established and there’s an interest/demand. From the Latin “of youth.”

Anne Bradstreet and Nathaniel Hawthorne and fucking Puritans : Discussion of American literature in classrooms usually starts with the Puritans. Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672), though born in England, lived most of her life in Massachusetts and is considered by some to be the first great American poet. Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) was not a Puritan, but he was a direct descendant of prominent Puritan figures and his most famous book, The Scarlet Letter, takes place in those times/that culture.

discussions of The Scarlet Letter and Moby-Dick: For Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter (1850) see above. Moby-Dick (1851) was written by Herman Melville (1819-1891) and is another staple of early American lit.

It wasn’t until Dr. Moseley assigned Jack Kerouac’s On the Road that he paid a little more attention in class. : Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) was a major figure of the Beat Generation, writing both books and poetry. His most famous novel was a piece of autobiographical fiction called On the Road, published in 1957. Caveat lector: In the novel you’ll find general sexism throughout and a couple passages of ignorant (as opposed to malicious) racism.

“The Hobbit, that was written by the same guy as Lord of the Rings, right?” “J.R.R. Tolkien,” she answered brightly. : J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973) English philologist and writer. He’s most widely known for his book The Hobbit (1937) and its sequel, his masterpiece The Lord of the Rings (1954-1955).

“I keep meaning to because Led Zeppelin references it a lot.” : Two songs that immediately come to mind are “Ramble On” (1969) and “The Battle of Evermore” (1971). Youtube links here and here.

“Those were the days, man,” he said. “When a guy could just hop in a car and do whatever he wanted. A car, a destination, and a girl, in that order.” : A quote from On the Road: “It was remarkable how Dean could go mad and then suddenly continue with his soul—which I think is wrapped up in a fast car, a coast to reach, and a woman at the end of the road.”

“You named yourself after Ray Bradbury, of course I like you for you.” : Ray Bradbury (1920-2012), American writer, best known for Fahrenheit 451.

She was reading a slim volume called Wit : The play Wit or W;t premiered in 1995 and was written by Margaret Edson (American, b. 1961). It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1999. There was a movie made of it a while back starring Emma Thompson as Vivian Bearing, but definitely go see it in person at a theatre if you get the chance.

Shakespeare. Death of a Salesman. Pretty sure I’ve read The Crucible three times in three different states. : The plays Death of a Salesman (1949) and The Crucible (1953) were both written by American playwright Arthur Miller (1915-2005). Plenty of adaptations have been made of Miller’s work if you don’t get a chance to see them at a theatre; Dustin Hoffman is in a movie version of Salesman which I can knowingly recommend as quality.

a college professor specializing in metaphysical poetry : Basically you’re looking at a loosely defined English poetical movement in the 1600s. John Donne is by far the most famous of these poets.

“John Donne was the most famous practitioner…Hm, let’s see. You know the Metallica song, ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’?” “Sure, based on a Hemingway book.” : John Donne, English poet and priest (1572-1631). “For Whom the Bell Tolls” is a song by Metallica off the album Ride the Lightning (1984) [youtube link]. Ernest Hemingway, American writer and journalist (1899-1961). For Whom the Bell Tolls is among his most famous works. The quote is from “Meditation XVII” found in Donne’s Devotions upon Emergent Occasions (1623), which you can read here. The relevant and extremely famous part is “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

The centerpiece is a poem by John Donne, ‘Death Be Not Proud.’ : Sonnet written in 1609.

Dr. Seuss. Shel Silverstein. Chicka chicka boom boom. : Dr. Seuss, American writer and illustrator (1904-1991); Shel Silverstein, American writer (1930-1999); Chicka Chicka Boom Boom (1989) is an American picturebook written by Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault, illustrated by Lois Ehlert.

if it was good enough for Plant and Bowie and Queen : Robert Plant is of course the lead singer of Led Zeppelin; Bowie is of course David Bowie.

Pulling them up from their dying bed : Here Dean is referencing Led Zeppelin’s version of “In My Time of Dying” (1975).

Just wipes us off his shoulder, dust to dust. : Naturally a reference to the famous line from many a Christian burial service, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

You told us that Kerouac wrote On the Road in one sitting. : A bit of an exaggeration; Kerouac reportedly typed up his “original scroll” in an intense drug-fueled haze in a relatively short period of time. This was eventually published long after the fact, so you can buy a copy if you’re interested.

What we read for class was highly edited : For coherency and subject matter and yes, changing the names of the real people involved. And it’s a lot shorter.

Well he and his friends were part of the Beat Generation. : Mid-century American art and counterculture movement.

One was titled Howl and the other, Kaddish. : Missouri is giving Dean the City Lights publications of Howl and Other Poems (1956) and Kaddish and Other Poems (1961), both by Allen Ginsberg. Kaddish is also considered one of Ginsberg’s masterpieces, written after the death of his mother.

If you like it, after we read Ralph Ellison I might squeeze in some poetry : Ralph Ellison, American writer and critic (1913-1994). Best known for Invisible Man (1952).

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness : This marks the first few lines of the poem Howl.

The Footnote with its orgasmic, nirvanic litany holy, holy, holy : The Footnote to Howl begins with fifteen repetitions of “Holy!” and contains many more iterations of the word thereafter.

Holy the cocks of the grandfathers of Kansas! : As written in the middle of the Footnote to Howl.

Eagerly Dean devoured the rest of the collection: “A Strange New Cottage in Berkeley,” “Sunflower Sutra,” and then, in the pinking dusky sky, “Many Loves,” : Indeed these are all pieces found in Ginsberg’s collection Howl and Other Poems. The italics in the paragraphs following this line are all lifted from “Many Loves” and not coincidentally, the phrases are in the order they appear in the poem, so even though you’re missing most of it, you are discovering those lines at the same time Dean is.

Oh god, they were together on a small cot. : Oh my god, there was only one bed! ^_^ Ginsberg and Cassady lived out the trope, y’all!! Icons!

Rufus Turner and his wife Gwen : Gwen is the only name in the fic not lifted from Supernatural, as no one in Rufus’s family is named in the show. Therefore I chose to name Rufus’s wife after celebrated American poet Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000).

you’ve never heard of Langston Hughes, one of the greatest poets this country ever produced? Harlem Renaissance? Nothing? : Langston Hughes (American, 1901-1967). The Harlem Renaissance was an African-American cultural movement (of which Hughes was a major figure) whose epicenter was in Harlem, New York City. It reverberated across the country and the world during the early 20th century. Hughes and jazz and all sorts of art from the Harlem Renaissance were big influences on Allen Ginsberg (and the Beats in general).

Eastern poetics had a big influence on Ginsberg. : Just like what was showing up in music by The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, Eastern art, culture, and religion were popular in a big way in Western literature during the mid-century. The Beat Generation was well involved. Ginsberg talks about haiku a lot when discussing his craft.

Japanese masters, like Matsuo Bashō : A Japanese poet (1644-1694) very famous for haiku. His Frog Haiku has been rendered in many ways, but of course Ginsberg’s is included here. For comparison, an older contemporary of the Beats named Kenneth Rexroth, who translated a lot of foreign-language poetry into English (thank you for your service, good sir!), fashioned it thus: An old pond— / The sound / Of a diving frog.

CHAPTER THREE: DR. NOVAK

The expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face—You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side— : Both lines are lifted from the second stanza of the second part of Walt Whitman’s (American, 1819-1892) poem “I Sing the Body Electric,” first published in 1855, but revised over the years. Read it here. Caveat lector: Slavery and auction block references.

Styles, forms. Sonnet, sestina, terza rima? : Style can refer to the common definition, but also specific characteristics that define an individual’s writing, or a poetic/literary movement. Its definition can change depending on type of criticism. The study of styles is called stylistics. Form refers to the structure by which a poem is composed or, more broadly, how lines are broken up in free verse, etc. Forms invented and/or made famous by a certain poet automatically invoke that poet when choosing to write within it. The following three terms are traditional poetic forms. A sonnet is traditionally a 14-line poem that often follows a certain scheme based on three different poets who perfected them: the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet, associated with Petrarch (Francesco Petrarca, Aretine, 1304-1374); the Spenserian, associated with Edmund Spenser (English, 1552/3-1599); and the English or Shakespearean associated, of course, with William Shakespeare (1564-1616). Originally a Sicilian invention from the 1200s. A sestina is a difficult form comprised of six stanzas with six lines apiece. Each line of the poem ends with one of six words, alternating by pattern. It ends with a final three-line stanza using all six words, three in the middle and three at the end. If this sounds confusing, read Elizabeth Bishop’s famous “A Miracle for Breakfast” (1937) to see the sestina in action. An Occitan invention of the 1100s, likely by Arnaut Daniel. Terza rima consists of tercets (three-line stanzas) interlocked by the rhyme scheme aba bcb cdc and so on. Developed by Dante Alighieri (Florentine, 1265-1321) for his masterwork la Commedia, best known as The Divine Comedy.

How about poetic elements? Chiasmus, anaphora? : Chiasmus is also a type of repetition. It can occur on the level of sound, word, phrase, idea, or structure, by reversing or crossing over two of these things. Example: “A and B; B and A.”

Dean was hardly going to tell him that his last collection had been shortlisted for the National Book Award. : A longstanding and important book award given annually in the United States. In addition to Poetry there are currently categories for Fiction, Nonfiction, Translated Literature, and Young People’s Literature. If you’re looking for poetry recs Wikipedia has a list of the winners and finalists here.

and popped Zepp’s Physical Graffiti into the player. : Led Zeppelin released their sixth album Physical Graffiti in 1975. [youtube link]

Honestly Dean wouldn’t be surprised if one of them had declared their love for Cas on their eyelids, Indiana Jones style. : See this short clip from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) if you’re unfamiliar with Dean’s reference.

Paradise Lost : This epic poem was written by John Milton (English, 1608-1674) in 1667.

The Bible : Oldest extant written text from around a couple hundred years BCE, but presumed to have first been put together centuries prior via linguistics and historical considerations, etc. About a third of the Hebrew Bible is poetry.

The Iliad : Epic poem of Ancient Greece concerning the Trojan War first written down, and possibly composed, in the 8th century BCE. Popularly attributed to Homer.

Beowulf : Written down around the turn of the 11th century CE, but possibly from up to a couple centuries earlier, this epic poem was composed in Old English aka Anglo-Saxon.

Gilgamesh : Some of the earliest surviving literature of the world full stop! Poems about the Ancient Mesopotamian figure first showed up written in Sumerian (possibly as early as the mid-2000s BCE???), but this student likely means the Epic of Gilgamesh, composed in Akkadian and written up to a millennium or so later.

They come from the oral tradition. : Billie and Cas remind us that just because a written piece of work is very old, it in no way means the culture it comes from is superior to others. All cultures had and have rich, beautiful, ancient storytelling traditions whether they’ve been written down or not.

driving in a car singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with our friends : “Bohemian Rhapsody” is a song written by Queen off the album A Night at the Opera (1975). [youtube link] Though I can guarantee you that the comment brings to Dean’s mind the famous opening of the movie Wayne’s World (1992). [youtube link]

the next person, who had chosen some Sylvia Plath : Sylvia Plath, American, 1932-1963. Caveat lector: If you explore her more famous poems you will find vivid Holocaust references that, though used as metaphor, are very arguably anti-Semitic. Also consider caution if you struggle with depression.

Yone Noguchi : Whether Noguchi can be considered American depends on who you ask, as he was born in Japan and returned there later in life, but he lived in the United States a good long while and wrote a lot of English-language poetry. Dean makes an erroneous assumption here without having read the full bio; Noguchi certainly wrote a lot in Japanese as well, but that’s outside the purview of Castiel’s class.

“Uh, Imagism?” “You know, early shit from Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot and whatever.” : Imagism was more or less the precursor to Modernism in English-language poetry and was, as you may guess, heavy on imagery. Ezra Pound (American, 1885-1972) was a huge proponent of Imagism and an important writer, critic, and editor such that he basically is the foundation of 20th century English-language lit. For all that, another Caveat lector: he was an anti-Semite and such a devoted fascist that he literally moved to Italy for love of Mussolini and was later tried by the States for treason (got out of it on the grounds of mental health). I don’t know how much of such views appear in his poetry because I’ve read little of it. However, for a small but famous example of his work that also demonstrates the influence of Eastern poetics, here’s “In a Station of the Metro” (1913): The apparition of these faces in the crowd: / Petals on a wet, black bough.

That attitude’s just a holdover from when Harold Bloom was talking about the ‘Anxiety of Influence’ that poets suffer : Harold Bloom (American, 1930-2019), influential critic, published his book The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry in 1973.

Jonathan Lethem, though? Him you should look up. : Jonathan Lethem (American writer, b. 1964) wrote an essay called “The Ecstasy of Influence,” published in Harper’s Magazine in 2007. Read it in full here.

There were some poets he vaguely remembered from high school, like Wilfred Owen : English poet, 1893-1918. Considered one of the great WWI poets, he was killed in action while in France, age 25.

Typographical, sonic, sensory, ideational, and—putting them all together—fusional. : Adapted and in widespread use based on books by Lewis Turco (American, b. 1934). Some basic definitions follow. Typographical: How the poem appears on the page. Sonic: Anything sound-related, from repeated letters (assonance, consonance) to rhyme, rhythm, meter, pauses, etc. Sensory: Things that evoke both physical senses (taste, touch, etc.) and emotions. Ideational: Thoughts and ideas; themes, morals, arguments, opinions, etc. Fusional: How and whether the other levels fit into a cohesive whole; is the poem more than the sum of its parts?

Maybe Dean was a little Hot for Teacher : “Hot for Teacher” is a song by Van Halen from the album 1984 (indeed, released in 1984). [youtube link]

singing the praises of poems that required fluency in five languages {…} “What, he can quote half an Eastern religion but he’s not quoting Tennyson?” : In T.S. Eliot’s long poem The Waste Land (1922) a few different languages make an appearance, including Sanskrit, as he pulls from Hindu scripture. Dean points out that one of the poem’s most famous lines, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust” owes something to a less famous line of Tennyson’s, also appearing in the aforementioned Maud, “And my heart is a handful of dust.”

CHAPTER FOUR: DINNER AT MISSOURI’S

and coax out her thoughts about Vonnegut’s short stories : Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007), American writer best known for his novel Slaughterhouse-Five.

You also might want to brush up on your MLA. : The Modern Language Association, an American organization that publishes the style and citation guide favored by literary scholars; in this context used as shorthand for how to cite references within a paper.

“Who hasn’t heard of Caddyshack?!” : A 1980 comedy starring Chevy Chase and Bill Murray.

“Exactly,” said Sam, laughing. “And he really loved Ayn Rand.” : Russian-American writer (1905-1982) best known for her novels The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged.

CHAPTER FIVE: JOHN WINCHESTER’S WALTZ

Beat Generation, Formalism, Surrealism, Confessional, Deep Image poetry, and many more : Formalism in this case refers to a resurgence of poetic forms and use of more stringent elements such as rhyme or meter after the recent dominance of free verse. Surrealism had of course been around for decades but saw new life through exchange of international styles and translations, and experimentation pushing boundaries of the traditional and the rational. Confessional poetry is taking the autobiographical style of poetry to the extreme. Very personal and subjective writing about oneself, especially illness and trauma, etc. Deep Image poetry is an American style influenced by the ideas of Carl Jung and especially Latin American surrealism, putting emphasis on archetypal and natural imagery to evoke thought, emotion, and connection.

‘My Papa’s Waltz’ written by Theodore Roethke : American poet, 1908-1963. He was born and grew up in Saginaw.

This next one was written in 1966 by Robert Hayden: 'Those Winter Sundays.' : American poet, 1913-1980. He was born and grew up in Detroit.

And they drank to all the man was, and all he could have been. : In retrospect, almost certainly inspired by lyrics from “The Great Below” by Nine Inch Nails, off the album The Fragile (1999). [youtube link]

So. : An echo of Seamus Heaney’s (Irish poet, 1939-2013) famous and highly lauded translation of Beowulf, specifically his interpretation of the first word “Hwæt” as “So.”

CHAPTER SIX: THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN

The Return of the Queen : Referencing the third part of The Lord of the Rings containing books five and six, The Return of the King.

My candle burns at both ends, the loopy part of his brain chanted over and over, like having a song stuck in the head. It gives a lovely light! : Lines from the short poem “First Fig” (1920) by American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950). In full it reads, My candle burns at both ends; / It will not last the night; / But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— / It gives a lovely light!

In the end he had to take notes from his man Harrison Ford and pull an Indiana Jones exchange with his wallet. : Another reference to Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. If you’re unfamiliar or need a refresher, here’s a clip of the scene on youtube. Relevant part about a minute in.

Dean had spent too long guarding him like Smaug and his golden hoard : Another Tolkien reference; Smaug is an infamous dragon from the book The Hobbit.

There’s a Whitesnake quote? From their song ‘Here I Go Again.’ : Originally off the album Saints & Sinners (1982), but the more widely known version is the later cut from 1987. [youtube link]

“I love you.” / “I know.” : Infamous lines from Star Wars: Episode V – The Empire Strikes Back (1980) [youtube link].

Elizabeth Bishop : American poet, (1911-1979).

Emily Dickinson : American poet, (1830-1886).

Oscar Wilde : Irish writer, (1854-1900).

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE BRIDGE

and then Billie had mentioned that if Robert Hayden grew up in Detroit couldn’t “blueblack” also be a reference to the local music scene in his childhood?: This wonderful observation is cribbed from the Poetry in America series, as described by poet Elizabeth Alexander (American, b. 1962) in the episode for Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays.” Watch it here.

And wasn’t there a Muddy Waters song : Muddy Waters, American musician 1913-1983. One of the greatest bluesmen to ever live, and a huge influence on rock’n’roll.

while everyone else was bringing in Frost and Dickinson and Keats : John Keats, English poet, 1795-1821.

or ones who drank themselves into the grave like Dylan Thomas, or were going crazy all the time like Lowell : Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet, 1914-1953. Robert Lowell, American poet, 1917-1977.

These poets for social justice, like Dennis Brutus. : Dennis Brutus, South African poet, 1924-2009.

“Warmgold folds,” he said. “Silkchill skeins. That sunlit sensuous voluptuousness / of luxurious indulgence in lush-ripe flesh.” : Phrases from an untitled poem [“The sand wet and cool”] written by Brutus in 1970.

“Milkblue.” : The beginning of another untitled poem by Brutus written in 1970 [“Milkblue—tender the moonlit midnight sky”].

Like Byron did both, right : George, Lord Byron, English poet 1788-1824.

“He said, if he had spent more time on poetry, he would have been a better poet. But working to end apartheid and other injustices in the world was more important work. And that is how he chose to spend his time.” : “And it seems to me that if I ever made such a commitment—to be a craftsman in poetry—inevitably, the other things I’m doing would suffer {…} In order for me to make a total commitment to poetry, I would have to remake myself. This is not impossible, in the sense that I could wholly shut out, say, my political activity, my organizing work, my sports, the kind of chores which I do from day to day with this and that committee, and so on. I think it would not be impossible, but I think it would be immoral. This is what really stops me: that a total commitment to the craft of poetry, with the kind of integrity which that implies, would do damage to what I now regard as essential to integrity for me. Which means social concern.” Dennis Brutus, as quoted in Poetry & Protest: A Dennis Brutus Reader (2006) pg 177.

This idea that poets and other artists should self-destruct for our amusement is a rotten romanticism. : Credit for calling this oft-criticized phenomenon ‘rotten romanticism’ must go to Elizabeth Bishop, as written in a personal letter to a friend. From Megan Marshall’s biography Elizabeth Bishop: A Miracle for Breakfast (2017) pg 130: “Elizabeth had been distressed, she told a friend, by the way so many in [Robert Lowell’s] inner circle, like [Dylan Thomas’s], seemed to “really just love the spectacle of the poet destroying himself and they’re filled with rotten romanticism about it.””

Dean took it hesitantly. “A River Dies of Thirst,” he read. “What is this?” “Mahmoud Darwish. Read ‘The essence of the poem.’ Near the end. Okay?” : Mahmoud Darwish, Palestinian poet, 1941-2008. His collection A River Dies of Thirst was published in Arabic in 2008; the English language edition was translated by Catherine Cobham and published in 2009. Find “The essence of the poem” pgs 119-120.

Dean didn’t hear him. After Mary Oliver and Maya Angelou, there he was: Jack Allen. : Mary Oliver, American poet, 1935-2019. Maya Angelou, American writer, (1928-2014).

and unforgiving lights all / Left up bright, : This line owes something to a lyric from “The Last Time I Saw Richard” off the album Blue (1971) by Joni Mitchell. [youtube link]

Is there life? / Is there life on Mars? : From the song “Life on Mars?” by David Bowie, off the album Hunky Dory (1971). [youtube link]

Getting crushed by a unicorn, hello Freud! : Sigmund Freud, father of psychoanalysis (Austrian, 1856-1939).

Please. That’s exactly the kind of plain guy name a girl would use for a pseudonym. George Eliot-style. : Mary Ann Evans, English writer, better known by her nom de plume George Eliot (1819-1880).

Dean bit his lip, fighting not to snap out that he quoted David Bowie because sometimes it’s kinda funny, you know, what you think when you’re doing things like that : This line riffs off of lyrics from the song “Me and a Gun” by Tori Amos, off the album Little Earthquakes (1992). [youtube link, but trigger warning for rape]

and sometimes a song was just a damn song. : Dean recycling a quote popularly attributed to Freud, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar” (sometimes there is no symbolic meaning).

“Nights in Pink Satin”: A Reference Playlist

“Nights in White Satin” by The Moody Blues, from Days of Future Passed (1967)

“Lola” by The Kinks, from Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround, Part One (1970)

“Hoochie Coochie Man” by Muddy Waters (1954)

“I’m a Man” by Bo Diddley (1955)

“Mannish Boy” by Muddy Waters (1955)

“I’m Eighteen” by Alice Cooper, from Love It to Death (1971)

“Don’t Let Me Down” by The Beatles (1969)

Referenced in spirit:

“18 and Life” by Skid Row, from Skid Row (1989)

“Pink” by Aerosmith, from Nine Lives (1997)

Accidentally referenced: “In My Time of Dying” by Led Zeppelin.

Nonmusical reference: Allen Ginsberg’s Footnote to Howl.

“If he’s so uncomfortable, I would very much like to read out Sharon Olds’s ‘The Connoisseuse of Slugs’.” : Sharon Olds, American poet (b. 1942). Find “The Connoisseuse of Slugs” in her collection The Dead and the Living (1984), or read it here.

As it should be, padawan : A Jedi apprentice from Star Wars.

The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,— : From the third sonnet in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s (English poet, 1806-1861) masterwork Sonnets from the Portuguese (1850). Read it here, though I have used the adjusted punctuation by EBB from later publications.

He showed me how to live. : “Show Me How to Live” by Audioslave, off the album Audioslave (2002). [youtube link]

Lazarus Rising : Just a quick note to say the poem is simply using a terza rima rhyme scheme, since I’ve come across people wondering what form it is.

I hope this glossary was both helpful and interesting! Feel free to drop an ask if you’d like.

AO3 Top Relationships Bracket- Round 2 Side 1

This poll is a celebration of fandom history; we're aware that there are certain issues with many of the listed pairings and sources, but they are a part of that history. Please do not take this as an endorsement, and refrain from harassment.

If you want someone to sound like a therapist in your spn fanfic, use Garth.

Garth is like the only person in the supernatural world that can get Dean to do something healthy.

Bucky Barnes | One Shot | Okay

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: Bucky always makes sure his best friend is okay, because that is what you need. He's caring, but very passive and nonchalant, because you need it. Not him. He doesn't need that. He doesn't need you. Does he?

Warnings: 18+. Fluff and smut.

Words: 5,8OO

Your head is feeling heavy. Heavier than normal. The mellow music in the background, the rumble of the voices of your trusted friends around you and the warmth radiating from Bucky pressed against your side, all make you feel like you might go cross-eyed if you continue to pry your eyes open when they so desperately want to close.

It has been a busy week of non-stop assignments. You got up early every morning to prepare and brief each other towards the operation, then tiring yourself out during the complicated missions that required most people on the team to get involved, and if you were lucky, you’d be home just in time to collapse into your puffy bed, unable to crawl under the sheets or change your clothes. It was incredibly fun to let out your energy and be together with the entire team again, but the week is catching up to you and Natasha’s idea of having a ‘boozy night in’ backfired greatly.

Your muscles are tight with tension and your cheeks are glowing with fatigue. But you have buried yourself in the corner of the couch, Bucky’s frame blocking you from the rest, so you can comfortably swim in the atmosphere of peace and relaxation around you. As fun as the back-to-back missions had been, there were a few close calls and you never really process the relief that comes from getting out alive until all of you are sat together, talking, laughing and most importantly… unharmed.

“I’m not carrying you to bed,” Bucky grumbles under his breath, taking another swig of his beer as he keeps his eyes on Thor who is telling some strange story about a man made of stone and a creature made of blubber. You kind of clocked out after the words ‘sex club on this purple-blue planet’, which was shame because you wanted to know what it was, but you couldn’t possibly comprehend those stories at this hour.

“Yeah, I know. Just… Just wake me up,” you murmur, your voice soft and breathy as you tilt your head to rest on his shoulder, the soft jitters of his arm making you hum in delight. The bulging pressure of Bucky’s frame against your side has you struggling not to bury yourself into him as far as you possibly can.

Your best friend sighs softly, biting back a smile when you nominate him to cuddle up against. He might not be someone who likes to touch and be touched, but you always found your sneaky little ways to make him tolerate it. He couldn’t possibly pry his sleepy friend off him to fend for herself when she can barely form a coherent sentence, could he?

“Alright. I’m waking you up. Go to bed,” he orders, his voice strict, and you sit up before he can shake you off. Swallowing hard, you pry your eyes open with all your might, making Bucky turn his head to you with eyebrows raised in amusement at your devastating state.

He had already noticed earlier how your heartbeat had slowed to a heavy thump, your breathing evening out and the goosebumps appearing on your skin as the heat seeped from your body with the last remnants of your energy. He may or may not have let it happen instead of offering you the blanket on his other side so that you would nudge into his side a little. Bucky, too, found comfort in making sure his friends were around and well after a week as intense as the one they just had.

Especially you. You always have your shit together and manage just fine – in your own way that sometimes had Bucky baffled, but it seemed to work for you. Yet somehow he wanted you to relax around him. It wasn’t something he realised until it had sort of already happened, but he wanted to be the person that would allow you to let your guard down. And he is. If Bucky even captures the slightest sign of you faltering or stumbling, he’ll make sure he is just within reach in case you need him to fall into. Literally and figuratively. Like your safe haven.

And sometimes a look was enough. He didn’t even have to smile at you – thank God he didn’t – but sometimes you would frantically look around and your eyes would fall on Bucky (after he swiftly inserted himself into your sight) and your shoulders would sag. You’d give him a tight smile and return to your task with your mind at ease. He sometimes chuckled at just how easy it was to make you relax.

But never would Bucky admit that he needs to see that look of ease on your face or he will crumble and fall into a pit of disfunction. He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if something ever were to happen to you. He doesn’t need anyone. He never did. He’s just making sure you’re okay, because you need it.

“Yeah…” you mutter and push to a stand, blinking rapidly to fight the sleep in your body as you ready yourself to make way to your bed.

“I knew you’d be the first to fold!” Thor bellows with a laugh, his story interrupted and everyone turning to you, and you wave him a dismissive hand as you drag your feet over the carpet.

“We can’t all be tireless Gods,” you retort with a little less fire in your voice than you intended, making everyone breathe different octaves of soft laughs.

But you stumble over your feet, or maybe someone else’s, and fall into Steve’s lap with a gasp. He quickly steadies you with broad hands on your waist and Bucky is on his feet instantly. His hands wrap around your shoulders as he steers you away from the group.

“That’s enough outta you. Come on, sweetheart.” Bucky chuckles and you sway lightly as he walks you to your room. Falling face first into your bed, Bucky grimaces at you with a disapproving shake of his head, peeling your shoes off.

“You have got to start making your bed,” he scolds you as you crawl up to the pillows and he throws the duvet over you.

“Just because you’re a neurotic Super Soldier with endless amounts of energy to make your goddamn bed, doesn’t mean you get to judge my life style.” Your grumble is close to incoherent and open your arms wide, “Now shut up and come cuddle.”

“Absolutely not.” He huffs, but you catch onto the sleeve of his blue Henley, pulling him towards the bed. He stumbles and topples over you, giving you a death glare as he raises his face, but you quickly capture him under the blanket and crawl into his side.

You purse your lips to stop the devious smile tugging at them, knowing that a powerful and trained Super Soldier wouldn’t let himself be pulled into a bed by a flimsy piece of fabric, unless he wanted to. So you bury your face into his shoulder and squeeze him as his scents engulfs you, warmth glowing against you like a furnace.

“Such a baby,” you mumble and wait for his stiffness to dissipate, humming softly when he gives in by wrapping his metal arm around your back and stroking his flesh fingers through your hair.

“I hate you,” he grumbles and sinks down, both of you laying in a heap of limbs into the softness of your bed as you finally let the endless depths of your subconscious submerge you.

As long as you’re okay.

…

“You okay, Buck?” you ask with a gentle frown when see him slump from his bathroom with a towel around his neck. He’s wearing simple leisure wear, nothing more than some sweats and a white t shirt and it makes your insides warm with how huggable he looks. Though it seems that if anyone needs the hug, it’s him.

“Yeah. Just a rough few nights.”

“Hmm…” you hum softly and turn on the sofa to face him. “Wanna watch movies tonight instead of trying to fall asleep?”

“All night?”

“Sure. Yeah, why not?”

“You can’t stay up all night…” he drawls, reining in the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You cheer silently at the sight and the first hint of his happiness.

“Sure I can! Oh, come on… I have to defend my honour now. I can easily pull an all-nighter.” You try to sound convincing, but Bucky raises his brows in an unimpressed glare.

“Liar.”

“So, you’re in?” you ask hopefully and you can see the soldier faltering.

“Can’t be worse than staring at my ceiling,” he admits with a shrug and flings the towel to the side before slumping into the sofa next to you. This side of the compound was usually empty around this time, most of the crew having retreated to bed or having settled to hang out in one of the larger common rooms. But Bucky and you enjoyed basking in each others’ silence sometimes, a little further away from the group. Not that you are the silent type. But Bucky doesn’t mind.

“What kind of movies do you like?” you ask him, already flicking through the multiple apps on the TV that could stream your next movie.

“I don’t know,” and he doesn’t really care. He isn’t here to watch a movie, he is here to drag you to bed when you inevitably fall asleep. He’d pretty much watch anything. It’s not that you fall asleep all the time and he is like the babysitter to send you to bed, but he rarely slept the way you could, so he always ended up the last to be awake. Little does Bucky know, you rarely sleep the way you do when Bucky is around.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t know’? Aren’t you supposed to have a list of movies to watch to fit into this century?” you frown up at him, referring to his little culture list in Steve’s old notebook.

“Steve’s book? Yeah, no. That would be a list of my victims,” he tells you dryly and you punch his arm, making him chuckle. You truly are the only one he can joke to about that. He would choke the life out of most people for referring to something so personal, but the traumas that constantly seem to roil and simmer inside of him, quiet down to a quiet lake of emotion whenever you touch upon it. His bones and muscles slacken when you merge gently with his old pains.

“Alright, funny man. What’s it going to be? Action or Disney?”

“Disney? Really?” His brows relax when he looks at you, a stoic look on his face to dare you to get him to watch a Disney movie.

“You know the fairy tale of Rapunzel?” You grin like a fucking child at him and he narrows his stare to stop the alternative from creeping up on his features.

“Yes…” He retreats his face warily as he waits for you to elaborate on your bold choice.

“Oh, you’re going to love Tangled!”

“Isn’t that a kids movie?” He frowns.

“It’s a fucking masterpiece.”

…

“You’re drooling over a cartoon,” he mumbles, eyes still on the screen.

“Flynn is the love of my life. Now shut up,” you spit at him, fumbling a full claw op popcorn from his lap as you watch intently. Bucky’s breath hitches at the faint rumble above his crotch and he scrunches his eyes shut for a moment, deciding to redirect his energy from between his legs to teasing you further.

“You buy into that whole grumpy guy, sunshine girl -bullshit?” he grumbles, judgement clear in his voice as his stare remains on the bright screen.

You turn to him with you mouth hanging open and a stupid heat creeping up your cheeks. How does he know about that? Something that specific…

“How do you…?” you stammer and he gives you an unimpressed glare.

“Read some of your books and saw some shit on the internet.”

“What side on the internet are you on?” you question him further, attention no longer on the animated motion picture. You’ll get back to the book thing, not yet ready to confront him about that. There are more important matters at hand.

“What do you mean?” he feigns a frown with a playful smirk and you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. This stubborn, innocent and old man would not indulge into modern culture. Surely, not…

“N-never mind…” you mutter after a brief silence. You decide not to even try and explain the different sides of the internet to your friend.

“I’m the sunshine in this relationship, you know,” Bucky mutters after a long silence and you snort a laugh, making him chuckle as soon as he hears your delight.

“Obviously.”

…

Curled up on the sofa, you pull your knees up to your chest, nose buried so far into your book, you can’t see anything but the black words on the worn pages. You should know better than to read this …filth in public, but the chapter snuck up on you and you can’t. stop. reading.

He dropped to his knees, eyes drawn up to watch her as his palms slid up the back of her calves. Slowly, so slowly, his hands glided further and further up until they slipped under the hem of her dress. Fuck – you’ve waited over three-hundred pages for this. His mouth came closer and the pounding between her legs increased with every inch he stole from between them. She remembered his lips. The feel of them on her own. Oh, to feel them somewhere else… doing that thing with his tongue. Her knees nearly buckled, if it weren’t for his stare pinning her down.

“Hey.”

You nearly fling the book to the other side of the smaller common room at the sound of Bucky’s voice and clench your thighs to will the pounding between your own legs to settle down already. But your wide eyes have already been caught by Bucky and his brows are raised with amusement, the crinkles in his face not helping your little situation.

“What are you reading? Didn’t hear me come in?” he asks, slowly walking over and crossing his arms over his chest. He looks like he already knows, his dominant glower at your hunched frame in the corner of the couch challenging you. Lie to me, I dare you, his eyes seem to say as they glitter with mischief.

“No. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” you easily deflect his first question. “You and your trained sneaking methods.”

Closing the book and hiding it in your lap, you swallow hard as if resetting your feelings, the whining disappointment of being interrupted in the middle of that scene.

“What are you reading?” he tries again and you remain your empty gaze on him, thinking so hard of any answer to give him.

“A book.”

“Duh. What kind of book?”

“…Romance.”

“Romance?”

“Yes.”

He stays silent for a moment, his gaze rolling over your features. It isn’t often he allows himself the pleasure of someone else’s discomfort, but it is just too fun with you. And he isn’t stupid. He had to wait in your room once while you were still taking a shower, because you are always so slow when you shower, and he couldn’t help but snoop a little at the time. There was a time he used to enjoy reading a lot, it helped him get more familiar with all the languages he was trained in. Though he had never considered the light and bright storylines that were scattered through your bookcases. Bored, he had leafed through one of them and halted abruptly when his trained eye caught some disturbingly distinct words that he had only seem in a porn site search bar.

So he knows the kind of books you read and has to rein in his wonder at the balls you had for reading that in public, rein in his chuckle because of course you would get a kick out of reading that shit in public. Bucky never thought you were the innocent type, he knows better than that. The dirty nonsense that would leave your mouth after a drink, or when you’re too tired to think of the consequences, told him plenty.

He liked it. Bucky didn’t really allow himself to indulge in fantasies like you could and hadn’t been able to admit to his preferences when you asked him about it those few times. He had done some sexual stuff after returning from Wakanda, but it had always been a bit hasty and vanilla, too uncomfortable for his liking. He silently curses himself, because of course he is uncomfortable. It’s a trait he might never shed, but the things he would do if he could just let loose for once. That thought alone could send his cock skyward.

“You’re reading porn again, aren’t you?” He cocks an eyebrow at you and you let out a nervous laugh, opening your mouth to say something, but deciding against lying in the end.

“Way to expose me, Barnes.” You roll your eyes and he grins widely at you.

“It’s the way you are pressing your legs together that is exposing you, sweetheart,” he taunts, his voice having dropped an octave, and you stiffen at his words. Bucky has never acknowledged anything sexual, even when you so openly talk about it all the time, and it surprises you how natural it sounds rolling off his tongue.

“I wasn’t doing that,” you murmur, a tad shy all of a sudden.

Bucky tilts his head at you. “You telling me you’re not thoroughly turned on right now?”

“Bucky!”

“Oh, come on! Indulge me,” he nudges your knee with his metal hand and it shoots electricity up the limb to flutter in your belly. “Read it to me.”

“What?”

“Show me what the hype of written porn is about.” He shrugs and leans sideways against the back of the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can’t imagine it is better than watching it on video.”

He’s lying. Bucky likes porn as much as most men, but it is a quick fix. He can definitely see the appeal in dragging out the build up and reading from someone’s point of view. But admitting that wouldn’t get you all squirmy and uncomfortable and he finds he quite likes to tease you about this stuff. You always tease him, why not return the favour?

“Absolutely not,” you breathe.

“Pussy.”

“Bucky, I am not reading porn to you, are you insane?!”

But Bucky has already noticed your determined answer and he is too impatient to play this out a bit longer, so he quickly snatches the book from your hold and dives off the sofa, almost roaring a laugh at the impossibly slow response time you have to his actions.

Opening the book to the last page you ended on, he increases the distance between you as his eyes search the words. “She remembered his lips. The feel of them on her own. Oh, to feel them somewhere else… doing that thing with his tongue. Her knees nearly buckled, if it weren’t for his stare pinning her down,” he starts, his voice husky as he reads. “His eyes darkened as they finally landed on her throbbing, warm, aching –”

“Bucky!”

“ –cunt,” he smirks and tries to focus on the words in front of him, even though he suddenly realises who he is picturing as the girl in the book, his brain having latched onto the first person in his thoughts. “She felt as if she might pass out when she felt the fiery trail that the tip of his tongue traced up her bare thigh. So slow, so painfully slow. She couldn’t help the pulsating wave contracting her weeping pussy, another when he dragged his index finger through her folds.” Fuck, this fucking book. “His cock twitched at the feeling of her and the simple sound of the hitch in her breath. He couldn’t help but dip his finger in slightly. Just to test the waters, feel her around his digit. Scorching hot and fluttering with need…” Bucky drifts off.

“Bucky, please stop?” You ask him and his eyes, dark and heavy, snap to your frame on the couch. Your voice has dropped significantly and Bucky can’t help but notice the strangeness in your tone, pleading him to stop reading. Not because you’re embarrassed, no, but because it was turning you on.

And Bucky can’t help but let his nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, the air around him thick with your arousal. He can’t possibly make the distinction of whether you are turned on by the book, or by him, but he finds himself slowly caring less. Something tugs at him again. In his chest, his belly, his cock.

You’re uncomfortable. Horny and uncomfortable, aching and needy. He can read it on your face. And Bucky’s protective instinct can’t help but instantly want to make sure you’re feeling better. As opposed to the normal situations, a back rub, a nap, or a glass of water won’t help you this time.

And there you are. This wonderful, comfortable, beautiful person. Always teasing him, making his life better by making it worse. And something he hasn’t realised until now, a person who is completely and utterly… sexy. That sparkle in your eyes, those fleshy thighs, your lips, your hair, your everything. And your mind, especially. How it takes his body nothing to instantly respond to you, like an answer to your call.

Right now, you are calling again. Calling for pleasure and relief. Bucky’s legs stiffen to stop him from marching over and answering that call like he answers all the others.

“I’ll stop,” he replies stoically, shutting the book gently and walking over to you. He reaches out the book for you to take, but when your hands, albeit hesitantly, wrap around the cover, Bucky doesn’t let go and tugs both your hands to him slightly. “Is that what you want?”

His eyes are piercing into yours and you nod frantically, “Yes, I can’t take you reading any longer.”

He clarifies, “I mean the book. The scene – is that what you want?”

Your brows pull together and you search his face, disappointed to be unable to read it. “To have someone eat me out? Yeah… I can’t say I would mind it.”

Those words, followed by your breathy chuckle has Bucky’s fingers curl until his nails dig into the cover of the book. You talked about sex with him sometimes, but to hear you name such a filthy and delicious act so plainly? He doesn’t know how much more he can take. Is that what you felt when you heard him read? Because he will read you a bedtime story every night if this is how it makes you feel.

Bucky reluctantly lets go of the book and takes a seat on the other side of the sofa, running his hand through his hair as he takes a deep breath.

“Then why not go and get it?” he asks, staring ahead even if he feels your eyes burn into his side.

“No one will live up to the expectations of a book, Bucky,” you sigh and Bucky hates his name on your lips like that. Filled with disappointment. Absolutely hates it.

“Sure they do,” he shrugs and finally decides to face you, “all you need is that build-up.”

You swallow hard and your chest freezes with an inhale. “A build-up?”

“Yes,” he hums. “Those three-hundred pages of tension, a little teasing, some dirty talk…”

You roll your eyes with a low laugh. “Right. How realistic of you, Bucky.”

He likes that tone a lot more. His name from your mouth like that. Like he might be one of your favourite people. “Easy to get, sweetheart. We have a whole lot more than three-hundred pages under our belt.”

The nickname and the simple insinuation of his words make you curl up tighter in the cushions. You do. You have plenty of build-up. Plenty of teasing and tension, as far as you are concerned. But you never considered your friend to have experienced the same thing. You felt like a burden to him, always seeking him out and him grumbling as he helped you. But you could endlessly wonder. Or you could ask. Who is he to be putting you on the spot?

“What are you suggesting, Bucky?” you ask, even daring to sit up and lean in closer slightly. You should have expected him to not recoil too easily though. He wouldn’t even show you a weakness, despite your close relationship. No, he would lean into whatever you would give him.

“I think you know what it is I’m suggesting.”

You leap. Fuck it. “Say it.”

“You really want me to say it out loud?”

“Would I be reading books if I didn’t?”

He laughs at that, his lids lowering when his gaze narrows back in on you. His hand, draped over the back of the couch, is so close to your shoulder. He licks his lips.

“Say it,” you repeat.

“I’m suggesting,” he drawls, his voice having deepened, “that you spread your legs for me.”

You can’t believe it. Can’t believe he just said that. And how it sounded so natural, something you never expected. But you swallow the primitive response to his words that has your whole body reeling. You will play his part. You will find out just how far Bucky is willing to take his bluff. Sure, you had well over three-hundred pages of foreplay, but also well over three-hundred pages of trust to shatter with one stupid decision. However, you cannot currently find one good reason – not a single one – not to risk it all for him.

So you spread your legs for him.

His eyes widen slightly, an outside power pulling his sight down to the very core that you’ve exposed to him. He didn’t think it was possible, but his mouth waters, the absence of your taste on his lips grating his nerves. He drags his eyes back to yours, only to see you surveying him closely.

“Everyone is out. If I do this…” his voice is low and descends into a rasp.

“No going back,” you finish for him.

“I don’t want to go back.” There is no mistaking his words, his tone clear.

“Me neither.”

“Tell me,” he orders, his warm palms wrapping around your ankles, his thumbs stroking the skin of your shins. Even the metal is warm. Your breathing deepens and becomes heavier.

“I don’t want to go back,” you say. “I want this.”

“What? What do you want?” he asks, surely testing how far you’ll be willing to go with your confessions. You stay quiet, your eyes peering down into his as his hands slowly stroke up your spread legs, his fingertips grazing underneath the fabric of your shorts. “You want my tongue between your legs?”

Your pussy convulses at his words and you swallow hard. Fucking hell.

“Bucky.” It’s a whisper.

“I bet that book warmed you up for me, didn’t it?” he croons and you nod stiffly. “I wonder if it’s enough. I wonder if I need to spread you open a bit further.” His thumbs dig into inside of your upper thighs, spreading you open more. You pulse in answer, your chest rising and falling deeply.

“Why don’t you try and find out?”

Bucky snickers softly, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. “And there I was, thinking you’d be innocent.”

“You never thought I was innocent,” you breathe, the circling of his thumbs against your skin distracting you. More slick gathers between your legs and you wonder if Bucky can spot it through your shorts.

“Let’s just say I never thought I’d get to see this side of you,” he answers and licks his lips with his eyes burning into your warm skin. His fingers start peeling at the fabric and you wiggle your hips impatiently, ready to raise them and serve him.

“You severely underestimate yourself.” Your voice is quieter, more serious. You hope he can decode your vague confession. How much he means to you, how there is no one more worthy to speak to you like Bucky does, no one you could want more.

He stays quiet at that, however, his eyes raising to yours. His stare remains impassive, his eyes darting between yours as if trying to find something. But you stare back just as hard, unflinching, unfaltering. Something flashes across his face, a determination of some sorts, and he gives a quick nudge upward with his chin. An order. Raise your hips.

Serve me.

Your breath halts in your throat while you do as you’re told, lifting your hips as Bucky slowly peels your shorts off, your panties right along with them. Heart pounding at the relentless vulnerability of being naked before him, you stiffen. He twists you by his grip on your thighs, leaning you back against the back rest of the sofa and kneeling down between your bare legs. His eyes are on you.

“I have to warn you,” he starts and you gape at him, expecting some cocky remark that will make you roll your eyes at him. “If we do this – if you let me between your legs – it will not be the one time. I will be coming back for seconds and you will be coming, too. A lot. Tonight. Tomorrow. A week from now. This is it.”

You swallow hard, your eyes wide and frozen onto his relentlessly handsome face. He isn’t joking. In fact, you don’t think you have ever seen him this serious before. And for Bucky, that is saying something. But for him to admit something like that, hint towards borderline addiction when it comes to pleasing you – it does things to your heart and pussy that you cannot describe.

“Kiss me first,” you tell him. You need to kiss him first.

Bucky smiles – smiles – and lifts up on his knees, cupping your neck and pulling you forward instantly, giving you no time to come back from your request. When his lips touch yours, you let out a tiny gasp, the feeling of his lips against you making your chest lurch and your brain scream. His lips part and you moan softly into the kiss when your tongues meet, the strawberry texture of it making you want to whine. Instead, your hands grasp the collar of his shirt and pull him closer. He hums contently against you and both your breathing becomes more laboured.

Bucky pulls back a few times before diving back in, dragging his teeth over your lips and teasing you with the absence of him. Until you are a wet and throbbing mess between your legs. It is when you start wriggling in your seat, that Bucky chuckles and pulls back a final time.

“Getting a bit antsy?” he asks, his hands stroking your thighs as he sits back on his knees.

“Over three-hundred pages, Bucky…” you remind him.

He smiles again and pushes your knees apart once more, leaning forward as his lips press against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You lean back and watch him closely, your attention solely focused on the rugged man between your legs.

His thumb starts to slowly rub over your clit and you gasp at the touch, it somehow feeling incredibly unnatural to have Bucky in that position. It being his touch that is causing you so much pleasure – and pain. God, you’re throbbing painfully now and you cannot help the whine squeaking from your lips.

“Shh, I know. I’ll get to it.”

It does make you relax, his words and his tone, and you make yourself sink into the couch, your hands reaching down to run through his hair. He smirks and locks his eyes with yours, slowly – so slowly – leaning down to replace his thumb with his mouth. And you can’t help the heavenly sigh that spills from you when it finally makes contact with your aching core.

“Oh Bucky,” you moan and tug softly on his hair as you throw your head back. He’s there in seconds, bringing you to that long-awaited peak. Apparently, you don’t need much when it comes to Bucky, the man himself being foreplay enough for you to launch towards release.

“Mhm,” he hums, “that’s it. That’s good.”

The warmth of his tongue is making you shiver, the slurping sounds coming from between your legs making you squeeze your eyes shut and throw your head back. If only to focus on holding out, on not drenching his face. It’s sinful, the protective, passive and gorgeous Bucky Barnes on his knees for you. Capable of destruction and so much violence, unrelenting towards everyone and a grump in his social life – but he’s on his knees for you.

Your moans and words of encouragement are growing incoherent, your belly tightening as Bucky hauls you closer to avoid any distance between your drenched pussy and his mouth. He’s slow, meticulous and ravenous as he eats you, his fingers rolling into your flesh as if he’s savouring every place where he’s touching you.

He is.

It’s unreal, to have such a beautiful woman above him, moaning and panting and grabbing at him while he does something he enjoys so much. His mouth won’t stop watering. God, he’s addicted. He has to remind himself to breathe when his tongue is desperate to make the pitch of your voice raise, get you to your release. He has to know what it is like to see you come, feel you come, hear you come – taste your come.

He needs you, he needs you, he needs you.

Then his finger gently traces the inside of your entrance, wiggling around to spread you open, and you start choking on your moans, your breaths sounding outright painful and your fingers curling around his wrist and into the cushion below you.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky!”

He hums and wraps his lips around your clit once more, rolling it into his mouth and flicking his tongue over it. And you crash, the tightness in your body coming to a high before every muscle and tendon snaps into pure euphoria. You buck and roll your hips into Bucky’s mouth, riding the waves of your orgasm with breathy, raspy moans that make Bucky’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

Violent tremors rack through your body as you come down and Bucky ceases his assault on your pussy, which is still pulsating heavily from the warm orgasm that seeps from your body. You finally open your eyes, looking at a Bucky who is completely alert and satisfied.

“Tomorrow,” he licks his lips clean, eyes shimmering with delight, “you’re going to read that chapter to me. And you’re going to sit on my face while you do so. If you manage to keep reading, I’ll make sure you keep coming.”

As long as you’re okay.

And maybe a bit better than okay.

hey what if I held you really fucking close as we rocked back and forth because we're covered in bruises, wounds and knives??? what then??? what if we reenacted hannibal's wrath of the lamb's cliff scene WHAT THEN???

Hold My Girl

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky comes home from a mission and needs time to hold his girl.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: So much fluff in Bucky’s pov <3

a/n: I love feedback!! Please let me know what you think, it gives me motivation to write more :) Got lotsss of inspo from the song ‘Hold My Girl’ by George Ezra.

Masterlist

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Fall was a finicky season. 

One day hot, the next a damp, dim breeze, the weeks that made up November were a myriad of change. You could smell it in the air and see it in the way the cars drove. Buildings kept their lights on longer, people walked slower; everything felt as if it were in limbo, waiting for the semblance of normality that would blanket the city when the sun finally left and took its morsels of warmth along with it. 

In your apartment, the change wasn’t as obvious. 

White sheets still glowed with pale light each morning. Plates still made crisp, ringing sounds each night—hot ceramic, straight from the dishwasher because Bucky couldn’t stand when they sat in there for too long. Footsteps echoed in the stairwell by the elevator. Laughs were low and plentiful, just murmurs drifting through warm vents when the moon was high. 

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