#and they can be difficult people to love and help and be around

[bennysmiller]

I love your writing! Would you consider writing a short fic where you’re one of Santi’s friends and he sets you up on a blind date with Frankie? Bonus points for Frankie being kind of shy and adorable

Blind Date - Frankie Morales x Reader

Thank you so much for your request!! I really hope this is okay 🩷

I have a friend. He’s single. You’re single. You’re both recently out of long-term relationships. You can awkwardly return to the dating scene together. But seriously, I think you’ll like each other. How does that sound?

You laughed when Santi sent you that text. But two weeks later, you were pacing anxiously in your kitchen waiting for your cab to arrive. You’d partly agreed to the date to shut Santi up, because you knew he’d complain about your complaining if he’d offered you a way out of the single life and you’d refused, without even giving him a chance. Finding a good man was difficult, so it was worth trying, right?

The cab ride to the restaurant was painful, to say the least. You couldn’t help but question if you were doing the right thing, but Santi was one of the few people you actually trusted, and he wouldn’t have set the date up if he didn’t think you’d actually get along.

Five minutes. This Frankie guy was five minutes late. You tapped your fingers on the table, trying to distract yourself from the fact that he maybe got cold feet himself. But out of the corner of your eye, you see a little bit of commotion near the entrance of the restaurant.

A man has a bouquet of roses in one hand, and the other was messing with the soft curls on top of his head. He looked as thought he’d ran all the way there. He was frantically looking around and trying to catch his breath, while also explaining to the wait staff who he was there for.

Someone’s in trouble, you think to yourself. And then it hits you. Man who looks like he’s supposed to be on a date, also looks like he has turned up late to said date?

Then you hear your name. And a few curse words that he muttered under his breath in embarrassment. You look up, and it’s him.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get off work. Then I realised I’d forgotten to get you flowers. I hope you like roses.” He said, as you stood up to greet him.

“Frankie? You’re fine. I mean, not fine as in handsome, just fine as in ‘you don’t need to apologise for being late’. Actually, you’re fine as in handsome too, but-“

Disaster. Two seconds in and it was a disaster.

He hands you the flowers and you thank Frankie, before gesturing for him to take a seat in front of you.

“Let’s start over, huh Frankie? We both screwed up there.” You say as you settle at the table.

“Sure, I could take a redo at that”, he laughs and he blushes a little when you laugh back.

You just looked so beautiful. Frankie wished Santi had warned him about that.

The rest of the date went better than either of you could have ever imagined. The chemistry was just as Santi had promised in his myriad of texts to you about it. He knew. He always knew. And you needed to thank him for this one.

Frankie was so pleased with himself, he had you laughing all night. Even in his truck, on the way home. The radio was on, the windows were down, and the conversation was flowing so effortlessly. It was a movie scene straight from a movie that the two of you had no idea was only the first part of many.

“I’d love to see you again,” said Frankie, as he admired the way you looked in the glow of your porch light. “If you feel the same, of course”.

“I feel the same, don’t you worry about that.” You smiled at him and kissed his cheek, which took the poor man by surprise. “Goodnight, Frankie”.

The look you gave him over your shoulder as you opened your front door would be thought about until you graced him with your presence a second time.

[cherry-coffees]

Labyrinth ~ Chapter 1

Vi x Reader

Premise: You, having grown up sheltered in Zaun, are taken in by Vander after the recent loss of your family - where you meet Vi. You fall hard and fast...until that fateful day when Vi leaves Powder. From childhood love to meeting again as adults, what will you and Vi become?

cw: 1.6K words | childhood crush!Vi, elements of girly girl!reader, teens now but will be adults in later chapters, no warnings for ch.1 <3

Lyric: "Lost In The Labyrinth Of My Mind" (Labyrinth, Taylor Swift)

“Alright!” Vander’s voice booms as the door to his place in the Lanes swings open.

His voice barely causes alarm, the teenagers barely sparing a glance at him as he enters. They’re used to his style of announcement by now. Powder doesn’t pay him any attention, going back to fidgeting with her work-in-progress monkey bombs. Claggor and Mylo’s eyes briefly flicker to Vander, mid-conversation about whatever they’re planning today.

The only one whose attention is stolen is Vi, powder-blue eyes landing on Vander as she shifts on the old couch, leaning forward on her elbows with curiosity. “What?” She runs a hand through her short, pink hair. “Got a new job for us?”

“Not this time,” Vander sighs. “Uh, actually, we have a new person coming to stay with us.”

This catches everyone’s attention. Powder’s eyes widen in curiosity while Vi’s narrow with suspicion. Mylo is the first to speak, standing from where he had been joking around with Claggor. “What the hell?!” He protests. “We don’t need another person taking up our food supply!”

“Are they any good at jobs?” Claggor’s eyebrows furrow in thought. “Why are we taking them in?”

Vander just lets out another sigh, rubbing his temple at the onslaught of questions. He holds up a hand to silence them. “Can we pause all the questions?”

“Woah, hold on?” Vi’s voice cuts through, expression hard. “Who is this person?”

Vander pauses, hesitating before glancing back at the door and holding out a hand. A signal. Your signal.

You enter tentatively, gaze darting around at the dark house and, of course, the people in it. You glance at each of the teenagers, none of whom seem too happy about your presence. “Um, hi.” You say uncertainly, giving your name as a form of greeting.

Mylo’s face has only contorted into more frustration, while Claggor and Powder just glance at each other. Vi, meanwhile, looks more surprised than anything. Her eyes are still narrowed, suspicious of you, but there’s a tinge of something taken-aback.

Not that you can blame her. You don’t look like you’re from the Lanes, not really. You’re from another part of Zaun, if only a little better off financially. Your hair is cleaner, skin just a little brighter. Not resembling a Piltovan, though — more of a sheltered Zaunite. Your features are softer, wider, more uneasy in this new environment.

Vander places a firm hand on your shoulder from behind, giving each kid a hard look. “Yes,” he confirms, restating your name. “She’s here, and she’s staying. I don’t want to hear of anyone-”  he shoots a particularly stiff look at Mylo “-giving her a difficult time. Teach her the ropes, and I’ll see you all tomorrow morning. Are we clear?”

His words are met with nods from everyone, though hesitant, and Vander takes that as his cue to leave after squeezing your shoulder reassuringly.

You fidget in the tense air, wide eyes darting to the floor before back up at everyone. It’s Powder who finally speaks, moving toward you in nervous outreach. “It’s nice to meet you,” she half-smiles up at you. “I’m Powder.”

Gods, she’s cute. You can’t help but smile back down at her. “Hi Powder. I like your hair, it’s so pretty.”

Powder seems to rejoice at the compliment, her smile immediately brightening. “Thank you!” She exclaims, already seeming to ease up. She then turns, gesturing to Claggor and Mylo at the table and Vi sitting on the couch. “That’s Claggor and Mylo,” she points at each of them respectively. “And that’s my sister, Vi.”

At her name, Vi stands and approaches you, crossing from the couch to the doorway where you stand with Powder. “What’s your deal?” She questions, more curiosity written in her features than she’d like to admit.

“What do you mean?” You tilt your head, almost innocent, blinking up at her. Man, she’s tall. You wonder briefly if she’s much older than you. 

Vi seems a little taken aback by your genuine innocence, but she persists with her questions. “Why are you here?” She lets her eyes drop down your figure, then back up again, lingering on the ribbons in your hair. “Staying with us.”

“Uh,” you hesitate, not having any idea of how to state this. “My family is gone.”

Dead silence.

Mylo and Claggor’s eyes have widened in surprise, clearly not expecting that blunt of an answer. Vi’s do, too, as she falters, unsure of what to possibly say in response to that. Powder’s yet again the one who breaks the silence. “I’m so sorry,” sorrow is etched on her features, and you feel your heart ache just a little.

“It’s okay,” you reassure her, disguising the tremble in your voice. You’re going through your own grieving, but right now, you can’t imagine this little girl worrying about anything in the world. Which, you suppose, is the opposite of the environment she’s been forced to grow up in. You drop down to her height. “Don’t worry about me. I’m here now, and-” you cast a glance at Mylo. “I’ll try to help you all as much as I can.”

“I like you,” Powder decides out loud, unable to help smiling back at you. Your soft eyes aren’t something she’s used to.

They’re not something Vi’s used to either.

Because gods, Vi has never quite seen anyone like you. Pretty, kind, soft. How are you from Zaun? She has to wonder to herself. She isn’t one to trust easily, having lost most people she loves at only fifteen now. But the way her younger sister looks at you like you’re hanging the moon right in front of her eyes — well, Vi’s more than a little intrigued.

“I’m sorry,” Vi clears her throat, and you meet her eyes as you straighten back up. “We have, um, similar stories if it helps at all. We’ll teach you the ropes, like Vander said, yeah?”

You bob your head once. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Vi exhales, gesturing to the bag on your back. “C’mon, I can show you the house.” You nod again, quickly taking the chance of acceptance into their little family. You can’t help turning to give a little wave to Powder as you exit the cramped front room, to which she beams at. Cute.

Vi leads you up some rickety stairs, gesturing almost lazily to a small bathroom as well as a room that appears to be Mylo’s and Claggor’s, before opening a door to another small bedroom. “This is where you’ll stay with Powder and I.”  She clarifies, facing you again while running a hand through her hair. “The bed on the left is mine and Powder’s. I think Vander set up the mattress on the right for you.” 

You nod once again, setting your bag down at the end of your mattress. “Right,” your gaze locks with hers once again. “Thank you. For showing me and for, you know, letting me stay.”

The barest of smiles inches up on Vi’s lips. “No problem,” she waves you off. “It’s not much, but uh,” her eyes drop up and down your figure once again, and the three words she had briefly thought of earlier seem to cement themselves in her mind. Pretty, kind, soft. “I guess I’ll just…” Vi backs out of the room, her tone turning almost awkward. “Let you get settled.”

“Right,” you blink. “Thank you again.”

This time, Vi can't help an actual half-smile. “Powder and I will be in later. Good night.”

“Good night, Vi.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

It’s only when Vi enters the front room of the house again, plopping herself back down on the couch with a huff, that Mylo starts. “You were easy on her,” he accuses. “Why? You’re only ever that nice to Powder, and that’s cause she’s young.” Powder flashes him a scowl, but he doesn’t pay her any mind. “You going soft on us, fearless leader?”

“No,” Vi joins Powder in shooting Mylo a deep glare. “She’s just…new, okay? I mean, look at her. She clearly has minimal experience. We need to teach her a thing or two.”

“Or twenty,” Claggor’s mumble can be heard across the room, to which Mylo gives Vi a pointed look.

“Fine, or twenty,” Vi rolls her eyes. “What’s it to you? Another pair of arms to grab more stuff during jobs. She’ll earn her own food when she learns the ropes.”

Meanwhile, Powder’s in her own little world, letting out a dreamy sigh. “She’s pretty. Do you think she’ll let me wear her ribbons?”

This constitutes a roll of both Mylo’s and Claggor’s eyes, but Vi grants her little sister a soft smile. “I’m sure she will. She is pretty,” she mumbles the last part under her breath.

Unfortunately for her, it’s a small room.

“Oh,” Mylo dons a smirk, eyebrows twitching in smugness. “You like-”

“No!” Vi shoots back, her softness immediately replaced by another glare. “I just mean — you guys saw how nice she looks. And how sweet she is with Powder,” she gestures to the blue-haired girl sitting on the floor. “She’s not a fighter. She’s different, different from me.”

Powder smiles at the thought. “Yeah, she’s nice too,” she concedes, but she still manages to sneak a teasing glance at Vi. “That’s why you’re in loooove~”

Vi buries her face in her hands and groans, unable to escape this interrogation. Claggor reaches over to high-five Powder, which she happily accepts. Meanwhile, Mylo isn’t quite done. “You mean, she’s like a little princess, and you like that. As close to a princess as anyone from Zaun can be.”

Vi turns her entire body to face Mylo, completely fed up. “What did I say about this look on my face?” She deadpans, pointing to her expression. “Now, shut up unless you want the last pick of chores.” 

Though, despite all her crowing, when Vi puts Powder to sleep that night, she can’t help a glance over at your peacefully sleeping form. And she needs to know: who, exactly, are you?

A/N: WOOO FIRST CHAPTER!

To clarify, this fic will show teen!Vi dynamics but most of the fic will be adults! Like a childhood love to adults AU :) There will be smut later BUT not as teenagers bc...no.

Was lowk nervous to post sooo please comment down below OR slide into my asks and lmk your thoughts <3

~Cherry 🍒

[nameless-ken]

Bucky Barnes x Reader - part four

The Stranger That Knows Me Best is a heartfelt story about connection, vulnerability, and taking chances on the unexpected. Two introverts discover that sometimes, the person who understands you best is the one you’ve never met.

part one | part two | part three

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: the usual, mostly angst!

Masterlist

authors note: I am currently moving into a new home so I hope you enjoy reading this part until I can update again! I think there might be one more part, maybe two. If you have any requests, please send them in, I need the inspiration and am looking forward to my new writing set up!

The apartment feels suffocating, too quiet. Bucky is on his couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His stomach churns, not just from the headache pounding behind his eyes but from the gnawing pit of regret. 

The image of you, standing by the bar last night, arms crossed and eyes guarded—that’s what makes his hangover worse. Not the lingering taste of whiskey or the meaningless, hollow kiss he wishes he could take back. 

Just you. And the way you looked at him like he was exactly what he feared becoming—someone who couldn’t be trusted with your heart.

He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He needs air.

Grabbing his jacket, he steps outside, the cold midmorning air making his eyes sting. He sniffles and zips up his jacket, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he moves on instinct, as if his feet remember his usual route than his brain does in his current state. 

He makes it to the coffee shop, pausing before walking in, hoping to find you. He takes a deep breath and walks inside. His eyes wander to the back table but find it empty. His shoulders slump in disappointment. He tries to shake it off as he orders a cup of hazelnut coffee. He takes a seat at the same table that used to bring him comfort but now it just feels cold. He sits there, letting the untouched mug grow cold and stares ahead, remembering the way you smiled at him over the rim of your own mug. He hates how upset he feels, knowing he doesn’t deserve to feel this way. Since he brought you here, the atmosphere has changed. The sight of the empty chair in front of him twists anger and hopelessness deep in his chest.

The park is quieter this morning, the usual sounds of dogs barking and groups of old women chatting on their morning walks, are dulled by his intrusive thoughts. He walks along the path where you had strolled beside him, past the hill where you had sat together. He stops and visualizes the way you had tilted your head up, watching the light filter through the trees, and how he had caught himself watching you. He misses the smile that would appear on your face as he spoke about his past and how much he loved that he was the reason for it. The realization of that had startled him then. Now, it haunts him.

The Brooklyn Promenade stretches out before him, the skyline hazy against the afternoon sky. He leans against the railing, the same spot where you had stood. He remembers the look in your eyes, gleaming as you took in the Manhattan city outline. He had been drawn to that look on your face, the way you absorbed the world like it still had so much beauty to offer. And he had found himself watching you instead, more taken by your beauty and wonder— it made him feel some unfamiliar stir in his chest, something terrifying and real.

Now, the space beside him feels too empty.

The record store is the last stop. The familiar scent of vinyl and dust wrapping around him. Music plays softly over the speakers but it doesn’t make him feel the usual calmness. He walks to the listening booth, stopping in front of it, remembering the way you helped him through a difficult memory. 

He hadn’t realized just how much he liked seeing you experience his happiness. Now, all he can think about is how easily he’s managed to ruin everything.

He swipes a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He’s spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, convincing himself it’s better that way. But you—you slipped through the tiny cracks. And last night, he shattered the fragility between you. 

Bucky swallows hard and leaves the store, his mind still a tangled mess of regret.

The fear had crept in before he could stop it. The moment he started wanting this—you—it became too real, too much. He had been here before, letting himself believe in something good, and look where it got him.

Losing his mom nearly broke him. Having Natalie leave right before shattered whatever pieces were left. And now, standing in the wreckage of his own making, he wonders if he’s doomed to repeat the same cycle—pushing people away before they have the chance to leave on their own.

He rubs a hand over his jaw, clenching as he exhales through his nose. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know if he can.

But the thought of losing you for good? That terrifies him more than anything.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky is scared of something that isn’t the past—he’s scared of the future.

And what it might look like without you in it.

A sharp knock rattles the apartment door. He knows it’s not you, you still haven’t returned from your hasty exit this morning. He texted you once, just wanting to know if you’re okay. He hates the thought of you walking around in an unfamiliar city. You read it but didn’t reply. 

He ignores the knocking at first, slouched on his couch, staring at the floor like it holds all the answers he can’t find. But the knocking comes again—louder, more impatient. He knows who it is.

With a sigh, Bucky pushes himself to his feet and opens the door.

Sam doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, arms crossed over his chest.

“Alright, man,” Sam greets with a stern look and pressing eyes. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Bucky exhales sharply and shuts the door, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not in the mood for a lecture, Sam.”

“Well, that’s too damn bad.” Sam’s eyes darken as he takes a step closer. “Because somebody’s gotta say it. You say you don’t want to lose her, but you’re doing a damn good job pushing her away.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, looking away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

Bucky groans, shoulders tensing. “You don’t get it—”

“No, I get it just fine.” Sam cuts him off, his voice sharper now. “You’re scared. You’ve been running from these feelings for years. And now, instead of dealing with your own shit, you’re just hurting her.”

Bucky flinches but doesn’t argue.

Sam exhales, shaking his head. His voice softens, but there’s no less weight behind it. “I remember what you were like after your mom died. You were wrecked, man. And Natalie? She just walked away. Left you when you needed someone the most.”

Bucky swallows hard, the memories hitting him like a punch to the gut. The loneliness. The heartbreak. The way he shut himself off from everything and everyone after that.

Sam steps closer. “You’ve been keeping people at a distance ever since. And maybe that made sense back then, but not now. Not with her.”

Bucky’s hands clench into fists at his sides. His throat feels tight. “I do care about her, Sam.” He looks away, jaw tightening. “More than I’ve cared about anyone in years.”

Sam nods, like he already knew that. “So what the hell are you doing?”

Bucky exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let someone in like that again. What if—” He stops himself before the rest of the thought can spill out.

Sam watches him for a long moment before speaking. “You don’t get to use that as an excuse forever, man. Yes, she will be going back to Oregon soon but that doesn’t mean she’s leaving you for good. It’s scary. It’s always gonna be scary. But if you don’t face that fear, you’re gonna lose the best damn thing that’s happened to you.”

Bucky lets out a slow, shaky breath, his chest aching. He doesn’t know what to say—because deep down, he knows Sam’s right.

The bell above the door chimes as Sam steps into the coffee shop, sweeping over the room until he lands on you. You’re by the window, hands curled around a cup of coffee that’s long gone cold, staring out at the city. But you’re not really seeing it. The movement of people, the rush of yellow cabs, the flickering neon signs—they’re all just blurs beyond the glass, as distant as the thoughts clouding your mind.

Sam doesn’t hesitate. He walks over and slides into the chair across from you.

“You look like you could use some company,” he says, resting his arms on the table.

You blink, snapping out of your daze. Your lips tug into a small, tired smile. “Hey, Sam.”

“Hey,” he replies, but there’s a softness to his voice, a knowing look in his eyes. Like he already sees the storm inside you before you can even say a word. He leans forward slightly. “You doing okay?”

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around the ceramic cup. The truth is, you’re not sure. The emotions tangled in your chest are too heavy to sort through. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “I’m just… trying to make sense of it all.”

Sam nods like he expected that. He glances around, then exhales. “You see him now, but you don’t know the version of him that I do—the guy who didn’t even want to get out of bed, who stopped talking to me for weeks.”

Your brows draw together as you look up at him. “After his mom passed?”

Sam nods. “Bucky was different after that. He was always the guy who carried everything on his shoulders, but when she died, it crushed him. And Natalie?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “She didn’t stick around. Their relationship was already rocky, but when grief hit, she made him feel like a burden.”

A sharp pang twists in your chest. Your mind flashes back to the way Bucky had spoken about Natalie. How his voice turned hollow, how his shoulders tensed like even the memory of her was something he wanted to bury deep. And suddenly, you understand it more. The way he hesitates, the way he pushes and pulls, how he keeps you at arm’s length even when his eyes tell a different story.

Sam continues, his voice quieter now. “He stopped showing up. Stopped answering calls, stopped seeing people. And when he did come back around… it wasn’t the same. He didn’t let anyone in after that. Not really.”

You lower your gaze, tracing the rim of your cup with your fingertip. The weight of Sam’s words settles into your chest, filling in the gaps of a story Bucky never quite told you himself.

“And now?” you ask, your voice softer.

Sam studies you for a long moment before answering. “Now, he’s trying. Or at least, he was—until he screwed up.”

A humorless laugh escapes you as you shake your head. “Yeah. Until he screwed up.”

Sam doesn’t argue with that. He just watches your reaction.

You swallow hard, staring down at your untouched coffee. “I don’t know what to do, Sam. I care about him. A lot. But I can’t be someone’s maybe. I can’t stand here waiting for him to decide if he wants me in his life as a friend or as more.”

Sam nods, thoughtful. “I get it. And I’m not here to make excuses for him. What he did was messed up. But I just thought you should know… he’s not a bad guy. He just doesn’t know how to let himself be happy.”

Your throat tightens. Because as much as you hurt, as much as you’re angry and disappointed—you know Sam’s right. You’ve seen it in the way Bucky looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, in the way his fingers hesitate before touching yours, like he’s afraid of wanting something he’s convinced himself he can’t have.

And now you see it in yourself, too. The ache in your chest isn’t just from what he did—it’s from knowing he doesn’t believe he deserves more than what his past taught him.

“I just…” You pause, your voice smaller now. “I want to be there for him.”

Sam exhales, offering you a sad smile. “Maybe he needs to figure out how to let himself be loved first.”

You nod slowly and let his words sink in. Understanding Bucky doesn’t erase the hurt. But it does leave you with one painful question:

How much longer can you wait for someone who’s still learning what he wants?

That night, when the knock on the guest room door comes, you’re not surprised.

You’ve been expecting it.

Still, you hesitate. Your fingers hover over the handle for a beat too long before you finally pull the door open.

Bucky stands on the other side, looking exhausted—like he hasn’t slept in days. His hoodie hangs loose on his frame, hands shoved deep into the front pocket, shoulders hunched like the weight of everything is pressing down on him all at once. But it’s his eyes that catch you. There’s no shield there, no guarded walls—just rawness. Regret.

“Can we talk?” he asks hesitantly.

You inhale slowly. There’s no anger left in you, not really—just exhaustion, just a dull ache where warmth used to be. Without a word, you step back, leaving just enough space for him to walk inside.

Bucky lingers for a moment before he moves, running a hand through his hair as he exhales. The silence stretches, pressing down on both of you.

Finally, he breaks it.

“I was wrong,” he says, voice rough. “I keep messing this up. I keep pushing you away, and I know why—I just don’t know how to stop.” He swallows hard, shifting his weight like he’s fighting himself. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just… I don’t know how to be what you need.”

His words land deep, stirring up everything you’ve been feeling since you got here—the warmth of him, the way he made you feel seen, the way he kept you close, then pushed you away in the same breath.

You tighten your arms around yourself, steadying your voice. “I care about you, Bucky.” The words come easier than you expect. “But I won’t be someone you keep at arm’s length just because you’re scared.”

His jaw tightens. His hands ball into fists at his sides. “I’m not scared of you,” he says too fast, then, softer, “I’m scared of what this means.”

“I get it,” you say carefully. “But fear isn’t an excuse to push a friend away and drown your sorrows in alcohol when I’m here because of you. You wanted me here, Bucky. And everything was going great—until Natalie showed up, and suddenly, it was like you weren’t even the same person anymore.”

Bucky flinches, his lips pressing together in frustration. 

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “I understand if seeing her brought up a lot for you. If it messed with your head. But why couldn’t you talk to me about it? We’ve traded letters for months, you’ve been open with me in ways I don’t think you’ve been with anyone else. But now, in person, it feels like there’s a part of you you’re hiding on purpose.”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose as he responds. “I wasn’t trying to hide. I just… I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let myself have something good without waiting for it to go wrong.”

Your chest tightens. “That’s the thing, Bucky,” you say softly. “I wasn’t waiting for anything to go wrong. I was just here. I am here”

His breath stutters, and for a second, you see something crack in his expression.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you believe him. You really do.

But believing him doesn’t change the fact that something in you has shifted.

You let out a slow, steadying breath, feeling the ache of the words before you even say them. “I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Bucky’s head snaps up, his whole body going still. “What?”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, to keep your voice level. “I came here to spend time with you. To figure out how we would be together. And I think I have.”

Something flickers across his face—panic, maybe. Regret. The kind that comes too late.

Bucky’s lips part like he wants to argue, to fight, but no words come out. Because what could he say?

And then, after a long, agonizing beat, he nods. Once. Just enough to let you go.

The morning light filters through the window, casting soft golden streaks across the ceiling. You’ve been awake for hours, staring at the shifting light patterns. Sleep never really came last night—not when your mind kept replaying every moment, every word, every hesitation in Bucky’s voice.

This isn’t how you imagined this trip ending.

You wanted clarity. Connection. A reason to stay.

Instead, you’re left with the stark realization that no matter how much you care about Bucky, no matter how much he might care about you, he’s stuck in a place you can’t reach. And you won’t break yourself trying to pull him out.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as you finally force yourself to move. Each motion feels mechanical—pulling your suitcase from the corner, folding clothes with a numb detachment. You hesitate over the little things he’s given you, the small tokens of your time together—his hoodie draped over the chair, the vinyl from the record store, a book he’d set on your nightstand with a quiet, “Thought you’d like this.”

You trace your fingers over the spine before slipping it into your bag.

Leaving feels wrong. It feels like severing something that was never meant to be broken. But staying? Staying would hurt more.

You reach for your phone, your voice quiet but firm as you reschedule your flight and call Wanda to see if she can be there to pick you up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon… No, it’s fine. I’m ready to come home.”

The words feel like a lie even as you say them.

Bucky doesn’t mean to eavesdrop.

He was heading to the kitchen when he heard your voice from the guest room. He freezes in place, your words slamming into him like a gut punch.

"I’m ready to come home."

The finality in your tone knocks the breath from his lungs. You’re leaving.

He knew this trip wasn’t permanent, but hearing it like this—knowing you’re leaving now, that you might never come back—makes his insides unravel.

His grip tightens on the edge of the counter, his pulse a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His mind races through every moment—the way you laughed with Sam at the bar, the way you fit so easily into his world, the way your fingers brushed his as you walked around his city. The way you looked at him last night, waiting for something he couldn’t give, and the way he hated himself for it.

He wants to stop you. To tell you not to go. To finally say everything he’s been too afraid to say.

But what if it’s too late?

What if he’s already lost you?

His feet move before he makes the decision. He’s at your door in an instant, his breath uneven, his heart pounding like it’s trying to break free from his chest.

He lifts a hand to knock—hesitates.

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he pushes the door open.

You turn, startled, eyes wide as you clutch a sweater to your chest. The sight of you mid-pack, standing in the middle of a room that already feels emptier, hits him harder than he expects.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Bucky swallows hard, his voice rough when he finally finds it. “You don’t have to go.”

Your breath catches, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. “Bucky…”

“I know I messed up,” he rushes out, stepping closer. “I know I pushed you away. And I know I don’t deserve to ask you this, but…” He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Stay. Just—stay a little longer.”

You close your eyes briefly, willing yourself to hold firm. “I can’t.”

The words are soft, but they land like a hammer between you.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his expression crumbling for a fraction of a second. He nods, stepping back as if to brace himself. “Right.”

You watch him, waiting for something—an argument, a plea, anything that might make this easier. But he doesn’t fight you. He just looks at you, and for the first time, you see it clearly.

Bucky doesn’t know how to fight for someone to stay.

And you can’t be the one to teach him.

The ride to the airport is quiet.

Bucky insisted on driving you, and despite everything, you let him. Maybe because you weren’t ready to say goodbye back at his place, maybe because a part of you wanted just a little more time with him.

Now, sitting in the passenger seat of his car, watching the city blur past, the silence stretches between you like a thread pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

He grips the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles taut. Every so often, he glances over at you, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Neither of you turn on the radio.

Neither of you break the silence.

Because what is there to say?

You’re leaving. And this time, Bucky isn’t stopping you.

The airport comes into view too soon, a cold reminder that this is real, that in a few minutes, you’ll be walking through those doors and out of his life.

He pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park, exhaling like it physically pains him.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, fingers trembling slightly as you reach for your suitcase in the backseat. When you turn back around, Bucky is already out of the car, stepping around to meet you. The weight in his eyes nearly makes you stumble.

You shift on your feet, gripping the suitcase handle too tightly. “You didn’t have to drive me.”

He tries to swallow the thick sorrowness that’s creeping its way up. “Yeah, I did.”

A pause.

The wind picks up, rustling your hair.

Bucky shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his gaze flickering over your face, trying to commit every detail to his memory. “I, uh…” He clears his throat, shifting on his feet. “I know I don’t deserve to ask, but—will you still write to me?”

The words nearly break you.

You exhale sharply, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I don’t know, Bucky.”

He nods stiffly, looking down as he expected that answer.

You step closer, hesitating just a fraction before reaching for him. Your fingers brush over his forearm first, then move up, slowly wrapping around his back. And Bucky—Bucky doesn’t hesitate at all.

His arms come around you in an instant, pulling you against his chest with an urgency that nearly knocks the breath out of you. His grip is strong, desperate, he’s afraid to let go.

Your face presses against the worn fabric of his jacket, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe him in—his warmth, his quiet strength, the scent of the familiarity and fleetingness of his presence.

You don’t know how long you stand there, wrapped up in each other, neither one of you willing to be the first to pull away.

But then the announcement sounds out over the speakers, a reminder of where you are.

You close your eyes and force yourself to step back. Bucky’s arms drop to his sides, fingers flexing because he wants to reach for you again but knows he can’t.

“Take care of yourself, Bucky,” you whisper, holding back tears threatening to fall. 

His jaw tightens. “You too.”

You grab your suitcase, forcing your feet to move toward the doors, toward the life waiting for you in Oregon.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

But if you did, you’d see Bucky standing there, unmoving, eyes glued to you as you disappeared from him.

And as he finally drags himself back to his car, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together, the tears start flowing. .

Bucky unlocks the door to his apartment, stepping inside as silence greets him. He exhales slowly, taking off his boots and jacket and makes his way to the kitchen. His hand hovers over the light switch, hesitating.

His eyes land on the mug you last used. He picked it up for you before you arrived, wanting you to have something of your own while you stayed here. He remembered you writing to him that you always have a mug of tea before bed every night. 

He wanted to make you feel at home or at least like his home could be yours too. 

He walks over to the sink and picks it up, noticing it still full and untouched of dark brown liquid. 

His grip tightens around the ceramic, his jaw clenching as he stares down into the empty sink. The anger isn’t really at the mug, or even at you—it’s at himself. 

With a sharp inhale, he sets the mug back down. Not because he wants to, but because he knows if he doesn’t, it’ll end up shattered in his hands.

Bucky doesn’t think—he just moves.

He grabs his running shoes, shoves his headphones in and steps out into the cold night air. The Brooklyn streets are quieter now. He starts off at a steady pace, his breath coming in measured exhales, his body falling into the familiar rhythm of running.

When the weight of the world gets too heavy, when the noise in his head refuses to settle, this is what he does. He runs until his legs burn, until his lungs ache, until there’s nothing left but the sound of his feet hitting the pavement and the steady pounding of his heart.

But tonight, it doesn’t work.

Because tonight, every step feels like he’s chasing something he already lost.

His mind flashes back to you—the way your shoulders tensed at the airport, like you were holding back everything you really wanted to say. The way you held onto him just a second longer during that last hug before finally letting go.

Bucky pushes himself harder, his feet slamming against the pavement as he takes a sharp turn down a quieter street. His breathing is ragged now, his body screaming for him to slow down, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means feeling, and he doesn’t want to feel this.

He runs past the coffee shop and his stomach clenches. He runs past the record store where he  shared such a thoughtful, tough memory with you.

Everywhere he goes, you’re still there.

He finally comes to a stop at the Brooklyn Promenade, hands on his knees, chest heaving as he stares out at the city lights reflecting over the water. He used to love this view. Used to come here when he needed clarity.

But right now, all he sees is the ghost of you standing beside him, a memory he can’t outrun.

The realization crashes over him like a wave, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky feels it all.

The regret. The longing. The emptiness you left behind.

And for the first time, he doesn’t know if running will ever be enough to escape.

Thank you so much for reading <3 please reblog or comment below, I love hearing your thoughts and feedback!

[cvrnelians]

nightmare pt. II

dark!Frank Castle x reader: Months of confinement begin to make you question who your captor really is, and who he is to you.

warnings: kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, 18+ only.

PART ONE

He says he would never hurt you.

Somewhere deep down, though, you can sense that Frank understands. He is not stupid, nor does he live in a state of delusion. He is a confrontational person, you can tell, and he readily confronts reality. He knows how much you hate him. It hurts him, but you can tell he was fully prepared for it. He is kind and patient with you because he knows you don’t deserve this. He knows you deserve to be happy, to be free. He knows he is hurting you, in spite of what he says. He also knows he doesn’t have to cause you physical harm in order to leave a mark.

You used to think you were good at reading people. It was a gift of yours, your own little superpower. You were skilled at assessing for intention, at predicting what someone’s next move might be. 

Frank, however, is an exceptionally difficult person to read. 

Concentration can get confusing when you’re afraid. It’s anxiety inducing, it’s debilitating, it’s tiring. But mostly, being around Frank feels unbearable. Whenever he is around, it’s like your mind has forged a new path, nestled securely in a state of purgatory. Both hypervigilant and distracted, frantic yet focused. 

You don’t understand this. You don’t understand him. You don’t understand why you’re here, or what he wants from you. You become so frustrated you could cry, and sometimes you do.

You don’t understand.

Your nerves send your mind spiraling in one hundred different directions, playing out scenarios of what he’s going to do, what he’s going to say, how this is going to end. It’s too hard to focus on any single one. It’s too hard to narrow down what the most likely scenario is. It’s too hard to predict the unpredictable.

The silence between the two of you—even the little silences, the moments where you’re waiting for him to respond to something you’ve said or done—is like pulling teeth. It’s frustrating and complicated, but it’s also relatively simple. 

Whenever he is around, you feel like you’re going to collapse. 

And so you have. You’ve fainted twice now in his presence. Once when you first arrived, when you first found yourself in the dark of the basement. Once more when he came home—“home,” the word makes you feel ill—covered in blood and cuts and bruises. You knew full well why he allowed you to see him like that. It was a warning. An “I’m not hurting you, but I could.” A big, shining example of “look at what I’m capable of.” As if you didn’t already know.

He explained things differently.

“I want to know every part of you, even the parts you’re not proud of,” he had said. “It’s only fair that you know me, too.”

You’re perched up on a pedestal in his mind, and you can’t help but wonder when all will come crashing down. But then again, he’s seen you at your worst, at your most human. He’s seen you scream and cry and beg and barter. He’s seen you get violent—or attempt to, anyway. It wasn’t difficult for him to protect himself from your hits and blows, but he has never hurt you. Not once. 

Not anywhere anyone could see. 

Not like anyone else had seen much of you lately. In fact, no one had seen you for quite some time now, no one but him. You weren’t sure if it was out of sympathy or malice; knowing Frank, he probably thought it was the former. He saw it as doing you a kindness. He let you keep track of time. 

Six months. 

Six whole months, you had been here.

He says that he never does to people that which isn’t deserved. You are still not sure what he means by that, but the injuries he comes home with give you some ideas. 

You know he’s been through something terrible. He has to have been. People don’t become this twisted without having endured some sort of traumatic event. You just don’t know what. You know he’s deathly afraid of losing those he loves. You know you are included in that category, for whatever reason. 

It’s weird in retrospect. To you, Frank was just another guy at the bar. He was one of your regulars, stopping by for a drink or two every few nights for the past two years. You had just barely gotten to know him by the time he made the decision to alter the course of your life entirely. 

He had kept to himself. He gave off the impression that he didn’t want to be bothered, and yet, he made it clear that he liked you. He was a good tipper. He made you feel safe and protected when patrons would get rowdy, when they would get rude with you. He even fixed up your car once when it broke down in the parking lot. 

“I take care of you,” he said. “You see that, don't you?"

He wears his guilt like a blanket. It’s not hard to see. Shame dictates everything he does, from the careful way he speaks to you to the gentle way he holds you at night. He is soft with you, affectionate. When you’re in the quiet of your home—“home”—all of his hard edges are stripped away. It makes you feel a little special. You wonder who else has seen this side of him.

He says he would never hurt you, and he’s remained true to his word. 

Concentration can get confusing when you’re afraid. It becomes difficult to sustain. You can start to go into shock, a state in which you forget why you are where you are and why. When you’re being told one thing and experiencing another, you naturally begin to question your reality. Your days are filled with “I love you’s” alongside escape attempts, your nights filled with moments of comfort in the arms of someone you despise. 

You dread Frank’s presence, and yet, you jump at every little noise when he’s not around. And sometimes, when you’re in that warm, heady space between sleep and consciousness, you are simply there—just you and the man that loves you.

You are alive. You are awake. You are afraid. You are loved. You are confined, trapped, terrified. You are a lot of things.

“I want to know every part of you,” he had said.

You’re not even sure you know every part of you.

Not now. 

Not anymore.

[retiredteabag]

sorry for informality but i was stalking reading your pinned post and you’re in grad school at twenty!??!!!

unless i’m tripping or misunderstanding something, academic weapon tips please because holy shit that’s insane! what’s ur field of study if you want to talk about it/don’t mind me asking? any application tips/things you wished you knew before getting there/habits you wished you’d formed sooner? independent research has always been difficult for me because of how much i depend on structure (adhd imposter syndrome anxiety lets go) so if you’re working on a thesis/something similar, how has the process been in your experience?

i’m in undergrad atm and heavily debating going further, so i’d love to hear from someone my age who’s actually doing it! also unrelated, but i’m a certified notion/goodnotes girlie if you vibe with those as study resources!

🎸 tagging with an emoji in case i pop back around, yk?

I'm sorry to say, but my tips might come off as sort of typical... but I hope they're at least a little helpful!

I am currently in a masters program within the analytics field. Research/independent studies vary widely depending on the area of specialization, however, my program has an intensive practicum that is similar in nature. I have not started it yet, but what I can say for sure when it comes to research: make sure you are picking a topic that you could speak about for hours/answer argumentative questions about.

For applications, I would say to narrow your options down as much as possible and look into each program before applying. Know the curriculum and standard outline and what stands out to you as you decide.

^ on this same note, you will likely need at least one interview in the application process. Speak slowly and enunciate. Taking a moment to think of the proper words will always be better than speaking quickly without much thought. Most people say to use "down-speak" in these interviews, but in my experience, matching the examiners tone and energy makes the whole thing much more comfortable.

For study tips, I have a large notebook that I keep on my desk where I write down every assignment and the date that it is due. This is just for organization purposes, I find a physical copy helpful for a few reasons but also because crossing them off feels rewarding :]

Time managment is incredibly important. Everyone says this because it is true. Prep everything, organizing your day into chunks. Since you also like structure, this probably wont be an issue. I would also get comfortable with being self-aware of your priorities. There will come a time when you will need to choose between academics/work and other areas of your life.

Keep your spaces clean. Dedicate a day or so to just organizing/doing a deep clean. It will help you stay focused and minimize external anxiety. It’s also much easier to keep a place clean if you have put in such an effort.

Participate in class. I cannot make this clear enough. I promise it is not embarrassing to ask questions or "try". You will learn far easier if you put effort into the classroom/lecture setting.

It is a pretty typical "tip" is to just ask questions. Even if you feel like you might understand, just ask to make sure. And in this same vein, go to office hours if you need to.

Prioritize sleep lol, that and mental rest. You can't always be studying. For me, it is a real challenge to work and be full time in school so it's important to carve out those sections of "you time".

Try not to be on your phone tooooooooo much, I know it’s hard but I make an effort to not be on my phone while eating. Don’t use entertainment as a distraction, I find that it just delays anxiety :(

Lastly, apply for scholarships and know that you absolutely can appeal for more money.

I hope this was useful. Do know that it REALLY depends on your area of study and 5-year-plan. I would recommend not going to grad school unless you're absolutely sure it is worth it.

Good luck!

[thatbxolivia]

You could have daddy Anakin brush our hair before bedtime. And us being his teddy bear 🧸

I LOOOOOOVE THIS SKSKSKSKSK

as you sat in the chair in front of your bathroom mirror, you sighed. you had missed your daddy today, knowing he was busy saving the galaxy, you really didn’t hold anything against him. but still, you had missed his company.

“daddy?” you called out, flipping a piece of hair over your shoulder. daddy appeared behind you, rubbing his left shoulder, relieving it from pain.

“yes, babygirl?” daddy asked, ready to help in any way you needed.

“i missed you today.” you admitted. you sighed; knowing he was a busy man somehow made it more difficult to deal with. you thought maybe that if you understood that other people needed him, too, that maybe your feelings of jealousy would subside. they did not.

“and i missed you, my lovely girl.” he told you, using his pointer finger to point your head backwards to give you a kiss. “i always think of you, every time im gone.” he swore to you. he gave you the sand fox he had when he was a child, which he passed to you.

“will you stay for a couple days?” you asked, knowing the chances of him saying yes were actually slim.

“of course i will.” he surprised you. “i will be here for the entire week. whatever you need, little one, im yours.” he promised, picking up your hair brush and holding the ends, detangling them from the ponytail you had up all day. he slowly worked his way up as you looked in the mirror, the matted mess turning into an actual pretty hair style, slowly but surely. daddy eventually had every tangle freed, and braided your hair snuggly and securely to make sure you slept soundly. you sighed. “what is it, my sweet girl?” he asked you. you sighed once more.

“i miss you when you’re gone, but i understand why you have to go… so why am i still upset?” you wondered a loud.

“you’re a very smart girl, little one. surely you know that missing someone isn’t exclusive to how you feel about their absence.” daddy responded, tying your braid. you looked up and met his eyes in the mirror.

“i love you, daddy. i know people need you, and im glad you can help.” you said to him.

“i know, baby.” he told you. “but i miss you. so, so much.” he reassured you, making you nod.

“i miss you, too, daddy. but i’m proud of you!” you said, turning around to face him. he picked you up and secured your bottom, looking down at you.

“i wish you could truly understand how proud i am of you, little one.” he began. “you are so smart, so brilliant, so perfect.” he told you. “i’m always here for you.”

“i’m here for you, too, daddy.” you replied.

“i know, baby. i know.”

[sunanthrope]

This is a genuine question I had for a long time-- and still honestly struggle with

But as somebody who is publicly and openly nonhuman, queer, punk etc. You need to surround yourself with people who love you for you, be it irl or online. I don't have many friends or even close family in real life, but I have one (1) school friend and my mom, and my online friends, and that's good for me.

Being weird, like most things, is political. Queer? Political. Nonhuman? Alternative? Just plain old furry? Political. Anything that's not white cis-het 'normal' is political. Being comfortable with the fact that a lot of people won't like it is honestly the first step. Realizing and coming to terms with the fact that I'm not for everyone and not everybody is going to like me is still extremely difficult, but it's easier than trying to stuff myself into a little box for everyone and honestly feels much better. The people who won't like you, you probably don't want to be friends with them anyway.

Next, please know when it's safe to be open. I absolutely hate telling people to hide themselves and that's not what I'm saying at all. I am however saying that if you're going to be somewhere with a ton of fascists or neo-nazis or just plain assholes, don't walk around with the equivalent of a huge LED neon sign that says "come kick my ass, I'm a minority." If you can't go out with friends or other people in a buddy system, you need to keep yourself safe. You can't be out and proud if you're in the hospital dead or in a coma.

Being yourself and being weird can also come in a few different forms. I carry my stuffed animal with me on outings as it keeps me from having panic attacks. I wear headphones pretty much everywhere I go. But I also have a Mohawk, I'm always wearing my collar and wallet chains, I'm usually wearing my battle vest and/or some kind of band shirt. Just remember to be yourself in a way that let's you CONTINUE to be yourself! I've had some incredible interactions with strangers too. That's my favorite part of being strange, the interactions with good people who I might be inspiring or making them feel more confident. I've had store workers come up and talk to me, middle-school aged kids, little kids and toddlers, elderly people, etc come up and chat.

My biggest word of advice to people looking to be weirder more comfortably: find a reason to do it, find a way to do it, and find a place to do it. And above all, do it in a kind way that not only helps yourself above all, but secondly helps others and inspires them, and makes them feel safe around you.

I need to find the courage to be weird and just myself >:3

does anyone have any tips maybe

[burr-ell]

It's just fascinating to me the way Vex's trauma, first from Syldor and Syngorn and then from the poachers who kidnapped her, is so relatively mundane and yet so resonant. Her and Vax's only real recourse from the abuse and racism they suffered was to leave, but living on their own meant they were also perfect targets. Statistically it's not your average suburban kid gettin snatched in a parking lot that makes up most kidnapping or trafficking victims; it's the kids who've been tossed around the system, who have slipped through the cracks in some way, who are already vulnerable—the people who no one will miss.

And Vex freeing herself from the poachers still gave her trauma, just a different kind of trauma than she'd have had if she'd actually been trafficked. Leaving Syngorn meant freedom from its cruelty, but it also meant being at the mercy of the rest of the world, and it meant a final admission to herself that no matter how hard she worked she would never get the acceptance and the home she longed for. It's an experience that's unfortunately all-too-common among so many oppressed and marginalized peoples. She spent so much time in situations where there was no way for her to win or get out unscathed, and it's no wonder she closed herself off from the world.

[puppppppppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[heartbreakfeelsogood]

[yellow-rose-embalmer]

It's only a brief moment before Aesop notices Victor mirroring his own posture, which causes the man to hold on tighter to himself, to let out his tension so that it doesn't go anywhere else. So that he can effectively take the postman's burdens, let him have peace.

Then a question is raised before him, a need voiced, shaky and stilted and drenched in want. It takes a moment for Aesop to remind himself he has to get the tension out of his arms before he can properly do much of anything else, but once the delay is settled, he weaves his arms around the postman, lets Victor lean on him and listen to his heartbeat and rely on Aesop completely.

It hurts why he has to do this, but being able to have Victor lean on him like this, to have him place such trust and faith in Aesop, to let him be the postman's comfort in these times, oh, it makes the embalmer's heart swell. He has only ever wanted to help, and it pains him when so often that goes unrecognized, when people refuse his aid, when he has to beg or plead or force his methods.

Now that he cannot use such things, now that he cannot aid people that way, it is even more difficult. All he can do is rely on the ways of love he has seen and learned to emulate. Of course, he knows he is seen as unsettling, he knows his struggles with conversing are showing all too clearly. He knows people do not wish to be around him if they can help it.

But... whatever their opinion, is it not his duty to be there for them? Will it not make him more liked if he can prove himself useful, whether he is asked to or not?

It is strange, to be loved. Stranger still, to be willingly and knowingly relied upon. Aesop can do nothing but count himself fortunate that he has found someone who sees him and gives him complete trust, trust of life and body and heart.

Victor may not realize what else he said, but Aesop hears, and he laughs faintly, fondly. "Why do you think I asked to stay with you?" Whoever the postman is, as long as he is happy, Aesop will speak to make it so. He will gladly build that hazy dream, so that even for a little while, the warmth can smother any fears within Victor's mind.

[@bronze-bell ✉︎]

They are quiet together, as always. Silent friends. Nobody who could witness it would understand the conversation between them, the muted gestures of fear and trust and hope.

He slips past Aesop as his request for access is given, and he is, once again, greeted by the safe haven (Hopefully.) that he's starting to become used to. The thought makes his heart skip a beat in worry. What if somebody realises he frequents here, and it becomes a target? (And after all the trust he's put in...?)

He can't show this though. It's his "birthday", he needs to be picture perfect. He waves his hand over his face, the practiced motion helping reset himself to default emptiness and smiles.

Victor turns almost a little too sharply when he realises his back is facing the doorway, but it has been closed and latched since he entered.

He can't seem to get his head out of the clouds today...

(continued from here!)

The quiet they share is comforting, in all these ways they don't need words or voices to understand each other. Conversations held within the way they stand, their expressions, it is a language that the two have taken time to learn. Taken time to understand the other and how their motions and gestures show their meanings, and when something is a concern. If Aesop had known he would find a silent friend that he could speak to, and that would return such words to him, he wonders if he would have less of an assumption that he would need all these words and bowed heads.

The postman moves past him, and once he knows the other has entered, Aesop locks the door with a practiced motion. When he turns back towards Victor, the other's expression is back where it usually is, and as he turns in a stilted manner, Aesop tries to hide the smile that creeps up onto his face and becomes visible in his eyes, though a slight hum does escape him. Victor must be worried... but at the same time, these little idiosyncrasies of the postman's movements are one of the many reasons he finds the man so special, so memorable.

As he feels the lump in his throat from the doubt, from the worries his thoughts would be misinterpreted, he looked away anxiously, holding a hand out for Victor, both to gauge the other's feeling through the way the touch did or didn't reach him, and as if to say that he was here, and he had no intention of leaving the postman.

After all, Aesop needed no words to make a promise.

[jackdawsfavorite]

What doesn't kill you makes you sad strange defensive and difficult to connect with

[h1ghscre]

been a little quiet here, hasn't it?

[unproduciblesmackdown]

as ever like: no two things Need to be juxtaposed, much less like material vs material deathmatch Only One Can Be Good, much less am i thinking i have thee objective word on fuckall b/c who does and it's like perfectly boring & unserious whenever someone just throws out Takes that are just "i think...[xyz] is [adjective]" like okay.

but anyways thinking of how, though differing in execution in a lot of ways ofc, deh & bmc start out in a v similar place & explore a journey to self-acceptance from a despairing starting point....it feels like a lot of the hindrance in deh's exploration of its own Theme there is in like, hey. :) hand on your shoulder. it's okay b/c you'll be able to be more normal. whereas w/bmc it's that it's okay b/c you'll be able to be more abnormal

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Imagine doing so much hard work and persevering through law school to have your failed tests advertised on the internet news. The bar is really hard; he’s not “cringe fail.” I am jealous of his ability to even attend college without committing suicide. He did a good job. Leave my dude the fuck alone.

I don’t care if they’re elites. If they’re elites; then make fun of them solely for being rich nepotism babies. There are non-elites who have failed the bar (or any important test) once or twice as well who will see this and feel bad about themselves.

[boogermuscles]

blug