#let's face it - it's the friendships it's the meanings it's the labels it's the community it's the assumptions it's the lack of words

[paint-music-with-me]

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[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 29: time capsule

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

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You couldn't believe what was on the table in front of you. The silver metal box was filled with dirt, but you could still read a label, which had once been white, with a couple of names written on it and a year beneath them. Fifteen years ago, to be exact.

Although you still received some news about Spencer Reid (from his mother, in particular), the truth was that after he left Las Vegas, your friendship was not the same. Distance was a determining factor, and also, the means of communication were not the most accessible.

Years ago, you had asked for his phone number at the hospital where his mother was staying (something unethical, but it was a favor for a friend), but you had never dared to call him. It would have been strange, for sure, so you simply decided to leave things as they were.

But now the opportunity was right there, and to be honest, you were a little curious about what your friend had hidden in that time capsule. You barely even remembered it, a sign that five more years had passed since the date you were supposed to open it, and you had only found it thanks to the gardening work you had paid for your backyard.

You thought for a long time about what you should do. Should you call him? Just leave it as it was? Open it without him? The point of those kinds of boxes was to see them with the person you had filled them with; it wouldn’t make sense.

In the end, you decided and pressed the call button for that number you had gotten so many years ago, hoping it would still be the same today. If you knew Spencer well enough, you knew he preferred to keep things the same.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi… Am I speaking with Spencer Reid?”

“This is he, who is this?”

You stayed silent for a second, smiling unconsciously at the fact that it was your friend on the other end of the line. You didn’t even know how to start.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes! I don’t know if you remember me…” you murmured, giving a hint of your identity. You almost imagined his face lighting up on the other side.

“Of course I remember you! It’s been a long time, sorry I don’t have your number saved.”

“No problem,” you lied. You preferred to let him think you had exchanged numbers. “Are you busy? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“I can talk. Go ahead.”

You explained the situation you were in, how while digging in your yard, the shovel had hit a metallic object with your names written on it. Spencer expressed the same nostalgia you felt about it, and that’s when you asked about the most appropriate destination for the capsule.

“I know traveling from Washington for something like that is a waste of money and time; I’m not asking you to do that, but…”

“No! I’m going to visit my mother in two weeks, so it’s perfect. If you want, we can meet during those days.”

The date was set, and the box remained on one of the shelves, waiting. You had cleaned it as much as possible to reveal its original shine, with only the slightly brown label as a remnant of having been buried for three decades.

You tried not to think too much about the dates, sure that this way time would pass more easily. So it was, because when you least expected it, the day had arrived. You tried to have everything ready to host your guest and waited for the hour of his arrival, watching television to kill time. It was already close to dusk when someone knocked on your door, making you jump up like a spring due to the anxiety you felt about seeing him.

You were not disappointed in the least when the sight before you was of a boy, a man, dressed in a formal shirt, a tie around his neck, khaki pants, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

“Hi,” you exhaled, more surprised than you would have liked.

He was so different that if you had seen him under other circumstances, you wouldn’t have recognized him.

He greeted you the same way, and you gestured to hug him, waiting for him to reciprocate. Spencer did, and then you let him into your house, which was still the same as he remembered. You were friends in school, which meant that more than once your mother had realized that no one had come to pick him up and had offered to drive him to your house.

First, you asked him about Diana, wanting to know what her current state was, and he offered his condolences for what had happened with your parents. You talked for a while about how their lives had been during the time you were apart, drank, and ate what you had prepared until finally the much-anticipated moment arrived.

“I’m embarrassed I didn’t remember this when I’m supposed to have eidetic memory.”

“Even you can forget something sometimes,” you justified, shrugging and sitting down beside him on the couch.

You thanked the heavens that the box didn’t have a key; otherwise, you would never have discovered its contents, and you let him take the honor of opening it.

With the time capsule completely open, the air seemed to be filled with nostalgia. The first thing that appeared was a bunch of letters, some carefully folded and others hurriedly, as if they had been left at the last minute before burying the box.

You took one of the letters that had his name written in youthful, somewhat shaky handwriting. You laughed as you remembered the time when both of you had decided to write letters to the future, convinced that, in a few years, you would become completely different people.

“‘Dear future me’…” you read aloud, and Spencer covered his face, blushing.

“Please don’t read that,” he said, laughing, trying to reach for it, but you slipped away with the letter in hand.

“It’s adorable. Here you say that by this time you would already be a famous scientist.”

Spencer let out a shy laugh.

“I guess I dreamed big… although, in a way, I’ve fulfilled some of those dreams.”

After setting the letters aside, you found a small notebook full of notes and scribbles. You opened it and, to your surprise, discovered a plethora of small illustrations of everyday things you shared in those days. Drawings of the school cafeteria, the park you went to after classes, and even a cartoonish drawing of Spencer trying to solve a Rubik’s cube.

“Who drew this?” you asked, looking at an animated version of yourself with a concentrated face while studying.

“That… was me,” Spencer admitted, scratching the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I remember I was trying to draw you without you noticing in science class. It’s not my best work, clearly.”

You burst out laughing.

“It’s great! I didn’t know you had artistic talent.”

“It was easier to remember things by drawing them. Besides, you always seemed so focused, and that inspired me. Drawing you helped pass the time.”

Just below, you found a folded and somewhat worn photo. The image showed both of you at a birthday party when you were kids. You, with a funny smile and a party hat, and he, with his typical serious expression, as if he was wondering how he had ended up in the middle of a celebration.

“How did you always end up at my parties, even though you said you didn’t like them?”

Spencer shrugged, blushing a bit.

“Your mom insisted on inviting me, and well… I didn’t mind spending time with you.”

You fell silent for a second, surprised by the honesty of his words. Then you decided to leave the topic and continued checking the box.

At the bottom of the capsule, two books remained intact, covered in a fine layer of dust. One of them was Great Stories of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which Spencer had chosen years ago, and the other was And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, your favorite back then. You picked up Spencer's book, flipping through it carefully so as not to damage the pages.

“Why did you choose Sherlock Holmes?” you asked, not taking your eyes off the book.

Spencer smiled, somewhat nostalgically.

“For me, it represented what I wanted to be as an adult. Someone who could solve any mystery. Although I think in the end, real life is much more complicated than I thought back then.”

You nodded, and while stroking the cover of his book, you shared your reason. “I chose Agatha Christie because… I wanted my life to be exciting, like the mysteries in her stories. Something that, over time, I realized was not so realistic.”

You shared a knowing smile, as if those books told not only stories of detectives and murders but also of your own youthful aspirations.

Then you found a small plush figurine, a worn teddy bear that both of you had called Bobby. You used to take turns caring for him when one of you was sick or sad.

“This poor Bobby survived all these years,” you said, holding it between your fingers.

Spencer took the bear gently, remembering a time when he had spent difficult days at home due to his mother's health problems.

“I gave it to you when my mom was in the hospital… I didn’t know how to tell you what was happening, so I left it in your locker so you would know I needed support without saying it out loud.”

You felt a lump in your throat, remembering how you had kept Bobby beside your pillow every night until Spencer told you that his mom was better.

“I never told you, but I always understood what Bobby meant. It was as if we were talking without words.”

You continued exploring, and suddenly, you found a small box with golden edges and a rusty latch. You opened it carefully and discovered a couple of old braided string friendship bracelets, each with a small crystal charm. They were the friendship bracelets you had made together one summer, a symbol of the promise that you would always be friends, no matter the distance. You took one of the bracelets and slipped it onto your wrist.

“I remember spending hours picking the colors. Green was your favorite, right?”

“It was,” he replied, taking the other bracelet. “And you chose blue because, according to you, it matched the sky, and you always dreamed of traveling and seeing the world.”

You looked at the bracelet on your wrist, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and joy.

“It’s funny… I feel like, by putting this on, I’m ten years old again.”

Then, beneath the bracelets, you found a small disposable camera wrapped in a plastic cover. Spencer held it in his hands, reminiscing about the times when you both tried to capture your “adventures” with the few photos you could take. You took the camera and, without thinking, aimed it at him and pressed the button, emitting a soft click, only to have a strip of photo paper eject from the slot a moment later.

“I knew you would do that,” he said, laughing. “Do you remember when we tried to take a picture of the shooting star and ended up capturing a picture of our feet by mistake?”

“That photo was a disaster! But I think I still have it somewhere,” you replied. “We always tried to take photos as if we were explorers on some important expedition.”

As you continued unpacking, you found another small book, somewhat worn with hard covers, titled “Survival Guide for School” written in marker on the cover. When you opened it, you saw a series of notes and tips you both had written, from how to “survive a history presentation” to “how to avoid the math teacher in the hallway.”

Spencer read one of the tips out loud: “Tip number five: if you sit next to the window, you have a better view to imagine you’re anywhere else.” You both looked at each other and laughed, recalling the times you sat together at the back of the classroom.

Finally, you reached the last items in the box: two lists of goals for the future. You took yours, noticing how you had listed objectives like: learning another language, traveling the world, and writing a book someday. Spencer, on his part, had listed goals that included: becoming a genius in at least three fields, finding a real mystery to solve, and marrying the most incredible girl in the world.

You frowned, looking at Spencer with curiosity.

“And who is that incredible girl you mentioned?” you asked with a playful smile.

Spencer blushed slightly, trying to maintain his composure.

“Oh, you know, someone who is a real challenge,” he replied, shrugging as if to downplay it.

“A challenge?” she retorted, leaning towards him. “Sounds exciting. Do you have her number?”

He burst out laughing, enjoying the joke. “No, I don’t have her number. But I’m sure she’s someone who laughs at my bad jokes.”

“Then that means she’s not so hard to find,” you said, smiling back. “Maybe you should talk to her more often.”

“Yeah, maybe I should. Perhaps I’ll even invite her for coffee or something,” he replied, pretending to be thoughtful.

“That sounds like a plan,” you joked. “But how can you dare to do that without knowing if she likes coffee?”

Spencer raised his hands in surrender.

“Okay! Maybe I should just stick to my goals and let the universe handle the surprises.”

“That’s the attitude,” you said, smiling conspiratorially. “But if you need advice on how to win over that incredible girl, just ask me.”

You both laughed, feeling the atmosphere fill with fun and complicity over the secret that, though unspoken, had come to light.

Spencer fell silent as he looked at the notes and memories you had unearthed. For a moment, both of you got lost in time, feeling those fifteen years of distance fade away, leaving you once again as the inseparable friends you had been in the past.

When everything was laid out on the table, you looked at each other with a smile and dared to lean towards him, causing the man to hug you gently. You both knew that, although life had taken different paths for each of you, those small objects connected you to a shared past that would always be present, a reminder of the friendship and dreams you had shared.

With a deep sigh, you began to put each object back into the box, one by one, and closed the lid carefully, as if preserving a priceless treasure. You both knew you had unearthed much more than a simple time capsule; you had unearthed a piece of yourselves, and at that moment, your paths, though temporary, had found each other again.

[ltbarnes]

‘Tis the Damn Season

Stark U #6

Summary: It’s Christmas Eve, you’re too drunk, you’ve basically avoided Bucky and Steve for six months and the last person you’d want to meet at this party just happens to be yelling in your face. The panic attack is inevitable, really.

Pairing: college!Steve Rogers x reader, college!Bucky Barnes x reader, college!Sam Wilson x reader, college!Natasha Romanoff x reader

Word count: 7.8k

Warnings: so much angst, past SA, alcohol, talk about violence, Christmas celebrations, things finally start to happen, kissing :)

A/N: Happy holidays to anyone who celebrates and to those who don’t, I hope you have a good few days anyways <3 This is the first I’ve posted since July which is awful of me so sorry

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

You didn't see them all summer. The day after your last exam was over, you bolted back to your hometown and spent the entire summer selectively ignoring messages from Bucky and Natasha and Steve and Sam asking what you were doing and how your summer was going and maybe you could all meet up and go somewhere and—

It's December now, and every goddamn day since June you have been trying to figure out if what Bucky said to you when you were sick was a fever-induced hallucination or if he really, actually, said that he wanted you to take his last name someday. It made you panic, because the entire spring term you tried to convince yourself that your feelings towards them were batshit crazy and any inkling to them feeling the same was a delusional reach, grasping for crumbs that in reality were just friendly gestures. And then he says that.

"She's just practicing her future last name, Stevie."

So, yeah...things have been weird. Three months have passed since classes started and none of you want to mention what happened right before summer break. Actually, with each day passing you feel more like maybe it was just a hallucination or a very vivid dream, because both Bucky and Steve act like it never even happened. Bucky even had his mouth latched onto some blonde sophomore at a dumb, stupid frat party on Halloween. You went home right after and cried for two hours. But it's not hard to conclude that even if there was some spark or connection or anything beyond friendship with either of them before summer, it has died out completely.

The subject will probably never be broached. You're too scared of confrontation and definitely too scared of revealing unreciprocated feelings for that to happen. The slightly tense atmosphere in the loft is entirely your fault—your lack of communication with anyone in the group during the summer has made them a little confused, you guess. You mostly spend time in your room, giving excuses of studying and talking with parents on the phone and 'I'm just tired, sorry'.

Spending too much time with Natasha scares you too, because she reads you so well and you don't want her to know how hurt and unhappily in love you are. She'll try to do something about it and then Steve and Bucky will catch on and then you will end up rejected and labeled as crazy, because who the fuck falls in love with two people?

That doesn't mean you've managed to avoid her. Living in the same apartment as her definitely makes that hard, but just the fact that she won't let you makes it impossible. Last week she even broke into your room when you had it locked, because apparently she knows how to pick a lock open in under ten seconds. She absolutely knows something is off, but so far she hasn't brought it up.

Natasha is the sole reason why you're now standing in the backyard of some rich kid's house just off campus, surrounded by smoke from cheap cigarettes and fairy lights hung up between the trees and one too many shots of vodka in your blood. It's December utterly and thoroughly—there's snow on the ground but people still haven't accepted the fact that wearing their short dresses and tank tops without jackets does not work anymore. Ice drops hangs from the tree where you stand, listening to Natasha talk with a drunken girl looking for her phone.

It's fun, sure. Not the worst party you've been to and not the best either. You talked to the girl you've been sitting next to in History class earlier for almost twenty minutes. Got free vodka. It's Friday and you don't have any exams to study for. None of that makes you forget that things aren't the same.

"Nat. Nat." You poke her shoulder repeatedly, obnoxiously probably, until she glances over her shoulder with a slight glare.

"What is it?"

"I'm gonna get 'nother drink. Inside," you tell her, pointing with your thumb towards a hedge even though it was meant to be the door. Natasha seems to understand anyway.

"Okay. Don't wander off too long. And come back here right after."

"Yes, ma'am." You give her a half-assed salute before turning around, swaying slightly in your step. It's the uneven and slippery surface of the snow-covered ground, you tell yourself.

There's a lot of people here, is what you note as you push yourself through the seemingly endless crowds of the living room. You kind of hate that they haven't played a single song you like and if Steve was here he would agree, because he doesn't listen to any music made after the internet was born. Bucky would then make fun of Steve and you would laugh and everything would be right in the world. Instead you're pressed to kitchen drawers of a dark kitchen, cheap vodka mixed with soda running down your throat.

The kitchen is crowded too, but either way it's a respite from whatever the hell's going on in the living room. Jumping up and down and calling it dancing (you were doing the same the hour before). You're too drunk to be miserable about everything happening in your life this entire term and much too drunk to feel the absolute atrocious taste of your drink.

In half an hour you will probably throw up and tomorrow will be spent nursing a horrible hangover, but those consequences seem insignificant right now. You just keep thinking about the image of Bucky shoving his tongue down someone's throat that wasn't yours. It was heartbreaking. That he's not here is a good thing, because you'd either witness the same thing again or actually bring it up to him, and that's much worse. God knows it's only a matter of time before Steve does the same thing.

Someone pushes into you, forcing the liquid from your cup to spill from the confines of the red plastic onto your dress. It's black, so it doesn't really matter, but the alcohol still seeps through the fabric until it reaches your skin.

"Shit, fuck—"

Your hand tries to somehow dry your dress by fanning the fabric, which obviously doesn't help very much, and the paper towels placed on the counter in front of you escape your drunken mind completely.

Fresh air and icy winter winds are the only options, so you push through and stumble into people on your way outside. It takes a lot longer than it should. You can't really see much considering the dizziness and darkness inside, but somehow, magically, you are eventually dragging your way towards Natasha who stands in the same place as before.

"Nat. Natty—I spilled. Look."

The black dress with the now wet patch is lifted towards her by your hands, highlighted for her to see. You sway as you tell her.

"Jesus, you can barely stand straight," Natasha answers with a stabling hand to your shoulder, shaking her head to herself instead of focusing on the very urgent fact that you spilled on yourself.

Natasha turns to the girl she's talking to, saying something you can't bother to decipher, before stepping aside with a guiding arm around you.

"We gotta get you home before you embarrass yourself for real," she mumbles underneath her breath.

"I heard that," you whisper, a loud hiccup following. Whoops.

She rolls her eyes, fishing her phone up from her pocket.

"Who—who you writing? To?" you ask, slightly aware that your sentences lack correct structure but not really caring. As long as the message comes across, right?

"I'm texting Steve. I can't drive and you sure as hell can't."

Even in your state, panic instantly sets in over the mention of his name even though you live in the same goddamn apartment.

"Nooo. No Steve."

Your hand grasps for her phone. Nat pulls it away from your reach much quicker than you can comprehend.

"Yes Steve. You're a mess and he's the only one with the patience to take care of this level of drunk. I don't care that you're avoiding them for some stupid goddamn reason," she tells you.

"Nat," you whine. "He can't see me. I spilled!"

She just glares at you. "I swear to god, Y/n...nobody cares that you spilled your drink. I can't even see it."

"I'm so drunk!"

"Yeah, I know. Just—just stay here, okay? I'm going to get you some water so you can sober up by the time your precious Steve comes for us."

Natasha is heading inside before you can process her words. Waiting in place for a few minutes turns into an eternity in your mind. She should know better than to leave you unattended and then expect you to stay—really, it's her own fault. You will accept no blame if Nat gets mad at you for going inside again. It's cold and you need to go to the bathroom. Also, you're mad at her. Telling Steve to come get you? That's just...embarrassing.

Once again you're shouldering your way past people on about the same level of intoxication as you. There's a bad remix of a Christmas song playing loudly. Makes you wanna punch whoever's phone is connected to the speaker. The bathroom is so, so far away. It's something the architect of this house should've thought of before he put it at the very end of this long hallway you're currently making your way through, but clearly he didn't have you in mind.

"Fuck! Watch where you're going, asshole," some girl seethes at you as your shoulder nudges against hers. A nudge is an exaggeration—you brushed against it at most. She's probably an aggressive drunk, that's all.

You don't answer, instead fumbling for the door handle to what you believe might be the bathroom. Some couple is making out in here, the girl with her ass planted on the edge of the bathtub and the guy nearly devouring her face. Doesn't look very pleasant, if you're honest.

"Out. I need to pee."

Your hands find their way to their shoulders, ushering the lovesick pair out of the room without much protest from either of them. They're still making out as they walk out.

Despite your less than sober state, you manage to remember to lock the door after they leave. Some of the mascara that previously inhabited your lashes has moved down to rest under your eyes. You rub it away, smudging it slightly, but it just makes you look a little more like one of those cool girls you always see on campus. It will do.

You kind of want to throw up, but decide against it. That hasn't happened since you were a freshman, and you'd like to keep it that way. Staring at yourself in the mirror occupies your time in the bathroom instead, swaying slightly with your hands placed on the cold sink. If Steve saw you now he would be so disappointed. At least you imagine he would be—that fatherly look on his face as he tells you how you need to be more mindful with your alcohol consumption. Did you even watch who poured your drink? Never go anywhere alone at a party. Especially not a frat one. You know better than this, Y/n.

Steve's imaginary voice is interrupted by someone banging on the door, shouting for you to hurry the fuck up. It's been over ten minutes, but to you it just feels like three, and Natasha has been looking for you ever since she returned to the garden with a glass of water in her hand and no one to give it to. It's not her banging on the door, unfortunately, but instead a dickhead guy who has no patience. Can't a girl spend some time alone in the bathroom doing nothing anymore?

The guy glares at you as you push the door open, stumbling out into the crowded hallway while paying him no mind. It's dark save for the red LED-lights plastered on the walls, making it feel like a seedy dive bar instead of a seedy house. You don't see much.

"Hey! Hey, you—the girl with the black dress!"

Someone pushes their way past the people talking and making out and leaning against the walls, shoving through them as he searches for your attention. Of course, you don't really think it's you he's after. Half of the people at this party are wearing black dresses.

A clammy hand finds purchase on your shoulder, halting you in your less than gracious steps and turning you around with ease. Head tilted back, gaze running upwards until they settle on the face of a quite attractive guy. He doesn't look pretty happy to see you. You're not very happy to see him either.

The blood drains from your face, stealing away all that alcohol-induced heat within a second as his curly hair and green eyes look down at you with that same contempt he had when Sam dragged him away from the kitchen almost a year ago. You had hoped you never had to see him again. It was a naive thing to wish for.

"Y/n, right?" he asks bitterly. You don't answer, but he takes your silence as a yes. It was probably a rhetorical question anyway. His slightly crooked nose was perfectly straight the last time you saw him. His face is committed to your memory, burned in to taunt you on sleepless nights and everytime an unknown man walks a little too closely when you're out alone. "Your little boyfriend broke my fucking nose. You know that?"

Another rhetorical question. Definitely more threatening. Might be the tight grip he has on your arm too. Either way, his mere presence has apparently stripped away your ability to breathe normally. It feels like you've been running to the point of nausea, dark spots dancing before your eyes as he shakes you in attempt to get an answer.

"You ruined my fucking reputation. For what? I barely touched you. Such a sensitive fucking bitch, going around telling everyone that..." His voice trails off, ushering you into a quiet corner when he realizes people are staring. "Got nothing to say now, huh? Been so good at running your fucking mouth before, haven't you?"

"Let me go," you whisper, voice wavering. You don't sound assertive at all, instead weak and fearful. It's what you feel, as an upbeat, slightly bad cover rendition of "All I Want For Christmas" booms through the house. Girls shrieking in excitement over in the living room reaches your ears. You would have joined them if you weren't currently cornered by the guy who assaulted you in your own kitchen a year ago.

"No, we're going to fucking talk. What the fuck were you doing, going around saying shit like that about me to everyone?"

"I...I didn't..." Your lips part between words, breathing out shakily, trying to articulate sentences long enough to make sense. Why can't you speak? Why can't you even think?

"You didn't what?" he seethes. "You're such a fucking bitch, you know that? Acts all innocent and hides behind her friends. My nose is fucking crooked forever because of that fuckhead you sent after me."

Is it the alcohol that renders you this goddamn useless? There's just tears springing to your eyes, unable to say anything in defense of yourself. Can't even walk away.

He pushes you against the wall, knocking the breath out of you. To other people it probably looks like you're hooking up. At least that's what you hope they think, because otherwise you want to wonder why no one is intervening.

"Joshua, please let me go," you tell him again, even more pathetic this time. You're crying now, curled in on yourself in attempt to make yourself as small as possible.

"Fuck, you're so—"

"She told you to let her go."

The assertive, familiar tone booms through the hallway. It doesn't really, can probably only be heard by the people around you, but it feels like it when Steve's tall figure pushes through with hasty steps towards where you and Joshua stand, followed by a glaring Bucky with his jaw clenched so fucking tightly. A sob of relief is drawn from your lips, muffled by the back of your hand.

Joshua steps back instantly. Kind of funny to think that he's so scared of those two, and sad to think that he only respects a 'no' when it comes from men.

"Nice nose job," Bucky speaks up, pointing at his own nose as he stares at Joshua's crooked one, courtesy of the damn good punch he managed to land with his left fist all those months ago.

"Fuck you," Joshua growls, taking a step forward in attempt to appear more threatening or something. He doesn't really succeed—both Bucky and Steve towers over him in both length and build, unrelenting in their stance. As if they're stone walls keeping out the enemy.

Steve rolls his his eyes, shaking his head with a sigh. "Just get out of here. Don't go near her ever again, you hear me? Bucky's glad to fix your nose otherwise. Break it right back. Can't promise the result will be very good, though."

Bucky stands slightly behind Steve, raising an eyebrow in Joshua's direction that tells him there's not even a trace of a lie in the blonde giant's statement.

"You—fuck this." Joshua throws his hands in the air, aiming the most distasteful glare over his shoulder in your direction, before pushing past Steve and Bucky with a shove.

Your body instantly deflates, the tension melting off your limbs as you close your eyes and lean back against the wall. Gentle, firm hands instantly reach your cheeks, your arms, searching for any trace Joshua might have left behind on your body.

"Hey, hey. Y/n, are you okay? Did he touch you? Sweetheart, look at me."

Bucky's voice draws you out of the anxious, panicked state you slipped into, fluttering your eyelids open to see his worried frown and an equally worried Steve looming behind him. Wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes greet them, pupils dilated from the alcohol.

"Y/n, are you hurt? How long have you two been talking?" Steve adds, looming over you in such a way that his large frame blocks out any of the colorful lights plastered on the walls.

They already know you're drunk—Natasha was the one to call them here to get you, after all. Maybe your silence and obvious intoxication makes it clear to them after a couple of seconds that an answer from you is a few minutes away, a few miles of distance from this foggy, packed house. Nothing more is said or requested from you. Instead your trembling form is led away and out into the biting cold by gentle hands belonging to your friends. Even your slight shock can't shield you from freezing your ass off as soon as you get out into the fresh air again, teeth beginning to chatter within the second step on tightly packed snow.

"What the—where the hell have you been? I swear to god, Y/n, I was gone for two minutes! I've been looking for you everywhere!" an angry Natasha yells, running perfectly towards the three of you down the slippery lawn to where Steve is currently helping you into the backseat of his car.

"Nat," Steve says, giving her a pleading look that silently tells her it's not the time for a scolding.

"What? I told her to stay put when I went to get her a glass of water and she just disappeared out of nowhere. Slippery motherfucker while drunk, I swear she'll be the death of me—"

"Nat," he repeats, sternly this time. In that tone only he masters, silencing even the most eager tongues with a single exhale. "She met Joshua. And she's not okay. So please, leave your yelling for tomorrow and get in the car."

Steve holds the passenger door open, gesturing for the seat beside Bucky. He's turning the key, letting the car warm up properly while he clutches the wheel tightly. Natasha's irritated frown turns into a concerned one, nodding silently before slipping inside. Steve closes the door shut behind her.

You lean your head against the frost-covered window, fogged up by your breath two inches away from it, and close your eyes. Steve leans over you, reaching for the belt and fastens it over your torso. You forgot. He never does.

It's no surprise, doesn't startle you despite your absentminded state, when his warm hand cups your cheek, turns your head to face him. Soft, blue gaze and ridiculously long lashes. It's nothing but contrasting against the clouds released from your mouths with each breath—warm, concerned...loving? Maybe.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, thumb rubbing over your cheek.

You nod. "Yes. I am now."

Bucky puts his foot on the gas, turns on the blinker, and pulls away from the curb, out onto the streets. It's nearly soundless. The usual rumble from wheels against road is cushioned by the snow.

"This was a mistake. Sorry, I can't—" Sam gags, moving his head out of the bathroom before returning his presence within a few seconds. "You're a real shitty guard, Nat. Why'd you let her drink this much?"

All four of your roommates are gathered in the bathroom, surrounding you as if you're a newly born lion cub in a zoo, while you puke your guts out into the toilet. Steve is kneeling on the floor beside you, a comforting hand rubbing your back, while Bucky sits a few feet away with a glass of water in hand, ready for whenever you need it.

"Fuck you. You weren't there—she was like a goddamn ghost, just slipping away everytime I blinked. Looked fucking everywhere for her. 'S not my fault," Nat answers, residing on the floor of the shower in lack of space.

"Not true," you murmur in answer, your voice echoing off the ceramic surrounding you.

You're pretty much done throwing up, it's just the exhaustion following that's keeping you slumped over on the bathroom tile. Your hand stretches out in Bucky's direction, reaching for the glass of water that's gulped down within a few seconds.

"Careful. Gonna get sick again if you do it this fast," Bucky says, unable to help himself from brushing away the stray drops of water running down your chin.

The gesture is nothing new from him. He did it when you were sick all those months ago too, and you haven't forgotten it at all. His thumb gently rubbing over your skin as if you're precious, something deserving of gentleness, is engraved into your mind. You're thankful for getting most of the alcohol out of your system, because you might not have remembered this moment in the morning if not. Fuck it if you forgot the way his pupils widen just slightly, as if he didn't mean to, as if he couldn't help himself.

"I'm fine," you whisper in answer, clearing your throat. "Got it all out."

"Good." Steve's hand moves up from your back to your head, stroking it for just a second before withdrawing his touch. "Let's get you to the couch."

"I don't wanna go to the couch. Wanna be in my bed." You're pouting. Maybe there is some trace of alcohol left in you.

"Steve and Buck will feel much less like creepy stalkers if they stare at you sleeping on the couch instead of hovering around your bedroom all night like a bunch of pervs," Natasha speaks up. A snort follows after, as if it was a joke and not a statement. Definitely tipsy too, despite unwilling to admit such a weakness.

Steve raises a reprimanding eyebrow Natasha's way, telling her to shut her mouth with just his gaze. She smirks in answer.

"Don't listen to her. A fucking liar," Bucky remarks, but there's still some form of amusement in his expression. He can't even deny the statement—he is going to watch over you. Doesn't really matter if it's in the living room or in your bedroom. "Now let's get you up. C'mon."

With a push from your arms against the cold tile, you're standing on two legs again. Steve is hovering his hand near your back, ready to support if the vodka decides to topple you over. But you're fine—just tired now.

For ten minutes it feels things are back to normal again. On the living room couch, nestled in between them, your head leaning on Steve's shoulder as a stupid Hallmark Christmas movie plays on the tv. Sam and Natasha are in their rooms sleeping, and for a few moments you forget why you kept your distance. Everything would have been good if this is how the night would end. If Steve didn't have to address the past six months.

"I've missed this. With us," Steve whispers as he strokes your shoulder absentmindedly, like it's second nature to him to have his hands on your skin. "You've been so distant lately. For months, Y/n."

The room instantly becomes tense enough to make you nauseous. A clearing of your throat, an attempt to sit up out of Steve's hold and away from this conversation that you'd much rather avoid is futile—it's instantly stopped by Bucky's hand on your chest that pushes you right back.

"No," he says sternly. "You're gonna sit right here, sweetheart, and tell us why you've barely let us see you since fall term started. 'Cause it's sure as fuck not something I take lightly. Why have you avoided us?"

You look away, shaking your head to yourself as you try to talk yourself down. You will not break. You will not confess a single thing. You are going to act like everything is fine and you are not currently freaking out being sandwiched between the only two men you would gladly be sandwiched between under different circumstances than this.

"What are you even talking about?" you answer meekly. It's clear as soon as the words come out of your mouth that no one is falling for your innocent act, not even sweet, naive Steve. Then again, you're doing a particularly bad job. "Both of you think I've been distant?"

"Cut the bullshit, Y/n. If we've done something wrong, just say so." Bucky bites his cheek, glancing down for just a second, but it's enough to let his vulnerability slip. He's hurt.

A wave of guilt instantly washes over your body, an unusual feeling. During all these months of avoiding any interaction with Bucky and Steve besides the necessary ones, you didn't think that they'd actually mind your absence that much. They might not be hopelessly in love with you like you are with them, but they're still your friends. Friends miss each other.

"Or if it's something personal, you can tell us, you know? Is it anxiety, or are you feeling generally low, or...?" Steve chips in, trying to drown out Bucky's accusatory tone.

"No, no...I'm not depressed, Steve. And none of you have done anything wrong, I promise," you say hastily, shutting down their concerns as quickly as possible while trying to buy yourself time to come up with an excuse. "I just...needed some alone time."

Bucky rolls his eyes, shaking his head. Sassy man. "Bullshit again. You've spent a bunch of time with Natasha. Sam, too. It's us you're avoiding." He points to himself and Steve with his hand. "It's been almost six months, Y/n. What the hell's your problem?" He pushes himself off the couch, standing up and blocking your view of the tv. It's as if his frustration is all contained while sitting down.

"Bucky," Steve scolds, glaring up at his friend. He's not appreciating the tone at all, that's for sure.

"There's no problem, Bucky," you tell him, shaking your head. Trying to dismiss this entire conversation before you reveal too much.

"No! Y/n, I'm going fucking crazy! This is the first time you've even let me touch you in half a year!" Bucky yells, a pleading tone in his voice that breaks your heart just a little. Because it's true. You have barely even hugged since June. You've barely talked for more than five minutes at a time.

"Don't yell at her, for god's sake, Bucky," Steve adds, his hands on your shoulders and ready to get up from the couch any second.

"What the hell's going on with you, huh?!" Bucky continues, ignoring Steve's statement. His eyes are solely focused on you, void of the usual softness. There's just anger. "Cause if you can't stand us, then tough fucking luck. I can have your fucking things moved out by tomorrow for all I care. Can move right into Walker's dorm. Bet he'd accept you with open fucking arms if you get to your knees and—“

The drop of your heart down to your stomach can almost be heard, an echoing, hollow sound. You're sure of it. Bucky shuts his mouth, as if he realizes what exactly was about to come out of it. What is not even a second of silence feels like a whole minute, before Steve shoots up from his seat beside you and grabs Bucky by the collar, rattling the whole room with the force in which he nearly tackles Bucky against the wall with. The tangy taste of iron starts to fill your mouth, your teeth biting down on your lip hard enough to draw blood. There's tears lingering in your eyes but you can't hold them back, not anymore.

"You don't fucking talk to her like that, you bast—"

"I love you! It’s ‘cause I fucking love you guys!” you yell, a pathetic sob marring the words. “So I’m fucking sorry that I’ve avoided you two but I’m trying to get over these goddamn—these feelings, but I can’t, okay! I can’t!”

The bitter delivery is punctuated by the sleeve of your sweater wiping away the tears furiously, cutting Steve off and drawing both of their wild eyes towards your figure now standing up, just a minute away from a complete breakdown. You don't even process the fact that Steve cursed. It would've been teased about endlessly in any other situation.

"I will go. I'll leave if that's what you want," you seethe with a voice so unsteady that it's almost unbearable to listen to. "But I don’t hate any of you. I don’t, and I get why you’re mad. But fuck you, Bucky. Fuck you for saying that.”

More tears fall. It's futile to wipe them away when they'll be replaced the second after. You want to say more, hit Bucky where it hurts, but you cannot get the goddamn words to form on your lips. Opening your mouth and closing it again, shaking your head, comes before hastily walking towards your room and locking yourself inside without giving them a chance to answer.

As soon as the door is slammed shut, your hand comes up to your mouth to muffle the sobs. Sinking down to the floor as if you’re in a movie, forehead resting against your knees. The rate of your heartbeats could be considered dangerously high, but you just blurted out a whole love confession for two of your roommates in the midst of a fight. How the hell could everything turn to shit so quickly? Half an hour ago all of you were joking around in the bathroom, and now you're not sure you have the courage to face any of them again.

It's a rash, impulsive decision fueled by anger and betrayal and shame, but you rush over to your closet and pull out an overnight bag that's soon filled to the brim with enough things to last you a few days. You're crying the entire time.

When you pass the living room again, Bucky isn't there anymore. But Steve is. Barely a glance his way is spared, with hasty steps heading towards the hallway. You remind yourself of a furious toddler when you angrily put on your jacket, stick your feet into your winter boots. The bag is slung over your shoulder, hand resting on the door handle.

"Don't go. Y/n, please don't leave."

Steve stands at the other side of the hallway, a broken down expression on his pretty face.

"Bucky went out of line, but he didn't mean it, I swear. He's just too prideful to admit it," he continues. You shake your head, biting down on your bottom lip. "Please, honey. It’s Christmas Eve. It won’t be the same if you’re not here tomorrow.”

"I just need some space," you whisper, brushing away a stray tear with the sleeve of your jacket. You’re so embarrassed and hurt that you can barely look him in the eye. "I can't be in the same apartment as him right now."

Steve sighs, looking about ready to just throw you over his shoulder to get you to stay. But he won't do that. That's not Steve. So instead he glances down to the floor, shaking his head to himself.

“Did you mean it?” he asks softly. “The thing about—you said you loved us. Did you mean it?”

It takes a few seconds before you nod tentatively, sniffling and keeping your gaze on a spot past Steve. He doesn’t say anything.

Steve gathers courage enough to walk up to where you stand by the door, grabbing your cheeks with his hands, thumb running over the tear-stained skin gently. For a few moments, he just looks at you. Loud thoughts running amok in that perfect head of his.

“Nothing I say right now will do my feelings any justice, so I’m gonna save any big speeches for tomorrow. But just…stay. It’s 2 am, it’s freezing out and you’re still drunk. I don’t want you out there on the streets alone. I need you to stay, even if it’s only for your own safety. Don’t have to talk to any of us if you don’t want to.”

His words makes you nod automatically. All it took was his hands on your skin and the flicker of hope his words ignite in your chest, and you conceded within a second. No hesitation left in that exhausted body of yours. He‘s not saying outright that your feelings are requited, but it doesn’t feel like a rejection either. He doesn’t seem disgusted by your confession, by the knowledge that you’re in love with both him and his best friend.

“Good girl. Let’s just—let’s get you to bed, okay?”Steve tells you, squeezing your shoulder gently. With your confirmation in form of another silent nod, he nestles the bag out of your grip and takes off the jacket from your torso.

The bed feels so soft and warm and comforting when you lie down. Steve tucks you in. It’s achingly sweet and you don’t really deserve it after avoiding him and Bucky like that for so long, but he looks out for you nonetheless.

“Steve,” you whisper, drawing his gaze up to meet yours. “I’m sorry. For being so distant.”

He shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You were scared,” Steve answers. “Don’t worry about anything, okay? Get some sleep. You’ve had a tough night, Y/n.”

The softest of smiles grazes your lips, puppy eyes gazing up at Steve. Your wonderful, caring, perfect Steve.

“Are you alright? It must’ve been hard meeting Joshua again. And what Bucky said, it…it was far from okay.”

“I will be,” you whisper.

He nods, observes your face for a few seconds. Leans down to press a kiss to your forehead—what kind of college guy even does that? And then he leaves the room, turning the light off behind him.

You’re woken up by a red headed, crazy woman sitting on top of you over the sheets, shaking your shoulders.

“Wake up, fuckhead. You’re gonna open the presents I got you,” Natasha urges, grinning down at you as you blink your eyes open, groaning.

“Fuckhead?” you ask, a tired chuckle from your lips as Natasha climbs off the bed.

“Yes. Don’t like it, huh?” she teases. “C’mon. The guys are already waiting.”

With slow steps and a loud yawn, the slightest trace of a hangover plaguing your body, you drag yourself out into the living room. Around the ugly, little tree that Sam insisted on cutting down from the campus gardens last week (he almost got arrested by the security guards) the three boys sit. Your gaze falls to the floor, scratching the skin right above your lip nervously, once Bucky looks up at you. Can’t really read his expression, but you figure you’ll lay the fight aside for the day. It’s Christmas, after all.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Steve says, urging you to sit down next to him right there on the carpet. You offer a soft smile, and an even softer ‘Merry Christmas’ back. You’re still unsure about yesterday. Despite there being no rejection from either of them, the uncertainty is kind of killing you. A pit of anxiety rests in your stomach, an uneasy feeling corrupting every cell as you sit down on the floor next to Steve.

Not even ten minutes later, the living room is drowning in a sea of wrapping paper. Natasha went overboard with the gift shopping this year, it seems like, but her absent father is also some kind of Russian oligarch or something so she tends to use up as much of his money as she can. You’re not complaining.

The special edition of The Hobbit, signed by the director of the movie, that you managed to get on eBay and cost you a fucking fortune is received with a whispered ‘thank you’ from Bucky. He holds it in his hands tightly, staring down at the book without a word, and you don’t know if he’s happy for it. Maybe he’s not happy with anything touched by you at this moment. He hasn’t gotten you a gift, it seems like, or maybe he threw it in the trash and burned it yesterday.

Steve got you three books that he’d heard you say you wanted months ago, and a dainty silver necklace with a bee pendant hanging from it. “You know, uh, I usually call you ‘honey’ and I thought it was a little funny, maybe. But I can exchange it if you don’t like it. It’s no problem,” he had said, even though there were tears of gratitude in your eyes. Your arms were thrown around him a second later, hugging him tightly as you thanked him profusely for the most thoughtful gift.

Now you’re leaning your back against the couch, still on the floor, watching as Sam and Natasha are tinkering with his new Nintendo Switch that he got from her (overboard with the gifts, as previously mentioned). He’s so happy it almost makes you zoned out as you watch his childlike excitement. It’s nice to see the two of them so calm and sweet with each other too. Usually bickering and getting on each other’s nerves all the time otherwise.

“Y/n, can we talk?”

Your head tilts back, looking up at Bucky standing nervously in front of you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. There’s a deep hesitation within you, a pride that wants to say no and remain in your angry state forever without confrontation. But it’s Bucky. You hate this animosity between the two of you, the tension. Despite being pissed off and hurt and afraid that he doesn’t want you, you can’t say no, so you nod and push yourself up to a stand.

Bucky closes the door to his room behind him gently, clearing his throat and looking at anything but you. A sigh comes out of his mouth, shaking his head, before he parts his lips to speak.

“I’m so sorry, Y/n. What I said was disgusting and unforgivable and so fucking out of line. You didn’t deserve that at all. So out of proportion to what I was mad at you for,” Bucky says, running the palm of his calloused hand over his face.

“It was,” you answer honestly. There’s no use in denying that what Bucky said was stupidly hurtful. He nods, looking away from your gaze.

“It made me angry thinking that you ignored me, because at first I didn’t know what I had done, you know? And then I thought for a few months that me and Steve had been too overbearing and that you tried to keep your distance because you thought we were annoying or something. But that’s not the case. I should’ve known better by now than to think that you would do anything to purposely hurt us.”

You gulp, nodding, looking down to the floor. “I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “I didn’t know that you guys thought I had something against you until last night. Obviously, you…you know now that’s not the case,” you tell him, embracing yourself with your arms. “But last night, Bucky, I…you hurt me. I know you were angry, but saying those kind of things isn’t okay.”

“I know that. God, I know, Y/n. I’m so sorry. It was fucking childish of me, retorting to saying that Jo—“ Bucky shakes his head, hands coming up to tug at the roots of his hair. “And it felt stupid giving you that present in front of everyone, so now you think I didn’t get you anything, too, and—“

“You got me a present?”

“Yes. Of course I did, Y/n. But I saw how much Natasha had bought and that necklace Steve gave you and my gift felt stupid in comparison to that. Just didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone,” he says, a little awkwardly. A little boy giving his mother a drawing he made in kindergarten, he reminds you of.

“Bucky…that doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you have gotten me. I’ll like it no matter what if it’s from you.”

He shifts in his place, contemplating something, before picking up a sweater on his bed, revealing a wrapped present hidden underneath. Bucky took the gift from the pile without anyone noticing before, throwing it into his room so no one would see.

With a tentative hand, he reaches it out to you. Doesn’t watch as you unwrap it, instead biting on his thumbnail. You reprimand him for it, and the hand returns to his side.

“Is it a book?” You run your fingers over the cover, a hardcover with nothing on it. Blank.

“It’s a photo album. Shit, it’s stupid. I don’t know,” Bucky answers, looking about ready to snatch it back, but you open the first page up before he has a chance to.

A picture of you, Natasha, Sam and Steve on the first page. It was taken last year in November. You’re all running after one of Sam’s model planes, fall leaves singling down from the sky. It’s a beautiful picture.

“4 grown idiots running after a kid’s toy - November 12th, 2022”

“It’s just pics I’ve taken with my phone, so it’s nothing artsy or anything, but…uhm.” Bucky runs his hand through his short, brown hair.

You flip the page. You’re looking out through the kitchen window, the sun shining through and casting shadows over the room and your figure curled up on the chair.

“Angel in the sun - March 25th, 2023”

A soft chuckle is drawn from your lips, resisting the urge to run your finger over the photo, but you don’t want to smudge the blank paper. On the same page there’s another picture of you with your arms around Natasha’s shoulders, nearly wrestling her to the ground with the force of your hug. You look so happy.

Bucky looks nervous as you glance up from the photo album at him. “Know it’s not much, but…yeah.”

A loud huff of hair escapes Bucky as you throw your arms around him. It takes a second or two for him to hug you back, but he soon has his chin resting on top of your head, arms around your waist.

“I love it,” you whisper, holding onto him tightly enough to constrict his breathing.

“You do? I can take it back if you don’t like it.”

Your grip around him releases, arms coming down to your sides so you can take a step back and look him in the eyes. “This is everything, Bucky,” you say softly, feeling a lump in your throat that can turn into tears any second. “The fact that you took the time to make this for me is just…it’s the most thoughtful thing ever. And these pictures are so beautiful, Bucky, and just the thought of you sitting down and glueing them onto the page and writing captions and—“

His lips against yours. Oh god. Oh my god, Bucky has his lips pressed against yours. Gentle hands hold your jaw, his head leaning down to compensate for the height difference, and Bucky Barnes is kissing you with urgency and desperation.

The shock is enough to make you unable to return the kiss. He seems to take your surprise as rejection despite the fact that you literally yelled ‘I love you’ in his face last night. Bucky steps away and takes his hands off your skin, running his hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry, don’t know what the hell came over me, I—“

On your tiptoes, fingers grabbing his sweatshirt to pull him closer, and you nearly smash your lips against his to shut up any of that doubt he carries. It’s not a graceful or very romantic kiss, but by the sound akin to a very mild growl that comes from Bucky and his hands sliding down to your waist to pull you closer, you guess he likes it anyway.

It doesn’t last more than 20 seconds. A harsh knock on the door to Bucky’s room interrupts it, forcing you part from his lips and get down from your tiptoes again.

“What the hell are you doing in there? C’mon! I’ve made goddamn Christmas brunch!” Sam yells, drawing a soft chuckle from your lips as your forehead meets Bucky’s chest.

With a soft smile, nothing said, you back away from Bucky. Slipping out of his room and leaving him there all flustered and semi-hard from a 20 second make-out session. The first ever between you, though. He thinks it’s pretty understandable.

As Bucky follows you into the kitchen, sitting down at the table by Steve, he leans towards his best friend and whispers into his ear low enough to make anyone else unable to hear.

“I kissed her, Stevie,” Bucky says with a shit eating grin on his face. “I finally fucking kissed her.”

The blond man turns his head enough to look over at Bucky, the red flush of his cheeks and ears enough to tell anyone what’s been said.

“Are you serious?” Steve asks.

“I kissed her and she kissed me back, I swear. I gave her that photo album I’ve worked on for weeks. She said she loved it, Steve.”

“I guess it’s my turn then, isn’t it?” Steve answers, a shy smile on his lips as the two of them watch you sit down opposite of them at the table, glancing through the window out at the heavy snowfall. Natasha puts a newly toasted bagel on your plate.

“Go get our girl, Stevie.”

[langernameohnebedeutung]

@claw00 Excuses to talk about my crowfriends? Hell yes!

To be clear, this is all based on my field study based on specific 2 crows but my findings so far.

I think it's important to keep in mind that crows are non-domesticated prey animals. And as humans we are enormous compared to them. So they're understandably skittish. (It's a bit like befriending a cat, but with less hissing and more stalking. Seriously. They watch everything. They're a two-winged surveillance apparatus. They will learn everything about you.) But this is also a matter of personality (Omen is a lot more confident than Eggnog, but neither is as confident as one sweet crow I once met who immediately ate straight from my hand. But that one was living right next to Stonehenge and is probably very used to tourists sharing their meals!). Anyway, some tips based on that:

NO SALT! This isn't so much a tip for befriending crows but a tip for when you do it: Treats are obviously the best way to start an interaction with them. Nuts are a good starter, cat food, the occasional egg - they're omnivores and you will find a lot of guidelines online as to what you can feed them and what's healthy for them. There are also some wonderful reddit communities for crowfriends where people share their personal experiences. Peanuts and cashews are a giant hit in my experience. But: A lot of the nuts that you see in the supermarket have insane amounts of salt on them. Because we crave that mineral. Birds cannot metabolise salt at the same rates we can. It's highly toxic for them and can cause neurological damage. So if you buy nuts or seeds for them, make sure that you're buying the unsalted version. Shelled peanuts and bird food from the pet shop are some good ways options to make sure it's healthy. Generally, check the label.

They don't like direct eye contact. Remember, again, we are giant noisy predators with front-facing eyes! A brief moment of eye contact is helpful to indicate that you're "talking" to them and that what you're doing (e.g. placing a treat) is something you're doing for them. But prolonged staring is a thing to build up to. (This doesn't go both ways, by the way. They will stare. It's their favourite hobby)

Some feeding techniques: Throwing food is a good way to communicate very clearly that you are giving food to them. But it also can be scary for them, to see a human throw something in their direction! (imagine a giant walking up to you and throwing a peanut the size of your head at you. You would be worried too) So, small movements and maybe just throwing it in their vague direction, a little to the side or just throwing it halfway is better than throwing it straight at them the way you might to a dog. Or straight up placing it for them in an accessible spot to snatch at their own time (especially early on in the friendship - I also have a little magpie in my orbit at this point but she only takes it in secret. I know she's gaining a small amount of trust because she will sit in my line of sight to ask for food, but she will never let me see her take it. Eggnog was very similar at first. Just because you don't see them take it, doesn't mean that the gift isn't well-received or that you're not building a relationship.

They don't like a rapid descent swooping, most of the time. At first, I would throw food straight below the spot they were sitting in, straight under their tree or the street lamp they were perched on to make it very clear that "yo, here, for you!" But I noticed they would be more hesitant when I did that - and usually, they would hop down in several "steps" to get it (usually finding a slightly lower spot a little to the side and then swoop to the ground. This seems to be less of an issue when they're swooping from higher up - but generally, it seems to be a lot more comfortable if you throw it a few metres to the side so that the descent is less steep). On that matter, they also walk a lot more than you would expect, once they're on the ground,

Being patient. As I said, they're prey animals and they're not domesticated. They might not even really understand what you want from them at first (but they're quick on the uptake and they remember your face). I started befriending my two guys because there is a very sick, very crappy walnut tree in front of my house where they go looking for nuts (which are also small and sickly). I first started feeding them by buying a back of walnuts from the store (really big ones) and placing them under that tree for them (and often cracking them open a little). They started to see me do that and got curious. That's when I started using eye contact to indicate that it was for them - and later I transitioned to feeding them directly and further away from the tree. We got to the point where I could just drop a walnut when I saw them somewhere and they knew it was for them. This also worked better than feeding them peanuts at first (they love peanuts now but at first they didn't even touch them because it was Weird and Strange) or feeding them elsewhere: Find a method that is within their frame of reference. It helped them make sense of what I was doing and from there we extrapolated: I started feeding them further away from that tree and started giving them other things.

Finding a routine! At this point, I have a pretty well-established rapport with my guys - we know where to find each other, what food I have and where I leave it for them when I'm not around, I know exactly how many steps I have to take back for Eggnog to take something (Omen doesn't really care about personal space as much), they know how to get my attention, what times I'm out and what times they go back to their night tree and all that. For some people, there are different routines. On reddit, some people talk about using a whistle to call them, my grandmother used to knock on the roof to call her crow friend back in the day. Some people talk to them to get them used to their voice and establish some expressions they might remember (I do that), some don't talk at all to avoid sounding scary. Some imitate crow noises, some avoid that at all costs. (I also think this depends on the crow. Some seem to react very positively to crow noises. some are scared off by it) But overall, I think the important thing is to remember that crows are some of the smartest animals around. They get used to you. They remember you and your behaviours and what they mean. And you will learn what these specific crows want (they have very unique personalities). So once you're in a "dialogue" with some crows, it's really a bit of a negotiation and you learn about one another - and it's fun! They will tell you how to befriend them, in their own way.

This might be me reading human behaviour into them - but based on crow personalities and the similarities between the way humans and crows think, I do believe that part of the reason they "keep me around" is...because I'm interesting to them. Crows are insanely curious, even if they're shy. I'm a bit of a novelty to them and so are the weird foods I give them. Where else would they get peanuts? One risk in feeding wild animals is that they might become overly dependent on the human doing it or lose their distance. From what I read and witnessed, crows stay pretty well on top of that - they're clever, they know how to procure food in their territory and whatever you feed them is bound to be only a small part of their daily foraging. Sometimes they will be gone for a day or two because they got better stuff to do (someone on reddit once called that "they're out on crow business") and just right now, during nesting season, they're clearly giving me some sort of "courtesy visit" once a day to stay in touch but they do know how to take care of themselves. Sure, I'm also a convenient and reliable food source (and a target for them to extort from) but they're also just straight up curious. So - use that to your advantage: Showing them new foods (make sure they're good for them!) is a good way to learn what they like AND to be interesting to them.

[cozza-frenzy]

So that post about how adults are allowed to interact with minors is circulating again. The one that emphasizes inter-generational friendships. That stresses the importance of having friends outside your age group. I like that post. The problem is - the attitudes that post is targeting are getting worse. And I'm sick of staying quiet. | To everyone in the system community who's ostracized us, who's kicked us out, who's continued to spread rumors about us? This one's for you. If this finally kills off the last of our online presence, I hope those of you who've hunted us to the ends of the earth burn with us. Fuck you, and fuck your ass-backwards, mutated discourse. So I imagine you're wondering what it is we did. Well - for daring to interact with minors in any capacity online? For caring about them as if they were our own children? For giving them a space where they'd be able to talk about their problems, be taken seriously, and be able to talk about things in a setting they wouldn't be judged? We've been told, repeatedly, that our actions are harmful and predatory and that adults should never, ever interact with minors for ANY reason. We've been kicked off Discord servers, cut off from our community, and labelled "predators" for daring to try and help children, because we kept running face-first into these unwritten rules that anyone else thinks are utterly insane. Our own therapist praised us, asked us if we'd like to be youth mentors someday. Nobody outside of these fucking echo chambers thinks this way. And even our ex is getting in on this; they've been telling people that we date people who are (in their words) "barely legal". A definition which they've twisted to mean a then-35-year-old dating a then-23-year-old ADULT. And people not only believe them, but they've rallied against us, accusing us of a "power imbalance" that's inherently abusive, and saying we have nothing to complain about when our ex is actively trying to ruin our life. It has been a YEAR since we broke up. We have not had any contact with them. And they have not let this GO. We're being hunted everywhere we turn, and we've had enough of keeping this a secret. We've interacted with people under 18. We've tried to make friends with them. And now people fucking hate us, we can't ever rest, and the overwhelming fear and stress of being found out is giving us panic attacks and fucking seizures. So. If you're in the system community, and you're mindlessly perpetuating this shit? If you think you can dictate who people are allowed to be friends with? Who people are allowed to date? All because you see an age gap, and you can't break that association? Because you're refusing to look at your own trauma triggers when your responses to trauma might be hurting other people? If you're one of the ones who keep putting up these unwritten rules, these barriers to entry, that systems like us are now suffering for? Fuck you. If you believe in any of this shit, unfollow us now. And if our ex is somehow reading this? You are a horrible, cowardly, conniving, abusive son of a bitch, and I can't believe we ever loved you. Never get anyone else involved in your bullshit until you've gotten some fucking help. And while you're at it, stop abusing and belittling alters within your own system like you did with every non-host alter in ours. - Terry of The Magbox

[stagefourlovenote]

NINA HOPKINS — PAVLOVE REDESIGN/AU .

; for those that don’t know, i have my own universe set around for the pastas / slenderverse ! i just labeled it the pavlove au due to the fact that it’s the name of the story i’ve been writing for my oc, but this is just what i’m titling any au information over all. now, i should’ve written about the entire setting / operator information, but i asked on my instagram who i should talk about first and someone said nina so! NINA! and i’m not complaining. a reminder : this is just my headcanon !! please do not be disrespectful !!

HEADCANONS / INFORMATION.

; dominican ! she moved to the states at a young age, spanish is her first language !

; scene , honestly i just love the scene and emo style. it’s just her favorite way to express herself, and she’s confident in the way she dresses, do not expect her to just dwindle under any criticism towards the fashion — just prepare for any direct critique you receive in return.

; plus sized, mostly because i just love seeing the representation, especially when it’s on such a confident character.

; her relationship with jeff wasn’t romantic, she mostly looked up to him due to her finding that she was in the same situation as him — before his accidents. she wanted to find some comfort in the isolation she dealt with, unfortunately it lead her down the rabbit hole of thinking there was only one way out. needing to seek out jeff and to find some sort of friendship / almost a mentorship. it turned ugly, he obviously didn’t take any kindness to a sort of ‘copycat’.

; though, the operator decided there might be something left to salvage from her actions. it sealed the deal for her life, she felt remorseful for her brother’s death and she spiraled. the admiration she had for jeff turned to hatred, and she had to learn to deal with it after being recruited.

; she wasn’t really angry towards anyone but him — and herself — but there were times where she was snarky, where she wanted to blame everyone. it wasn’t until natalie was recruited that she found solace, seeing that the other was similar to her. it was nice to not feel stuck, and alone again.

; even if she’s doing better and knows she has someone else to find better company in, there’s times where it just slips up on her. times of self deprecation that contrasts her usual confidence, it’s jarring for the others to see. usually, it’s best to just reassure her or maybe coax her into coming out of her hideouts to just surround her with comfort.

; after a while of trying to convince jeff she was just worthy of some sort of friendship, and it ultimately being shot down, she didn’t want to look anything like him. no association! which meant the scars in her face, for some reason she decided that the stitches would be the best option. natalie helped her, using multicolored string just to make sure it adds to nina’s style. every few months or so, nat will restring them for her.

; if you’re nice to her first, then she’s the best person to befriend as a new recruit. new interactions mean new ties, she loves being social! it stems from her lack of socialization growing up, so now she tries to make up for it by making a light and joking environment for new people , but that’s only if you’re giving a good impression.

; her parents weren’t as present, much like jeff’s. she was often left to rely on the company of her younger brother, or just her own. in school, it was worse, people didn’t know how to respond to her hyperactivity when actually given the chance to speak — so they opted not to respond to her at all. even now she has little doubts about talking, but she can’t stop herself from rambling on. it’s like word vomit.

; she wanted to be an alternative cosmetologist, she wanted to create her own brand for alt communities. she’s lucky if the others will even let her put eyeliner on them.

; she doesn’t drink energy drinks, but she thrives on faygo. you’ll catch her chugging at least 3 a day. pair that with those gummy peach rings and she’s set.

; knows how to give piercings, and if she doesn’t know how to do one? she’ll just guess, give her a chance <3

; her thoughts on killing others really aren’t that guilt lead, she only feels immediate remorse for her brother. she’s grown into the lifestyle and doesn’t plan on really living, she only struggled accepting it in the beginning. she was around 18 after all.

; this is all i can think of for now — BUT MORE WILL BE ADDED IF I THINK OF IT !

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🦇 Imogen, Obviously by @beckyalbertalli Book Review 🦇

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

❓ #QOTD What movie majorly impacted your life? ❓ 🦇 Imogen Scott has endless experience as a straight queer ally. Her friends are pan and bi, her sister is out, and she never misses a Pride Alliance meeting. While visiting her best friend Lili at college, who has her own little queer community, Imogen takes "supportive" a step further. She pretends to be Lili's ex-girlfriend and bi. The longer she wears the label, the more she wonders if it fits...especially when she's in the company of Lili's new friend, Tessa. Can Imogen keep her story straight, or is she finally starting to see who's staring at her in the mirror?

💜 This recent streak of bi/sapphic YA books (One Last Stop, Perfect on Paper, and now this) has left me slain. It's all too much. I am FEELING too much. Be still, thy bi heart.

💜 In all seriousness, this is the exact story little baby bi me needed back in high school, and I'm so glad it's on shelves for adolescent readers now. There's SO MUCH to discuss, the themes of self-identity, friendship, and coming-of-age so perfectly layered to make Imogen so obviously (I had to) exactly who she is. Imogen's "bunny" brain is a realistic mental chaos of self-doubt and queer questioning. Everyone assumes straight is the default, when really, it should be bi until proven otherwise. Most people aren't given the chance to question their sexuality, to explore who they are, instead establishing themselves in a pre-determined box. I've been there, and Imogen's constant questioning and confusion make her emotions all the more real. She questions if queerness looks a certain way, or if we're supposed to have our queer awakenings by a certain time, or if we're supposed to be CERTAIN, but how could we with the constant DISCOURSE over everything? Imogen's voice leaps off the page, making her easy to like; a character you want to follow to the end. Lili is EVERYTHING as a best friend (and queer mentor), while Gretchen so perfectly straddles the line between well-meaning and toxic. We've all had that friend we realized (almost too little, too late) wasn't looking out for our best interests, the one in the back of your head spinning every worst fear until it became a play-it-on repeat thought. Though she could have felt too extreme, we see why Imogen hears Gretchen out, why Imogen gives her a second chance, allowing her to become the cranked-up monster of self-doubt in Imogen's head. Also, The Owl House, One Last Stop, and Sailor Moon mentions were everything.

💙 This had an awkward start for me, namely because of all the names and identities we're given in the first few chapters. It felt like Imogen's younger, queer sister was less of a character and more of a plot piece (both to prove that Imogen was surrounded by self-aware queers and to show what queerness looked like in Imogen's eyes). She doesn't have some cute scenes with Imogen until the end, and by that point, I wanted more.

🦇 Recommended for fans of Perfect on Paper and One Last Stop.

✨ The Vibes ✨ 🩷 Young Adult 🩷 Queer Cast 🩷 Bisexual FMC 🩷 College/Coming-of-Age 🩷 Identity 🩷 Romance & Friendship

💬 Quotes ❝ The only way to let someone into your reality is to retell it. ❞ ❝ One girl can’t topple your entire sexuality, right? ❞ ❝ All these moments, scattered and separate. All these disconnected dots. ❞ ❝ Then she buries her face in the crook of my neck, and every breath she breathes feels like a love letter. ❞ ❝ How I felt. Dizzy, off- balance, unsteady. Like my bones were too big for my body. Like I couldn’t zip myself closed. Like I’d colored outside my own outline, stepped out of frame, made myself three- dimensional. ❞

[vwenvs3000semester]

Amazing things in nature!! BLOG

When I was trying to think about what to write about this week, I remembered that I created this amazing project in grade 11 about dolphins... Just when you thought that the ocean couldn't get any more captivating and mysterious, let's dive into a revelation that brings us closer to understanding the complex social side of one of the sea's most intelligent animals, dolphins. These beautiful creatures, known for their playful demeanour and remarkable intelligence, share some incredibly human-like with us, they call each other by names. YES, I know, you read that correctly. Dolphins have names for each other, a discovery that not only endears them further in our hearts but also opens up a whole new perspective on animal communication and social dynamics.

Dolphins, these graceful swimmers of the sea, are not just animals; they are storytellers, friends, and individuals with their own unique identities. Imagine a vast, blue world beneath the waves, where light dances through the water and where sounds travel faster and farther than in our air-filled world. Here, in the deep blue, communication is key to survival and social connection. Dolphins, with their sophisticated brains and social structures, have mastered the art of communication in a way that is both complex and profoundly beautiful.

At the core of dolphin social life is their use of distinctive whistles, which scientists have likened to human names. Each dolphin develops its own unique whistle, a signature sound that identifies them to others. This is not just a random noise but a carefully crafted representation of their identity. When a dolphin emits its signature whistle, it's announcing its presence, calling out to friends and family across the watery expanse. And when they hear their "name" called, they respond with an acknowledgment that strengthens social bonds and maintains group cohesion.

But how do scientists know that these whistles are indeed names? Simply through research and observation, scientists have discovered that dolphins use these unique whistles specifically when separated from each other. By recording and playing back these signature sounds, researchers observed dolphins responding to the whistles of their pod members, but not to unfamiliar ones. This indicates not just an understanding of the concept of names, but also an ability to recognize and remember these acoustic labels, a feat that underscores their cognitive sophistication.

This discovery has profound implications. It challenges us to rethink our views on animal intelligence and communication. Dolphins, with their named identities, demonstrate a level of complexity in their interactions that we're only beginning to understand. They remind us that the animal kingdom is full of surprises, full of creatures with rich inner lives and social intricacies that mirror our own in ways we never imagined. Beyond the sheer wonder of this discovery, understanding dolphin communication helps us appreciate the importance of their conservation. These creatures, with their names and friendships, face threats from pollution, fishing nets, and habitat loss. Protecting them means preserving their complex social structures and ensuring that their stories continue to unfold in the oceans' depths.

So, the next time you gaze out at the ocean, remember the unseen conversations happening beneath the surface. Dolphins, with their individual names and vibrant social networks, are not just surviving; they're thriving, communicating, and connecting in ways that continue to astonish and inspire us. Let's keep listening, learning, and advocating for these remarkable creatures, for in their stories, we find threads of our own.

Cheers

-Virginia

[helpme225]

i like being anyomous. i also can’t really spell. im just here for practice. to wonder and speak to get back my brain. the girl i was. around two years ago. i say i hate who i was, but maybe i miss her. maybe i miss being dramaless, wearing whatever big size i wanted, listening to music, free in my friendships because they weren’t that serious. my friend group was holding onto who i was. slowly letting me slip away because i was no longer like them. and i wasn’t suffocating. it wasn’t hard to type. the one thing i liked about myself was that i could write anything, in the tone i loved. in the tone i could never find in a single book. or maybe i just liked the library teacher because she was the only one who cared. she still saw the change in me, and just like my old friends, drifted. now i am just cornered in the hallway when i try to pass her. she asks me if i’ve eaten, because i look thinner. i look lost. i am unable to speak to her. and she sees it in my eyes. i no longer ask for specific books. i no longer even go into the library. but it used to be so easy. no one needed anything from me. i didn’t have to choose sides against people i just want to stick around. my mom wasn’t home, i could do what i want, and i had my dog. and i wrote and i loved it. and i was a girl. but i was 13. and someone always has to come into my life when they see me bare-faced and free, and take that. take my time, my energy. i drifted. i was scared. i was lost. it wasn’t meant for me. but a boy wanted what he wanted and i didn’t know how to love so eventually i hated him. i found love after him, and the second i was labeled his girl, something clicked. i didnt value my friendships, i was disrespectful, and i was entertained by people hating me. and there was barely a whole page written by me during that. but he didn’t touch me in school. he didn’t expect anything from out hangouts, he just held my hand in his and i didn’t have to kiss him. i wasn’t afraid to sit next to him. he didn’t feel like a stormy cloud. i felt like someone, i loved it. i loved talking and listening and having a opinion. but then he left, and i had no one. and he came back, and left, and created someone else, came back, and still says i don’t care how i used to. how i don’t care enough, but i do, just not in the way he thinks caring is. he wants me crazy when he leaves the house, he wants me to worry and get upset at him for smoking with out me, because that would “show i care.” it’s not. it never was. it’s suffocating. i dont know who i am. i dont know who i created. i just know i hate myself. the way i dont fit in. im not loud enough, my laugh is too quiet and the things that would have my brother folded laughing, doesn’t even make my bf chuckle. he doesn’t laugh at my jokes. he says he’s going to kill me. he walks away and makes me choose between him or my ride home. i dont understand how you could do that. i am just 15. i need a ride home. i have to say what i said i am going to. i cant ditch my friends for him and it’s what he wants. he doesn’t understand. he lets me cry. he doesn’t tell me goodnight when we’re tg. he plays victim, i cannot tell him what he’s done wrong or im going off on him. so we will never communicate. he is stubborn and mean to all of my friends. he expects me to walk out of their house the second he’s there. but he is sweet when we are alone. i dont wait for it to be over. he treats me roughly and i have to learn not to beg for what i need. like he is training me. i dont like it but he will rest his forehead on mine when he gets over it. he will look into my eyes and kiss my face. he will hold me and tell me he loves me. he’ll laugh w me and treat me like i’m pretty. he says sorry and i believe him. its one of the only times he’s sweet, is when he is sorry. and if that’s what i’m holding onto. i used to be myself. now i am just a part of him and he is of me. he’s just as attached to me. and i am not enough. he is not enough. and the only way out i see is suicide. i tried with his belt the night after we broke up. i might :(

[anyasmcm]

November 7th - 13th research

Observational research:

This week I went to Printed Matter in Chelsea to do some observational research exclusively relating to words. I wanted to see different type faces, methods of communicating, and see if I could find words in a purely material form. I'm not sure if it was super helpful for where I'm headed with my project, but I did enjoy seeing different fonts and feeling the textures on the covers and pages of books. I'd like to do some active research using different types of paper since I enjoy the material and also want to see if it would be a better fit for my current idea than the beads.

Here were a few of the works that made me think about material, organizing text, fonts, and deceiving the viewer.

Active research:

I ordered a ghillie suit and I decided to take some photos with just the head piece on because I felt like it but also because I wanted to see how it would look and tbh it looks pretty cool:

I agree that they're kinda goofy, but I'm starting to think about possibly just doing a head piece and wearing baggy clothing, like streetwear style clothing.

The reason I'm thinking about just doing a head piece and then wearing baggy clothing kind of flows into my other active research I did this week.

I started to realize that I want my audience to be people my age, and the main form of communication for people my age is texting. Streetwear is also incredibly popular among people my age, so I think the fusion of these two ideas has kind of manifested itself this week in the piece I worked on this week.

I knew I couldn't realistically make a ghillie head piece using beads this week because I'd need a sewing machine and I don't know how to use one (its been a while). I still wanted to create a piece with beads, so I decided to create a set of text messages between 2 people that exclusively uses the following words:

What are you doing (WYD), let me know (LMK), I don't know (IDK), be right back (BRB), right now (RN), I don't care (IDC), laughing my ass off (LMAO), what the fuck (WTF), just kidding (JK), nevermind (NVM), I love you (ILY), love you so much (LYSM), hugs and kisses (XOXO), how about you (HBU), shut the fuck up (STFU), to be honest (TBH), I don't give a fuck (IDGAF), shaking my head (SMH), happy birthday (HBD), I miss you (IMY), talk to you later (TTYL).

The rules I set for myself for this conversation are:

Each word can only be used 2 times, once in it's full length and once in its abbreviation

Only the words above can be used

This created an odd conversation but it's surprisingly cohesive (each little cluster is intended to be a new set of conversation)(labeled person a (a) and person b (b) for easier reading):

a: WYD b: Right now a: LMK b: IDK a: Nevermind b: BRB

a: What are you doing? b: RN a: IDC b: I don’t know a: What the fuck b: Just kidding a: I don’t care b: LMAO a: I don’t give a fuck

b: Happy birthday a: Shut the fuck up b: WTF a: JK b: I miss you a: Hugs and kisses

b: To be honest a: Be right back b: NVM

a: Let me know b: ILY

a: How are you? b: LYSM a: XOXO b: HBU a: STFU b: Laughing my ass off

a: TBH b: IDGAF a: Shaking my head b: Love you so much a: SMH

b: HBD a: I love you b: IMY a: Talk to you later b: TTYL

I wanted to craft this conversation in a way that was somewhat easy to understand, but also gave the vibe that there was more going on behind the scenes, outside of the text messages. I also tried to create a couple inside jokes, such as person a acting like an asshole as a joke and person b doing it as well towards the end of the convo. By hanging this piece on my mirror, its unavoidable that you stare at yourself while reading the messages. Ultimately, these are just letters on beads that form words. However, its the viewer who projects personalities into the conversations and finds meaning in these convos, whether its a blossoming romance or friendship.

Something that really interests me about text conversations is that people do not text when they are together (unless the situation permits it). So what you're left with are these weird gaps where there is clearly a shift in the vibe of the conversation, but as a reader who only sees the texts, we cannot understand what happened between each conversation.

I really enjoyed making this piece, and it made me more excited to try and dive more into studying text messages and the communication that surrounds my generation as well as fuse streetwear with that communication.

[seeabout-afterdark09]

Connect

Connect

Drake (September 24, 2013)

"Yeah, isn't it amazing/How you talk all this shit and we still lack communication?/How beautiful our kids would be, girl, I don't need convincing/How every conversation starts with, "This time will be different"."

Damn. What an opener.

This is a melodic hip-hop song in which Drake details the toxic parts of his relationship with a woman he wants more from. He wants to break the cycle but keeps finding himself back at square one each time. This song isn't subtle in the slightest; it's 100% about Nicki. As previously mentioned in my breakdown of Tuscan Leather, Nicki and Drake still weren't on the best of terms during this time. In this opener Drake also mentions kids. In a now famous interview with Tim Westwood, Nicki jokingly talked (in great detail while in front of her boyfriend) about what having kids with Drake would be like. This might seem like nothing, but this wasn't the first, nor the last time Nicki would make a comment like this. This tells me that they have had these conversations a lot. Two best friends, who supposedly (well at least on Nicki's end at the time) only saw each other as brother and sister seemed to relish in talking about having kids with each other. It's strange, but not that strange when you consider that one part of the party has to pretend to be okay with being in the friend zone. Next Drake raps: "Swanging, eyes closed, just swanging/Same city, same friends, if you're looking for me/Same city, same friends, if you're looking." When he says "swanging", he's referring to baseball. He's still swanging (working), but just because he's working doesn't mean that he isn't around. If Nicki wants to see him, she knows where to find him. "Don't talk to me like I'm famous/And don't assume, 'cause I don't respect assumptions, babe/I'm just tryna connect with somethin', babe." This part speaks further on the divide between Nicki and Drake. Nicki used this break in their friendship as an excuse to treat him differently. She assumed that he wouldn't have time for her, because she also assumed that Drake didn't have time for Young Money, i.e., Nicki becoming upset because Drake didn't have anyone from Young Money on his album and he was branching out with his new label OVO. So to Nicki, this is "Hollywood Drake" not her Drake. She thinks that he's changed and that he only cares about superficial relationships. This leads Nicki to assume that Drake no longer has room in his life for her or cares about her, even when he feels the exact opposite. He didn't leave Young Money behind, he just needed a change of pace and creating a company with his friends from Toronto was exactly what he needed. Drake is just "tryna connect with somethin'", referring to his flings and dates with other women as he seeks to fill the loneliness he feels. During this time he was flirting with models and hanging out with Rihanna.

Drake raps in his next verse, "She just wanna run over my feelings/Like she drinking and driving in a eighteen-wheeler/And I'd allow her." This is about the rejection Drake faced with Nicki (multiple times). Nicki still refuses to take him and his feelings about her seriously, while simultaneously ignoring him. It's like Nicki is driving with blinders on, bulldozing down anything she sees as a roadblock — killing Drake over and over again in the process. But he lets her, because he doesn't want to let her go.

"She used to say, "You can be whoever you want, even yourself"/Yeah, I show up knowin' exactly who I was/And never leave as myself." In the early days of Young Money, Drake and Nicki would spend time with each other for hours. Talking on the phone, or just chilling. They would have these deep conversations about life and where they envisioned themselves in the future. This definitely sounds like Nicki giving Drake words of wisdom. The issue though is that Drake would get so caught up in Nicki, that he would forget where they stood. He was "the best friend", and Nicki had a boyfriend. Drake obviously isn't comfortable being just her friend: "Wish you would learn to love people and use things/And not the other way around." Despite their friendship, Drake can't help but feel like he's being used by Nicki. She'll partake in the flirting, fantasize about having babies with him, but then call him her "lil bro" if he tries to make a move on her. Towards the end of the song Drake reminisces on his life before he became famous, relishing in the simpleness of those times and how they affect how he moves in the present. At the end he raps: "But don't fall asleep on me, hang in there/I'm on the road right now, swangin, girl." This can be taken literally and figuratively. Drake is literally talking about driving (swanging) home and wanting the girl he loves to wait up for him. But metaphorically, Drake wants Nicki to have more patience with him and "don't fall asleep" (don't walk away) because he's on his way to her (he's trying to make time to spend time with her).

[aggressive-positivity-network]

Do you have any autistic Scout headcanons? :P

Hell yeah!

I’ve actually thought about this a lot. A lot of people might think that Scout has ADHD, but I think he either has both ADHD and autism or just autism.

This is both because labeling Scout as having just ADHD is kind of a low-hanging fruit, and I also want to explore his symptoms a little more. So, in a word, I do, and thank you for asking about them!

*****************

Scout’s Spectrum:

So, where exactly does Scout fall on the autism spectrum?

First of all, he probably has both ADHD and autism, but wasn’t diagnosed with the latter until much later. This means that some of his symptoms were taken into account, but not all.

The ones that were paid attention to ramped up out of control, and the ones he didn’t hear about were stuffed away.

His ADHD symptoms include impulsiveness, need for stimulation, hyperfixations, forgetfulness, and insomnia; his autism symptoms include trouble with social skills, stimming, near inability to remember names and faces, lack of eye contact, hyperfixations again, and sensory processing issues, especially with noise and touch.

He used to have a lot of meltdowns when he was younger, usually about wearing new clothes and the amount of noise his eight brothers generated.

However, he was teased and pushed into masking nearly all the time, and made his whole personality about his ADHD, since that was what everyone accepted.

As he got older, he usually wrote off any autistic tendencies as either his ADHD or just “little habits” of his.

During his middle school years, he used energy drinks to bounce back from being exhausted every day after school. This would work, except those energy drinks would upset his ADHD, and would make it much harder to focus on even basic conversation.

After a while, he got such bad grades and had such a hard time making friends that Scout just stopped going to school altogether.

Baseball helped his focus, and the quick movement and thinking made a lot of sense to him. He never had to wait very long for the next development, and the instant gratification and community it provided supplemented what he never got at school.

With sports on his side, he rarely ever drank any energy drinks (the coach would never let them on the field), and he drank bucketfuls of water during every meet and game. Those teenage years were probably the healthiest he ever was.

However, with the amount of rumbles he got into with his brothers, and the turf wars that constantly raged in those neighborhoods, it was only a matter of time before his crime caught up with him.

After his first incarceration, he was booted from the team, which led to a downward spiral of unhealthy coping mechanisms - which included fighting someone tooth and nail whenever he could.

Even if he lost the fight, it not only catered to his impulsive nature and impatience, but also gave him roughly the same sense of friendship and camaraderie that baseball had.

One thing led to another, and by the time Mann Co. found him, Scout was a monster in hand to hand (and bat to bat) and had racked up quite the criminal record.

A perfect mercenary, ripe for the picking.

On The Team:

Scout very quickly adopted the “stupid, scrappy Boston boy” persona.

It was the only thing that made sense, and it kept him from having to try too hard in both the battlefield and socially.

Besides, that meant that he could be as silly, forgetful, and fidgety as he wanted, and no one would bat an eye.

And if he ever needed to take a break from the team, he figured everyone would appreciate the quiet.

The only thing that ever gave him away was him occasionally dissociating right when battle began, especially if the day had been stressful.

It was usually how he calmed down after a fight when he was young, but now he sometimes slid into that state when he was overwhelmed.

However, a yell from one of his teammates would usually snap him out of it.

Medic noticed this pretty early on, and wanted to look more into it, but Scout would keep making excuses not to get a mental examination.

He would blame it on zoning out, being tired, drinking too many Bonks - whatever it took for people to stop asking.

And, eventually, they did.

Even Medic stopped asking after a while - he couldn’t get a thing out of Scout.

This “try so little that when you do try it’s above average” charade worked for a long time. In fact, it went on for so long that Scout forgot how much he was actually capable of.

He began to internalize the stupidity, the exacerbation, the many comments on how dumb he was, everything.

The only time he ever gave his all was on the battlefield - moving fast, memorizing strategies, doing complicated footwork, knowing exactly how much force it took to crush someone’s skull with his bat.

That was one of the only things that he felt good doing, the only thing he could really work on without him being “found out.”

That and drawing, though he never showed the actual pieces to anyone. It was all stick figures and crooked lines with everyone else.

Sometimes, though, Scout wouldn’t be paying attention and he’d let something slip.

One time, Engineer was looking for his screwdriver, and couldn’t seem to find it anywhere.

Scout, not looking up from his comic, said, “Under the couch cushion, hard hat.”

Engineer bent down and reached into the couch, and his hand came back with his red and yellow striped screwdriver.

“Well I’ll be damned…”

At first Engineer thought Scout had just hid it, but Scout explained, still not paying attention:

“Last time we went out on th’ field, you had it on your belt, like always. But I was walkin’ by your workshop, you were usin’ a quarter to tighten a screw or somethin’. Your screwdriver had to be somewhere between the battlefield and your workshop. Engie, you’re like freakin’ clockwork. Every day, after a fight, you go to the kitchen, get a water, go to that couch, between the second and third cushion from the left, and sit there. Then ya go back to the fridge to get lunch and a beer, and ya go to your workshop until somebody needs you for somethin’. Your back loop in your tool belt is looser than all the others, ‘cause the screwdriver pulls against it when you sit down. The shank was probably in between the two cushions, and when you got up, it fell in. Demo, Pyro, and Heavy all sit on the second or third cushion at some point, so it got shimmied down. And since that’s the only time you sat down, ‘cause you woulda heard it if it dropped on the floor, and I…uh…”

“I’ll be damned,” Engie repeated, and felt the back tool belt loop. It was indeed loose.

Scout finally looked up, and realized what had happened.

“Uh, uh - l-lucky guess, huh Engie?”

Engineer squinted behind his goggles. “Yeah…real lucky…”

What ensued was Engie trying to get Scout to turn into a B.L.U Spy by chasing him around with his wrench. After a few good hits, though, Engineer saw that it was the teammate he knew and loved.

“But…how didja…?”

Scout threw his hand up, the other rubbing the back of his head where he’d been hit.

“I toldja Engie! Lucky guess! Jesus!”

Ever since then, Scout chose his words more carefully.

The Breakdown:

But, unfortunately, Scout could not pretend forever.

There was one week where Scout’s assignment count was so high that, if he wasn’t in a fight, he was on a mission.

Usually, Pauling wouldn’t trust him with so much, but no one else was available - or willing - to do the jobs.

Even when she was getting concerned about the amount of hours Scout was putting in, he blew it off.

“It’s no sweat, Miss Pauling! Their practically givin’ me the pay day. Those yahoos don’t know who they’re messin’ with.”

Over time, though, Scout had a harder and harder time staying focused and alert.

He’d sleep through alarms, stare off into space, zone out completely during briefing (not that he didn’t already do that), have a hard time hearing people in battle - even through his headset - ignore Spy’s taunts, and even forget to bring his bat onto the field.

Nothing seemed to help - Bonk!, warming up, stretching, cold showers, setting reminders, nothing.

And the team was starting to notice.

At first it was with the regular frustration - maybe Scout was just being lazy.

But as time went on, and his condition grew worse, their scorn turned into worry. They implored Medic to do something, but he had no way of getting through to Scout.

The doctor wasn’t above simply sedating him and dragging him into his lab for a check-up. However, he had a feeling that this was more than a physical issue.

The worst came when Scout was doing a routine battle with the B.L.U team on the field.

Everything had started out okay - he even remembered to bring his bad this time - but suddenly, everything was ear-splittingly loud.

He couldn’t focus on more than one sound at once, much less communicate the best course of action to his teammates.

He ended up hiding in a dilapidated shed, in a dusty, dark corner, somewhere between zoning out and panicking.

Scout’s head was in his knees, he was shaking, close to crying, when a sudden splitting of wood roused him.

A B.L.U Soldier had kicked his way into the shed, either having heard Scout or to hide from the other team.

Scout was stunned at first, but something of a blind terror filled him. He picked up his bat, screamed, and started pummeling the surprised Soldier.

At some point, he threw aside his bat and began to swing punch after punch, just like he did in his gang days when he had felt overwhelmed. Still screaming. Still crying.

By the time Scout had dissolved into a rocking, sobbing mess, the Soldier was long dead, with a gigantic pool of blood staining Scout’s shoes.

No one even knew where Scout was until a few hours later, when Spy heard a faint note of “Sexbomb” coming from Scout’s Walkman.

Scout had crawled into the shed’s framework, between the outer and inner wall, and was playing a specific verse over and over and over again, looking like he was on another plane of existence.

Spy immediately called for Medic, who had to lift Scout out by the underarms through a jagged hole in the side of the building. By then, the fight was over, so they could take him directly to the lab.

Medic’s Evaluation:

“I’m guessing zhis is your first mental breakdown?”

“Mental…doc, I ain’t crazy. Wait, you’re not goin’ to put me in a straight jacket, are ya?”

“If you’re not doing anyzhing later.”

Medic started to laugh, but quickly realized this might not be the time.

“No, Scout, everyvun has a mental breakdown at least vunce in their lives. It’s a…how do you say…a vake-up call of sorts. Vhen your body has no other options left.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“For zhe past few months, you health, both physical and mental, has been deteriorating. You eat less. You talk less. Your attacks are lackluster. You have bags under your eyes. You flinch vhen somevun yells for you. You stare off into space. Your routine, vhich usually has at least some changes, has become stringent, as if you can’t possibly expend any more energy into extra activities. You have avoided Demoman on zhe battlefield, even though you usually use him for cover.”

Medic flipped through his notes.

“I have pages and pages of your decline. However, as a scientist, I believe it is caused by zhe same source. And, though I usually respect my patient’s right to privacy vhen it comes to these sorts of matters, I believe you’ve been keeping something from me. Something that I should know as your general practitioner…your doctor.”

Scout shrugged, already shutting out the conversation.

Medic sighed.

“Maybe I tried to talk to you about zhis too soon. After all, you’ve just had a very sudden and exhausting episode. But…perhaps…”

Medic took a sheet of printer paper from his clipboard and a spare pen from his pocket.

“…zhere is an alternative.”

Scout was still unresponsive, but Medic continued.

“Zhere is a patient in my vaiting room vis a metal pole through the chest. It vill take me at least an hour to properly remove it, and a few minutes more to heal zhe area. Vhile I do zhat, vhy don’t you draw how you feel?”

Medic smiled.

“I know how much it grounds you.”

It wasn’t until Medic left that Scout actually picked up the pen, but he began drawing immediately.

For the first time in a while, he wasn’t trying to hide his strokes or scratch up the cleaner lines. No more stick figures. No more pretending.

Five minutes later, he was fully engrossed.

Medic started to walk in at one point, but, seeing how relaxed Scout was, decided to give him a few more minutes.

He deserved it.

[circulars-reasoning]

Nobody Is Inherently Evil

While this post is tagged syscourse, that does not mean I am looking for an argument. This post can be reblogged by anyone, and is open for debate and educational discussions. It is directed at the community at large as more and more persecutor content comes into play (and as we see the term malicitor being used again).

TL;DR: There is no such thing as a malicitor. There is no such thing an an inherently evil persecutor. Persecutors are part of you, and pretending otherwise is making things worse.

TW: sui ideation, intrusive thoughts, depression, food poisoning and vomit mentions

Let’s begin with this idea of “malicitors.” Simply put, they are alters who “only exist to be hurtful, both to the body and to others.” This, frankly, is bullshit. The idea here is that they have no redeeming value, or that they are inherently just evil for the sake of being evil.

Nobody is inherently evil. That’s not a thing. There is always a reason why someone is shitty. That reason may be related to upbringing, trauma, health - a whole slew of thing could make someone a shitty person. But that doesn’t mean just labeling someone as a shitty person - particularly in the case of an alter - is the right step towards healing.

Alters are you. I’m DID/OSDD, your alters are pieces of you. If you have a seemingly “evil” alter, than the first thing you have to acknowledge is that calling them evil means calling yourself evil. Why would you be doing that? What about their actions is evil?

The claim I see the most is “my persecutors are harming those I love.” And. Yeah? That. Makes perfect sense. Let me tell you about our persecutor, Debra, to shed some light on that.

Debra started out in an odd way. I introjected this idea my friend had started me on: “personify your depression and talk to it.” At first, that’s all it was. But as my depression got worse, and I started realizing I was suicidal, Debra formed. And she was a persecutor through and through.

She told me daily how worthless I was. How useless. How I was just a sick girl pretending to be special so I could feel something, and how the world would be better without me. She purposely did things to make my abusive situation worse. She would purposely do things that would upset my parents, which made the abuse I was facing worse. She pushed away my friends, because “you don’t deserve good people in your life. You’re too worthless to deserve nice things.”

When confronted about why she did this, she always said “You made me. You wanted this. I want this, because I think it’s funny. All I want is for you to die.” And well. On the surface, that sounds like a malicitor, or an “evil persecutor,” right? She just had so much fun being a shitty person that she couldn’t stop.

She’s now reformed. Now, the process in which she became reformed is a lengthy one, involving more things that have gotten me fakeclaimed than I can count. But let’s sum it up here with: there was a lot of symbolic bullshit, she went into dormancy for a few years, ALL my alters went dormant for a few years, and then she came back in college, full force.

But once I was in college, I wasn’t alone anymore. I had a very stubborn friend who dedicated too much time to me and sacrificed her own mental health to get me in a better place. Without her, I don’t think I ever would’ve survived college, and I am eternally grateful for everything she ever did for me. One of the biggest things she did was change Debbie.

Debra continued her normal bullshit - keeping me unstable, making me want to kill myself even more, trying to damage my friendships. But now, she had someone constantly pushing back against her. And here’s the thing. This might not work for every system, but you know what worked for us?

Calling her out on her bullshit.

I am NEVER suggesting that you need to be gentle with your persecutors. Quite the opposite, in fact - sometimes, I believe getting on their level and being a bitch right back is the best method. That’s how it worked for Debra. After Debra lied to my friend specifically to try and get her to hate us, said friend cornered her in a room and forced her to sit through a conversation about respecting our system while Debbie was going through food poisoning. She had to keep running to the bathroom to vomit, before marching herself straight back to my friend for “and another thing, why are you such a bitch?”

It was sheer torture for Debra. She had never had anyone speak to her like that. She had never had anyone turn her words back on her. After all, Debra was perfect, right? But she wasn’t. She never was. Because she was just a part of me that hated myself. And if she was part of me, that just meant… she hated herself too.

After that, things started to turn around. I’m not saying it was perfect - but now, the system as a whole understood what was happening. Anytime she insulted us, we turned around and said “you really feel that way about yourself?” And she would get so mad, because CLEARLY she was talking about us. But she’s part of this system too!! Eventually, she even caused us to split a new alter due to her ramping up her abuse of us. And, well… he went immediately dormant, because she was so horrible.

That really made her realize how horrible she was being, and why. She DID hate herself - she was lashing out and pushing people away because she was scared of confronting that feeling. If she used me (Rice) as her punching bag, then she wasn’t beating up on herself. But now, she could see just how badly she was damaging the system - damaging herself.

She sees us now as a support system. All of us are supporting each other, and that’s so incredible. What she saw as my weaknesses before, she now sees are signs of my strength. The cracks in this support beam show how much work I’ve put in, and she reminds me often how “you’d be an idiot to think you’re weak, stop being an idiot and admit how strong you are.” Notice how she’s still insulting? That’s okay. That’s our dynamic now, and I’ve found that’s what helps me. And if it becomes too much, Numb (our protector) comes in and tells her to cool it. AND SHE LISTENS!

Because now, we’ve recognized she’s a part of us, just as much as she’s recognized we’re part of her. And that’s the kicker; she really changed when she was accepted. No, we didn’t accept her behavior - we just showed her that, regardless of her actions, she’s part of us, and we love ourselves, so she, too, is loved unconditionally. Once she saw that, and once we understood that ourselves, things healed in our system. We grew.

This brings me to my last point. Pretending that any part of you is inherently evil will never help you heal. It will always be damaging to your health. So why are you still doing it? More than likely, it’s because you have yet to work through your shit. And that’s valid - healing doesn’t happen immediately. It takes time. But you need to recognize that spreading the idea that “oh my alter is Just Evil and I cant change that” is not only damaging you, but others. That’s the sort of ideals that led to us hurting Debra in the past. Which led to more insys problems and trauma.

There are no inherently evil alters. Either work through your shit, or keep it private if you’re not ready to work through it yet. Either way, don’t spread this idea that persecutors can just be Evil for Evil’s Sake. Nobody is. And suggesting that they are is going to demonize them, whether you were aiming to or not.

[rantingcrocodile]

Ok so i came across an actual former radfem who complained that most radfems groom each other into becoming lesbians… and i have to agree. Im bi and if i had a radfem blog id have to constantly defend and tak about that part of my sexuality to other feminists because theres a huge amount of radfems who blame women who date men for anything that happens to them. Ive def felt pressure to ignore or hide my sexuality…. And ive seen there’s young hetero girls that like radfem beliefs who are told theyll probably be murdered or raped and it’s their fault for going around the men we warned you about if it does happen. Anyways you probably know that because I’ve certainly seen it around and its a very popular sentiment. Like when thatfemalecharacterthatyouhate said het women were weak links. Fucked up. Caused a huge shitstorm lol my point is theres just a huge amount of radfems trying to control other women’s bodies and sexualities… and that is not very feminast~

Outside of personal experiences of gender dysphoria, one of the major factors pushing the rise of trans people is social contagion. Teens (and even adults) have a friend who comes out as trans, then another friend, then another, and then they come out as trans, too. Or they find themselves in communities with a fair number of trans people, get told how evil "cis" people are, how great it is to be trans, are fed some misogyny/etc about what dysphoria is, then they identify as trans, too. They will go so far as to actually start hormones or have surgeries.

You have to be living on another planet if you don't believe that there are at least a handful teen girls and women on or around radfem spaces that have been groomed into falsely calling themselves "lesbians" the same way.

For anyone that doesn't believe me, I refer you back to the "lesbian masterdoc."

This also isn't a new phenomenon.

This Twitter user posted a full essay by Sharon Dale Stone entitled, "Bisexual Women and the "Threat" to Lesbian Space" written in 1996, and she discusses exactly how biphobic lesbians were, the desperation to call bisexual women lesbians, and the culture that created political lesbianism. The term "political lesbianism" has been rightfully outed as homophobic, but we've seen the push to encourage bisexual women to label themselves "febfems" otherwise we're all "dick worshippers." We've seen plenty of the "lesbians are superior feminists because they aren't attracted to men and are only attracted to women" tiering of women.

This space says it's "radfem," but it's just "lesbian separatist feminism," where the point isn't women's liberation, but merely "let's make lesbian spaces where lesbians can pretend that other women who aren't lesbians are just celibate lesbians and then everything will be fine because we can pretend men don't exist." And then plenty of women believe that that's feminism, and it just... isn't.

Pure separatism is anti-feminist because it simply does not liberate women. There will always be women who value relationships with men. Romantic, familial, friendship-based. Actual liberation means that women can make full choices freely and, no matter what, won't face misogyny. True equity and equality. Separatism as prioritising women to support women and not centre men is good and should be practiced. Separatism as creating women-only spaces for healing purposes is good, too. Creating a women-only land like Themyscira and nothing else wouldn't give liberation, it would make a women-only country and that is literally it.

Sexuality being as moralised as it is, where you're taught either overtly or subtly that relationships with women mean good feminist vs relationships with men mean handmaiden doesn't encourage women to explore our sexualities naturally or fall in love or teach them to create high boundaries that they can enforce, it encourages women to fetishise lesbians and hate straight women, and then hate bisexual women the most because sexuality and relationships are reduced to "choice." 

The "superior" lesbian can do as she pleases as a feminist. The "good straight" feminist has to make a choice to be celibate. The "good bisexual" feminist has to only partner with other women and hate the bisexuals who aren't partnered with women or who don't loudly proclaim that they’re one of the “good bisexuals.” 

This obsession with “relationships/desires for relationships = feminism” is just as anti-feminist, because it always boils down to victim-blaming and ignoring reality, whether “feminists” realise it or not. 

After all, if women’s liberation is reduced to “stop dating men and you’ll basically be fine,” then that reframes domestic violence against women as the woman’s fault. It comes down to, “You know how bad men are, so if you’re abused, then you did it to yourself.” The only answer that’s given to global male violence is “teach women to separate from males” because that’s the childish, easy answer, instead of the difficult truth that we have to work towards a real cultural shift. “I told that woman over there to stay away from men, she didn’t, so it’s her fault!” is easy, victim-blaming “activism,” unlike the long, hard slog that’s needed to change attitudes.

It’s an easy trap to fall into, too. Change takes time. We’ve seen it. The battle for suffrage, for one. But everyone wants change to happen right this second, and that’s just impossible. There are constant arguments that “men can’t change” with the additions about how long it’s taken to get the rights that we have now, but... although it took time, men in certain societies have changed. That’s why there’s contention between things like “makeup is oppressive and women should feel free to dress modestly with headscarves” vs “headscarves are oppressive and women are empowered when wearing makeup,” because different cultures have different issues that still need to be faced, and there’s no simple one-size-fits-all, which makes feminism even more complicated.

“Lesbian separatist feminism” is an easy, incorrect answer. Instead of all the questions and realisations that different groups of women have different needs, that we have to come up with answers to extremely difficult questions like how to make it so women and men are truly equal and can live in peace, it’s all simplified to an extreme degree. Every single individual man bad, no redemption. Lesbians and women in same-sex relationships good. Women in opposite-sex relationships have to be taught they’ll be abused and when they’re taught, if they stay with a man and end up being abused or raped, that’s their fault. Confronting the full range of female socialisation is too hard, so if you’re in or want a same-sex relationship, you’re immune to ever prioritising men/being misogynistic/etc.

I think that’s why there are genuine “ex-radfems” who believe that this is all that radical feminism is and can ever be, so they come to realisations that they’re not bad people if they’re not lesbians, that they do actually know a man who’s misogynistic in some words and minor actions but is trying, or otherwise realise that the goals aren’t going to actually lead to women’s liberation, only an internalisation of misery and self-hatred, only sanctioned misogyny towards women who are deemed “bad,” and then they end up thinking... if this is what being a feminist is, then I don’t want to be a feminist.

If critical thinking were actually valued here by women that genuinely wanted women’s full liberation, then all of this would be extremely obvious.

Any actual, good feminism is genuinely intersectional, polices against all bigotry, finds common ground between all women, understands that there are different contexts from different cultures and backgrounds that need to be fought in unique ways, needs to address how women can be liberated through frank discussions and reality-based thinking, needs concrete stepping-stone goals to improve things at least a little for women per generation as we know that change can be glacially slow, and work from a basis of anger about our oppression to keep fight in us, but also a place of compassion so that even the most tradwife anti-feminist woman will always feel safe, prioritising female solidarity before anything else and providing spaces for women to unlearn whatever bigotries they individually have where they know that with work, there is always space for forgiveness, love and acceptance for them.

That’s exactly why it’s incredibly hard to be feminist, it’s why every feminist has moments of failure and frustration, but also why this and other “feminist” spaces are more eager to embrace blatant misogyny and fetishisation and hatred and abuse than actual feminism.

[imagine-your-love-story]

I know I’m late to the thread on DNIs, but the general culture surrounding them is pretty much why I just put a statement in my bio that essentially boils down to “I’m an adult. I post XYZ content. If that makes you uncomfortable, you need to unfollow and block me.” I 1000% read and respect other people’s DNIs, but I personally just don’t vibe with having one myself. It makes me feel like I have to play hall monitor or be up to the minute on toxic discourse in a space that’s supposed to make me happy first and foremost. I hope my thoughts make sense lmao

Good point, anon!! Thank you for sharing that!

Since more people have been commenting on the DNI debacle, let’s get into more real talk here:

Some people list a DNI on every single post they create. Big red letters, “FUCK YOU AND DON’T INTERACT IF YOU’RE...” followed by a long list of abbreviations, terms, labels, etc.

Some people have MEGA long DNIs.

A couple problems with this:

1. A DNI is often your first impression of someone.

So when I see super long DNIs, or really aggressive ones saying, “ FUCK YOU AND DON’T INTERACT IF YOU’RE...”

I won’t go anywhere NEAR that person. Most regular folks won’t.

Long DNI’s make it seem like you’re reading the fine print of a contract to join an elite, private club. 

That’s too intense for me. If you’re really going to analyze every single person down to the iota before deigning to interact with them, I’ll pass.

Aggressive “Fuck you” DNIs seethe with hostile energy. I’ve seen cute posts on my dash from new users and then at the bottom “fuck you don’t interact if you’re...” and I skip right by them (after blocking them).

Which is sad. Potential friendships aren’t even given a chance here.

But that’s a lot of aggression to hold onto for every single post and I don’t want any part of it.

2. The self-ship community’s love of labels can be off-putting

I’m going to be totally honest here: even though I’m in the self-ship community, I have no idea what 90% of these terms mean that are thrown around. Especially if one user thinks it means “X” but another user INSISTS it means “Y”.

I’m not here for that.

When someone has a long-ass DNI list full of these terms, I nope right out. Because I have no idea if I’m actually on that list or not. 

I used to follow back everyone on my blog until I got hostile DMs, calling me out for being a terrible person because I violated their DNI. And I’m just sitting there like...???? I did?????

“YEAH. YOU SUPPORT MOLDY ORANGES. FUCK YOU.”

I still don’t know what they’re talking about.

I also find it incredibly ironic. You put your DNI out there. You found out someone violated it. 

Block them. Done.

Why write them and get mad about it? That’s such a waste of your energy. On top of that, YOU continued the interaction of your own free will. You listed your DNI and then you interacted with them.

It’s just totally confusing to me.

So I rarely follow back other blogs anymore. Which is not the point of a community.

3. DNIs are often TOO effective.

This goes along with #1. Many DNIs drive people away - the fun-loving shippers that actually WANT to interact with you. But because you have this laundry list of “Don’t speak to me if you’re X” to read through and memorize, they don’t stick around.

I’ve seen several people say, “I just stick to my own lane these days. DNIs are intimidating.”

You’re literally turning EVERYONE away from you. Meanwhile, the really harmful people (predators, as is so often thrown around in the community) will have no problem disregarding your DNI.

4. Righteous anger

A common theme everyone seems to be tiptoeing around with DNIs is the righteous anger that is swift to follow a violated DNI.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO INTERACT WITH ME. I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO GET IN YOUR FACE.”

If someone is HARASSING you, that’s different. Yes, take necessary steps to protect yourself and be safe. 

(I would argue that getting angry in this situation would only give the harasser the reaction they want, so anger isn’t in your best interest here either).

If someone accidentally violates your DNI, that’s not harassment. Now you’re just being a really unpleasant person with anger management issues.

There are times you will need to employ anger in your life. But it should NOT be a reaction that you immediately jump to for every little thing.

If you’re just hanging out with other selfshippers, chatting about hot villains and cute platonic f/os, anger should not be part of the equation. At all.

***

I understand (and advocate!) for some kind of disclaimer/note in your bio - i.e. I’m an adult, this is an adult space, block if you don’t like - but the avid use of DNIs continues to leave me baffled. 

I’ve been on tumblr for...*counts on fingers*...way too long and the self-ship community is really the only community I’ve been a part of that upholds DNIs so rigidly. 

I’m not sure what it’s about and I try to not get involved. I’m just here to hang out and chat about cute fictional characters - stress free pls.

Disclaimer: If DNIs make you feel comfortable in an online space, go for it! But please consider the following:

Be mindful of the tone you use.

Consider condensing your DNI for quick, simple, and easy reading so you don’t come across quite as intimidating.

Consider proactive solutions (the block button) for users that really make you uncomfortable 

[sgtjbbhasmyheart]

Drunk Texting Is(n’t) Bad for Your Health- Chapter Three

Series Summary: Talk about your unconventional meet-cute! Bucky receives a text by mistake requesting he prove he's not Reader's sister. The easy dialogue between Reader and Bucky sparks a natural friendship, but could it lead to more? Bucky still deems himself unworthy of any form of affection or love. Reader is hellbent to prove him wrong. With the help of some (meddling) friends along the way, Bucky may get his happily-ever-after after all.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1740

Warnings: Nosy (and well-meaning) friends acting like nosy siblings, angst, bad language words

A/N: After I originally posted this chapter on AO3, I got some comments that exacerbated the beginnings of a year long depression. Please be kind. I intended this chapter to come across as the gang being like siblings...always being in each other’s business. Is there a breach of privacy? Yes, but without the ill-intent. 

DO NOT copy or replicate without permission

Bucky clutched his phone in his flesh hand as he made his way down a long hallway to the communal kitchen and eating area. A soft, crooked smile rested at his lips as he entered the space. Natasha and Sam were sitting at opposite ends of the rectangular table separating the kitchen from the lounge, enjoying a late breakfast. Steve was at a kitchen counter fiddling with the Keurig machine. He pulled another mug from the cupboard when he saw Bucky approach. “Mornin’, Buck. Sleep well?”

Bucky’s grin broadened as he leaned his backside against the countertop. “I did, actually. Thanks for asking,” he answered, looking to his phone at the incoming text.

(Y/N) Would you rather have skin that changes color based on your emotions or tattoos appear all over your body, depicting what you did the day before?

He missed the way Sam and Nat looked at each other in suspicion at his answer to Steve. He was too busy pressing the keys on his touch-screen.

Bucky The tattoos would be awkward, speaking from a male’s perspective, so I think color changing would be better. Not by much, though.

Bucky Would you rather have edible spaghetti hair that regrows every night or sweat maple syrup?

Bucky saw Steve slide the new mug, now filled with coffee, across the granite-top toward him from the corner of his eye. He glanced up quickly from the screen and nodded. “Thanks, buddy.” Steve answered with a smile.

“What, no grunted thanks or mumbled acknowledgment?” Natasha quipped, standing from her seat to place her plate in the dishwasher.

“Yeah, man. You have been using way too many words lately. I miss the grumpy dude that would brood in the corner,” Sam added, crossing his arms at his chest. “Are we even sure this is the right Bucky?”

Bucky’s phone vibrated again.

(Y/N) I love me some spaghetti! Can you imagine sweating sticky, gooey maple syrup during a humid New York summer?? Your clothes would be toast.

(Y/N) Mmmm, french toast.

Bucky chuckled at the reply, drawing the attention of three sets of eyes.

Sam wasn’t wrong; he wasn’t the same Bucky.

It had been five days since (Y/N)’s first drunken texts. Five days. He couldn’t believe so little time had passed. Somehow, (Y/N) had wiggled her way under his skin.

He had noticed after only a day or two; he was smiling more, less volatile. He felt lighter, happier. He wasn’t skulking about the compound like usual, trying to avoid the rest of the team. Some might go as far as to say he was friendlier than usual.

It felt good to have someone, a friend, learning about the real James Buchanan Barnes, for once, without the threat of The Soldier clouding their perception of him.

“You’re freaking me out, man. Straight outta Invasion of the Body Snatchers or some shit,” Sam declared, rising from his chair.

“Hold on, Sam,” Steve placated, lifting a hand to the advancing man. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation to Bucky’s good mood lately.”

Bucky set his jaw in frustration, the muscles ticking. He wasn’t a Pod Person. He was just happy, for the first time in seventy-five years.

His phone went off again.

(Y/N) Would you rather sneeze once every hour, on the hour, or burp every time you saw an attractive girl?

A wide smile split his mouth as he scanned the screen.

Bucky Am I sneezing in my sleep or just when I’m awake?

When Bucky brought his gaze back up to his teammates, he noticed Natasha’s own eyes flick down to his phone. The slightest smirk curved the corner of her lips.

“It’s curious,” she said, a perfect eyebrow inched higher to her hairline. “All the people you text are in this room, yet, you haven’t been able to pull yourself away from your phone.” Her eye contact never wavered from Bucky’s face. “Don’t ya think that’s odd, fellas?”

“Natalia,” Bucky warned, his voice gruff. He knew she was fishing.

Sam laughed boisterously. “Yeah, I noticed that the other day. It’s glued to your hip nowadays.”

“It could be anyone from the team, guys,” Steve reasoned. “I bet it’s Tony.”

Bucky became increasingly agitated as the redhead slinked closer, passing his phone back and forth between his hands.

Natasha shook her head in the negative. “Nuh-uh,” she said, leaning against the counter directly beside Bucky. A hair’s breadth of space separated their shoulders from one another. Tipping back, with her elbows propped against the hard surface, she kicked her legs out casually and crossed her feet at the ankle. “Those two have barely said two words to each other since the good Sergeant here was welcomed back into the fold. It’s not Tony.”

“That still doesn’t prove anything,” Steve replied, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I bet it’s a girl,” Sam said in a sing-song voice. “But, where would Ice Man here meet a girl?”

Natasha smiled while looking at Sam as he stepped closer to the trio. “Let’s find out, shall we?” She nodded to Sam and, without batting an eye, lunged at Bucky.

She tapped the underside of the hand holding the phone, causing the device to flip up into the air.

Though he hadn’t seen the attack coming, Bucky’s reflexes were cat-like, and he easily caught the phone in his opposite hand.

Unfortunately, Natasha was just as quick and knocked the phone from his hand again. She effortlessly swatted it out of the air and into her hand. As Bucky clamored to retrieve the cell phone, she swung her arm behind her back and tossed it into the waiting hands of Sam.

By looking at Sam’s broad smile, Bucky knew he was having a field day at his expense. He pounced on his teammate, grappling for possession of the device. He wasn’t sorry for elbowing the other man harder than he ever would if they were sparring each other. He needed his fucking phone back!

Sam managed to flick the phone over his other shoulder in the process of Bucky grabbing ahold of Sam’s wrist and twisting the same arm behind his body. It clattered to the ground at Steve’s feet.

As everyone stared at the cell phone lying prone on the tile floor, Sam backed Bucky into the cabinets, trapping him with his body. “Let me go, Bird Brain!” Bucky huffed.

Steve bent to pick the phone up, holding it in his hand. Bucky could see the war playing within Steve’s blue eyes as he struggled against Sam. Steve was just as curious as the other two but didn’t want to betray his friend.

Natasha quickly snatched the device from Steve and started thumbing at the screen.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Steve protested.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to put a passcode on your phone, Barnes?” Natasha tsked as she navigated to the messaging app.

Bucky knew the exact second she found what she was looking for because her eyes became comically wide. A feral, shit-eating grin crossed her mouth as she raised a brow again.

“Tell me about (Y/N).”

“What?” Steve questioned, crowding the red head. “Lemme see.”

Bucky felt his cheeks go aflame as Natasha angled the screen so Steve could see the message thread. They burned hotter as Steve looked up with his own shit-eating smirk.

“Well, well…” Sam piped up. “If your faces are anything to go by, Vanilla Ice’s still got game.” Bucky twisted his arm back further in retaliation causing Sam to grunt in discomfort.

Bucky watched as Natasha’s thumb skimmed along the screen to delve deeper into past messages. Her thumb stopped as she read a passage; her green eyes rapidly followed the lines of text.

“I always kinda figured you’d be into someone that would call you out on your BS. She sounds fun,” Natasha said as she continued to scroll.

“No one’s into anyone. We’re just friends,” Bucky murmured.

Steve’s head shot up to stare at his best friend, sorrow painting his features. He edged away from Natasha. “Does she know who you are?” he asked.

Bucky shook his head no. “And she never will.”

“Aww, but you guys sound so cute together,” Natasha pouted. Bucky frowned at the insinuation. It couldn’t ever happen.

“There aren’t any rules saying we can’t date,” Natasha mentioned. “Hell, you know how many times I tried to set up this big lug?” She motioned to Steve with her thumb.

“That’s different,” Bucky said after a few moments. He eased up slightly on Sam’s arm.

“How so?”

Bucky rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, the blush starting again. “He’s Captain America, and well, I’m not. Not exactly everyone’s favorite.” He downcast his eyes to the floor.

“Buck, you know that’s not true,” Steve said woefully. “It’ll just take some time.”

“I know, Stevie. Until then, though, I’m still a pariah.”

The super soldier serum couldn’t have been given to a better person, but Bucky always felt like he would be trapped in Steve’s shadow, no matter the amount of good he did. He would still feel weak for what Hydra did to him, or not good enough to be labeled Captain America’s best friend.

Feeling the room take a considerable turn toward somber, Natasha called out, “Holy shit, Barnes! You used Wilson’s toothbrush to clean your toilet?”

“What?!” all three male voices cried out.

Sam rushed forward, trying to see the proof for himself. “You’re a dead man!”

Freed from the weight of Sam’s body, Bucky leaped forward toward Natasha and Sam. Slamming into Sam’s back, he snaked an arm around the other man, reaching frantically for his phone. He was done with them spying on his non-existent personal life.

Bucky smacked against Sam’s hands and arms, trying to dislodge the device.

“Stop!” Sam bellowed. “You’re hitting me like an eleven-year-old girl!”

“Gimme back my phone!” Bucky shouted.

Suddenly, the sound of ringing filled the small space of the kitchen. The scuffling stopped in an instant as everyone tried to figure out where the noise was coming from. Sam glimpsed down at his hands and jumped apart from Bucky as if he’d been burned. He looked horrified!

“Oh, shit!” Sam exclaimed, shoving the phone back at Bucky.

“What did you do?!” Bucky screeched when he realized the ringing was coming from his phone on speaker.

The sound ended abruptly, only to be replaced with the gentle tinkle of a woman’s voice.

“James?”

Chapter Two | Chapter Four

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