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└ nate and lehky knucklebumps | round one, game one: col vs. dal | 4.19.25

bucky and you under the shower after the endgame movie and 5 years of separation.

“Someday there’ll be a celebration throughout Oz that’s all to do with me.” 💔

WOOHOOO THATS THE SPARK WE NEED!!!! NO TIME TO WASTE!

i think michael hating the entirety of the fazbear franchise EXCEPT foxy is one of the funniest ideas in the world

i think about this alot but every moment in jesus' life, at least as the texts present it, isn't necessarily centered on him , it's constantly exposing something about us. our assumptions about power, purity, divinity. the story isn’t just telling us what happened, it’s pressing on the limits of what we’re even able to recognize. and still, after two thousand years, people keep trying to make him into something they can categorize!! i think the real issue with how people use jesus today is that they’re trying to shape him into something he’s not or something that aligns with their own biases. and how people today—and have always—manipulate jesus’ image for political gain. whether that’s for conservative, liberal, (conservative) or any other kind of agenda. but what gets lost in all that is the way the gospels keep pushing against all those neat categories people try to slot him into. jesus doesn’t just fit into any of them. look at moments like when he talks about the kingdom of god. it’s this counterintuitive concept. it’s not about power in the way anyone expects. like, when he says in luke (17:20-21), "the kingdom of god is not coming with signs to be observed, nor will they say, ‘look, here it is!’ or ‘there!’ for, in fact, the kingdom of god is among you." it’s clear that the way people are thinking about power, this idea of a political, military messiah, is entirely wrong. jesus obviously doesn’t fit that mold at all. or take (mark 10:17-27). of this guy, comes up to jesus with this well-defined idea of what being good means. he thinks he’s got everything in order, but jesus challenges the very foundation of his idea of righteousness. “go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. then come, follow me." it’s not just a moral lesson, it’s a direct challenge to his worldview. and it’s not just about wealth, it’s about how deeply rooted our assumptions are in our understanding of power, success, and the way the world is supposed to work. the irony is that people today religious or not keep trying to fit him into their own worldview. they cherry pick the parts of the gospels that align with their values, ignoring the parts that challenge them. whether it’s a political narrative or a social one, they want to mold jesus into a figure that supports their existing beliefs rather than actually dealing with the radical, uncomfortable things he said! take the whole debate about who’s “worthy” or who’s “in” in the gospels. every time someone asks jesus who’s going to get into the kingdom, the answer is always surprising. it’s always someone you wouldn’t expect. the righteous are never who you think they are.

Finally have all 4 life stages let's gooo

two babysitters and their kid

Hi! I had this idea and thought you might be the perfect person to bring it to life: a Bucky Barnes x Reader fic where Reader finds an old journal of Bucky’s from his early post Winter Soldier recovery days. She reads it without meaning to at first, but what she finds inside is raw and heartbreaking. stuff he never talks about. Maybe they’ve been growing distant lately, and this gives her a look into just how much he’s been struggling. Would love if it ends with her wanting to comfort him but him not being ready to let her in yet. Quiet, emotional tension, please!

I READ YOUR DIARY EVERY LINE.

it starts with dust. not metaphorical, just actual dust.

you’re cleaning. or pretending to. rearranging the living room like that’s gonna fix the silence that’s been creeping in between you and bucky like fog under the door. you’ve been feeling it for weeks now. how he’s been moving quieter, speaking less, disappearing into rooms with the kind of stillness that makes it hard to follow. you don’t even remember the last time he touched you without pulling back like his hands burned after.

so, yeah. you’re cleaning. touching all his stuff like you’re trying to find a thread back to him. and then a book falls. black. beat up. spiral bound, barely hanging on. it looks like it’s been shoved there on purpose—stuffed behind old war books and a mug you’re pretty sure he stole from a hotel in zurich. you almost leave it. almost. but then you see the corner of a folded photo sticking out from between the pages. and your name, just a sliver of it, so you sit. floor cold against your legs, journal in your lap, breath a little too tight. you tell yourself you’re just gonna peek. just a glance.

but it’s not that simple. because the first thing you read feels like walking in on someone mid nightmare, mid prayer, mid– something holy and bleeding.

“it’s been 2,190 days since she stopped calling me asset. i still don’t feel like a person.”

the handwriting’s rough. not messy, just tired. you can feel it in the way the letters lean too hard in places, press too deep in others. like he needed to write it down or it would claw its way out some other way.

“i keep dreaming about the way the metal felt when it was first fused to me. like i was being welded shut.”

you shift. knees pulled up now. the room’s gone quiet in that specific way that makes you feel like the walls are listening.

“sometimes i think about running. not because i want to leave, but because i don’t want to rot here. it feels like i’m leaking poison into the lives of people who love me. like i’ll never stop being dangerous.”

you swallow. the last few months fall into place, a soft collapsing. all the nights he stood outside on the fire escape, just watching the sky. the mornings he’d say he was fine but his voice would crack on the i. the way he stopped playing music in the apartment. stopped sitting beside you on the couch. stopped falling asleep beside you, slowly replacing your shared bed with the cold of the guest room. your eyes burn but you keep reading.

“she touches me like i’m breakable. looks at me like i’m something to fix. i don’t know how to be held without feeling like an apology.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the page blurs. until the paper soaks a little beneath your fingertips. and you hate that he felt like this. that he couldn’t tell you. that you didn’t see it sooner. that he had to carve this into paper in the middle of the night instead of speaking it out loud to someone who would’ve dropped everything just to hold his face and remind him he's still here. still human. still loved.

there’s one more entry. dated a week ago.

“she asked if i wanted to go out tonight. i told her i was tired. the truth is, i didn’t want to be seen. some days i still feel like a weapon pretending to be a man. and i think if she ever looked too close, she'd see right through me.”

you close the journal. you sit with it in your lap for a long while. the kind of long that makes the afternoon light shift across the floor like slow, golden water. you don’t say anything when you hear the door open. keys hitting the bowl. footsteps slow.

he sees you before he says anything. standing in the doorway to the living room, hand still on the frame, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed in. his eyes drop to the journal in your hands. they stay there. his mouth twitches. not quite a flinch. not quite anything. "you read it," he says, voice low. not accusing. just… accepting. you nod. barely.

he closes his eyes. presses his lips together like he’s swallowing something sharp.

"i didn’t mean for you to see that."

“i know,” you say. voice softer than it’s ever been. “i didn’t mean to find it.”

the silence that follows isn’t empty. it’s full of everything you don’t say. everything he can’t. he walks past you. sits down on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. you want to go to him. every cell in your body wants to close the space. to curl up beside him and press your forehead to his shoulder and tell him he’s not too broken to be loved. not too sharp to be touched. but you don’t. you sit down a few feet away. not touching. not even looking directly at him. just… near. a presence. a quiet offering.

“i didn’t know,” you whisper.

his voice cracks when he says, “i didn’t want you to.”

and there it is. the heart of it. he’s not ready. maybe he never will be. but he’s here and so are you.

the room is dim now. soft golden light painting the walls. somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks as the house settles around you. the air smells like dust and the last bit of coffee he made this morning.

you don’t speak again. you just sit. two people in the quiet. the kind of quiet that aches and comforts at the same time. maybe this is love, too. not the easy parts. just the staying.

a/n: luv this req. i literally just need to hug him omg... also sorry this is terribly written i was almost blackout drunk when writing it