#them and those 'reblog the lucky potato' like it's so stupid but it makes me feel bad

[kerryweaverlesbian]

magic isn't real. 'intentions' and thinking and saying or not saying words in particular orders does not influence the general luckiness of ones future. there is no foreshadowing in real life.

[all1e23]

Between the Stars [Pt.7]

Pairings: Past!Steve x Reader, Bucky x  Reader

Series warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Grief. Overall sadness. Depression. It’s pretty angsty if I’m being honest. Things mellow out as the series goes on. TW: Military/Spouse death

A/N:   This might be my favorite chapter yet. Bucky is soft, and I love him. Reminder because I know the timeline for this fic is confusing with switching between readers and Bucky's POV, we are eight months past Steve's death. Bucky has been home with her for seven. Thanks to my beautiful beta @moonbeambucky​​​ for looking this chapter over for me. If you like it write me a book report, sing me a song or come scream at me.

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****

Eight months after Steve’s death, Y/n was playing again. It wasn’t on the same scale as it once was and she was no longer teaching, not that it mattered. It was a big deal, Bucky didn’t downplay just how huge this was. She had given up, threw out her dreams in search of new ones as some misguided form of punishment; maybe she thought it was her penance for some terrible crime she convinced herself she committed by living. Bucky understood that feeling better than most, he really did, but she had nothing to atone for. The only one who needed absolution was Bucky and he hoped that by helping her get her life back, he was earning a tiny bit of forgiveness for everything he had done.  

Nothing would ever completely absolve him, but he prayed this would help to even the scales.

Over the last month, Y/n hasn’t mentioned Steve as much. Bucky didn’t know if that was because she was starting to heal or if it hurt too much to keep talking about him. She still slept in his room most nights, only slightly closer to him now, her foot usually wrapped around his ankle and Steve’s pillow was no longer hugging her back -- it was still there every night though. A handful of nights she fell asleep on the couch watching trashy late-night television and Bucky didn’t know if he should pick her up and carry her to bed. Was it too intimate of a gesture? Should he touch her that way? And if he did what bed would he take her to? It wasn’t something he was ready to test and he wouldn’t risk the potential hurt the wrong move could make. So he let her sleep, and stayed close by, sleeping on the small window bench nearby in case she needed him. 

Things began to resemble something better, calmer and there was a bit of normalcy returning. They even started going out. It began with small outings, a trip or two to the market, or down to the Mexican restaurant twenty minutes away for takeout. A few Fridays back, they spent the entire day at one of those you-pick farms a couple of hours away from the house. She told him she wanted to go get peaches. Bucky wasn’t about to tell her no or tell her that they could pick some up at the grocery store without the hassle of having to pick them off a tree. No, he wouldn’t do that. This was a big step for her; she wanted to go out, and well, she’s so damn pretty when she’s smiling. 

The farm was enormous for the area, sitting at around 200 acres. They had blueberries, pumpkins, peaches, and strawberries. Some of the produce wasn’t ready to pick, but Bucky knew Y/n was planning their next trip as soon as the seasons changed, and he really didn’t mind. They had a petting zoo they found upon arrival, at which point Y/n squealed over the baby goats, and they spent some forty-odd minutes feeding them. Then Bucky spent the next hour talking her out of having a baby goat of her own. Okay, Bucky would get her a damn goat if she really wanted one, but he was praying she would forget about it on the drive home. There was a hay maze that was still in the process of being prepped for the upcoming season but Y/n’s eyes lit up at the mere thought. 

The food had to be Y/n’s favorite most of all. 

There were candied peach slices that she had been so excited about. Bucky couldn’t help but laugh when Y/n had a bite with too much of the ginger that was sprinkled on top and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She glared at him, but it only made him grin wider. They both tried the vanilla scones with fresh peach jam and shared a large Mason jar full of peach iced tea because she said it was silly to spend the extra money when they could share. One sip and all Bucky could think about was the sweetness on his lips is what she would taste like.

Maybe the food had been Bucky’s favorite part, too.

The sun was starting to set, and despite being forced to leave the goats behind thanks to closing, Y/n was still smiling. Bucky followed behind her, letting her lead him to whatever tree she deemed had the best peaches. Y/n delicately placed three more peaches in the pail he was carrying and then set her eyes on him, scrutinizing and somehow still playful. She stepped towards him and flicked the bill of his NASA ball cap, causing it to pop up and sit crooked on his head, and she grinned at the feigned look of annoyance he was giving her. 

“I can’t see your face when you wear a cap.”

She told him that as if it was an excuse for her assault on his favorite hat. 

“Well, I’m trying to hide my stupid looking hair.” 

She giggled at that. 

Y/n giggled, and the little bit of his heart that didn’t belong to her became hers. She leaned in, and if he was a stupider man, he would have thought she was going to kiss him by the look in her eyes and how close their lips were. Y/n slowly reached up and pulled his hat off his head only to plop it on top of her own. If she was his, he would have pulled her close and claimed those pretty lips, savoring the honeyed peach and candied ginger he knew was still lingering on her tongue as he took his sweet time tasting her. He would have kissed her until she was smiling and giggling and sighing in that soft way she does when she’s really happy. 

She wasn’t his. So he didn’t. 

But he would dream about what it would be like if she was. 

“Looks better on me anyway,” Y/n told him with a grin, wandering off towards the next row of trees. 

Bucky could only watch as she walked away with his hat and his heart. He mumbled quietly to the peaches hanging nearby, “Yes, it does.” 

After their outing, their day trips became something they both looked forward to. It wasn’t their norm. In the past, they spent a lot of their time watching movies, sitting in the quiet enjoying each other’s company, or Bucky would read while she played and worked on her music. But this new normal was good, too. It was nice to see more than the seafoam green walls of her living room, and he would do just about anything if it made her happy. 

“Hey.” 

Bucky looked up from his spot on the couch to find Y/n standing next to him in those black skinny jeans that make his knees weak and a plain white t-shirt. He knew she was wearing that black lace bra of hers because he could make out the imprint of the lace against the delicate fabric of her shirt, and he recognized the design from an embarrassing mix-up on laundry day. Bucky couldn’t seem to find his voice so he met her gaze, a question lingering in his own eyes as he waited for her to spill whatever she was so excited about.

“Wanna take me out?” 

He laughed softly and closed the book in his hand. He found it funny that she still asked him that. The answer would always be yes. For her, it’s always yes. 

“I’ll take you wherever you wanna go, Y/n.”

They went out to dinner that night. It wasn’t anything lavish, but it was the right amount of rowdy. There was a band playing out on the patio and the music carried through the open doors to where they shared a small booth inside, it was loud but not so they couldn’t talk. She ordered pasta because pasta always makes her happy, and Bucky tries his hardest to make sure she’s happy. They talked a lot, well, she talked a lot. That wouldn’t be so strange if she hadn’t been so closed off the last eight months. 

Bucky let her talk about how she wanted to see if the band had any shows soon because she wanted to see them play in a better venue, and she told him she liked lights the restaurant had above the tables -- a large beam with hanging Edison bulbs wrapped around them. She talked about the funny picture of him Sam posted on Instagram. Bucky had rolled his eyes at that. Sam had the bad habit of taking candid photos of everyone, and he always posted the worst ones of Bucky. This one happened to be from the worst possible angle; the camera caught his mouth hanging wide open as Bucky took a bite out half of a cheese pizza, folded over and covered in potato chips. Some people eat pizza that way, it wasn’t weird or funny, and Bucky stood by that. The night was perfect, but even perfection has a few cracks if you look hard enough. 

Someone had mistaken them for a couple that night, and Bucky was quick to correct them. He informed the older man and his wife that she was his best friend, she was taken by another lucky man. It was all platonic Bucky had said. Y/n didn’t say anything. She watched Bucky charm the older couple and gave them a friendly smile and a wave as they walked away. 

“Platonic,” she muttered quietly once it was just them again. 

Bucky looked up from his half-eaten burger and ketchup soaked fries, took in the furrow of her brow, and the frown sitting where a smile was beaming only a few moments ago, and his heart sank. 

None of that was good. 

“Yeah, Trouble.” 

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the wedding band she was still wearing without meaning to, and she quickly pulled her hand under the table. The rest of dinner was quiet, and they didn’t speak about it again. 

--

They never talked about what happened at the farm or dinner that night, but whatever bothered her the night at the restaurant hadn’t caused a setback in the healing process as Bucky had feared. It seemed forgotten. Bucky was thankful for that, and he was thankful for days like today. Y/n wanted to spend the day at home, relaxing. She informed him that today would be perfect if she could spend the day with just him. She might have said something like, “I just want to spend today curled up on the couch watching movies with you.” Not that Bucky memorized the way her voice sounded when she said that or anything. 

Three movies into their marathon and Y/n declared they needed a break. She was going to figure out something to eat for dinner, and Bucky wasn’t sure how it happened, but he found himself upstairs, staring at a ghost. The letters Steve gave him have been tucked away in a drawer of the old desk that sat in the corner of his room. They caused him more heartache than Steve intended Bucky was sure. Or maybe this was exactly what Steve wanted. This was his punishment for loving her. Bucky tapped the letter on the desk and ran a hand down his face, Bucky had hoped they would disappear, and he wouldn’t have to look at them again, but there all twelve sat. 

A heavy-handed fist pounded on the front door, startling Bucky out of his trance and his stomach dropped at the sound. He wasn’t down there with Y/n, not that she needed him to answer the door, and lord knows if she knew he dared to even think about babying her like that, she would chew him out for a week straight. Still, he didn’t like leaving her completely on her own, not yet. Bucky tossed the letter back in the drawer, and hastily closed it before trampling downstairs. 

Bucky made out a familiar voice as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Well, you never answer your phone anymore, and I figured you were spending all your time with-” 

Her father met Bucky’s eyes, and he grinned.

“-Bucky. Well, shit, son. It’s good to see you home.” 

Bucky grinned and took the hand that was extended towards him. He hadn’t expected it to be her father at the door; he thought Sam or maybe Natasha. It made sense, though. No one has come by to check on her since he’s been home. It was about time they started to get visitors, and Y/n didn’t answer her phone much anymore, so if someone wanted to talk to her showing up like this was their only choice. Bucky knew she wasn’t doing that on purpose, she had to put some things off in order to keep going, and there wasn’t any shame in that. 

He was doing the very same thing. 

Y/n was uncomfortable, whether her dad knew Bucky wasn’t sure. Bucky knew, though. She hates small talk, so Bucky knew when Y/n said she was starting the grill, she just wanted a moment to breathe without being judged; a minute so she could prepare mentally for a guest when she didn’t want one. Bucky could keep her dad busy until she was ready for idle chit chat and undoubtedly Invasive questions. How hard could it be to keep up a conversation and look for a small fire on the porch? 

He could handle it; smoke meant they had to run. It would be fine. 

“I thought you would’ve stopped by before now.” 

Bucky passed over an amber-colored bottle from the fridge, taking a beer for himself and leaned against the counter. It probably wasn’t proper or how Steve would entertain him, but Bucky wasn’t Steve. He didn’t even know why he was thinking about that. This was still Steve’s house and his wife, no matter how much Bucky wished this life was his. 

“Well, I knew she was in good hands. She has you.” 

He smiled but shook his head. “I appreciate that. She’s probably helping me more than I’m helping her.” 

“I doubt that.” 

Bucky caved under the weight of his stare and grudgingly nodded his head in agreement (or cession depending on who you ask). He has yet to win an argument with her dad, and Bucky wasn't about to try to now. 

"We haven't had a chance to talk since you've been home. I've meaning to come by.  Y'know how much we love Steve; we always have." 

Bucky tried to keep his face impassive, his grip on the bottle in his hand tightened, and he could feel his stomach-churning. Where the hell was this going? 

“He was a good man and a good husband. Took care of Y/n, made sure she was happy and was always respectful.” 

Bucky relaxed some when he realized he was simply praising his lost friend, and he nodded, taking a swig of his beer to wash his guilt down. Yeah, that was Steve. The polished side of the coin. The hero, not the broken sidekick.The better of the two. Bucky heard the speech before; it was one truth he knew well. 

“But I always thought it was going to be you.” 

Bucky froze and by some small miracle managed to keep his face blank as the older man went on, “Even up to the day of the wedding I had this feeling one of the girls were going to come running in, flowers in their hair to tell me she ran off with you and the wedding was off.” 

Bucky huffed. “She would never do that.” 

Her dad smiled and nodded his agreement. “She wouldn’t, but you would have.”

Bucky licked his lips and dropped his gaze to the counter, not risking the chance the truth could be seen in his eyes. He couldn’t lie and say he didn’t think about it after Steve proposed. That he didn’t let it play out like some romantic drama in his head where he got to her just in time and told her the truth, the whole real, painful truth, and she loved him back all along. 

But she didn’t. She loved Steve, still did. 

It was obvious any time Steve was mentioned or when something reminded her of him. He could see it written all over her how much she still loved Steve, and Bucky couldn’t blame her. He still loved Steve too. Despite everything, Bucky loved them both. 

“Give her time to work through her grief, and I’m guessing you need to deal with your own. Losing someone you love is never easy. The time will come though when you both can move on. I’m not saying you’ll do that together or that I think you should, but there may be the chance to in the future. If you were looking for hope of some sort, well, that’s the best I can offer you.” 

Y/n had found her way back into the kitchen, no smoke in sight and their conversation ended there. It wasn’t one Bucky wanted to continue anyway. Not when the hope he was offering didn’t exist. Bucky tried to leave them alone so she could spend alone time with her dad, but she gave him the look, the one that pleaded with him to stay and tugged on his heart. So he stayed by her side until the stars were shining brightly and they were alone once again. 

Bucky had been more careful with his affection after that. He was meaningful in his touch and waited to make sure he meant each one. Not that it was that hard to do, he meant every one. When it came to Y/n, everything Bucky did had meaning, a purpose. 

Y/n had started asking him to go on a walk around sunset every night. It was getting cooler out now that autumn was right around the corner, and she liked to watch how everything around them changed -- slowly almost without notice.

Their walk tonight felt different. Things had changed between them, when Bucky didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what they had changed to, but he wasn’t going to question it. He was afraid if he did, she would realize her mistake, and all these small moments between them would stop. Halfway through their walk, Y/n had let her hands hang by her side instead of staying crossed over her chest. When they were kids, she would do that when she wanted Bucky to hold her hand, or maybe he imagined that she ever truly wanted to hold his hand. 

Bucky never could figure her out.

He never knew what she meant when she would lean in close to whisper something in his ear and pull away just as fast. When she would tease him and give him that giggle that had his heart stopping and restarting like an old engine that was about to give out. He could never tell if she felt something beyond what they already were; if she wanted him the way he wanted her. 

Her street was just up the hill, and Bucky finally gave in to the screaming in his chest because feeling her hand in his once more was all he could think about. He slowly slid his fingertips down her forearm until he reached her palm. He risked a peek at her as he laced their fingers together and caught the smile she was trying to hide by dropping her head to gaze down to her white high-tops and his black boots. 

Bucky didn’t know if Y/n wanted to hold his hand, and at this point, he wasn’t sure if he knew her as well as he thought, but he sure did love that smile.

Previous // Next

[laceyeb]

But that gayporcelain post makes sense ONLY if a gay woman has never been attracted to a man in the past. If, however, a woman has been attracted to a man in the past (oh hey, Enrique!) then the possibility of being attracted to a man in the future as well is perfectly logical.

On the occasions I get messages like this, I’m always torn between ignoring/deleting/blocking or actually responding with the hope of educating someone. Though I very rarely expect to educate this person. It’s more a hope that I educate others and even myself.

What confuses me the most is that this person seems to think they know me better than I know myself. To be fair, I often feel as though I know very little about myself. I still know me better than any other person. I am the only person in the entire world who knows, understands, and gets to label my sexuality as I see fit. Just me. No one else. Why you think you get an opinion on that matter is beyond me.

Did you know that people can change as they grow and learn more about themselves and the world around them? Did you know that a person does not remain exactly the same throughout their whole entire lives? I know it sounds a little crazy to think that humans can live for many decades and not be the same person they have always been, but it’s true. When I was about 8 or 9, I was determined that I was going to be a mountain climbing artist when I grew up. As in I was going to climb mountains and paint pictures while I was up there. Shockingly enough, that is not where my life has taken me and it never will. The fact that I once thought that was my life’s purpose does not mean I have the desire or expectation of that happening in the future. It’s not lying dormant inside me just waiting for me to stumble upon the right mountain and then have me throw everything else away to chase this dream I had 20 years ago. When I was a kid, I would not eat mashed potatoes if my life depended on it. I wanted my bedroom walls to be Nickelodeon slime green. I couldn’t sleep with my blinds open. None of these things are still true about me. I have changed. And just because they were once true, they are not suddenly going to become true again just because these things used to be a part of me. Sure, that might happen in some cases. Like I might someday pick up an old hobby I used to enjoy years ago and it makes me happy again because it was once part of my life. But that doesn’t happen with everything. I’d go so far as to say that doesn’t happen with most things.

My past might determine my future to some degree. I work where I work now because I chose to come to this area for college. If I hadn’t already been here and familiar with my current place of work, I would not have ended up with a job here. But those are events that occur as a result of other events. Uncomplicated things. Those aren’t feelings and emotions. My past does not dictate my future. It does not say that things have to be a certain way.

I could sit here and make a list of all the boys I liked growing up. It’s a long list. At least 10 off the top of my head, one of whom was my boyfriend on two separate occasions. Enrique is just the tip of the iceberg. (By the way, you’re the only one still hung up on him because I haven’t thought about him for at least a year now.) None of this invalidates how I feel and/or choose to identify right now. If I felt so inclined, I would show you the numerous journal entries I have written on exactly this topic. Trying to decide what I’m “allowed” to call myself based on the types of feelings, experiences, and attractions I have. (Spoiler alert: I’m allowed to call myself anything I damn well please.) I choose to identify as a lesbian because that is how I understand my own feelings. Honestly, I probably could still identify as bisexual. But I still have not yet figured out if that’s because of genuine attraction I feel or if it’s what I think I’m supposed to feel. Which was actually THE WHOLE POINT of that post I reblogged for literally no other reason than because I liked what it said. However, I identify as a lesbian because I know that I see myself with a woman in the future and not with a man. Relationships, marriage, sex (which is a whole other identity I’ve been trying to figure out lately and a story for another day), etc. All of that is with a woman. None of that is with a man. And yet I still feel some sort of attraction towards men. It’s not attraction I feel any desire whatsoever to act on, which is why I consider myself a lesbian.

But here’s the really fucked up thing about attraction. a) There are so many different kinds. This is what has really messed me up in trying to better understand myself. Physical attraction, sexual attraction, romantic attraction, aesthetic attraction, etc. etc. etc. All of those can be different things and I can feel different kinds for different people. But that’s too complicated to sit down and explain to anyone just for the hell of it. So therefore b) I always find myself feeling the need to defend the attraction I experience. Like because I’m a lesbian, god forbid I ever acknowledge that a man is attractive even though I have eyes and they fucking work the same as they always have. God forbid I ever say that I once had a boyfriend. Obviously these things wouldn’t make me a real lesbian. BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER. These things do not invalidate who I am right now.

And yet I find myself doing stupid shit like defending myself to people like you.

I’m not out at work. I don’t exactly hide and I think a few of my coworkers at this point just assume, which is totally fine with me because it beats having to find an opening in a conversation at lunch to be like, “Surprise. I’m gay.” (I have not yet found that opening.) But I find myself doing and saying (and not doing and saying) certain things so that people won’t assume I’m not gay. I don’t want to give anyone a reason to doubt me. That old boyfriend recently joined the military and I happened to see it on facebook on my phone while at lunch and I must have said something under my breath that made someone else ask me what I said. I told them, “Oh, an old friend just joined the military. That’s pretty cool.” Something like that. I made a deliberate choice to say friend instead of boyfriend. Even though it’s been almost 10 years since we were together and I have absolutely no emotional attachment to that anymore. And when someone at work will make some comment like, “Oh I always liked that actor. He’s so attractive.” And I will intentionally choose not to make a comment because if I say that guy is attractive, could someone use that against me some day? It’s ALL stupid, but these are legitimate things I do because of people like you who try to subtly tear down everything I have done over the past 3+ years to get to where I am today.

And you know what? I’m the lucky one. I’m lucky these are the worst things I endure. So then I feel guilty complaining about these minuscule problems when it could be so much worse. Even though it’s not a competition and I can still feel the way I feel without taking away the pain someone else might feel.

This was cathartic. Most of this was off topic, but I’ve been getting more work emails these past two days of summer vacation than I get during a regular work day and it’s doing wonders for my anxiety, so I appreciated the distraction.

[merak-zoran]

A Dumb White Person’s Opinion on the Grammys

Quite a long time ago I decided to go ahead and accept that my taste in music leans towards the unlistenable. My favorite artists ever are Tom Waits, Underworld and Laurie Anderson. I also love Eisturzende Neubauten, especially their extremely long, rambling songs that involve a lot of screaming. I really like a lot of weird shit. One of my frustrations with streaming services is that they don't really include a lot of my favorite music. I also love Susumu Hirasawa, Geinoh Yamashirogumi, Yoko Kanno, Das Ich, and, up until two years ago, Combichrist. (I had to ditch Combichrist as they came out as a bunch of fucking gross racists)

Laurie Anderson is a performance artist who has been in the business for over forty years. She's made full length visual performances, does a lot of spoken word storytelling, creates her own instruments (the Tape Bow violin is her most famous invention) and talks a lot about feminism and how her views have changed. She is of course, now most famous for being Lou Reed's widow.

Underworld writes long, layered music, usually with Karl Hyde's bizarre poetry over the top. Some of the lyrics have such deep meaning to me, others are just word salad, and frankly I don't really care because I love it all.

This is all to say that my taste is weird and I'm comfortable with that. I am also not one of those people who can tune out music. We play music at work and for the most part, it aggravates the shit out of me. We stick to this one station that plays a lot of pop songs and I've come to the realization that I just really don't like pop music. Modern or otherwise. I wish I did! I really do, it would make working a lot easier.

So, back in April, Beyonce released Lemonade. I always love it when Beyonce does something because my dash is filled with Black women talking excitedly about her work. (this is not sarcasm, I actually find people’s excitement contagious) And I was seeing GIFsets and essays about the visual album everywhere. “I like performance art” I thought, so I found a way to watch it and loaded it up. I was expecting to watch a few minutes of it, as I started it at two in the morning.

My friends, I am terrible at watching movies at home. I play with my phone, I get distracted, I have to take breaks, I pause it to talk about it with the Hus, I fidget and rock.

I watched the whole thing, absolutely glued to my couch.

I recognize fully that Lemonade was not made for me. It is a Black tribute to Black womanhood and the many facets of. I felt lucky watching it, like I was allowed to see something I don't normally. I felt moved by the visuals, struck by the poetry, just flat out amazed by the whole thing.

The Grammys are stupid. The committee is stupid. They consistently honor artists who do not deserve the accolades. Do you guys know that song, Walking in Memphis? It's a pretty famous song, gets played a lot across a multitude of genre radio. The Grammys awarded the singer with Best New Artist.

What was his name? Do you remember?

They gave Beck an award. He's... Look, I don't like his music and I don't like him as a person, so I'm a little biased here, but his shit is really obnoxious.

But none of that matters because the Grammys matter to people. They matter because we made them matter. And when I, a person with shitty taste, can see that yet again a Black woman was snubbed and the award given to a mediocre white person, that's pretty telling. I'm not going to go into all the ways that Lemonade was important. It’s not for me to say, anyway. I'll leave it up to you to read the countless pieces written by Black women on what Lemonade meant. But that was a snub and a pretty fucking shitty one.

(I say all this as someone who doesn't like Adele, so take this for what it's worth.)  

But I also say this as someone who really doesn't like pop music, and yet I will seek out Beyonce because her art is really that good. Adele seems like a nice enough person I guess, but she’s no visionary. She’s singing bland and safe songs, nothing that makes you think or question or give a shit about anything. It’s just... unseasoned mashed potatoes. 

Final note: I read a lot last night from Black writers who spoke at length about what Adele’s win means and what it means to snub Beyonce. I’m not interested in stealing anyone’s words, so all these opinions I expressed up here are mine and mine alone. 

ETA: I meant to say this in the beginning. I’m actually not going to reblog a lot of last night’s discussion because much of it used intracommunity language.