crochet potholders

anonymous asked:

Imagine Bucky, after all is said and done, decides he just can't live in society with other people. He doesn't trust himself, doesn't trust the government, doesn't trust anyone.

Bucky sent postcards sometimes, landscape pictures usually from middle America; they came maybe once a month, sometimes twice. Sometimes less. A hidden microphone in their living room had been the last straw back then, and Steve could remember exactly the furious expression on Bucky’s face when he’d looked at it, crushed to slivers in his hand. Steve couldn’t follow Bucky when he left, or maybe it was that he wouldn’t; he couldn’t remember anymore, and anyway, it was long enough now that ‘normal’ had become a line or two in the mail, little gas station missives that stretched the time between weeks, into months and longer.

They’d never been quite able to leave the other. That thread was too thick then, and it was now still. Even so, when a card arrived with an invitation it sat on Steve’s kitchen counter for a month until he got over the shock of looking at it.

Now it was propped up on his dashboard, the glossy picture fading in the sun.

Bucky’s directions were cryptic, rambling and purposefully incoherent, but Steve eventually found him in central South Dakota, in a small ranch style house far, far outside the nearest town, tucked into a grove of trees off a dirt road. The property was hidden in a natural dip in the earth that followed a creek, and circled in a tidy fence - it was subtle, but Steve could feel the crackle of electricity when he pushed through the gate - innocuous and almost entirely invisible along the long flat stretches of prairie. Bucky had no mailbox, but the grass in the area that served as a front lawn was trimmed, if slightly overgrown with dandelions in the corners.

He knocked twice on the door, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Bucky called from behind him, “Hi Steve” before rounding the south corner of the house. He was holding a chicken under one arm. He looked thinner than when Steve had seen him last (years now, had it really been?) but his hair was tied back out of his face and he looked healthy, right arm and face deeply tanned. He was sweating through his shirt. Understandable - Steve was too; it was pushing 95 degrees, and Bucky’d clearly been working, not sitting in an air conditioned pickup truck.

“Hey,” Steve said, staring at the chicken.

“Put your stuff inside,” Bucky said, jerking his head toward the door. “You know the door code. I’ve got to put her back in the coop.” He gently bobbled the hen, who chortled, pecking at his metal fingers, and disappeared back behind the house before Steve gathered his wits - and his backpack - from the truck and headed indoors.

Keep reading

every now and then a post i made back in like 2012 where i called something my grandma made ‘knitting’ instead of crochet gets re-circulated with really annoyed reblogs of ppl chewing me out for it even though i edited the mistake 4 years ago let me tell u something i learned over the course of these 4 years

ppl who crochet will LET U KNOW if you get the two confused is what i learned all this time later like u think they’d be like my grandma and be all 'ohhoho its actually crochet! :3 they look similar but its different!’ no from what i can tell its  all 'you cant tell the difference between knitting and crochet how about i cross stitch my dick to your eyes you fucking fool you complete shit idiot cant tell yarn and thread apart i bet dont ever have children so unfortunate enough to bear the burden of a parent that can’t tell an afghan from a quilt makes me sick i’ll crochet you floral potholders in hell you total hack novice shit"