#not sponsored by home depot

[juniperr-248]

diary of the whimsical: 01

today, the techies and i worked a ton on the set for “The Addams Family” and i’m so excited! I wish the house was black, but the brown will show more definition with the colored stage lights. Tomorrow, i will work on making some fake knives for Wednesday’s “torture board” thing lol. yippee!!

the portraits were done by a friend of mine, she did an amazing job! once they’re all hung i will get some better pictures so you guys can see :) i also found the secret paint room with a relic of a sink… the amount of paint on this sucker was insane

(i could probably sit inside of it cross legged and fit. yes i was having these thoughts as i washed brushes lol)

[lesbianjudasiscariot]

finally a good sponsor 🍎

[mollywog]

A Grow back together story titled ‘It Can Be Good Again’ told in three parts - chapters named: Good, Better, Best

(Inspiration below the cut)

[grunge-mermaid]

Me: what is this feature for?

Google: BUY SHIT NOW! BUY EVERYTHING!!!

Me: but you haven’t answered my question???

google: YOU MUST CONSUME!

[seat-safety-switch]

When I was in high school, I fell in with a bad crowd. It's probably happened to you or someone you love, too. Those government PSA commercials that are supposed to keep you away from the habit just tell you about all the fun the so-called "addicts" are having. At first, you start doing it at parties, to impress the older kids. Before you know it, totally hooked, doing it four or five times a day.

Yeah. I was lumberjacking, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Now, I've been clean for many years. Haven't felled a tree in ages. Got the medallion to prove it. Do I still feel that familiar pang when I walk by the novelty chainsaw aisle in Home Depot? You bet your ass I do. Support makes all the difference, and if you're similarly afflicted and want to get out, we can get you help, too.

Couple of years ago, I went with a few of the other sponsors to a lumber-carving competition. It's sick how these dealers rope otherwise decent people in by calling this perverted addiction "art," as if any right-thinking artist would be up to their eyeballs in wood shavings on a February ski weekend trying to carve a cartoon beaver out of a chunk of elm. Until the government and the cops – who are both in the pockets of Big Lumber, I've seen what built their houses – do something about it, the next best thing is to be there when one of their victims wants to end the cycle.

If you're one of those people, you need to reach out. We're here and we understand exactly why your house is full of weird chisels, and why you hide the fence mallet from your kids out of shame. When you're ready to stop smelling like someone set a gas station pine-tree air freshener on fire with approximately $1700 in flannel clothing, call us. We'll do whatever it takes to get you out from under the foot of the national forestry reserve and their onerous permits.

[ncity-world]

indycar driver having to say the full car sponsors is so hilarious to me. like yeah i just crashed but the macdonalds happy meal, home depot number 55 was doing so great

[coimbrabertone]

Bottlegate and Cola Wars, I Can't Take it Anymore!

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blogpost about the Viceroy rule in NASCAR, and one thing I cut from it was a brief discussion of the Cola Wars in NASCAR. This week, I'm tackling that issue, along with its sports drink offshoot: the bottle wars between Gatorade and Powerade.

So, to review from the Viceroy blog, while NASCAR banned sponsors that clashed with series sponsors, it did not ban competing sponsorships among different teams - in fact, it encouraged it. Thus, Pepsico got involved with Hendrick Motorsports quite famously, initially with a number of Jeff Gordon Pepsi cars, and more recently with Mountain Dew cars from the likes of Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Chase Elliott.

That came to an end after 2020, and come 2023, Chase Elliott would be scooped up by the competition: the Coca-Cola Family of Drivers.

Peaking in the late 90s/early 2000s, the Coke family once consisted of (circa 2003/2004) Steve Park, Dale Earnhardt Jr., Michael Waltrip, Bobby Labonte, Tony Stewart, Bill Elliott, Ricky Rudd, John Andretti, Kyle Petty, Kevin Harvick, Dale Jarrett, Elliott Sadler, Greg Biffle, Kurt Busch, and Jeff Burton.

That's the entire three-car lineup of Dale Earnhardt Inc., both JGR cars, both Petty Enterprises cars, both Yates cars, the Wood Brothers car, Kevin Harvick who succeeded the late Dale Earnhardt at RCR, and 60% of the Roush Racing lineup.

Coke wasn't fucking around.

Unfortunately, Pepsi had Jeff Gordon.

Well, they also sponsored Jeremy Mayfield with Mountain Dew at this time, plus Pepsi/Gatorade had deals with Jeff's Hendrick Motorsports teammates (most prominently Jimmie Johnsons) as well as the other two Roush drivers in the form of Matt Kenseth and Mark Martin, plus Ryan Newman of Penske, but Jeff Gordon is the most relevant one for the first part of this story.

That's because the Cola Wars in NASCAR came to a head at Daytona International Speedway on July 3rd, 2004 for the Pepsi 400.

Coca-Cola was promoting their new Coca-Cola C2 (essentially a soda halfway between Coke and Diet Coke by the sounds of it) brand, and they sponsored an armada of cars in this race:

John Andretti in the DEI #1 Chevy,

Greg Biffle (who won the 2003 Pepsi 400) in the Roush National Guard #16 Ford.

Tony Stewart in the Joe Gibbs Racing Home Depot #20 Chevy.

Ricky Rudd in the Wood Brothers #21 Ford.

Kevin Harvick in the RCR GM Goodwrench #29 Chevy.

Kurt Busch in the Roush Sharpie #97 Ford.

Bill Elliott in his self-owned #98 Dodge.

and Jeff Burton in the Roush #99 Ford.

Coke had eight bullets in the gun to steal the thunder right out from Pepsi's flagship race - in what Pepsico pointed out was a blatant marketing stunt - however, like I said...Pepsi had Jeff Gordon.

John Andretti would crash out, Greg Biffle would end up a lap down, Jeff Burton in twenty-sixth, Bill Elliott eighteenth, Ricky Rudd seventeenth, Kevin Harvick fourteenth, while Tony Stewart in fifth and Kurt Busch in fourth were closest to pulling off Coke's marketing upset.

Unfortunately, none of them could stop Jeff Gordon from winning from pole in his DuPont/Pepsi #24 for Hendrick Motorsports.

It was the biggest moment of the Cola Wars, but 2004 had another Pepsi vs. Coke battle going on at the same time: Bottlegate.

You see, despite the Viceroy rule normally stopping this kind of stuff, in 2004, NASCAR decided to have Gatorade (Pepsi) sponsor victory lane, while Powerade (Coke) bottles would be placed on the roof of the winning cars. How the hell was this allowed to happen? Well, despite the France family running both NASCAR and the International Speedway Corporation, at this time, NASCAR had a deal with Coke and ISC had a deal with Pepsi - the same people in the guise of two different companies signed deals with two rival brands. Of course this was going to cause issues.

Pepsi did not want their drivers in their victory lane photographed with bottles of a Coca-cola owned sports drink.

Thus, Bottlegate began.

Matt Kenseth, Mark Martin, Ryan Newman, Jeff Gordon, and Jimmie Johnson were all sponsored by Pepsi, thus, as soon as they got out of the car in victory lane, they would punch and/or sweep the bottles off the roof, instantly getting Coke products out of the pictures...which pissed off Coca-cola a lot.

They were paying good money just to see drivers knock over their product!

So, after the Pepsi 400, with the aforementioned embarrassment of Coca-cola, NASCAR made a rule banning drivers from punching the bottles off the cars.

Coke drivers won the next two races with Tony Stewart winning at Chicagoland and Kurt Busch winning at New Hampshire.

But then Pepsi's Jimmie Johnson won at Pocono on August 1st.

Well, instead of punching the bottles, Jimmie calmly got out of the car, received a giant cardboard Lowe's sign from someone on his crew, and placed it in front of the Powerade bottles.

I love this stuff, this is generational pettiness over here, the Coke guys and the Pepsi guys each trying to make the other brand look bad, it's great!

Unfortunately, Coke and NASCAR didn't seem to think so, because Jimmie Johnson was fined $10,000 over the sign incident.

So yeah, this was NASCAR in the 2000s, where corporate money was everywhere and there were enough sponsorships going around that the drivers, the tracks, and the series all had separate deals to have to worry about. Hell, three Roush drivers were with Coke and the other two were with Pepsi - compare that to nowadays where the vending machines at RFK Racing are from Fastenal.

How the hell am I supposed to drink a wrench?

[thecryptidbard]

Will I ever, ever in my life have the kind of disposable income to spend $300 on The Skeleton™️? Absolutely, unquestionably not.

However. OTHER people do. And then for FREE I get to wander the earth looking for this man wherever I go, occasionally stumbling upon him and getting to experience one of the truest joys there is on this earth—unexpected Big Boney Guy all dressed up and posed regardless of season.

HE’S BACK!!!!!

[audioexorcisms]

SPONSORED BY HOME DEPOT🔨🔩⚒️

[astxrwar]

blunt force trauma [2/x]

SYNOPSIS: traumatized!Bucky x Brainwashed!supersoldier!reader.

Rating: M

Word Count: 5k

Content Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Check out the tag "fic; blunt force trauma" for Content + ao3 chapter notes for extras if you're interested. <3

Read on AO3

[1] [ 2 ] [3]

It’s the first thing he realizes when he wakes up the next morning; he’s going to have to fix that giant fuck-off hole in the wall.

Bucky only remembers after he’d gone through the convoluted and absolutely unnecessary process of the Home Depot self-checkout— gloves don’t work on the stupid fucking touchscreens they have now, and neither do half of his fingers, which is just such bullshit, god, everything was easier when you could just hand some guy actual money and be done with it— that the government tracks his purchases. The military, technically. Parole condition, again, since they’re paying his rent and also all of his bills, and because, he suspects, him having an actual job would limit the amount of time he’s available as a state-sponsored superweapon of last resort. 

“What’d you get at the hardware store?”

Doc’s tone is light, nonchalant, and painfully fucking contrived. A nail gun, he thinks about saying, and some rope, and duct tape, and, oh— a band saw. Whatever he can think of that sounds the most like he might be planning to commit murder; just to be an asshole. But she already knows exactly what he bought, courtesy of the modern-day surveillance state dystopia that already pretty much existed even with that HYDRA mission falling flat. 

What he bought was a seven-foot oak two-by-four, a C-clamp, wood glue, and twelve 3” galvanized screws.

Nothing villainous, nothing remotely illegal , or whatever the hell these people think. That support in the wall is fucked, but he’d done some amount of woodworking, just as an odd summer job way back when he was fifteen or so, and he knows enough, he thinks, to be able to fix it on his own. Even if he doesn’t, tough shit, he can figure it out— he’s not going to explain to his fucking super why there’s a massive hole in the drywall and the beam’s been split nearly in half. No bullshit excuse he could come up with for any of that even came close to sounding like it’d be believable, and, besides, he kind of likes having something to do. Progress that’s visible. A goal that’s concrete. 

“The TV stand,” he lies. “It— broke.” He’d worked out the details while he was on the subway headed here, decided on exactly when to pause and hesitate like he’s admitting to something, the points where he’d inject some moments of performative vulnerability into it, not too much, just enough, he hopes, to get everyone off his fucking back. 

Doc’s eyebrows raise briefly. She taps her pen against the pad. “Broke how, James,” she prods, on fucking cue.

He hesitates, on purpose, and looks away from her, also on purpose, and then says, pointedly monotone, “I had a nightmare.” 

She leans forwards, just a little bit— she’s probably not even aware of the fact that she had, the way most people tend to be oblivious to their tells— and he knows she’s interested. Thinks this is something. “Walk me through how those are connected.”

The implication is pretty fucking clear, because she already knows he sleeps on the floor in the living room more often than in his own bed, and she knows that he has a temper, a violent one, one that he controls with precision except in circumstances where he doesn’t have to. Like when he’s alone. But she wants to hear him say it; so many appointments end up like this, the both of them already knowing whatever unspoken thing that’s been brought up, and her just— obsessed with the actual speaking. It’s annoying, but at least it’s fucking predictable. “I had a nightmare,” he repeats, not even having to fake the irritation, “And I was in the living room, and I woke up, and I was— in a bad mood. So I broke it.”

She writes something down on the notepad and he has to restrain the urge to roll his eyes. This is not the first time he’s talked about breaking shit when he’s angry. There is fucking– nothing new here. 

“So you’re planning on fixing it, then?” She says when she’s done, studying him. 

He grits his teeth. Again with the fucking obsession with stating the obvious. “It’s new. I don’t want to just— throw it out.”

She stares at him for a moment longer, her expression too relaxed to be vetting the merit of what he’s said; more like she’s contemplating it. Eventually she blinks and shifts in her chair, crossing one leg over another and sets the pad and the pen on the edge of her desk, seemingly satisfied. “That sounds like quite the project,” she remarks, in that tone he can never quite place, whether it’s approving or patronizing or something else altogether. “I think this has the real potential to be a valuable lesson for you, James. Fixing something you've broken instead of discarding it– it can be a therapeutic experience. It might help you work through some of the guilt you’re feeling.”

He doesn’t bother to stop himself from gritting his teeth at that; it would have annoyed him even if he hadn’t been lying.

~

Bucky fixes the beam, hammers the splintered wood back into a vaguely-straight line and seals the cracks with wood glue and attaches the new two-by-four to it with the galvanized screws; it’s called sistering, what he does, and the last time he’d done this shit was something like 1934. It’s what you do when the alternative would be jacking up the wall and tearing down the entire thing, which would be a massive fucking pain and require more tools and more expertise than he has.

He doesn’t see her again between then and his next appointment.

Doc grills him about his ‘project’ the next time he sees her and he says some stupid shit like yeah, it’s going fine, I feel better, I guess, about not throwing it out. And I was thinking I kinda don’t want to break it again, ‘cause I put a lot of work into fixing it. 

Doc looks satisfied with that. It’s not entirely a lie; he knows, now, what this kid is capable of. Next time he really will be more careful.

He makes sure, when he gets around to buying the spackle and the mesh and the paint to patch the drywall, that he pays in cash.

~

The second time she’s a whole lot more sneaky about the breaking-and-entering. 

Bucky wonders, briefly, if this is how it felt for his targets to come home and see him there, straight-backed and still like a statue, just– waiting. Not blinking, hardly even breathing, motionless and so utterly detached that it was hard to tell if he’d been there for hours, or if it had only been minutes. 

This time, he knows better than to try to get close. 

He’d been at the package store, picked up a case of beer, but she’s in the kitchen again and between him and the fridge, so he decides to just set it down by the door. He makes his way into the living room empty-handed, arms raised like last time. He doesn’t go further than the single armchair about halfway, just kind of rotates it around so it’s facing the kitchen, and sits in it. Focuses real hard on looking– safe. Nonthreatening. Whatever the fuck that even means.

“Sorry,” she says, after a while, the word kind of– slurred, like her tongue isn’t moving right in her mouth, thick and clumsy and unused to the dexterity speaking requires. “About your– wall. I didn’t– I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says, after a while. “I fixed it.”

She stares at him, for a long time, not even blinking. He stares back, unfazed.

All of this feels like the weirdest kind of deja vu– like how sometimes in his nightmares he watches himself, in the third person, like he’s an observer in his own memories, or sometimes even from the eyes of victims or bystanders, even though that’s impossible and doesn’t really make sense. That’s what it feels like, now, kind of, except where the nightmares feel visceral and frightening and have him jolting awake drenched in sweat and violently sick, right now he’s– fine.

It’s one of those nightmares, except all of the pieces are cut up and rearranged and the details are all disorganized, like somebody’s telling a story all out of order. Like the cinema, back when he was a kid; he had had this friend before he’d dropped out of high school who worked in the back room at the theater, and he’d gotten to watch, one time, and see how the movies that look like they play out as one cohesive and unbroken event when you’re sitting in the audience are really just a whole bunch of smaller reels, switched out between two different projectors to give the illusion of continuity. Right now, if this were a movie, all of those reels would be all jumbled up, and whoever’s running the show keeps forgetting how to time the switch between the projectors right; things keep overlapping, getting lost. Remixed.

“You want to maybe tell me what’s going on?” he says eventually.

“I–” She finally blinks, then, and tears her eyes away, looks somewhere over his shoulder, glassy and sightless. “I don’t– I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Bucky shifts on the chair as he watches her, leaning back, resting his elbows on the arms, trying to appear casual, relaxed, which is– not how he feels. He’s not stressed out, really, but that same thing is going on with his awareness, like the last time; everything is sharp and bright and detailed, and he’s here, he’s present, he’s not caught up in his own thoughts or in his memories or in the past, separated from everything else in his head like he’s cordoned off from it all by this thick pane of glass. “Okay, well, what do you know?”

Here is what he knows: when he’d gone back through the memory, some of the patterns she’d used when they’d fought were HYDRA, but a lot of them weren’t. He thinks she’s probably been brainwashed, but it’s hard to tell to what extent, and even harder to tell why. She knows him, and he’d bet that’s why she keeps coming back here.

She doesn’t answer the question. She still hasn’t moved, not even to shift her weight, like she can’t feel the way her body must be getting sore from standing in the same place for a while. Normal people, they fidget a fucking lot. Bucky’s not as bad as he used to be, so he moves, now, occasionally, aware of his muscles complaining if he’s stayed still for too long, but it’s infrequent enough to make people uncomfortable. 

He figures it probably doesn’t make her uncomfortable. He figures even if it did, deep down– she probably wouldn’t even know.

“You know me,” he presses, after the silence has drawn out for a long time. “You knew my name.”

She looks back at him again. Even the way her eyes move is strange, unnatural, too sharp and too sudden and too intent. People don’t realize this, either, but when they look at stuff, they never really look at it; the eyes move, back and forth, just a little bit. Compensating for the fact that the human field of vision is actually pretty narrow, filling in the bits in the periphery. When she looks at things, there’s no movement. Just this unwavering precision. That happens to him sometimes, still. 

“Do you know your name?” he asks her, and she flinches. 

That thing that he’d seen the last time, like a spark, or a glint, or something, when she’d been about to do some serious damage to herself in order to escape and he’d let her go, when she’d recognized that– it’s back. 

Absently, Bucky thinks about Romania. This apartment is way fucking nicer than the one he’d had then; a one-bedroom, new, light fixtures that all work and really great water pressure and a kitchen that’d been remodeled just last year. In Bucharest, he’d lived in a studio, with windows that didn’t latch and leaked when it rained and hot water only sometimes. 

“How about you just tell me your name,” he says, more firmly than the first time. “You know it, it’s always the first thing to come back.”

That’s not really true. The first things are feelings, but they’re fleeting and sometimes wrong. A name is a concrete thing. It’s a fact. You can write it down and you can say it aloud and you can hold onto it.

She jerks back like he’d slapped her. “How do you know that,” she replies, still flat, but wavering a little; so little that if he didn’t know , he probably wouldn’t notice.

James Buchanan Barnes. He’d carved it with a pocket-knife into the floorboards of that studio apartment, above where he’d hidden his go-bag underneath, in the spots where water damage had rotted it, made the wood soft, like carving into skin. It was insurance. To make sure he couldn’t forget. He’d stare at it, when his nightmares would keep him awake, and the letters would float out of focus and distort and stop making sense, like when you say the same word over and over, until it means nothing.

Eventually, there were other things, too. 

Your mother’s name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Bucky says. “Tell me your name.”

That spark in her eyes is bigger, flickering, like watching a candle in a windowsill. “I– I don’t–”

“You can tell me,” he repeats, louder, “You know it. You��ve said it, haven’t you? Out loud, to yourself, and I bet you’ve written it down somewhere, you know it, I know you do–”

His voice rises in volume and lowers in pitch without him meaning for it to, and something inside of her flips like a switch, that candle stops being a candle and it flashes bright and wild like a molotov cocktail or a fucking car bomb, like flames licking up the side of a building, the veneer of neutrality cracked open and something vicious and violent and vulnerable underneath and whatever of that is still left inside of him rears up to press at the surface of his skin and he thinks yes, come on, just fucking say it–

Her eyes flash and harden and her mouth presses into this trembling line and she turns and disappears down the hallway.

“Oh– god damn it,” Bucky says, the tension he hadn’t even registered collecting in his body giving out, his back slumping into the chair cushions. 

He sits there for a long time before he finally gets up and goes down the hall to his bedroom, where he stares at the open window, and then pulls it shut.

~

Bucky sleeps in his bed, that night, and not in the living room. He doesn’t have nightmares, and he doesn’t even really wake up on the hour like he’d expected to. Instead, he dreams. In his dream, he comes home to a darkened apartment, case of beer in hand, and he walks the length of the living room and he opens the fridge and sets it inside. When he closes the door, she’s standing behind it, and dream-him jerks like he’s been startled, though he doesn’t feel any actual fear.

She has a gun to his head. She’d been in civilian clothes both times he’d seen her, but in his dream she’s wearing black. Body armor.

“Sorry,” she tells him. Like she’s talking about the hole in the wall.

Her finger tightens around the trigger.

He closes his eyes.

Bucky wakes up before it goes off. His bedroom is flooded with morning light and his heart is beating slow and steady and he feels, strangely, fine. 

~

Doc stops halfway through a back-and-forth about whether or not he’d consider actually picking up woodworking as a hobby– you need hobbies, James, it’s part of being a well-adjusted human being, to which he’d flashed a not-smile and said back, I thought the reason I come here twice a month is because I’m not one, Doc.

She’d looked at him like a parent looks at a child who’s being snarky on purpose, which– fuck that, honestly. He’d been alive probably before her parents were even born.

And then she’d just leaned towards him and tapped her pen against her notebook and stared, the way normal people stare, her eyes fidgeting back and forth, not staying anywhere for long, flicking over his expression and his posture and the way that he’s holding himself in the too-small annoyingly-uncomfortable chair–

“You’re in a good mood,” she says, and then, as an afterthought. “Relatively speaking.”

Bucky scowls at her. “I'm not in a– good mood,” he says. 

She raises an eyebrow at him like she thinks he’s full of shit. “I’d like to discuss it. Your mood. Good or otherwise.”

The scowl deepens. It’s real fucking aggravating, the way that she always prefaces shit with I’d like to and let’s try and if you would as if he has any choice in the matter. As if this isn’t a session he’s forced into attending because the alternative is– many years in prison. Many. So many.

He closes his eyes for a second. He has a headache starting; he always gets fucking headaches, here. “It’s nothing, I don’t know,” he says. She stares some more, the way she does when she’s not going to say shit, the threat of talk or I’m court-ordering you back to sessions more frequently than either of us want to be seeing each other lingering unspoken in the deeply annoying silence.

Bucky makes some vague frustrated noise and then does what he usually does when she gets like this; racks his brain and makes something up. 

“I met someone,” he says finally, which is true. “They’re a veteran,” which is also true. Kind of. “I’ve seen them a lot,” not really, three times isn’t that much, but the context kind of makes it feel like it is. “And I guess I’ve just been thinking about them. We’ve started– talking. Kind of. Not really friends, but– acquaintances. We have–” he shifts on his chair, crosses an ankle over his knee, thinks, again, about how the government could buy furniture that doesn’t suck. “We have a lot in common.”

Doc blinks at him; she’d sat forwards, the way she does when she’s pressing him, and she leans back, now, which he’s sure makes him palpably relax. “A veteran,” she repeats, pensive, “World War 2?”

He scoffs. “No.” 

“Korea?”

“No.” 

She gives him this look, which he figures is something along the lines of would it kill you to just answer the obvious question here?

Bucky sighs, long-suffering. “Recent. I don’t– it hasn’t come up, but they’re pretty young, so.”

Doc makes some approving sound and nods and writes something in her notebook. He hates that fucking notebook. Sometimes he thinks about breaking into the office and setting it on fire, but the risk-to-reward ratio, he figures, just isn’t worth it. He’d probably go to prison. Or worse, he’d be sent all the way back to visits twice a week. 

“If they’re around your age–” he opens his mouth to say something technically probably obnoxious, but she shoots him a sharp look and says, “Your physical age, James,” before he can– “--it’s likely to have been Iraq or Afghanistan.”

She glances up and to the left of him– the clock. Great; they have to be almost done. “Both of those wars were– complex. Most of my clients served in one or the other,” she says. “Quite a large number of soldiers who were simply following orders found themselves responsible for the deaths of innocents; I’m not surprised you have things in common. I think it would be beneficial for you to make friends you can relate to.”

What he thinks: 

I don’t have anything in common with people who chose to follow orders. People who chose to do-- anything.

What he says, instead; “What, you want me to make friends with them?”

She sets the pad and the pen down on the table beside her chair. “This is one of those things that’s more about what you want, James,” she says eventually.

“I don’t know what I want,” he replies.

~

It’s been a week, since he saw her; she’s not there, when Bucky steps into his apartment after taking the subway back from therapy. He wonders for a second if he’d fucked up the last time, scared her off, but he knows, objectively, it’s too early to consider the possibility. Not like he could do anything about it, anyway; he doesn’t have the connections to be able to figure out who she is without a name.

That night he has the dream again. The apartment, darkened and silent. The bright, washed-out white of the open fridge, setting the case of beer on the second shelf, the inside otherwise empty. Spotless. Like a prop. Dreams are weird.

He knows what’s going to happen when he closes the door, this time. For a second it looks like there’s something red on her arm, at the shoulder, but when he looks harder for it there’s nothing, just unbroken black.

“Sorry,” she tells him, again, only this time she keeps going. “I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

“It’s okay,” he says; this is new, too. “I know. It’s going to be okay.”

Her finger tightens around the trigger in slow-motion, and he doesn't close his eyes, this time.

Bucky still wakes up before the gun actually goes off, and he still wakes up feeling weirdly calm. He prefers this, he decides, over the dreams about killing people. Dreaming of being killed– that’s fine. Better, actually.

He sits up and he swings his legs over the side of the bed– he’d been taking advantage of the lack of nightmares and the suspicious ease with which he’s been sleeping, lately, because he’s kind of getting old and his body has started to hate him whenever he doesn’t sleep on an actual mattress– and when he stretches his back doesn’t ache or twinge or crack the way it does when he sleeps on the floor.

He yawns. He rubs at his eyes until splotches of color burst behind his eyelids, and then he opens them, and he waits for his vision to unblur, and–

He zeroes in on something moving on the windowsill with an instinctive and familiar efficiency.

It’s a slip of paper, folded up and trapped between the glass and the mesh screen, fluttering gently with the breeze. It’s from a notebook, ripped out, the kind that comes from one of those slender, flimsy little pocket-sized spiral ones you can get at the dollar store, the pages inside so thin they might as well be tissue paper.

On it, scrawled in shaky, uneven handwriting, is a name.

~

He has the dream a bunch more times after that, and it's mostly the same, and then it isn't.

Stepping through the door to his apartment, stepping into an open mouth; the lights are on, this time, but somehow the room is still dark, just these glittering shards of white on the ceiling that look like sharp, gleaming teeth. He can’t see her as he rounds the counter to the fridge, and though he tries to turn his head and look, the dream body won’t obey. Just opens the door, puts the beer inside– there’s stuff in the fridge, just splotches of color that could be anything– and then closes it again.

Gun to his head. The muzzle is touching his skin, this time, which is weird, and also stupid. You don’t touch people with the gun you’re pointing at them; that’s a really good way to get it taken from you. But it’s a dream, and even though he tries to turn and disarm her, his body stays still.

“Sorry,” she says, “I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

It’s okay. I know. It’s going to be okay. He’s had this dream a lot of times, now, and so he expects–

He says the name from the notebook paper. Her name. She’d given it to him, she’d wanted him to have it. 

Her finger tightens around the trigger all at once, and he doesn't wake up, this time, but the gun doesn’t go off, either. 

It clicks. Jammed. She opens her hand, and it drops, and then it disappears instead of hitting the floor, because– dreams.

“What do I do now,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

"It's okay,” he hears himself reply. "Just-- let me help you."

[babyhatesreality]

Daddy stucky x little reader that loves cats and want pat every cat she sees 🐈❤️

Okay, but like for real....this would be a PROBLEM for our Baby...

Because nothing is ever simple with our girl.

You saw Goose in Fury's office and wanted to pet it.

Everyone freaks out because FLERKEN

But Goose absolutely loves you. Rubs all over your hand, follows you around, jumps into your lap and falls asleep.

You love that Goose can make tentacles shoot out of his mouth when he wants to. You think it's hilarious.

Now you are on a mission to pet every cat in the world and see if it will also shoot tentacles out of its mouth.

You chased every stray cat you saw in the street, often getting you in trouble.

You would often ask to borrow Steve or Bucky's tablet to watch cat videos and see if you could identify "Goose's brothers and sisters" in the video

Steve and Bucky took you into a bodega one time with a cat sleeping in the front window. The shop keeper wouldn't let you pet the cat. When you got home you immediately sought out Loki to put a curse on the bodega owner, earning you a Time Out and a long talking-to.

Finally, to try to curb your hyper fixation a bit, Steve and Bucky took you to a Cat Depot to get all the cuddles and pets out.

It worked enough. You were perfectly happy and content to play with kittens for a couple hours each week and you stopped running away to go pet any feral strays in the park.

It worked...until you started pestering them for a kitty of your own......

(It's not letting me link it but now go read We-sponsor-bilwittie from my masterlist :D)

[meandmybigmouth]

AMERICA! THEREPUBLICAN "DIY" REMODEL PROJECT BY MORON'S WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT THE F**K THEY ARE DOING! REALITY BITE'S! SPONSORED BY HOME DEPOT, HOBBY LOBBY AND CHICK FILET!

[gh0stgirl000]

I’ve got something in the works 😉😉

and by in the works i mean i started it a week ago, have not touched it because i fear it’s already too long, and now i’m reeling with the need to accomplish something 🎉

It’s about Charlie (i might have a little itty bitty 🤏thing for him) and it’s fluffy smut, but considering i just started out writing on here its probably going to be thousands of words worth of burnt garbage! But it will certainly be something! I’m hopefully going to have it out this weekend because i am NOT doing my schoolwork on a Saturday. I don’t care if i’m behind in french Tiffany, you can Suce cette putain de bite.

Random side note, i have a habit of thinking home depot adds are posts on here and getting very confused before i check the poster and it says sponsored. Anyway

[dirty-droid]

I only make memes in minutes on my phone, sponsored by the Home Depot

[plethoraworldatlas]

The presidential field is basically set, but before the Trump vs. Biden rematch begins in earnest, there are still a bunch of highly contentious primaries for the House and Senate left to be decided. On the Democratic side, none will draw more attention and money than the campaign to knock the Squad—the famed young, progressive legislators of color—out of Congress. And now, thanks to the most recent round of fundraising reports filed to the Federal Election Commission, we know exactly who’s funding that campaign.

Surprise! It’s Republican billionaires and megadonors.

Let’s back up: During the 2022 midterms, one of the super PACs affiliated with the American Israel Public Affairs Committee lobbying group—called the United Democracy Project—spent more than any other outside group during the Democratic primaries. Yes, it was spending on Democrats. But it boosted only conservative Democrats who were in races against progressive legislators, in part because progressives are, as a whole, willing to criticize Israel, and sometimes even question unconditional military aid to Benjamin Netanyahu’s government.

AIPAC’s most successful sally in 2022 was kicking Andy Levin—not only one of the most prominent Jewish members of the House, but also a former synagogue president—out of his House seat in Michigan, in favor of a more conservative, non-Jewish representative in Haley Stevens. (Levin had dared to indicate support for a two-state solution, introducing a bill that would have prevented U.S. aid from being used to fund Israeli settlements in the West Bank and that recognized East Jerusalem as “occupied territory,” among other provisions.)

AIPAC’s most successful sally in 2022 was kicking Andy Levin—not only one of the most prominent Jewish members of the House, but also a former synagogue president—out of his House seat in Michigan, in favor of a more conservative, non-Jewish representative in Haley Stevens. (Levin had dared to indicate support for a two-state solution, introducing a bill that would have prevented U.S. aid from being used to fund Israeli settlements in the West Bank and that recognized East Jerusalem as “occupied territory,” among other provisions.)

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And all of that was before Israel’s devastating war in Gaza began.

Now, AIPAC has made it a clear goal to defeat every progressive Democrat it can in 2024. At the end of January, Federal Election Commission filings revealed that the United Democracy Project super PAC already had $40 million on hand by the end of 2023, nearly double the $26 million it spent on the 2022 midterms. Those numbers will likely skyrocket further.

Massive though it is, the dollar figure is actually less notable than who donated it. Of the top 10 biggest donors to the Democrats-only super PAC during the past six months, boosters of Donald Trump abound. GOP megadonor Bernie Marcus, former CEO of the Home Depot, kicked in $1 million. An LLC affiliated with Bob Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots (who gave $1 million to Trump’s inauguration) chipped in $500,000. Paul Singer, another billionaire financier—and Nikki Haley megadonor, and Rudy Giuliani fundraiser—also kicked in $1 million. (Singer is perhaps best known as the luxury vacation sponsor of Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito.)

[tammyfeabakker]

The Home Depot Beat using DIY items from The Home Depot!