josephbirth1

[builder051]

Whumptober 2023 day (something)— I have 3 prompts planned to be in this story, but it’s going to be a long multi-chapter ordeal.

*Warning* This chapter (well, probably this whole fic) is some heavy stuff. Poor mental health, depression, passing mention of suicide, death (canonical), grief, descriptions of war (Operation Iraqi Freedom), mentions of drug use… that’s all I can think of.

This is powers/No powers.

The dreams in which I’m dying

I find it kind of funny

I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I’m dying

Are the best I’ve ever had

I find it hard to tell you

I find it hard to take

When people run in circles

It’s a very very

Mad world

—Tears for Fears

———

There’s a water main break in Sam’s building. His apartment has escaped the damage, but the water has been turned off for the entire complex. He’s fine without access to a shower or dishwasher, but the toilet and the tap pose problems.

Well, some problems. Sam could cope with a hand-dug latrine and bottled water for his toothbrush. The Air Force deems sanitation a necessity. Clean clothes and regular bathing are only priorities in the Civilian world. The thing is, Sam’s having enough trouble with his own problems. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately. If it’s not insomnia, it’s unpleasant dreams. Neither provide the opportunity to rest and recharge. Stress is steadily building, and the monuments run is losing its meditative properties. Either that or he’s becoming treatment resistant.

Autumn in general doesn’t agree with Sam. He begins sniffling when the leaves fall and clump in wet piles to grow fungus. He doesn’t take anything for it, not even what’s available over the counter. He likes to have as little on board as possible. It’s a habit from his flying days; being mission-ready required his body to be free of substances. hasn’t shaken the habit from his flying days. The Air Force’s definition of ���mission ready’ calls for a body to be free of substances. No beer. No Benadryl. Certainly no Prozac.

It’s calendar that gets to Sam the most, though. He’s antsy when it’s time to turns the page to the next month. The weeks and days have slipped through the autumnal equinox and the start of a new fiscal year. He tenses even more as the days pass steadily toward Halloween. Sam would throw out his calendar if he thought he could function without it, but it stays stuck to the kitchen wall. He’d forget everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries.

Sam doesn’t actually know if that’s true. It’s more of a convenient excuse. The series of dates immortalized in his mind are far from celebratory. They shouldn’t matter. It’s certainly been long enough.

The lines of squares continue to spite him, though, as he marks through through the days passed. It’s the middle of October now, and Sam is caught in the middle of an agonizing countdown.

———

Twelve.

The day Riley’s parachute didn’t open. Sam watched him flip himself over as he struggled with the cord to his backup. What was supposed to be a lifeline wound up as a death sentence. Sam watched him plummet in slow motion, foolishly believing that he’d catch Riley by the ankles if he swam through the air fast enough. But gravity and physics were against him. Against them. Sam was only halfway between the helicopter and the sand when Riley hit the ground head-first.

———

Thirteen.

The day the enemy line backed up far enough for a crew to gather what was left of the corpse. Sam wasn’t picked for the mission. He’d wandered to a table of donated books and DVDs. One corner was overtaken with teetering stack of bibles. Sam meant to glance and move on, but he found himself rooted to the spot. If he’d ever believed in god, he certainly didn’t anymore.

———

Seventeen.

The day Riley’s remains left Kandahar for Regan National. Sam had seen the open cargo hold of the sleek passenger jet, but someone in an orange safety vest jogged around the plane and slammed it shut. Too late. All he was left with was Riley’s terrified expression. That, then a view of the bottoms of his boots. However impersonal, Sam would’ve preferred to see his friend off in a long rectangular box.

———

Nineteen, or so Sam assumes. Maybe twenty. Or twenty-one.

Sam knows the time it takes to get someone to back to their hometown and into a flag-draped casket is highly variable. He’d still found the feeling of anxiety overwhelming his grief. He felt excluded, out of the loop. Then it occurred to him that he have the right to be in it. In truth, he has no ties to Riley. But that didn’t keep Sam from holing onto strings of their bond, struggling to knit them back together.

———

Twenty-four.

The day of the funeral. Sam didn’t attend. He didn’t know it had happened. He’d entertained the thought of asking for leave, but there was no way he’d be approved. He’d get two days, maybe. At most. Too little time to make it stateside, let alone attend an event for which he didn’t know the date or time. Sam’s anguish made him want to try anyway. But in the end, he let logic win out.

———

Thirty.

A letter from Riley’s grandmother showed up for Sam at the makeshift post office. The message seemed canned, though Sam didn’t doubt its sincerity. Riley had been laid to rest. Sam was a good buddy who should’ve been at the service. He was always welcome to visit. Riley was in a better place now. Arlington. Not heaven. But that was Sam’s interpretation. He should’ve folded the pages back into the envelope and placed it in his bag of personal belongings. A better man would’ve. Sam’s angry disappointment backtracked through the previous six days. The image of a flag-draped coffin disappeared in his mind to be replaced with that of an elderly woman who had just outlived her adult grandson.

———

Thirty-one.

The day Sam dropped the torn pieces of stationery into the trash outside the mess hall. He didn’t watch the shreds flutter into the bin; he’d done an about face and headed out for the day’s mission. He hated every second he rode in the rickety rear-facing seat. Sam tried to hold it together, but he threw up during the HH-60’s descent back into camp. He hadn’t done that since before PJ school.

Laying low and slinking toward his bunk had been impossible; the rest of Sam’s unit was outside enjoying cigarettes and melted chocolate bars. It took him a moment to remember the American fascination with Halloween. A boom box thumped in the background with more crackle than bass, and Sam felt sick again. It was as if he was a ghost in the middle of the crowd. Someone passed a hand-rolled cigarette his way, and the sensation of invisibility was broken. He accepted the smoke, hoping it would get the taste of bile out of his mouth. Sam swallowed a gag when he realized he’d just dragged on cannabis. As he got in position to sleep, Sam was sure he would spontaneously combust if he ever smelled pot again. And Werwolves of London should be abolished from the earth.

———

This month is passing in the same way, no different from before. Sam tries reminding himself that he’s made it through the fall and winter months for six years running. Six Octobers. Two during deployments. One at his sister’s house. Sam hadn’t been reaching out for care. He’d just needed a place to sleep before he could sign his lease on the first of November.

Spending time with relatives or squadron buddies doesn’t lift his spirits. He’s far too troubled to open up. In the presence of others, Sam feels like he’s wearing a mask to hide his dour expression. The mask isn’t held in place with straps around his ears; it’s attached with nails that dig deep into his skull. Just thinking brings on throbbing pain. And there’s no dignified way to take it off.

Sam has yet to find proper support, if that’s what he needs to feel better. He imagines an outlet where he can emote without obligation to explain himself. Something with a balance of familiarity and anonymity. Support group feels too formulaic. Sam’s loss seems to close, too personal to be dissected as part of lesson in trust falling. That’s why he prefers to be the leader. He can cue and comfort much more easily than take the plunge to share.

Per his usual, Sam’s been ignoring what’s going on inside him. His issues haven’t yet caused the choking and vertigo of a real panic attack. Those tend to be as embarrassing as they are painful; Sam feels weak and guilty knowing it all stems from heartache. He knows he’s barely hanging on, though. Sam would gladly accept orders to repel to the ground in the whipping wind of the bird’s propellers and run into the middle of a firefight. That would be easier. A welcome distraction. Instead he’s suck wallowing in his marshmallow bed and existential thoughts, lying to himself and denying the fact that he’s past dark thoughts and well into depression.

Sam knows it’s not a fault, but truly a disease. He hates the idea of his body being slowly destroyed by ravaging sickness. And he has the terrible feeling that whatever he has may be contagious. Nobody ought to be around him right now anyway. Sam’s touchiness and vulnerability are turning him into a different person, someone irritable and rude and cold. The stupid broken pipe prevents him from melting his frost in a hot shower or a cup of coffee.

Perhaps the current situation in his apartment is a sign. Even in his current state, Sam wants to be more than than a lump in his bed. A psychopathic robot in the office. His suffering isn’t bringing Riley back. He’s known that from the beginning, but he’s aware that his actions are completely contradictory. There are lifelines. Sam knows the suicide prevention hotline number by heart. He scribbles it on the back of business cards and hands them out to new faces at the VA. But Sam’s nowhere near that far gone, and chatting with nameless, faceless strangers isn’t his style.

He has people he knows. He even has friends. His motivation is the size of a mustard seed, but Sam feels the push to try again at living his own life. The first step will be getting out of his place with no plumbing.

———

[ceaselessbasher]

I swear to god one of these days were going to see a video of Amaury Guichon and he's going to be making some wings and they are going to look dope as hell, the detail of each feather will be breathtaking, he'll spray paint them to perfection, but as the video goes on, he's not building any sort of winged creature, just the wings. And then there's a human-sized harness (also made of chocolate, somehow, he can do it). And he's attaching the wings to the harness. And he's putting the harness on and he demonstrates how he can flap the wings. And then he'll be off. Out the window and up and up and up. And we'll be looking at the livestream (it's a livestream now) and we'll scream "No, Amaury, the sun! It's going to melt the wings!". But he knows this already. And he is free.

[spitblaze]

[guy who doesnt watch shows voice] yeah ive been meaning to watch that show

[louisegluckpdf]

i was talking to this guy yesterday and he said "i'm pretty sure i'm straight but i might be a little bicurious. there are definitely some guys i might hook up with. like samson." and i said "samson?" and he said "yeah. like from the bible"

[boxmakesart]

Eldritch Miku omgggg

[thatboreddrake]

So y’all know the classic edge trope of “my blade cannot be sheathed until it has tasted blood”? What if a magic sword that has that requirement, except it’s sort of inverted. A sword that, instead of being inhabited by an evil spirit which once awakened cannot be lulled back to sleep except by blood sacrifice, was inhabited by a benevolent spirit who would not allow the sword to be drawn unless bloodshed were the only possible solution. A sword whose power could never be misused because it would only allow itself to be used in situations where it was justified. What about a Paladin who spends their entire journey fighting with a sheathed sword, incapacitating but never killing or maiming. The party believes that the Paladin has taken an oath of no killing, until they face the big villain. And it is in that moment, and that moment alone, that the sword will allow itself to be drawn.

Idk, this image set my mindwheels a-turning.

But do y’all see the vision?

[reality-detective]

1963 Refrigerator 🤔

[elbiotipo]

Usamericans should be more anti-war actually. They should be straight up insulting marines and shutting down weapon factories, 60s anti-war protests kind of shit. I'm sorry for pontificating from down here but the US military-industrial complex is currently supplying a genocide, and this is not a new thing, the US has sold weapons to Saudi Arabia to starve millions of Yemenis, the Iraq war, the Afghanistan war, these are within memory. And though some people think it's not the point, it Is also true that there are trillions upon trillions of dollars that could be spent in anything else that go to the black hole of corruption (and call it for what it is, corruption) that is the Pentagon. Any of those resources could be destined to literally any other activity and be better spent.

I'm talking full contempt here. You should outright be HATING the military. Instead of lining up to watch Top Gun you should see it as a glorification of a fucking killing machine that serves imperial interests, enriches megacorporations and supports genocides. For the love of God be more angry about it. Goddamn.

[sleepyyghostt]

inspired by the scariest words my dm has ever said to me and the subsequent coolest (AND SCARIEST) scene of my life

[builder051]

HYBB 2023 Valentines Day Challenge (Date night at Lucy's: Is it in the water? Or were we just made for each other?)

Powers/No Powers

Warnings: talk of rocky relationships, mental health (not major), mental health meds, alcohol, mentions of war, emeto, food mentions (not major), fluff (not major)

_________________

They've been out maybe three times in the last three years. To make things absolutely clear, Steve's more than grateful for each experience, in and of itself. They've been amazing nights, individually, and as a trend in Bucky's journey in, whatever to call it. Finding himself again.

They're back to living under the same roof, and things are still touchy. Well, they've barely stopped being touchy. Steve and Bucky sleep in the same bed again. They can hug. Cuddle. Drink coffee, and prepare each other's brews in just the right ways. It brings smiles. Happiness. They tell each other "I love you."

The bar down the block, past the gym and the pizza joint, is doing a Valentines Day special. Buy one get one drinks and appetizers, plus live music. A Beatles cover band. It sounds nice. It sounds like just their speed, as long as it's not too crowded.

Steve poses the question about a week in advance, and he's thrilled with Bucky's tentative agreement.

"Yeah." Bucky had nodded slowly. "I think that's... That's... Yeah."

Steve had considered offering Sam as a third wheel, or inviting Laura and Clint to come join, but if Bucky was willing to share the experience solo with Steve, he felt all the more fluttery inside. He felt younger. He felt like he was... accomplishing something.

The evening of, Steve leaves work early. He parks his bike in the garage, then heads upstairs to shower. Bucky's in the bedroom already, standing in front of the mirror on the closet door in his underwear, hair wet and dripping down the back of his neck.

"Hi," Steve says as he approaches, unbuttoning his shirt and wadding it up for the laundry. "You ok?"

"Yeah." Bucky seems to break from a trance. "I just. Clothes."

"Socks," Steve advises. "Then, whatever you want. It's kind of cold out, but..." He shrugs.

Bucky gives him a half smile and nods, then enters the closet. Steve can hear him aggressively attempting to locate appropriate socks as he strips and turns on the hot water in the bathroom.

He's just nervous, Steve tells himself. Steve himself is nervous, if he tells the truth. The chance of a public breakdown is real. He won't play percentages, but Bucky's still fragile. He probably will be for the rest of his life. Steve hates to think of what could happen if Bucky trips over a shoelace or something and wants Laura and Clint to come and comfort him instead of Steve. His one and only Steve. Steve's one and only Bucky.

Dusk falls into night, and they get into the car. Steve purposely put on only one spritz of cologne, but he can still smell himself in an awkward, overpowering way. Like a kid who's overused a can of Axe. Bucky smells heavily of Dial Gold and laundry detergent. Steve wonders if he rinsed himself properly in the shower, but there's no complaint there. Bucky's spiffed up for him. For this. And the thought of that makes Steve's butterflies go wild. He hopes he isn't blushing.

They park in front of the gym and hightail it across the strip of closed businesses and crooked cars to the neon lights up at the corner. Steve holds open the door, and immediately there's a gush of air tinted with beer, fried food, and thumping that falls slightly off beat with the classic rock music playing inside.

Bucky seems to have no qualms about entering, though, and he glances back at Steve before jutting his chin toward two empty stools at the bar. They're positioned on the corner, so Bucky won't have his back to the door, but Steve thinks it's pretty adventurous that he isn't seeking out the farthest corner.

"Yeah, that's a good spot," Steve encourages. Bucky gives a single nod and practically runs to the stools, as if they're in danger of being taken.

They sit. Steve takes off his leather jacket and covers his stool before using it as an extra cushion. Bucky puts his elbow on the bar and lets his stump shoulder, hidden in the swaths of his flannel shirt sleeve, bump against Steve's arm. Whether it's accidental or affectionate or grounding, Steve can't tell, but he's happy to be the buffer all the same.

The bartender comes up and asks what they'll have. Steve orders a Sam Adams, then squints at the chalkboard on the wall before choosing a food item.

Bucky stutters. "A, um, a coke with... with a shot of..." He seems to scan the various bottles and brews behind the counter. "Um. Maybe just a coke..."

"How about a coke and a shot of Jim Beam on the side?" Steve offers, hoping the script is helpful and not patronizing.

"Yeah. That's. Yeah. I'll have that." Bucky nods to the bartender.

"And for eats?" the bartender prompts.

"Um..." Steve fully expects Bucky to order French fries. He's gotten them here before, and he's become used to eating potatoes from various places. Maybe with a little ketchup or mayonnaise here and there. It's not a broad palette, but it's something. "Onion rings?"

Steve raises his eyebrows.

"Ranch?" asks the bartender.

Bucky pauses a beat. "Ok."

"I'll just share with him," Steve says when he gets the next inviting glance. "We'll keep you posted."

"Alright, then." The bartender smiles and turns away, only to come back a second later with their drinks.

"This ok?" Steve checks in.

Bucky takes a moment to tear the paper off his straw before jamming in between the ice cubes in his coke.

"Mm hm." Bucky takes a drink of his soda, then argues the straw back down to the bottom of the cup when it begins to float upward on the bubbles of carbonation.

The last time or so they've been here, Bucky's had a beer. Just one per visit, as far as Steve can remember. Bucky doesn't seem to enjoy the sloshy warmth and disorientation as much as he used to. Not as much as he used to before the war. Not as much as he seems to when he fucks with his meds.

A coke and a shot, though, it's almost humorous to Steve. That was Bucky...way back. Stealing sips from his father's liquor cabinet before they'd even graduated. Before he'd signed on. If he's remembering, Steve's not messing with that. Bucky can tell him, at his own pace. If he's progressing, it's great. But if he's being wild... Steve feels the need to keep his guard up a little.

Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band begins to play from the music platform, which is behind them and a little to the left.

"I've never really gotten this song," Steve admits, his lips close to Bucky's ear so he knows he can hear him properly. "It's like a spoof, right? They're a band singing as if they're another band singing?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Bucky toys with his shot. He dips his finger in it, then puts it in his mouth. "That's some strong stuff."

Steve grins. "That's why people use a mixer." He looks pointedly at Bucky's coke. "Dump it in there, if you want."

"Nah." Bucky shakes his head. "Don't want to ruin the coke."

"You have had alcohol before," Steve reminds him, a little unsurely. "You remember Clint's Halloween party? And, like, a long time ago?"

"Yeah." Bucky cocks his head to the side. "I just... It feels like a lifetime ago. Both of those..."

"I'm not saying you have to do anything," Steve says quickly, just in case he's accidentally created a situation with pressure. "I'm just saying, like," he pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You have options, you know?"

"Yeah." Bucky doesn't get time to say anything else, for the bartender is back with a steaming basket of onion rings, still sizzling in grease from the fryer. The lining paper sticks up, fresh and stiff, and boats of ranch dressing and ketchup sit precariously on either side.

"Oh, wow. Thanks." Steve settles the basket on the bar and accepts the stack of paper napkins on offer as well.

"That smells amazing." Steve passes Bucky a fork and several napkins, but he doesn't accept right away. He finishes chugging his shot, swallows heavily, slams the glass down on the bar, then looks at Steve and seems to realize what he's supposed to be doing.

"Oh." Bucky clears his throat. "That's really. Yeah. Something else."

Steve burns his tongue and swigs his beer as a rescue measure. If he had space in his mouth, he'd check in with Bucky again. Ask if he's alright. He looks tense again. Maybe the shot had gone down too hard.

Steve should tell him to take a sip of coke, but before he can form words, Bucky's already forking an onion ring into the ranch, which he drips onto the basket's paper lining, and shoving it into his mouth. He chews only a couple of times before swallowing again. Hard. Then he puts his fist to his lips, the fork sticking out the other end like an improperly secured weapon.

The band strikes up Yellow Submarine. The singer's accent is just a touch over exaggerated, and Steve can see his shadow swaying back and forth, miming the sickly rhythm of the deck of an ocean liner.

"Hey," Steve says, maybe a little coarsely. He means to be gentle, but his throat feels raw. "You doing ok?"

"I, uh." Bucky swallows heavily. He shakes his head, but ducks his chin at the same time, so he could just as easily have been forming a nod. "I need--" He scrambles his feet toward the floor and looks frantically around to the corners of the crowded room. "Probably-- throw up."

"Sure. Yeah." Steve puts both hands on Bucky's shoulders, then points to the lit sign for the gent's. "Right there."

Bucky stumbles off his stool for the first step, but makes haste with his quick trot and rushes the door without causing a scene. Steve breathes a small sigh of relief, then starts counting down. He should give Bucky, what, a minute's head start? Thirty seconds?

He makes it to twenty with the slow countdown in his head, but Steve can't contain himself past that. The next ten seconds will be eaten up with the walk across the room, right?

Unsure if they'll return to their seats, Steve drops cash for the bill and a tip onto the counter, then collects his jacket and weaves his way toward the bathroom. Half the bar seems to be singing, or at least laughing, along with the band as they carry on with the ridiculous chorus.

Yellow submarine.

Yellow submarine.

Steve would probably puke, too, if he was stuck in a yellow submarine. God, the water pressure would be unbearable. Did people still die of the bends?

The single light bulb in the ceiling in incandescent, and for that, Steve's grateful. No need to spike up a migraine when Bucky's already feeling awful. The bathroom's shabby, but clean. Steve immediately hears Bucky hurling in the first stall, and he feels half heartbreak and half pleasure that Bucky, handicapped as he may be, has left the accessible stall for someone who needs it more than he does. It's classic Bucky all over.

"Hey, Buck." Steve announces his presence. "It's just me."

"Mmph." There's a retch, then a few coughs.

"Can I come in?" Steve asks tetremoniously?

Bucky spits into the toilet, bringing on an echo. "Yeah." It's barely a croak, but it's definite.

"Ok, yeah." Steve eases the stall door open. He gets a glimpse of Bucky's ghostly pale, sweaty face as he tries to look back at him, but after a second, it's lost as Bucky vomits again. He curls his arm around the toilet seat and rests his forehead on his wrist as his body contracts, back and neck arching to push what has to be down to cola and bile out of his system.

Steve stoops, then pops a squat, carefully rubbing his hand down Bucky's back. "Too much all at once?"

"Something." Bucky spits, strings of mucous dangling from his lower lip. "I don't even..."

"Seasick," Steve says decidedly. "Right?"

"Huh." It might have been the start of a laugh. Bucky hocks and gives it another good try. "About sums it up."

"Do you want to go home?" Seve proffers. "Or maybe have some water and sit a while, if the car doesn't sound that appealing."

"I'll be good in a minute." Bucky attempts to wipe his face on his stump shoulder. "You got something different, though?"

Steve's confused. "I'm not sure I follow..."

"Fucking submarine." Bucky digs at his eye socket with the heel of his hand. "They had to be smashed. All of them. The whole time."

"Oh." Steve tries not to laugh. "I think I have a Queen album in the glove box. The Stones, too."

"Yeah?" Bucky turns sideways just enough to catch Steve's eye. "If you can fix it... I love you."

Steve smiles. "Love you too, Buck."

"I mean, I still love you even if you don't fix it..."

"I got it, I got it." Steve helps Bucky to his feet. "Can you stand it for, like five seconds? Just to get outside?"

"I think so." Bucky pulls a paper towel, then slips his hand inside Steve's.

Steve opens the door, and they're immediately assaulted with All You Need is Love.

"Great," Steve groans, maneuvering Bucky in front of him so they can make it toward the exit.

He isn't sure if Bucky means for him to hear it, but Steve sees Bucky's lips move. "'s all I need."

[miiilowo]

non-practicing slut. is this anythign

[pocketss]

mmm soob

[questfortori]

Nintendo Power issue 113 (October 1998)

[randomalistic]

Selfshippers who ship with weird/unappealing characters. I love you. Like hell yeah you go get with Mr Crocker. Go get with lord faarquad

[purpleminte]

God sending his silliest soldier: