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feedmecookiesnow: not-the-blue: @fandomforoz art for @letsallsleepoverwork, who came up with the absolutely adorable idea of the hawkeyes braiding Bucky’s hair and painting his nails! thank you!!  I thought this was cute so I wrote a story for it. ** Practice on Me New York in August, Bucky thinks, is a special kind of hell. He’s laying on the floor of his apartment with the shades all drawn and a fan blasting directly on him. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers. His entire body is pressed to the cool hardwood of the floor. There’s a cold washcloth over his forehead. An iced water sitting next to him. And yet none of it is making a dent in the heat. It’s thick. It’s awful. It’s like breathing soup. “Definitely hell,” he says to the dark room. “One-hundred percent, Grade A, whole wheat hell.” His phone rings. Bucky cracks an eye open, then gropes around on the floor for it until he can stab at it. “What?” Clint’s voice echoes through the speaker. “Oooh, you sound angry. What’s wrong?” “I’m hot,” Bucky says. “My air conditioning is broke, and the guy can’t fix it until Friday.” “Oh god.” Clint sounds horrified. “That’s the worst thing I’ve heard today.” He pauses, and then says, “Well, second worst. My favorite taco guy was out of the spicy guacamole. I had to settle for regular.” “It must be hard being you,” Bucky says dryly, and Clint laughs. “Anyway. What do you want?” “I was going to ask if I could come over,” Clint says. “But I think now it would be better if you came to my place instead.” Keep reading : feedmecookiesnow: not-the-blue: @fandomforoz art for @letsallsleepoverwork, who came up with the absolutely adorable idea of the hawkeyes braiding Bucky’s hair and painting his nails! thank you!!  I thought this was cute so I wrote a story for it. ** Practice on Me New York in August, Bucky thinks, is a special kind of hell. He’s laying on the floor of his apartment with the shades all drawn and a fan blasting directly on him. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers. His entire body is pressed to the cool hardwood of the floor. There’s a cold washcloth over his forehead. An iced water sitting next to him. And yet none of it is making a dent in the heat. It’s thick. It’s awful. It’s like breathing soup. “Definitely hell,” he says to the dark room. “One-hundred percent, Grade A, whole wheat hell.” His phone rings. Bucky cracks an eye open, then gropes around on the floor for it until he can stab at it. “What?” Clint’s voice echoes through the speaker. “Oooh, you sound angry. What’s wrong?” “I’m hot,” Bucky says. “My air conditioning is broke, and the guy can’t fix it until Friday.” “Oh god.” Clint sounds horrified. “That’s the worst thing I’ve heard today.” He pauses, and then says, “Well, second worst. My favorite taco guy was out of the spicy guacamole. I had to settle for regular.” “It must be hard being you,” Bucky says dryly, and Clint laughs. “Anyway. What do you want?” “I was going to ask if I could come over,” Clint says. “But I think now it would be better if you came to my place instead.” Keep reading

feedmecookiesnow: not-the-blue: @fandomforoz art for @letsallsleepoverwork, who came up with the absolutely adorable idea of the hawkeyes...

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strawberryoverlord: bl-uefish: kneecap-stealing-gay-rainbow: void-of-erebos: lil-dane: dedmemehehe: official-lucifers-child: tim-tam-the-himbo-man: a-fools-love: drabbles-and-daydreams: justsomebandomtrash: pink-punk-metal: champawattigress: lizziedoesvetpath: gettingvetted: wuackamole: rimmymftim: the-bi-man-cometh: sassymccoy: i-chew-on-pushpins: sirfrogsworth: 3.944 cubits. Third grocery store shelf from the top I touch the ceiling without needing to go up on my toes About 1 Billy Joel. taller than jeremy dooley, shorter than everyone else Just a little too long for my bed 18 hands Long enough that I should just fit between two people appropriately social distancing without touching either of them when lying out flat Approximately 89% of the length of Darth Maul’s lightsaber. taller than every member of fall out boy  If I stand on a chair on my fuckin tippy toes or whatever the fuck I can touch the ceiling I am exactly one (1) Evan Jennings I am 2 capybara’s tall I need a step stool to get stuff out of upper kitchen cabinets at least 5 hands about 1 my mom slightly shorter than @official-lucifers-child I can touch my toes and forehead to opposite ends of my bed, but only when I stretch my feet out I am a little shorter than the length of social distancing. im 0.000978535 miles tall I’m a little over 12 pens tall 1 foot shorter than Master Chief: strawberryoverlord: bl-uefish: kneecap-stealing-gay-rainbow: void-of-erebos: lil-dane: dedmemehehe: official-lucifers-child: tim-tam-the-himbo-man: a-fools-love: drabbles-and-daydreams: justsomebandomtrash: pink-punk-metal: champawattigress: lizziedoesvetpath: gettingvetted: wuackamole: rimmymftim: the-bi-man-cometh: sassymccoy: i-chew-on-pushpins: sirfrogsworth: 3.944 cubits. Third grocery store shelf from the top I touch the ceiling without needing to go up on my toes About 1 Billy Joel. taller than jeremy dooley, shorter than everyone else Just a little too long for my bed 18 hands Long enough that I should just fit between two people appropriately social distancing without touching either of them when lying out flat Approximately 89% of the length of Darth Maul’s lightsaber. taller than every member of fall out boy  If I stand on a chair on my fuckin tippy toes or whatever the fuck I can touch the ceiling I am exactly one (1) Evan Jennings I am 2 capybara’s tall I need a step stool to get stuff out of upper kitchen cabinets at least 5 hands about 1 my mom slightly shorter than @official-lucifers-child I can touch my toes and forehead to opposite ends of my bed, but only when I stretch my feet out I am a little shorter than the length of social distancing. im 0.000978535 miles tall I’m a little over 12 pens tall 1 foot shorter than Master Chief
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I love this so much: writing-prompt-s A dating service where matching is based people's search history exists. You're a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer. endreams-s Serial Killer: metaphorically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it? Writer: Air shot between the toes, it'll look like a heart attack. Serial Killer who is obviously in love already: *sucks in a breath* ok fangoddess817 Writer: how long would it take to die if you were to potentially stab someone in the guts Serial killer: anywhere from 2 to 30 minutes Writer, already bringing a ring out: *shaking* thanks December C) Baby infinityonthot A++ addition tetsuskitten Writer: *shows the serial killer the murder scene they're writing* babe, i'm not sure if this would actually work? Serial killer: *kisses writer on the forehead and leaves, comes back later, a suspicious scent of blood coming off them* it works baby, you're doing great tigerliliesandcherryblossoms I LOVE THIS vmohlere Oh no, murder comedy is my jam laziestofthedreamers I love this, I love all of this, but quick question, does the author know? Like are they aware that their significant other is a serial killer or do they just think that they have a morbid sense of humor? It'd be even funnier if the author had no fucking clue, like how Aurthur Conan Doyle was apparently stupidly gullible, and on top of it they're a horror or crime novelist. Like the serial killer works at a butcher shop or something so it's completely normal for them to come home smelling like blood, no murders going on here, no sirey. Just my darling coming back home from a long day at work. Now fast forward a bit and the author has managed to get their first book published, with loving support from the serial killer who helped them fine tune all the murder scenes, and it's a big hit. Enough so that detective with the local police department has noticed some disturbing similarities to several active cases, including details that were never released to the press. Obviously he brings this up to his superior and convinces him that there's something to the theory, but it's all circumstantial right now. He stakes out the author's home and is super convinced that the author is the murderer, but they don't seem to do anything??? Like they literally are at the house all day, that's it. Most they do is leave for groceries. So you get this dynamic of the serial killer mining the author for creative murder schemes, the author being lovingly encouraged by the serial killer, and finally the detective who is just so sure that the author is the killer and that if he sticks it out long enough he'll FINALLY have proof. annieutimagines Plot twist, The serial killer and detective use to go out so it gets sub what personal. "You need to stop seeing them. I think they are a serial killer." Serial killer breaths in. "Look-" I love this so much
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