#i'm having an aneurism

[walrusbutter]

So the other day, it hit me like a bolt of lightning that I have this silly little fhdw blog. Naturally, I opened up the old computer and went on down to tumblr.com, searched up the main fablehaven tag for the first time in five months to see what I could see. And what do i see? You're all obsessed with polls. The Gavarog stans have slunk back into the shadows. You've all been hard at work in the lore mines unearthing more Dragonwatch plot holes. A plethora of new fanart awaits to blurse my eyes. Tanugatoa Dufu is our sexyman????????

Why Tanu though? Y'all really saw him in a lineup including mustached violin-playing Indiana Jones? And a nefariously pretty Demon Dragon?? Emo Sadboy Horse of Darkness with eyeliner sharp enough to kill??? Warren Freaking Burgess™???? The oh so babygirl Cottagecore Prince?????? And y'all really said. "After some consideration, we'll take unethical chemistry guy from Idaho as our lawfully wedded sexyman."

[martins-canned-peaches]

The TMA fandom has made it literally impossible to see spoilers because of just how incomprehensible every shitpost is. I'll scroll on Pinterest seeing TMA memes I don't understand and later realize I was staring at the worlds biggest spoiler. It's like searching for your glasses only to find that they're on your head the whole time

[monostardust]

I'm so sick of stupid bitches on the internet never fact checking shit with actual fucking official evidence. The court case files would literally be evidence enough that Michael Jackson's accusers were fucking liars and only accused him because they wanted him to settle they wanted that money that they know he had. The internet is literally fucking there you literally hold your phone that gives you instant shit with just typing and clicking search fucking use it but instead of fact checking immediately about the information you just read you immediately assume it's a fact. Grow some fucking brains my guy I'm about to throw fucking hands with every single last one of you dumb bitches.

[denyjesuschrist]

(this is in reference to the revelation that the dnc have been lying about attempts to end the genocide this whole time.) what the fuck is wrong with you?????? how are you this fucking far up the democrats' assholes without choking on their shit????????? you sick fucks really are just willing to let them do whatever they please‚ as long as they aren't the orange guy. jesus christ.

[unicronnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnom]

@anotherhumanpet replied...

"Oh, that's a stroke."

( THE ONE KNOWN AS DANNIS IS JEALOUS OF THE ONE KNOWN AS UNICRON'S MAD GAINS. THE ONE KNOWN AS DANNIS GETS NO MAIDENS. )

[bones-edition]

Alone and bored in the prop room getting up to nefarious things

[sorcerous-caress]

Love how I was having two completely different conversations at the same time, Bobtarion and Sol's ending shenanigans.

Anyway, my brain fizzled out. Time to mimi honk shoo mimi honk shoo.

[one-winged-dreams]

Gently placing Terra and Isa to my right and then grabbing Vincent's hand with my left and holding it up like it's the fucking Olympics.

[kunosoura]

it’s crazy how openly reactionary the most notable republican presidential likelies are nowadays and how close the election will be no matter what anyway because the democrats spend their time passing resolutions condeming socialism or a useless means-testing welfare programs or maybe doing nothing about the conservative supreme court set to snipe any policy that isn’t even left-wing but is just Not Right Wing that comes before them so people are sick of getting charlie brown footballed every election as they do jack shit

[peachpotions]

hey besties, i had a pretty bad health scare over the weekend. i’m okay!! but i don’t have steady work rn and now have a huge ER bill to deal with. I’m doing tarot readings if anyone is interested in booking one <3 and i plan on opening up my art commissions soon

[justagaycryptid]

When Somebody Needs You by Will Wood is such a Hannigram song its not even funny

[moldy-flowers]

Saw this too late, spent €10 on a dress up game to get the pretty man then ate a pizza and nothing else all day

DAILY AFFIRMATIONS

I WILL NOT MAKE PURCHASES ON IMPULSE

I WILL REPAY ALL MY DEBTS

MY LIFE IS NOT OVER

I WILL EAT OATS AND FRUITS

I DON'T CARE WHAT THE PEOPLE WHO WERE ONCE IN MY LIFE ARE DOING NOW

[sanpape]

my 3d animation assignment is due on Monday and nothing is going right and I hate it here

[butterflies-and-bumble-bees]

[scare-ard--sleigh]

it just hit me last night that we're actually for real hosting fourth of july and i can Feel my skin breaking out

[munsster]

sharing a bed (trope bingo)

A/N: i could melt (pun not intended. you’ll see) this trope is literally my fav, all my fics would be about it if i could… (gif creds: @bubbarnes)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

Summary: You're cold, Bucky's a living heater. Need I say more? 1.2k words

Warnings: fluff, fluff, more fluff, sharing a bed, cuddling, nervous/borderline horny Bucky, pet names (doll, sweetheart)

You should have made this decision before your fingertips went numb. November in a northern motel room found you freezing. In basketball shorts and a crewneck, no less. You should have been in California by now, but Bucky has been dragging his feet since Maine. Though, he does drive more than half the time, so it's a sacrifice you had been willing to take.

There's no snow on the ground, but you can feel the beginnings of it on the damp pavement. Your socks are soaked through, and you cringe making a mental note to burn them. You cross your arms over your chest and tuck your fingers under your armpits, jaw clacking as you shiver. The heater in your room scuttled hurriedly to a wheezing stop five minutes after whacking it alive.

Now you're shifting from left to right outside Bucky's door with your blood about to run purple. He hollered something through the door when you knocked the second time. It was either a it's unlocked or a don't come in and you don't trust your hearing enough to distinguish between the two at midnight.

"Bucky," you whine, resting your forehead just below the peephole and trying to shake the low beating sound from your ears. You lift your head. Footsteps then a rattling chain, and he whips the door open.

"Why are you up?"

"What?" How could he be annoyed right now when you're freezing your ass off and you can practically feel the heat rolling out of his room in waves. "I'm cold."

"Well... what am I supposed to do about that?"

You roll your eyes and glare up at him. You could swear he's doing it on purpose. You could swear he's making mental bets just to play with you. Right now he's betting all his cash on who'll crack first. His bet's on you. It always is.

"James, I swear to fucking God—I will walk back to Brooklyn if you don't—"

"Jesus, don't have an aneurism, doll. Come in," he mumbles. You follow him into the little square motel room: one bed, one table, half a bathroom. Plus a TV that only plays soaps and, half the time, crackles with static. The door shuts, and you sigh. You're swaddled by heat; the blood gushes back into the tip of your nose. You can feel your joints again.

"Take this." He tosses a coat at you. At you. It's heavy and green and thick. It's army grade. "Put it on." So you put it on and zip it up. He chuckles at the sight of you because the jacket is massive: down to your knees, quarter-foot past your fingertips. It dwarfs you. It's incredible.

"I feel like a gym teacher."

"What?"

"It's a... mm… nevermind," you hum, "'M tired." Your eyes sink shut, and he watches you from the bed, entertained by your sleep-standing act. For a second, he thinks you're actually gonna fall asleep like that. But then your eyes snap wide open and he looks away.

Bucky shuffles under the sheets, and you watch him curiously through the window of the coat's hood. You suppose you'd missed the fact that he's wearing only boxers, completely shirtless with his cropped hair messily flared around his head. You start to sweat.

He looks up when you whine. "What now?"

"... It's hot."

"You're killin' me, doll."

"I know, I'm sorry," you huff, hands fiddling the flannel insides of the hot jacket sleeves. He watches you struggle to glance at the floor and becomes flush with pity for you. He sighs.

"Alright, hon, take that off and c'mere. We'll get you warm, hmm? Come here."

You flail your arm before latching onto the metal zipper tab and tugging it down with a hissing bzzzz. Bucky watches you relax and let the coat slump to the floor before you peel your socks off and toss them in the small metal trashcan by the door. You pad your way to the empty side of the bed and pat the moth-eaten comforter a few times, smoothing your hand over the soft cotton.

"Don't be shy now. I probably won't bite," he teases.

"You piss me off, Barnes."

"Oh, feel free to freeze your ass off in your room, sweetheart. I'm doin' you a favor."

You harrumph and swing your legs onto the mattress, sliding yourself under the sheets and tucking the blankets under your chin. You face the door, and Bucky settles in beside you, leaving a comfortable six inches of space between you. He faces the wall.

"Night, Bucky."

"Goodnight."

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, and you don't know when Bucky got so close. Or when you turned around. What you do know is that Bucky runs red hot in the middle of the night. Or maybe all the time, but you've never been skin-to-skin in the day. Hell could freeze over and Bucky would still be an inferno.

Sometime between two and three, you tossed around and ended up facing him as he crept closer unconsciously. His hands felt empty in dreams about dancing, so he reached into the darkness and tucked his fingers into the crooks of your knees to draw you into his warm body. On instinct—and because you're still in need of thawing—you curl into him and let your heart beat comfortably alongside his.

Bucky's a talker. He's a vocal sleeper. Good thing his deal was talking. Becca got saddled with sleep walking, and he remembers Ma asking him to install an extra lock high up to keep her from wandering out at twilight. Again. They'd found her mumbling at a brick wall half a block away one night and decided it was for the best.

Now he's rambling on about goats, describing their rough coats as he nuzzles into your navel. His palm spread over your back, he keeps you close, taut to every bit of his body, your leg draped over his waist.

He moans. Loud. And you shift in your sleep, fingers moving to cup the back of his head, brushing through his soft hair. His scalp is hot, and you sigh lazily as you melt further into his tight skin and smooth muscle. If either of you had woken up, it would've been a bloodbath. But for now, it's peaceful, and a dove coos from a lamppost outside.

A couple of times, you open your eyes but find yourself so disoriented, you can't bother to assume it's anymore than a dream and pass out again. At the crack of dawn, Bucky's lashes flutter open, and each of his veins flows with new life and the rising sun. It takes a second for him to realize he's breathing in the warmth of your skin. And he doesn't hate it.

He falls back asleep.

In the morning, you're both too busy adjusting to central standard time to register that you'd been pressed up close and personal all night. Too busy to acknowledge the comfort you both found in each others arms. And hands.

Over breakfast at the twenty-four-hour diner, he smiles meekly, and you blink down at your short stack like nothing happened. Like nothing ever will.

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