Summary: Sam somehow gets a favor out of Bucky, resulting in a very awkward confrontation with a local barista. Pairing: Bucky x reader Characters: Female Reader, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers Word Count: 1,980
Every Sunday morning, at precisely 8:45, Bucky finds himself at a quaint, little cafe just a block away from the Brooklyn apartment himself, Steve, and Sam, who he finds utterly unbearable, live together. Like clockwork, he’ll wake up, argue with Sam about him eating the rest of whatever food Bucky was attempting to have for breakfast, Steve offering to go grocery shopping the umpteenth time that week, and with Bucky frustratingly storming out of the apartment subconsciously heading towards the cafe with the best muffins and no with Sam Wilson in sight.
Just like all the weeks before, Bucky’s feet hurriedly carry himself down the empty morning sidewalk as he groans in annoyance. This Sunday Sam had decided to finish off the carton of egg whites, that clearly had a bright blue sticky-note with Bucky’s name on it, and to use up all the hot water in the apartment. It seemed as if this man’s purpose on Earth was to make Bucky Barnes’ life more difficult than it had to be.
So, I´ve read LokiIRL for second time, and i wanted to try to draw me on the style of the comic (even i turned Eddie my IRL ha!)
And after this got this weird idea, What if “Animator Annihilator” has commentarist style Celebrity Deathmatch and these are critics of animation of YouTube like the himself @pan-pizza and Chucho Calderón of La Zona Cero (i´m sorry but i didn´t know The Nostalgia Critic too well)
(I´VE MADE THIS BECAUSE I NEED A RELIEF OF THE SCHOOL D:)
The Grand Inquisitor was
able to use the right and left hands equally well,
but I like to think he was primary left-handed (especially when it comes to using Force. He favored left one even when he had lightsabers in both hands). So have a few gifs with Inquisitor using his left hand in various situation :)
prompt: ‘I know that you think I hate you but I swear to God I didn’t mean to hit you with my car.‘
The funny thing is, under entirely different circumstances, Clarke’s pretty sure that she and Bellamy Blake could have been friends.
The first time she meets him, Kane is introducing them and he’s supposed to be showing her the ropes, since it’s her first day at the bookstore. He has a well-worn copy of Howl’s Moving Castle sticking out of his bag, freckles, and dark, messy curls that Clarke really wants to run her fingers through. (She’s… pretty intrigued, if she’s being entirely honest.)
But then he opens his big, stupid mouth, and suddenly all of her feelings of goodwill go up in smoke, because Bellamy Blake is, undoubtedly, a massive asshole.
He won’t stop calling her Princess, for one, and makes a face every time she so much as asks a question about the cash register. The constant jibes about her having gotten the job due to nepotism (so their boss may also be her mom’s fiancé, sue her) certainly don’t help either, and he actually laughs when a book display falls on her foot.
Suffice to say, he is definitely not her favorite person. On particularly bad days, she entertains a fantasy or two of shoving him down a flight of stairs. On worse ones, she dreams of pushing him down a manhole.
Still, murderous tendencies aside, Clarke doesn’t mean to actually run him over with her car.
A/N: Sometimes when you’re having debilitating writer’s block, what you need is someone like @melissas173 whispering in your ear, sending you pictures, asking questions, and cheering you on with your feeble attempts to move past the block. I think Secure is proof that she has a successful formula. Thank you, Mel!!!!
There’s a boy whose voice is a siren song to my flowers; under his tone they bloom more beautifully than ever before.
He first wandered into the tiny shop on a rainy morning, as the succulents protested where they were being dripped on, and he brushed rain-damp brown hair from his eyes and sang a lullaby to the insomniac moonflowers until they rested as they were supposed to, and then he smiled at me. He had no umbrella, he explained, and hoped he could wait out the rain here.
I did my best to ask why he ignored the cafe next door in favor of my over-crowded shop and again he smiled and took a seat and the tulips stretched to reach him, petals brushing the back of his neck. I mouthed an apology, batted them away until they grew as usual, and he let out a little chuckle at my tone of reprimand. When I asked his name I was met with yet another curl of his lips; it seemed all he did was smile or sing, a hum in his throat even as I continued moving the cacti away from the leaky window, and he did sit there until the rain let up.
He was strange, but a good strange, a familiar strange, the way the glassblower on 4th Street feels, and he slipped through my wards like silk as he left after an hour of companionable silence, the violets shivering as he whispered goodbye.