Bucky pretends to eat Tiny Princess Thor’s tiny princess fingers to the sound of her shrieking laughter, which is, y’know, totally fine. Clint didn’t actually need his heart, anyway, so it’s not a problem that it’s flopped out of his chest to land with a sad splat at Bucky’s feet. Clint grins for the seven hundredth Super Selfie – $5 a pop, all proceeds to the local children’s hospital – and then heads over to the grill. Apparently there’s a space inside him to fill.
It turns out hotdogs do not, actually, cure all ills, no matter the amount of relish. So Clint finds a spot that’s quickest to lose the light that’s slowly fading out of the sky, tilts his head back against the trunk of a bunting-wrapped tree, and sighs the sigh of the world-weary and love-lorn. It’s a tune that comes easy to his lips.
(Bungee cord is maybe what he needs, ‘cos he always gives his heart away too quickly, and it’s never particularly timely about coming back.)
“Hey,” a low voice says, and Clint hitches a grin into place with a block and tackle.
“Tired of the adoration, Barnes?”
Bucky shrugs, his shoulders loosed from the tension they normally carry.
“Not sure it’s deserved,” he says, taking his share of the tree. Clint elbows him in the side.
“Sure it is,” he says, matter-of-fact enough to build a university on. “You’re a gold-standard genuine hero, Buck, nobody doubts that but you.”
Bucky shifts his weight, turns to the side, rests his shoulder against the tree. Clint figures it’s safer to keep staring up at the stars.
“You’re a goddamn prince, Barton,” he says, “and you don’t get told that nearly enough.”
Clint risks a glance right, regrets it immediately. Mentally kisses his heart goodbye, ‘cos he’s not sure this time he’s getting it back.
“No,” Bucky whispered, horror struck. He stepped back automatically and Steve’s hands came up to hold his shoulders, the support grounding and settling and allowing him to catch his breath.
“Buck?”
Bucky whirled around on his heel, staring up at Steve, who looked worried at the stress that was no doubt clear on his face.
“I am not going in there,” he insisted, keeping his voice steady, trimmed fingernails biting into the palm of his hand. “I am not going in there and you can’t make me.”
“Okay,” Steve said seriously, taking hold of Bucky’s elbows and backing up, “that’s okay, Bucky, we can -” he was looking over Bucky’s shoulder, bemused, like there was absolutely nothing wrong with the scene taking place in the kitchen. Like it was perfectly normal to walk in for breakfast and see the object of his unrequited feelings in heart-covered boxers with tiny golden wings strapped onto his back.
“His abs, Steven,” Bucky groaned, almost all the way under his breath, and the stress faded from Steve’s eyes to be replaced by wicked amusement. But his grip didn’t falter, he kept towing Bucky gently away, and no matter what else happened Steve was always gonna be his best guy.
“Morning, Clint,” Steve said over Bucky, laughter clear in the tone of his voice. “Nice wings.”
“Lost a bet,” Clint said easily. “Happy Valentines Cap, Bucky.”
“Shit,” Bucky hissed. “He saw me?”
Steve choked on a laugh.
“Pretty sure he just blew a kiss to your ass,” he said.
When Scott is bitten by a werewolf on Halloween night, the Stilinski-McCall family is whisked away to a parallel world called Halloweentown so that Scott can learn to control his new instincts. With going on coffee dates with Derek Hale, Scott’s werewolf mentor, making a new best friend in Scott’s crush, Allison Argent, and finding his calling working with the Hale pack ravens, will Stiles even want to go home when the year is up?
All he wants are some Pumpkin Spice Pancakes. Sure the strawberry ones are good, but he’s still craving fluffy, sweet and spicy, pumpkiny fried batter. With all the Hale siblings acting a little weird, Stiles isn’t sure he’ll ever get what he’s looking for. Thankfully; Pumpkin Patches, pushy sisters, and his lack of a verbal filter; he might just land himself a date with Derek Hale.
The Christmas sweater alone should have sent any rational person running; the terrible customer service and delight in Derek’s suffering were just icing.
“My name,” the kid tells Derek, sounding amused. “It’s Stiles. I figure if I’m going to wrestle a complete stranger for a pumpkin the least I can do is offer my name afterwards.”
“Stiles,” Derek tries, testing the way the name sits on his tongue. “I’m Derek.”
“Derek,” Stiles breathes, like he’s testing the weight of the name too. He grins, bright and blinding, which Derek guesses means that he likes the sound of it. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but since we almost got to second base a minute ago, I’d say we’re past that point.”
Stiles likes Autumn. He likes Derek. He hates pumpkin-spice flavored everything.
“It offends me,” Stiles said. “It offends you.” “Why are you repeating everything I say?” “Honestly? I’m hoping it’ll help me make sense of your words. I feel like I’m missing something.”
theproblemwithstardust 