Author theproblemwithstardust

437.

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winterhawkkisses:

Bucky came home to find Clint about a foot from where he’d been when he left that morning, and the apartment in almost exactly the same state, too. He took a couple deep breaths, felt his teeth grinding together, tried to keep his voice accusation-free. 

“Not what I was hoping for, I admit,” he said, and Clint’s shoulders hunched in just a little. 

“Hey,” he said, and he sounded kinda heavy. Tired. 

“Should we just – not?” Bucky asked, and he honestly didn’t mean to sound so pissed, but out of all the many and varied emotions pissed was the easiest to deal with right now. 

At least Clint’s reaction was something. His head shot up, eyes wide, and he scrambled onto his knees. Supplication, that was the word for it, right? 

“Buck, no, please, I swear I want to do this, I just -” 

“You just got attached to this place, and I’m askin’ you to make these huge changes for me, and I get that -”

“Buck.” 

“- it’s too soon, or too much of a commitment, or -”

“Bucky.” 

“- maybe you’re just not that into the whole living together -”

“Buck, please.” 

Clint looked – genuinely distressed. Stupidly miserable. Beaten down by it, and that was enough to deflate all the pissed that Bucky could muster. 

“Aw, fuck, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, and sank down to the floor next to Clint, pulled him into an awkward halfway hug. “It’s okay if you wanna wait, I don’t -” 

“I couldn’t find the lid for the fuckin’ tupperware,” Clint said, which cut Bucky off at the knees. 

“…what?” 

Clint eased back from him, sat back on his heels, rubbed his forearm across his eyes like a little kid. 

“I found the box but I couldn’t find the goddamn lid,” he said, “and it just seemed – important, like that was the thing I needed to do most, and then -” he flailed, vaguely, in the direction of the kitchen island, “and then when I was looking for that I figured we needed some kinda bubblewrap for the mugs, right? So I went to the bodega on the corner, but they didn’t have packing tape, and then I knocked over the box with the silverware and – you’d cleaned them, I didn’t wanna start out with filthy fuckin’ forks so – and then they had to dry -” 

Bucky grabbed for Clint’s hands, which were telling a distressed story all their own. 

“And then it was fuckin’ four, somehow,” Clint said, hopeless, “and I knew you were coming back and -”

“It’s okay.” 

“- and I just started thinking about – this is what you’re signing up for. Fuck.” 

“Hey,” Bucky said. He reached out to cradle the back of Clint’s head, threaded his fingers through the hair there and let his thumb soothe back and forth. “Hey, baby -” 

“I’m sorry,” Clint mumbled, once Bucky had tugged him all the way in, forehead resting in the crook of Bucky’s neck where it fit just exactly right. “I’m a mess.” 

“I love you,” Bucky said, easy as breathing. “I love you, and this is nothing, and we’ll get in professional fuckin’ movers, okay? I don’t give a shit, I just wanna be with you.” 

39. Who leaves little notes in the other one’s lunch? (Bonus: What does it say?)

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winterhawkkisses:

468.

Clint was unwrapping a sandwich, poking through the wrappings like there was a bomb inside ready to go off. (Sam was hoping there wasn’t a bomb ready to go off, literally or metaphorically, ‘cos Banner was up from the labs today and the guy had a temper. 

Eventually he extracted a slip of paper and placed it carefully on the desk as he munched on his sandwich – tuna mayonnaise, cucumber, red onion, that was an effort sandwich, and Clint didn’t look like the effort type. 

“Your honey make you lunch?” Sam asked, and Clint choked on a piece of cucumber. 

“Um,” he said, “I guess you could call him that?” 

“So what’s with the note?” Sam continued, curious beyond belief at the way Clint side-eyed it, wary as all hell. 

“He thinks he’s funny,” Clint said. “Read it.” 

Sam picked up the note, which was written on the corner of a pizza menu, looked like, in almost-dried-out Sharpie. 

“’And I said hey,’” he read out, and Clint joined in dolefully, “‘what’s going on.’“

“The hell?” Sam asked, and Clint made a face. 

“Every goddamn day he earworms me.” He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, and carefully picked out a text on the screen that was spiderwebbed with cracks. Upside down, it looked like it said ‘u sick son of a bitch’. “And then he laughs his ass off at me when I come home whistling.”

“Aaw, c’mon,” Sam said, “how the hell hard can it be to resist?” 

By end of day every poor bastard in the precinct was singing. 

theproblemwithstardust Leave a comment

dylanssourwolf:

Sterek AU: The PlayLizst | Dr. Derek S. Hale is one of the most qualified musicologists in the country. He’s done his fair share of travelling to colleges all over the country to to give insights on the musical structures of some of the most famous pieces of classical literature and while he can’t really play any of those pieces, he does have a particular choice of pianist when it comes to listening to them. Mieczysław. Derek likes to think he’s in love with the guy, even though he isn’t sure if Mieczysław is a first name or a last name or even a name at all, and he’s never once gotten a glimpse of the pianist’s face. It’s about the music, the money-makers, and the guy’s hands are plastered on everything. There’s only one other pianist who may be well on his way to being as talented as Mieczysław, a student by the name of Stiles Stilinski. He’s just come back to school after a semester off and after annoying his way into Derek’s life via iced coffee, he’s decided to pursue an independent study with the musicologist to finish up his double degree, and potentially charm Derek into a date once he graduates. There’s one peculiar thing; Stiles always has his hands mostly covered by fingerless gloves, yet still, Derek swears he’s seen them somewhere.

Find the fic here: The PlayLizst AO3
Find the playlist here: The PlayLiszt 8tracks

This fic is meant to be read with the playlist playing as background music, but is completely optional. All of the music on the playlist is mentioned in the story at the time it should be playing in the background, should you choose to tune in and out as you read. Enjoy!

The boy scoots closer into Derek’s space as if he’s never heard of something called privacy. “You’re a music professor? My best friend is a music major. I thought being a good friend meant playing through a bunch of classical piano music that he has to know by memory for a test at the end of the week for the entirety of an evening but apparently that isn’t enough for him. He’s been harassing me all morning.”

“You do know there’s something called personal space and right now, you’re about three feet too far into mine.” He moves his laptop clenches his jaw because this kid is swirling his tongue around the straw of his coffee and it’s absolutely infuriating.

He seems to ignore the disgruntled green eyes glaring at him and continues like he’s not sticking his nose into the business of someone he just met. “I guess I would understand his struggle if I were also in the class. I just need these few hours of java and crosswords before his head is back up my ass again.”

“Is that why your head is up mine?”

There’s a charming little snicker that comes out of his perfect little mouth, and it shouldn’t appeal to Derek as much as it does. Regardless, the guy leans back into his own space and shrugs with another swig of his coffee. “Is that the reason you haven’t left yet?”

600.

theproblemwithstardust Leave a comment

winterhawkkisses:

(For @lissadiane)

Clint sneaking out of medical had become enough of a habit that the medical staff tended to just send any prescriptions to his rooms, FAO Mr J. Barnes,  as soon as he was mobile. 

So the nurse just about jumped out of her skin when he cleared his throat and asked politely for some painkillers, please, while they both tried to ignore the shining tracks down his cheeks. 

“But we -” she said, helpless, “we left the door open?” She gaped at him for a moment more, then bustled into action, taking his empty water jug to refill and going to fetch a doctor to issue more pills. 

Clint scrubbed the hand that was currently working across his face, wishing the breath he took in wasn’t so goddamn shaky, and then tried to fish out the remote that’d make his bed lay him down again.

The bed started moving before he’d done more than brace himself to reach for the remote, settling into just the perfect angle, and he covered his face again ‘cos everything, everything goddamn hurt. 

“Hey,” he croaked, and did his best to pat at the fingers that trailed gently over his cast-wrapped hand. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Bucky said, and Clint choked on an idiot sob, curled as best as he could into the arms that Bucky wrapped around him as best as he could. Clint hid his face in Bucky’s hair and hitched in dumb breaths that hurt like hell and smelt like home, and Bucky whispered everything that he needed to hear. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint said, “I’m sorry, I just – can we press pause for a bit? I swear, I swear we’re gonna talk about it, and I’ve probably got an apology to – but can I come home?” 

Bucky reared back, startled, appalled, and cupped Clint’s face with a hand that was about as unsteady as Clint’s dumb voice. 

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” he said, and pressed kisses to his forehead, the side of his face that wasn’t swollen, the stubbled skin just under his chin. “I don’t give a shit what we’re fightin’ about, Clint, I will never in my life not want you there.”