zombierose3 asked: I asked you about the Darcy-su-namun and cat fic, but it's too long for me to post into this, so I will send you it in a chat because I can't directly reply to the message you sent me, unfortunately, but thank you for the fic because it was SO cute!! The part about Bucky at the end was adorable, too.
Here’s the original ask and answer in its entirety:
@zombierose3 asked:
I never knew I needed Darcy su Namun and Imhotep. You complete me. Thank you. Ps, I’d love to see a drabble or one shot where Darcy gets a pet cat.
A/N: I feel like the two things I am most known for in Darcyland will shortly be soulmates and Darcy-Su-Namun and that makes me lol 5ever.
She names him ‘Hugh’ because she spent the first two weeks referring to him as ‘Hey, you’ and it kind of slurred, then it kind of stuck. Hugh looks like a pile of dusty rags spontaneously developed a pair of big golden eyes and and long sharp claws. Hugh purrs like an engine without a muffler and makes a sound like ‘myeh’ when he wants something. This is the first time she’s ever owned a - no, that’s not enough, this is the closest Darcy has ever come to having a child in any of her lives and she is overcome.
Clint is nonplussed. “Isn’t he just supposed to be, like, your early warning device when you’re alone? Beware, dead ex-boyfriends closing in? I don’t think you need to bring him everywhere.”
“He’s more than a guardian,” she says firmly.
He shoots a confused look at Natasha, who rolls her eyes. “I’m more of a dog person, myself,” she says, eyes flicking towards the archer momentarily, “but I understand the sentiment. Ask Pepper, not Tony, she will set something up for you.”
Shortly after that, Hugh becomes a permanent fixture around the Tower.
Specifically, around (or on) Darcy. He frequently rides her shoulder, or sleeps in her handbag, or trots at her heels. It takes about a month for everyone (Tony) to get used to it.
“You’re looking better,” Jane comments. “Less-” she makes a vague gesture at her face and grimaces.
“Less sleep-deprived?” Darcy offers. “He keeps the nightmares away.”
Jane nods and, if there is suddenly a surplus of kitty treats on and around the astrophysicists desk, well, she’s not the only one. Steve keeps them stocked too, and Bucky always has something squirreled away in his pockets.
It takes about a month for the Captain to sidle up to Darcy in the elevator, one hand automatically burying itself in the fur of the head next to her own. “Do you think-”
She wordlessly hands him a card with a name and a number.
Three weeks after that, Bucky gains his own purring shadow.
Anyway everyone should read it and also??? Why is there not a Mr & Mrs (or Mr & Mr/Mrs & Mrs/etc as applicable) Smith AU of every ship???? I’m disappointed in you, fandom.
For @littlestartopaz : Steve
catches Wanda sulking and invites her to Disney Night with Nat and Clint. Wanda teases him, and Vision ends up there
too. Better yet, not MCU so we can also
have her brother. Or just ignore that
part of the MCU.
GOOD.
Also, Quicksilver is alive and healthy after a while in a healing coma,
as speedsters do. I read a wild AU once
where he was shot and died, and the comments were full of complaints about how
it didn’t make sense. I am RIGHT THIS
MOMENT deciding that this fic and this and this and possibly some others with small tweaks exist in the
same universe as this one
(I do not have a timeline to speak of) and also I’m disregarding that same wild AU’s belief that
Clint lives? On a farm? Rather than a shitty apartment building in
NYC and the Tower/Mansion? And that Nat and
Clint are not soulmates on a level that makes romance look downright petty,
kay-thanks-bye. AND also I’m so glad we
all remember how Wanda and Pietro were kids who were pressganged and conned
into service of HYDRA rather than being voluntary recruits.
It wasn’t like Wanda had expected her relationship with Pietro to be all
roses after he came out of his coma, but her worry had also done a spectacular
job of blurring out some of his less desirable qualities as a brother. Like, just for example, his overwhelming, pointless, overprotective bullshit. She muttered a bitter Sokovian curse under
her breath and stripped off her jacket, dropping it on the bed without a care
for the soot that would certainly stain her sheets. The rest of her uniform was given the same
careless treatment, abandoned on the floor as she yanked on a pair of leggings
and a soft shirt two sizes too big.
She wasn’t even sure who she was more frustrated with—Pietro, for
yanking her out of the way of a spider ‘bot that she could have taken care of,
or herself, for losing focus for long enough to let him take the hit for her. Someday, he was going to suddenly realize
that his fragile twin sister had gone and turned into an adult while he was
busy fending off the world. She hoped it
was sooner rather than later, or she might have to beat it into him. Assuming he even lived that long, which was
beginning to look increasingly unlikely.
“Stupid nervous bastard,” she muttered in English, and flopped down on
her bed, flat on her back with her fingers laced over her face. “Martyr.”
“Hazard of the profession,” Steve’s voice said, amused. Wanda turned her head, untangling her fingers
to look toward the door, where Steve was leaning against her doorjamb. He was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt,
standard fare for any of them after showering upon returning from a
mission. His hair was a rumpled mess and
he had a nasty purple and blue bruise marbling over one cheek, where Bruce had
diagnosed a cracked zygomatic. In
combination with the blood that had been leaking from a split in his lip,
Natasha had cheerfully commented that he was looking very patriotic indeed.
“Put ice on your face,” she said, frowning at him across the landscape
of her comforter. Steve grinned at her,
and winced, raising the cold pack in his hand back to his cheek.
“Like I said,” Steve said. His voice
was muffled, but his eyes were bright and wild with adrenaline, like blue fire. “We’re all fucking martyrs, or so I’m told. Your brother just wants to keep you safe.”
“Well, I just spent months at
his bedside because he took eight bullets to the chest and severed his spine,”
Wanda said, sitting up sharply. “So he
can get over it.”
this was before we got agent agent back as our handler, and part of the reason why he finally turned up for work again.
so the thing about clint is that hes 1. not a good listener and 2. hes deaf. mostly. these are separate issues because being mostly deaf doesnt stop him from understanding what people are saying most of the time, it just means that you have to be sure he knows youre trying to communicate with him before you say something. (and also that you should make sure your mask doesnt cover your mouth so he can lipread, but whatever.)
we had this agent—incredibly boring guy in the worst sort of way–who’d requested clint, nat, and i for an op. nat and i were supposed to hit two of the leaders of a crime syndicate while clint got the third. easy peasy, kill some guys, free some hostages, small country liberated, total cakewalk. but the agent running the op and the briefing took FOREVER. he was talking us through like none of us had ever overthrown a country before, explaining every minute detail. nat and i could just kinda zone out and let things wash over us, picking up the pertinent details, but clint cant really do that. his hearing aids help but they weren’t perfect, so he also had to be kinda lipreading just to keep up. which takes a lot of focus for incredibly boring info. naturally he zoned out too.
which was how he missed the fact that his guy was not actually staying in his incredibly fortified base-slash-villa. his hostages were, but he wasn’t.
luckily, they covered this in the briefing packet we were each provided with, which was a mere 362 pages.
so obviously none of us actually read it.
we poked through, got blueprints, guard schedules, alarm systems and so on, but didnt bother with most of the rest of it.
they dropped us in the air over each of our respective targets, clint last. i had the cliffside resort, nat had the downtown headquarters, and clint had the base-villa. nat and i handled ours like pros, of course, corpses everywhere, and clint did too–mowed right through the security, got the hostages, and then called in that his syndicate leader wasnt there, what the hell, who gave me this bad intel.
which was when he was informed that the big bad wasnt IN the villa, he was on the ISLAND ACROSS from the villa, and that hed been supposed to covertly infiltrate the beach house there and quietly capture him. ideally without ever setting foot in the villa; he was just supposed to steal a boat from the villa docks and not get spotted by security.
unfortunately, clint had blown up all the watercraft at the villa’s docks to keep syndicate members from escaping. which meant he still had to get to the island and capture this guy, but now there were no motorboats left. and if this syndicate jerkoff got away, fury was gonna have his hide.
and thats how clint wound up launching a one-man amphibious assault on an international crime syndicate from a paddleboat.
Clint’s soulmark curves under the line of his collarbone, in tiny,
precise handwriting. And
it’s…interesting. It’s in Russian, he
learns that real quick as a kid, and when he’s seven, still living at home with
his parents and his brother, he finds out that one of his teachers speaks the
language. He rushes up to her the very
next day and explains, hasty and stammered, and she smiles kindly, offering to
translate it for him.
He pulls down the collar of his shirt—he sees her eyes drag on the
hand-shaped bruise on his wrist, but she doesn’t say anything—and she leans
down to read his words.
“Let’s see,” she says, and reads out the Russian words. Clint tries to memorize the sound of it, so
that he’ll know his soulmate when they meet him. “Oh,” the teacher says quietly, and smooths
his shirt back over his mark. “Listen,
baby, I don’t think it’s anything you need to worry about just yet, okay?”
“What does it say?”
She gives him a smile, sort of grim and sad and confused, and says, “I’m
sorry, baby, I’m not going to tell you.
You don’t need that on your conscience today.”
Anonymous asked: Sooooo, for the sake of pain, can I have a Nat/Clint fic for the OTP song thing for "Castle of Glass" by Linkin Park
*cackling* All right, let’s play. Trigger warning for…Red Room shit. There’s more of this story, of course, after the events of the last scene, but I felt like this was a good place to end it.
Bring me home in a blinding dream, Through the secrets that I have seen Wash the sorrow from off my skin And show me how to be whole again
‘Cause I’m only a crack in this castle of glass Hardly anything there for you to see
She is very small when she learns what they mean, the words inscribed
over the curve of her hipbone. Not the
words themselves—they’re not Russian, not even the right alphabet, her parents
say they’re French and she wonders
what it means. But they are her soulmate,
her parents say. Someday, somewhere,
someone will say them to her, and that will be the person the universe has
created just for her.
She smiled and traces her fingers over the words, over and over, and
wonders who it will be.
And then her life catches fire and burns to ash, and she is taken away
by a tall man with a solemn face, and given a new name.
Natalia grows up, and learns, and fights, and bleeds.
STRIKE TEAM DELTA AU ↣ first mission together: infiltrate a building, damage the bad guys’ servers. Except it turns out that someone has to jump down the ventilation shaft to get there, right past the giant spinning blades of death. Mission control has decided it’s going to be Clint, citing ‘You’re HAWKeye right? Fly there or something. You’ll figure it out~’
