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[sinfullystanning]

Ten Things I Hate About You

Matt Murdock x Reader

Genre: Lots and lots of angst

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, swearing

A/N: This takes place after the events at the end of The Defenders. Yes, the movie mentioned in the story is “Ten Things I Hate About You” which I absolutely love.

Summary: After being presumed dead for months, you find out that your boyfriend is very much alive and it drives a wedge between the two of you bigger than death did.

It was Wednesday. A few months ago, on a similar Wednesday, you’d been huddled in a police station with Karen and Foggy, waiting for Matt to come back. The problem, of course, was that he hadn’t. You tried your best not to think about it, but all you can see when you close your eyes was them coming back, the tiny reunions breaking the tension that been threatening to choke the other families and friends that were in the same room in the Harlem precinct with you and your friends. Jessica first, then Luke, then Danny and Colleen, and then nothing. Your eyes had been glued to the empty doorway, waiting for Matt to limp in the way he always did, every single night without fail. He promised that he’d always come back to you, but that night he’d broken that promise. You’d waited, still as a stone, waiting for him to make a dramatic entrance, the way he always unintentionally did. Even when your ears heard Karen’s quiet sobs, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from that doorway.

Eventually, Foggy put his hand on your shoulder, wanting to comfort you, but you hadn’t wanted comfort, no, you wanted your boyfriend, safe and sound. Even if your brain and heart had stopped, your body knew what it wanted and you’d barely felt it as your body got up, managing to keep steady as it exited the room slowly making your way down the hallway until a cop grabbed your arms, saying something about how you needed to stay for questioning that you didn’t hear over the rushing in your ears, you’d brushed him off but when you were almost in sight of the precinct door, you’d been stopped again, this time by more officers. They were saying things like how they knew how you must feel right now but you had to stay and how Matt would want you to be safe and that’s when you snapped and the screaming started.

It didn’t stop either, what the cops had probably been hoping was a single cathartic scream was the opposite of that because once the dam opened, all the pain, rage, and grief that you’d kept pent in from the night that you first found out that Matt was Daredevil came pouring out. Every night that he came home safely, he put those emotions at bay, building your dam higher, the nights that he came home half-dead putting thin cracks in your composure, but tonight he’d managed to demolish it completely. You barely remember what you’d said, but I particular line stuck in your mind: “IF HE WANTED ME TO BE SAFE, HE’D BE HERE!” You struggled against the officers that were trying to calm you down until Luke eventually had to step in so you couldn’t cause any more damage. Claire had sat you down in a room talking you through grief or something, you remember none of it, and you’d eventually wrangled your storm to remain internal. Hours that felt like days later, and you were leaving the precinct, pushing away Karen and Foggy when they tried to reach out to you, your feet leading you to the last spark of hope in your heart.

Logically speaking, if Matt had just gone to his apartment instead of the precinct, the others would know that he was alive and someone would have told you, but you weren’t thinking logically. So when you finally felt your key scrape the lock of Matt’s front door, you threw the door open, calling for him, letting useless hope fill your voice before finding the room the same as when you’d left the night before. And so you’d filled the room with your tears.

That was months ago, however, and eventually, you’d come out of the room when you’d run out of days you could take off of work. Without Matt, however, you had a gaping hole in your life that you didn’t know how to fill. Wondering, not for the first time, what Matt would do, you’d found yourself at Clinton Church on a Wednesday. You’d only been inside a handful of times, with Matt as you weren’t particularly religious yourself, but now it felt like there was nowhere else to be. Tentatively, you’d walked in, the sanctuary mostly empty, a few people knelt in the pews, eyes closed tight in prayer. You’d made your way to a vacant pew, sitting down, eyes scanning the room, for what, you didn’t know. As you sat, however, you found yourself feeling something, a sort of peace that the outside world, your friends, and three different grief counselors, hadn’t been able to even begin to make you feel. You felt a tear run down your face, splashing down onto your tightly clasped hands in your lap. You closed your eyes, unsure how to proceed when a hand touched your shoulder, and you opened your eyes again, blinking away the tears in them, swiping at your cheeks to hide the evidence of your grief to see Father Lantom sadly smiling down at you. Seeing him reminded you of Matt, you’d met the man a few times for lattes in the church basement with Matt, and Matt had told you plenty of stories about the old man from his childhood. Now, seeing him broke a dam that you didn’t know existed and you wept as the priest’s expression softened in understanding and took a seat next to you, holding you gently as you cried.

***

Today is Wednesday. Every Wednesday, you came to Clinton Church for midday mass, a routine that had helped you get back on your feet better than any therapist, then coffee in the basement with Father Lantom and you’d talk, about God, about life, and sometimes, on your good days, about Matt. You’d light a candle for him in the front of the sanctuary and pray for his peace, wherever he was. Today, however, a different priest gave the homily, and so you venture to the Church basement alone, looking for Father Lantom or someone who might have seen him. He wasn’t in the usual room where you two usually met, so you decided to search for his office. Unfortunately, you had no idea where that was and eventually found yourself lost somewhere in the various passages under the church. Just when you were about to give up and try and retrace your steps in an attempt to find somewhere familiar, you heard a noise. You weren’t sure where exactly you were, but as you headed towards the sound you found yourself in a stone hallway, that if you didn’t know better looked like some kind of crypt. You heard it again. The sound was closer, you cautiously made your way down the hall, stepping lightly and silently, the way Matt had taught you in the event that you were ever trying to hide from someone. Then you saw the shadow, just around the edge of the stone partition to your left. With a deep breath, you rounded the partition, expecting to find someone who could help you find your way back to the sanctuary, or maybe knew where you could find Father Lantom. That’s why what you did find felt like a lightning bolt to the chest.

“Matty?” His name barely a croak as it slipped past your lips. He’s sitting on a bed, more like a cot than a proper bed, one leg stretched out and the other hanging off the edge like he’s ready to get up at a moment’s notice. A braille Bible lies on his lap, but his head raises at the sound of his name. He’s not wearing his glasses and the sight of his beautiful hazel eyes alight and alive leaves you speechless.

“Y/N?” His voice is laced with confusion, guilt, and fear. He’s afraid of you? Then he’s on his feet, not moving towards you, just standing there, the Bible fallen closed onto the bed, forgotten. “Y/N, what are you doing here?”

“I-I was looking for Father Lantom and I got lost and I heard a noise from over here so I,” you trail off, your brain racing at a hundred miles an hour. Silence is thick in the room before you manage the words “Matty what are YOU doing here?” He doesn’t answer, but his hand goes up to rub the stubble on his chin, clearly uncomfortable. You swallow before forcing the words out. “You’re supposed to be dead.” There, you said it. All these months and you’d never said it once, always just settling for ‘gone,’ not able or ready to face the finality of the word ‘dead.’

Matt doesn’t say anything, he just stands there, looking guilty, his hands fidgetting at his sides. You can’t handle the silence, it’s all you’d gotten for the last few months and you were tired of it, bracing yourself, you cross the distance so that you’re standing in front of Matt, looking up at him, trying to calm your racing heart. Matt’s alive and he’s here standing in front of you. And he looks like absolute shit. His hair is sticking up where he’s been running his hands through it, his face looks tired behind all the healing cuts and bruises, the way he’s holding his body tells you that he’s hiding more wounds under his clothes as well. Slowly, you reach out your hand, placing it on his chest, over his heart, feeling the solid beat under your palms telling you that this isn’t a dream, apparition, or hallucination, it’s really him, your Matty, alive under your hand. “Matty, say something, please.” You whisper, your hands trembling because as much as you want to throw your arms around him and sob, something stops you, because he’s alive, alive enough to stand, alive enough to lounge around and read, and yet here you are, months into mourning him, with no idea that he was here the whole time, alive.

Matt hangs his head, closing his eyes. “Y/N,” just hearing him speak your name feels like a piece of you is being put back together. “I’m not, I can’t,” He’s struggling to tell you and you reach a hand out to cup the side of his face.

“Matty, what is it? You can tell me.” Your voice is trembling, scared of what he’ll say but thankful that you get to hear him say anything.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, “I’m not coming back. As far as I’m concerned, Matt Murdock is dead. I can’t be him anymore. I’m not him anymore.”

Just when you thought that losing Matt the first time had been more pain than you would ever feel in your lifetime, he managed to rip your heart all over again even while standing here in front of you. “Matt, what are you talking about? You’re alive, you’re here. Why, why?” You’re confused and blabbering but you can’t wrap your mind around his words.

“Y/N, I can’t be a part of your life anymore, or Foggy’s, or Karen’s. I’m sorry.” He says like it’s something that simple, cutting ties and easily making a little bow at the end.

“What?” Your voice is indignant now, and you step back, taking your hands off of him. “What, no. No, you,” You laugh, the sound dry and harsh. “No, Matt Murdock, you don’t get it. You don’t GET it.” You shake your head in disbelief. “You don’t get to play martyr. Not with Foggy, not with Karen, and sure as hell, not with me.” To his credit, Matt flinches, but he doesn’t say anything so you plow on, months worth of pent up frustration coming out. “I did not get back the hell up so YOU could tell me to move on with my life. Not you, Matt Murdock. Three grief counselors, Matt, THREE. Maybe I should send you the fucking bill! Because, you know what they told me, Matt? They told me the exact same bullshit that you’re trying to sell me right now. ‘He’s not coming back, sweetie, he’s gone. He would want you to move on,’ and that’s all fine and dandy when you kiss booboos for a damn living but you?” You shake your head. “You have, NO right to tell me to move on.”

You take a deep breath when he doesn’t respond. “When you told me that you were Daredevil, I could see how much it meant to you, how much you needed it, so I didn’t push you away. Foggy and Karen, they asked me, how could I be okay with it? How could I be okay with the things you were doing? Do you know what I told them? I told them that I loved you and that if loving Matt Murdock meant loving Daredevil then I would love them both because they were the same person. One doesn’t exist without the other, Matt, and as much as it scared me every damn night, knowing that you may not come back, and how much I hated seeing you get hurt, coming home half-dead, I loved you anyway. And then,” Your voice caught, the words stuck in your throat. You realized that at some point, you had started crying, your cheeks soaked with tears. “Then,” you start again, “then that day, you didn’t come back. I thought I lost you, and you know what they told me? Those police officers, those counselors, our friends, they said ‘He would want you to be safe’ and here you are telling me that same bullshit, that you think that cutting me out is keeping me safe, so I’m going to tell you what I told them, ‘IF HE WANTED ME TO BE SAFE, HE’D BE HERE!’” You shout the last line, anger boiling up even as you see the conflicting emotions warring on Matt’s face. You should feel guilty for yelling at him, but you don’t. Shaking, you straighten up, swiping at your cheeks to clear away the tears. “So, when you’re ready to keep my safe, you know where to find me.” With that, you turn and walk back out into the hallway, when Matt’s voice calls after you.

“Straight forward, up the stairs, and right at the top and you should be back in the sanctuary.” You snort, but follow his directions, finding yourself in the sanctuary a few minutes later. You pause to stare at the altar and the crucifix hanging above it for a few moments before you turn and leave the church.

***

It’s been a week. A week of knowing that Matt Murdock is alive. It’s Wednesday again, but you can’t bring yourself to go to mass or even anywhere close to Clinton Church. You’ve battled every emotion possible in the last week, torn between wanting to never see Matt again wanting to race back to that church and beg him to come home, come back to you even if it was the most degrading thing you’d ever do. You usually take your Wednesday evenings off from work so you’re at home, attempting to read a book, but stuck reading the same paragraph over and over, your mind everywhere but on the words in front of you. A knock on the door startles you, you weren’t expecting company. You expect several of the usual suspects, Foggy with takeout to make sure that you’re eating and offering company even if you don’t want conversation, Karen with a bottle of something alcoholic and some half-hearted talk about a story that she’s working on, your nosey next-door neighbor with some fake niceties and suggestions of who you could use as a rebound amongst her friends’ sons. What you don’t expect is the all-too-familiar lawyer standing at your door, his usual suit traded in for a sweatshirt and sweatpants, his glasses back on his nose, hiding the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen.

“Matt.” You say, not sure what else to say.

“May I come in?” He asks and you step back, silently inviting him in as you return to your spot on the sofa, before standing up again, too restless to sit. Having Matt back in your apartment feels odd, all things considered, and you wander around before coming to the window, gazing out, to escape looking at him where he’s taken up your former place on the couch. “So,” he says.

“So,” you echo.

“I’m sorry.” The two words fall from his lips and hit the ground like a sack of bricks. When you don’t respond, he continues. “You were right, what you said that day.” Again, you say nothing so he breathes out and says, “you must hate me.”

That makes you sigh. You didn’t know what you were going to say to him, but now you have an idea. One of the grief counselors convinced you to start journaling and a few nights ago, you were watching one of your favorite movies and the final scene had struck a chord with you, so you’d played with the dialogue in your journal that night. Those words come back to you now as you recite them to the window, still unable to look at Matt. “I hate the way you worry me, and I hate your perfect hair. I hate the way you call my name. I hate it when you care.” You smile softly, turning slightly so you can see Matt out of the corner of your eye. “I hate your dumb red devil suit, and the way you hear my heart. I hate you so much that it makes me scream. More now that we’re apart.” Your fists clench at your sides and you turn a little more, your voice starting to shake as tears fill your eyes. “I hate the way you know me best. I hate it when you die. I hate it when you make me laugh. Even worse when you make me cry.” Your voice breaks for a moment and you swallow before you finish. “I hate the way you disappear, and that you never called. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.” You turn all the way and find see Matt looking at you. Your fists relax and you fidget with your hands as Matt stands up, crossing the room to where you stand, wrapping you in his arms, soundlessly. You reach back, clinging to him like he’s going to disappear from your grasp if you don’t hold him there.

“I’m ready to keep you safe if you’ll let me.” Matt whispers into your hair.

“As Daredevil or Matt Murdock?” You ask with bated breath.

“Both.” He says and you hold him tighter than you thought was possible.

[sinfullystanning]

the suffering never ends

[sinfullystanning]

My characters when I try to write a transition scene:

[sinfullystanning]

Another little drabble thing that I wrote for my other blog 🥰

Kids with Bucky

You and Bucky weren’t planning on having kids but a surprise pregnancy changes everything. Bucky was worried that everything he’s done and the perils of his job wouldn’t make him ideal dad material but when your son was born, he’s a natural. He’s determined to be the best dad in the world and in your opinion, he’s doing a pretty good job. You eventually decide that your son needs a partner in crime and you have a baby girl, much to Bucky’s delight. If he already loved his son, he spoils your daughter rotten. Sure he’s not always the parent at home due to his job, when he is he’s 100% present and effortlessly leaves his work at the door when he scoops up the kids. Since having kids, Bucky has gotten serious about learning to cook. He tried a few times when it was just the two of you with varying success, but the kids make him want to get it right and now breakfast may as well be his meal as he churns out everything from simple toast on weekdays before heading out to work to extravagant pancakes and waffles on the weekends. The only problem at the moment is explaining to his son that while he is a super hero (his son’s words not his) he doesn’t actually know Batman and can’t guarantee that he can get him to show up for his son’s birthday... (Steve and Sam find it hilarious that his son’s favorite super hero is Batman)

Written for @the-ss-horniest-book-club ‘s Dad AU Day

[sinfullystanning]

Nightlight

Matt Murdock x Reader

Genre: Fluff

A/N: I just finished Daredevil and I’m so whipped for Matt Murdock so expect lots of new content... The title is inspired by the song “Nightlight” by The Sam Willows.

Matt Murdock creeps down the stairs from the roof as quietly as possible. He had heard your even breathing and smelled the sweet yet subtle scent of your shampoo from almost a block away. A small smile had teased his lips at the idea of you waiting for him at home, even if you were fast asleep. As he reaches the living room he realizes that your breathing isn’t coming from his bed. From what he could tell you’re fast asleep at the dinner table. His brows furrow in confusion and concern as he crosses the room to where you’re slumped over the wood, a blanket slipping off your shoulders.

***

You hadn’t planned to fall asleep. You’d shown up to Matt’s with takeout and a bottle of wine hoping to catch him before he stepped out for his night job but after silence had answered your knock at the door, you’d fished out your key, shoulders slumping as you pushed the door open with your shoulder as you did your best not to drop the contents of your full arms, shuffling through the entryway into the apartment, being careful not to let your clumsy feet catch on any of the furniture as you made your way to the kitchen where you deposited the food onto the counter before making your way back to the front door to lock up and deposit your shoes by the doorway. You check the bathroom to make sure Matt is really gone before letting out a sigh as you stand in the middle of the empty apartment, alone with your worries and thoughts. You try to push the latter away as you absently wander through the two rooms, looking for something to tidy up while you wait for Matt to come home.

A few hours later, you’ve folded a few stray shirts and pants you found uncharacteristically strewn in Matt’s bedroom, probably from a busy day, hauled the cleaning supplies out of the tiny closet that never gets opened and swept and mopped, the floors, scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom top to bottom, and dusted. You collapsed on the couch, staring at billboard outside that had lit up while you were cleaning, bathing you in a warm pinkish-blue glow. The apartment no longer smelled like Matt, instead, the sharp odors of cleaning solution and Pine-sol pierced your nose and you wrinkled it in discomfort. Rolling off of the couch you pad over to the kitchen, finally untying the now-cold takeout bag, methodologically pulling out the small cardboard cartons, cracking one open to deeply inhale a more comforting, welcome smell. Closing the box again, you glance at your phone, sighing at the time that reads past midnight. Begrudgingly, you turn and open the fridge, what you’d intended to be dinner would probably end up being breakfast.

You can’t help the way your eyes roll at the contents of Matt’s fridge. It’s almost post-apocalyptically empty, a few bottles of beer its only inhabitants, a stark contrast to yours at home, full-to-bursting with every edible vice known to man that your budget could afford. After depositing the takeout inside, you decide to check the freezer and open it to come face to face with an old friend. You snort as you fish out the half-empty quart of strawberry ice cream from a casual date night a few months ago. A split-second decision later and you’re sitting at the kitchen table, a spoon buried deep in the remaining ice cream. The ice cream disappears faster than you’d care to admit and you toss the empty carton into the trash, washing the spoon for lack of something better to do, your mind creeping into unwanted territory.

Matt hadn’t mentioned anything serious going on with his night job recently, so tonight should have been just a regular patrol night. Long story short, he should be home by now. The words that you’d forbidden yourself from thinking all day branded themselves into your brain. You shake your head, trying to shoo away the dark thoughts threatening to collapse your mental state into a useless cycle of worry. Your wandering eyes catch on the bottle of wine that you’d brought but you decide against it. Nothing like alcohol to trap you in your own head. You settle on making tea, doing your best to keep your focus on the task at hand and away from the tempting thoughts that were now accompanied by images. Matt unconscious on some rooftop somewhere where no one would find him. Matt half-dead in a dumpster where anyone could find him. You tighten your grip on the kettle as you drag your focus back to the present.

While you wait for the water to boil, you dig through the contents of a small shelf, looking for the candle that you bought Matt for Christmas, finally feeling your fingers curl around the small jar. Smiling slightly, you pull it out and set it on the kitchen table, grabbing the matchbox from the kitchen, coaxing the candle to life, a small trail of smoke and a warm, woody scent filling the room, easing your tense nerves. The kettle whistles and you head back to the kitchen to finish making the tea.

Eventually, you settle at the kitchen table, a mug of tea wrapped in your hands and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, Matt’s voice in your head fussing about you catching a cold. The flame of the candle dances in front of you, small but strong and you smile to yourself, letting it bring you peace as you wait for Matt to come walking down the stairs from the roof.

***

As Matt approaches the table he feels the slight warmth from the candle, his nose twitching slightly as the scent from the candle mixed with the chemically clean smell that seems to coat the apartment. Pulling off his mask with one hand, setting it across the table from you, he reaches his other hand to brush against your hair gently. You stir in your sleep at the delicate touch, and Matt retracts his hand, not wanting to wake you. He’s turned away to go slip into the shower when he hears your sleep-addled voice, “Matty?”

He turns back to you, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

You shake your head a few times to brush off his concern and shake off the sleep. “No, no I’m sorry I fell asleep. I was supposed to be waiting for you.” You stumble to your feet, your brain thinking faster than your limbs could follow and your foot catches on the leg of the chair and you stumble. Thankfully, Matt moves fast and you fall against his chest.

“Hey, be careful. You could have hurt yourself.”

“Look who’s talking.” You slur slightly as your tongue attempts to rouse itself from its deep sleep. “You should have been home ages ago.” You pout, half-playful, half-serious. You see the guilt in Matt’s expression as he tries to turn his head away, but you reach a hand up and lay it against his cheek while winding your free arm around his waist. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. I just missed you, and when I miss you, I worry about you.” You move your hand off his cheek and let it join your other arm around his waist. Matt nods, letting his head rest on yours as he shifts his grip from holding you up to holding you close.

The two of you stay like that for a while, listening to the silence and the sounds of each other’s heartbeats and breathing, letting them convey the feelings that are too much to put into words. The moment ends when Matt’s stomach growls into the silence and you giggle at the sound, disentangling yourself from Matt. “Sit down, there’s takeout in the fridge.” You say with a smile as you head to the kitchen. Matt stops you, however, wrapping his arms around you from the back and burying his face in your hair.

“You’re an angel.” He murmurs. You roll your eyes.

“It would have been warm if you were home on time.” You answer as you wiggle out of his grasp and fish the takeout containers from the fridge, scooping a generous serving onto a plate and placing it into the microwave, finally turning around to smile gently at Matt. It was both odd and endearing to see Matt in his Daredevil suit doing something as mundane as sitting at the dinner table and you tuck the memory away for a rainy day as the microwave announces that the food is ready with an exuberant ping. You bring the plate over to the table and place it in front of Matt before retaking your seat across from him. “Your candlelit dinner is served.” You say with a dramatic flourish of your hand.

Matt laughs and your heart warms at the sound, feeling full and content, the worry from before, long gone. Matt Murdock is conscious in his apartment with you. Matt Murdock is alive and eating dinner across from you. After a few bites, Matt speaks. “Sorry about tonight, there’s really no excuse for how late I was.” He pauses. “If I knew you’d be here, I’d probably have been home sooner. I guess,” a longer pause this time and you reach out to cover his free hand with yours, tracing the ridges of the glove that’s still on his hand, “I guess I just didn’t want to be alone in here.” The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, letting his words fill the empty space.

“Thank you,” you whisper, finally, as the words begin to go from a comfortable warmth to taut awkwardness, “for telling me that. I didn’t know.” He nods and you lapse into silence again before you test out the words that have been stewing in your mind all evening. “Maybe,” Matt raises his head from where he was boring a hole in the table with his unseeing gaze to look in your direction, “maybe, I could be here more often.” You shift in your chair, nervously, “and maybe I could leave a night light on,” you suggest, your voice so quiet that it’s almost a whisper, but you know Matt hears it.

“I think,” Matt breaks the silence. “I think I’d like that,” he turns the hand in your grasp over to lace his fingers with yours, squeezing gently. “And,” he hesitates, and it’s your turn to look at him, nerves dancing in your chest, “you are my night light.” He says, his lips curving upward into a shy smile. You smile back and that night, you don’t feel as lonely when you blow out the candle.

[sinfullystanning]

I wrote a little something on one of my other blogs so I’ll reblog it here as well 🥰

Paris with Bucky

When the two of you finally get some time off, you decide to break open your savings and run away to Paris for a few weeks. You spend mornings having brunch in bed, afternoons wandering the winding streets and back alleys, and nights sipping champagne and eating delicious deserts on your hotel room’s balcony with a picturesque view of the Eiffel Tower all lit up behind you. Neither of you know any French and so you play rock-paper-scissors whenever you have to order something or ask for directions to see who has to embarrass themself. After a particularly bad incident, Bucky starts losing on purpose which you eventually catch on to, but you’re happy to let him tackle the locals. Your favorite part of the trip was when you guys discovered all the food in the Latin Quarter and embarked on a several-day-long food tour in an attempt to try everything. After the first day, you two almost passed out from food coma on a bench across the river from Notre Dame. Eventually you attempted to drag yourselves back to the hotel until you get sidetracked at one of the local book stores as you’re crossing back through the Latin Quarter and you settle in the back of the store with a pile of books and Bucky’s head in your lap as he catches a quick nap while you read. On your last night before you have to return home, Bucky surprises you with a fancy dinner date at one of the restaurants up in the Eiffel Tower.

Written for @the-ss-horniest-book-club ‘s Virtual Getaway

[sinfullystanning]

I honestly hate how inconsistent I get about my series works... here’s to hoping I get the motivation I need to finish “V is for Voler” because I so desperately want you all to hear the story it has to tell

And in the future I’m thinking of creating a character and then writing oneshots/twoshots that revolve around the relationship but don’t necessarily connect as a series in hopes that it helps with my writing inconsistency

[sinfullystanning]

Remember to support the artists you love, likes don’t spread their work….

Deviantart || Twitter || Patreon || Webcomic

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Updates

Hey everyone! I know I’ve been dead recently but I’m hoping to have a new chapter of “V is for Voler” out later this week! The chapter is like 1/3 done atm and what’s holding things up is that this is more of a character/plot building chapter rather than much fast-paced action so it’s taking some time to decide how to fill the physical space of the chapter.

- Rumi 😘

Bonus: A photo I took last time I was in Paris, ~2 years ago

[sinfullystanning]

i don’t think people really get how little feedback fanfic authors actually get? like the effort to reaction ratio is so abysmally skewed here that a fic nearly 50,000 words long takes an entire year to amass like. 16 comments. someone reblogged a fic i wrote at 4 am and tagged it with a 5-word compliment and i can’t stop thinking about it, not because it was so nice but because half the time you post a fic you’re going to hear nothing and anything feels like so much

fandom culture is so, so good about giving artists the credit they’re due, but we gotta start doing that for writers too. you’ve got no idea how much people put into their stories and get maybe a handful of reblogs and a dozen-odd kudos. that’s not enough. writing is an endurance sport and y’all need to start giving fic writers a reason to endure it and improve their craft. encourage writers like you encourage artists. reblog fics, leave tags, leave comments, acknowledge that these stories do not just spring into being for your entertainment. 

every single damn writer i know feels like half of their readers see them as a machine. that’s gotta change. 

[sinfullystanning]

I’M SO GLAD YOU LIKED IT!!! Honestly I’m so glad I was able to finish it on time! The idea came to me Friday night out of no where and I just knew it would work!

The Intern

Bucky Barnes x Darcy Lewis (Wintershock)

Written for @cchellacat for the @the-ss-horniest-book-club ‘s Summer Meet Cute Week

Bucky looked at the clock for the third time. Then he checked his phone to make sure that the clock was right. Not for the first time he wondered if he’d gotten the room number right. Thor had said to meet him here almost forty minutes ago and Bucky was on edge. It wasn’t like Thor to be late, but the god of thunder wasn’t exactly known for his punctuality either. Five minutes went by as Bucky counted the second under his breath and finally he heard a click and looked up to see the doorknob turning. He stood up, ready to throw Thor a deluge of irritated questions on his previous whereabouts when the person at the door entered and was most definitely not Thor.

The woman in question turned around, starting with surprise at the sight of him before asking, “You must be James?” It was Bucky’s turn to be surprised, no one had called him that in a long time.

“Um, yes that’s me.” He hesitated before adding, “And you are?”

“Darcy. Darcy Lewis, but that should have been in the email?” She frowned in confusion and Bucky found his eyes drawn to the adorable pout of her lips. He was so engrossed that he almost forgot to be confused by the mention of the email that he definitely didn’t get. Before he could ask, Darcy pushed ahead, simultaneously confusing him as she attempted to explain the situation. “You applied to be my intern, remember? Well, whether you do or not, I’d like to get right to work. Today will mostly be me familiarizing you with your duties.” Darcy had picked up a clipboard somewhere through her fast-paced monologue and while staring at it, she missed the growing look of shock on Bucky’s face as the reality of his situation sunk in.

He was the wrong James. That was Bucky’s first thought. Darcy had him confused with someone else, some other James. He should have known. It should have been obvious the second she called him by his real name. No one, not even Steve called him James. He had been so stupidly distracted by her unexpected entrance and even more unexpected beauty.

“All right and that’s it.” Darcy’s hands clapping together dragged Bucky out of his mental spiral into worry. He was attempting to collect his thoughts enough to stop Darcy and tell her about the mixup when she started walking down a hallway across from the sitting space that he’d spent almost the last hour in. She clearly expected him to follow her and he had to jog to catch up, head spinning. She kept him on his toes. In any other situation Bucky would have been impressed, dare say attracted to her quick-moving mind but today it was driving him into a state of frustrated panic.

“Darcy, wait please, there’s been a mistake-” Bucky tried to explain but Darcy cut him off, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashed into her back.

“You’re right, my office moved, we just passed it.” Darcy led him a few paces back down the hall and into a room off of the hallway with a quirky name plate that had her name in a corny, definitely not the mark of a professional but he liked it. Darcy opened the door, waving at the space awkwardly before heading back down the hallway.

As they continued the tour of the work space, Bucky tried and failed several more times to explain his predicament to Darcy but eventually gave up, frazzled and frustrated. “Alright, this is the last room.” Darcy announced as they entered a large work area full of various expensive-looking machines and tables upon tables piled with papers and books. “This is it.” She sighed, spreading out her arms, shrugging casually. “Command central. All the magic happens in here. Well, usually. Today Jane has a date somewhere and Erik is somewhere, not here, and I’m here giving you the tour. Just as she finished her sentence an unfamiliar voice called out from somewhere down the hallway outside.

“Darcy, is that you? Jane called. She said you hired an intern? She also said you don’t need an intern. Darcy?”

“SHIT. Erik wasn’t supposed to be back until later today!” Darcy looked around the room quickly before grabbing Bucky’s hand and dragging him into the nearest doorway, and yanking the door shut behind him.

Bucky slammed into Darcy. The room behind said door wasn’t a room at all, it was a closet. Not only was it a closet, but it wasn’t even one designed to accommodate one person, let alone two. “Wrong closet.” Darcy whispered and Bucky had half a mind to break down the door. He could barely take a breathe without feeling Darcy’s body shift with his. Just then he heard noises from outside the closet.

“Darcy! Darcy I heard you in here, you can’t hide forever! Jane will find out!” After a few more sentences of a similar variety, Bucky heard his footsteps retreating before the door shut behind Erik.

“Alright, open the door.” Darcy broke the tense silence. Bucky reached around in the dark, fumbling for a handle. Finally he found it and twisted only to feel it catch.

“DARCY.” He hissed. “Do not tell me that this door is locked.”

“Oh shit.” Darcy whispered and Bucky whipped his head around the best he could in the cramped space, glaring in her general direction.

“Do NOT tell me that this door is locked.” He repeated.

“The door isn’t locked…?” She tried and he could see the pained grin she was probably wearing.

“Call Erik.” Bucky forced himself to remain calm as a small part of his brain that he usually tucked away began to buzz with the beginnings of panic.

“What?”

“Get your phone out, call Erik.”

“What? No!”

“What, yes.” He snapped back.

“Fine, but I can’t reach my pocket, genius.” Seconds later Darcy yelped as Bucky reached out for her leg with the part of his arm that wasn’t pinned against her.

“Which pocket?”

“My-my back one, on the right.”

“Sorry about this.” Bucky muttered, embarrassed as he awkwardly fumbled around Darcy’s rear, trying his best not to grope her. Finally after what felt like too long, his fingers brushed the object of his quest. Gripping the metal with his left hand, he pulled carefully. One second he was gripping the phone, the next it was slipping through his fingers and hit the floor with an almost deafening thud.

“Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.” Darcy sounded as exasperated as Bucky felt.

“It’s not what you think it was.” Bucky tried Darcy’s tactic back at her.

“Oh come on! What kind of intern are you?!” She snapped, exasperatedly.

Bucky was done. Done pretending, done putting up with Darcy belittling him, done being James. “I. AM. NOT. AN. INTERN.” Bucky practically growled out as he drove his right hand straight into the door between each word until the door literally flew off its hinges.

Bucky all but flew out of the closet after it, desperate to be out of the tight space. Darcy however was slow and cautious as she exited the space and stared, stunned at him. It was then that the main door opened and two people walked in, one familiar and one unfamiliar.

“Thor, for heaven's sake, you said you’d meet me here two hours ago!” Bucky snapped, exasperatedly.

Thor scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. “Sorry, I got the time wrong, Bucky, won’t happen again.”

“Bucky? BUCKY? As in Bucky Barnes? As in the WINTER SOLDIER?!” Bucky turned to see Darcy gaping at him. “You said your name was James!”

“It IS James! JAMES Buchanan Barnes!” Bucky yelled back.

“But, but you said, you said, why didn’t you SAY anything?!”

“I TRIED. You kept interrupting me!”

Darcy face-palmed. After a few seconds, something came over her and she looked back at him, her expression now different. “So, you’re not my intern?”

“No, no, NO, of course not!” He said, clearly embarrassed by his earlier outbursts, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“Oh thank god, because I was having some seriously questionable thoughts for being your employer.” She said before crossing the room and gripping him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him against her, smashing her mouth against his.

Bucky was shocked but it melted into desire as he kissed her back. Darcy was one step ahead of him, same as she had been all day long. This time, however, he could appreciate it.

[sinfullystanning]

The Intern

Bucky Barnes x Darcy Lewis (Wintershock)

Written for @cchellacat for the @the-ss-horniest-book-club ‘s Summer Meet Cute Week

Bucky looked at the clock for the third time. Then he checked his phone to make sure that the clock was right. Not for the first time he wondered if he’d gotten the room number right. Thor had said to meet him here almost forty minutes ago and Bucky was on edge. It wasn’t like Thor to be late, but the god of thunder wasn’t exactly known for his punctuality either. Five minutes went by as Bucky counted the second under his breath and finally he heard a click and looked up to see the doorknob turning. He stood up, ready to throw Thor a deluge of irritated questions on his previous whereabouts when the person at the door entered and was most definitely not Thor.

The woman in question turned around, starting with surprise at the sight of him before asking, “You must be James?” It was Bucky’s turn to be surprised, no one had called him that in a long time.

“Um, yes that’s me.” He hesitated before adding, “And you are?”

“Darcy. Darcy Lewis, but that should have been in the email?” She frowned in confusion and Bucky found his eyes drawn to the adorable pout of her lips. He was so engrossed that he almost forgot to be confused by the mention of the email that he definitely didn’t get. Before he could ask, Darcy pushed ahead, simultaneously confusing him as she attempted to explain the situation. “You applied to be my intern, remember? Well, whether you do or not, I’d like to get right to work. Today will mostly be me familiarizing you with your duties.” Darcy had picked up a clipboard somewhere through her fast-paced monologue and while staring at it, she missed the growing look of shock on Bucky’s face as the reality of his situation sunk in.

He was the wrong James. That was Bucky’s first thought. Darcy had him confused with someone else, some other James. He should have known. It should have been obvious the second she called him by his real name. No one, not even Steve called him James. He had been so stupidly distracted by her unexpected entrance and even more unexpected beauty.

“All right and that’s it.” Darcy’s hands clapping together dragged Bucky out of his mental spiral into worry. He was attempting to collect his thoughts enough to stop Darcy and tell her about the mixup when she started walking down a hallway across from the sitting space that he’d spent almost the last hour in. She clearly expected him to follow her and he had to jog to catch up, head spinning. She kept him on his toes. In any other situation Bucky would have been impressed, dare say attracted to her quick-moving mind but today it was driving him into a state of frustrated panic.

“Darcy, wait please, there’s been a mistake-” Bucky tried to explain but Darcy cut him off, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashed into her back.

“You’re right, my office moved, we just passed it.” Darcy led him a few paces back down the hall and into a room off of the hallway with a quirky name plate that had her name in a corny, definitely not the mark of a professional but he liked it. Darcy opened the door, waving at the space awkwardly before heading back down the hallway.

As they continued the tour of the work space, Bucky tried and failed several more times to explain his predicament to Darcy but eventually gave up, frazzled and frustrated. “Alright, this is the last room.” Darcy announced as they entered a large work area full of various expensive-looking machines and tables upon tables piled with papers and books. “This is it.” She sighed, spreading out her arms, shrugging casually. “Command central. All the magic happens in here. Well, usually. Today Jane has a date somewhere and Erik is somewhere, not here, and I’m here giving you the tour. Just as she finished her sentence an unfamiliar voice called out from somewhere down the hallway outside.

“Darcy, is that you? Jane called. She said you hired an intern? She also said you don’t need an intern. Darcy?”

“SHIT. Erik wasn’t supposed to be back until later today!” Darcy looked around the room quickly before grabbing Bucky’s hand and dragging him into the nearest doorway, and yanking the door shut behind him.

Bucky slammed into Darcy. The room behind said door wasn’t a room at all, it was a closet. Not only was it a closet, but it wasn’t even one designed to accommodate one person, let alone two. “Wrong closet.” Darcy whispered and Bucky had half a mind to break down the door. He could barely take a breathe without feeling Darcy’s body shift with his. Just then he heard noises from outside the closet.

“Darcy! Darcy I heard you in here, you can’t hide forever! Jane will find out!” After a few more sentences of a similar variety, Bucky heard his footsteps retreating before the door shut behind Erik.

“Alright, open the door.” Darcy broke the tense silence. Bucky reached around in the dark, fumbling for a handle. Finally he found it and twisted only to feel it catch.

“DARCY.” He hissed. “Do not tell me that this door is locked.”

“Oh shit.” Darcy whispered and Bucky whipped his head around the best he could in the cramped space, glaring in her general direction.

“Do NOT tell me that this door is locked.” He repeated.

“The door isn’t locked…?” She tried and he could see the pained grin she was probably wearing.

“Call Erik.” Bucky forced himself to remain calm as a small part of his brain that he usually tucked away began to buzz with the beginnings of panic.

“What?”

“Get your phone out, call Erik.”

“What? No!”

“What, yes.” He snapped back.

“Fine, but I can’t reach my pocket, genius.” Seconds later Darcy yelped as Bucky reached out for her leg with the part of his arm that wasn’t pinned against her.

“Which pocket?”

“My-my back one, on the right.”

“Sorry about this.” Bucky muttered, embarrassed as he awkwardly fumbled around Darcy’s rear, trying his best not to grope her. Finally after what felt like too long, his fingers brushed the object of his quest. Gripping the metal with his left hand, he pulled carefully. One second he was gripping the phone, the next it was slipping through his fingers and hit the floor with an almost deafening thud.

“Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.” Darcy sounded as exasperated as Bucky felt.

“It’s not what you think it was.” Bucky tried Darcy’s tactic back at her.

“Oh come on! What kind of intern are you?!” She snapped, exasperatedly.

Bucky was done. Done pretending, done putting up with Darcy belittling him, done being James. “I. AM. NOT. AN. INTERN.” Bucky practically growled out as he drove his right hand straight into the door between each word until the door literally flew off its hinges.

Bucky all but flew out of the closet after it, desperate to be out of the tight space. Darcy however was slow and cautious as she exited the space and stared, stunned at him. It was then that the main door opened and two people walked in, one familiar and one unfamiliar.

“Thor, for heaven's sake, you said you’d meet me here two hours ago!” Bucky snapped, exasperatedly.

Thor scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. “Sorry, I got the time wrong, Bucky, won’t happen again.”

“Bucky? BUCKY? As in Bucky Barnes? As in the WINTER SOLDIER?!” Bucky turned to see Darcy gaping at him. “You said your name was James!”

“It IS James! JAMES Buchanan Barnes!” Bucky yelled back.

“But, but you said, you said, why didn’t you SAY anything?!”

“I TRIED. You kept interrupting me!”

Darcy face-palmed. After a few seconds, something came over her and she looked back at him, her expression now different. “So, you’re not my intern?”

“No, no, NO, of course not!” He said, clearly embarrassed by his earlier outbursts, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“Oh thank god, because I was having some seriously questionable thoughts for being your employer.” She said before crossing the room and gripping him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him against her, smashing her mouth against his.

Bucky was shocked but it melted into desire as he kissed her back. Darcy was one step ahead of him, same as she had been all day long. This time, however, he could appreciate it.

[sinfullystanning]

WHAT ARE WE?!

WRITERS!!!

WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?!

WRITE!!!!!

WHEN ARE WE GONNA DO IT?!

((Disgruntled muttering))

[sinfullystanning]

V is for Voler Part 3: Hell in Heaven

Bucky Barnes x Darcy Lewis (Wintershock)

A/N: I know I probably should have waited, and spaced things out, but I couldn’t help it, I’m posting it now! Thank you to everyone who’ve been supporting the new changes to the fic!

The cool Paris night air ruffled Bucky’s hair as he climbed the rickety metal fire escape stairs behind V. He might have been an assassin once, but he felt like a bag of bricks compared to the way she moved. Even as his footsteps here quieter than most, they seemed to echo in comparison to the soundless way she practically flew up flight after flight of stairs. Her feet moved in precise yet memorized steps making it clear that she’s taken this route more than a few times. Even in heels that could easily catch in the grated metal and the long dress that would have limited the leg movement of any other woman, she moved as if she were wearing the most comfortable clothes in the world.

Finally, the stairs ended on a landing similar to all the others, all once-red, now-rusted iron railings, and just enough front space to fit a welcome mat and perhaps a flower pot or two. This landing, however, unlike the others before it, was empty. As a matter of fact, to the casual observer, it seemed as if no one lived in the top floor unit, as it was devoid of life and emotion, nothing that remotely clued in the fact that anyone lived there.

That’s why Bucky was absolutely taken aback when V turned the key in the lock and held the door open behind her to invite him in. If the outside of the house screamed decrepit inactivity, the inside boasted opulent extravagance. The walls were painted black with a tastefully stenciled on vine pattern that was all Parisian charm in bold red. The crown molding that ran along the top of the room was an elegant gold that caught and threw light across space. The short entryway led into an open living room with a surprisingly high ceiling that was painted red and accentuated by a sizable skylight. The room was furnished with pieces in various blacks and shades of red with specks of gold here and there, with a handsome gold-painted fireplace looking over the space. Bucky’s eyes caught an identical pair of frames adorning the gilded ledge that held small canvases that both read “voler,” one in red paint and the other in black. “Voler,” the same word he’d seen on V’s back earlier.

He walked over to run a curious finger along one of them before turning to search for his host, eyes finding her leaning against a post by the entrance to what he assumed was the kitchen. Nodding in the direction of the frames without taking his eyes off of her he asked, “What’s with the word?”

V’s position was that of guarded nonchalance, appearing relaxed to most, but Bucky knew that her senses were working double time, watching him without wanting him to feel watched. Too bad he was an expert at the tactic himself. She shifted her weight at his question, arms crossing just a tad tighter across her chest, her hair slipping from where it had been pinned against the pillar by her head to gracefully arrange itself around her taut shoulders. Finally, she broke her silence, “I heard you tonight, your French isn’t too bad, you tell me, Soldat.”

Bucky frowned. “First, I told you to call me Bucky. Second-”

“Why? I like seeing you all riled up, Soldat.” Her eyes sparkled with laughter as he glared at her. “You were saying?”

He tried his best to let it go, but every utterance of that word from his past was an annoyingly sharp prick in his brain. “Voler, it’s a verb, to fly.” Right? his eyes asked as they met hers, his icy blue battling the roaring waves of hers.

“Half correct. Voler is an interesting verb as it has two meanings. One, the one you stated, to fly, but another as well, to steal.” Her eyes danced as her red lips curled into a devilish smile.

“So you’re a thief?” Bucky grabbed the string with both hands, anything that could possibly disclose more information about the woman in front of him.

V scoffed. “Such a crude word. I’m a freelancer, I’ll do anything, for a price. I’ll be anything, a thief, an assassin, et cetera. Why, did you need something stolen, because usually I don’t take on multiple jobs at once, but I think I could make an exception for you.” She was toying with him, but rather than pissing him off, Bucky felt a thrill of adrenaline run through him. Winning against her was going to be harder than he thought.

“Why ‘V’?” He was pushing his luck, but he had to know. “We both know that’s not your real name.”

Surprisingly, she answered without a pause. “V, the Roman numeral for five. Five fingers make a fist, five fingers can hold a gun, five fingers can kill.” Her eyes glinted with danger but Bucky was sinking right in.

He decided it was time to change topics, however, and reigned in his thoughts. “So, is there a reason you brought me here because I know it’s not because you trust me.”

She chuckled, conceding to the change of topic. “If we’re going to work together, we’re going to need to literally work together, so you’ll be staying here.” Bucky was dumbfounded, but she was smart, bringing the fight onto her home turf, upending the playing field. “Unless that’s a problem?” She asked the question but Bucky knew there was only one answer.

“Not at all.” She nodded at that before straightening up, stretching before turning to disappear down a hallway. “You’re taking the couch.” She called over her shoulder as she went.

The moment she was gone, Bucky let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, flopping down onto the black leather affair in front of the fireplace, running a tired hand through his hair before reaching down to loosen his tie. Just as he closed his eyes for a second, he felt a thrum through his senses, and his eyes shot back open, just in time to see the cause for the movement he’d registered.

Standing in front of him was a wolf. At least it definitely looked like one. Its coat was pitch black, fitting the rest of the decor of the room so well that he wouldn’t have been sure it was real if not for the slight rise and fall of its chest as it watched him soundlessly. Had it been in the room the whole time? He started to wonder if his age was finally catching up to him, as V’s life always seemed to run one step ahead of him. Or maybe it was just some intoxicating spell she had on him, dulling his senses, making him vulnerable.

Neither of them moved until finally, Bucky regained his composure and slowly extended a downturned hand to the animal to smell. Before it could, however, a voice broke the silence. “Thief, he’s a friend." Bucky heard V come back into the room, slowly crossing over to the couch. “Don’t move.” She advised him but it was then that the wolf, Thief apparently, opened his mouth and extended a rough pink tongue that licked Bucky’s hand before then nudging it with his nose. Bucky acquiesced, patting the jet-black snout gently before Thief invited him to scratch his head.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” V said, clearly surprised by the animal’s behavior. Bucky turned to look up at her.

“So were you planning to tell me you had a wolf living here too, or just mention it after I died in my sleep?”

“He’s not a wolf, he’s a German Shepherd.” She said, but Bucky could hear a note of guilt in her voice.

“Good to know. Now, are there any other roommates I should know about?” He asked as Thief wagged his tail, clearly pleased with the attention Bucky was giving him.

V shook her head. Bucky took a minute to admire her, she’d changed out of her finery into a red lace pajama top and black satin shorts that brushed her thighs with a matching robe, currently open, and a pair of glasses now perched on her nose. “I don’t get it.” She said, pulling his attention back as she gazed at her dog in astonishment. “He LIKES you.”

“One more thing you two have in common, other than your taste in color, apparently.” Bucky joked pleasantly.

“You don’t get it. Thief’s never met another person before.” That piqued Bucky’s interest.

“Never?”

V shook her head, now-loose curls bobbing. “I got him when he was just a puppy and he exercises on the roof.” She explained as if that cleared up everything.

“Well, maybe he just needed a friend,” Bucky said, shrugging. V nodded but was clearly lost in thought over something else.

She broke out of it for a second, tossing Bucky the blanket he hadn’t noticed she was holding. “Bathroom’s over there.” She motioned behind her towards the hallway she’d disappeared down earlier. “Thief, let’s go, it’s bedtime.” Thief had other plans, however, laying down on the rug next to the sofa. “Traître.” Traitor. She muttered at him before turning around and disappearing back the way she came.

Bucky sighed, gaze drifting to his new companion who was watching him back from his place on the floor. “You’re not going to kill me in my sleep are you, buddy?” He said as he untied his dress shoes and pulled off his socks, followed by his suit jacket and tie that he laid out on the armchair next to his make-shift bed before spreading the blanket over the surprisingly-wide couch and climbing underneath it, letting sleep take him.

***

Darcy woke up in the middle of the night. Groaning, she rolled out of her expansive four-poster king-sized bed. For the first time, it felt too big for one person. Sliding her glasses back onto her nose and grabbing her robe off of the crowded hatstand by her bedroom door, she crept out into the hallway, soundlessly making her way towards the kitchen. After procuring the glass of water she saught, she leaned against the kitchen counter as she drank, watching the back of the couch. Curiosity got the best of her and she padded over, stopping to let a smile steal across her face at the sight of Bucky asleep with Thief draped over him. Perhaps Thief was right about Bucky and blind faith wasn’t such a bad thing to place in him, but Bucky Barnes was an Avenger and though Darcy had only met one other Avenger in her life, she knew exactly what kind of damage they could deal, so she wiped the smile from her face and headed back to bed.

Taglist:

@gamorarogers @callie-bear15 @spacemansam @vulgarvalyrian @cchellacat

[sinfullystanning]

V is for Voler Part 2: Shaken Not Stirred

Bucky Barnes x Darcy Lewis (Wintershock)

A/N: Part 2 is now updated! Thank you for your patience as the story transitions! (In case you’re thinking about skipping the reread, there’s a paragraph or two that are brand-spankin’ new)

A different suit, a different upscale gala, and the same sense of absolute boredom and disgust burdened Bucky as he leaned against the wall of yet another gaudy party he had been forced to attend. This time his mission was more streamlined, his eyes following the slow movements of a man who simultaneously looked like a strong gust of wind would be enough to blow him over and yet oozed charisma and dripped with wealth as he was surrounded by a flock of much younger women. Bucky wasn’t one to judge, but he couldn’t help the disgust that clouded his mind as he watched the man’s roaming hands, itching to cut them off with the sizable knife tucked into his dress boots.

His mind drifted to another party, calling to mind the still-fresh image of his would-be assailant from the week before. After she had disappeared, Bucky had confided the encounter in Steve that night, who had been more concerned with where the three bullets had gone rather than their keeper. Fortunately for him, the breaking news of the next morning had announced that three prominent members of an up-and-coming mafia-esque organization had been found dead in an upscale hotel room by a terrified member of the cleaning staff.

Finally, unable to keep up his mask of carefree nonchalance, he pushed off the wall, making his way through the edges of the party, making his way to the bar in the far corner. He was just about to sit down on a vacant stool when the woman beside him caught his eye and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There was no mistaking her identity. He could only see her back, yet everything about her sharp yet simultaneously casual posture reminded him of that night last week. On top of that, he glanced familiar strong capable fingers adorned with nails that looked like they were covered with shattered obsidian curled around a cocktail glass. He took a moment to let his eyes roam over the mystery woman. After the party last week, he’d tried to find her, but when he had so little to go on it proved to be an almost impossible task. Yet, now here she was, sitting in front of him, unaware of his presence. Tonight she’d traded her bold red ensemble for a teasing black lace number with an open back, her hair piled atop her head in an elegant yet carefree style, revealing a tattoo across her upper back, a single word, “voler.”

Bucky broke the silence. “Nice tattoo.” The woman straightened slightly, answering in a playful tone as she swung around on her seat to face him.

“Like what you see- YOU!” Her playfully coy expression morphed into shock as she took in the sight of him.

“Hey, Doll.” Bucky teased as he sat down beside her, leaning his arms on the bar as he called the bartender over. “An old fashioned and one more of whatever this lovely lady is having.” The lady in question had turned to face him, posture suggesting that she was clearly uneasy in his presence. As soon as the bartender was out of earshot, Bucky turned to her, leaning his chin in his hand, as he smirked playfully, “Funny seeing you here.”

“How did you find me?” To anyone else, she’d seem to be a mask of indifference, but to Bucky’s well-trained senses he could hear the slight quiver in her voice, nerves not held in check as well as she’d hoped.

“What makes you think I was looking, Doll? I’m here strictly for business.” He quipped, giving nothing away as he sipped his drink that the bartender had speedily delivered. He watched her fight the urge to squirm under his intense blue gaze, more than pleased to see that he’d managed to ruffle her feathers. “Speaking of business, I don’t see your attractive friend from last time.” He said as he scanned the area for the custom sniper rifle that had introduced them.

She snorted at that and Bucky grinned over the rim of his glass. “She couldn’t make it tonight.” She reached for her new glass and brought it to her lips. They were the only constant from last time, cherry red smearing a fresh print on the rim as the clear liquid disappeared between them.

“So,” Bucky asked, as he swirled the drink in his glass thoughtfully. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a boring place like this?”

“It’s like you said, strictly business.” She said as she fished the toothpick out of her martini, red lips parting to reveal pearly white teeth that enveloped an olive, dragging it off the wood, every movement dripping with sensuality.

“Who’re you working for?” Bucky asked, knowing full well her answer.

“None of your business.” She quipped as she sipped her drink again. “How about you? Who’re you working for?”

She clearly hadn’t expected him to answer because when Bucky shrugged nonchalantly and said, “The United Nations,” she choked on her drink, coughing as she put down the glass, eyes blown wide in shock as he chuckled, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, offering it to her.

She took it, dabbing at her dress where martini droplets clung to the lace as she stole guarded gazes at him, trying to figure him out. Finally, she gave in to her curiosity, cocking a perfectly arched black eyebrow, “Who ARE you?”

“My friends call me Bucky.” He said, eyes drinking in every little movement she made, reading them like the words she kept to herself. “Who are YOU?” He countered, desperate for the answer to the question he’d been asking in the back of his mind for the last week as he aimlessly wandered the streets of Paris, praying for serendipity to bless him.

“V.” She said, again with the clipped words, never saying more than she needed to, never giving away any more than she was asked.

“Vee? How do you spell that?” Bucky had a foot in the door now, and a supersoldier foot at that. He wasn’t about to not shove that door wide open.

“Just V.” She pushed back, the door was heavier than it looked.

“Like the letter v?” He pushed gentler this time, a little more foot edging through.

“Yup, just V.” He smiled internally, able to see through the crack just a bit. Before he could continue the conversation, however, she stood up, not even glancing back at him as she disappeared into the crowd.

Bucky scowled, her nonchalance grating on his nerves as he quickly downed the rest of his drink before getting up and heading after her. He wove his way through the crowd, eyes scanning for the woman he now knew as V. He felt his heart sink when they found her, however. She was one in a sea of faces all congregating around his target. His target who, at the moment, had a wrinkled hand around her waist. He cursed under his breath as he pushed ahead, ignoring the hungry gazes of the women suddenly focussed on him as he reached his target, firmly grasping the wrist of his hand that was about to stray dangerously below V’s waist.

“Excuse me sir, but could I have my fiancee back?” He asked, the lie falling from his lips with ease and watched as the elderly man turned to see him, his face a mask of peeved surprise.

“This one?” The man squeezed V’s waist playfully and Bucky felt his jaw twitch, itching to punch the sultry smirk off of his face. “Better keep a better eye on your woman, she seems ready to stray.” His eyes glinted with greed as V glared daggers at Bucky.

“Excuse her, sir, she’s had a few too many drinks,” Bucky said, slipping his arm around her waist as he pried the old man’s out of the way. He tucked V to his side, placing a hand on her bare back as he casually guided her away from the man. The crowd slowly reformed in their wake and he managed to maneuver the two of them towards out of the ballroom into a dark, private hallway outside. The moment they were out of sight, V jerked away from him, spinning to pin him against the wall, pressing a sharp blade to his Adam’s apple.

“What the hell was that?! I told you, I’m here purely for business, so you need to piss off.” She growled.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know that him grabbing your ass was part of your job.” Bucky snapped back.

She frowned. “He didn’t even touch me.” She shot back.

“Because I grabbed his hand first, Doll. You should be thanking me.” She glared at that.

“I’ll never thank you.” She snarled. Bucky took advantage of her anger to skillfully use one arm to pin the one holding the knife against the wall as he flipped their positions, pinning V’s body against the wall in his place.

“Well, either way, I can’t have you messing with my assignment, Doll.” Her eyes widened at that.

“The UN knows about Archambault?” She asked and it was Bucky’s turn to be surprised.

“Of course they do, how do you?” He narrowed his eyes as he frowned down at V.

“He’s MY target, dumbass.” She snapped and Bucky almost laughed. He knew he’d asked for serendipity, but this was almost too much.

He chose his next words carefully. “Well Doll, we can’t both have him, and I don’t want to fight you.”

“Scared you’ll lose?” She taunted, lips curled into a smirk.

“Never.” He fired back. “You haven’t even seen the beginning of what I can do, Doll.”

“Oh really, because some UN ambassador doesn’t scare me.” She said.

“How about the White Wolf?” He whispered in her ear as he leaned in close enough to smell the rosy scent drifting off of her skin. He felt her body tense beneath him. “So you’ve heard of me?”

“Of course, who hasn’t heard of the Winter Soldier?” She hissed back and Bucky stiffened at the sound of his old title.

“The Winter Soldier is dead.” He deadpanned.

“Touched a nerve?” She whispered, and he could hear the glee in her voice. “Winter can’t die, Soldat, it only sleeps.” On any other day, Bucky would have been ready to throw her through a wall, but today he just wanted to scratch back, tease her, test her, pull her threads and push her buttons. “Anyway,” she sighed, letting her voice and body relax despite Bucky’s aggressive hold on her. “Maybe the UN wants Archambault, but I’m willing to bet my client is offering a much larger price for him than them.”

Bucky chuckled, pulling back so he could look V in the eye. “Oh I’m SURE they pay better than the UN, but I have an idea.” V didn’t answer but arched an eyebrow to indicate that she was listening. “Archambault controls the largest drug ring in western Europe, so he’s not going down without a fight so I have a proposition. Let’s work together.” She snorted. “Hear me out. We’ll work together, and once we have him, it’s a free-for-all, no more alliances, just me versus you. Winner takes all.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to fight me?” She teased.

“I don’t, but I will.” His icy blue eyes were as cold as his words as he met her equally cold ones. “Do we have a deal, Doll?”

She smirked at him, eyes dancing. “What can I say, I like a challenge, so fine, we have a deal, Soldat.” Bucky’s eyes flashed at the title and she chuckled playfully. “May the best man win.”

Taglist:

@gamorarogers @callie-bear15 @spacemansam @vulgarvalyrian @cchellacat

[sinfullystanning]

V is for Voler Part 1: An American in Paris

Bucky Barnes x Darcy Lewis (Wintershock)

A/N: Welcome to the new, UPDATED, version of Part 1 or “V is for Voler.” IF you were here before, some things, but not many, have changed. The biggest change is that I’ve decided to change the fic from a Bucky x OC to a Wintershock fic. I recently discovered Wintershock and after some careful consideration and help from the lovely, @cchellacat I decided to take the fic back to the drawing board and turn it into a Wintershock fic as I could easily see Darcy as the character of V. While at the moment, V is still V, she will be revealed to be Darcy in the future. Thank you for all the support as I transitioned this fic and please continue to support the fic.

Bucky hated traveling. He’d seen the world many a time through the vacant eyes of the soldier that Hydra had created and that had been enough. He was content to stay in New York City for the rest of his life, the city was constantly changing anyway. Unfortunately, his job had other plans. Sure, being an Avenger came with a steady job that made use of his many skillsets, but it also came with zero control of where he’d be on any given day of the week. Add on the fact that thanks to his Winter Soldier days he now spoke over thirty different languages, and the UN was tossing him back and forth across the globe almost constantly.

Tonight he was in Paris, trapped in a constricting tuxedo and a room of foreign dignitaries he’d never met. He was supposed to be observing, and if anyone asked? He was the estranged nephew of some Russian dignitary he supposedly resembled who couldn’t attend due to illness. Somewhere about an hour ago, someone had discretely passed him an envelope. What was in it? None of his business according to the sharp-spoken man who had briefed him prior to the mission. Bucky was disgusted. He hadn’t joined the Avengers to be someone old crone’s glorified carrier pigeon.

Needing a change of scenery, Bucky wove his way through the crowd of black-tie individuals speaking in the silky smooth native tongue that slid over his ears as he combed through the conversations while he made his way to an open French door at the far side of the room. He stepped out onto a small balcony, clearly designed for clandestine midnight forays away from the prying eyes of partygoers. Alone, however, it was comfortably cozy and Bucky unbuttoned his jacket for the first time all night, leaning his forearms on the cool stone railing, gazing across the twinkling city lights leading to the iconic pinnacle of the city, glowing against the inky black sky.

Suddenly a clatter broke the silence and Bucky jerked around to see a sniper rifle laying on the ground beside him that had been previously unoccupied. He couldn’t help his curiosity as he squatted down to observe the weapon and was impressed by the workmanship of the clearly custom-made gun. As a sniper himself, he felt subconsciously jealous of the mysterious owner. Just as his brain caught up with his eyes and he realized that the owner must be nearby, he heard the click of the safety of a gun. A gun that was most definitely pointed at his head. It wasn’t like him to let his guard down like that. But then again, it wasn’t every day that a man’s dream weapon quite literally fell from the sky.

“I think you dropped something.” He said cooly, ears pricked to find out exactly where his invisible assailant was.

“Then why don’t you be a good boy and give it back. I’m sure your mother taught you not to touch other people’s toys.” The voice that answered made him start. It was distinctly feminine and he turned his head a barely perceptible fraction of an inch to see a pair of red heels come into view. If Steve and Sam could see him now, first distracted by a gun and now practically pinned to the ground by a classic femme fatale. His mind drew an image of his assailant as he answered,

“I’m going to need to be able to stand up to do that, Doll.” He heard her snort as the cold metal of the previously-invisible gun pressed against his temple.

“So stand up.” Her voice amused yet ice cold. He reached down, wrapping a hand around the barrel of the rifle, as she spoke again. “Try anything funny and I’ll blow your brains out.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Bucky tossed back teasingly as he slowly stood to his feet, the gun at his temple backing up, but clearly still pointed at him by the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. “I’m going to turn around, now.” He announced so she wouldn’t accidentally blow a hole in his head before slowly turning to face the mystery woman.

She was the definition of your mind deceiving you. Where his mind had pictured a tall, willowy woman straight out of a Bond film, she was short, almost laughably so for the femme fatale vibe she was clearly trying to exude. The red heels he’d glimpsed earlier added a few inches, but he still towered over her. Without them, she’d probably be a foot shorter than him. Angry blue inquisitive eyes hacked away at the ice of his own. The blood-red dress she wore hugged her body in all the right places and a tastefully placed slit up one side teased a glimpse at the thigh holster that was home to the gun that he was currently looking in the eye.

“Rifle.” She said through bright red lips that commanded attention that he was more than glad to give them. Ruefully, he extended the arm holding the beauty, and she jerked her head, motioning for him to lean it against the railing. He stepped closer as he did so, bending down to set the gun down, meeting her eyes as he straightened up again.

“Beautiful rifle.” He said, gesturing to the gun with his eyes. “More beautiful girl.” He added, eyes dancing with mischief as she didn’t even flinch at the flirtation. Instead, she rolled her eyes, returning the gun she was holding to the thigh holster, Bucky’s eyes drawn to the sliver of thigh that flashed by in the process. She turned away from him, attention clearly now on the larger weapon, inspecting it for damage or tampering before she squatted down, setting the rifle on the stone, eye at the scope, clearly looking for something or, more likely, someone.

Bucky leaned against the glass window, watching silently, assessing every small movement she was making until she finally turned to him, face finally showing early signs of irritation. “Get lost.” She snapped, eyes threatening to incinerate him on the spot.

“What’s the problem, Doll, I’m just watching.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, nonchalantly as he watched her brows twitch with frustration before she straightened, placing a hand on a device on her wrist resembling a smartwatch, she swiped across the screen several times before turning back to the scope of the rifle. Before Bucky could ask any questions, she pulled the trigger three times. Clean straight shots, three identical flexes of fingers crowned with perfectly manicured red nails. The loud music inside must have drowned out the sound since he didn’t hear any reactions to the gunshots coming from the balcony. She stood up, clicking the safety back on, swinging the strap of the rifle across her chest so the gun lay across her back.

Before she could do anything else, however, the door to the balcony swung open and a clearly drunken couple, absorbed in each other stumbled out into the night air. Bucky moved fast, grabbing her hand, and swinging her around, pinning her against the window, rifle hidden behind you as he pressed against her, doing his best to resemble a convincing couple. As the other couple broke apart, the woman noticed them and muttering something to her partner, headed back inside. The moment the door swung shut behind them, firm hands shoved his chest hard and he stumbled backward as the woman glared at him, clearly furious.

“What the hell was that?” She snapped, her voice trembling with rage.

“What, no thank you, Doll?” Bucky drawled back. The next moment his neck snapped suddenly as fire exploded on his cheek. She’d hit him. She’d HIT him. He reached out, grabbing her wrist as she drew her hand back, face red with rage as she struggled to free herself from his grip. “Listen, darling, I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve never been anywhere where a slap means thank you for saving my life, so what the hell was that for?” Bucky growled at her.

“Thank you for saving my life? That’s what you call what just happened?” She scoffed. “I can save myself just fine, thank you.”

“How? You just going to put a bullet in their heads?” It was Bucky’s turn to scoff. She glared at him, free hand going to her thigh but Bucky was faster, flipping their positions and pressing her back against the stone railing, metal hand gripping the wrist that had been holding the gun, as the sudden movement causing her to lose her grip and the weapon fell, clattering onto the roof of a smaller building below. “I think that’s enough shooting for one night, don’t you think?” She spat in his face and he swore, backing up, metal hand releasing her right one, to wipe at his face and she brought her legs up to kick him in the stomach, using the rail as leverage, freeing her other hand as Bucky stumbled backward from the unexpected blow. Then, she backflipped over the railing falling off the balcony.

Bucky caught his breath and raced to the edge just in time to see her disappear off the edge of the roof below where her gun had fallen before, into the darkness of the night. As he shoved a frustrated hand through his hair, he knew one thing for sure. He was looking forward to staying in Paris because now he had a new mission. He needed to see her again.

Taglist:

@gamorarogers @callie-bear15 @spacemansam @vulgarvalyrian @cchellacat

[sinfullystanning]

Dear fans of V is for Voler,

If you’re looking for the fic, I recently had some ideas to tweak the direction of the fic so I’ve decided to redact the current version I’ve posted. I’m going to make some changes to those first two parts and hopefully the new V is for Voler will be back within the end of the week if not by later today ❤️

- Rumi

Taglist:

@gamorarogers @callie-bear15 @spacemansam @vulgarvalyrian