#livewire28

[mariana-oconnor]

How about Witch!Bucky for the WIP in honor of October?

OOh, okay then. Your wish is my command, some Witch!Bucky for the spooky season.

Again, page chosen by a random number generator, here is some Bucky in denial and Clint in human form:

“It’s in every inch of this place. Sorrow and loneliness,” Clint says. “It’s Beltane and you haven’t even lit a fire.”

“I’m not a witch,” Bucky tells him, his voice sharper.

“Nothing magical about a fire,” Clint tells him cheerfully. “I saw some wood outside.” And then he’s gone before Bucky can stop him.

Bucky can admit the fire is nice, for all it’s spring, not winter, outside. It’s no bonfire, but the smell of the wood burning and the sight of the flames jumping higher settles something inside him.

He comes to sit by the fire, staring at it, and feeling the weight of everything pulling him down. Lonely, Clint had said, and he doesn’t feel it most days. But that’s like not seeing the wood for the trees. He can’t feel the lonely because he’s got nothing else to feel. But the fire and the presence of another person, and suddenly the loneliness is a physical force, crushing him down.

A hand reaches out to touch his arm - the scarred arm - and he wants to pull back, but it’s so warm. Warm like he’s not been in years. Even the fire in the grate isn’t warming him up inside.

He pushes into the warmth.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Clint says.

(WIP meme)

[grimeysociety]

[kangofu-cb]

I wanted to come up with something interesting, but all I’ve got is this: What’s your favorite trope to read/write about? I apologize for being the most BASIC person alive, lol.

Never apologize for being you I adore you!

I mean I always just want to read about my OTP falling/being in love. That’s it, I’m a creature of simple tastes and habits. 

I think my favorite trope is probably... oh! fake dating. It’s probably fake dating, and if you can throw in ‘there was only one bed’ that would be great, thanks! 

As far as writing, I hardly ever write the same trope twice, tbh, so my favorite trope is whatever trope I haven’t written before! 

[1000-directions]

I read your most recent fic “Sirens in the Beat of Your Heart” which honestly turned out to be one of the most beautiful things that I have read ANYWHERE ever, in absolutely any medium, and that it made my day in ways you can’t imagine. I love Bucky/Wanda as a couple, but there isn’t really a lot of content for them out there, and I just wanted to thank you for writing such a lovely story for them. I was so moved. Thank you— just, thank you.

thank you so much for this comment, i cannot even begin to explain how this made me feel today. i’m really proud of that story. i started out thinking it was going to be one thing, and then i just got out of the way and let it develop naturally into something that felt really honest to the characters and how i saw them at that moment in time, and it is so gratifying to hear that it resonated with you.

i am assuming you are also the person who left me a comment today that i write the best rare pairs? if that wasn’t you, sorry!!!!! but if that was you, i really appreciated that! before i got into winterhawk, i pretty much only wrote smaller pairings, oftentimes weird ones. like i really enjoy being one of the first people to explore a relationship. the thing that makes rare pairs so fun for me is those moments where it just clicks and i realize something like, oh wanda’s dead boyfriend was made of vibranium and bucky has a vibranium arm and that is going to make her feel something. it is so fun to look for those little threads that tie disparate characters together.

thank you again so much, this is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about my writing. i hope you have a nice weekend 💚

[doomcheese]

A FaTWS Bucky commissioned by @livewire28 💕✨

[cagestark]

Hi Cage, hope you’re doing well. If you’re still doing previews... what about the somnophilia one? You seemed really excited about it.

😘

[thisgirlsays22]

You’re doing great— forget that anon! Whenever I’m having a shit day, I read your work, and it brings me JOY. Also, yes, I’m ashamed I still haven’t watched TW, I keep getting sidetracked by FATWS— I’m a Bucky Brickhouse Barnes junkie. I promise I’ll make my way over to the TW fandom eventually! Or... I might just start reading all of the fanfic because OMG, there looks to be so many good ones!

As always you’re a sweetheart <333 Nooo don’t be ashamed, the show and all the fab content will be waiting for you whenever you need it. It took me like a decade to get there <3 Ping me any time you fancy a chat even if you haven’t watched yet!

[tisfan]

livewire28 replied to your post “500 works”

As far as questions... What are some of your favorite fics that you’ve written?

hmmm

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927442/chapters/52336177 Bucky Barnes Got Married. This is my favorite piece that I’ve ever written EVER and I really love it. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20637401/chapters/49005944 Can’t Help You Fix Yourself. Fun and angsty

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366611 - (D)rift Away - fun piece we did for a bang, and it’s just delightful

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15745857/chapters/36614418 Indispensable - have I mentioned how much I like historical dramas?

Of the Sandbridge Stuff https://archiveofourown.org/works/13588734/chapters/31191306 That Special Someone is my favorite. I love Scott as the bumbling idiot.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913464/chapters/34544036 - Coin Operated Boy. This was ridiculously fun to write

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546563/chapters/19593769 Pocketful of Starlight, 1940s Bucky and Celeste, the woman he meets on a mission. sad. but lovely.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312067/chapters/22800089 Through Him, Me. Bruce and Tony swap bodies. WOW does this make things complicated for everyone.

[artingtiger]

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

Thanks so much to @livewire28 for commissioning me!

--

Commissions are open till the end of October before I go on hiatus for studying and busy season. I will probably open a few slots between January and April, but I won't guarantee that. Therefore, if you are interested in commissioning me, you have now till October 31!

[geralt-jaskier]

I See You

Art model!Geralt geraskier ficlet for the lovely @livewire28 <3, rated M for a dash of sexiness and dirty thoughts. 

Read below or on Ao3

~

“I know I’m supposed to be professional about this,” Jaskier said, twirling up a forkful of spaghetti, “but God damn. You saw how fit he was, right?”

Across from him, Yennefer picked at her chicken salad and made a vague sound of affirmation. The cafeteria was nearly empty around them, most of the other students finished up an hour ago.

“No. No.” Jaskier pointed at her with his fork. “You don’t get to pretend to be all cool and sophisticated and professional about this. You were practically drooling over him too. Thought I was going to have to mop up after you.”

“Don’t make me stab your eye out with my butter knife.”

“No one would make you do that, but point taken.”

She said something under her breath, and it took Jaskier a moment for the words to sink in. “You’ve already slept with him?” He dropped his fork, letting it clatter dramatically onto his tray, and he pointed an accusing finger at Yennefer. “You waited until this point in the conversation to reveal that very important, very interesting fact?”

Of bloody course Yennefer used to sleep with the handsome art model. Jaskier wasn’t even the slightest bit surprised. Yen had slept with most of the good ones — could get practically anyone she wanted with a snap of her fingers (and Jaskier would know because she’d snapped her fingers a few times at him over the past few years and he'd not been disappointed).

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He likes men too. We had a bit of fun with that. Oh, stop gaping at me. You look like an ugly fish.”

Jaskier was so jealous he could die. His jaw snapped open and shut, and he probably really did look like an ugly fish. Yennefer was usually right about these things. “I should have been one of those men you two had a bit of fun with,” he said through gritted teeth.

She considered this. “It was during the period of time when I still couldn’t stand you.”

“Damn it! Wait. You can stand me now?”

“Don’t push your luck. I'm still on the fence.”

Jaskier had taken his first art class as a lark. His true callings were music and poetry, but he’d thought perhaps having another creative pursuit in his repertoire would help unblock his core creative talents during a year full of slumps and blocks.  

To his delight, it had worked. Words and tunes would work themselves out in the back of his mind while his hands and brush moved across the canvas. That had always been his main focus with each art class he took.

Until Geralt had come into the picture both literally and figuratively.  

*

Geralt managed to make taking off a robe look incredibly manly and deeply sexy, and Jaskier had to fight to hold in a dreamy sigh as he took in all those delicious muscles. All week he’d been having pervy fantasies about touching Geralt’s body, stroking him to hardness while the rest of the class watched — all in the name of art and understanding the human form, of course. Or Geralt and Yennefer modeling erotic poses for the class, oh that was a good fantasy too, though the knowledge that Yennefer would strangle him if he ever was dumb enough to tell her about it (which frankly he was) did put a damper on that one.

But Jaskier took his studies and respect for Geralt’s (very very attractive) body seriously and kept his sighs to himself and his expression schooled into completely appropriate blankness.

That is until Geralt locked eyes with him and fucking winked. Jaskier dropped his paintbrush and his jaw.

*

“I may have told him you were interested, and he may have told me to give him your number,” Yennefer said, inspecting her nails. The late afternoon sun glittered off the polish. He leaned in closer from his place next to Yennefer on the bench to get a better look.

“Those look amazing by the way,” he said, referring to her bright purple polish. “But wait you did what now?”

She looked at him and said with exaggerated slowness, “Geralt. Last week, I told him you were interested, and he asked me for your number. Thinks you’re cute even though I tried to tell him it’s only skin-deep.”

“I’m oddly flattered,” Jaskier said, holding his hand over his heart.

*

The bar was crowded and Jaskier had to lean in close to hear Geralt, not that he was complaining. Oh woe was him to have such a beautiful creature so close. Please. He knew how to appreciate when a gift as sweet as fine wine or jewels was placed in his hands.

Geralt had his long, white-blonde hair pulled back and Jaskier fought the urge to reach over and untie it, to have Geralt’s hair free, a wild mane that fell just past his shoulders. The way he had it when he modeled in class.

“This must happen to you a lot,” Jaskier said. His third cocktail was definitely going to his head.  

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “What?”

Jaskier gestured between them, raising his voice over the loud din around them. “Art students falling over themselves for you, chasing you for dates after class.”

“It’s an easy way to get first dates,” Geralt allowed.  

“What about second ones?”

“Doesn’t help so much with that.”

“Lucky for me then, I guess.” Jaskier grinned and a smile broke out on Geralt’s face too.

*

Geralt was quiet and when he did speak he was often blunt, sometimes tactless. If he didn’t like a poem Jaskier was writing, if he thought the anatomy in his painting was wrong, he never held back. Jaskier took it in stride.

“That’s not how arms bend,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier turned to him with a mock expression of outrage. “I’ll make your arm bend that way if you’re not careful.”

Geralt looked between himself and Jaskier, and they burst out laughing.

The thing that could be easy to miss was that Geralt would look at Jaskier’s work time and time again, and when he did love something Jaskier was working on, well, it was the best feeling of all when Geralt looked up at him with a smile and a firm nod.  

*

Sometimes dating an art model could make a man feel inadequate.

Normally Jaskier was a confident man, proud of his own appearance, but Geralt was something else entirely.

“You are too beautiful for this world, let alone me,” Jaskier said one night as he stared down at Geralt, spread out beneath Jaskier, his thick, meaty muscles and cock on full display. An all-you-can-eat buffet that Jaskier would never tire of dining at.

Geralt frowned and touched Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re the one beautiful one.”

*

Soon Jaskier wasn’t so caught up with all those lovely muscles and the strong jaw line and the glorious hair. It was Geralt he loved. Certainly, all of those things were delicious cherries on top of the love-sundae, but they were not the main draw. No, it was that Geralt would show up in the morning with a chai latte in hand, or that he’d always let Jaskier pick what movie they watched even after he made a big show of grumbling about his terrible taste, and when he saw how sweet Geralt was with his little sister Ciri, well, it did things to Jaskier’s heart.

“Your art’s changed as the semester’s gone on,” Geralt said to him one night as he looked through Jaskier’s work.  

“Isn’t it a bit weird for you to be looking at art of yourself?”

Geralt shrugged. “Don’t mind.”

Jaskier looked from picture to picture in his sketchbook. Technically, he’d improved. He’d stopped drawing so many anatomical impossibilities. But it was more than that.

He closed the book and took Geralt's hand.  “I think perhaps it’s because I really see you now,” he said finally.

Geralt looked at him for a long while and then said, “I see you too.”

[mariana-oconnor]

Oh man, could you please share more about (WH fic - Clint is a werewolf— I love shifter fics 💕!!!

I also love shifter fics. I don’t know why, and as Lost & Found had Bucky as the werewolf, I thought I’d try writing one that was the other way around. This is another of the fics that has multiple false starts to it because I haven’t worked out exactly how I want it to go.

It’s sort of a marriage of convenience kind of thing as it stands at the moment. Bucky is found on pack land by Clint, injured, and the pack wants to kill him for trespassing, but Clint vouches for him - which essentially means Bucky is ‘his’. And everyone thinks that they are mated. Clint has to make it seem that way because otherwise people are going to try to kill Bucky, and probably also Clint because... it’s pretty feral in this fic, all told.

Where it goes from there, I am not sure. Perhaps Bucky tries to escape and because Clint took responsibility for him any transgressions he makes against the pack, Clint receives the punishment for. So instead they have to work out a way to...

Maybe overthrow the pack leadership? Maybe whatever injured Bucky is coming? Maybe Steve comes looking for Bucky? Idk. It’s very up in the air.

[grimeysociety]

[xkissmeimirishx]

So sorry if you just got tagged in something by me. I’m pretty sure my tumblr was hacked! @livewire28 @not-close-to-straight @stillstuckinupallnight @vikavoltite

[treaddelicately]

Above All The Noise by treaddelicately for @livewire28

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Wanda Maximoff

Rating: E

Tags: soulmates, soulmate-identifying marks, fluff and smut, established relationship 

Summary: Whatever chink in the universe that had allowed Bucky all of these small bits of happiness had bestowed him with a tiny hut in a country where he felt valued and useful.

The most miraculous of all was that through all of this, he had a soulmate.

[cagestark]

I hope you and the fam enjoy this upcoming weekend Cage! I’m going to be pulling some OT but my reward is going to be binging your fic library— yay 💕

Thank you! Same to you and yours! Ahhahha fic is the reward I give myself whenever I accomplish anything, so I'm touched for my writing to be that for you :) Be safe, working!

[tisfan]

Scarlet Hood; White Wolf

 For @livewire28

The White Wolf peered down his scope, targeted on a splash of scarlet. “Package en route,” he muttered, avoiding the temptation to touch his ear while he talked. Sloppy habits made for a sloppy job.

“Over the hills and through the woods, to grandmother’s house,” his handler said. “We’ve got eyes on the house. Prevent the package delivery at all costs.”

“Yep,” the White Wolf said, spitting out his toothpick. He pressed against the scope, watching as the target practically skipped down the path, basket under one arm.

The target was clad in a scarlet cape, hooded, that went practically to her ankles; brown boots peeped out from around the hem. The wind was a little unpredictable, flapping the sides of the cloak. The trees were thick, creaking as they swayed.

Good chance of a storm, the White Wolf thought, feeling the ache in his arm and shoulder where they’d been reconstructed after a bad mission in Switzerland. It shouldn’t affect this mission, but he’d be holed up in his safe house for a few days after, chewing vicodin and reading crappy magazines from the 60s. Hydra didn’t update its reading material very often.

At least they stocked the good drugs and reasonably decent food.

He turned his attention back to the target.

“What’s in the package?” the White Wolf wondered. He’d never wondered that before. It wasn’t in the nature of an assassin to wonder about the target; who, what, why. All he needed to know is where they were.

He squinted, bringing the target back into focus. Started the countdown in his head. Ten seconds until impending death.

Eight… seven…

He sucked in a breath, let it all out until there was no air in his chest.

Six… five… four…

The storm broke overhead. A few drops scattered across his arm. One raindrop dripped down the lens of his scope.

The target raised her head, and like a complete dumbass, pushed her hood back as if to see the clouds and scold them.

Three… two...

She turned.

She looked right at him, although there should be no way that she could possibly see him, camouflage in his hide, so far away.

But she looked right up at him, green eyes witchlike in the half-light, as if the storm was her friend and she was made stronger by it.

Like she knew him. She waved at him. Signalled. 

Something spluttered and flared in his mind, an image, a word, a picture. Something.

He pulled the trigger.

...

And missed.

Not entirely, he was too good to miss the entire target. The basket fell to the ground with a sprinkle of blood, scarlet as the cloak she wore. The target turned, bolted into the woods and within seconds, had vanished into the trees.

“Fuck.”

“Report, Soldier.”

“Target evaded. Package is--”

He almost said it, almost admitted it, that the package was down, just there, accessible.

“Pursue, Soldier.”

“Copy that.”

The White Wolf left the sniper’s rifle in his hide. He’d be back to get it, and it didn’t carry well for a dash through thick woods. He had two handguns and a dozen or more knives. He did stop for the package, before engaging in tracking the target.

She couldn’t escape him for long, bleeding the way she was.

He would find her.

And get her to explain what she’d done to him.

*

The storm kept Wanda mostly hidden as she ran. She ditched the cloak right away because she wasn’t entirely stupid.

She was a little bit stupid, in that she clung to the stubborn belief that Hydra’s casting could be undone, and more, that she was the one who could undo it.

But first, she needed to get him out of their clutches. Which meant setting up the whole drag-and-drop. She’d been taking packages for “Grandmother” for months now, trying to be more and more obvious every time, and her contact had been using that information to set up very small, mostly annoying traps and tricks.

Hydra was extremely dense, and they’d finally had to blow up a damn building to get their attention. Mostly it had been Hydra members who were killed, but Wanda flinched about the fact that there had, in fact, been some collateral damage. Keeping Hydra from killing hundreds of people with a wide-range death spell had probably been worth the eleven casualties, but it didn’t keep Wanda from running down the list of names and faces as some sort of penance before she could sleep.

“If we’re not willing to take risks, maybe next time, nobody gets saved,” her team leader had said.

It didn’t help. She was certain it hadn’t helped the families of the men and women who’d been accidentally killed in the blast. And the people who were saved? Well, it’s not like they knew.

The Big Bad White Wolf was behind her. She couldn’t hear him, or see him, but she could sense him, the way he was relentless.

She ran.

He paced her, somehow, keeping just out of sight.

And yet, she knew he was getting closer.

Not much further to go before she’d reach her safe house, and the dubious security of the wolf-trap she’d laid for him.

If he would do her the favor of falling into it, that would be great.

Close--

Closer--

Wanda leaped over the trap, pushing magical energy behind her, all but flying.

She hit the landing pad and turned to watch. If the White Wolf eluded the trap, she was dead anyway. She might as well see it coming.

He didn’t change course.

He moved like he had places to go and people to kill, striding across the clearing, knife in hand. She appeared trapped against the building, gasping and terrified -- all of which were true. And he had no reason to suspect she could fly. She gathered power, scarlet and smoke, at her fingertips. If he came closer to her, she would fly straight up.

That was the plan.

And then he walked right into the trap.

He didn’t scream as he fell, and he barely made a grunt when he hit the bottom. The wards went up, sizzling and yellow to form a dome over his head.

He got to his feet, utterly silent, and punched the ward.

Mistake.

The magical energy reflected back at him, snapping, popping. If he’d been a normal human, he might have broken his arm.

“I would just… settle down,” Wanda advised.

He didn’t say anything, just stared up at her with fierce, ice-blue eyes. Somehow entirely opposite to her scarlet magic.

“It will be all right,” she said. “We’re going to help you.”

He didn’t say anything.

*

It didn’t take long for the White Wolf to realize three things;

First, there was no physical way through the yellow energy barrier.

Two, he could hear his captors through it.

Three, he still had the box to Grandmother.

For several hours, the red-cloaked girl watched him from the top of the pit, looking down at him. She sometimes said encouraging nonsense, or reassured him that no one meant to hurt him. The White Wolf was not a child, nor was he easily frightened.

He stared back at her, pacing the interior of his prison like he was, in fact, a wolf, never letting his gaze leave her face. It was an unnerving trick, and she often stuttered or stammered over her lines as he continued to stare her down.

He was the prisoner, but she was the one who was afraid.

After a while, it got darker, and she left him there, alone.

Someone else came, and the White Wolf could hear another voice, the Huntsman, talking with Scarlet Hood.

No Grandmother yet, they might be waiting for the package, or Hydra might have managed to eliminate Grandmother from the board. That wasn’t the White Wolf’s concern. He was more interested, at this very moment, as to what was in the damn package.

Even if it was only information, the White Wolf might be able to bargain his way out of the hole with the information.

Or it might be materials for a bomb.

He waited until the voices were deep in conversation, when he was most likely to be unobserved.

The package was easily opened, sorted. There were several pictures, close up and black and white, showing soldiers. A set of silvered dog tags, ancient and battered. A love token made of a braid of two colored hairs -- dark, glossy brown, and gold-touched mahogany, bound together with scarlet ribbons. A shoulder patch from a military uniform; Howling Commandos.

He sat, cross-legged, in the center of the prison and flipped through the pictures.

He barely recognized himself; it wasn’t like the White Wolf spent time looking in the mirror, but he knew his younger face. He knew the ragged cut of his hair, and the cocky, insocient smirk. The way he looked up at a man, blond and broad shouldered. The way he looked down at a woman, dainty and beautiful.

More pictures. His-- his sister? Mother?

His arm around the blond man, laughing.

The second packet of pictures--

He also knew himself; not so much because he recognized his face, twisted in agony, slack with compliance, but because he knew that place.

He knew that chair. Those technicians.

He knew…

“Hey Bucky,” someone said from outside the prison. The man from the picture, and the Scarlet Hood.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” The White Wolf snapped, not even knowing why he was speaking after he’d resolved not to talk to these strangers, these spies and enemies with their pictures and their scraps of his life.

“You are,” the Scarlet Hood said, giving him a strange, fae smile, sad and wistful and longing all at once. “Until they took you away from us and made you into this thing. You’re our friend.”

“You’re my mission!”

“Well, you’re not going to get to finish it,” the man said. “Come on, Bucky, you know me--”

The White Wolf snarled at them.

The Scarlet Hood waved one hand, red smoke appearing between her fingers. “I have him, Captain,” she said.

“I’d hoped this wasn’t necessary,” the man -- this Captain -- said.

“You knew that it probably was,” she replied.

The smoke wrapped around him, holding the White Wolf steady, immovable, and the Captain jumped into the pit with him, needle in one hand. He jabbed the syringe into the White Wolf’s neck.

“Go to sleep, Buck,” he said. “We’ll take care of you. The way you always took care of me.”

In the haze that was a mix of narcotics and sedatives, muscle relaxers and something else, the White Wolf couldn’t quite identify just from the taste it left in the back of his mouth, the face looked familiar.

He knew this man.

This woman,

He knew them.

“Stevie?”

The world fell into darkness and the White Wolf was swept away with it.