#yeah i know i have several sculpture wips i need to get back to

[jaffre]

uhhh monkey

[leehanji]

The Right Partner

In light of recent events, I’ve decided to post a little preview of a new stucky fic I started working on literally the second I posted the last one! This is an unbeta’d wip so sorry for any errors!!! Also it’s probably going to be long and this is literally all I’ve written so far so it’ll be a long while before the whole thing is done, but I hope you enjoy anyway!!!

It’s an Assassins/Mr. and Mrs. Smith-esque AU where modern Steve and Bucky work for SHIELD and HYDRA respectively and don’t know the other is their rival agent... Check it out! (But also check the tags first!!! :D )

———

Steve brushed a finger down the spine of a blue hardcover surrounded by a dozen of its identical twins. He pulled it out and examined the cover.

La Combinazione Perfetta, it read. The Perfect Match.

Steve put it back. Romance wasn’t exactly his favorite genre. Not in English and definitely not in Italian. He glanced out the bookshop window at the café across the piazza. A middle aged woman sat in the afternoon sunlight with a small cappuccino in one hand and her phone in the other. Steve had never seen the allure of fancy coffee; probably because his enhanced metabolism negated any effects the caffeine would have on him.

He turned back to the bookshelf and perused a little more, occasionally pulling a book out and flipping a few pages before putting it back and glancing out the window again. The woman was still sipping at her coffee. Steve estimated she’d continue sipping for another 12-18 minutes before returning to the Embassy at the far end of the piazza. Why Martina Giudici had chosen to ignore the death threats sent her way, Steve didn’t know, but apparently, she was essential in finalizing SHIELD’s authorization to eradicate HYDRA in Italy and Fury insisted on her making it to the meeting that afternoon alive. Giudici was a politician so perhaps she thought the threats were good publicity and that being seen out in public with no bodyguards would make her seem tough. Maybe she was secretly trained in advanced martial arts and could totally take whatever assassins HYDRA threw at her. Maybe she was just an idiot. Either way, Steve and his team were forced to keep a distance, protecting her in secret from the HYDRA agents aiming to slit her throat as the meeting ticked closer.

“Report,” Steve whispered, keeping an eye on the woman at the register and the hearing aids he could see under whips of long white hair.

“East corner, clear,” Gabe said.

“North corner, clear,” Dernier reported.

“South corner, clear,” Jim whispered.

“West corner,” Dugan grunted and Steve heard the sound of someone getting kicked in the stomach, “clear.”

Steve checked his watch, wiping a small smear of blood off it with his thumb. The HYDRA gunmen on the roof had gone down a little messily.

“Keep an eye out,” he muttered, glancing out the window again, “Jobs almost over.”

“Copy.”

Giudici was still sipping her coffee. Eleven minutes to finish. Two minutes to pay. One to gather her things. Four to walk across the square. Two to get through security and then it would be over. It would be a piece of cake from here on out anyway. He and the Commando’s taken out nearly three dozen guys in the past twenty minutes, proving that their perimeter was impenetrable, as always. Steve knew HYDRA’s tactics well and he wasn’t worried.

He switched the com in his ear to radio, monitoring the chatter around Giudici as she casually returned her cup to its saucer. Steve pulled out another book when the bell above the door to the little shop rang out and a man stepped in.

A quick once over revealed to Steve that he appeared to be a civilian. He was wearing jeans, a red henley, and a light olive jacket. American, Steve assumed due to the soft, poorly articulated “Ciao" he greeted the owner with, but not a tourist, judging by the lack of backpack, sweat, and sunscreen. Bright blue eyes met his and a small smile twitched on the mans lips. Steve had never known himself to be into guys with long hair but he quickly found himself making an exception. The man was attractive, that was undeniable. He had a square jaw, wavy brown hair that hung half above his shoulders and half pulled up into a little ponytail, and kind eyes that crinkled in the corners. Steve found himself watching as the man approached the small English section of the store along the far wall. He was built, his broad shoulders accentuated by a narrow waist and defined pecs.

Steve blinked and glanced out the window again. Guidici was typing something on her phone. Ten minutes.

“Mi scusi.” The man approached Steve with a small paperback in one hand and a shy smile on his lips.

“Hey,” Steve replied smiling back.

The relief on the man’s face was instantaneous.

“Oh, hey, thank god,” he sighed, laughing at himself a little, “my Italian is okay but boy does make my anxiety go through the roof.”

“I hear you,” Steve agreed easily, glancing over the man’s shoulder at the café. Guidici lay her phone down and picked up her half empty cup again, “what’s up?”

“I was wondering if you happened to know a good place to get a cup of joe around here,” the man said with a wry smile, “American style.”

Steve suddenly wished he knew more about coffee. He immediately tried to remember whatever it was Gabe and Jim had been complaining about that morning.

“You mean something that doesn’t taste like a shot of bitter non-alcoholic ass?”

The man threw his head back and laughed. Steve watched his smile light up his whole face, making his blue eyes sparkle in the early afternoon sunlight. God, he was a vision.

“Yeah, exactly,” the man laughed, “I need sugar man, with a shot of vanilla and whipped cream on the top.”

“I think I saw a Caffe Nero a few blocks over,” Steve suggested, trying not to get too carried away, “It’s technically a British company but they might have something you’d like.”

Steve glanced out the window again. Guidici was still there. Eight minutes.

“Oh, perfect,” the man grinned, his eyes flicking down Steve’s chest and across his shoulders before finding their way back up to his face.

Steve felt his face start to flush involuntarily. He blamed his penchant to blush at the slightest hit of flirting on the fact that up until he was 23 he was a 90 pound asthmatic with scoliosis who came up to around 5’4 on a good day and even now any reference to his appearance made him unfathomably shy. It was his biggest weak point, one that his teammates teased him about relentlessly.

“I’m Bucky, by the way,” the man—Bucky— said, holding out his hand.

“Steve.”

Bucky’s hand was warm and firm. Solid and gentle.

“Well, Steve,” Steve’s name rolled through Bucky’s mouth like he was savoring the taste, “I should get going.”

Steve nodded with a small smile, stepping out of the way so Bucky could head to the register.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” Bucky added as he handed a handful of bills to the lady working the counter, who seemed to be resolutely apathetic toward the pair of them. He was buying an old second hand copy of  Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. It might last him trip down to Naples, Steve thought, maybe Florence if he took his time.

“Yeah,” Steve found himself agreeing as Bucky tucked the book under his arm.

It was harmless to flirt, Steve told himself, after all, he’d be on a plane home in less than an hour. The odds of him seeing Bucky again were slim to none.

“I’ll buy you a Frappuccino,” Steve grinned, “heavy on the whipped cream.”

The man laughed again, low and resonant. It made Steve’s skin tingle.

“Throw in a chocolate croissant and you’ve got yourself a date.”

Steve felt his blush return as Bucky tossed him a wink before pulling the door open and stepping back out into the sunny piazza. Steve watched him cross the square and disappear down a small side street before reluctantly turning his attention back to the task at hand.

Guidici was pulling coins out of her wallet. Steve flipped his com back to the Commando’s channel.

“Update?”

“Since you asked three minutes ago?” Falsworth replied, “I’ve got nothing.”

“I saw a dog steal a bread roll from the bakery in the east corner,” Dernier said.

“I saw Cap blushing at some long haired dude in the bookshop,” Jim contributed gleefully.

“Oh! Was he hot?” Dernier demanded.

“He looked pretty ripped from here,” Jim replied, clearly holding back his laughter, “What do you say, Cap? An 8? A 9, tops?”

“I didn’t know you were into long hair, Cap,” Dugan chimed in with a low chuckle, “Always figured you were more of a clean cut kinda guy.”

“Well, who doesn’t love a rebel?” Gabe added, “an Italian rebel, no less.”

“Can we focus, please?” Steve muttered, glaring out the window toward the rooftop he knew Jim was perched on and rolling his eyes, “6 minutes.”

Guidici stood and stepped out into the piazza. Steve left the bookshop empty handed and kept to the opposite side of the square, pretending to examine the pastries in the bakery window and the ornate stone sculpture of various gods pouring water into the wide fountain in the piazza’s center as he discreetly watched Guidici cross the cobblestones until she reached the steps of the embassy.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped under the archway, officially relieving the Commando’s from duty—

Guidici hit the ground with one foot over the threshold. By the time Gabe was at her side half of her body’s blood content was dripping down the steps of the embassy from the severed artery in her neck.

“Package down, mission failed,” Gabe reported grimly.

Steve was already hunting for the shooter amidst the chaos of the panicked crowd. There had been no audible gunshot, the angle must have been high, a sniper most likely. He examined the buildings but the only viable vantage point he could find was currently occupied by a stunned looking Jim.

Clean, precise, efficient, and deadly. Too good for HYDRA’s usual MO.

Whoever the shooter was, they were something else entirely.

~TBC~

[kd-holloman]

Oh, Hell

I scrapped yesterday’s small bit of writing. I feel as though the words flowed more naturally tonight. So, I decided to change a few things. I’m not completely satisfied. Some of the transitions are rocky and I’m just not sure what to tweak just yet, but that’s not the point of a first draft, right? My job is to get it on the page and get it done. 

I also know that I’m a bit ahead to start Nano, but I want to get in writing when I can because there are going to be a few (if not several) days where I’m not going to be able to write. So, happy early Nano, I guess. 

Also, I didn’t do an introduction post for this WIP, but if anybody is interested I can start a tag list.

I remember burning. 

I remember being swallowed by flame and fire as I fell. It blistered my skin, sucked me dry, and felt as though I would know nothing else. 

I don’t have to sleep, but when I do, there are times when I wake that I feel as though I’m on fire again. Usually, when that happens I’ve somehow managed to roll onto my back, on the scars at the base of my wings. 

I shift in my seat. I know my wings are invisible, the only people that can see them are the ones I can show them to, but part of me always worries that somehow somebody will be able to see them. 

A glance over my shoulder shows the girl with half of her hair up and half of her naval showing. She isn’t looking at me, though. She’s tapping her fingertips against her cellphone, ignoring the professor’s final details of his syllabus. 

Professor Osburn frowns at the black screen following his slideshow, squints at his watch and shrugs. “I guess that’s all I have for you today. Make sure you read up on the first chapter of the book so you know what’s going on during Wednesday’s class.” 

Half of the class doesn’t bother to wait for him to finish talking. They move almost as one in a flurry of notebooks and the scrape of chairs on the tile floor. They haphazardly sling backpacks over their shoulders, tuck books under their arms and make for the door. 

“Wait!” Osburn exclaims. He clears a stack of folders off of a shelf on his desk. “Don’t forget to sign the attendance roster! Attendance is fifteen-percent of your grade.” 

I take my time. My next class isn’t until one and Tabbi doesn’t get out of hers for another twenty minutes. 

I sling my backpack over one shoulder and fall in at the end of the line to sign the roster. 

The girl in front of me tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder. It smells of coconut. 

Since I’m the last one, I sign my name ‘Israfil Jones’ and hand the clipboard to Professor Osburn. 

He’s a short, bald, man and the fluorescent lighting shines off of the top of his head. He accepts the clipboard and raises a startlingly thick eyebrow. “Israfil?” He asks. 

I curl my fingers around the strap of my backpack. “Yeah.” 

“Are your parents religious?” 

I press my thumb to the corner of my mouth to hide smirk. He as no idea. “The crazy kind.” 

I can tell that he isn’t entirely sure how to respond to that and I leave him to think about it. He can assume what he wants about that information. I don’t care one way or another. 

I dump my backpack in the passenger seat of the Corvette. I don’t feel like carrying it around until my next class. It’s annoying and heavy. 

I hear Tabitha before I see her, which isn’t hard. She always talks like she wants everyone in the world to hear. “Iz! Hey, Iz! Come on!” 

I think twice about leaving my backpack in the car. It seems like it will be weird wandering across campus without it. Just about everyone else seems to have books or a bag of some kind. 

“Hurry up!” She’s practically vibrating with excitement. 

I find myself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time all day. “Wasn’t your hair blue yesterday?” 

“It was, but it’s the start of our freshmen year of college! I needed a new look to go with my new life.” A purple curl fell out from her paisley headband and she flicks it behind her ear in annoyance. 

She looks like one of the Muses from the Hercules animated movie. You know, if any of the Muses had purple hair, big glasses, and a slight gap between their front teeth. 

“Is that why you’re wearing my shirt?” I ask, plucking at the rolled-up sleeve of one of my flannel shirts. It was too long for her and she rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. She must have gotten bored in her class lecture because she had started drawing sigils and random words on her tan arms. 

She swats at me. “I’ve had it in my possession for two months, Iz. At this point, it’s mine.” 

“It’s not like I missed it,” I admit. 

“So, how has your first day of college been.” 

I look around at the campus. I’ve only ever seen Wakefield University from the outside and being on the inside feels a bit surreal. The campus is dotted with brick buildings, the sidewalks are dotted with obscure sculptures, and the fact that the student population is forty-percent supernatural creatures is baffling. 

The even more unbelievable part is that humans have no idea.

[lupienne]

Days of his Wives (19)

Negan X Wives. Hopefully-not-forever WIP. Chronological reading not really required. (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18)

Chapter 19: Greater Good (in which Amber grins and bares it)

After Mark’s burning, Amber struggles to continue being a ‘wife’ to Negan. In a few scenes not posted/finished, Amber has several awkward moments with him intimately, and Negan asks if Amber really wanted to stay and wants an answer sooner than later. (Smut)

--------

'I want a fucking answer.'

It was best to answer Negan with action. Amber laid in her bed. The ceiling was a blur before her eyes. She laid there for an hour... or maybe several. The light was hitting one wall when she laid down, and it had shifted to another when she got up.

What's my action?

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was bed-headed, but it looked good that way, like she'd just gotten laid hard and rough.

'You're fucking crying... you don't want me to touch you.'

Her form blurred before her eyes.

She could do this action: Go to the closet. Get a regular shirt and jeans and her coat, and walk out the door. Wave goodbye to the girls. Go back to Mark, and let the world have its way with him. And hope that Negan wasn't lying when he said she could leave, that she could go back to work, and earn her points as everyone else did.

She pictured Negan from last night. Looking at her with those earnest eyes, his hands clasped together. And the night earlier, when he'd stopped when she'd screamed, the way he had kept his touch off her.

'Why didn't you just fucking leave, instead of embarrassing us all?'

His hand, holding the Iron. His jaw clenched, the slight way he'd shaken his head at her. His eyes, disapproving, disappointed.

I think I could walk out. I think I always could.

She sniffed, wiping her hand over her face. There was no greater fear... than the fear of the unknown. And it still crawled in her belly, and haunted her mind.

'I want to be here.'

'You'd better start showing it.'

She moved. Action. Opening her night table, pulling out the red satin bra and panties. She pulled off her plain lingerie and put on her scarlet letter, the attire she'd worn when she'd created this entire mess with Mark, and...what she would wear to make it right.

Nothing can make this right. But... I have to try.

She walked through the sitting room, then into the bathroom with vacant, light steps, like she was not in her body, like she was not there at all.

She opened the top drawer, reaching past contraceptives and kink gear, closing her hand around the bottle of lube. Strawberry Heaven. The bottle was sticky, and she unscrewed it with a grimace. She hated the smell. She hated the artifice of it.

I've got to fake it long enough. I've got to act it out so convincingly that even I'll believe it.

Her fingers slid beneath her panties and created lust and longing. Wet heat that smelled like berries and sugar. But if he noticed, she doubted he'd care.

She leaned into the mirror, cheeks cherry red. He liked her blush; loved her hair tousled. She stuck her lower lip out in a pout. That was going overboard.

I hate myself.

Stop it. Don't say that. Don't even think-

don't think about anything.

She adjusted her lingerie set, making sure her cleavage was pushed up perfectly. She gave a final kissy-face to the mirror. Time to fulfill her mission - one battle in a never-ending war.

The girls were still involved in their cards, but Nova's eyes tracked her. Amber ignored her, opening Negan's door just wide enough to slip in, before shutting it quietly behind her.

Warmth flowed over her skin. He'd pulled a chair up to the fireplace. Plaid pajama pants stretched out, the soles of his feet getting roasted. He seemed perfectly still, book held up to his view. Bare arms, bare chest.

"Have you figured that book out yet? 'The Art of War'?"

"All warfare is based on deception," he said. "I think that's a point to remember."

She couldn't agree more. Thighs sticky with deceit. Meeting his fire-flickered gaze. These bedroom eyes always lied.

Negan tilted his head, watching her curiously. The firelight diffuse, softening him, casting his muscles into stunning, shadowy relief. Like the sculptures of Michelangelo, masculine beauty chiseled from hard stone, made soft, made flesh.

Hot. He looks super hot.

That, at least, wasn't a lie. She could take that and run with it.

See. Don't think. Feel. Don't feel.

Her hand slid slowly up her stomach. She turned her back to him, fingers expertly unhooking her bra, languidly extending her arm to let it fall. Turning back to him, arms crossed over the soft flesh.

Her neck tilted lazily to the side, blond strands tickling her shoulder.

He watched her. The wolf and the deer. The doe stretching her arms up lazily, body curved to the side in an elegant arc. Her skin stroked by shadows, darkness under the swell of her naked breasts.

The wolf had gold and blood eyes, the wolf had gleaming fangs. He smiled as she approached with swaying hips. "Are you deceiving me?"

She pressed against his knees, looking down with hooded eyes. Mouth slightly open, her tongue licking upon her lower lip. A wet pout. "Why do you ask? Are we at war?"

She lit her fingers on the book, gently pulling. He relented, letting her take it away. She bent her knees, lithe and graceful. Setting the book onto the floor, straightening up with her eyes on his.

"I don't know, Amber..." His voice was a low rumble. "You certainly seem to be fighting me."

"Not anymore..." She whispered, casting her eyes down. She reached out to grasp his shoulder, holding on so she could climb into his lap.

She stroked his chest, moving her hands slowly up to his cheek. Kissing his slightly scratchy chin; she ran a finger along the stubble-sharp length of his jaw. "You need to shave," she whispered.

"Yeah..." His hands settled onto her waist. Her hour-glass waist, so slender and lovely, those big hands nearly able to touch fingers when they encircled her. His breath hitched slightly.

She kissed up his jaw and to his ear, gently tugging the lobe in her teeth. Laying her cheek against his warm, soft hair. His hands were sliding upwards, cupping a breast in each palm.

He smells good... he's warm...

She desperately grasped for the positive.

I have to see him as a lover...If I'm gonna make it through this...I have to... love him...

Those fucking fingers, softly pinching her nipples, rubbing them, they had curled around the Iron, they had-

How can I love him – how can I even -

She blinked hard, and took his face in her gentle hands. Staring into his eyes, she saw no protest, so she dropped her lips to his, slid in her tongue, moaned into the depths of him...

Like screaming down the trapdoor to Hell, what the fuck is going to echo back up to me...?

Lucifer had originally been an angel. He'd been beautiful. He was something you could've loved – maybe you still could. If you could see past all his transgressions -

She shifted in his lap, grinding her pelvis against him, feeling the hardening lump underneath her. The sticky lube getting pleasantly warm...her own wetness beginning to flow now.

He turned his head away from her kiss to regain his breath. His profile was beautiful in its refinement; the elegant sweep of nose, his fine brow, hair dark as storm clouds, eyes like copper... Be shallow. Just see him. The outside. Don't look deeper, don't think deeper, don't remember what he's done, don't even remember what you've done, just...

shut everything down, just-

Her lips to the beating pulse in his neck. Sliding wetly to his ear, her breathy words traveling the pathways of his nerves. "Fuck me," she whispered, "I want you to fuck me..."

That's all I have to do.

His hands slid up her thighs, tightened on her ass. His mouth opened like he was going to say something, and she kissed him again – Just shut up, Negan.

She rocked on his trapped member, sliding wet cloth up and down...he wouldn't be able to stand this teasing much longer. His breath was heavy when she took her mouth away. Her hand slid down, fingers slithered beneath his pants. Just a light brush of her fingers on his hot flesh, then she withdrew them.

"Ok..." he breathed. "...Yeah." Whether or not he had misgivings over her change in behavior... that was a moot point. He was on her battlefield now, and she held the higher ground.

She slipped off of him, just long enough to strip off her underwear, and then she was back on his lap again, reaching both hands into his pants.

It's not him I have to deceive... it's me.

He only cared about consent. Love meant nothing. Any connection beyond physical was too much for him.

This should be so easy then. I can make him anything I want. He's a blank slate. All I have to do is paint my picture on him.

Her hands clenched around his dick, pulling it free. Pushing it onto his belly, writhing her wet folds up and down its length, just teasing...oh feel that slick wetness, those strawberry fields, all the way up to the tip, all the way down to the balls.

His hips jerked at the apex of her grinding, trying to penetrate, but she slid down again. "Not so fast," she whispered. "I want to go slow... I want to really feel you." Her lips on his neck again, suckling a reddening love mark.

Love Mark... Mark... can that be my picture... can I pretend he's Mark? She closed her eyes and rocked on him, one hand stroking his hair.

Mark had long hair of blond, textured like a horse's mane. No! Now his hair is fine and silken and short, the pelt of a rottweiler. Mark had the smell of cloves and cheap laundry detergent. No, now he's a wood fire and a leather coat! Mark's body, so slender and soft and reedy? No, he's hardened muscles and long, tall bones, his hands sliding up my back, big and rough, no...Mark's hands aren't like that, Mark is not-

Deceit! This is a war! Deceive yourself, now.

It was getting hot between them; she felt the sweat rising. "Oh..." he groaned, and tried to still her movements, his hands holding her hips in place. She pressed her forehead to his, eyes on his, Christ, there was no deceit to be had there. She couldn't pretend those depths- all rich chocolate and cinnamon- were anything like Mark's -

Can you feel it? The thick shaft pushing into her, her walls clenching so snug and wet around it, every inch enveloped in her warmth. Can you feel me... feeling you...?

She had to close her eyes now, pressing her face into the junction of his shoulder. His hands settling on her waist, moving her hips in slow circles. She shuddered, moaned into his skin, damp from her fluttering breaths.

It feels good...

She wanted to whisper his name. Mark. It almost slipped past her lips and she had to tighten them closed, changing it to a whimper.

"Isn't this better...?" he rasped against her neck, his tongue trailing her salty skin. "When you're not fighting me?"

Please don't talk.. Mark's voice wasn't that low, earth-moving rumble. How could she pretend when he wouldn't shut his mouth?

He moved her faster upon him, and she angled her hips so his length hit lovely spots inside. Another name bitten back. She kept her eyes closed, moaning as he kissed and sucked her neck.

How can I pretend anyway? Her hands on his shoulders, muscles hard as rock, chiseled from granite.

Even at his gentlest, Negan was not Mark. She could close her eyes. Close her ears. But the feel.. he was too hot, too fierce, too big... She shuddered. A dire wolf to a cocker spaniel, a nuclear bomb to a grenade.

His hands slid up her back and he was being sweet, he was kissing the soft spot on the underside of her jaw, purring, telling her how good she felt.

And that was good, because it meant he would keep her, it meant she could be of use. I failed you, Mark, I hurt you, but I'm not going to let it be in vain. She clamped her hands down on his shoulders, pulling her face out of his neck. Time to give this asshole his money's worth. She writhed and rocked and rode him until they were both groaning from the slick glorious friction.

"Amber..." he was breathless. "Yeah...that's so fucking good... fuck..."

Yes, good. That's what you are...my good deed.

Those eyes, predator eyes, those hands, the hands of a killer.

You're my necessary evil.

She ground down on him, driving him in deep. Sweat glittering from the exertion and the roaring fire behind her.

Good...good! ..you're my greater good.

She gave him her answer, her final decision as her traitorous body writhed on this man. As her walls clenched and pulsed around him, as he released inside her. She cried his name to the ceiling, the stars, and all within earshot. The name of her savior, the only name that mattered. The only one that could save Mark.

"Negan!"

-------

"Ok. Way too fucking hot." Negan scooped her spent body from where it draped onto his chest. He tottered over to the bed. "Damn, babe, you made my knees fuckin' weak." He laughed and set her on the mattress.

She curled up, distinctly aware of the air moving in the room, cool across her sweaty skin.

"I guess you're staying then?"

She wished he didn't have to be so dense about everything. I just rode you like a show horse, you idiot. I put on your favorite red lingerie. What the hell do you think?

"Yeah, Negan," she pressed her face to his black blanket. "I'm staying."