Weapon X: Saddling Up.

[Wyldfire]

"Fuck the lights," Ali replied in a husky voice leaning in for another kiss.

Wrapped in the captian's arm, she wondered at the gentle strength Jill commanded. It would be so easy for her to crush Ali against her slick soft breast. Ali groaned into the kiss. The thought of dying here in this perfect moment before she had time to fuck it up was beautiful. The thought cleared her mind when her body hit the cool sheets. Ali slicked back her hair as she popped off the pillows grabbing at Jill's hand pulling her down on the bed. Her mouth dodged her lips to wrap around the pert cherry nipple.

"Mmm, like candy," Ali whispered to the nipple. Her tongue tickled the tip. "Is that your secret weapon? We all go mad at one taste."

Alison laid a trail of hot kisses along a path from her ear lobe to her belly button and back. Both her hands gripped under Jill's sweat ass. Ali's pussy felt full and thick as her hips rotated in the open v of the captain's leg. She wanted to push against her. A dull throb pulsed behind the thatch of silky black curls. Her clit ached to grind into the soft pad of Jill's venus mound. Jill sweet slit moved in a hypnotic rhythm as she moved with Ali in a seductive wrestle.

“You are so beautiful,” Ali moaned as they rolled. “God have mercy…”

Ali breathed in deeply the smell of her skin, her hair and the musk of their combined desire. Her hands explored the landscape of her partner’s heavenly design. Every inch studied into memory by her fingers.

Where had this woman been all of Jill's life? She clung to Ali as she made Jill first squirm then go ridged with her minstrations. "Oh God is right girl," she gasped out, "You have until the Honolulu police get here to stop that."

She ground her body against Ali's keeping the rhythm that Ali had started. Her fingers snaked down to touch and carress Ali's body as Ali continued her assault on Jill's senses. One touch to the right place that was all it would take to make Jill insensible. She could feel her passion rising to match her lover's.

 

[chronicle_tenko]

Meeting the Widow.

Natasha Romanov, The Black Widow. God what a sight, red headed, dressed to the nines, and stacked like a brick house. This woman had something on Terry even. She had auburn hair in a bun and legs to her neck, with a skirt just inching up her black stockings. She seemed like sex on heels, and she probably was. A tight firm cleavage was trying it’s best to force its way through one final button on her blouse. Not to mention probably the only black op more successful than he was.

"May I help you? You do know this place is closed for the night don't you?"

He smiled, so she was suspicious but she wasn’t pulling a gun yet. Meant she wasn’t regular security, though who would be in clothes like that. She seemed like the world’s sexiest librarian. All she was missing was a pair of small wire frame glasses to push up her nose, and the look would be complete.

“I did actually. But this is the first time, and probably the only time I’m ever going to see this building like this. When it’s still the space between nations, and not the only nation.” Wade tried to get the proper timbre of regret and sorrow into his voice. It wasn’t hard really, he liked his work and a lot of that had changed when his country had gone from Canada to the NAR, and then over the pond to control Europe and anything else on the northern hemisphere. It was pretty hard to deal in state secrets when there was only one state. “I saw the papers, One world, pretty statement, but it does put all of us in intelligence out of a job don’t it? Unless they’re gonna take away that freedom that everyone is so proud of. Turn us all into some kind of over glorified telephone recorders.”

He stopped a moment in the warm coat taken from Matt Murdoch and slowly and easily, with no sudden movements pulled his package of ‘Lucky Strikes’ from the breast pocket, he knew she was watching, as he lit it, and inhaled deeply.

She grinned and now there was a gun. Sleek and elegant very small, Wade had no illusions about size that thing would probably leave no exit wound, But it would bounce in his skull around 20 times. “There’s no smoking on government property, and keep your hands where I can see them please.”

Wade had no qualms she’d find the knife and he had nothing else on him, nothing but what he could only assume were her cigarettes. “Of course ma’am, but I didn’t bring anything except a present for you. Well that and a knife, and what good would that do against a woman like you Mrs. Widow?”

Her hands were quick and efficient, he knew that Matt’s suit was a little tight. His extra ten or so pounds did a good job of filling it. He couldn’t hide anything in it even if he wanted to. So very quickly she rifled the coat. There was the knife its black blade clattering to the ground and suddenly a little gasp. “These are my brand. How did you get them and who told you?”

A returned smile, “I suppose this means that no smoking applies to gun smoke as well? Or how long are you going to hold me up with a novelty lighter?” Her eyes opened a little wider, just the hint of alarm, followed by a smirk. This was all bad; it meant he really was going to be shot.

“A failure cowboy. “A single round squeezed off. If Wilson had any hair it would have been parted. “ So. How do you know who I am, and why do you have my brand of cigarettes. I didn’t even think you could buy them in the states.”

“You can’t but first things first. You are a legend, foremost to anyone in the black arts and also a public figure. Being management, and a job with the president, you may have fallen off the grid but there isn’t a person who calls themselves a spy in this world who couldn’t place that gorgeous face by sight.” Wade ground out his cigarette but made no move to let his hands drop off his head. Makarov or not that wasn’t what the Widow would use. She’d kill him if she chose so his job was simply to keep her interest, and to make himself seem like he wasn’t a threat. At least long enough to throw her off guard.

“The Lighter was a bad joke, till then I assumed it was some kind of Makarov. Hell it still might be, it certainly is a pistol. As for the smokes, I brought them for the most beautiful woman in the world, or so I was told. Glad to see I was right.”

“Flattery will only get you a toe tag.” Still She cracked the pack and put one of the tips into her mouth. “Got a light?”

“Thought there was no smoking miss; and I’d have to take my hands off my head.”

“Or I could kill you for the matches, Malone”

“Malone?”

“Just a name I use when I don’t know the person. So who are you?”

Wade stood up from his knees and reached still slowly for the matches and his own cigarettes, finally bringing the burning stick to the long thin Sobranie Black Russian in her mouth. Both Wade and Natasha took puffs for a moment and exhaled against the starless sky, still illuminated by the lights of the city.

“Wade Wilson, soldier of fortune. Or ex-soldier of fortune, after this new world government is accepted. And you?”

“Thought you knew; I’m the Black Widow. Or I was anyway; a long time ago. Before the world knew peace.” She took another drag off her cigarette, and for a moment Wade could only watch her lips hug the tip, her teeth just place so upon it, till she blew the smoke away in a perfect bloom. It was almost hypnotizing. “It’s funny all this time I spent spying and fighting for goodness and peace, and when it finally came I missed the old days. When the world needed saving, and I did more than ride a desk, at the defense of the most powerful mutant in the world.”
“And no one understands just how restless you feel? How much you miss all the excitement, hiding even from yourself the simple joy in ending another person’s life and knowing you did the right thing. Nothing really stands up to that in the end, does it? Knowing. Absolutely knowing what you’re doing is the right thing?”

“Nothing” Natasha Romanov stopped and gave the most heart-stoppingly seductive look Wade had seen since he had last made love to Terry. A life time ago that seemed in front of another redhead, dressed to the nines and by everything Wade used to remember, able to gut him like a fish where he stood. “Well almost nothing.” She sidled closer to him and he noticed she had recovered his knife. He hadn’t even seen her do that. “So what were you doing on this roof Mr. Wilson?”

Wilson took another thick drag off of the lucky strike and slowly and deliberately got another. The gold foil of the package still crisp when as rolled it out and into his hand, like a touchstone he began to roll it between his fingers pinching the tip and letting the tobacco crush between his fingers. Finally he lit the new cigarette with the dying ember of the first, and crushed it between his fingers while he answered her. “I was waiting for someone. I got told to come here and give the cigarettes to a beautiful redhead. An old friend said to take his coat and meet her. He wouldn’t be coming.”

“Really now. You’re lying the coat belongs to someone who was supposed to meet me. He wouldn’t miss it…”

“He would, for a woman in red instead of a legend with red hair.” Wade kept the grin off his face somehow. That was a lie, and a total one. Also one he didn’t know would fly, back home in the NAR ‘Murder’ was an incorrigible ladies man. Somehow he simply attracted them. Back and forth, using so many, there had actually been a few in red actually. So it was a good enough guess. Whether he was the same here was a puncher’s chance though. By her face it seemed to have been a solid hit though. “I guess that my job is done for now Miss Widow, so the question now is. Are you going to let me walk away?” Wilson shifted his foot in the gravel and slowly it began to snow. His foot moving on the rooftop made a crunch alerting her from where she was. She never missed a beat it seemed. She became distraught like any other person though.

“No tell me. Is that true” Like a blanket the snow began to fall and imperceptibly she shivered.

“Yeah. A woman with black hair and a red dress, and she had to have a knife on her somewhere too. She looked mean, but soft for him. You know how it seems, right?” It was slow and cautious but the snow made another crunch as Wilson came closer to her. He was taking the coat off as a fresh snow began to fall. The soft white blanket slowly chilling them both, as he presented her with Matt Murdoch’s coat. “Maybe you’d like to get a drink, talk to him, I know where he was last.”

She took the coat and stopped waiting for him to place it on her. It was a small act of submission it seemed, not to him but to the events around her. Softly she spoke again the words seemingly unconnected to what they were talking about. “Your smokes. The Lucky Strikes. I was there to see when they were first made. With that same gold foil.” Softly she accepted the coat letting it drape across her, covering her to the snow and to the world. “It seems so long ago.” Comfortingly, Wade forced the reaction to put his arms around her throat away and instead purposefully and with great show let his elbows rest along her shoulders his hands reaching for hers till they linked, standing behind her with her in control. He knew that if this went badly he was not going to have a tennis game for some time. But she carried herself in his arms. And slowly he let them relax. Again she spoke.” I don’t know why but you seem so familiar, like something coming from my past.”

Wilson smirked behind her. “I’m old Miss Widow. Very old, And like you, sometimes I don’t remember today as fondly as yesterday.”

When she spoke it was with more conviction any trace of weakness gone from her voice. “I’d like that drink soldier. But I know a better place.” She spun to face him and the grin she wore was simply painted on, gorgeous and seductive. It made him weak in the knees which seemed to be her entire purpose of wearing it. “My room is on the 42nd floor of the Waldorf-Astoria, near the diplomats; my real room is on the penthouse. We can have that drink there.”

She disappeared from the building roof top and Wade slowly and painstakingly climbed down from the U.N. roof to a cab she had waiting. He opened the door for her and watched her slide in, before he climbed in after her. “The hyphen. Please.” Perfectly she told the driver before sliding a government card through to him and then closing the black screen that kept them safe. “Now where were we heading.”

 

[ChasNicollette]

Black Widow

For the second time in such a short period, the world turned bright blazing white around Jessica Drew. The world turned bright blazing white and bent and twisted and folded and tore...

And another world entirely regurgitated her out into the skies above Manhattan.

Her raven-dark hair lashed around her, as did the long black coat she wore around her Black Widow bodysuit. Snow was falling, or starting to fall, and some of it caught in her hair.

She fell a short ways, and then caught herself. She felt the power crawling in her skin, the odd countergravitational talent that HYDRA's best scientists had awakened in her. An artificial secondary mutation of sorts.

Flexing her gloved hands, she surveyed the city below, and she attempted to assess the situation.

The Timebroker had hinted to her that his band of merry mercs had been chosen for their troublemaker tendencies. They were exceptional at making trouble. And this had been his only clue to her; that she should track down the biggest bit of trouble she could find, and likely as not The Timebroker's squad would be at the heart of it.

She rode the wind for a moment, criss-crossing the jigsaw puzzle blocks of The City That Never Sleeps, and her pale green eyes narrowed softly.

A bank, down there, way down there.

Had a black-and-white parked outside of it, and a Ford LTD Crown Vic, and a number of figures gathered around it. The area was cordoned off, using what looked-- and this was just an educated guess --like a selectively-permeable force-membrane, one which allowed people in but kept the precipitation out. But most tellingly of all? There were burn marks on the ground, and craters, and chalk outlines.

Trouble was no longer happening here. But it had been here recently, and had been here in spades.

********​

Officer Lonnie Lincoln gnawed on a doughnut disgruntledly, one massive pale arm slung across his stomach as his beady pink eyes narrowed fiercely at the man in the black coat. The man in the black coat and his little pet.

"This sucks big hairy donkey balls," he opined bluntly in his whisper-gravelly voice.

Officer Paolo Montenegro could only nod in gruff agreement with this blunt assessment. "Understatement of the decade, my friend," he grumped, twirling his favourite rapier over his fingers. "This red-white-and-blue pretender bitch comes rolling through and kills good men-- and one fine young woman --and before their blood can even dry on the ground the jurisdiction is yanked from our hands and given to these... these... Feds."

Lonnie shook his pale head with a glower. "I didn't walk th' beat in Harlem for ten damn years just so's I could babysit some mouth-breathing Maggie's Boys workin' a case rightfully ours."

He clenched his hand into a fist, and his knuckles popped dangerously with the sound of stone grating against stone.

Special Marshal Kyle Gibney crouched beside Officer Robert Drake's severed head, and sniffed at it. Without glancing up at the man in the white shirt and black tie that stood beside him, he muttered softly: "Our friends from The NYPD don't seem to like us very much."

Special Marshal Pete Wisdom, formerly of S.T.R.I.K.E., snorted quietly and lit a Silk Cut cigarette. "Hear them, can you?"

"Mm," Kyle nodded. "They think we're treading on their toes."

Pete chuckled faintly, "I'm not so bloody sure they're wrong. But orders are orders. And I'd like to see them do half as good a job at this as you and me. We've confirmation that this was a metacrime?"

Kyle nodded easily, grinning big sharp pointy teeth. "There's a distinctive aroma here. Erskine's formula. A derivative. I can smell it on her sweat."

Pete shook his head. "Bad news for our lads in blue, then. They've not got a leg to stand on, jurisdiction-wise, if this is a Registration issue."

Kyle rose from his crouch, and narrowed his catlike blue eyes at the policemen. "D'you want to tell them, or should I?"

Pete took a drag from his coffin-nail, shrugged his shoulders, turned up the collar of his coat. "Nnh," he muttered, "I'll bear the bad news."

He raised one hand and beckoned the uniforms over. "Tombstone," he called, "Espadachim. Let's 'ave a word, shall we?"

Lonnie sneered at the overly-familiar use of interdepartmental codenames, but he trudged towards Wisdom nevertheless.

Wisely, Paolo followed, his array of swords clinking and glinting on his back.

Lonnie had about reached the door to the bank, where Drake's head lay, when a dark shape caught his peripheral vision, and he whirled to follow the movement.

A bitch stood on top of Lonnie and Paolo's squaddie, one high-heeled boot resting atop the flashing red-and-blue light bar. A gorgeous bitch, at that. White girl, hair dark as night, rack out to here, legs up to there...

And that outfit. Who got away with wearin' suits like that what wasn't a cyberpunk vampire in the movin' pictures?

Paolo had whirled, too, he'd already brought his rapier to bear, and Kyle hissed fiercely, the hair on his back and on the backs of his arms standing on end.

The only one that hardly seemed perturbed, go figure, was Marshal Wisdom.

He dragged hard on his smoke, and let the fumes escape through his nostrils, and he whispered softly, a name, a single name: "Jessy?"

The woman curled her lip, narrowed her eyes at Pete. Evidently, she'd heard him. Even at that distance, she'd heard him.

"Have we met?" she wondered.

Pete's eyes danced down to that red-and-black logo on her choker necklace, and back up to her face.

He ran down the options.

Jessica Drew was dead. She'd died defending a pack of expatriate mutates from a team of overzealous Genoshan Magistrates.

And therefore, this could not be his Jessica Drew.

Clone, robot, ghost, shapeshifter, illusionist, Hand zombie, Breakworld-tech resurrection...

His eyes glinted. He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.

"No," he murmured, replying to the woman in black. "No, I dun suppose we 'ave."

...alternate universe thingy.

He glanced at his compatriots. "Kill 'er."

Kyle blurred away from his spot at Pete's side, down on all fours, howling and baying and snarling and spitting, his clawed fingernails carving troughs into the tarmac as he ran...

He crossed the space between himself and the woman in a hearbeat, before Montenegro or Lincoln could even take a step, almost before Montenegro could even draw a second sword.

********​

The blonde-haired wild beast thing bounded up the hood toward her, scowling, and a lesser woman would have experienced dread to the very core of her being.

But then he stopped, brought up short, hanging there, looking exceedingly puzzled. His clawed fingers raked the air as his knuckles flexed, and he ran his long tongue over his teeth.

He almost looked like he was going to say something.

Jessica's boot exploded into his jaw, shattering it, sending him reeling. In one fluid motion, Jessica hauled her coat off and tangled him up in it. Without a second's pause, she kicked him again hard in the centre mass, and he skidded and bounced away in a heap.

As the swordsman ran up to her, rapier in one hand, katar in the other, Jessica hopped down off of the top of the car and landed in a crouch.

Her lip twitched.

The world moved in slow motion, and still the swordsman moved quickly. But not quickly enough. He, too, was hesitating, though he might not even realise it, and he'd certainly never admit it.

He whipped the rapier across, trying to tear the sharpened tip through the front of her throat, but she craned back and the tip grazed only the air above and in front of her.

The swordsman drove his katar in low, trying to get her in the midsection, but her forearm came up, intersecting his wrist, diverting his strike...

...her elbow came up, quicksharpbrutal, Keysi-style, and crumpled the swordsman's cheekbone. The swordsman staggered, barely conscious, a dazed expression on his face.

Jess smiled faintly. She was impressed that he had stayed standing. But she was more galled that he wasn't dead than she was impressed that he was still conscious. She plucked the rapier out of his grasp, and with an unflinching manoeuver, she rammed the blade up through his stomach so hard and so thoroughly that the tip emerged from the base of his throat...

Jess' eyes glinted, and that faint smile grew a little wider.

The swordsman died with a gurgle and a twitch.

The bestial blond thing threw off her coat and roared as his jaw popped back into shape, and he sprinted for her, all hesitation discarded...

As lyrically as if she'd planned it, as straightforward as an iajutsu strike, Jess tore the rapier out through the front of the swordsman's torso, pivoted, and lunged...

...the rapier went right in through one of those sky-blue catlike eyes and out through the back of the beastie's head.

The beastie had a look of utter disbelief on his face as his brain shut down, his healing factor having substantial trouble with enormous cerebral haemorrhaging.

Jessica let go of the hilt of the blade and the beastie folded like wet toast. She stood, and she faced the two remaining men...

A hulking marble statue of a man dressed in NYPD blues.

A scrawny-looking washout with dark hair and steely eyes and a cigarette between his fingers.

She lacked the precognitive danger-sense of her more famous male counterpart, but she knew, instinctively, that the washout was the greater threat.

"Pheromones, ennit?" the scrawny one drawled, cavalier as anything. "Get a whiff of you, an' th' most stalwart of blokes gets a bit soggy 'round th' knees, dun 'e?"

Jess smiled faintly. Faint, faint smile. "Can't blame a girl for natural advantages," she pointed out. "Doesn't seem to be a bother you two at all, though."

"Mm," Scrawny nodded. "Well, see, that's the trick. Meet me new mate Lonnie. Odours dun faze 'im much, as 'is olfactories were damaged by the toxic fumes what made 'im what 'e is, an' I 'eard an old wives' tale once what suggested albinos can't smell."

Lincoln leered. "It's a good tale."

Jess nodded, jutting her chin out, taking this under advisement. "And what about you, handsome?"

Scrawny held up that cigarette. "I bring me own toxic fumes with me wherever I go."

Jess smirked faintly. "Prudent."

"Let's get this shit over with," Lincoln seethed, rampaging towards Jessica with malice aforethought.

Jessica blinked. He was faster than he looked... so very, very much faster. His haymaker ploughed into her chin and she flew ten feet and landed in a heap. Her skin was bloodied where his epidermis had scraped hers, like road rash from getting dragged behind a bus.

This was going to be interesting.

Shaking her head to clear it, she snapped to her feet.

Lincoln pressed his advantage, powering after her, fists up.

Jessica raised her own fists and pelted Lincoln with them, darting in under his ape-long reach and bashing him with fierce left and right body blows. Lincoln shuddered, tensed, growled.

He grinned. And bashed her in the face with a powerhouse right.

"Coupla those," he acknowledged, "weren't half bad."

Jessica wiped her bleeding lip with the back of her gloved hand. "Spasiba, tovarisch."

Lincoln blinked. "And the bitch said whut now?"

Jessica's expression was the perfect mix of a grimace and a grin.

In a blur, she planted her palms on the road surface and snapped up into a hand stand and pivoting on those hands, she twirled, spinning her entire body and propelling her feet into Lincoln's face one after the other after the other after the other crackcrackcrackcrackcrack!

(It was too bad for Paolo "Espadachim" Montenegro that he had perished ignominiously minutes before, because he would have delighted in seeing his partner get punked by a beautiful woman employing moves obviously inspired by his native Brazil's signature martial art.)

Lincoln staggered back. He blinked rapidly, and spat out a tooth.

Jessica resumed standing in the space of one of those rapid blinks.

She kicked him in the balls with a boom like a footfall of a goddess.

He wheezed like dust blowing through a canyon.

She pounded a bootheel into his solar plexus.

What little wind was left in his sails whispered away and he folded nearly in half.

Jessica walked past him, but he reached for her, seething, furious, unwilling to be so humiliated.

She knocked his hand away, strode over to the squad car and, with a grunt and a glower and a seethe of her own, she hefted the car onto one shoulder.

Metal creaked dangerously. The wheels spun slowly in the air.

Lonnie Lincoln's pink eyes widened considerably.

And Jessica threw the police car at his face.

The car crumpled, windshields spidering and headlights shattering, hubcaps bouncing away into the night.

Lincoln's arm stuck out from under the crumpled heap.

It flopped for a moment, and then went limp.

Jessica tucked a lock of her hair back behind one ear, and she turned to gaze at Scrawny. Her verdant gaze was cool and hard and unhurried.

Scrawny grunted softly. "Bollocks." He flicked his Silk Cut away, and cracked his knuckles.

Jessica took on a karate stance. "Shall we dance, then?"

Scrawny, born Pete Wisdom, hung his hands at his sides.

Those hands lit up, sizzling with golden flame that caused the air around him to ripple like a mirage.

Jessica nodded, taking this under advisement. She dropped her own stance, hanging her hands at her own sides. Her hands crackled with blue-white lightning that caused the air around her to smoulder and reek of ozone.

Pete Wisdom nodded, taking this under advisement.

"Just full of surprises," he mused.

"Can't blame a girl for natural advantages," she reiterated.

"Sure I can," Pete suggested, and flung his hands out, hotknives spearing from his extended fingers and searing across to strike the woman down...

Jessica moved. She moved like the lightning that crawled over her knuckles.

The hotknives reduced the road behind her to molten slag, but she never slowed.

She bounded ten yards, leapt another eleven, but Pete kept after her with gout after gout after gout of rippling pyrotechnics.

She hit the side of a brickwork building, hung there for an instant, and then she flung herself away once more as Pete's latest fusillade tore a chunk out of the wall.

She flew, she soared, and power flashed from her fingertips to stab back down at the man whose knives threatened to tear her from the sky...

Pete twisted, grunted, gathered his hands into fists and sprouted hotknives from his knuckles in a triune, familiar-looking fashion.

...one of Jessica's venom blasts tagged him in the side and he bellowed and clutched the injury.

She dropped from the sky like a stone, wrapped her bioelectric grasp 'round his head...

...Pete howled as the venom-blast flayed flesh from his skull...

...he stopped howling the instant Jessica jerked her hands around in a twist and snapped his neck.

He slumped to the road's surface, and Jessica shook her head.

The lightning faded from her fingers, and she dusted her hands off on her thighs.

She mused to herself, as she fetched her coat from where Kyle Gibney had left it on the ground, and she dusted this off, too. She shouldered her way into it, and she reflected that she, too, was no slouch in the troublemaking department.

And then a roar exploded from the air behind her and she whirled to find another swordsman coming after her with a pair of jagged wakizashi, a swordsman with a star-shaped scar over one eye and a long reddish-blonde ponytail lashing in the wind of his impossibly-fast sprint...

Jessica's eyebrows shot up her forehead, and she raised her fist to haul off and deck him but she could tell, she could tell, she was a micron too slow and he was going to gut her before she could clock him good, and the last time she'd gotten gutted she'd taken four days to heal...

----

OOC: Forgive me for this. I wrote this awhile back. And even though this thread's resurrection has faltered, I still wanted to share it.

(I haven't heard from you in ages, Chronicle. Hope you're doing okay. God bless, all right?)

A thousand apologies, folks. I just didn't want this post to languish forever in Lucien's Library, if you follow me. :: weary chuckle ::