seen from Germany
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seen from Türkiye
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from India
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Russia
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seen from Russia
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After 7 months of work and over 180k words, Cracks of [NEON] finally has that green check mark.
This has been an absolutely amazing ride. I've grown so much as a writer and a creative, met so many wonderful people, and ended it all with something I can be damn proud of.
But this isn't the end. This is only the beginning. Hope to see you all in the next one :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The FINAL chapter of "Duty of Care" is now out! >>CLICK HERE TO READ<<
"Namesake"
Model Ilya Rozanov has sworn off relationships (even though he still craves to be in one) and has been cursed to no longer enjoy hookups. Enter a gorgeous Canadian photographer, Shane Hollander. (Now completed!)
Chapters: 21/21 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes, Troy Barrett, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Harris Drover, Luca Haas, Zane Boodram, Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Eric Bennett, Ryan Price (Game Changers) Additional Tags: Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Loverboy Ilya Rozanov, Model Ilya Rozanov, Photographer Shane Hollander, Artist Troy Barrett, Bartender Zane Boodram, Troy Barrett loves Harris Drover, Good Friend Troy Barrett, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Good Friend Rose Landry, alternative universe, AU, Harris Drover Loves Troy Barrett, Anal Sex, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Happily Ever After, Light Angst, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Anxious Shane Hollander Summary:
Model Ilya Rozanov has sworn off relationships (even though he still craves to be in one) and has been cursed to no longer enjoy hookups. Enter a gorgeous Canadian photographer, Shane Hollander.
── Coming In Hot; 9/9
09. TAKE IT HIGHER, LOSE CONTROL
PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
WORD COUNT: 10.1k
Summary: You put out the smoke, glanced at your clock, and thanked the summer heat for making nights just as perfect as days as you walked to the willow tree at the back of the lake.
Sitting under it in his baggy, black shorts and one of your favorite t-shirts of his, smoking a cigarette with a phone in his hand and a blanket underneath him, is Bucky.
When he sees you, Bucky smiles at the side, then pats the place on the blanket next to him.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ✎﹏﹏﹏﹏ ♫ Playlist
There’s a certain peace and power in being surrounded by all of your favorite people.
It’s the kind of peace that before certain people arrived in your life, you had only felt in garages on Sundays, drinking Cola and listening to the radio while engines ran.
Now, the smell of food being cooked inside the house and trailing to the outside where you and most of the others sit by the lake, plus the noise of conversation and Peter’s distinct loud laughter in the back—that’s peace.
It’s a movie scene. One of those rare moments when it feels good to be alive.
Across the lake, Bucky’s sitting on one side of his bike while Natasha’s on the other following his instructions—feeling your eyes on him, Bucky looks up from the timing belt and catches your eyes.
He tilts his head a little, and you keep watching, a smile opening on your face.
Bucky realizes you’re not going to look away and finds amusement in that—he laughs to himself, looking away from you with a shake of his head.
He then frowns at something Natasha is doing, and reprehends her with a roll of his eyes. She looks up at him with the utmost annoyance in her brows, and they go right back to arguing.
“Is it always gonna be like this?” You ask, finally looking away.
At your side, Steve looks up from his book to see what you mean and when his eyes catch what is happening on the other side of the lake, he snickers. “Oh, yeah.”
Down by the right side of your chair, Gabe hums on top of his Mojito cup. “Hmhm. Yup. A couple of months ago I saw Sam and Bucky just… flipping each other off.” He looks up at you, twisting his mustache. “Continuously. Back and forth. Just—” Gabe starts mimicking one finger being given after the other, and Morita starts laughing.
After the fifth or sixth middle finger, Morita reaches to grab Gabe’s excited hands. “I think they got it,” Morita nods.
Behind you, MJ stops the braid she’s doing to lean over and observe the scene in front of her.
On the other side, Bucky is laughing delightedly, and you can hear him saying ’yeah, you see the difference?’ and your heart flutters a little.
MJ pins you with a look and a smirk. “She’s going easy on him.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Why?”
You inch your sunglasses lower a little, observing Nat nodding along to whatever complicated bike engineering he’s teaching her about.
The past few days, Natasha had kept Bucky walking on his toes around her—never offered him a bone, always crispy-polite when he spoke to her; you knew her game well. She was intimidating him by doing nothing at all, and you knew what MJ meant with ‘taking it easy’.
Natasha took it easy with people whose opinion she knew mattered to you and would matter in the future, meaning she saw in Bucky someone who would be around for a while.
You look at MJ. “She knows he doesn’t know everything that went through between us yet.”
At the same time Steve hums in sympathy in front of you, MJ goes: “Ah.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle.
Steve rests his head against the chair and looks up at you. “Don’t worry. If he’s teaching her somethin’, that’s Buck language for a hug and a kiss on the forehead.”
Your eyes and attention shifted between the group surrounding you by the lake and the chaotic group of idiots you adored on the other side of the lake.
You nodded in agreement. Bucky took a while to warm up to people—when Nat had mentioned her new bike and how much she thought his own was beautiful, how much she’d love to know some things about them so she wouldn’t have to go to a mechanic over there too often and Bucky’s response was, “Want me to teach you some stuff?” your heart had done some acrobatics inside your chest.
“Nat letting someone help is Nat language for ‘you’re cool and we can be friends’,” you tell everyone.
Gabe points to where Yelena is sitting, watching Nat and Bucky on top of the rock. “That one is easy to make friends with, huh?”
Yelena, almost as if sensing you’re all talking about her, looks over to you guys and waves excitedly. “Nah.” Everyone turns around to you with a look that questions whether you’ve lost your mind or not, but you shrug at all of them. “It’s true. You know how Nat and Bucky give off those vibes to everyone but us?” They all nod. “Yelena gives off that vibe to everyone too… unless she’s around Nat. Or me.” They all hum in surprise, and you close your eyes when the feeling of MJ’s fingers goes back to working on your hair. “I’m happy you guys like them.”
Steve pats your calf. “We know they’re part of the package and we’re keeping you. Thank god we like them,” he sasses.
You laugh at him, and MJ snickers behind you to stand still.
Inside of the house, you can hear Sarah’s boys playing video games and now, the smell of whatever it is the Wilsons are cooking is truly starting to take over the air.
Steve seems to pick up on that at the same time as you, ‘cause he sniffs the air around him and starts craning his neck to get a look at the kitchen. “What on earth are they cooking in there?”
Morita hums at the back of his throat. “You’re a lucky man, Cap.” He huffs. “That’s a damn good family to marry into.”
To innocent ears, the compliment might’ve sounded very nice, but you feel MJ snickering behind you just as you try to hide your own laughter.
Steve, always so smart, knows better too and sees right through the bullshit. “Aht—knock it off.” He slaps Morita on the arm, and the man laughs at him, unashamed of his boldness. “You guys and your stupid fucking poll.” Steve throws his arms up. “We’re not getting married! Not now, at least!”
MJ lets go of any pretense of hiding her laughter when Steve slaps his friend, but she recovers quickly to tell him. “Oh, c’mon Steve. Don’t pretend you haven’t bought that man a ring already.”
Steve gasps in shock, and it’s such a genuine and loud gasp that it catches everyone by surprise. He points an accusatory finger at MJ and then looks over to the other side of the lake, where Peter’s laughter can be heard on top of Natasha’s voice. “That TRAITOR!”
At the word, Peter’s head snaps to where everyone is on the lake.
Everyone, including you, gasps at the realization of what Steve falsely assumed… and ended up revealing in the meantime.
“YOU DID?!” MJ yells the question.
Watching the realization hit Steve’s face is almost as priceless as knowing that Steve Grant Rogers bought Sam Wilson a ring.
You watch as his eyes go from accusatory to wide in horror, and then his eyebrows crease in pain. Morita and Gabe start causing absolute havoc, and you’re too shocked and happy to do anything but stand there with your mouth wide open and a smile splitting your face in half.
Steve, beet red and also beating himself over his misinterpretation, gets up from the chaos that has installed between a yelling Gabe, Morita, MJ and fastly approaching Peter (“What’s up what’s up what’s up why did he yell at me—”) and starts walking in direction of the house.
Big mistake.
MJ gets up from the chair behind you and starts singing the wedding waltz, and that’s finally what snaps you out of your shock.
Immediately, you pull her down by the waist and start shushing her. “Shushhhh, oh my god, Gabe, shut up! Are you guys kidding me?!” you scream whisper. “Make it more obvious, would ya?! Let the man keep his secret at least from the person who’s meant to be surprised, huh?!” You point vigorously at the house, looking at them like one looks at children who forgot that this is supposed to be a surprise party.
The three of them clasp their hands over their mouth, and you sigh dramatically. “If he finds out because of y’all, I’m killing you. I swear I am.”
Peter, between ragged breaths, looks between you all with wide eyes. “Who told you?” He whines.
For the second time, you feel MJ hiding behind you, and when Peter cries out a betrayed, “Babe?”, you can’t help but laugh.
Your eyes find a pair of blue ones on the other side of the lake, and sharing your moment of happiness with him makes it even better somehow.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ◦➳◦
Meet me at the Willow at 2.
The words had been whispered to you while dinner was served and everyone navigated each other in the kitchen; Bucky had slid behind you at the plate line, whispered that at the shell of your ear, and fucked right off the kitchen, leaving you standing there confused for a moment.
Confused and giddy, for that was the right word—giddy; as if you were a teenager; as if this was all a joyous new thing to experience.
Bucky said the words and created a monarch dynasty in your belly, butterflies fluttering with his wink as he left, with your eagerness to wait for the clock to strike midnight so everyone would retire to their beds and you could watch the minutes pass by.
It was stupid and foolish, but it felt good.
At one-thirty, you kiss Nat’s sleeping forehead, remove her cell phone from her hand before it falls on the wooden floor, slip it under her pillow, and leave for a smoke at the back porch.
There was no privacy at the lake house.
Surely, among a group of adults, no one lived under the impression to share a roof with prudes; on the contrary: having a group of intimate friends, you were learning, meant sharing the good, the bad, the weird, and the extremely personal.
Still. Common courtesy indicated no loud, delicious sex when you shared literally the same room with somebody else.
A thin wall? Acceptable. One can shove their heads under a pillow and go back to bed, ignoring the grunting and moaning on the other side, but when it’s sleeping right next to you?
A little rude.
Not that you and Bucky were meeting to fuck behind a tree, like an actual couple of teenagers—no. You had better self-control than that (you hoped), and taking things at their own time was not a problem for either one of you.
But god, you missed making out with him.
Kissing, tasting him, teasing him for more than an hour, feeling the way he likes to map your body with his hands—fuck, his hands.
You put out the smoke, glanced at your clock, and thanked the summer heat for making nights just as perfect as days as you walk to the willow tree at the back of the lake.
Sitting under it in his baggy, black shorts and one of your favorite t-shirts of his, smoking a cigarette with a phone in his hand and a blanket underneath him, is Bucky.
When he sees you, Bucky smiles at the side, then pats the place on the blanket next to him.
You walk to him, and instead of sitting where he suggested, stop in front of his crossed legs, looking down at him with no reservation to your thoughts.
He’s always been good at reading them. Bucky’s incredible at reading you, and if someone said you were once a book on his shelf in this or any other life, you’d believe them.
His legs all but melt in front of him, uncrossing in a clear invitation. To make matters better, Bucky opens his arms wide, leaving his cigarette dangling from his mouth—waiting. Open.
You sit down on his lap and his arms close around your waist.
“I’m glad you found the location easy, ma’am,” he teases, making you laugh.
The theatrical side of him is something few people know, and you, personally, adore. His voice gets carried easily in the dark and the silence of the night; you take the cigarette from his lips and lead it to yours, take a puff and then put it out in the trunk behind his head.
Bucky pouts at you. “I wasn’t done with that,” he whines a little.
You shake your head at him, rolling your eyes. “Don’t care.” You’d missed him. Missed being close to his body so much, so the first thing you do is get closer—wrap your arms around his neck and interlace your fingers in his soft, growing hair.
His hair’s getting longer again.
The days here at the lake house did him good; Bucky looks healthy, tanned; there’s a glow on his skin that’s almost unfair and his hair feels made of silk.
“You look so pretty, Buck,” you whisper to him.
Bucky’s eyes are on your mouth, and even in the dark, you can see the color rising on his cheeks. “What’s with you and callin’ me pretty lately?” He asks with a shy chuckle.
You shrug your shoulders. “Dunno. Just thought you should know,” you voice softly.
He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, but seems to miss the words to answer you.
To give him a way out, you lean closer and place a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I like how long your hair’s getting. You plan on cutting it?”
The question is asked while you measure the length of his locks with your fingers, in the same way that a barber does before taking the tips out with a scissor.
Bucky remains quiet for a couple more seconds under you, but when he finally answers, your movements halt on his head. “Dunno yet. Hey, Y/N. You really think I’m pretty?”
The measuring stops. Your heart falters, skips, trips. It falls, and the floor of your chest echoes with the shatter.
Your body inches back slowly, to avoid spreading the pieces under places you’ll never find again.
Bucky’s looking straight ahead—eyes fixed on the necklace around your neck, both of his hands tight on your waist. With care, you cup his face into your hands and lift it until his eyes meet yours. “Bucky.” The moonlight does wonders with his eyes, and you’re growing to love the privilege of seeing him under a light that only you get the opportunity. “You. Are the prettiest person. I have ever seen.”
He blinks through watery eyes at how much emotion slips out of your mouth alongside your words, and both of you have to swallow down the knots of tears that belong to another moment.
You kiss his pink cheeks, one by one. “So pretty, Sergeant.” A kiss between his eyes. Catching a sniff of his citrus-smelling hair, you add “and you smell so nice.” Bucky chuckles under you, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist. “Except after your runs.”
Now, he laughs harder. He kisses your sternum, and you sigh. “Thanks, doll.” He looks up at you, his face still safe and happily tucked in your hands. “I ask ‘cause… you’re the most beautiful ever. So. You deserve to be with someone you think’s pretty.”
God, this man’s beauty will be your ruin.
His outer beauty, his inner one, too. Your smile widens, and you suddenly hate every breath you take without having kissed him at least once. “Trust me. I’m right where I should be.” Wiggling on top of him, you adjust your legs around his waist and tuck your feet under his thigh, just a little. “Kiss, please?”
Bucky’s eyes lose some of the blue with the question, and he obliges with that smile that always steals some of your breath and melts your insides a bit.
He closes the distance slowly, and his lips are soft and wet when they suck on yours.
Kissing Bucky is the smoothest bike ride you’ve ever been on.
If you unlearned everything overnight because of a mysterious reason or a curse, maybe a true kiss would be real, then. You’re certain that having his mouth on yours would come back to you, sure as the Sun does every day.
Whether it’s the same rhythm as you, or the way Bucky enjoys kissing, just like you—his lips on yours are a sweet taste you can’t get enough of. Never could, never will.
Bucky sucks on your tongue and kisses you until you’re both breathless. He lets you get some air, gasping through ragged breaths, as he sucks on your neck and licks on your neck with abandon.
He licks a stripe from the middle of your clavicle all the way up, finishing right under your chin. It’s ticklish, and your giggles get eaten by his hungry lips once again.
You suck on his moans and swallow down the grunting noises he offers you; kissing Bucky always makes your body come alive, your head spinning with the lack of oxygen and your lower body melting with the heated need that overtakes everything.
He kisses you with his right hand fisting your hair at the nape, his left hand gripping your waist, your ass, pulling you closer and further at the same time—Bucky wants you closer, but the more you sit and sigh in his arms, the more you rub yourself against his cock, which is rapidly answering to your hips and filling up inside his sweater-shorts.
When his left hand grips your waist tight enough to leave bruises and pull a whine out of your mouth, you both go still at the same time.
You take a deep breath together, inhaling the same air, right against each other’s mouths.
Bucky smiles, and you try your damn best to not move. His iron-grip on your waist is what’s guiding you now, and you did say to yourself you had better self-control than this. “Fuck, baby,” Bucky’s voice is wrecked.
It twists the knife on your stomach—the one made of butter, cutting through you like you’re made of honey.
He might be wearing boxers. Whether he is or not, you can feel the outline of his dick nestled between the lips of your pussy, even through the layers of your panties and your sleeping shorts.
You hum, and press a tentative, innocent kiss on his lips. “Sorry.” When he smiles, his grip on your waist loosens, but you remain still. “I thought you had come here to read for me… or something,” you joke.
It works—Bucky’s laughter is suppressed on your sternum, and you try not to think about how close his lips are to your nipples. He’s trying to keep it quiet; the laughter can be carried through the wind and end up waking someone up in a fright inside the house.
Fuck. You’d wake up everybody and kick them all out if it meant he just went back to kissing you right now.
“I was reading Ham on Rye before you came,” he whispers to you.
For a moment, your mind finds a safe boat. “Ah! Your first read or re-read?”
Bucky kisses your exposed shoulder, and the imaginary safe boat floats away like a popped balloon. “Re-read, but—the first time I read it I was pretty young, so it’s kinda like a first read?”
He hums thoughtfully, and you know he isn’t done yet.
Another kiss is placed, higher up on your shoulder this time, and you wonder if you’re safe to relax the bottom half of your body without going back to circling his hips like a bitch in heat. Maybe, maybe not. It depends on how much he behaves, too.
“I like it,” Bucky adds, kissing the column of your throat. So much for behaving. “But that’s not much of a surprise. I like the dirty old man.”
The silly nickname and jab at one of the author’s titles make you giggle. “He really was one, wasn’t he?”
Bucky laughs, but it’s with his stubble scratching your throat. Your own laughter dies in a little whine. “Guess we share a trait, then.”
“You’re not a…” your words trail off, ending in a soft gasp. Bucky sucks on your earlobe, and his hips buck up a fraction, and you never had a chance; not when he feels so desperate underneath you. “Dirty old man,” you whisper.
There’s a low hum as Bucky kisses more of your throat. “Dunno if I always was one, or if you just—you got this power to awaken somethin’ in me.” Bucky takes both of his hands from your body and places them on your cheeks, turning your focus entirely on him. “I used to be a real smooth fucker before, you know?” He whispers, stealing every ounce of your attention.
It’s unnecessary detailing before ‘what’; whenever Bucky mentions ‘before’, he’s referring to the army and, more specifically, his injury. Your body is frozen on top of his, listening attentively and feeling his fingers caressing your cheeks.
“I was always a decent-looking fella,” he says in mock-humbleness, and you roll your eyes at him. He chuckles, but continues in a more somber tone. “But after things like that, it’s. Fuck. You lose touch with yourself and—things that felt normal before. They’re harder. New, all over again.” Bucky leans up and kisses you, and you melt around him in an embrace. “I’m sorry I got so overwhelmed that morning… I never. Before you—the women I’d been with; they hadn’t noticed the thing I do. I don’t think I had either? It had—it’d been a while since I looked at someone I was being intimate with. And… I think knowing you really think all the things you say about me helped me… see myself. A new light, a bit better, all that yadda.”
The way he finishes does little to mask how real and open all the other things he’s said were.
Bucky’s fiddling with your necklace by the end of his speech, and you’re trying your best to finish picking up the pieces of a heart that broke for him because this… it needs to fall again.
How could people just skim past someone else’s obvious body language that way?
Well—thinking back on how all of this started, it had all come from the fact that most men before Bucky had never paid attention to yours, to begin with.
Not until this ‘dirty old man’ came and showed you what could truly be.
You close the distance between your lips in a soft kiss. “I’m glad I can make you feel that way, Buck,” you whisper. “I know we joke about your old age and whatnot, but honestly—you’re one of the most handsome men I’ve met. You’ve got years of being a menace to my heart and health ahead of you yet.”
Missing his 40th birthday had been the only truly sad day of this vacation for you. You knew from Steve Bucky had an amazing time with his younger sisters — Becca hadn’t gone because of an important work thing, it turns out — and you were happy for them.
But you also knew Bucky and how much the date must’ve made a mess in his thoughts about a lot of things.
“You see me being a menace to your heart and health for a long time?” He asks.
He makes himself comfortable against the tree, adjusting the pillow on his lower back and pulling you close with him. “Sure. Do you?”
Bucky smiles up at you. “For as long as you’ll have me.”
It goes to your head. Of course it does—Bucky’s offering himself to you on a silver platter, and saying it’s yours to have and hold.
“One more kiss, please?” You ask nicely.
Bucky chuckles at you, pulling you by the nape. “Have as many as you want,” he whispers before closing his lips on yours on short, sweet pecs. “Just… control these damn Succubus hips of yours, please?” He pleads, sucking on your bottom lip. “It’s hard already having you sitting on me—if you—ah, don’t do that, Y/n—if you give me blue balls in here I swear I’ll make you cum at the cinema theater as a punishment or somethin’. I know I probably deserve them, but you smell so good, doll, it’s torture already, c’mon.”
The problem with Bucky’s soft pleading is that it turns you on even more.
You have to physically stop your hips from circling his again, and he kisses you so sweetly that for a moment, you think of nodding along, saying ‘yeah, Bucky, sure, baby’.
That plan goes downhill when his hands go down on you.
For someone trying to keep himself away from blue balls, Bucky is sure not doing his best at keeping his own excitement at bay.
When the sweet, languid kisses start heating up once more, it’s him who starts pressing your waist down and guiding it with his big hands to rock back and forth against him. Bucky’s hands are big, they hold firmly on your pelvis and when you see, he’s moaning in your mouth because of the movements he’s inflicting on himself.
But god, does it feel good.
He kisses you like he starved for it for a month, and he did.
When you think about the last time you had Bucky inside of you, so long ago, your resolve cracks, and you’re whining on his mouth.
That, he notices, and it snaps Bucky out of his drunken lust. He pulls back with a gasp, and if he was half-hard before, there’s no doubt he finished getting himself worked up now.
You know intimately and closely the weight and the girth of that fully hard cock, and you whine again, rocking your hips against it. Bucky’s hips buck up to meet yours, and he groans against your neck. “Okay that might’ve been on me this time,” he gasps, licking and kissing on your neck. “Doll,” he rasps out, and woah, he even sounds drunk. “You’re gonna have to be stronger than me. I can’t get my hands off you right now,” he moans, leaving his trail of kisses on your beard-burned throat.
“Don’t wanna.”
Unlike you, he finds amusement in this frustration, because he chuckles. “Y/n, we’re both just gonna get more worked up and even more frustrated, baby.” He takes a deep breath and tries inching his waist back a little. “I didn’t bring anything with me,” he whispers to you, smiling through what are supposed to be comforting kisses. “Plus—I got a date to take you in first, don’t I?”
The logic is sound.
“Fine.” You pout. “You didn’t bring anything—no rubbing on each other. Just—kiss me?”
Buck obliges, kissing you with fervor.
If the plan and the reasoning were good, you two only missed one factor in this equation—the kissing, which you are both very good at, is effective with or without you two letting the lust and the heat take over your heads.
You and Bucky kiss to taste the missing days on each other’s tongue, to find in his soft sighs the words you missed from poems he read away from you, to nibble on the lonely days at his house and the moments you could’ve had together at his birthday.
Under minutes, your foreheads are glistening with sweat and your hands have found home under each other’s sleeping shirts.
Bucky’s burning under you, and he’s so hot and ready that his body starts doing something that breaks every last bit of resolve and rationalization you had stored in your brain.
For a second, you’re embarrassed to feel how wet your panties are. It’s ludicrous to be ashamed of it—Bucky loves how wet you get, but under the given circumstances you think it’s wise to have him at least lying on top of you instead of under before you start rutting against his clothed dick like one does to the corner of a couch.
It’s with a slip of the hand that you notice you’re not alone.
Adjusting yourself, you move back a little and start saying, “D’you wanna get on…” but when your hand misses his thigh — a genuine mistake in the dark — and finds his crotch instead, your words die on your tongue.
Bucky’s wet too. “Oh, fuck,” you mutter, pressing your hand harder on the patch now. “Bucky.”
“Y/n,” he groans.
He’s dripping pre-come in his boxers, and the wet spot on his shorts says as much as your panties do at this moment.
You don’t care whether he’s brought a condom or not anymore. “Bucky… d’you… have you been with anyone?” You ask him in a shaky whisper. Under you, Bucky stops groaning. And moving. “I swear I ain’t asking to be a dick—I’m asking, well—I’m asking ‘cause I trust you enough to know you’re one of the good guys and you don’t lie about this shit like some do just for pussy. And right now—I need to know. Not if you’ve been with others—that’s not—I care if you’re clean, ‘cause I am, and I’m on the pill, and if you tell me you are too, just this once we could…”
Bucky grips you by the jaw, stopping your rambles, making you look at him. “You really think I could touch anyone else when I’ve had you?” He asks, seriously.
You close your eyes, sighing in relief over a worry you had no right to have. “Buck…”
He kisses you eagerly, and you correspond in the same way, almost forgetting all about your question until he answers you. “I haven’t, no,” he says calmly—too calmly for a man undoing your insides like you’re a wool sweater and he’s unmaking you by the thread. “And I’m clean.” He pulls you closer again, since you had slid lower on his lap. “Are you sure, though?”
You nod, eagerly. “So, so sure.”
His groan is guttural. The grip on your waist and neck are primal, too—Bucky’s having a hard time hiding from you just how much you and your body are affecting him, or perhaps he doesn’t want to.
He never hid from you, but it’s with him writhing and moaning against your skin, unabashed and so soft at the same time, that you notice—he never hid, but he downplayed.
The Bucky who’d laid with you for months had been a giver, and a taker, and a very good partner.
This Bucky is everything.
He’s shameless—the way he looks up at you from under his eyelashes, so little of his eyes left blue and his cheeks pinker than the sky at twilight, it screams give it to me.
How could you not? If he’s shameless, then so are you.
Bucky’s wide open in his desire, rotating his hips to meet yours as he kisses you with the hunger to end a feast. When the heat starts becoming too much inside of you, the need to externalize it before you explode is what makes you take off his t-shirt, then yours, leaving his torso naked for the mosquitos (and you) to have a go at it, and your upper body in nothing but the black bralette your put on for bed.
It’s his little whines of your name that while he takes himself from his boxers that make you want to scream—you’re thankful for the loose booty shorts when you notice how practical it is for him to slip your panties to the side and move the head against your wet and waiting core.
Muffling the sounds that leave your mouths can only be done if you’re kissing at that point.
Bucky slides inside of you with ease, burying all of him to the hilt in only a few thrusts.
His metal hand holds your panties away, and his right hand grips the other side of your waist, and when he moves, the filthy sounds of your bodies connecting and your breathy moans start becoming a symphony.
It would be a lie to say it felt the same as other times.
It’s not. “Bucky,” you grind down on his lap, feeling full to the brim with him seated inside of you. “Oh god. Missed feeling you. Missed being so full.”
Bucky’s face feels stapled to your neck—the deep, almost wounded sounds he’s letting out would definitely be more than enough to wake everyone up, but they’re buried with the stubble burns on the side of your neck. “You missed it, baby?” He asks, biting on your skin. He’s picked that from you—Bucky was never a biter. “I missed ya too. Fuck—your pussy’s so good—oh god, so tight, Y/n, like it was made for me , huh?”
If you were a stronger person, you’d swallow the scream that climbs up your throat, but Bucky’s words, his strong arms, and the way he moves his hips like they’re made for sinning—it’s too much.
Feels too good. Drives your mind up the walls on every corner; it reminds you that he’s in you, and how there’s nothing between him and you—and oh fuck, fuck. “Bucky. Buck—are you gonna cum in me?” Your hands fly to get a grip on his hair before your back gives up and you fall backward, nothing but a puddle of pleasure in his hands.
His hips falter and become still inside of you, making you whine loud. “Y/n.” On one hand, it’s only your name—on the other, his dick twitches inside of you, pulling a broken moan out of your lips. Bucky moves back, just enough to get a look on your face, and he looks just as drunk and fucked out as you imagine you are. “Look at you.” Bucky’s right hand goes up to your face, getting the hair that’s plastered on your face away from it, then leaves kisses all over it. You’d try moving your hip, but the iron-grip of his metal hand makes it impossible. “You tryna kill me, doll? Hm?” With that question, Bucky starts to piston his hips up in slow, deliberate moves. “You tryna gimme a heart attack?”
The movements are slow, but you feel when he secures his feet against the ground and then, the next thrust is sharper. Thankfully, Bucky puts his mouth on yours before you scream one more time.
“You tryna wake everybody up so they know who’s making you feel so good, huh, pretty baby?” Bucky’s words are slurred out together, and he highlights some words by just pushing in harder, then pulling out slowly. “You call me pretty then… then get cock drunk on top of me like this—fuck, it ain’t fair.”
The second his hand goes from your waist to your neck, your hips gain free range to circle him and meet his thrusts; Bucky’s pace hits all the right places inside of you and the patience he has to make sure he’s angled just right every time is exactly why you know he’s right.
Bucky’s fucked you speechless before, he’s fucked you into a blubbering mess, he’s fucked you until all you could say was his name, but today, you’re taking him with you.
Gripping your pussy tighter around his cock in his next thrust, you feel his broken moan against your lips. “I am,” you breathe out, laughing breathlessly and mouthing on his jawline. “You feel how good you make me feel, Buck?” your voice is small, drunk, just as slurred as he is, but he hears it. Leading your lips to the shell of his ear, you grip him tighter on purpose again, going down a little faster. “You look so pretty under me—fuck, right there—so, so pretty, Sergeant. I wanna feel it. Can I?”
If he planned on pulling out before your whiny pleading, the resolve gets lost when you hold his face between your hands and kisses him filthily, just to match the sounds of your hips meeting each other.
“I’m—you sure? Fuck, are you sure?” Bucky moans brokenly.
All your agreement is muffled in the next kisses, but Bucky reads and understands the permission.
When he gets both arms around the middle of your waist again, you know what’s coming—the strain of his muscles every time he takes your full weight to himself and starts thrusting up faster and harder gets you without fail, burning you up even hotter.
You hold on to his biceps, feeling him kiss on your cheeks and your damn forehead like he does in front of everybody—and that’s what it does you in.
He kisses your forehead while fucking straight into your g spot, his grunts and moans all absorbed by your skin and trailing to the lake behind you two, and you’re done, you’re pulsating and cumming all around his cock, his name falling from your lips in a desperate prayer or a plea—you can’t know, you don’t care.
Bucky feels your pussy squeezing him and the only warning you get is the way he buries his face between your boobs and lets out a grunt before you feel him shooting inside of you.
Neither of you moves or says another word for what it feels like the longest minutes ever—this is going to become a problem.
You don’t want him to pull out—hell, you never want him somewhere that’s not inside of you, filling you up, ever again.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Bucky whines underneath you.
Oh. You said that out loud. “I’m… never.” You laugh brightly. “Sorry.”
“Do not apologize,” he laughs back.
“It just… it feels good.”
Bucky groans, and when he tries to pull out just a little, your whine stops him. He takes a deep breath and rests his head back against the tree trunk, and you get to appreciate his sweaty, fucked-out look.
The smile is your favorite part. “I don’t see how this is a problem,” he whispers to you, moving his hips a little again for another reaction—you both hiss at the sensitivity, but you hum pleased right after. “Nope. Nevermind. This is a problem—you know, I had a dream on New Year’s day when you slept over that I woke up and I was already inside of you for some reason?” Bucky’s voice is still deep and raspy, and you missed how he sounds after all those grunts and growls. “That’s why I went on a run.”
“That’s a nice idea,” you whisper.
“Are you trying to kill me?” He begs again, louder this time.
Laughing, you realize that Bucky is only starting to get an idea of how much you truly want to “kill him”.
This should be fun.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ◦➳◦
“That sounds cutthroat.”
The comment is offered so honestly that you can’t help but tease a little. “Yeah.” You sip on your Coke, then add in a tone as serious as you can muster. “Few places in this world are as cutthroat as a Ballet school.”
Bucky stops with the straw halfway to his mouth and, sensing how much of an absolute little shit you’re being, only shakes his head, amusement written all over his face. “I can imagine.”
You smile behind your cup, biting on your lip. It’s a little hard to concentrate on staying on topic when he looks so good. “Anyway. I think it’s good for them to get a little competition going on.” Natasha and Yelena were always good at bringing the best out on each other. “I can’t wait for the casting paper picture. They send me a pic of the paper the professors pin on the board with all the names of who’s dancing and as what—very pretty handwriting, dramatic old school style.”
Bucky smiles at that. “My bet’s on Yelena.”
“What!? Why?” You lean in, curious.
“Nat’s more experienced, but from what you’ve told me, she’s also… distracted,” he wiggles his eyebrows.
Oh. He had a point.
Wanda. “You really think so?”
“Sure. She’s got other priorities right now,” Bucky nods.
“Hmm, that is true.” You’re munching on your straw at the answer, thinking about the goodbyes at the airport, when the food arrives.
Given it was the last week of summer, everyone had (reluctantly) left Steve’s small piece of heaven and headed back to where they came from.
Your girls, after their extended vacation, flew back to Russia with the biggest smile on their faces and a little bit of a tan to boot.
When you were saying goodbye, Natasha had whispered. “I like him, lyubov. He’s still… pending. But I like him.”
Behind her, Yelena rolled her eyes and made a small heart with her fingers—she knew her sister, probably knew exactly what she was saying, but getting the stamp of approval from both your girls meant the world.
In front of you, Bucky thanks the waitress — a girl named Monica, who he introduced you to as soon as you arrived at Nakajima — and gives you a raise of his eyebrows at how delicious the food looks.
You prefer spending time observing how appetizing he looks.
The black trousers, brand new black shirt and plaid overcoat made his long hair and clean stubble give him almost a model look. That, or perhaps you were biased with how handsome he was.
Riding with him on his bike was maybe one of your favorite things now.
“How’s the pretty rescue?” You ask, digging in the food.
“Pretty rescue,” he chuckles under his breath. “I should’ve never shown you pics of him, ‘till last week I was ‘pretty boy’ and now all I hear from ya is ‘where’s my pretty boy, let me see that ball of fur, Bucky’ and no love for me.”
Most people would think Bucky’s doing all that theater just to get the laughter out of you — which he does, always — but you know him better; Bucky loves hiding his true adorable persona behind sarcastic jokes that have a little bit of truth.
That’s why you squeeze him by his cute chin, call him pretty when he wakes up, and wolf-whistle when he passes by in all his shirtless glory.
The comfort and ease that he carries himself around you now could never go unnoticed by you.
(You, and others.
Is that Bucky SHIRTLESS behind you? Damn, Y/n, that’s Buck language for serious businessssssss 😛 Steve had texted.)
Chuckling, you grab him by the chin. “Sorry, baby,” you press a kiss on his pink, sake lips. “He’s just too fucking cute. I’ll call him—hm. That long silky fur reminds me of those prince lap kittens who always look super mean, but Alpine isn’t mean, he’s just prince.”
“Alright, I’ll take it.” Bucky gives a small little bite on your chin, and you smile to yourself. Definitely picking up on your habits. He goes back to his food with a smile and answers, “He’s fine. I thought he’d have left ‘till I was back, but Luke said he gave no trouble and always ate the food he left for him. He even sent me a couple of pictures of them playing a couple of times when he came by and Alpine was sleeping on the couch or just around. Did I show you?” You nod, listening with a smile. “Right. He’s just been getting all my clothes properly branded now—everything has his fur, Y/n, I swear to god.”
Bucky feeds you the broccoli he isn’t going to eat. “That’s gonna be the default now,” you tell him.
“I know.” Bucky sighs. “I told myself ‘he’s not gonna sleep on the bed, you bought him a bed, Bucky’ but—he is. Yeah.” You laugh in sympathy, nodding along to Bucky’s conformism. “You’ll see when you go.” He shakes his head. “He annoyed me all day, every day, for a week when summer started and when I gave him shelter during that first storm I said—just tonight. He’s cryin’ outside, you’re not heartless, Bucky.” He turns to you and pauses dramatically. “He was eatin’ from my plate yesterday, Y/n. I have lost control of my own home.”
That does it in—you burst out laughing, your upper body falling forward, leaning against him.
“Stop laughing at me! This is serious!” He says, laughing too.
Not laughing with him is almost an impossible task.
That’s why you’re not scared, says a voice in your head. Whenever the things you feel for Bucky grow and bloom inside of you, growing branches to new places and solidifying how much he means to you and in your life, the breeze of fear is nothing but a passenger cold in your stomach.
It goes away quickly. Bucky warms you up with laughter every time he speaks to you.
That’s how you know he’ll be in your life for as long as he wants to—even when things were bad, or difficult, Bucky managed to make you smile through the sadness or the hurt.
He makes you happy.
“Does it taste good?” Bucky confirms at one point, when conversation dulled in favor of you both devouring the delicious dinner Yori prepared just for you two.
You nod with a mouth full, chipmunk cheeks ending up poked by one of Bucky’s metal fingers.
“Cutie,” he chuckles, pressing a tasty kiss on your cheek.
Dinner is almost as good as the date itself.
After picking you up on his special bike — a black, sleek and traditional Harley — and taking you for a ride around town, Bucky took you to a spoken poetry event he’d gotten the tickets for before you two had even “broken up”.
He held your hand the entire evening, asking or whispering things to you about the books surrounding you and the people he saw.
People-watching with Bucky was much more fun than with most people; his observational skills were incredible and after the spoken-poetry session ended, you two roamed the fair in which it had happened and left there with two bags of books, your mouths sweetened of cotton candy, cheeks pink and aching from smiling so hard.
Then, he asked you, “Ready to eat?” And you knew where you two were going.
This time, Bucky had introduced you to Yori.
The Japanese man owned the restaurant, and it took you two minutes laughing at their sharp banter to see how much Yori meant to him.
Yori had told you about what inspired him to do a place where Asian cuisine is so mixed, and he’d given you a tour of both floors while talking animatedly about how much he loves regulars who dress so nicely as you.
He also ignored Bucky’s attempt to be part of the conversation, because, according to him, “Don’t mind him, Y/n, he wants my attention ‘cause he’s used to it. Lemme talk to the girl, James. Go get us some more sake.”
It was nice to see someone else with the upper hand around Bucky who wasn’t Steve.
You two finish a whole bottle of sake before dinner is over — mostly you, considering he’s driving — and by the time your stomachs are full and conversation has finished making a hundred different stops, your bodies are leaning against the glass window behind you, your hands intertwined under the table.
Bucky smiles when he feels you leaning your cheek on his hand. He pinches it softly, then kisses it. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and drink some water.” He kisses your eyelids, which are feeling heavier already. “I’ll get the bill before I come back. I’ll bring you a bottle, kay?”
That’s Bucky language for ’you’re tipsy and I’m gonna hydrate you’, and you appreciate it. Silently tilting your chin up, Bucky gives you the kiss your gesture asks for. “Meet me outside? I’m gonna smoke.”
He snickers, giving you a cheeky smile. “Tsk tsk, bad habit, miss.”
“I’ll quit it when you do.”
“I know. I’ll make us quit, you see,” he laughs.
It’s something you two have been teasing each other about, ever since Bucky heard you yelling at Natasha over the phone to wait until you’ve found your lighter, and she replied with “agh! that nasty fucking habit” and received a “which I got from WHO?” that silenced her really quick.
He claimed he was gonna help you get rid of this nasty habit before you were a hypocrite in a white coat and he had no lungs to eat you out for hours or have you sit on his face.
“Loving the priorities, Buck.”
Clutching your jacket closer around your body, you laugh at the memory.
If Bucky and Natasha’s competitive streak ends in you becoming healthier, then so be it.
“Ah! You’re here.” Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice and finds Yori getting down the steps from the side door, joining you in the alley outside. “I have Monica stalling James at the cashier with a pep talk of her little girl, that should buy me some time,” he says, making you laugh.
“Are you here to gimme more dirty secrets on him? ‘Cause I’m all ears,” you joke, angling your body so it faces the wind direction and none of the smoke hits Yori’s face.
He notices it, and eyes your cigarette with the same distaste your mother does. “I’m not, actually.”
The seriousness in his tone makes you hesitate a little, sobering up, too. “Is something wrong?”
Yori waves his hands in front of him in a dismissive way. “No, no. Nothing’s wrong.” He points at the smoke on your hand. “Except for that. I heard James saying you two are going to quit.” Yori pins you with a look. “Next time you two come over, I better not see smoke breaks,” he waits for you to nod in agreement before continuing. “Good. I’ve been trying to get him to quit for years, but if it takes a pretty girl and being in love for him to do it, at least it gets done.”
“We’ll quit it, Mr. Nakajima.”
He looks away with a shake of his head. “Ah! I told you before—Yori.” To your surprise, Yori puts out his hand in a request for the cigarette and you hand it to him, trying to contain your smile. “It’s a nasty habit.” He takes a slow drag and says through the exhaled smoke. “Feels good, though.”
“That it does,” you chuckle.
Yori looks at you calculative, taking another drag. “I came to thank you,” he passes it back to you.
“For what?”
“You know what.” Yori points to the inside of the restaurant, where if you follow his finger, Bucky can be found smiling at a picture that’s being shown to him on the girl you recognize as Monica’s phone. “He hasn’t smiled like that in years.” When you look back at Yori, the man has a smile on his face you haven’t seen before. “My son used to make him smile like that all the time, so I think there’s definitely a type there to where his taste lies, but—” he looks away from Bucky to you, his smile growing. “Kim could never get through his thick skull. You do. And he’s finally opening up to being happy again…” Yori’s hands join together and, like a flower, open in a blooming gesture. “Under your light.”
The words get caught on your throat, and you put out the cigarette even though it was only half-finished.
“Kim was your kid?” You ask, feeling suddenly very hot under the streetlight. My son used to make him smile like that all the time.
The picture in Steve’s corridor flashes behind your eyes; the bright smile of a younger Bucky, unmistakably happy and delighted.
Fuck. My sweet Bucky.
“Yeah,” Yori confirms. “I adopted him when he was just a kid.” His smile has sad and sharp edges. “I had a kid before him, but he… life can be tragic, sometimes.” Yori catches your hand between his, and his smile eases. “But not always.” Shaking your head and stealing a glance to the inside, he whispers. “You two make the loveliest couple. I can see in his face how much he cares about you. Which is hard. Men like James can hide a lot from their face, but he can’t hide it with you—oh, no,” he shakes his head, chuckling amused. “I’m happy.”
So were you. “So am I, Yori.” You squeeze his hand back. “I’m happy too.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ◦➳◦
Being Bucky’s girlfriend is, just as you expected, even better than being his friend.
He’s a great partner, he discovers. You knew that already—he had taken care of you in more ways than one when first approaching you.
The soft-spoken compliments might not have been there, or the subtle touches he seems to love so much when he’s in public with you now, but the laser-focus attention and the sweet way of caring have always been.
Being Bucky’s means grease stains on your cheeks too because he’s incapable of seeing you at his shop and not kissing you. It means late-night dinner at Nakajima’s, the place with the best food in this area of Brooklyn.
There’s also the mindblowing sex, but that was your entry card.
With the days passing, you discover more of him can blow your mind.
His ability to compromise is incredible.
Bucky’s patient with your schedule—when summer ends and the rush of school starts once again, your first fear is that your studying and how busy you are will mess up the good flow you two have going on.
What happens is: Bucky brings back the habit of texting between you two and when he catches you biting your lip raw in worry, he hugs you for a long time and kisses your worries away with a simple “I met a busy woman, I asked a busy woman to be mine—I’ll deal with the consequences, kay?”. Just like that.
His openness about his past takes a little of your breath away.
Through text messages or in person, Bucky starts offering to you cuts and pieces of life before you met him.
You learn more about his family — he and the girls are getting much closer and Bucky mentions a couple of times about the possibility of you meeting them — and in return, he listens to your tragic tales about yours, told through sarcastic jokes and glasses of brandy.
He never shies away from your touch or hides in the shadows anymore. Yori’s analogy of a flower gets imprinted on your head and, in only a few days, that’s all you can see in his selfies or cute little snaps.
Bucky looks amazing. Happy, and less broody.
He looks seen.
And from how he talks, he feels that way too. “Hey—can I pick you up at your University?” He asks on a Friday over the phone.
“Hello to you too, Sarge.”
“Hi, pretty.” He chuckles. “Can I pick you up? Morita just sent me a page about somethin’ on the other side of town you’re gonna like and I wanna take you. I even changed clothes—I won’t look like a hobo coming to kidnap you, I promise.”
The joke makes you laugh, but it also raises the need to do something in your brain.
As soon as Bucky arrives at the parking lot of your university and parks his bike, you throw Sarah a cheeky wink and go to walk in his direction.
Bucky hugs you close and kisses you hello, and then you put your plan to action. “Sergeant.”
“Hm?” He asks, taking your backpack from you.
You circle your arms around his neck, bringing his attention fully to you. Sweet like honey and low enough for only his ear, you ask. “You see all these people… looking at you over my back. Drooling a little. Eyeing you up and down?” Bucky’s eyes go over your shoulder, looking around in the parking lot, and you get to witness his eyes widening a little, his cheeks tainting. “Yup. All of ‘em.” You kiss his jawline. “They’d all love for you to show up here dirty with grease and make their wildest dreams come true just by… getting a look at you.” You cup his surprised face in your hands. “You forget sometimes, don’t ya?” With a kiss to his smiling lips, you add. “Pretty boy.” Another kiss, and Bucky’s smiling too. “They all wish they were me right now, Sarge.”
That makes him laugh loudly, and the way he eyes you up and down, eating you with a glance; your skin burns hotter from it. “Oh, baby. They wish,” he states boldly, kissing you again.
Bucky’s spontaneous rides around town are the best surprise of them all, though.
He takes you to see a poetry reading, a book opening for a poet you’ve never heard of before and in return, you take him to the car exposition you always went to when you were younger with your dad, but stopped frequenting once he left.
You take Bucky to Flora and Rosa’s back-to-school play because if there’s one person who deserves to see your special little bundles of joy dressed as aliens, it’s him.
Bucky officially asked you to be ‘his girl’ on the night of your first date, and only a month after that, you noticed that you were his girl since he first leaned down on Bullet’s window and asked about your car’s name.
His eyes hooked you in, and his voice sank you down below, but it was his personality that froze the lake and kept you under until now.
Bucky stops reading to you when he notices you aren’t paying attention.
“Have I lost you?” He asks with a smile.
He’s lying on your bed with What We Buried in his hands, reading the poems out loud to you, he has your legs thrown over his lap and your back nestled against the headboard of the bed.
The thermal bag over your stomach eases the cramps you’re feeling, but Bucky’s the real medicine here. “A little bit, but in a good way,” you answer.
Your voice’s groggy from the pain meds, and Bucky leans down to kiss your exposed thigh, and you feel his warm breath on your sensitive skin. “Do I keep reading?” He asks.
“Yes, please.”
“Just don’t fall asleep like that, baby. You’ll crane your neck.”
“I won’t.”
“Yori said he’ll bring dinner for us later ‘cause none of us are gonna cook tonight, okay?”
“He just wants an excuse to see Alpine,” you giggle.
“Alpine and you.” Bucky huffs, and opens the book again. “I said he could ‘cause I can’t say no to his food, but don’t abandon me when he gets here. You two always lose me on your Chinese literature rants.” He throws you what’s supposed to be a menacing look. “No man left behind, doll.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” you smile.
“Good girl.” He kisses your leg again, and clears his throat. “Now—where was I?”
“Bucky?”
He looks away from the book with a patient smile. “Hm?”
“I love you, pretty.”
He smiles with the same happiness from the first time he heard it, and leans in his whole upper body to place the next kiss on your waiting lips. “I love you more, baby.” He pulls back smiling. “Now hush. I’m reading the pain away from my girl—where was I?”
“In This Story, you have claws…”
He nods happily. “In this story, you have claws. In this story, happily ever after has bite marks in it. In this story, you are free and terrifying. In this story, you get away. In this story, you bleed. In this story, you survive.”
We do, you think.
In this story, you bleed, and the love leaves bite marks, and even though you’re terrifying, both of you are free—he, a survivor, you, a fighter.
You two get away, and most importantly, get together.
In this story, Bucky smiles at you under the sun and the Moonlight, and he’s just as perfect as he was when you met him, perhaps only a bit brighter.
Bloomed. Like you.
Like your love.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— THE END —
masterlist / toss a dolla to your writer <3
💙Help! My Husband Wants to Kiss Me!
By:lanjenna
https://archiveofourown.org/works/79696271?view_full_work=true
Summary:
A butterfly chase leads six-year-old Wei Ying to claim a golden-eyed boy as his best friend — never realizing he'd stolen the little heart for good.
One ruthlessly engineered marriage alliance later, a hopelessly naive Wei Wuxian finds himself in red robes and a shared Jingshi bed with a husband who wants more than friendship.
"Boys don't kiss, Lan Zhan."
"We are husbands, Wei Ying."
Lan Wangji, long-suffering horny husband of Gusu, vs. Wei Wuxian, oblivious menace of Yunmeng.
Chapter:20/20
Words:56,322
Status:completed
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 13/13 Fandom: Kurios - Cirque du Soleil, Cirque du Soleil - Fandom Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Klara (Kurios), Nico (Kurios), Mister Microcosmos (Kurios), Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: no first draft we jump in like giuseppe, love letter to canon Summary: Below cut
It’s done! It’s done! I can’t believe it’s finally done!
This fanfiction has been a labour of love for the last nineteenth months, and it’s finally finished!
I’m actually emotional, it’s going to feel weird not having this to work on anymore!
Well, I really hope someone enjoys this. It’s the biggest love letter to Cirque du Soleil’s show Kurios I could possibly write, although I could never hope to capture the magic of wonder of the show itself.
This story is less of a story and more of an exploration into the world of Curiosistan from Cirque Du Soleil's show Kurios. There will be plot, but not much as the main focus will be fleshing out this world and the character's within. Nice and easy escapism!
Reality is Relative is based on the filmed recording of the show from 2017 with zero references to anything that has been changed in the years since.
Rose Tinted FINALE
Shadow's new life begins, and some goodbyes are said...for now. But love can reach over the rainbow.
Bucket List (AO3) Updated and Completed!!!
Fandom: The Pitt
Ship: Jack Abbot x OFC
Length: 110k words, 20 chapters, completed
When brilliant surgeon Dr. Sofia Beckett and ED attending Dr. Jack Abbot clash over a fatal patient case, their collision forces them both to confront the grief they've buried. Sofia never lets anyone see her break. Jack knows how to survive, but surviving isn't living. When they discover that the person who sees through your defenses might be the only person who can save you, they face an impossible choice: keep running from loss, or finally stop fighting it alone.
One Bucket List Item at a time.
