a little rust


A Bucky Barnes Drabble

Word Count: 351

Warnings: NSFW, 18+. Oral (female receiving) and Fluff

Request: Anon: Can I request a drabble with you and Bucky getting mischievous in the rain? I would love you forever!

A/N: Thank you for requesting this nonnie! I enjoyed writing this one! Hope it was what you were looking for!

You tipped your face up to the sky as the first rain drops started to fall. Within minutes, a cool spring rain was upon you.

Turning to Bucky, you smiled at him. Letting go of his hand, you raised your arms up and did a twirl. You watched as people scattered back to their cars, leaving just you and Bucky alone on the walking trail in the park.

Your maxi skirt and baby doll t-shirt were molding to your body like a second skin, but that didn’t stop you from stomping in a puddle that was forming.

Bucky shook his head and chuckled at you. He reached up and pushed his wet hair out of his face, “Doll face, you are lucky that I think you’re cute.”

You made a kissy face at him, “Aw, is my super soldier afraid of his arm getting a little rust?”

He laughed and lunged for you. You squeaked when his arms wrapped around your waist and lifted you against him. He walked off the trail and leaned you against a tree. His smile was devious as his metal hand bunched your skirt in his fist, dragging the wet material up your legs. He tipped your chin up with his flesh hand and kissed you softly. You moaned against his lips when you felt the press of his metal fingers against the lace between your thighs.

He pulled away and wiped at the rain trickling down your face. “Place your hands behind you on the tree,” he said as he traced your lips with his fingers.

You did as he said, watching him kneel in front of you. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth at the sight. His metal hand kept your skirt bunched up around your hips as his other hand spread your thighs further apart. He took a quick look around before pulling your panties to the side and looked up at you.

“Now, let’s see if we can get you singin’ in the rain,” he said with a sexy smirk, seconds before his tongue buried in your folds.

And sing you did.

It’ll Get Easier

After a particularly nasty fight with Ronan, Adam finds himself standing alone in his tiny apartment.

His hands are shaking with the effort to not turn around and go back to the Barns, and he almost wants to laugh at how afraid he is of this new thing between them coming to an end. It’s unreasonable to think that way, really. Adam knows they both care about each other too much to let a fight be the reason they call it quits. Their friendship has always been filled with arguments, some stupid and some not; and despite that, Ronan had still chosen him. On the small bed of his childhood bedroom, with a kiss as confession, he’d chosen Adam.

Keep reading


“She’s beautiful,” Westley murmurs as he peers down at the pink bundle on Madeleine’s lap. “What’s her name?”

“Jane,” she beams. “Claudia Jane officially, but we intend to call her Jane.”

“She looks like you,” West smiles, glancing between Maddie and her newborn daughter. “Especially around the eyes.” Turning back towards Jane, he coos, “You’re a lucky baby, aren’t you? To be as pretty as your mama.”

Madeleine blushes, a look of sheepish pride on her face. “Would you like to hold her?” she asks him in a meek voice.

Westley nods, and with slow, meticulously careful movements he picks up the child and lays her against his chest. Jane fusses for a moment, but the effort proves too much for the drowsy infant and she quickly falls asleep.

“You’re a natural,” Madeleine observes. “She wasn’t nearly so happy with Kit.”

“I come from a big family,” he shrugs. “Always lots of babies to hold.”

“Well, I’m still impressed. You’d make a great dad someday.”

Westley glances back at her, and their eyes lock for what feels like the longest ten seconds of Maddie’s life. “Someday, maybe,” he whispers.

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(the stardew valley au for critical role that no one asked for, but i wrote anyways, bc i’m a sucker for found family / healing narratives, and because the idea of percy and cass learning to love each other and themselves, whilst working a farm and making friends with the locals, was too good to pass up. will i write more of this? who knows.)


Cassandra was the one driving when they finally arrived. In the passenger seat beside her, Percy was curled up, sleeping shallow and fitful – seatbelt off, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes rolling under the thin, bruised skin of his eyelids. The faint, green glow of the truck’s dials made the pale skin and sharp angles of his face look sickly, threw the purple of his newly-acquired scars into sharp, unpleasant relief.

Outside the truck, now the engine was off, it was eerily silent, and oppressively hot without the air conditioning running. Used to the steady traffic noises of the city, and the relative chill of Maine, mid-spring rural Alabama was alien in every possible way. She could remember vacationing here as a young child, but that was years ago, distant enough that she had only had hazy memories of a quaint farmhouse, overgrown fields, running through grass well above head-height in a muddied sundress as Julius called after her in alarm.

The farmhouse she’d parked behind looked significantly more dilapidated than the one from her memories. Parts of the roof were bowing in, and there were weeds growing through the cracks between the stones. The fields looked much the same, though the darkness and the unfamiliar sounds of nighttime animals added a layer of unknown menace to them.

Or perhaps, she thought, that was just her. She’d never been afraid of the dark as a child, after all, but now…

Keep reading


Carmen’s housewarming party proceeds in the most predictable fashion. They eat and talk and drink and laugh, but despite the jovial atmosphere Westley wants nothing more than to leave. He feels lost here, his mind- and his heart- trapped miles and miles away. Locked, it slowly dawns on him, with a new mother and her baby daughter in a hospital room across town.

“What’s wrong? Where are you going?” Eugenia pouts as Westley extricates himself from her grasp. All night she has clung to him like glue, but this time as she rises to follow him West shakes his head and pointedly motions for her to sit back down.

“I need to make a phone call,” he explains. “Alone.”

“Are you coming back?” she whimpers.

Westley hesitates, but glancing around the room full of strangers he smiles and says, “I sure as hell hope not.”

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Clap of Thunder, Usnavi de la Vega x Reader

Prompt:  Hi there ! I know it’s not really a prompt but could you do a usnavi x reader soulmate au ?

Word-count: 1,933 (Woo, boy I was cutting it close.)

Warnings: Like, maybe one curse word? I think? Also, angst. The dark blue, silkier kind. 

Note: Lol I’m not at a hundred, although I’m supposed to post this when I reach a hundred. I couldn’t wait. 

This stuff is angsty, I gotta warn you now. It has a happy ending, don’t worry, but don’t expect the regular sunny Usnavi (this functions a bit as a character study in that regard). Hope you enjoy the trash! 

P.S.: I referenced a fic on ao3 for the mantra, thought I would put it out there!

When it all came down to it, Usnavi was practical.

See, people would say differently; his own childish idealism when it came to the distant seas and golden, sun-drenched beaches of his homeland would contrast sharply with his own self-proclamations of pragmatism. But Usnavi rejects the notion that human beings were capable of being either one thing or the other, so he stands in the middle, comfortable if a little tense at times.

(He’d risked the thought that maybe they couldn’t take him all that seriously when he was recklessly awkward and sometimes too sunny, and also a little bit irritating at times. It would fit in with their assumption.) (And not to mention, he was all of those things. But it also happened that he was all of those things and more.)  

If anything, he would say that his pragmatism stemmed from the stiff, black-and-white nature of how he saw things. Quite literally. It was almost ironic, how he could compose soliloquies and sonnets about the beauty of the Dominican Republic (in that he was sure of, never mind the fact that he actually didn’t know what gold or sea foam or crystalline looked like) and the only things he could see on a day to day basis were the endless swatches of gray and coal and white.

He didn’t know which one of his parents bore the deficit, or maybe if it was perhaps both of them, because Abuela Claudia didn’t know, and all the keepsakes his parents had passed on was given to Abuela to filter.

And as much as he liked to believe in the power of things like love and honest goodness and (the reason for his own predicament) soulmates, when you are robbed by loss at such a young age, it’s hard not to keep a reminder around just in case you start selling yourself too hard to whimsical fantasies:

There is more to life than love. There is more to love than joy.

Usnavi kept that reminder close to his chest, and soon it was routine to mutter it to himself, as routine as wiping down the counters of his bodega, as routine as smiling at Vanessa and scolding Sonny as he was, once again, late.

There is more to life than love. There is more to love than joy.

Benny ran to him first when he started seeing color, and Usnavi couldn’t help it, he felt a stab of envy he couldn’t tap down quick enough.

“I see green, man.” Benny breathed, in awe. “And it’s more beautiful than I thought it was going to be.”

“Really?” He couldn’t keep the straight wonder out of his voice.

“It’s almost alive, man. It’s practically breathing.”

“That’s amazing, Benny.” he said, patting his friend on the back. The man barely noticed him, still looking at the overarching planes of grass that stretched before them in the form of Central Park. They were all still varying shades of gray to Usnavi, but undoubtedly they were lush, exuberant hills to Benny now. He took the mantra out of his chest and started again.

There is more to life than love. There is more to love than joy.

Soon enough, the reason for Benny being able to see color was evident in the reappearance of Nina a few weeks later, looking more stressed than anything else but also looking around with wide eyes. She was seeing blue for the first time. On that very same day, their eyes met on the Rosario family dispatch and the burst of color was powerful enough to have them bowl over.

Usnavi wasn’t sure about too many things, but he was sure that he loved Vanessa. Never mind that he’d looked into her eyes and sure enough, he wasn’t able to see color the next second, but at that point, he was used to (and almost content with) living in a monochromatic world, and if he couldn’t have color, he would have Vanessa.

(She ended up finding her soulmate in her next-door neighbor in her new building, a girl named Georgia who owned three cats and had “the nicest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen”, according to Vanessa. Usnavi handled the news, her pitying gaze, with a grain of salt, and the typical repetition:

There is more to life than love. There is more to love than joy.)

He was on his way home from the bodega when it happened.

He had dropped something, a bag of groceries, and he had sighed, looked at the mess and bent down to pick up all that had fallen. He had put away the last carton of milk and was stretching back up to his normal height, but a flash of something stopped him.

The fire hydrant.

Usnavi had to rub at his eyes. There was no way. No.

He waited for the blur in his vision to fade (he had rubbed quite hard) and fixed his gaze on the fire hydrant again. There was no questioning it.

The fire hydrant was no longer gray.

It was angry, and hot, and colored so vividly it stabbed at his eyes. Red, he realized.

How much time he spent staring at that fire hydrant, he didn’t know. It was only when the brilliant light of the sun began to fade that he looked up. God.

There was so much to see.

It was in the middle of October, and almost everything was rendered into differing, varying shades of red. Usnavi stood there for what felt like forever, taking it all in. He recalled what Benny said to him about green.

It’s almost alive, man. It’s practically breathing.”

Perhaps it could apply to others?

He finally started moving, his hands going to his face and feeling a slight jolt at the wetness he found on his cheeks. With a great sniff, he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and departed to his apartment. He had a hell of a lot to tell Sonny.

There was apparently a new girl in town. Usnavi would be more curious about her if she wasn’t moving into Vanessa’s old apartment. (It was still a relatively fresh wound, and even if the telltale sign that his soulmate was near was literally right before his eyes, he had loved Vanessa, and that mattered.)

Sonny had delivered the news to him as he walked in the bodega one morning, as late as he ever was. He had talked to her, because he was Sonny and that was what he did.

“Really pretty,” Sonny said, hopping onto the counter Usnavi just wiped. “Really friendly. Also, single.”

Usnavi rolled his eyes. “I’ll consider it then,” he said, not really meaning it.

The next day however, he was at the doorstep of the aforementioned new girl, holding a cup of coffee and a pastry, hoping to be some kind of welcome wagon. He pressed the buzzer multiple times but to no avail. Instead, he dropped off the to-go cup and the pastry (it was in a bag anyway,) on the doormat.

He looked at the cup again, thinking. Before he could second-guess himself, he picked it back up, fumbled for the Sharpie he always kept in his pocket, and scrawled on the cup:

Hi there!

Consider this a Welcome to the Neighborhood gift.

The bodega across the street

He walked back, waving to anyone who stopped and said hello. The bell above the door tinkled as he made his entrance.

Sonny’s head popped up from behind the counter.

“Any luck?”

Usnavi shook his head. Sonny bit down on his bottom lip, but did not press the issue.

He’s only been seeing red recently. Benny said that he was supposed to be seeing more by now. Usnavi paid it no mind. The old mantra was still being put to use, although it was starting to rust a little.

There is more to life than love. There is more to love than joy.

He heard you before he saw you.

“Yeah, hi, is this, um, ‘the bodega across the street’? Okay, wow that was dumb. It’s just that, um, someone left coffee and a donut on my doorstep and it said it was from the bodega across the street and I checked and this was the bodega across the street and anyway—“

“Yes, we are indeed the, uh, ‘bodega across the street’.” Sonny said, amused. “Excuse the mystery, my cousin wrote that on your cup.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “Can you tell your cousin ‘Thank you’? He didn’t have to do that, and it was honestly really nice that he did.”

Usnavi, all the while, was making another cup of coffee completely identical to the one he left on the doormat. He couldn’t understand what suddenly came over him, but he had heard you, and you sounded lovely, and all he knew was that he wanted to hear more. He was hastily pouring on foam when he heard Sonny say:

“Will that be all?”

“Yeah, that’d be all.”

Without thinking, he burst out of the back of the shop.


Sonny was smirking, and the cash register was open, the money already half-way into it, but his eyes sought out yours.

It was as sudden as a clap of thunder.

One minute, all was as it normally was, if for the stray shocks of red that stood out from the bleak backdrop of gray and black and white he was for so long accustomed to. He had so long settled himself into that world, had so long contented himself to that world completely devoid of color save for a scant handful. He had convinced himself, after all, that things like the promise of soulmates were seductive but seemed more distant than the Dominican Republic ever was. He had made peace with that didn’t he?

What was that old epithet he had attached to his heart the minute he understood that things like love and honest goodness and soulmates had the potential to turn on you as easily as they could welcome you with open arms?

“It’s you,”

And then the curse is broken, and he is looking at you, and the world is awash with life and renewed and reborn, and you are at the very center of it, with your eyes and your hair and your skin.

He stepped forward, slipped, because he had dropped the coffee the minute his eyes met yours and also because he is Usnavi and this kind of shit always happened. Sonny caught him around the waist and hauled him up, and when he felt himself stable enough, he planted his hands on the counter for extra leverage, and looked at you again.

There were tears in your (wonderful, wonderful) eyes as you looked back at him, and you were shaky on your feet (although you were certainly much more balanced than he was).

“It’s you,” you said. He nodded, trying to get rid of the molasses sticking the sides of his throat together.

He stuck his hand out, remembering to pass it along his pant leg to take off the sheen of cold sweat, cleared his throat. “Usnavi,” he said.

Your smile was bright, as bright as the yellow dress you wore. “Y/N,” you said, your hand slipping into his and a shock of pure, undiluted fire passed through him.

The laugh of absolute jubilation that escaped him was as irrepressible as the tears streaming down his face.

“Wonderful,” he said, ignoring Sonny and hopping over the counter. He grabbed your other hand.


in my bedroom there are nine little slabs of wood (remnants of my old bunk) which now serve as a partition between myself & the ceiling. it is the damnedest thing: hours– days! have been lost to studying ceaseless swirls of tiny stalactites that drip from the roof; or could they have been constellations? capricorn has a doppelgänger in my ceiling, i’m sure of it. i haven’t looked in a long while, unfortunately.

i moved to the bottom bunk after an incident in which i fell five feet to the cool floor & no one came after me. i decided i would never again sleep so high up; i tossed my mattress to the trash-collectors & settled into my sister’s vacated four-poster. try as i might i couldn’t completely remove the framework from the top bunk, so above me are these nine plywood bars. i’ve thrown a pink coverlet over them for looks but also to protect me from cobwebs that threaten to fall into my mouth & choke me while i dream.

why should i dream, in a place like this? six paces to the dresser, six paces to the door. a closet large enough to shelve my body & little else. the window rusted shut; one hanging light. no acoustics. there are secrets in the mahogany under my feet, but i can’t follow them.

i still have the ladder to my old bed. it stands adjacent to the post, waiting to be re-installed. i could very well return to the cosmos by the middle of the month, but i’d have to prepare. i’ll make do with the nine bars for now; they are sometimes interesting to consider. i may even sketch them sometime. on a side note, i hope that the people in this house know i didn’t fall from the top on purpose.

// nine bars