Bite Sized Bits of Fic

Stargate Atlantis, Any, it’s better to feel pain than not feel anything at all

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Marvel Cinematic Universe, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Steve helps Bucky relearn life’s little pleasures

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Hawaii Five-0, Danny Williams, “The pleasure is all yours, trust me.”

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Any, Any, with great pain comes great change

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MI-5|Spooks, Lucas North (+/ Adam Carter or cake), the pain of baking is offset by the pleasure of the results

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Weiss Kreuz, Farfarello, just because he feels no physical pain doesn't mean he doesn't feel at all

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Sense8, any, pleasuring yourself to alleviate someone else's pain

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ami-ven.livejournal.com

Supernatural, Castiel/Dean Winchester, "There is too much pain in your life, Dean. I want to make sure you have pleasure, too."

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ami-ven.livejournal.com

Any, any, Ah! Brainfreeze!

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ami-ven.livejournal.com

Any military/cop/action fandom, any, taking a bullet/hit for someone else is less painful than watching them get hurt

Edited Date: 2018-03-07 06:32 am (UTC)

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Why was my first thought when I saw this the Earthworm Jim cartoon? XD

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Any (please no SPN). any(/any), Never underestimate a chronic pain sufferer for they can sit there in agony and keep smiling

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Any (please no SPN), any (+/ any), In hospital/sickbay doctor(s) are amazed when someone who should be 9 or 10 acute pain just wants a paracetemol because their pain is maaaaaaybe a 2?

Sorry, complicated prompt is complicated. Basically pain threshold level shenanigans. Bonus points if the person doesn't realise they should be in that much pain.

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Any (please no SPN), any/any, "Did that hurt?" "Yes." "I'm sorry!" "Don't be, I *liked* it. ;)"

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Any (please no SPN), any (+any), Something to do with this video

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Any (please no SPN), any/any, sticks and stones may break my bones but whips and chains excite me

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vanillafluffy.livejournal.com

In the old days--circa 1930--cookouts meant the roof of whatever apartment building was handiest. It involved the biggest empty can they could get their hands on, half-filled with coal and raised up on bricks to insulate it from the tar-paper of the roof itself. (After the incident with a neighbor’s rare plant, they stuck to tin cans instead of flowerpots. Bucky can laugh about it now, but he’d had extra chores to do for weeks after that fiasco.) Children of their times, they called them “hobo fires”, and with a little imagination, they stood in for cowboy bonfires on the long, long trail a-winding or the campsite of explorers pausing in their quest for a treasure hidden deep in the jungle

Back then it was a matter of coming up with fifty cents for some bologna, a stale loaf of bread, and a jar of yellow mustard, usually swiped from Bucky’s ma’s kitchen and returned afterward or else--they never dared find out what “or else” was--Mrs. Barnes being a red-headed Itrishwoman whose use of a wooden spoon wasn’t limited to stirring the pot of soup kept bubbling on the stove.

It was always just the two of them. Bucky loved his sisters, but he got tired of having them around sometimes--not to mention the expense of buying additional bologna. Steve didn’t really have a lot of other friends beside Bucky, so the cookouts were an exclusive event.

Things are different now. They’re a lot higher up, on the roof of Stark Tower, looking toward Brooklyn instead of living there. The firepit is a fantastical abstract scupture burning natural gas.

For Bucky, it’s curiously relaxing. There’s something about sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his boyhood friend that makes him happier than he’s been since 1930-something. It’s the corny jokes, memories of people and events they share that are unique to them, snapshots of a time and place that vanished while they were sleeping.

These days, it’s inclusive in an exclusive way--from time to time, the other Avengers drop by. The terrace where the firepit is installed has a mini-bar to one side, so there’s hospitality beyond the impromptu cookouts. Tony is bemused by their bologna, wondering why they don’t grill kabobs or Chilean sea-bass. Bruce, on the rare occasions he shows up, is quiet, looking into the fire…they hardly notice he’s there, which works all the way around. Thor is rowdy, Natasha tends to prowl around for a little while and leave, while Clint tells tall tales of the carnival he grew up traveling with. At times, his stories even exceed their boyhood dreams of running away to join the circus.

Texas toast stands in for the day-old bread they made do with back in the day. Bucky can afford to buy his own restaurant-size jar of mustard, although he has a squeeze bottle he refills conscientiously from the bigger container. Okay, so he’s a little cheap--he grew up being frugal, and there’s a difference between having it and not spending it and not having it to spend--he’s not a poor kid from the neighborhood anymore. To prove how flush he is, he buys the good bologna, sliced thick, and plenty of it.

Bologna smells wonderful, roasting. It doesn’t taste quite the same as being cooked atop their hobo fires--but that first bite of grilled bologna tinged with mustard reminds Bucky of what it was like to be ten years old. From the look in his eyes as he munches his sandwich, Steve feels the same way, but there’s one thing that’s better than their youth: Steve is strong and healthy now, not chronically sick.

It’s funny--all these years later, and here they are. In some ways it’s completely different, in others, it’s hauntingly familiar. Not just the circumstances--it’s them, too. Their friendship has survived war and brainwashing and conflict. They can both look back on adventures that are more incredible than any they could have imagined. Bucky smiles as he skewers another slice of lunch meat. He’d been right, that long-ago night before shipping out. Here they are, in the future.

…

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evil-little-dog.livejournal.com

Lucifer, Lucifer Morningstar+/Chloe Decker, what is this pain he feels when he looks at her?

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jdl71.livejournal.com

Supernatural, Sam Winchester, the pain he goes through when Dean is hurt.

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vanillafluffy.livejournal.com

It’s standard procedure to have a doctor on call in the heli-carrier sickbay. Most issues are minor--personnel gets eyestrain staring at screens or repetitive stress injuries, the occasional training accident…

Dr. Sydney Porter yawns and turns a page. This cruise has been much the same. They made a brief stop--it’s below her pay-grade to know where or why--the red-hot rumor is Sao Paolo to exfiltrate an operative. The article about H2N2 influenza isn’t exactly fascinating reading. She catches movement out of the corner of her eye and glances over.

A man stands slumped against the doorframe, sizing her up. He’s filthy--like he’s been rolling in mud, and the leather jacket draped over his shoulders looks as if it’s been through an all-out war.

“Can I help you?” she asks. No doubt this guy is the operative they just picked up--there’s no way the Colonel would let such a walking breach of uniform regulations stroll around his ship otherwise, and if he wasn’t on their side, he’d be escorted.

“Yeah, can I get a few ibuprofen? Please?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable request for someone as banged-up as he is. “No allergies?”

“None.” She extends her hand with a couple sealed packets, then sees him wince as he reaches for them.

“Where, exactly, does it hurt?” she demands.

Her patient groans--not from physical pain. “It’s nothing, seriously. Just give me the damn pills, will you?” He makes a grab for them--Sydney raises her hand with the packets above her head, and the groan this provokes is real.

The jacket has slid from his broad shoulders to the floor--there are bloodstains on his shirt.

“I have to take a look at that,” she says, determined.

“Fine!” He sits on one of the benches, lifts his right arm, clasping the back of his neck with his hand.

Sydney gingerly works his tee shirt up. There’s a graze on his right side, just below his rib cage. Three inches above that is an in-and-out wound already starting to clot. Probably doesn’t need surgery, but definitely needs more than ibuprofen!

She’d better check and see if he’s in the system; if he thinks this is a minor injury, god knows what he’d leave out of a standard medical history. “Name?”

“Oh for crying out loud,” is his exasperated response. “It chipped a rib, that’s all.”

“You know that how? With your x-ray vision?” This guy is taking machismo to a ridiculous extreme.

“Clint Barton. Employee number--” He rattles it off, annoyance plain on his face. “Get on with it.”

A comprehensive medical file on Barton has notes about childhood abuse. No shit, Sherlock--scans show numerous healed fractures. If that’s what he got used to growing up, small wonder he’s nonchalant about injuries now. And he’s right--Sydney’s newest scans show one rib cracked along the trajectory of the wound. There’s nothing to be done about it aside from sewing it up

Movement again. She glances away from the display and barks, “Hold it!” She’s caught him with his hand in the drawer containing the ibuprofen packets.

Clint sighs. “Seriously, Doc--it’s no big deal. Right now, all I want is a little something for the ribs and a shower. Then I’ll slap on a few band-aids and sleep for two days.”

“Not so fast--I’m going to shoot you up with some antibiotics, since I have a feeling you wouldn’t take a scrip if I gave it to you…” Barton grins a little. “Let me take a couple stitches…you can keep that handful of pills you think I didn’t see you grab. But no more than three packets in one day--it will fuck up your liver, and no, I’m not overreacting!”

He’s smiling outright by the end of her diatribe. “Sure, Doc, go ahead if it makes you feel better.”

It’s idiotic to suffer with wounds like those when medical resources are available to treat them properly. Sydney sets the tray up with surgical staplers and all the usual paraphernalia. Barton has relaxed, thinking he’s almost through. He’s even accepted a wet-wipe to clean his face with.

Sydney gets the last laugh; the injection she administers has him snoring almost as soon as she’s withdrawn the needle. He wants to sleep for two days? Fine--he can do it in sickbay.

...

Edited Date: 2018-03-07 02:55 pm (UTC)

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cozy-coffee.livejournal.com

Any, any/any, person A has a hardcore kink (i.e., rape fantasy, breath play, etc.), Person B is weary about engaging in the kink

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This is understated and lovely, Bucky and Steve reviving something special from their past and letting it grow with their new relationships and friendships. Well done.

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OMGosh, this is lovely! I like the way they've re-imagined a tradition from their childhood, updating it but keeping the feel of things the same. Sometimes the simple things can be the most meaningful and you've definitely shown that here.

Thank you so much, I love this!!

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