#itchy & scratchy land

[classic-simpsons]

06.04 | ITCHY & SCRATCHY LAND

#the simpsons #thesimpsonsedit #animationedit #tvedit #animationsource #animationsdaily #cartoonedit #dailyanimation #chewieblog #userstream #90sedit #bart simpson #itchy & scratchy land #06X04 #my edit

[flyinghellfish]

#the simpsons #homer simpson #bart simpson #lisa simpson #marge bouvier #itchy and scratchy land #s06e04 #season 6

[jesusworesandals]

#the simpsons #itchy and scratchy land #gif #frinkiac #couch gag #best #sparkle

[thenickallen]

#snu snu serious #about going to #itchy and scratchy land

[marthawrites]

Red Lions and Hidden Dragons

Unnamed male character x Lannister!fem reader & Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!fem reader

Word count: 2.9k+

About: Close kin to Jason and Tyland Lannister, you arrive to King's Landing with a party of fellow lions to celebrate the birth of Prince Maelor Targaryen. You weren't expecting to catch Prince Aemond's eye, but once you do, neither of you can forget it.

Includes: SMUT. This is porn with plot to set it up. Featuring lust at first sight, allusions to obsession (from reader and aemond), voyeurism, unprotected vaginal sex, male masturbation, allusions to exhibitionism, stalking, male receiving oral sex, reader receiving oral sex, minor degradation, vaginal fingering, and somnophilia

Note: Hello lovely reader! This might be one of the filthiest things I've written. Double warning: This fic is heavy on the voyeurism and Aemond is a creep. If you do not like that then do not read this. Reader is a Lannister and is implied to have blonde hair. Everything else is up to you! Reader's lover is implied to have ginger hair. Everything else about him is up to you. As always, I hope you enjoy this (filth)!

-

Golden sunlight warmed your honey curls as they cascaded down your back in gentle waves. Following close behind was a guard armored in the colors of House Lannister. A woman walked beside you who also donned your House's colors in a more practical attire–sword not included. “Is it everything you wanted it to be?” She asked you with bright curiosity as her gaze swept over the Red Keep's gardens. 

Spring's blooms weighed heavily in the air and if it weren't for a forgiving breeze all of those fragrances would be unbearable. Your nose tickled with an edge of a sneeze you could never quite expel. “It's absolutely lovely,” you replied with a happy sigh, leaning into your friend and lady-in-waiting. “Although… if I don’t go inside soon my eyes will be pinker than a pig’s bottom and leakier than a cracked chalice.”

She laughed. “I can bring supper up to your chamber if needed. Sneezing on any one in the royal family could be punishable by death!” She gasped with feigned severity.

You rolled your eyes. “The only one I’m worried about sneezing on is Princess Helaena. With her little Maelor only being just born the last thing she–and he–needs is extra germs.”

You and your family, closely related to King Viserys’ Master of Ships, Tyland Lannister, had only arrived this morning. It had been a long trip. Jason Lannister, Tyland’s elder twin, sent a party of lions to King’s Landing to celebrate the little princeling's birth. “Perhaps you will catch the eye of a lord–or Prince–while you’re there,” he had whispered to you with a wink upon your departure.

Politicking had never been your strong suit. Would it truly be so wrong to marry someone for happiness instead of glory, lands, and wealth? You thought not, but the rest of your family thought yes. 

“If the Princess even attends a public dinner,” she answered slyly.

With a light-hearted shrug you looked over your shoulder and asked the knight, “Ser? Do you remember the way back to the Great Hall?”

“I do, Lady Lannister. Ready to return?”

“We are.”

Once inside the Red Keep you immediately felt better. No more tickly nose, or itchy eyes, or scratchy ears. You arrived back just in time, too! Judging by the collection of people and their plates, supper had been served only a short time ago. You and your lady found a seat where you could. Nodding a polite greeting to Tyland, you sat and fixed a plate. While politicking wasn’t one of your strong suits, people watching was. 

You ate, and you watched. 

Who observed the watcher?

Smearing creamy butter on a still warm roll, you tried to keep tabs on the conversations around you. Truthfully, it was half a bore. Sooner than later it all jumbled to indistinct murmurings. Paying half attention at best, and once you finished all the savory flavors of meats and potatoes, you helped yourself to fruit for a sweet palate cleanser. Wonderfully ripened berries and crisp grapes took over your senses. On one particular juicy bite–when you barely covered your mouth in time to catch a dribble of springtime strawberry juice–a blush rose to your cheeks as your gaze swept over the crowd to see if anyone witnessed your etiquette mishap.

A few seats down, and across the table, the glint of a single violet eye danced with your mishap.

Aemond Targaryen. Prince Aemond Targaryen. Your napkin nearly slipped from your fingers as you realized he watched, and saw, and didn’t turn away from your guilty gaze. His one seeing eye trailed from your chin, down the front of your bodice, and back up to your face. The combination of his perfectly neutral facade and naturally bowed mouth made him impossible to read. But the glint in his eye? You swore it gave away his amusement. Perhaps even something more.

The blush in your cheeks dispersed–spreading and lowering–and with a delicate curve of your mouth you gave the King’s second silver-haired son an entirely different look. With extra care, now, you bit into a plump grape, daring to hold his gaze. Your heart hammered with anticipation and excitment and part of you wondered if he could see the pulsepoint in your neck thumping.

He squinted at you; so slight you might have missed it.

Desire roared in your belly.

-

It was nearly the end of the hour of ghosts when Aemond made his way to the library on silent feet. The castle was quiet except for a few guards and servants carrying out night shift duties. He paid them little mind as he walked with a small stack of books tucked beneath his arm. Sleep eluded him. Even reading did little to settle his mind. He thought, with a hint of hopefulness, that a walk might allow him to finally relax. 

A slight squeak of door hinges was the only sound announcing his arrival. It seemed no matter how many times it was oiled it always squeaked. Most of the time it didn’t matter much. But, on late nights like this, it made Aemond feel as if he interrupted something holy. Sacred. 

He’d always been a studious boy–so much so that it followed him into adulthood. Perhaps that is why he felt a pang of guilt upon midnight arrivals; he found as much solace in this place as he did the training yard. Sometimes he had half a mind to bring a pillow and blanket here to sleep in one of the chairs, the floor, or, more comfortably, a settee.

Quietly, out of habit, he walked between the rows of books, tomes, and scrolls, and placed each piece of borrowed literature in its place. Before he truly heard anything, the fine hairs along his neck stood. His pupil widened to take in the dark. A little voice in his head told him to stay quiet and look.

A phantom? He hadn’t felt the fright of ghost stories for a long, long time. 

But, no, it wasn’t a thing of nightmares lurking in darkened corners of this peaceful place that caught his attention. It was someone. And, judging by the sounds that perked the fine muscles behind his ears, it was more than one person.

Soft sounds made their way to Aemond’s ears as he stalked on silent feet. Heavy breathing. An inward hiss of breath. A muffled voice–low and sultry–sent his cock stirring to life in his pants. And then, right at the peak of a barely contained moan, a giggle.

Staying to the shadows Aemond peered around a bookshelf and what he saw knocked the wind out of his lungs. A woman–not just any woman, but you–straddled over the lap of a man with your skirts bunched up around your waist. The chair creaked beneath your combined weight, its legs thumping against the rug-covered floor with the force in which you rode him–in which he bucked up into you. Aemond saw why you giggled and a hot rush of blood flew up to his head and down to his cock alike. Your breasts were free from your crimson supper gown and they bounced as you fucked whosever cock it was that you were riding. One of the man’s hands squeezed a mound of your soft, perfect tits, letting it bounce against his palm as his mouth sucked your other nipple. 

Stepping further back into the shadows, Aemond, as discreetly as he could, moved a few books upon the shelf so he could watch between the newly formed gap. He had the best–truly the best–sight of you. Your cheeks were colored so prettily, lips parted in the epitome of bliss, and your eyelids fluttered as you ground down against him. Aemond saw your hand push through and squeeze your lover’s ginger hair as he nipped and suckled over your peaked nipples.

“Think anyone will show up here?” You asked, rolling your hips against him in a gloriously wonderful grind. 

If Aemond were any further away he wouldn't be able to hear you. His ears were perked right to you, however, and he heard your voice–all raspy with pleasure. He palmed at his cock over his pants, the bulge prominent and uncomfortable in its confides.

“If you keep being loud I bet someone will,” he teased before kissing you. He gripped your hips firmly with both hands and began to coax you up and down on him again. Before you could break away from the kiss those same soft sounds from before filled the air. This time they were louder, sharper, both of you chasing pleasure to climax. “Can't believe you wanted me to fuck you here tonight. Of all places in this big castle. Shit–Gods, yes, keep bouncing like that. Keep fucking bouncing like that.” 

You barely held your moans back and the little ones that slipped free had Aemond palming at himself firmer. Your moans, and slapping skin, and bouncing tits had the prince dizzy with desire. 

How in the actual Hells was this happening?

He nearly spent in his pants when climax washed over you. You were so lovey, and so perfect, and so greedy with your need it made Aemond want to tie your lover up and fuck you right there too. 

You could take it. He knew you could. You'd be debauched enough to take two men and still claw at them for more.

Your lover's seed covered your belly in a splattered mess and Aemond nearly groaned out loud.

He'd lingered too long. He shouldn't have even stayed like he did–should have left as soon as he realized what was happening. But that didn't stop him then and it didn't stop him now as he lingered behind for an extra moment, watching you fix your clothes back into place.

The edge of your desire was finally sated. For now, at least. With a satisfied sigh you smiled and tilted your head, looking down at your lover while he whispered something to you. You laughed and rolled your eyes. 

That's when you saw him. What? No… it couldn't be! The shadow of the prince just there! Just behind that book shelf. 

Aemond side stepped and ducked slightly. Shit shit shit. But it was too late.

“I think I saw someone,” you gasped with an excited warble to your tone. 

Whatever else you said, or whatever your reaction might have been, would remain a mystery. That's all Aemond heard before slipping out of the main doorway–the door's squeak the only evidence that anyone else had been in the library.

-

As much as Aemond wanted to see you during the morning meal, he didn't want to risk it. Would you squirm in your seat beneath his gaze, or would he beneath yours? 

Once finished, he exerted himself in the training yard–the image of your blissed out face and bouncing tits still seared onto his mind.

Fuck.

How long were you visiting the Red Keep? Surely Aemond would go mad before long.

After training and before lunch, the prince found himself loitering along a balcony that faced the gardens. It was a quiet spot, one not often frequented, and it served as a perfect place for him to relax and collect his thoughts after training. It proved to be an uneventful rest until a glimmer of golden hair and red breezy gown caught his attention from below.

You.

He stared, watching like a hawk from above. You were on the arm of the same man from last night. Based on his attire Aemond recognized him to be one of the Lannister servants.

Pathetic. The man was a servant. Not a husband, or betrothed, or even someone worth your name. You were a loose wanton thing. Licentious. Aemond watched you drag your male servant off the main pathway until you were out of sight. 

And then, on a jolt of lust filled curiosity, he grabbed a nearby spyglass and looked for you again.

A few minutes passed before he saw you through the reflective lens. And when he did the front of his pants immediately became tighter.

Hidden amongst the garden's layout you and your secret lover kissed and touched and pressed together. He saw your mouths move with words he wished he could hear. You were light and playful and eager. Fuck–so eager.

Aemond watched as you sunk down to your knees and pulled his cock out. You took it in your mouth over and over, again and again, like you’d wanted nothing more than to have him in your throat.

Did you enjoy this more, you pretty little whore? Or did your red headed lover?

Aemond's need screamed for friction–for anything–but he remained painfully hard and untouched  as he watched, not wanting to miss a single second. 

Time ticked by so slowly, so quickly, and before long Aemond saw you swallow, smiling up at your lover as he tucked his spent, softening cock back into his pants. You turned your head, then, looking along the balconies, and Aemond barely had time to step out of sight.

You saw his silver hair and the reflective glare of his spyglass in the late morning sun.

The prince wasn’t half as sly as he thought.

You barely spoke to Viserys’ second-son–barely knew him–yet it did little to stifle the lust drowning your blood.

-

Two days had passed before Aemond caught you for a third time. Duties kept him busy and he wasn’t able to stalk around the castle after you.

The first time he stumbled across you had been a complete accident. So had the second time. Well… mostly. If he hadn’t caught sight of you entering the gardens he wouldn’t have begun spying on you from the balcony. 

The third time, however? He hoped for it.

Might have even prayed for it.

Watching from within the safety of a slim corridor behind the room’s main wall, Aemond peeked through a series of small holes specifically made for spying; servants and their incessant prying. You were sitting in a chair with your legs draped over each arm. Your male servant knelt between your spread legs and feasted on your cunt. His soft groans and slurps, combined with all of your sweet gasps and moans, made the sounds of Aemond freely stroking his cock nearly non-existent. 

It was too much. Too fucking much.

You were too perfect. Putting on a show for him and everything. He knew you liked being watched. Why else would you be taunting him, luring him, snaring him in your lewd traps time and time again?

The man slipped his fingers into you while staying on your clit, and the way you tugged at his hair sent Aemond biting down on his lip.

“So sexy like this,” the ginger’s raspy voice rumbled up at you. “So sweet and tight.”

You sighed and giggled, turning his face back against you. “I'm not done. Keep going,” you said, sultry.

He did and you lost yourself.

But before you could finish he asked, “shall I wear an eyepatch next time? Lean into your little fantasy with the prince?”

“Gods, yes.”

He worked you with fingers and tongue again, pushing you to the edge of pleasure. “Say his name. No one is around to hear. The one eyed prince here, right now, eating your sweet cunt.”

You squeezed both hands in his hair and came undone; a tiny, shuddered, “Aemond..!” escaped your lips at the peak of your climax. 

Aemond's cock pulsed mightily in the choke of his hand; streaks of his seed dripped down the finished wooden wall. He had to have you. 

-

It was the hour of the owl when Aemond prowled into your chamber. You looked peaceful sleeping, so pretty. 

He stood at the side of your bed, head tilted slightly as he looked down at you replaying all the visions of you in his head over again. The backs of his fingers traced along the slope of your face; silken. He dipped lower, sliding down the curve of your neck and across your exposed collarbone. You didn't yet stir and so he slid lower. The swell of your breasts were wonderfully soft beneath your thin shift; nipples peaked beneath. 

You teased him even in slumber.

He gently squeezed the mound–testing the suppleness of your body–and reveled in the sensation. With curious delight he pinched the bud and smirked when a small sound hummed between your lips. He did it again. Harder. Your nipples pebbled tighter and saliva built in Aemond's mouth.

That made you stir. Your eyelids trembled over your eyes as if you'd startle awake.

Aemond's hand sunk beneath your blanket and whispered up your smooth thigh. Within the span of a few breaths he found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged the ribbons open. His heartbeat thundered. He couldn’t help it. He had to know. Grazing his fingers lower, still, he ghosted over that delicate space between your thighs. You were warm through the thin cloth of your smallclothes. Insanity threatened to take him over.

Again, you stirred. And this time your eyes fluttered open. Those pretty pools widened and for a moment you couldn’t tell if you were still dreaming, or if this was truly happening.

Prince Aemond. In your room. How did he get in? You’d lusted for him since arriving. Now, here he was; perhaps the Gods indeed answered prayers.

“Shh,” he hushed, fingers lifting to his lips to shush you further; a smirk visible at the corners of his mouth. “Why pretend when you can have the real thing, lady Lannister?”

-

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

To be added or removed from the taglist, hit me up!

Masterlist

Main taglist: @watercolorskyy @melsunshine @girlwith-thepearlearring @arcielee @barbiedragon @aemondtarqaryens @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @schniiipsel

Aemond taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @bellaisasleep @aemondsblog @khaleesihel @sirenofavalon @doublesparrows @aemonds-fire @nikstrange @abbyandizzysmum @aemonddtargaryen @lost-and-founds @castellomargot @avidreader73 @snh96 @boofy1998 @connorsui

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond imagine

[bellofthemeadow]

The Road Ahead - ch 1 | Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

Next chapter

For most of your married life, you dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently awaited his return, longing for the moment when he would be by your side again. During those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, you yearned for him to open up to you, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain. And as his addiction spiraled out of control, you held onto the hope that he would recognize his problem and seek help. However, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Colombia, engaged in God knows what.

But this time is different. Determined, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 2.8K

Warning: Applicable for the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty

Chapter Summary: Now that Frankie is finally home for good, you can start looking to the future

Notes: Welcome everyone! This is a repost from my former blog "mywordhaven" Because of some technical difficulties with my old account, I decided that it would be easier to repost my work with a brand-new blog. It's basically the same chapter as the last one, but I did make some edits (mostly syntax tbh). I will be posting the other two chapters later tomorrow and the fourth chapter should be up on sunday.

I hope that those who were following me on my old blog will join me here and I look forward to meeting newcomers!

At Long Last

You find yourself drowning in the itchiness of the comforter draped across you. Its green, worn fabric scratches your overwhelmingly sensitive skin. Surprisingly, today you welcome this sensation. The uncomfortable feeling anchors your mind to your bed, preventing it from floating away. In this moment, as you struggle to catch your breath, the scratchiness of the duvet reminds you where you are.

Your hands glide slowly across the rough fabric, savouring its familiar prickle. As you trace the worn contours, you recall when you saw that green monstrosity for the first time— It was the day you and Frankie had first moved in together all those years ago, right before his second long deployment. From the moment your eyes landed on it, you despised its discoloured hue as it clashed with your envisioned home's colour scheme. But you had kept silent. Frankie was leaving, and you didn't want your last moments together marred by a pointless argument over a green bedspread, no matter how dreadful it looked.  

Now, ten years, 2 home relocations and a marriage later, that green duvet stubbornly remains an integral part of your bedroom decor, painfully clashing with the soothing blues surrounding it. Cornflower Blue, as the Home Depot employee had labelled it. You had agonized for days on which colour to go with, tirelessly checking Pinterest boards in the hope to find the perfect shade for your bedroom— A place you hoped would be a peaceful haven for Frankie. You spent weeks deliberating between countless swatches until finally settling on the current hue. Still, the horrid green persistently clashes with the blue you lovingly chose. Perhaps sage green would have been wiser, you think. But you had refused to admit defeat to an old, worn duvet and instead, had stubbornly gone with your first idea, horrid green be damned! But now, to your frustration, the bedroom remains an enduring battleground of colours, an ongoing struggle where different shades vie for supremacy in their quest to dominate the mood of the room.

Yet Frankie had never commented on the jarring combination of green and blue or their blatant mismatch. Perhaps you were making a mountain out of Molehill as you always seem to do. After all, your tendency to dramatize insignificant matters had been a subject of teasing within your family for as long as you could remember. Your brother had a habit of remarking on how seriously you took trivial matters. For your entire lives, nicknames like "Miss Prissy" or "Your Majesty" had been some of the less painful monickers thrown your way to highlight your over-sensitiveness. And while your family saw it as innocent sibling teasing, these remarks had a way of leaving you feeling bruised, unable to brush the comments off as easily as everyone expected you to.

Your hands pause above your bare, sweat-dampened chest, shaking your head to dispel the unwelcomed and intrusive thoughts. Instead, you focus on the blissful moment you’ve just shared with your husband. The memory of that bothersome, green eyesore and all its associated baggage swiftly retreats from your mind, vanishing as fleetingly as it arrived.

Finally, you begin to feel like the easy joys of savouring life are within your reach. With Frankie by your side, you start to envision a newfound freedom to engage in playful bickering, loud laughter, and sheer enjoyment of each other. The mundane moments hold an allure like never before, beckoning you to revel in their ordinary beauty. It's a longing for a life that seems quintessentially American, relentlessly depicted on daytime television—an idyllic portrait of a family, complete with devoted parents and their brood of 2.5 children, nestled in a cozy backyard. PTA meetings, a simple 9-to-5, soccer practices after school, and piano lessons on weekends create the repetitive rhythm of this picture-perfect existence. In your vision, the pinnacle of concern revolves around selecting the ideal flowers for the summer flowerbed. While some may deem it mundane, for you, it represents an exquisite slice of paradise.

Your husband Frankie had gone through years of military service, and he deserves nothing less, you think. Your hands still from their exploration as you think on the nightmares, anxiety, and fear that would consume Frankie. Even here with you, it sometimes felt as though he was still back there, never truly able to be completely present. Like on those many nights when Frankie was on temporary leave, he would wake up screaming and trashing in the middle of the night covered in cold sweats. Or when you guys would be out and about, and his eyes would shift with practiced zeal as if he was assessing for possible threats. Never really “turning off”. No amount of sweet reassuring words were ever able to soothe him when he found himself stuck within his own mind. Every time you tried to discuss these concerns with him, your husband would respond with calm reassurances, followed by a tender kiss on your forehead, urging you not to worry about him.

You shake your head, a resolute movement meant to, again, brush away the intrusive thoughts lingering on the periphery, refusing to let them dim this precious moment. You shift your gaze, fixating on the horizon of possibilities that stretches before you. It is a horizon where love acts as a healing balm, gently tending to the myriad wounds etched upon your husband's past. Your heart, though cautiously guarded, brims with a glimmer of hope, eager to embark on this journey together.

However, despite your best efforts, thoughts of your mother insidiously infiltrate your mind. Over the years, you've clashed with her on countless occasions, yet now, as a married woman, you think back on her warning before you got married. The resonating echo of her stern voice lingers in your thoughts, admonishing you to unwaveringly stand by your husband, regardless of the circumstances, and emphasizing that his happiness must always take precedence over everything else. Strangely, she never mentioned the reverse. With Frankie's return, you resolve to be more present, leaving daydreams behind and focusing on him and solely on him.

As you think of Frankie, you can clearly see his body and how it bears the evidence of his service, a map of scars, some worn openly, while others hide beneath his weary flesh. Deep wounds that bleed and pain him more than any bullet ever could. Words alone seem insufficient in the face of everything he has sacrificed. But now, Frankie is finally home, all of this is behind you two. And isn't all this what marriage vows were meant for? In sickness and in health, through the lows and the highs, you pledged to be there. As you remind yourself, supporting your husband doesn't diminish your strength and independence. It's merely an expression of love and partnership, you firmly resolve, even though the words ring somewhat hollow, as a voice in the back of your mind whispers, "But what about you?"

You slowly redirect your attention to the persistent itchiness on your skin. Taking three deep breaths, you allow each inhale and exhale to anchor you firmly into the present. As the air fills your lungs, you feel your shoulders slowly ease from the tension you always seem to put yourself under.

Now that Frankie is here to stay, you want nothing else than to provide the emotional solace and respite he needs to rebuild and find peace within himself. After everything Frankie has endured, you decide that he deserves a life that is predictably dull yet safe and warm. You want to build that life for him.

As your imagination runs rampant with visions of the life you're now free to construct together, Frankie emerges in the doorway. Clad in nothing more than a familiar, well-worn pair of briefs, he exudes an aura that is unmistakably his own—a blend of warmth, comfort, and a sense of home. In that instant, as you gaze at each other, it feels as though every small longing you held during Frankie's absence has converged into this singular moment. Nothing else matters to you right now except being with him.

In Frankie's hands, he carefully balances a tray, on it a tall glass of ice-cold water adorned with glistening condensation. The hunger stirs within you and your gaze falls upon two perfectly crafted PB and J sandwiches, invitingly prepared. It's evident that even now, the precise conditioning instilled by the army remains ingrained in Frankie. The unwavering precision, tidiness, and discipline persist, even amidst post-coital bliss. Sloppily prepared sandwiches? Never on Frankie’s watch.

Fondness envelops your heart, causing it to flutter with an intensity that threatens to burst from your chest. At this moment, a culmination of experiences floods your mind—the countless sleepless nights spent anxiously awaiting a call, the fear that gripped you while scouring the news for any shred of information, and Frankie's inability to share the depths of what he went through all race to the forefront of your mind. Now, as you reminisce about those moments when others would claim that being with Frankie wasn't worth the pain or hardships, a profound sense of satisfaction fills your heart. You're grateful for having ignored their words, as every single challenge and difficulty encountered along the way—the long-distance separations, the emotional uncertainties, and the sacrifices made—has ultimately proven to mean something. A smile mirrors your own overwhelming happiness as Frankie starts to walk toward the bed.

"I thought you'd have an appetite after all that exercise," Frankie says, his voice laced with a playful tone. His eyes, warm like melted chocolate, cradle you in their soft gaze. They speak volumes, no words needed, telling you just how much he cares.

A mischievous smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you playfully quip, "Guess it doesn't help that we skipped dinner either, huh?"

"I apologize, mi cielo. I suppose I let my excitement get the better of me," Frankie admits, a touch of boyish bashfulness colouring his tone. "After eight long months apart, how could you expect me not to pounce on you, especially when you look so breathtaking?"

With utmost care, Frankie gently places the tray on the tiny side table, taking special care to move aside the book you're currently engrossed in. With the task completed, he turns his gaze towards you, slowly making his way to your side. Your eyes lock, and in an instant, he tenderly captures your mouth with his own. The kiss is unhurried yet filled with an intense passion, a promise of all that is to come, a fulfillment of the multitude of promises you have made to each other. Now, you have all the time in the world to embrace those promises.

As the kiss deepens, Frankie's hands begin to explore your naked body, their touch igniting a fiery desire that resonates deep within you. It engulfs you in a passionate longing that intensifies with each passing second. Frankie's wandering hands halt at your hips, where he gently strokes your sides while deepening the kiss even further. Breaking the kiss, he presses his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily, his warm breath mingling with your own. A playful glimmer dance in Frankie’s brown eyes as he firmly grabs your hips, effortlessly flipping you both into the deep plushness of the bed.

A delighted squeal escapes your throat, and you find yourself on top of Frankie, straddling his warm hips. His devilish smile meets your gaze. Like a tidal wave, a rush of excitement cascades through you, electrifying your senses and igniting newfound energy within.

"I thought we were supposed to have dinner," you playfully tease, your hands resting on the firm planes of his pectorals.

Frankie's eyes glisten mischievously as he responds, his voice filled with playful affection, "Don't worry, hermosa. Dinner can wait another minute. Right now, all I want to do is admire you." With a tender touch, he grabs a handful of the fleshy part of your hips, gently massaging your sides. His voice carries on, laced with adoration, "You know, this angle is my favourite. When I see you from above, naked, and sweaty, you look like my very own Amazon. My fierce warrior queen whom I can’t wait to worship." His grip tightens possessively, playfully swatting your behind, causing your flesh to softly jiggle.

You can't help but snort with amusement, firmly grinding down in a slow sensuous movement Frankie exhales a low moan, his eyes closing in pleasure. Yielding to the temptation, you momentarily cease your ministrations and whisper, "Well, last time I checked, librarians weren't renowned for their battle prowess.”

Frankie's smile stretches, his eyes opening and locking with yours, while his hands gently secure your hips. His soft voice echoes sweetly, "Physical prowess is just a fraction of true strength, mi cielo. It's a mindset, a spirit that radiates courage and perseverance. Believe me when I tell you, you possess that strength in a way that surpasses anyone I've ever encountered."

His words envelop you in a comforting embrace that floods your being with warmth. Reflected in his eyes is an unwavering conviction, a faith given to you unlike any you've experienced before. Such belief, one you've never even held for yourself, captivates you. The weight of his words resonates deeply, shaking the core of your being, even as you strive to maintain a facade of nonchalance. But Frankie effortlessly sees through your charade, knowing you better than he knows himself at this point. He slowly pushes his upper body upward and starts peppering your collarbones with tender kisses. You feel your cheeks heating as you shyly avert your gaze, unable to resist the sweetness of his praise and the even sweeter ministration.

A brief moment passes, during which you nibble on your lower lip, contemplating your next words. Finally, you muster the courage to meet Frankie's eyes once more, you push him back down on the mattress and ask, a mischievous glint shining in your eyes, "If I am to be your queen, does that mean you're willing to obey my every command?”

A playful smile dances on Frankie's lips as he replies, "Well, mi cielo, let's just say I'm more than willing to embark on the thrilling adventure of fulfilling your every desire, one command at a time." With those words, Frankie softly grabs your right arm, the very arm that had been holding him down, and he punctuates each word with a tender kiss upon the palm of your hand. As he does so, his eyes gently close, allowing his lips to linger in their affectionate embrace, locked in that sweet moment.

Frankie surrenders to the present, savouring every precious second that slowly passes between the two of you. The ache of longing for you these past months had been insurmountable, a void that only you could fill. Amidst his world engulfed in chaos, pain, and the remanence of a haunting trail of death that seemed eternally imprinted on his very being, your presence at his side has always been the sole beacon of meaning and coherence. The only thing that ever truly mattered to him. Screw everything else; he should have chosen to stay home long ago, before feeling trapped in the abyss he felt he had dug himself into over the years. In an attempt to dispel the encroaching darkness threatening to envelop him, Frankie inhales deeply, pushing away those grim thoughts, before swiftly flipping you over.

Everything else fades away again, and only the two of you remain. As you draw in a deep breath, the air fills your lungs with a trembling intensity, causing a burning sensation. Your chest tightens, not just from the weight of Frankie's presence, but also from the weight of everything that surrounds you, suffocating you in its bittersweet grasp. Tenderly, Frankie gently presses his nose against yours, once, twice, before planting a soft kiss upon its tip.

“My love, I assure you that nothing can ever come between us. There is nothing that could separate me from you. I belong to you for eternity, and as long as I can share my life with you, my dear, it will have been a life worth living, mi cielo.”

Your eyes well up with tears, and with a quiver in your voice, you whisper, "I love you, Frankie."

"Te amo, mi cielo, te amo para siempre," he replies, his words carrying the weight of a vow between you two.

With intertwined fingers and hearts overflowing with love, you gaze into each other's eyes. As you lie there, wrapped in the afterglow of passion, you savour the tranquillity and completeness that permeates the room. You vow to cherish each day, to embrace the ordinary moments that always become extraordinary when you are with Frankie. Together, you will face the world with open hearts, ready to create this future you’ve always yearned for with Frankie. As Frankie peppers kisses down your throat, you smile, and a shuddering breath escapes you. Food can wait you think giddily. Your hands gently glide along the broad expanse of his back, savouring him in all his glorious being. Nothing else matters now, for Frankie is home.

#reposted from my old blog #welcome to my new blog! #fanfic #fanfiction #a03 #archive of our own #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro boys #pedro pascal characters #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #francisco morales #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfic #francisco morales x reader

[darkhighness]

Good Omentober Day 19 - Wings

Crowley had let himself fall into disarray but Aziraphale is always there to help.

Crowley was starting to get on Aziraphale’s nerves as he was constantly rubbing up against the bookshelves, trying to scratch his back. He was constantly groaning in frustration but he wouldn’t ask Aziraphale for help. He was too stubborn.

“My dear, please, let me help,” Aziraphale sighed, putting his book down and staring at the demon who was huffing and puffing in the corner. His glasses had fallen down to the bridge of his nose, letting his golden eyes peek through from the top.

“I’ve got it, angel,” He assured. The itch had started this morning and any time he felt like he almost had it, the scratchiness would return, “Angel, would you mind if I took my shirt off?”

“Will it stop you rubbing against the furniture like a cat?”

“I don’t like it anymore than you do!” He snapped.

Aziraphale sighed and walked over to Crowley, helping him take his waistcoat and undershirt off. There were red marks all up his back from his incessant scratching and the demon twitched under his touch.

“My love, you’re hurting yourself,” Aziraphale whispered, “Let me help.”

Crowley melted into Aziraphale’s touch and whined, “The itch won’t go away.”

“You’ve rubbed your whole back raw,” Aziraphale murmured, his hand tracing the burn scars on his partner’s back. Then the revelation hit him.

He shot up and closed the blinds on all the windows and covered the door, flipping over the open sign to proudly display ‘closed’.

“What are you doing angel? I can barely see in here,” Crowley whinged in the darkness. Aziraphale turned on a small desk lamp and the space illuminated.

“Show me your wings,” the angel demanded bluntly.

“What? I’m not just going to summon my wings so you can stare at them.”

“You need my help, I’m helping you. If you can’t reach the scratch it stands to reason that you’re working on the wrong plane.”

“They’re ugly,” Crowley muttered, too low for Aziraphale to hear. He was staring at the ground, kicking at the dust. He couldn’t bare to show the worst parts of him to the angel.

“What was that?”

“I don’t want you to see them. They’re ugly,” He jabbed harshly.

“Crowley…” The angel sighed and gently held his hand, “There’s no part of you that’s ugly. I love your wings.”

The demon let out a tiny whimper before summoning his wings from the other plane. He hadn’t tended to his wings in months, too ashamed at how they looked. He had walked in on Aziraphale preening his wings a while back and any time he thought of his own wings, that image of Aziraphale, cosied up, gently massaging each feather returned into his conscious. Crowley missed his old wings. He hated the crooked, blackened mass that he dragged around as his true form. It was shameful and a reminder that he wasn’t good enough for his angel.

As the wings sprung open, a series of loose black feathers puffed out, landing on the floor. His wings stretched out to reveal a series of crooked and matted feathers and a few pin feathers near the base, the likely cause of the itchiness.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but gasp when he saw the wings. Aziraphale took such great pride in his, finding the regular grooming to be relaxing. Seeing Crowley’s wings in such a state caused a pang in his heart, “Oh, my love.”

Crowley let out a sob and rushed to cover his face with his arms, “I told you!”

Aziraphale, before even touching Crowley’s wings, wrapped him in a hug and held him close, not saying another word. He gently rubbed the demon’s back, taking care around the wings, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I’m here to help you, Crowley.”

Crowley’s face was tucked in the crook between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder, warm wet tears still falling.

“Can I groom your wings, my dear?” The angel asked softly, gently pulling away.

Crowley nodded silently.

Aziraphale miracled a series of pillows and blankets to cover the ground. He gently guided Crowley to kneel on the cushions and get comfortable.

Aziraphale sat behind him and started on the pin feathers by Crowley’s shoulders. He gently messaged the pins to release the casing, unsheathing a gorgeous new black feather. He gently placed a kiss on the top of Crowley’s wing, an assurance the he loved ever single part of the demon.

They sat like that for a while, with Aziraphale massaging the casing off of the remaining pin feathers. Crowley didn’t want to admit it, but the itch was finally easing and the tender touch was unlike anything else. He’d never let anyone touch his wings before, let alone groom them. It felt intimate.

“Your new feathers are beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale smiled, straightening a few of the more stubborn feathers, “They’re shining in the light. I imagine in the sun it’s spectacular.”

Crowley grunted and was starting to wiggle about, “Angel, is it okay if I lay down?”

“Yeah, of course, Crowley.”

Aziraphale shifted, giving the demon more room to sprawl out. He laid face down, his wings spanning across the entire space when fully extended. Aziraphale gently picked up his left wing and began to work on the primary feathers. He knew from experience that this area could be the most tender so he was taking the utmost care. He gently straightened out some of the barbs and attempted to coax some of the crooked feathers into place.

With each gentle and precise movement, Crowley struggled to contain his contentment. He let out small little moans and whined with each brush of Aziraphale’s hand, “Feels like you’re teasing me, angel.”

Aziraphale let out a small, breathy laugh, the kind that made Crowley dissolve in adoration, “You know, some humans really like it when their partner fusses with feathers too.”

Crowley’s face flushed immediately and he choked on a gasp, “You can’t just say that, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s small laugh nearly turned into a bellow and between bouts of giggles, he huffed, “I think…you’ll find…I can, and I did.”

“Mmm angel I’m gonna make you do this more often if you’re not careful,” Crowley threatened weakly, burying his face back into the pillows to hide his redness.

“Ideally, you would take better care of your wings, and I wouldn’t have to worry about you,” Aziraphale sighed softly before kissing the demon’s neck, “But I will help you anytime you need, my dear.”

He moved over to the next wing, preening the last few feathers. Once they were perfectly aligned, he stepped back to marvel at his work and more importantly, marvel at Crowley’s wings.

“Oh Crowley,” he breathed, “You’re gorgeous.”

Crowley sat up and his wings folded in close to his form. He took a moment to inspect Aziraphale’s handiwork. Perfect, as always.

“Well, does that mean it's your turn now, angel?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to turn bright red now. He quickly looked away from the demon and tried to compose himself, “I think it’s best I take care of it myself.”

Crowley picked up one of the discarded black feathers and stood up to hold Aziraphale. In his embrace, Crowley gently ran the feather along Aziraphale’s back, all the way up his neck.

The angel couldn’t stop the noise that escaped his lips, before exclaiming, “CROWLEY!”

#good omens #crowley #good omens 2 #good omentober #anthony j crowley #aziracrow #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #ao3 fanfic #angel wings #preening

[fruitcoops]

I miss my sister so very much (she's in college) so your sibling fics are the ones I revisit the most often, you write them so well! I was wondering if you wanted to write something about Sirius and Reg playing when Reg is just a few months old and Sirius witnesses Reg saying his first word? Or maybe taking his first step, whatever you prefer. Only if you want to ofc, thank you!

Happy birthday, Sirius! Character credit goes to @lumosinlove, but Anastasia is mine <3

There was a birthday cake in the kitchen, Sirius presumed. He thought he had seen a big white box earlier that afternoon, the kind from the bakery that stamped their name in swirly gold letters and wrapped silk ribbon around the outside. The bows were always picture-perfect; the cakes were more shimmery decoration than substance. Sirius had never been allowed to try one, of course, but the poorly-hidden disappointment on guests’ faces upon the first bite told him he wasn’t missing much. Briefly, he wondered whether he should be sad about not getting to eat his own birthday cake, regardless of the taste.

Another round of laughter siphoned from the closed door of his father’s study and he wrinkled his nose. Never mind.

“It’s not my interest,” he declared. That was a big, new phrase Anastasia had taught him just that morning. Seven year olds need to know big words, she had advised with a secret smile. It makes you sound as smart as you are. He wondered if his cousins would find it as impressive when they visited tomorrow. Surely he was much smarter than Bellatrix had been when she was seven.

Regulus stared up at him, squishy and wide-eyed and confused, then burst into a peal of laughter that made Sirius’ stomach feel funny. A happy kind of funny, like when the birds on the electric line all took off at once. He scooted forward on the carpet and reached toward Sirius’ face with a hopeful noise, kicking in excitement when Sirius lifted him to sit in his lap.

“Anastasia?” he asked quietly. She looked up and set her book aside, leaning forward to hear better. Sirius loved it when she did that. It meant she was really listening. “May we please watch cartoons?”

“No, not right now.”

“Please?”

“We have to be quiet.” She tapped her index finger to her lips with a wink. “You’re the big surprise for your papa’s friends, birthday boy. We can’t spoil a surprise this soon!”

Sirius frowned. “But it’s my birthday. I want to watch cartoons.”

“I know, but—”

“It’s my birthday.” Something hot and itchy rose at the back of Sirius’ neck and he scowled deeper, tightening his hold around Regulus’ soft middle. It didn’t feel like angry and it didn’t feel like sad but altogether something bad that he shouldn’t have to feel today. “It’s my day, Anastasia.”

Anastasia pressed her lips together with a look to the study door, then sat down across from him on the carpet. “I can see you’re getting frustrated—” Frustrated, that’s what this feeling is. “—but cartoons will be too loud right now. What if we go upstairs with Regulus and play cars?”

Sirius chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. Regulus was getting wiggly already, and he did like playing cars. Sitting downstairs until his parents found the right time for the birthday surprise didn’t sound nearly as fun. “Alright,” he agreed, getting to his feet and looking down. “What do you think?”

Regulus held on to the leg of his scratchy pants for balance and toddled a couple feet before sitting heavily on his backside, then reached up toward Sirius once again.

“I know you can walk further than that,” Sirius sighed. Honestly, it was exasperating. At barely a year old, his little brother was as heavy as a Christmas turkey.

“I can carry him, Sirius,” Anastasia laughed when they reached the first landing.

Sirius shook his head and readjusted to hold Regulus under the arms, letting him hang limp and giggly. “It’s fine,” he panted. “I won’t drop him.”

“I never thought you would.”

Regulus decided enough was enough at the top of the second flight and squirmed, kicking his fleece-clad feet and making unhappy noises until Sirius let him down to wobble along the hallway. “He just started doing that last month,” Sirius informed Anastasia. “He’s fast. Maman says I started walking earlier, but I was slower. I think I’m better at it than he is.”

Anastasia arched a brow, but Sirius could see her smiling. “You’ve had a lot more practice.”

He shrugged. “I guess. Regulus, my room, remember?”

Regulus made a noise and turned, using the bookshelf to balance. Sirius heard Anastasia’s surprised sound and looked up at her curiously. “He understands,” she said. “Interesting.”

“Of course he understands.”

Her eyes flickered down to him. “I—well, I didn’t expect it, is all.”

Sirius frowned. He didn’t like it when people said things like that. “Regulus is very smart.”

“You’re both very intelligent,” Anastasia agreed with a gentle ruffle of his hair. “Alright, go pick your cars and I’ll get the map out.”

--

It had been fifty-three minutes since they came upstairs. They had played cops and robbers, cowboy chase, and city—he had sorted all his cars by color and then by size, and Anastasia taught him the English words for all of the categories. “This is much more fun than a party,” Sirius had declared after a rousing car chase through the plastic zoo animals. Anastasia had looked a little sad, then, but smiled anyway and told him she was glad he thought so.

That didn’t make a lot of sense, if Sirius was being honest. Why would he want to sit in a room of grownups when he could play cars with Anastasia and Regulus? What stupid person would think that was fun? Best to leave the boring stuff to his parents. It was nice of them to entertain the guests so he could go play.

Regulus wasn’t loud most days; he only cried when he was hungry or missed a nap, and otherwise seemed content to stick to his humming or nothing at all. Sirius understood him perfectly fine either way. But he was louder today, pointing to cars when Anastasia named English colors or sizes—small, medium, big, very big—and babbling. They clapped every time. It made Regulus smile, mostly toothless, and that was enough of a reward.

After cars, they watched the snow falling against the sunset, and once it was dark, Anastasia brought them back downstairs for dinner in the kitchen. Sirius suffered through fifteen minutes of being paraded around the guests to be cooed over and get his cheeks pinched by women older than his grandmother before making a quick escape when the conversation turned back to his father.

The moon hung like a silver dollar in the corner of his bedroom window. The three of them sat on the carpet, Regulus in his lap and Anastasia’s arm around him, tucked up cozy under a blanket from last Christmas. “This was a good birthday,” Sirius said, snuggling into her side. Dinner had made him sleepy. Between the two of them, he was sandwiched in warmth; it was too easy to let his eyelids droop.

“Do you feel older? Seven is a big birthday.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes. It’s my lucky number.”

“Hmm. Mine is…” Sirius thought for a moment while Regulus played with his hands. “Mine is six, I think. I liked being six.”

“I did, too. That was a long time ago for me, though.”

“It was yesterday for me.”

“I know, Sirius,” she laughed.

“Soos.”

Sirius felt Anastasia lean down to Regulus’ level at the same time he did. “Reggie? Was that you?”

Regulus pulled on the cuff of Sirius’ fancy shirt. “Soos,” he repeated, shaking it like a rattle.

“…shirt?”

“I think…I think he’s trying to say your name,” Anastasia said quietly.

Oh. Excitement leapt in his chest and he turned Regulus around. Chubby fists waved before settling on Sirius’ front; Regulus leaned in and bonked their foreheads together with a shrieking giggle. “Soos!”

“Sirius,” he corrected.

“Soos.”

“See—ree—oos.”

“Soos!” Regulus stretched it out into a half dozen syllables and Sirius turned to Anastasia, beaming, before Regulus grabbed his cheeks and brought his attention back. “Soos.”

“Sirius.” He touched his own nose, then pressed on Regulus’. “Regulus.”

“Goose.”

“Close enough.”

“Soos and Goose.” Anastasia shook her head, bright-painted lips in a broad smile, and Sirius saw her eyes go shiny for just a second before she blinked it away. “I’ll have to put that one in the book, hmm?”

“Does it count?”

“As a first word? Of course it does.”

“Well, it’s not quite right,” Sirius pointed out, though he couldn’t tear his attention from Regulus’ careful mapping of his face. He was back to humming, little beeps of sound every few seconds.

“It doesn’t have to be just right. It’s enough that he tried, isn’t it? And we know what he means.”

Sirius considered it. “Is that your present for me?” he asked Regulus. “Saying my name?”

“Soos.”

“It counts.” Sirius adjusted his grip so they were eye-to-eye, close enough for Regulus to grab his ears. “That is my favorite birthday present. Thank you.”

Regulus went for his nose next and Sirius jerked back, startled. “Soos!”

“That is not my interest,” he said firmly.

Anastasia’s bark of laughter was louder than any cartoons would have been.

#sirius black #regulus black #anastasia #sweater weather #baby sirius #baby regulus #black brothers #birthday #first word #walburga and orion pay attention to your kid or face my wrath

[atonalginger]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @fangbangerghoul! I don't have much but I've got a chunk from a short fic I'm writing with Lila, Sam, and Goose! They were too much fun to not go back and see what they're up to!

---

It had been Goose’s idea to rebuild the Bitter Angel. The War Bard was a powerful ship but it was near impossible to sneak up on anyone with its pastel blue paint job and 40m frame. She’d served well in the battle for the Key and Toilman but they weren’t fighting in the war anymore. They were pirates and needed something zippier and subtler than the Bard.

It was Lila’s idea to use a busted up UC transport they’d stolen during the Toilamn conquest as the base for the new Bitter Angel. It already had some of the parts, including the armory, landing bay, and rear landing gears. The landing gears needed repairs but Jazz’s team could manage that.

Sam was the one who pitched the idea of custom habs for the new Bitter Angel. Nothing crazy, just more personalized spaces for longer jobs. Sam and Lila took a Hopetech captain’s quarters and gutted it, leaving only the water closet intact. They installed a large bed in the back of the hab with a sliding divider to close it off for added privacy. A pair of corner couches and a L-shaped desk formed a more physical barrier in the hab to separate the bed from the living space. Goose swapped the Nova all-in-one of the old Bitter Angel for his own room. He picked a Hopetech captain’s quarters as the base, though like his parents he had it gutted save for the water closet. The back half of his hab looked like a computer core with a wall of servers and monitors and a L-shaped desk to separate the back from his sleeping area. He installed a Murphy bed along the inner wall of the hab with a large monitor mounted on bottom frame to be watched from his couch when the bed was up.

“That’s quite the view,” Lila said from the pilot seat. She was leaned forward to look around the blind spots of the chunky bridge frame, “I don’t think I could design a more aggressive docking situation if I tried.”

“That was the point,” Sam was leaning on the seat, “no time for finesse when you’re raiding someone.”

“Yes but from here it looks like the bridge would slam into the mark,” Lila looked back at Sam and Goose, “not to mention you can’t see shit from here. Hopetech really seems to hate pilots being able to see anything.”

“It’s not that bad,” Goose said with a laugh, “plus she’s squirrelly so if you can’t see just tap the stick.”

“Could be worse, could be trapped in a Stroud cockpit, “Sam poked her shoulder, “all that room and one narrow line of windows to see.

“I suppose,” Lila swatted Sam’s hand away as he continued poking her, “You two can have fun flying her, sitting here is tying my stomach in knots.”

“Really?” Goose said in astonishment.

“Yes this cockpit is claustrophobic,” Lila stood up and made her way back through the narrow fuselage, “I might be ancient but I’ve never fully shook the ol’ Terra Firma Syndrome. Why else do you think I like big ships?”

“But you’d said space travel didn’t bother you anymore?” Goose asked.

“Correct,” she leaned against the clean white padding of the fuselage, “but being in a tiny space inches from the void with nothing but a cluster of dinky windows to shield me is too much.” She turned and left the two men in the small bridge, hopping down to the lower level, an echoing thump as she landed on the closed floor hatch to the workshop at the bottom of the ship.

Sam itched his chin, digging at the growing beard. He still wasn’t sure if he was going to keep it, it’s been years since he’d gone more than a few days shaving. Lila liked him either way, though he noticed she was fussing from the scratchy stubble. He’d probably end up shaving it again, if only to escape the itchiness.

He’d only started growing it out because of Goose. The now 18 year old young man wanted to grow out his facial hair but was getting discouraged so Sam agreed to grow his out in solidarity. So far Goose had a decent disconnected goatee going; the hair on his upper lip, chin, and lower lip had grown in thick. He wanted a full beard but the hair got patchier up his jawline and he started shaving it to not get teased by folks around the Key.

Sam watched Goose check over the systems, recalibrating them just like they did with the old Angel. His hair looked feral with the two years worth of grow-out curling every which way. Lila had convinced him shortly after the fight for the Key, when he was still recovering from his injuries, to let her trim all the fried ends from his hair. He hadn’t bleached or dyed his ginger hair since, his curl pattern free to take over. Both Sam and Lila had encouraged Goose to style it in some way, to keep it out of his face, even just run a comb through it to tidy it up but Goose seemed to like it messy and unkempt so there wasn’t much they could do.

At least he bathes and wears deodorant, Sam thought as he lowered himself into the pilot seat. He had a leg up on most his pirate peers with that. Sam flipped on the ship intercom, “if you’ve got any business with the Key say something now, otherwise we’re outta here.”

Lila’s voice bounced up through hatch and down the fuselage, “Let’s bust this joint!”

#starfield #sam coe #starfield fanfiction #atonalginger writes #wip wednesday #starborn!Sam #Sam Coe x oc #pirate!Sam #the family that plungers together stays together

[wrongydkjquotes]

Schmitty: But Helen, I was a political prisoner!

Helen: How were you a political prisoner?

Schmitty: I kicked a giant mouse in the butt! Do I have to draw you a diagram?!

(Source: Homer and Marge, The Simpsons S 6 E 4 Itchy And Scratchy Land)

#itchy and scratchy #Disney world #walt disney world #Disneyland #ydkj #you don't know jack #wrongydkjquotes #schmitty #josh schmitty schmitstinstein #Helen ydkj #ydkj Helen

[classic-simpsons]

#the simpsons #thesimpsonsedit #animationedit #tvedit #animationsource #animationsdaily #cartoonedit #dailyanimation #chewieblog #userstream #90sedit #itchy & scratchy land #06X04 #my edit #maggie simpson

[flyinghellfish]

#the simpsons #homer simpson #bart simpson #marge simpson #lisa simpson #marge bouvier #itchy and scratchy land #s06e04 #season 6

[mayolive-writes]

Moonlight Trampoline Adventure | Jungkook

The Love Plaza | Moonlight Trampoline Adventure | Labret

Pairing: Jungkook x AFAB Reader

Summary: (Taking place before the events of The Love Plaza) Near the end of your summer break, you and Jungkook are stargazing on your childhood trampoline, thinking about what’s next to come.

Wordcount: 665 (a miracle, truly)

Genre: Fluff, Drabble

Warnings: N/A

A/N: This is set right before the happenings of The Love Plaza, but can be read as a stand-alone as a feel-good drabble!! Enjoy :) I have another drabble with this couple soon so stay tuned!!

Envision a trampoline.

Oftentimes, one would imagine a trampoline with wild children that hold even wilder imaginations. Jumping haphazardly, with a fantasy playing in their mind. Maybe they’re a pirate crossing the tumultuous sea? Or, perhaps, they’re a young adventurer fighting off a rabid dragon? Regardless, they laugh freely. But those days are long gone for Jungkook and you, imagination replaced with uncertainty. There is no more fantasy, only the future ahead.

The two of you simply lay there.

The summer breeze rustles the trees, the white noise making it easy to recede into your thoughts. The air still has the hint of a spring already passed, and the trampoline netting below brings a sense of weightlessness. Each and every star in the night sky above seems to want your attention, pulling your gaze to and fro; in the end your eyes rest upon the moon, milky white and serene, well aware of its beauty.

Soon.

Soon you will be entering a new adventure in your life, an adventure that always felt far away… until it wasn’t. This time last year, you were hell-bent on making the most out of the last year you had with such little responsibility. One more year to be stupid and crazy, one more year to be a little childish and not feel guilty about it.

One more year to conclude the end of this long chapter.

But it passed quickly, and here you are. Jungkook is as silent as you are, the only proof of his being the steady breathes that you can hear beside you. You’re certain that by tomorrow morning he’ll be complaining of itchy mosquito bites and a scratchy throat, but for now, he looks at peace somehow. However, you know better. Jungkook has always been hesitant to show worry or anxiety, often masking it as being content.

“So, like…” you grab his attention, “do you think you’re ready?”

A heavy sigh reaches you, and you wait for the rest of his answer for a few long seconds. “Hell fuckin’ no.”

Another sigh releases, this time from both of you. “Yeah, me neither. But we’ll still be there for eachother.” Still boring into the moon, you reach for his hand, “I appreciate you. I wish I had more ways of showing it and saying it. But I do.”

You don’t look over as it happens, but Jungkook lets his fingers latch onto yours, and his thumb rubs over the edge of your hand. “Thank you… the world isn’t ready for our shitshow.”

“Well, neither we nor the world have much choice in the matter.” The weight of his hand can’t be that heavy, but it feels like a hundred pounds has pinned you down. Or maybe it’s just you. The moon won’t miss you, so you finally beside you to see a boy with stars in his eyes. He’s excited and terrified. He smiles brightly, but with furrowed eyebrows. He’s only human after all.

You sit up, deciding that maybe it’s time for bed. As soon as you stand on wobbly knees Jungkook lightly kicks your leg out from under you. A fiendish smile replacing the soft one from before as you squeal.  That is until you land on top of him, knocking the breath out of his chest, letting out a loud *oof--*

“You fucking idio—” You’re close. Very close. To his lips.

Jungkook is warm in a way that the late summer night could never be, and a magnetic force inside you urges you to lean in just a little more so that your lips may touch. Your mind becomes clouded and your heart races faster than the speed of light thinking about what if…

Before you can think any further and possibly screw anything up, Jungkook is pushing you off his chest.

“Stay. Just a bit longer.” Pleading eyes stare into yours, so strong that you have no choice but to lay on your back again.

The moon is captivating tonight.

Taglist: @blairscott @hoseokteardrop

#bts smut #bts fanfic #bangtan sonyeondan #bts #Jungkook smut #jungook fanfic #bts imagines #bts fanfiction #bts x reader #bts scenarios #Jungkook #Jungkook imagine #Jungkook x reader #Jungkook fic #Jungkook x y/n #smut #kpop smut #female reader #Jungkook fluff #bts fics #jeon Jungkook #bts fluff #kpop fluff #kpop fanfic

[foxyafroninja]

Thoughts about the 141

I normally don’t write more than just blurbs because I tend to get bogged down with details cause I’m a protectionist and never happy with anything. But every time I hear this song I get butterflies in my stomach. This is a hurt/comfort fic.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>

So here we go…

Song- Better Place by Rachel Platten

~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\

The soft steady ‘ humm’ from overhead fluorescent lights filled Soaps ears. It’s droning melody danced with the steady ‘beep’s from the hospital equipment. It was both a comforting sound and caused his heart to tighten in his chest painfully. This shouldn’t have happened, he should have paid more attention, should have been quicker…. Should have protected you better.

They had just stopped the missile launch off that oil rig in the Gulf. After checking that Alejandro and his team was okay and accounted for they took a half a second to congratulate each other, that’s when it happened. He was sure he had cleared the room, positive all tangos were down, but he missed one.

When all their backs were turned, as his last act of defiance the Tango had shakily leveled his gun at you and fired one last shot. Instantly, Soap, Ghost and Graves spun around and finished him but it was too late. Blood…so much blood.

The ‘woosh’ of the hospital room door opening brought him back from his thoughts. Soaps muscles instantly snapped taught ready to spring from his chair. Upon his tired eyes verifying the intruders as Alejandro and Price his body went lax again, settling back into his seat.

Nothing was said at first, Alejandro placed another bundle of flowers on the table of ever growing gifts and then took his place at the foot of the bed. Price made his way to Soap, placing a strong hand on the young man’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Just’ chatted with the Doc,” Price spoke softly, “ Aur’ girls autt’a the woods, just’ hav’ to wait’ for her to wake up.”

Soap didn’t reply, simply nodded his head, not taking his eyes off you.

“Hermano,” Alejandro pushed, trying to get Soaps attention. “it’s not your fault, Okay? It was an accident.”

A hard look washed over Soaps face. Again, not taking his eyes of you, he growled under his breath. “ Aye, but Ah should’av been paying’ attention, should’av checked better, they’re in ‘at bed coz a me.”

“ Son, yau can’t’ keep blaming yaurself. Thes’ things happen.” Price sighed patting him on the shoulder. “ Yau eaten today?”

Soap shook his head again. Price clapped him on the shoulder one more time saying he and Alejandro would grab him something from the caf’ before they exited just quietly as they had entered.

Soap shifted his seat closer to you, gently took your hand in his and places a soft kiss on your knuckles. Bowing his head, feeling tears prick the corner of his eyes, he pressed is forehead into your hand, whispering sweet nothings and apologies.

The first thing you felt was itchy bedsheets. Hospitals were never known for their comfortable bedding. The second thing was someone holding your hand in theirs. Your eye’s fluttered, then squinted against the overhead lights at first but they quickly adjusted and settled off the figure clutching your hand,head bowed.

“Johnny”

Your voice was rough and scratchy. John’s name came out in more of a strained croak than anything that sounded like you.

Soap’s head nearly flew off his shoulders it snapped up so quickly. His slightly bloodshot teary eyes wide with shock. He sat frozen in place for a second before timidly reaching to cup your cheek, afraid if he moved too fast you just disappear before him.

His calloused warm hand felt good on your skin. You turned to place a kiss to his palm before looking back at him. Soap couldn’t wait any longer and , careful of your wounds, launched himself at you planting kisses over your cheeks, nose and forehead, before landing a long loft kiss on your lips.

“I’m so sorry, lass. I’m sorry Ah let this happen. I’m sorry I’m sorry~” He continued to mumble against your mouth. Gently, you placed your hands on either side of his head and nudged him to move back so you could see his whole face.

The face of a physically, emotionally and mentally exhausted man looked back at you. Tears still stood in his eyes, waiting to be shed. You used your thumb to gingerly wipe them away, pressed your foreheads together, eyes closed and cooed softly.

“I’m alright, everything’s alright . You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I thought I lost ya’. ” Soap smiled nuzzling into you lightly.

“Never baby, not now not ever.” You whispered to him, guiding him to climb onto the small bed and settle in near to you.

Being extremely careful not to jostle you too much, Soap moved around to have your head tucked against his chest and his arms securely wrapped around you, trailing his fingers up and down your arm. Eventually your eyes closed and Soap was left alone again with the soft steady ‘beep’ of the medical machines. But now there was no tightness in his chest, just the feeling of you.

===========================

Well it’s my first big post done and over. A huge thank you to @multi-fandom-imagine for taking the time to beta read this for me. I hope you guys enjoyed it as well.

#call of duty modern warfare #cod mw #john soap mactavish #call of duty #cod mw22 #alejandro vargas #mw2 2022 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #mw 141 #captain price #soap x reader #song inspired #first fic

[l223m0nade]

wheee I finally wrote that fic I posted a snippet from 1000 years ago! Stoked to share it. Happy New Year everyone!!

Steve and Bucky, WWII First Avenger fic, friendship or stucky, 3.4K words

            Goddamnit!” Bucky gave the broken-down, mud-trapped Jeep a vicious kick. There was never an ideal time for transport to break down on the road during a war, but over 20 miles from base with daylight ticking away and an icy cold rain beginning to drizzle down was close to disaster, and definitely infuriating.

           “She isn’t going anywhere, Cap,” said Morita.

            Steve frowned thoughtfully. “We’ll split up the gear between the other two jeeps, and I’ll cut through the woods to meet you all back at base.”

            “Alone?” Bucky was incredulous. “No chance. I’m going with you.” 

            Steve’s face was a funny combination of stubborn and uncomfortable. The other Commando’s exchanged amused glances and settled in for yet another bout of Cap and Sarge: The Bickering Old Marrieds. 

            “I’ll travel faster alone.”

            “Like hell I can’t keep up with you!”

            “Bucky—”

            “Steve.­ I know I can’t run like an actual racehorse like you can now, but there’s enemy troops in those woods. You can’t go crashing through ‘em at top speed no matter what. And you need someone on your six, and that someone’s me.”

            “Well—”

            “Besides, there ain’t room for me in there anyhow,” Bucky finished triumphantly, gesturing to the two working vehicles. 

            Steve huffed. “Fine. Bucky’s with me. The rest of you, travel fast, quiet, and safe. Keep your eyes peeled. We’ll see you at base tonight.” Then he clapped Bucky on the shoulder with a cheeky grin. “C’mon then, Sergeant. Hope you can keep up.”

            The Commandos “ooooo”-ed like school kids and Bucky made an exaggerated scandalized face. “Did I tell you to keep up back when you had the land speed of a snail and the lungs of a paper bag who smoked cigars??” He swung his pack up and fell into step behind Steve.

            “You did, actually.”

            “Well, I was joking!”

            “So was I, Buck.”

            They fell out of earshot as Barnes sputtered in outrage. The rest of the Howling Commandos had to take a moment to recover from laughter before they moved out swiftly down the road.

             An hour later, Bucky’s triumph at out-stubborning Steve had waned a little. The rain was falling thicker, enough to get them through the trees, and it was cold, even walking at their brisk pace. He’d gotten soaked in his sniper nest the day before, and then again on watch in the middle of the night, and it felt like he could barely remember what being dry felt like. His headache from the morning had faded, but left a heavy feeling in his face, and his throat was dry and scratchy.

            Suddenly a tickle erupted in his nose and he barely had time to suck in a breath or turn his head before the sneeze burst out: “ih-tsshchoo!” He inhaled as another one came right after, “hih-Ihh—” but then the tickle abandoned him as suddenly as it had come, fluttering unsatisfyingly around his sinuses and making the back of his nose and throat feel irritated, stuffy, runny, and itchy all at once.

            Comprehension dawned and he bit back a huge groan. He was catching a cold. As if it wasn’t miserable enough out here. Dugan was just getting over one and he thought he’d escaped but apparently not. 

            “Bless you,” Steve called softly over his shoulder, and he felt himself glower. He just needed to push through the afternoon and night’s march through the woods and just …not be sick until they were back at camp and he could hole up in his tent for a day until he shook it off. 

            Even as he thought it, the need to sneeze rose back up in his sinuses, making him squint and his breath waver. He rubbed his nose roughly on his sleeve and it faded but didn’t go away.

             …It wasn’t as though he couldn’t tell Steve, or let him know by not hiding it, it was just—Steve wasn’t just fair, he was kind. He was harder on himself than anyone else. He knew what it was like to be the less strong one, and he sure knew what it was like to be sick and trying to slog through it. He would be sympathetic, slow down for Bucky’s sake, suggest they stop and find a place to sleep for part of the night…

             —and, damnit, wasn’t that his job? He’d never resented Steve when he was a short stringbean who got laid up a lot, it never even occurred to him to look down on his best friend for not being as strong as the other idiots in the neighborhood, but their role reversal felt pretty damn strange to him nonetheless. It was all well and good for Steve, who’d always thought Bucky was an action hero; to him, the playing field was finally level and they were two supermen swashbuckling through the war together. 

           The army had stripped Bucky of any illusions that he was anything but an ordinary man, and he didn’t envy the new Super Soldier Steve. All he’d ever really wanted to be was a regular guy, someone who managed to enjoy life and be thought of as a decent man by those he cared about. Inspiring people was wonderful, but he saw how celebrity made Steve’s skin crawl and he wanted no part of it. 

           So: Bucky Barnes, regular-guy sidekick to Captain America, watching his back from outta the spotlight? Sure, sounds good. But Bucky Barnes, Damsel in Distress, who needs Steve to risk death and imprisonment storming a Hydra base to rescue him, who needs Steve to ease up the pace of their march because he’s coming down with the sniffles? Hell no. 

           He rubbed the bridge of his nose hard to ease the burning itch in there. He was going to have to sneeze again soon, no way around it, but he could be stealthy when he needed to be, and that included sneezing. He looked up at the grey sky to let the feeling build, then clamped his lips shut, shoved his fist under his nose, and shuddered forward with an entirely silent stifle. He let out a shaky exhale, making sure to stay quiet, and watched Rogers’ giant triangle of a back with suspicion, but he showed no sign of noticing. Success. It felt like shit to hold them in that way, especially with how ticklish and satisfying to let out his cold sneezes were, but maybe he’d be able to keep his misery under wraps until they were back at camp and he could curl up in blankets and self-pity in dignified solitude. 

              After a few hours he was soaked, shivering, with a sore throat, and feeling less thrilled with his plan. He had underestimated how miserable it would be to hold back every sneeze that crept up on him in total silence, and how much he would need to sniffle. He figured he could get away with the occasional sniff in this cold weather without sounding like he had a cold, but now his nose was so stuffed and runny he knew he’d give himself away. Searching his pockets, he came up with a tiny but blessedly clean and dry cloth scrap he held onto for cleaning his guns. His current need was more urgent, and he rubbed and wiped his nose until it felt like less of a faucet, wishing he could blow it and get some real relief. 

            He shivered as a chilly breeze reminded him how cold and wet he was, and the tickle in his nose crested, forcing his eyes closed, and he only just managed to stifle what felt like it wanted to be a huge sneeze. The urge to sneeze came right back, but as he let his breath hitch and buried his nose in the cloth to stifle, it deserted him just as suddenly, right on the brink. He breathed out slowly, not letting himself growl with the maddening frustration of the false start.

            Bucky squared his shoulders and smiled resignedly when Steve glanced back at him, looking fresh and comfortable and totally in his element. The plan was to walk through the night and he was going to do it without flagging or a word of complaint. 

 …………..

                        Steve was pretty sure something was up with Bucky, and that it was something he was determined to keep secret. For one thing, he wasn’t complaining about the cold or the wet or the woods at all, which sure wasn’t like him; he generally seemed to fuel himself through any uncomfortable situation by griping about it constantly. Also, he kept hearing little sighs or funny hitches of breath behind him. Steve was trying not to worry, and finding it difficult. Had he bruised his ribs during their last skirmish? Why was he trying to hide it if something was bothering him?    

            During the long walk from Kreischberg Bucky had stayed on his feet, stayed walking, found a gun and ignored the offer of a ride on the captured tank. He had seemed fine beyond being tired, underfed, a little shaken, and utterly bewildered by Captain America Steve Rogers. He had definitely not taken well to any suggestion that he had changed from the fusser to the fuss-ee in his and Steve’s relationship. Steve figured the smart move was to follow his lead. 

             “mmp!”

            “…You say something, Buck?”

            “Nope.” It sounded oddly resolute and came accompanied by a sharp sniff.

                        Bucky drew up beside him as he paused below the crest of the ridge they’d been slogging up. “Camp’s due southwest from here,” Steve murmured. 

           “If they’re not in front of us they’ll be thataways,” replied Bucky, gesturing north. Steve tried not to quirk an eyebrow at him. They hadn’t spoken in maybe two hours, and Bucky sounded totally different: hoarse and stuffy, like he was coming down with the bad head cold Dugan had gotten over a few days ago. Bucky kept looking in the direction he’d pointed, giving his pink-rimmed nose a swipe with his jacket sleeve. 

           Steve sent him to scout the alternate route while he checked the path ahead, and pointed out the tall tree one hill over at the spot for them to join back up and choose the clearest way to camp. Bucky nodded agreement, his eyes fluttering for a moment, and shoved his nose roughly into his wrist.

           So he was catching a cold? That was all? And trying to hide it for some reason, which wasn’t really like Bucky at all. The rare times he’d gotten sick in Brooklyn he’d tended to be open, even a bit dramatic about it, something Steve had noticed in other big tough guys to his own exasperated amusement.

           Still, a bad cold on an overnight march, after not enough sleep the night before, exposed to the icy rain still falling on them, wasn’t nothing, even if it wasn’t life-threatening. As he moved stealthily through the trees, looking and listening for signs of the enemy, Steve indulged in his hobby of Fretting About Bucky.         

           He didn’t run into anything, and when he spotted Bucky waiting for him at their rendezvous spot not bothering with total concealment he figured he hadn’t either. Bucky hadn’t caught sight of him yet, so Steve paused behind a tree, feeling a bit guilty for blatantly spying on him. 

           Bucky was tucked between a bush and a tree trunk, but Steve’s enhanced eyes gave him a good view of his face. As Steve watched, a hazy expression came over his face, and he wrinkled his nose up and wriggled it in every direction. He tilted his head up, breath visibly hitching, frowning and looking a bit desperate, until he finally shoved his nose into his elbow and shuddered forward with a muffled “hhhmmMPTsschuhh” that sounded like he just didn’t have it in him to squash into total silence. He looked up from his elbow with the sneeziest expression, gasped an inhale, and then sighed as the second sneeze deserted him. He looked around suspiciously as though he could feel Steve’s eyes, then tilted his head against the tree with a soft, fed-up growl and a harsh sniff. 

           Poor guy. He seemed determined to try to get away with coming down sick without Steve knowing. Steve knew well how pride could make you act funny, especially if you were already feeling off-balance. He waited a minute before announcing his presence so Bucky could keep his secret for now, but he was determined to find somewhere dry-ish and call a halt for sleep tonight. He wasn’t sure how he’d get past Bucky if he stonewalled him, but Steve didn’t really know any approach beyond the direct. He’d work it out. They fell back into step.

                         “hhhh…hh-mmptch!”

            “Bucky?”

            “What.” Geez he sounded testy.

           “Was that a…sneeze?”

           “…How did you even hear that?”

           Sheepish, Steve tapped his finger towards his ears. “Got super-hearing now, I guess, along with the rest of it.”

           Bucky groaned, tipping his head to the darkening sky, and then cleared his throat with a wince. “Can we just keep moving?”

             A few hours into the night, Bucky could only breathe through his mouth, Steve had gradually slowed their pace from a march to a stroll, and both men were judiciously ignoring the frequent, helpless, stuffy sniffles and stifled sneezes from one of them. 

           Steve slowed down all the way and turned. “Whaddya say we—”

           “hehh-kngtt! mmpt! hihh…hiDtchuhh!”

           Steve eyed him sorrowfully. “I know how crummy doing that feels when you’ve got a cold.” 

           “Sdeved…” Bucky sounded exasperated but he didn’t take his arm down from where it was pressed to his nose.

           “Here.” Steve fished out a handkerchief and pressed it into his free hand. Bucky took it with an air of personal offense and turned aside to rub at his nose. “We’re finding a dry spot to sleep within the next half-mile. We’ll still make it back to camp before they start to worry,” cautiously, “and you need the rest, Buck.”

           Bucky opened his mouth to retort, but his nose betrayed him. “…hihh—fuck—hih-gnnkt! hh-hih-ktccht! idsch!” He sniffed violently and aimed a full-force Bucky Barnes Glower at Steve, just daring him to say something. “I’mb fide.”

           That scowl had never really fazed Steve much, including back when it was him shamelessly lying his ass off to Bucky about his obvious sickness. “I hear ya, pal. You just seem a little…chilly, is all.”  Boy, if looks could kill. The red-nosed sniffles were kinda taking the edge off of this one, though.

           After a few seconds of Bucky’s silent mutinous glare he lost patience and scoffed, “C’mon, even if I was still half-blind and half-deaf it’d be obvious you got a cold. You look like an ad for Vick’s Vapo-Rub right now.”

           In truth he looked worse: wet, shivering, pale, with a chapped bright red nose that quivered even as Steve looked at it. Bucky deflated, sighed, turned his face up toward the dark sky, and let his breath stutter in and out before snapping forward and sneezing openly off to the side. “Hehh…hhAH-ESHhhuh!! uhhKSHhoo!! …hhhuhh..” he waited desperately for the third one before it finally shuddered out, “hihhhIISHHieww!”

            He took a moment to catch his breath and straighten out after that last sneeze, and then he gave in and blew his nose properly at last. Steve nudged his shoulder affectionately. “C’mon. There’s a spot under that tree that’s actually dry, I swear. And I’m a good pal to have in a bivouac— I run hot now.” 

            Bucky seemed to have surrendered his pride, as he just groaned and went in the direction Steve prodded him, helped drag some boughs and jackets around until they had a dry, decent shelter, and then curled up with his back to Steve without prompting so Steve could wrap around him and share his warmth, in a precise role reversal of the coldest nights they spent in Brooklyn.

 …………

             Bucky turned into Steve’s warmth and let himself savor it, half-asleep. After a moment, the change in position caused one of his blocked nostrils to suddenly open up, and the relief of being able to breathe through his nose was overcome by the immediate need to sneeze. Squeezing his eyes shut and willing the tickle away did nothing; he frantically wormed his sleeve in front of his face just in time so he wasn’t sneezing directly into Steve’s chest, “hhh-huh-huh-Djtcsh! hhhNtsch! IHgtcshuhh…” he gave a pitiful snuffle.

           “Need a hankie?” Steve’s familiar deep voice in his new massive chest was a soft rumble all around him. 

           “Shuddup,” he answered on a sigh that became a series of hitching breaths that became another, more frustrated sigh, as his nose teased him mercilessly. When Steve wriggled and a soft cloth appeared next to his face, he accepted it wordlessly and blew his nose, catching a sudden, damp little sneeze in the handkerchief as he did. After a moment he mumbled a grudging, congested “Thangks,” then, “how come you have so mbany of these in a war zonde, anyhow?”

           Steve huffed, sounding a little embarrassed. “Guess I’m used to needing them in weather like this. Old habits.”

           “Huh.” That was funny. Little Brooklyn Steve had certainly spent more time sick than not in the cold, wet winter months, and as much as he had pushed through it and never complained, it had clearly been miserable even when it wasn’t debilitating. On the rare occasions Bucky picked something up from him, it always ended up a much milder version than Steve had suffered. Bucky had sometimes felt like a bit of an asshole with his taken-for-granted good health while Steve sniffled and sneezed and coughed his way through the winter. 

           He didn’t want Steve to feel that way now. “Well, you don’t need em now, probably never again. I’mb glad, Stevie, that’s great.” The warmth in his voice was genuine. He was getting used to Big Steve, to a world where Steve was strong and healthy and capable of coming to his rescue. “Snff! At least something good came of your superman serum beyond you getting to risk your neck in new exciting ways.” They both tried to elbow each other in the ribs at the same time.

           “Snffsnfff! Guh. And I guess I’m glad you forgot you didn’t ndeed these,” he muttered ruefully, rubbing his running nose into the cloth.             

           Steve’s only response was to casually wrap his arms around Bucky and snuggle him just a bit closer to his chest. Bucky let his eyes slide closed, musing sleepily that things weren’t that bad after all.

 ……………..

             When they finally got to camp in the bright sparkling mid-morning of the next day, they ran into the Commandos straight away, playing cards on the outskirts and disguising their worry for their first-and second-in-command quite effectively. Their expressions of relief turned to amusement at the sight of their Sergeant, looking rumpled and tired and sporting an impressively red nose that was currently buried in a well-used handkerchief for a loud, honking blow. 

           “What the hell happened to you?” asked Morita.

           Barnes gestured at Cap with his hanky and said in a ridiculously raspy, plugged-up voice, “Rogers got tired ad called a halt for the dight. I wandted to barch straight through, but, y’kndow. He’s -hehh—frah-hagile—heh-EHdjchshuh!!”

           Jones turned to Steve with his eyes sparkling. “He put a gun to your head to get you to go along with that story or what, Cap?”

           Steve blinked, the picture of innocence. “Dunno what you mean. It’s true.”

           The Commandos all started guffawing at them over their cards. Bucky barked a husky laugh-cough and socked Steve on the shoulder with an actual grin on his face despite how crummy he felt. “You’re a good pal to have, Stevie.” Without further ado he lurched toward his tent, not bothering to hide his exhaustion. “Outta by way, you truck-ridin’ sons a bitches, or I’ll sdeeze on you.”

           Steve looked at him go with a mix of concern and dopey fondness on his face that made the Commandos chuckle softer, then harder at the retreating sound of Bucky sneezing loudly followed by a dramatic drawn-out groan.

“HUH—DSCHhhehh! Uuuuuuuuuuugh!”

-----------------------------------------------

I hope you enjoyed this! And I hope it came off light-hearted like I was aiming for. Would love to hear any and all thoughts, I had a blast writing this just like every time I write in this community and genre :D

#Captain America: The First Avenger #my fic #snzfic #sneeze kink fic #Grumpy Bucky ™ #cute sick bucky #tough boys in war zones still get the sniffles

[piko-power]

HEY SO APPARENTLY I JUST HEARD WORD ABOUT WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN IN THE THIRD ACT IN SONIC MOVIE 3 AND GUYS????

TAILS IS DEAD (source under the cut)

That's right! Dead serious about going to Itchy and Scratchy Land!

APRIL FOOLS SUCKERS!

(Literally the day is almost over and I JUST decided to do something stupid. So sorry that I'm late for the party lmao)

#piko rambles #sonic movie 3 #sonic movie 3 spoilers #miles tails wachowski