Request Ficlets (sort of), Post the First.
Two ficlets so far. Not a lot for a full day's work, granted, but it's a start. And if these are not to your liking, I'm taking requests here through Thursday. Put up or shut up.
I. Harlan/Marcus, wet and dirty kisses. Requested by morcalivan. Futurefic for the Aftermath Series, because even all these years later, I am still more than a little obsessed.
Marcus' lungs burned with the lack of oxygen, but he pushed his legs forward anyway, chanting move over and over in his head as he ran. He didn't dare slow down even enough to look behind him; he could feel someone back there, breathing hard with the effort to catch him before he made it to safety. In just a few yards he'd be home free, and it would be worth the agony in his lungs and the pain in his legs.
Ten yards to go, then five, and his right foot came down hard on the slick grass, slipping out from under him just enough to slow him down. Marcus caught his balance and pushed forward again, but the soft ground gave way under his heel and pulled him backwards again. Before he could right himself a second time he felt it -- the arm sliding around his waist, solid chest pressed up against him and pulling him to the ground in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Marcus grunted at the impact, the football slipping out of his hands as he opened his eyes to stare up at his attacker.
Somewhere in the distance someone shouted 'foul!', but if the person pinning him to the ground heard, he didn't react. Instead he just grinned down at Marcus, one hand braced against the grass next to Marcus' head.
"Cheater."
"That was a legal move, Marcus," Harlan answered, shifting his weight just enough to make Marcus bite back a groan.
"There's a difference between touch and tackle, you know. As in, when we play touch football you're not supposed to throw me to the ground and break my spine."
"You can take it," Harlan said, and he looked so sure of himself that Marcus couldn't help laughing. "Besides, it kept you from scoring, right?"
Somewhere on the field the rest of the guys were arguing about whether or not Harlan's tackle was technically a foul, but Marcus couldn't tell from his position under Harlan who was winning. Then a fat drop of water hit him square in the forehead, followed by another and then a third on his cheek. Marcus squinted up at the sky, realizing for the first time that a storm was gathering pretty quickly. "It's raining."
"Guess we'll have to finish the game later," Harlan answered, but he didn't make a move to let Marcus up.
"They're going to stop letting us play at all if you keep ignoring the rules," Marcus said, but he knew it was pretty much an empty threat. For one thing, Harlan was the best player they had, and even if it was just for fun on the weekends, these guys liked to win. And anyway, half the team worked for Harlan's father, which was the only reason they'd let Marcus practice with them in the first place.
The rain was falling harder now, soaking into Marcus' clothes where he wasn't covered in Harlan. It was cold, but it felt good after an afternoon of working up a sweat on the football field. They were both sweaty and covered in dirt, and soon they'd be a mud-soaked mess, but Harlan was warm and against his chest and he didn't really see the need to move just because of a little rain.
"Are you two coming or what?" someone yelled, but whoever it was didn't wait around for an answer, because when Marcus tilted his head to catch a glimpse of the team, the guys were running for cover.
"Are we?" Marcus asked, shifting his attention back to Harlan.
Harlan's hand came up to wipe a few drops of rain off his cheek, then he grinned and leaned in to press his lips against the corner of Marcus' mouth. "Depends. You want to go drinking with those idiots or do you want to go home and get out of these wet clothes?"
"Home," Marcus answered without hesitating, arms sliding around Harlan's neck. He turned his mouth into Harlan's, sighing against his lips as Harlan kissed him slow. He didn't notice the rain turning even colder, didn't notice the way the it stung his bare skin or the fact that his new sneakers were getting trashed in the mud. And he could imagine the conversation going on in the bar at the edge of the park right now; their teammates were probably muttering into their beers about another public display from the two of them, coming up with mutinous plots to kick them off the team that no one would ever have the balls to put in motion.
The thought made him laugh against Harlan's mouth, and a second later Harlan pulled back to grin at him. "What?"
"Nothing," Marcus answered, hands sliding down Harlan's chest to rest against the only part of his shirt that was still dry. "Let's go home."
~
II. Deadliest AU, Brett. Let's pretend duckduck requested this, yeah? I should really be writing this series in order, but I'm not. This was born mostly of my excitement for the return of Deadliest Catch next week, and it is not my best work, but it's a fandom of two, so I will cut myself some slack and hope that you will do the same.
As soon as Avery buys the DVD player Brett starts plotting a way to get his hands on that show they're filming about the crab fishing season. He tells himself it's for their own good; they've had at least a dozen arguments about Avery going back out for the new season, and Brett's tried to use the cameras to get his way more than once. Avery always swears that he's careful, that he avoids the cameramen as much as possible and that none of them ever come aboard his boat. But they both know that's no guarantee he hasn't showed up somewhere in the background, and even just a second of his face on camera could get them both killed.
That's what Brett tells himself when he heads to the general store in town, barely waiting until Avery's out the door for Opi season before he starts pulling his boots on. He doesn't expect to find what he's looking for, but it turns out the show's pretty popular -- probably because it's local, he reasons -- and they've got the first three seasons right there on the shelf.
Brett skips straight to the third season, because they were still in New York for the first one and the second was filmed during their first year in Alaska, when Avery was still safe in the cabin with him and nowhere near some documentary about a bunch of morons with a death wish.
Brett scowls at the TV as the credits start to roll, the voiceover telling him exactly how much danger these guys are in at every second. It starts off with news about a vessel that went down last season, just to make sure Brett's on the edge of his seat, then the voiceover launches into a recap of the most harrowing moments that Brett missed by skipping season two and going right to season three.
And he's heard all the stories -- some of them from Avery, most from the guys down at the bar in town -- but none of that even comes close to seeing it in action. He's fifteen minutes into the first episode before he notices his death grip on the remote, rolling his eyes at himself and setting it down on the couch next to him before he turns his attention back to the screen. The crew of whatever boat they're following is joking around about the new guy, something about making him bite the head off a fish or something. And Brett has a hard time imagining Avery doing anything like that, but he's changed a lot in the past year, so maybe he went through gross hazing rituals his first time out too.
Maybe Brett would know if he'd let Avery talk about it, but whenever the subject comes up it turns into an argument pretty quickly. With good reason, Brett reminds himself as he watches the guys on the screen swinging a thousand pound crab trap over the side of the boat. It's terrifying, thinking of Avery doing this day after day with barely any sleep and surrounded by a bunch of guys who don't even know him. Not like Brett, anyway, because he's known Avery practically his whole life, knows Avery better than anybody else in the world.
Except he didn't know Avery was capable of this: brutal, back-breaking labor day in and day out, only stopping long enough to wolf down enough calories to keep going or grab an hour's sleep before he turns around and starts all over again. He's seen up close and personal just how strong Avery's gotten since they found themselves in Alaska, but if anybody had showed him this a year ago and said Avery was going to be one of those guys, Brett would have laughed in their face.
And it still makes him want to drive to Dutch Harbor and drag Avery back to the safety of their cabin, but the longer he watches the more impressed he is. Because Brett's gotten a lot stronger in the past year too, but he knows he couldn't do any of this. He couldn't swing a steel cage over the side of the boat by himself, couldn't crawl inside it to hang bait and then scramble back out again fast enough to keep from getting bitched out by everybody on the crew. A lot of these guys seem to have a hard time with that part, but from what Avery's said he took to it like he was born to bait crab traps. And maybe it doesn't sound like much of a calling, but now that Brett's seen it in action...well, he's not going to be so quick to blow off Avery's stories anymore.
That doesn't mean he's going to stop trying to talk Avery out of going back out there, or that he's going to stop worrying the whole time Avery's gone. As soon as he thinks it the voice on the TV starts talking about a fishing boat in some kind of distress, and even though Brett knows this was filmed before Avery ever even heard of crab fishing, his stomach still turns at the mention of survival suits and Coast Guard rescues.
And he's not a complete wuss, no matter what Avery thinks, but he reaches for the remote anyway and turns off the DVD. After all, there's brave, and then there's just crazy, and Brett still hasn't figured out which one fits Avery best. Sometimes he thinks Avery's still blaming himself for Max and Elise, that he's just looking for a way to get himself killed, as though that's going to bring them back. And maybe that's how it started, but now that he's been through one season he's figured out that he's good at it, and Brett knows that nothing he says is going to keep him from going back.
He sighs and reaches for the remote again, fast forwarding through the parts about the capsized vessel and the dead crew until he gets back to the actual fishing. Because it's still seriously fucking scary, but it's the first thing Avery's ever really been excited about, and if Brett can't be there he at least wants to know what he's missing.
~
I. Harlan/Marcus, wet and dirty kisses. Requested by morcalivan. Futurefic for the Aftermath Series, because even all these years later, I am still more than a little obsessed.
Marcus' lungs burned with the lack of oxygen, but he pushed his legs forward anyway, chanting move over and over in his head as he ran. He didn't dare slow down even enough to look behind him; he could feel someone back there, breathing hard with the effort to catch him before he made it to safety. In just a few yards he'd be home free, and it would be worth the agony in his lungs and the pain in his legs.
Ten yards to go, then five, and his right foot came down hard on the slick grass, slipping out from under him just enough to slow him down. Marcus caught his balance and pushed forward again, but the soft ground gave way under his heel and pulled him backwards again. Before he could right himself a second time he felt it -- the arm sliding around his waist, solid chest pressed up against him and pulling him to the ground in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Marcus grunted at the impact, the football slipping out of his hands as he opened his eyes to stare up at his attacker.
Somewhere in the distance someone shouted 'foul!', but if the person pinning him to the ground heard, he didn't react. Instead he just grinned down at Marcus, one hand braced against the grass next to Marcus' head.
"Cheater."
"That was a legal move, Marcus," Harlan answered, shifting his weight just enough to make Marcus bite back a groan.
"There's a difference between touch and tackle, you know. As in, when we play touch football you're not supposed to throw me to the ground and break my spine."
"You can take it," Harlan said, and he looked so sure of himself that Marcus couldn't help laughing. "Besides, it kept you from scoring, right?"
Somewhere on the field the rest of the guys were arguing about whether or not Harlan's tackle was technically a foul, but Marcus couldn't tell from his position under Harlan who was winning. Then a fat drop of water hit him square in the forehead, followed by another and then a third on his cheek. Marcus squinted up at the sky, realizing for the first time that a storm was gathering pretty quickly. "It's raining."
"Guess we'll have to finish the game later," Harlan answered, but he didn't make a move to let Marcus up.
"They're going to stop letting us play at all if you keep ignoring the rules," Marcus said, but he knew it was pretty much an empty threat. For one thing, Harlan was the best player they had, and even if it was just for fun on the weekends, these guys liked to win. And anyway, half the team worked for Harlan's father, which was the only reason they'd let Marcus practice with them in the first place.
The rain was falling harder now, soaking into Marcus' clothes where he wasn't covered in Harlan. It was cold, but it felt good after an afternoon of working up a sweat on the football field. They were both sweaty and covered in dirt, and soon they'd be a mud-soaked mess, but Harlan was warm and against his chest and he didn't really see the need to move just because of a little rain.
"Are you two coming or what?" someone yelled, but whoever it was didn't wait around for an answer, because when Marcus tilted his head to catch a glimpse of the team, the guys were running for cover.
"Are we?" Marcus asked, shifting his attention back to Harlan.
Harlan's hand came up to wipe a few drops of rain off his cheek, then he grinned and leaned in to press his lips against the corner of Marcus' mouth. "Depends. You want to go drinking with those idiots or do you want to go home and get out of these wet clothes?"
"Home," Marcus answered without hesitating, arms sliding around Harlan's neck. He turned his mouth into Harlan's, sighing against his lips as Harlan kissed him slow. He didn't notice the rain turning even colder, didn't notice the way the it stung his bare skin or the fact that his new sneakers were getting trashed in the mud. And he could imagine the conversation going on in the bar at the edge of the park right now; their teammates were probably muttering into their beers about another public display from the two of them, coming up with mutinous plots to kick them off the team that no one would ever have the balls to put in motion.
The thought made him laugh against Harlan's mouth, and a second later Harlan pulled back to grin at him. "What?"
"Nothing," Marcus answered, hands sliding down Harlan's chest to rest against the only part of his shirt that was still dry. "Let's go home."
~
II. Deadliest AU, Brett. Let's pretend duckduck requested this, yeah? I should really be writing this series in order, but I'm not. This was born mostly of my excitement for the return of Deadliest Catch next week, and it is not my best work, but it's a fandom of two, so I will cut myself some slack and hope that you will do the same.
As soon as Avery buys the DVD player Brett starts plotting a way to get his hands on that show they're filming about the crab fishing season. He tells himself it's for their own good; they've had at least a dozen arguments about Avery going back out for the new season, and Brett's tried to use the cameras to get his way more than once. Avery always swears that he's careful, that he avoids the cameramen as much as possible and that none of them ever come aboard his boat. But they both know that's no guarantee he hasn't showed up somewhere in the background, and even just a second of his face on camera could get them both killed.
That's what Brett tells himself when he heads to the general store in town, barely waiting until Avery's out the door for Opi season before he starts pulling his boots on. He doesn't expect to find what he's looking for, but it turns out the show's pretty popular -- probably because it's local, he reasons -- and they've got the first three seasons right there on the shelf.
Brett skips straight to the third season, because they were still in New York for the first one and the second was filmed during their first year in Alaska, when Avery was still safe in the cabin with him and nowhere near some documentary about a bunch of morons with a death wish.
Brett scowls at the TV as the credits start to roll, the voiceover telling him exactly how much danger these guys are in at every second. It starts off with news about a vessel that went down last season, just to make sure Brett's on the edge of his seat, then the voiceover launches into a recap of the most harrowing moments that Brett missed by skipping season two and going right to season three.
And he's heard all the stories -- some of them from Avery, most from the guys down at the bar in town -- but none of that even comes close to seeing it in action. He's fifteen minutes into the first episode before he notices his death grip on the remote, rolling his eyes at himself and setting it down on the couch next to him before he turns his attention back to the screen. The crew of whatever boat they're following is joking around about the new guy, something about making him bite the head off a fish or something. And Brett has a hard time imagining Avery doing anything like that, but he's changed a lot in the past year, so maybe he went through gross hazing rituals his first time out too.
Maybe Brett would know if he'd let Avery talk about it, but whenever the subject comes up it turns into an argument pretty quickly. With good reason, Brett reminds himself as he watches the guys on the screen swinging a thousand pound crab trap over the side of the boat. It's terrifying, thinking of Avery doing this day after day with barely any sleep and surrounded by a bunch of guys who don't even know him. Not like Brett, anyway, because he's known Avery practically his whole life, knows Avery better than anybody else in the world.
Except he didn't know Avery was capable of this: brutal, back-breaking labor day in and day out, only stopping long enough to wolf down enough calories to keep going or grab an hour's sleep before he turns around and starts all over again. He's seen up close and personal just how strong Avery's gotten since they found themselves in Alaska, but if anybody had showed him this a year ago and said Avery was going to be one of those guys, Brett would have laughed in their face.
And it still makes him want to drive to Dutch Harbor and drag Avery back to the safety of their cabin, but the longer he watches the more impressed he is. Because Brett's gotten a lot stronger in the past year too, but he knows he couldn't do any of this. He couldn't swing a steel cage over the side of the boat by himself, couldn't crawl inside it to hang bait and then scramble back out again fast enough to keep from getting bitched out by everybody on the crew. A lot of these guys seem to have a hard time with that part, but from what Avery's said he took to it like he was born to bait crab traps. And maybe it doesn't sound like much of a calling, but now that Brett's seen it in action...well, he's not going to be so quick to blow off Avery's stories anymore.
That doesn't mean he's going to stop trying to talk Avery out of going back out there, or that he's going to stop worrying the whole time Avery's gone. As soon as he thinks it the voice on the TV starts talking about a fishing boat in some kind of distress, and even though Brett knows this was filmed before Avery ever even heard of crab fishing, his stomach still turns at the mention of survival suits and Coast Guard rescues.
And he's not a complete wuss, no matter what Avery thinks, but he reaches for the remote anyway and turns off the DVD. After all, there's brave, and then there's just crazy, and Brett still hasn't figured out which one fits Avery best. Sometimes he thinks Avery's still blaming himself for Max and Elise, that he's just looking for a way to get himself killed, as though that's going to bring them back. And maybe that's how it started, but now that he's been through one season he's figured out that he's good at it, and Brett knows that nothing he says is going to keep him from going back.
He sighs and reaches for the remote again, fast forwarding through the parts about the capsized vessel and the dead crew until he gets back to the actual fishing. Because it's still seriously fucking scary, but it's the first thing Avery's ever really been excited about, and if Brett can't be there he at least wants to know what he's missing.
~