#my ficlet

[hamspenalty]

max/daniel. juno au. 1.9K words.

*

Max’s stomach turns threateningly from her place in her perfect cocoon of warmth. She immediately sits up, runs to the bathroom, and throws up all of her pork chops from the night before.

As she brushes her teeth, she stares at herself in the mirror. This supposed ‘stomach bug’ of hers had been around for three weeks at this point, and it’s safe to assume that it’s more than a stomach bug. She should’ve known that it was a mistake to sleep with Daniel.

She sighs, flicks the light off in her bathroom, and pointedly avoids her own stare.

*

Max drives to the old, run down Walgreens that smells like mold and stale pizza after her philosophy lecture. She digs her thumbnail into the paper cut on her finger as she looks at pregnancy tests, and picks the one with the overly happy woman holding onto her stomach.

She grabs five. Just to be sure.

*

Her suspicions are confirmed. She’s pregnant. Max stares at the stick that’s in her shaking hand, drops it in her book bag when she can’t stand the sight of it anymore.

She digs her fingers into her eyes to stop the tears, and curses herself for her own stupidity. She should’ve known it was a bad idea — the pull-out method was unreliable — and now she was sitting in front of a musty Walgreens in her beat up car, when she should’ve been doing homework, reading about metaphysics with her brain leaking out of her ears.

Max bites into the shaking fat of her bottom lip, going to the one place that would make her feel better. The pet store.

It was a weird habit she’d picked up in her freshman year, before she met Lando and Charles and made other friends. She’d head to the pet store and stare at the animals, thinking about owning a gerbil or a hamster. She knew, logically, that she couldn’t because a) she was a freshman in a cramped dorm and b) her dad would never let her spend her measly allowance on an animal. Still, it was a happy thought.

As Max stares at the ferrets digging their heads into their soft bedding, she thinks about how everyone might react to the news. If she’s going to keep the baby or get rid of it. The more and more she mulls it over, the more her stomach starts to turn as if to say, ‘too much distress for one day; shutting down’, like her hunk of a laptop would in high school whenever she wrote a paper that was two pages too long.

“Hello, ma’am?” A worker wearing a green apron and a name tag said to her, appearing as if he’d been there for a while. Small tendrils of embarrassment flickered within her gut. “Are you planning to buy one?” He motions his head towards the glass box, where the ferret she was once staring at is sleeping, curled up against the wall. Its nose twitches as it sleeps.

“No,” Max says, shaking her head. Being dragged out of her thoughts makes her smell the Auntie Anne’s cart a few feet away. She should buy a slushy. “Just looking.”

“Alright, well we’re closing soon.” She reads the name on his name tag. Tom. Regular name for a regular looking man. “Okay,” Max says, and hopes her face doesn’t do something weird. She walks away afterwards, fulfills her wish of buying a slushy. The blue raspberry colors her tongue and ails her consistent, 24-hour loop of nerves.

*

“Max!” Charles exclaims when Max comes inside, shutting the door as quickly as possible to keep the cold out. He’s wearing some bright cashmere sweater with weird geometric shapes on it, with a pair of very distressed jeans. Max pushes down a snicker at the sight.

“Hi, Charles,” She says tiredly, sitting down at the scratched up, mahogany kitchen table. Lando looks up from her laptop, glasses perched low on her nose. “You look like shit, mate,” She says, taking a sip of whatever was in her mug.

“Thanks,” Max says, “How kind.” Lando winces and mumbles a weak apology. “Where were you?” Charles asks, flipping a grilled cheese sandwich in the pan.

“Library,” Max says, the lie rolling off her tongue easily. “Philosophy homework. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” Charles says, looking solemn. “Unfortunately, I do.” Lando starts talking about Oscar’s bland responses to her memes, that she thought were absolutely hilarious, that Oscar thought were a little stupid. Charles listens to all she has to say and adds side comments, and Max lets their constant stream of conversation wash over her.

“Oh, Max,” Lando says, dragging Max out of her brain. “Daniel stopped by here to see you today. Said something about you not returning his calls? He told me to tell you to text him as soon as possible.”

Max sighs through her nose, picks at the healing scab on the bridge of her nose from where she scratched it too hard a few weeks ago. “Okay. Thanks.”

*

Just as Max is about to get around to actually doing her philosophy homework, her phone buzzes itself half to death on her bedside table, making her exasperation flare up. She was planning to ignore it, thinking it’d be Victoria or something, but it was Daniel.

Max knew that if she didn’t answer, he’d just come over here again the next day. And she might actually be there that time. Both Lando and Charles were bad liars, so there was no way they’d be able to cover for Max effectively.

Her thumb hovers over the green button, a picture of her and Daniel at some random club her sophomore year mocking her. They both look happy in the picture, but Daniel especially. His beaming smile makes her heart ache.

“Hello?” Max says, and Daniel’s sigh of relief is one that could be heard around the world. “‘Hello’? That’s it?” Daniel asks, and Max can almost hear the way his eyebrows must be furrowed. “I was worried about you. It’s been two weeks.”

Max winces. It has, and she somehow hadn’t realized. All that throwing up must’ve fucked with her memory. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, I’ve been-”

“Busy? Yeah,” Daniel scoffs, and it’s Max’s turn to furrow her eyebrows. She feels that she somehow might’ve put her foot wrong in this situation. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is Max, that you’ve been ignoring me ever since we slept together,” Daniel says. “Was it that bad? Now you can’t even speak to me, and Lando has to play the middleman for the both of us?”

It was anything but bad. The way Daniel had laid her down, made her feel important while he took her apart, and put her back together afterwards, was unlike anything she’d experienced before. Maybe if it was bad, it would be easier for her to get over this thing in her belly. God, she couldn’t even say or think the word.

“Daniel, it was not bad. I’ve just been sick,” She says. It’s technically not a lie. “Are you okay?” Daniel asks, concerned. “Yes. I’ll get better soon.”

“Okay,” He says, sighing. “Okay. I’m sorry for like, snapping at you. I’m not a dickhead, I promise.” Max just laughs softly, though her chest clenches. “I know.

“So what kind of sickness is this? The kind that spreads from kissing, the one that stuffs your nose so bad you can’t tell your ass from your elbow, or the one that makes you puke your guts out?” Daniel asks, teasing. If only he knew. “Definitely the last one. A little bit of the second. I think I should definitely consider going to what is it, the Mayo Clinic? Get put in a trial.”

Daniel’s laugh makes her chest warm and her cheeks heat up. “That’d be sick.”

“Literally,” Max says, her computer temporarily shutting off from her lack of use. “What are you doing?” She asks, and Daniel hums. “Watching Bob’s Burgers. You?”

“Philosophy homework.”

“Oh shit, should I call back later?”

“No, it’s fine. I can do it tomorrow.”

“Nah. Go be a scholar, Maxy. Make me proud,” He sighs, and Max could hear what was probably the shuffling of his bed sheets against his moving body. Max rolls her eyes, though there’s no heat in it. “If you do, I might just have a little gift for you tomorrow.”

Afterwards, Max has never been more interested in her philosophy homework in her life.

*

When Max gets back from an entire day at the campus library, she finds Daniel laying on her bed, completely naked, with a bow taped to his dick. Max drops her bag and her phone in shock, laughing.

“Here’s your gift. Me, obviously,” Daniel says, grinning mischievously. In that moment, Max usually wouldn’t be able to resist locking her door and stumbling towards the bed, letting Daniel pull her close and fuck her in her sheets that she hadn’t washed in god knows how long. But she couldn’t let herself.

She felt the words crawl up her throat with determination, her mouth dry as her lips formed the words. “I’m pregnant.”

She watches it land. The way his smile falls and he starts to half blink, slow, as if he was drunk. “What?”

“Daniel,” Max starts, her voice cracking. She did not cry. She would never let herself. Not in front of him, and not now. “I’m pregnant.”

“And it’s mine?”

Max scoffs, anger flushing her skin. “Yes, it’s yours. I wouldn’t be telling you this if it wasn’t.” Daniel sits up and throws his hoodie on, with a baggy pair of basketball shorts he’d left a few weeks before. Max hadn’t bothered to give it back.

“When did you find out?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Wait,” He pauses. “So when I called you last night, and you said you were sick because you were throwing up, you knew you were pregnant? And you didn’t tell me?”

“You were already mad at me! I didn’t wanna give you this to think about too,” She explains. “I’m sorry.”

Daniel sighs. He pats the spot next to him. “Sit.” Max goes. She almost whines at the feeling of his warm hand finally meeting the flushed skin of her thigh after weeks of not touching him. “Enough of that. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” She says, resting her elbows on her knees and covering her face with her palms. “I should probably just have an abortion, yes? Then we can..”

“Move on and act like this never happened? Fuck, Max,” Daniel sighs, and Max furrows her eyebrows. He takes his hand off her thigh. She misses it immediately. “What do you want me to do? Keep it? I can’t do that! Unless we give it up.”

“You can keep it or you can get rid of it. Is that what you want?” Daniel asked, eyebrows raised. “Because we’re doing whatever it is that you want to do. I just don’t want you to act like this never happened between us.”

She sighs, runs a hand over her face. “I don’t know, okay? Give me a few days.” He nods in the silence, before dropping a kiss to her shoulder. “I’ll see you later, okay? Let me know what you decide.”

Max nods, robotic as she watches him go, his shoulders drawn up sky high.

#came out of my small retirement 4 this 🫡 #my ficlet #maxiel #juno au

[casdeans-pie]

Dean flirts with a diner waitress one day while him and Sam are working a case (Cas is busy). She gives him a pleasant-customer-service smile until her eyes lock onto his shoulder. She goes pale and backs away and Dean looks at his shoulder like ?????

She tries to make an excuse to leave and bolts out the back door but Dean is Suspicious(TM) and follows her before she can get very far.

She says she's not looking for trouble, she just wants to be left alone, she's made a life for herself here etc etc.

"What are you talking about?" Dean demands, about to reach for his gun.

"You... You’re Dean Winchester." She gestures to his shoulder. "Only Dean Winchester has Castiel's mark and claim on him."

Dean gently touches his shoulder, where the handprint used to be, and he's like, "You're an angel." .......... then he gets his phone out and he's finding Cas's number and slamming the phone to his ear all frowny faced and says to her, "What do you mean, claim? And the mark isn't even there anymore- I- Hey Cas? Cas, there's an angel here who- no I don't know her name- does it matter? Look she says- no don't come here we're fine- she says you left a claim on me with that- y’know that handprint thing and- what do you mean you were going to tell me??? Tell me now-"

And the whole time Dean is getting progressively frownier and his nose is getting redder and he's gripping his shoulder tighter and the angel is watching like, This is the Michael Sword?? This is the Righteous Man??? This is the human Castiel left his mark on?????

#another sleepy lil ficlet #dean should absolutely have accidentally flirted with and angel and theyre like woAH Im not touching Dean Winchester #Castiel's got visibile dibs on that man #destiel #destiel ficlet #my ficlet

[the-angst-chronicles-fanworks]

Wayne comes home one day to Eddie behaving unusually - loudly narrating everything every time he leaves his room, playing his music quieter than usual but making abrupt loud noises when he’s in his room, checking on Wayne every ten minutes or so to make sure he’s enjoying his shows and asking if he wants tea, and generally bearing his biggest, wettest puppy dog eyes.

Now Wayne’s done this song and dance a few times, so after a few hours he gets up and makes his way to his nephew’s door, takes a moment to stop and listen-

And sure enough, he can hear the hushed whispers and giggles. Heaving a sigh, Wayne raps his knuckles against the flimsy wood. It’s immediately met with a flurry of scrambling from the other side.

To Eddie’s credit, it doesn’t even take until Wayne’s count of 10 before the door swings open, revealing his very ruffled nephew sporting a sunny grin and doing his best to look like he’s not taking up the entirety of the doorway on purpose.

“Alright, what’re you hidin’ in here this time?” Wayne asks, glancing at the bed. It’s a favourite hiding place of Eddie’s - where he’d hidden the stray cat, the raccoon, and any number of other strays he’s picked up.

“Hiding? I -uh - what are you talking about?” Eddie says it smoothly enough, but he’s eyes dart to the left briefly before he catches himself and looks back at Wayne, pulling his hair in front of his face in a display of nerves. Wayne glances over. The closet this time then.

“I ain’t born yesterday kiddo,” he says, shaking his head. “Now why don’t you quit bullshittin’ and open up that there door”

Eddie’s gaze follows his gesture to the closet, and then he turns back to Wayne, giving an indignant huff and puffing up like he’s gearing for a fight.

Wayne meets his gaze with an even one of his own and, after a moment, Eddie deflates. "Fine," he huffs and makes his way to the closet, shooting Wayne betrayed wounded-bird looks over his shoulder. Wayne just crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.

He's prepared for a lot of things, but what he's not expecting is for Eddie to swing the cupboard door open to reveal some fancy-looking lad, looking sheepish as all get out.

"Ed-" he says, slightly lost for words. Eddie and closet-boy exchange a glance, and Wayne feels shock go through him as he suddenly places that face. "Is that... is that the Harrington boy?"

Immediately, a guilty look crosses Eddie's face and Wayne groans. "Jesus H. Christ," he groans, putting his hand over his face.

When he looks up again, Eddie is giving him that wide-eyed pleading face of his that always comes with the strays. "Eddie, he ain't some stray you can just take in!" He protests.

Eddies face hardens just a little with that stubbornness he got from his mother. "C'mon Uncle Wayne. His parents are terrible when they even bother to be around!” he argues. "And I mean it’s probably for the best that they’re not there because they’re the worst kind of people but it's almost Christmas and he can’t just be there alone on Christmas! Did you raise me like that Wayne? Did you?"

Harrington seems to get past his surprise at Eddie’s sudden rant and he frowns, opens his mouth to protest. Eddie, apparently sensing this, claps a hand over his mouth and turns to Wayne , his righteous indignation switching right back to his best puppy-dog eyes cranked to full effect at Wayne.

And Wayne... well, he's never been able to say no to any of the strays Eddie's brought home yet.

#steddie #wayne munson #eddie munson #stranger things #ficlet #my ficlet #my writing #writing prompts #stranger things ficlet #this started out as a prompt and morphed into a ficlet idk idk idk

[fourmula1]

so what about a nashville gay bar full of wannabe cowboys in western shirts but with the sleeves cut off of course. its all boots and belt buckles, hats and bolo ties. 

and there’s country music and line dancing. there’s a mechanical bull in the back. daniel’s taken it for a ride already and he knows how to move - both to hold on to the bull and keep all eyes on him. the bull is always a shoe-in for nabbing him a hot cowboy for the night to dance with under the  dive bar neon and he’s got more than a couple of boys flashing their belt buckles and offering to buy him a drink. daniel’s spent most weekends here and he’s fucked most cowboys here but it never gets old. 

but what is new is the boy in the corner - wrangler jeans tighter than all get out, pulled over his boots, tight around his thick thighs. his pendleton print denim shirt doesn't have the sleeves cut off and his top few buttons are actually done right up. he’s not showing off for anyone. the boys in here are mostly playing the part of country boy but daniel can tell this guy is a real one. a bit of an awkward standout in a place like this but he probably fits in just fine on a ranch, tossing bales to the cows with well-worn leather gloves.

daniel nudges his way past the guy trying to chat him up and crosses the bar to the new stranger trying to hide in the dark corner. 

never seen you here before, he says; tips his hat and grins at the immediate pink blush dusting the guy’s cheeks. daniel can’t see his eyes beneath the brim of his hat, pulled down low. he’s shy. maybe scared. daniel leans up against the pillar at the edge of the dancefloor and crosses his arms over his chest. his is on show - three buttons undone, smooth waxed skin glistening under the lights of the dancefloor.

never been here before, the guy tells him and lifts his head and daniel’s heart stutters in his chest at the shine of the guy’s pretty blue eyes. the dimly lit dancefloor doesn’t hide anything. blue blue blue. 

he has a little twang of a country accent, and he shrugs a little, and daniel feels hungry. the guy is stocky and muscular in the way a man gets from actual hard work, not from hitting the gym just to look pretty. daniel wants to be under him immediately.

but first:

well, you wanna take me for a twirl or what? he asks, signature cheeky grin shining through. he knows he’s irresistible.

you know how to two-step? blue eyes asks and daniel’s knees would have buckled had he not been leaning up against that pillar.

most of the boys in these parts are Rainey Street wannabes who buy a cheap cowboy hat and call it a night. they know some line dances but that’s about it.

daniel smiles and stands up straight, holds his hand out to blue eyes and shivers when he takes it. 

and then he’s being pulled in close with a big hand at the small of his back, and pressed against blue eyes’ chest and oh, he is good. they flow together perfectly and daniel’s never danced with a stranger and had it go this well. the guy leads, and daniel goes easy, and it’s when he does indeed get twirled and pulled back into the pretty boy’s arms for a dip that he’s sure he’s a bit in love.

and they two-step the night away and daniel gets them drinks and learns that blue eyes’ name is max and he works on a ranch a few miles down the road and later daniel gets to learn for real how strong max’s hard-work muscular body is and how max’s hat looks hanging from daniel’s bedpost and how max’s roughed up hands feel pressing him into the sheets and how after tonight he never has a reason to go out dancing alone ever again because their life together is a real life country song. 

#maxiel #my ficlet #the kind of love we make by luke combs #inspired this #and it's THEM!!!!!!!! #i haven't written in MONTHS and this just happened to me todaay

[metalhoops]

Steve and Eddie: Alternative ‘First’ meeting part 2.

Read Part 1 Here

Eddie Munson never expected Steve to be his friend. He kept waiting for the former king to realise how different their two worlds were. When that day came, he hoped Steve could look back on his time spent with the strange Metalhead with affection.

Several months had passed since the two had their first encounter in the woods outside the trailer park, and he hadn’t scared Steve away yet. Eddie found the boy following at his side every other day when he wasn’t at work. He was loyal as a golden retriever and strangely, almost as happy. When he and Steve run into each other for the first time since Steve’s graduation, one thing was clear: Steve wasn’t happy. 

Now, most days, he appeared more happy than not. Yet, he was still distant. There were things he was keeping close to his chest, but Eddie didn’t feel like he was close enough to push. 

Eddie kept waiting for the moment he’d chase Steve away. He talked the guy’s ear off about Hellfire, now that the school year was back in full swing. They’d both agreed to keep Steve’s flock of wayward children in the dark about their friendship, lest they think Steve was using Eddie to keep an eye on them, ever the babysitter. Steve listened attentively. 

He invited Steve around to watch obscure B-grade, horror schlockfests. There was no way he enjoyed it, but Steve stayed. He jumped at all the right times and laughed at all the wrong ones, just like Eddie. Steve was too good to be true. One day, something had to give. 

When they drove together, Eddie played the music too loud and performed air guitar solos at stoplights. He’d even gone so far as to serenade Steve with KISS songs as the guy helped him put together a dinner that wasn’t from a microwave container. 

He’d expected Steve to roll his eyes and call him a nerd, which admittedly he did. However, right after, he’d equipped himself with a wooden spoon and performed an equally cheesy rendition of a Bob Seger song. 

Hell, once his parents were out of town and they’d stayed the night at Steve’s he’d shown Eddie his best impression of Tom Cruise in Risky Business, complete with high socks, a poorly buttoned button-down, and too-short, shorts. Eddie was so gone for Steve Harrington, and it was horrible because he knew something was going to go wrong.

He was sick of waiting for it to happen. The two had been friends for months, and Eddie was sick of holding his breath, with each passing day knowing that the hurt would be all the greater as his attachment to Steve grew. 

Steve’s parents were out of town, which always made for a more relaxed Steve. He’d invited Eddie to stay the night at his place for the first time. Eddie realised what had to happen next as Steve invited him to crash with him in his bed. 

This was the thing that would finally scare Steve away. This was the thing that would get Steve to finally give up his reformed jock status and call him a freak. He couldn’t share a bed with Steve without him knowing, it wasn’t fair. 

“I kinda like taking the side next to the door. You mind taking the window side?” Steve asked so casually it made Eddie’s heart ache. 

He found it hard to swallow as he bit the bullet and told Steve the thing he’d been dancing around for months. 

“I’m gay, Steve.” He wished he’d been more eloquent, but he hadn’t. He spoke to the shitty plaid wallpaper, his words running together. 

When he finally looked, he found Steve sitting on the bed, his wide eyes looking equal parts alarmed and confused. He wasn’t cursing at Eddie or chasing the guy out of his house, so far, it was going better than he’d expected. 

“Uh... thanks for telling me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you steal my side of the bed,” Steve finally replied. Eddie was goddamn floored. 

“You heard me, right?” Eddie repeated. There was no way in hell this wasn’t the thing that chased Steve away. 

“Roger Dodger. Loud and clear. You don’t like boobs,” Steve paraphrased as he wriggled under the covers. Eddie let out a sound between a snort and a sob because, holy shit, Steve didn’t care. He was also an absolute idiot, but that was expected.

“And you’re still cool with me sleeping with you?” Eddie asked. 

“I don’t like to sleep alone much, anymore,” Steve spoke with a vague shrug of his shoulders. There it was again, the uneasy sense he got that Steve wasn’t telling him something important. 

Eddie didn’t pry, because Steve hadn’t pushed when he’d just goddamn come out to him. Eddie slipped beneath the covers, closest to the window and lay beside Steve until the man fell asleep. Eddie couldn’t sleep, his head still reeling. 

After an hour, he felt Steve twitch at his side and mumble something incoherent. Eddie stayed still, thinking the moment would pass, quick and painless as a sun shower. Instead, Steve started to thrash. Eddie sat up in bed, flicked on the lights, and gazed down at the former king’s pinched brows. It was hard to believe this was the same boy who’d stalked the halls of Hawkins High, looking seemingly untouchable from Eddie’s ranks amongst the outcasts and common folk. 

“Stevie?” Eddie breathed, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder in an attempt to wake him. 

The other man’s body stilled beneath his hand, and his face remained contorted. In his sleep, he crept closer to Eddie, curling his body around him. He had no idea what the hell to do. Steve hating to sleep alone made more sense. 

“It’s okay, Harrington. I got you. You’re okay,” Eddie mumbled, taking a risk and leaning down to card his hands through the man’s hair. 

Eddie sat there for another half-hour, muttering quiet nothings until he stilled and slept peacefully. 

When morning finally came and the two found themselves dancing around each other in the Harrington’s oversized kitchen, Eddie decided to broach the subject. Steve kept setting off alarm bells in his head, and he had no idea how to quiet them on his own. 

“Steve, I know I’m a shitty listener because I love to hear the sound of my own voice, but you know, if you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here, right?” 

Steve stepped back from the kitchen cabinet to get a better look at Eddie, his face the picture of conflict. He kept looking as though he were seconds from telling Eddie something before going dead quiet. Finally, he spoke.

“I don’t think I’m entirely straight.” 

That hadn’t been what he was fishing for, but holy shit. 

To make matters worse, Steve was sending him all the right goddamn cues. His eyes flickered to Eddie’s lips, then back to his face. He chewed on his bottom lip and ran his fingers through his carefully styled hair. Screw it. 

Eddie crossed the space between them and smash their lips together, pushing Steve’s back against the cabinet. It was a car crash kind of desperation. Limbs and lips everywhere. Steve ended up on the countertop, his legs wrapped around Eddie’s hips, hands in his hair. Eddie’s head was a chorus of holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. 

Eddie Munson never expected Steve to be his friend, but the one thing he’d never expected to ruin their friendship was a kiss. 

Tags

@rhyswritesreadsandcries @lightwoodbanethings @beeing-stuupid @chaoticvictorianspirit @korixae @ihaveahordingproblem @lyriclight @exyvey @ashwinmeird​ @breealtair @eviltwistedpixie @adelicioustragedy @theoncelee @bubblegum192 @aceflavouredyougurt @pluto-pepsi @occasionallyifailtoart @didntwant2come​ @catboyb​adankrivervalleynearyou

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #ficlet #my ficlet #stranger things #drabble #alternative 'first' meeting #multipost fic #long post #back by popular demand #this wasn't going to be a two parter but people wanted it #now I'm tempted to write a part three #hopefully I got everyone how asked to be tagged #I did my best #angst and fluff #Metalhoops writes

[onboardsorasora]

Don't know what this is or if I'll continue/extend/use it in any way in future but I saw this post and it came to me. Shrug

"I want you." Max declared. Daniel laughed, a tad hysterically. This wasn't what he anticipated when Max offered to come over to watch the game.

"Yeah?" Daniel couldn't keep the mirth from his tone and the tingle out of his chest. "Name three of my red flags then. Go on." Daniel snorted. Because there was no way Max was serious.

Max watched him with steady blue eyes before: "You refuse to cut people out of your life after they've hurt you. Always you are giving them opportunities again to hurt you. You talk yourself out of things that benefit you or you are telling yourself that people don't like you, they're just being nice. You isolate yourself when things aren't going well instead of accepting help from me– others." Max listed with laser accuracy, counting off on his fingers. 

He didn't for once think Daniel was being sarcastic, if this was a test he was determined to show Daniel he knew him.

Daniel's eyes widened in shock and abject horror. All previous mirth wiped off his face. "Max–"

"I, of course, love you always Daniel. And I love you extra hard when you're being too hard on yourself."

Daniel made a choked off sound in the back of his throat.

#max/daniel #maxiel #wip? maybe #almost fic #my ficlet

[audhd-nightwing]

Birdflash Week (Day 2)

@birdflashweek

“Have we met before? I swear I know you.”

Identity reveal

Dick wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in this situation. One moment he was rushing towards his nearest safehouse to change into his Nightwing suit, the next he was in a shelter with other civilians.

The answer became obvious as a blur of red deposited more people in the safe zone- one of the Flashes had evacuated him. He groaned internally- being mistaken for a civilian was exactly what he didn’t need when there was an alien army invading Gotham.

He slipped out a back door only to come face-to-face with the younger Flash, Wally West. As Kid Flash & Robin, and later Flash & Nightwing, the two had been friends for years. As Dick Grayson, however… well, Wally still didn’t know his civilian identity.

“Are you… sneaking out of the shelter?” Wally asked incredulously. Dick winced and gave him a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to get in your way, but my brother is at home and I need to make sure he’s okay,” he lied smoothly.

“Oh! Well, I can give you a lift to your building if you want? We’ll be there in a flash,” Wally said with a wink. Dick snorted, that joke was so dorky it always made him laugh. Wally beamed at his reaction.

“Yeah that’d be great thanks, you can just drop me in front,” Dick replied gratefully.

“So,” Wally clapped his hands together, “how do you wanna do this? Piggyback or bridal carry?”

“Hmm, probably piggyback, seems easier for both of us,” Dick answered. Wally nodded in agreement and crouched down in front of him. Dick climbed onto his back easily, having years of experience doing so. The speedster adjusted to his weight just as easily.

Wally faltered for a moment at the familiarity.

“Have we met before?” he asked, “I swear I know you.”

Dick froze. Well, now was as good a time as any, he supposed. Instead of answering, Dick directed Wally to his nearest safehouse. When they arrived in front, however, he dragged the confused speedster into the building with him and pulled him into the small apartment.

Wally stood in the entrance awkwardly as the familiar stranger disappeared into a bedroom. Just as he was about to run off, the man yelled “Don’t leave!” and Wally froze in place.

The man finally emerged in a familiar suit, sans mask, with a sheepish smile.

“Hey KF,” he said with a small wave.

“…Rob?” Wally asked incredulously.

They were interrupted by the crackle of Nightwing’s comms requesting backup.

“We are SO talking about this later,” Wally said pointedly, to which Dick grinned.

“I’m counting on it,” he replied with a wink and kissed Wally’s cheek before sliding out the window and grappling away.

Wally touched his cheek in shock before grinning and running after him.

#birdflash #birdflash week #birdflash week 2024 #birdflashweek #birdflashweek2024 #dick grayson #wally west #dickwally #my writing #my fic #my ficlet #mini fic #ficlet #birdflash mini fic #nightwing #the flash #young justice #kid flash #robin #dc comics

[shirleycarlton]

Ball in Your Court

Brisk footsteps come up the stairs. The door to 221B opens and John steps inside, a decisive air about him.

Sherlock puts the book back on the shelf in front of him – it isn’t the one he was looking for anyway – and partly turns around to face his flatmate.

John seems to square his shoulders. Without taking off his coat, he starts speaking. “Sherlock, I’ve decided to just say it. I love you. Always have, always will. So there.” He nods, as a weight almost visibly falls off his shoulders. “The ball is in your court now. Do with this information what you will. You may either kiss me, shag me or ignore me, pretend I never said this. You can also say to my face it’s not reciprocated. At least then it’s clear.”

A beat of silence.

The smallest traces of shock, regret and shame briefly ripple across John’s face.

“John,” Sherlock says, breath catching, as he faintly raises his right hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Meet my parents.”

Wide-eyed they sit on either side of the kitchen table, clutching their cups of tea. The next instant, they’re getting up and gathering their things, all nervous smiles. “We’re just going to go for a stroll around the block. We’ll… we’ll come back later,” Sherlock’s mother says with a friendly nod, voice pitched high. “Yes, yes,” is all his father can say.

Before John can blink more than three times, they are gone.

John cringes, his shoulders sag. “Oh god. I’ve embarrassed you… in front of your parents.” He runs a hand over his face and starts turning away. “This was… a huge mistake.”

Sherlock stops John and grabs him by the shoulders with both hands. He takes a deep breath. Looking at him intently, he says, “John. You know where I got my deduction skills? From my mother.” His voice starts sounding wobbly now. “Do you know what she just said, minutes before you entered?” Sherlock swallowed. “She deduced that I was heartbroken, madly in love with my flatmate who I was convinced could never love me back. She just finished her last sentence when you opened the living room door.”

John’s mouth falls slightly open.

Sherlock whispers, “She’s never wrong.”

With many thanks to @otter-von-bismarck for the quick beta!

Also tagging some other people who might enjoy this: @totallysilvergirl @blogstandbygo @mama-orion @chained-to-the-mirror @shiplocks-of-love

I haven’t written anything in ages, so finally posting a tiny ficlet makes me disproportionally happy and proud, LOL.

#johnlock #my writing #my ficlet #bbc sherlock #johnlock ficlet

[clawbehavior]

thinking of a post-canon yohan who wears jewelry. a leather necklace with a feather pendant. rings. thick metal bands on his forefinger and thumb. delicately faceted ones on the others. simple durable bracelets.

the first time gaon notices this habit when he visits Switzerland it's because yohan's not wearing a watch. once he sees it, he can't not think about it. thinks about yohan's hands.

it makes his face hot for some reason and his tongue fumble and trip over words, his body acutely sensitive to yohan in his surroundings. until one day yohan puts his hand over gaon's on the table and leaves it there.

#the devil judge #gahan #my fic ideas #my ficlet #am writing

[vicsy]

a 1.4k Strollonso ficlet in this trying time. some slightly tenderhorny introspection, really.

It’s in the way every living soul keeps patronizing him. 

It’s in the way, when Sebastian says his heartfelt goodbyes at the end of the season party, he clasps Lance’s shoulder and bids him good luck for the year to come. It has nothing to do with him driving; it’s about who he’ll be driving with. 

It’s in the way his father never gave him the talk but when Fernando Alonso gets signed to Aston Martin, Lawrence sits him down and they talk for an hour or two, touching on the entire history of the F1 that Lance knows already, for the love of god, and he’s pretty miserable by the time his dad sings praises to Fernando’s skills, underlining his holy like importance to the team. 

It’s in the way he can’t fucking log on twitter in the off-season without being hit by a barrage of insanity and, frankly, poorly made memes created to feed a certain narrative while Lance hasn’t even met Fernando in the role of his new teammate, even though they’ve shared the grid for years. 

Lance doesn’t really care; that is, basically, his whole brand and he lives the good life, untethered and unbothered, surrounded by wealth, love, a particular thrill.

And yet. 

Fernando Alonso is a perpetual wildcard and Lance builds his attitude around this little image, prepared for some sort of psychological warfare but it never happens. Fernando is in his space every day — testing, meetings, strategy planning; once at a get-along dinner his father planned. Lance should be bored and bitching his way out but he’s stuck with this enigma of a man, sitting in front of him, sharing a meal and some wine while Lawrence explains the unexplainable things the team did to the car. 

His mind wanders to the reasons he’ll be brushed off this season, just a young brat racing alongside a living legend again but then Fernando raises a toast and Lance’s name falls off his lips with that lilting accent and– 

It’s the wine or something in the air or a shell inside his chest that cracks open to let a little light in, all while Fernando talks, spilling niceties and compliments, and that image Lance built somewhat falls apart. 

Maybe it’s because Fernando hasn’t run him off the track yet or glared at him in a way some people that have been around long enough call a death stare; maybe Lance hasn’t spent enough time in his company to earn a reputation, to become a part of the feud that’ll go down in history. So many teams, he knows, have fallen by the wayside over less. 

Oh, but it’s such a good play because Fernando has eyes only for him like the rest don’t exist, and Lance finds himself caught like a fly in a glue trap, an object of his sole undivided attention, and Esteban fucking warned him profusely, that’s how Fernando operates. Lures you into a manic little game only he can win. 

And all those precautions are mushed together in Lance‘s brain, he knows, he knows but Fernando’s usual sharpness doesn’t cut him into bits and pieces, the lack of malice he was preparing to meet like an unwanted guest non-existent in the space between them, in the constant close proximity. It’s confusing and Lance is a shit actor. He can’t bring himself to feign ignorance or pretend to put on the face of someone he’s not. 

The picture everyone paints of Fernando is skewed, so when Lance catches a glimpse of his true colors, all of his plans to stick it to the man burst at the seams, crumbling like a house of cards. 

For all of Lance’s naivety, for how easily he follows down that narrow path, it’s a rush no money can buy. A touch here, a not-so-friendly pat there, a show of teeth in a smile that is lethal and Lance knows Fernando wants a taste, craves to do so much more, something unspeakable, something that could turn into the nastiest paddock gossip to this day but it’s exhilarating — knowing he does that to a man by simply existing. Knows that, maybe, he wants it, too. 

And it doesn’t take them long to fall into the bed together or, rather, it’s Lance who falls, perhaps for some elaborate scheme Fernando is running on him because who is he if not a villain with a plan for mayhem. 

And yet. 

It’s in the way Fernando softly kisses both his wrists, carefully thumbs at the bandages, smoothing them with furrowed brow, and Lance feels like he might get shattered by that fondness reserved just for him. 

It’s in the way he makes a face at another flock of reporters, forever annoyed by the implications they keep oh so implicit, but a private smile tugs at the corners of his lips the moment Fernando appears behind him, a palm splayed wide on the small of his back, his own smile shark-like when he says how great Lance is doing, how the team is proud of the work he puts in. 

It’s in the way he feels more than an heir to the old money, more than his privilege and some character quirks that label him as spoiled when they are alone, Lance’s long legs pillowed in Fernando’s lap and the lights are dimmed with just a TV on. He makes a dumb joke, fighting a flutter in his chest, and Fernando laughs unabashedly, swatting his thigh while all the jostling causes his phone to slip between the couch cushions, the old race reruns playing out muted in the background. 

And every time Fernando pushes into him unhurriedly, surrounded by the faceless hotel room walls, it washes away everything Lance is constantly bottling down inside; the little flame burns brighter with each languid thrust, with a hand between his shoulder blades, with a kiss placed at the back of his neck. Fernando holds him through it insanely close as Lance pants into the pristine white sheets, wet from stray tears and come, patches soaked through under his trembling knees. 

And every time Fernando gets rough with him, hand coming down hard on his reddened ass because Lance had been in a mood, riling Fernando up, giving as good as he gets, to the point where he ends up bent in half, cock straining and weeping from each slap, each word reaching his ears seeped in unearthly lust. The breakneck speed of a racing car doesn’t quite match the adrenaline hit, doesn’t reduce Lance to whimpers and croaky moans, doesn’t push him to the edge of begging. 

And every time Fernando spends what feels like hours cleaning him up and licking traces of his orgasm off Lance’s skin before plopping down next to him, sweaty and out of breath, sucking a mark into his neck, Lance feels like his floating, finally out of his head. Fernando teases him with a twinkle in his eyes, forever kind where he looks at him, and Lance playfully bites his shoulder in return, then smiles into the pillow before sleep claims him, a heavy arm thrown over his waist, grounding him. 

And it’s Fernando, Fernando, Fernando — every time, all the time, and Lance finds himself suddenly caring, wanting, feeling like he doesn’t wish for it to end, ever. Like losing at this game they play is worth having a life inside a life; something real and fragile and raw encapsulated between who they both are to the outside world. 

And yet. 

It spins out of control like a car on a wet track, rules to the game Lance never bothered to learn forgotten and discarded, but he knows, among the sound of the engine running, the buzzing lamp in the meeting room, or the commotion just before a race. He knows, somewhere among all the sneaking around, stealing time together under the guise of team building, the false pretense got stripped away from Fernando’s actions. Lance knows, dares to look past the man behind a legacy, past a villainous haze. 

It’s in the way Lance knows they’ve abandoned the chase, the thrill, or it left them without as much as a warning. 

It’s in the way Lance seeks Fernando out with his eyes only to find him already staring at him, reading his features like an open book, his heart beating out of sync.

It’s in the way there is no turning back but Lance only looks forward and Fernando is holding his hand over the car console, squeezing his knee under the table at dinner while no one is looking, embracing him from behind with a kiss to his bare shoulder blade while the ribbons of morning light stream through the kitchen window. 

It just leaves Lance wondering. 

How can someone love so loud, so deafening, without a single word. 

#vicsy writes #i realize this makes no sense #but I wanted to write some Lance pov and as much as I love his bitchiness and spoiled rich kid vibe #I can't say I truly believe it's him like #he's a lovable himbo who truly can fall for Fernando's mind games and hotness and everything else #but SURPRISE they are both unaware that this is how their love story starts #it's about the horrors but they don't really happen despite what people thought #also I am delirious at almost 5 am #and never written a ficlet before so #i can only hope this is somewhat in character #alonstroll #strollonso #Nando #Fernando Alonso #Lance Stroll #Fernando/Lance #f1 #lancenando #so many ship names I am dying out here #my ficlet

[rainbowcaleb]

There’s fingerprints on the counter, but it doesn’t matter: Essek holds the cleaning cloth in one hand, but the other hand is the source of the problem. His fingers tip-tap absentmindedly as he stares out and past the glass front of the catfe, mind farther away than the windows show. Something furry brushes against his ankles, his pants a few inches shorter than his usual in concession to the warm season, but it's not enough to break his thoughts with its cloudsoft touch.

A clank of a tray on a surface and following tink of dishware also goes unnoticed. It is only when a taller, warmer presence settles itself against the counter that Essek glances away from outside and his eyes refocus on the interior.

“Hullo, Essek.” Caleb is smiling with his eyes in a way that suggests he’s been staring at Essek for a while.

“Ah.” He straightens up and wipes down the spot he had been drumming. “I was thinking.”

“I had assumed.” Caleb bumps against him lightly, shoulder to shoulder in a familiar manner. “On what subject?”

“It's lovely weather.” Essek turns from his cleaning to face Caleb. There’s a question lingering that he doesn’t know how to formulate yet.

“It is. While I love the apples and leaves of fall, Nicodranas in the late spring makes for stiff competition among the seasons.” Caleb looks out through the windows Essek had been lost in for a dozen minutes.

“Do cats have vacations?” Essek’s voice is very serious.

Caleb tilts his head at Essek to study him just as seriously. “Because of the weather? Or–”

Essek shakes his head in the negative, and drops his cloth to the counter with a sigh.

“Schatz, you may have lost me on your trail; what are you thinking?”

“The weather is beautiful. Everyone wants to spend it outside.” He gestures out the window, where there have been a higher number of tourists and locals enjoying a sunlit stroll. “No one wants to come stay inside, even if the inside is this.” Essek looks pointedly at the kittens and cats, half asleep in sunbeams and half playfully chasing the stuffed cupcakes Jester had dropped off this week.

“Are you worried for us?” Caleb knocks his shoulder again, this time staying.

“No. Yes.” Essek leans a fraction more against him. “I have yet to see a full year here, so I cannot predict what up or down is next. So I was thinking.”

“As you said.”

“Can cats have vacations? Can we take them outside if the patrons are not coming inside?”

(( a snippet for the Catfe universe! I was in the mood this week to write something fluffy and furry ☺️))

#shadowgast fic #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role fic #mighty Nein #critical role #cat cafe AU Caleb and Essek #in which Caleb owns a cat cafe #my fic #my ficlet #my WIP

[desiccatedwithering]

The others are fine-tuning the plan, and Steve, for once, is grateful that they haven’t bothered to ask for his input. He wouldn’t have anything useful to say. Not now, when stress and fear are a rope around his neck, choking him more and more as they close the distance back to Hawkins. Not when he can see a hundred different ways that this could go wrong, could all come crashing down on their heads. Not now, when Robin’s concern is rattling around in his head, when it’s taken on a life of its own, shaking him and screaming, “Someone is going to die!”

They’re spread too thin, fighting on too many fronts. They’re not being smart about this. But he’s dumb, too dumb to figure out a solution, too dumb to offer up anything other than “No, no, no, this will get everyone killed.”

The thought of leaving Max and Lucas and Erica alone makes his teeth hurt, makes him genuinely sick to his stomach. They’re children.

And worse than that, Lucas and Erica are both associated with Hellfire now. The whole town will be hunting them, out for blood. What if Erica gets spotted? Jason wasn’t afraid to get in Nancy’s face in public, and Mike’s in fucking California right now, couldn’t possibly be involved with helping Eddie. So what will he do if he finds the Sinclairs, in the middle of the night, all alone, with Max in a trance?

Steve should stay with them. Keep them safe.

But—

Vecna—or Henry or One, whatever—he’s like El. Sure, he’ll be in a trance when they get to the house, but once they light him on fire? He’s gonna wake up, and he’s gonna be pissed. And Steve isn’t sure how much help he’d be against someone with superpowers, but three against one is better odds than two against one. (And a part of him thinks he’s justified in worrying that a gun might not do much, not when the Upside Down has apparently transformed him into an even bigger monster. Bullets didn’t stop the demogorgon. Who says they’ll stop Vecna, even if he used to be a normal man?)

And then there’s Eddie and Dustin, and he can almost convince himself that they’ll be safe. But the wounds in his sides are throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he knows that Dustin is loyal to a fault—“You die, I die”—and for all Eddie’s talk of being a coward, Steve knows that he isn’t, and—

Fuck it.

The others are so caught up in rehashing the plan that they don’t even notice that he’s gone off course until he’s parked and marching out of the RV.

“Wh— Steve! What are—?”

“I’ll be right back, Rob. Two minutes.”

“Where—?” The rest of Eddie’s question is cut off as the RV door swings shut.

Steve jogs up the drive, gritting his teeth at the flare of pain in his sides, and pounds on the door. “Tommy? You home, man? It’s Steve!”

A moment later, the door is yanked open, Tommy spitting, “What the fuck, Steve? You—” He stops abruptly, eyes raking over Steve from head to toe and back again. “Fuck, Steve, you look like hell. What happened?”

Steve grimaces. He doesn’t bother to answer the question; there’ll be time to explain later, if he’s right about this. God, he hopes he’s right about this.

Carol appears behind Tommy—which is a relief; he’d hate to have to do this twice—and gives Steve the same once over, eyes narrowing. She opens her mouth, closing it again when he shakes his head slightly.

“I hate to do this,” he says, “but you remember the promise we made? When we were nine?”

Tommy’s eyes widen, and his shoulders go rigid. “Steve?” he asks, and he sounds— fuck, he sounds terrified. Steve closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath so he doesn’t turn tail and run. He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that it’ll be enough. (A tiny, selfish, awful part of him almost hopes that it won’t. But he squashes that voice down. They don’t have another choice; they need more help.)

Carol pushes past him, reaching out for the hem of Steve’s shirt and lifting it delicately. Steve doesn’t protest. Her mom’s a nurse; she’s always been able to tell when he’s hurt and hiding it. No point trying to conceal gaping holes in his sides if he couldn’t sneak something as minor as a sprained wrist past her.

She clearly wasn’t expecting it to be this bad, though. She gasps, her hands trembling where they hold his shirt. “How—? Who—?”

“What the fuck?” Tommy asks, face pale, expression queasy.

Steve knows how it looks, the massive blooms of blood soaking into the makeshift bandage. (He’d say it looks worse than it is, but it honestly hurts like a bitch.)

“I’m sorry,” he says, sure that remorse is bleeding from every pore. He hates, hates, hates himself for dragging someone new into this mess yet again. “But I could really use some help.”

“Fuck, Steve. Of course,” Carol says instantly, looking like she’s about to march off to track down whoever did this to him and make them pay.

Steve glances at Tommy again. His jaw is clenched and his hands are balled into fists at his sides, but he meets Steve’s eyes and nods. “Whatever you need.”

“It’s dangerous. Deadly,” Steve says, almost frantic. As much as he needs their help, he needs them to understand what they’re getting into. “You might not—”

“Steve,” Tommy says. His hand comes up in a familiar move, then stops just in front of Steve’s shoulder, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch. “We made a promise.”

Steve nods, throat too tight to say anything. He’s distantly aware that tears are welling in his eyes, but he doesn’t bother trying to hide them. All he can do is close the scant distance between them, leaning into the pressure of Tommy’s hand almost desperately, hoping the gesture shows even a fraction of his gratitude.

Tommy nods back and repeats, “Whatever you need, Stevie.”

#stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things ficlet #stranger things #steve harrington #my ficlet #my writing #my post #uhhh gotta think of a specific tag in case i write more #ficlet: the most popular kids in the apocalypse #afkjlas;fj i might change that but it works for now #idk what this is exactly but my brain wouldn't let me fall asleep until i wrote it the other day so #enjoy? #tommy hagan #carol perkins #my fic

[fourmula1]

i was scrolling down the #summerofcome2023 tag and wow, every piece was exquisite.

maybe you’ll feel inspired some day to write more about a line that goes “he’s mating material, maybe Max thinks about this too” or something like that hahaha

Flufftober Day 11: this anon.

max/daniel. 1,309 words (oops). follow up to this piece.

-

When Daniel got back to Monaco and made his way to Max’s apartment he expected – and hoped – for the rather desperate and frantic sex they’d had previously.

For Max to be feral for him – because he always was before – and to drag Daniel to the bedroom and get on his knees for Daniel.

No other alpha he’d ever been with would ever.

But not Max. Max worshiped Daniel’s body and loved to make Daniel come with his mouth only and Daniel was getting very used to the way Max was about him.

Even if he was a bit past his prime omega mating years, Max still was crazy about sex with him and it made Daniel feel pretty good. At least someone still wanted to fuck him.

What he did not expect, upon his return to Monaco, was Max tugging Daniel onto the sofa with him to cuddle and nuzzle his way up Daniel’s neck and against his scent gland. What he didn’t expect was the way Max breathed him in deeply, strong arms squeezing him close.

“Missed you so much,” Max sighed against Daniel’s neck, taking another deep, slow breath. Daniel had at least had the good sense to shower upon his return home and it paid off. Max was scenting him at his purest – freshly showered and clean, no weird airplane smells, no one else in the mix.

Daniel’s tummy swooped a bit in his belly. They were having a great hook-up season together, lots of hot sex, and laughter and jokes and hanging out. Daniel was fairly sure, though, that Max’s youth was a hit against him. Max wouldn’t want to settle down with an omega any time soon, and especially not one nearly 35. If Daniel wanted to have a pup or two he’d be considered high risk, a ‘geriatric pregnancy’ as it was. Max would eventually move on to someone younger, more fertile, who could give him pups and look good and pretty next to Max in the Paddock.

“Glad to be back,” Daniel said, happy to just soak up whatever he could get. He often wondered… hoped… maybe Max would stick this out with him for a few years, at least. Daniel could accept the benefits of being friends with Max and when Max was ready to move on… it’d hurt, it would. But. That’s the way life went and he’d have to accept it.

“Don’t go for so long, again,” Max murmured, dragging his lips across Daniel’s jaw and pressing a little kiss to the corner of Daniel’s mouth.

He’d only been gone ten days.

“Oh Maxy, I’m sure you could have found pretty much anyone ready to hop into bed with you,” Daniel joked, laughter cutting off short when Max pulled back to look down at him laid out on the sofa, deep frown etched in his features.

“Why would you say that?” Max asked, and Daniel’s omega empathy could feel and smell the wave of hurt that washed off of Max. It surprised him, because Max always smelled happy, and warm, when they were together.

“Just a joke, I guess,” Daniel shrugged, a little frown of his own forming. “Plenty of omegas would be glad to help you take the edge off.”

Max paused, pulling back even further to rest his weight on his elbow as he looked down at Daniel. Daniel looked back, feeling Max’s hurt and confusion in a way that was more uncomfortable. He wanted to squirm away.

“Did… were you… with other alphas in Los Angeles?” Max asked, and his voice was small. Soft. Not accusatory but defeated. He wasn’t jealous. He was sad.

Daniel let himself feel Max for a moment, take in the way his scent changed, and his confusion started to bleed into something more hopeful. Daniel had not been with anyone else since he started sleeping with Max a few months ago but he always understood that they had no formal agreement and Max would be free to do what he wanted. Daniel had had a history of sleeping around plenty, but once he started hooking up with Max he wasn’t looking for anything else. Neither was his heart.

“Max, no,” he said, shaking his head a little and reaching up to cup his hand at the side of Max’s neck, thumb stroking gently over the hinge of his jaw. “No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I. It’s just been you, since, like, March,” he explained, meeting Max’s pretty blue eyes and trying to gage where Max was coming from.

Max studied Daniel’s face, and Daniel could practically see the gears turning in his head, and then the relief on his features when he understood Daniel was being honest.

“I don’t want any other omegas,” Max offered, shifting again to lay on the sofa with Daniel, tugging him close again, chest to chest as he curled his arm around Daniel’s shoulders. “I only want my own,” he said, squeezing gently. Daniel’s heartbeat picked up in his chest.

“Your own?” He asked.

“You of course are my omega, Daniel,” Max said, leaning in for a little kiss Daniel was happy to receive. “If you want to be,” Max finished, looking back at Daniel again. Daniel could smell the softening of Max’s scent from the sharp worry of before, back to his happy, sated, content scent Daniel was so familiar with.

Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat. This wasn’t what he expected when he returned today. He didn’t expect to get everything he wanted.

“I want to be,” he agreed, shivering a little at the way Max nuzzled back in against his neck to press a kiss to his mating mark spot. He couldn’t help the little moan that escaped him when Max dragged his teeth gently over it – a promise for the future. Daniel would let him do it now, if he was honest.

“Good. I have hoped so since I presented,” Max said and that sent Daniel reeling back, enough to stare Max in the face. Max presented as an alpha shortly after he got promoted to Red Bull. Years, and years ago. “I knew I of course had to wait and become an alpha you’d even consider before I tried.”

“Max, what?” Daniel asks, shock, confusion, awe taking him over.

“What?” Max asks back, and his face is cracked open with delight, a bright smile and laughter bursting out. “Daniel. You of course would never have agreed to be with me when I was nineteen. I needed to of course grow up and work hard to be a good alpha if you were ever going to agree to mate me.”

He says it so matter-of-fact. Like those sentences haven’t sent Daniel for a tailspin, trying to figure out what the hell Max was saying.

Max is smart, though, and Daniel realizes he’s probably right. Daniel wouldn’t have given nineteen year old Max a shot – because of his age, because of his feral inexperience, because of a lot of reasons. Daniel is lost for words for a moment as he processes this. What if he had found an alpha he wanted to settle down with before Max felt he could be the right one for Daniel? What if he’d mated someone, never knowing all along that Max hoped they’d be together. What if Max had to go through that and bury his feelings about it and pretend everything was okay? So many what ifs. Daniel spares a thought to be grateful that that never happened.

“You’re too much, Maxy,” he said, the tiniest little smile on his lips as he leaned in for a kiss. Daniel tucks himself back into Max’s chest and nuzzles in, closes his eyes. He needs to nap off the jetlag and can think of no better way to do it then curled up with his alpha. His alpha.

#flufftober 2023 #maxiel #omega daniel #alpha max #my ficlet

[sam-loves-seb]

dream a little dream of me -- chapter 1

Ian smiles at him. He checks his watch—ten-thirty—and wonders when they got so old. They’re still in their twenties and more often than not they don’t see eleven o’clock. They used to run around the abandoned buildings and the poorly lit sidewalks until the sun came up when they were teenagers. He can’t even imagine doing that shit now. He’s tired. His body is tired after so many years of fighting against what feels like everything and everyone, and now he’s finally pushed through to the other side. Mickey too. Mickey more than most. Beers and blunts and Friday nights. And a bed that’s just on the other side of the living room.

prompt: “Baby, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

read the rest on ao3

#ficlet #prompt response #gallavich #my gallavich fic #my ficlet #my shameless fic #shameless

[onboardsorasora]

I went to the dentist today for my post op and there’s something about going to the dentist and having your praise kink stroked when they’re working on you.

So naturally Max is a new patient at the dentist in his new city. Everything is great and fine, the sign up was easy, they took his insurance (an important reason for why he chose them of course) and the wait to get in an exam room was negligible. 

Everything changes however, when his new hygienist walks in all sunshine and bright honey eyes. Max can’t see all of his face because he’s already wearing his mask but his eyes are beautiful and crinkly when he smiles. And Max knows he's smiling because the edges of his mask lifts with his cheeks. 

His name is Daniel and his voice is lovely, happy and his accent is taking Max for a ride. His dark hair is curly and a little messy, as if he runs his fingers through it often and Max could see a few tattoos peeking out from the sleeve of his bright blue scrubs.

It's lovely, he details everything he’ll be doing for Max today. It's just an intro appointment to get a lay of the land so they can plan his dental journey with them.

“We’re not gonna get into anything too intense today, just a few x-rays, and pictures of your pearly whites and then the doctor will be in to go through his recommendations. And then you’ll be outta here in no time.”

Max can’t help but smile because he can hear the smile in Daniel’s words. Daniel claps and does some finger guns before starting to set up. He puts the radiation vest on Max’s chest, Max does not catalogue the feeling of his gloved fingers when they cup the back of his neck to make sure the vest wasn't digging into his skin.

Daniel tells him how they're going to x-ray and he puts the little device in Max’s mouth. 

“You have beautiful teeth, Max.” Daniel says offhandedly, he was looking behind him at a screen. Max clenched his fingers underneath the heavy vest. 

“That's it, perfect. I’m gonna move this to your left upper…bite down for me? Beautiful love.” Daniel murmured under breath as he worked. Max dug his fingers in the meat of his thigh.

The torture continued, punctuated with the beep of the x-ray machine when it went off and the fresh smell of Daniel’s cologne mixed with his own natural scent. 

“There we go, I just need you to– good boy.” 

Max clenched his toes in his sneakers. 

“You’re doing so well for me Sweetheart.” 

Max wondered what the maximum pressure the little x-ray device could take before the stem snapped in half.

“Perfect baby, just perfect.” Daniel breathed, typing on the computer off to the side with one hand and stroking Max’s cheek unconsciously with the other. Max inhaled sharply.

Daniel looked back at him quickly, worriedly. 

“Let me get that out for you, your jaw must be a little sore.” Daniel sounded a little sheepish as he pulled the device away, Max watched the line of spit that still connected them thin away to nothing. He wondered if Daniel saw it too, if he maybe wanted to taste it. Taste what Max tasted like.

He was hard in his shorts.

Thankfully, Daniel took his time with putting back the x-ray extensions and taking off the radiation vest, Max was able to calm down a little. He was further able to refocus when his dentist came in, an older gentleman with shrewd eyes.

They discussed treatment plans and Max heard Daniel making notes whenever the doctor called out certain things. Daniel eventually left the room and his dentist continued to speak to Max about short term and long term goals. 

He was out front in the waiting room when he heard a loud honking laugh. While the office assistant scheduled his next appointment, Max’s eyes strayed to a lithe man in bright blue scrubs that turned the corner. He eyed him appreciatively, hearing his voice as he teased another hygienist and they laughed together.

“Alright Max, your next appointment is–” Max doesn’t know when his next appointment is because at that same moment Daniel turns around and sees him and smiles. Max has never really been bowled over by a smile before, by a face. But Daniel’s is gorgeous. Max wanted to kiss him, feel his nose bump his.

If Max was an artist then Daniel would be his muse. As it was, he was simply struck dumb by the man walking over to the desk.

“Georgie, are you treating Max here nicely?” Daniel teased, Max saw George roll his eyes fondly.

“Of course I am Daniel. He’s your favourite patient after all.” George grinned teasingly and Max saw Daniel’s eyes widen a fraction before he settled into a grin of his own.

“That’s right.” Daniel murmured and Max watched the way his lips formed his words. He wished he hadn’t worn his mask earlier so he could have seen how beautiful, sweetheart, and good boy had looked coming from those lips.

Max couldn’t help it. He blushed.

#thought about saving this for Max Fest but I'm really excited to write something not depressing right now so I wanted to share #maxiel #max/daniel #my ficlet

[crestfallercanyon]

I don't think this is long enough to be a real fic, and it's also not polished as I wrote it in a notes app on a plane, but have a little gallavich ficlet:

Title: A Way to Keep the Nice Things Ship: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich Content Warning: Mental Health, Bipolar Disorder, Hallucinations

Ian recognizes that he needs to take his meds, and maybe even book an appointment, solely based on what he sees when he walks into the kitchen that morning.

Still, he can’t help but stare.

Their apartment floor has little knots in the designing of the boards, trying to fake wood grain, knolls where if it were a tree — and if it were ever real — may have held a nest once. Ian has thought about that before, the potential creatures that could have called their cabinets or their floors home, has imagined it when he’s tired or high, always intrigued by the pattern and the choice to try to give the linoleum a life it never actually had.

That’s imagination. Ian can tell when he’s imagining things. Has a very active imagination — very helpful during sex — and it’s especially ramped up when he’s high.

This is different.

Inside one of the knolls this morning there is something blooming. Lush green and yellow moss spills out of the floor and sways in a breeze that doesn’t exist. A night sky exudes from it, a dark purple mist that floats just inches above the ground, thinking with impossibly tiny stars. The starts of blue flowers are budding in the darkness of the wood grain, the petals a pale blue that Ian decides are the start of stargazer lilies.

It’s beautiful. It’s mystic and wonderful and if he were a child he’d believe he was about to be chosen for some great adventure. If this were a storybook, he’d be Lucy in the coat closet on her way to Narnia. Except he is not a child, this is not something he’s imagining. If he reaches down, he could touch the moss and confirm it to his own senses, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s lucid enough to know this is not real. Worse than a mirage, this is a hallucination. It makes Ian sad, distantly, that something so pretty is such a warning sign. Not that unlike how venomous snakes are vivid in color, or how poisonous flowers try to draw the eye.

Mickey walks by him, headed for coffee, another solid reason this isn’t real. Mickey would notice something like this. Instead he asks, “Hey. Whatcha staring at?”

This is beautiful, and Ian’s the only one who can see it, and that in and of itself is the problem.

“Just thinking,” Ian lies. It’s not meant to be a permanent lie. He just doesn’t want to lose the sight of something like this so quickly.

Shuffling footsteps, the sound of poured coffee. The misty galaxy above the ground swirls up, mimicking the twister that’s surely in Mickey’s coffee cup. Then the strong scent of coffee is filling his nose, and Mickey is right next to him, holding a cup for him.

“Ian,” Mickey starts, already in that firm tone of hey, do not bullshit me, which Ian doesn’t mean to, he swears. “What are you staring at?”

“Can you get me my meds?” Ian asks, not taking his eyes off the little world in the floor. “I haven’t taken ‘em yet this morning.”

Time, which already stretches and shrinks like a weak rubber band in the dark morning anyway, is particularly hard to track when Ian’s off like this, because he swears it’s two seconds before Mickey’s back and shoving a piece of toast in his mouth. When Ian obediently chews — because he is listening Mick, okay, he swears — Mickey also holds up his pills and water.

“Would you look at me for a second?” Mickey’s voice is no longer in the firm tone, but is a little wary, and a little small, and Ian picks up his head immediately.

Ian smiles at him. Gulps down his pills, wraps an arm around Mickey, and with his water wet mouth he kisses Mickey right on his temple. “Mornin’”

Mickey smiles back, but his eyebrows are furrowed. “Where’ve you been this morning?”

Ian looks down. The little greenery is still on the floor. Meds don’t work that fast.

“Sometimes… sometimes I hate that I have to take my meds.” That sentiment has every alarm in Mickey’s body ringing, Ian knows, so he grabs him tight to assure him. “Not like that. It’s just — sometimes, what I see is nice. It’s actually nice and good a thing I get to have that no one else gets to see. But I have to stop it, because — because it’s not right.” Ian blinks, looks around, and Mickey hands him his coffee. Ian hugs him tight again. “Am I making any sense?”

Mickey considers. Nods, though it’s not all that confident, but he understands well enough. “What have you been looking at?”

Ian grimaces. “Not sure it’s your kind of thing. But it was nice.”

“C’mon. Tell me.”

“I don’t want to worry you.”

“Not worried.” Mickey puts his hand in Ian’s hair. “Want to hear it. Not just the bad shit, though you know I want hear that, too. But just, if it’s nice, then I want to know that stuff, too.”

Ian hums. Takes a sip of his coffee.

Then he decides, why not? Of all the stuff they’ve had to hear from each other and their families over the year, this is hardly the thing that’s going to send Mickey running.

Ian looks down and starts to detail it. Gets really specific, because if Mickey wants to know, then Ian’s going to try to help him see it too. It must take some time, because Mickey hops up on the back of their couch and is almost done with his cup by the time Ian’s finished. Ian’s own cup is a little cold and could use about twenty seconds in the microwave.

He looks at Mickey, and isn’t sure what he’s going to find. Finds himself grinning when he sees the fond smile that’s on Mick’s face.

“So, yeah. That’s all.”

“Sounds nice, Red.”

“Yeah.”

Ian isn’t sure what to say anymore. Is weirdly embarrassed to be so enthralled by something like this. Something that is not even real. Mick’s probably able to tell that Ian’s squeamish about it, because he doesn’t say anything more. Simply drops off the back of the couch and walks up to him. Pats his cheek.

“Let’s get ready to go, eh?”

_____

It’s not until a few days later that it’s brought up again, and it’s not even direct. A journal that Ian was given by a counselor maybe a year ago that was meant for him to get into journaling and he never could, is set out on the nightstand.

“Where’d you find this?” Ian asks.

There’s a moment where he thinks Mickey is going to act like he wasn’t the one who pulled it out. However, there’s only two of ‘em in this place, so it had to be, so he gives it up before he even begins.

“Thought you could write the nice shit down,” he says, trying to sound casual, but Ian knows how much he’s been turning this over in his head. “Or whatever you want. But that way it doesn’t totally go away. Since, y’know, you don’t like that you have to lose that kind of thing.” Mickey shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but Ian’s eyes are bugging out of his head. “Know Franny would love hearin’ about what you see. Debbie says she can’t read the kid enough fairytales.”

Ian blinks at him. His heart aches in a soft way, over ripened fruit, overwhelmed by sweetness.

He walks over to Mickey with his arms open. “C’mere.”

“Oh, don't go gettin' all doe-eyed—”

“Hug me, asshole.”

Mickey scoffs, wraps one arm around him, but when Ian drapes himself all over him, Mickey laughs and wraps both arms around him. Ian nuzzles into his neck. “Thanks for watchin’ out for me,” he mumbles.

Mickey’s hand buries into Ian’s hair, and Ian sighs. “‘Course. You’re my husband.”

#ficlet #my ficlet #gallavich #shameless (us) #ian gallagher/mickey milkovich #hallucinations #bipolar disorder #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #domestic bitches