#bc he’s a so small his bites don’t really hurt and his tail does nothing

[spoofyleaf]

My sailfin dragon let me hold him for half a minute and I just

[fandom-monium]

Kinky but Not Really

Summary: In which you make an odd request, and Spencer tries to fulfill it. “I don’t want to disrespect you...”

WC: 1.8k

TW: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader, fluff, cussing, established relationships (blegh), light use of sexual themes including light degradation, light violence, and the slamming into walls (nothing explicitly sexual or nsfw bc im a wimp), specifically post-prison Reid, ft. Garvez and Rossi

Spencer loves you. He’s never doubted that for a second.

Your laugh as you throw your head back. Your eyes, the way they crinkle when you grin too wide. Even your style, whether you’re in joggers or suits, just does something to him he can't quite explain. Really, he loves you. 

Even if you’re weird.

Spencer knew what he was getting into, okay? He didn’t consider it earlier in your friendship, but as time went on and you two grew more comfortable around each other it became apparent that he wasn’t the only… outlier in the team. By the time you officially got together, he was already used to it.

But somehow you still manage to surprise him.

“You want me to what?” 

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” You wince as Spencer coughs. With his sleeve, he wipes the coffee dribbling down his chin, staring at you as if someone hit you over the head. It has to be the only viable explanation, considering what you’ve just asked him. “But hear me out.”

Spencer sits up and sets his mug on the coffee table. “Wh...what? Why? No-what? When?”

You wring your hands together, shifting your weight foot to foot as he squints at you. “Okay. When: um, some time after you came back from prison? I think? Why, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you.” 

“I don’t know, (Your Name),” Spencer rolls his lips together, anything and everything that could possibly go wrong racing through his mind. 

“Nothing extreme! I don’t expect you to slap me across the face⏤”

“Oh my god⏤”

“Just small things! Start off light,” You think for a moment. “Like shoving me around or smacking me. Calling me names.”

“I hear where you’re coming from, but I don’t want to…” He flushes, his voice hushed like what he's about to say is forbidden, “disrespect you.”

You take his hands in yours with a bright smile, “Hon, I love you, but please. I’m the one asking you to get violent with me.”

“What the-when did you up your demands?”

You continue, “Like, if you think about it, you’d be doing me a favor. Respecting my wishes by ‘disrespecting’ me. So, what do you think?” You watch him carefully, legs tucked under you, a hopeful sparkle in your eyes. He can almost see the dog tail wagging behind you.

How can he say no?

"Alright, if that's what you really want," Spencer sighs, smiling as you break out into a grin. He laughs when you tackle him into the couch, thanking him repeatedly. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try. But starting tomorrow.”

“That’s fine!” You sit up, smiling down at him. Your lips wiggle as you try to suppress your anticipation. “No pressure, just do what you feel comfortable with and we’ll see from there?”

Spencer bites his lip and nods. “Sure.”

⏤

The men of the BAU are distinct; you can tell just by looking at them.

David Rossi, though the eldest, the senior, is suave and has a level of sophistication that could only come with age. It’s in his blazers, his stride, the warm yet knowing eyes. A reassurance that eases the people around him.

Matt Simmons rocks the young dad vibes, with the smooth-shaven face and simple clothing. Not to mention a smile that makes him good with both children and adults alike.

Then there’s Luke.

“You!”

Luke nearly falls out of his chair as Garcia stomps over, sitting up in attention as the click of her pumps grow nearer. “What? What happened?”

“You! You happened,” Garcia hisses, looming over him while Rossi comes up from behind. 

“Penelope, we don’t know for sure⏤”

“Who else could possibly do this? Matt and you could never. Only this troll could have done this,” She whips back on Luke, her eyes⏤usually bright with mischief⏤burning and accusatory. “Fix it!”

And just to tick her off, because that’s the purpose of their relationship: “No.” 

She sputters, fuming pink as her lipstick. And as Luke revels in the oncoming eruption, sneering at Garcia, Rossi⏤that wise geezer⏤squints at him.

“You don’t know what we’re talking about, do you?”

“... Not a clue.”

Maybe I should've retired. Rossi sighs, “Spencer and (Your Name) have been off today, and we think they’re having a fight.”

“And you think I have something to do with that?” Luke's face pinches in offense.

“You didn't see them today, have you?" 

"No?"

Garcia, shaking off her fury, is more than ready to spill the tea. "Kay, so this morning on the way up, I saw Spencer and (Your Name) waiting for the elevator and Spencer just snatched their coffee. And he didn’t even bother to let them into the elevator first.”

Luke frowns, “I mean, it's a bit ungentlemanly but I don’t think that means they’re fighting.”

(Had she shared the lift, she would have seen how apologetic Spencer was, nearly bursting into tears as he hands you the cup of coffee, throwing you whatever cash he has.)

“And during lunch I caught them down the hall by the break room,” Rossi recounts, wincing at the image, “They were talking in hushed tones, then Spencer shoved passed (Your Name) and stalked off.”

(If he’d check on you, he might have caught the proud gleam in your eyes, grinning wide at Spencer’s attempt at getting rough with you.)

“And you still think I’m involved?” Luke raises an eyebrow at Garcia.

She’s completely unapologetic as she scoffs, “Listen, I don’t know how Spencer can stand being friends with you, but clearly you influenced him in some way because before he met you, he was my sweet summer child. Now…” She withholds a sob, Rossi sympathetically patting her shoulder. “You’ve tainted him!”

“I… I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“Then don’t,” Garcia sniffs, drying away tears. “Just bring our Spencer back!”

“Bring me back from what?”

They jump in unison, turning to find Spencer has returned from his break and is now back at his desk. He eyes them curiously as they fumble for an explanation.

“Hey, Doc,” Luke, deciding to end all this turmoil, asks, “Are you and (Your Name) having uh... lovers quarrel?” 

“A what?”

Garcia shoots him a look, “A ‘lovers quarrel’? Really?”

“Well, I doubt they’re fighting, and honestly a lovers quarrel sounds much less intense than⏤you know���fighting.”

“No, we are not fighting. Why would you think⏤oh, you saw...” Spencer’s face falls, melting into embarrassment. 

"Saw? Son, we witnessed," Rossi huffs as he crosses his arms and stares down Spencer. "Would you care to explain?"

"I know what you're thinking, but I swear it's not what it looks like. This is..." After his explanation, his embarrassed flush only deepens at their mortified expressions. 

"I've never wanted to be this close to you."

"My sweet summer child is no longer."

"Guys, chill. I for one am glad Spencer is willing to…” Luke gives him an awkward smile, “keep it interesting. The best relationships take effort, right?”

Spencer hums, nodding, “Exactly. We’re doing great⏤”

“Hey, guys,” You greet as usual.

Without missing a beat, he faces you and snaps, “Damn it, (Your Name), for once stop running your mouth and get me a drink.”

Luke, Garcia, and Rossi freeze, gaze switching between Spencer and you, waiting with bated breath. They haven’t seen Spencer remotely like this, not since prison. And despite knowing that you asked for this, they’re fully prepared to throw themselves in front of him just in case. 

But instead of reacting violently as they expected, you pause, taking his poor attempt at a glare in stride. Then you smile, heading to the coffee machine. “Sure, no problem.”

Spencer turns back to them. “See? B-better than ever...”

“Dude, are you crying?”

⏤

“So you couldn't do it, huh?"

Shoulders drooping from exhaustion, Spencer slumps against your desk and sighs, “No, I’m sorry.”

You shrug, “It’s okay. Thanks for trying though. As a reward, let’s get take-out. My treat." You press a kiss to his cheek, but the smile you shoot him only serves to make his heart sink. “Meet me at the elevator, k? I’ll get my things.”

“Okay...” As Spencer shrugs on his satchel, he can’t help the guilt squirming in his stomach. Why does he feel like he disappointed you? Or more accurately⏤didn’t meet your expectations. Sure, you’ve had your fair share of disputes and as Luke put it, “lovers quarrels”, but never has he felt so… defeated.

Is this what failure feels like? It sucks.

So as the elevator shuts, as it dings with every descended level, as you babble about what you should have for dinner, Spencer makes an executive decision. 

A final stand, if you will.

You turn to Spencer, “So, what do you want for dinner⏤”

You yelp as your back hits the wall, the back of your head cushioned by Spencer’s palm because he’d rather kill himself than hurt you, pressing his body against yours. Warmth envelopes him, and as you meet his gaze, he musters all the dark emotions he can, the side of him he didn’t realize he had until prison. He feels it⏤the fury, the disgust, the merciless violence⏤bubble to the surface, and he can’t deny the satisfaction he gets seeing your eyes wide with shock; the entire day you’ve seen him coming, taking every one of his attempts like a joke in spite of his best efforts.

At least now he feels like he’s got the upper-hand.

Spencer leans in, bumping his nose against yours in an Inuit kiss. It’s a gentle contrast to his next words, and as your breath hitches, he bites back a smirk, pulling back to meet your eyes.

“What I want is for you to shut your mouth and put it to good use.”

Your jaw slackens.

The elevator dings and you both jump, Spencer quickly pulling away from you as the door opens to the parking garage. Luckily, no one else is around and Spencer leads the way as you head for your car. But you’re silent as you walk, and he wonders if he went too far. Was he too rough? Disrespectful?

“Hey, (Your Name), are you⏤” Spencer looks over his shoulder, only to halt at your expression. 

You give him a toothy grin, face flushed and eyes crinkling as you tilt your head at him. “Yes?”

...Ah. If you keep looking at him like that, his heart might burst.

Letting his bag drop at his side, Spencer pulls you into a tight hug, and for a moment you sway together, hearts beating in time, breathing steady.

Spencer sighs, “I don’t get it.”

“It’s okay, I don’t get it either!”

He smiles into your shoulder, chuckling. Yeah, he loves you.

Especially because you’re weird.

⏤

AN: hello took a break from studying and wrote this trash at 2 am whoops

to the user that requested some rough d/s smut with degradation and rough play, im sorry but my asexual ass just could not with this one. but as a kinky asexual i rolled with it✨

pls take the “rough” play and “degradation” lightly. it’s not supposed to be accurate representation. this is just reader and spencer experimenting and having fun!!

i love that yall have the hots for post-prison reid while im over here just wanting to tuck him into bed and kill anyone that brings him harm😳

[olivyh]

TWST FAMILY HCS PT2) Savanaclaw and Octavinelle

Feel free to tack on your own Hc’s too!!! I love reading what other people think and how their view of the characters and of Twisted Wonderland in general change from person to person!!!

Savanaclaw:

Leona:

-Farena: We already know Leona describes his brother as being carefree and relaxed, but deep under that I think he’s a deeply intelligent man (how can you run a kingdom and be stupid?). He tries his best to make time in his schedule for his wife and child, and even try to get bonding tike with his younger brother (which never works out well). He tries to teach Cheka as much as he can, often giving him little life lessons while they play games. He’s a very kind and straightforward man, often being blunt when he doesn’t mean to. He stands a little taller than Leona, with Orange hair similar to Chekas. He keeps his hair tied out of his face as much as he can.

-Sister-in-law Kingscholar: A strong and confident woman, not afraid to speak her mind when she wants to. She’s blunt and she’d let you know about it. She’s also very kind in her own way, often dragging Leona off and trying to have serious talks with him, which he appreciates but doesn’t show. She adores Cheka and often spoils him without meaning to, and will spoil Leona too (but indirectly in a way similar to Ace’s father’s). Also very intelligent and good at reading people. I think she stands a little shorter than Leona, but she holds herself higher, and he slouches, so it looks as if they’re the same height. She has long yellow hair (again, similar to the ends of Cheka’s) that she often ties back as well.

-Cheka: We already know him, so heres a few Hcs!: He sometimes asks his mother to do his hair the same way as Leona’s, and tries to do everything like him (such as standing like him, trying to deepen his voice to sound like him, throwing sand at various objects in the castle yelling “King’s Roar!!”)

Ruggie:

-Grandma Bucchi: As he said himself, a stern and prideful woman. I think she’d be on the stricter side, having to teach Ruggie how to survive rather than him having to face those hard truths alone. She likely stands a lot shorter, likely 5’0 (sorry to anyone whos that height), than most other beastwomen. She’s a lot physically stronger than she looks, often still trying to pick Ruggie up at his age. She tries to spoil him when she can, trying to make him relax after working and taking over the household chores (which he declines, still cleaning up when she’s not looking- which earns him a smack to the head with a broom). She’s also a prankster, quietly jumping out from corners and scaring Ruggie or one of the other children. I think she feels a lot of regret over seeing Ruggie grow up so fast in the environment that he had, but she’s the proudest grandma ever. Whenever he sends pictures back she boasts to everyone at home (“See that! That’s my grandson’s school! See that there! He plays magift and is one of the best on the team! Look there! He’s got those nice ceremony robes!”), and even boasts about him with what little baby pictures they have (“See him walking at such a young age? Isn’t he so strong?”) Will never stop talking about her grandson, ever.

-Neighborhood kids: I think they’re like little siblings to Ruggie, so I’m adding them. They try to tale over what Ruggie did when he was at home, helping people fix up their houses or entertaining the baby hyenas when their mothers have other things to do. They also leave gifts to Ruggie when he comes back, between little dolls they made, bracelets they thought he’d like, charms, or pretty rocks and leaves. He keeps all of the gifts, no matter how small.

-His mom (bc the poor woman deserves a spot)(Poor meaning unfortunate)(The more i think abt it, both. It means both. Bad time?): I think she looked a lot like him, but with brighter blue eyes than his. She was definitely a prankster at heart, leaving clever traps behind for any poor soul to get stuck in. She was a very hardworker much like her son, taking on any task she could find to help out her mother. I think she’d try to leave as much behind for Ruggie as she could, which would include little notes and scribbles about how she was feeling throughout her pregnancy and how excited she was for him. Ruggie also kept all of those safe and sound, in a small box he keeps in the corner of his room.

(Can you guess who my fav chara is?)

Jack:

-Grandma & Grandpa Howl: A very loving couple, who always make time out of their schedule for their grandchildren, whether it be for school events, emergencies, or if any one of them want to come by and talk. They met when Grandpa Howl got lost and wandered by Grandma Howl’s family’s cabin (which happens to be the one they, and the rest of the family, still live in to this day) and he spent the night. I think they fell in love at first sight :’)

-Mama Howl: A very soft and loving beastwoman who is willing to sacrifice anything for her children. She is often strict, and sometimes a chatterbox, but she always reminds her children to stay safe and that she loves them. She always pats their head or cheek when she walks by, even if she has to reach a little to plant a kiss on Jack’s forehead. I think her hair would be a little darker grey, and she’d definitely be a little more muscular and taller, reaching six ft one when standing straight up. She’d have the same yellow eyes as Jack, and her hair would be cropped shorter due to her still moving around a lot.

-Papa Howl: Very similar to Jack personality and appearance wise. He stands an inch or two shorter than Jack, but is still very muscular due to working around the house and in the woods (chopping wood for the campfire, dragging around tools, carrying three wolf pups at a time in his younger days (only one now wants to be carried, which hurts the poor man’s heart a bit)

-Baby brother Howl: Huffy and a little moody, but a hard worker even if he complains while doing it most of the time. That’s often with his parents, but when he does something with Jack he doesn’t complain a bit. He’s very attached to his older brother, looking up to him for his strength and strong morals. He often compares him to superheroes and star athletes in his mind, but sometimes it slips out, resulting in one very embarrassed wolf boy and another very flattered wolf boy, ignore their wagging tails, it means nothing. I think he stands pretty tall for a preteen, around 5’7-5’8 and growing taller by the day. Same hair and eye color as Jack. Acts like he doesn’t like to play games with his younger sister but will never turn down a game of tag.

-Baby sister Howl: An absolute sweetheart. She just wants the best for her family and will do whatever she can to make what they want happen. Jack is hungry? Good thing she made her special dessert (it’s a poptart with whipped cream messily piled on top with sprinkles and literal sugar cubed wedged in it, but don’t tell her you don’t like it, please she’d actually bawl). Her other older brother is tired? She can get him extra blankets! Mama needs help cleaning? She can mop (she really just throws water on the floor and praises herself for a job well done). Papa need to cut wood? She can- no, she can’t. Please don’t give her an axe. She’ll cheer him from the sidelines with a song she made up just for him instead! She has their mother’s grey hair and father’s dark brown eyes, and loves to do her hair like the princesses she sees on Tv! (Yes, Jack will wear a too-small dress and Tiara if his sister wants to play princess. No, he will not let anyone take pictures.)

Octavinelle:

Tweels:

-Mama Leech: At first glance, a very kind woman with soft eyes. Willing to open her arms to anyone who might need help. Then, a terrifying grin similar to Floyd’s as that poor unfortunate soul realizes the trap they’d been thrown in. She’s very kind and patient towards both her boys and husband, as well as their friends (even of she is on guard near their friends, throwing a few hollow threats to see if it’d scare them away)(She doesn’t like to share her babies). She dotes on the tweels as much as possible, indulging im whatever curiosity they may have. Floyd wants to know what going through riptide is like? They leave tomorrow to find one. Jade wants to know more about life on land? She’ll find as many books as possible and ask (threaten) people for their land belongings. She knows when too far is too far though, and is very skilled at reeling the boys back in if they get to that point. Will always call them her little guppies, no matter how big they get. I think she’d have a teal bob on top, with the underside of her hair being black (which makes her hair look color changing when she swims). Im her human form shes only a few inches shorter than her boys, ranging around the same as Jack’s mother.

-Papa Leech: The definition of old Hollywood New York mob boss. Strict and blunt about his interests and problems, and not afraid to cause any problems if provoked. When the tweels were younger and they’d wrestle and bite at him, he’d throw them off him easily, telling them they need to work to beat him, even if he was impressed by their teamwork at first. Will die to protect his family, and was likely put in that position many times in the past due to his uh… business. He values his wife and children more than anything, and has done everything in his power in the past to protect them from harm. When they went to NRC at first, he felt defeated and almost wanted to beg them to stay safe with him (not that his pride would allow it).(Both the tweels can see through his facade easily)

Azul:

-Grandma ‘grotto: A very stern and prim octomermaid. What she says goes in the Ashengrotto house, and she often catches herself making unnecessary comments. She does apologize. Also a very loving grandmother towards Azul, often babying him whenever possible (doing the classic “you’re not eating enough here take some more” grandma move)(She will smooch his face whenever possible when there are no business clients nearby). Tries to boost his confidence since she knew about what was happening to him (Chances are she went through the same thing- being an octomer as well) and dod her best to protect him and make him happy. She taught him how to write with his tentacles and encouraged him to do his best in everything he does.

-Mama ‘grotto: Another businesslady in the front absolute softie in the back situation. Adores her son and is incredibly proud of how far he’s come.I think she looks identical to Azul, but more heavyset and, of course, female. She coddled Azul as much as possible, which worked out well with baby Azul’s clingy nature. She had no shame in walking around with the little guy stuck to her (unless he smacked a tentacle to her face when she was working on her restaurant), and made sure everyone knew what a good boy he was. She would show pictures to everyone (similar to Ruggie’s grandma), but respects his wishes in wanting to hide pictures of his past. She still shows anyone who asks pictures of him at NRC (compliments to the twins, who send her updates when her son is busy), and will tell everyone how smart he is and how much he’s grown.

-Step-Papa grotto: A very professional man in every aspect of his life, which stretches to his relationship with his stepson. When he learns about the contracts and Azuls UM, he’s over the moon with how happy he is. He swam around with a little more pep than usual, flicking his tail and flaring out his fins the more and more Azul told him. He helps him reword and format his contracts to his advantage, and is always willing to talk with him about Mostro Lounge or (on rare occasion) some memories before Step papa Ashengrotto met Mama Ashengrotto (which always make him happy that Azul trusts him enough). I think he’d be a pretty generic looking Mer, with an average looking tail and such

[yikeswtfmate]

Strange Times || Ch. 3

previous part // Strange Times Series Masterlist // next part

Summary: Ray does some thinking. These new revelations are bad news, but maybe he can work around them, until he can’t anymore.

Pairing: Raymond (Charlie Hunnam - The Gentlemen, 2020) x Reader

Warnings: swearing; sexual references and themes; some sadness

A/N: this has been a whirlwind and i’m probably going to take a short break from this fic; i’ve barely scratched this part together so i might need more time to come up with the next part, especially because of what i have in mind for it; i really don’t want to write it just for the sake of it and then be unhappy with how it turned out, so please be patient with me! until then... here’s part 3

A/N 2: should i make a masterlist for this series? i made a moodboard for it this week just bc i was bored so might as well? let me know!

It’s been almost a month and Raymond can’t yet say whether Y/N’s pulling his leg or his skills are starting to fail him, because there is no other explanation for her completely falling off the face of the earth for hours on end without him knowing anything about it. When she told him so nonchalantly about her plans that first night, he expected he’d be able to track her every movement without too much fuss. Y/N Pearson, however, is a woman of many talents, so he was forced to finally admit that she was right in warning him not to underestimate her.

It’s not to say that it’s because of lack of trying – he’s had David tail her Uber for a few days but she somehow managed to slip away, only to pop back up in Oxford exactly the second Mickey started handing him his ass because she was nowhere to be found until midnight. Then he tried tracking her phone, just to find out that she’s been leaving her phone on the coffee table every day, although Rosalind somehow always knew how to get in touch with her (whether she’d let Mickey and Raymond know where Y/N was, was a completely other story). Finally, he decided he’ll just tail her himself, but that backfired when he followed her into a nursery store without too much preamble.

Trying to find his bearings, thoroughly confused as to why she’d enter this shop, suddenly horrified she might be pregnant with a fucking cunt, whoever this fucker is he’ll find his death today, he was startled by a hand slipping on his arm, bringing him flush against her small body. Looking down, he couldn’t help wondering what the fuck she was on about now, smiling innocently at the approaching shop assistant and completely ignoring him.

“Hi, darling!” She thrilled in the most obnoxious voice he’s ever heard. “My hubby and I are expecting this tiny wonder that’s growing inside of me, and we’d like to look at some cute little tiny clothes for this amazing bundle of joy that will grace our lives!”

To say that Raymond never felt more terrified in his entire existence should say something, considering he has three older sisters who each had the right mind to think he was actually their little puppet throughout his entire childhood. Three hours later, after listening to more coos than he’d care to ever experience again and now knowing how much every single stroller in the Kingdom fucking costs, Y/N escorted him outside (still latched like a fucking octopus to his arm, never having let go) and turned to him with another blinding smile that would be more fitting for a snake? Fox? Fucking Loch Ness monster? He’d take anything over her at that moment.

“What the fuck.” He doesn’t even have the energy to try to appear more threatening.

“What, babe? I thought you wanted to know what I’m doing all day. Isn’t that why you and Mickey have been freaking out? That I’m being naughty and doing unspeakable things? I just showed you that I’m being a good girl.”

He looks at her for a moment, his jaw set. Maybe one of these days he’ll just break his bottom teeth from all the tongue biting and teeth grinding he does whenever she opens her mouth. There’s a small part of his brain that lets him know it’d be great to get back at her by spanking her ass until it’s bright red, but he pushes the thought aside and just turns around and starts walking away.

“Hey!” She yells, heels clicking rapidly on the pavement until she’s in step with him again. “What the fuck, Ray? You can’t just up and leave!”

“I can and I am. I’m not putting up with your shit anymore, love. You’re Mickey’s responsibility, not mine, so you can do whatever the fuck you want for all I care.”

“Aw, Ray! Come on, babe, you don’t mean that!”

She grabs his hand, forcing him to stop and look at her. Disregarding the fact that they’re in the middle of a very busy shopping centre and everyone has to get around them, Y/N swings their interlocked hands between them, nearly making Ray think she’s a sweet angel. It’s easy to forget she’s been keeping him on his toes from the moment she stepped foot on British soil, when she looks up at him through her eyelashes, a small smile on her lips, almost – but not entirely apologetic.

He sighs and hangs his head. She will be the death of him, but apparently he has no control whatsoever over his body or feelings anymore, and with an arm around her shoulders, Ray brings her into him and directs her back in the direction of their house. (Their house? Since when did he start thinking of his own house as theirs?) He just wants to go home and maybe erase this whole encounter with something strong to drink.

He’s not even aware they’re holding hands until they are forced to split by an errant toddler. He notices how she smiles over at the little pig-tailed girl, a softness in her eyes that is surprising in a way that strangely warms his own heart. She takes his hand again, interlacing their fingers on reflex, unaware of Ray’s slow blink in her direction. He’s thoroughly enjoying her little display of affection, having more or less been subconsciously craving them ever since she first kissed him.

There’s a flutter in his heart, a missed beat that makes him question this whole thing with Y/N. He’s more than aware that she pisses him right the fuck off, but he can’t help but miss her presence and erratic personality the whole time she’s not with him. One month, and she’s already clawed her way in, gnashing unintentionally at the veins around his heart, until she’s found her way in. With a start, he realises that above all the dirty thoughts he’s had, all the images of her bent form before him, he wants to protect her, keep her safe, tuck her under his arm and kiss her head.

He realises now that whenever he steps down into the kitchen to find Y/N making coffee, still dressed in one of his t-shirts (having been seemingly diving into his wardrobe on a regular basis), bed hair sticking out, eyes half closed, smelling like she’s still dreaming, his heart swells. She would hand him his mug and with her own in her hand, she would trudge her feet behind, peck his cheek and stroke his jaw on her way up to her morning shower. And now, he doesn’t want anything else, but that. That moment to keep happening, every morning, every day for the rest of his life and what in the name of Jesus, Joseph and Mary, what the fuck!

*

“I’m home!” Raymond announces as he steps into the house. For a split second he’s surprised once again at the words he’s just uttered, unsure about how to feel knowing that Y/N is still currently living under the same roof as him.

He was comfortable in his life, alone and uncommitted, sure that he would never find anyone who would understand the sort of existence he’s leading, until Y/N barged into his life guns blazing and fucking up whatever sense of security he had until now. Not to mention that understanding earlier in the week that his feelings for her developed so high as to shoot the fucking moon did nothing to alleviate his irritation with her. If anything, it’s gotten worse, especially since she’d become even more secretive lately, until he snapped at her in the morning before she left with a final slam of the front door.

He doesn’t want to get into another fight with her, not in the mood for another shouting match where he’d try to pry out whatever the fuck she’s been doing. He’s tired of her keeping him at an arm’s distance, but doesn’t want to admit that he’s hurt by her not trusting him enough to confide in him. A tiny voice in his head points out that he hasn’t been truthful with her either – hiding his own feelings can only show he’s a coward, but he waves that away. All in good time, he’s not in a hurry, although the thought of Mickey finding out does more than put him off the whole ordeal.

“Got you that ice cream you kept going on about like a bloody lunatic yesterday!” He shouts, trying to distract himself from the dark thoughts that swirl into his mind.

There’s no response and the house feels empty, cold, desolate. An icy shiver runs through his spine, worst case scenarios running before his eyes. He’s left Y/N at home, having just stepped in when he went out to buy some groceries. He declined her offer of joining him when he saw how tired she looked, but now he fears it was a mistake.

He takes out the gun from its holster, slowly moving around the hallway and now that he’s closer to the back of the house, he can hear a small tune playing from the living room. He steps carefully around that particular creaky floorboard and inspects the space which seems clear. It’s only when he stands next to the kitchen island, that he sees Y/N’s head over the sofa. She’s sitting on the floor, next to the vinyl recorder, chin on her knees, hair falling around her body, as if she’s surrounded by a halo.

Raymond lowers his gun, places it on the kitchen counter, but is unsure what he should do next. This is unprecedented, having never seen Y/N this small before, shoulders hunched over as if in defeat. He makes up his mind, and sits himself on the floor next to her, back to the sofa, close enough that she can touch him if she so wants, but far enough to retreat if she wants to be left alone.

“This was my grandpa’s favourite song.” She murmurs.

She places her cheek on her knee, a movement small enough to allow him to look at her. He notices the tear stains on her face and there’s nothing he wouldn’t want to do more in that moment than to just brush his thumbs under her eyes and kiss her forehead. In time with the lyrics, she starts whispering the words, silently asking him to pay attention. He realises this is important to her, so he rests his head on the sofa and closes his eyes. He vaguely remembers buying this particular vinyl in a dingy shop, thinking it’s one of the most beautiful love songs he’s ever heard.

There’s a shift and Y/N crawls between his legs, curling in on herself on his chest. He raises his arms, placing one around her waist and another one to brush her hair. One of her palms rests on his bicep, drawing slow circles into the soft sweater, and she continues to murmur the song.

Raymond keeps his eyes closed, waiting for her to speak, revelling in the feeling of her skin. Her hair is soft and smells like vanilla, mixing in with the undertone of her cinnamon shower gel, and he wonders whether there is anything sweeter in this entire world than to hold her in his arms.

Rosalind warned him that there’s more to Y/N than the trouble she likes to stir, more than the reckless girl who lunges herself into aristocratic gossip and shitty remarks intended to shock. He’s used by now to the brash personality, peppered with unabashed flirtations and caustic curses, the brilliance of her mind whenever they debate an important subject, the vast knowledge that she still surprises him with. But this is never something he would have expected her to be. This mellow and sad part of her that she’s been hiding so well is the entire galaxy in his eyes, confusing him to no end as to why she would show it to him. She trusts you, Raymond, Rosalind’s words echo in his mind, going against all he thought he knew about her. She’ll never say it, but she’ll show you.

He kisses her temple then, a smile on his lips, but he wants to take her pain away. He wants to stop the tears from falling, although he’s not entirely sure what caused them in the first place. She looks up at him, eyes searching his face, and she kisses his jaw tentatively. It tickles her lips so she licks them, but Raymond stops her in her tracks when he kisses her cheek softly. He doesn’t move back, waiting for her reaction and there’s a question there, behind her pupils, blown wide, unsure and afraid. She moves her face closer until her breath fans over hips lips, and her body turns over his, and now they’re chest to chest. He brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear, thumb caressing the side of her neck. She leans into the touch that now moves up to her cheek, and her head rests in his palm now. She opens her eyes again, waiting, asking, hoping.

This is it, he thinks. This is enough and he gives in. Raymond kisses her then, the sweet scent of chocolate on her tongue, tentatively at first, capturing her lips in a dance that he dreamed of having – it’s different, softer, more meaningful than the rough kiss they’ve already shared. Lavishing her, hands move into his hair, while pulling and sucking at his lips. She shifts again, straddling his hips, leaning into him so he moves an arm on her waist to steady her. She moans into his mouth, the sweetest melody covering his veins and there’s fire in his lungs that spreads around his entire body. They come up for air and he peppers kisses on her brow, her cheeks, her nose, while she places her palms flat on his chest. Her forehead rests on his and there’s a moment where they just breathe each other’s air.

“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.” She whispers.

“We both know I have to bruise your ego from time to time so you can come back to reality.”

“You’re too good for me, Raymond.”

He brushes a hand over the side of her head, taming her hair after his ministrations. She leans into his touch again, filling his heart with affection.

“I’m really not, love. I’m too fucked up to ever be good enough, nevermind too good.” He smiles. “And speaking of fucked up, your brother is going to kill us if he finds out about this.”

“Well, that’s a sobering thought. Please, never speak of Mickey when we’re in this position, ok?” She chides, rubbing her hips into his to emphasise her point, which earns her a surprising whine in return. “Oooh, I like the sound of that.”

“The floor is really not the place to be doing this, babe.” He grunts, as she starts sucking and licking at his neck.

His arms find their way to her hips again, forcing her down, trying to create as much friction as possible. There’s an uncomfortable strain to his jeans, and his cock is suddenly even more alert and asking for attention. His unspoken plea is clearly understood and with a giggle, her hands fly to his belt buckle, tugging and loosening. He feels more than sees the zipper opening, fingers creeping under his shirt, leaving a burning trail on his skin. With a grunt, he grabs the back of her neck, bringing her even closer, sucking on her tongue and demanding her own breath. He pulls her sweater off with his free hand while she tries to make good work of removing his jeans.

Raymond warned her that the floor is not fit for this, so he grabs her ass and hoists her up, leaving a trail of jeans, sweaters and shirts behind them as he makes his way to the bedroom, never letting her go. He places Y/N carefully on the bed, intent on making this last, and not rush it into a quick and dirty fuck. He looks at her, splayed before him, red faced and wet lips, such expanse of bared skin just for him. He lowers himself above her, bruising her with another kiss.

“You’re mine now.” He whispers into her lips and she nods, pulling him closer.

Bloody fucking hell, Y/N Pearson will be the death of him.

[madokasoratsugu]

have you no idea that you're in deep

[fritz/varg; witch/familiar au]

summary: It is always a war with the elements when he angers, when he despairs, a sorrow so profound even the heavens would bend a knee to. Were he not shackled by the curse, surely his magic could overturn even the scales of Fate itself. 

Silly notions they are - but such fanciful ideas strike Varg, when he sees Fritz; when he saw Fritz drenched in moonlight, saltwater lapping at his calves, clothes wetly clinging to his skin, casting a lovelorn look over his shoulder with sparkling eyes and unbridled laughter. Varg doesn’t peg himself a poet nor a romantic, but it is easy to spin such words when he has spent his life next to such loveliness. 

(in which Fritz is a witch cursed to staggered eternal sleep, and Varg is his steadfast familiar who struggles to understand why he stays, what love really means.)

a/n: uh. yeah! enjoy lol. read on ao3 if u can bc idk if tumblr messed up anything (as always lmao) and happy valentine’s day !

read on ao3 or below

People complain about such trivial things in relationships. Varg’s heard almost every mundane issue there is, and then some.

Being late, not shaving, not replying to messages within the hour. Those people on Yahoo answers and subreddits think they have it hard. 

Boo-hoo, Varg thinks. Try having an amnesiac, narcoleptic witch as a boyfriend.

Said boyfriend is currently leaning against his chest, nibbling on his lip. Varg curls his arms around Fritz’s middle, and Fritz leans his head into the crook where Varg’s neck meets his shoulder. Varg can feel Fritz’s lashes fluttering against his collarbone, and his heart leaps miles until he feels Fritz shift deeper, awake.

Fritz has not spoken much since he woke up. Had only blinked blearily, looked around, confused, before the look in Varg's eye killed the spark of curiosity in his.

This has only happened once before. Varg’s own eyes threaten to shut with the memory, a physical withdrawal from the thought. 

At least this time, he is quiet.

When Fritz is loud, nothing silences him, an unbidden strength drawn from his sadness that breaks more than glass and stone. When he is loud, he cries enough to drown a river, an ocean, himself, a million times over.

It is always a war with the elements when he angers, when he despairs, a sorrow so profound even the heavens would bend a knee to. Were he not shackled by the curse, surely his magic could overturn even the scales of Fate itself. 

Silly notions they are - but such fanciful ideas strike Varg, when he sees Fritz; when he saw Fritz drenched in moonlight, saltwater lapping at his calves, clothes wetly clinging to his skin, casting a lovelorn look over his shoulder with sparkling eyes and unbridled laughter. Varg doesn’t peg himself a poet nor a romantic, but it is easy to spin such words when he has spent his life next to such loveliness. 

Yet long as Varg’s spent by Fritz’s side, he still doesn’t understand how anyone could devote themselves so wholly, so unconditionally to something as fickle as magic.

But to love - maybe, he understood, just a little. It is nights like this when Fritz is soft and warm against him that Varg thinks his fingers are brushing against the concept of it, yet still too far to fully hold on to. 

A fleeting notion that his fear and the even breaths of a curse-induced sleep do not allow him to embrace. 

But tonight, arms full of Fritz, every beat of his heart synchronised to Varg’s, he lets the fear ease and the sensation of his lover pressed against him to wash over him instead, the prickling joy of closeness shared only when both are awake.

Quiet though he is, Varg knows he is upset. Running a thumb down his ribcage, Varg hums questioningly. Another day he would make a joke about having to prod and strum Fritz like an instrument before he offers even a hat for Varg to drop a penny in exchange for his tumultuous thoughts. 

Tonight he will not. Tonight Varg knows to simply wait as Fritz brews, tentative and new and quiet. 

So Varg closes his eyes, settles, and waits. Varg did not use to be so good at staying silent. But decades of experience have trained him well.

Eventually, Fritz tilts his head back. His lip has been worried till it chapped.

“So this isn’t...Brugantia?” Fritz asks, voice so small Varg aches. 

Varg swallows a sigh. Pulls Fritz closer by his waist, resting his chin atop his head. 

“Technically? Yes. But humans have redrawn the borders, so geographically, no.” 

The answer comes easy. Not from rehearsal or practice, but repetition. There is something funny in it, Varg thinks. To yearn and wait and repeat the heartache of succumbing to the ordeal of love again and again; to let yourself fall in love for a night and watch it wither to sleep the very next.

There must be, or why else does laughter bubble anxiously in his chest when Fritz looks at him like the morning sun when his eyelids finally flutter open, when Fritz touches his cheek and calls his name, when Fritz kisses the corner of his lips like it’s been a day and not decades.

“Huh.” Fritz blinks, then pulls a face. “Again?”

Varg laughs, a low rumble that has Fritz pressing his back into with a content sigh. 

“Again.” He confirms, squeezing Fritz.

A smile flitters across Fritz’s face, the first of the night. It is so sudden and breathtaking Varg finds his mind lapsing for the next part of the conversation. 

But Fritz’s smile is just as quick to fold into something more uncertain. He shifts so he is kneeling between Varg’s legs, face to face with the raven. 

Carefully, he slides his hands across Varg’s chest, over his shoulders and neck, threading through his hair. Varg hums, a lower note that Fritz delights in, in the way his fingers twitch a laugh and scratch his nails on his scalp. 

It isn’t until his hands stop at the brim of his boater hat that Fritz’s hands stutter. Tracing the lip with the pads of his fingers until his hands are on either sides of the hat, Fritz chews his bottom lip, lowering his eyes to Varg’s. Curiousity and nerves glint in his eyes, his paused movements. 

Varg dips his head, laughing softly at Fritz’s yelp when the hat slips into his grip. Permission given, Fritz gently lifts the hat off. 

A pair of fluffy wolf ears pop into view, and Fritz’s frame sags with relief. 

“There they are.” Fritz says, scratching the back of one. Varg leans into the touch, tail thumping on the floor, embarrassedly happy. Dust kicks up behind him, a sight that only makes Fritz’s smile grow.

Yet Fritz’s teeth only sink deeper into his lip, eyes still holding a faraway touch, a held back question. Scratches growing slower the deeper he sinks into his doubt, fingers tangling in thick hair and fur alike. 

Tilting his head to press his mouth to Fritz’s wrist, Varg feels his eyelids drop at the thrumming pulse against his lips. 

“I’ve got pennies if you’ll sing.” Varg murmurs, a hand coming up to caress Fritz’s side. He runs a soothing hand from the side of his chest down to his hip, resting on the bone to rub circles with his thumb. 

“We’re not -.” Fritz starts, hand flat on the crown of the hat, pressed tight to his chest. “This isn’t the eighteenth century, is it?”

Varg’s smile turns crooked. “Nope. Try twenty-first.”

Horror overwhelms Fritz’s features, twisting them into a pallid mess. “Twenty - Three centuries? I’ve been asleep for three - ?”

“You’ve woken up four times before.” Varg says. Humour somehow still manages to leak into his callous tone. “This makes it five.”

Words can hardly leave Fritz. He gapes down at Varg, flapping his mouth like a stranded fish. 

Then his arms are thrown tight around Varg’s neck, a vice grip as he flattens his face into Varg’s hair. There’s a stuttering inhale, and just as quickly, Varg is winding his arms around Fritz, pulling him flush against himself.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and the harshness of the truth in the air.

“I’m sorry.” 

Varg closes his eyes, clenching his jaw. Again. This was always the part he hated most.

“I didn’t - Fuck.” The swear is punctuated with a choking sob, a rare display of anger doused out with utter upset. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“To be -,” Varg pauses with a forced laugh, willing it to calm Fritz enough to still the apologies. “To be fair, the curse said you’d sleep, not forget. Hardly your fault he screwed us both over.” 

Fritz vehemently shakes his head, grip only tightening. “I made an oath to never leave your side. A promise.”

“You were.” Varg tries, but his attempt at silencing his partner ends with him being silenced instead, with the sudden chill as Fritz pulls away. Instantly, Varg’s hands fall to Fritz’s hips, holding him in place, the cold uncertainty of departure still looming over him.

Gripping Varg’s face with both hands, Fritz fiercely glares at him. But his anger doesn’t hold up as well as his sadness does, tears already glazing his champagne eyes a dizzying hue.

“I wasn’t. I couldn’t be, when I’d forgotten. Don’t deny that I wasn’t there, that I couldn’t keep my - my promise.” The gravity of the situation sinks in deeper, and Fritz falls forward, as if weighed by it, knocking their foreheads together. “I’m sorry.”

“...God, stop fucking saying sorry.” Varg says, vicious. Discomfort crawls beneath his skin, anger at the situation and at Fritz unearthing from a place he’d tried so hard to bury. “It’s not your fucking fault.”

Fritz bites on his bottom lip again. It is hard when your lover’s existence can be acknowledged in full only by you. It is harder still when the guilt cannot be absolved by words, only time. 

“I hurt you.” He quietly admits. “I didn’t….I didn’t mean to, but I am.”

A familiar look of guilt paints itself on Fritz’s face. Before he can pull away, run, as he is prone to do - prone to believe he should, Varg hooks an arm around him, drawing a startled yelp from the witch.

“You did. Shouldn’t have followed that shitty witch and got cursed.” Varg says, rolling his eyes. 

“No, I...I shouldn’t have.” Fritz echoes. The lighthearted tone must not have translated, because Fritz is dropping his head, hands curling into the hat instead of Varg’s hair.

“Joke. It’sa fuckin’ joke.” Varg snorts, tapping Fritz’s cheek with his knuckles. “You’re the fool for trusting him, but he’s the asshole for cursing you.”

Fritz looks up, frowning. “I can’t tell if you’re cheering me up or not.”

“Yes.” Varg says, straightfaced.

Fritz squints at him, prompting a smirk out of the raven. That has Fritz pulling the hat back atop his head, squishing his ears into the accessory in the process, earning an uncomfortable grunt from the familiar.

“Ass.” Fritz says, voice stupidly fond. Letting go of the hat, Fritz’s hands come to a rest on either side of Varg’s face. Despite his resurfaced anger, Varg cannot deny the comfort Fritz’s touch brings, the longing it soothes. “...Are you upset with me?”

Varg’s lips twitch at the question. Again, Fritz’s insecurities rear its head. Indignation simmers in Varg’s middle; the thought that Fritz could never hold onto the memory of repeated forgiveness, of repeated rows and shouts they've had over this same topic.

“Yes.” The reply makes Fritz duck his head in shame. Lifting his chin with a crooked finger, Varg looks at Fritz, amused. His reaction was always the same. And so would his answer. 

Maintaining steady eye contact, Varg leans in. “I’m upset that you left on your own. I’m angry that you tried to throw your life away for me. I’m suicidal too. Let me do it next time.”

Fritz’s eyes blow wide in shock, then narrow. “No. I’m the magic one. You’re not taking any hits, not when I'm still here.”

Their eyes lock, holding the stare for one long, tense moment. 

Varg pinches Fritz’s chin, dragging his face closer. Teeth bared, a low growl emits from the werewolf’s throat. 

“I said, no.” Varg snaps. 

A flash of anger that no doubt mirrors Varg’s own crosses Fritz’s face. The fierce overprotectiveness steeped in obstinance - it reminds too starkly for Varg to fold; the same look he’d seen before Fritz left the cottage and returned cursed.

“No.” Varg repeats, louder. “What, being amnesiac and narcoleptic not good enough for you? Should I go get another witch to pull out your teeth and cut out your tongue so you can’t agree to stupid deals anymore?”

Pressing closer until their breaths mingle, Varg grins sardonically. Relishes in the way Fritz only defiantly glares back, champagne eyes gleaming with the vivid opalescence of trapped moonlight. “Know what? Pull up a chair, I'll get some pliers and do it myself. Maybe then you’ll listen to me.”

Fritz leans in, eyes darkened through his long white lashes. His thumb smooths Varg’s jawline patronisingly, pressing painfully into the dent behind his earlobe. “Oh, I’d love to see you try, Varg.”

Another beat of silence follows.

It is times like this that Varg detests Fritz’s stubbornness, the reluctance to allow himself to be protected for once, the need to always stand strong running through his veins in lieu of blood.

Where did that lead them? To a cold cellar with naught but a coffin full of funeral flowers frozen in time.

Yet Varg cannot deny the way his heart had sung at the sacrifice, the distance his lover was willing to cross just for them. The way he’d cried as much as his heart had soared at the act, over the shallow rise and fall of the sleeping witch lain still amongst full blooms.

In the contradiction of what it meant to love and the love he sought, Varg finds Fritz; yet finds himself still yearning more, craving more of Fritz, of that intersection that is a mere side of him.

What was he seeking, really? Validation? Fritz’s reliance? Love? 

Glancing an absentminded thumb over the sore lip, Varg doesn’t know the answer. All he knows is when Fritz’s lashes flutter at the pressure over his lip, moonlight eyes cracking into stars, his heart patters a little quicker, a little more insistently with the need to close the distance between them.

Slowly, Varg leans forward to kiss the familiar indent in Fritz’s bottom lip, eyes slipping shut to the sound of a breathy sigh. Cradling the back of Fritz’s neck as the other slants his head to slot their lips in a more familiar pattern, the kiss is tender, a reassurance translated through the gentleness they share.

When they part, Fritz’s eyes drift shut for a moment. His expression is soft, dreamlike, as if awakening all over again when his eyes slowly reopen. 

Fritz hums, the sound exhausting the trepidation in Varg’s bones. His canines poke Varg when he presses another chaste kiss to the corner of Fritz’s mouth.

“Next time.” Varg promises against the skin. Fritz pauses, leaning back to look at Varg in amusement. “Floss and a door would do the trick too.”

Fritz rolls his eyes. “Sure, and while you’re distracted tying floss to the doorknob, I'll take the pliers and render you toothless.”

Varg fakes a loud gasp, laying a hand on his chest. “But I need them to survive!”

“And I need mine for my spells, so we’re even.” Fritz smiles primly, patting Varg on the cheek. 

“Asshole.” Varg grumbles. 

“Takes one to know one!” Fritz replies cheerily, pecking him sweetly on the lips. It makes any other words of discontent die in Varg’s throat, a satisfied hum sounding in its stead. 

The whiplash speed of which their relationship switches moods could give anyone vertigo - one moment it’s daggers and poison and the next is roses and honey, sticky sweet and soothing for the throat sore from swallowed knives. It’s a fast paced dance, unmatched by any other but a learnt partner who can predict your next step before you even take it. 

He’s missed this, Varg thinks, as he rakes a hand through Fritz’s hair, pushing the long bangs away from the left side of his face. Pinning the hair back, a few loose strands escape his grip, falling across Fritz’s face in a familiar pattern. 

“You should put your hair up again.” Varg says, as Fritz presses his cheek against his arm.

Fritz crinkles his nose in consideration. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll cut it.”

“Nah.” Varg says, slyly smiling. “Give me something to pull.”

Fritz barks a startled laugh, flicking Varg’s nose. “Watch yourself.”

The raven only laughs in return, teasingly digging his nails into the witch’s neck. Fritz jolts at the sudden sensation, and sends Varg a halfhearted glare. Varg only smiles innocently back, languidly tracing the base of Fritz’s neck with his nails, comforting the red lines with the dragging heel of his palm.

Unable to hold back an embarrassingly contented purr, Fritz flops facedown onto Varg’s shoulder. Despite the clear enjoyment, his shoulders are jittering in an effort to keep his giggles down. Cheek to hair, Varg grins. Fritz has always been ticklish in the weirdest places.

“Feeling sleepy already?” Varg teases, even as he does not give up the stronghold he has around Fritz’s waist, even as he feels his words stick to his tongue before they are verbalised.

“No?” Fritz replies, smile evident as pressed against Varg’s shoulder. Varg’s heart trips at the sensation, and trips again when Fritz turns his head to look up at him through his lashes, past his mussed bangs, a curious brow arched. His eyes are sparkling wide and aglow, fetching in the moonlight, undeniably awake. “Would be weird if I was sleepy now.”

“You’ve slept at odder times, love.” Varg sighs. The pet name slips past unbidden, the relief and moonlight reflected in Fritz’s soft gaze loosening his tongue. He flushes immediately.

Meanwhile, Fritz’s spine straightens instantly, face positively lit, an absolutely delighted smile splitting his face in half.

Before Fritz can say anything, Varg is crushing his mouth back onto Fritz’s, although it is less kiss and more a forceful manner to keep the witch silent. To Varg’s chagrin, the leaking giggles from his lover tells him it is a futile effort.

“Love, huh?” Fritz says the moment they part, eyes twin mirthful crescents. His cheeks are a bright rosy hue, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I haven’t heard that in a while.” 

Varg groans wordlessly, headbutting Fritz, who only giggles louder. At that moment, Varg feels his crushed spirits rise as much as they deflate. It is a surprisingly humbling moment that does not last long against his personality. But it happens, and Fritz pounces upon it with a vengeance. 

“Sa-ap.” Fritz singsongs, thumbs tapping to every syllable on Varg’s cheeks. “You’re a big fluffy sap.”

“I’ll throw you out.” Varg threatens.

“Of my own house?” Fritz tilts his head with a wide grin. “You don’t have that power, freeloader.”

“I paid your bills for three centuries. I’ll do whatever I want. Including this.”

Without hesitation, Varg mercilessly begins tickling Fritz’s sides. Fritz’s retaliation is to immediately fall on his side with an uncanny shriek, dragging Varg down with him.

They land in a tangle of limbs and wild laughter, uncaring of the cold where the wooden floor meets bare skin. There’s sure to be bruises forming from Fritz’s windmilling arms and Varg’s prodding fingers tomorrow, and maybe even a floor to repair. 

But tonight, there’s nothing but the two of them and their endless peals of laughter, warmed inside out from happiness and embarrassment, and the knowledge that they are alive, and awake, so, so awake.

Varg stops laughing long enough to turn his head to Fritz, and his smile only grows fonder at the sight. 

Upon the chestnut wood, white hair halos around Fritz, one arm lying across his eyes while the other clutches his middle in a pitiful effort to control his laughs. Shafts of moonlight stream through the blinds, cutting his figure into panes of light and shadow. Yet somehow his entire being appears to be aglow when he lowers his arm, tilts his head to look back at Varg, cheeks a pretty red and grin all teeth; utterly picture perfect.

When Fritz’s eyes find Varg’s, his expression falters, creases into one more somberly sweet, in the way his eyes still smile even as his lips lose their grin. 

Turning on his side, he reaches out across the small distance between their faces, fingertips brushing Varg’s cheekbone. It’s only then that Varg realises his own smile has slipped, facial features twisted into something surely ugly and bittersweet, from the tender way Fritz caresses his cheek.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I want to say it.”

Varg clicks his tongue, but it is less spite and more habit. “Should have known I can’t shut you up for long.”

Fritz only smiles; tucks himself into Varg, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Every touch feather soft and certain - a scream and a whisper of presence all at once. 

“I’m sorry. And I’ll say it as many times as I need to.” 

The inherent sincerity in the whisper makes shivers tumble down Varg’s spine. There is an ache in Fritz’s words that Varg has long since tired of hearing, long since fallen in love with.

Varg only mutely nods. He is not gracious enough to separate the wants from the rights, not gracious enough to shut down the unneeded apology. Not when the pain still hollows in his chest. 

It is a knowledge they’ll both share again in the future. Maybe on another day, maybe not. But it will be shared, either to an awaiting ear beneath the sun or to a silent body bathed in candlelight’s glow.

But the way Fritz looks at him tells Varg the knowledge is already shared, unspoken as it is. 

Varg leans in, pressing a soft kiss on the eye of his other half a soul. Fritz closes his eyes as he does, a silent sigh brushing lightly on Varg’s collarbone.

“Tired?” Varg asks again. This time the question is a tentative murmur, too aware of past proceedings to trust. He lays a hand flat on Fritz’s chest, waiting for the thrumming of his heartbeat to slow, for their time together to once again hasten to an end.

“No.” The rejection is immediate. Fritz’s hand comes to rest upon Varg’s, lacing their hands together backward. “But you are, aren’t you?”

Varg laughs, quiet. “Maybe just a little.”

The witch tugs his familiar downward, shifting just so that they fit neatly against each other, with his cheek upon Varg’s head. Fritz begins carding his fingers through Varg’s hair, scratching lightly behind his animal ears. Varg sinks into his embrace, eyes shutting to tune into the sensations on his scalp, the light hum his lover makes whenever he exhales.

“Then sleep.” Fritz says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

It is a fool’s promise. Varg would be one himself if he believed in it. 

But Fritz’s voice is a soothing lullaby, familiar and gentle like the moon he worships. 

As he slowly drifts off, Varg can’t help but think maybe this was love, to be warm and not so content and worried, but trying to trust in it still; maybe this is where he’s meant to be, gravitating towards Fritz with his ocean of unnameable emotions, yet dreadfully warm all the same, dreadfully heartachingly sweet like his lover’s lips. 

For the first time in perhaps decades, Varg lapses into a dreamless sleep buried in the scent of petrichor and dust; the only sweetness that lingers into his sleep not that of funeral flowers - but the press of Fritz’s lips upon his crown.

Warm, and so very awake.

.

.

.

Varg’s first memory was lying on his back beneath a full moon, the pungence of burnt grass mixed with rain, a man whom the smell clings to, undercut by the scent of a sharp spice.

His face filled with open wonder as he stood spellbound over Varg, eyes wide as saucers and pretty enough to get drunk from.

Then he’d laughed, hands coming together in a singular clap. And Varg’s heart had leapt, the joy shared with him so suddenly and intensely he couldn’t do anything but stare.

“Nice to meet you.” He’d said, voice ringing like a clean bell. Holding a hand out, the cut on his palm was already healing. He’d grinned, unconcerned of the blood that dripped down his arm. 

Dangerous, Varg’s instincts screamed. This man could ruin him with a snap of his fingers. But his eyes were kind and when Varg clasped his hand a profound sense of safety washed over him, certain and tangible as the pool of moonlight they were enveloped by.

“I’m Fritz. Please take care of me.”

.

Varg’s first incantation was one of anger, of morbid desire. 

His words had twisted, turned whiplike and pointed, coalescing into the fire of dying stars - 

Until Fritz slammed a bloody palm down and over the circle beneath his feet, an intermediary of a different catalyst forcing the spell to a fizzling halt.

Both had stared at each other for a long moment, one’s eyes wide with shock, the other in horror and confusion.

Fritz’s lips are pulled in a tight line of what Varg is certain to be held back reproach - the thought makes his hands curl into fists, defensive.

Before anyone can diffuse the situation, the moment is broken by a burning hiss of disagreement between ground pomegranate seed and blood.

“Maybe.” Fritz mumbled, deep in the night when Varg had stopped pacing long enough to sit next to Fritz’s bed, arms pillowing his head. It had taken the better half of the evening for the witch to convince his familiar to return home. The moon had been high by the time he had surreptitiously came out the back forest, only to find Fritz sitting on the front porch shaking a bag of dog treats. Mockery was the best bait, Fritz had said when Varg demanded an explanation. He wasn’t wrong, which only infuriated the werewolf more. “Maybe it was the date I called for you. That’s why your magic is so - unstable.”

Fritz’s bandaged hand played with the hem of his hand knit blanket, staring up towards the ceiling blankly. Varg fought down the itch to reach over and still the movement, scowling.

Seeing his twisting expression from the corner of his eye, Fritz’s expression falls, reaching out a hand. 

“Don’t.” Varg said, ears flattening against his head, voice still with a raw edge to it. 

Fritz hesitated, but only for a moment, before tentatively scratching at the tender spot at the base of his animal ear. Varg bared his teeth, but Fritz only scritched harder, another challenge posed in response to the challenge. 

Were it not for their bond, Varg thought he should bite off his hand. Physical damage did not carry through their unique bond, anyway. 

"I'm sorry for scaring you. I promise it won't happen again." 

All thoughts turn to a standstill in Varg’s mind. Fritz’s hand now strokes his hair, slow and staggered from the mild discomfort of the bandage.

Averting his eyes, Varg's tail flicked back and forth restlessly. "Issokay." He mumbled, the unexpected apology making him feel inexplicably guilty - for burning him, for running away, or maybe for even existing at all; cruel, angry and vicious.

Fritz smiled, rubbing a gentle knuckle into his head, making Varg grumble half-heartedly. "Promise I won’t make you want to run away again, too." His tone is light, but his heart stutters and jumps too quick to pass off as such, a telltale giveaway for his true anxiety. 

And Varg felt it, every staccato of Fritz’s heart - in Fritz’s trembling hands, in his own chest.

It unsettled him in a way it shouldn’t, and Varg disguised the discomfort with a scoff. "I’m gonna come back eventually. Don't have anywhere else to be anyway." Despite his flippant words, his ear gives a telltale flick of nerves.

Fritz turned, an arm tucked under the pillow supporting his head as he looked at Varg sideways. 

“So you'll stay?" Fritz's eyes are bright with hope. The sight twisted Varg’s middle into knots. From irksome, surely.

"What else can I do?" Varg asked wryly, tail swishing. Embarrassment coloured his face, the darkened cheeks visible even in the dark.

Hearing that, Fritz’s hand stopped, the battle between speech or silence clear on his face. Biting down on his lip, Fritz slowly inhaled, pushed himself up. Unwittingly used his injured hand, causing a flinch to run through his arm. 

The urge to reach out was instantaneous, but Varg caught himself at the very last moment, jaw set as he watched Fritz gingerly sit up. Watched Fritz glance at him, at his knees, then back at him again, an indecipherable look hidden in his eye, in his small smile.

"Nice to know my partner isn't going anywhere." Fritz said, and his smile cracked a little wider, a little shyer, but still undeniably brilliant even in the darkness of the room.

And the next heart that skips a beat -

Surely, it had been the witch’s.

.

Varg’s first, and only, regret is listening to Fritz.

“I’ll be fine.” 

Fritz had stood on the boundary between their cottage and the town, feet one step away from the circle of protection. Tall grass and overgrown weeds swayed in the gentle night breeze at Fritz’s feet, welcoming the witch into the night air.

Under the canopy of stars, Fritz’s smile had been as bright as always, as if stolen from the veil of night itself. In his basket were peace offerings - a pie and two bottles of wine. Hidden beneath, a vial of moonshine, a bundle of honeysuckle and a silver knife. 

Friends do not bring magic tools for casting into each other’s abodes. Friends do not take precautions against each other. Varg had said as much, earning a forlorn chuckle from the witch as he packed.

Yet Fritz stayed resolute, looking out the window as his hands paused over his scattered belongings on the table. The night had been beautiful, with skies so clear metal and petal alike glinted in the overabundant moonlight that filled their home. 

And when Fritz looked back at Varg to silently smile, his eyes catching in the light, Varg had found his ability for speech stolen from him.

“I’ll be back soon.” 

At the doorway, Fritz had curled his hand around Varg’s, careful and gentle, cautious. Touched their foreheads together, closed his eyes and inhaled softly, brows slightly furrowed. He had held onto the moment, the wolf, as if trying to etch the instant into his mind; the cool air turning Varg’s skin lukewarm, every wrinkle in Varg’s palm, every scent that Varg has carried since that first night under the full moon.

Varg had not done Fritz the same courtesy of shut eye. Instead, he chose to drink in the vision of the witch; of silver moonlight dancing on his cheekbones, of soft radiance settling into his nearly-white hair and lashes; of starlight that he appeared to be born from, all at once vulnerable and powerful and wished upon. 

When Fritz opened his eyes, Varg found himself unable to speak, unable to think all over again - already drunk from the champagne hue.

“Wait for me.” Fritz had breathed, a plea and a promise both.

For the first time, looking at him, with an intensity Varg had to swallow at.

“I will.” 

.

.

.

In another memory, another time, when Varg was still desperate and the pain of being apart still threatened to tear him into ribbons of pain with every beat of his shared heart, he was alone with Fritz. 

Late sunlight streamed lazily through the open windows, pooling at their bare feet and curling over their forms, curling into every whorl and lock of opalescent hair. The oaken table between them creaked with every shift of weight, every cautiously lifted hand. Day curtains flapped carefreely around their heads, occasionally wrapping itself around their shoulders before gently falling back. 

Fritz sat across from him, beguiling in the heat haze; chin in palm, other hand resting on his upper arm. Cool silks and gauzy fabric arranged loosely around his frame, pulling in the wrong directions; hints of rich sepia skin peeking through, blended soft through the translucent fabric. Eyes half lidded, concentrating only on the board game laid in front of him. 

Almost artful, but mostly a lovely, silken mess. 

In the air there hung the intoxicating scent of spices and myrrh, mingling with the heat, the knowledge that this was different, somewhere farplace and away - away from everything and anything, a slice of something nearly perfect for just them two.

In this lifetime, Fritz had awoken in a cramped room, amidst pillows of every size and shape, the warm scent of the sun and star anise clinging to him. Glided across the room to press a kiss on the back of a freshly tattooed neck, hummed “good morning” and asked no questions. Only looked out the window to the raucous, colourful street beneath and raised a brow, glancing back at Varg.

“We’ve traveled far.” 

Varg had thought of the sleepless horseback rides, the rattling caravans they’d stolen away in, the forest they’d crossed before it gave way to the town nestled deep in a seemingly eternal desert. 

“You wanted to explore.” Varg had smiled, heart lifting at the sound of Fritz’s returning laughter. 

There had been no snide remark, no wry comment on missing out on the sights, only a featherlight touch to the back of Varg’s neck, fingertips gliding over the familiar sigil. 

Illusory sight, to hide, secret. Fritz’s fingers traced the interlaced patterns, and asked no questions. Only drew another sigil lightly over the ink with his nail, too faint for Varg to parse.

A humid wind swept through the room, brushing through their hair and loosely fitted clothes. Varg had not dared to turn his head, not even when Fritz pressed a kiss to his shoulder and encircled him in a loose hug from behind.

He did not apologise. Only peppered kisses across the exposed panes of skin, laughter a touch softer when basking in the midday sun. Lips skimming the sensitive ink, a sorrowful sort of understanding translated in the way he had only lingered upon it.

Varg thinks maybe that is why it is his favourite memory; the memory he revisits when he is cold and leaning against an oaken coffin surrounded by candles, hand sinking as if endlessly into the chilled petals of hyacinths and lilies.

Back in the tiny room, Varg’s hand had rested upon warped wood, hot despite the setting sun. The balmy climate affects even the encroaching night, the golden hour turning all that it touches into something resplendent and warm.

Gazing only at the person before him, radiant in the filtered sunlight. A picture of slipping fabric and contentment, rolling a game piece between long fingers, movements languid in a manner that coerces the world to stop for him.

Outside, the indiscriminate chatter has given way to the buzz of cicadas, the strings and songs of a passing minstrel. Mellow and ascending, the lyre sings bright and full, accented by the hum of Summer heat. 

Fritz has tilted his head towards the window, a smile unravelling like the notes of a love song. Loose silver-white bangs framing his face, long lashes fanning his cheeks. Flecks of dust catch in the light, almost appearing aglow in the slice of weak sunlight he was framed in.

Enchanting even in gold, even in silver. Varg had felt his heart racing, slowing, bursting all at once, a messy emotional cacophony expressed by the minstrel’s low baritone, soaring and powerful to the lyre accompaniment. 

It had been new, it had been young, a dawning realisation that Varg had not understood, still does not. 

Watching Fritz’s features smooth in the light, the heartache eases for the first time, teetering into something sweeter, like a thorny rose in bloom.

So lost in the picturesque scene, it is another belated moment before Varg notices the even pattern Fritz’s breaths had slowed to. But it hurt a little less with the heavy scent of myrrh suffused in the heat, clinging onto Fritz’s skin and shawls, prominent as Varg gathered the sleeping witch in his arms.

Intoxicating, treacherous, the way his lips still curved in a smile as his head lolled against Varg’s chest; body carrying the sharp smell of star anise and sunshine, different and familiar yet adored all the same. 

He belongs here, Varg remembers thinking, sunken in embroidered cushions and silken threads, cheeks coloured by heat and swathed in light.

But he cannot stay. He won’t. 

Lying sideways next to Fritz, hair spilling into each other’s in the small space, tangling his fingers with Fritz’s own, still warm, Varg leans into Fritz’s shoulder, and closes his eyes.

And in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, wishes that Fritz might. 

But stay where, with who, he does not allow himself to wish, unspoken and wretched in his selfishness.

He only wishes, too lovestruck to do anything else more, too afraid to voice it as a promise.

He only wishes, back of neck burning with the ignorance of Fritz’s quiet confession.

Protection, safe harbour -

Home.

[secretlystephaniebrown]

Come On Home: 4/5

After the war, Locus ends up spending his days on Hawaii, where he meets Kai and Grif. Nothing will ever be the same.

Thanks as always to the phenomenal @a-taller-tale​ for the beta! And special thanks to every single person who has given feedback bc you guys are the freaking best.

Grimmons arrives! Chorus arrives! We're almost at the end!

Previous

Also on Ao3

This planet is the fucking worst. Simmons leaves and joins Blue Team again, then Donut tells the rescue ship to leave, Caboose is constantly upset because Church ran off again, and on top of that Wash and Tucker won’t fucking shut up. Grif doesn’t know if they’re flirting or just haven’t slept enough lately, but he also doesn’t really care because they’re getting on his nerves. Blue Team problems. He knows better than to tamper with them.

So when an asshole in orange armor shows up, Grif is almost ready to write the whole thing off as yet another Blue Team misadventure about to start when the guy opens his mouth and Grif is suddenly a kid again.

“Run!” the man yells, and Grif stares. He’s wearing orange, bright orange, orange and charcoal, the same orange as sunglasses on a smug face—

“Excellent work soldiers.”

Grif’s been punched a lot since joining the army. He’s intimately familiar with the feeling of being punched in the chest, of the way the pain lingers, of struggling to breathe.

This is worse. This is so, so many times worse. Because a figure with cloaking like Tex, like the Meta, comes into sight, in a weird shade of green armor, with a helmet that has a familiar marking across the visor, and it’s unmistakable. No one else has a voice like that.

Grif would recognize his asshole big brother anywhere, even in armor, even more than ten years later.

He can’t speak, can’t breathe. He just stares, and then looks at Felix. There’s blood on his leg, where Sam shot him, and he can’t help but feel kind of… proud, or something… that Sam finally got around to ditching that guy, even if he ditched them first.

There’s some fucking posturing, some weird and ominous statements, but Grif can’t really hear them. His blood is pounding in his ears, and every single thing he’s wanted to say, every name he’s ever wanted to call Sam or Felix are trying to spill out over each other, and the result feels like choking.

And then…

Sam is gone, and they’re left with fucking Felix. Felix, who’s injured and just saved Wash… because Sam had just tried to put a bullet through Wash’s head?

His stomach feels gross and wrong, and his head aches just trying to put these pieces together.

He listens to the speech, like the rest of them. Felix calls them the “galaxy’s greatest soldiers”, and Grif has to bite his tongue to stop himself from calling bullshit.

He remembers Felix. He remembers a guy who was willing to feud with a twelve year old girl, who scared his sister so badly that when Grif came home from work, she’d been sitting on the couch holding a knife. Felix is trouble, and Grif doesn’t believe one inch of his story.

“Yeah,” he finally says, after the pitch. “I don’t buy it.”

Felix flinches suddenly, turning to stare at him. Grif doesn’t say anything else, just lets the others reject his offer. And when he tries to slip off to make a call or something, Grif follows him.

“What the fuck are you pulling?” Grif demands.

Felix turns. “So… it is you,” he says, but he’s tense. Ha, guess he hadn’t expected to find Grif here. Good. The guy deserves to be off balance.

“Man, you really pissed Sam off. He wouldn’t let us even kick you out of the house, and now he wants to kill you?”

Felix lets out a nervous laugh. “Uh, Grif, right? Locus he’s—he’s not the guy you knew, okay? He’s gone totally off the deep end.”

“Like I’d believe anything you say about him, you slimy fucker,” Grif says. “What. Happened?”

Suddenly, Felix’s body language shifts. “I’m not telling you shit,” Felix says, and there’s the familiar cocky asshole. The one who not only has all the cards, he’s stacked the deck, so he knows what cards you have. “You’re just some brat he got a soft spot for years ago. You’re not important.” They’re wearing helmets, so Grif can’t see his smile, but he can remember it. “He ran away from you and all of your fucking problems with his tail between his legs, remember? Couldn’t be fucked to stick around.”

So what if Felix is right? That doesn’t mean that he gets to win the conversation. He’s practically bragging. Sam chose him instead of them. But…

“At least he didn’t try to put a bullet in my head when he ran,” Grif says.

Felix laughs. “Yeah, well. Give him time. He doesn’t like reminders that he’s human.”

He leaves, and Grif lets him for now.

“Grif!” Simmons yells, back from the campsite. “Stop napping and come help us!”

Grif takes his eyes off Felix, and heads back towards Simmons, unable to shake the feeling that he’s being watched.

The others are preparing for battle, and Grif’s in the corner screwing with his future cubes when he hears the heavy footsteps behind him. He grabs his gun and swings around, even though a part of him knows exactly what he’s going to see.

“Dexter Grif,” the voice, that old, familiar voice, is almost too quiet to hear.

“The fuck are you doing, Sam?” Grif’s mouth is totally dry, and he grips his gun tightly, even if he’s not pointing it at Sam.

He’s… he’s never seen Sam in armor before. Somehow, in his head, wherever Sam had ended up, he’d be wearing the same goofy print tourist shirts and denim shorts that Kai always bought him and he’d worn without comment or complaint. Or maybe in the cargo pants and white tank top he’d worn the first time they’d met, which he’d put on again whenever he’d leave with Felix.

But in armor, it’s almost like he’s an entirely different person. Grif can’t see his face, can’t see where he’s looking, can’t see the twitches of his mouth and eyebrows that were always so expressive, that Grif had learned to read like a book. In armor, he’s even taller, even wider. For the first time, Grif thinks he can see why Mom had been scared of this guy. Sam looks… dangerous. Dangerous and alien.

Felix’s words echo in his head about Sam not liking reminders that he’s human, and he wonders if this is what he’d meant.

“Locus,” Sam corrects, and his voice was somehow even deeper than normal.

“No,” Grif says. “Fuck. You.” He takes a deep breath. But he’s had a bit more time now, a bit of time to rehearse this, to figure out the exact order of his questions. He’d never thought he’d get this chance, never thought he’d actually be able to say any of these things, but here he is. He’s got a chance to get answers. “What the fuck are you doing here, and why are you trying to kill Felix? And us?”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam says, and there’s that weirdly earnest undertone that Grif remembers. He’s gone for fucking years without hearing that voice, without seeing him, but for a second, it’s like no time has passed at all. Sam looks away, and slings the fucking sniper rifle he’s been carrying back over his shoulder, his head tilting downwards. “My orders are to escort your friends to safety.”

“And Felix?” Grif demands. “Dude, I thought he was your friend.”  

Sam isn’t looking at him. “I—he—we had a—disagreement.”

“You said he should be glad you missed his head. Like holy shit Sam. You really took that friends-turned-mortal-enemies thing all the way.” But then Grif remembers that Sam abandoned them, and gets mad again. “Great. So you’re on the planet for a job. Let me guess, it’s super important, and so that’s why you never came home?”

Sam isn’t looking at him, Grif can tell. All that does is make him even more angry. There’s still a box of Sam’s things in the bottom of his closet back home, a box with a razor and those fucking books. The picture of the three of them is back in Blood Gulch. He’d left it with Kai for safe keepings, because he’d still have Simmons at least, unlike her.

“It was for the best.” Sam sounds like he really believes it too, and that just makes Grif even angrier.  

“The best?” Grif can’t fucking believe him. “Oh, fuck you. Kai fucking cried for—”

“Why are you here?” Sam interrupts him. Shame radiates from him and his shoulders are hunched. Good to know Kai crying is still an effective weapon, even now. “I know the deposits have been going through.”

Grif wants to laugh. Of course that’s what he’s focusing on. The money had just kept coming in. Sometimes small amounts, sometimes large. Never any notes or messages attached, just dollar signs. The only clue they’d had that Sam was even alive, out there wherever he was. But it hadn’t mattered. It just meant they didn’t starve, that there was more new clothes, that the house stopped looking like it was going to fall apart around them. “Didn’t go back to school. Got drafted.” Which he hadn’t even realized that Sam had been trying to prevent until he’d gotten the letter. And suddenly everything had fallen into place; his weird focus on school, his few vague mentions of college.

And after… everything, when Grif had started to get nightmares, he thought he might actually understand Sam for the first time in years.

“I… see.”

No, he didn’t. He didn’t get that Grif had kept skipping school even though he didn’t need to out of spite, hoping that Sam would come home just to make him go back. He didn’t see that Kai had followed him into the army, that Kai had fucking volunteered, even though she didn’t have to, because she was all alone and she missed him, and if that wasn’t a statement about how apparently no one in their family had any brains, that was.

“Dex,” Sam says, and there’s something twisted with the way that he says it, as if he can’t quite believe it. He straightens his shoulders suddenly, his posture changing completely and his voice becoming stronger. “You need to convince your friends to come with me. Felix is dangerous. The New Republic—”

“Spare me the fucking speech,” Grif says. “Don’t you guys fucking get it? We don’t care. Call off your guys in the fight, and then Felix will go away too. Just help us get a ship and I’ll be out of your hair and you can do your badass loner thing again.”

Sam seems to be about to respond when suddenly, loud, armored footsteps start to move towards them. “Oh Griiiiiiif,” Felix sings. “Got a present for you! One I’ve been saving for your kid sister, but I bet you’ll do just fine.”

Sam grabs him and starts pushing him back. For a second, Grif thinks he hears fear in his voice. “Run!”

“What, and leave Simmons with him?” Grif tries to twist out of Sam’s grip, but if he’d been strong before, he’s even stronger in armor. “I’m not going anywhere, dumbass, let me go—”

“Then I’m sorry,” Sam says. “This is for your own safety.” He lets Grif go, and for a second Grif thinks that’s the end of it, but then Sam moves. He draws his sniper rifle off his back, and before Grif can move away, the butt of it comes crashing down on his helmet, knocking him out cold.

Grif wakes up, lying on a medical cot. He knows it’s medical because of the smell; it’s like shit straight out of his nightmares. He only ever wakes up in med bays after… after shit goes really far up the creek.

It all comes back at once, and his eyes fly open.

Sam.

Felix.

Simmons.

He sits upright. Just like he thought, he’s in a medical bay, with nobody in sight except Sam, who’s sitting nearby, awkward in his full armor, perched in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs that all hospitals seem to have.

“You’re awake.”

“What the fuck, asshole?” Suddenly, he realizes they’re far away from their crash site. “Where are my friends?”

“I… I managed to recover some of them.” Sam looks at his hands instead of Grif, and that’s… that’s not good.

“Some?” He has to bite down on the steady stream of “where’sSimmonswhere’sSimmons” that threatens to burst out. “Who?”

“Your Sergeant,” Sam says. “And Agent Washington.”

“Who else?” Grif says, feeling panic bubbling in his chest.  

“I… we also recovered the robot. He was badly damaged, but it would be possible to repair—”

“Simmons. Did you rescue Simmons?”

“… no.”

Grif swears, clambering to his feet. He’s in full armor, not even tucked it. Sam must have just dumped him on top of it like a dumbass jerk.

“Dex—” Sam gets to his feet, as if planning on making him sit back down.

“I’m not leaving Simmons out there with him. Or Caboose. Or Tucker. Or Donut. Or even Doc!”

“The Federal Army is currently unaware of the location of the Rebel Base,” Sam says, his hands on Grif’s shoulders.

Grif stares at him, the smooth visor with the familiar X, but larger and green than the scar on his face. “Bullshit.”

“It is unlikely we would have allowed them to remain if we did,” Sam sounds testy, almost like Grif is insulting him. “The location of their base is secret.”

“Bullshit! Take off that fucking helmet and look me in the eye and say it to my face.”

Sam hesitates for a moment. But then he takes a step closer, and draws the privacy curtain that surrounds the hospital bed.

He reaches up and removes the helmet slowly, as if scared at what’s going to happen next.

Sam looks old. That’s the first thing that Grif notices. There’s silver in his hair, which is held back in that familiar ponytail style. Instinctively, Grif looks for signs of Kai’s handiwork; braids or twists or flowers, but of course, there’s nothing there. It looks longer than it had been, and there’s traces of a beard on his face.

He looks tired too; there are wrinkles on his forehead and dark circles around hisi eyes. He doesn’t remove the rest of the armor, standing stiffly, almost alien in the bulk of it. His helmet stays in his hands, and he looks ready to put it back on, should someone approach or a loud noise occur.

Grif takes off his own helmet. Sam’s eyes go wide for a moment, surprised, probably, by the patches of Simmons on his face.

Simmons.

Who’s alone with Felix. Okay, maybe not alone, but there without Grif. Anxiety and fear churn his stomach.

“What happened?” Grif demands.

Sam looks away. “I needed to get you out. You were my priority. Felix…” he trails off, and Grif stops himself from shivering at the memory of Felix’s voice in the jungle. “He would have hurt you.”

Grif thinks of Felix and he knows the parts of him that are Simmons’ pale have gone green. “What about my friends?”

Sam can’t meet his eyes. “He has no reason to hurt them. He needs them. But you—”

“What?” Grif feels something bitter building in his chest. He’s relieved, sure, relieved because Sam is probably right, Felix needs the others, because the New Republic needs them. But Grif is exempt from that for some reason? The bitter feeling keeps rising, building. It’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, but almost both at the same time. He wants to puke. He wants to hug his brother. “He thinks he can, what? Hurt you with me? C’mon.”

Sam frowns, and Grif gives himself a moment to enjoy how it’s the exact same frown that he used to have whenever he’d find Kai doing some stupid shit. “Yes.”

Grif snorts. “Well. Guess we both know he’s wrong there.”

There’s a twitch, as if Sam wants to reach out, but if it happens, it’s aborted so quickly that Grif thinks he might have imagined it. But he looks like Grif slapped him.

“No,” Sam finally says. “He’s not.”

Grif feels the world grind to a halt.

Sam had left. This has been a fact of his life for years. He’d left, just like everyone else, because he hadn’t cared. Grif hasn’t ever doubted this; it’s a fact of his existence, like that Kai will do dumb shit the second his back is turned, or that Simmons is a fucking nerd, or that the sky is blue. Sure, Sam had sent money, but that was... guilt or something else. Maybe he had cared, but not enough to stay, and what else mattered? Kai had cried when he left. Left, and hadn’t even had the decency to tell them. He’d just… not come home.

But if Felix could... if Sam cares enough to…

When the world starts to move again, Sam is gone. There isn’t even a shimmer in the air.

The curtain parts suddenly, and a woman in white and purple armor bounces in. “Why hello Private Grif! Agent Washington just got out of surgery; I think Locus had to throw your Sergeant in the brig because he kept trying to stab me, but really I think he was just being silly!”

“What?” Grif says, staring at her blankly. “Who are you even? Where’s—” He stops himself from saying Sam’s name. She probably wouldn’t even know who he was talking about.

“I’m Doctor Grey, silly!” She spreads her hands out widely. “Welcome to the Federal Army of Chorus!”

Life with the Feds is fucking awful.

They’re at this weird, snow-covered base in the mountains, and the food is fucking shitty.

Grif is going out of his fucking mind with worry. The Feds have so many fucking rumors about Felix, and Grif can’t help but believe most of them are true. Things are fucking terrible; it’s all a mess, and even if the guys are on Felix’s side…

It’s hard not to imagine.

The Feds also have rumors about Sam though, and it’s just as weird.

Because this is Sam. The guy worked for a greengrocer and let Kai put flowers in his hair. He thought the beach was stupid and refused to sleep in Mom’s room and liked his curry so hot it made his eyes water. Sam, who walked Kai home from school every day, even after Mom kicked him out and who stayed up late with Grif looking through bills. The giant nerd who watched bad movies with him and had nightmares.

But the Feds have rumors, and so that’s how Grif knows there’s also Locus, who’s more machine than man, who breathes like Darth Vader, who’s scarred a thousand times over by the war until his face is ugly beyond human belief. He can teleport and fly and turn invisible. He’s unstable and dangerous, and his paycheck is the only reason he hasn’t murdered the entire Federal Army in their sleep, and his presence is the only thing that stops the Rebels from slaughtering them all.

By unspoken agreement, they don’t talk in front of the others. But calling Sam “Locus” feels wrong. It reminds him of that day, in the kitchen, listening to the way Sam seemed smaller, after Felix left. He’d bounced back, but… just for a little while, he’d seemed more worn down, more fragile, more… broken. Grif doesn’t like that name. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to his brother.

He writes to Kai every day, even though they can’t go through. Tells her all the stupid shit that Sam has done, as well as the other stuff that’s been happening all over the base. Like Sarge blowing up Warthogs or Wash getting Doyle to faint three times in a row.

Grif has his own quarters, for whatever reason, so sometimes Sam stops by, when he’s not on missions. He brings food, whatever he can scrape up. It’s usually better than whatever Grif’s eaten that day, so he never complains.

Sam never stays long, always hovering at the edge of Grif’s room, as if thinking that Grif is about to throw him out. And sometimes, Grif is. The guy left them. He left them alone with Mom, for the whole extra three weeks she’d stayed after Sam had left, and when she’d left, Kai had cried again, but Grif still isn’t sure if she’d been happy or sad to see Mom go.

They’d gone out to the airfield to watch for Sam every day for a week after Mom had left, hoping beyond hopes that maybe now he’d come back. But he never had.

One day, as Sam is preparing to leave after dropping off what appears to be a still-warm container of curry, Grif stops him.

“Take off your helmet and join me, asshole. You brought enough for two.”

Sam hesitates, but he does. Maybe it’s a sign that he missed Grif almost as much as Grif missed him, because apparently Sam never takes his helmet off elsewhere.

Maybe it’s because seeing the faces he makes would totally ruin his air of mystery though, because Sam still has the worst fucking poker face that Grif has ever seen. And just to prove it, Grif trounces him in Poker, Chorus Poker, Blood Gulch Poker, and Go-Fish.

Sam takes his defeats without complaining, but he always looks thoughtful.

It starts to become routine, eating food and playing games, sitting there in silence. Kai was always the talker of the three of them. There had never been a need for them to speak that much, not with her to fill the silence.

It’s not that Grif doesn’t miss her constantly, but right now, with Sam here, it feels even more obvious. Like he’s missing a limb, as well as Simmons and his other friends.

Sam, surprisingly, is the one who starts talking.

“How did you meet Agent Washington?” He asks one day, staring down at the full house that Grif had just smugly revealed. They’re playing for shiny rocks that Grif has been collecting, because he’s eaten all the candy Sam had discovered for them to play for.

“We ruined his plan to kill the Meta,” Grif says automatically, before stopping to stare. “Wait… why do you care?”

“Agent Washington is… peculiar. I do not understand him. I wish to correct this.”

Grif falls over onto his side, laughing.

Well, at least Sam’s taste in men isn’t always as awful as Felix.

In public, they don’t interact much. There’s no reason to; Grif mostly just dicks around, helping Grey in medical or Sarge in the armory or Wash with training. Locus is always off doing his weird dramatic missions or occasionally trying to have conversations with Wash that only ever seem to result in Wash wanting to punch someone.

But apparently people have managed to notice that Locus spends time near Grif’s room, even if they don’t knon the full story.

Ah, the power of military gossip.

“Be careful around him, Grif,” Wash says one day over lunch. “I don’t like how interested he is in you.”

“Dude, you’re the one he follows around,” Grif shoots back. “Think he’s got a boner for the Freelancer.”

Wash glares at him. “Take this seriously Grif, this guy is dangerous.”

“I think his crush on you is absolutely serious.”

The look Wash gives him is completely and utterly offended, which just makes it all the better. If Grif was a nicer brother, he’d probably either try to convince Wash that Sam wasn’t all that bad, or tell Sam that Wash getting flustered is just his normal state of mind, not necessarily a sign of interest.

But Grif isn’t a nice brother, and besides, Sam fucked off to go have a life of mercenary adventure with Felix. Grif is not about to throw Sam as much as a string, let alone a lifeline here.

Occasionally, Sam brings back snippets of information. Rumors of rebel activity, a few sightings of General Kimball or Felix. He sees Tucker, right before Tucker fucking blows up an entire building with people inside.

Jeez, those terrorists work fast on the brainwashing.

But Sam hasn’t seen Simmons.

“I’m certain he’s fine,” Sam says.

“You don’t know,” Grif points out. “You don’t know Simmons, okay? He’s going to be fucking falling apart without Sarge there. And Wash is like, his backup Sarge! He’s not going to have any leader to listen to, and that means he’ll try to be a leader, and the last time he got promoted, he buried Sarge alive!”

Sam tilts his head to one side. “Will… will your absence not cause any difference?”

“Oh, he’s probably fine with that,” Grif says dismissively, pretending he doesn’t care.  “He’s probably just glad I’m not there to steal his socks.”

“I… see.”

Grif doesn’t want to explain to Sam that Simmons leaves too. Joining Blue Team (twice), and always wanting to be as far away from Grif as possible. He doesn’t want to explain that if Simmons had been here instead of him, Sarge and Simmons probably would have been perfectly happy.

Sam doesn’t say anything else, just looks at him for a long, long time.

“Do you want me to braid your hair?” Grif says suddenly, because it’s falling into his face again, the way it always does when he needs it trimmed, and the only way to handle that is to braid it or get the scissors.

Sam startles, staring at him like he’s grown a second head or something. Which is dumb, because Sam watched Grif braid Kai’s hair for over a year. Sure, he’s never done it for Sam, but that’s because Kai liked to do it.

“… that would be… nice,” Sam finally says.

Grif isn’t as good at the fancy braids as Kai is, but he gets Sam’s hair into a respectable single braid pretty easily. It’s… nice. Sam seems to relax for the first time since they’ve found each other again, letting Grif slowly work on his hair. And Grif can pretend, just for a little while, that Sam never left. That Kai was just a few rooms away, napping or studying or texting her friends. That they were still home, and things were fine.

When he’s done, Sam gives him one of those rare, real smiles. Grif rolls his eyes. “You’re such a sap,” he says, even though Sam hasn’t said anything.

“You are the only one who would say so,” Sam says. Then he puts his helmet on, and leaves.

A few days pass. Sarge hooks up with Doctor Grey, and the entire base is put off their food when they’re caught making out in the hallway. Wash manages to get into an argument with Lopez, even though he doesn’t speaks Spanish. Sam is gone for those days, off on one of his longer missions, the ones where he always comes back from stressed but with better food.

When he sees Sam again, it’s early in the morning. He’s just back, and Grif is just awake.

“What is it?” Grif says. There’s something wrong with the way Sam is standing just outside of his room. His shoulders are hunched forwards, trying to curl in on themselves, like they always get after a nightmare. He looks… scared. He looks around, but they’re alone. “Sam?”

“Your friends are on their way,” Sam says, but there’s something distant in his voice.

“What?” Grif says. “That’s—holy shit you found them? Are they okay?”

“They’re fine.” He sounds almost automatic, like he’s rehearsed this. “For now.”

Grif stops. “What do you mean?”

Sam bows his head. He’s wearing his helmet, and it’s a weird sight. Locus, the terror of both armies, looking small and scared and reluctant.

He slowly straightens up, inch by inch, until he’s standing at his full height. Somewhere in the back of Grif’s mind, he thinks he should be scared, but he’s not sure he is. When Sam speaks again, his voice is perfectly steady.

“My orders are to kill the Reds and Blues, should they reunite.”

And that’s the last thing Grif hears before the world goes black.

He wakes up on the comfiest fucking bed he’s been on in years. It’s all super soft and downy. He can’t remember the last time he was on a bed like this. It’s the kind of bed that makes him want to sleep forever and ever, and never get up again.

It’s great, until he realizes he has no idea where he is.

The room is small, but there’s a fridge full of food, a comfy chair, and a note taped to the locked door.

This is for your own safety.

I’m sorry.

-S

The line with Control goes dead, and the room fills with a dangerous silence.

“So where is he?” Felix asks. There’s danger, boiling under the surface. Locus understands that now, perhaps better than ever. There had been a quiet glee to Felix when they’d received the orders to dispose of the Reds and Blues.

Locus had protected Dex by taking him to the Federal Army. Felix wants him dead. He knows too much, Felix insisted. He knows their faces, he knows Sam’s name, he might even know more than that. It’s impossible to tell what Dex has pulled together

Once, he had brought Felix into the Grif household. Now, Locus knows the depths of what he and Felix are capable of. He knows better than to allow Felix near anything good, anything kind, and especially anything that Locus cares for that Felix does not. Felix will either want it or want to destroy it, and he’s long since discarded any notion of possessing the Grifs. Dex knows too much. For that alone, Felix would want to kill him. But Locus has been protecting Dex from him, and Felix can’t forgive that.

“Where is he?” Felix says, louder this time. “C’mon, don’t think I didn’t notice he wasn’t there!”

Because Locus had moved him the moment the order had come to kill them.

“He has been taken care of.” Safe, and out of Felix’s reach. Dex may never forgive him for this, but he’s safe, and that’s what matters.

Felix looks at him. He knows, or at least suspects. Locus had hoped the evasion would have worked, but Felix knows him better than anyone.

“We’ve got orders, Locus.”

“I am aware.” Dex will never forgive him. “Simmons, is Simmons okay?”

Locus didn’t hold a gun on Richard Simmons when they’d been standing below him and his men, preparing to execute them. His gun had been on Agent Washington, the greatest threat.

But one of his men had been. And it wasn’t like Dex will care if it’s Locus or his men who kill Simmons. Who Simmons is to Dex, Locus isn’t sure. He can’t get a straight answer out of Dex, and his observations of Simmons have revealed no further answers. He doesn’t understand it, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Locus can keep Dex safe. He can manage this much. He can protect him from this, from himself and from Felix.

Afterwards…

Locus doesn’t know what will happen next. Chorus will be dead, and with it, Dex’s friends. He will never forgive Locus for this.

And perhaps he’ll be right in that.

Locus has known for a long time now that he does not deserve Dex or Kai’s affection. He’s not meant for that. He is a soldier. His purpose is to follow orders. Nothing more, nothing less. He left them, telling himself it was for the best, and they both fell into the army anyway. Grif has scars he won’t explain; entire skin grafts that don’t even match. His files don’t have the answers, but they do tell Locus about a massacre, on a colony. A massacre of which Grif was the sole survivor.

At least Kai is safe, tucked away in Blood Gulch, a soldier, but one still untried by battle, unscarred by the horrors of war. After this, perhaps Locus can take Dex there. So at least they can be together, even if he’s not welcome.

Perhaps it would have been for the best had he never entered their lives. If not for him, maybe things would have been better.

“You’re hiding him,” Felix says. “You’re fucking hiding him.”

Locus says nothing. Let Felix think what he will.

“You’ve gone soft,” Felix marvels. “Holy shit, you’re…”

“Is there a point to this?”

“What happened to the perfect soldier?” Felix demands. “We’ve got orders, are you seriously going to throw it all away for one snot-nosed brat all grown up?”

Locus turns his back on Felix and goes to fetch his weapons. “We need to get going.”

“I’m going to find him,” Felix says, and there’s something almost unsteady to the way he’s speaking. “Our orders are to kill all of them, remember? I’m going to find him and then I’m going to do what you’re too weak to do—”

Locus moves without thinking, without blinking, without hesitating. He slams Felix up against the wall, hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing tightly.

“I said,” Locus growls, “the situation is handled.” Felix scrabbles at his hand, trying to break his grip. With his other hand, Locus grabs one of his wrists and pins it to the wall, out of reach of his knives. The other hand might be able to do something, but Locus’ reach is long, so he doubts Felix can reach anything fatal. Just in case, he drags Felix off the ground, and he kicks and struggles harder, breathing raggedly.

“What are you doing?” Felix gasps out, thrashing in his grip. “Let go of me, you—”

Locus lets go, and Felix drops to the ground, gasping. “So that’s how it is? Partner?” Felix spits.

“We have other targets to deal with,” Locus says. He feels cold and impassive, staring at Felix on the ground. The last time… it had been that night. The night he’d decided to not come back. Something about this is different. He can’t figure out what, exactly, it is, but things are different.

Felix is glaring at him through the helmet.

For a moment, Locus wonders if Felix is about to attack. But instead he laughs, getting to his feet. “Just remember, I’ve got dibs on Lavernius Tucker.”

“Very well. Get ready to leave.”

Dex will hate him for this, Locus thinks, picking up his sniper rifle as they prepare to move out. But he will be alive, and that is what matters. Locus will protect him.