#(actually it's just cigarettes. but it's still for a long while. aqua maybe)

[machidielontheway]

my little friends in orange are back :D

[steviespanties]

I have a whore knee thought but I’m afraid to write it myself so I thought I’d send it here, if it catches your fancy. Love your work!

Omega!Steve always had a hard time getting turned on when he was with other alphas. His body just wasn’t into it, but with Billy he’s always ridiculously wet and ready. Everything about his alpha—Billy’s scent, his command, his fervor—keeps Steve loose and pliant.

sdfGHJ I LOVEE it!!!!!!!😍💗💗💗😳 Thank you for sharing this with me, it’s *chefs kiss* amazing!! (1,5k words. omegaverse smut, obviously. vague descriptions of unsatisfying drunk - but consensual- sex. pants being ruined. something something fated pairs. sorry for the lack of editing!!)

So, Steve’s a horny guy, okay? Always has been and has never made a secret of it. His friends know. Most of the school knows. Sure, he’ll pretend for his parents that he’s a good ol’ Christian boy who goes to church every Sunday and totally doesn’t sneak out to parties to get dicked down by eager alphas any other day of the week. It’s just also always been frustrating. 

His selection in Hawkins leaves much to be desired, with smug alphas who think just having a knot makes them God’s gift to humanity and simply whipping their dicks out will get Steve gushing wet immediately. They’re lucky his libido overrules his endless disappointment. No time spent on working him up, alcohol dulling his senses to make the ache he feels less uncomfortable. It’s not bad. It’s not really good, either. 

There’s an itch underneath his skin, a formless desire for more that never takes shape no matter how often he tries. He’s a spring coiled tight and no matter who he lets between his legs, he can’t bring himself to unwind. He lets fucking Brody from the baseball team plow him into the guest bed at a post-game party and even the tiny sparks of pleasure brushing his insides can’t make his back muscles unclench or his hole more wet. There’s just pathetic grunts coming from above him. The sting of a hand slapping against his asscheek and a huffed “make some noise, will ya?”

Yeah, no. He gets up instead. Ignores Brody’s halfhearted protests as he tugs up his pants and throws him an icy glare that makes the guy sputter and shut up. Pathetic.

It takes time, he thinks. Time to get him loose and trusting. Effort, too, to make him want to bow his back and present himself. Steve hates to sound like his mom, but when he jerks off later that night with a hand around his dick and three fingers in his wet hole, imagining a formless someone to sweep in and fill him up, he thinks ‘there’s just no quality alphas in this town’.

And then Billy Hargrove rolls into Hawkins, stinking of cigarette smoke, fucking Aqua Net and perfume and underneath it all? Jesus fucking Christ. A cloud of pheromones so strong and fragrant, it makes Steve drool a little just from catching a whiff of it in the hallways. They haven’t even talked yet and he already feels a hook in him. Right next to that itch. Closer than ever before to scratching it. He wants, more than he has ever wanted before, to get this guy’s scent on his skin. Wants to drip with the guy’s come.  And, to his massive surprise, underneath that raging storm of pure instinctual lust, there’s simply interest. He feels like a dog with his ears perked up and his snout in the wind. He’s on the chase.

If Steve has learned one thing, though, is that if he really, desperately wants something, he has to pursue it carefully. And nothing is more of a siren-song to alphas than an interested, yet reserved omega. So he’s not among the welcoming committee of fawning followers at Billy’s heels. He counts on them to fill the guy in on all the gossip. Walks by close enough in the hallway to get a whiff of Steve walking by. Feels those ocean blue eyes burning holes into the back of his head by the end of the day, just like he anticipated. Of course, it blows in his face within hours.

He’s not even properly buzzed at Tina’s Halloween party, too busy to keep Nancy away from getting shitfaced while they wait for Jonathan to pick her up. He swallows his frustration. This was supposed to be his opportunity to leave a lasting impression and instead he’s stuck babysitting his ex because she can’t hold her liquor.

And then he sees him. He takes one look at Billy Hargrove and even from across the room, clearly stalking towards him through a crowd of dancing people Steve can tell: The guy is trouble. 

In his periphery, he registers Jonathan swooping in and dragging Nancy off. Registers the cheers of people around them. Hears through the pulsing music “Harrington, right?” and his mouth says “Steve, actually.”

Hargrove leans forward. Close. Closer. Right into his space, stinking of beer and smoke and that irresistible hook underneath that pulls Steve’s body over a precipice he knows he’s crossed when he watches Billy’s pupils blow up and his chest move in the most unsubtle scenting he’s ever seen.

A heavy arm wraps around Steve’s shoulder and with a decisive pull, he’s flush against the warm, firm side of- “Billy,” is purred into his ear. Breath on his sensitive skin that makes him shudder and warmth pool in his belly. His arm winds around Billy’s waist and he realizes in that moment that any resemblance of a plan has flown out of the window. He’s putty.

“I’ve already heard so much about you,” Billy grins. There’s a wild edge to his smile. A mischievous spark in his voice and eyes that sinks the hook even deeper. Steve can’t help but smile back.

“Of course you have.” As they talk, Billy steers him through a room filled with eyes glued to their every move. It’s a familiar feeling- being the center of attention, even when people desperately try to play it cool. Letting the curiosity and jealousy pearl off his skin like drops of water, an entire audience to Steve being felt up and led around and held close throughout the evening with no resistance from him.

He’s just hungry. Watches Billy drink beer from a can and lick his lips with a pink tongue. Feels Billy’s hands firmly grip his hips as they dance and his eyes on Steve’s as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It’s impossible to escape Billy’s scent, growing stronger the more he sweats. Becoming overwhelming when he tucks that strand of hair behind Steve’s ear for him and brushes his scent gland in such a deliberately soft motion it makes that pool of warmth in Steve’s belly transform into molten heat and a shocking pulse of slick. Right in his pants.

Billy’s eyes are wide, expression stunned. This isn’t how it normally goes, Steve wants to tell him through his embarrassment. Breathes more of Billy in and hears “Let’s get out of here” instead of a leer or an insult.

Steve knows he’s easy, okay? He’s been searching for someone in this town to make it worth his while and it’s been a disappointing search so far. So even when Billy pushes him into the backseat of his car, tugs his pants down and peels Steve’s soaked briefs off his legs, he still wonders if this will be a fluke. Right up until Billy’s heavy body covers him and their lips and tongues meet in a slick, delicious glide and his hole pulses slick right onto the car seat.

Before he can even settle into pure mortification, there’s that purr again. “Holy shit,” Billy says. Wondering. Delighted. A gloved hand glides over Steve’s skin. Up the inside of his thigh, to his hole where he’s more sensitive and swollen and wet than he’s ever been before for an alpha. Steve gasps. “Open your legs,” he’s told. And he does. Gets an appreciative “Just like that” in return that makes his arms break out into goosebumps.

Maybe it doesn’t take time at all, he thinks dazedly as he watches Billy pull off his gloves and glide a finger into his pulsing hole with such confidence and ease, it makes Steve moan immediately. Maybe all it takes is an alpha with a California tan and a wicked laugh that makes Steve want to smile along. The kinda guy who drags him around a party and never lets him go, who can’t stop petting Steve’s side and his hair.

And maybe, he thinks deliriously as sweat rolls down his back and the slick glide of Billy’s cock has turned into loud squelching on every powerful thrust that makes Steve gush onto the seats, maybe it does take trust. Because Billy looks at him. He scents Steve like he can’t help it, leans down to steal breathless kisses between moans like he needs every bit of contact just as desperately as Steve does.

‘He has freckles,’ Steve thinks incoherently as his dick twitches in Billy’s grip. Once, twice. Another time, right as Billy’s knot catches, locks them together in perfect pressure and everything falls apart in white-hot pleasure that spills over Steve’s body and out of him in ropes of come over his belly.  Billy bends forward when he comes. Like he can’t get close enough even when they’re locked together, a twitching, moaning weight on top of Steve’s fucked out body.

They bask in the afterglow for a long time. Steve pets Billy’s head, curls turned soft from a night of constant movement and sweat. There’s no need to get off this ride. Not when that itch has finally been scratched and one look at Billy’s blissed out face tells him that the hook he’s felt under his own skin has worked itself under Billy’s as well.

[magmagruntalayne]

Heart of the Sea

The Sharpedo's Den was like most bars on this side of the mountain; so dimly lit, full of alcoholics whose disease was born out of tragedy, and hazy with cigarette smoke. Very few of the patrons were talking, most of them too focused on their drinks or their thoughts to bother trying to make friends. Hell, nobody was interested in making friends anymore since it was just as likely that the bastard that was making you laugh tonight would be dead by Thursday. Maybe he'd drown, or his debts would finally catch up with him; of course, that's if he was lucky. Most just starved to death or became the victim of someone, or something, that was hungry enough to see if they liked the taste of human flesh. It was like the Arceus-damned Donner Party out here nowadays.

Team Aqua had certainly made sure of that.

When Alayne had first joined Team Magma she had thought that the team rivaling her own was fairly harmless. Just a bunch of trainer dropouts pretending to be pirates while using the thin excuse of trying to clean up the oceans and making it a safer place for all sea-dwelling pokemon. Harmless, disorganized, and annoying. The complete opposite of Team Magma, the cause she had sold her soul to, which was a well-oiled machine: ruthless, tactical, and organized to the point it was almost maddening at times. A team dedicated to cleaning up the environment so that people and pokemon could live in harmony without the clash over land that was happening more and more often as people began to spread into wild areas. On paper, it was actually rather surprising to learn that Aqua and Magma were not actually two branches of the same team but competitors. From what she gathered they were one team, at some point long before she took up her red cowl, but the rift came from infighting over resources. Money, after all, was just as much of a necessary resource to a cause as clean water is to a living creature. Either way, the teams split and when she was approached with the offer of bettering not only her own future but the future of pokemon, Alayne sided with Maxie and the rest of Team Magma.

That's why she was so good at her job. She had been clashing with the members of Team Aqua even before both leaders had gone off the deep end. It was hard remembering just where both teams had gone wrong because the changes had been very subtle at first. Hell, she couldn't even remember which team had started this suicidal plunge that would ruin the world forever. Her head always said it was Archie since he's the one who had ruined the world after all so he was obviously the most logical choice, but her gut always said it was Maxie. Not that it mattered much, somewhere along the line both men began the hunt for the legendary pokemon: Groudon and Kyorge. Creators of the land and sea respectively.

At the time she never actually believed that either team would find the legendaries. Yes, she had believed they existed but at the same time, part of her believed that they were either dead, or gone, or because they were literal gods that they would never be found, let alone be bent to the wills of mere men.

Arceus must have been laughing its ass off when she first laid eyes on Kyorge.

Somehow, despite the ragtag nature of Archie's group of merry-men they actually did it. They found and summoned Kyorge to the surface in an attempt to have the god of the ocean cleanse the water of all the toxins that man had dumped into it. They had won. It was a fucking shame that it would come at the cost of the whole world.

Now instead of the world being made up of about 70% water, the currently estimated percentage was closer to 80% water, because who could have foreseen that a drawback to summoning the god that created the fucking oceans would lead to the water level rising by way fucking more than the world could take.

The waves and wind had torn Pacifidlog to pieces, ripping the wooden structures off of the Corsola colony it was founded on and dashed everything against the other rocks and islands nearby. Dewport and Slateport were just swallowed by the tide, although Slateport's famous lighthouse can still be seen when the tide is low, apparently, Dewport wasn't as lucky. Nothing was left of the little seaside town, not any kind of infrastructure either above or below water. If it wasn't for the fact that it was still in the memories of any who had ever visited it could almost be said that the town never existed. Not that Alayne could speak from first-hand experience. Exploring ruins for the lost hadn't been part of her job when she was still apart of Magma. Instead, her job had been trying to protect those places that Kyorge hadn't finished sinking, places like Rustboro, Lilycove, and her hometown of Mauville. The last of which had basically lost its whole east side due to the water rising out of Route 118. It was in the wreckage of her old home that she had been approached for a second time by a man with a job opportunity- only this time it wasn't some misguided attempt to try to save the world.

The same job had led her to leave Magma and its attempts to save the world it just as easily could have destroyed, to sipping cheap whiskey in the Sharpedo's Den as she watched the blond at the bar order another round for him and the brunette at his side.

"Ya know, you don't have to do this, right?"

The only sign that Trey's voice had startled her was the slight ripple in her cup from the tiny jerk she had given and the way her eyes cut sharply away from the couple at the bar to her companion. They both knew that she'd gotten so wrapped up in her work and brooding that she'd forgotten he was there, but he wasn't the type to complain, at least not anymore. Before the end of the world, he would have given her so much shit for it. Teasing her relentlessly until she was forced to silence him either with a look, a drink, or a kiss. The last being his all-time favorite. Not that she blamed him since it had been her favorite way of shutting him up too. Not that she had kissed him since Kyorge had resurfaced. That had broken them like it had broken all things. It didn't help that Trey had been considered Aqua's golden boy before Archie destroyed the world.

"I know," She replies, speaking mostly into her glass to avoid meeting his too green eyes.  It had been a long time since she had been able to meet his gaze, even though he was trying desperately to meet hers now.

"Then don't. Nothing's stoppin' you from walkin' out right now. It'd be easier." He leans back in his chair, tucking his hands behind his head. He was trying so hard to sound nonchalant about the whole thing but Alayne wasn't stupid. She knew he was trying to talk her out of it. It was a neat trick that she always seemed to be able to do with Trey, most people had always told her that he had been hard to read. Always putting up a happy front that few people, if any besides her, could see past. He was deeply troubled under all the smiles and the party vibe he used to give off.

Right now, he was scared, which meant that her contact had been right, the couple at the bar were Team Aqua members- and Trey knew them.

"Easier would have been killing myself a long time ago." She shot back, a surprising amount of venom in her voice.

"Hey," He drops the nonchalant act and reaches across the table to grab her free hand, which had been resting on the tabletop, "Don't talk like that, Laney. Please."

Alayne wanted to fucking cry. She wanted to crawl across the tabletop, into his arms, and cry until there was nothing left to cry about. This is why they couldn't keep doing this. One little touch and she was back in the world before- before the world forgot what the sun looked like because the rainclouds had blocked it out. Back when she was happy for the first time in her life. Magma had given her a job, friends, Pokemon, and in its own way, it had given her Trey. Aqua had stolen all of that.  Faces flashed through her mind of all the people and pokemon that she had lost. Misaki and Kira to the first failed attempt to retake Sootopolis. Adrian, Anders, and Oz to the mudslides. Kanno, Abrus, and Blue to the plagues. Leo in the riots. Ever starved and Ethan killed himself soon after. Milo to the bandits. Maxie to an assassination. Courtney, Tabitha, Cole, Mary, Lori, Felix, Bryan, Sandy-

She physically recoils from Trey's touch, spilling some of her drink, but successfully ripping herself from the flood of memories that threaten to overtake her. She couldn't do this. This is why they had to stop. He reminded her too much of all the things she lost, and they both knew that he was in part to blame for the reason they were all gone. Yet, as much as she couldn't stand him touching her because it grounded her too much in her shitty reality, Trey was the one thing that kept her from actually killing herself. And she was pretty sure that keeping her alive was the only thing that kept Trey from being completely consumed by the guilt of being a part of the reason the world had gone to shit. It was as if keeping her alive was the one thing that could redeem him in the end. Two desperate souls that couldn't be together but couldn't be apart either. It was fucking pathetic but it got her through. So she'd take it.

"Laney? Are yo-"

"Don't touch me." Alayne couldn't look at him, instead focusing on a spot on the floor, ignoring the way her vision swam with unshed tears.

She could almost feel him withdrawal his hand from her personal space even though he never touched her. She could hear the squeak of his chair on the floor as he settles back into it. Alayne closes her eyes. She couldn't afford to do this. Not now. She still had a job to do. If she was going to fall apart she could do it later.

"…Laney, please don't do this," His voice was a strained whisper, like a ghost trying to communicate through the void. It made something twist in her chest painfully, "Not them. They don't… Kegan didn't have a damn thin' to do with anythin' that happened. Let ‘em go."

She sets her drink down on the table, it was the first time she set the glass down all night, asides from the two times she had made the bartender refill it. Alayne drops her head into a waiting hand, covering her eyes so she could discreetly wipe the tears away. She was glad that she had decided to forgo wearing any kind of eye make-up tonight; it was always a good idea on nights like this. Not that seeing a woman with smudge make-up was anything anyone paid attention too anymore; likely she was either a prostitute at the end of her shift or mourning another soul that was lost to the endless rain. Arceus, she was so fucking weak for him. "You know if someone else catches up to them, they won't be as kind. You may be condemning them to the same fate as Shelly."

"Yeah, but they at least get a chance if you let ‘em go."

Alayne was quiet for a long time. She hated this part of her job, especially on nights when Trey was with her. She already had to go through this moral dilemma every-fucking-time she caught up to an ex-Aqua member but Trey always added an extra ton of guilt whenever he decided to tag along. One would think that with her kill count these debates would fucking stop, but it felt like they were only getting worse. She could barely even justify to herself anymore that she was merciful compared to most other bounty hunters. Well, she was now. She was a lot more violent when she first started taking revenge on old Aqua members. Now the poisons she used were always fast acting and were so painless that sometimes her targets even smiled at her when their hearts finally stopped. Hell, the fact that she was going so soft was probably part of the reason Trey had decided to show up tonight. He saw who her targets were, and knew he could probably talk her out of this. Bastard.

"I fucking hate you,"

"It’d be easier if you actually did." He uses her own words against her. It was so sudden and out of character that it made Alayne lift her head out of her hand, and actually look at him for the first time that night. Trey was watching her with such sad eyes and a matching smile. Even though she knew she looked as rough as the rest of the patrons in this hole in the wall, he somehow managed to look exactly like he did before the end of days. Complete with that green t-shirt with the kecleon silhouette she bought for him on his last birthday. Looking as if he was unfazed by all the tauroshit around them- unless you were looking at his eyes. They were just as haunted as everyone else’s, only his seemed to corrupt every expression that crossed his face, even his smile. Arceus, what she wouldn't do to make him smile like they used to.

Alayne sighs wistfully and glances over her shoulder. The brunette was sitting alone at the bar. Looks like she had missed her chance. She had been planning on ambushing him in the bathroom, then catching the girl when she came looking for her friend. She stands, noting the way that Trey seemed to jerk like he was going to try to stop her until he noticed that she was already waving him off. She missed her chance, and she was pretty sure that if she killed these two Trey would make himself scarce for a while. She wasn't sure what either one of them would do with the silence. It had gotten so bad last time that they had stopped talking- she really had been close to killing herself before Trey appeared to literally talk her off the edge. She wasn't ready to chase him away again.

Grabbing her glass and her purse, the ex-Magma made her way over to the bar and leans the gap between the seat the blond had been sitting in and the brunette's spot as she waits for the bartender to notice her. She didn't miss the way that the girl angled herself away just slightly or that she was only drinking a soda instead of something a little more… alcoholic. The bartender appears in front of her, and instead of exchanging words, she fishes her wallet out of her bag and passes him her credit card. He nods, shuffling farther down the bar to close out her tab. She takes a sip of the last of her drink as she watches him head to the register. "You two need to get out of here."

The girl next to her startles, turning to actually face Alayne. She was adorable. All freckles, big brown eyes, and a pretty round face that probably lit up a room when she smiled. There was no doubt about it now that she could actually see the girl up close. It was, in fact, Kegan Roth, ex-Aqua grunt, and close friend to Trey. She hadn't been a hundred percent sure that this girl had been Kegan but she had just assumed the moment she laid eyes on Blake, that his companion had been the farm girl. It seemed that once again her instincts had been right on point.

"W-what?"

"You're being hunted. Or at least were, but people will figure out sooner or later that I missed my mark."

The blood drained from the girl's face and Alayne eyes her as Kegan reached for her jacket. She either had a weapon in there or was just going to bolt. Judging by the look of pure terror in her eyes, she was betting on the latter rather than the former. Funny, she had always thought Trey's old friends had more moral than this. Then again, she did have the poor girl cornered, and the gentleman who had probably kept her safe all this time wasn't around to protect her. Although he'd be back soon enough, and she'd rather be gone by that time. She glances up to the mirror behind the bar her subconscious telling her that she was being watched. Trey was still sitting at the table, staring at her, and when he sees her looking waves at her with that same tragic smile.

"Trey says hi, by the way."

This stops Kegan in her tracks. The country girl sits up straighter and twists to look around the bar. She had this look of excitement on her face that made everything in Alayne's chest twist painfully such a way that made her want to drop to her knees and sob. It had been so long since she had seen such pure hope like that. No wonder Trey wanted to protect her. She was so innocent and open. "Trey's here? But I thought he'd-"

"He did." Alayne cuts her off quickly, breaking her gaze from Trey's in the mirror. She closes her eyes and slams back the last of her drink. It burned as it when down, but it chased the taste of acid out of her mouth. The glass hits the counter with more force than she intended, and when she opens her eyes the bartender is standing in front of her with his hand outstretched. Waiting for her to take her card and receipt. Kegan had gone quiet and was bowing her head.

Alayne takes the paper and plastic, shoving it into her pocket. She nods at the bartender and turns her back on the two. "Good luck."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Blake coming back down the hallway from where the restrooms were. She could feel his eyes on her and even though he moved out of her line of sight, she had no doubt he was already back at Kegan's side- being filled in about the current situation and how their lives were spared mostly on a whim. This would most likely be the last time she would ever see the two. Even if she was instructed to keep them as a bounty Alayne doubted that she would ever chase after them again. Somehow it felt right. Maybe because in a previous life, she had been expecting to be on the run like they were. Although she always expected it to be because Maxie had figured out that she had fallen in love with Trey, and by some twist of fate he had fallen for her too-not because she was at fault for ending the world.

She passes by their table which was empty, minus Trey's untouched beer. Without thinking she reaches out and snags the bottle, bringing it to her lips. It was warm and the taste made her crinkle her nose in disgust but she still drank it. Part of her was expecting the bartender to try to stop her as she pushed open the door to head out into the rain, bottle still in hand, but he didn't. Just another example of how much of a shit people gave now that they realized that the world was on borrowed time. Pausing under the tin awning, Alayne carefully swings her purse around and with her free hand began the dig for her umbrella. Like all necessary things it somehow seemed to have ended up at the very bottom of her bag, regardless of the fact that she had just used it a few hours ago.

‘Thanks.'

The voice was so quiet that there should have been no way that she heard it over the sound of the rain beating on the metal overhead. Then again she guessed that was the upside of having voices in one's head. No matter how softly he spoke, Alayne could always hear him.

For a long time, she's silent, just rummaging through her bag. Finally, she unearths her prize, still damp from her walk to the bar. With the press of a button, the travel umbrella unfolds, snapping into shape with a click that was drowned out by the rain. Alayne shoulders the umbrella, before bringing the bottle back to her lips to finish it off. One day, she probably would be able to enjoy drinking beer but for now, it was just another reminder of the fact that Trey… wasn't actually here anymore. Once the bottle was empty, she set it gently on the edge of the steps before stepping out into the downpour.

"You're welcome."

[riathedreamer]

Prompt by @secretlystephaniebrown: “Grif comes back, only to discover that Simmons has started dating his doppleganger.” -Halfway through I realized I made the others return instead of Grif, but I am really happy with how this one-shot turned out so I hope it works anyway! Thanks for the prompt!

This story does not contain spoilers for episode 10 (but you should probably not read if you have not watched episode 9), however it goes with one of the many theories that the Blues and Reds are too suspicious to be trusted and it is very strange there is no fake Grif. So technically spoiler-free, but I just came up with this particular situation to fill the prompt. Enjoy.

No actual warnings: just a lot of angsty thoughts and heartbreak.

English is not my native language so I apologize beforehand if there are some grammar-mistakes.

Can also be found on AO3 here.

Wordcount: 3382

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Simmons returns with a raised chin, a happy tone to his voice and an orange soldier whose name Grif hates.

When the ships arrive, they fly straight through the cloud Grif has just declared a puma. Retirement gives you the time to sleep late and eat breakfast for dinner and play ukulele at 3am and drive around in the Warthog all day and when all that gets boring you can lie down to look at the clouds while not giving a shit.

Grif pushes himself up with his palm, fingers buried into the sand. He does not walk until they have all exited the ships, setting their feet upon the moon again.

He squints, counting from distance. In the hours where sleep had not come to him (it is a grave fact that you can, in fact, sleep too much, to the point where your eyelids refuse to grow heavy, no matter how long you stare at the ceiling) he had come up with scenarios.

Not all of them involve them coming back because Grif is smart and Grif knows a suicide plan when he sees one. But in all the worst case scenarios they would be fewer or entirely missing.

Bringing someone extra back with them is unexpected. Sure, the mission had been to find Church but since when does the AI have an actual body?

The journalists are there, sticking out from the rest of the group with their armors. Then come the Freelancers. Cyan. Grey with yellows stripes.

Aqua. Deep blue.

Purple. Maybe not that surprising, considering history.

Red. Pink, obviously. Brown.        Maroon.

 Orange.

 Whatever surprise Grif feels is only revealed by a small frown, black eyebrows touching each other just slightly. Making sure not to take his eyes off the soldier in the distance, he reaches down in his pocket. Years of practice allows him to light the cigarette without even looking.

It is first when he has inhaled and exhaled that he begins to walk, never raising his feet quite enough to avoid leaving a long trail behind in the sand.

The chatter dies down when he comes close enough, a faint “Do you think…” hanging in the air before someone clears their throat. Most of them are not looking at him, the bases are suddenly a very interesting sight, and Grif regrets he left the beach.

It would only have been fair had they been the ones to make the first step.

Donut sounds happy when he yells his name, ”Grif!” He suddenly freezes, pulls his head back to stare at the orange soldier in their group and he lets out a short laughter, like an intern joke or something. Grif certainly does not understand.

The pink soldier reaches out, trying to go for the hug, but Grif’s arms are crossed and he watches them all with an unimpressed stare, cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth.

His blank expression is enough to stop Donut dead in his tracks. He let his arms fall weakly to his sides, taking one step backwards so he is with the rest of the group. Someone coughs again but it does little to help with the awkwardness. Grif hopes they have not brought the damn plague back with them or something.

He raises one eyebrow, gesturing for them to begin the conversation because he sure as hell isn’t going to.

“So,” Wash says, oh god the awkwardness, and maybe he continues his sentence but Grif is not really listening.

He is staring at Simmons. He is noticing how Simmons is not stiff as a board, how Simmons for once is not tense, how Simmons looks a bit too comfortable, shoulders relaxed and chin raised high in confidence, and his fingers are brushing against the hand of the orange soldier next to him.

Grif becomes aware that he has lowered his head, revealing just where he was looking at, and he raises his glance to stare directly into the stranger’s visor.

“’sup?” the man in the orange armor says, arms crossed as well.

When the name is revealed, a noise escapes from the back of Grif’s throat. It sounds more like a bark than a laugh, low and raw.

“Griff,” Simmons says, eyes darting the room. “But, uhm, with two F’s,” he adds quickly, as if that improves the situation somehow.

Grif nods – of course that’s his name, of fucking course – and turns away. “You found Church yet?” He throws the question into the stuffed air of the Base, trying to sound like he does not give a shit because he does not.

Carolina tenses – that’s a no then. “Not yet.”

“Dude,” Tucker says. His helmet is off and judging from his expression the next words to leave his mouth are not going to be nice. Still mad, obviously. To be expected.

But Wash cuts in, “We’ve found some leads. We’re working on it.”

Grif nods again and points to his left, towards the couch that has already been invaded. “So where, when and why did you adopt the yellow copycat?”

“Orange,” the guy says, looking like he is about to flip him off but Simmons’ hand is on his arm, holding it back. The cyborg does not withdraw his hand even after the- the imposer takes his glance off Grif.

“Right,” Grif huffs, and is about to point at his own chest plate to prove a point but then realizes he is not wearing armor. He took it off the day they left and has not seen a reason to wear it since. After being stuck in that metal can for years it is only right to let your skin breathe. Especially with no one around to comment on your smell.

The others are still in their armor, though a few have removed their helmets. It makes Grif feel like the small person for once, almost naked (but not in the way Donut prefers) and the many armored figures only make the room feel too crowded.

Wash steps on something, makes a face, and tries to rub it off the bottom of his boot.

“Yeah,” Caboose says, inhales, and he is obviously going to try out with an explanation. If anything, it is going to be amusing. “So we found our evil twins and they turned out to be nice. They let me play with their toys. But not the big one. It would invite all the fish inside and they don’t like that. Then they turned out to be evil evil twins. But then Griff came and he invited all the fish and a lot of other things happened but he got to join our rescue mission. He brought popcorn.”

Grif does not even blink. “Right.”

“You got all of that?” Wash asks him. “I’m pretty sure he might have skipped some details.”

“See, I never really gave a shit so-“

“What is that diabolical smell?!” Sarge enters the base and immediately makes his presence known. He turns his head to stare at Grif. “Did you invite the rats to live with you? Aw, did you get lonely?”

There is a mocking tone to his last question which Grif matches perfectly when he says, “You know, better company than what I had before.”

The following thick silence is broken by Donut, appearing from behind Sarge, who chirps, “Did you remember to water my flowers, Grif?” He pulls his head back again, laughs, and looks at the orange soldier in the couch. “I suppose there’s a bit of name problem there. Nothing more awkward than calling out the wrong name. Ooh, we could give you a nickname! What about Double F?”

“What?” Grif asks with a snort. “Short for Fuckface?”

Simmons is still staring at the floor. Griff merely tilts his head and from behind one of the couch pillows he fishes out an unopened snackbar. Grif had not even known it was stashed there, and that just makes the insult worse.

“What is… Ugh.” Wash has stepped on something again and he looks in distaste at all the trash littering the floor. “I suppose you have not found the time to clean up since we left.”

Carolina opens the fridge before Grif can attempt to warn her. “That’s… a lot of mushrooms.”

“Uhm, I’m pretty sure I just saw that pile move.” Tucker is pointing at some of last week’s laundry with his rifle. “Caboose, don’t touch that!”

Grif shrugs. “Yeah, right, sorry I did not tidy up. I didn’t expect guests.”

He leaves before the other one can take off his helmet to eat the snack, before he can reveal if this whole thing is weird enough for him to have a scar across his face as well. But if Grif has to choose between having a clone with scars or with an intact face, he is not quite sure which is worse.

Sarge is blocking his path through the doorway, and the Red Leader stands firmly, not intending to move.

Grif brushes shoulders with him on his way out, hitting a hard armor plate, and keeps his expression neutral so no one can see that it hurt.

 Grif has never had a mother-in-law before, for obvious reasons, but he has seen the horrors in movies. He is pretty sure this situation is equivalent to those nagging monsters. He lives here, and yet people just walk right in and start criticizing his way of living. Not cleaning up isn’t a choice; it’s a lifestyle and a beautiful one.

The others left. Grif owns this place, this moon. He may not have signed any contracts but that is clearly how it all works. His place, his rules.

And yet he is forced escape the base. Too many people, too much tension. Grif has grown used to silence these last couple of weeks; these new voices and new insults are too annoying, and he has had too long a break to grow thick skin for it all.

He is on the way back to the beach, hoping to hide behind an umbrella and escape this shitty situation with a nap, but Doc appears from out of nowhere, opening his mouth before Grif even has to time to sigh.

“Hey, Grif! Long time no see, huh?”

Grif’s headache is too big for him to answer the medic.

“The others did say you were taking a sabbatical. Didn’t believe it at first; you guys never really quit before. And I suppose it did take some days to realize you weren’t Griff. Pretty weird how much you all have in common, huh? Except the whole being evil thing. At least Simmons is happier now.”

Grif sets his jaw.

“Wait, that sounded wrong.” The medic holds up both hands to apologize. “I mean, before Griff arrived. Caboose told me how sad he was after you… Well…”

Without speaking Grif lights another cigarette.

“Oh, those are really not good for your health. Or your fellow man’s. I thought Simmons had made you cut down on-“

Grif hopes Doc can take a hint and exhales the smoke into his face. Well, visor, technically, but the rude gesture should still work.

When the medic finally stops coughing he wrings his hands and says, “I’ll- I’ll just leave you to your bad habit then. But I do have a free brochure I can find for you later.”

He runs off when Grif inhales deeply, as if preparing for another round of smoke cloud.

How strange. Doc is gone more often than he is actually here, and yet he has never been replaced. Maybe because he is so useless. Probably. Definitely.

The moon is suddenly too small, and Grif finds no other option than to retreat to his cave.

He is not even surprised when he finds Dylan at the entrance, obviously waiting for him. The reporter has tilted her head, obviously curious about him and, oh god, is she going to talk about feelings again? At least the camera guy is absent, probably too busy trying to shoot a documentary about hoarders inside the Base.

“I figured you would come here,” she says, and congratulations to her if she believes that means she knows him well. She has already proven she is under the false belief that she can figure out them all and their actions as well. “I can give you the whole story, if you want.”

“No thanks,” Grif snorts and puts out his cigarette with his heel. He uses the foot that has once belonged to Simmons, the one that has nerves too badly sewn together to truly feel the pain from the heat. “Already told you; I don’t give a shit about it. You guys found a whole bunch of lookalikes and did not cry out bullshit? Joke’s on you, then. Because that shit is creepy as fuck.”

“It… took an unexpected twist.”

The visor is too focused on his face, obviously trying to gain some sort of eye-contact but Grif moves his head to stare into the darkness of the cave instead. “So why the fuck are you guys here?”

“We figured it was only proper to give you a visit. You’ve been without any news for a while.”

Without news, without insults, without human presence in general. Not a lot has happened on the moon while they were gone but Grif is not about to tell her that.

“What makes you think you can trust Wannabe-Orange?”

“He was the first one to call bullshit, as he put it,” Dylan says softly. “A lot like you, I suppose.”

“Great!” he exclaims too loudly. “Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can keep the others alive for a whole month! Looks like he drew the short straw. Poor guy.”

“Grif-“

He walks past her into the cave, sighing slightly relief when she does not follow. Maybe she does not want him to shout at her again. Or maybe she has realized he deserves a nap.

She does, however, betray him and informs Donut of his hiding place. That at least seems to be the case, since no one else knows of the cave, and Grif had been extra careful to make sure that Donut of all people would not wander in here by accident.

To be fair, Grif is not sleeping but he is resting against his head against the cliff wall and his eyes are closed which should be enough hints to make an intruder fuck off.

But Donut is not too good when it comes to hints, and he sits down in front of Grif, helmet in his lap.

“He is a nice guy,” he begins, and Grif opens his eyes only to roll them. “Well, Sarge still needs to warm up to him but-“

“Does he threaten him with a shotgun?” Grif asks, more out of spite than actual curiosity.

“Oh yes! Only silly threats of course; no one wants anyone to get hurt.”

“Right.”

Donut is fiddling his thumbs. Even silence is uncomfortable when you are stuck with the pink soldier. “Simmons likes him.”

“I can see that.”

Something flashes across Donut’s expression. Pity, Grif realizes with horror. Even the scarred part of his face seems to soften as he looks at Grif. “Simmons was very heartbroken after… Well, after you told him… And there are some obvious similarities. Oh how they can bicker. But at least Simmons does not seem that devastated now. There are some positions you do not want to see a man in, Grif, and I have never seen Simmons that low before.”

Grif wonders how much he has in common with the imposer.

He wonders if Griff’s mother left him.

He wonders if Griff once had to dig twenty-seven graves alone on an outpost that quickly became forgotten by anybody else.

He wonders if Griff has a dead sister.

“You could apologize,” Donut continues, voice echoing in the cave. “The others will warm up eventually. And I’m sure Simmons would not mind an extra man.” He hesitates for just a second before adding, “I think you should come along.”

Grif glances at the ground as he snorts, “Not a fan of hanging around suspicious doppelgängers. I have less creepy things to entertain myself with.” He wonders if Griff is being called a fatass too, or if that is an insult only to be used on him.

Donut inhales once before saying, “I suppose you don’t like him.” He is not the guy who snaps at people or keeps his voice bitter, but there is a certain tone to that last part of the sentence that informs Grif that he hurt him too back then.

Grif sets his jaw and says nothing.

Eventually Donut leaves, and Grif is alone in the solitude of the cave.

Later he ventures out to grab something to eat (he refuses to starve because of him) but his appetite dissolves when he sees Simmons and Griff on the top of the base. They have their backs turned towards him, staring together into the sunset, rifles on the backs.

They are standing too close to each other; Sarge has to appear soon, threaten Griff with his shotgun…

For a moment Grif can almost hear their conversation –

                                       “Hey?”

                                       “Yeah?”

                    “You ever wonder why we’re here?”

-but then he realizes he is too far away to hear anything. His mind is probably playing a trick on him; isn’t it unhealthy for it to be alone for too long or something?

Then Griff leans closer and grabs Simmons’ hand.

It’s all wrong, the scene is all wrong, Grif never did that-

“Grif?”

Simmons has seen him. He lets go of Griff’s hand, jumps down the base, and Grif remains where he is standing.

Grif expects him to wring his hands or stutter or just act a tiny bit like he has acknowledged how weird all of this is. But his back is straight and as always he as taller than Grif, looking down at him. “Did the others ask you? Are you coming with us?”

Trying to keep up, Grif blinks, but his mind is still too busy replaying the scene.

Simmons continues, “I mean, you can’t stay here.”

“’course I can, there’s no law ‘bout it,” Grif cuts in quickly to disagree. “It’s my moon now.”

“Don’t think anyone is going to try to take it from you,” Simmons huffs and turns his head to stare at the base and the endless amount of trash bags surrounding it. Suddenly he seems to deflate, and he inhales deeply before saying, “You could at least come with us to Chorus. We- We need some supplies before heading towards the next clue, and since you don’t really have any food to spare…” He trails off.

Grif fills in the missing words. “A fatass gotta eat.”

“We could at least drop you off,” Simmons says again, ignoring Grif’s statement.

Grif does think about it. But, honestly, Chorus has nothing more to give him, maybe except some extra MRE supplies. He does not miss being Captain, does not miss having to count each member of his team after a mission to make sure no one got lost in the gunfire.

Matthews is probably sucking up to Kimball now. Always wanted to be her personal assistant. Grif hopes he succeeded; Kimball has dealt with headaches bigger than Matthews. Bitters is probably… Well, it’s hard to predict a maverick. But he’s probably making himself comfortable. Grif doubt he wants a Captain back in his life.

He can’t blame them; he was the one who taught them not to give a shit in the first place.

Simmons is still staring at him, expecting an answer. Grif looks past him, towards the Base, towards Griff who sucks at pretending he is not watching the scene with great interest.

Finally, Grif turns his head to meet Simmons’ glance. He can feel his expectation through the visor, he can almost imagine the soft glow from the cyborg eye, even though it has been so long since he has seen the face…

“Don’t really think anybody needs me,” is his final answer, followed up with a shrug.

Simmons inhales. Swallows. Raises his head so he no longer trying to gain eye-contact. “I guess you’re right.”

He waits for just another second before turning around to join Griff on the roof.

The ships leave the day after.

This time Grif does not leave the cave to say goodbye.