LOS Drabbles

Pinterest Pints (LightningWolf)

Furball was dangerous, they said, he was unhinged and a sign that Brin was out of control. Furball was...currently passed out in Garth's lap.

Somewhat.

About as much as an 8 foot genetic experiment could fit. Point was, the angry monster was as tame as a puppy and Garth was intending to use this as blackmail.

Eventually, though maybe he'd take a nap first. Gods, he was so warm! And fluffy! Like a giant heated blanket! Who knew the sour bastard was so comfy?
——————

All six feet of Lightning's stature was scrunched in a ball atop a barstool, staring at the bug on the floor like he could make it burst into flames. Instead of going around, or dealing with it (man had an arm cannon, for fuck's sale!) he was perched on a chair like a kid.

"Need help, O Fearless Leader?" Timber drawled, raising an eyebrow at the man's squeak.

"No! No, I'm fine."

"Sure? Guess I'll just leave-" he turned on his heel and Lightning squawked out a "WAIT!"

"Yeah?"

"Please kill It."
——————

Fluff, fluffy hair, so soft-wait, what the helI?
Brin whipped his hand away from the soft ginger curls spilling over his lap, pulling a petulant whine from the owner.

"Where in the fuck did you come from?" He snapped, perhaps a bit meaner than really necessary, and Garth glared up at him with sleepy sourness.

"'V been here f'r three hours, where were you?"
——————

Brin was half curled in their bed, covers tangled around his legs and hair an inky spill over the pillows. Two watermelon-sized puffs of fur were burrowed in the curve of his stomach, stacked on top of each other like chirping Jenga blocks.

The sight tugged on Garth's tired feet, urging him towards his boys until he could settle a knee on the mattress and crawl under the warm crook of his husband's arm, the twins safe between them.

Brin purred a sleepy welcome, hooking his jaw over Garth's head, and something settled in the redhead's belly. He was home in their little circle, and it felt like bliss.
——————

Hands gripped tight around Garth's arm (his good one, mind you) digging lethal claws into the bone of his forearm and the meat of his bicep, and yet he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. Not when the cause of his discomfort was shaking apart at the seams in his lap, a panicked, distressed ball of fur and teeth.

Brin's breath was short and ragged, more snarl than anything as he shoved his bony back into Garth's ribs. Furnace bright heat rolled off him in waves, way hotter then a werewolf should be running, and wasn't that the problem in the first place?

The poor guy had worked himself up into a fever-induced frenzy before bolting for the nearest "safe" hidey-hole, which was apparently Garth's room.

It was...a lot. Brin was heavy, both in stature and in trauma, and there wasn't much Garth felt he could do. The wolf slipped between begging for mercy, his own tongue, and garbled stuff the redhead wasn't sure he wanted to understand. He'd nearly destroyed Garth's prosthetic the second it even came near him, and now the thing lay detached on the bed above.

Garth wanted to help the wolf -he hated seeing anybody on his team in pain- but stuck like he was, all he could do was murmur reassurances and hope he didn't lose another arm before Saturn found them.