#fat squirrel hate

[fuzzjunkie]

[satellites-halo]

[average-wooper-enjoyer]

Day 5:

Squirrel! This is the acorn witches little familiar. Never drawn a Squirrel before so I hope this beastly gluttonous creature is adequate for all you Squirrel enthusiasts

[so-much-for-subtlety]

[nuvomica]

stop the marvel rivals designs for women suck so bad and it's insane that it's not talked about more

[giggibaloggio]

how can anyone despise such wonderful and marvelous creatures is beyond me

a collection of images from my favorite bit subreddit

[themareverine]

Designated Driver | oldman!Logan x namelessfem!OC

SYNOPSIS: “Hey driver!” Tits, yeah—counts two of 'em. What Logan can't quite shake isn't the drunk-off-her ass's $20,000 tit job, or even the way his passengers embarrass themselves with shameless come-ons, stupid amounts of money. something else, entirely—a pretty little thing all done up in makeup and curls, wishing she were anywhere but third-wheeling a drunk hen party. "Sorry about my friend, she's—" "Didn't even notice her, honey."

warnings: this is so offensively long, I'm SORRY. flirting, drunkenness, flashing, maybe some oldman!logan inappropriate thoughts, maybe a kiss, general shyness/awkardness of that girl, language, not proofread, mentions of oral sex, OC has blue eyes.

a/n: and finally, after many weeks, it's here. not entirely sure how i feel about this, it's very self indulgent. let me know what you think, and maybe there needs to be a part two?

There’s a lot of things about this fucking limo that Logan hates. 

For one, you couldn’t ask for a shittier lease agreement, and if such a hellish thing dared to exist, Satan holds the pink slip. Two years ago it had seemed like a good fucking idea, leasing some long black experimental piece of Chrysler shit that was heavy off the line and a low fatass—hot as fuck though, with chrome plated lugs. Midnight metal flake showed every piece of God’s earth, the color of sin. Washed the fucker every other day. Couldn’t make green with a dirty rig, and he was an anal retentive sonuvabitch like that to begin with. And the interior, fuck that, it would tell secrets it showed every damn piece of filth that fell into it. Paid or otherwise. 

This shitpiece had a tendency to run hot and burn crude, but, she got the groceries—brought home bacon, if that was even still a thing in this century. Toss up between this and the Navigator the color of bad ideas, he’d flipped for the Chrysler. Industry standard, turned heads, attracted the upper echelon. No intention of hauling around fucktards into the suburbs—black paint looked good under Vegas neon on the strip. 

But the biggest fucking thing he hated about this rig— fucking privacy partition. Busted worse than a fat lip and had been since the jump. Any serious driver, that would’ve been the first thing to check. Separate him from the sin—hot piece of ass that slid into the backseat looking at him like he’s dinner, a couple too deep in on the red to think straight, the fucker on business hiding his wedding ring in his dick pocket as he picks up an STD. 

The first God-awful time he’d went to use it, the damn thing had all but stood up and shrieked in his ear. Grinding gears, the knock of a seized electric motor—scared the shit out of the handsy blonde who’d been trying to get his dick wet since the moment she’d dropped into the back of the Chrysler, tits all but popping from what looked like at least a size too small black—thing. Hadn’t been a dress, he’d seen plenty of them slide in and out—she’d made a spectacle of showing off the little lace number squirreled away for the right price. And it wasn’t that he’d been preening for a look, wasn’t his style—but when it’s right there. Plain as the nose on anyone’s face, and he’s been chaste as a priest for fucking years. It taking up all the glass of his rearview, looking like a felony—the devil had all but welded his attention between her legs. 

”Looks like you’re stuck with me, hm?”  

Fucking partition. A business-only kiss landed two hundred green ones between his abs and the elastic of his Calvins. A handful of hours of rack and many shotglasses later had put him on the scent to hell, the damn dealership. Four hours from the border, four hours from any kind of work—he’d all but flown the thing into the service bay. Demanded a new partition. And, Logan had been laughed out of a lot of places the last two centuries he’d been sucking air—laughed, jeered, driven out with pitchforks. Circumstances aside, it all ended the same. Vamoose, pissed off his rocker.  

An astronomical estimate later, with the fucked-in-the-rear-end isn’t covered by warranty—his fist had collided with the service writer’s nose faster than his patience had evaporated for the blonde. All but jammed the prick’s deviated septum up into his brainspace—Logan had felt it between his knuckles. Only thing keeping his patience held together, keeping the claws in, the man’s crunching cartilage had given him a high not much removed from amphetamine—it had felt good. Feel some asshat’s blood on his hands, staining his skin. See it hit  the floor in fat, thick drops. Feel the warmth of it fade as he brushed it away, coppery scent an idea beneath his nose so familiar it may as well pay rent. 

Didn’t get his partition, though. Just a bad taste of customer service and the satisfaction of seeing a grown man cry. 

Logan isn’t a man to complain—never did change the cards dealt you at the gametable of living. Better to shut up and play, make due with what you’ve got than wish away opportunities. Sure, an almost-lemon of a leased Chrysler with a busted partition wasn’t great, but, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d have given his right nut for the chance to work, much less actual green. Put up and shut up had been the mantra since he’d all but popped out of his mother, and it had, for all intents and purposes, kept him this side of the dirt. Sucking air and feeling, if nothing more—and what was surviving, if not sucking air and feeling? 

Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. 

Music that’s been muffled most of the ride tonight suddenly isn’t, the back door of the rig flinging open, a wide arch, revealing the world beyond. Neon bleeds across the black leather of his interior. A smack of humidity rushes in, almost immediately fogs the passenger windows— he keeps it ass-in-winter cold, A/C all but screaming full bore. Likes it that way, keeps him awake. Keeps them awake, he isn’t hauling anyone’s ass anywhere because they fell asleep in his seats. 

And while he isn’t startled—there isn’t fucking anything that could scare him, he doesn’t think—Logan’s spine pulls into a straight line against his seat at the sliver of night outside the door. Alarm bells sound off in the back of his head, eyes narrowed on the rearview—hand all but lava, hovering over the gearshift. He’s been here before, on the jump. Ready to rock and roll, ready to kill—should killing need be. He’s lived two centuries on this edge, this cliff. Walking the line between reflex and ready. It’s almost carved into his skin, alarm—comes as naturally as the crest and fall of his chest. 

Logan relaxes a little when a peek of skin slips hurriedly into the back seat, familiar stiletto heels. Air in the limo immediately snaps to an all-soldier attention, flustering—like a disturbed hen rustling her chicks. Something isn’t right, isn’t stable—nuclear, almost. Dangerous. The car shifts a little with incoming weight as one of the night’s passengers whisks into the back. Curl and makeup and the familiar whiff of peaches escorts her in as she pulls the door closed, all too quickly for this to be a normal, unbothered arrival. 

Her. Muscle in his jaw ticks off, it takes willpower not to wriggle in the front seat, shift his weight a little. Usually it helped shake off the hot weight of sex rolling around the base of his gut, desire. Carnal things he’d learned to live without, suppress. Animalistic and snapping at his spine like frothing wolves. Most times, it was easy to not notice—girls, women, came and went in their short dresses and makeup. Pretty to see, but venomous little things. Maneaters, trouble on stilts. None of them were pretty–pretty in the way that mattered, pretty souls. Ugliness shot behind their eyes like bullets, low and cold. Dimes and dozens, nameless and unnoteworthy as they slipped him tips, batted their lashes, kissed him like he was their plaything because who’s he to fight a pair of tits? Forgettable is understating it. 

But her? He hasn’t been able to unglue her piercing eyes from his brain matter. And, he’s tried—like it or not, he’s tried bailing water out of this canoe, a canoe that’s been hallowed and empty for God knew how long. But it’s like emptying water back into the ocean—it only comes back, heavier and heavier.  

No dice. Close, but no cigar–unlucky bastard. 

She’d slipped into the limo before the night had even been an idea, one of three who’d decided to split fare for a sober ride. Pharmacy, first, for little more than IVs of electrolytes and fluids—never had seen girls guzzle so fast, but, whatever. Mile-a-minute chatter he hadn’t even bothered to pace had kept them busy most of the ride into the metroplex, and Logan should’ve prayed they’d ignored him. Kept his fat trap shut and just let them guide him, but God, no. He’d asked—asked for directions. Where they were going. 

Had asked, and fuck him, that had sent things off with a bang. As if they hadn’t realized he’d been there, all three of them had locked eyes with him in the rearview, surprised thrown over the air like a stifling blanket. Heartbeats later, awkward and thick, one of them had leaned forward. Arms over the seat, showing off everything God had given her as she’d all but pumped her bedazzled phone in his face as if it were a shotgun. 

He’d clocked her noticing he wasn’t wearing a ring. Was jacked as fuck under an two-undone button shirt and jacket that fit him like sin. Deliberate choice, but–she’d all but started drooling right there on his lap, hungry like a starving man at banquet. 

Asking God for some shred of mercy had done little—the look on her face. He’d never forget it, had seen enemies look at him with more mirth and pity. Shit. Hungry, in the eyes. Desperate, like a dying woman choking on her own libidol. After rattling off the address, it would've been faster if he’d just hit the brakes and sent her flying forward through the window. Skulking back into her seat as if it were an X-rated shot, she’d eye fucked him hard until she’d been dragged back into hushed, schoolgirl conversation. Gross. 

And that was it, the beginning of the end. Eyes glued to the back of his head like some kind of anchor—Logan could’ve tasted them from here. Was hell trying not to make eye contact in the rearview, feeling their gaze hunting him like wild banshees. Spiking adrenaline, heady plumes of pheromones. Arousal, unlike anything he’d ever wanted to scent—stunk up the air like God knew. Half-starved vixens, all low and bedroom eyes, begging for trouble in all the right little ways that leave men slobbering fools. Had they been parked and out of the Chrysler, the two of them would’ve been on their knees, if not on his cock. 

He’d blasted the air again, because the air in the damn car was so thick he would’ve cut it in halves. 

Low lashes, smoky eyes. Lips the color of cherries. Tight black dresses and heels higher than heaven, they’d been dressed to kill—maybe a little less. Lobotomize, maybe. Cut out hearts, certainly—blue ball, absolutely. 

Pity the bastard who gets the taste of these tarts, pity, and probably mercy. 

Bachelorettes, he’d guessed off the gun. Correctly, too—not two blocks from CVS and out came cheap accessories. FUCK ME may as well have been written in lipstick on Stuck-In-the-Middle’s forehead, he assumed she was the future betrothed. By the look of her, much less the smell, she’d been aching for tonight. Primed and desperate, like an oil-starved pistol. Clawing for it, walking the heat of the desert for change. Something else, something new, something dangerous—cock. Dick. Be it Tom, Harry, or some other poor fool—Logan could clock it from anywhere. She’d been sitting on this for a hot minute. Maybe since she’d been born. 

And Logan’s uncertain who to pity more—her or the mediocre cock she’s about prowling for—the lopsided tiara, tacky dimestore BRIDE sash out of a CVS bag were just warning signs. Red flags, if you were smart about it. Darkness in her eyes would make any man second guess the two carats on her finger, if men weren’t animals. And they were, every one of them—and she’s far too drop-dead to not demand attention, to not homewreck and ruin some poor, unsuspecting fool’s evening. 

Watching her slip those two carats into her handbag, he’d just shook his head. 

Silence to stir the dead had followed after they’d eye fucked him into celibacy. Blissful, sweet as the Nile quiet. A creak of movement, the slip of skin on leather—her. Short brunette curls with highlights, icy blues.  Defined collarbones in a hardly-strapped dress, big earrings. Sparkles, everywhere, blended into makeup that’s been on awhile but still looks good. And she, she isn’t like the rest—not by a mile. How she moves, the way her lashes flutter. Doe-eyed and sweet. Doesn’t smell like sin, the kiss of color on her cheeks isn’t blush, either. 

Peaches, this one smells like fucking peaches. Something floral. 

She’s sweet. Saccharine, sugary. Like everything Logan’s forgotten. Pretty, in that girl-next-door kinda way—the way he’s always noticed, the way nobody else ever does. And what a pretty thing like her is doing in the back of his sinwagon, riding with Jezebels, hunting for trouble—he’ll never know. 

Hours before this, she’d leaned forward, pretty hands on the back of his seat. Done up nails that looked fake, but not cheap. This close, he could see her contact lenses replacing nine-to-five frames, the permanent little indentations on her nose were unmissable. Ocean eyes smiled at him through the glass of his rearview, as if it were a game. Good at it, she won—he blinked first. 

Offered him a little half smile, that dust of color on her nose darkening to an almost strawberry. When his eyes hit hers again from the road, icy blues ramped up like pulsing neon, unlike any he’d ever seen in two fucking centuries. Difficult to think, he’d had to realize he was holding his breath in the pocket of his cheek, hot against his molars. She’d reached across the back of the seat to gently nudge him with her elbow—hey. It should’ve sounded like something you gave to horses, but it was—considerate. 

Nearly fucking polite.

You got the address okay, sir? If his tongue hadn’t swollen to the size of his balls he’d have dared to laugh at her. Sir. If he thinks hard, Logan can’t remember the last time he’d been seriously called sir, from a place of consideration, behind the ribs. He’s been alive for hundreds of years, seen a lot of shit and blood, but has been called a professional and crisp sir all but five times in his existence on God’s planet. 

Shaking himself out of it, he tells himself she isn’t the first pretty skirt to grace the leathers of his Chrysler. To look pretty and smell good, to stir up his cold blood. Wouldn’t be the last, by far. Part of his marketing was that he was safe. Stuck around, even when the witching hour faded into bleeding colors of morning. Fair & There, as if he were a fucking marketing guru. 

She’d slipped out of the limo with her friends even though he’d wanted her to stay. Wanted to smell her and look at her all night, mull over all the things in his life he’d abandoned. Think about how, maybe, in some other world, bend of time, something that sweet could belong to him. But, she’d thanked him. Obviously the designated sober of the night, she’d arranged to text fifteen minutes before they wanted to leave in case he wanted to get a drink or took another gig. 

I’ll be here all night, and that wasn’t a lie. The flask burning a hole against his heart had enough whiskey to last him until morning, another bottle tucked under the seat for safekeeping. He was safe, he was there, and too damn tired to even try to think about driving around the city on a time schedule. 

It’d been two hours, parked under the neon at the curb. Not even midnight. Normal clients would just be breaking stride, setting paces. At the gate, snorting like stallions in heat. Rutting like animals, working the game. Nothing he didn’t know all too well, he’d lived his wild years a lifetime ago—he knew what sex and booze, a good time smelled like. Could clock it every time, wasn’t daft. Had witnessed his fair share of back-alley fucks, the straightening of a hemline. Crooked buttons and tented-out slacks. 

Tonight wouldn’t be different, he assumed—well. Had assumed. Which, as the saying went, made him an ass. 

Her heartbeat from the frontseat is almost tangible, hard and fast. Jackrabbit—as if she’d dropped it in his hands, bleeding and raw all over his fingers. Logan’s eyes fall away from the rearview for a beat, ticks back to her when she slides across the seat. Straightening the end of her dress, which hits below the knee–or would, if she were upright, but now pulls at her thighs. And the way she fiddles with it suggests it’s shorter than it was earlier in the evening, when sin was exciting and didn’t slap like a bitch. 

Tucked in against the opposite door, looking out tinted glass like it’s a skyline worth seeing, not just a lot of nothing. And something’s off, he can feel it in the little pulses of electricity of the air, the heat in her blood. Anger. The tick tick tick of frustrated fingernails on the edge of the window. Upset. It buzzes in her blood, which he can feel thumping against her bones from here. Slick scent of sweat between her thighs, swirls of alcohol and pyrotechnic smoke mixed with fairy dusting drugs. It’s enough to make him shift, crack the window. 

Long gone are the peaches and florals, now she just bleeds with heat and virility enough to stir the gods. Fucking perfect. 

How long’s it been, old boy? Dull pangs in his cock make him shift up in his seat, stir some blood into his feet. Eyerolls, gaze hitting the pavement out his window, sick fuck. Just a girl, just like the rest. Reaches inside his breast pocket for a cigar and a light. 

And as much as he wishes it isn’t true, Logan can’t quite shake that she ain’t just a girl—not by a shot, long or short. He’s seen a thousand of them, sure—seen and tasted and fucked senseless. Yeah. But—none like this. None that make him burn at the drop of a hat and a smile. None that twist his guts like a corkscrew, rip him open like he’s a fresh kill. He didn’t even know her name, anything about her. He swore to God he wasn’t this type of man, couldn’t be bought with some pretty eyes and cherry lipstick. Happened to wet-behind-the-ears boys only ever hoping their balls dropped into manhood, not guys like him. Not men that had seen a thing or two, not men who had sampled the female sex from every fucking era the last two hundred years had presented. 

Not men with demons, not men with metal bones and rust spinning through his cells like Satan’s blood. Not him. 

But it doesn’t seem to matter, because her presence in the limo upsets his sensibilities like an earthquake. Seemed to fillet him like a fat bass, pull his ribs back to watch his heart beat. Everything he didn’t know, everything she could be—choked the life out of him, those wicked blues heavy as steel. If he weren’t careful, she’d see through him, like—like memories. And she, like everyone else, wouldn’t like what she saw lurking in his bones, in the organ behind his ribs. 

All his life hiding who he is, years hiding from everything the world wanted to label him, only to—

Fuck. Yeah. Something’s off—is his leg bouncing? The fuck is that about? Fuck, fuck. His fingers card through his hair, cough aching in his bronchial tubes. Shit. 

Another glance in the glass reveals she isn’t even looking at him, thoughts out the window in the shifting low lights of the limo’s interior. Maybe a million miles from here, but nonetheless—she’s everywhere, every damn where in the space of the Chrysler, this sinwagon that’s messing with his head. Everything about her. Her scent, her pheromones playing him like a fucking game, the heat along her spine. Blood in her veins, ripping through her heart, the pull and push of arteries and cardiovascular muscle. Mesh of her lungs, rising and falling. He’s tuned into it like it’s the fucking evening news. 

And everything about this is wrong, his guts swim with it. 

Fingering the cigar between two swollen knuckles, Logan ignores pain that zings. Rips through the adamantium in his arm like it’s starving, hunting for air. And Logan is maybe considering that he’s lost his mind, that it’s somehow taken up residence in his dick, when—-a sniffle.

Good fuck. Is she crying? Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It’s magic, the little breathy thing girls do when they’ve been crying, but don’t want you to flag it. Witchraft, maybe. Men will never understand how they do it, cry without tears, but—it’s a thing. Definitely, confirmed by science somewhere, some egghead in a lab taking notes on female specimens and how they manage such emotion while still looking like she does. Vaguely his memories spin with all the girls he’s known throughout his life, and how every single one of them have this ability hardwired into their core being, mutations aside. 

Biting the cigar between his teeth in the corner of his mouth, he flicks the lighter between his thumb and index finger, holding it up in line of sight. His head angles to look up at the rearview, a rough cough rattling the mesh of his lungs enough to trigger her attention. And sure enough, she has been crying—her knuckle gently brushes at the trails of tears all but neon on her face beneath the limo’s lights, eyes flicking to the rearview to meet his. 

Coughing, he eases his back against the seat. Hot muscle burns a little as tension bleeds away, “You care if I smoke?” 

And why he asks, Logan isn’t sure—he’s never asked before. Then again, he’s never had to ask, because it’s a standing policy to not smoke on a gig. Tonight, though, he needs something to do with his hands, to calm the magma rushing through his blood, the cold sweat bubbling up on the back of his neck. Staining his white fucking shirt. Even a blush from the grave and exhausted, slowly dying away from whatever is inside of him, he isn’t an idle man. If he doesn’t do something, he won’t be able to help himself—he can barely fight back the urge to not lose whatever sanity’s buried alive and get himself off, right here and now.  

Anything to masquerade the scent of whatever’s slick between her legs. You are a sick, perverted fuck, Logan. True, probably. But it’s been years, a lot of years. And he hasn’t wanted a lot of women, hasn’t clocked many that he’d actually enjoy rousting up a fantasy over. And she smells like a good time, something he may not actually regret. That would be a first. 

Tucking a little tighter against the door, her eyes close as she gently shakes her head. Curls flick around her features as she does, and she cracks her window before reaching forward to slip off both shoes. Logan had noticed them—yellow, bright highlighter yellow so jovial they may as well have smacked him upside his head. So out of place, but they were sexy as hell—he’d always appreciated a well dressed woman, and as impractical as they were, high heels did add a punch of something that made him a little hard in the dick. 

“I do, but go ahead,” it’s a little sigh, one he’s all but five-star VIP familiar. “One of us should enjoy ourselves, anyway.” 

In zero to none he flicks the lighter to life, burns the edge of the cigar until it’s hot. Thick, it rides his throat perfectly—chases that gut-twisting urge that’s coiled around the base of his spine like a viper. Through his blood it goes, ramping up the rust and poison and years that kill, and he heaves a sigh—falls back a little rougher against the seat. That ache in his cock twitches, but she retreats. 

His eyes fall closed, heart settling down behind his bones. “You wouldn’t happen to sell those little bottles of booze in this rig, would you?” Makes him start a little, and Logan blinks. A little surprised, he angles to look over his shoulder at her, arm lifting to drape over the bench seat. Brow raised, she elaborates, obviously reading his expression. “You know, the luxury part of ‘luxury accomodations’?” 

“Not a part of the deal, honey.” 

“Ah, you don’t like money, then,” the corner of her mouth ticks up with a smirk when he shifts a little more in his seat to study her. He catches what she lays down, without thinking. “And I ain’t anyone’s ‘honey’, so don’t be an ass and assume. Please.” Blinking, Logan can’t remember the last time he felt his stomach actually lift with amusement—the little way she says her ‘o’s’ is dangerous, suggests the north–either Canada. Minnesota, Wisconsin. North Dakota maybe? Anywhere but this far on the border, the edge of the world. Interesting.

Fucking Calliban. Knew he’d regret the hard copy that albino had suggested, but, it was too little too late. Surprised, he manages a little growl of complaint before he leans forward, hand fumbling against the floorboard carpet of the passenger’s side. Knuckles nudge the bottle of Jack Daniels, and he grabs the neck of it before allowing it to dangle between his fingers. Amber liquid dances like a tornado through the bottle, sloshing against the glass like a dream. 

Unstopping it, he pulls back a sharp drink of it. “Have at it,” it’s rough, raw. Irritation peeks through the teeth of it, but it’s more resigned than anything. 

Leaning forward, her eyes hold his and she hesitates to snatch the bottle away, hand hanging in the air. She’s got lithe fingers, bigger hands—hands that look strong. His attention cocks slightly when he notices the callouses, the scars on her knuckles. They aren’t polished, nine-to-five office hands like ninety percent of the girls who pass through his service. Briefly he wonders what her fake nails would feel like curled against skin, but dismisses it when she plucks the bottle from between his fingers. 

“Thanks,” her chuckle comes from her gut, almost a growl of relief that says finally! as she puts the cool class to her lips. Guzzles back a full shot. Rights, her cherry lips part into a small smile as she hands the bottle back, passing her thumb over left behind lipstick. “Good God that burns,” managing a little cough, Logan replaces the stop and pops it between his thighs. “But it’s good. Takes the edge off.” 

I bet it does. He manages a growling mhm, settling back into his seat. Thinking that’s the last of it. Content to look out the window and smoke his cigar, not think about the heat ricocheting off the adamantium in his pelvis. How it stirs up his blood, how her voice is that perfect lilt of low and just high enough. 

Head swimming with the mental picture of her beneath him, breathless and hot, he bristles to attention when her arms drape over the front seat. Very suddenly all Logan can smell is the heady smell of woman and sweat rolling off of her like a locomotive. 

She mutters under her breath something Logan can’t quite track, bit the way she picks at a nail with her teeth, gaze anywhere but inside the low limo’s lighting, would imply negatives. And she could’ve started reciting the phone book, he wouldn’t have noticed—far too busy noticing cleavage and the valley of her collarbones to be able to think straight. 

But his stare gets heavy, she notices the thick air that’s smothering the limo like a wet dream–her eyes find his, a little smile at the corner of her mouth when his flick away. Oh, good fuck. Her eyes bore into him through the rearview. Uncapping the Jack, he takes another sharp pull of it. It chases the warmth in the back of his throat, blooming in his chest like he didn’t know what. 

More pregnant silence. She shifts against the leather, hot skin sticky against it. Reaching to put the car in accessory, Logan fiddles with the A/C. He clocks her swiping her heels from the floor, wrangling them back on her feet—hadn’t she just taken the damn things off? 

“I should go get them before either of them do something they’ll regret,” her eyes cast to the clock on the dash, which isn’t terribly far from his ID information, which is offensively just there. “It’s late.” It isn’t, not really. Logan thinks this has to be the most conservative hen party in the history of such things, but his jaw clamps shut. 

If he can bail them out of his car early, he may be able to catch a few hours of sleep before the early-hour rush. That hour when last call sends boozers into the streets, looking for rides. That’s where the money was, after all—and God knew he could use the dough. 

Her hand floating over the handle of the door, as if she’s waiting for his consent. “Paid by the hour, darlin’,” and Logan does not miss the way darlin’ hits her—sharp eyes flick down to his mouth for a fraction of a heartbeat, a little plume of color lifting to the apples of her cheeks that definitely isn’t rouge. Blush, they called it now. She has plenty of it on her face, but it darkens something pretty in a way that, usually, would amuse him. 

Instead, now, he just lifts a hand to slot through the openings on the Chrsyler’s steering wheel, ignoring the ache between his knuckles. 

He can’t have arthritis, can he? Popping the latch, he twists out of the limo. Crosses around the front through the headlights to her side. A flick of his fingers and he pulls open the door, highlighter yellow heels spilling out to the pavement in that Hollywood way. 

He doesn’t do this— he makes a habit not to touch customers. Usually his hand finds his pocket, as a rule. But for some reason, her eyes skating through the dark, panning around the street and the front of the club, lights the mesh of his lungs on fire. Offering her his hand, its appearance before her drops a rod through her spine—she straightens, blinking at it once before her fluttery lashes look up at him. 

He wonders if the little flick of muscle in her jaw actually takes muscle memory. Looking at him with a look that’s uncertain, that’s you sure? heartbeats pass and make the moment uncomfortable. Shuffling his weight on his feet, his hand falls from the door and to his pocket, palming the lighter against his thigh. Phlegm and whatever else God created in the human body rattles around the poison in his chest, a low cough echoing off his bones. 

It takes her a second to collect, looking between him and his hand. “By the hour. Right,” her eyes skate down his chest, over all of him, as if she’s making sure. Her hand slips into his too lightly to matter, as if she’s making an effort to limit contact—and that’s a good thing, because Logan is fairly sure the world had stopped spinning, the electrical pulses of his body kicking to overdrive at just how alive her skin feels. Senses heightened to infinity. He could count stars, maybe, with the way her nails deliciously press into his palm, rough and hard. Warm, the scent of peaches all but punches his lights out—he can’t even taste his cigar, body enamored with the way she smells, how her hand all but boils in his. 

The fuck, Logan. 

Stepping out, sharp eyes navigate the front of the club, and a blackhole of the universe suddenly opens between them when her hand falls away. Heels tick against the concrete as she turns to face him batting the door closed. Hands in pockets, he kicks back against the Chrysler. Waiting. 

“Thanks,” her smile is small, eyes casting down to the filth of midnight on the concrete, “It shouldn’t be long.” 

He shrugs, “‘S your money, honey,” is followed by a grunt as she nods, turns on her heel. Sashays back into the front of the club before flashing a wristband to the bouncer. Between the help eyeballing her in that dress and Logan unable to stop ogling just how it clings, highlights every curve of her, it’s a miracle either of them are still standing. 

Reappearing fifteen minutes later with girlfriends in tow, Logan folds them into the limo politely, without incident. Giggling, traces of the night have painted both of her companions—long gone is the bride sash and dimestore plastic tiara. Replaced by smudged-and-attempted-to-be-fixed makeup. Teased hair, ruffled clothes. Nobody could miss that hickey for anything, it would take stock-market shattering amounts of base to cover it up—Mars would have a better time trying to see needles in haystacks. No amount of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes, sweat hanging out as an idea under his nose could cut through that unmistakably sweet musk of sex, sweat. 

Before Logan can ask where to point the Chrysler, the other girl pops off an address from her phone to what is most definitely not their hotel, or anywhere remotely in the neighborhood of partylife. Brow raised, Logan peeks the rearview to see his companion whirl so quickly in her seat, he wonders how her head is still attached. Look on her face says everything words don’t, but she asks anyway—”Where the hell is that?” 

Trying not to overhear, but it’s impossible, he fiddles with the temperature controls again when the one lifts the hair from the back of her neck. “It’s a hotel,” no shit, it’s the most expensive district in the area. Highbrows stay here—he’d picked them up on the opposite side of the metro, in the middle class accommodations. Sour bile splashes up the back of his throat, jaw setting–he knows what’s about to happen. 

“No, really? And here I thought it was the frickin’ monastery,” lunging over her friend stuck in the middle, she plucks the phone from her friend’s hand—laughing hysterically, face flushed with alcohol and tipsy giggles, her jaw opens fully on its hinge. Rapt attention almost has his heart exploding, he nearly misses the stop sign—pops the brake a little hard. 

She studies herself against the door, eyes flicking to him for half a second. Phone flipping screen first to her friend, she nods to it. “Who the hell is Mike?” Lowering the phone to her lap, her eyes skate between the two friends, hard. Heavy. Fast. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me—” 

“It’s just a fling,” her name rolls off her friend’s tongue sourly, like cold venom. If Logan weren’t so invested in the outcome of this conversation he’d think it was almost melodic, a unique name. Fine and perfect for the sweet little thing currently erupting in his backseat. Too busy pacing traffic, his tongue skates along over his back molars, “don’t get your panties in a twist, honey. It’ll just for a few hours, to have some fun.” 

“A few hours?” The actual squeak in her tone was laughable, “You’re joking—you’re actually kidding me. You can’t just go fuck some random guy you met in a bar, you’re getting married.” Offensive hangs in the words like a hot iron, branding itself into the atmosphere with weighty judgment enough to make her chest rise and fall with rapid, uneven breaths. “I won’t let you—”

Eyeroll extreme, Logan could’ve flinched with how much it snaps like a whip. “Oh my god, would you just chill out?” Looking to the other friend, who’s phone is still held captive on her lap, Logan bites the inside of his cheek. Like black cobras their chests fan out, both of them turning to cast frigid judgment to their third, who is pressed against the door to create distance from the very idea of the two of them. For fuck’s sake, “It’s just oral, honey—” 

He snorted. All their eyes trip to him, but Logan is nothing if not suave—covering with a cough, he bites back a smile into his lower lip, looking down to his lap. Holy shit, they were actually having this conversation. In the back of his limo. If he weren’t so amused, it could be hot. Smokin’. 

But the look on his companion’s face is too horrified, too innocent for him to take any enjoyment out of the topic of conversation flitting beneath the lights of the limo. It’s scandalousm, really. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but, it just—it didn’t fit. Without knowing anything about much, he knows this isn’t her. Neon Heels, brunette curls. Lipstick barely upset, smelling like peaches of sweat. He could feel it in the very adamantium slowly flogging life out of his body. 

Color drains out of her face, milkwhite like a ghost. He’s fairly certain she’d rather cut out her tongue and serve it to him on a silver platter than actually go through with such things. Logan knows a thing or two about life, he’s studied humanity for a lot of fucking years—he knew the good ones when he saw them. Pure, untouched. 

Or, at the very least, good. 

“Just oral?” 

“Would you just stop, ok? Nobody is asking you to come up. Don’t need to be all, all pissy just because nobody noticed you at the bar,” and it’s hot, like acid. Cutting to bone. Logan watches the words cut like knives through the mesh of her chest, and if his collar wasn’t absolutely on fire, he’d have the audacity to smack some decency into whatever the fuck this chick’s problem was. “It’s not your thing. That’s fine. It’ll be just fine,” leaning forward, the bride informs him that once he’d dropped them at the hotel, he can take her back to their hotel. We’ll just Uber back in the morning. 

“Fine by me.” 

And it makes more sense, the longer he thinks about it. Explained the tears, the fluster in the atmosphere. Pushing the Chrysler through traffic, the tension in the atmosphere snaps like a rubber band—she doesn’t even flinch. In fact, her jaw clenches. Muscles ticks off bone, and she hands back her friend’s phone before falling back into the seat, eyes cast out the window like they’ve been welded to the darkness. Wind out of her sails, her elbow props on the windows ledge, subconsciously her hand covers half of her face. Quiet as death, unmoving as a sarcophagus. 

Logan had never seen someone’s soul die while they were still alive, but he figures this was close. 

Silence enough to make the dead uncomfortable follows for a few seconds. He focuses his attention on driving the limo rather than looking in the rearview, because noticing the look on her face, actually caring, is so far out of his pay grade that it’s laughable. To her credit, he doesn’t think she’s actually crying—hell would sooner freeze over, he reckons—but her brow is set in such a hard line, that he can almost read the regret on her face in red letter clarity. 

Ensuing conversation about how the bride’s tits look in her hardly-there dress has him almost disinterested. Guiding the Chrysler up to the curb of the hotel, he almost misses "Hey driver!" that's more giggle than it is anything else. Eyes tracking to the rearview, Logan isn’t nearly as surprised as he thought he would be when she rips down the front of what was once, probably, an investment dress—tits, yeah. Nice ones, too—bought and paid for by the looks of it. Tits that size don’t just sit up at attention without a calculated surgeon’s hand. 

“Like what you see?” 

Puffing out a little nervous chuckle, his brow trips up. He shakes his head, amused. Erupting into a fit of snickers and snorts, their cheeks darken with heat. Falling against themselves, the two of them think they’re fucking hilarious as they begin to discuss the course of their adventure. May as well be full fledged pornography in the back of his rig, the things that fly—it sparks up his blood, empties his mouth of any moisture Jack Daniels may have rousted. 

God couldn’t have brought up the hotel’s curb any faster, he thinks. Dropping the Chrysler into park, he angles to pop the latch on his door. Misses completely the moan of leather, the little rock of moving bodies shifting around the backseat. 

Logan all but jumps when two hands come around him from behind. “Maybe you should come upstairs, driver—bet you could show a young bride a thing or two, huh?” Fuck, fuck fuck—hands that palm down his chest, snake under the buttons of his white shirt are hot. Hot, practiced. Soft and deliberate, one of their nails flick against his nipple, beneath his undershirt—he grunts back a sharp breath, head all but braced against the Chrysler’s hard headrest. 

Adamantium kisses the flesh of his knuckles, and it takes effort not to let loose—more brainpower than he wants to admit, fighting back the reflex. Hand shaking on his knee, he inhales an uneasy breath and presses the heel of either hands onto his knees, biting the corner of his chapped lip. Hand drifting lower, almost to his abs, he snatches her wrist with a speed he doesn’t remember. Couldn’t, hadn’t, for as long as he can think back. 

“Somethin’ tells me you know plen’y, honey,” his eyes narrow in the rearview. “Plus, I don’t do free fucks.” 

She chuckles, pleased. “Who said anything about free?” Lifting her hand away from inside his shirt, he throws her off—cackling like the little witch she is, she folds out of the limo with her friend, “Very professional of you, driver,” he couldn’t miss the darkness in her tone if he’d tried as she winks at him from his window, “drive safe. Precious cargo, back there.” 

Could’ve fooled him. 

A wiggle of her fingers goodbye to her friend in the backseat, the hotel’s thick doors swallow both of them whole. Vanishing in a twirl of hair and makeup, Logan turns in his seat to consider his last passenger. She hasn’t moved, merely has kicked off her heels—but she has allowed herself to cry. Fresh tears fall down the length of her cheeks, but she doesn’t sniffle. They’re silent, powerful. Say everything words don’t need to—it’s a deep knife, one that bleeds. Logan can see the film reel running through her brain, on repeat. As if it has subtitles. A black and white horror show of just exactly what had happened, how she’d ended up here. 

Curling a leg up under herself, Logan watches her shrink into as small of herself as she can, forehead resting against the cool glass of the limo’s window. And it’s tragic, really—someone who looks like that, reduced to a teary, smoldering shell of a person by mere words. Logan knew people were cruel, he’d seen the worst of humanity up close and personal. His own life was hell trapped in bones and flesh, his own history more horrific than anything Hollywood could dream up. 

He drives. That’s what he does, that’s who Logan is now. A driver.  

It’s another 20 minutes across town. And the ride is ominous, a mummified tomb that’s suffocating no matter how much air whisks into the limo from open windows. Trapped between wanting to say something and unsure of how to react, he relaxes a little when she finally slips earphones in—mindlessly scrolling a cell phone. Swiping at tears that ruin makeup she no longer cares about. Alone in her own little world of music and heartache, he watches the night fall away from her—her hair goes back into clips, away from her face. Earrings come off. Out come the contacts, replaced instead with glasses from the purse she’d left on the floorboards. Gum, more scrolling on her phone. Heels set on the seat beside her–finally her eyes close as she rests against the cool glass. 

Gently rolling the Chrysler to a stop at the curb, she sits up. Breathlessly, she stretches a little, lashes fluttering behind frames that accentuate the shape of her face. And Logan doesn’t remember thinking anyone has ever looked good in glasses, but she topples such ideology when she beats him to the punch—she pops the latch on the door and steps out, barefoot. Heels tucked under her arm, purse hanging off her shoulder, she meets him at his door when he slips out of the front seat. 

Handling cash had never felt so cold, bitter. She doesn’t look at him as she counts it into his hand, more than they’d agreed. Slipping the remainder of it back into her bag, she steps back, smiling at him softly. Resigned. Apologetic. Light from the overhang of the hotel sets off whatever shine is on her face, tear stains all but left behind—replaced instead with pink cheeks and sad, swollen eyes. 

“Should be square,” she nods to the cash in his hand, “you can count it again if you want, I won’t be offended.” Briefly Logan thinks to care if her friends had managed their parts of the fare, but he dismisses it when she bites the inside of her cheek, tongue skating over her bottom lips as she shifts awkwardly on her feet. “Thank you so much for tonight—you have a beautiful limousine. The whiskey was great, thank you.” 

Nodding once, he shrugs a shoulder. She’s buying time in that awkward little way people do when they’re not sure what to say, but think they have to say something. She doesn’t, wouldn’t ever—but he wants her to, strangely. Logan could stand here and listen to her come up with things to say the rest of the night, if he knew it wouldn’t deepen the color on her face, drive a little deeper the knife that’s still gutting her in the ribs. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, her eyes track up to his from her feet standing on the warm concrete. “Listen, Logan—” she remembered his name, “I’m sorry about my friend. She’s really wasted, and it totally wasn’t alright for her to proposition you like that. It was actually gross—but that’s not who she is, not really. I’m sorry. She’s just—” 

“—didn’t even notice her, honey.” He lies. What else is there to do but lie to this pretty little thing, bloodletting her own pride out at his feet? For a long set of years, Logan has believed there’s very little good left in the human species—very few people who are worth giving two fucks about. But she’s so galiant, defending some slut’s non-existent honor, drowning in her own humiliation and everything he can only imagine happened during a hen party gone sideways. 

“Oh, uh, well—” oh. How she says it, the little curve of her mouth. That accented “o”. It’s enough to make him insane, honestly. He’s been with her two hours and can hardly think past the twitch of his cock, the little ache that niggles in the back of his head. Behind his eyes. It gets a little hard to fight, the snapping air between the two of them—for a man who knows what it feels like, it’s difficult. She couldn’t be more nonplussed. Which says more than it needs too, makes it all the more sweet. “Sorry, oh my gosh. I’m just a little—I don’t do things like this.”

And that is honorable, even if there’s very little honor left among the thieves of humanity. She is honorable. So saccharine and pretty it physically hurts him, drying out the back of his throat and knocking at his ribs like a damn jackhammer. Her eyes holding his, searching for anything else, are so deep and alive, bright in the way only Polaris could ever challenge—he suddenly forgets where he is, what century it is. How he got here, what he’s doing, reaching for the thin strap of her dress. 

The back of his knuckle gently skips over her skin, the strap of the dress. And before Logan can even manage a breath, his hand moves under her chin, tips it up a little. Unmoving, her eyes widen like two bright moons, light catching them and opening them up like oceans fully unpassable to the known universe. From here he can feel her pulse flying through her blood, and couldn't miss the butterflies in her stomach if he’d been on a different planet. And maybe she’s never been appreciated like this—maybe she’s never felt seen. 

Fuck, the things he could do to her. “Quit apologizin’ for bein’ sweet,” he manages a low rasp, the corner of his mouth ticking up with a little grin, “very few pretty things left in the world that’re sweet,” tipping her chin up a little further, his lips hover over hers. “And I bet you taste as good as you look, honey.” Tucking some hair behind her ear, he rubs one of her curls between the calluses on his fingers. 

He gets back in his car, and Logan drives. Because that's what he does—he drives. 

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00 @th3mrskory @blossoming-hotch

[nativegirltapes]

fav drew pics?😻

gonna explain all 6 bc i’m fucking crazy

1 his hands ???? fuck my big fat chungus life shove those fingers down my damn throat and tell me you hate me

2 it’s giving boyfriend and i just love the fit and the carabiner i just need him so damn bad it’s not even funny

3 he looks so big and bad + it’s giving him squaring up to your bum ass ex

4 this picture is so boyfriend 🙁 it’s like telling drew to pose and he’s just giggling and smiling bc he love u sm

5 do i even need to say anything? big ass chest big ass shoulders ……. i wanna crawl on him like a damn squirrel to a tree.

6 my fav pic of all time probably. pussy drunk. enough said.

[archangeldyke-all]

No bc I keep thinking of modern Sev trying to get into the dating game because she wants to settle down and she gets on a dating app because Jinx had mentioned in a conversation with Silco and she ends up matching with reader,,, ahh it’s stuck in my brain

i changed this just a bit to make jinx even more of a shithead hehehe i hope u love it

men and minors dni

"aunt sevy." sevika rolls her eyes at the nickname she hates, and looks up from her book at jinx.

the girl's ten years old now, old enough to know just the right buttons to push to annoy sevika. and sevika's stuck on babysitting duty, because she's an idiot and agreed to be the shithead's godmother when jinx was still a harmless, quiet baby.

"what?" she grunts.

"why don't you have a wife?" jinx asks.

sevika groans. "did your dad put you up to this?" she asks. silco's been bothering her about the same thing lately.

"no." she says. "'m jus' wonderin'. when we have birthday parties and stuff, all the adults bring their boyfriends and girlfriends and wives. but you never do. why not?" jinx asks.

sevika tries her best not to kick jinx's shin. she manages, but not without flicking the kid's forehead.

the truth is that sevika's been asking herself the same thing lately. but she's realized that after so many years of emotionless hook-ups, she's got no idea how a relationship would even fucking work, and she's decided it's easier for everyone if she just... doesn't try.

"mind your own buisness." sevika grunts eventually. jinx studies her with those frighteningly inquisitive eyes of hers, before she smirks, turns on her heel, and runs to her room.

sevika's too relieved by jinx's disappearance that she doesn't even consider that the girl could be up to something.

three days later, sevika gets a call from silco at five in the morning.

"do you know what fucking time it is?" she groans into the receiver as she rubs her sleepy eyes.

"i'm sorry."

"what's so fuckin' important that you couldn't wait to tell me at work?" sevika asks.

silco's responding sigh is long enough for sevika's stomach to sink. "you should dress nice today. a suit, maybe, or at least nice slacks and a button up."

"why? do we have a meeting?"

"no." silco says. sevika waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. she huffs.

"silco what the fuck is going on?" she asks.

"you have a date tonight."

it's silent for a few moments. sevika tries to remember if she'd drunkinly given out her number to someone, or if silco asked her to butter up a client. she draws a blank. "...i do?" she asks.

silco sighs again. "jinx got the idea in her head that you need a wife, so she made you a dating profile."

"what?!"

"she's been cat fishing some poor person as you, and she's scheduled a date for the two of you tonight at seven."

"she what!?" sevika screams. her neighbor pounds on the wall that they share. sevika pounds right back. "silco, there is no way in hell i'm going on a date jinx set up for me."

"yes, i figured you'd say that." silco sighs. sevika's phone buzzes. "check your messages."

sevika pulls her phone away from her face and checks the new text sent from silco.

she gulps when your picture pops onto her screen.

you're... everything. if sevika was asked to describe her type, she'd have described you to a tee.

silco starts talking on the other line, and sevika blinks down at your picture one last time before pulling it back up to her face.

"fine." sevika grunts. she can hear silco's smile, and she huffs. "shut the fuck up. which suit should i wear?"

silco cackles on the other line.

sevika almost passes out when she meets you in person. you're stunning, and she's nervous, and she knows absolutely nothing about you even though it seems like jinx has told you everything about her.

it's only when you've ordered your dinner and are chatting over bread that sevika finally confesses.

"i have to tell you something." she mutters.

you pause mid-chew, your lame story about a fat squirrel you'd seen earlier today entirely forgotten at the sight of your gorgeous date's grimace. "don't tell me you're straight." you groan.

sevika cackles, and you relax a bit into your seat, smiling as you watch her catch her breath. "no!" she laughs. "god, no." she wipes her eyes. "i am very gay. and i find you..." she trails off, her eyes darting down to your lips for just a flash, before she blinks and shakes her head. "very attractive." she says.

you gulp, ignoring your sudden arousal. "so... what's the problem?" you ask.

sevika sighs and looks down at her hands. "you've been catfished."

you frown. "uh..." you study the woman in front of you. "you are sevika right? i mean... you look just like your pictures..."

sevika chuckles and shakes her head. "yes, that's me in those pictures. but you haven't been talking to me all week."

"so..." you're beyond confused. "who have i been talking to?" you ask.

sevika cringes. "my fucking shithead niece." she says.

relief floods your body. this isn't a scam or a fucked up prank-- it's a real date with a beautiful woman who's looking at you like she's expecting you to throw your glass of wine in her face.

instead, you burst into laughter. "you sound awfully fond of her."

sevika's stiff posture relaxes, and she huffs her own laugh. "she was cute before she could talk." she says, shrugging. you laugh even harder, reaching across the table to take sevika's hand and squeeze it as you try to compose yourself. "but now she's old enough to ask me why i'm still single and work a smartphone..."

"well, that explains why you had so many typos in your texts."

"oh, god." sevika groans.

"you misspelled 'restaurant' like five times."

"it's a hard word." she chuckles.

you pull the gorgeous woman's hand up to kiss her knuckles, and watch in fascination as all her worry and embarrassment melts away. "so." you say.

"so." sevika repeats.

"if you'd like to leave i understand, i won't be offended. i'm not sure i'd be into the dates my little cousins would pick out for me."

"no!" sevika shouts. she cringes as half the restaurant turns to look at her. you giggle. "no, that's not-- i really want to be here. i just-- i just wanted you to know that you weren't talking to me... you were talking to a ten year old."

it's quiet for a minute as you try to wrap your mind around the situation. so you'll have to re-introduce yourself to the woman in front of you-- that's fine. you're looking forward to getting to know her, and it seems like she wants to get to know you too.

you take a sip of your wine, then giggle when a thought occurs to you. "god, i'm so fucking glad i didn't try sexting with you." you say.

sevika bursts into surprised laughter, and she has to pinch herself to keep from launching over the table and kissing you.

(jinx never lets sevika live down the fact that she married the first person she picked out for her aunt.)

(jinx also officiates your wedding.)

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette @ellieslob

[fatphobiabusters]

sorry to rant about this I am just fuming right now and think this blog would get it. Oh my god people are so obsessed with being mean and fatphobic that it is deteriorating their fucking ability to think holy shit. I saw a yt short of a fat woman showing what she eats in a day, and it's like. Normal fucking meals right??? (Not to imply there is a "normal" but like, it's not the "excessive" amounts people expect from fat people) And the comments, which to be fair I shouldn't have checked, were full of people accusing her of secretly eating more than what she showed, that her alleged diet is not enough to make her fat, LIKE GOD DAMN. ITS ALMOST LIKE THERE'S A PLETHORA OF REASON'S SOMEONES BODY COULD BE THE WAY IT IS. ITS SO CLOSE. THEY WERE SO CLOSE TO UNDERSTANDING IT BUT NO, THEY HATED FAT PEOPLE ENOUGH TO LET IT ZOOM OVER THEIR GODDAMN HEADS I AM JUST. SO MAD

They'd rather believe we lie than that they are wrong. they are being obtuse as hell it's so annoying AAAUUUGH

-mod squirrel

[marvelrivalsimagines]

Nutty Wingman | Squirrel Girl x Reader

Summary: Tippy seems to have “suddenly” gone missing somewhere out in the woods and you offer to help Doreen look for her best friend. 

Author notes: Gender neutral reader with no uses of Y/N. My first Marvel Rivals fanfic, my first fic posted to this account, and the first fic I’m ever posting publicly! I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to leave some feedback :) 

Warnings: None!

Word count: 2,511

It can be hard to catch a break when the entire fate of the multiverse rests on your shoulders, but luckily for you and your team it’s been decided that you’ve all earned one. Taking a rest near the site of your last mission, you and your allies have spent the past few hours in a cozy cabin amongst the snowy woods. It’s truly been a sight for sore eyes considering the multiversal chaos you’ve been through in the past few days. Currently, you stand in the kitchen of the cabin making yourself a warm drink. 

“Tippy! Tippy Toes!” 

You quickly move to peek out of the window over the small sink and you see Doreen standing near the tree line that surrounds the small cabin. The yelling continues and it’s definitely coming from Doreen, but it’s almost hard to recognize the voice as her’s when it’s without all of Doreen’s usual excitement and levity. 

It’s difficult to tell what, exactly, is going on outside but with the way that Doreen paces and looks around wildly as if she’s searching for something it’s clear that she’s upset. After lingering at the window for long enough you rush to place your drink down on the counter and move to the door of the cabin. You pull on your snow boots, forgetting the winter jacket and scarf that the weather outside seems to call for, and rush to see what’s upsetting your friend so much. As you trudge through the snow that blankets the ground outside as fast as you can, you now see Doreen animatedly talking to a dark brown squirrel in a tree. 

“She's got a big pink bow! And- And she’s got the kindest, sweetest eyes - can’t miss em! You haven’t seen her at all??” Doreen is begging this seemingly random forest squirrel and, while you’re in the minority of people out in these woods who can’t speak squirrel, you can tell by Doreen’s reaction that she isn’t getting what she wants. 

“Doreen?” You ask as you get closer to the bushy tailed girl, your breath visible in front of you as you speak. 

Doreen’s head turns to the sound of your voice and the extreme tenseness of her eyebrows eases a bit at the sight of you. “Ohmygod I’m so glad you’re here! And not just for the regular reasons!” 

“Is everything okay? I could hear you yelling from the cabin.” You take a few steps forward to get closer to Doreen, but she closes the space much faster by practically leaping forward towards you, taking hold of your shoulders with a desperate grip. Instinctively your hands move to hold onto Doreen’s forearms to steady yourself as she throws you slightly off balance. 

“I can’t find Tippy Toes! I- You know that Tippy hates being cooped up inside for too long, so I came outside with her to take a little walk! I’ll admit it, I got distracted for a second because I thought I saw an adorable, real fat squirrel. But when I turned back to Tippy she was gone! What if she got jealous of that fat squirrel and decided to leave me forever? Or- Or- What if some tentacle-y, gooped up, interdimensional time stream creature just swallowed her up while I wasn't looking?! Oh Tippy I’m so sorry-” Doreen’s words spill out of her mouth, the more she talks the faster her words come out as her thoughts spiral, and her grip continues to tighten on you. 

“Hey, hey, calm down…” You try to interrupt Doreen’s runaway train of thoughts with a slow and gentle tone as you place one of your hands on top of Doreen’s. Her wide eyes relax slightly and her hands, especially the one that your own hand rests over, loosens its grip. But her intense, worried expression remains as she stares at you, seemingly hoping for some reassurance from you. 

You give Doreen a small smile before speaking again. “I don’t think any of those things happened. Tippy is probably just in one of these trees somewhere doing… Squirrel things. I’ll help you find her if you want-” 

“Really??” Doreen says quickly, barely letting you finish your sentence. Her head perks up almost as quickly as her attitude does and her hands that were on your shoulders suddenly wrap around your back, bringing you into a strong bear hug. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you! How could I ever repay such kindness?” Doreen states dramatically as she sways back and forth excitedly with you in her arms. 

“Don’t worry about it…” You mumble as your face is squished slightly into Doreen’s shoulder. Despite the slightly awkward position, you’re unable to stop the wide smile that spreads across your face. The hug is tight as Doreen’s arms wrap fully around you; she holds you close against her body and you can feel the puffy surface of her winter jacket pressing against your skin. The fur trim that decorates the jacket tickles a little bit and as you rest against her you can begin to feel the warmth from Doreen’s body.  While the hug is certainly tight, it’s really impossible to complain when you feel so comfortable.

“Hey, let’s go, partner! If we don’t find Tippy before her dinner time she’ll be real upset!” Doreen says cheerily, her arms having loosened from around you for an unknown amount of time. She looks expectantly at you, waiting for you to come back from whatever you were daydreaming about. 

Heat rises to your cheeks as you realize that the hug had ended far before you were able to stop yourself from thinking about it. “Oh- Of course. Lead the way, I’m sure you have a better guess of where Tippy might have gone than me.” 

“Hmmm. If I were a squirrel, which I kind of am, I would have gone…” Doreen placed a hand on her chin, rubbing at the skin in an exaggerated display of thought. “This way!” She points in a direction that seems fairly random to you and begins to walk with excitement. 

“Is there any reason you think Tippy went this way?” You ask, genuinely curious if the squirrel had left behind some hint that you couldn’t pick up on. You’ve seen lots of heroes, both allies and enemies, brush Doreen’s powers off with confidence, assuming that her control of squirrels was useless. It always makes you smile to see just how quickly Doreen proves them wrong, putting countless heroes in their place. 

“Well knowing that hungry squirrel as well I do, Tippy is probably gonna head where there are lots of snacks. And with my squirrel senses I can tell that there are lots of nuts this way.” Doreen responds, gesturing to the dirt path that she leads the both of you onto. 

“Have I…” The words escape your mouth before your sudden nerves have time to stop them. Both on and off the battlefield, it feels like you’ve just been spending more and more time admiring Doreen- and that moment you shared earlier added even more fuel to your feelings. You feel your heart begin to beat faster as the memory of Doreen’s hug refuses to leave your mind. “Have I ever said how cool I think your powers are, Doreen? Plus, you’re so creative, the way you use your abilities is crazy - in a good way! I’m… Really glad we’re in this multiversal mess together.” 

You can feel the drumming beat in your chest reach its peak as you finally finish your thoughts. You grimace slightly; was that a good time to compliment her, right after she just talked about how her powers help her find tree nuts in the woods? While your eyes are locked on the path ahead, mind caught up in overthinking your words, you miss the wide, genuine smile that overtakes Doreen’s face - one that wrinkles her nose slightly and lights up her eyes. 

“Aw shucks… Thank you.” Doreen’s words pause for a moment, which is rare for the girl who always seems ready to fire back a cheesy one liner, and you turn to look at her. Doreen was already staring at you, there’s a soft and almost vulnerable look in her eyes. Feeling heat rise to your cheeks, your gaze quickly moves slightly away from her eyes to focus on her hair instead. You notice how some stray flakes of snow are caught up in the wild strands. “There’s not many people who really seem to appreciate how useful and strong squirrels can really be. It’s been real nice having you around, you always have my back.”

Before you can respond a strong gust blows across the path sending the long fallen snow on the ground back up into the air for a moment, flakes skittering around the dirt path. Instinctually you wrap your arms around yourself, the cold wind is a biting reminder of the fact that you forgot to put on your jacket before volunteering to help Doreen. Luckily your clothes are thick enough to have been doing an okay job at keeping you warm so far, but the wind kicking up now seems to cut right through the cloth. 

Doreen immediately picks up on your shiver and her eyebrows raise as the realization of your missing jacket seems to hit her as well. “Woah, wait a minute! Am I forgetting about some sort of anti-getting-cold-superpowers you have or do you not have a jacket for some reason?”

“Um, yeah. I guess I kind of forgot about grabbing one of those. I-I’ll be fine though, I’m sure we’ll find Tippy soon.” You start to walk forward on the path again, hoping to hurry up the search for the squirrel and get home soon. 

“Hey, Tippy is my best friend but you’re just as important to me too!” Doreen places a hand on your shoulder, stopping you from walking away. “I’m not going to let you freeze out here, especially when the only reason you’re out here is because you’re just so super sweet and awesome and wanted to help me out! Ohhh think Doreen, think!”

Doreen places her hands on her head, her steps pacing in small circles back and forth as she racks her brain for ideas; she of course wants to keep you safe from the cold, but what about Tippy? The end of Doreen’s bushy squirrel tail flicks back and forth quickly, swishing through the air and brushing against your chest occasionally as she paces. You smile slightly at the contact, it’s a bit funny to see Doreen so focused, and the fur is surprisingly soft to the touch. 

Doreen doubles back to pace again and you giggle slightly as this time the fur brushes against your upper chest and neck, “Come on Doreen, don’t worry about me. Let’s just find Tippy fast and we’ll head back soon.” You say, which causes Doreen to stop her pacing for now. You reach a hand up to gently touch the fur of Doreen’s tail and move some of it away so it’s no longer brushing up against the ticklish area of your neck. You still let the fluff rest against your chest, hoping it’s not too obvious that you’re enjoying both the physical contact and the warmth that the thick fur provides. 

“Ah hah!” Doreen says, suddenly rushing closer to your side. She loops an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into her side. Before you can ask what idea suddenly came to her, Doreen’s tail wraps around you as much as it can, going around your back and over your shoulders. The end of the tail brushes against the side of your face, the soft fur resting up against your cheek. A massive, proud smile is plastered across Doreen’s face as she looks at you. Her hand that isn’t around you rests against her hip and her chest is puffed up, confident in her solution. “Squirrel powers to the rescue yet again! Who knew this old thing would come in handy huh?”

You can feel Doreen’s arm across your back and her hand on your shoulder, her gentle but determined grip ensures you’re glued right to her side. The thick fur is certainly protecting you from the wind now as the soft strands brush against some of your skin; a little ticklish but also comforting. It’s surprisingly similar to being wrapped up in a very thick blanket, tucked in so tight you can’t move your arms much. You can’t help but lean into the fur that rests near your face, letting your cheek brush up against the smooth fur that slightly warms up the skin that had been battered by the cold wind.  

“Are you spacing out on me again?” Doreen’s face gets teasingly closer to your own as she easily notices your lack of words as you appreciate, literally, being wrapped up with her. A slightly mischievous, but still sweet, look crosses her face as she sees your wide eyes and flustered expression. Doreen can’t help but giggle as your faces draw closer and closer to each other, both of you closing the gap now, and your noses almost touch. “Squirrel got your tongue?” Doreen teases again, her voice low, almost a whisper as you’re so close together. 

You give a quick, chaste kiss to the end of Doreen’s nose. As you do so, you can see a bright pink blush spread across her cheeks as her mouth drops open slightly, only to quickly close in a warm smile. Doreen moves her free hand to gently take hold of the side of your face, giving you the time to move away if you wanted. When she feels you lean into her touch, however, she closes her eyes and quickly brings her lips towards yours in a kiss. Like Doreen, the kiss is sweet with a palpable excitement in the way she presses her lips against yours. After a few moments Doreen pulls away from the kiss and gazes into your eyes. 

“D’awww!! You're just the sweetest, cutest person ever! I should just wrap you up like this and take you everywhere with me every day!” Doreen coos, moving her other arm to wrap you up in a bear hug and truly smother you. You muscles relax, fully leaning into the hug as you’re warmed by the embrace and infectious excitement of Doreen. 

Somewhere off in a tree a few meters away from the both of you sits a small, white squirrel with a pink bow. Tippy chuckles, or makes a noise as close to chuckling as a squirrel can, to herself as she watches you and Doreen in each other's arms. She’s starting to get cold as well, but as Tippy sees the content smiles on both of your faces she decides to give you both a few more minutes of peace on the trail. As Tippy grooms herself on one of the snow covered tree branches she thinks of all the extra nuts she can ask for as a reward for her matchmaking skills. 

[paintyoureyeswithavividmind]

close to home | chapter one

close to home | chapter one

plot: a nice introductory to the reader and a sense of who she is

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 1,287 Warnings: violence, blood A/N: thanks for checking out the first chapter! Just a nice quick introduction to the character :)

You’d woken to the sound of something thumping against the wood floor of your home and the loud meow of Tora. She’d taken it upon herself to catch breakfast for the two of you, a fat squirrel. After the unexpected meal the two of you shared, you knew what needed to be done. Today was run day. And you were out of water. 

So you geared up, an empty gray canvas pack on your shoulders, your one good gun strapped around your leg, a machete at your waist, and a few other knives hidden around your body. You were always prepared. 

The morning spring bite nipped at your cheeks when you stepped outside the tiny home. Your eyes scanned the ground below for any signs of the dead, and you listened for the rustling leaves of footsteps. But there was nothing. You were safe for now. 

It was easier climbing down the tree than up, though Tora made it look relatively easy. But you weren’t lucky enough to have claws to help you, so climbing down the rope was your only option. 

The rope slid easily enough through your leather glovelettes and soon your boots hit the ground. Tora was waiting for you, sitting by the main tree trunk holding your home. 

“Yeah, yeah,” You said to the cat, “Let’s go find water before we die of thirst, huh?” You said to the cat. 

It was silent as you walked towards the lake four miles from your home. The sky above you was full of puffy white clouds, and the trees around you kept you mainly in the shade. A few birds sang above in the treeline, and every so often, Tora chased a squirrel up the tree. By the time you reached the lake, you had two hanging from your belt, and the day was warming up. 

Licking the sweat off your upper lip, your knelt by the water’s edge and started filling up the empty plastic water bottles you had. Tora splashed around in the muddy, sandy mix of the lakeshore and chirped at the little fish that darted away from her. 

You chuckled to yourself and moved on to another bottle. The sun was now at the midpoint in the sky, and you scolded yourself for taking so long to get to the lake. The Georgia heat this spring seemed unforgivable, as if whatever God that sent this plague was sending another sick joke. The idea of summer being around the corner kept you up at night. You hated the heat. 

Just as the fourth bottle was filled, a branch snapped at the tree line. Then came the familiar moaning, and you looked up in time to see two deads headed your way. Tora hissed at the sight of them and darted toward the nearest tree. 

“Good girl, Tora,” You said, screwing the bottle shot and standing. It thudded to the ground, and you grabbed the machete and twirled it once in your hand. Your eyes darted between the dead as you worked out a plan. 

They were moving slowly, no doubt cause of the heat and decaying parts of their body. But still, they were persistent. The closest one attacked first, and you ducked, bending around its outreached arms and kicking it to the ground, just in time for the other one to reach you. Your machete hit the skull first, and the body dropped, giving you a second to pull it out.

Blood speckled your face like freckles as you turned and grabbed the last dead one by the throat. Its arms reached out to hold you, but you quickly ended it before it ended you. Its body joined its partner on the grass, and you flicked the machete before stabbing it into the ground, cleaning the blood off. 

You whistled a three-note tune and heard Tora meowing. The Maine coon cat was among the most intelligent animals you’d ever trained. 

“Come on, baby,” You said, “The day is just getting started.”

***

If your watch was correct, it was nearing four in the afternoon. This meant you had about four hours until sunset and were a long way from home. After the lake, you took the familiar southern trail to a small state park. A few abandoned RVs that you’d picked clean weeks ago told you that you were very close to a small town that was mostly deserted. 

You whipped the seat off your forehead as you approached one of the first buildings you’d have the courage to check out. It was a town hall building with nothing good except a few dead bodies. Apparently, small-town governments weren’t on the top evacuation lists. 

Tora trotted alongside you, her head just below your knee, and her hair matted from today’s journey. You’d have to brush it out for her when you return home. 

You ignored the town hall building and walked through the town's main street. It was utterly silent, save for the scuff of your boots and your cat's occasional meow or hiss. 

“Okay, last time we were here, we checked out the library,” You said to the cat, “I think we should check out the corner store next. Odds were that it’s been picked clean already, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. I also am going to need summer clothes….” You trailed off as you shielded your eyes from the sun. The morning clouds had grown darker, but the hot sun still managed to peak out. You heard some thunder in the distance but couldn’t tell how far or where it was coming from.

“If we need to make camp tonight, we can go to the library,” You said. You’d had to spend the night in the town several times, and the library was the safest place to get to. It was easy to climb to, and Tora was familiar with it. 

The corner store had a few things you could scavenge; a few Tylenol travel packets, some jerky you found underneath the shelves, and an assortment of lights and matchbooks. Tora even found something; the broken shopkeeper bell. 

Still, there was nothing you really needed. There was no ammo or water. Those were your top priorities. 

You checked a few other small shops; a gunshop, nothing, a bank, for the hell of it, and then finally a thrift store, where you found plenty of clothes. You took your time going through the section, trying to weigh out what was best for the summer heat. You needed to keep cool, but you needed to be protected. You found a couple shirts and shorts, new undergarments and socks. Your bag was filled to the brim, and you knew it was time to head back. 

“Crap,” You muttered when you walked back to the front door. Tora meowed in her own disapproving way. 

The sudden downpour and oncoming thunderstorm would keep you there tonight. Tora wouldn’t venture into the rain unless absolutely necessary, and you felt the same way. 

“At least we found some jerky,” You said. 

It wasn’t hard to build up a makeshift camp in the building. Dozens of once-donated blankets provided ample bedding for you and Tora, and there were enough books to get a small fire going in the back of the building. With only four bottles of water, you took ample care of gutting and cleaning a squirrel for dinner for the two of you. It wasn’t long before you put the fire out and settled in for the night. 

[tessereact]

I think there would be a fat trimming hate subreddit like there is for squirrels.

[solivagant242]

losing you pt.7

remus lupin x f!reader

warnings: strong angst, losing a relationship, minor swearing (?)

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt.8

amberly is used as the MC here since i used to write a lot of fanfics with her, but feel free to self-insert or use whatever name you’d like <3

________________________________________

Amberly is fighting what feels like a losing battle.

She’s stopped trying to reach out. Stopped trying to talk, to hang out, to make plans. Every day the shell she’s built around herself gets a little thicker, a little harder.

She gets up in the morning. Early, which hasn’t changed at least. She goes for a walk by herself, her only company the fat gray squirrels chasing each other over the brown leaves in the gutter. She doesn’t kiss Remus’ forehead or ask him if he’d like her to warm some bread or start the kettle for tea. She makes him a plate of food, placed neatly under another one in the oven so it will stay warm, and then takes a shower and dresses in clothes she lay out the night before. Gone are the days of sleepy cuddles, of clinging to each other in the early morning hours, curled into each other like tired cats.

By the time Remus is out of bed, she tries to be gone and out of the house. Her job as a high-school math tutor has gone fully remote, as most of the students in the district are just starting school, so she’s taking calls from kids across the country or even the world. She takes her laptop, charger, and headphones to the little cafe down the street and curls up in her favorite window seat that overlooks the entrance. 

She heads back around four every day, so that she has time to make dinner and warm it up for him. After that she makes herself scarce. Heads to the library, headphones on, buries herself in a book or writing so that she doesn’t have to think. Loses herself so well there’s always a slight shock when she looks up and sees the dimming light around her.

And at night? Amberly keeps to her side of the bed. Curls herself around her pillow, hugging it to her chest, teetering on the very edge of the mattress with her back to Remus if she can help it. She doesn’t hug him. Doesn’t touch him or reach for him in her sleep. The nightmares that used to plague her are back, back with a vengeance now that she doesn’t have the solid comfort of Remus’ warmth against her. More often than not she finds herself leaving the bed in the gray hours of dawn, teeth chattering in the early chilliness of the house, to plaster herself against the soft plush of the couch and close her eyes, praying for the bad dream to end.

She doesn’t feel…anything? Maybe that’s not accurate; she knows she should feel something. Anger, like Lily had suggested. Or sadness at the rapidly growing pit that had once been their relationship. 

But all Amberly can feel is numb.

Every time she wants so, so so badly to reach out to Remus, to pet his hair or ask for a hug or rest her head on his shoulder, she just remembers that bitter, hateful rage behind her eyes when he spat those words at her.

“I don’t want you…”

And she wraps herself in gray silence like a cloak, the weight of unspoken words heavy on her tongue. 

Remus feels like he’s losing his mind. 

What’s worse is that he has exactly what he wanted. But now he doesn’t want it, not unless Amberly is there. 

He wanted to be left alone. He wanted for her to stop clinging to him, always asking if he was okay, if he wanted to do something together. He wanted some space to breathe, neglecting to realize that the only reason Amberly had been in his space was because she was trying to take care of him.

Well, now he has that.

She doesn’t text him anymore. Well, she does, but not like she used to. She’d send him good morning, i love you, i had a CRAZY dream about a bunny rabbit mixed with a Niffler…

Now he gets a morning, love you, food is in the oven.

She used to answer him right away. Always there, always ready- do you need me to make you that herbal mix for your bath? How about I fill you a hot water bottle? Love, would you like some popcorn or is your headache too bad?

He’s lucky if he gets a response within two hours now.

For the first time he knows how she felt. As it turns out, seeing the response ty to have a good day today love really, really hurts. 

She doesn’t hug him anymore. Well, she does, but not like she used to, wrapping her arms around him and burrowing into the crook of his neck like a sleepy cat. Her warm embrace has become a one-armed, uncomfortable bump together that she always stiffens at and leans away from as soon as possible. 

Amberly used to rest her head on his shoulder, grab his hand and interlock the fingers, hug him from behind, curl up in his lap. Now she barely touches him, and if she does, it’s quick and very plainly not wanted. She doesn’t look at him that much anymore either. That beautiful light from her brown eyes that he’d loved from the moment he met her is now dulled, maybe even extinguished completely.

Her presence in the house reminds him of a ghost. She dodges in and out like autumn mist, timing her leaving and arriving with his. He can’t remember the last time they sat in a room to have a conversation. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time they even talked, outside of short, brief exchanges: dinner’s on the table. I got your meds, they’re on the dresser. Already locked the door.

But through all that growing blackness, all he can think, a dull pulse in his ears, is this is exactly how you treated her, and you were stupid enough to think it was okay.

Amberly can feel herself fading. 

She’s lost weight. She doesn’t know how. Maybe when the whole thing had gotten really bad, when she had entirely lost her appetite for anything at all. Sleep. Physical affection (she cringed at the thought, imagining what Remus’ mind was probably on when he touched her- does she ever leave me alone? Why does she have to be around me, clinging to me, every second of the day?). Food. Water. 

Her eyes have shadows under them. In dim light, they look like bruises. As if she’s some weeping, scar-faced ghoul.

The only thing that she wants to do is watch the sunset. Watch the sky, and remember happier times. Even though that just makes her sadder with the memories that might have been but now probably never would be. 

She closes her eyes, curls around the pillow, and slips uneasily into a jerky sleep.

Remus stares at the ceiling next to her. 

He can feel it. Can feel his girlfriend slipping away from him, shutting down more and more every day. 

His eyes burn at the memory of those hateful words. Of what he’d said to her.

You fucking ruined things with the one person who cared more about you than themselves. All because you couldn’t just admit that you needed her.

And now she’s gone.

The guilt sloshes in his stomach. He can still see her brown eyes in front of him, puddled with tears. He can still hear the little noise she’d made when he spoke the words that broke her. As if a part of her had been suddenly, irreparably shattered. 

How could I have said that to her?

He turns to peer at Amberly, sleeping next to him.

She’s curled into a little ball around her pillow, and his throat swells with tears as he remembers how she used to cling to him. How she’d cuddle into his shoulder with a happy sigh, and he’d kiss her hair and tell her how much he loved her, how much he wanted her.

Now she doesn’t even want to look at me.

Remus closes his eyes.

I fucked up.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | part fourteen preview

Blue holds her arm out, stopping you from taking another step.

"Sh. I see one."

Up ahead, a squirrel stills on a tree, beady eyes unblinking. In a matter of seconds, Blue throws her knife and pins it to the bark through the stomach. 

"Nice," you comment. "You got it on the first try this time."

In your hand is the other squirrel she killed for you. Ghost started working on your bow yesterday. He didn't say anything to you about it, but you spotted him sitting on the porch chiseling away at a hunk of oak. Until he's finished, you've struck another deal: helping Blue skin the rabbits in exchange for her killing squirrels with you. She's better at killing them with a knife than you are, and you needed something to get you off the couch, anyway.

"This is good practice for me." She wriggles the knife out and hands you the kill. "Poor guy didn't see it coming."

"Probably better that way."

She slips the knife back to her ankle. "Do you need more? Or is two enough."

"Two is enough. I saw these flowers by the trench that I think are edible."

"You can eat flowers?" She makes a face. The two of you begin heading back toward the camp. You didn't go off too far with her. Ghost said she wasn't allowed to go past the pond without him. Truthfully, you were surprised he let her go with you at all. 

"Yeah. Pink Sorrel. They taste lemony, and I'll add the leaves, too. Like a salad."

"Yum," she says sarcastically. "Did Paul teach you that?"

You nod. "He knew a lot about plants."

"Are you sure he didn't like you?" 

"Blue," you almost groan. "You've asked me this twice now."

"Well, you seemed to have spent a lot of time with him, and he taught you a lot of things."

"You can spend time with someone and learn things from them without... liking them."

"I wouldn't know," she shrugs, waving her hand around. "There are no boys here for me to spend time with besides Ghost." 

There is a pause as a cloud rolls over the sun, turning everything dim before it passes. The weather these past few days has been fluctuating like true spring. Cold showers in the morning, intense sunlight by noon, and clouds that come and go. The cabbages Blue planted have sprouted fat, juicy leaves. You've mentally scolded yourself for not including seeds in your deal with Ghost. 

"So when are you and him going to start training or whatever?" Blue speaks up, switching subjects.

"Training?" you repeat.

"He told me you wanted to learn some things." She glances at you. "Look, let me just warn you, he can be a real hard ass. One time, he made me climb up and down a tree twenty times without stopping. And another time, he made me throw knives over and over until I hit the exact same spot on the tree again."

Right. Somehow, that last request you made of him has slipped your mind. You did ask him to teach you how to better defend yourself against other people.

It's been over a week now, and the two of you still haven't talked much except for the necessities. Honestly, it's probably best that way. Maintaining a clinical relationship with him should keep the peace and maybe even earn more of his trust. You're growing confident that he doesn't see you as much of a threat anymore. Last night, you ran into him again after waking up sweaty at some odd hour, and all he did was walk past you, step outside for a cigarette, and then go back to his room. He didn't seem suspicious of you being up at all.

That said, the reminder of the 'training' he's supposed to give you makes your teeth snag onto your lip. 

When you don't respond, Blue adds, "What exactly do you want him to show you? I hate to say it, but I don't think he'll give you one of his guns."

"No," you shake your head. "I don't want that. It's not Greys that I'm as worried about. As long I've got distance, I can use my bow for them. It's more about... other people. They get close. Too close."

"Well, you can always bite their nose off," she gives a bump to your shoulder.

You cringe. "I'd rather not have to do that again."

She pauses, looking at her boots. "What did it taste like?"

"Fucking awful. Probably the grossest thing I've ever experienced."

She looks up. "If you were a Grey, you would've loved it."

"Well, I'm human still, and I much prefer these guys." You wag the dead squirrels in front of her face and she laughs. If you could replace all her tears with that sound, you would.

"You still haven't answered my question," Blue tilts her head. "When are you getting started? Because I have some training in mind for you, too."

You arch a brow but don't question it. "Um. I don't know. Ghost hasn't said anything to me about it, and he's busy working on my bow right now."

"Why don't you ask him, then?" She shoots you a knowing smirk. "Are you scared of him, Twix?"

"No," you say all too quickly. "No... I'm not. I just don't know how to talk to him. He's not exactly approachable."

"Just do what I do. I say whatever I want to him. Except when he's pissed, then—" she freezes for a moment and lays a hand on your shoulder. "—it's better to shut up and listen. Believe me."

You speak under your breath. "Noted."

[itzsana-kiddingmenow]

hai! i had a request for lee!han and ler!skz :333

soo this might sound similar to binnies fic you just posted but i was thinking you could write a fic wher skz were all eating together and one of them made a joke abt hannie eating too much or that hes getting chubbier (ofc they werent trying to be mean) but then hannie gets rly sad so he like hides from everyone and becomes anxious abt himself so then they allll wreck him><

𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩:

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨: 1.7k

𝙖/𝙣: @skznccmlee for you bubs ��

𝙩/𝙬: pinning no restraints, soft tickling

𝒍𝒆𝒆: han

𝙡𝙚𝙧: skz

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @someone-who-loves-kpop-saranghae @jeonginsdiary @leeknowstan33 @v--143 @wereallgonnadieonedaybutnottoday @inkytornpagess @lajanaa @a-wild-seungberry @channieissocute125 @soap143 @seungsluvv @skznccmlee @moony-9 @sunny-117

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞? 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐛s 🐾

“Mmm, this is so good!” Jisung groaned happily, swallowing another spoonful of hot food. 

Minho smiled shyly as all the members complimented his cooking; it was a new recipe and he was so happy that Hannie and the others liked it.  

Jisung stuffed as much food as could physically fit into his mouth, cheeks puffing up akin to a squirrel. 

Chan giggled at the sweet sight, Jeongin reaching beside him to pinch the quokka’s cheek gently. 

“Chubby~” Innie cooed, squeezing at the older’s belly at the cute sight of it filling up after downing plates of Minho’s irresistible cooking. 

Jisung gulped down the rest, guilt suddenly flooding his senses when he noticed his puffy belly. The maknae didn’t seem to notice, continuing his playful banter with Hyunjin. 

Jisung lifted a shaky hand to his cheek, suddenly hating the way it squished under his fingers. 

He stood up, excusing himself by setting the plate in the sink and jogging to his room. 

Minho watched in mild discomfort as Jisung ran away, he had witnessed the whole scene and knew it wouldn’t take long until more terribly bad thoughts appeared in the quokka’s brain. 

Min excused himself as well, intent on finding out what happened to Hannie, and trying to make him feel better. 

The older walked up to the door, tapping on it gently. Suddenly, he heard a broken sob from within the room, and his heart cracked underneath as he slowly opened the door. 

The lump of blankets was impossibly cute, and Minho walked up to the quokka and frowned at the way poor Jisung’s entire body racked with his tears. 

Minho slightly lifted the blankets, slipping under them and wrapping his arms strongly around Hannie’s weakened shoulders, eyes saddening when a wet cheek leaned into the crook of his neck. 

“Oh, jagi.” He sighed, attempting to calm Jisung down by smiling at him. “What are you upset about now, yeobo? Aish…what am I going to do with you one of these days, hm?” Min tsked, rolling over so that Jisung was laying on him, earning a small squeak from the younger. 

Jisung just sniffled and hid his face in the fabric of Minho’s hoodie, the older’s hand coming up to play with his hair. Jisung whimpered at the slightly ticklish sensation on his nape. 

“Hyung…?” He whispered quietly, the older humming in response. “Don’t you think I’ve gotten a little…fat…?” He winced at the way Minho faltered. 

“…Fat?” Minho responded with a defeated tone. “What happened, Jisungie?” 

“I mean, I…I’m always being called chubby by the other members, and I don’t know…” Jisung sniffled, a fresh round of tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Oh, baby. I—” 

“Jisung?” 

Hannie whipped his head around and noticed all the members standing gathered at the door. Hyunjin and Innie ran over to give him a hug while the other members collected around him. 

“I’m so sorry, hyung…” Innie whispered, eyes teary and guilty. Jisung shook his head quickly and kissed the maknae’s cheek. “No, it wasn’t you, darling.”

After many apologies and hugs, Chan climbed onto Jisung’s lap, suddenly pinning him to the bed. 

“Don’t worry, Hannie. There’s plenty of love left from us…we’ll show you!” He giggled. “We love every part of you, so let us prove it.”

He leaned down to press some kisses to Jisung’s neck, not wanting to overwhelm the boy too early. 

Hannie laughed gently at the sensations as giggles bubbled from his throat. “Hyuhuhung nohot the neheheck!!” He whined. 

“Hm?” Chan hummed, adoring the way Hanji’s eyes crinkled around the edge from his wide smile. 

“So sweet, your giggling. How cute~” Chan whispered and blew into the quokka’s ear, causing him to scrunch up with a squeal. 

The other members watched with joy, sparkling eyes fixed onto the squealing, giggling boy beneath their leader. Minho lovingly massaged Jisung’s knee to calm him down. 

“Hyuhuhung ohokay ehenoughh!~” Jisung giggled, scrunching his neck to block the leader out. 

“My turn!” Minho squealed excitedly, beckoning Chan over and convincing the leader to pull the quokka’s arms above his head. 

“Wahahait!!” Jisung bit his lip when a singular fingers traveled around his armpit, stroking up and down the squishy skin on each side. 

“Is it too much for the tough ace? Will he crack if I do…this?” Minho gently switched his tactics, scribbling with all of his fingers up and down the exposed underarm, using the tips of his fingers.  

Jisung twisted with a wide smile, suddenly giggling cutely and grinning. The sensation was torturously ticklish, not enough to generate deep laughs but enough for Hannie to feel it and either want more or for the teasing to end. 

It drove him absolutely mad. “Hyuhuhung, please don’t tease!” He whined, throwing his head around wildly as Minho moved a teensy bit faster. 

“Thahat’s not ehenoughhh!!” Jisung groaned, Minho snickering gently as he moved down to the quokka’s ribs, blowing tiny, sporadic raspberries in between every crevice, earning a small shriek followed by even more cute giggles. 

“AAHahaha, noooo!!” 

Minho laughed along with Jisung, the quokka squirming under his grasp and shaking as Minho suddenly blew loud raspberries onto the crevices. 

After a few more raspberries, Changbin climbed onto his thighs to replace Minho. “You know what Felix does for me every time I’m feeling upset?” Changbin asks gently, tugging Hannie’s shirt to reveal his pale tummy. 

“Mmm nohoho!” Jisung squealed when a single finger traced his belly button. 

Changbin pressed his lips to the boy’ stomach, leaving small kisses and nibbles to the area. 

Jisung shrieked and inched his belly away from the sensation, but Binnie’s warm hands grabbed his trim waist and held him in place, leaving nowhere to escape. 

Hannie shut his eyes, loud giggling making the other members coo gently and stroke his hair. 

“Nohoho hyuhuhunggg!! Ihihit tihickles too much!!” Jisung complained, squirming around and laughing with his eyes squeezed shut. 

“What if I do…this?” Changbin placed a knee to each side and swiftly flipped Hannie over, pinning him to the bed and lifting his shirt all the way up, revealing his smooth back. 

Changbin then used his fingernails to rake gently up and down the smooth skin with the softest of movements. 

Jisung squeaked and immediately began to twist away, whimpery, loud giggles pouring from his mouth. 

“Aweee~” Felix giggled. “Sensitive back? Where is he not ticklish?” 

Changbin vibrated his fingers deep into Jisung’s shoulderblades, causing the younger to scrunch up with a squeal as the fingers continued to travel the expanse of his back. 

“AAH-aaahahha!!” Jisung squeaked, suddenly shouting as Binnie’s fingers moved to the sides of his chest instead, near his armpits. 

“WAHAHAIT!!” Jisung tugged at his arms, held hostage by Chan, bucking up desperately at the way Binnie’s fingers trailed down the side of his torso, squeezing gently every once in a while and watching Jisung whimper and giggle. 

The tingles only built up slowly, making Jisung shake and tremble at the torturous sensation. Changbin, still gently tickling at the younger’s back, gently slid one finger down the boy’s spine. 

“AAAH!!” Startled, Jisung screamed and jolted so hard that Changbin was almost thrown off. 

All the members began to giggle and tease the sensitive boy, who blushed a deep red as the older rapper recovered from his momentary heart attack. 

Grinning gleefully, Binnie scribbled down the quokka’s spine again, and Jisung trembled crazily as he let out a loud bout of shrieky cackles and soft giggles, throwing his head around harder than he ever had before and kicking into the blankets desperately. 

Jeongin laid the quokka’s head onto his lap to prevent the boy from hurting himself. Hannie looked up at the maknae with teary eyes and a smile that made the younger’s heart melt, giggles pouring out of him. 

“Don’t worry, hyung. It’ll be my turn soon.” Innie giggled, squishing the older’s pink cheeks. 

When Jisung finally tapped out, tears soaking the pillow case, Hyunjin turned him back over and pressed a few fingers to the ace’s thigh. When Jisung whined at the feeling, Hyunjin smiled. 

“Soft or rough?” He asked, searching the quokka’s eyes for any sign of discomfort. 

“soft, please.” Hannie replied, letting out more bubbly giggles when Hyune raked his nails up and down the quivering skin. 

“Hyuhuhune!!” He shrieked, Hyunjin laughing along with the cute younger. 

“Shhh…no need to say anything, baby. Just laugh for me.” Hyunjin teased.  

Jisung giggled his head off, immersed in the incredibly soft sensations on his legs. He could barely even remember what he was upset about, his mind felt like it was melting and he couldn’t remember anything. 

Soon enough, Jisung was unable to laugh anymore, becoming de-sensitized to the tickling. He just laid down and smiled dumbly, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“Oh, look. Jinnie, I think you’ve broken him.” Minho laughed. 

Hyunjin slowed his fingers to a stop, rubbing up and down the boy’s sides vigorously and watching Jisung squeal and grip his fingers, dazed eyes returning with a sparkle. 

“Breheak…” Jisung panted, slumping completely and rubbing aggressively at all the tingly areas. 

“You okay?” Felix asked after a while, taking his seat on the ace’s ankles, waiting until the quokka nodded to start his turn. 

Lixie pulled one of Jisung’s knees up, scribbling gently underneath. He kept a tight grip on the boy’s ankle, and Jisung immediately slammed his fist into the mattress and gasped, laughter pouring from his lips before he could even control it. 

“Fehelix nohohohoho!!” He kicked, nevertheless Felix’s grip was too strong, and Jisung was unable to escape his grasp. 

“Plehehease eheveryone fihinish up i can’t tahake more!!” He pleaded gently, panting as more tears welled up. 

Seungmin and Jeongin glanced at each other, and before he knew it, Jisung’s legs were being traced all over, the lightest of movements making him gasp and squeak, twisting as loud giggles poured from his throat. 

“Ohoh my gahahaa—!” Jisung twisted his head to the left. 

A few minutes later, Jisung was panting, he never knew light tickles were so torturous, tapping out. 

Nevertheless he felt relaxed, loved. The members gathered around him to give him soft aftercare, cuddling with him and rocking him to sleep. 

Jisung never questioned his members’ love again.