#it was always both it was always the big word it was always bisexual

[princeofyorkshire]

me to my mom 4 years ago: i’m bisexual

my mom today: so you still don’t know if you like boys or girls?

[hairmetal666]

After the Russians, Steve learns three important things about himself:

Robin is the best friend he's ever had; the uncontested other half of his heart. His soulmate, the platonic love of his life, his missing puzzle piece.

He's not in love with Nancy anymore. It's really saying something that hearing those words come out of his mouth is the shock of his life. Once the drugs wear off, though, he realizes they were absolutely true. A surprising win for the Russian truth serum

Her bathroom confession...he sits with it for days. Not--not because she's a lesbian, of course not, but because. Well, Robin knows herself in a way he's never allowed himself to. And he thinks that maybe maybe he likes boys in the same way. That he always has, but never let himself acknowledge it, the way his eyes wanted to catch in the locker room, the drunken, fumbling touches between him and Tommy.

The last one...he's not sure, is the thing. How can he be sure? Like, in his mind, his imagination, he's very into it, but what if it's different in real life? And how can he even find out? He tells, Robin, of course he does, and they go to Indy, right, to a bookstore and she throws a few zines at him and he sneaks some porn (he's definitely into the porn), but that's not--it's not practical experience. And he's not ready to go to one of the bars, for sure, so he doesn't--like what's he supposed to do?

It's around this time in his bisexual spiral that the kids start hanging out with Eddie Munson, that he starts thinking about Eddie Munson. He always noticed the long, dark curls and the bright, brown eyes; the slender cut of his waist; the wry slant of his mouth as he shouted insults at the jocks; the glinting silver of the rings on his fingers--fingers that were long and callused, fingers that could grip around Steve's--

Nope, he's not going there. Even though, a little voice in his head says, he cares for Steve's kids and maybe he's not good at school but he's smart and he's also so pretty, with his pale skin and his big eyes--

No. He doesn't have a crush on Eddie Munson. Absolutely not.

And when he picks up the kids from their little dnd club and sees Munson standing against his van, he doesn't feel an electric zing in his chest, the first stirring of butterflies in his stomach; that would be crazy. They hardly know each other. It goes like this every time, and he's almost able to believe he doesn't care.

Until Eddie trips over the threshold of Family Video, stumbling on an untied bootlace and gangling his way through the front doors. The clatter catches both Robin and Steve's attention.

"Welcome to Family Video," Robin says. Steve stares.

"Uhh." Eddie's eyes flit between them, his face getting redder by the second.

Fuck, he's so cute and Steve's saying--without thinking about it, he's saying--"let me help you find a movie, man."

"Yea--sure, yeah." Eddie's hands are stuffed in the tight pocket of his jeans.

Steve takes a few steps down the closest aisle. "So, what--uh, what are you looking for?"

"Horror? Nothing in particular."

They make their way to the horror section, and it's like some insane, deeply horny demon takes over. He starts grabbing movies off the shelf, no rhyme or reason, doesn't even know what most of them are.

Eddie's staring at him with wide eyes and a raised eyebrow, and Steve just keeps grabbing tapes, is sort of doing a running commentary on titles and tag lines, and he can't stop, why can't he stop? it's like smoke is coming out of his ears. Robin is watching him from the counter with her mouth hanging open, gummy worm dangling down her chin.

"You know," Eddie grabs something from the shelf, "I think I'll just do Friday the 13th again. Can't go wrong."

And he leaves Steve standing there with half the horror section collected in his arms. He stays there while Eddie pays, face burning. It's been--well, a really long time since he's struck out so hard, and he wasn't even really trying.

As Eddie's walking out the door, his sad pile of movies shifts, then tumbles to the floor.

"You have a crush on Eddie Munson." Robin accuses.

"No!" He ducks down to collect the tapes, hoping to hide the crimson of his face.

"You do." She points an accusatory finger in his direction. "I haven't seen you this pathetic since Scoops."

"It's nothing."

"You know," she crouches down with him, "you could just, like. Try to hang out with him."

"After that? Are you kidding? I'm surprised you don't already have a new You Rule/You Suck board going."

"Oh, I do, it's up front." She jumps to her feet. "But still. You should try. And you have an easy in with the kids."

He glares at her in response, starts re-shelving all the dumb movies, and then they get busy, so the topic is dropped. He thinks about it thought. He thinks about it and he--

Instead of waiting in the car for the kids to get done at Hellfire the next time, he goes in.

[avocado-writing]

pairing: logan howlett x afab!reader. 18+, minors dni. fluff; smut (p in v unprotected sex; heavy breeding kink; creampie; oral - reader receiving). canonically bisexual reader. dp+w movie spoilers.

synopsis: you and logan have a pretty happy life… but there’s still something you want.

words: 10k.

notes: part 2 of say you’ll remember me. you don’t have to read it for this part but it is referenced. thank you @eupheme for being my beta, and for the use of the dividers!

Logan wakes to the twinned warmth of the sunrise and you curled around him like a cat. 

You’ve always been attracted to the way he runs hot, a creature of habit in any timeline. A magnet seeking him out even when asleep; you are pretty much a permanent fixture by his side when the weather is a little too chilly. Not that he’s complaining - he loves to sling an arm around you and feel you snuggle into him. Loves to keep you close. 

It’s nice, honestly; Logan has more good days than bad ones now. He never thought he’d get to see that again. Sometimes things get rough, sure, recovery is not a straight line - but you’re there with him on every step of that journey and he’s more thankful for that than he can ever express. You’re a grounding rod keeping the storm of his life in check. 

You intuit that he’s awake, something between you innately connected, and you begin to stir, body brushing up against his. He sleeps naked, usually running too hot to bother with any kind of pyjamas, and you’ve started sleeping shirtless too. Maybe it’s because he makes the bed too warm to stomach wearing one, or maybe it’s just because you like to feel his naked chest up against yours - either way he isn’t complaining. 

You stretch, arching yourself into his flank, blink open your eyes slowly. Smile when you find him looking down at you with soft, hazy, early-morning features. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, voice rocky. You reach up to kiss him, as is the way you usually like to start your day. It doesn’t take long for the chaste peck to become something more: the gentle parting of lips, slipping out the pink tip of your tongue to meet his. His body stirs. He can practically smell the way your blood pumps faster, pooling at the apex of your legs. 

“It’s so early,” you faux-harrumph when you run your hand towards his cock and find it hardening. How can you blame him when you’re so fucking sexy? Logan hums, manoeuvring you both so that he can look down at your sweet face as you lie surrounded in cotton sheets. 

“Then stay right there, baby.”

He kisses a sleepy, loving trail down your clavicle; luxuriating along the plain of your chest, nipping at your soft stomach in a way which beckons a breathy chuckle from you, steeped in the gravelly tones of morning. 

“Mmm, Mr Howlett, you are an incorrigible fiend.”

“Incorrigible, huh? Big word for someone who says they’re so sleepy…” he mutters, smirk ticking up the side of his mouth as his calloused fingers dip under the waistband of your pyjama shorts. 

“Incorrigible. Insatiable, even.”

He drags them down your legs, slowly, taking in the sight of you bathed in the dawn’s roseate light. You move your hips to let him. 

“Hmm. You complaining?”

“Oh, never.”

He grins and gets to work.

Logan loves the tang of you on his tongue. You’re still a little sticky from last night, where he pushed you chest-down into the mattress and fucked you so hard he was slightly worried he’d break the bed frame. He didn’t - but he’s perfectly happy to try again. 

You let out a fluttery little breath, butterfly light, as he starts his work properly. Burying his face in your cunt, letting every sense be drowned in you. He drags his tongue along your needy folds and you groan above him, hooking a leg over his shoulder and sinking your heel into the thick muscles of his back. He could listen to the noises you make for hours, a little symphony just for him. 

“Fuck, Logan,” you sigh, blissful and light-headed. He lets his mouth focus on your clit as he presses a couple of fingers inside. It’s an easy intrusion, your pussy offering up no resistance, a mix of spit and slick aiding him. He starts to crook them in a beckon and the mewl you let out will stay with him for the rest of the day; he smiles against your cunt. 

“That’s it, baby,” you groan. Fuck. He loves your voice when he’s making you come. Would do whatever you tell him to, just point him in a direction and he’ll follow. He is so utterly at your beck and call, a dog at your feet, so happy to obey. Anything for you, anything. 

He speeds up his pace, hand fucking you in a simulation of his cock last night, tongue pressing hard and flat against your folds. You come in a flood all over his mouth, soaking his beard and dripping off his chin. His favourite fucking flavour. All the furniture in the room jolts as you send out a telekinetic wave of force, knocking over a lamp onto the carpet with a dull thud. 

“That damn lamp, we need to move it…” you grumble. Logan kisses your thigh gently. 

“Baby, if the fuckin’ lamp doesn’t fall over, I’m not doing my job right.”

You laugh. There’s a pearlescent sheen of sweat that’s broken out over your body but you’re giddy and joyful. An arm slung over your eyes does nothing to hide the smile on your face, so wide it must hurt your cheeks. Yeah. He’s done good. 

“Let’s go shower,” you say, in a way which he’d never dream of arguing with. You walk naked into the bathroom and pull him under the hot stream of water with you. The room slowly fills up with steam and Logan presses you up against the tiled wall, burying his face in the warm space between your neck and your shoulder as he sheathes himself inside. You drag your nails down his back and he growls in your ear, slowly pumping his hips to bring you over the edge again. 

Ever since that first morning that the two of you were intimate, you’ve been wild for each other; unable to go a day without keeping your hands away. Like teenagers who haven’t understood the concept of pacing themselves. He wants to be drunk on you all the time, always wants your gasps filling his ears, his name dripping from your lips as he makes you come. 

He knows he’s the only man for you… but hey, nothing wrong with proving it too. 

You spend a leisurely forty minutes in the shower with your back against the wall and your legs around his waist, then eventually do what you meant to and clean up. He loves to watch you wash, smell the perfumes of all the soaps you use. You look adorable with suds in your hair. Plus when you ask him to get your back with the loofah it’s just another excuse to touch you and god knows he loves doing that. 

He’s a man content when you finally return to the bedroom. 

Logan watches you pad about and do your morning routine, one he knows like the back of his hand by now. Once again: you’re a creature of habit. Pointing to the radio you use your powers to turn it onto the only channel the two of you ever listen to: an ‘oldies’ station which never plays a song made post ‘89– 

—he remembers a few weeks ago when you were both visiting Wade, chatting about how bad songs are nowadays, and your friend had challenged you: “okay you two geriatric lovebirds, no conferring - when was the last good decade for music?” Without missing a beat you’d both answered “the eighties” and, as Wade groaned at how ‘cringe’ you both were, Logan had fallen in love with you yet again— 

—and you smile and turn it up when Aretha’s I Say A Little Prayer starts playing. Logan watches fondly as you croon out the chorus, using the hairdryer you’re plugging in as a microphone. He loves watching you sing. You don’t always hit all the notes but that’s not really the point - the point is he gets to see you be silly and vulnerable and totally and utterly yourself in these moments, something he knows to hold dear to his heart. 

If you’re singing, you’re happy. 

Fuck, he loves you. 

The two of you get yourselves ready for the day to the music which fills the room, quietly happy in each other’s company. The sound of people getting ready for the day starts up in the hallway; kids coming down for breakfast and squeaking their sneakers on the hardwood, other professors grousing about lesson plans - unfortunately it's time to break the cocoon of solitude the two of you have made for yourselves and face the morning properly. 

“What’re we doing today?”

He squints at the calendar to try and make out your handwriting, attempting to ignore the gaze of the “hot bisexual lumberjack” of the month staring out at him with her barely contained breasts and suggestively placed axe (this had been your birthday present from Wade, and you’d loved it). You tut at him. 

“Logan Howlett, we need to get you some glasses,” you say, pulling on your own and pressing your finger to today’s date, reading out the scribbled ballpoint. “Let’s see… we’re both teaching until five, then looks like there’s a Flames game in the evening you wanna watch. I, however, have been cornered tonight: the girls found out I’ve never seen the Barbie movie so apparently they need to correct that - though I ask you, when I was living in a place literally called the Void, when I would have gotten the damn chance. People weren’t just throwing copies of that thing away. Apparently it’s a great movie.”

‘The girls’. The comfortable nickname you’ve assigned the trio of Laura, Ellie, and Yukio. Logan’s glad Laura has managed to find her people with them - he was secretly worried that, if she took after him too much, she’d be a little too stubborn to make friends at all. Nothing to worry about though. She’s thriving here, and he’s relieved. Happy, even. 

“You’ve not seen Barbie?” Logan asks. You’ve moved to the boudoir now and pause as you apply your face cream, bottle floating in the air centimetres from your neglected skin. 

“Wait, you have seen Barbie?”

He shrugs. Yeah. He doesn’t remember the context, he’d had two full bottles of whiskey by then - but for some reason they’d put it on at the bar he was drowning himself at and he’d sat through the whole thing, leaving a smear of pink on his memory. 

You blink, still gobsmacked. 

“Did you like it?”

Logan considers this for a moment, knowing you’ll call him grumpy if he’s too critical, but also sure you’ll never ever stop teasing him if he praises it. Oh, and god forbid Wade ever finds out…

After a long moment he settles on, “it was alright.”

You shrug, happy with this assessment. 

“Well, good. Guess I’m in for a good evening then.” You stand up with gusto, the indication you’re ready to leave. “Shall we?”

The two of you walk to the door, taking a moment when Logan pulls you into an embrace - your back to his front. You look in the mirror, admiring the couple you see in the reflection, something you do every morning without fail.

“I love you, Logan Howlett,” you say. He drops a kiss to your shoulder. 

“I love you too.”

And with that, the day begins. 

Teaching is a very broad term for what he does. Basically, it’s his job to help the older students with self defence. Every day he goes to get the shit beaten out of him by a load of kids but it’s also the best workout he’s had in over a decade, so he doesn’t mind too much. Keeps him in shape, keeps him sharp. Plus he feels like he’s actually doing something helpful, finally adding to the world rather than just being a burden on it. He spends the first period running battle formations with them, keeping them on their feet and quick to react. Can’t have them getting in danger, not when he’s around.

The class takes a break to get water and he finds himself staring out the window, smiling fondly to himself when he sees you leading a little seminar. After you spent all that time in the wild and then the Void, one of the things they have you teaching is survival skills - you’re a dab hand at getting by just with what you can forage. Looks like you’re going to do some practical exercises as he can see you leading a group of the younger kids towards the forest which surrounds the mansion.

Something happens which makes his heart ache. 

There’s a kid by your side you’re in animated conversation with, probably no more than seven or eight, and they’re looking at you like you hung the stars - just absolutely enchanted with how cool you are. Without thinking they slip their hand into yours for support or guidance or comfort, one of the three anyway, and after a beat you give them a smile. 

In that beat, even from this distance, Logan can see the bittersweet look on your face. The longing. You would wear parenthood well and it’s not fair that you never got a chance to experience it firsthand. It’s a sadness which weaves its way into his guts and stabs him there, an old kind of pain, one he felt for you in his own timeline.

Logan wonders if it’s too late. Are the two of you too old now? Would you both be too hurt if you tried and it didn’t take again? He wants to give you what you want, desperately, but he’ll be damned if he’d ever do anything to upset you; he can’t shake the feeling that’s where that road would lead.

“You okay?”

Laura’s voice makes him jump. She’s a quiet little devil, that’s for certain, definitely not something she got from him - all blades and bluster in his youth. He nods because he doesn’t really want to get into detail about his private life with his pseudo-daughter. 

But unfortunately she’s smart, and his eyes linger, so it's only a matter of her following his gaze to see what’s got him pining. She smiles a small, comforting smile. 

“If there’s a problem you should just talk to them. They’ll listen.”

He harrumphs at the fact a girl less than one-tenth of his age is giving him life advice but also knows that what she says is true. He doesn’t address what she’s said, instead cocking his head at the training mats. 

“C’mon, back to it.”

Laura groans and returns to throwing her classmates across the room.

The thought stays with him for the rest of the day though. After class, when he returns to your shared rooms and starts to get himself set up to watch the game, he finds himself thinking about you with a baby in your arms. A mix of him and you with soft skin and excitement for the world. His eyes, your smile, a perfect combination.

And you’d be so happy. 

Fuck. He’s too old to get broody but here he is, huh.

Logan sits heavily in his recliner, the one nice purchase he’s allowed for himself since getting this job, and opens a root beer. TV remote in his hand he switches on the hockey and settles in for the evening. 

After about twenty minutes his phone goes. He frowns, opening up a text from Laura.

there’s some Pringles in the kitchen can u get them for us please the love of ur life is hungry

Logan sighs and replies, thumbs slow and unfamiliar on a touchscreen. 

all of you have legs. get them yourself

Another message immediately: It’s a picture. You’re busy painting Yukio’s nails bright pink, glasses on the end of your nose and concentration on your face - but half torn between the task at hand and watching the movie you’ve been sequestered for. You look cute. Logan stares for a moment and then saves the photo to his phone. All his albums are just pictures of you at this point. 

Plssssss

is the final text in the chain. Logan definitively puts his phone away. He’s watching the game. He’s not going to get out of this chair to grab a tube of fucking Pringles, he’s not whipped. 

A moment. 

He groans.

Fine.

He gets out of the chair. He’s whipped. 

He heads to the kitchen and gets the requested snack, Hank giving him a knowing and sympathetic smile as they pass in the hallway. He finds you in the lounge, surrounded by girls. Clearly the news of the Barbie watch had gotten out and created a swarm because dozens of eyes look up at him as he lingers in the doorway like a giant awkward dog.

Finally you pull your eyes away from Ryan Gosling’s chest long enough to see why everyone has turned. When you spot him you light up.

“Oh! How did you know I wanted Pringles? Been craving those bad boys recently.”

“Lucky guess,” he replies, stepping carefully between pink dressing gowns and well-thumbed gossip magazines to pass them to you. When he’s within range you drop a kiss on his lips too, prompting an “oooooo” from the gathered crowd. You roll your eyes at them but smile at Logan.

“Thank you baby. What’d I do without you?”

He grumbles something non-committal under his breath and retreats, ignoring the shit-eating grin Laura is flinging his way. Eventually the crowd turns back to the movie. He tries to resist the urge to stand in the doorway with his arms crossed and watch along, the stereotypical father figure who insists he’s not interested, but finds himself lingering for a moment anyway just to see you.

Ellie has her feet slung across your lap, Yukio blows on her freshly-painted nails to dry them. One of the younger girls who’s been delegated to the floor by her older peers rests her head on your knee as she starts to nod off and you play with her hair for a moment - an action which comes readily to you, like it would to a parent.

Logan decides two things. 

One, he’s going to marry you, and he’s certain that every second that he hasn’t been your husband up until now has been wasted. 

And two, he’s going to put a baby in you, like you deserve.

On the way back he passes Hank again, who has an insanely huge sandwich stuffed onto a far-too-small plate - except this time Logan flags him down with a question, one which his colleague has to consider for a moment.

“Oh! Hmm. Yes, I’m pretty sure that it’s in the garage, sometimes the kids like to see if they can get it working again…” when he sees a scowl settle over Logan’s face he’s quick to add, “but none of them have been successful! I think the keys are in the ignition.”

Logan thanks him and heads back to your rooms, a plan forming in his head. 

You get back late. He’s listening to music and reading the paper, the game having finished long ago - the Flames winning of course, there was no other option, go Flames - the weight of the ring he’s swiped from your boudoir burning a hole in his pocket. He hopes you won’t notice - he needs to get your size, after all, and he knows he can’t ask you without rousing suspicion. 

“Hey,” you say, dropping a kiss on his cheek and yourself into his lap. The paper is discarded as his arm automatically comes to perch on your waist, dragged there as if by a magnet. Can’t not touch you for a second.

“Hey. How was the movie?”

“Yeah, pretty good! You know most of those girls hadn’t seen Legally Blonde? We had to remedy that after Barbie, apparently it’s considered a classic now. Fuck, it makes me feel old.” You groan and drop your forehead to his shoulder.

“You’re not that old,” Logan says, and when you come to fix him with a scathing look you find he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Tease,” you sigh, reaching in to kiss him, but stopping when you hear something on the radio. 

“What’s up?”

“Oh. This used to be our song.”

It’s AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long. It feels strange seeing the way your eyes get a bit hazy, a bit distant for a moment. 

“Good choice.”

“Uh-huh. She… you liked it a lot,” you whisper, for a moment lost in a memory he has no way to share with you. It stings you both. But then you’re back in the room with him, smiling as if nothing had happened. 

“We must have had a song, right? In your universe.”

Is this painful? He isn’t sure. But you shared yours with him, so it seems only fair he make it even. 

“Yeah, we sure did.”

You narrow your eyes, purse your lips playfully.

“I betcha I can guess it.”

He hums. 

“Okay. What’s the bet?”

“If I can’t guess I’ll do that thing you like. If I can guess, you do that thing I like.”

Oh, well, when you put it like that…

“Why not?”

You search his face, reading him for any telltale signs. 

“Mmmm, male singer or female? Or both.”

“I didn’t realise you got clues…”

“It’s not a game if I don’t, is it?”

“Fine. A guy.”

You think for a moment. 

“It was Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns n’ Roses.”

Logan widens his eyes, genuinely impressed that you got it so fast…

“Holy shit.”

…But the grin which crosses your face suggests you’re playing a trick. 

“I hear you hum it a lot. It wasn’t a big leap, honestly,” you confess. He chuckles, but pauses for a second as he realises the implication of this discovery. 

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I like that song too.”

You don’t seem saddened by this conversation, so he guesses it’s okay - he’d never wanna hurt you by dredging up the past. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to reminisce about what used to be, while knowing what you have now is so strong and secure. 

Logan pulls back to look at you, attempting to affect seriousness but knowing he could never fool you for a second. 

“So you cheated, huh… doesn’t seem very fair…”

“Hmm, you’re right. I guess I’ll have to forfeit…”

You slide off his thighs and onto your knees in front of him, grinning as you go for his belt… but pausing so that you can use your powers to turn off the radio. 

“Unless you want to come to Brian Johnson’s voice, but it doesn’t do it for me personally.”

He laughs, actually belly laughs, and if the two of you aren’t engaged by the time the week is out he’ll be damned.

He’s able to go to a jeweller’s the next week under the guise of finally going to the city and getting glasses, and buys the perfect ring there and then. It must be fate that they have it in your size, a silver band and pretty stone. The caveat of this is, that for the ruse to work, he does actually also have to go to the opticians.

He comes back with a small pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a chip on his shoulder about the fact they make him see so much better. You seem pleased though, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and kissing the bridge of his nose.

“You look very handsome.”

“Mmmm…” he grumbles. You laugh and kiss him again.

“What are you doing today?”

“Workin’ on something.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a secret, can’t tell ya.”

You harrumph.

“A secret, huh…?”

“A surprise, then.”

You sigh dramatically.

“Well, okay. If it’s a surprise I suppose I’ll let it slide. The girls and I were gonna head into town to go shopping anyway so I guess I’ll see you tonight?”

You kiss farewell and when he’s sure you’ve left the manor he heads to the garage. It doesn’t take much searching to find his old Harley, hidden under a dust sheet and waiting patiently for his return. Logan can’t help the smile at the old thing, running his hand along the neglected metal frame and scaring a spider from its perch.

“Sorry I was gone for so long, baby,” he rumbles, then gets to work.

The next few days are tough. He doesn’t want to ruin the surprise, but you’re clever, always investigating without meaning to, noticing when he trips up on an inconsistency. So whenever you try and weasel information out of him he simply refuses to answer. You’re grumpy, sure, but he can think of a few ways to make it up to you.

He’s nervous in a way he hasn’t been for… well, a while. He’s sure you’ll say yes. You’ll say yes, right? You’ve already been married once before – to him – so the odds are in his favour, but still, he gets a churning feeling in his stomach when he looks at the little box. Anxiety. He’s far too fucking old to be anxious like a schoolgirl asking out a crush, he feels goddamn ridiculous…

But.

But.

What will he do if you say no?

Ah, he can’t dwell on it for too long. Logan channels all of his effort into fixing up the bike - even allowing Laura to join in when she crosses her heart not to tell you - and plans ahead. Checks the weather. Picks his favourite shirt. 

Takes the plunge.

That morning Logan asks you to prepare a picnic and then meet him outside the manor. You look up at him from the reflection in your boudoir mirror as Carole King floats from the radio, an eyebrow arched.

“Oh? Why?”

“C’mon, I haven’t cracked yet. You think you’re gonna get me now?”

You pout. You’re cute. He drops a kiss on the top of your head.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

“Well-ll-ll… okay. I’ll trust you. Shall I wear those jeans? The ones which make my ass look great?”

“Baby, all jeans make your ass look great. You have a great ass.”

You grin and scurry over to the wardrobe.

He heads downstairs and brings the Harley round front, fingers tapping nervously on the hand clutch as he waits. For the millionth time he checks his pockets. Yep, ring still there. 

As you leave the front door, basket nestled in the crook of your arm, the smile which crosses your face is the same as if you’re seeing an old friend again.

“Oh my god! I had no idea this thing was still kicking around!”

You run the last few steps and put your hand on her chassis. You genuinely look a bit choked up.

“Fixed her up so I could take you for a ride.”

Your expression is so soft, so loving when you look at him.

“Logan… that’s so sweet.”

Stepping forward to press up against him you pull him in for a kiss, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums against your lips.

“Put a helmet on,” he says, handing one to you as you stow the basket. You fix him with an old-fashioned look as he presents it to you. It’s bright pink and has Barbie written across the side.

“God damn you Logan Howlett…”

“You liked the damn film. Keep hearing you sing that stupid song to yourself.”

You harrumph but don’t deny it, instead fastening the helmet on and climbing up onto the seat behind him.

It feels good when your arms tighten around him for support. Always feels good when your arms are around him, honestly, no matter what the cause. He revs the engine loudly a couple of times making you giggle, then speeds off.

He feels your fingers tighten in his shirt as he drives, weaving between whatever cars happen to dot the road as he goes. He’s not had a bike between his thighs for years now but you never really forget how to ride one. Besides, with you as his cargo, he makes sure to go safe. When he was a younger man he’d have been pushing the Harley to her limits just to get his blood pumping… nowadays he’s happy to take it slower. The longer the ride, the longer you’re pushed up against him, after all.

He’s still such a sucker for your touch.

It’s a nice day, and when he eventually slows down to the old lookout spot he used to take you to, you grin as you see the familiar view.

“It’s been a long time,” you sigh, eyes sparkling in the sun. You smooth your hair down where the helmet has taken its toll and start to lay out the treats you’ve packed onto a gingham blanket: thick-filled sandwiches, a fruit salad, a whole apple pie which Logan has no idea how you smuggled out. Fuck. He is so lucky to have you.

He sits and forces himself to eat, knowing the ring is hidden away in his pocket. You’re happy to take the lead on the conversation as you always are, chatting about your classes in between bites of roast beef, but cock your head to the side when a period of silence goes on for too long.

“Something’s on your mind.”

“What?” he asks, silently cursing himself for being so obvious. You reach out to rest a hand over his.

“Is there something you wanna talk about, Logan? It’s okay if there is. We can face it together, you know. We’re a team.”

As you let that sink in with him you wave your hand to bring out a thermos from the basket. It pours out two cups of coffee, both black, and you float one over to each of you.

He watches this with sharp eyes.

“You didn’t add any creamer,” he says softly. You smile, using your free hand to lift the cup to your lips.

“What can I say? I guess you got to me.”

You’re finally a coffee purist.

Logan blinks, taking in the sincere look on your face. There is only absolute adoration written there. It is a plain and simple fact: you love him more than he thought anyone could ever love him.

After a beat, he pulls his hand away.

He shifts to one knee.

Your eyes go wide.

“Logan…?”

“I gotta… you gotta let me talk. I need to get this out,” he says, slipping his hand in his pocket to grab the ring box. You cover your mouth in shock. “You’ve made me a better man. And more importantly you make me want to be one. I wanna spend the rest of our lives together because I’d be a goddamn idiot not to.” He opens the hinge and the ring shines where it’s seated in velvet. “Will you marry me?”

“Oh shit,” you say, then you do something unexpected. You throw your head back and laugh. 

Of all the reactions he was not expecting that.

Logan’s hands dip a little. What the fuck? Is this a rejection? Did he screw this up, monumentally misread the signs between the two of you? Are you having some sorta episode? What has happened to prompt this?

“Oh, baby, no - don’t be sad! Just… hang on…” you say when you see how his face has fallen. He watches as you root around in the picnic basket. “You won’t believe this…”

You shift to one knee…

…and pull out a ring box of your own.

Logan’s mouth falls open as you present a ring to him. A plain gold band, shiny and new - one you’ve had made specially for him. 

“I got your size from my Logan’s old ring. I’ve had it for days just waiting for the right moment and… I guess you have too.”

This information settles around him like a deep, sudden snowfall. His eyes can’t leave the little box you’ve pulled out. 

A smile creeps over his face.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, echoing your sentiment from earlier, and then suddenly you’re laughing too, head thrown back in utter joy. You throw yourself into his arms and press kisses all over his face: his beard, the end of his nose, all over his cheekbones, and then finally his mouth. He can feel the tears spill over your eyelashes and dampen his face, and holy fuck is he in love with you.

“So is that a ‘yes’?” he asks against your lips. He can feel your grin under his mouth.

“Depends if it’s a ‘yes’ from you.”

“Of course. I want you to make an honest man of me.”

“Then fuck yeah. I’ll marry you, Logan Howlett.”

Another glorious, effervescent peal of laughter falls from you and then you’re kissing him again. Together your hands fumble in order to exchange rings, a difficult task when neither of you will open your eyes and break lips, but eventually he manages to slide his ring on your finger and feels you exchange your own.

It feels good. It feels right.

Logan pushes you back onto the blanket, picnic forgotten for the moment. His mouth turns from sweet to hungry as he uses his body to cage you in. His hands drop to the hem of your shirt and start to pull it up so he can trace the bared line of your chest. 

“Logan, here?” you ask in a way which suggests here is great, actually. 

“Why not? Nobody watching. Just you and me, honey.”

He wins you over easily with that argument and your hands go for the top buttons of his flannel. When you find your fingers aren’t doing a fast enough job you start using telekinesis to undo them from the bottom, too. He drops his grip to your hips and fiddles with your belt and the fly on your jeans, groaning with pleasure at how easily you accommodate him and lift your hips so he can strip you.

“Fuck. You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls. His hand skims your underwear and takes a handful of your ass - god he loves your ass - as you rid him of his shirt so you can run your palms over the thick plain of muscle in his back.

“Look who’s talking,” you breathe against him, biting down on his bottom lip and tugging at it. Electricity shoots through him.

“Harder,” he mutters. You oblige him and sink your teeth in just enough for a little blossom of blood to spill into his mouth.

He’s going to go crazy right here on this blanket, you will drive him to insanity. What bliss. 

He kicks off his jeans and starts grinding his clothed cock against the fabric covering your cunt, like two teenagers so desperate to get off that they don’t even bother to get naked first. His blunt head catches on your clit and you groan at where you can feel him leaking.

“Love it when you fuck me, Logan,” you sigh. He’s not sure if it’s pride or arousal which throbs through him, probably both, but he realises then he has to do now what he should have done a long time ago.

Claws come out, he cuts your underwear off and you squeal in delight. For a moment he considers just sliding inside but if he’s going to do this, it has to be done properly.

So he pushes your legs upwards against your stomach, in a way which he knows your hips will complain about but your pussy will love. Your mouth is a soft little o as you realise you are being manhandled into a mating press. 

“Logan…?” you breathe, a little confused but giddy with pleasure, sucking air in sharply when he rolls his hips to try and slide his cock inside your wet heat. 

“Wanna put a baby in you,” he states, simply, growling it out. Your eyes roll back and you moan at his words, what a pretty sight. 

“But we… oh fuck… I don’t know if we can…”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he manages, pressing his hand to the soft paunch of your stomach under which your womb sits, “let me try.”

Your eyes go wide as your head empties.

“Okay, yeah. Do it. Fuck a baby inside me, Logan.”

What sort of loyal dog would he be if he didn’t follow orders?

His legs trap yours against your body as he starts fucking you in earnest, pressing home inside you with one rough thrust. You mewl and knead at his skin with worshipping hands as he moves. Each undulation of his hips buries himself in you impossibly deeper, so he knows when he spills inside you it’ll be right where it needs to take.

“Fuck…” you hiss, palm cupping his face so he can look down at you, gaze on your gorgeous face. The crease of concentration between your brows as you register how tightly he’s nestled inside you, lips soft and kissable. Your hair blooms like a halo, an angel silhouetted against gingham.

He loves you. Oh, how he loves you.

“Wanna be so full of you, Logan… want to walk around with your baby in me. Show everyone who I belong to.”

He growls but he also knows he belongs to you, too. You have his heart in your ribcage beating alongside your own, a thing he has freely given because you’re the person who most deserves it. He’d never want it to rest with anyone but you.

Logan moves his hips in slow, sensual movements, taking time to luxuriate in the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of your walls. When he presses back inside he sees the way your eyes roll back as he hits that sweet spot, gloriously blissful.

“Gonna take you somewhere nice n’ quiet on our honeymoon and keep you in bed, doll. Fuck you until you’re full. Not gonna stop until we’re sure it’s taken. Watch you get all round with me. Goddamn, can just imagine how you’ll glow.”

You gasp at the filth he’s muttering but the grin on your lips show you’re incredibly enthusiastic about that idea.

“Yeah… want you to fuck me whenever you want, Logan… bend me over and fill me up… I’m yours, only yours…”

Something about the way you sigh that last part flips a feral switch in his brain. His hips speed up and the slap of skin on skin echoes from your hips, and then he’s coming in thick ropes to paint the inside of your pretty pussy. Mark you up as his. You groan at the feeling of warmth blossoming inside you but he knows you haven’t reached your peak yet. Usually he’d make sure you orgasm before him… but he has something a little different in mind right now.

Logan slips out of you and you mewl in the displeasure of being emptied. This doesn’t stop him manoeuvring your ass into his lap, though, keeping your legs spread so he can push three fingers inside your warm and willing entrance. A groan rips itself from your throat as you clamp desperate fingers down on his forearm. Were he a human man you’d leave fingerprints for certain, and for a moment Logan regrets that you can’t — he’d love evidence of this tryst; apart from your growing belly, of course.

“Fuck. Yes, Logan, push it inside me,” you whine. Oh goddamn, he’s so easily broken when you beg. He uses his fingers to gather up his spend as it tries to leak from your fucked-puffy cunt and presses it back into your hole. As he goes he makes sure to crook them inside you, hitting the same spot he was with his cock just moments ago.

All you can do is hang on and choke down air as he fucks you with his hand. He’s an expert at your body, can play it like an instrument; it doesn’t take long to get you where he needs you. He feels your walls twitch and then you’re coming around his knuckles, a filthy mix of his release and your own dripping all the way down to his wrist.

You collapse back onto the blanket, gasping for breath as your wits return. As he slowly pulls his hand away from you, you reach out to grab him and pull him to your mouth, sucking the cocktail of you both from his fingers and running your tongue around him.

He groans.

“Fuck. You’re gonna ruin me.”

“But what a way to go, huh?” your smile is devilish. He can’t help but reach down and kiss it. Your hand tangles in his hair and scratches his scalp affectionately. 

A beat.

“So… we’re trying?”

You don’t need to specify for what. He knows. When Logan pulls back there’s an expression of barely-concealed hope on your face. Makes his heart melt. His fingers move to lock with yours, squeezing gently down on your knuckles.

“Yeah. We’re trying.”

He’s never seen you look so happy. You trace your abdomen with a careful hand. The ring he got you glints on it, the stone reflecting the sunshine. 

“Well, okay then.”

It doesn’t take long for news of your engagement to spread. You tell Laura who puts it in a group chat she has with the other students in the mansion, and from there it has no chance of staying secret. In fact you return after you finish the picnic (and an attempt to tidy yourselves up) to a chorus of ‘congratulations’ from a gathered crowd at the door. Logan pretends to be grumpy but honestly? He wouldn’t trade the look of joy on your face for anything. He shows off his ring alongside yours and people coo with adoration at how cute you both are.

Once he’d have snarled at ‘cute’. Now he just accepts it as you snuggle into his side. 

You go to meet up with Wade and Al a couple of days later to tell them but it turns out word travels fast. The apartment door is thrown open in your faces as Wade pours accusingly. 

“I can’t believe I had to find out about this via social media from a teenage girl! What am I, back in high school? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to deal with puberty again, it wasn’t kind to me,” he says, waving his phone at you to show a cheerful post about the engagement put up by Yukio. Logan doesn’t get a good look, but does see the words “still find love in old age” which makes him bristle.

“Sorry, Wade. But you know, we live in the same house as her,” you say, sounding genuinely quite apologetic. Wade deflates a little at your tone, but keeps the act up anyway.

“Big-ass house. Coulda kept your damn hands in your pockets…” he mutters, but then gives you a sincere hug. When he turns with his arms open to Logan, he sighs and accepts one too. “But really, I’m happy for you two. Just don’t forget about your old perpetually single buddy Deadpool when you’re off bumping uglies as a legally wedded couple…”

“I think I might try and forget you during those times actually, Wade,” you say with a laugh. 

“Hmm. Oh wait, holy shit - can I be your best man? I promise you I scrub up pretty well. Well, apart from the face. Mmm, and the rest of my body. My ass looks great in a suit is what I’m saying,” this is directed at you and you give Wade a sad smile.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I already asked Laura. We kinda trauma bonded in the Void,” you say. Wade’s eyes slide over from you to Logan.

“Oh my god,” he grumbles.

“C’mon, peanut! Isn’t that what best friends are for?”

Logan opens his mouth to snap that they are not best friends but then… he just sort of… closes it. He’s too old to have a best friend. Grown men don’t have best friends. Or at least that’s what he’d have said a scant few months ago. But now…

“Fine,” he sighs. Logan feels you squeeze his hand in joy as Wade lets out a woop which startles Al.

“Yes! I won’t let you down buddy. I’m gonna give you the best dry bachelor party of your life. The strippers will be so hot you won’t even need beer to make them look good!”

“Wade…”

“Joking! Joking…” he says, in a way which suggests he probably wasn’t - though about the quality of the strippers or there being any in the first place, he can’t be sure.

The two of you don’t want a big wedding. You had one in your own timeline and know how stressful it can be. You’re both able to come to the same reasoning: it isn’t the size of the celebration which matters, but that you’ll be married by the end of it. That’s what it’s all leading to after all. Every morning Logan wakes up to the weight of your ring on his finger and he feels complete. He feels grounded. 

He’s happier than he’s been in a long time; maybe ever.

You book a day to go down to city hall and sign the marriage certificates, only in a couple of weeks’ time. The kids all make you cards, shoving them under your door or handing them over during lessons. Soon your room is covered with crayon-scribbled well-wishes and poorly drawn felt-tip depictions of you both. Mostly, it’s you smiling, and Logan snarling with his claws out. You laugh every single time you see one, so he doesn’t mind too much. There are always little love hearts doodled between you anyway. At least the kids know you’re happy together.

Time moves by quickly but maybe that’s just a symptom of being in love. Classes no longer drag on and drain him, instead Logan starts every morning with the vigour of a young man… though the fact that he fills you up every morning before you both head to work might help. It’s strange; you never use protection anyway, but now it feels like there’s a purpose behind the way you fuck. Any position where he gets to see your face as he comes deep inside you will do it for him honestly. He could live in your cries of pleasure, the way you mewl his name, the duty of putting a baby inside you. Before long, those couple of weeks the city hall needed to get your paperwork in order are up, and the day arrives that you’re finally able to go and make things official. 

Logan wakes in bed alone. This is expected. He came home late last night after his bachelor party which, to be fair to Wade, wasn’t so bad. The guy had just organised some friends to play poker late into the night. Due to - what Laura has coined as - his natural ‘resting bitch face’, he cleared everyone out. He’s two hundred and sixty dollars richer so now he can grab you some nice flowers on the way to the wedding. He’d gotten a text saying that you were staying at a hotel in town for the night, the girls had insisted on keeping you separate because it’s tradition. Logan isn’t sure what about this whole situation is exactly traditional, what with all the crossed timelines and long-lost soulmates, but if it makes you all happy he’ll relent.

He showers, missing your body in the steam with him, then walks naked back into the room to grab something nice to wear, fingers fumbling with the radio as he goes. It picks up just as the host is introducing the next song.

“...goes out to Logan from ‘the love of your life’, who is pretty sure you’ll have the radio on by now! Apparently you’re getting married today? Well a big congratulations from everyone here at the station, you two, enjoy this classic tune…”

Chapel of Love by the Dixie Cups starts to spill out from the speakers and Logan chuckles, grabbing his phone and tapping out a message.

Cute.

You text back almost immediately. He can imagine you grinning at your screen as the music plays, waiting for his reaction.

I am. Can’t wait to see you today, baby ♥

Yeah, he can’t wait to see you either.

Seeing as it’s meant to be a relaxed ceremony you’d both decided not to wear anything too formal. Logan pulls out a white dress shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, toeing on the boots he cleaned last night. He looks at himself in the mirror before deciding to roll his sleeves up to his elbow. For some reason you go crazy when you can see his exposed forearms; you say it’s “pure unadulterated sex appeal”. He’s never understood it himself but anything to make you smile. 

Laura grabs a ride with him in the pickup he uses. She’s wearing leggings and a baggy suit blazer but he has to admit, the kid looks pretty cool. Despite his several warnings not to she sits with her feet on the dash playing with her phone, calling him a boring old man for not wanting her to go through the windscreen. 

“Remember I heal like you, dummy. It’s no problem.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you turning up to my wedding covered in glass with your clothes ripped to shit.”

She grumbles and relents, ever the petulant teenager.

He manages to get parking nearby, so someone up above must be smiling down on him, takes the short walk to the city hall - making sure to get a ridiculously large bouquet as he goes. As he takes in the smell of roses he realises it isn’t that he’s feeling nervous per se, but there’s definitely an anticipation running up his spine. Realistically he knows nothing will change when the two of you are married on paper.

But… kinda everything will change.

He spots you talking to Wade on the grey stone steps, and his mouth is pulled into a smile at the cute little dress you’re wearing. You had been going on about how you picked it up at the thrift store - what a bargain! - and now he sees it, he agrees about how it highlights your figure perfectly. You light up when you see him… and Wade’s face falls as he turns.

“What the fuck! I thought this was a wedding?! Now I look like I’m in a competition for most formally dressed dickhead!” he says, gesturing to himself. He’s in a full black tuxedo and is definitely the most suited up person for about five blocks.

“It is a wedding. Not my fault you never asked the dress code,” Logan states. You burst into laughter as Wade pouts, but he seems to be taking the ribbing pretty well. Your hand tangles into Logan’s. He looks at you.

“Hey,” you breathe, taking the flowers and taking a deep breath of their sweet smell. “Thank you, these are lovely.”

“You deserve the best, baby.”

“Aww. You know, look great.”

“So do you.”

“We scrub up pretty well, huh? Great choice on the sleeves, by the way.”

Logan smiles into the kiss he presses to your lips. Laura groans at the public display of affection.

“C’mon, your slot is coming up. You two wanna be late for your own wedding?”

And so you traipse up the stairs to the office where the smiling registrar has you fill out the paperwork to officially be married to each other. When you see Logan’s hands shake a little, you press your own to the small of his back and rub small soothing circles there. Wade and Laura cheer when you have your first kiss as a wedded couple and burst party poppers of confetti over you both. The group of you stand together and get a picture to celebrate the day: Logan’s arm around your waist while yours is secretly perched on his ass, Laura grinning and holding the bouquet for you, Wade laying across the front of you all Breakfast Club-like. 

Logan smiles so hard his face hurts.

It’s nice.

Though the two of you didn’t want a party it’s pretty hard to convince the kids at the manor of anything, so you get back to a banner reading congratulations! It’s held by your youngest students who cheer as the group of you get out of the pick-up. Yukio rushes in to give you a tight hug and you laugh, joyful at the love you’re walking into.

The dining room has been cleared to set up an impromptu celebration space. A metric tonne of pizza has been ordered and Piotr, the rather willing DJ, makes sure nothing pre-1989 is played. 

He’s never really been one for dancing, but when you drag him to the middle of the wooden floor and wrap your arms around his neck Logan can’t help but sway with you to all the cheesy love songs. You press your forehead to his, tips of your noses meeting. You breathe in harmony. You let the same air fill your lungs.

“I love you,” you sigh a dozen times over, dreamily.

“I love you too,” he breathes a dozen times back.

When you throw the bouquet that evening you’re in such a good mood you both forgive Wade for body-checking a kid to grab it out of the air.

Logan thinks about his life and smiles.

He’s got it pretty good.

He takes you on a honeymoon for a week to a little cabin in the woods he rented out. It’s in the wilderness, miles from anyone or anywhere, which means he’s able to do what he wants with you: have you naked the whole time.

The two of you don’t do anything but fuck, and you’re very down for it. Something about married life has you more horny than you’ve ever been before. For the first couple of days you hardly leave the bed, Logan only heading to the kitchen to grab you some food to keep your energy up between sessions, pumping you full of his come until you’re a sticky and sated mess. He feeds you slices of pie as you lay dazed on the mattress, a pillow under your hips to keep his spend from dripping out of you.

“Fuck, Logan, you’re gonna kill me,” you groan as he starts rocking his hardening cock up against you the fifth time that day.

“Nah, baby. You can take it.”

You fall asleep with him buried deep inside of you so that the thing waking you up the next morning is him rolling his hips. It’s a pretty fucking good way to start the day.

Eventually the two of you leave the bedroom and walk around the place. Autumn is coming in properly now, the green of the trees outside turning to reds and oranges. You wrap yourself in a blanket and stand at the huge windows looking out at the vista, your aesthete sensibilities pulling you there. Silhouetted in October’s light, Logan can only be struck by how perfect you are: your body, your heart, your soul. His, all his.

He’s the luckiest goddamn man alive.

He takes you against the windows, your chest pressed up against the cool glass and making you gasp in thrilled pleasure, rubbing loving circles on your clit until he feels you clench around him.

At night the two of you huddle by the wood-burning fireplace, the flames dancing across your bodies as he makes love to you slowly, non-hurriedly, letting you enjoy each other. You push him onto his back and ride him, head thrown back so he can appreciate the long line of your neck which he traces with thick calloused fingers.

Fuck, he’d keep you here forever if he could. A little slice of perfection made for just the two of you. Nobody to bother you or call you away for duties, just your love and all the space it needs.

It’s a shame when the two of you have to return to the manor, but he has a job to do. Kids to teach. A Wade to keep in check. It’s easy to slip back to day-to-day life, though, when he has a wedding ring on his finger and you in his bed.

That is until one day he finds you with your head in the toilet, emptying your guts of the day’s breakfast.

“Logan, I don’t feel so hot,” you groan. He goes into panic mode, worrying you’ve got some sorta bug, practically carrying you to Hank’s lab so the doctor can get a good look at you. When you get there, he doesn’t seem incredibly impressed, but checks you over diligently because he’s a friend. 

“Look, I don’t mean to be crass, but have you taken a pregnancy test?” he asks, bluntly. Your eyes go wide over the glass of water you’re sipping.

“Well, no, but…” you trail off. Logan can see you counting on your fingers, trying to make something add up in your brain.

“Ah. Right. I don’t have one but I do have an ultrasound scanner, it was one of the things Charles foresaw a use for I suppose…”

So Logan stands there as Hank wheels the thing out and has you lay down on a counter - this isn’t the med room after all, there’s no beds in here. Your hand grabs onto his as Hank carefully lifts your shirt and presses the wand to your stomach.

There’s no mistaking the image on the screen. Head, body, arms and legs. The baby’s picture thrums. Hank does not seem surprised.

“Yep, there it is. You’re pretty far along. I’m not an expert, but I’d say three months?”

“Three…!” you look at Logan as if this is his fault. Which, he supposes, it sort of is. “But we’ve only been… uh, trying for a few weeks now.”

Hank shifts uncomfortably. Logan wants to die. He does not want to talk about his sex life with a peer.

“Have you been using birth control?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then I think you have your answer. Nature did what it does best.” He manages a smile. “Congratulations to you both. I’ll uh, let you have a moment alone.”

He practically runs out of the lab. The two of you are left sitting there in silence.

Then slowly, so slowly, your hand comes up to rest on your abdomen. You look down at the point of contact and tears well up in your eyes.

“Logan…”

With one word you summon him, his strong arms wrapping around you and holding you tight, an anchor in this moment of joy. He buries his lips into your hair as you sob, utterly overwhelmed.

“Fuck, we did it, baby,” you manage to choke out. His hand comes to rest on your own and then you switch, covering it with yours so that he can feel the skin of your belly. It’s warm and soft. It feels strange knowing that his child is in there. Strange but right.

He gave you what you deserve. His heart beats a little faster and he realises his vision is blurry, too. Fuck. Look at him, welling up. 

Ah man, he doesn’t care.

The kiss between you is wet and desperate, an act of triumph and elation. As his mouth presses deep into yours he feels you tug at his shirt, pawing at him like an animal.

“Honey, I’m not gonna fuck you in Hank’s lab,” he states. You whine beneath his lips.

“But I wanna celebrate…” you mewl, hitting him with the doe-eyes. He scoffs a laugh and you pout. “Besides the pregnancy hormones are driving me crazy.”

“You just found out.”

“Yeah, weird how quickly they can take effect…”

Logan gently but firmly removes your exploring hands.

“We can do it somewhere our friend and coworker doesn’t spend his whole day. C’mon,” he silences any protestations with another kiss, soft and loving, “we have all the time in the world, baby.”

You run your fingers through his hair, eyes still a little dewy, but smile is undeniable.

“All the time in the world…” you sigh, a promise. 

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk

those of you who liked part 1, too: @inumakisriceingredients @respectmyprivacys-blog @xcalcalcalcalx @moonixlity @justanothermarvelfanaccount @taraa-dactyl @nitimurinvetitumsposts @sseleniaa @diegobrandolover99 @blackcanvaspainting @youngestxhearts @veggie-eggrolls

[multi-kpop-fanfics]

more than I can resist

pairing: Seungcheol x fem!reader x Wonwoo

genre: smut, fluff, poly!au - minors dni.

warnings: threesome, anal sex, oral sex (f and m rec), fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, use of petnames (princess, sunshine, pretty boy), sub!reader, switch!wonwoo, switch!cheol, multiple orgasms, cum swallowing, unprotected sex (pls stay safe), manhandling, hair pulling, aftercare

word count: ~3.8k

summary: you love starting your day with your boyfriend and a freshly brewed cup of coffee. but your other boyfriend has a different idea of a perfect morning.

Disclaimer: Both Seungcheol and Wonwoo are depicted as bisexual in the fic, which is used only for the purposes of fanfiction and it is not an assumption of the members' sexual orientation in real life. If you're not comfortable with these themes, then this fic isn't for you.

Author's note: happy holidays beloveds, here's some woncheol filth - big thank you to @gyuwoncheol for betareading (and yelling at me hehe) and to @wooahaeproductions for helping me out with the title!

tagging @onlymingyus @smileysuh @horanghater @shuadotcom @wongyuseokie

©multi-kpop-fanfics, 2023. No reposting allowed. No translations without permission allowed.

Raindrops clatter on the window, a moody gray color engulfing the bedroom. You swear it makes you want to fall back asleep, but the warmth surrounding and the faint smell of coffee being brewed keep your eyes wide open.

You raise your torso from the bed and notice that your boyfriend is missing - now you know why the smell of coffee lingers in the air.

You push the comforter to the side before stepping on the carpeted floor, but a strong arm tugging at your wrist stops you - the wrist of your other boyfriend.

“Don’t leave yet, I wanna cuddle for a little longer.” Seungcheol pouts, voice still dipped in sleepiness.

“But Wonwoo is already up and making coffee. I don’t want to drink it cold, Cheollie.”

“But cuddles!” The blond man pouts again.

“Sorry, Cheollie, coffee is calling.” You smile softly and get up from the bed, wearing your fuzzy slippers to go to the kitchen.

Seungcheol plops down on the bed, puffing his lips in annoyance. It’s baffling how you’re willing to leave the warmth and coziness of his arms just for a cup of coffee with Wonwoo. Or maybe he’s being dramatic about it.

You, on the other hand, are absolutely delighted to be greeted with Wonwoo’s broad back, clad in a plain white t-shirt. You tiptoe your way behind him and wrap your arms around your waist to back hug him.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He rubs the back of your hand lovingly.

“Good morning, Wonu.” You hum and pat his abdomen. “How did you sleep?”

“Pretty well. Although I wish I didn't have to spend most of the night away from you. Not to mention the amount of times Seungcheol tried to pull you away.” He comments with a small sigh.

“Oh come on, you know he’s clingy in his sleep.” 

“Y/N, clingy is Seungcheol’s middle name.” Wonwoo chuckles as he pours the dark brown liquid in the three matching cups.

“I think that’s one of the many reasons why you love him.” You tease him with a sing-song voice.

“I cannot refute that, I’m afraid.” He passes you the cup with the sun carvings on. “Enjoy the coffee, darling.”

“Thank you baby.” You take a sip and moan in satisfaction when the coffee hits your taste buds. “Perfect as always.”

“And the only thing I’m perfect at-”

“Bullshit!”

“In the kitchen, I mean.”

“Oh. Then yeah, you’re right.” You grin evilly and he swats your arm playfully.

“If you get to be a meanie first thing in the morning, then maybe I should cut down on your coffee privileges.” Wonwoo tilts his head sideways, a cat-like smirk on his face.

“Now who’s the meanie?” You put your coffee down on the counter and rest your fists on your waist.

“Honestly? He’s still sleeping in the bedroom.” Wonwoo deadpans and you snort, trying to suppress your laughter.

“You would have to bear with his pouting for the rest of the month if he heard you say that.”

“And he would get even more annoyed because I know when to not give attention to him.” He gives you a smug answer.

“Is it me or do you have a thing for arguing with Cheol?”

“I do. And frankly, I like him a bit better when he gets frustrated.” 

“Because he looks hot when he’s angry?”

“Exactly.” Wonwoo licks the corners of his lips. “Makes the ordeal a bit nastier, you know?”

“It’s always the quiet ones, I swear.” You roll your eyes and walk away from the kitchen.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To the bathroom. I want to wash my face and do my morning routine. My eyes still feel a bit droopy.” You rub your face with your palms.

“Then stop rubbing your face, you idiot.” He laughs and you wave your hands in defeat, making your way to the bathroom.

Wonwoo is left alone in the kitchen once more and he goes back to enjoying his coffee, back turned against the rest of the living room.

He’s unaware of Seungcheol walking into the kitchen with his signature pout on, the latter feeling sulky from the lack of attention.

But as soon as he notices his boyfriend’s shoulders stretching out the fabric of his tee, the devil on Seungcheol’s shoulder is awakened and ready to take action.

The blond man presses his body on Wonwoo’s back and runs his hands over his sides, making the younger man shiver.

“Shit - you startled me, Cheol!” Wonwoo curses out loud, the half empty coffee cup nearly dropping from his hands.

“You’re one big scaredy cat, aren’t you.” Seungcheol giggles.

“Good morning to you too, I guess.”

“Where’s Y/N?”

“She’s in the bathroom to freshen up a bit.”

“So much for wanting to drink coffee with you.” 

“At least she escaped your clutches.” Wonwoo laughs.

“Gotta live up to my middle name, right?” Seungcheol presses himself a bit harder on Wonwoo, his morning wood trying to make its presence known.

“So you were awake this whole time, huh?” 

“Yeah, but the bed was too warm to not enjoy it.”

“But you got up either way. Can’t live without being the center of our attention, Cheollie?” Wonwoo teases him with the nickname, knowing how much it riles him up.

“You must be in a pretty good mood to be cracking shitty jokes now, Wonu.” Seungcheol’s hand descends towards Wonwoo’s crotch, rubbing him over his sweats. 

“And you must be really thirsty for attention to be pulling tricks like these.” He grips the older man’s wrist, low hiss echoing in the kitchen.

Seungcheol smirks at his reaction and doesn’t stop moving his hand up and down, biting his bottom lip when Wonwoo grips the counter a bit tighter.

“Losing your composure already? I thought you were stronger than that.”

“Shut up.”

“Ah ah, pretty boys like you shouldn’t say bad words.” 

A shiver runs down Wonwoo’s spine when he hears the pet name, hips bucking into Seungcheol’s hand.

“Seems like you’re the one who needs attention, Wonu.” The blond man chuckles in his ear.

“Oh my God, just stop talking and keep touching me, please.”

Seungcheol takes his hand away and turns Wonwoo around, pinning him to the counter. He might not be taller, but he’s definitely stronger and he will always find a way to use his strength to his advantage.

“Whoever did your hair last night deserves an award.”

"T-Thanks. Wish I was here with the two of you, not at some boring business dinner." 

"It's okay, Wonu. You've worked hard and it's reward time, pretty boy." 

Seungcheol drops down on his knees and unties the string of Wonwoo's sweats, pulling them down with his boxers. His cock springs free, already hard and leaking precum.

"Were you dining with your colleagues with such a boner? I almost feel sorry for you." He rubs his fingertip over the shaft and around the bulbous head.

Wonwoo turns his head away, cheeks flushed and biting the back of his hand to drown any noise that threatens to spill.

"Gosh, you're so hot when you're shy." Seungcheol breathes out and wraps his puffy lips around the tip, giving it light sucks before deepthroating Wonwoo's cock in one go.

If there’s one thing Seungcheol is good at, it’s oral sex - no matter who’s on the receiving end in your relationship, he will leave you with jelly legs.

“C-Cheol, slow down a little.” Wonwoo immediately puts his hands in his boyfriend’s hair, nearly fisting the blond strands. Seungcheol pulls away his lips with a loud, almost vulgar ‘pop’. He 

“I can go slow. But no promises on how long I’ll be able to keep it that way, pretty boy.” He chuckles before spitting on his fingers and moving them behind Wonwoo.

“Y-You don’t have to d-do this.” 

“One of us is gonna get fucked in the ass very soon and it won’t be me.” Seungcheol kisses the tip of Wonwoo’s cock and carefully slides one finger past his rim, 

“You almost sound d-disappointed.” The younger man shudders and clenches around the thick digit.

“Me? Not at all, pretty boy. But you must be disappointed, since you’re so obsessed with my ass.”

“Not my fault you’re so t-thick everywhere, fuck.”

“Aww, are you jealous, Wonu?” Seungcheol grins against Wonwoo’s cock, adding a second finger in his hole. “You shouldn’t be, though - Your body is really hot, in its own way.”

“T-Tell me more.” Wonwoo moans and grips the blond hair.

“Where should I even begin from? Your strong, broad shoulders? Your pretty collarbones?” Seungcheol showers him with compliments, his free hand coursing over Wonwoo’s body, reaching to his waist and gripping it tight. “Or your slutty little waist?” 

Wonwoo loses his patience and thrusts his cock in the older man’s mouth, both hands glued on his head to keep it in place and fuck it relentlessly. His round glasses are already fogged up and sliding down the bridge of his nose. The two fingers haven’t stopped toying with his hole, his sensitivity skyrocketing.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum, God, I’m so close!” Wonwoo throws his head back, mouth wide open and tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

Seungcheol hums affirmatively and hollows his cheeks around the shaft, the tip being pushed all the way down his throat. Wonwoo’s orgasm is strong enough to make him lose his balance, but the strong arm around his waist holds him up. The man on his knees swallows every single drop of semen, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down rhythmically. A few seconds later, he detaches his mouth and fingers, breathing heavily. His half-lidded eyes staring at Wonwoo with heavy lust.

“Ahem.”

Your voice interrupts the two men and Wonwoo tries to pull up his sweats hastily.

“Don’t bother. You won’t need them anyways.” You shake your head in dismissal.

“Hey princess.” Seungcheol gets up and licks his fingers clean with a smug smile on his face.

“You seem awfully awake for someone who wanted cuddles just a few minutes ago.” You cross your arms in front of your chest.

“And you seem awfully jittery, princess. What’s wrong, hm?”

“Cheol, stop teasing her.” Wonwoo huffs.

“It’s okay, Wonu. I was heading to the bedroom anyway.” You shrug and leave the kitchen, making a turn for the bedroom. The two men peek their heads and see you throw your (Wonwoo’s) t-shirt right on the doorstep and Wonwoo pushes Seungcheol out of the way, running back to the bedroom, the older man’s laugh echoing behind him.

A grin creeps on your lips when Wonwoo’s arms wrap around your midriff and his lips attach themselves to the juncture between your shoulder and your neck.

“You seem to be pretty riled up.” You murmur and push your ass on his crotch.

“Cheol’s fault.” He murmurs back and turns you around, pushing you softly on the bed to climb on top of you. “But you’re not innocent either, sunshine.”

“I know. That’s why we’re here now, right?” You toy with the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah. And I cannot wait to fuck you, sunshine.” He grazes his teeth over your pulse point, hands groping your underwear - clad body.

“Not so fast, pretty boy.” Seungcheol leans against the door frame. “I call the shots here.”

“Can you not ruin the moment for once? I missed her last night and I wanna have my time with her.” 

“You will.” H He walks behind Wonwoo and threads his hand in his hair, pulling it back harshly as he presses his lips on the shell of his ear. “As long as you do as I say, that is.”

“Cheol-” You open your mouth to speak. 

“Princess. Behave.” He looks at you with a raised eyebrow and you pipe down, waiting for his orders. Seungcheol hums in approval and lets go of Wonwoo’s hair, who lets out a loud hiss.

“Lay on your back, pretty boy. Need you to put that mouth of yours into good use.” He orders while undressing himself till complete nakedness.

“And why should I do that?” Wonwoo scoffs in an attempt to challenge Seungcheol.

“You said you wanted to have your time with Y/N, didn’t you? You’re gonna let her sit on your face and she’s gonna use her pretty mouth for something else.”

“Damn it.” The younger man curses and strips down as well, following Seungcheol’s orders. He lies down on the bed and Seungcheol pats your thigh for you to get naked and climb over Wonwoo’s face.

“Hey sunshine.”

“Hey Wonu.” You giggle while peering your eyes down to him, his lips peppering kisses on your inner thighs.

“Eyes on me, princess.” Your other boyfriend yanks your hair back, forcing your gaze on him. “Hands down on the mattress.” 

You do as he says and you’re now on the same level as Seungcheol’s cock, the thick shaft mere centimeters away from you. You open your mouth to stretch your tongue and lick the tip, but Wonwoo wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you down on his face to eat you out. You cry out when his tongue slides across your slit, flattening it over your clit and turning it pointy when it reaches your entrance. 

“What’s wrong, princess? Does the pretty boy’s mouth feel good?” Seungcheol caresses your cheek and you nod affirmatively.

“Can’t have you all fucked out already.” He taps his cock on your cheek and you desperately chase his shaft with your mouth. He puts you out of your misery by sliding his cock down your throat, making you gag with his size. You're glad you've trained yourself (with the help of your boyfriends) to suppress your gag reflex when one of them is fucking your mouth. 

You let Seungcheol take control of your head and use it like a fucktoy to satisfy the raging erection, all while Wonwoo eats your pussy like it's the last meal he will ever enjoy on this futile planet. His hands roam your body, fingertips gliding over your hips, waist and gripping your breasts.

Your eyes flutter dangerously, hands fisting the sheets underneath you, as you let yourself enjoy what you're being provided by the loves of your life.

"Mmm, always so good at sucking dick, princess.” Seungcheol juts his hips in your mouth, loving the weight of his cock on your tongue.

You want to bob your head on your own on his cock, but the hand in your hair stops you from doing so. Instead, you ride out your frustrations on Wonwoo’s face, who doesn’t seem to mind you using him for your own pleasure.

“Pretty boy is doing a good job, isn’t he, princess?” Seungcheol slides out his cock and taps it over your cheeks, leaving wet trails of spit on your face.

“His mouth is so fucking good, Daddy.” You moan in response.

“Is that so? Is he taking care of your needy pussy?”

“Yes, he’s so good!” You dig your nails in the bed.

“He can be even better with his dick, princess. Hop off.” 

You whine in protest, but one raised brow from the blond man is enough to make you follow his orders, your other boyfriend grunting in annoyance.

“Lay on your back, princess. And pull your legs up to your chest.”

“Do you ever want to just go with the flow?” Wonwoo sits up and throws a nasty glare towards Seungcheol, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No.” The older man says curtly and grabs Wonwoo by the arms, turning him around to face you and he pushes him on top of you.

“Fuck! Sorry, sunshine.” Wonwoo puts his hands on each side of your head to not crush you with his weight. “I guess someone is impatient.”

“Yeah, I am.” Seungcheol slaps his ass and kneads the flesh with his hands. “But I’m sure our dear princess is impatient as well and she would love to be stuffed full with your cock. Isn’t that right, princess?”

You nod fervently and you buck your hips directly on Wonwoo’s crotch and he moans, gripping his shaft with one hand to guide it to your entrance. A blissful sigh escapes his lips when he slides inside your pussy, enjoying your tight warmth.

“Good, stay still, pretty boy.” Seungcheol bites his bottom lip as he reaches for the lube in the drawer of the nightstand and he opens the cap to spritz a generous amount over his fingers. He carefully spreads it over his boyfriend’s ass, sliding two fingers to check whether he’s loose enough to take something bigger.

Wonwoo shudders on top of you and slowly moves his hips to start fucking you, but Seungcheol grips his waist to stabilise him.

“I said. Stay still.” He aligns the tip of his cock with the hole and pushes in with careful motions, until he’s completely sheathed in. 

“Fuck, oh fuck.” Wonwoo digs his nails in the mattress, trying his best to accommodate the stretch.

“Wonu, are you okay?” You pet the back of his hair.

“Y-Yeah, more than okay.” 

A fluid thrust from behind makes him groan again and jerks his entire body forward, resulting in a strong thrust in your cunt. You let out a gasp in response and your eyes notice the mischievous glint in Seungcheol’s eyes. He sends you a wink before he starts rutting his hips faster.

The force he exerts in fucking Wonwoo results in you getting fucked with the same pace. Both you and Wonwoo let out obscene noises in unison, your hands flying to his back.

“Your cock feels so damn good, Wonu.” You dig your nails in his back.

“God, I can’t even f-focus on what feels better right now.” He moans back and ducks his head in the crook of your neck.

“Stop being shy, pretty boy.” Seungcheol pulls Wonwoo’s hair and lifts his head to let you take a better look of his expression.

You clench around Wonwoo’s cock when your eyes fall on his flushed face and messed up hair, sweat beads forming on his forehead and eyebrows.

“How does he look, princess?”

“Fucking beautiful, Cheollie.” You whine and Wonwoo bucks his hips harder in you, pushing your body closer to the foot of the bed. 

“Pretty boy loves being praised.” Seungcheol’s thrusts take a rougher turn and snaps his pelvis almost mercilessly.

“Yes, yes I do, fuck. Harder!” The younger man begs in an embarrassing way.

“God, you sound so pretty when you beg.” You whisper loud enough to be heard in the room and smash your lips on his, your hands now moving to cup his jaw. Your tongue mingles with Wonwoo’s, sucking it passionately until you feel him whine in your mouth repeatedly. A sudden wave of sticky warmth floods your walls and you realize that your boyfriend just came inside you without a warning. 

“Mffh- ah, fuck, I’m sorry, sunshine…” He pants heavily, cock still twitching inside you as he grinds slowly. 

“Don’t worry, Wonu.” You stroke his cheek while he desperately tries to make you cum. “Can you please make me cum?”

“Shit, anything for you, sunshine.” He slides his hand between your bodies to search for your clit and rub it in rapid circles.

“How did I get so damn lucky with the two of you?” Seungcheol peers down on you as he pets Wonwoo’s hair a bit softer this time, the contrast between his hand and his hips staying sharp.

“C-Cheol, p-please.” 

“Hang in there, pretty boy, almost there.”

Seungcheol’s hand glides over Wonwoo’s spine until it grips on the other side of his waist and keeps him steady to deliver a few more thrusts. He throws his head back in bliss as the climax hits him, his heavy cock unloading globs of cum inside.

“Fucking perfect ass, so damn tight.”

Wonwoo’s head dips in your neck again as he lets out a loud sob and cums inside you again, but his hand doesn’t falter on your clit and you scream when your own orgasm crashes on you, hands struggling to find something sturdy to hold onto.

Your body decides to fall limp on the bed with Wonwoo right on top of you, who is still breathing heavily due to his consecutive orgasms.

Seungcheol slowly retracts his cock and lays on top of the two of you, catching his own breath.

“I can’t fucking move.” Wonwoo grunts.

“Me neither.” You agree in a split second.

“Did so well for me, darlings.” Seungcheol pats your thigh while pressing a kiss on Wonwoo’s shoulder.

“Thank you Cheollie. Could you two please get off me now? You’re literally crushing me.” You complain to your boyfriends.

“Sorry, princess.” He laughs and sits back on the bed, allowing Wonwoo to roll on his back.

“Thank you. Can someone carry me to the bathroom now? My legs are ruined.” 

“Abusing your princess rights, aren’t you?” The older man quirks his brow.

“Are you gonna refuse?”

“Never.” He picks you up in bridal style and carries you towards the bathroom, your giggles echoing in the corridor.

About ten minutes later, you’re happily soaking in the tub, filled with warm water and a lavender scented bath bomb, all while Seungcheol walks back to the bedroom to check up on Wonwoo.

“Do you need help?”

“Nah, I’ll be okay. Just…give me a few minutes.”

“Fucked you real good, huh?”

“Not as bad as the sheets, but I digress.”

“The sheets aren’t as tight as you or Y/N, but I digress.” The blond man smirks.

“I swear to God, I’ll get back at you for this.” Wonwoo groans, trying to stretch out his legs so he’ll be able to walk all the way to the bathroom.

“Hm, really? And how are you going to do it, huh? By trying to tie me up?” Seungcheol taunts him with a cocked eyebrow.

“That’s not a bad idea actually, given how squirmy you get when your ass gets pounded from behind.” Wonwoo licks his bottom lip.

“Are you that obsessed with my ass, Wonu?”

“More like obsessed with the mental image of railing you like a bitch in heat.” 

Seungcheol lets out a dirty laugh, shaking his head as he heads out of the room. 

“I’d like to see you try, pretty boy. That ass can handle more than you can think of.” He punctuates his words by landing a slap on his ass and sending a wink to his boyfriend.

Wonwoo plops back on the bed and looks up at the ceiling, a grin plastered on his face.

He can’t wait for that day to come.

[mattykay]

Five Hargreeves x M/GNReader Headcanons

(that no one asked for but in honor of the trailer!)

We got both smut and the works in here so yk the drill

~ General Hc ~

- Honestly, when Five meets you he's a little surprised. During the apocalypse he had Delores so he didn't really think to entertain any ideas of liking men, until you.

- He's honestly a pretty firm bisexual. He prefers to be dominant in his relationships and do the more care. He will melt into you the first time he lets you take care of him though.

- Very big on gifts and gentle words. He'll whisper compliments to you if his siblings are around, to save himself the teasing.

- Skin care freak. I'm strong on this. He takes really good care of not only his skin but his hair and his body. He spent forty five years all dirty in the apacolypse and will always make you wash your face. Morning and night.

- He has a hidden love for babies. He knows he can't have one because he'll be too old mentally when his body can have one but he likes taking care of them. He will say they're weird if asked though.

- Everything about Five is generally very pristine. His pajamas always match, his clothes are always nicely hung and ironed.

- On that topic, he does that for you too. Suddenly your closets full of nicely ironed and lint rolled clothes.

- A big time cat guy. He didn't really understand them for a while because they didn't have used like dogs. But when he finds one to love himself.. game over.

~ Smut ~

- For M readers: Honestly, he's a switch. He will say he's a top but once, a very rare once in a while, he will let you top. He's nervous about being penetrated but when he learns to relinquish control, he's down bad.

- He won't let you degrade him or call you daddy but he will let you fuck him nearly into another time line. He's the kind of guy to just start making those "Uh- Uh- Uh-" Sounds with every thrust. Cock or strap too, he doesn't care.

- Okay, back to more GN stuff: He will degrade you. No questions asked.

- He can fuck. It's the only way to say it, he just can. He can and he will. Fast and hard or slow and intimate. He'll go and go.

- He really does strive for your pleasure. Even when he claims that he's just fucking you to use you, you're his everything and he'll care for you hours after.

I hope you guys like this- could be totally self indulgent butttt it don't matter

[venusbyline]

Thrusts ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 23, oct.

(late post)

— pairing: Elle Greenaway x girlfriend!reader

— type: smut, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)

— kink: orgasm denial + strap-on

— summary: You feel insecure and jealous when you see Elle teasing you with Morgan. However, she apologizes very well by buying a gift for your dating anniversary.

— word count: 1.0k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 23rd day, female!reader, girlfriend!Elle, shy!reader, sassy!Elle, orgasm denial, strap-on, edging play, cowgirl position, praise kink, vaginal sex, breast worship, nipple play, nipple licking, large cock (strap-on), cock worship (strap-on), experimentalist!reader, experimentalist!Elle, jealously, argument, teasing, relationship issues, light corruption kink, dumbification, reader is a member of the BAU, past Elle Greenaway x Derek Morgan, inexperienced/innocent!reader, bisexual!Elle, lesbian!reader, dom!Elle, sub!reader. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @purplehaze206 @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a @helo1281917

— crossposting: AO3

"You look so fucking hot right now, princess...” Elle smirked with her hands on your ass as you whimpered, your breasts shaking with each ride on top of her fake cock.

Elle had bought a strap-on as a gift for your first dating anniversary. You never tested something like this yet, despite both of you being very eager into that. Elle was worried about suggesting that new experience, ever since last week, when she joked with Morgan about the only unlucky thing about dating a woman was that she no longer knew what it felt like to cum around a good thick cock.

It was just supposed to be a harmless joke, but it sounded extremely stupid after she realized your discomfort. Not only had she mocked you, as if something important was missing during your relationship, but she also joked about the topic directly with Morgan. You already knew that they had been casually involved a few times before you and Elle dated, and you always tried to take it as a normal thing, since Morgan was also one of your best friends and you trusted him. After all, their affair was just the past.

However, you could not help but feel uncomfortable and jealous. Elle noticed your thoughts and did not know how to apologize. She wanted to say it was just a stupid joke and actually you were the best sex of her whole life. She did not care about stupid penises if she already had your pretty pussy for her to taste whenever she wanted. Anyway, she was angry with herself for hurting your feelings and making you insecure, so she chose the silence.

No explanations or apologies made everything more awkward between you two and your relationship cooled. Both of you focused more on the cases and preferred to spend your free time resting rather than having sex, which was very unusual.

Until your long-awaited anniversary arrived. When Elle decided to buy a strap-on, she thought she would like seeing you using that, she thought she would like to feel a cock inside her again, even if it was made of rubber. But the moment your eyes lit up when she showed you the box, she knew she did not want to be fucked by you. She wanted to fuck you.

Your movements were soft at first. You were much shyer than Elle and you lost your virginity to her a few days before your relationship finally became official. So there were countless things to you experience yet. And one of them was the fact that you had never been fucked by a cock before, be it fake or real.

Then, when you were riding Elle, she stroked your hair, trying to soothe your discomfort as your pussy still got used to the intrusion and the new movements. Even though that cock was not real, Elle could practically feel your tight walls crushing it. Her fingers were slender and long and she never hesitated to put two or three inside you, sometimes even four, but choosing such a big and thick strap-on seemed to tear you in half.

"Hurts a lot?" Elle asked with a lovely smile, her hands moving down to your waist to help you continue riding her, but you whimpered, preventing her from cooperating.

"S-Stop! I can do it myself!" You hissed like a stubborn child and Elle chuckled, nodding and crossing her arms behind her head, just lying on the bed again and watching you on top of her lap. The view she had was perfect. Your eyes closed, your head arched back, lips parted and your breasts perked up. Damn...she wanted so badly to fuck the middle of your breasts with that cock later.

After you refused her touches, Elle bit her lip and removed her arms from under her head and moved them up to her own breasts, squeezing the large mounds and playing with the nipples, before moving her hips upward, the unexpected thrust making you scream in a mix of pain and pleasure. Your eyes opened and you whimpered at the sight of Elle giving you that teasing look while she was playing with her own body. "D-don't fucking do that again!" You tried to sound threatening, but Elle rolled her eyes, arching an eyebrow before thrusting a second time. And then a third. A fourth. A fifth...

Your eyes rolled back into your head at the deep fucking, the big cock filling you completely and hurting your sensitive core, but with a delightful way. You knew you were about to cum so quickly, maybe it was because of the resentment still built up in your mind, or maybe it was due to your pussy already being too wet and dripping before you even sat down on the strap-on.

Elle knew this too, because as soon as she made the sixth and seventh thrusts, she simply stopped, stopping your growing orgasm and smirking at the sight of you trembling, your shaky and weak legs giving out in despair, making you fall on top of her body. Elle loved denying your orgasms, you always came much better when she prolonged it all. "Not yet, princess." Elle scoffed, taking advantage of your sudden brainless for a moment so she could fuck you slowly, with soft movements, enjoying how you whimpered, your flushed face buried between her large breasts, your tongue licking her light brown nipples to pleasure her too, even though she was already enjoying herself just watching you whining and drooling while her cock moving in and out of you.

"My good girl... Always so good to me. Milking my cock and whimpering like a cute slut, desperate to cum soon around me." At that moment, Elle Greenaway was sure that she would never miss being fucked by a man. Now she would always rather fuck you with her strap-on and deny you as many orgasms as you could handle, until you finally let go and squirt all over her body at the end of the night.

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[cloudzoro]

Toy | Portgas D. Ace ♡

(ft Vinsmoke Sanji)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

pairings: ace x fem!reader x sanji

genre: smut (minors dni)

wc: 1.7k words (it's a short one today!)

cw: soft!dom ace, jealous ace, big!dick ace, bisexual sanji, sub!sanji, mmf threesome (focused on reader), hella dirty talk from ace, voyeurism, cunnilingus, cum eating, semi-public sex, sanji is super into you but also has a tiny crush on ace, pathetic loser sanji <3

masterlist here

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You and your boyfriend, Ace, are staying aboard his little brothers ship and the cook takes a liking to you. Ace is initially jealous but when he catches Sanji eavesdropping on the two of you, he issues a punishment that has him realising how much fun he can have with the cook.

this is so self indulgent i'm sorry 😭

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You and Ace have been staying aboard the Merry for a few days. The two of you have been welcomed by your boyfriend's brother and his crew. Sanji, in Ace's opinion, has been hanging around you too much. Sanji has been following you around like a lost puppy. It doesn't bother Ace that all the attention is on you. He is always more than ready to show you off. His problem is that he hasn't gotten to have any alone time with you since boarding the sunny.

On a quiet morning, he has you cornered out on the deck. It's so early that everyone's still in bed. Ace offered to do the night watch, and you were happy to accompany him.

“Missed this pretty pussy”, he says, fingers slipping below the waistband of your underwear and pressing against your clit.

“You're so dramatic; it's only been a few days”, you laugh, pulling him into a kiss.

“Baby, you know you're just as desperate for my cock”, he says, biting your bottom lip. You don't respond, instead grabbing his belt and undoing it. He laughs as you fuss with the button on his shorts. Sex with Ace is always lighthearted, and he makes you feel so comfortable. Once you get his shorts unbuttoned, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back into a kiss. He kisses back roughly. “let me make you cum with my fingers, and then when the cook comes out to take over, I'll take you to our room and fuck you properly.”

You hear a footstep behind Ace but get distracted by his fingers, so you don't mention it. His fingers tease your whole, and you whine.

“Just put them in, please, Ace. Don't tease me.”

“I'm sorry, baby”, he apologises, pushing two fingers inside you. “You're just so cute I can't help it”, he coos, speeding up his fingers. Your hips instinctively rock against his hand as you get closer to your orgasm. His lips trail down your neck, and your hand threads through his hair, making him moan. Your orgasm hits you, and your legs shake slightly as you struggle to stay on your feet. Ace holds you up as you whine in his ear. He pulls his fingers from your cunt and brings them up to his lips. You watch, dazed, as he sucks his fingers clean. You hear another noise that sounds like footsteps, and this time, it catches Ace's attention, too. Ace walks over to the door to the deck and swings it open, revealing Sanji looking as guilty as you've ever seen him. Sanji's face flushes red at having been caught listening to you with his hand shoved down his trousers. Ace looks back at you with a smile, knowing both of your sexual tastes. This is a perfect chance to explore something you've been thinking about. Despite his jealousy over Sanji's crush on you, Ace thinks the cook is kind of cute.

“How do you think we should punish him, baby?” asks Ace. Sanji is entirely unfocused, close to tears, as your moans replay in his head.

“We could always show him what he wants but can't have,” you say. You enjoy having an audience. Ace nods and tells Sanji to enter the dining room, the closest room to the deck. He obliges, realising he might like being bossed around by his captain's big brother.

He sits down on the bench seats as Ace takes a seat opposite him in a chair. Ace beckons you over with a smile on his face.

“Strip for us, Baby”, he orders, and you get to work immediately. Sanji feels lightheaded as he watches you bare your skin. He reaches out to touch you as you bend over to pull your panties down your legs. Ace notices and immediately draws you towards him. The force of his pull has you straddling him. “You think that I'm gonna let you touch her after you were eavesdropping?” he asks, laughing at their desperate expressions. “You can watch me play with her pretty pussy, and if you behave, then maybe I'll let you touch her.” With a goal in sight, Sanji keeps his hands to himself.

Ace manoeuvres you to face the other man, still sitting on his lap. He pulls your back against his chest and grips the underside of your legs, pulling them apart. The blonde man in front of you groans at the sight of your bare pussy. Ace's fingers find your clit, rubbing it in circles, making you whine. Your noises have Sanji rubbing himself over his trousers.

“Isn't she pretty?” Ace asks, pressing a kiss to your temple, and Sanji immediately nods, unable to take his eyes off Ace's skilled fingers and your pretty pussy. You start to get restless and squirm on Ace's lap. You want him to fill you up so badly. “What is it, baby?”

“Want your cock, please”, you beg, and the words sound so pretty coming from you that Sanji pulls his cock free from his trousers. He's slow in how he teases himself because he knows how fast he'll cum. Ace, never one to deny you of cock, pulls his hard cock out and guides you to sink on him. He holds you sill in his lap and fucks up into you. He stretches you out so well that he has to clamp his hand over your mouth to stop your moans from waking up the other crew members.

“You see this? This perfect pussy? This is mine. You can eavesdrop on us and watch me fill her up with cum, but you'll never have her.” Ace's possessive words have you clenching around him. Sanji strokes his cock in time with Ace's thrusts, and with his eyes laser-focused on where the two of you meet, he jumps when Ace speaks again, not expecting the voice. “If you're a good boy and hold off your orgasm until after I cum, I'll let you eat my cum out of her” Sanji, for a second, looks embarrassed that Ace has figured out that he may have a tiny crush on him too. Sanji nods, slowing his hand back down.

“Ace, Sanji. I'm close,” you whine. Sanji almost cums on the spot when you whimper out his name, and it sinks in how much power the two of you have over him. You can feel your orgasm building inside you, and with another pair of eyes on you, you feel it building quicker and quicker.

“You hear that, Sanji?” Sanji's cock twitches at how his name sounds coming from Ace's mouth. “She's gonna cum. Doesn't she look pretty, squeezing around my cock like this?” He makes eye contact with the cook, and Sanji's stomach twists. He finally, for the first time since you'd started, speaks up.

“She's so beautiful. You're both so hot,” he whimpers, stroking his cock. He looks kind of pathetic; Clothes still on, cock out, sweat dripping down his face, eyes hazy from lust, desperately jerking himself off to you.

“Oh, are we now? You wanna watch us cum?” Sanji's frantic nods make Ace laugh, and he leans down to speak directly into your ear. “You feel so good around my cock. I'm gonna cum inside you and fill you up; just keep squeezing me like that, pretty girl,” he says. He tells you he loves you and bites down on your shoulder. Your orgasm comes crashing down in waves as you shake in Ace's lap. The way your walls pulse and grip his cock has him cumming along with you. Sanji watches in awe, unable to move his hand as he just takes in the scene before him. He feels like he's genuinely having some kind of spiritual awakening, watching the two of you in the throes of pleasure.

When you finally stop twitching in his lap, Ace pulls out of you and tucks his cock back into his boxers the best he can without knocking you off of him. When he sees Sanjis obeyed his orders, he smiles, beckoning Sanji over them with a finger. Sanji drops to his knees and crawls over to you. He stares at your cunt for a second, watching Ace's cum drip from your hole. He tentatively leans in and teases his tongue at the edge of your hole before gaining his confidence and shoving his tongue into your cunt, licking at your walls. The combination of Ace's cum and your juices has his mind reeling. He's passionate and messy as he eats you out the best he can. You can tell he's inexperienced, but he's a fast learner. He pays attention to areas that make you whimper so prettily. Ace's large hand dips between your legs to grab a handful of Sanji's hair, and Sanji moans into your cunt.

“Fuck, Sanji” Hearing you moan his name spurs him on to eat you out more vigorously. “You're doing so good” The praise has his hand wrapping around his cock. He brings his other hand to hold you still on Ace's lap as he tongue fucks you. He pumps his cock and focuses on pleasing you as Ace whispers encouragement in your ear. In minutes, you're brought to yet another orgasm, and your legs clamp around Sanji's head. Sanji continues to lick you through your high as Ace rubs relaxing circles into your skin, cooing at you to calm you down. Sanji cums into his fist as he takes care of you.

When you're done, Ace tells Sanji to take care of himself while he cleans you up and gets you redressed. You stumble on wobbly legs as he helps you back into your clothes. Sanji, ever the gentleman, comes back to check on you one last time before returning to his post on watch until the strawhats wake up. Too tired to speak, you kiss Sanji's cheek, and Ace grips your hip, ready to walk you back to your guest room.

“If you want to play with us again, come find us later tonight,” says Ace, winking at a very flustered Sanji. As you walk back to your room, Ace giggles in your ear about how you both have a shiny new toy to play with.

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thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed :)

reblogs and comments are hugely appreciated!!

[scorpihoe1111]

✨Astrology Observations✨

🔥Mars in Sagittarius individuals are more stubborn with their beliefs than earth/fixed mars.

🌍Speaking of which, those with mars/mercury in Taurus refuse to change their mind about an opinion they have. Even if they’ve been proven wrong, or know themselves that they’re wrong; they will still stand firm to the public about what they said.

🌍Virgo/Pisces men are usually Bisexual, bi-curious or just most likely to be completely in the closet.

💧Cancer women can be very big liars and I’m not sure why anyone hasn’t called that out yet. They’re more likely to lie about bigger things, in a way that benefits/manipulates the person/situation to their benefit rather than white lies tho.

💧Scorpio women on the other hand tend to lie unprovoked about small things, like what they ate that day.

🌪️Aquarius’ talk A LOT, but usually only about random little things. If they seem quiet around you it’s because they don’t feel comfortable yapping about non-sense with you

🌪️Libra’s are more 2-faced than Gemini. Especially the men.

🌪️Speaking of Libra men, they’re very feminine and sassy with other women. Usually the type to actually be jealous of women (for whatever reason) and try to bring her down in a subtle, backhanded; passive way. Especially in regards to how the woman appears. Kind of like how girls do to one another.

🔥Sagittarius suns can never stay genuinely mad even if they’ve started the fight. They’re the type of people to punch someone in the face and say “Let’s go get ice cream” to them 5 minutes later.

🔥Both Aries men and women find it difficult to be truly committed in relationships. More of the type to prefer FWB or one night stands rather than a genuine relationship.

🌪️Gemini moons are a lot more knowledgeable than people give them credit for. Their minds know an answer to question you have on every different subject. They’re both book and street smart imo too, they always know what someone’s true intentions are and can play along accordingly to get what they want or turn the tables.

🌍Capricorn men tend to have a very dry, harsh; dark type of humor that others would consider disturbing or offensive, especially in their youth.

🌍Capricorn’s can be just as judgmental as Virgo, maybe even more honestly since Virgo’s will give you some grace but Capricorns will straight up avoid you and not wanna be seen with you if they feel you’re below them.

🌏Capricorn moon men almost always have mommy/daddy issues that they tend to take out on women. Think back to your last toxic/narcissistic relationship or situationship; he was a Cap moon wasn’t he?

💧Pisces women can be very vulnerable around the wrong kind of people. They have a tough exterior and push away those that genuinely care about them but open right up to toxic individuals lol. Regardless of what kind of red flags the person has, Pisces women will always feel comfortable in their presence (even if they shouldn’t).

💧Cancer venus’ are the people who quite literally wanna baby their partners. Unfortunately this also includes not holding their partners accountable.

🌪️Aquarius venus’ love language is personal space.

🌪️Gemini mars tend to fight with their words more than their hands, and honestly? Their words hurt worse than any beating.

Part 2 coming soon 🌚

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟𝗦 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗕𝗢𝗬𝗦

　　　　　　　𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x bi!reader

SUMMARY: Where Y/N faces a journey of self-discovery when questioning her sexuality. Fearing rejection, she is reluctant to reveal her truth to Chris, her boyfriend. But with the help of Nick, Y/N finds the courage to finally come out as bisexual.

WARNING: None.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by anons.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

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Y/N found herself in a moment of deep introspection, a journey of self-discovery that led her to confront truths that had long been kept within her.

Sitting in her favorite armchair, in her cozy bedroom lit only by the soft light of a bedside lamp, she found herself immersed in tumultuous thoughts.

Since a few months ago, something inside her had started to change. Small sparks of doubt had turned into an uncontrollable fire of questioning. Y/N, who had always considered herself heterosexual, now found herself slipping through the choppy waters of sexual uncertainty.

It was difficult to name exactly when it all started. Maybe it was that long look at the pretty girl who crossed her path in the cafe, or maybe it was the sudden intensity of feelings she felt while watching a romantic movie in which the protagonist couple were two girls.

These experiences, seemingly insignificant at the moment, now echoed within her like a deafening echo. And the more Y/N tried to ignore these feelings, the more intense they became, like a relentless tide that was dragging her towards the truth she wasn't ready to accept.

She looked at Chris, a kind and caring boy who had won her heart a few years ago. They were inseparable, sharing big dreams, secrets, and plans for a future together. But now, an abyss opened between them, an abyss fueled by the confusion and fear that Y/N carried within her.

The fear of rejection, of judgment, of change. She didn't want to hurt her boyfriend, but she also couldn't deny her growing awareness of her own identity. She wondered if he would be able to accept her completely. Would he still love her the same way when he knew the truth about her sexuality?

Y/N found herself tormented by vivid images of an uncertain future, where she was alone. She feared that revealing her bisexuality would trigger a chain reaction of events that would lead to their inevitable breakup.

She found herself turning over scenarios in her mind, rehearsing the words she would need to say to Chris, but never finding enough courage to truly face her truth.

The nights became long and lonely as Y/N spiraled into self-questioning. She read articles, sought answers in the far reaches of the internet, and desperately tried to fit into a clear definition of who she was.

She lost count of how many times she watched the video on her boyfriend and his brothers' channel, where Nick told his story of coming out to his family, trying to find some direction or inspiration.

Until she understood that there was no point in remaining closed off like she was doing. Chris was increasingly worried, filling her with questions when they were together and messages when they were away, while Nick and Matt tried to understand the situation and help both sides - that of a best friend and that of a brother.

And seeing the desperation in Chris's eyes again when he facetimed her that morning - while on his way to a photoshoot with Matt - made her finally make the decision to seek real help.

And who better to do this than Nick, who was openly gay and had gone through his own journey of self-discovery?

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With her heart racing, Y/N knocked on Nick's bedroom door after entering the triplets' house with her own key. She wondered if she was doing the right thing by seeking his guidance, but an insistent inner voice was pushing her forward, telling her it was time to confront her fears and uncertainties head on.

Nick opened the door with an excited smile, having already been notified minutes before through a text message that she was on her way, his welcoming eyes conveying an instant sense of comfort. He opened the door wider, giving Y/N space to enter, turning around and returning to his gaming chair, Y/N finding herself surrounded by the relaxed atmosphere instantly.

"Hey girl!" Nick greeted, his voice carrying a tone of euphoria. "What do you want to do today?"

Y/N swallowed, feeling a lump form in her throat. Nick probably thought she had gone to his house to spend time together - which wasn't a lie - completely unaware of the matter at hand.

"Actually, I need to talk to you about something important." Y/N began, her voice wavering with built-up tension as she walked with shaky steps towards the bed. "It's about.. my sexuality."

Nick nodded understandingly, pointing to the mattress with his chin, inviting her to sit there, and turning his body on the chair so that he was facing her. He quickly sent her a compassionate look, encouraging her to continue.

"I've been... thinking lately." The girl continued, carefully choosing her words. "And I think I'm... bisexual."

A wave of relief swept over Y/N as she finally voiced the truth she had been keeping inside herself for so long. Nick smiled gently, looking genuinely happy for her.

"Oh my God, this is amazing, Y/N!" Nick's voice was overflowing with support and encouragement. "Discovering and accepting your true sexuality is an incredibly brave step, I'm so proud of you!"

Y/N felt tears of gratitude bubble up in her eyes. She could never have imagined such a positive and loving reaction, despite him not being heterosexual himself.

"Thank you, Nick..." She sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes in a quick movement, letting out a low laugh. "But I'm... I'm scared to tell Chris." Y/N said, her eyes lowering to her thighs and her voice cracking with anxiety. "I don't know how he will react, and I'm so afraid of losing him."

Nick sighed, getting up from his seat and walking over to his bed before sitting next to the girl, pulling her into a big hug and resting his head on top of hers, conveying a feeling of calm and security.

“Y/N, I understand this is scary.” He began, his voice soft like a comforting whisper. "But if there's one thing I've learned on my own journey, it's that being true to yourself is the most important thing we can do. And if Chris truly loves you, he will accept you for who you are, no matter your sexual orientation."

Nick's words echoed in Y/N's mind, filling her with courage and determination. She knew that she could no longer postpone the moment of coming out to Chris, he was one of the most important people in her life - if not the most important - and keeping that from him was being a martyrdom for her.

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Y/N's heart hammered hard against her chest as she prepared to take the bravest step of all: telling Chris about her bisexual identity.

She found herself in front of him, in her own room, watching him with a mixture of nervousness and determination while searching for the right words to express what she was feeling.

Chris looked back at her with his extremely blue eyes carrying gentle and loving emotions, his face lit up with a warm smile that always made Y/N's heart melt. He held her right hand, conveying a comforting sense of silent support.

"What is happening, gorgeous?" Chris asked softly, his voice thick with concern. "You said you needed to talk to me, and you seem nervous. Did I do something?"

Y/N's eyes widened at his deduction, shaking her head quickly.

"No! No, of course not, baby." She took a deep breath, gathering all the courage she had within herself. "It's just... There's something I need to tell you." Y/N began, her voice trembling slightly as her breath came raggedly, her cold fingers trembling between his. "It's about my... sexuality."

Chris's eyes widened slightly in surprise, he hadn't really expected the conversation to be about that - the possibility hadn't even crossed his mind - but he remained silent, waiting for Y/N to continue.

"I've been struggling with this for some time." The girl continued after a few seconds, carefully choosing her words. "And I realized that... I'm bisexual."

The silence that followed seemed to echo around them, filling the space between the two with palpable tension. Y/N held her breath, waiting for Chris's reaction, her heart beating wildly and her posture falling almost automatically, as if a weight was put on her shoulders.

And then, finally, Chris broke the silence. His eyes ran over Y/N's features with a gaze full of love and understanding, a tender smile curving his lips.

"Oh my baby, I have no words to describe the honor of you sharing this with me. Thank you for trusting me." His voice sounded soft like a comforting whisper. "I want you to know that I love you exactly the way you are, and nothing will change that... I'm so proud of you!"

Tears of relief and gratitude welled up in Y/N's eyes as she threw herself into her boy's welcoming arms, feeling overwhelmed by an overwhelming wave of love and acceptance, a sob escaping her lips.

"I was so scared of losing you." Y/N admitted, her voice cracking from crying. "You really are the love of my life, huh?" She let out a tearful laugh, wiping away the lone tear that rolled down her cheek.

Chris hugged her back tightly, pulling her into his lap in a quick movement and wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing their chests together and burying his head in the crook of her neck, enveloping her in a comforting warmth that seemed to melt away all her worries and fears.

The boy sealed the exposed skin gently before pulling away slightly, cupping her face gently in his hands, looking into her eyes with an intensity that made Y/N's heart flutter.

"Princess, I'll always be here for you, no matter what." Chris revealed, his voice filled with silent promises. "You are the light of my life, and I will do everything in my power to make you happy."

Chris' words echoed in Y/N's heart, filling her with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love. She felt infinitely blessed to have found someone so incredibly loving and understanding to share her life with.

And in that moment, as they hugged each other tightly, Y/N knew that no matter what the future held, she was right where she belonged: in the arms of the man who loved her unconditionally, regardless of who she was or who she loved. And with that came a feeling of peace and wholeness that she knew would last forever.

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[vhaos-chaotic-writing]

Heyy!! How you doing?~ I wanted to ask who do you think out of TFP's autobots would be most to least husband or boyfriend material 🫣🫣

Yippieee, 1st ask!! ヾ(≧ ▽ ≦)ゝI am the worst person you could have asked for a tier list of whom is good husband material and not so good (shaking TFP Starscream with her tiny hands). /j

WARNING: This all based on myyy own opinion, logic and what I know from the Prime series - so, all fun! Never take seriously what I say! Also, too much text.

(´艸｀) ~

Transformers Prime - Most to Least husband material

MOST

Bumblebee - Baby boy, would be such a good husband. Soft and protective, good with kids, comprensive - the list can keep going! Perfection in person. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Optimus Prime - He is good husband material, but I fear his selflessness and will to give his life for the sake of others, specially you, can be a double edged sword... but he is nonetheless a good candidate to be husband.

Soundwave - A genius, intelligent, has sense of humor - can be quite stalkerish if you think about it, but it's loyal and definitely protective. If you don't mind the silence and the pattern of his speech, he is good husband material! Maybe the only thing that rests him points would be that he would give you a death scare if you forget he is there for a second.

Bulkhead & Breakdown - Same tier, both give me the vibes of 'I am a big guy, strong and ready to protect you' and 'the guy that will make you laugh, listen to you and can be quite naive (at some degree)'. They would be perfect to give you comfort and support, but have their flaws - impulsiveness, might not give the right answers or words in the moment. Nonetheless, good husband material, just be patience and easy with them! (Of course give them a slap at the back of their helms when needed).

Knock Out & Smokescreen - Same tier and like BH/BD; they can be good husband material, but I fear both can come off sometimes annoying because of their personalities. KO could be annoying because of his quite egocentric personality and Smokes is a yapper and quite impulsive. Buuut they are not the worst, good husband material with its flaws.

Arcee (Yes, I am adding her here (bisexual noises) & Cliffjumper - A duo as always, they can be good wife/husband material, buuut with how easy things can get in their nerves (speaking more on Cee's side since... well, we only had Cliff for 1 episode-), you'll need both patience and put your limits/stance if you want the relationship to work. And reassurance on Arcee's side. She has lost many partners already, you will need to show her kindness and softness, comfort and support. And she will pay you back the same and protect you dearly.

Ratchet - The middle point; I love Ratchet dearly, but I fear with the war and how much he has lost, adding to the fact he has decided to close himself off on some emotional levels in order to not 'keep suffering and focus on his tasks' he can be a 'good husband material but with it's difficulties'. Will need patience, reassurance and perseverance on this,

Starscream - Like Ratchet, but worse. Starscream can be a double-faced mech that is both a victim of abuse and his own problems (not able to trust others, cowardly, hurting others before he gets hurt, doing anything to get his own way) and also the culprit of making other victims. He is a mix of too many things, but we know he is loyal, and I'm sure that with time, too much patience and reassurance, he could become husband material. It's a "I can fix him" and it could work! ... or not.

Wheeljack - Yeah... I like him, but I'll have my doubts. I fear he might not be that a good material husband with how much he is travelling and moving from place to place. And I also fear there is a 50% he won't be that faithful or take your feelings in the matter as something important to evaluate. I love you Jacky, but the 'husband material' might not be quite here.

Megatron - Yeah... could work. Protective, secure of himself... quite aggressive, could snap or hurt you. If you add the dark energon, could hurt you badly or... offline you. Worst part, I think it could happen intentionally or, if it happnes by accident, will not mourn you. The 'I need someone strong as me, not weak' is playing in my head. (；′⌒`)

Dreadwing - Will be loyal, but with how he is prone to be aggressive and get physical, idolizing Megatron - I fear if the latter orders him to do something with you... might do it. (°ロ°)

Shockwave - Nuh-huh, always puts rational thoughts before feelings, and he might not be thaaat far from hurting you if he wants something for his own gain or use you as an experiment (actively or passive, might not see you 100% as an equal).

Airachnid - Haha. No. I support women rights and wrongs but cheez - doesn't totally see you as an equal and I fear she is ready to offline you if you are no longer something 'usable' for her.

LEAST

I think that's all of them! Just took the main-important ones in my point of view. As you can see, I like to write, I am yapper after all. (。・ω・。) Vhaos out!

[inksoakedparchment]

I Wanna Be Yours

pairing: theodore nott x fem!reader

genre: fluff

trope: strangers to friends to lovers

word cunt: 888

tw: swearing

a/n: maybe my life gives me inspo

You’ve been hanging around with Mattheo and his friend group for a few weeks now because of a project. A documentary about astronomy. Last week Mattheo invited Theodore Nott too - who’s the cameraman - and both of you started to open up to each other. Something feels strange around him but you can’t figure it out. He’s sweet, kind and clearly a nerd. At least you think he’s a nerd. His tattoos are gorgeous, but his look is not your type. Skinny, light brown hair with blue eyes. You think Theo is too skinny for you because you’re a little bit plus size. You texted him on Instagram on one of the team meetings which was at Mattheo’s place but he only replied the next morning. You two started chatting about every topic, surprisingly deep topics. Like what do you want to do when you’ve finished high school? They’re all older than you, so yeah. Mattheo and Enzo - they’re in the same school as you - are nineteen years old, Theo - he’s working as a cameraman and photographer - is twenty-two, Blaise - same school - is eighteen and Draco - your classmate - is the same age as you. Sixteen.

Mattheo called you this morning, “forcing” you to do a sleepover because of the project - Enzo, Theo and you are writing the script - but Blaise and Draco can’t come over. Of course, you agreed, also you can only stay til midnight. He said it’s okay, maybe another time you can sleep over. The sweet Enzo picked you up. Then you arrived and went to Mattheo’s living room, who’s not home yet so you’re gonna be alone with Theo and Enzo for an hour. And he was there. Lying on the couch, scrolling social media platforms.

“Hey, wassup?” Theo gets up and hugs you quickly.

“Nothing special. Just tired, as always,” you smile at him. “What about you?”

“Everything’s alright, thanks,” he smiles.

Then you sit down on the armchair and pack your things out of your bag. Laptop, chargers and the colouring book with markers - which Enzo asked you to bring over. Theo notices them and he immediately gets excited. He tried the colours while smiling like a kid. So damn adorable. He shows you his Funko pop collection.

“So there’s my Marvel collection,” he zooms on them. “Loki with Sylvie obviously, Tony, Natasha,” he would continue but you cut him off.

“Bucky? Wanda? Where are the best characters?” you sigh dramatically.

“I don’t have them,” he grins. “But I have to admit Joe Locke in Agatha all along is hot. Have you seen it?”

“I started it, but I haven’t finished it yet,” you smile. He’s gay? Or what? Bisexual? You can’t decide, he has many signs of being fruity. You’ll see so never mind.

“So cool series, you should continue,” he smiles.

After that three of you talk about relationships where you find out that he had two one-year-long relationships with girls. Still suspicious but you have to admit it’s a green flag. He’s not a player. His last date was one year ago. And you realize. You like him, so damn much. His mind is working really well, he’s intelligent and sweet too. Also, he’s fine. But the skinny body is something you want too. You can’t wear his hoodies, can’t sit on his lap because you’re scared of breaking his bones with your weight. But oh man, how you would like to do all of this with him.

“Can I try it?” you point at his camera.

“Of course, come here I’ll show you how to use it,” he smiles widely and starts to explain the buttons. Then you take some behind-the-scenes photos of Enzo and Theo. You take photos of Theo’s hands, his side profile and his smile. He’s mesmerizing.

“Damn, these are good. Y/N you’re doing this really well,” he pets your head with a grin.

“Thanks, I guess,” you shrug.

At midnight you’re about to call a taxi to take you home when Theo grabs your hand.

“I’ll take you home, okay? It’s not a big deal,” he smiles softly and you nod.

“I would be thankful.”

“Come,” he picks up his car keys while you hug both Enzo and Mattheo as a goodbye.

You and Theo sit in the car and he starts driving.

“So,” he clears his throat “Did you enjoy the meeting?”

“Of course. I liked the photographer me the best,” you laugh softly.

“Me too,” he bites his lower lip. “I wondered about that would you like to go on a date with me? I thought about we could go out for a coffee and take photos with my camera,” he shrugs nonchalantly, but his red face tells everything.

“I’m in,” a big smile spreads on your face.

“Glad to hear,” he parks down in front of your home. Theo leans closer then gently kisses you and you smile in the kiss.

“See you on the date. Text me the details,” you say with shining eyes and then you get out of his car. “Good night, Theo”

“Good night, Y/N,” he says quietly and then the radio starts playing ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ by Arctic Monkeys. He giggles because goddamn it fits perfectly. This is what he feels right now.

✨if you wanna be on my taglist, comment<3

taglist: @sunkissedscribbles @kandis-mom @idkkkkkkk123lgb @nottslvttt

[queermasculine]

Maybe a stupid question but one I've asked myself, what's the difference in between a butch and a masc for you ? Is there one ?

not a stupid question! "butch" is an older word with more meanings across time. to straight people it's been a military style haircut, a male name (still a few old guys named butch in the US), and a fairly uncomplicated synonym for masculine. to lesbians, bisexuals and gay men, it's been all of the above, but it's also had a whole host of other connotations specific to us and our own ways of loving/performing masculinity. a lot of the different meanings of butch have faded or fallen out of fashion over the years, but the word has more or less kept its purpose among lesbians, giving it the lesbian tint it has today.

"masc" is a much newer term, and unlike butch, i don't believe it's ever been widely used by the straight mainstream. (not a lot of grandpas named masc out there.) it's my impression that masc first spread out from gay guys on grindr, or at least that played a big part in popularizing it, and it's been used pretty much exclusively in an lgbt context ever since. in that sense it's the word with the more explicitly queer origin, despite having a much shorter history. having risen to popularity in the age of social media, masc carries none of the historical baggage of butch, and as such it's a more open-ended term, implying very little about a person beyond their masculinity. you can see this difference exemplified in google search results: while looking up butch will primarily yield information about the word's significance to lesbians, masc will net you more neutral descriptions, like "a person whose gender identity is masculine, but who is not necessarily a man."

despite all that, masc and butch usually serve the same function (to express the masculinity of the subject) and are used pretty much interchangeably in many contexts. also worth noting is that the lesbian association of butch is not a rule, just an observation i've made about modern perceptions. bisexual women have always used butch (and femme) alongside lesbians, and to this day you'll still encounter gay men – usually older – who identify as butch. so in conclusion, if you're trying to pick what label to use for yourself, i wouldn't worry about it too much. both terms have room enough for you in them.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddie-week.

Reach Out and Touch Someone

Day #7 - Prompt: Free Space | Word Count: 1500 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Alcohol | POV: Steve | Tags: AU, Wrong Number, Right Person Trope, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Meet-Cute

Steve dials the number messily scrawled on the scrap of paper. He’s nervous. He’s always nervous when he has to stick his neck out and make a move on a girl these days. 

Yeah, he did the first bit of legwork and got her number out at the bar last night. But he's fumbled the ball and failed enough times, Robin's loving, but accurate, "you suck" burned in his brain, that he's always leery to try again. He should be used to it by now, but it’s still uncomfortable and awkward, every goddamn time. If his friends weren't all fretting about his emotional well-being from being so terminally alone, he wouldn’t put forth half the effort anymore. 

He has Robin. He has his cat. He's happy. 

It rings three times before he hears it connect, “Hello?”

It’s a man’s voice, and he hesitates for just a moment, “I’m looking for, uh, Lyla?”

“Sorry, man. Wrong number.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have misdialed,” Steve says, a different kind of embarrassment. But this is one he can handle easier, for sure. So he pushed the wrong button somewhere along the way. His eyesight isn't the best thing he's got going for him.

“No worries, man,” the other guy laughs, seemingly carefree about being bothered.

They each disconnect and then Steve reads, and re-reads, the number before dialing again. More carefully this time.

It rings only once before it’s connected.

“Still me, dude,” the familiar voice relays, still light and friendly.

“Wow. I’m so sorry. Clearly, I was given a fake number. That's embarrassing,” Steve laughs, because this is more embarrassing than misdialing. He's uncomfortable and mortified to admit that this girl just didn't want him to call her. Even if he's only admitting it to a stranger.

She should have just told him no. He hates that she didn't, for her sake, too.

“Shitty move,” the other guy answers.

“Yeah, well. I'm sorry I bothered you. Again. I promise to cross-check any future numbers against yours before dialing, just in case.”

The guy laughs, "Well, now. Don't go to any trouble for my sake. Honestly,” and he doesn't sound put-out at all, “don’t worry about it. She clearly didn’t have the balls to just, be, like, honest. That sucks.”

Steve laughs, maybe if she'd had balls this wouldn't have happened at all. Most men feel more comfortable just saying no, he thinks, which is sad but true. He swings both ways, and maybe he should take this as a sign to lean the other way for a while. See if that works out any better for him. 

It probably won't, but he could try.

“There goes my big weekend plans,” Steve teases, uncertain why he does it, even as the words tumble out of his mouth. He needs to hang up the phone and let this guy get back to his own life.

“Dude. That's a problem I can solve. I’m gigging tonight. You have to come. Let me entertain you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Whatever. I want to. Just show up. It’ll be a great story, will it not?”

It would be a great story. One he could even tell Robin to convince her he’s living a little, “I don’t even know your name. What if you’re a serial killer or something?”

“Yep, that’s me. Vicious killer,” the guy laughs, “I’m Eddie, man. And I’m a fucking ball to be around. You’ll want to take me up on this awesome offer. We’ll all be down at Hellfire Club around eight. Show up. If you think we’re murderous, you don’t have to follow us to any secondary, secluded locations.”

Hellfire Club is literally two blocks from Steve’s apartment. He's been past it countless times, but never inside. It's always dark. Like it's not even open, making him unsure about what kind of bar it is, it's so nondescript from the outside. Not to mention the name is a little intimidating. He'd half-convinced himself it's a BDSM club. 

But, now that he's been invited, he could just walk down and see what’s the what, “How will I know which guy you are?”

Eddie laughs, “You’ll know. Trust me.”

Steve has a hard time trusting anyone new these days, but Eddie seems friendly enough. 

Steve realizes he must have been quiet for too long, because Eddie starts talking again.

“I’ll have on a badass battle vest. Look for that. You'll see me. It's impossible not to. I promise.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees, even if he’s not sure what a battle vest even is.

“Now, are you going to tell me your name, or will that just be a surprise?” Eddie asks.

Steve laughs, “Steve. I’m Steve.”

“Well, I’ll see you later, Steve.”

Steve stands in front of his closet for far too long, trying to find something to wear that doesn’t look too nerdy. He assumes Eddie's cool. He sounded cool, and Steve may have been cool in high school, but these days he just keeps his head down and goes through life, content to be fairly unnoticed. He finally settles on a black t-shirt. Basic, classic. Timeless.

Boring. 

But that's a risk he's willing to take.

He walks down the street slowly and arrives around eight-thirty. The windows are still all blacked out, tinted to the point he can't see anything inside. There's just the neon sign with the Hellfire Club over the door.

When he pulls open the door, he's in a hallway that's painted all black, with a bouncer at the end, stationed at a door. Steve kind of wants to turn around, flee, but he doesn't. He's already here. He might as well at least see. Robin will kill him if he chickens out.

He gives his ID to the bouncer, and is directed down a staircase. He really hopes this isn't a sex club. 

It's not.

And as soon as he crosses the threshold into the bar, yes, he knows Eddie instantly. He’s gotta be the one on the bar, pouring shots directly into various mouths. Steve knows he could turn around right now and this adventure could end. But watching Eddie laughing and prancing up and down the bar with flourish, clearly having fun, makes Steve want to go up and meet this guy.

Steve takes an open seat at the end of the bar, kind of out of the way, and just watches Eddie work the crowd.

The bar is blaring It's Raining Men and Eddie is playing up the song, big time. He's not a stripper, at least Steve doesn't think he is, but he's working the crowd for tips, absolutely. He keeps handing them down to a curly-headed guy, who keeps stuffing them into an overflowing jar.

Steve's pretty sure this is a gay club, or at least queer friendly. Maybe he has found a place for himself, something that's been right here under his nose, all this time.

When Eddie finally jumps down off the bar, Steve watches him work the rest of the room.

The other guy comes over and takes Steve's order, and he doesn't quite have the same flourish, but he's efficient and confident with a bottle and jigger.

"Name for the tab?" he asks, shaking the drink Steve had picked from the list.

"Steve," Steve says, and the guy looks up and meets his eyes.

Surely not. This doesn't feel like this is Eddie. He is wearing a vest, a red plaid one, but the other guy also has a denim vest on, full of patches.

"Eddie?" Steve questions, needing to make sure.

"Gareth," the guy says, "that's Eddie," he clarifies, pointing at the one Steve had correctly clocked as Eddie to begin with. "You're his wrong number guy, right?"

Steve nods. He supposes that's what he is, "Yeah. That's me. Loser in love."

Gareth laughs, and it makes Steve smile.

"That's our specialty here, you'll feel right at home," Gareth teases.

"Glad to hear it."

"I'll tell him you're here," Gareth assures, "he wasn't sure you'd come."

"That makes two of us," Steve admits, and Gareth smiles as he finishes shaking Steve's drink, putting it down in front of him.

"On the house. First-timers to Hellfire drink free," Gareth says, and then he's walking away. 

Steve's eyes follow Gareth across the bar, watching as he taps Eddie on the shoulder, leaning close to his ear, pointing right at Steve.

Eddie looks, meets his eyes, and Steve raises his hand, giving him a small, little wiggle of his fingers.

A huge smile spreads across Eddie's face as he bounds in Steve's direction.

Eddie's quickly right in his personal space, squeezing both of Steve's shoulders, greeting him with a smile, "Welcome to Hellfire."

Steve smiles, liking the feeling of Eddie's hands bleeding through his t-shirt, warming him.

Eddie lets go, and Steve misses the feeling already, but Eddie stays. Sliding onto the stool next to Steve, "I'm glad you came."

And Steve's completely honest as he answers, "Me too."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddie-week and follow along with the fun!

Notes: If you're too young to remember it, reach out and touch someone was the slogan/jingle for Bell System telephone company back in the day. So, that's where the title comes from, as a play on the wrong number phone call trope.

[fansids]

Shadow of the King Au Art Dump

Since I very rarely get past the sketching phase any presentable art is rare, but I managed to find some for ya'll

Warning for some old ass art:

1. The Stalwart Generals

I spent an ungodly amount of time figuring out the designs, dynamics, and personalities of all of these monkies so I'll be damned if I don't show them first.

The Generals take care of anything SWK is unable to. They are in charge of FFM when he's not present.

Marshal Ma - While technically all the generals are the same rank, Marshal Ma is considered SWK's unofficial second in command. She's calm in every crisis with a very low bs tolerance and is 75% of the reason why the island doesn't fall to chaos every time SWK leaves. She's highly respected by all the inhabitants and can and will break your spine Bane style if the situation calls for it.

Marshal Liu - Mean bisexual. Marshal Ma's sister and the bane of her existence. On duty she takes her role very seriously. Off duty she likes to keep Ma on her toes with her dumbassery. She's easy going, hates clothes, and loves to fight. She has a slightly concerning amount of knives on her person at all times. She is big gay for General Beng.

General Beng - Meaner lesbian. A siamang and the largest and tallest of the generals. She enjoys dressing up, tea (both kinds), and a good party. She has a very short fuse. While her size and strength alone would generally deter anyone from testing her temper, there are always idiots. She can fight, but she knows her Liu would enjoy it more.

General Ba - The youngest of the generals. While she's not shy, she is very quiet. She does not waste her words. But, when she speaks, the others will stop whatever they're doing to listen. She likes to spend her free time in the libraries. Get her in the right mood and she'll argue with you for hours about the most random subjects.

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2. Macaque face evolution

Was trying to get a feel for Macaque's face and how it changes throughout the au. Top right is the youngest, bottom right is the oldest. Bro gets all sorts of messed up from the whole died and resurrection thing and very much looks wrong afterwards.

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3. New fit

Macaque and SWK have the whole cape thing going on, I figured SWK gave Mac one of his own when he was still training under him. I like to think it holds a lot of sentimental value to him since he still wears it in present day but he would rather get his head smashed in again than admit it.

.

4. I'm sure this won't come back to bite anyone later

Eeesh. Imagine spending your whole life training to receive and keep the Sun Wukong's attention only for him to casually give it to some random human boy thousands of years later. I mean, Macaque did betray him and everything, but it's the principle.

.

5. The Tongbi Gibbon Concepts

One of the four world-wrecking/celestial monkies. My brain was very focused on the whole pulling celestial bodies out of the sky part of her abilities that I made her based around that line.

Don't know if this fit is still canon as she and the Horse Monkey had a large role to play in Shadow of the King, and I'm considering if I should take them out

.

Bonus:

I consider the Tongbi gibbon and the Horse Monkey to be older than both Sun Wukong and Macaque in Shadow of the King. The Horse Monkey is the eldest, but the Tongbi's age is nothing to sniff at.

That being said, that does not mean she can't be bought.

Takes place after all the traumatizing shit in SotK

Panel 1

Tongbi: Child, I am an ancient being. I hold the power of gods within me. I was witness to the birth of the Great Sage himself. I have seen nations and empires rise and fall. I have gathered and spent innumerable wealth. Yet you think you can bribe me with 20 yuan?

Panel 2

The host: ...how 'bout 30?

Panel 3

Off-panel (Horse Monkey): TONGBI!!

MK: I thought the nimbus made you airsick

Red Son: Not helping, Noodle Boy

Tongbi: BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!

[retrievablememories]

marrow | dpr ian

summary: you're not the only eater. many of your kind exist, but you have always tried to avoid them, continuing to play the charade of the normal, boring life that you can never truly have. until one day, someone shows up at your door.

pairing: dpr ian x black fem reader

genre: horror, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance, bones & all au, 1980s au

word count: 22.9k

warnings & tags: lots of talk about cannibalism, plus the actual act of it | gore | lots of blood | side and minor character deaths | morally gray characters? | depictions of mental illness, including anxiety, depression, self-loathing/low self-worth | mentions of religious trauma | stab wound injury | mentions of self-harm, suicide | bisexual reader | sex happens but only off-screen; there is some kissing | time period is the mid 1980s | setting is the southern U.S. without the period-accurate racism | some body horror; someone gets burned alive but it isn't real | vivid nightmares | ...there’s a lot going on here, just tell me if i missed something

marrow (noun):

a soft, highly vascular modified connective tissue that occupies the cavities of most bones

the choicest of food

a/n: this is a “bones & all” au, so if you didn’t like the movie/book you probably won’t like this. based off both the book and movie but with some changes.

please heed the warnings; there are strong HORROR elements in this fic. (i mean, people are eating other people…) if you’re not interested in reading about these particular concepts, please just scroll on by, make use of your filter settings, or block me.

as we all know, this is just fiction...it doesn't claim to be an accurate/real representation of anyone.

dividers: here | here

1985

You smell him before you can see him.

It comes as somewhat of a surprise: You don’t realize you’re smelling something different, something other than Alicia’s perfume, the cigarette tray, or the stale, woody air of the motel’s office, until it’s right up on you. It makes your body stiffen with fear. Not that you have any right to be afraid.

After a few long minutes, though, no one walks in. You don’t see the familiar blinding sight of headlights flashing in the windows as a car pulls up. And yet the smell remains. Despite your apprehension, you get up from your chair behind the desk to see if anybody is outside, walking to the windows facing the expanse of the parking lot. That is when you see a figure lying on the ground, somewhat obscured by the shadows where the office’s lights don’t reach. It looks to be a man, though you aren’t 100% sure.

From what you can see, he’s covered in blood. Large stains of it ruin the white of his shirt and the blue of his jeans. You could guess that it’s probably not his own. Your mind jumps ahead of you, trying to create the image of him feasting on the body of some unknown victim, of him carrying a bloody bag filled with someone’s clothes and trying to find somewhere to hide it…

It’s a terrible thing to think. Maybe he’s an innocent person, severely hurt. He probably used what little strength he had left to drag himself here for help. 

But the smell never lies.

You quickly grab a flashlight sitting in one of the cubbies on the wall. Then you open the door, the jingling of the bell loud in your ears, and give the parking lot a quick sweep before stepping outside, seeing nothing but the same cars that’d been parked at the same motel rooms earlier. With it being a one-story motel, there wasn’t much area you needed to scan.

Standing out here now and pointing the flashlight into the shadows, you can see he’s still breathing, at least. But now you can also see the dried blood around his mouth and down his neck, which makes you want to promptly walk back into the office and lock the door behind you. Turn out all the lights and pretend no one was ever here.

There’s a big blood stain in one area near his abdomen like he was stabbed; you can see that the fabric is torn. Whoever he ate clearly didn’t go willingly. But when do they ever?

Again you think about going back inside—maybe telling Alicia to call for an ambulance. You think of calling the police, and shame immediately follows. How could you call the authorities on him knowing you and him share the same crimes? You’re unsure of which action to take, but it’s a little late to make the decision now. You see him begin blinking from the light you’re shining directly in his face; you hadn’t paid attention to where you were pointing the flashlight as your mind raced with options. He raises a bloodied hand to shield his eyes, the movement causing him pain.

You shift the light away, pointing it in the vicinity of his torso again. Only now do you pay attention to the numerous tattoos covering his skin. Unsure what to ask or say, you can only come up with a broken “...Hey.” You haven’t used your voice in the last hour.

He doesn’t reply. Instead he pushes himself to sit up, his hand hovering over the presumed stab wound.

“What…uh, what are you doing here?”

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether he ought to be suspicious of you or not. The irony. “I need water,” he finally says.

“Water? I think you need a lot more than water.”

With effort, he starts getting to his feet, and you can’t help flinching away. It feels stupid to act this way, to still be so afraid. As if being afraid could allow you to pretend that you are more human than you really are.

And what timing—Alicia appears at that moment after being locked up in her room sorting paperwork all night. The door bell sounding off behind you makes you jump hard, the wooden beads on your braids all rattling against each other. You spin around to look at Alicia, who’s too busy staring at the man in front of you with concerned eyes.

“What the hell? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice loud in the relative quiet of the parking lot. The motel being located on a less-frequented stretch of highway means things are often quiet like this, with only the sounds of cicadas and frogs and occasional passing vehicles to fill the late hours.

“I’m fine,” he says, disinterested in her concern.

Her eyebrows rise at his accent. “You ain’t from around here,” Alicia says, as if that intrigues her. 

“But you’re not fine. Haven’t you been attacked?” you argue, gesturing toward the wound he can’t keep his hand away from. He lets it drop to his side then.

“I’m fine. I bandaged it. I just need water.” His tone and the dark quality of his expression don’t leave much room for you to object.

You and Alicia look at each other for a long moment; when she sees the tension in your face, you both come to a silent agreement. Strange people and motels go together like thunder and rain, but that fact often keeps you in something of a hypervigilant state. Unbeknownst to Alicia, you are certain you know why this man has shown up here bloody and wounded, insisting he only needs water and not even asking for medical help—which would entail needing to be admitted to a hospital—and you conclude it’s best to get him off your hands as soon as possible.

Once you do, you can start trying to forget about him and the smell of blood clinging to him. After not encountering it for so long, its return makes that familiar taste of iron rise up on your tongue like it’s encoded in your DNA, activating your salivary glands from just the memory of eating, and you feel like an animal for it.

Alicia relaxes her shoulders and puts on a gentle smile. “Well, okay. There’s a bathroom in the office. You can get cleaned up in there. And we got plenty of bottled water too, though it ain’t the fancy stuff like Evian.”

So you let him in.

You listen to the water running in the bathroom while you sit with your back rigid in your desk chair, like you’ll need to spring into action at any moment. Alicia doesn’t bother to speak, knowing the walls are too thin to get away with it, and leans next to you to write on a page of your notepad instead. You watch her small lettering fill the white space:

He looks fucked. We’re probably more dangerous to him right now than the other way around. You think he walked all the way here from town bleeding like that? Maybe someone dropped him here.

You realize with a jolt that Alicia thinks it’s all his blood. You shake your head but give no explanation. After a pause, she shrugs.

Still, you know where the gun is.

“Please…” you choke out, not wanting to think about having to use it tonight—or any other night, for that matter. 

You don’t know if he’ll be a danger, considering he clearly ate not too long ago. But you can never say that for certain. Every cannibal’s appetite and impulses are different.

When he comes back out cleaned of blood, Alicia casually slides the notepad out of sight and stands up straight again. The shirt he was wearing is balled up in his fist, leaving him standing there with nothing but his jeans and shoes on. Seeing people in various states of undress, especially in the South during the warmer months, is nothing new. Still, his nakedness feels oddly misplaced in this macabre situation, and you don’t know where to put your eyes. You end up fixating on the bandaging around his middle, which is all stained through with old blood. It needs to be changed, but that’s not your problem.

Alicia blinks for a moment, the side of her mouth quirking up slightly.

“Of course—silly me. You’re probably wanting some new clothes, ain’t you? We might have something in storage. I’ll just be a few minutes.” Alicia takes a pair of keys from one of the desk drawers. You want to grasp her arm and tell her not to go, but she just directs her eyes to the notepad; you nod reluctantly and watch as she heads to the back door of the office and out to the storage building a couple yards away. It’s a spacious outbuilding that holds everything needed in the running of a motel, including the commercial laundry machines.

Now that the man is somewhat calmer, he looks at you like he recognizes you. You turn away from him when you see the change in his gaze. It’s strange to be seen and known by another eater. Though it’s happened several times, it always unsettles you. You don’t know anything about him, but you’re suddenly, maybe irrationally, worried that he’ll reveal your secret to Alicia.

“I’ve never met another one like me,” he says.

There are several things you want to say. Why didn’t you say it sooner? Have you really never smelled another eater until now? Who did you eat? Will you just leave already? None of these questions are what comes out. “Never?”

“Never. But I suppose I don’t stay anywhere long enough to find them.”

Then please leave soon. 

“When was the last time you ate?”

You bolt up from the chair. There’s nowhere for you to go, though, so you stand there wiping your sweaty palms on your pants and glancing at the back door, hoping Alicia returns soon. “Don’t ask me that.”

You still won’t look at him, but he tries and fails to meet your darting eyes. You find a different part of his body to focus on. This time it’s his hand resting on the desk counter and the intricately designed tattoo that covers it.

“You must get hungry sometimes.” He leans closer, but the tall counter overlooking the desk keeps you separated. “Are you gonna tell me you’ve never had the urge to have a bite of her?” He gestures his head toward the back door. “It’s so fucking lonely out here, maybe no one would notice if you did.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You surprise yourself with the force of your reply, though your voice shakes. “I-I have self-control.”

And then he laughs. Like you two are old friends catching up—like you didn’t just curse him out. It makes him wince immediately, and his hand goes to his wound again. He sighs. “Sorry, darling, but I don’t think it’s about self-control.”

You ignore the name, though it irritates you and reminds you of the sleazy men that often make their way to the motel looking for midday entertainment in harassing young women. “We’ve both been born infected with it,” you say, your voice tight. “It can’t go away, but it’s something that should at least be minimized—not just given into whenever.”

“Is that how you think of it?”

“How could you not feel bad about it?” Despite yourself, you feel tears stinging your eyes. “Each one of them was a person with a life and dreams. We’re the ones stealing that every time we give in.”

“Feel bad about it?” He seems to consider that for a moment, his dark brown eyes far away. “The only thing you can do is get used to it. I would think that at some point, after you’ve eaten enough, it wouldn’t be shocking if it didn’t feel wrong to you anymore. Or if you started enjoying it. You’ve never felt that?”

You don’t answer his question, too disturbed and mentally exhausted to continue arguing and unable to agree with him. You wish he’d never crossed into this part of town, that you’d never met him. His presence makes your head and your chest hurt. He is everything you are and everything you don’t want to be, facing you head-on so that you cannot ignore it.

He’ll go away like the rest have, you try to reassure yourself. You’ve never befriended any of the other eaters you’ve met; at most, you ran into them a couple more times but never saw them again after. But even as you think it, it feels like a lie.

You sit back in the chair with a stilted movement just as Alicia returns, feeling like the precarious little life you’ve built is suddenly on the verge of collapsing. All the effort you’ve put toward modeling the spectacularly average life of the everyday human being—gone.

“Sorry that took a while. I figure you can’t put new clothes on with all that—” she gestures to the bloody bandage “—going on, so here you are.” Alicia hands him a small stack of clothes and a first-aid kit. “I hope that’ll do you some good, mister….?” She looks at him expectantly, and you realize that you haven’t known his name this entire time.

You feel his eyes on you when he answers, but your mind is elsewhere.

“It’s Ian.”

—

The next time you’re struck by the familiar smell of another eater, it happens in the early morning hours when you’re helping an older couple check out of their room.

It causes you to stumble and break in the middle of your sentence as your mind blanks, and you have to take a moment to remember what you were saying. The two elderly folks look at you strangely, their previous neutral-at-best demeanor now giving an air of annoyance. But at least they’re on their way out. You tune out their unsubtle mumbling about young people and their drug use as they finish up and step out the door.

You watch the front windows with a rising panic in your guts, wanting to run and hide but unable to move your feet. What horrific luck do you have to encounter two within the short span of three weeks? It seems that whenever they smell you, they come to you—whether it’s to size you up or attempt to make an acquaintance. 

And a few minutes later, there’s a beat-up sedan, a gray Renault Alliance, pulling up in one of the parking spaces.

What you don’t expect is for the person to be Ian.

The ground has been kicked out from under you. You think maybe you’re suffering from acute vertigo. Your breaths and heartbeats are simultaneously too slow and too fast as he gets out of the car, wearing a button-up shirt that he only bothered to button halfway and black pants. He’s pristine this time—no blood, no torn shirt with an open wound, though his movements hint that he’s still healing. His eyes are shaded by sunglasses, but he takes them off as he walks to the door, making eye contact with you from the other side of the glass. That look sends cold water down your spine.

In another life, if he wasn’t like you and you weren’t like him—if you both didn’t share this bodily pestilence, this cursed impulse—maybe you would’ve felt some spark of interest. Maybe you would’ve thought of him as handsome, giggled with Alicia about it later, a brief respite from your mountains of paperwork. But in this life, you don’t feel anything but repulsion and fear.

You’re momentarily blasted with the unbearable summer heat when the door opens. It’s quickly chased away again by the air conditioning, causing your skin to prickle. Ian gives a close-lipped smile as he stops in front of you.

“Why are you back here?” you whisper.

“Checking into a room. That’s allowed here, right?”

If he’s a paying guest, you can’t really turn him away. He hasn’t done anything yet to warrant that. Even if he does eat other people on a regular basis.

You look past him to the car sitting outside. “Why didn’t you drive last time?”

“I just got it.”

“From which dealership?”

He taps his fingers against the sunglasses and glances down before answering, his voice low. “I think you know.”

Some part of you wants to know who it was in a futile attempt to keep their memory alive if only in your own mind, but you don’t ask. You don’t even know what type of person they were, after all; maybe he’d rid the world of some domestic abuser. It could be…understandable, in that case. People die everyday, you try to remind yourself—a useless platitude you have always told yourself after the act is over. It never absolves the guilt. They would’ve died someday anyway only goes so far when their blood is underneath your fingernails.

“And why come back here, of all motels? There are others in this area that don’t have mold in the bathrooms and roaches in the walls.”

He pauses after hearing that information, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re pulling his leg. “I thought I’d be in pretty good company here, you know.”

“I don’t want your company,” you say wearily, watching him as he starts taking cash out of his wallet. “Do you think I’ll let you stay here just because—?”

“Because we’re the same? Because you’d cover for me?” he says, voice even lower like he only wants you to hear. That doesn’t matter anyway. Alicia is busy cleaning and preparing one of the newly vacated rooms, and it’s just you two in the office. There would’ve been one more person present if anyone had answered your For Hire ad in the paper, but it still remains only you and Alicia running this joint. “My God, darling. Forgive me for thinking you’d have a little mercy on a fellow cannibal. Anyway, I wouldn’t be so obvious as to do it here.”

You give him a look of disdain. In all sensibility, you should turn him away. You have no obligation to help him or break the law in doing so. The circumstances of his last appearance were already outrageous, and now he shows up with a stolen car. Who knows if someone might come here searching for him and making you and Alicia complicit in his mess? And ultimately, you want nothing more than for him to stop bringing up the whole cannibalism bit. Deep down, you are afraid that these mentions of it—maybe even the simple proximity to him—will reawaken the urge you haven’t felt in over a year now.

You’ve stayed silent for a beat too long. In a mess of movements, he shoves his wallet back in his pocket, slips his sunglasses back on, and brushes a hand through his hair, disappointment visible in his expression. “Okay, then. I’ll go elsewhere.” Something about his reaction makes your stomach twist. Maybe the sheer resignation in it. You shouldn’t care where he goes after this, if he has anywhere to go. He’ll be miles away from you again, just like you want. But…

It comes rushing out of your mouth as his hand reaches for the door handle, and you have no idea why you say it. “How many nights?” 

—

It’s been a few days since Ian checked into the motel and you haven’t heard anything from him since then, but sometimes you spot “his” car in its parking space when you go to see about one of the other rooms. Whenever it’s not there, you can’t help but wonder where he’s gone and what he’s doing.

Without seeing him, you would almost be able to forget that he’s there, if not for the smell. It constantly keeps you on edge, more than you already tend to be. Alicia picks up on your restlessness but of course doesn’t know the origin of it—meaning she’s left to come up with a new guess everyday.

“Well yeah, he was surely strange…but maybe he appreciated us helping him out and just wanted to return the favor?” she’d suggested on that first day when he returned and you’d let her know with a less-than-thrilled attitude. “It ain’t like he’s the first weirdo to come around.”

“Maybe you just ain’t getting enough sleep. That’s enough to turn anybody’s mind out. Hope somebody replies to that ad soon so we can have some more help…” she’d said the day after that.

“You missed him earlier, but he came by the office this morning. Had an extra one of those breakfast muffin thingies and left it here. Ain’t that nice? He’s pretty cute, actually. You sure you ain’t just crushing and feel weird about it ‘cause he’s a paying customer?” Alicia laughed one afternoon, the third day of his stay. “Worse things have been done at this motel, Y/N.”

“No, Alicia,” was all you could muster up, and your stiff reply was just as good as an actual confirmation in her mind.

Sometimes, even though you are deeply ashamed of it and try never to acknowledge these rare moments after they happen, you stare at Alicia with her long curly brown hair and her sinewy limbs and her shining brown eyes, taking in the full breadth of her humanness, and you wish she were like you. Even though it would take away her normalcy and happiness…if she could smell that blood-curdling aroma that only you can—if she could understand the weight of this secret—if she knew what it was like to feel the rough grind of bone fragments between her teeth—

—maybe everything could be easier. You wouldn’t have to live with an imagined cowl of judgment, which she had yet to even bestow upon you, always blanketing your mind. And though you’ve always thought it better to have fewer eaters in the world than more, maybe navigating this existence wouldn’t be so isolating.

—

One muggy evening, the motel office phone rings, and you see on the caller ID that it’s from Ian’s room. You have to take a pause to steel yourself, letting it ring for several moments before you pick up the receiver.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“Hey, yeah, um, the sink faucet has started leaking quite badly…not sure how that happened. It wasn’t like that last night.”

You sigh quietly, knowing you’d suggested changing all the faucets to Alicia a while ago, but the budget wasn’t quite there to do so. The summer festivals will be starting up soon, though, and festivals mean a higher number of travelers, so maybe there will be more money for it by the end of the season.

“...I’m sorry about that. I’ll be right there.”

“Right. Thanks, dear.” Your mouth twitches, but you don’t reply; you just nod as if he could see you. Neither of you hangs up. For an awkward stretch of quiet, punctuated only by the shuffling sound of movement, it seems like he wants to say something else. There’s an intake of breath like he will. You slam the phone down before he can.

You find the toolbox in its usual spot and take your umbrella from the stand before heading out the door. It’s raining lightly outside, the force of the droplets picking up and then dying back again every so often, but the humidity is so high that you feel uncomfortably soggy by the time you get to his room.

When Ian opens the door, there’s a cigarette burning between his fingers.

“Um, hello.”

You don’t like the way he smiles at you—like you’re co-conspirators on some big scheme. “Hi. You know where it’s at, yeah?”

You resist rolling your eyes. “Of course.”

He lets you in and then leaves the door propped open so he can stand outside and smoke. At least he won’t be breathing down your neck while you work like some other guests do.

Some game show program is playing on the small box TV; it looks like Press Your Luck. The sound of the TV and the rain falling outside accompany you as you set the toolbox down on the sink counter and start making the necessary fixes to the faucet. Situations like this one, though annoying, do give you a tiny bit of reprieve; you become too engrossed in the work to think about all your life’s problems.

That is, until you realize the problem with the faucet is too convenient to be caused by any natural malfunction or wear and tear. No he didn’t…you think, though part of you is still trying to convince yourself that your eyes and brain are deceiving you.

When you’ve successfully repaired the faucet, you straighten up and are startled to find Ian already leaning against the bathroom door frame, the cigarette now gone.

“Uh—well…works like a charm now.”

He acknowledges your work with a small nod. Before you can say anything else, he immediately says, “How do you experience it? The hunger.”

You could swear that your heart ceases beating. Your words come out in a shaky rush of breath. “Please stop.”

“You’re the only other one I’ve met, and I have to know what it’s like for someone else.” His voice and expression are genuinely pleading, and this takes you aback. “Please try to understand where I’m coming from.”

You put the tools back in the toolbox with trembling hands, your mind racing with things you should and shouldn’t say. “It doesn’t happen often,” you finally admit, your voice so small that he has to step fully into the bathroom to hear you. “There are usually months or years between occurrences. But when it comes…it’s oppressive. It’s like I’m being gnawed on the inside, like I have to do it or I’ll die. The last time was before I met Alicia.” The blurred memory of it causes you physical pain; it’s impossible to escape the self-hatred and disgust you feel, enclosed in this small room with him.

“Who was it?”

You shake your head. The thought of recounting what happened—no, what you did—makes you shudder. You refuse to let the barbed words leave your mouth for fear of being cut by them and bleeding out, but you find yourself mentally back in the scene anyway; you can almost hear the lapping of the lake and the distant sound of her voice if you concentrate. “Her name was Marygold. That’s it.”

He nods, left to accept that you don’t want to talk about her. “Years…hmm. The urge comes every few weeks for me.” He smiles sarcastically. “Lucky one, aren’t I?”

“...I thought you said you enjoyed it,” you murmur.

“Look, dear: What’s not enjoyable is always having to cover your tracks—or making too big of a mess and having to leave the area because of it.” He crosses his arms. “The guy whose car I have? He was just some lonely grocery store worker. You probably want me to say something noble, like I ate a fucking axe-murderer or something. No—I just needed a car again, and he was convenient. That’s how it is.

Maybe I could try to ignore the urge, put it off, but I don’t. When I feel it, I just go and find someone to satisfy it. Does the average person debate about whether they should eat a meal when they feel hunger? No, they just eat.”

You groan, your stomach lurching as you clutch the edge of the counter. “I-I can’t believe you messed up the faucet to get me in here to talk about this. What if Alicia had come instead?” For a second, you allow yourself to consider the danger in that implication—if Alicia had been in here with him alone…

He gives an airy laugh at your mention of the sink. “So I wasn’t very clever, then.”

Trying to gather yourself, you pick up the toolbox and glare at him. “I’ve told you plenty. Don’t ask me about this anymore.” In reality, you haven’t said even half of what he wants to know about, but getting anything else from you is impossible at this point. 

Ian steps aside to allow you to leave the bathroom. You grab your umbrella from where it’s resting against the dresser and hurriedly open it.

“Please don’t call again unless it’s a serious problem. One that you haven’t purposely fucking caused.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s unfair. Staying here means I’m also paying for your services, you know.” Then he adds, “Not that I believe in superstitions, but I thought it was considered bad luck to open umbrellas indoors.”

You roll your eyes, already halfway out the door. “That’s ridiculous. And it’s not like I was born with any luck to begin with.” You let the lock click behind you, not bothering with a goodbye or goodnight.

—

Guests continue to come and go as the season rolls into the beginning of July; they mostly consist of travelers from outside of the area, contract workers, and truckers. You and Alicia work yourselves to near exhaustion with upholding the motel’s operations. You have often thought it lucky that you found her when you did, as she’d just fired her previous two employees for stealing funds when you answered her ad. You don’t know how she would’ve done all this alone, owning and upkeeping this motel after her divorce from her husband; but she always carried herself as if she were just happy to be doing something entirely of her own volition, without him ordering her every move.

Amidst this rush, Ian’s been at the motel for several weeks now. You wonder if he plans on living here, as it seems he has nowhere else to stay. But he’ll need to eat soon, won’t he? Guilt begins gnawing at you as the days pass. You’re putting the other motel guests’ lives in danger just by having him here.

But he’s been doing this just as long as you have—and with greater frequency. He should know by now to avoid eating too close to home. In those quiet moments when you have more time to ruminate, you find yourself hoping that he’ll go somewhere farther out, maybe to one of the bars or a nightclub. As long as it isn’t here.

But you don’t know why you debate with yourself over this or wish such a morbid thing. Someone will have to die either way.

—

The last person you checked in had been hours ago, and the cut-off was at 10:00 p.m. No one else would be coming through here tonight. With that, you’d mentally prepared yourself for another night of getting things in order for the next morning. A half-empty cup of coffee sits on your desk as you go through the budgeting again, the computer’s light illuminating your face and straining your weary eyes. New bathroom faucets, I’m coming for you…you think.

Alicia’s floral perfume swirls around the room as she goes about tidying up the lobby area, switching out the magazines for more recent copies and sanitizing every hard surface with cleaning spray and a cloth. A couple with kids had been through earlier in the day to check out, and their kids had great fun making a mess of things, to the chagrin of their tired parents. Neither one of you had gotten around to cleaning it up until now.

You’re closing out of the budgeting spreadsheet window and about to move onto something else when your stomach twists and aches. It’s been so long that for a few precious seconds you don’t recognize the sensation, but then dread smashes into you when your brain registers it.

The smell of Alicia’s perfume is suddenly too loud. The smell of her body, soft and muscled and warm, is too loud. Your eyes drift to her tanned legs revealed by her shorts, and you’re overwhelmed with the need to sink your teeth into the fat of her thighs, the muscles of her calves. You swear you can already taste the blood running through her veins; you imagine how it’d feel on your lips. You want to sob from how badly you want it and how badly you don’t. 

Your eyes sting with gathering tears as you breathe hard, your panic increasing. You should get up and go to the door, run outside and get the hell away from her. Even if you have to run into the highway and surrender yourself to death by speeding car, you should leave and spare her of this nightmare, but you’re incapable of making yourself move anywhere but toward her. Your body acts without your volition.

That’s how you find yourself rising from your seat, pressing your body against the desk counter as you take a couple of strained steps in her direction. Her body is angled away from you as she finishes wiping down an end table, and you see her cheeks rise as she grins in satisfaction at her own work. You understand innately that this smile will be the last, and a terrible ache swells in your heart. You know you’ll regret not seeing it fully so that you could imprint it in your mind.

“Alicia…” you moan, anguished.

She turns to you in alarm, and you want to scream when she walks over to you. “Y/N! What’s wrong? You look like you’re in a world of hurt.” Her breath is warm, and beneath the scent of spearmint, you can still smell a hint of what she’d had earlier. Some frozen TV dinner of mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and peas. You yearn to share her meal—suck her tongue into your mouth, chew it into pulp.

The sights and scents are all too much, and you are so, so hungry.

“Are you ill?” Alicia asks, brows furrowed as her hand clutches your arm. In your hypersensitive state, you feel each individual finger, the lines on her palms, and the swirls of her fingerprints. Though they are hands you have thought about many times before, it’s as if you know them intimately now—like you formed them and carved all the lines yourself. “I knew it. I’ve been putting too much stress on you, ain’t I? You coulda told me, Y/N.”

Tears drip down your cheeks as you shake your head in denial of her words. “I...I’m sorry.”

Alicia’s expression is soft and remorseful, her mouth downturned. “I should be telling you that.”

Her selfless words only worsen your guilt, even as you lean forward—your body controlled by a force you can’t deny—and press your lips to her neck.

When it’s over an hour later, the only things that remain are her bloody clothes. Physically, you feel frighteningly satisfied with your hunger now alleviated. Your reward for it? A shower of blood. The vinyl floor surrounding you is covered in red. Drops of blood streak down the front and side of the wooden desk, with more on the wooden wall behind you. There are probably more microscopic drops of blood all around the office that you’ll never be able to find. The air is filled with a mingle of odors; the cleaning fluid she used earlier, your unfinished coffee, iron and flesh, the ever-persistent woody, rustic smell of the office itself—and much farther in the background, Ian.

From your place on the floor, you drag yourself up onto your desk chair and fumble the phone receiver with slick hands. It’s difficult to see the buttons with the tears blurring your vision, and you futilely wipe them away, which just smears more of Alicia’s blood across your face. You have to think for a moment to remember which room number is his, and you desperately hope it’s correct as you punch it in.

You think you could faint when you hear his familiar accent. “Hello? That you, Y/N?”

“Help me,” you cry, your voice strangled from the tears and hyperventilating. “God, fucking help me!”

He hangs up a second later. You don’t know what you expected, but that wasn’t it. You begin resigning yourself to your fate as you slump into your seat, the receiver clattering on the desk. Some guest will find you here tomorrow and call the police, and you won’t be able to prove either innocence or guilt. What could you say—I ate her, all of her? You could open my stomach for the evidence; I don’t want to live anymore anyway? Despite what you tell them, the police will think you insane and continue searching for a body that no longer exists. That’s how it often is; another eater had told you this many years ago.

A fresh wave of tears bursts forth, and it causes you to miss the figure rushing past the windows and flinging the door open.

When Ian comes up to you with concern in his eyes, his hands reaching out to steady your shoulders and hold your bloody, tear-drenched cheeks, you don’t know whether he’s your demon or your savior. You feel a perverse relief at his presence, knowing that only he can understand your situation; and you resent him enormously for the casual way he can do the same thing and hardly think of it. It’s this curse you share, borne differently.

“We can clean this up,” he insists as he kneels before you, eyeing all the blood around him like he’s done this a hundred times before. You shake your head and begin to mumble a rebuttal, and he grasps your cheeks more firmly to regain your focus. “Darling, listen to me. It can be like it didn’t happen.”

“It did happen,” you retort, voice strained with anger. “Even if no one else knows it, I will. I can’t stay here and work here everyday knowing I—” your words break, “—that I killed Alicia.”

“You can do it, Y/N. You can get used to it. You have to get used to it, learn how to clean it up and move on. You don’t want to live a life constantly on the run—believe me.”

You practically snarl at him through the tears. “I can’t run a fucking motel by myself.”

He pauses, and then says, “I could do it with you. It’s not like I have shit else to do.”

You scoff. “And what when you need to eat? What then?”

“I could—”

“Start eating the guests, and this will become known as the motel where people go to disappear. How long do you think you’ll get away with that before the authorities come?”

“I’ve already told you I wouldn’t do that,” Ian insists. You think he might continue trying to argue with you, but then he says, “Okay. Okay. If you want to be done with all this, then we have to get the fuck out of here.”

“And leave it like this?” you groan, glancing at the bloody floor.

Ian finally lets you go so he can stand up. “Of course not. We have to clean everything. How many hours do we have until this office is supposed to open?”

You two spend the next several hours meticulously scrubbing every surface in the office. You try to turn yourself into an automaton—focus on the motions your body needs to perform and empty your mind. You aren’t successful. Too many times, you find yourself sniffling and averting your gaze from Ian’s direction so he doesn’t see your teary eyes, which is ridiculous in hindsight; he’s already seen you sobbing and covered in someone else’s blood. Held your face while you did so, like you were a small child. It doesn’t get much worse than that.

When the cleaning work is done, you stuff Alicia’s clothes, your bloody outfit, and the stained rags and brushes into several plastic bags you dig out of storage. Ian promises to stop somewhere so you can burn them all later. Everything else you take is more clothes to wear, some essentials, and your birth certificate folded small and stuffed in one of the pockets of your traveling bag—your only form of ID, and the only memento you have left of your birth parents.

Before abandoning the motel, you remove Ian’s name from the guest ledger to make it seem as if he never stayed there; his motel room looks untouched by the time you’re both done getting his things out of it and fixing it back up. You return his room key to its designated place on the wall of keys and then hurry out of the office, unable to spare another look at the place you’re leaving behind. You and Alicia lived and worked here for so long, spent so many exhausting nights and early mornings keeping the motel going even when it seemed like it might not survive, but there’s nothing left for you now. In just one hour, you destroyed it all.

So in the early morning hours when the motel guests are still asleep and there’s no one to witness but the gradually lightening sky and the cicadas, you and Ian hit the highway in his stolen Renault Alliance.

Once you’re a few miles away from the motel, you roll the window down to get some fresh air, and the warm breeze is one of the few things that helps hold you together. You almost want to stick your head out the window. Maybe if you fill yourself with enough oxygen, it’ll replace all the remnants of Alicia inside you. But you don’t want that to happen, either; you have nothing else left to remember her by but some bloody clothes that will be destroyed anyway. Only the memories of her smile, her sunny demeanor, her melodious Southern accent, and her perfume will remain in your mind, vulnerable to the passing of time. And eventually, those too will begin to fade and lose their clarity, gone to the same murky place within you that the other victims reside in, revived occasionally by your unpredictable nightmares.

“Where are we going?” you ask, and it’s the first thing either of you have said since you left.

“I’ve already been through most of the North…and I’m not really eager to go back soon. So unless you want to hang around the South a bit longer, it should probably be out West.”

“...I’d prefer the South. What kind of trouble did you cause up North?” you ask, your voice devoid of any meaningful emotion.

Ian glances at you and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Some…people saw me eating someone. I took someone to this broken-down house, looked like it had been abandoned for years and I knew people rarely came through that area, so I thought it was safe. But some fucking teenagers came there to do their graffiti and shit, and…”

“What did you do?”

“I ran. I hid out in the woods until night, and then I got the fuck out of the state.”

“Which state?”

“Pennsylvania.”

You nod slowly. “And then you come down here and get yourself stabbed. By the person you were eating, wasn’t it?”

Ian chews on his bottom lip before saying, “Yeah.”

In another context, you would make some comment about him being sloppy with it even after his years of experience, but you’re too drained to engage in the back-and-forth that would cause. You sigh and sink deeper into the seat.

“I’m not from this town either, you know. I’ve already done my fair share of running. But with the urge being so infrequent, it’s easier to stay in one place for a while. And even if I do give in to it, sometimes…I can pretend as if I didn’t. Buy myself some more time. Not much evidence but clothes, after all. And clothes are easy to get rid of.” You’re silent for a few moments. “But Alicia…” You close your eyes. “I can’t pretend.”

—

The beginning of your new life is exhausting. You’d forgotten how stressful it is to live like this; you’d gotten used to having one place to live in, the promise of running water everyday, and consistent meals that didn’t come out of a convenience store or vending machine.

You gladly watch Ian flirt with waitresses or waiters at the restaurants you stop in so you can get discounted meals. It doesn’t take much negotiation for him to get cheaper stuff at the occasional farm stand, either; the vendors are quickly enamored by his smile and his charming manner and those pet names he likes to lavish on every living creature. You don’t know where he got all of his cash from—probably that poor grocery worker’s house—but you do remain cognizant of how much of it is left every time you both have to buy something. You haven’t even touched the money you took from the motel safe yet, but that won’t last forever either. Your mind always remains ten miles ahead of where you are in the present, making it harder to focus on anything.

Sometimes you find an abandoned or empty house to sleep in for a few nights, left standing alone by the homeowners who are on vacation—whether permanently or temporarily. Entry is easier thanks to your lock-picking abilities. But most often, you two sleep in the car. Ian lets you have the entire backseat, which made you feel awkward at first. “Are you sure?” you’d asked.

“Quite. Why not?”

“...You don’t have to be so courteous considering we still barely know each other. I mean, you…” you faltered.

He’d given you this sarcastic smile and said, “How sweet of you to think of me, darling. I could sleep back there with you so neither of us has to deal with the front seats—”

“Nevermind. I’ll take it.”

And other times, he chooses someone at random—a bearded man at a gas station, an older woman at a grocery store, some sluggish-looking twenty-something eating lukewarm scrambled eggs at a down-home eatery—and spends a few days watching their movements. He’ll follow them at an inconspicuous distance in the sedan and find out where they live; subsequently, there will be hours of mind-numbing car-camping nearby as you both wait to see their vehicle turn down the road at the break of dawn or the onset of afternoon. Another day means more opportunities for observation.

But not everyone owns a car. Sometimes he’ll become interested in someone who’s traveling on foot, and he’ll leave the car to you while he trails after them for hours. You hate it the most when he does this.

He has enough decency to tell you a specific place where you can both meet at again in a few hours—maybe a park, or a drugstore—or he’ll say something about meeting you back here later. 

“Later” is an unknown to you. Not knowing exactly when he’ll be back and not wanting to sit in the same place all day drives you mad. You might go to a local trinket shop or an outlet store or some boutique downtown to try to ease your anxiety. But sooner rather than later, you end up in your agreed-upon meeting spot, watching for his reappearance in the side mirrors.

Whether he walks or drives, you’re always left waiting on him once he decides to eat them.

The very first time he played this game, he’d told you to “come back later,” front door open and one leg already outside the car. You’d both been tailing a man for a couple of days already, and he had been none the wiser. He’d just returned home from work not too long ago; the sedan had rolled in after, and you both watched his house from your distant spot among the trees—waiting for something to happen? You didn’t know. The sun was setting, making way for the dark of twilight to paint the world; through the trees, you could see the glow of the house’s lights in the distance.

“What? Wait, what are you doing?” you hissed. You impulsively reached for his arm to pull him back in the car and then thought against it, retracting your hand. But you didn’t need to bother with pulling him back, because he leaned into you like he was telling you something confidential.

“Trying to give you a break. I would ask you to join, but I know you hate this and all, so just come back in like, two hours.”

You were unsure how to respond. You stared at him, knowing what he was about to do and wanting to stop him but understanding that your efforts would be futile. “Ian, what if I can’t find my way back here? It’s going to be pitch fucking black.”

He took your hand in his and squeezed it. If this was meant to comfort you, it did nothing of the sort. “You will. Just remember the street names.”

Then he’d left. You didn’t stay to watch him approach the house; you climbed into the front seat and carefully navigated the car along the path that wasn’t really a path and back onto the road. You waited the two hours, your eyes twitching to the car’s dashboard clock too many times as you drove aimlessly around the town with your palms sweating, hoping not to seem suspicious. All the while, you repeated the street names in your mind so that you could get back easily.

When the time came, you did find your way back—just as he said. The door was already open as you walked up the grassy path to the porch, your legs trembling from what you might find. Ian stood there with the yellow glow of the interior outlining his form, and as you looked past him, you saw that there was nothing amiss inside. There were no signs that any death had ever happened here, carefully scrubbed and cleaned away.

And that is how you ended up with a new home to stay in for a little while.

You’ve never seen him consume anyone, and you don’t ask. But sometimes you wonder…after he makes himself known to them—what does he do? Force his way into their house? Play whatever innocent persona that would give him a good reason to be suddenly on their doorstep, in their driveway? Does he press his lips to their neck the same way you do, the last gentle touch before the ravaging, or go for another body part—or does he kill them through some other method before ever sinking his teeth in?

Deeper down, you always wonder if maybe this will be the time he fails. That maybe he’ll change from hunter to hunted, or that he’ll be caught again.

He seems to have a preternatural skill for picking the types of people who no one would really miss, though. People who live alone and often in homes or trailers that sit off on a densely wooded and scraggly piece of land, separate from any houses nearby. Too far away for anyone to hear screams for help. Sometimes they’re the type of people who’ve burned all their bridges with their loved ones and whose calls for a savior would probably go unanswered anyway. This ability of his deeply unsettles you, but you never admit this aloud.

Once, you ask Ian why he even puts in so much effort—why he goes this far just to find someplace for you two to lay your heads at night that isn’t the worn material of the car seats. You aren’t expecting some virtuous or sappy answer, but you don’t quite anticipate his actual response either.

He hesitates for a moment, as if wary of how you’ll respond. “I like it—that’s all. That slow pursuit and the inevitable ending…somehow, they taste better that way.”

—

Initially, you weren’t sure if it mattered to have some sort of disguise. You’d crossed paths with hundreds of people at the motel and wondered if you might someday be recognized, that they would somehow know what you’d done, why you left the motel, and expose you to the national papers. (Some regional papers had reported on the motel’s sudden and unexplained abandonment, you find out later, but they proffered no clear answers for it or your and Alicia’s whereabouts.) But you didn’t know if those largely brief encounters would be memorable enough for anyone to recall you months later.

Either way, you end up taking your braids out not too long after you’ve been on the road. They were beginning to frizz to an unmanageable level anyway, and your chances of having them continually refreshed is virtually zero now. In a way, it’s a relief to not have them anymore, as if you have somehow transformed into a different person—a stranger you could look in the mirror at and not recognize as an eater—by letting your hair free. You burn the hair and all of the wooden beads inside a fire pit at a camping site, watching them die nestled in the flames.

But there are always occurrences that refuse to let you forget. Because on that same campground, you catch wind of another eater a few days after your arrival.

Their scent makes your stomach drop, as it always does in the presence of another eater. You wonder if they have purposely decided to stay at this site because they smelled you and Ian, or if they’re merely passing through. How will the encounter unfold this time, with three of you present? 

When you go to talk to Ian about it, you find him by the river, where he has managed to catch a few fish. They sit nearby in a cooler. The midday sun beams down on the both of you with no relief, and you have to shield your eyes from the water’s reflection. 

“I hope you know how to gut those, because I’m not doing it,” you say, frowning.

“It’s fine, babe. I’ve got it.” You scoff and roll your eyes, unimpressed.

“Can you smell that?” you ask him abruptly, quieting your voice. 

He looks at you thoughtfully, but you continue shading your eyes from the sun and trying to appear casual and not at all disturbed. The continuous tapping of your foot gives you away, though. Ian glances around to see that none of the others near the river’s edge are close enough to hear, and eventually murmurs, “Yeah, I can.” 

“Okay. Okay, maybe—”

“You’re nervous?”

You return his gaze then. “You’ve never met other eaters. I have. Let’s just boil it down to this: It’s often better for us to stay out of each other’s way. Us being dangerous to everyone else doesn’t mean we aren’t a risk to each other, too. Not because we feel actual hunger for each other—I’ve heard that isn’t possible. More strange genetic shit no one can explain. But some will feed on other eaters just because they can.” You shift uncomfortably. “Some see it as like…a conquest, I guess.”

“Is that why you were so eager to see me gone back then?” You don’t expect him to say that, and it takes you aback for a moment. He smirks, but the expression doesn’t have a genuine quality to it—like he’s only showing levity because he assumes you will be repelled by him without it.

“No, it’s…not why.” The real reason feels too vulnerable to disclose, so you don’t. Again, you find yourself unable to meet his eyes, and you return your attention to the blinding waters. “Look, I just wanted to tell you so that you’re—aware. I’m not saying we have to up and run away, but…”

Ian’s face becomes hard to read; you don’t know whether he’s feeling apprehension or whether he’s neutral about the possibility of meeting another eater. Or maybe even fascinated by it. “I get it. Let’s just see if they make the first move or something. And if they show themselves as dangerous to us, then we can leave.” 

You don’t love the idea of sitting and waiting for something to happen, but you aren’t fond of the thought of packing up and hitting the road again either. You are beginning to enjoy this campsite; it’s not so remote that you feel isolated, but all the campers are spread out enough so that you can avoid feeling crowded in or watched. Or like you’re exposing others to danger. “Fine. Let’s see.”

—

You and Ian sit outside at the fire pit after eating, listening to the cacophony of frogs at the river and other night sounds as your after-dinner entertainment. You hear a train in the distance and wonder where it’s going. You imagine hitching a ride on it and traveling someplace where you can settle down without the prying questions of new neighbors and the requirements of real estate agents—buy a house and live in one place for the rest of your life like normal people get to do.

You scrub your face with your hands and sigh. Ian perks up at your heavy exhale, a question in his eyes.

“When I mentioned genetics earlier…” you try to order your words correctly, “...I think I got this thing from my mother. I was told that I was given up for adoption as soon as I was born, as her parents didn’t think she would be fit to raise me, and they didn’t want me either. They didn’t specify why she couldn’t raise me, but I always assumed it was because of that.” This is more personal than anything you could’ve told him earlier, and you aren’t sure why it comes spilling out now. “I don’t think either of her parents were eaters. I think it can skip generations, but I’m not really sure…I don’t exactly sit and have tea and reminisce about family trees with other eaters.”

You’d been passed between many foster homes as an adolescent, never truly feeling like you belonged in anyone’s home or that any of your new “family members” loved or cared about you. At best, you were tolerated or left to your own devices. At worst…you’d once lived with a strictly religious older woman who was half the cause of your constant feelings of guilt. She never found out that you are an eater, but there was plenty more than that for her to convict you about. The lectures about hell and brimstone still come back to mock you if you let your mental guard down for too long. 

During the time when you’d been traveling through the world on your own, you only took shelter in churches—abandoned or not—if there was truly no other suitable place to camp for miles. The large windows always reminded you of eyes peering down on you, seeing inside of your soul and cursing you for the blood you’d spilled.

Ian leans back on his hands. The flames of the fire pit illuminate his face, and somehow, he looks different. Like the act of reaching so far back into the past is making him into someone younger, softer, and newer to the world.

“...I guess it would be my dad, then. I never knew him, and mum would never talk about him. I don’t know anyone else in my family who would be. Family secrets always stay so well hidden.” He begins chucking little sticks and other debris into the fire pit, and you watch them spark as they hit the flames. “Mum tried to hide mine once I started, but I felt like such a burden to her…I just went out on my own as soon as I could.”

“So when did you start, then?”

“When I was starting high school. What about you?”

“I was still in the single digits…eight or nine, I think…” I’d snuck out to my friend’s treehouse at night even though I wasn’t allowed to, and the hunger came without a warning. Despite the blood inside the treehouse, no one could ever figure out what happened. The missing posters all over town haunted me. The finer details are gone now, but you still remember the basics of it. These things arise in your mind but you don’t say them, wanting to avoid the sting of voicing what you did.

“So it’s not the same timing for all of us? I’d thought it was some fucked-up symptom of puberty that none of the other kids at school had gotten or something…” Ian says, his voice trailing off. After a moment of silence, you laugh and keep on laughing, though it’s more an expression of your incredulity at this situation—at your lives—rather than true amusement. Ian laughs alongside you, though he sounds more light-hearted about it than you do. “I’m serious.”

“Ah…yeah. I guess it kind of is, in a way,” you whisper, just enough to be heard over the fire popping and the forest’s sounds. “A coming-of-age type of thing. You can never be the same after it happens.”

“That first time was scary for me, but mostly because of mum’s reaction when I told her.”

“What about before you told her?” you ask, wondering if you’ll regret this question.

Ian tilts his head back and stares up at the stars for a moment. “Physically, I felt…complete. Like…I don’t know, sort of like something in me had been starved and empty my whole life and I didn’t realize it until I finally ate.”

To your surprise, you feel some measure of envy at this, wishing it could be that straightforward for you. If you could eat only to satisfy the need, to achieve wholeness, and not feel any particular emotion about it—least of all the normal combination of negative emotions that crash down on you afterward—things could be so different.

This and all your previous conversations together might be the most time you’ve spent talking about the urge with any one person. That realization cools your blood and makes you want to draw back again. You’ve told him about your relatives and nearly spoke of your first time, and now you find dangerous words itching in your throat: I think I envy you. Maybe it’s all too much to lay in his hands and trust him with—even though you had no choice but to trust him with your life at the motel.

Trying to restore the emotional distance between you, you get up from your spot on the log and promptly announce, “I’m, uh, gonna go piss.”

Ian’s eyebrows crease in the middle, and a short laugh bursts from his mouth. “Uh, sure, be my guest.”

You walk off into the trees, trying to tell yourself that the physical distance is enough for now—even though you feel like you’ve splayed your chest cavity open before him and let him scrutinize your every cell.

—

You wake up in the tent alone the next morning, pulled out of sleep from the sound of voices nearby. It’s not unusual for Ian to wake up before you; with you not needing to get up at dawn hours anymore to run the motel’s affairs, you take every opportunity to sleep as long as you can.

Within seconds of waking, you realize the smell of the other eater is much stronger, which raises alarm within you. You peek your head outside the tent’s opening to see what’s going on, adjusting your scarf on your head. Outside, you see Ian talking to someone else at the picnic table—someone who you can only assume is the other eater. She has strawberry-blonde hair that reaches the middle of her back and skin that’s been tanned from weeks in the sun; there are freckles across her face and chest, and her eyes are a clear blue. She seems engrossed in the conversation, and though you can’t see Ian’s face, he must be the same way; this is the second eater he’s met after knowing none at all his entire life. You’re reminded of the almost desperate way he’d appealed to you in that motel bathroom, and all your internal organs wince at the remembrance.

And then she glances over his shoulder and sees you sitting there yards away. A small smile shifts her expression, but it doesn’t have the same energy of the friendly smile you get from a passing stranger in public. It says I know what you are, and we both know you cannot hide it from me. It creates that familiar unease in you.

Ian notices the change in her face and turns to look at you as she gets up from the table to walk over to the tent. “Hello there. We were just having a nice little talk; it’s not often I meet other eaters who’ve never encountered their own before. You caught yourself a rare one.” She smiles with her teeth now. “I’m Sherry. What’s your name?”

You tell her a fake name, still cautious about your identity. You wish you’d been awake earlier to catch the beginning of their conversation, but it’s too late to ruminate on that. “What did you talk about?” you ask, shuffling out of the tent now. You’re only wearing a tank top and sleep shorts because of how hot the tent can get when you’re both in it; you don’t know how the hell Ian puts out so much body heat.

“You know, the things every person talks about…the weather, things to do ‘round here, favorite foods.” Sherry cocks her head at the last phrase, as if amused by her own words. You’re unable to muster up a smile to match hers. “Personally, I like to feed every month…I think Ian would agree. It’s too bad you don’t indulge as often, I hear? You could eat plenty more—not just when the hunger tells you to.”

It’s clear that he’s said more than he needed to. You shoot him an annoyed look, and Ian smiles weakly before biting his lip.

“I’m fine,” you say curtly. “Really. A few times a year is more than I could ever have asked for.”

Sherry nods, her smile never becoming less amused. “You’re one of those eaters who’s not fond of the whole deal. That’s charming. Maybe you were gifted with more compassion than the rest of us. Or maybe you’re just…repressed.”

A blurred montage of all the people you’ve previously consumed flashes in your mind, along with the lives they lived, and you don’t know whether to feel angry or defeated. “Better some compassion than none, I would say.” Even with the annoyance behind your words, it seems useless to say this; there’s nothing you could say to make her see things your way.

“To each their own.” Sherry shrugs, nonchalant despite your irritation. “But I suppose I should be going now to get my day started, so—nice meeting you two.” You both watch her depart, Ian giving her a wave before she disappears into the trees. You sigh deeply, trying to tamp down the boiling in your chest as you begin picking out something to wear for the day from the small pile of clothes you own.

“Alright, look—she came up and said hello, said she had smelled us, and I…I was curious about her experience,” Ian says.

“I don’t know why you’re explaining anything to me; you’re grown and can talk to who you want. No one was chewed to pieces, right?” you say sarcastically. “That’s pretty much a win.”

“Because you’re obviously annoyed.”

You stand up straight now, gesturing angrily with your clothes as you speak. “Maybe because you should’ve left me out of your conversation. I didn’t even want to talk to you about this shit at first, do you remember? But you kept fucking begging me. Now some stranger knows about my situation without me ever sharing it with them?”

Ian smooths his hair back with both hands and sighs. “Okay, I can see how maybe that was fucked up. I shouldn’t have said anything about you to Sherry, but do you realize she would’ve known you’re an eater anyway?” You glare in response. “I’m sorry, alright? But it’s hard for me to get used to you being so closed-off about it when all I’ve ever wanted was to know I’m not alone in this shit. It doesn’t make any bloody sense to me!”

“Because I never cared about being alone in it,” you say, and a tiny flare of guilt pricks you from the dishonesty. “I didn’t think about who else might experience it. I was too busy trying to hide what I was. Even if I did consider it, I didn’t want to be around anyone else who could’ve been—like me.”

Deep down, you realize that despite what you’d sometimes fantasized about Alicia—that if she were an eater too, she’d understand you without judgment and you wouldn’t have to live under such stressful circumstances—the reality is nothing of what you thought it would be. Living your life with another eater hasn’t relieved you of the condemnation and shame you always feel, and you wonder if maybe the emotions have been ground too deeply into your soul to escape them.

The darkness in Ian’s gaze reminds you of the way he’d looked at you and Alicia when you confronted him in front of the motel office. “Stop bullshitting, I don’t believe you. People get lonely about smaller shit everyday, but you didn’t care whether you were the only cannibal in the world or not?”

Before you can respond, you hear the sounds of foliage rustling and feet shuffling; there’s a small group of people walking one of the trails yards away and laughing about something. You can make out flashes of their clothes through the tree branches and bushes. Sweat springs up on your body.

You lower your voice, hoping they haven’t heard any of your conversation. “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t believe me. Your experience isn’t the only one there is. Just stop telling others my business. You don’t have that right. For all I know, you could’ve slipped something about the motel.”

Ian’s eyes widen. “I didn’t say a damn word about the motel! All I mentioned was that sometimes the urge takes years for you, and that you hate it when it happens. You think I’m that unreliable, after all I’ve done to help you since then?”

You know he’s right about the motel, at least. You’re still somewhat incredulous that he dropped everything to help you clean up and escape unseen when he could’ve stayed in his room, acted like nothing happened, and left you to be hauled off by the law. But you’re angry, and though it may be petty, you don’t want him to be right about this. “What am I supposed to think of you? I don’t fucking know you like that. In case you forgot, we were perfect strangers not too long ago.” 

“And I try to know more about you so that we aren’t strangers, but you never want to talk about anything. Last night was something rare, but does that even matter to you?”

Your conversation from last night is like a distant memory, the personal details you shared with each other now dust in the wind. You wish you could take all of those words back, embarrassed from the vulnerability you allowed yourself. You wish you’d never known about him being a kid in high school, not knowing what to make of the new life that was waiting in his DNA, and that you hadn’t felt some measure of sympathy for him after hearing that story. You wish you’d done a better job of keeping him at arm’s length.

You gather your clothes close to your chest and shove your feet into your shoes so you can head for the river. “I’m starting to think it was a mistake. That’s all I know.” You walk past him without waiting to see if he’ll reply, trying to ignore the hurt in his expression.

—

The next morning is similar in that you are awakened by the sounds of voices again, but this time they are alarmed. Shouting, searching. Farther away, but approaching your area.

Ian’s next to you sleeping this time, his back to you as you sit up; at the start of this camping excursion you both had agreed to sleep facing away from each other, mostly for your own comfort. But it’s also convenient in this current situation when you’re still pissed at him.

You climb out of the tent to get a better listen, standing in the early morning air that’s already becoming too hot. You realize now that the shouts are someone’s name—Michael. The distress and pain are palpable in the voices of the people calling for the presumably missing person, and your stomach begins hurting with dread as your mind fills in the blanks about what might’ve happened. Not in such a public space…

Ian pokes his head out of the tent a few moments later, his long hair covering his eyes. “My God, what the hell is going on?”

“How would I know?” you scoff, squinting through the trees. You see a middle-age man and woman heading your way; there are other individuals spread farther out in the forest, still calling that person’s name. You catch glimpses of them through the foliage, their hands cupped around their mouths and heads swiveling like owls. When the couple reaches your camping spot, you notice the tear streaks on both their faces.

“H-have either of you seen this boy between last night and this morning?” the woman blurts out, holding up a picture with shaky fingers. The person depicted is a gangly blonde boy with a bowl cut who looks to be fifteen at the most. His wide smile shows his metal braces, and he’s holding up a large catfish. “We can’t find our son, p-please. He l-likes to go out exploring by himself even when we warn him not to, even at night—and he didn’t come back this time—he must’ve went out last night and got hurt or something, b-because some other campers found a patch of bloody grass…” The mother collapses into incoherent sobs.

The father tries to pick up where she left off, though his brown eyes are also wet and red and troubled beyond measure. “S-some other campers found this area of bloody grass in the deep woods away from the marked trails, so we—we thought maybe he got hurt and wasn’t able to find his way back—this is our first time camping here—b-but…”

“There…there was so much blood,” the mother gasps, shaking her head and clutching the picture so tightly you think it might rip.

“I-I’m…sorry,” you say, your throat feeling choked with a guilt that’s not yours to bear. “We haven’t seen him, or anyone else. We went to bed pretty early and only just woke up, so…” You ate dinner in silence with Ian last night before heading to bed earlier than usual. He’d stayed out by the fire pit smoking a cigarette for a while longer before coming in beside you.

The father nods, though your words seem to be another weight on his shoulders dampening his hopes of finding his son. “Thank you,” he mumbles, gently tugging the mother along to the next camping area.

“Jesus…” Ian mutters. It’s hard for you not to get lost in a rabbit hole of thinking about that boy and his apparent love for fishing and what he might’ve become if given the chance and the time. If only someone had had some kind of mercy on him. If only some otherworldly force had saved him. If only someone had simply not chosen him as their meal.

You walk away from the tent, trying to settle your nerves and corral your thoughts. You don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t respond to Ian’s call of your name, but you let your feet carry you away until you’re standing at the shore, looking out over the river. You listen to the tiny waves splash against the shore and feel the cool water run over your feet and try to let it ground you.

Maybe you shouldn’t care. Not when you’re capable of the same; it’s too hypocritical. Still, you can’t stop thinking about it as you dig your toes into the mud, trying to block out the sounds of the search party in the far distance. You’re almost ready to crouch down and put your hands over your ears when a hand touches your shoulder. You whip around to see Ian behind you.

“What?” you ask, voice coming out louder than you intend.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s not like anyone thinks it’s us.”

“Why would they? And who cares about that?” you snap. “A boy is dead, and you’re sitting up here—of course it wasn’t us. But we do know—”

“We don’t know that he’s dead, and we don’t know that either.”

“You don’t think she did it?”

Ian sighs. “Should we assume that? If she did—it was always gonna be someone, Y/N. If not him, someone else. No one gets spared when you have to live like we do, you know that.”

“You two seem quite similar, honestly,” you say, exasperated. “Maybe it’d make more sense for you two to be together like this instead of us. I just can’t understand how you think.”

Maybe you’ve made a huge error. Not by accepting his help, or even by renting him the motel room—you’d have to go further back than that. You shouldn’t have even gone out to check on him that night. You could’ve avoided this all if only…

One decision. The difference between you being in this campground-turned-crime-scene and you standing at the motel desk taking yet another stranger’s information was just one decision.

…But you still would’ve eaten Alicia, wouldn’t you have? The hunger is always beneath the surface, just waiting to reemerge. If not then, it would’ve been later.

You’re spinning out of control. The thought comes to you suddenly: There’s no way you can sustain this strange relationship with him, in which you travel endlessly with no destination and you try to pretend like he doesn’t eat other people and like you don’t have the same craving. Your talk at the fire pit should’ve shown you that; how can you ever be on equal ground with him in the way that another eater like Sherry could? And why should you want to? You’ve been trying to outrun this desire to consume for as long as you’ve had it; you won’t let him make you think this is normal.

Even if your thoughts are anchored more in your current emotional frenzy than in reality, you’re unable to regulate yourself to see things differently. A vise of panic grips your body and crushes you between.

There has to be a way out of this.

“Y/N. I don’t think you’re in the right state of mind right now,” he says more gently, noticing the frantic vibe emanating from you. “If you’re that concerned, we can leave, okay? Remember, we said we’d leave if things didn’t feel right?”

“Right…” you murmur, though your mind is elsewhere, planning. “Tomorrow. We can leave tomorrow.”

When night falls, Sherry returns to your campsite. To your knowledge, the search party is still out there somewhere, pushing out to the very edges of the campground’s boundaries to cover all the bases. All of the other campers who didn’t get involved in the search have either decided to stay to themselves or leave.

“Hey, friends. I come with gifts.” Her smile is big and white in the dark of night as she holds up some beer cans and a pack of cigarettes. 

That’s how the three of you end up sitting around the fire pit, smoke from both the flames and the tobacco curling through the air. Your beer can sits nearly empty in your lap; you’d taken a few apprehensive sips at first, and then more, in an attempt to numb yourself out. Sherry leads the conversation, talking about her travels and the exciting things she’s done and never once bringing up anyone she’s preyed on. You don’t know if she avoids the topic for your comfort. You highly doubt she cares. You say little to either of them, too lost in your own mind to engage.

But eventually, amid a lull in the talking, she sighs as if burdened and then smiles. It’s an odd contrast.

“I’ve always preferred to feed on males,” she announces. “I like to pretend each one of them is my father. I guess you could call it daddy issues, but I don’t give a fuck.”

Your heart quickens. “Your father?”

“‘Course. He’s the one who gave me this little gift. Then tried to kill me for it. Ain’t that something? Didn’t even do me the dignity of eating me; he tried to strangle me with his bare hands like some kind of brute.”

“That’s so fucked up,” Ian mutters.

“If I didn’t fight him like a bat outta hell, I’d be dead. I didn’t eat him after. I just ran away from home and never came back. But shit, sometimes I wish I had eaten him.” She chuckles, taking a drag from her cigarette.

“So, the boy…” you start, but don’t know how to finish.

Sherry leans her head against her palm and studies you before saying, “Take a guess.” Ian raises his eyebrows.

“But why him?” you ask, voice cracking. “Why in a place like this, with so many others around? Don’t you think it’s dangerous?”

“It’s not if you know what you’re doing.” Sherry shrugs. “Besides, he was curious, easy to lure, and outside at night when he shouldn’t have been. They never expect danger to come from a sweet little thing like me. You should take advantage of that.” Sherry gestures to you, grinning again. “Use your feminine wiles and all that shit.”

You pour the last bit of your beer into the grass and stand up from the log you’d been sitting on. “It doesn’t work like that for me.” You walk back to the tent feeling chilled despite the humidity of late August. You try to ignore the sensation of two pairs of eyes following you.

—

That morning, you wake up much earlier than Ian does. You check to make sure he’s asleep, his chest rising and falling evenly, as you crawl from under the covers. You’re as careful and quiet as can be as you gather your things in the tent and strewn around the campsite—though they are thankfully few—and shove them into your traveling bag.

Once you have all your belongings together, you slip back into the tent. Ian’s jeans are folded in the corner with his other clothes; you know the car keys are in one of the pockets. As you slowly search through them, you hope that he won’t awaken. You watch his face for signs of consciousness, and as you do, the sight of him lying there scratches at something deep inside of you. It arouses a sentiment you don’t want to think of as sympathy. Are you betraying him in some way by doing this?

The feel of metal against your fingers causes your heart to race. You slide the keys out with as much control as you can muster. Then you back out of the tent, telling yourself this is the last time you will see him, before letting the flaps close and obscure your view of him.

You don’t breathe properly again until you’re in the parking lot, clutching the strap of your bag and the car keys like you’re being hunted. You falter in your steps, however, when you see Sherry in the parking lot too, messing with something in her car—a boxy, dark red Chevy. She isn’t the only person out here—there’s a man and his small child at their own car, the man tiredly searching for some beloved toy in the backseat while the child whines—but somehow you feel cornered.

You try to ignore her as you shove the key into the lock and throw your bag into the passenger seat, scanning the trees as if Ian might be there, shouldering his way out of the foliage. There is no one.

“Leaving so soon?” You turn at the sound of Sherry’s voice, unsure when she got over here and how she moved so soundlessly. “It’s probably for the best; there’s rumors the park rangers are gonna be temporarily closing this site.”

You shrug, your body stiff. “And?”

Her eyes search the car as if looking for something in particular. “Doesn’t look like enough stuff for both of you. You’re leaving Ian behind?” She laughs, her face simultaneously surprised and amused. 

You don’t owe her an explanation, you tell yourself. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t. When I think about it…you two probably wouldn’t have made it very far together, anyway.” She throws her hands up in a casual what can you do? motion and makes for the treeline, calling over her shoulder. “Maybe you’ll change your mind about eating one day.”

“Maybe not,” you mutter, sliding into the front seat and starting the engine.

—

Summer fades into fall, though the weather doesn’t yet reflect this change.

You drive for miles and try not to think about many things—most prominently, Alicia or Ian. Yet, your version of not thinking about Ian involves a lot of ruminating on whether you should’ve left, what happened to him after, where he might be now, whether he decided to tag along with Sherry or just ended up alone again. You feel sick whenever the last possibility crosses your mind.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. He was alone before me, and he’ll be fine after me. We were never really going to work anyway.

During your worst times, you wonder if you were purposely setting him up for disaster; you’d told him yourself how dangerous other eaters could be. You know you would never try to feed on him, but what about Sherry? The guilt threatens to make you implode; sometimes you want to fly back down the highway and find him again somehow, and say…what? What could you say to make it less horrible? Whenever your mind turns down that road, you attempt to convince yourself that it doesn’t concern you anymore. Whatever happens to him, good or bad, is no longer your business.

Not thinking about Alicia involves a lot more open wallowing and feeling sorry for yourself while simultaneously hating that you feel any pity for yourself. You deserve no one’s sympathies. But that doesn’t stop you from curling into the backseat and recalling past memories through sobs, dragging your fingernails down your arms until you bleed and scar. Even when you’re asleep, your dreaming brain conjures terrible scenarios in which everything is normal again, you’re working at the motel again and you’re laughing at some silly comment she’s made, shying away from her as she tickles your arm or pinches your side, and it feels so real that it’s physically painful when you awaken.

So you spend your days like this, hoping to somehow purge the trauma from your system by ignoring it—and doing a terrible job of both. You go entire days without speaking to anyone, walking through parks or down busy sidewalks without regard for the people around you who buzz with life and excitement. You count the money you have left every night and begin shoplifting to try to slow down your spending. You even consider finding a job again, though you still don’t trust yourself to be in such close proximity to other people for hours at a time; you just have to find a city you like enough to live in first. Somewhere populous enough for you to be insignificant, and fast-paced enough for you to have plenty of distractions from your oppressive thoughts.

You ponder this idea one early morning in a small diner; there are a few people here for their breakfast, but not an uncomfortable amount. The other diners are too sluggish or disinterested to regard your presence—or each other’s presences.

The atlases for several different states lie on the table in front of you; you flip through one on Georgia. You and Ian had collected many of them while traveling. Maybe you could work somewhere that doesn’t require you to be around too many other people. A call center, perhaps. But you’d still have coworkers. Maybe a typist job; you’d spend all day behind a computer filling in spreadsheets and taking tedious phone calls. It wouldn’t be much different from what you used to do. You could sew clothes in the backroom of a tailor’s shop, or take some mind-numbing factory job…

You just need something to occupy your mind. Being left alone with nothing but your thoughts and the road ahead of you is wearing you thinner each day. Was it even this bad during the time you spent alone after Marygold? You can’t remember. Maybe your brain is blocking the memories for your own sanity.

As you place your tip on the table for the waitress, she stops in the middle of gathering your dishes and observes your face. You catch her gaze and stare back, wondering if she knows you from the motel. You’re beginning to mentally spiral when she says,

“You look like a girl who’s lost to love.”

“Love?”

She puts a hand on her hip, looking at you like you’re the saddest thing she’s seen all year. It makes you uncomfortable. “You have that lovelorn look I’ve seen a thousand times before. Poor thing. Who would think of breaking your heart?”

Myself. “I don’t love anyone,” you mumble, chest aching as you say the lie.

“Everyone loves someone,” the waitress says. “I believe you’ll find someone new, if that’s what you’re yearning for. Don’t be so down.”

You shake your head, wanting to escape this diner and this conversation. “I’m a little too fucked up for that.” Your voice fractures on the last words, and you hold your body still in an effort to stop yourself from crying. If you hold your breath long enough, maybe your body will shut itself down and forget that it was about to break.

“Everyone’s a little fucked up, too, girlie. But that’s why you find that special someone who can put up with your crazy—or someone who has the same wild hair up their ass.”

You swallow hard and let out an exhale; there’s still a sheen of tears on your eyes, but the drops haven’t fallen. Your lips form a miniscule smile at her turn of phrase, amusement briefly flitting through you.

“Anyway, I don’t mean to be nosy. I just didn’t want you to leave here looking so depressed.” You probably look more disturbed than you did when you first entered the establishment, so you’re pretty sure that mission has failed. But some part of you appreciates that this stranger took the time to even speak to you, to care that you looked upset and want to do something about it.

She smiles and places her hand over yours. You allow yourself to take comfort in the touch for a moment; warmth spreads upward from where your hands meet, sparking something in your chest. But in an instant, the vault door in your heart slams back closed from where it’d cracked open, and the fears rush back in, spiking all your senses into anxiety. You’re soon pulling away, slipping out the front door and into the morning sun.

—

You’re not sure how to feel when you smell him again. 

The scent comes to you while you’re in a grocery store, debating whether to pay like all the other customers or just steal the few essentials you need and leave. The end of October is days away, and the vibrant Halloween decor and packaging are in full force throughout the store.

Many emotions race through you at once. You become hyperaware of your increased heart rate and the sweat that prickles your body, and you can’t figure out whether you’re afraid of or angry at his presence. Or relieved. You wonder how he managed to find you again—probably the same reason why you know he’s here without laying eyes on him, though that seems unlikely. You don’t think any eater can pick up smells from that kind of distance. Then you consider that maybe this is just a coincidence, the two of you arriving in the same place. Or some sick variant of fate. Could the universe be that cruel?

You think about dashing out of the store before he can see you, though there’s not much point. Why should you run? You were here first. If so-called fate has decided that this reunion was always going to happen at some point, then you don’t want to spend the rest of your life running from him. So you wait for him to come to you, trapped in a tornado of emotions.

You’re in the vegetable aisle trying not to get sprayed by the misters suddenly cutting on when you see him. You shake droplets of water off your hand and then you glance up and he’s there, approaching you like he only intends to leave this store with one thing: you. For a split second, you wonder if it’s really him; his hair is unkempt under a baseball cap, and he’s wearing a pair of yellow-tinted glasses you’ve never seen on him. His bag is slung over one shoulder.

You can feel the anxiety pouring off of him when he stops in front of you; his fingers tremble as he fidgets with his rings. He has the air of an older brother—or what you’d imagine one to be like—annoyed and afraid after you’ve run off without him in the store and gotten lost, and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry or curse.

“Didn’t expect to ever see me again, huh, darling?” Ian keeps his voice mostly even, but it sounds like that requires significant effort. “Not the way you drove off with my fucking car, I bet.” It was never your car, you think.

“How did you even find me?” you ask, voice small. 

“Think about it. The atlas.”

You do think about it. And then you remember; you’d talked about the next place you’d travel to after staying at the campground. You both agreed on a random town named Hendersonville, which is where you are now—but only after months of directionless hopping around from city to city. How would he think to come here now, months after the fact, when it’s possible that you could’ve already been through the town and long gone, or decided to never visit Hendersonville at all? Terrible fate…

Something else catches your attention before you can reply to this. Despite the agitated state you’re both in, you realize that you’re picking up on his scent and no others.

“Did you and Sherry…?”

“She’s dead,” he says.

That’s the last thing you expected to hear. “What?”

He pulls down the collar of his T-shirt. There are many scars along the junction of his neck and shoulder that weren’t there before, and it takes you a moment to notice that some of them resemble teeth marks. 

“So…” Your throat seizes up, and you have to clear it a couple times to speak again, though you avoid speaking too loudly. “...she tried to eat you?”

He lets his collar go and nods with a jerky movement. “After only a month. I had to kill her or she would’ve done me in. It was close.”

Your words haunt you yet again. Us being dangerous to everyone else doesn’t mean we aren’t a risk to each other, too. And for that reason, you don’t understand why he’s returned to you, a fellow cannibal.

You are shocked again when you register that there’s a small part of you that feels sorry for Sherry. You think of how she tried to regain control after her father’s attempted murder of her by preying on so many other men, doing to them what she wished she had done to him, only to end up dead by another man in the end. There’s something terribly unfair about it all.

“I…see.” You realize you’ve been holding a bell pepper for an awkwardly long time, and you waffle between getting a plastic bag for it or setting it back down. Frustrated, you toss it back with the others.

“Then I ate her,” he continues. You resist the urge to recoil.

“And you’re back here in front of me because…why? You’re not worried I might turn on you the same? I did take ‘your’ car.”

His laugh is colorless and dry. “You’re fucking joking, right? I know how you are. You can barely stand to talk about it, and I’m supposed to believe you’d eat me?”

“Shut up.” You’re more offended by him saying I know how you are as if he understands you so intimately after only a few months. It angers you to think maybe he could know you—know all these unpleasant things about you and still want to return for you. You begin walking away from him then, though there’s no real urgency in your movements to get away from him.

“You shut up. You may have tried to throw me aside, but we both know we’re not finished with each other.” He follows you into another aisle; there’s an old woman pushing a cart coming from the opposite direction, and he waits to speak again until after she’s gone. “We’re some of the few who know what it’s like.”

You suck your teeth, feeling foolish. “But…that’s why I left you. Thought you’d gravitate to Sherry, fit better together.”

“You see how well that turned out. What does it really matter that we feel differently about it as long as we’re not trying to fucking kill each other?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, because responding would mean admitting you’ve put yourself through months of emotional torment on the basis of a false and impulsive assumption. You want to bury the guilt chewing at your organs but it only worsens when he says,

“I just—fuck’s sake. I don’t want to be alone again.”

You stare at each other as those words settle in the air, though you struggle to maintain eye contact and soon look away with a wince. The most unbearable part of it is the pain in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I fucked things up when I shouldn’t have. I…misjudged.” Your words fade at the end, as you are left with nothing else to say to remedy the situation. Ian rubs a hand across his face, shifting his glasses up as he does so, and you pretend like you don’t notice the redness around his eyes. The both of you continue walking down the aisle, slower this time, the silence between you thick. Neither of you feels any better than you did before this meeting, but at least there aren’t thousands of miles between you anymore.

Finally, he says, “So. Are you gonna get anything, or will we just walk around until closing?” 

“Well…I don’t know. Do you have a car? How did you get here?”

“I’ve been hitch-hiking. And walking. But mostly hitch-hiking.” As if to prove it, he slides a wad of cash halfway out of his jacket pocket. 

“Oh. I—was thinking of finding a job,” you blurt out. It has nothing to do with your current conversation, but you feel like you’ve lost your ability to talk to him in his absence. You reach for anything to stop from thinking about the reason why he was gone, why he had to hitch-hike with total strangers. “To get more money.”

“And staying here?”

“No…there isn’t anything in this town for me. But maybe somewhere else.”

“Gotta find somewhere to live, then. I’m guessing you aren’t counting on having a roommate.” His voice is cynical, and you know he probably expects you to abandon him again.

“It was just an idea,” you mutter. “I haven’t even tried to look for anything.” You find that you’ve walked back around toward the entrance of the grocery store. A life-size skeleton grins at you open-mouthed from where it’s been propped against a display bin, all 32 teeth showing. You shake your head and sigh. “Let’s just get out of here. I’ve been in here long enough.”

The sky is turning dark blue with the onset of night as you walk outside; the streetlights have already come on. You go to the driver’s side of the sedan and gesture for Ian to get inside. He hesitates for a moment like he might reject—your heart nearly ceases—then throws his bag into the backseat. Exhaling, you get behind the wheel. For a moment, you just sit there with your hands slack on the wheel as he gets in beside you and lights a cigarette with shaking fingers.

You almost miss his quiet words when he speaks at the same time you start the engine up: “Did you even miss me?”

You don’t know if you can admit that you did—or that “missing” him felt more like something had been scooped out of you, your insides painfully scraped clean afterward. You chalk it up to your inherent loneliness, the reason why you’re drawn to him despite not wanting to be. You wish your heart hadn’t reacted so painfully at the possibility of him deciding to leave you after all, and yet you have no one else. Not your grandparents who abandoned you, your cannibal mother lost somewhere in the world, or your father who died before you were even born.

“I…regretted it.” You don’t look at him, occupied with pulling out of the parking spot. “Yes, if it makes a difference for you to know…I regretted it all the time.”

He says nothing for a while. You wonder if your reply was enough, if he expected more. It feels like there’s a third thing in the car with you, sitting in the space between your bodies and preventing you from fully accessing each other—everything that remains unsaid.

“Where are you staying now?” he finally asks.

“An abandoned barn near here. Seems like the owners just up and left all their things. Still smells kinda like horse, but…the loft isn’t so bad.”

“...Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

—

“You never did tell me exactly how you showed up at the motel that first night,” you tell Ian. “I deserve to know that much, at least. What brought you into my life.”

It’s the second week of November, and you’re still in Hendersonville. 

You gaze at the large pond before you, your view broken every so often by Ian walking through the overgrown grass around the pond—treading an aimless path but never venturing very far from the car. The engine is still warm underneath your butt where you’re half-leaning, half-sitting on the hood, and you try to enjoy the warmth while it lasts. 

The pond is about 10 minutes from the barn where you’re staying, and you’d driven here several times when it was just you. But you’ve only been here during the light hours; seeing everything at night is much different. Something about it feels overly familiar in a way that unsettles you. The scene threatens to dredge up old memories of your nighttime swims with Marygold—right down to the nearly full moon, huge and clear in the sky. You have to fill the quiet with your voice if you have any hope of outrunning the dark thoughts.

Ian crosses his arms and sort of side-eyes you, like maybe he’s skeptical about you initiating a conversation like this after the fallout of the camping excursion, and you mimic him until he breaks with a small, barely-amused laugh. Better to focus on his past issues than your own, you figure—as fucked up as that may be. You don’t move your gaze from him as he tells the story, watching him continuously flick around a few loose strands of his hair on his forehead.

“Right. Well…I tried to eat this young farmer guy—saw him at this country bar, or he saw me, and I guess he liked what he saw…I ended up going home with him, because I was hungry. That’s why I’d gone to the bar that night. Told him I was living on the streets and had barely eaten in days. Made him feel sorry for me. And then I tried to eat him…but when he started fighting it, I didn’t realize he had a pocketknife, and he got me pretty good before I ended up killing him. Too much commotion alerted the neighbors. I only had enough time to try to bandage it before I had to get the fuck out. Walked through a fucking corn field…then eventually I reached the highway, and you know the rest.”

“So you killed someone and didn’t…finish them.” The thought of that almost bothers you even more than the eating itself. It just seems senseless. The man could still be alive now, but his life was ended and went to complete waste; his body didn’t even serve its purpose as sustenance. You realize that this isn’t even the first time this has happened, thinking back to that time he was caught while up North.

He doesn’t seem offended by your shift in mood—maybe just weary. He rubs his eyes. “It happens. But I aim to make sure it happens as rarely as possible.”

You turn away and look across the pond again, your mind getting lost in the dark copse of trees on the other side. Being outside at this time of night is not the most comforting thing in the world, but in truth, is your nature really that different from whatever dangers lurk in the woods? “I wonder, then…how are we any better than the average serial killer?”

“We kill because we have to.”

“Being chained to our physiology doesn’t get rid of our blame.”

“I never said it did,” Ian replied. “And that’s your problem. Eating doesn’t need to be innocent or pure or blameless in order for you to accept that it’s a part of yourself…it just is.”

You can’t muster the will to counter him, and he doesn’t press the matter, likely not in the mood for yet another round of verbal sparring. He resumes walking his circles, wearing trails into the grass. You continue sitting on the hood long after the engine has cooled, watching the moon’s reflection tremble on the water’s surface and imagining what you’d tell Alicia and Marygold and all the others if they could hear you, somewhere in the universe.

I’m sorry. It’s just who I am.

—

With Hendersonville behind you, you’re back to sleeping in the car many nights. Among the various things you see as you travel through urban cities and rural areas, fall festivals are common occurrences everywhere.

There’s one coming up in the distance now; you’ve been idling in evening traffic for minutes, and it becomes clear that this congestion must be because everyone’s heading to the festivities. You press your face closer to the car’s window glass to see. The bright lights of the numerous booths, rides, and decorations illuminate the late evening. Countless people walk or run around, some wearing elaborate outfits.

You’re just coming from a mom-and-pop restaurant where the wife of the owner had called you darling even more than Ian does. She’d assumed you both to be lovers and gave you a free slice of pumpkin pie to share, and neither of you bothered to correct her if it meant treats you didn’t have to pay for.

As you observe the festivities, you see that there are two booths set up on either side of the festival’s main entrance; one claims to offer some type of spiritual readings, denoted by a large sign of a purple crystal ball. But your eyes catch on the bone-white trailer sitting on the other side of the entrance. It has been converted into a mobile booth with a large sign with red and blue lettering that asks one question: Are You Going to Heaven? An older man with graying hair sits in the booth, hands clasped together as he watches groups of people entering the festival grounds. It’s too far away and too dark to be entirely certain, but you don’t think you’re imagining the cross hanging up behind the man on the trailer’s wall or the thick book resting near his hands.

“Looks like they’re having fun,” Ian says, face illuminated in red by the taillights of another car, one hand on the wheel.

“Mmhm…” you answer, your mind still hung up on that booth and sign as the car finally drives past. Memories of your former life knock at the door of your consciousness, but you don’t let them in.

You’re unable to ignore your discomfort later that night, though, when you and Ian return to the safe parking spot you’d found days earlier and settle in to go to sleep. The cold has finally become a permanent fixture as the months venture deeper into late autumn, and you clutch your blanket tightly to your body as you drift off in the backseat.

In your dreamscape, you wake up in Alicia’s bed in the living quarters of the motel office, blood dripping from every part of you—hands, arms, face, chest. The sight of your bloody hands splayed out in front of you makes terror spike through your body, your breaths coming short. As you turn to look at your surroundings, you see the remains of Alicia lying on the bed next to you, her torso almost completely hollowed out. Her brown hair is streaked with new and drying blood—same as the red-dyed ivory of her broken rib cage. Her dead eyes look at you with a frozen expression, pained and imploring. Begging, even. Why did you do this to me?

You have the sensation of screaming, feeling it emanating from your body and hearing the sound pierce your ears, but your mouth isn’t open. You try to scramble off the bed and away from the mess you’ve made of the woman you love, but no matter how hard you fight, you have no leeway; it’s like the sheets are holding your limbs hostage, sucking you in like quicksand. Sweat pours from your body and stings your eyes.

In the next moment, you’re no longer struggling, and Alicia is no longer next to you. You’re not in her bedroom at all anymore; you’re sitting at a kitchen table you don’t recognize. The kitchen has a rustic and homey appearance, as if it belongs in a country homestead. Lacy floral curtains frame each side of the window above the farmhouse sink, allowing the dark orange evening sunlight to stream in, and the black wood stove a few feet away from your chair has a steady fire burning inside of it. Someone’s cooking, then, or preparing to cook. Who?

Ian turns to face you from where he is standing at the counter—when’d he get there? You didn’t notice him before—with two porcelain plates in his hands and a delighted grin on his face. Have you ever seen him look so happy before? You smile back at him as your eyes shift from his face to the plates; balanced on top of each is a perfectly bloody heart, the muscle thick and hardy and still beating although it’s attached to nothing. The kitchen floor around you both is stained with large swathes of blood, which have sunk deep into the wood’s fibers, though you hardly notice this.

Ian sets the table and sits in front of you, and neither of you bother with utensils as you pick up each heart with your hands. You hold the heart against your lips, feeling the slickness of it and letting the blood smear across your mouth, marveling at the constant pumping motion of its ventricles. It’s endearing, you think. How it tries so hard to maintain life when it’s fruitless anyway.

Then you bite into it.

You both eat ravenously, blood staining your mouths and hands the deep shade of carmine. The taste of the raw flesh is better than any food you have ever consumed, and innately, you know this is what you were made for. You laugh at how good it feels, glancing up at Ian with pure mirth. The indulgence is so sweet that you don’t notice the wood stove growing hotter and hotter in the corner of the room until the wallpaper behind it catches fire.

By the time you finish eating and regain enough wherewithal to realize what’s going on, the entire room is ablaze, and you are alone. The fire crawls up your chair and then engulfs the table. There’s nowhere safe for you to run, but you try anyway as the flames catch hold of your feet and then your legs, eating their way up your body. You stumble through the house screaming, the heat raging around you at an incomprehensible level.

Your skin begins to slough off and you scream endlessly for it to stop, but it never does. There is always more skin to replace what’s being scorched off of you; it grows back with an unbearable itching sensation as it knits together, only to burn right up again. You collapse to the ground on your hands and knees, though it’s excruciating to put weight on any part of your body.

Through the brightness of the fire and the heat haze, you make out a strange white and blue pattern on the floor in front of you, and you realize that it’s shards from the porcelain plates. Together, the broken pieces spell out:

Are You Going to Heaven?

You wake up in a flurry of limbs and blanket, hitting Ian who’s sleeping in the reclined front seat. The accidental violence combined with the sudden rocking of the car is enough to startle him awake. His voice floats out somewhere in the chaos, but you don’t really register it as you fling the car door open and stumble out of the sedan. You walk a couple yards away from the car—just enough to let the cold night air spear through your skin and convince you that you’re no longer trapped in a much hotter place. You hear the front car door open behind you and footsteps on the grass as Ian steps out. He calls your name, and you pretend not to hear as you stare at the ground and then toss your head to the skies, hands on your hips for some sort of stability. Your stomach aches badly, but you can’t get sick now.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?” he asks when he gets closer. 

It takes you more than a minute to work up a response without the possibility of a scream or vomit tumbling from your mouth, and he waits patiently as you do. “Y-yeah. It’s…probably not that big of a deal…I was…” The next words spill out before you can think to keep them inside. “Just a bit…freaked out by a…sign.”

“A sign?”

“The sign at the…festival. The white booth…” You wave your arm, unable to say much more. A steady throb is starting to take over your skull, and it’s too much effort to keep talking.

Ian thinks for a long moment before he seems to realize. He takes another step towards you. “Babe, look at me; it’s okay. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you. You’re fine. I know it feels bad in the moment, believe me, but you’re here now, and you’re safe.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” you murmur. You can’t imagine the look on your face right now, but your eyes feel dry and painful, like you’ve actually been in a fire pit for hours. Maybe he can safeguard you against the physical dangers this world presents, but he can’t hold your hand into the afterlife. If there even is one.

He grasps your upper arm, but only lightly so as not to make you more distressed, and draws you into his side—his head leaning into yours, his hair tickling you when the wind blows through it. You find yourself sagging into him even though you hate yourself for doing so. You don’t deserve this show of affection, not after how you left him behind and not even before then; you desperately want to preserve the distance between you, and yet you want this touch, too. You’re unable and unwilling to tease apart those feelings, though, as the only things that register in your mind are that he is warm against you, he is doing his best to comfort you, and his smell—the smell of him, not of being an eater—has become familiar to you in a way that disarms some frantic part of your brain. Because of all those things, you allow him to put his other arm around you and silently hold you in that grassy lot.

And for the first time since you met in that grocery store again, you feel like whatever’s between the two of you isn’t broken beyond repair.

—

1986

The next time you eat someone, it happens at a nightclub in January. 

Going to this club is Ian’s idea, although you agree to it when he brings it up. In hindsight, you can’t say what possessed you to do it. You’ve never been a fan of crowds of people because they could readily create a catastrophic situation if your hunger comes. Maybe it’s how fresh everything still feels after the New Year passes—the sensation of anticipation it brings. Maybe it’s the blanket of stars that appear extra luminous tonight, rivaling the shine of the city buildings around you. Maybe Ian has just gotten better at using his powers of persuasion on you, or his recklessness has rubbed off on you, similar to how you feared his desire for flesh would increase your own when you first met him.

No matter the true reason, you find yourself amidst a scene of sweaty strangers boxed in by the small club’s four walls. The other people’s proximity to you quickly spikes your anxiety, driving you away from Ian and back to the outer edges of the room, though he tries at first to persuade you to dance with him. You give him a slight smile and an eye-roll and let your arm slip through his tattooed fingers.

“Go dance,” you mouth to him before heading toward one of the many booths lined up against the far wall.

You sit there watching everyone dance for a little while, working up the nerve to rejoin the crowd. There are so many bodies, all moving to the sound of In My House playing over the speakers at what must be max volume.

“Did you come here alone?” a feminine voice shouts from your left, startling you. You turn to find a woman with softly-waved hair that touches her shoulders; she wears a dress with big swirls of color, the flared skirt stopping just past her thighs. Your gaze goes all the way down her pantyhose-clad legs to her high heels and back up again. The pink and purple lights framing her from behind make her seem like she’s glowing.

“Uh—” Awkward pause as you try to figure out how to respond. “I…didn’t, but the person I came with is just my friend, so…” You shrug. It feels somewhat odd to refer to Ian as a friend, even after all this time. You are two people traveling in the same direction, lashed together by your fatal flaw, but you suppose “friend” is as accurate as it gets.

She smiles amusedly, undeterred by your awkwardness. “So that means you’re free to dance with me, then?”

You think about how you rejected Ian’s offer and chuckle to yourself. Ironic. But you find yourself not wanting to say no to this woman with her sweet brown skin and dimpled smile, despite your inner sense of judgment trying its best to pull you back. So you accept, still feeling embarrassed as she slides her lace-gloved hand into yours and guides you onto the dancefloor again.

Her perfume contains different notes, but as you dance together to another uptempo pop song and the aroma encircles you, it reminds you of Alicia’s signature scent all the same. You try to put that reminder out of your mind, though it’s difficult. Instead, you make an effort to focus on her shining face under the lights, the long gold earrings dangling from her ears, the sway of her black hair and dress as she moves.

You Give Good Love comes on afterward, and before you know it her body is pressed to the length of yours, virtually no space left between you as she tucks her face into your neck. You put your arms around her and sigh at how she fits against you, thinking you might like to do something like this more often. All the time, really. It feels good in a way you don’t quite have words for, even though you’re still surrounded on all sides by a bunch of sweaty and excited people. Just by the movements of your bodies, you could close your eyes and be spirited away to some other realm where everything is right—where you are not the monster you’ve come to believe you are.

You are finally beginning to relax a bit when your stomach twists painfully.

All your organs freeze from the shock of this unexpected sensation. You have paused indefinitely, and you watch your body from above as you and the woman continue moving together, two dark figures flashing in and out of the strobing lights. And yet, you simultaneously feel yourself still in her arms. Her breath is on your neck, warm and smelling of alcohol and some fruit—lemons. The muscles of her back are beneath your hands; you want to peel her skin away and see what they look like underneath, run your fingers across the striations. Her soft cheek is pressed to yours, so soft that it makes you want to tear into it like the flesh of a plum and swallow it. Your mouth twitches with the desire to consume.

“No!” you shout, pushing her away from you so fiercely that she falls back into someone behind her. You turn and begin shoving a ragged path through the club-goers. The sights and smells of pure humanness are overwhelming, begging you to tuck your face into the nearest neck or arm joint and just bite. There are too many hearts beating in one space, too many lungs expanding with wet and bloody life. You begin to cry, but you force your body to continue moving until you’re stumbling through the club’s back exit.

In the dank alleyway behind the club, you splash through a puddle and collapse behind a dumpster, pressing yourself into the corner and hoping that the smell of garbage will disappear your appetite, though you know it doesn’t work like that. You tuck your head between your knees and try to breathe evenly. The music is only slightly less loud out here; whereas it was simply an overzealous volume before, you feel like you’re being crushed by the sound itself in your overly sensitive state.

You don’t know how long you sit there shaking, the hunger ripping your stomach apart and forcing a long whimper out of your mouth, but your whole body jumps when you hear the exit door slam open. When you look up, Ian’s stepping out of the doorway and fumbling with the limp body of a man, his hands clasped around the man’s arm and waist.

You watch with terrified eyes as Ian lowers the man to the ground in front of you, leaning him against the wall so that he won’t slump over. “No—what are you doing—”

The man in front of you is too drunk to put a sentence together and barely seems to know where he is. His sweaty brown hair flops in his eyes, and his bearded mouth moves with nonsensical speech.

“No,” you cry again. “I can’t do this. Don’t make me do this!” Ian crouches beside you.

“Darling, you have to eat.” His hand is on the back of your neck, not forcing you toward the man but trying to ground you in your body. He’s so close that his words reverberate within your nervous system. Eat. You shake your head, but you’re becoming lightheaded from the sheer hunger. The smell of alcohol from the man is overpowering, but underneath it you can still detect his vulnerable fleshiness, and you need to know how it tastes. As if once again disembodied, you watch your hands reach for the man’s shoulders, Ian’s own hand slipping away from your neck, and bring him closer so that his throat is bare to you.

You mouth at the sweat on his neck, the saltiness intensifying the taste of his skin; you lick his Adam’s apple and savor how the ridge of it slides against your tongue. Then you bite down.

The tears continue to roll down your cheeks as you devour the man. Ian doesn’t leave you to dine alone, however.

He reaches into the mess of the open chest, digs between the deflated flaps that are the lungs, and tugs out the man’s heart. Takes a bite of it. You watch as he does, horrified but unable to look away even as you crush part of a rib between your molars. He offers it to you—tears the muscle in half and gives you the unbitten part. You accept it with eager hands and eager mouth, chewing through muscle fibers like it’s a delicacy. Ian licks the blood from his fingers, a smile playing at his lips, and goes back for more.

It’s too much like the dream, and it frightens you. You half-expect a portal to hell to open beneath you both and send you free-falling into a lake of fire. But you are unable to make yourself stop. Neither of you stop until an hour has passed and the blood and a pile of crimson-stained clothes are all that remains.

You find a still-intact plastic bag in the dumpster and place the clothes into it before tying it thrice and shoving it as deep into the trash as you can. 

Using an old rag from the dumpster and another puddle of water at the back of the alley, you both do your best to remove the blood on your hands and faces. It makes you feel disgusting, but it’s the best you can do for the time being, and you can’t go inside the club or onto the streets like this. Then you shove the rag back underneath the pile of trash, too. 

As you and Ian emerge from behind the dumpster and walk down the sidewalk to find the sedan, despair envelops you. You accept it inside of you—let it spread throughout your bones and blood without much of a fight. You are defeated, understanding fundamentally that you can never be like the people in the club, the people walking these city streets, no matter how many of their human peculiarities and normalities you try to adopt. The knowledge hollows you out.

On the way back to the house you’ve been squatting in, you steal a cigarette from Ian’s pack and turn the radio to several different stations before choosing some talk show discussing nothing you care about. Emotionally, you’re floating somewhere in the space between numb and wounded.

But people die everyday, right?

Like with Alicia, Ian tries to prevent you from becoming lost in your grief about it. There isn’t anything said between you during the car ride. But once you get to the house, he wipes the fresh tears that spring forth, runs the shower for you, and makes sure you have clean clothes for afterward.

“Are you good?” he asks before you get in the shower, standing in the bathroom doorway with you. He brushes your cheek with the same hand that plucked the heart out. There’s still blood underneath a few of his fingernails and staining the cross on his ring. For a few seconds, you feel an unfamiliar comfort in knowing that he has seen you destroy another person and feels no animosity or repulsion toward you because of it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, shifting your face into his palm. But the moment passes, and the chill overtakes you again. You step away from him and shut the door, letting the bathroom fill with steam.

—

Your feelings toward Ian have always hovered in an odd limbo, going from distrust to tolerance to something that can be called companionship. But just like the seasons transition into each other, something inside you starts to shift after that night at the club.

Your eyes begin lingering on him when he lifts his shirt to wipe away sweat or strips it off entirely when the heat becomes too much. Your gaze can’t help but be drawn to the way his long hair sticks to his damp, darkly-inked neck, or how his cigarettes fit between his full lips like they were made specifically for his mouth. When it’s the last few weeks of winter and you have no choice but to sleep together in the backseat for extra warmth—the car’s HVAC system on its last leg—being smushed into that small space with him isn’t unpleasant like you once assumed it would be. Far from it.

When you and Ian go to a theater one day—one of those matinees in the middle of the week that only elderly people attend—and end up watching a random film that you didn’t know was a romance, you are startled when you have the sudden thought that you want him in the same way. That you wouldn’t mind him holding your face in his hands again but kissing you this time, or walking down a street hand-in-hand, or lying next to him in some stranger’s bed and listening to him talk until you fall asleep. You try to send those thoughts somewhere far away, but days pass and they keep coming back, and that wanting in your chest only grows.

You’re reluctant to think of your feelings as love—at least not yet, with your heart still grieving the woman perished by your own hand—and you know he can’t save you from this reality that you must live in until your time ends. But as imperfect as everything is, you feel like he knows you in some inutterable way. You begin to believe that this could be enough. Maybe you’ve always subconsciously understood that the world of love is no home for monsters, proven by the multiple times it has expelled you from its viscera, leaving you shaking and bereaved. But maybe whatever this is now could be enough to escape its view and its judgment—two monsters together to leave the humans to their softer affections.

And though he doesn’t say anything outright, Ian notices your newfound attention, smiling knowingly whenever he catches you looking. His hand stays on yours for longer than it needs to whenever he passes you items, his fingers trailing away from your skin like they regret having to leave. When he shoplifts supplies when the money is low, he swipes silly little trinkets that he says he “thought you would like.” You catch the way he always presses his body closer to yours when you’re sitting together on a pier, on the hood of the car, on a random bench—anywhere. The tension builds between you for what seems like forever, drawing so tight that you’re almost afraid you both may get hurt when it snaps.

When it finally does, it feels natural to do, this dance that unfolds in the backseat of this sedan he stole over a year ago. You both know the hunger for flesh intimately even though you experience it in such different ways; instead of it being a grotesquerie that would repel a normal lover, it’s a bond that has inextricably tied you together, for better and worse. In that sense, the joining of your bodies is just another type of desire for you two to tease out the intricacies of.

The catalyst is one question posed to you on a humid summer night. “...Darling, answer me honestly.”

Ian’s eyes are heavy with some mix of want and curiosity when you turn to look at him. You’re both sitting in the backseat as you study a map from one of the atlases; you’ve spent a half-hour trying to figure out the best route for your next destination in Georgia, tracing the lines illuminated by the car’s dome light. Maybe you’ll both try settling down this time; find that new job like you said, and live in one singular place for a few months. Someone else’s house you can pretend is your own, someone else’s car you can drive around the city. Years are too heavy to think about, but months…you can do months.

But it’s clear your decision-making is over. Your attention had broken every time you sensed his eyes shift to your face and stay there for a little while, searching for something, before moving back to the map. Now, you let the map lie forgotten in your lap.

“What is it?”

“Would you hate it if I asked to kiss you?”

Your body temperature rises, but you reply to his question with a question. “Have you thought about that before?”

“Many times.”

You swallow hard. You want to ask him about the first time that thought crossed his mind—did he realize it around the same time you did?—but you say, “And why do you think I would hate it?”

“Things will change between us.”

“Things have already changed between us, several times.”

“This is different,” he insists, and you notice that the space between you has decreased, bodies subconsciously drifting even closer together. “If we go down that road, I don’t want us to go back. I don’t want you to have to wonder about whether I care for you. I want you to trust me.”

You lean your forehead against his, a small smile forming on your lips. “I already trust you, Ian.” You have never vocalized it before, but you find that you really do mean it.

Then you move forward, doing yet another thing that would’ve been utterly absurd to you this time last year—pressing your lips to his. Your insides feel like they’re melting, but not in the uncomfortable way that comes from the summer heat. It happens in a way that makes you think that, maybe if you both melt down into your very basic parts and become nothing but atoms, you might blur together completely. Ian’s reply is immediate in how his hand comes up to your nape, his mouth separating from yours for one painful second only for him to kiss you deeper. The map slips between you and to the car floor. It’s strange to indulge in this close proximity with another person without the threat of death, without the underlying worry that you’ll become hungry in the worst way, but it’s also freeing to a degree you didn’t know was possible.

That’s why you allow yourself to become submerged in his body heat, his mouth, his hands—everything.

Afterwards, you both climb back into your clothes only halfway; your shorts are left somewhere underneath one of the front seats, and Ian doesn’t bother putting his shirt back on—though it stays off most of the time anyway. Your bodies are sluggish but satisfied as you rest your head against his bicep, tracing your fingers along the tattoo under his sternum. They come away damp from the sweat that shines on his body. You still feel all the places on your own body where his lips and fingers touched, as if your skin has been imprinted, and you wonder if it’s the same for him.

The window is rolled down to let the smoke curl out as Ian takes a drag from a cigarette. A soft rock station plays on the radio, and he taps the beat of the song on your knee with his free hand. For the first time in many years, your mind isn’t crammed full with constant thoughts of guilt and contempt about being alive and being what you are. Even if it only lasts for tonight, for now, you can just exist.

[littlecrittereli]

Random WK Headcanon dump

Here's a silly list of headcanons I have about team Wild Kratts, in no particular order other than what comes into my head first:

Heights:

Martin and Chris are based off their real heights and I filled everyone else in based off how they look standing next to each other. I exaggerated Aviva and Koki's height a little bit, just for some variety.

Koki is the tallest at 6' (182.9 cm)

Martin is 5'10 (177.8 cm)

Jimmy is 5'9 (175.3 cm)

Chris is 5'8 (172.7 cm)

and Aviva is the shortest at 5'3 (160 cm)

Reference:

Ages:

Martin is definitely the oldest at 25

Aviva is 24

Jimmy and Koki are both 23, Jimmy being a few months older

And Chris is runner up at 21

The reason for the small age gap is because Martin was ultimately the person that put together the Tortuga team when he graduated college, and he picked students that were also close to graduation at the time. Chris would have just been starting college, but would join them upon graduation because of his connection through Martin. Other freshmen at the time would not have qualified for the research grant.

Birthdays!!!

Martin: Dec 23rd (he's a capricorn)

Aviva: Nov 4th (She's a scorpio)

Jimmy: April 20th (He's a taurus)

Koki: August 27th (She's a virgo)

Chris: July 19th (He's a cancer)

Identities:

(Disclaimer this is referring to the fictional Wild Kratts animated characters ONLY. Not the actual people they are based on.)

Martin: he/him, bisexual. But his preference is women.

He's probably had a handful of girlfriends and a couple of boyfriends throughout high school and college, but unfortunately had too big of ambitions to settle down with anyone.

Aviva: she/her, bisexual. She doesn't have a preference.

She has probably been on like... 2 dates max. She has always been much more focused on her education and bettering her inventions than dating. Her only standard for a partnership is someone who can keep up with her intelligence. Or at least someone she can learn from and grow with.

Jimmy: he/him, straight.

He literally does not care, but he would probably kiss a man if the opportunity arose. Had a girlfriend in kindergarten and they spoke twice, but since she moved schools and they never officially broke up, he's still technically off the market.

Koki: she/they lesbian. SHE LIKES WOMEN

tried to date a man. regretted it. Has probably been in a couple semi-serious relationships, but didn't work out for various reasons. She's content to focus on her career for now but someday would love to be a mom.

Chris: he/they aroace

only proclaimed to have a crush on a girl in high school because everyone else was talking about crushes and he didn't want to feel left out. Doesn't really like to be touched in general. Would rather cut off his hand than be forced to hold someone else's in a non platonic way. When someone has a crush on him, he does not know how to respond so he literally just ignores them.

Silly Stuff:

-As a zoologist, Martin knows more about animal behaviors, classification, and identification. Meanwhile, Chris as a biologist knows more about the anatomy and general science of animals. For example, Martin would be able to explain the reasoning behind a firefly's glow while Chris would be able to explain the chemical reaction that makes the glow possible. And they are constantly sharing and learning from each other as well.

-Chris has glasses, he just doesn't really use them very often. They would get in the way of creature adventuring so he only wears them if he's reading or something. They aren't super crucial, it just helps with small words.

-Game nights are VERY serious on the Tortuga. Jimmy is suspiciously good at card/board games. He pretty much always wins. It's to the point where everyone else is on a team against him. Sometimes he lets them win and it has sent the entire team into a fight. Sorry has been banned in the Tortuga because of this.

-Koki's a huge theatre nerd. She participated in plays recreationally throughout high school, and will often hum or sing while she's doing a task.

-Martin plays the guitar and has a mediocre singing voice. It's nothing spectacular but he can carry a tune. Sometimes when the Tortuga is parked somewhere remote for the night, they will make a campfire and sing a few songs.

-Aviva has roller skates built into her shoes (SIDE NOTE: This is something we see very often in season 1 but they seemed to have forgotten about it??? or retconned it??? BUT I HATE IT BECAUSE THEY WERE SO COOL PLEASE BRING BACK THE ROLLER SKATES)

-Martin is a terrible driver. (The oldest sibling curse) He knows he's a terrible driver, but pretends he's not. Chris will usually try to take the driver's seat to prevent Martin from driving, but sometimes Martin beats him there. Will deflect any evidence of him being a bad driver. "That curb shouldn't have been there" Someone please revoke his license, he's a danger to society.

-Jimmy is definitely the best cook out of all of them. He makes food for the team most of the time, unless they are on a longer flight and he has to pilot. Koki and Chris are pretty competent chefs "Just read the recipe it's not that hard". Martin's basically limited to ramen noodles and microwave mac and cheese. Aviva, try as she might, can NOT cook. She will BURN water. (she always overcomplicates the recipes by trying to utilize an invention or something)

-Koki likes to crochet. She likes to keep her hands busy so whenever she's doing a rather boring task, like monitoring for bad weather/villains while the bros are out, she crochets.

-Jimmy gets insane jet lag, and since they are bouncing from different time zones all the time, he can never really catch up. Not to mention he has to stay up for irregular hours to fly the Tortuga. This is why he's always napping, and why the others usually leave him alone to sleep unless it's important.