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sailoryooons · 1 year ago

Note

Trick or Treat!🎃

Kit kat+ Frankenstein + The Addams Family!

Happy Haliween!!🕸🎃💜💚

☾ Pairing: Serial Killer! Seokjin x Serial Killer!f. reader

☾ Summary: For as long as you’ve worked at the upscale grocery store in the northern part of the city, you’ve hated Seokjin. He’s charming and smooth and you’re always fighting for employee of the month. It isn’t until you both show up at a house in the middle of the night that you realize how much you have in common.

☾ Word Count: 3,245

☾ Genre: Enemies to Lovers(ish), Slasher, A little humor

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings: Thoughts about murder, references to murder, reflection on being a murderer - literally, this is a drabble about two serial killers, they do not actually commit murder in this but literally the entire subject is MURDER!! Like reader thinks about killing people multiple times, this is disturbing but not necessarily graphic, and there are overall just. Themes of insanely morally corrupt people. Also contains explicit language, breaking into homes, knives and threats, stalking, prepping to murder someone, profiling people to be victims, sexual tension, and implications. Ambiguous ending, we don’t know if they kill their victim.

☾ Published: October 8, 2023

☾ A/N: I am so sorry if you don’t like strange serial killers to lovers(ish), but for this Haliween trick you have selected Kit Kat + Frankenstein + The Addam's Family which equals Seokjin, Enemies to Lovers, and slasher! I kept this light-hearted and there’s no actual murder or anything, but this is absolutely unhinged and was an experience for me to write from the POV of a killer. I hope you love these two competitive lunatics with zero moral compasses discovering they have more in common than they think!

☾ A/N 2: Mini shoutout to @minisugakoobies and @daechwitatamic for their input on my ruminating about what to do with this Haliween combination. Their musings inspire this wild little masterpiece and I could not have gotten the brain chugging without their comments.

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment, or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

| Masterlist | Ask | Haliween Requests

NOTE: TUMBLR PHYSICALLY WILL NOT LET ME ADD A READ MORE LINK TO THIS EVEN IN HTML, THEREFORE I WILL NOT REBLOG ANY REVIEWS OF THIS FOR THAT REASON AS OF NOV. 27 2023

There are days you wonder if you should kill Seokjin.

It would be too complicated, though. Not only would someone notice if he doesn’t show up to work, but it’s too close to home. Murders should always be removed. There should be no connections between you and the victim. Anything within seven degrees of separation is far too close.

And everyone knows you hate him.

Hate the way he charms everyone else so effortlessly. There isn’t a soul at the store who doesn’t like him except maybe you. He is perfect. Not a hair out of place, his handsome features painfully symmetrical and alluring, his ease with people so crystalline that you want to scream. Glasses that are perfectly perched on his perfect nose. Effortlessly chic hair. A knockout mouth structure.

It’s hard to imagine anyone is that perfect, but it appears Seokjin is. No matter how much digging you do, you never find anything incriminating. There’s nothing. He hardly seems to exist outside of the store.

You hate him for it. Especially when you see he has beaten you for employee of the month again. Seokjin walks into the break room, looking at the announcement on the board. He smirks when he sees it, eyes coasting over to you. The grin grows and he shrugs.

“What can I say?”

“Nothing, ideally,” you offer.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

You feel your eye twitch. You imagine how satisfying it would be to smash his teeth in. To feel the bone break beneath your foot, to hear the crunch.

The thought of it makes you smile and turn to him, suddenly calm again. “Congratulations, Seokjin. I look forward to celebrating with you during our meeting.”

Tying an apron around your waist, you leave the break room and head out onto the floor. Your calm intensifies, muscles loosen. The store is not open yet. Outside, the world is gray. The fluorescent lights shine down on the perfectly lined aisles, every item in place. Above, soft music plays.

Mornings at the grocery store like this are second only to the high of watching the light fade from someone’s eyes. Here, you are alone and in peace. You feel the quiet of the world, undisturbed. Like a god walking through the land of their creation while everything is asleep.

But it’s when you see someone looking at you as they embrace death that you know you are a god. You are the final thing they see, and right before they fade, they see you as their ender. Their maker.

Seokjin might be able to take the employee of the month from you, but he cannot have this. These two moments. Different sides of the same coin. He could never understand the power that peace and death give you.

No one else understands. No one else could.

When the store opens, your day unfolds. It is an upscale grocery store with organic foods, fresh pressed juice and swollen, ripe strawberries. You see all manner of people come in and out: assistants doing the shopping for their wealthy employers, socialites snapping pictures of their smoothies and juices, the upper class toting name-brand bags and watches as they hand over metal credit cards.

It is disgusting, in a way. But in your way, it’s become beautiful. A hunting ground for people who jet around the world so often, no one will know if they go missing. You’re always so so careful with your marks. They have to be right. Perfect. You have to spend weeks making sure they are the one.

The one problem with this ritual is how long it takes. The need to feel that power and the need for safety and caution wage a war inside of you, neither giving ground to the other. It’s been months since you’ve had a fix, and with Seokjin’s employee of the month win, you know it’s time to sift through your options.

Your list is small. The sweet, doe-eyed boy Jungkook is an easy mark in the sense that he has a very small social circle, his life is built on routine, and he is wildly trusting. Because of his routine, though, he might present a problem when he goes missing. That, and he is physically a danger to you if you don’t knock him out first.

Taehyung isn’t bad, either. He comes and goes, traveling the world and staying in hostels, losing his passports across countries and sharing all of his travels on social media. He lives loosely enough that if he vanished, it would take a while for anyone to find him. But that social media feed of his would eventually attract attention.

When Hoseok gets into your line, you feel your heart stutter. Perfect Hoseok. He is quiet and solitary, a fashion designer who often vanishes for long periods at a time. He doesn’t leave his quiet, lofty mansion in the hills often when he is in a fit of designing for a new season, and he is prone to hospitalizations for working himself near to death.

Perfect Hoseok, who smiles like Apollo and smells like the sun. He is an entity. A light that you cannot help but stare at. And you decide him. What would it be like, to see someone like Hoseok look at you and beg. Please. Like you’re his god. The only thing between him and death.

Your palms get sweaty as your line shortens. He’s just four back - it’s a busy day - but you try to get through your customers quickly. You want to make small talk with him. To get his weekend plans.

And then Seokjin steps into the register next to you even though he’s supposed to be on break, and he turns the light on. “Hoseok! Come on over, let’s get you through.”

Rage. You stop ringing up items. The conveyor belt hums and the products on top of it begin to pile up. White noise roars in your ears. You watch as Hoseok gets out of your line and swaps to Seokjin’s. They shake hands and start talking, Seokjin leaning back with a laugh.

High-pitched ringing sings in your ears as you watch Seokjin bag Hoseok’s items and offer to walk him out to the car after flicking the light off at his register.

“Ma’am?” You blink and the ringing vanishes. The man in front of you stares, raising his brows. His cat-like eyes are sharp and concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you rasp, voice suddenly dry. It’s a lie. “Yeah.”

“Do you like stealing my customers?” you ask Seokjin, pressing the knife down hard through the apple you’re cutting at the break room counter. “Is that how you got employee of the month? Turning on your light to ring up one person and then fucking off?”

“Ooo,” Seokjin answers, closing the fridge with his hip. “We are still touchy about my great awards, are we?”

“You know that was a bitch move.” You slam the knife down on the cutting board. It’s a Wüsthof Classic Butcher Knife, which is wildly obnoxious for cutting fruit. And, you realize belatedly, it’s from Seokjin’s personal collection. You file it away, wondering what he knows about good knives. “Stay the fuck away from my business when I’m working.”

“Hoseok isn’t yours.”

His tone makes you look up. Seokjin’s demeanor shifts, a chameleon adapting to a hostile environment. The telltale signs of his true annoyance are all there: red ears, vacant eyes, blank face. His shark face. You see it so rarely that it shocks you to see it now.

It’s in moments like this where… he is almost your mirror.

“He was in my line.”

“Funny how that isn’t the same thing.”

“Customer poaching is desperate.” You pick the knife back up and slice through the apple, hearing the crisp, wet crunch like breaking a bone to get to marrow. “Are you that desperate, Jin?”

From the corner of your eye, you see his fingers twitch. For a split second, you think he might grab the knife. A flutter of excitement runs through you, unfettered. You wait to see what he does, holding your breath as you slowly turn to look at him.

Is he going to do it?

The moment clings to the air a moment longer. Then Namjoon opens a shelf and spills several boxes of granola, shattering the weaving tension between you and Seokjin. He takes a step back and you turn back toward your fruit, knife abandoned.

When he leaves, a shiver runs up your spine, quite unsure what that was.

You also think that perhaps Seokjin is... more attractive than you give him credit for.

Two weeks. You tap through your phone, lighting up your face in the dark of your room. Hoseok will begin his descent into designing for his Spring collection in two weeks. It’s the perfect amount of time to prepare yourself, to begin the ritual of hunting. To watch, notate, and practice.

You hit the button to turn off the lock screen and you’re bathed in darkness.

Two weeks and you can feel the rush again.

Two weeks and you’ll be fed on the high for months.

Not even Seokjin can get you down at work. You look at your time requested off on the calendar every morning you clock in. A blissful spread of days in which you’ll need to prepare, execute, and come down for the euphoria before coming back to work.

No amount of goading from Seokjin can upset you this week. You are locked in. Focused. So honed on your rapidly approaching desire that nothing can bring you down.

“Switch weekends with me,” Seokjin says, stepping in front of you before you can clock out. It’s late, both of you staying overtime to help unload a late shipment. You growl at him and try to jockey him out of the way, but he’s like iron. He doesn’t move. “I need that weekend off.”

“No.” Seokjin’s stance grows firmer. You push him again but he is unmovable, making your lip curl. You slowly start to drag your eyes to his, where he is pouting. “Move or I will make you.”

“That’s the best reaction I’ve gotten from you all week. What plans do you have, huh? A date night with a bubble bath and a vibrator?”

You frown. He isn’t entirely wrong. The need to lay in warm water in a post-kill daze and bring yourself to an orgasm is part of the after routine. Still, you manage to shove him aside and punch in your number.

“Please,” he says gently. “I need the weekend.”

“No. Not for you. Not in a million years.”

“What do you want? I’ll trade you anything.”

You face him after clocking out, giving him a wonderful smile. “You have nothing to offer me, Jin. I know you’re not used to hearing that.”

Slowly, Seokjin’s face changes. He goes from charming and warm and melts into something else. Ice in a glass, losing its form and weak attempt at holding false shape.

“You’re lucky we work together,” Seokjin murmurs. There is something dark in his voice. An abyss you’ve never heard from Seokjin, but you’ve touched yourself. It is the secret, dark voice of threat. Of promise. And then he grins, shrugging. “I guess I’ll ask around. Have fun with your sex toys.”

You watch Seokjin walk out and all you can think about is that low voice. That darkness. Like the thing that lives inside of you.

One day. Hoseok has locked himself away. His social media has gone quiet. You watch as the trash cans go without being taken out. No one comes. No one goes. The only light that remains on is the one in his second-floor office. Hoseok comes outside a single time to look at the rain as it comes down hard on a Thursday before going back inside and not coming out again.

Tomorrow.

You watch the office light go off at five in the morning.

Tomorrow.

Making a murder look like an accident is not easy. It is your least favorite method, in fact. You prefer people who vanish. A ghost is harder to trace than an accident. There are too many questions involved.

Hoseok, though, cannot be a ghost. You knew that when you picked him. You haven’t orchestrated an accident in some time, but you will now.

Hoseok likes to drink. He likes to fuel his designs with so much whiskey that sometimes he falls asleep in his office with the lights on at his desk, glass full. Other times, he crashes into furniture and knocks it over, shattering lamps and slipping down the stairs to get to his bedroom.

Tonight, you have everything you need. A little bit of Xanax, which he has a prescription for. A little bit of chloroform to help knock him out. Epinephrine for you to give you a carefully measured and tested boost of adrenaline and strength. Gloves. Wrapped shoes. A list of all the blind spots in his alarm system and its codes.

Crickets sing to you as you watch. You walked the full three hours to his home tonight. It was nice with the rush of cars around you and the crunch of your shoes on gravel. Once in the hills, you meticulously changed your clothes at a gas station, wiping off sweat and grime before taking the fifteen-minute trek into the lower hills where Hoseok lives.

Light pollution makes it hard to see the stars, but the world stretches out beyond you as you stand in the murky darkness of an unsold home across the street. For the past two weeks, you have been an impromptu gargoyle perched among the trees.

Hoseok should be happy he will not be around when someone moves in. The trees that offer the home privacy offer an entire vantage point to watch him through his uncurtained home. Even just climbing to other limbs gives you a view of other windows. Other ways in.

The way in though, is easiest through the backyard where his spa room leads outside to the pool. The spa door has no camera and is in the blind spot for the camera under the patio pavilion. It additionally is rarely locked, a feature of Hoseok’s home he rarely uses.

It takes five minutes to get from the spa bathroom to the office. His stairs are well-made and don’t squeak. He leaves no other lights on. It will be just you and the dark.

You look at your watch. It’s four in the morning. For the past few days, Hoseok has gone to bed at five. He’s made it all three days in a row, not falling asleep at his desk. Tonight, he will do the same thing. He will get up, turn the lights out, and head to his bedroom.

Except this time, you plan to be in the hall. A little chloroform. A little forced Xanax to make him weak when he wakes up and prevent him from fighting back. A jolt of adrenaline for you and a snap of his neck before he falls down the stairs and-

A shadow crosses the wall of Hoseok’s yard. You straighten in the tree, watching it make its way across the yard toward the back. Without even thinking about it, you move. The thought of someone breaking into the house and killing Hoseok by accident and stealing your high makes you bolt.

Your heart hammers. Your hands get sweaty. This isn’t how your night is supposed to go. You’re up and over the wall and sliding along the glass windows as you walk toward the spa bathroom door in a heartbeat. You feel rattled and out of sorts - not at all what you should be feeling on a night like this.

Any other time, you might call it quits. Should call it quits.

But you don’t. It’s been so long and Hoseok has been taking from you once this month already. You cannot let it happen again.

Like a shadow, you slide into the home. It is cold inside. Already you’re working out how to factor in another person. You had not intended to stage a home invasion, but the third person is a liability and a threat. You’ve never taken two at once before, and though the promise of what that might feel like makes you giddy, you also don’t know the math of this. You don’t know what this looks like.

And still you creep forward.

Hoseok’s house is modern art. It is all sleek edges and warm tones washed in art on the walls and sculptures. Thankfully, it is also big and full of negative space. Nothing gets in your way as you creep up the stairs, eyes swiveling back and forth as you look for where the intruder has gone.

When you get to the top of the stairs, the hair on the back of your neck tingles. You swivel, bringing up your hand just as a knife stops in front of your face, only restricted by the iron grip you have on your assailant's wrist. You know the make of it immediately. It’s a Wüsthof Classic Butcher Knife.

Neither of you move. You cannot make the features on your attacker's face. Slowly, you see their other arm come up. You somewhat see they are holding up a hand. A white flag. Trembling, you loosen your grip on their knife arm, your other hand wrapped firmly around the hunting knife sheathed at your thigh.

Together, you step away from Hoseok’s office door. One step. Two steps. A waltz backward and toward a guest room, where the door opens and you step inside with your opposite. Friend. Foe. You’re unsure.

Moonlight filters through the window and your counterpart steps backward into it.

Your breath catches in your chest and the urge to laugh suddenly takes you, swelling up so abruptly that you have to press your lips firmly shut to stop the madness from spilling out.

Seokjin looks good in all black, standing in the gray light of the moon. His shark eyes stare at you, face blank, waiting. The Wüsthof Classic Butcher Knife is still in his hand. It doesn’t shake. He holds it loose. Casual. A fast striker, you think.

“What a strange thing,” Seokjin whispers. “To see someone so unlike me be my very mirror. What are you doing here?”

“It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain,” you whisper back, recalling a quote from The Tell-Tale Heart. “But once conceived, it haunted me day and night.”

He hums. “They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”

Hoseok opens the door in his office. You both freeze, listening to his stumbling steps as he clambers down his stairs. Not a sound slips between you as Hoseok shuts the bedroom door downstairs.

The silence is roaring.

“What well it be,” Seokjin whispers. “Friend or foe?”

You tap the handle of your knife. “I want to be employee of the month next month. Try less.”

“What do you like to do after?”

“What was it you said? Take a bubble bath with a vibrator?”

He sheaths the knife and offers a hand. “I can give you more.”

You carefully hold out a hand to him. Not an enemy. Not a friend. Perhaps… an equal. “We are the same, then?”

“A mirror.” He pulls you in a little, just enough that his mouth brushes against yours. You want to take that dive suddenly. To lean into him. Past atrocities are forgotten in light of this new, beautiful darkness you share. “A mirror.”

You descend the steps together, two workers from the store. And a little more.

#seokjin fic #jin fic #bts fic #seokjin x reader #jin x reader #seokjin x you #jin x you #jin drabble #seojin thriller #seokjin imagines #jin imagines #haliween #minors do not interact #minors dni

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forbebeandjam · 7 months ago

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Without You | Bada Lee/ BEBE x Fem Reader | MINI SERIES

Summary: getting home and finding a cure was difficult and mind draining. You never imagined all of this would lead you to an awful place.

Word count 1.1k

Warnings: This chapter contains sensitive topics such as suicide. Please read with discretion. If you are tiggers my such topic, avoid reading this chapter.

A/N: I’m back and with the last chapter. It hasn’t been easy but here I am. I hope you guys liked this Mini Series and thank you to the anon who requested it!!! 🩶 thank you as well for your patience and support. I’ll work hard to being more amazing work to this blog🩷

•WITH YOU•

"Why do we have to go? I don't understand," you said. Kyma didn't stop looking around.

"My parents are good people but... they are being manipulated right now. They found the cure but the government is trying to manipulate the country and sell the medicine at a high price so... we have to go. Anywhere," Kyma said.

"But... why? I-"

"Unnie, my mom and dad said to leave with this. These shots have the cure and there are around ten. Lusher and Minah have been cured and we are not infected at all so, let's go. If they see us with medicine or near my parents, We will be doomed," she said again.

"Okay. Let's get the girls and leave. We can walk to Bada's house from here. The van must be infected so we can't take that," you said and walked to the living room.

"Going anywhere?" you heard a deep voice say. A man pointed his gun at Cheche who was sound asleep. Minah and Lusher had already been sleeping next to Bada.

He then turned the gun to Kyma but you stood in front of her.

"We just want to sleep. Thats all. Can we sit next to our friends?" you said and he chuckled.

"I am not stupid. You have that behind you. The beakers with the cure. Hand them over," he said.

"No," you said.

"No?" he asked

"No," you repeated.

"Well... you'll just have to die then. He cocked the gun back and a gunshot was heard...

but you were not dead. The man's body fell to the floor and the girls woke up panicked. Kyma's father was standing there with a smoking gun in his hand.

"Go! Go now!" her mother yelled. You all stood up and ran around trying to collect your bag. Kyma wrapped the beakers in a t-shirt and shoved them in her bag.

"Please look after our little girl, Y/N," her mother said and you nodded.

She kissed her parents and with a small tear, she let go of them and held your hand.

You ran with our face masks limiting the airflow. People on the streets chased you begging for a cure which motivated you to run faster. Kyma stopped when she saw her parents running away into the woods.

"No... they are after them. Unnie!" Kyma yelled.

"Kyma, look at me!" I made a promise to your mom. I will keep you safe. They will be okay but we have to go now!" you wiped her tears and hugged her. You dragged her by her wrist and ran a few more blocks.

"Go in through the back, I'll watch," Bada said but you pulled her with when you saw someone coming.

We all walked in and locked the door. Bada sighed and stood next to you.

"Why... just... why do you keep acting like this? I want to protect you but seems like you don't give a fuck. You keep putting yourself at risk and never communicate with me. Why?"

"Bada... not now,"

"When? When will I be able to talk to you and figure out why you have been acting like this?"

"Because I love you! Because I would die without you. Because... because I have no reason to live. I have been wanting to die for months now and the only thing that keeps me going is all of you. Even Cheche when she nagging and whining. Nothing matters to me more than all of you but I also don't want to be alive," you fell to the floor in tears.

A loud silence was heard and Bada tried to grab your arm but you pulled away and started to run upstairs.

You opened the window to your balcony and sat with your feet hanging. You could see fires all around the city. The world seemed to collapse before you. Bada had turned into your world and you kept pushing her away.

You could no longer breathe and you kept pushing your oxygen away. You wanted to keep them safe but have them as far away from you as possible so when you decided to leave this horrendous world, they wouldn't miss you.

"Y/N?" you heard Bada.

"I'm... I'm sorry, love. I need to go now. You gave me so much love and attention but it's all over. I have no more reason to be here. I hope you understand," you said.

"No! No, I don't understand. Why are you doing this? Why do you want to leave me!?" she yelled.

"I miss my mom. My dad promised he would take me to Paris. I... I have to go with them, Bada. I love you forever," you said as you allowed your body to fall out of the window.

"NO! Y/N! AH!"

(Three years later)

"Good morning, baby," Bada said as she placed a tray of food on the bed.

"Good morning," You smiled. She sat behind you as you sipped on your coffee and wrapped her arms around your figure.

"The view is wonderful," you said.

"It's more wonderful because I am with you," she snuggled into the crook of your neck.

"Thank you," you said.

"I called room service, baby. No need to thank me," she replied. You turned to her and pecked her lips.

"Thank you for saving me over and over without thinking about risks. I don't deserve you," you said.

She smiled sweetly and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I love you and you deserve all the good things after all your suffering and sacrifices," she said before kissing you...

That day, after jumping out the window, she drove your almost lifeless body to the hospital. She didn't care about any risks.

A few hours later, Kyma's parents released the formula for the cure, and chemists all over the world managed to cure many people including Bada who became infected when taking you to the hospital.

After that, things started to go back to normal and some things changed. You and the girls attended many dance competitions, some of you graduated school and started going around the world.

Paris was your destination and Bada made sure it was special to you. The way your father would've wanted. She made sure you were happy and loved just like your parents would want to. She always ensured you never missed your mom and cared for you all the time.

She helped you heal.

"The girls must be waiting. Are you ready?" She asked as she placed her bag around her shoulder.

"As long as I'm with you. Let's do this!" You gave her a high five and walked hand in hand to the dance studio.

⋆.˚✮THE END✮˚.⋆

Thank you for reading 🩵

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saints-end · 15 days ago

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What does Agatha carry in her bunny-patterned bag, anyway?

Well, we got:

Wallet: where she keeps her money, ID, etc.

iPhone: Keep it handy at all times. Either to make emergency contacts, keep in touch with social media, or play games on there.

Laptop: She sometimes does work on that, but sometimes she uses it to play Cookie Run Kingdom on there.

Headphones: Something useful to block out the stress and put some music on, or stream movies & series, or podcasts.

Chargers: A collection of chargers for her devices in case of they haven’t fully charged right.

Travel mini-sketchbook: Mostly impressive doodles, but carries away sometimes and goes into detail

Pencils + pens: She Carrie’s around pencils in different shades from lightest to boldest, as well as some different coloured pens.

Keychain with house keys & park pass: She carries her house keys on a lanyard along with her park pass as an easier way to carry them all at once (but not really all of them.)

Bento lunchbox: Before another day of work tomorrow, she meal preps her lunches into a tin container filled with delicious food all prepped & stored for tomorrow.

The Holy Tome: Since she’s the only one to open the book of angelic knowledge, she carries it around wherever she goes and reads it time to time. Much better to understand quicker.

Her Necklace: A small gift given to her by her caring father. And with such an intricate engraving to the back…

Misc. bag: Some essential items; lip balm, nail trim kit, gum, and other things.

Well, that’s all there is inside her bag! Happy holidays, everybody!

#deadendia #dead end netflix #dead end paranormal park #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #dead end fanart #dead end oc #what’s in my bag #A small holiday gift for you all

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cubestrahm · 8 months ago

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»{ Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm }« ✦ { ao3 }

«- previous chapter / next chapter -»

✦ Summary: This moment in time feels inevitable. It is as though Peter was always meant to wind up in the crushing dark with Mark Hoffman, tangled in a deadly situation that neither man can escape from unscathed. ✦ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ✦ Content/tags: Background Angelina Acomb/Lindsey Perez, Alternate Universe - Diners, Slow Burn, Canonical Character Death, Canon Typical Gore, Detailed Descriptions of Wounds, Improper Wound Care, Non-Sexual Nudity, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Divorced Peter Strahm, Murder, Masturbation, John Kramer is still jigging his saw ✦ Word count: 9,815 ✦ Status: Multi-chapter / Ongoing ✦ Author's note: Lindsey and Peter's friendship is so special... to me.

The sun is already beginning to dip below the horizon by the time Strahm parks his car in the parking lot forming a moat around the modest apartment building. Winter hours make the daylight run out like the seconds on a timer. The retired agent doesn’t mind. He’s never belonged in the light, even if he’d once believed he did.

Feeling his back protest, Peter unfolds himself from the seat of the Crown Vic. Once on his feet, he stabilizes himself with a hand on the roof before leaning down inside just far enough to snag a Tupperware container and his overnight bag off of the passenger seat. The plastic box is still warm to the touch. It’s a sharp contrast to the wind trying to gnaw through the leather of his jacket. The temperature is enough to get him to put a rush on his movements. With hurried motions, he slams the vehicle’s door and all but jogs up the steps to Lindsey’s unit.

When he knocks, it’s with a too hard rap of his knuckles against the wood. His days with the FBI make him feel like a haunted house at times. Ghosts of drug busts and serial murder cases roam the halls of his mind. How many doors had he and his partners kicked in over the years when they were too impatient or too cocksure to wait for the SWAT team? His hand keeps the memories even if his own mind lets go.

“Hello, good sir,” Lindsey greets, whipping the door open, “Pray tell. What’s the password for the keep?”

“It’s ‘I didn’t sign up for dinner at Medieval Times. I’m old and I’m tired’,” Peter grumbles, trying to sidestep her.

He really is tired. Despite Strahm’s best efforts, Detective Hoffman has set up residence in his thoughts and it’s been doing a number on his ability to sleep. Unsatisfied with his sour mood, Perez blocks his foot with hers in a squeak of bare toes against his boot. He recoils.

“Put some socks on,” he says, aghast.

“I already gave you a hint,” she prompts. She’s not letting him in until he guesses what movie she is alluding to. Like him, she doesn’t let go when her jaw is locked.

Not bothering to hide his sigh, he shifts the Tupperware container from one arm to the other. He’d made mozzarella and tomato sauce filled mini croissants tonight. His partner had been moaning about wanting homemade pizza all weekend, so he had decided to do the next best thing. Peter is almost regretting his act of care. Still, he wracks his brain trying to remember what they had watched last Monday.

Her wording being the hint… Oh, it was the one that’d had some blond jackass in tights. Lindsey had socked him in the arm for laughing before breaking down as well.

“Robin Hood,” he answers.

“Robin Hood, what?”

“Robin Hood… in tights?” he tries.

Her smile nearly blinds him. “Good enough, buddy. You’re not senile yet.”

“Every day, I pray for the oblivion of memory loss,” he says dryly as his partner lets him through.

Even facing her back, Strahm can tell that she rolls her eyes at him. He trails after Lindsey to the kitchenette only for her to shove two glasses and a jaw-droppingly large bottle of Cosmopolitan at him. It’s chock-full of edible glitter that shimmers in the pink depths. It’s disgustingly cheery and liable to get them absolutely plastered. Lindsey means business on sleepover nights and that doesn’t include his usual proclivity for what she says is “sad old man alcohol��.

He wouldn’t expect anything else from the woman who got him so drunk one night, he willingly participated in gluing rhinestones to their work phones. Peter had woken up hungover and aching on her couch only to get his ass chewed back at the Bureau for tampering with federally provided property and allowing his subordinate to do the same.

Lindsey, of course, had doubled down after getting reprimanded. She had gotten them both phone charms of a mouthless white cat wearing a bow out of a coin machine–with quarters he’d begrudgingly fished out of his own pocket because he has never wanted to deny her anything.

It had made him smile, to take out the device out back in those days. Looking at the phone had provided him with an unusual sort of comfort, especially during his second divorce. He would turn it over and over in his hand, letting the sharp edges of some of those cheap, plastic gems scrape against his palm. He’s sure that Lindsey doesn’t know just how many times she has saved his life over the years. Not with gunfire or violence, but with her presence alone. Knowing that she was there and had his back was enough to keep him placing one foot in front of the other.

When they had left the FBI together, he’d kept the cat charm after he had turned in his work phone. It’s tucked away in the part of his dresser that holds the ties that he still hasn’t gotten rid of. Perez had also kept her charm. He’s seen it nestled in alongside her earrings and other jewelry.

He’s been quiet for too long, lost in thought. Lindsey notices and shoos him out of the kitchen. “I’ll be there in a second. Go settle in.”

Peter cooperates and makes his way to her bedroom door. It’s the only one left ajar. Her roommate's is shut tight.

Once in the small room, he sets down his cargo beside the TV resting on the dresser. Peter eases the strap of his bag off his shoulder and lets it land with a soft thump on the carpeted floor. Bending down, he unlaces his boots before setting them alongside Lindsey’s shoe rack by her door. He keeps his socks on but shrugs off his leather jacket and hangs it up on the only free peg on the wall-mounted rack. Lindsey keeps it open for him.

In his own rental home, he has several spaces that he leaves empty for her in return. She stocks his preferred brand of toothpaste and he keeps a bottle of the hair oil she uses every Monday. They alternate movie night locations. Their lives are intertwined. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Strahm picks the remote up off of the made bedspread and turns on the TV before dropping it back onto the mattress. The CRT screen flares to live. He’s pre-gaming whatever movie Lindsey picks from her and her roommate’s shared collection in the living room with the news. He’s a simple man. On his nights, he just takes his Vic down to the video rental place and grabs an unvetted stack of DVDs. It’s one of the few things in his life he doesn’t overthink.

Unsurprisingly, every news station is reporting on the rash of murders committed by a serial killer the press has taken to calling “Jigsaw” on account of the puzzle piece shaped chunks of skin that the perpetrator has been carving out of the victim’s bodies. In missives relayed by survivors, this Jigsaw is claiming that they’re not a killer at all, merely a game maker seeking to provide enlightenment to the ungrateful.

In Strahm’s opinion, it’s all a crock of bullshit. People dying as a direct result of your actions makes you complicit in their deaths.

Eyes still on the screen, Peter pours himself a drink. The glass quickly fills up with the shimmering liquid. It sparkles in the changing light from the TV, picking up the colors being broadcast. It’s refreshingly cool in his calloused hand.

He moves away from the TV to take a seat on the bed, leaning back against the mountain of throw pillows Lindsey has decided to pile against the headboard. There’s part of him that thinks it might be a long con trap devised in the hope that he smothers in his sleep.

From what the current news station is claiming, the police department and their FBI liaison have allowed more information to leak to the general public. He is sure that it must be rankling at Special Agent Kerry—she had never been one to be open about case information when he had worked with her in the past.

With a series of jarring crime scene photos, the news anchor walks the viewers through one of the traps that had been used in a recent game. Like the majority of the others, it, too, had taken place in a desolate warehouse. To Strahm’s eyes, it is all a fucked up piece of work. The killer had used some kind of iron maiden style headgear that had snapped closed like a Venus flytrap. They’re calling it the death mask. The footage is a pixelated smear of black and red. He can hear the buzzing of flies through the screen, can almost smell the rot and the dry dust of the warehouse.

Flashes of the same trap in bluepoint pen on a flimsy napkin—the cheapest they could get, really—hammer at his brain. He sees Mark’s hand, the way he had hidden the napkin from view the minute he realized Strahm was playing the role of the voyeur.

“Oh shit,” Peter says, too loud. With his revelation, he nearly lets the glass slip out of his hand to go tumbling across the bed. He rests it on his jean-clad knee with a vice grip.

Lindsey stops in the doorway of her bedroom, pausing at his outburst. She’s holding a massive bowl of popcorn in her hands. It’s something she contributes every Monday night because it’s a heart attack in a bowl, laden down as it is with pretzels, m&m’s, peanuts, and a generous caramel drizzle. Sometimes Strahm thinks he could go out peacefully this way—in his sleep after several too-full glasses of alcohol and a sickening amount of Lindsey’s popcorn concoction, movie still playing in the background and illuminating the two friends.

“Pete?” she asks, concern coloring her voice.

“Saturday. You were out. He was drawing...” He points at the TV with the hand still holding onto the glass.

His partner comes around to look at the screen. Her face tightens once she realizes what he’s referring to. “Your detective?”

The weight of what she knows Peter is suggesting is suffocating. She snatches up the Tupperware container and slaps it and the bowl in the middle of the bed before picking up the remote.

“Don’t. Just talk to him next time he comes in.”

“Lindsey—”

“Peter,” she interrupts, changing the channel to the DVD player input.

The retired FBI agent takes a breath. Lindsey is right. He doesn’t want her to be. He wants to turn this over in his mind until he’s sick with possibilities. It’s not his case. It’s no longer his job to put a name to the monsters crawling the streets. He’ll be crushed under the weight of it all if he doesn’t listen to his partner.

He slings back a mouthful of Cosmo. He savors the slight burn of the vodka as it goes down and forces himself to file everything away in order to focus on the moment. Peter makes himself pay attention as Lindsey opens a DVD case and shoves the disk into the player.

“What are we watching?” he asks as if this is normal night and his habits are not battering down the front door.

“Some romance movie that Melanie swears is the most thing heartbreaking in the world,” she answers.

Pouring a glass of Cosmo for herself, she fast forwards thought the pre-menu trailers. With the remote and her drink in hand, she makes her way back to the bed. She settles onto it beside him. The popcorn bowl and Tupperware serve as a divider between them.

“I feel like her metric for that is skewed.”

Lindsey jabs him in the side with her finger, causing him to grunt. “Don’t be rude.”

“Linds, she started crying because I didn’t want to go on a date with her.”

“Well,” she fiddles with the remote and selects PLAY on the menu. “You did… disappoint her by acting like she’d shot you when she asked what your star sign is. She just wanted to know if you were ‘compatible’.”

“Maybe she should meet with my ex-wives, reminisce a little in a support group. I’m chronically incompatible and great at disappointing women,” he says, chasing his words with another swallow of his beverage.

“It should be on your resume. It’s a skill,” she agrees.

They settle in to watch the movie in a comfortable silence that doesn’t last for long.

“Oh, what the fuck—” Strahm starts.

“Maybe you were right—” Perez also speaks.

Lindsey makes a frustrated noise and downs the rest of her drink. She sets the glass on her nightstand with a clatter.

“If some guy climbed a Ferris wheel and tried to coerce me into a date by threatening to hurt himself and then wouldn’t take the damn hint when I said no again, I’d be filing a restraining order.”

“For sure,” he agrees and, with a groan at the sight of the soon-to-be couple laying in the street, adds, “Oh, fuck off.”

Much to their dismay, the movie doesn’t improve. Both Lindsey and Peter have to stand up more than once throughout it to refill their glasses. By the time the film is over, the diner owners are thoroughly sauced. As soon as the credits roll, Strahm stumbles to the bathroom to change into the sleep clothes he’d brought with him. The sweatpants are riddled with holes and marked with old paint stains from when they’d painted the diner together. He leaves the clip pinning up what Lindsey calls his "mid-life crisis mullet" on the counter.

Before reentering Lindsey’s bedroom, he knocks on the doorframe and waits for her “Yeah!”. Stepping back in, he finds that Lindsey has also swapped her clothing. She’s also perched on his side of the bed with a mozzarella roll crammed into her mouth. She’s put another movie in. The Tupperware container is resting on her lap. She has the remote in one hand and a bottle of hair oil in the other.

Already knowing what she wants, he takes the bottle from her and takes a seat behind her. He’s careful to leave enough space so that they don’t touch. She’s already brushed her hair and it lays in thick curls down her back.

“Here,” she says, offering him a roll over his shoulder. He leans forward and carefully snags it with his teeth.

He’s mid-chew and just spreading the oil on his fingers to apply to her scalp when she speaks again. “So, are you going to pull some Ferris wheel shit for Mark?”

He swallows hastily, too soon, tries not to choke. “What?”

“I’m not blind. You’ve got more chemistry with him than I’ve seen you have with anyone.”

He slips his fingers into the roots of her hair, starts working in careful circles. “Yeah, if that chemistry was dislike.”

“Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Peter rolls into the parking lot first, closely tailed by Lindsey’s yellow eyesore of a ‘02 Ford Ranger. As they park, he notices a pair of figures standing in front of the diner. Having seen at least one of them every single day for the past few weeks, he immediately recognizes them. It’s Mark and his sister.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath as he gets out of his car and meets Lindsey. Together, they approach the front door. Strahm’s already got the correct key primed. The realization of last night hasn’t left him, even if he is suffering from enough of a hangover to have necessitated Perez kicking at him to get his ass out of bed. He wouldn’t be surprised if he has a bruise.

He is a twice divorced man approaching middle age having what essentially boils down to slumber parties with his only friend. His time with Lindsey is the highlight of his weeks. It’s enough to be considered embarrassing without having a crisis because the man he thinks has been flirting with him might very well be one of the most notorious serial killers of their time. Peter knows that he’s a fucking joke.

As they get closer, Strahm realizes that the detective looks dead on his feet. The man is wearing a police slicker instead of his usual suit jacket. He’s wavering slightly, like a ship at sea despite leaning heavily against the side of the building. In contrast, Angelina looks chipper—radiant even.

“Good morning!” the woman shouts as soon as they get within earshot. Mark sways away from his sister as though her voice had physically hurt him.

“Morning!” Perez calls back, a sudden eagerness to her pace.

It surprises him. Lindsey is usually much more reserved. She’s chosen to be saddled with him for almost a decade. They don’t open for another half-hour, but he already knows that she is going to snuff out any suggestion from him that they leave these two on the stoop.

In another surprise, the two women meet in a hug. Peter skirts around them to unlock the door. At his side, too close for comfort, Mark rallies himself enough to engage in harassment.

“Where’s my hug and kiss, Peter?”

Barely resisting the urge to flip the detective off, he lets himself through the door first. He nearly clips Hoffman with the edge of it as the other man follows on his heels. Peter doesn’t want to think about what it might feel like to be that close to him, to feel the yielding bulk of his body in the circle of his arms.

He’s nice enough to pull the chairs off the top of Angie and Mark’s usual table before taking his jacket off and joining Lindsey as they go through the motions of getting the diner ready to open. The detective takes his seat wearily, arms on the table and forehead resting against them. His sister gives him a pat on the shoulder on the way to her own chair.

A few minutes before he needs to flip the sign, Strahm is back at at their table. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s slightly too warm from prepping the cook-top. He doesn’t bother to pull the notepad from his belt. They’re past menus and order sheets now.

“What do you want to eat?”

“Two orders of those pancakes with the faces, please. Oh, and some hashbrowns.” Angie says, glee lighting up her voice. She beckons Peter closer and shields her mouth from her brother. He obligingly leans down for her to speak into his ear.

“Can you make Mark’s look like him?” she whispers conspiratorially. He can’t help but return her shit-eating grin with a smile of his own.

“Sure thing.”

The man in question doesn’t even lift his head off the table as Strahm heads to the kitchen. He thinks that he might genuinely have dozed off.

Lindsey leaves him to it while he puts together the pair’s meals. Angie’s comes together easily. He does hers up to make a beamingly happy face. He remembers that she prefers bananas to blueberries and if she doesn’t have Linds’s house-made caramel sauce on it, she’ll look up to either of them for “just a drizzle, please”. Peter has unintentionally found himself filing away information about the brother and sibling like he does with Perez.

It’s only to avoid complaints, he tells himself. It’s a lie. What a disquieting thing it is to realize that he cares.

For Mark’s pancake, the crowning achievement is the lips. They’re made up of a thick sausage link cut in half and carefully arranged to form a pouting upper and lower lip. They glisten in the overhead light. He usually does bacon for the mouths, but it would not have done justice to Angelina’s request. Here at the diner, he’s all about customer satisfaction. Peter is just doing his job.

Lindsey sneaks at peak at the plates when he carries them out. She has to suppress a laugh. “Oh no.”

“It looks like him?”

“Definitely.”

He finds that Lindsey has already gotten them their beverages. Angie is sucking on the straw planted in her orange juice while Mark is staring into his barely touched coffee like it’s a crystal ball. He doesn’t look any more awake than he did on the doorstep.

Peter puts down Angie’s plate first. She gives it an approving nod before looking up at him, excitement barely contained. He sets the other plate down in front of Mark. The sausage lips jiggle a little upon impact and the detective’s sister is not disappointed. She only just manages to keep a straight face.

Mark looks back at the blueberry eyes beadily staring up at him from their whipped cream eye whites and turns to Peter with questioning expression on his face. Peter has a serious set to his mouth, the same distant appearance he used to wear during interrogations. He gives nothing away. Mark then faces Angie. She buries herself in her own pancake, refusing to make eye contact lest she break.

The seated man sighs, giving in. “I don’t have a yellow tie,” he says picking up a fork and gesturing at the egg that Strahm had fried and cut into the shape of the neck wear.

“Maybe you can get one at the clown convention next time it’s in town.” There’s no bite to Peter’s voice.

“Hmm,”Mark rumbles thoughtfully, almost fond, “maybe you can fuck off.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Peter is in the back, prepping a tray of roast for tomorrow. It will sit, covered, in the cooler overnight to marinate. He will cook it up mid-morning to be ready in time for their lunch special.

Having already encouraged Lindsey out of the door, he is alone in the diner with only the radio for company. She had done the bank run and had picked up some bottles of honey at the store. Their supplier had missed it in the shipment, leaving them bereft. Strahm felt like the extra work deserved an early night. Neither of the retired agents addressed that it was only an excuse for him to be alone. He has found himself needing solitude more as of late. There have been too many foreign feelings gnawing at his intestines like a parasite.

He flips over another chunk of meat in the bowl. He can’t help but wonder when Angelina and Mark became such an integral part of his life. Every morning, he finds himself looking forward to the moment the siblings walk through the door. Self-loathing sinks into his lungs as the raw meat held in his hands reminds him of the Jigsaw killer. Remembering his partner’s words, he shoves it aside and lets the idea of finding someone to focus on wash over him—someone who might not be up to their elbows in torture traps. Maybe it would be best if he try picking someone up at one of the clubs Lindsey occasionally drags him to instead of behaving like a guard dog and glowering over her shoulder at any men who don’t get the hint that it’s a gay-oriented bar and she’s not there to talk to guys looking for female action.

Surely, he could find someone there. Peter could make it work. He could smooth out the sharp, unlovable edges of himself to find a form of happiness. There’s an image materializing in his mind of the kind of man he would like to share a life with. Thick fingered hands, garishly patterned ties nestled between oversized pecs, full lips with a perpetual smug lift of the corners… Fuck, he thinks to himself, he’s just thinking of—

The doorbell clatters. It’s explosive in the calm, aggressive, and Strahm gets a hint of something he’s not encountered much in the time since he’s left the FBI.

He strips his gloves off and tosses them into the fifty-five gallon trash can. His hackles are already up. On the way through the swinging door separating the kitchen from the rest of the diner, he shoves his right hand into his pants pocket to mask the itch he has for a gun he had carried on his hip for over a decade.

“Can I help you?” he calls across the expanse separating him and the stranger.

A young man stares back at him with wild eyes ringed with anger before donning the mask of someone calmer. “Hi, yes, I’m just looking for my girlfriend.”

“That so?”

His smile has an ugly twist to it, a crack in the facade. He steps closer. “Angelina? Long dark hair, about this tall...” He holds a hand a few inches below his chin. “Probably with her brother all the time?”

Distrust whispers in his ear, prompting Peter to shrug. The gesture is accompanied by a wide swing of his arms. This man reeks of a disgruntled ex looking to get even. Strahm would be willing to put his share of the diner on him being the reason why Angie seems to look over her shoulder and shrink into herself when Mark isn’t at her side. Peter isn’t going to give him a damn thing.

“Look, man, I just need to have a talk with her.” His hands are lodged in the pockets of his jacket. Peter can see him faintly tracing something. It’s not a gun, probably a knife. “She’s not doing well, has some crazy ideas swirling around in that head of hers.”

“Can’t help you,” he says, curt. There’s a part of him that relishes a fight, wants the other man to draw the knife from his pocket and give Peter something to sink his teeth into. It’s been so long.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch, man.” The stranger is scowling, looking almost like he might give Strahm the release he’s craving.

The words prompt a sigh and the raising of his eyebrows. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Now.”

A smile of his own, more of a snarl graces the diner owner’s mouth. “Does it look like she’s here?” He gestures to the empty room, arms wide. “Get a hint.”

“I said—,” he starts.

“And I said to fuck off,” Peter interrupts. He takes a step forward, then another until he’s in the middle of the room. The man retreats, looking nervous. The cowardice makes Strahm even more irritated.

“Can you just tell her that I came looking? I’m the one that gets to decide when it’s over. Not her. She needs to remember…“ The stranger trails off. Back against the door now.

Peter puts his hand on the back of one of the chairs. He lifts it off the ground enough to get the point across that he will throw it. The feet scrape on the wood floor. It wouldn’t be the first time in his life he’s gotten pissed off enough to hurtle one.

The man puts his hands up, immediately showing his belly like a submissive dog. “My bad, man, my bad, have yourself a good night.”

He fumbles for the door and slips out. Peter lets go of the chair and stands in the silence. Headlights cut across the front of the diner as the stranger peels out of the parking lot. Strahm rubs his hands over his face and goes to lock the door and close the blinds. He swallows down the arid tang of disappointment.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“One of your sister’s associates came looking for her last night,” Peter says to Mark as he refills the detective’s coffee.

Angelina is seated at the counter for the time being while Lindsey plies her with flavored lemonade samples to test. Already, she’s working on the Spring menu. Mark has a spread of papers on the table that his sister had abandoned at. It looks like case reports for the Jigsaw situation, not that Strahm can scrutinize them too much under Mark’s careful gaze.

Mark’s full lips turn down in a frown. He looks troubled and when he speaks, his words don’t form a question. “Seth Baxter.”

“Yeah?”

“Angie broke up with him almost a year ago. Turns out he was a neo-nazi and all around piece of shit.”

“Wonderful.” He can’t say he’s surprised.

“He’s never taken no as answer. She hasn’t admitted to him doing anything to her but the guy is a problem. She’d had me there when she broke the news to him.”

“Did he act out then?”

“Nothing I could book him for.”

Peter nods, silent. He doesn’t blame Mark for entertaining that possibility. Encountering Baxter had felt like coming into contact with an oil slick. There was a residue left behind that just wouldn’t wash out with soap.

He leaves the detective alone to refill the next table’s mugs. Strahm still hasn’t broached the topic of Jigsaw to Mark. He hasn’t brought it up again to Lindsey either because he knows what she will say. Peter has found himself unable to muster up the will to confront the broad man in the fear that he might be right. In the daylight hours, it seems a ridiculous notion. Peter knows it’s possible. Time and time again, he’s seen the worst people put on the right masks to become loving family members, respectable members of their communities: the kind of people that would give the shirt off their own backs for a stranger.

Even the worst dregs of humanity have human moments. It’s what makes them so dangerous. It used to be his job to chisel away at the masks—to pull the shell off the snail and leave its innards manged and exposed to the naked eye. It’s not his duty anymore. He runs a diner with his best and only friend. He need to leave it alone. He’s no longer Special Agent Peter Strahm. That man lost his head, took on too much water and drowned.

Peter wants to believe that a better person left the building after turning in his badge. He knows one didn’t. There’s still something twisted and barely lying dormant inside of him, nestled between the cathedral of his ribs. It takes one monster to catch another.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The overhead bell clatters against the glass not even half an hour before closing. Strahm has already seen Perez out of the door. She had left early for a date that she’s shyly mentioned to him a couple of times over the course of the week. He knows it must be serious because she’s been tight-lipped and anxiously bursting at the seams. Peter will be staying up late, as he does every night, phone close at hand until she texts to let him know she’s made it back to her apartment.

“We’re closed,” he says.

Creaking footsteps cross the diner with no response from the intruder, and, finally, Peter looks up from the glasses he’s stocking below the counter. Irritation prickles at his skin. He’s half expecting to see Seth Baxter waiting for him when he stands up.

It’s Mark. The detective has dressed down for the late hour. It’s strange to see him without his blazer or his tie. Distractedly, the sleeves of the man’s dress shirt are rolled up to expose his large forearms. Strahm makes sure to look somewhere near Mark’s hairline.

“It’s you.”

“In the flesh, Peter,” the detective responds, smile across his lips.

“I’m curious as to why you’re here. Again.”

He watches as Mark settles himself onto a stool. The broad man rests his arms on the counter and leans over to encroach into Peter’s space. The retired FBI agent feels a little lightheaded when he realizes the position is only serving to highlight Mark’s chest through the open shirt collar. There’s honest to God cleavage. Ripping his traitorous eyes away from the scar snaking between Hoffman’s breasts, he meets his gaze and realizes that the detective looks tired.

“Angie had a date tonight, left me high and dry so I thought I’d come see you. Where’s Lindsey?”

“Out.” He kneels and lines the last few glasses up on the shelf and out of the drying crate. “Kitchen’s cold. I’m not turning the grill back on for you.”

“I’m sure you can figure something out for me, Pete. I’m hungry enough that I’ll eat anything you make me. You know how easy I can be.”

“Too easy,” he mutters. Mark just laughs, having heard him. “Fine, I don’t want to hear you complain.”

“Thank you, honey. You’re so good to me.”

A sigh and then he’s picking up the dish rack to take it back to the kitchen instead of throwing it at the seated man. Once in the back, he slots it in the nook beside the three-chamber sink before opening the door to vertical warmer and pulling out the two pans that have been resting on the racks. He shuts the machine off. It will be turned on again in the morning.

Largely using ingredients he’d be throwing out tonight anyway, he makes himself a sandwich with pot roast. He makes a second one for Mark. Both of them are plated with a side of macaroni destined for either his fridge at home or the trash can. The detective’s presence at the counter saves Strahm from having the hassle of taking home the leftovers.

Finished, he carries both plates out to the dining room. He bypasses the counter entirely to set the plates down on opposite ends of a small table. Before he sits down, he checks his watch. It’s a few minutes after closing time. He crosses the room to lock the door and flip the sign to closed. He draws the blinds on his way back to the table.

Hoffman is still. The weight of his eyes feels like a hand on the back of Strahm’s neck. It’s making his skin crawl. All too aware of the other man, he pulls out a chair with a screech of wood on wood and takes a seat facing the main room, back to the wall. He doesn’t verbally invite Mark, but he hears the shift of fabric and the sound of footsteps and then he is joined at the table.

“Didn’t feel like the stool?”

“No, don’t like having my back to the place.”

There’s a small grunt from the detective. “Were you a lawman?”

“FBI,” he says. Maybe Mark isn’t as stupid as he looks.

“Mmm, that would explain it. Were you good at your job, Special Agent?”

“Good enough.” For once, he doesn’t rise for the bait.

Peter toys with the fork in his hand, eyes on the man seated across from him. He watches closely, perhaps too closely as Mark slides his thick fingers under the sandwich and lifts it, cradled almost, to his mouth for a bite. Juice immediately spills free, running over Mark’s lips and liberally coating them in a filthy shine. He reaches for a napkin, but Peter’s hand is there first. Hoffman’s fingers skate over the back of his hand, thwarted. Peter receives a hard, considering look. There’s a dark gleam in the blue depths.

In an a long moment that reminds him of the morning the two of them had met, neither of them break their eye contact as Mark exaggeratedly licks his lips. Peter digs his fingers of his free hand into the meat of his thigh, hanging on for any glimmer of control while the other man sucks his own bottom lip into his mouth and releases it with a wet pop. He’s headspinningly hard in that instant, throbbing in his pants. He nearly curls over as if weathering a blow. Very nearly, he almost takes his hand off the napkin dispenser to press his palm against his crotch to relieve the pressure. Instead, he clamps down on the object harder, knuckles going white in the dim light.

With his dignity dangling on a thin line, he’s relieved that the table blocks Mark’s view. He’s struggling to stay in his seat. He wants to do something rash, destructive, transformative. His instincts are scrambled.

His own plate remains untouched as Mark takes another bite. The chewing is accompanied by a pleased hum, almost a lewd moan to Strahm’s ears.

“How… how does it taste?” He feels winded, out of breath.

Mark stops with the sandwich to his lips. He lowers it without taking another bite after swallowing. “Are you some kind of pervert?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious.

Strahm feels the last of his blood drain from his face.

“You’re one to talk,” he snaps. His tone does little else but highlight how defensive he’s feeling. Mark’s eyebrows raise. He’s got that smug look to him that makes Peter want to grab him by his shirt and smear his face against the floor until it worn down to the bone.

“Am I?” Mark is smiling now. “How do you figure?”

“You parade around looking like” he gestures in a broad sweep of his hand at the detective, “that.”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t think I do.” He has to be being purposely obtuse. Strahm doesn’t appreciate it.

The blood is starting to rise back up, he can feel himself starting to flush as he responds, “Like you’re begging for a scrap of attention. Like you’re just a whore with a gaping mouth waiting for someone to come along and fill it for you.”

Despite the crudeness of his words, Mark doesn’t look offended. He sets the sandwich down on his plate. With his fingers damp with the meat’s juices, he nudges Strahm’s hand out of the way to finally claim a napkin to wipe the mess away from his digits. Fingers clean, the other man pushes his plate across to him. It bumps against his with the sharp sound of ceramic against ceramic. He stands up, and for a critical moment, Peter thinks he’s made an error and the other man is going to deck him where he sits.

Violence doesn’t come. Peter is left shaken when Mark comes around to his side of the table and kneels, knees to the floor. The detective’s polished shoes squeak against the wood. He can see the way the bulk of Mark’s thighs strain against the confinement of his slacks.

“What…?” It comes out as a gasp. His lungs feel too compressed to draw in any air.

As a response, Mark shifts closer. Under encouragement from the detective's hands, Peter turns, letting the man rest his bulk between his spread knees. Hoffman’s eyes skate over his erection. The only acknowledgment he gives it is an impossibly more satisfied look as he meets Strahm’s gaze steadily.

“You said I wanted a full mouth, Peter. So fill it.” he says with a nod to the table.

Unable to look away, he watches Mark part his lips and wait. The detective’s mouth gleams wetly, salivating for what Peter is going to give him. He can see the moisture pooling in the space underneath his tongue, threatening to overflow the corners of his lips even as Peter’s own mouth goes devastatingly dry.

The retired FBI agent gropes blindly for Mark’s plate. He ends up offering the kneeling man a handful of macaroni and cheese. He is forced to put it into Mark’s mouth when he doesn’t reach for it with his own hands. The pads of Peter’s fingers brush over Mark’s tongue.

Pulse pounding, he gathers up another mouthful’s worth. He brings it to the other man’s mouth, pushes it inside and past those plump lips when, again, he doesn’t take it directly. Mark’s jaw is slack. He’s completely pliant, welcoming the intrusion of Strahm’s fingers. He chews and swallows when Peter withdraws.

He feeds him mouthful after mouthful. He takes from his own plate when he runs out of noodles on Mark’s. Slipping the last of it into Hoffman’s mouth, he looks at the mess he’s made. He gathers the smear of sauce and cheese off the detective’s bottom lip and feeds him that too. That simple motion brings curiosity with it. He slides his fingers into Mark’s mouth, so deep that the knuckles of his ring finger and pinky collide with the other man’s chin.

Mark swallows around them. The sudden, clenching heat makes him groan. His dick twitches in his jeans. Mark’s pupils are blown, and Peter doesn’t miss the way the other man’s hand clenches on his wide thigh at hearing the noise that Peter had let slip from his throat.

Again, he swallows around Peter’s fingers. This time, the action is accompanied by his teeth just lightly biting down on the digits encased between his lips, just testing the skin. There’s a pinch and he’s biting harder, properly digging his teeth in.

Peter’s free hand, the one adorned with a reminder of his failed marriages, shoots out. He presses it against Mark’s right cheek. The skin is smooth and unmarred underneath his palm. He doesn’t push Mark away. Strahm doesn’t want to stop him, not really. There’s a part of him not so far under the surface that wants the detective to sever the fingers between his teeth, to consume of Peter himself just has he had of the meal he had prepared for him.

Mark lets up and allows Peter to ease his fingers out just enough to thrust them back in. Strahm is panting, a ragged sound in the quiet of the diner. With each thrust of his fingers into the detective’s mouth, he imagines that it is his cock instead that’s rubbing back and forth over Mark’s eager tongue. His fingertips collide with the other man’s hard palate over and over again. He loses himself in the motion enough that Mark’s hand being placed on his thigh jolts him back into the moment.

The detective is drooling freely around his fingers. His chin is wet with his own saliva. It strings and drips, soaking the front of his shirt. The silk material is marked with darker patches, almost as if Strahm had placed his own mouth against the fabric and sucked at Mark’s chest and stomach through it. He looks debauched this way, used. His lips are swollen and pink.

As he observes Mark like a case file, he can’t help but notice that the other man’s slacks are straining over more than just his thighs. Peter can see the clear outline of his dick. He can almost swear the black fabric is somehow darker near the head of it. Mark is wet.

Wet for me, he thinks, nonsensical. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep the moan from escaping his mouth.

Extracting his fingers, he grips the edge of the table as Mark’s other hand hooks under Peter’s thigh. He spreads his legs wider to give the other man more access. Mark shuffles closer. He pulls Peter’s leg over his shoulder, spreading him open until he feels too vulnerable, too exposed.

His hands go to Strahm’s belt buckle, Peter tangles his hand in Mark’s hair, dampening the man’s locks with his own saliva. With as much protest as Peter himself had given, the leather of his belt easily slips free of the buckle. Hoffman’s fingers skate over the front of his jeans, seeking to undo the fastenings.

Even though the denim, Strahm can feel the heat of the detective’s breath on his dick. His cock twitches, almost as if it’s trying to get to the other man’s mouth. He feels both steadied and thrown off balance by the hand that Mark puts on his waist. He can barely think over the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. The drum beat of it drowns out the anxiety over being touched in such an intimate way. This man is going to be the death of him. He’s never been so hard in his fucking life.

A phone rings. Loud.

Face suddenly grim, Mark draws back. Peter’s hand slips free of the detective’s hair and he sags back in his chair. He busies himself with remembering how to breathe while Hoffman pulls his phone out from the pocket of his slacks. He flips it open and presses the button to accept the call.

“Detective Hoffman speaking.” His voice has a rough edge to it—the only indication that Strahm had been all but fucking his mouth with his fingers.

Choosing to look anywhere else but at Mark, his eyes resolutely lock onto the shelves behind the counter. He feels the shorter man slide his leg off his shoulder. It’s unsettlingly tender, the way Hoffman eases Strahm’s foot to the floor.

“Yeah… alright.” Peter can’t make out the voice on the other end of the line. “I’ll be there. Don’t mess with any unsecured doors this time, yeah?”

Peter hears the snap of the device being closed and glances at Hoffman. The man gets to his feet with a wince but with more spryness than Strahm himself would have been capable of under normal circumstances.

“Duty calls,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket and withdrawing his wallet.

Alarmed, he reaches out and stops him. “Don’t. The food was on the house.”

Mark gives him a look that Peter can’t quite read before closing his billfold and tucking it away. Hoffman’s erection is rapidly flagging. Whatever situation he was called about must be one hell of a mood killer. Meanwhile, Strahm can’t summon any of the blood back to his brain.

He nearly chokes on nothing when Mark’s fingers cup his cheek and he draws a thumb down over the scar mimicking an age line. He has to close his eyes.

“Goodnight, Pete.” The roughness that Strahm put there drags the nickname out into something obscene.

“’Night.” The retired agent manages.

And with that, Mark takes those characteristically stiff strides to the door, unlocks it, and slips through it. The bell jangles in his wake. He leaves Strahm alone and close to shivering in the absence of his warmth.

Like a man rising from a trance, he gets to his feet and locks the door behind the detective. His open belt clatters. The buckle collides with his thigh on every step, a reminder of what almost was. He leaves the plates on the table in favor of ducking into the diner’s single occupant bathroom. Out of habit, he locks the door. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see the creature he is in this moment. He chooses, instead, to press his forehead against the wall. He shuts his eyes.

Projected against the darkness of his eyelids, he imagines Mark on his knees again. He plays out the scene they had nearly had without the interruption that he is almost thankful for. While he thinks about Mark undoing his pants and taking Strahm’s cock out, he frees himself from the confines of his jeans and takes himself in hand. His dry palm is a far cry from the detective’s saliva-slick mouth.

Still, he strips his cock hard and fast. Mark had already had him on the brink of shamefully cumming in his pants. It’s not long before he’s spilling over his knuckles in hot spurts.

Wrung out and with his legs shaking, he lets go of his softening dick and fumbles for the paper towel dispenser. He wipes his hand off before tucking himself back into his pants and dropping onto the toilet toilet lid, exhausted. It feels like he had ran a marathon. He is going to have a heart attack in this bathroom and Lindsey is going to have to call for a morgue transport after she finds him in the morning.

“Fuck,” he says aloud. Revulsion has stuck its hand in him now that the fog of arousal has fled his body, and it’s rooting around elbow deep in his guts.

He gets to his feet. He washes his hands and still doesn’t meet his eyes in the mirror while he straightens himself up. This might not be the most shameful thing he’s ever done, but it’s higher on the list than he would like. He can gnaw on it while he works. He’s got a diner to clean

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning greets Strahm with all the grace of a punch to the jaw. He opens his eyes and squints against the light glaring at him through his windshield. He rubs both hands over his face. The brief shade they provide is a soothing balm to his pounding head. The ache radiating through his body like a missing tooth is a vivid reminder of last night.

He had been worked into too much of a shame-fueled frenzy to give the establishment the usual amount of care. No, he’d been on his hands and knees scrubbing the grout in the kitchen with a hard bristled brush until his hands were raw and he was satisfied surgery could be performed on the tile with no risk of infection. It not been the only task that he’d taken upon himself. He had spent so long handling his reaction to the unplanned intimacy that he had not bothered to go back to his rental. He had chosen to sleep in his car instead.

A glance at his watch reveals that he had woken up just after his usual alarm time. Peter drags himself out of his vehicle just as Lindsey’s yellow Ranger pulls into the lot and parks in the space beside his Vic.

“Good morning.” She looks cheerful, vibrant even.

“’Morning.” He grits out. His voice is so rough with sleep that it might as well have been his throat that was getting used last night.

“You look like shit.”

The only answer he gives her is a grunt. He nearly stumbles on the curb when he follows her to the front door.

“No, seriously. What happened?”

“Late night. Got wrapped up in cleaning.” It’s technically the truth. He doesn’t particularly want to confess that he almost fucked Mark and proved his co-owner right. Peter has never been one for losing, no matter the size of the stakes.

Sighing, Lindsey gets her key in the lock. She’s not buying it as being the whole story. If she were blind enough to just accept whatever bullshit he said to her, they never would have been able to be partners for so long.

“How did your date go?” he asks, heading her off before she can corner him in the back for an interrogation. He had gotten her text late last night, assuring him that she hadn’t been murdered in the street and was about go to bed.

Her face splits into a smile. “It went really, really well. She let me walk her to the door.”

“That’s great, Linds.” Her obvious joy manages to drag a returning smile out of him.

He listens to her chatter at him while they settle into their normal morning routine. She lets him get away with muttered responses and acknowledging hums, content to carry the interactions. It’s business as usual with the only the glaring absence of Mark and Angelina.

The sibling duo arrives after the breakfast rush has trickled into maintenance. Right away, Strahm notices that Hoffman looks as tired as he, himself, feels. There’s a serious set to his mouth and his movements are sluggish. They bypass their usual table on account of it being occupied and take up residence on stools at the counter.

“Just coffee for me.” Mark tells him when he silently stares at him in wait for the detective's order.

He feels like last night is written all over his face. If the both of them weren’t so tired, he’s sure some words would be getting thrown around. Unable to do more than exist, he turns to Angie, silently prompting her as well.

“Orange juice and one of those muffins, please,” she says. Like Lindsey, she’s all but glowing.

Nothing for him to cook. It’s just as well. Strahm is feeling he might just face-plant on the cooking surface. With any luck, he can take another nap in his car until Lindsey needs him for lunch support. With the distant sensation of moving through molasses, he pours Mark and Angie their drinks. He nearly knocks over Angelina’s glass when he tries to slide her muffin in front of her.

“Are you okay? I thought Marcus over here was half dead, but I think you got him beat.”

“I’ve always been a winner,” is Peter’s stab at levity.

He ignores Hoffman’s stifled scoff and drags out a notepad. Checking with the summary of items he’d marked as low in the dry storage last night, he writes down everything that he’s going to have to order tomorrow. Mark seems content to watch him while he drinks his coffee. Lindsey and Angelina chatter back and forth as his partner comes and goes. He tunes them out.

Blinking hard, he tries to focus his eyes on the paper in front of him. It’s threatening to triplicate. He sets down his pen and squeezes the bridge of his nose, hard. He needs to lay down.

There’s an explosion like a gunshot.

Peter feels a burning sensation race across the back of his shoulder and down his side. Adrenaline floods his system, burning away the exhaustion. He whips around in time to see Lindsey stumbling back from the coffee machine’s hot water spigot. Her hands are grasping at her face and she’s making noises he has never heard from her before—never thought he would hear. It’s the low, desperate whines of an injured animal.

Immediately, he reaches for her. Peter takes her into his arms, holding her securely against his chest where she curls into him in the blind trust that he can protect her, that he can keep her safe. She’s coughing, trembling. Even has she goes limp from shock, he supports her. She’s his partner and the closest thing he would dare call family.

There are shards of broken glass and hot water everywhere. Right away, it’s clear that a measuring cup had exploded. Hot water into a room temperature glass vessel had caused a rapid expansion. Something that they’d both done more than they should had finally caught up to them.

Mark is right next to him with his sister on his heels. Together, the two men guide Lindsey away from behind the counter and to a clear patch of floor. The detective strips off his blazer and folds it into a makeshift pillow for Strahm’s co-owner as Peter lowers her to the wood. Acid claws at his throat.

“Angie, call for an ambulance.” Mark’s voice is calm, lapping against the edges of Peter’s mind past the ringing in his ears.

The only thing he can focus on is Lindsey. His hands are shaking as he carefully tries to smooth her hair away from her face.

“Okay, c’mon, Shallow breaths. Okay? Stay with me.” He can’t hide the tremor in his voice. There’s so much blood seeping around the glass embedded in her face and neck. He has only seem this amount at crime scenes.

Lindsey reaches up and grabs weakly at his face. Her fingers hook briefly in the collar of his shirt. Peter catches her hand and squeezes it as much to reassure her as himself.

“Pete,” she whines. Tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“I’m here. I’m here, Lindsey. You’re gonna be fine, alright? You’re gonna be fine.” Maybe if he repeats it enough times, it’ll be true.

They had some close calls during their time in the FBI but it was all threats that he could negate. He would have put down any number of perps to ensure her safety. He would have ripped apart the world for her. But this… this was just an accident. He couldn’t protect her from this kind of thing.

He’s unaware of the panicked, half breathes that seize in his chest until Mark places his hand on his back. Peter doesn’t shrug it off. In the background, he can hear Angie on the phone. Her voice is wobbly, distorted through sobs.

After the paramedics arrive, Hoffman has to hold him back when Lindsey lets out a pained yelp from being moved onto the stretcher. She’s never been one to vocalize pain and it’s killing him to hear her.

“Easy… Easy, Peter.” Mark’s voice rumbles against him from where the detective has him held against the expanse of his chest.

Dimly, he realizes that Angelina has a grip on her brother’s arm. She has to be squeezing enough to hurt. Her knuckles are pale. He wonders at why she’s so torn up his partner and then it clicks. Mark had said Angelina had left him alone to go on a date last night. Lindsey had done the same to him. The two women had been together while he and Hoffman were doing whatever fucked up dance they’d been engaged in.

Strahm pushes out of the detective’s hold. He nearly collapses without the support he’d never admit he needed. It’s a smothering weight that he could be crushed under if he let it.

“Everybody out. Show’s over.” Peter calls as soon as Lindsey is wheeled out the door. “We’re closed. Meals are on the house today.”

A few people stand up, not enough. Mark speaks, his voice more vicious than Strahm’s. “You heard him. Have some respect and get the fuck out.”

It works. The customers pick up the pace and soon the diner is empty aside from them.

In daze, Peter steps into the kitchen and turns off the cook-top. He grabs his jacket and his keys from the back. The door hits him hard in the elbow. He nearly slips on the mixture of glass and cooling water. Mark’s hand is there to steady him. The other man plucks the keys from Peter’s grasp before steering both him and Angie across the diner and to the door. Peter lets himself be nudged out onto the step with Mark’s sister while the broad man flips the sign around and locks up for him.

“This way,” he says, leading them both to his car.

Numbly, he obeys as Mark has the two of them clamor into the back seat while he settles behind the wheel. He feels Angelina take his hand in hers. He lets her, just has he had let her brother touch him. Their fingers twist and grip onto each other until their joint hands make up one shared form. All he can see playing on repeat in his mind is the scared look on his partner’s bloody face.

He can’t tell which one of them is shaking. Is is Angie? Is it him? Is it the both of them?

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voraciousvore · 1 year ago

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The Half-Blood Giant (48/51)

***Contains soft nonfatal unwilling vore***

Chapter 48: A Belly Full of Humans

Hunter’s next destination was the boarding school. He knew there was considerable risk in returning, since everyone knew him and the cameras would record him, but in his arrogance he believed that nobody could stop him. He was able to escape jail easily enough, after all. He considered shrinking to sneak inside, but found he couldn’t cast two different complicated blood spells simultaneously. If he shrank, he would end up digesting the woman inside him, and for now he wanted to keep her alive.

On his way there, he was surprised to pick up Principal Henderson’s scent. As he sniffed further, he detected the sweet scent of a human female, similar to vanilla, intermingled with the giant’s scent. The principal had a human? Hunter’s curiosity was piqued. His nose guided him to a house not far from the school that was saturated with the principal’s scent. The gentle giant didn’t appear to be home, but the human’s tempting aroma was fresh and active. She was inside the house.

Hunter circled the house, searching for a way inside. The windows and doors were all closed and locked, without any obvious weak spots. Hunter glanced around to make sure nobody was nearby before smashing in one of the windows with a large rock. He shoved his huge body through the windowsill, careful to avoid shards of glass, and slithered inside like a big fat boa constrictor.

Hunter stood up and surveyed the inside of the house. He was in a dining room with a sturdy wooden table. He could see into the living room and kitchen, where there were the obvious signs of human accommodation: ropes and ladders for access, and mini human furnishings for practicality and comfort. He inhaled deeply through his nose and prowled quietly through the house. He felt strange, being in the private living quarters of his school principal. The house was neat and tidy, with a muted color palate of calm, darker colors.

He padded into the master bedroom. The curtains were drawn to block the morning sun, so the room was shrouded in shade. Hunter could almost believe the room was empty, if not for the tiniest bump on the massive bed. Hunter crept closer to behold a diminutive woman, nestled on a giant pillow with the bedsheets pulled up to her chin. The sheets were tucked around her, as if gentle hands had wrapped her in them. Hunter could see Principal Henderson in his mind’s eye, leaning over her before leaving for work and giving her a soft kiss goodbye. She was settled into serene slumber, all cozy in the gigantic bed.

Hunter felt strange as he watched her sleep, imagining the principal coddling his tiny lover. A trickle of regret, of doubt, wormed its way into his heart. What was he doing, breaking into Principal Henderson’s house like a burglar to steal away his feeble human companion? The principal had only treated Hunter with kindness and understanding. This woman was innocent and small. Hunter wanted to make the giant police officers suffer, but he didn’t wish any ill will on the principal.

Yet, as he looked at her little face, peaceful and carefree, he was overwhelmed with bitterness. He wanted that life with Hannah—to hold her, love her, cuddle up in bed with her—and he couldn’t have it. Life had cursed him to be miserable. He couldn’t be normal and happy like everybody else. He was a freak: half-giant, half-human, belonging nowhere. He would never have a place to truly call home; nobody would ever love him like that.

Rage, hatred, and misery boiled over inside him, drowning out any sympathy he might have felt for the tiny woman. Life was so unfair. Why did everything have to be so unfair? She didn’t deserve to be happy, if he couldn’t be happy. He projected his unbridled wrath onto her as he seethed over his innumerable woes. With a murderous scowl, he reached his hand towards her, his fingers curving with tension.

Millie opened her eyes sleepily, sensing something was off. She glanced up to behold a giant hand hovering over her, dwarfing her, ready to close around her. She yelped and leapt to her feet, stumbling back in shock. “W-who are you? What are you doing here?”

Hunter didn’t say anything, instead leering down at her. Millie’s legs bent underneath her like flimsy rubber bands, unable to hold her weight. Her nerves screamed at her to run, but she wasn’t coordinated enough, since she was shaking so badly. Hunter climbed up on the bed, looming over her threateningly with his gigantic body. He planted his palms down on either side of her, his substantial weight sinking into the bed.

Millie panicked. She tried to retain her wits, but couldn’t with the menace bleeding off the giant stranger that had invaded her home. She crumbled into a ball and cried as traumatic memories of a hostile, sadistic giant brutalizing her and devouring her assaulted her brain. She had always been helpless and unable to escape, no matter how hard she tried, and she knew this situation was no different. The flashbacks overwhelmed her until she could no longer focus on the present danger.

Hunter was confused as he watched her meltdown. He thought she would try to run, or plead for her life, but instead she curled up in a fetal position and sobbed loudly. He wrapped his fingers around the tiny human, lifting her closer to his face to examine her. She didn’t seem to be aware of his touch. He didn’t understand, but her scent was too tasty to resist. He gently lapped her up into his mouth.

As her aroma suggested, she had a lovely vanilla flavor, like ice cream. Hunter indulged in her sumptuous sweetness, rolling her around on his tongue and stuffing her in his cheeks. Initially, she stayed coiled up in a ball, but as she became saturated with spit and smothered by the heat of hot internal flesh, she unfurled her limbs and started thrashing. Millie realized the physical sensations around her were real, not the images in her nightmares, and a fresh wave of alarm consumed her. She opened her eyes to behold red walls of flesh and gigantic rows of white teeth enclosing her on all sides—a ghastly sight.

She was going to die. She realized the truth with horror. She hadn’t taken a pill. She would be digested in his stomach if he swallowed her. At one time, when Millie had been a tortured captive, she would have welcomed death, but not now. She had a life to live. She had a wonderful man who treated her with love and respect, like she was special and precious, even though he was a giant and she was nothing more than a little human. Her life had radically changed for the better. She couldn’t die now, not like this!

However, she was helpless to resist as she slid down the slippery slope of the tongue, her body entering the giant’s throat. She clawed at the slimy surface, trying to find purchase for her fingers on the bumps of the taste buds, but everything was slick with saliva. The fleshy tunnel closed around her and suctioned her down. She reacted violently to the pressure as fear exploded inside her. She was losing herself again as she drowned in panic. She was falling.

She blacked out for a minute. The next thing she became aware of was a voice, not the thunderous voice of the terrifying giant who ate her but a feminine voice, one that she found familiar and comforting. “Millie! Millie! Snap out of it!” A pair of arms were wrapped around her.

“E-Eren?” Millie stammered. She couldn’t see anything in the black gurgling cave of the stomach. Her heart was palpitating fast enough to make her lightheaded. “No, it can’t be... he ate you too?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Eren confirmed. “Millie, are you okay?”

“No, not at all,” Millie choked. “We’re gonna die!” She started to hyperventilate, splashing around uselessly in the acid.

“Millie, calm down. I don’t know how, but I’ve been in here a while and I haven’t been digested. We might... survive this.” She gulped. Living was important, but she didn’t know what the nefarious giant had planned for them. She was scared, yet she needed to be strong for Millie, who was more fragile. Eren and Millie had both suffered as prisoners in the hands of evil giants, but Millie’s captivity had lasted far longer.

Millie realized that the acid didn’t sting, but this revelation wasn’t exactly comforting. “Oh no... it’s happening again...” she whimpered. “We’re going to be tortured and used as objects of pleasure... Eren, I can’t go through this again, I really can’t... I’m not strong enough...” She shuddered hard, shrieking as the stomach growled noisily, as if dissatisfied that it couldn’t break down the morsels within. Eren held Millie in a loving hug as they churned and rocked in their gastric confinement.

On the outside, Hunter continued on his path towards the school. His belly felt so good, so full, with two humans trapped inside. Even so, there was one more human on his list that he couldn’t wait to scarf down. He walked through the gate, staring straight into the camera as he did so. He didn’t need to hide his face. He didn’t fear any consequences if he couldn’t be contained in a jail cell, or could make himself small enough to slide out of handcuffs, or could shrink any giant who dared cross him. In this realm, nobody was even aware of the existence of magic. He had a ridiculous advantage.

He moved briskly, using his nose to avoid anyone who might spot him. Classes were in session, so the halls were deserted. He hastened straight to Pedro’s office. Meanwhile, Pedro was having a private meeting with another student who’d been struggling with his grades. The clomping footsteps that approached seemed more aggressive than usual, but the two humans were used to the movements of giants and didn’t acknowledge the rattling of the furniture as anything out of the ordinary. It was all normal, until the giant stomping around stopped right outside the door. Both Pedro and the student went quiet, glancing over to the cutout at the bottom corner of the door. Pedro spied a giant shoe just a moment before the door wrenched open. Both humans looked up, startled to behold Hunter glaring down at them with a savage glint in his eye.

“Hunter!” Pedro exclaimed in surprise. “W-what...?” He trailed off when he saw how wild and hungry Hunter looked. Something was definitely wrong.

Hunter smiled wide in a nasty sneer, drool dribbling from his chops. He stepped into the closet, hunching his shoulders to fit, and slammed the door shut behind him. He glared over at the student, who was gaping up at him with unfiltered terror. “Scram, pipsqueak! Unless you want to be my breakfast!”

The student yelped and jumped out of his chair as if he just sat on a tack. He scampered out the hole in the door and Hunter blocked the exit behind him with his shoe. Pedro gulped as Hunter lowered himself down, struggling to fit in the tight space. He was significantly larger than when Pedro had last met with him, unbelievably so.

“W-what did you need to talk to me about, Hunter?” Pedro squeaked, struggling to maintain his composure.

“I have a bone to pick with your keeper,” Hunter sneered with condescension. “I want to teach him a lesson.”

“Keeper? Excuse me?” Pedro answered. His face darkened. “You mean Ray? He’s my boyfriend! And what’s he got to do with anything?” Pedro may be small, but he would defend Ray to the ends of the earth, from anybody, even a giant as big and intimidating as Hunter.

“Boyfriend,” Hunter said scornfully. “Disgusting! Giants should have nothing to do with humans except eating them. That’s the natural order of the world.” With that statement, he plucked Pedro out of his chair by the back of his shirt. “Down the hatch you go!”

“H-h-hold on a second!” Pedro yelled in alarm. “Can’t we discuss this? What’s gotten into you?” His brain was scrounging for a way out.

Hunter glared darkly at him. “No. That’s not how this works. If I’m fated to be fucking miserable for the rest of my life, you’re fated to be my food. Accept it.” Licking his lips eagerly, he opened his jaws and dangled Pedro over his maw. Pedro let out a sharp scream that was cut off as he disappeared into Hunter’s mouth. Hunter slurped on him as he checked the hallway before strolling out like nothing had happened.

He left the school grounds unmolested, thinking about where to go next. Since he couldn’t live in the dorm, he would need to find a new place to stay, where he could decide what to do with his prey. With that thought, he swallowed his final human victim, relishing his squirms as he plunged down his throat to join the others. Hunter burned with spite and resentment, but his pain was mollified when he had the satisfaction of a belly full of humans. Violent fantasies flashed through his head. He would make them all suffer as much as he was suffering. He would make the world burn.

Chapter 49

Chapter 1

#g/t vore #g/t fearplay

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blueberryjam1201 · 1 year ago

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Unexpected

Chapter 7

Genre: Drama, Romance

"The part of my personality I hate the most is ...

I can't be apathetic,

I can't do things halfway...

that comes also to the love.

I wasn't aware of it until I met her, YiSeul.

I was naive to truly believe this would last forever.

I gave her my everything... ah...how can I get out from this void?"

The thunder fell silent as the morning sun has risen. The swang in the wind grass hummed the melody. A lullaby for a still sleeping souls. The doors weren't locked. In the kitchen and sitting room, only silence breathed, distracting attention from the sadness which was still lying on the floor together with scattered chips, food and a broken bottle...

Whiskey bottle...

His legs were hanging helplessly from the couch, and his arms were covering his face. That's where Kyungsoo fell asleep...there was no point in going upstairs. The bedding in the bedroom was reminding of her too much... Every corner in this house did.The void in his head created in the last few hours was keeping him sane, and at the same time cutting off the reality supply.

He moved one arm off his face, staying still in the same position. Dark circles under his wide-open eyes were telling about every second of the heartbreaking story he experienced. Red and swollen eyes were shouting about the litres of tears shedded.

...the scattered chips on the floor. Hopefully, he hadn't damaged the TV... Wet stain after throwing the glass with orange juice...it's probably sticky...needs to be washed properly... white food containers after take away were lying near the couch on the left side...oh...the pieces of food were still inside. Now they are covering part of the white carpet...it needs to be washed too...

He rose from the couch and moved slowly to the kitchen. The feeling of hangover was painted on his face, even though he wasn't drinking much. That was more of the damage made by overwhelming emotions. The silence wasn't only outside. The void created in his head was blocking any sounds from outside. There was no recollection or planning for the upcoming few minutes. Just silence. No existing thoughts.

His weak hands opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water just at the bottom. Then, after opening it and taking a sip he moved to the stairs. Climbing up was for some reason more difficult than usual. Every step seemed higher.

After reaching the top he moved to his bedroom on the left.

This corridor had two doors on the left wall leading to the bedroom and bathroom, and two on the right, a small recording mini studio and storage room. However, on that side in the middle was another corridor leading to another room. That was his library, office room or just a place dedicated to work. He opened the bedroom doors and walked inside. It was perfectly tidied, with no sign of the war. Still no sound in this void. Just an image of the white, printed bed cover. How many times has he confessed to her here? How many times did he touch her naked arms from behind to fall asleep while feeling her presence? Lost in the memories, he stood in silence for a few minutes.

Suddenly the phone started ringing in his pocket. No need to check who is calling. He ran to the bed, ripped the sheets off and threw them on the floor. Stripped the pillow case and duvet cover, ran to the wardrobe under the right wall, grabbed all the rest of the sheets from it, then ran to the stairs and threw it at the bottom... It gave him a little ease. Breathing heavily he was looking down on the abandoned sheets, and slowly the hate start to blooming in his mind.

It was a chaos in his void... It wasn't a void anymore, this became a prison. Cube filled with display screens playing that scene from the night before on loop, and many other scenes from their last year's history. Everything was becoming so clear now. He was naive. He was too absorbed by work and love he felt, that in his mind there was no possibility of doubting her. If not for her, he would probably live for work only anyway...

He moved to the storage room at the end on the left side of the stairs. This was just a simple small room, with white walls and wooden panels covering the floor. Two wardrobes on the left side, a shelving unit on the right and then a wooded glass door cabinet. Many pictures were standing behind the glass, his family, friends and ...YiSeul.

The one he was looking at was a simple couple picture... Was it? She was standing next to him in a summer dress, decorated with painted flowers, holding a small shopping bag in one hand while the other was grabbing his t-shirt sleeve for some reason. He was standing next to her...he just realised he never grabbed her hand. They never held hands randomly...

She was happy about the present. He bought an iPhone, the new model back then, with headphones on Bluetooth, and took her to the cinema to watch Pixar's new animation. She enjoyed it! ...or that's what he thought back then... he won't believe in anything anymore....

He opened the glass and grabbed all the pictures with her, then walked out of the room.

"Your hand was always near mine, I could grab it anytime... ...ah..." he looked at the floor while the teardrops appeared in his eyes corners. Then he thought:

"The sand, Collapsing under our wet steps, The long empty street...

....we didn't care about hurting our feet while running barefoot..." he suddenly took out the phone from his pocket and pressed record. There was a spark in his eyes for a second. The inspiration gave him an ease, idea for a song... He repeated everything and then added:

"The taste of this drink was different with you, I could drink from your lips until I fell..." he gritted his teeth due to sudden waves of sadness which came back again. He froze in one place and closed his eyes: "Because... I was certain... you would be there... Next to me in the morning..." He bent his back and kneeled on the floor while crying. The strong heart has broken...

That was the moment which he couldn't fight anymore... He wiped the tears, stood up and with still clenched teeth threw the picture he was looking at before to the wall, and the rest of them just over the stairs railing...

"I was certain you would be there... How naive was that..." whispered after the screams in the void had passed...

Later, he cleaned up all the mess downstairs and sat on the couch looking at the switched-off TV. The phone start to vibrate, that was Chanyeol. He looked at the screen, but there was no point in answering...he didn't want to speak or see anybody... Suddenly, the intercom bell rang. He rose and moved to the front doors.

"Hi, it's food delivery" he head after pressing the voice button. He then went outside to collect the food. It was raining...

He brought the takeaway inside, grabbed chopsticks and sat down on a couch to eat akisoba, the food he ordered. It was tasty, and the flavour wasn't as much as he expected, but considering he still hadn't eaten anything, hunger made him eat anything.

"You told me you hate akisoba" He suddenly heard her voice in his head, like in a dream, or reality if she'd be there.He stopped... Looked at the half-eaten food, left chopsticks next to it and stayed like this in silence.

"I never said I don't like it, there was always something more interesting on the menu..." he squeezed his head with his hands as if he wanted it to burst. Then grabbed food and hurried to the kitchen's bin to throw it away. Then he brought a big box from the small toilet behind the kitchen and boxed up all the items he had thrown over the stairs railing. Then, while holding the box he rushed to the door and when he was about to press the handle... He slowly backed up, turned to his coat hanging on the rack and put his left hand in the pocket. He took out a small box... That was an engagement ring he bought when he was on a trip... He planned to propose yesterday... Slowly he put it inside the box with all the sheets and the walked outside.

His household waste bins were standing in the garden next to a dumpster. It's not usual to keep a dumpster on house properties, but it was here already when he moved in, and it's useful so he kept it for large rubbish like equipment or furniture. He opened the dumpster and threw the box with the abandoned items. Then stand again in silence . Gazing and the dumpster without any move. Even his breathing has stopped...then the fire exploded inside, embracing the dumpster and creating a dark fog. Small burned pieces were flying around him, floating in the wind, touching his faces naked skin...but he hadn't felt anything... the void was still silent...

*bzzzz bzzz* the phone in his pocket rang. That woke him up from the nightmare which seemed to bring him a little piece of joy. The dumpster was still there, and the non-existing fire disappeared. He grabbed his phone without even looking at the screen, his gaze was still stuck in one place.

"Kyungsoo-yah, what's up? Why not answering my calls?" That was Chanyeol Kyungsoo needed a few seconds to sober.

"Chanyeol-ah..." he whispered

"What's up? Did you just woke up?"

"...YiSeul..."

"We need to get ready, the date is set up for next two weeks. Kim's going mad..."

"YiSeul..." Kyungsoo had to rise his voice slightly to interrupt his friend in full of excitement speech "YiSeul is gone...."

"No man, that's not good. Is it?"

"She left yesterday..."

"But why? Do you want to talk about it?" Kyungsoo lowered his head and grit his teeth, fighting with himself to not break apart. He sobered...

"Kyungsoo-yah, are you coming to work tomorrow?"

It took him few seconds to catch a breath between sobbing and holding and breath to not make any sounds.

"Tell them I feel ill...Chanyeol..." that was the moment when the tears fallen down and he couldn't hold it inside anymore. He crouched holding his stomach. "I don't know what should I do now...she said things I don't understand..." this time sobbing was more aggressive, he wanted to shout, to punch anything standing in his way..."She came back to her ex, never loved me. I was just a substitute...a support in her loneliness..."

"Kyungsoo, you need a break. I'll come by tomorrow...no, tomorrow work...I'll be there in the evening, ok? I'll definitely come..."

"No..."

"...you don't want to see anybody?"

"..."

This few seconds of silence was deafening.

"I understand, give me a call if you need anything. I'll speak with them tomorrow, so no worries. Take your time...see you" He hang up leaving Kyugsoo alone as he was told. On this dark evening, in the pitched black garden, still crouching.

Crying of sorrow...

He woke up in the morning on a bare mattress in the bedroom. In clothes. His mind was still in the void he created, hopefully any memories dissapeared.

He went to the toilet to take a shower, then grabbed a protein baton. No need for a breakfast, even though he is not going to work. His stomach wasn't feeling the hunger or any other need. He grabbed water and after getting dressed in a blue hooded tracksuit with white strips on side, he gone outside. The tracksuit hoodie was covering his head, he didn't want to show his face, nor looking at other people. Using a car was a first thought. His main point of going outside was to buy a new bedding and grocery. However, after grabbing the car doors handle, he changed his mind. He is not fully well to drive, his state of mind is not fully sane to do it, and a walk can help him collect his thoughts.

In the city center he made all the shopping as planned. The main street near his house seemed to calm him down. It's not center anymore, but all the most important shops are here...and life. Crowds of people, individuals, couples or families, all the residents are living their own life.

On This long street was a barber and next to it regular hairdresser, which looked like for women only. Funny how both of them were owned by a couple. Next, accountancy private office, a bar usually crowded by football fans, watching the match and making sure to let all the neighbours know about it. Then corner shop with limited grocery, random items and magazines. The Alley leading down to KyungSoo's place. Pharmacy. And so on... On the other side of the road, the one Kyungsoo was walking, there was a large shop dedicated for kids, electronic devices repair, jewellery shop where, except buying jewellery customers could use other jewellers services. And then KyungSoo's favourite florist's. He will look at the name today, it was bothering him for long time.

"I like this place, can't imagine to live somewhere else" the thought "Atmosphere here is like at home. We all know each other even if we never talked. All the shops were here from when I remember, it would be sad if any of them would disappear...I never showed this to YiSeul...she was always coming straight to my house, or meet in the city center...have I ever been walking with her on this street? Ah..for some reason being here is giving me a peace of mind. I should have walk more, not using car all the.." *BUM*

He jumped on side, barely stayed on his feed. Someone just bumped into him, so he impatiently start searching for the culprit...and opened eyes widely.

"I'm sorry, I'm in a hurry...woow!" This voice! It was her! The girl from the airport!

"How...how is that possible!?" They both shouted at once. She started to laugh, even though he was speechless and still tried to comprehend who is he looking at.

" Are you from here? That's unbelievable! I mean...meeting you!" She said while grabbing the sleeve of his tracksuit. "I really need to go, I hope we will meet again!" She shouted while already running forward " See you, hopefully soon!" And dissapeared...

He needed few more seconds to understand. How is this wicked girl here? He didn't even realised that left corner of his lips has raised. He smiled...? First time from two days...

He turned around and crossed the street, but after reaching other side he turned around to finally check the flower shop's name.

ROSE

...

"This is insane" he thought, and while again his one corner of lips raised slightly showing amusement, he walked down the alley leading to his house.

Back at home, he was using a new bedding sets to cover the sheets. Phone was lying on the table under the window. Vibrating. For long time. He picked it up after finishing.

11 missed calls.

Suddenly, it started to ring again. It was Kim. Kyungsoo haven't felt anything, no panic, nor fear, even though he very much knew what he will hear. He answered...

"Doh Kyungsoo, have you filled the sick leave form?"

...

"For what?"

"Exactly, I don't care about your personal life, and you shouldn't mix it with work too. Your job is important for the company, and if we won't have everything fully prepared before the event I will make sure that was Your last time. You were lucky back then, but..."

("Yeol is talking too much" he thought)

...

"That was many years ago, I always wanted to ask you, are you resending me for staying?" Kyungsoo asked. Silence...

Kim moved on his chair what was head in the mobiles speaker.

" You were THE child, and the reason why I'm mentioning it is because you are again using your personal problems"

"I believe that is a different situation, and I will be back to work...just..need few more da..."

"You need to come to work tomorrow, I don't care how heartbroken you are. I'm hanging up" and so he did...

The void suddenly became loud again. The screens showed moments of fear...when he wanted to hide, when he was running away. When he saw the thousands of eyes, heard the laughs. He covered his ears and crunched.

Suddenly the phone vibrated again, but it wasn't a call, just a text message. He slowly sat down on a bed and looked at the screen.

Message from unknown number...

"Was is Kyunggu or Kyungchu?"

Surprised, he looked up on a different messages from this number as a part of investigation, who is it?

"Do you have my suitcase?!"

Then he messed up his bangs by hand and made irritated facial expression. "It's her..."

The phone buzzed again, so he quickly looked at the screen.

"My real name is Go YoonJung, save it!"

His eyes widened suddenly.

"YoonJung?....why does it sound so familar...?"

#kdrama #kyungsoo #romance #do kyungsoo #exo kyungsoo #doh kyungsoo #do kyung soo #d.o exo #exo do kyungsoo #fanfic #fanwork #drama #comedy #d.o. expectation #d.o. highlight medley #exo d.o.#d.o. kyungsoo #exo d.o #d.o.

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daniels-rwby-blog · 2 years ago

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Volume 9 episode 8 reaction

That's a hell of a thumbnail and again an interesting title of tea admist terrible trouble, the Alice and wonderland parallels continue.

The title is as Good as Ever And again ruby is sitting by a tree,

ep1 parallels woo.

No dont yell at little!Punches tree like shes playing minecraft

Dam its dark already, okay rt spotlight of pressure we get it.

And the house of neo.

So much backstories in these portraits

HES BACK, its amazing i love it.

THE META YEEEEE

Its just like chibi said nothing bad ever happened and i love it this kind of meta is what i wanted from a fairytale volume.

The subtle camera work really sells it.V3 call backs wooo.

Reset you say?

Its interesting how we did actually hear neo before she strikes,

nice bit of attention to detail.

But yeah ive got loads of ideas about this little sequence, how neo projects to torchwick, the leaves from the tree, why the tea is rainbow, looking forward to going over this ep in detail.

But for now Action!

love Neopolitan, was my favourite character untill v8 and Ambrose. But best girl is back and the umbrella twister of fight scenes is hinted at beautifully with that little entrance.

And she know shes best girl, that smile to roman.

And back to bees plus Weiss

Wiess no your comedic relief not serious.

I love this fight, the colors the shade ruby hears the fall penny turning and penny just savage and so dark its amazingly blocked.

This is the moral story i wanted from v7 and v8

The blur of good and evil and if team rwby are the hero's. Reminds me of clone wars and its change of perspective. But obviously very different.

Also little is still adorable while so scared.

Alright the "well shit" moment is apon us.

So yeah that got dark. Rose garden fans how ya doing?

Its framed so well.

The staff

the change to oscar,

and then neo pulls out the cards with qrow and rwby and jnpr.

Then she steps in herself, best girl.

And the cat ex machina, this is fucking dark.

Okay so the cat says maker, and the cat wants a purpose, and also the relics are made, and the relics are hidden in pocket dimensions.

Yeah I'm saying it, the cat is the crown.

Now i don't love this idea (go watch the video on yt) because i feel like this should be the reset volume with no links to any wider stuff on remnant, like a pause and then we go back to normal but with growth and deeper relationships. But i see it.

And as a call back in volume 10 or 11 it would be awesome, just not as they leave with the crown from the ever after, that's gonna take a lot of convincing to get me on board. Okay back to the reaction:

Again i love it.

And neo wants it all for herself.

And poor little, gonna come back to that,

and back to the tea.

I mean yeah rubys not dead, but wow who said this was filler

we just said the main new character of the cat is trying to get a permanent body and using ruby as it, and then killed the title character, nkt a volume for beginners.

Also yeah its a metaphor for

Suicide, woo.

And neo is batshit crazy, but we knew that anyway.

I assume the voice of roman was always there, always chippin away at neos mental state.

But addressing the cat, wtf?

Like it went inside her?

Mate what the hell is going on i thought i was watching rwby?

I enjoyed it, i really did its so good, but its dark and wacky and yeah this volume better stay self contained cause this plus salem and grimm would be too much.

I dont like neo speaking and i dont like that model, with all of neos new semblance and again cat just peaces out like ruby at the end of last episode.

So my final thoughts and mini theories.

What's littles Ascension gonna be?I love that we get 2 ships confirmed, like roman and neo were already pretty much cannon, but just to reaffirm it.

Also the i think the writers are telling us something with his consumed neo got by killing ruby that after she drank the tea, neo broke.

Like straight up died inside, even her inner voices got worried,

i wonder if RWBY can use that info to sedate Salem or something, involving sacrifice and all that good jazz.

Also dude we got jaunes saving neo, kinda.

That face gives me hope for the dark ass RWBY i wanted from this volume, but also nightmares.Why cat want to suck my soul and body? has cat done this before?

(Sorry for the swearing i try not to with these but this episode is as close to losing its pg13 rating as rt have dared go before so i hink its warranted)

Thanks for reading y'all, stay tuned for in depth theories and read my other stuff, I'm only wrong 50% of the time.

Steal my gifs, go on do it

☝️how we all feel after that

#rwby #rwby vol9 #Ruby rose is dead #spoliers #V9e8 #V9c8 #what the fuuuuuuuuck #like what #no really #what happened #Neo #neopolitian (rwby)#neopolitan #Best Girl #Dam Eddy this dark #rooster teeth #crazy shit #Cat #rwby theory

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lucysweatslove · 1 year ago

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Oh, btw:

I did really well on my final. It’s not a very hard block in general (other blocks will kick our collective asses, I’m sure), but I still did significantly better than the average and objectively very well.

Also I just want to express gratitude for my school’s p/f no-rank system. I’m doing super well even in comparison which is nice and all but I really like that we don’t have to fight each other, and I don’t have to worry too much. I literally didn’t study much at all for that final (just looked over some material briefly) but mostly I spent the last week or so more focused on my mental health. And this was okay- I could take that “risk”- BECAUSE of the p/f system.

Which also. Just a mini-rant. I get that many students at “lower tier” schools need the rank and grade to appear competitive to residencies, but that whole system is absolute stupidity to me anyway. Not the students for participating in it (they don’t really have much of a choice), but the fact that our system in general is set up in such a way that rewards self-neglect and poor life balance.

And I hate the “I worked harder and got better grades, so I want to have the advantage over my peers who didn’t do as well” narrative. Whenever I speak up against it (as I did with the MCAT), I get the “you must not be doing well, otherwise you’d want to be rewarded for your efforts” sentiments… uh, no, i speak up because it benefits all of us, and doing well in a class or a test doesn’t automatically make you more deserving???

Literally we are all high achieving smart people, ranking and these tests are far more discriminatory for outside life factors than intelligence, dedication, or hard work. Especially since you literally cannot get time off for moderate issues. Sick one week? Insomnia? Lost housing? Family member diagnosed with cancer? Too bad you still have to perform, so screw you if you happen to do worse on that test for situations not really in your control. And while disabilities are becoming more accommodated, it’s still far from equitable. It’s STILL about privilege. I’m not better than any of my classmates, and anybody who did better on that test aren’t better than me. So can we PLEASE stop acting like class ranks and grades have huge discriminatory power to determine who “deserves” to practice the medicine they like, thanks.

The Pompe variant I have is likely insignificant so I’m just letting it go for now. I’m still worried ofc about having a second mild variant not tested for that will cause something in adulthood, but i guess it’s a bridge I’ll cross only if needed.

My parents and the house are safe from the fire 😮‍💨 It’s now 83% contained and hadn’t grown much the last week and a half.

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vid-writes · 10 days ago

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Owning Her Ch. 3

As always this story is for adults only!

Not only that but it contains lots of graphic BDSM content that most won't enjoy so if you don't want to encounter this story then please block the tag #TW Owning Her

"You know you are the worst," Luíza Morias said as she chucked a fry at Vivian. Vivian giggled as it bounced off her nose and landed in her lap. They sat in a bustling small cafe that was decorated in old-timey gothic regalia. Their chairs were small thrones, and every table had red, black, or purple cloth-lined mini thrones at them. Bold chandeliers in gold with bits of the paint flecking off lit up the room just enough to keep the customers awake. At each table, a plant was situated either on the surface or nearby without being in the way of traffic. Their current table had an ivy plant in the center whose tendrils had grown wildly off the table but controlled enough to span it like a natural runner over the blood-red tablecloth.

"How am I the worst this time?" Vivian asked as she plucked the fry off her suit pants and popped it in her mouth.

"You're living the dream," Luíza exclaimed as she grabbed her drink. "You've got a hot guy who makes a lot of money, he's really into some kinky shit, he pampers you and buys your clothes, and you don't have to ever ask for sex. It's just always right there."

Vivian laughed as her best friend crossed her light brown arms over her chest, causing her breasts to squish and touch her chin.

"Hey, it's not my fault he decided my customer service was so good that he had to break another device just to talk to me again." Luíza stuck out her tongue and tossed several pink and yellow braids over her shoulder. Vivian loved how Luíza changed out her braid colors with the seasons.

"Well, you said you wanted to talk about your recent punishment over lunch, so spill," Luíza demanded as Vivian bit into her turkey sandwich.

So Vivian did just that. She told Luíza everything, and by the time she finished, the little old ladies two tables away were leaning in to listen closer.

"Ugh," Luíza groaned. "The absolute worst."

After lunch, Vivian was heading back to her office when she got a text from her boss.

Sudden and urgent board meeting. Everyone is dismissed for the day.

Vivian smiled as she tucked her phone back into her purse. With a plan to spend the afternoon napping, she headed directly for her car. She even made sure to set her alarm for thirty minutes before Greyson would be off of work.

If traffic allowed, she could get in a good three hours once home.

"I feel like another hunt," Greyson said as a greeting when he pushed open the apartment door at precisely five-thirty that evening.

Vivian looked up from where she knelt on her pink pillow as excitement buzzed underneath her skin.

"That sounds fun, Sir," she replied.

Greyson smiled, causing his rare dimples to show on his golden cheeks.

"Dinner first, and then we go play," he added as he strode past her into the kitchen. Vivian remained on her knees as he started to dig out what he needed for dinner. Greyson rarely cooked, but when he did, she usually serviced him.

She loved to cook in that kitchen, which was colored similarly to the living room but with more notes of Vivian in the room than anywhere else in the house save for her bedroom. Amongst all the creams, browns, and whites of the appliances, counters, and cabinets were bits of cottage core stuff—a mushroom-shaped spoon rest laid on the stovetop. Frog-shaped salt and pepper shakers sat next to the stove. A bowl shaped like the sliced open cap of a toadstool held fruits on the bar counter. And a bunch of flower-shaped stools crowded along the massive bartop counter.

"Come in here; I need help," he commanded like always.

She walked into the kitchen to find him chopping up vegetables with his hips far enough away from the counter that she could fit. Vivian knelt beside him and waited.

After he chopped up the tomatoes and put them in a bowl, he finally spoke up, "My cock is aching, and I can't focus on cooking when it hurts like this. Come be a good girl and suck me off so I can focus."

Vivian slid into the space for her and pulled down his jeans, making sure to bring his briefs down, too. His cock sprang free and slapped her in the face causing her to moan. Not wanting to waste time, Vivian grabbed the base of his cock and swallowed it down in seconds.

When her nose was squished against the flesh just above his cock Greyson groaned in approval. He pushed his hips forward until her head got trapped between his cock and the cabinet behind it. Vivian wanted to groan but knew wasting oxygen was pointless- his hips weren't moving until he wanted them to. She wouldn't be getting any more oxygen until he deemed her worthy of it.

So she hollowed out her cheeks and sucked tightly as her tongue laved over every inch it could reach. The seconds ticked by feeling like minutes, hours, and still, Greyson didn't move. When Vivian started to see black spots, his hips pulled back enough to allow her to draw in ragged breaths through her nose.

But that didn't last long before he was hammering his cock down her throat. Her head bounced off the cabinet from the force as Greyson continued to chop vegetables. There was a brief moment of silence in which he suffocated her on his cock again, and then they were moving.

His hand tangled in her hair and dragged her along until her back pressed against the oven door. She heard the click of a knob turning on the stove burners, and then he was fucking her throat again. Vivian groaned as she sucked his cock tightly and licked all the throbbing veins she could feel. Just when she thought he was going to bust, he stopped again.

With her head swimming from a lack of oxygen, Vivian finally fell into that sweet headspace of pure release. Release from control, from her job, from anything that demanded she do anything other than be used by Greyson. And it nearly made her come.

When Greyson finally started riding her face again, the smell of roasting vegetables filled the air and conflicted her. She was now both horny and hungry. Damn him.

As Vivian's head bounced off the oven door from the force of Greyson's thrusts, he finally stuttered and stilled. His load spilled down her throat, and she eagerly swallowed. She continued to swallow as he pulled his cock from her mouth, refusing to waste a single drop.

"Thank you for your help, kitten," he cooed. "You may return to your pillow until dinner is ready."

Vivian tucked his cock back into his clothes at his dismissal and returned to her spot to wait.

"All your screaming from me plowing you into the coffee table got the attention of one of the neighbors last night," Greyson casually said as they sat at the table for dinner. Vivian blushed. Most of their neighbors weren't close enough to hear her, save for one. A single gorgeous redhead with an hourglass figure and freckles Vivian secretly hoped extended to more intimate areas underneath her clothes. "She said she wants to watch tomorrow night."

"Oh?" Vivian speared a piece of chicken with her fork.

"She said she wants us to leave the window to our bedroom open tomorrow night so she can sneak up, push open the curtain, and watch," he explained with a fire in his eyes.

"What did you tell her?" Vivian asked.

"I said I would have to see how you feel about it since you're barely into exhibitionism." He cleared the last of his plate before she spoke up.

"I would be okay with something like that."

"Thought you would," he winked. "That's why I brought it up."

Vivian felt her stomach flutter but immediately squashed it. This relationship was sex and nothing more. She couldn't allow it to be.

"Come on, we've got a hunt to get to," he said as he pushed back from the table. "You can do the dishes tomorrow since you're off. After that, you can play your Switch as much as you want."

Greyson had been chasing Vivian for ten minutes when she finally saw him over her shoulder. Usually, when he gave her a five-minute head start, he caught up within a minute. His lazy stroll as she jogged let her know why he was dragging this out, enjoying it.

She grinned as she ducked underneath a tree branch and swiped away the spiderwebs plastered to her face. If she hadn't been used to this happening, she would have shrieked, but instead, she rounded a tree into a clearing that made her hesitate. Greyson might be taking his time, but clearings like this always tripped Vivian up and made her debate which direction to go.

This time, she stumbled forward and turned left. Her sneakers pounded into the dead leaves as she started to move faster. The snapping of several branches in the clearing that she missed signaled that Greyson had indeed found her trail.

Vivian cursed under her breath as she stopped behind a broad pine tree to catch her breath.

She tried to breathe quietly- so she could listen for Greyson, but the last of the cicadas from summer screamed in these trees. As she pushed off the tree with her Master nowhere in sight, she was sure she had lost him for now.

Confidence filled her veins as she walked quickly through the underbrush ahead. Not paying attention, she slammed into something warm and firm.

"You act like I don't know these woods like the back of my hands just as well as you do," Greyson purred in her ear as his strong arms wrapped around her.

His short brown hair brushed her cheek as he nuzzled it.

"My little rabbit, all snatched up by the big bad wolf," he teased. Vivian shuddered as she clung to his shirt. "Time for me to devour you." She felt something cold press into her side. "Don't move, or I'll hurt you," he added.

Methodically, Greyson used his sharpened fishing knife to cut away her clothes. Vivian would have objected because she loved this tracksuit- but kept still and silent. The occasional intentional scratch of the blade across her skin made her moan. It was never enough to make her bleed but enough to inflict pain and leave a temporary mark.

When all her clothes were in pieces on the wooded floor, Greyson circled her like a wolf.

Vivian looked down to see some of the scratches Greyson's knife had left and shuddered. She loved being marked up like this.

Before she could register it, he pounced on her. He caught them as they fell, and she barely felt the impact. Greyson wasted no time in finding her clit and stroking it in fast circles. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sudden jolt of pleasure before she moaned loudly.

His mouth closed over one of Vivian's nipples as the other hand pinched the other one. All of a sudden, pleasure made her come right away. Greyson worked her up like this through three more orgasms before he stopped.

His body was off hers long enough that she noticed the woods were completely dark and almost eerily silent. Before she could think about it for too long, his cock pushed against her entrance.

In one harsh thrust, he filled her pussy and almost had her screaming.

When he pulled out slowly and lazily, Vivian thought she might pass away. And then again, Greyson filled her with one sharp thrust. When he pulled back out just as slowly as before, she knew this was the pace he had chosen.

Torture. This was torture.

His hips snapped again, filling her aching pussy, and she cried out with need. Need to be drilled into. Need to be pounded until she couldn't remember her name. She hated slow sex. It allowed her to think.

Yet Greyson continued at his pace. A quick drive-in and a slow slide-out. Over and over again until he came.

And then he growled almost as fiercely as any stray dog she had encountered in these woods.

Quickly, he flipped Vivian onto her stomach and pulled up her hips, and with a thrust harsher than before, he filled her clenching hole again. She wildly moaned as he snatched her wrists and pinned them to her back.

Greyson moved then in those fast and rough thrusts she loved. The ones that made her see the stars, and she nearly cried with relief.

His hips slammed into the bruises on her ass from last night, and she winced, but the pain only made her come faster. When she came down from that orgasm, he wrapped his hand around her throat and used it to guide her on his cock. Still rough. Still fast.

The lack of blood flow to her brain made her lightheaded and dizzy. Vivian's next orgasm made her see dancing white spots, but Greyson wasn't letting up. His cock kept slamming home, guided by his hand on her throat as the other hand started to torture her clit.

She was moaning constantly like an animal in heat as Greyson drove into her. When he came the second time, she came right with him. Their joined orgasm drove her into another one before the first had even finished.

Her body went limp in his grip, but still, he plowed into her pussy relentlessly. His cock driving into her cervix was almost too painful, but he kept pushing. Greyson squeezed her throat tighter as his fingers wended deeper circles into her clit.

Vivian screamed as she came and didn't stop. Orgasm after orgasm tore through her, and she loved it when he made her do this, made her come wildly and uncontrollably- it was freeing.

When he finally came for the third time, Vivian collapsed into the leaves beneath her.

"Guatemala," she panted out.

"Too much?" He asked.

"Too much in a good way," Vivian croaked as Greyson pulled his cock out of her aching core slowly.

"I will carry you then." He scooped her up and used one hand to turn on the flashlight. "And don't worry, I have spare clothes in the car for you," he added as they headed to the car.

"Thank you, Sir," she mumbled as she rested her head on his chest.

"You're welcome, kitten." He dropped a kiss to her forehead as he kept moving. "Good job using your safe word when you needed it."

Pride burned in Vivian's chest as the car appeared before them. And she knew a nice bath and lots of cuddles awaited her at home, along with any food or games she wanted. Safe wording was something Greyson took seriously, and he always rewarded and cared for her after she did.

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