With Child And Hate (Pt. 8)

Face it, Mark, she’s growing on you. It was hard not to look with some fondness upon the woman working so eagerly on one of the deathtraps she could be faced with, not that she’d ever admit that.

“Hoffman, you’re being neurotic,” she dismissed another one of his warnings with, pushing rolled-up designs onto him.

“I’m allowed to be. In case you forgot-” he snapped, stepping toward her with his words, having her take steps back, into the door.

“-it’s your baby I’m carrying. I. Get. It. You’ve said it enough times, alright? I’ll be fine, Mark; none of these traps are for me-”

“That’s not the point. Fucking ex-cons, you think they’d go through their own traps? Giving them free reign, they’d force you through without blinking. You get that?” He took another step with each sentence, until he had fully pushed her against the door, resting an arm on the surface, wondering if it was sweet or exasperating that, despite having him inside her twice, screaming for more the latest time, she turned her face away from him, trying to press herself away from him.

“How many times do I have to say it? I’ll be fine.”

“Amanda, why do I have to threaten or fuck you to get a point across?” He leaned in with that question, lips delicately brushing against her ear as her breath shuddered out of her.

“Can we not do this... right now... Mark?” she whispered, eyes scrunching shut. “It’s not exactly the best moment.”

A slight pause as he pulled away from her, letting her free to move again. “Fine. But remember, I don’t want the baby hurt, in any way. And it’ll happen if you aren’t careful in this game, I mean, Mandy, look at these fucking designs. They’re... brutal.”

“And nothing else we’ve done is?” she spat, glancing at the trap design he’d unfurled, the pit dug into the room earlier, now filled with syringes. “They have to be, or they don’t learn anything-”

“You really believe that bullshit?” She stared at him with an expression he couldn’t help but want to laugh at, those wide eyes almost comical were it not for the fact that she was actually shocked by his opinion.

“Don’t say that, Hoffman. You just don’t appreciate his work, what would you know, you haven’t even been tested,” she said, her words getting faster and shriller as she went on.

“God... Will you just try and see what you’re going into? I mean, fuck, a pit full of needles, an oven for Tate, not to mention the whole house is filling with gas-”

“I can look after myself, alright? I’ll get a needle from the safe, alright? I mean, for fuck’s sake, you’re acting like I don’t know-”

“Amanda, he’s keeping things from you. I hope you can see that. And I hope you can wake up some time before you wake up here, because if you don’t... if you get hurt... God, I don’t know what I’ll have to do.”

“Listen to me, Detective. I’ve played before. I know the rules. I don’t need you to worry about me, and, look, the baby’ll be fine, it’ll only be two months when I go in there, you know? Please. I don’t want you to care.” She drew closer to him, taking the designs from him, getting onto her tiptoes as she softly kissed him, a peck that stayed just that, a soft, slight kiss, almost forgotten as she walked away from him, out of the room. Almost.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 7)

It was hard to stick with her original plan, to just sit on her bed and ignore him, act like he wasn’t there, when he stormed into her room, the door slamming against the wall from the force he’d opened it with.

“Amanda, we need to talk. Now.” A pause filled the air as she tried to follow the mindset that he didn’t exist, that he couldn’t hurt her. “Are you fucking listening to me, or do I have to-”

“God, Mark, don’t... don’t get so... John told me about the new game, alright? And, you know, I think this is going to be the breakthrough, the real... the game to end all games, I guess.”

“You really think that?”

“Well... John said his work was, you know, far from over, but... what if this game gets some of the others to... change? Without needing our help?”

“Bullshit, Amanda. You know he’s putting you in the-”

“He told me that too, Mark. See, unlike you, he tells people when they have to do something for him, he gives them a choice.”

“You are not doing this to me. You’ll be risking your fucking life, you could at least remember what you’ve got inside you,” he snapped, glancing at the calendar, glaring at the seven ‘X’s that should have reminded her.

“What’re you going to do? Kill me? John’ll be so pleased-”

“When he asked you, did you even consider telling him that you were knocked up? Did you just want to screw with me, have me tell him the good news, that you won’t be going in the house because you’re fucking having my child in nine months? And, yes, I told him. What the hell was I supposed to do, considering you wouldn’t tell him, whore?”

She stood at that, her face flushing, hands curling into fists as she looked up into those harsh blue eyes. “You’re fucking overreacting, Detective.”

“Didn’t I make it clear enough, that if you put my baby in danger, if she dies, you’d be next?”

“So, if I die, what’re you gonna do? Spit on my grave? I am not going to abandon John’s work just because-”

The sentence ended with a gasp rather than what she had meant to say, formed by his hands gripping her sides, pushing her back down onto the bed as he held her down with his body. Her scream was muffled by his lips crushing against her own pair, forcing his tongue into her mouth. The stifled scream turned to a groan as a hand reached up her shirt, those calloused fingertips rubbing her tit through the bra. He pulled away, panting along with her, fingers still pressing into her, rotating around her nipple to an increase in the intensity of her moans.

“God... You- You think this- this ends the- fuck, the argument?” she spat, regaining some semblance of sanity, a feat harder and harder to achieve as he pulled his hand from her shirt, slowly unbuttoning it with a kiss to her neck, his teeth lightly digging into her flesh. “It- Oh, fuck, Mark- You’re so fucking- It doesn’t- Stop!”

His lips dragged in withdrawing from her skin, as he tore open the now fully-unbuttoned shirt, glancing from her face to her breasts, heaving behind the scarlet bra. “Listen, Amanda. I know you don’t want me to do that. I know you want this. But you have to promise me... if I do... You don’t obey John this one time. You stay safe.”

She struggled to try and get out from under him, but he held her down, slowly tugging down the zip of her trousers. “Please, Mark, I- I can’t-”

“Shhh, sh, Amanda, don’t say that.” His fingers slipped into the aperture, stroking the darker red cloth; she could never find the matching underwear for any bra, but she tried, oh God, she tried, tried so hard not to scream for him to fuck her now, not as long as his deal was still on the table.

“No... Mark, ohhh, please, wait... I’ll- I’ll stay safe. I’ll try to- to keep out of the way... Please, I can’t- I can’t disobey- please, Mark, I won’t- I won’t put m-myself in danger... Just... Just give it to me, you son of a bitch.”

“Good enough.” Those were the last coherent words she heard before he pulled her trousers and panties down, before his own lower garments were discarded. As her eyes closed, all she could feel was his thrusting into her, turning her to push against the wall, lips returning to her neck to feel the vibrations of her throat as she moaned, screamed for him, finding herself lost in that ecstasy again.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 6)

It had been a long day at the police station for Hoffman, even longer than normal, his eyes constantly straying to the clock in his office, counting down the seconds rather than concentrating on the paperwork in front of him. Granted, he never did much work anyway, or at least, never did any work that advanced the case, but his mind was far too preoccupied with thoughts of Amanda, of those two pink lines to confirm what he’d hoped for, of the child that would be in only nine months.

It’s a girl. It has to be a girl. Just like- “Angie,” he whispered, turning to stare at the photograph behind his desk. Imagine that, though. A sweet little girl, dark, dark hair, dark blue eyes, vibrant, quick to smile... such a cute smile, too... And this time, this time, you can care for her, you can make sure she grows up the right way, won’t go out with- with scum, make sure she has a long, happy life.

A soft smile hit his lips at the thought of a daughter, one that had a fifty-fifty chance of existing. He had thought about a son, a little, miniature version of himself to carry on his surname but it was always the image of a small girl, her eyes wide in curiosity about the world, he kept coming back to.

Although, while he did enjoy the thought of the future as of nine months, he was slightly more concerned with the immediate future. Staring down at another ‘missing person’ report, thoughts of what would happen if his cover was blown, how his child would be in the hands of a whining, suicidal bitch- Or, worse, what would happen if they caught up with the aforementioned whining, suicidal bitch... If they discovered the fact that she was more than just ‘whining’ and ‘suicidal, if they added ‘homicidal’ to the list... All the things that could go wrong, stemming from that...

The thoughts of the danger coming from her still working in the warehouse kept attacking him throughout the day, not helped by the announcement he had waiting back at the Gideon Building.

“Mark, I require your assistance in setting up another game.”

And how exactly is this meant to be new? “Sure. Just tell me the subject-”

“This game differs from our previous work. Instead of a single subject, or two sharing a game, this one shall feature several.”

Well, isn’t that a step forward. “Hold on, how does that work-”

“Quite simply, the game takes place inside one of the residential properties, as opposed to another warehouse; a toxic nerve agent will be ventilated into the house at such a rate that the eight subjects within the house will succumb within two hours, while the exit unlocks in three. In order to survive, the subjects must find, and go through, tests around the house, the end of which will feature an antidote to combat the nerve agent.”

“Anyone in mind? I mean, there’s a gang, skinheads, down-”

“Remind me, Mark, of the concerns you had regarding a Detective Eric Matthews.”

“...Matthews? He’s no longer on the case. Something to do with his divorce, from what I can gather.” If by ‘divorce’ I mean, ‘those late, late nights working overtime with Kerry, leading to his son being whisked away in settlement claims’.

“Never mind that. You told me about this... divorce a few weeks earlier, mentioned a weakening relationship with his son.”

“Yes... So, you’re... you’re going to put them in the house? Some kind of reunion via surviving this... trap house?”

“Not quite. I’ve... been working on an idea, of sorts; the son-”

“-Daniel-”

“-Daniel goes through the tests in the house with seven of his father’s convictions, convictions gained unjustly, from what we can gather. The entire game will be filmed via security cameras, and, by the end, the son, Daniel, will be transported to... say...”

“Wilson Steel?”

“The Wilson Steel warehouse, to be kept, sedated, while we bring in Eric Matthews, showing the footage. If he can keep control of himself, and stay there for the optimum of two hours, he will be reunited with his son.”

“...Wait. What if Daniel... doesn’t win the game?”

“He will.”

“I’m just thinking of possibilities here-”

“Amanda will make sure he will. She will be tasked to-”

“Amanda. You’re putting Amanda into danger? Willingly, into danger? Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You seem upset about this decision to-”

“You’re goddamn right I’m upset! Fuck this game! Fuck your goddamn work! Shit, Matthews can be tested, his son can be tested, but Amanda is not going into the house, you hear me? She is going to stay right here, where it’s safe, alright? She is not going to be put into a fucking death-trap, just for your sick power-fantasies, you can’t kill my child-” Hoffman broke off, a growing sense of dread filling him as the last words out of his mouth caught up with him. Oh... shit.

“Child?”

“Amanda... she’s- I- we kind of- I can explain.” The pause provided seemed to give him more than enough reason to stop talking, but, then again, it would have been worse if he didn’t take this brief opportunity to give his side of the argument.

“Amanda... well... Amanda is carrying my child.”

With Child And Hate (Pt. 5)

It was too cold in her bed, even curled up in her covers, even with the miniature heater practically inside her cot with her. Maybe it was her sweat, drenching her skin, the slight cool making her feel as if she was freezing to death.

It had been a few days since Amanda had been given the test, although ‘given’ was too generous a word. He’d merely walked in, back from the pharmacy, and tossed it for her to catch, leaving her to confirm it, to realize it to be the truth.

It was a color-based test; even as the clock ticked on without a hint of her period appearing, she kept wishing for that one pink line, that one slim hope she had of not being pregnant, free of a nine month sentence. But no.

Instead, two pink lines. Two lines to signal that, once again, she was back in prison, this time one of her making, no one for her to place blame on other than him. For the days that followed, every time she was sure he couldn’t hear her, she would scream insults at the walls, imagining he was present to listen to her outburst, yet powerless to do anything to her, to carry out the threats he’d promised.

She hadn’t been sleeping well; awake, her head might have been full of thoughts of Hoffman telling her she’d be next if the fetus died, or of what John would say by the time she balled herself up enough to tell him, or of the thing itself, what it would be like to have it grow inside her, squeezing against her organs, demanding more of her... but, however many thoughts she didn’t want drifted through her mind while her eyes were open, it was nothing compared to when they were closed.

“Please, oh god, oh god, don’t do this to me, not now, please-” -cut off by the pain coursing through her body, worse than she thought she could bear, collapsing onto her back, echoes of her screams ringing in her ears, screams she couldn’t remember forming.

He was there, crouching by her side, as she felt it squirm inside her, its tiny, unformed hands stroking her insides as it lashed out against her with uncontrolled brutality. He began to stroke her temple as her cries of pain increased, choking on what little breath she had left from her screams.

“Amanda, you need to give it up to me. Give me my child, now.”

She couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t her decision, that when the thing was tired of hiding, it’d come out of her. As if on cue, it tore at the wall of her womb, ripping a hand through her skin, reaching out into the outside. Through the pain, she could feel him still stroking her forehead with one hand, his other hand helping the thing in widening where her flesh had been split, gripping hold of intestines, tugging strands out of her body to make way for the thing.

“No, Mark, no, please-” she moaned, as it crawled into his arm, his hand supporting its legs, neck by the crook of his forearm and elbow. He shushed her gently, as the thing started to wail, as the air began to cool her torn-apart body, as she gasped for breath, her vision fading, all noises so distant, so far from her...

“It’s okay, Amanda. Now shhh, honey, shhh...”

“It’s alright,” Hoffman murmured, sitting on the edge of her bed, still stroking the sweat from her face as she whimpered and gasped for air, as her eyes snapped open. He sat still as she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, her sobs soaked up by his shoulders.

“Oh god, Mark-”

“Shhh... it’s okay. You’re fine, and, from what I can tell, the baby’s fine.” His own arm tentatively stroked her back, as she trembled in fear, tears still rolling down her face from her dream, the one she’d spent moaning, whimpering, asking for him, in reality.

She still inhaled heavily, taking in the soft scent of his cologne, her tears forming a dark, wet patch on his shirt collar, burying her face into him as his body warmed her. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, no words between them, merely the feel of each other in their arms, before she broke away, remembering who the bastard was, remembering what he’d done to her.

He stood, stepping toward the exit, Amanda’s eyes burning into him from where she lay in the bed. He paused, turning to meet her glare, a glare that dropped to her arms the longer he stared at her for.

“I’ll be here for you. If you need me, or... I’ll be there. Alright?” Without waiting for her to reply, he turned back, briskly walking out of the room, leaving her to slump back into her pillows, back into a restless slumber.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 4)

The walk back was silent after that, his arm holding her against him, almost as if to absorb her into his body. Every word Amanda attempted was stifled by another squeeze, another soft shush, another backhanded, “Later, when we get back. Talk then.”

He opened the entrance for her, holding it for her to walk through, eyes never leaving her body, flicking from breasts to hips, traveling slowly back up, before dropping his gaze back down again. His tongue stroked his lips, trying to wet them quickly, eyes taking their time to go back to her face.

In his defense, her face was still drawn, pale, make-up smeared around it in a way that made her seem eight years old. He would have preferred to look at her physique, imagining the flat stomach swelling to accommodate a child- his child.

“You know, Mark, you’re gonna have to settle down someday... have a few kids-”

“Jesus, Angie, how many times do I have to say it before you stop asking? I’m not really the type who has those... things.”

She’d laughed at that, telling him that he said that now, but, sooner or later, he’d see, that maybe someday, he’d change his mind... that he’d find someone to-

“Hoffman,” she said, breaking the thought of her, dragging his mind back to reality. “I- I... I need to-”

Her voice broke into a whisper, completely inaudible despite the motions of her lips, as she looked down, staring intently at the ground. “Mandy, sweetheart, what is it? Honey, you can tell me anything. Anything.”

“I- I don’t want to... I don’t want to keep it.”

Total silence pervaded the room, nothing but her voice echoing those words in his head, letting it sink in, letting that thought, that she’d give up- no, kill his child. His fucking child. She began to talk again, about how John wouldn’t understand, how she wasn’t going to give up nine months of her life, all of it blending into one statement, that she had no regard for his child, for his DNA growing inside her, for him, period.

“...Mark?”

“Listen, you fucking whore. I don’t give a shit about what John thinks. It’s not his kid, you understand? This isn’t one of your junkie fuck buddies’, or your dealers’, or whoever was paying for your fucking smack habit. This is my child, you get that, stupid bitch? My child. If you harm her, him, whatever my child is... if you murder my baby, you’re next. Can you get that much through your head, cunt?”

He slammed his hand against the wall for emphasis, making her twitch as she stood there, flinching with every word he snapped at her.

“Mark, please-”

“What did I fucking say? It’s Hoffman, or Detective Hoffman. You might be carrying my child, but until you learn to treat me with some respect...”

“But- But, Mark- Please, Hoffman...”

“Amanda, I thought I made myself very clear.” He took a step toward her, gripping her shoulder, slamming her against the closest wall. “If you even think about getting rid of her... I won’t have anything between you and a bullet. Understand? Nod if you do.”

Her eyes were screwed shut as she nodded obediently, breath transformed into gasps of shock. He slipped away from her, leaving her to slide down the wall, her legs collapsing underneath her.

“I’ll be back with a test. Make sure you’re not just fucking me around.” With that he left her, a twinge of guilt as he thought of the woman in a heap behind him, so close to tears. It isn’t good for the baby if she’s stressed, Mark. She’s got the message... Don’t have to do it again, don’t do it again. You don’t want your child harmed, do you?

With Child And Hate (Pt. 3)

It was a long way to the club, a small place near the police station; Amanda had overheard him talk about it before, on the phone mostly, making no effort to conceal his conversations with acquaintances about another woman from the club. During the weeks after they’d- after he’d screwed her, she’d started to listen to the conversations with a little more interest, wanting to know if he’d mentioned her at all, if he was going to acknowledge that little incident. But... nothing. Just the club, just how wasted that slut had been, just his life outside, understandable, true, but...

She shook her head, slipping her hood back up where from where it had fallen to her neck, trying to hide her face from the glares of street lights and passers-by. She knew it was stupid to think that they could know anything about her, that they could even suspect her of murder- John’s work- the crimes she was guilty of, but with the stares, directed at her smeared make-up for the most part, transformed by the shadows to become threatening... She tried to bury her face a little further into the hood. Why the fuck are you even going there, huh? John told you not to leave the warehouse unless necessary, that even though there was no reason, that- that it wasn’t safe. So why the fuck are you outside? You might have fucked him, that doesn’t mean he has to know, the self-righteous piece of shit.

All the thoughts questioning her motive for even stepping outside the doors of the Gideon- of the warehouse disappeared as she stood outside the entrance of the club, inhaling and exhaling with difficulty, as if she had crawled out of drowning in a bathtub- out of drowning. Taking in as much air as her lungs could allow her, she stumbled through the doors, into a haze of lights and smoke.

She could see him almost as soon as she stepped inside, sitting at the bar, not alone, as she would have hoped he would be. Instead, a short blonde- well, in other’s words, she would have been ‘petite’, but in Amanda’s mind, it was ‘short’- sat in his lap, long hair trailing over his shoulder as she twittered in laughter; Amanda unconsciously tugged at the short strands of her own dark hair, studying the woman with fascination, the immaculate neatness of her make-up, the way the lipstick hadn’t been smudged, the way her eyeliner stayed a line rather than a smoky circle around her eyes. The dress barely went past her hips, barely held in her breasts, which strained against the material in a way that screamed plastic surgery, not that Hoffman seemed to mind, judging by the way he half-discreetly slipped a hand onto one with barely-hidden pride. It took his bringing that hand away from the woman’s tit, lifting those fingers to her mouth, for her to suck with that red-lipsticked mouth, for Amanda to remember that she had something to say, that she wasn’t just going to stand there.

“Detective?” she spat, striding toward the pair, gaining a few looks from the other patrons of the club. Hoffman sharply turned his head to look at her, eyes wide as he hastily slipped his fingers out of the blonde’s mouth; upon seeing the face, recognizing the voice, they narrowed into icy slits as he stood, pushing the woman out of his lap.

“Amanda, what the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped, taking her by the arm, yanking her through a crowd parting obediently for him.

“I have to tell you something, Detective.”

“Really? And it couldn’t wait-”

“My period is five days late.” He stopped, his hoarse breathing the only sound she could hear, mouth partly-open in shock.

“Are- Shit, you aren’t just- just missing the- fuck, the cycle-”

“I’m regular as a fucking clock, Hoffman. And five days? We both know what this means, you son of a bitch.”

He blinked, slowly breathing out, visibly making an effort to remain calm, to stay as still as possible. His arm, surprisingly gentle, wrapped around her neck, covering her from the staring eyes of the others. “Amanda... let’s get you home.”

“What about the slut?” she muttered, glancing at the woman staring at them in a mix of rejection and confusion as they walked past, his stride changing into slower and shorter steps to compensate for her.

“Her? She’ll find someone else soon enough. Just... you’re sure? You’re- You’re really- And it’s- he or she- the baby’s mine?” he breathed as they stepped into the cool, brisk air of the street.

“All yours, Detective.” She cast her eyes down, staring at their shoes, side by side. “Not like I want it.”

“Amanda-”

“No, please, I can’t handle- John- I- Please, just... let me think about all of this, alright? I...” Her voice shrank to a creaking whisper, as he pulled her tighter toward him. “...I’m scared, Mark.”

With Child And Hate (Pt. 2)

Looking back on that night, it hadn’t been as good an idea as Hoffman had thought, say, five minutes before feeling up her tits. He wasn’t drunk, he knew that much, though he might as well have been; after all, it would have been a better excuse to screw the ex-junkie than ‘boredom, mixed with curiosity’. Tapping a pencil against the desk, staring at the unfinished blueprints in front of him, his mind kept drifting to reprimanding him for being such a fucking idiot.

For fuck’s sake, Mark. Didn’t even consider that she might have AIDS? That she might have gotten something from one of those needles she used to jab in herself? Fucking idiot.

He knew there was a feeble reason for his lack of protection, that he just wanted it over and done with, get that curiosity satisfied before it drove him insane. As it was, she wasn’t bad, she was much tighter than he’d expected, but, truth be told, he was done with her, now that his desire to know what she would be like, naked under him, had been fulfilled.

In all honesty, he was mildly unsatisfied with her, not the sex, but the lack of buildup she gave him. She hadn’t given him any of the teasing he had pictured in his mind, slowly stripping as he, in turn, felt every inch she exposed; nor the fighting, no clawing, slapping, punching, no spark of violence in her, as he would have thought. She was disappointingly easy, letting him fuck her as soon as he came up behind her with a kiss and a feel. In the end, that was probably why he hadn’t gone as rough with her as he would have wanted to, not being worked up enough; he’d come, certainly, and it was quite good sex, all in all, but, for him at least, she didn’t exist.

Of course, it was hard to think that, what with her being in the same building, at that moment standing at the doorway, watching him with shadowed, accusing eyes. He didn’t think that she’d be the clingy type, although, then again, given that she’d grown so attached to John as a father figure just for taking her in... Not surprising she thinks she’s fucking engaged after one fuck.

“Hoffman,” she whispered, her voice barely audible from so far away, only reaching his ears from the fact that nothing else, at the moment at least, made a sound. “We-We need to talk.”

“Jesus Christ, Amanda.” He let the pencil fall out of his fingers, onto the desk, as he stood and turned to look at her. She hadn’t washed for a couple of days, her clothes rumpled, probably slept in the previous night, hair unkempt. That last aspect he rather liked, giving her a sweet, innocent air... reminiscent of- No, don’t think about her now, you’ve screwed her, don’t compare her to her.

“Hoffman- Mark-”

“Amanda, let me get one thing straight. I want things to go on as they normally would, alright? You... you’re a good-looking woman, mostly, but I’m not going to fuck you again. I’m not interested in you, alright? Pretend none of it ever happened. Can you do that?”

“N-No, Mark, please-”

“Just because I fucked your brains out doesn’t mean you have to act like an idiot. I don’t want to say it again; don’t see me like that, alright? Fuck it, I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”

“But Mark-!”

“Stick to Hoffman, or Detective Hoffman.” With that, he pushed past her, feeling a slight twinge of pity as she stared at him, open-mouthed, black tears rolling down her cheeks as she stammered. Poor bitch... But you know what they say; ‘Got to be cruel to be kind’.

With Child And Hate (Pt. 1)

The burning feel of his skin against hers, hands pressed against her back, pushing further into her...

Amanda stared into the mirror, trying to remember what he’d been attracted to that night, that confusing mess of sweat and heat that she could hardly remember. She could only see the disarray of hair left not styled, eyes rubbed until her make-up made her look even worse than she felt, mascara trailing down with her tears, clothes unwashed, worn again and again throughout that week. A fucking mess.

Another glance at the calendar. Another check as to whether her life was really ruined. Another running of her hands through her hair. Another collection of tears to be shed as she thought of the thing inside of her, in her mind eating away at her, demanding her to look after it, a different kind of cancer foisted upon her without warning.

“Why?” she whispered to herself, as she crossed off another day, another day to confirm what Amanda had dreaded ever since the lack of her monthly blood became clear to her. She stepped back, staring at the four ‘X’s, seemingly taunting her, giving her the hope that she was just late, that she’d find her panties stained the next day, even though she knew it wasn’t going to happen.

She could remember how it started, a night she was free to do anything but leave the confines of the building, a moist kiss on the side of her neck as he approached her from behind. She had whimpered as his hands cupped around her breasts, thumbs circling her until satisfied with the hardness of her nipples, until he turned her around to look at him.

She let out a mix between a sob and a breath as she sank to the ground, cheeks scraping against the concrete as she curled into a ball, hiding her face with an arm. It was too much effort to stand, too much to talk, too much to think; all she felt she had enough energy for was sleep, stirring restless slumber, full of dreams of him, every physical aspect of him as she could remember it, how he had looked at her before, how he’d looked at her after he was finished.

She was surprised how open she’d been to him, how she’d welcomed sex after months without, how she’d been the one to kiss those lips, how she’d unbuttoned his shirt as he lifted her, how she’d loved the feeling of him strain to carry her to the workshop, her failed attempts of traps seemingly watching her as she slipped her top over her head, unclipping her bra, tossing it onto the floor as the two clambered onto the worktable.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” she’d asked after another kiss, as he took his own shirt off, albeit faster, with more urgency. He smirked as he pulled her slacks and panties down, leaving the answer hanging in the air with her whimpers and moans as his fingertips circled her already swelling centre.

She’d begun to beg for him as he took his hand away to drag the remnants of his clothing down his thighs. He’d hung over her for a moment that felt like a century to her, staring at her with a mix of lust and fascination, clearly not expecting this to be as easy as it had been, a slight hint of disappointment clouding the blue, disappointment that she hadn’t put up the fight he’d thought she’d give him.

She’d arched her back to him as he plunged into her, slipping his hands around her to further push her toward him, burying her moans in his chest. She closed her eyes, only hearing his pants and grunts mixed with her own animalistic sounds, only feeling his skin, so unbearably hot against hers, the cold metal of the worktable, her nerve endings exploding into harsh ecstasy as he thrust deeper, faster. The sheer force of his hips made her half-wonder how badly she’d ache afterward, although those thoughts were washed away, as she dug her nails into him, as she cried out with pure pleasure, the feeling of his hot seed bursting into her adding to the sensation of her orgasm. Another scream, muffled by his hand, a feeble attempt to keep the entire event secret...

All she could remember after that was the way he’d looked at her after he was done, after he pulled out of her exhausted, numb flesh. Disinterest, complete disinterest, no hint of the pleasure she was sure she’d given him. Those blue eyes, staring at her the same way he looked at her as she worked on a new design, the same bored, cold expression. A month after that night, she tensed, tightening her protective curl into herself at the thought of those cool, emotionless eyes.

Cold And Catatonic (Pt. 2)

“What the fuck is he doing here?” He’d taken that simple walk to clear his head, calm him down, put him in more of a mind to make up with her. Usually, by the time he got back, she had cleared herself up a little, gotten her hair back to pre-fight neatness, applied a little foundation to cover up the bruises, all ready to forgive and forget.

This time, instead of seeing her back to attempted-perfection, all smiles and the possibility of fucking that night, he opened the door to him, his girlfriend in his arms, crying into his shoulder.

Mark Hoffman. It always puzzled him, the difference in surnames, but he’d never demanded a reason for it; he preferred to think that her cop brother didn’t exist. It was hard to ignore the bastard, the way he’d keep calling, asking for hourly updates from Angelina, the way he’d invade their home, place himself firmly between Seth and his sister, literally in this case, his arms shielding her as he squeezed her body. 

Yeah, bet you want to feel that ass, fucking piece of shit. There had to be some truth in that thought, the way Hoffman never seemed to have a girlfriend, just his sister... The clingy fuck was too overprotective for comfort, in his opinion.

“Angelina! I asked a fucking question!”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you right now.” Hoffman turned to look at him, those piercing blue eyes glaring at him in accusation. It was just typical of him, to view his sister as completely innocent, as if she didn’t contribute as much as he did to the arguments that always preceded their fights. He let Angelina out of his embrace, hands lingering too long on those shoulders.

“Tell me what you’re fucking doing here, before I-”

“Before you do what you did to my sister to me? Careful. I bite back.”

“This is my house, she’s under my roof, she doesn’t fucking need you.”

“That so?” That fucking smirk. It was one of the features of the man that Seth could stand the least, that self-satisfied smile that seemed to signify that he was superior to everything, especially some piece of white trash who happened to be banging his sister. “And she needs to be beaten around? She needs to feel helpless? She needs to have to check she’s still breathing by the end? She needs to feel scared for her fucking life?”

“I never fucking hurt her!” he spat, glancing at Angelina, who had taken a seat, hunched over, still sniveling in shock, obviously putting on a show for her big brother. Lying whore.

“Bullshit,” Hoffman snarled back, stepping forward, an attempt to intimidate him, judging from the way he seemed to be making those few inches of height work against him.

“Don’t you think she’s old enough to make her own choices? Think she might actually be able to deal with it herself?”

The detective leaned in, until his face was almost touching Seth’s, his eyes on the same level, that smell of spicy-fresh cologne too intense, causing him to wince.

“Listen closely, Baxter. You’re right, she can make her own decisions. And she decided to call me in. So, here’s the deal. You don’t make her feel like you’re going to kill her. You don’t fucking beat her around. You don’t harm her in any way. If you do... I’ll fucking tear you apart, Baxter, that you can be sure of. So, before you even think about raising a hand against her, just remember... I’ll kill you, I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Project #2 (Pt. 1)

There were so many things he loved about her, those bright, vivid eyes, that quick-to-smile mouth, the way her tongue would flicker across her lips when she wanted him, her sweet demeanor... In some ways, it made things even worse when she pissed him off, when they entered those arguments, the ones where he needed to slap her to get her to stop shouting at him, those times when he had to inflict more than a slight amount of pain on his little angel to end the conversation.

It killed him sometimes, seeing one of her eyes yellow-purple from his fist, her upper lip puffy and swollen, the way she cringed when he tried to touch her again. It was pitiful, in some ways, how all she could do was cry, plead for him to get away from her, whimper when he slipped an arm around her in an attempt to comfort her, show her that he’d never do it again, a resolution he always had to break, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m sorry, Angie, what else can I say?” She’d fixed her gaze to her feet, as she nibbled at her lower lip, arms wrapped around her legs, tucking into herself. “I... I know you don’t want to talk right now, and I know you don’t want to forgive me... Shit... Just... Angie, will you fucking look at me!”

She turned her head to look at him, eyes wide in fear as he stood, looking down at her in revulsion; it was surprising how hideous she could look, mascara running black lines down her face, her split lip and black eye nauseating to view, while the way her dark hair had been tangled... She was always a mess after their fights, he knew he was the reason behind how she looked, but, Jesus fucking Christ, it was hard to sympathize with her when she looked like that.

“Angie, you stay here. Just... fuck... I need air.” She just sat there, still breathing in and out with difficulty, tears still rolling black down her face. Pathetic... little bitch had it coming. 

That was always her problem, the fact that she was so weak, fragile, and yet, she’d still argue with his demands, as if unaware of the fact that he could, and would, break her if she fucked around with him too much.

Harsh, echoing footsteps rang in her ears as he stepped out of the room, into the hallway, slamming the door to his home behind him. She closed her eyes, choking on her breath, the cold air drying the tears on her face. God... He’s going to kill me... Please... Oh, God...

Still trembling, she stood, listening for anything to suggest that he would storm back into the house. Satisfied that there were no sounds other than her own pants for air, she stepped toward the phone on the table she’d had her head slammed into a few weeks before. Her fingers shook as she pressed the numbers for the one person she could trust, the one person who’d never hurt her, who’d promised that he’d never harm her in any way... and had been consistent with his words.

“Mark? It-It’s Angelina. Please... please come. I-I need you.”

Pt. 6: Stroffmanda

She lay there, a relieved smile spreading across her lips as her hook-up, not his, never fucking his, walked toward her, having taken the key out of the still-open drawer. Her eyes closed as he knelt, getting down to her level.

“I’ve been thinking, Amanda... How badly do you want us to fuck you?” Her eyes snapped open, filling with dread as he held the key in front of her eyes, just above her face.

“For fuck’s sake, Peter, just take the handcuffs off, alright? Please?” For god’s sake, do NOT start fucking Hoffman in front of me, I’ll do it myself, alright? Just please, unlock, alright?

“What do you think, Hoffman? Think she wants us?” He glanced at the detective as he pulled his lower clothing down in one movement, stepping out of the pile of clothes in a brisk movement.

Rather than give a vocal answer immediately, her fellow apprentice grabbed her thighs, pulling her legs apart, holding them there as he eyed her folds of dripping flesh. 

“If she doesn’t want us right now... Give me a few minutes,” he said, hot breath wafting over her centre. He tightened his grip as her legs jerked up, moving forward until his mouth cupped around her, flicking his tongue across her clitoris. She couldn’t help but grind her hips against his face, moaning as he lapped with more strength, as his nails dug into her skin. He lifted his head to stare at her face, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

“Do you want me?” he growled, returning to running his tongue over her, not letting her answer his question in anything other than a desperate nod. He released his grip on her legs gently, giving her drenched slit one last lick. “Unlock her, Strahm.”

Her arms now free, the detective still between her legs, she sat up, striking one of her newly-freed hands across his face. He slammed her shoulders against the mattress in response, trapping her body under his, their harsh sets of breathing seemingly the only sounds in the room. She shuddered to the sensation of his skin, damp from sweat, as the tip of him stroked against her centre, almost dipping into her, as she felt herself become even wetter, as she felt her nipples become even harder as he stared into her eyes. She closed her eyes as he laid a moist kiss onto the crook of her neck, landing another just above her jugular, raising his lips to her ear.

“No more games,” he whispered, rolling off of her, his hands grabbing her waist, drawing her onto him. She hovered over his erection, rubbing herself against him, but not impaling herself quite yet, as he turned to the agent still standing by the bed

“Strahm? You joining us or not?” This prompted the other man to crawl onto the bed, positioning himself just over Amanda, using his hands to slowly push her onto Hoffman’s cock with a gasp, nothing compared to the noise she let out as he slipped into her from behind, hands pressing against her back as he thrust deeper into her.

Hoffman’s hands wrapped around her back, pressing her nipples into his skin, letting her moan into his chest as the two thrust further in her, yelping as Strahm slapped just between her shoulder blades, leaving a red mark on her skin. Amanda’s moans transformed into screams as the man under her dug his nails into her sides, scraping skin away, inducing Strahm to whack his hand against her skin again, as they attempted to get deeper into her than the other. Her eyes scrunched shut, her own fingernails dragging along Hoffman’s arms, her screams heightening in volume with each smack, which . She buried her face into his chest, muffling her cries, chewing on his skin, the dull pain causing him to lose control. A final muted scream as their own cries intensified, as they pounded as far as they could into her, as he began to thrust further up, his hot fluid jetting out of him. The other gave her one last smack of the hand, before dissolving into her, collapsing onto her reddened back.

He pulled out of her, rolling to the side, letting her lift herself off of Hoffman. Words seemed just out of reach as they lay there panting, their sweat mingling, their heat intertwined. Hoffman reached a hand out, stroking the side of Amanda’s face as she gasped for air, eyes closed in sheer exhaustion.

“We... never speak of this... again... alright?” she wheezed, opening her eyes to stare into the detective’s pair, as Strahm slipped an arm across her waist.

“If you want...” Hoffman replied, giving her cheek a soft, open-mouthed kiss as she lost herself to sleep. He laid his head against her breast, listening to her heart as it hammered against her ribcage, slowing as the excitement wore off, as she slipped further into rest. He closed his own eyes, a smirk still playing on his lips as he fell asleep.