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"love will turn on the lover and gnaw." - great expectations, kathy acker.
He should’ve never gotten in that glass coffin.
Peter Strahm has spent the last two weeks on the run– well, can it really be considered as ‘being on the run’ if you’re not actually running?
It all started when he had followed Hoffman to that house (which, he’d also realised was the detective’s residence– a strange, strange, fucking man he was), making his way through the myriad of hallways and rooms until he got into the basement and found the room. All it had contained was a singular glass coffin, shards of glass sticking upright out of it, warmingly inviting him in to seal away his corpse, and a tape. He’d played it (of course, he knows how this works at this point), and followed them. He’d got in, and simply listened as cogs began to creak, watched as the world went dark.
And he’d watched from behind the glass, the one thing protecting him from a brutal demise, as the walls closed in. All he could think about, besides from how warm it was in there, the scent of sweat and aftershave clinging desperately to the stale air, was how he could’ve gone against the tape. How he could’ve slammed that coffin shut, nailing his lacklustre destiny inside, and instead received his fate in a more painful way, feeling each and every one of his bones crack and snap.
It would’ve been better than this, anyway.
After he got away from that house of horrors, he’d been stuck walking the highway for a while, until a car picked him up. Said that they could take him to the nearest gas station. Said that they wouldn’t call the cops. Said that they had seen the alerts on TV and knew who he was– how dangerous he was.
So now here he is, Peter Strahm, a wanted man.
He’s seen the ‘wanted’ posters, as if he’s some rug tug cowboy and not wanted for a miscellany of murders, his face splashed across them so big and bold that nobody can escape him– more specifically, his eyes. He never noticed them before, not like this, so lifeless and dull in his FBI badge photo. Huh, no surprise that people think he’s a killer.
For the past two weeks, he’s been living in some motel on the edges of the state, keeping a low profile until he can work out what to do next. There’s no point going back to the city, or even work– everyone suspects him as an accomplice. He’d be arrested before he even gets out of the cab. Instead, he’ll spend his days lounging in the STD-riddled pool, buying cheap cigarettes from the local store.
(There’s also the problem– a rather large one– that he’s run out of coke. And yeah, it’s laughable; an FBI agent with a slight addiction to coke, but it’s also real. And also fucking scary, as he’s now suddenly withdrawing. Yeah, he would’ve picked death over this in a heartbeat).
Tonight, the store is warm, warmer than it should be for April, the air almost muggy. His shirt clings to him, hugging tightly, and he can’t help but to pluck at it, as if this will relieve the pressure. All it does is remind him that this is the shirt from that day, the day his fate was sealed by nobody other than Hoffman, the trapped memories of sweat, fear, and vengeance wafting off of him. Lovely.
He’s standing in the queue, wanting the fat man in front of him, beer belly protruding out of his greasy vest, to hurry up with his purchase of yet another six-pack, when his eyes flicker over to the TV behind the cashier. Instantly, as his eyes lock in on the pixelated glass, his heart burns.
Peter recognises the location behind the reporter (for the first time ever, he’s not staring at his cleavage, a terrible, perverted habit of his) at once; it’s part of his former workplace, ‘the space lab’ as they called it, in flames. There’s ambulances and fire engines in the background, a cacophony of blue and red, and Peter’s eyes scan the screen, trying to see if he can spot anyone he knows. There’s no one, literally; a flash appears at the bottom of the screen, and despite the crappy quality, it reads, in big, bold letters, ‘OFFICE FIRE UPDATE: NO SURVIVORS’.
There’s a pain in his chest as the words settle into his body, like salt in a wound. The volume is barely audible, just above a whisper, but he can hear the reporter mention how it’s ‘likely the work of Jigsaw’, and ‘this is a terrible incident’. He appreciates that it’s now no longer an accident. Nothing that Jigsaw does is a fucking accident.
But what stands out is a certain name; ‘Detective Mark Hoffman’. Apparently, his prints are all over the scene. Apparently, his body isn’t one of the piles of ashes in there.
Apparently, Mark Hoffman is Jigsaw.
If he could, he’d scoff at how funny this all was, if only he wasn’t worried that the scoff would turn into a choked sob. A rather needy, delirious, choked sob. All this time, he’s been eagerly waiting for the moment that people realised that Hoffman was working with John Kramer, not him. And now it’s happened. He just wishes that people didn’t have to die for it.
(And it’s even more painful when they release the names of the victims– some lab tech he only knows as Sachi, and Erickson. The latter really hurts. He never was particularly close to his supervisor– he prefers to keep people at arm's length– but he was close enough to know that he has two young kids, a wife. He can’t even begin to imagine their pain).
Just as beer guy is finishing up, somebody joins the queue behind him, standing way too close for comfort– he can feel them, their bodies almost pressed up against one another, the smell of spearmint filling his senses. Strahm’s about to turn around and tell the to fuck off, but they beat him to speaking, their voice low.
“Don’t try and fight. Don’t make yourself visible,” Their voice is quiet, solemn. “Don’t make this hard for yourself, Strahm.”
He knows who it is before he’s even turned around– a co-worker, some agent named Leo Hwang, the only person on track to Erickson’s job. From what he knows, he used to be a hostage negotiator, so it’s no surprise that the FBI sent him to talk to him. It’s also no surprise that the FBI has finally caught him. Good. He was starting to get sick of eating ramen packets almost every night.
Without turning, Peter mutters through gritted teeth. “Just– can you back the hell up? Then, we can talk.” Hwang follows his order, stepping back a little (okay, but still too close), and Peter turns around. The agent is probably the first person he’s been with up close in weeks; he can see everything, every eyebrow hair and freckle on his face. He’s young. Peter takes it all in, studying him. It’s probably the last time he’ll be able to.
“Come with me,” Hwang asks him, eyes darting all over the place– he’s probably looking for signs of breaking, his facade of being sane finally giving up. “Look, outside, it’s just me and two other officers. We’ll take you back to the city and get this all sorted out.”
“Seriously?” Peter laughs bitterly, his fingers tightening around the crumpled ten dollar bill in his hand. It’s his last one. He hasn’t been able to get out any money, in fear that the sudden bank activity will alert authorities. “And what– just pretend that I haven’t spent the past few weeks playing fucking fugitive?”
The beer man makes a grunting noise. Peter hopes he’s about to drop dead.
“Just– please.” Hwang pleas. For a hostage negotiator, he’s not a good one. Makes sense why he’s a former one. His hand rests gently on Strahm’s forearm now, the one that could’ve been crushed by that godforsaken room, and he has a strong urge to rip it away. He doesn’t need help. He never needs help.
Well, maybe this time he does.
Swallowing his pride, which is rather bruised and battered, almost like swallowing a beach ball, Peter silently motions for the agent to lead him outside, where, sure enough, two officers wait in a squad car.
Great. Back to civilization.
It’s nice to have necessities again.
After a lengthy interrogation, one where Peter doesn’t have to have the ultimate breakdown and hear about the chinese zodiac, he’s released. It’s quick and painless, much like ripping off a band-aid, and soon enough, he returns to his apartment. Everything in there is slowly becoming covered in a thin layer of dust, but it’s fine, he never really owned any of the stuff. Except for the divorce papers that sit on the kitchen island.
(The divorce was last year, and he’s yet to find somewhere to put those damn papers. Maybe up the ass of his ex-wife’s new husband. Fucker).
He smokes a cigarette. He orders take-out. He watches some shitty reality show. He smokes another cigarette. Same routine from the motel. He’s good at keeping routines.
And before Peter knows it, it’s late. Way past midnight, but not late enough to try and pull an all-nighter. He decides to go to bed anyway, wrapping himself in sheets that definitely need a wash and change. Everything is so quiet– no shouting from deranged motel neighbours, no blaring sirens, no sudden feelings that he could have a heart attack, out of fear of a Jigsaw accomplice finding him, or federal agents bursting down the door and arresting him.
That night, he dreams of that stupid puppet on that stupid tricycle. He dreams of the dead bodies, piled high, eyes blown wide like they’re cartoons. He dreams of Hoffman’s smug face, Jill Tuck’s tear-stained face.
He dreams of Lindsey Perez, and her rotting body. He wants to dig it up.
Peter Strahm has always had his appetites. And there’s one appetite that never truly disappears.
No matter how much cocaine he takes, no matter how many interrogations he does, almost blacking out from sheer rage, this strange hunger follows him, forever unsatiated. It sits in the pit of his stomach like a fever, where it coils; whining, begging, screaming.
He can’t escape it, no matter how hard he tries.
It’s June when Peter Strahm finally returns to work.
It’s also June when it’s announced that the once revered Detective Mark Hoffman will be on trial in August, where his fate will be decided; if he’ll become someone’s prison bitch, or be seen as another innocent. But that’s what everyone expects of a victim of Jigsaw. Everyone’s innocent, until they're not.
Peter can barely contain his excitement. Finally, the cage is blown open, and everyone will know what Hoffman has done. And whilst he’s not actively in the field right now (Hwang, who has now taken on Erickson’s job– no shock to anyone), he’s been scouring all and any evidence for this trial, putting together a meticulous file for the jury and judge. There’s no way in hell that Hoffman will get away with this.
He’s been so focused on work that he’s stopped smoking. He’s even stopped thinking about coke. If anything, Peter feels like a new man, even if his co-workers give him weird looks every now and then, whisper about how ‘he’s probably still Jigsaw, but they just can’t prove it’, but fuck it– he’s thrown himself into his work, dove in head-first, that nothing matters.
And then he sees her.
Well, it’s none other than Lindsey fucking Perez, isn’t it?
It’s like his mind takes a photo of the entire moment; she’s standing at the front desk, talking with Trish. Her hair is in loose curls, not up like it usually is, and she’s wearing a simple dress with some grunge, graphic design. She looks normal, aside from the faint scars on her face, but even with them, she still looks like she’s been carved from marble by Gods, there’s just some cracks in their artwork now.
Peter stays back in the bullpen, pretending to work on his file, when in reality, he’s watching Lindsey, who wears small smiles on her face like a mask, and whose eyes dart around every two seconds, as if she’s looking for someone. Maybe looking for him.
But that would not be the case. Resignation is probably why she’s here, bringing in that letter of doom, her words of regret hidden beneath formality as she profusely apologises for departing.
He’s desperate to speak to her, find out what the hell is going on, how she’s.. here, and not dead, like he’s been led to believe. Something in him, deep down and dark, wants him to go to her, to pull her in. Never let her go.
She looks so real and proper and perfect, something that should be preserved for the rest of time. It sickens him a little to even think about her this way, but he can’t help it– there’s nobody left except for them (well, and Hoffman, but who would want him?). They’re made for each other, no matter what comes their way.
A soft thud next to Peter pulls him from his reverie, and he suddenly sits upright, coming eye-to-eye with Hwang. The new SAC has just thrown down another set of files, and from out of the corner of one, he can see they’re even more Jigsaw crime scene cases. Fun.
“It won’t last.” Is all the SAC says.
“What?” Peter asks, sharpness seeping into the corner of his words, like a blade to skin, just enough to slice you open.
Hwang cocks an eyebrow. “Strahm, dude,” He claps him on the shoulder, calling him ‘dude’ like they’re friends, rather than slightly estranged co-workers. “We’ve seen the way you look at Linds. Y’know– the dynamics and all– it wouldn’t work. Besides, she’s like a baby, compared to you.”
Peter’s tempted to give this pompous asshole a piece of his mind, curse him out right in front of everyone like he’s done in the past, but he’s a changed man. Thank you, therapy (and a wonderful cocktail of meds to keep him docile). Nowadays, he’ll do some breathing exercises before resorting to violence.
But he knows that Hwang is right, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it (not even to himself). They— it wouldn’t have worked anyway. He doesn’t know why he tries anymore.
Peter does think that they could’ve made it work. But he’s so glad he left her behind.
Turns out, she hasn’t resigned. Her stuff still litters the desk next to his, mail almost as tall as Trish, the receptionist who could easily be mistaken for a child she’s that short, just cold and untouched. Unclaimed. He isn’t sure when she’s returning to work, or if she has already, but he does know one thing; she’s been a frequent visitor to the prison where Hoffman is. Who knows what goes on behind those doors. He doesn’t want to know.
He’s gone to some bar to lick his wounds. Time is ticking, after all, and he cannot keep wasting his remaining years pining after a woman who he doesn’t even see, let alone know, anymore. He wonders what she's doing at the moment. Maybe she's back at her own apartment, maybe she's trying something new. Whatever it is, she isn’t doing it with one hand tied behind her back, limited to a crappy motel room, or an older partner who functioned purely on stale coffee and cigarettes.
Peter looks up at the blinking lights on the bar wall, an LED bottle sign slowly changing to pink, blue, pink, blue.
When he thinks of her, there is no regret. He does miss her. But there is no regret. It's a relief, he thinks as he steps out into the night, breathing in the dusty air, that he stopped himself from falling in love with Lindsey Perez.
Or so he thought.
Lindsey was firmly out of reach. A piece of him tied away, bound and gagged in the basement. Not with rope or anything, but with ribbon. Make her pretty and all. Yet now she’s here, in front of him. She’s real again. Real.
According to Trish, who gave him less than ten seconds to record all this information in his head, she’s done with the visits to the prison, done with trying to interview past Jigsaw victims (all either telling her to “eat shit, cop!” or sobbing until they’re sick), done with not being with him.
Yeah, she had said that last part. Right to his fucking face.
(He wanted her to say a lot more than that, but it’ll do for now. It satisfies some craving).
Peter tends to pride himself on being a lone wolf, the ability to not feel. But as soon as Lindsey’s in his arms again, and even though the hug is simple, brief because, hey, they’re at work, there’s an even deeper pride. He feels her soften in his arms, almost like she’s melting. Trust. It’s almost inexplicable, this feeling, something that nobody else will ever replicate with him.
And when she pulls away, there’s a glint in her eye. “I missed you.” He swears that there’s a crack in her voice, as if she could suddenly break into tears, and he wants nothing more than to tell her that everything that happened was not her fault.
Instead, he lets her go. He needs to know that he still can.
“Yeah, um,” He shoves his hands in his pockets. They’re in the bullpen, surrounded by co-workers, but nobody takes any notice of them. As if they’re the only ones left in the world. “I missed you too.”
Peter just stares at her, and she just stares back. They’re at a loss for words now– which is no surprise, considering that the last time they saw each other, they were both fixed up in hospital, both five minutes away from death’s door.
At the back of his throat, he can feel words creep up, desperate to escape. So much so that he wants to hunch over and hack, hack until they fall out and he doesn’t have to think about it– his complicated feelings for Lindsey, feelings that will never be reciprocated. He knows he will never tell her, anyway. He’ll never be with her. He doubts he can be. She deserves better than what he can give her– better than him.
But Peter keeps giving. It’s like a disease, a bad habit he cannot break. He’s swapped snorting coke off of porcelain toilet lids to becoming addicted to the attention of a co-worker, much less a friend.
He gets her coffee in the morning as a treat for her, and then gets to choose the music in the car as a reward for him. It’s not a transaction, but he keeps taking. He’s selfish, he knows it, wanting her only for himself.
A week is a week, and a month is a month. Soon enough, it’s July, and Peter realises that they’ve been back together for a month, five weeks or whatever it is. He’s never been good with numbers. But he knows that it’s enough time for him to fall, hard and fast.
They’re in the car one day, when Lindsey turns to him, her hand reaching out for him. He’s silent, watching, observing as she closes in on him. It’s so intimate, so trusting, that Peter feels like he might burn up right there and then. Her hands lands on his, and he swears there’s now a hole where his heart used to be. She may as well just have gone and ripped out the organ, left him a bleeding, butchered mess.
He breathes her in, and then out. Falling, falling.
You’re selfish, he can read it in her eyes. He doesn’t need her to say it. He knows it.
“We should get back to work.” He says, turning away, eyes on the road. He swears that he can feel Lindsey’s hand go cold, as if she’s died, lifeless.
“Yeah, let’s.”
They move in together soon after.
It hadn’t meant to happen, but his lease was about to end, and she had more than enough space, so much so that they even get to have separate rooms.
They get into a routine soon enough; Lindsey wakes up at the crack of dawn, it seems, busy with.. something, Peter likes to lay in (mainly because he’s come to learn that there’s nothing in life giving him meaning– well, except for Lindsey– and it’s all so funny to him that he half-expects to wake up in a Jigsaw trap one day because he’s merely depressed). They both take their coffee the same way. He learns that she likes to bake, especially when she’s stressed. He spends too long smoking on the fire escape. They watch TV, hand in hand. They’re just roommates. And co-workers. And friends.
Everything is relatively normal, and Peter feels like he’s coming to appreciate life again (so take that, John Kramer), and the only thing that they have to stress about is work deadlines and the impending doom that Hoffman could possibly be found not guilty.
And then there’s the nightmares.
It's midnight, and silent. Peter should be asleep, but he can’t. Something in him itches, something that cannot be fixed with a smoke break, and all he can think about is coke. This hasn’t happened in a while. Across the hall, he knows Lindsey is out, drowning in blankets and pillows.
He’s about to try and sleep again, when he suddenly finds himself up and moving. More specifically, moving towards Lindsey’s room. He glances at the moleskine notebook on her dresser, the pages littered with recipe notes. Reminders to herself. The prison address. Peter sets the book down, feeling a little sick with himself. What was the point of this invasion of her privacy? There wasn't any point, he just felt like it.
Selfish.
He’s just about to turn around, go back to his room, act like he was never there, when she starts stirring. Despite the darkness, he can tell she’s distressed. A nightmare.
Peter’s familiar with these. The way you wake up with a pounding heart, unable to tell whether it was real or not due to drowsiness. The distortion of reality and imagination.
He stands over her, as if he’s going to strangle her. If someone were to walk in now, they’d probably assume he would do that. It’s the time of day where his mind is more active, where he’s more like his old self. More prone to anger, violence.
Instead, Peter holds her hand. He watches intently as her chest begins to slow, her breathing more stable. Despite the silence, he finds himself straining his ears, trying to tell if she’s okay or not.
It takes him a while to leave. Eventually he makes it back to his own room, where lays awake, listening. He’s waiting– he couldn’t tell (or rather, couldn’t prove it), but he knows that Lindsey was awake. He waits patiently for her to come yell at him, ask him what the hell that was about. The woman isn’t exactly silent, he’s come to learn, he would’ve heard her by now.
He closes his eyes, but not for long– his heart starts pounding as soon as he hears the floorboards creak, telltale steps in the living room as she heads to the bathroom. She must know.
Peter waits for the feeling of embarrassment to hit him, wash over him like a wave, but he just feels lonely. He checks the time– just past five. Lindsey never comes.
They’re in the office kitchen, a dingy little area, just off of the bullpen. Peter, leaning up against the counter, Lindsey scanning over some document (“Kramer’s last purchase was.. a sandwich. What a way to go out,” she comments, and then they had laughed, because what serial killer buys a fucking sandwich?)
“I’ve been thinking about getting into running,” Peter breaks the silence, which was once so comforting, something they’ve grown accustomed to, as he feels like Lindsey should know this. Why, he’s unsure, but he just wants to talk to her. “Again.”
Lindsey doesn’t look at him, but he can see a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “Really? You?” She says it so teasingly, so lovingly, that if it were anyone else, they’d probably take offense. But not him.
His heartbeat picks up. He stirs his coffee with a spoon.
“I could do it.”
“You want to wake up that early every day?”
“Not really,” He replies. Honestly. He’s done a lot of that recently. Honesty.
Lindsey finds this amusing. She’s full-on smiling now. She has nice teeth. They’re like pearls.
“But I could.”
“I know. You tend to do anything you set your mind to.”
Peter wants to know what the fuck she means by that, but he’s more focused on her blind belief in him. He likes the confidence she has in him, something his ex never had. If he ever suggested something, like getting back into running (something he’d done in the early days of his career, but stopped when he got married so he could “spend more time with the missus”), he was always met with some complaint or other. It’s refreshing; it feels like he can be trusted again.
“I mean, I need to just– I dunno, do something.”
“What, because your biological clock is running out?”
Peter wonders what the fuck she means by that. “Huh?”
“Well, normally people your age start running because of a mid-life crisis, or because they’re trying to run from something,” Lindsey shrugs. Her eyes are now on him– much more on his hands, he notices, but he still feels a warmth in his stomach. “I mean, I’ve seen your lifestyle. I don’t think drugs or smoking really goes with intense cardio like that.”
“Please,” He snorts. “I’ve been doing this for years. Probably started it before you were old enough to count to three.” It's the first time he references their age gap, something that’s taboo between them. She does sound like a baby when he puts it that way.
She’s like a baby, compared to you.
They work well together.
It’s now about a month until Hoffman’s trial, and all they’ve done is spend hour after hour going through this goddamn case with a fine-tooth comb. No way in hell is that man avoiding prison. If it were up to Peter, he’d have him shot into the sun, but it’s not. There’s probably a very good reason somewhere as to why he never went into law like he originally planned to.
Today’s a rare occurrence; they’ve both got the day off, and instead of just lounging around and not doing anything, letting time pass them by, Lindsey is teaching him to bake. Well, Peter asked her to teach him to bake. She simply obliged.
He’s no natural at baking, it’s becoming alarmingly apparent, but he can follow the directions easily enough. He’s careful with what he’s tasked to do, not wanting to let her down. Every now and then, he just stares at the recipe whilst Lindsey takes over, observing her handwriting, the slanted, quick strokes. Artistic. It reminds him of his mother.
“I mean– just say it,” He complains as she stirs– they’re making brownies. It’s the recipe that made the most sense to him. “Just– people should have the fucking guts to tell us what they think of this whole Kramer matter. I know they want the details.”
“People feel entitled to know every little thing.” Lindsey comments. She stops stirring and places her hand out. He absentmindedly passes her the vanilla extract. “It's like how they ask what happened to my face. Like, the cashier at the grocery store yesterday who totally wanted to ask about it. Might as well say, ‘yeah, a respected detective tried to blow me up’.”
Peter snorts a laugh.
“‘Cept it’s true,” He adds. It’s not meant to be much, but clearly she interprets it as an invitation to something more. She asks about his throat, even though he knows that she's not particularly curious about it. Fishing for dirty details. He'll tell her if she wants to hear about it. His chest aches with the memories.
“Sometimes I can still feel it happening,” Peter feels the words fall from his mouth. It’s quick and sudden, and he can’t stop it. “Drowning.”
Lindsey doesn’t say anything, but she does nod. There’s a look in her eye– tried, scarred. Just like her face. He hates what happened to them.
“You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t pry,” Her voice is quiet now. The baking has been abandoned. Peter tries to catch his expression as it falls. He knows all too well. He can tell that she notices the hesitation on his face. She brushes his arm with the back of her hand. The space between them closes. “Let’s not talk about it,” She shakes her head. He can smell her shampoo– honey. “I hate what it’s done to you.”
“What?”
Lindsey sighs, closing her eyes briefly. “You’re not you,” It’s a rather bold statement. “Whatever happened to you, you act like it took everything from you. There’s no life to you. I think you’d be better as a corpse.”
Peter finds this sudden bravery from her adorable. He finds her adorable in general. He admits to himself there might be something wrong with that, and with how he's choosing at this moment to be with the woman he finds adorable. He thinks it's cute how she always looks for him in a room. It's sweet that she cares so much for him. He smiles when he sees her, because she seems to wait for it, and he takes pleasure in indulging her.
He knows his heart has been structured to be shallow, but his love for her runs deep.
“So, what do you want?” He asks, his voice monotone.
He knows that he’s important to her, like she is to him. He’s a rather large presence in her life, taking up more space than he should. She looks at him like he’s the earth, sun and moon, rolled into one.
He feels his muscles smoothing, his chest opening. His space is expanding, and he can feel it push into the borders of hers. Like pressure on the thin film of a bubble gum bubble.
His mouth is on hers.
He sinks into her cunt.
It's been so long since he's had sex, Peter groans so loudly in her ear that it’s almost embarrassing, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and matches his behaviour with an equally loud moan. It’s pretty and lustrous, everything she is. He’s got her wrists pinned above her head, panting into her open mouth as she moans with every thrust. It’s new territory, but it doesn’t take long to work out how to make her come, and he really does, as each of her orgasms is like one of his own, a rush of blood to his head. He’s always been a quick learner.
He’s finishing inside her before he can even ask to.
“Fuck,” She sighs. He watches her chest rise and fall, deep and heavy breaths. She rolls onto her side, curled up like she's ready to go back to sleep. “I think we just finished our friendship. For good.”
He props himself up on an elbow, and rests a hand on her hip. “Yeah,” He nods. “Er– anything wrong with that?”
“No. I enjoyed it.”
Warmth blooms in his chest. And his dick.
“I enjoyed that. Really.” She comments, as if she’s leaving a review on his work. 5/5 stars. Her ass is pushing against him.
Peter doesn’t really think– well, only with his dick. They’re up against each other, him fisting his cock to guide himself back inside her. He hears her gasp, sensitive from before, but he soothes her with brushes of his hands.
“You gonna fall asleep like this?” His hips rock lazily. There’s no actual response from Lindsey, rather a hum. She’s hazy, almost like she’s drunk on his cock, on him. He's hard thinking about it, and he thinks he can come again.
Somewhere, he can hear his phone go off. The ping is familiar, but one he’s not heard in a while. He didn’t expect a response this quick.
reedy wen u r wiv ‘deliveree’ :))))))))
The spelling is enough to make him turn around and go back home.
It’s bad, Peter knows it, but it’s needed at a time like this. Things have been heating up with the Hoffman case (with internet forum after internet forum now claiming he must be innocent because “his sister died!”. People will do anything BUT proper research), and now there’s a new pressure, blinding and hot— his budding relationship with Lindsey. Although he’s not entirely sure he can call it that.
So, it’s a ‘situationship’. It makes him feel older than he is.
She’s like a baby, compared to you.
The small bag in his pocket is exciting, his fingers almost scratching and ripping it open right there, broad daylight. He’s so desperate for this. He can’t remember the last time he did coke (no, he does— literally ten minutes before Jill Tuck’s interrogation), it almost feels like he’s doing it for the first time again. He wishes he was doing it for the first time again.
He wastes no time finding a public bathroom and pouring the contents onto the shitty sink. The first inhale is heaven.
Peter’s not sure why he ever stopped.
Peter’s barely been in therapy for more than five minutes when he starts talking. He even beats his work-issued therapist, Dr. Melbourne, to it.
“So, how is it—“ Melbourne is taking too long, enunciating every word. He is too slow. Time is too slow.
“I had sex with her,” He admits. He hates the way he says it, as if he’s committed some big sin. The only sin here is that 1) Lindsey is seriously, seriously, young, and 2) he’s back on drugs. “Lindsey, that is.”
“So, well,” The doctor’s eyebrows knit together, and then come apart. Peter bites back an insult. “Um, I thought we’d start with something easier—“
“I slept with her a few times, actually. And we moved in together.”
Melbourne stifles a laugh. “Well, when’d you fit that in your schedule?”
“Just.. I just did, okay?”
“Okay,” Melbourne doesn’t press. Peter stares at the bookshelf behind him. It’s solid wood. Sturdy, strong. It’s various colours, a cacophony of a rainbow. It’s messy, like him.
He’s losing control.
“What do you think of it?” He asks. He hesitates, more like.
Melbourne stops writing for a moment, peering over the top of his glasses. “I remember her from the Christmas party. You looked good together, I will say,” He pauses. “But you, you looked like you had a big crush on the prettiest girl at school who’s three years your junior.”
Peter frowns. It’s a correct reading.
“So you know she’s younger?”
“Peter, I work for the FBI to make sure their agents are sane enough. I knew it right off the bat.”
“..But how do you deal with it?”
“For a start, you date someone your own age,” Melbourne states, like it’s the most obvious thing ever. “However, and this purely from my own experience, I never once doubted that my wife was my person. I met her and bam— game over,” Peter feels himself flinch at that term. “I never thought about it twice. Wouldn’t have given a shit what anyone else would’ve said, or thought.”
Peter nods. “Huh. If that was the only thing needed for successful relationships, then only a few people would be happy. Like, really happy.”
Happiness is out of his reach, anyway. He’s got drugs again. That’s enough. Oh, and Lindsey.
Jill Tuck is dead.
Suicide, apparently.
Whatever. Peter didn’t like her much.
They have sex in the car one morning, right outside work.
He’s got to stop himself from ruining the build, but his hand is on her knee. He’s got to stop himself, for real this time, but his fingers are stroking the inside of her thigh.
He’s really grateful that she’s wearing a skirt. It’s a soft thing, he can’t help but rub the material between his fingers as he admires her. She’s poised above him like an angel, sent from the heavens above.
She needs me.
He knows he should stop.
And then his tongue is in her cunt. He inhales. This is a different kind of high, one that no drug or alcohol could match up to, and he feels heady.
She’s like a baby, still plays on his mind. It’s been, what, a few months since Hwang said that, but he still finds himself going back to those words– that this will not last.
It’s embarrassing– how much he enjoys seeing his cock disappear into her mouth. Shameful, how his blood heats just at the sight of her, clothed or not. Shameful, how her fresh and innocent eyes, so doe-like, shining with tears as she gags on him. All to please him. Only him.
“You okay?” He asks her, hoping his hips won’t buck forward. “You– you don’t have to do that.”
“Fuck off.” Is the answer.
Peter has to think about his shame, sore and rotten, to slow down. He focuses on setting up the potential energy for the fall, stopping for a smoke break, like he's got a calm mind about all this, when all he really wants is to fuck her. But Lindsey is ruining his plans– suddenly she’s hovering over him, her wet cunt gently, softly, taking him in, teasing him to the end of all time, like he could disappear just like that–
He stops her, and she’s almost bratty about it. She looks at him like she can't believe he's not letting her just drop her hips and sit raw on his cock. It amuses him to no end. It makes him want to fuck her into the hood of the car, let all their co-workers see.
He feels every muscle contract when she asks him to finish inside of her. It seems to last a while, so much so that he’s lightheaded after. He hugs her sticky, sex-scented body to his as she collapses in on him. They’re one.
“So.. you’re going to see him?” Lindsey eyes him wearily. “Hwang makes it sound like you’re fucking– I don’t know, best friends.” She's not particularly showing any certain emotion, but she seems curious, wanting to know what's brought this on. He can see color on her cheeks, it's in contrast with the stark white walls behind her as she sinks down further into her bed, hair sticking to the headboard.
“It’s Hoffman. If anything, he probably just wants to know why I did it.” Peter shrugs, twirling an unlit cigarette in his fingers. It’s silent, unlike clicking a pen. It’s a habit.
Just like coke.
(And he needs to get more, actually– he’s down to his last few grams, but now his life is so intertwined with Lindsey’s that he doesn’t know where his ends and hers begins).
“Well, just think about how, uh, fun it’ll be? Definitely beats doing nothing at work.” She replies. It’s now less than two weeks until the trial, and now, suddenly, Hoffman wants a visit.
Peter half-smiles. Beats giving yourself a tracheotomy, is what she means. He hates that she’ll now have a bit of darkness to her, forever. He liked when she was pure shine and light, but that was all tainted when that god-awful puppet exploded in her face. Sure, they have their fair share of horrors at work, but this has permanently changed her.
“What are you gonna do while I’m gone?” He discards the cigarette, leaving it atop her dresser. He moves away from where he’s leaning in the doorway, standing at the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know, but Hwang’s probably got some job or other for me to do. Keep me entertained.”
“Well, you do have nice handwriting.”
Something in her eyes flickers, and Peter can’t help but smirk. One thing that Lindsey is not good at is handling compliments. Or really recognising them.
“I’m going out tonight, by the way.” Lindsey casually drops into the conversation. It derails him. Like, really derails him. He feels a knot twist in his throat. He swallows.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, just some girls I knew back in college are in the city, so I said I’d meet up with them,” She’s sitting up now. Her eyes are watching him rather intently, almost judgingly. She’s trying to get a read on him, he can tell, try and work out if this is acceptable for them– for him.
Don't be that guy, Peter tells himself. He wants to tell her to stay here, with him, so that he can keep her safe. Don't be that overprotective, infantilising, irritating boyfriend when you're not anything, just let her go—
And then he takes her by the ankles, pulling her towards him. He’ll make her forget about her plans, no doubt.
In his fifteen years of experience, Peter doesn’t think he’s actually ever been to a prison.
Well, at least not this one.
He’s not in the best mood today, and now that he has to see Hoffman, it just adds fuel to his venomous fire. It doesn’t help that Lindsey ended up staying somewhere else last night, after her night out, leaving him alone. It doesn’t help that he was stressed and concerned about her, which led him to blow through the last of his coke supply– oh, and his dealer-turned-CI-turned-dealer-again is out of town.
He was disappointed when he didn’t see a text from her this morning. He was disappointed– fucking disappointed.
But now he’s here, sitting in some well-ventilated room, with Hoffman sitting opposite him, wearing that goodman smirk he always does. For someone who is looking at the death penalty, you’d think he wouldn’t be so happy. But he is. God knows why, and Peter doesn’t care to know. Quite frankly, he just wants to sit here, tune out whilst Hoffman rambles on, and get the fuck out.
“Stop enjoying this.” Peter snaps, eyes hard and dark, darker than a stormy sea.
Hoffman smirks. Still. “Oh, agent,” His hands are resting on top of the table, and Peter can see how his fingernails have been bitten down. Strangely, it reminds him of Lindsey, and how she had— has a terrible habit of picking and chewing her lips until they bled. He feels a bit weird thinking about her right now. “It’s good to see you again. You haven’t changed.”
“Likewise.”
Silence looms over their heads, ugly as ever, and Peter is tempted to just stand up and leave, but then Hoffman starts talking. Again.
“I’ve missed this little game between us, agent,” He puts real emphasis on the word ‘agent’, as if it’s a laughable career. “Cat and mouse. Who would you be, hm?”
Peter stays silent. His hand is a tight fist, one that he’s sure he could put through Hoffman’s skull if needed.
“And— tell me, how is Lindsey?” The smile is gone now; the former-detective is done with his theatrics. “I heard that she’s alive, somehow. I’m guessing you two have a pretty.. explosive relationship now, no?”
Just the pun alone causes Peter to see red.
Both of them are standing up now, and Peter soon enough finds his hands on Hoffman’s prison jumpsuit, shoving him against the wall. This, this, is what he should’ve done the moment they met. Put the mutt out of his misery.
Peter has more access to him, could do a lot more damage, but something internal holds him back, keeps him tethered. Despite the red in his vision, the colour of blood, visceral, he simply holds Hoffman in his grip, right by the neck. Just enough pressure to cause him to feel pain (if he can feel anything through that fucking neck of his), not enough to kill him.
“Shut–” His voice is low as he glares at the former-detective, his fists thumping at his arms to let him go. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Oh, really, agent– do you really think that your partner plays an innocent role in all of this?” Hoffman hisses. Peter can feel saliva land on his face. His own blood burns under his skin, the fire so ablaze that it’s blinding. It’s hard to concentrate. “Believe me, I know her more than you ever could. There’s a lot of ugliness under that pretty face of hers–”
And then, Peter punches him.
It’s in the jaw, but still, it’s the wrong thing to do– the very wrong thing to do. It’s a punch fueled by rage, adrenaline, and most importantly, drugs. Peter wants nothing more than for Hoffman to know what it’s all like, feel how he feels–
Fuck. He’s really starting to sound like Jigsaw. It’s enough to make him feel nauseous.
Peter can hear some commotion outside, and knows it’s only a matter of time until the guards come in and break them apart, finally, but he just can’t seem to pull away. He can feel his nails sink softly into the fat of Hoffman’s neck. The former-detective smiles, blood in his teeth, milk white turning red.
Hoffman’s too close to him now. He smells like prison– stale, masculinity dripping from his pores. It’s disgusting. Peter wonders who’s ass-fucked him, or if it’s the other way around.
“You still don’t appreciate life.”
Peter snorts. “What are you talking about? I had my test– twice, actually. Yeah, thanks for the fucking coffin. Really laying it on thick there.” He rolls his eyes, but Hoffman is still smiling, expression unchanging.
“No, you need to learn. Again.”
“Just– shut the fuck up,” Peter snaps. “You think that people should– should suffer, all because your sister died? Newsflash, asshole, but people die all the time. You’re not special.”
“And neither are you.”
“I’ll kill you. Really.”
Hoffman laughs, but it’s gargled and strained. “I’ll kill you before that happens. It doesn’t even have to be me, specifically. But it will happen,” The space between them seems to grow even smaller, and whilst Peter has never been claustrophobic, he feels it for the first time. He swears that the bastard’s about to kiss him. “Everyone dies, in the end.”
“Fucking choke and die.”
“You won’t expect it,” Hoffman hisses, his lips against his ear– seriously, where the fuck are the guards? “But it’ll happen. Someone will put you out of your fucking misery. Watch and wait.”
Suddenly, and finally, two guards burst in, pulling Hoffman away from him. Peter watches, straightening himself up, as they tackle the former-detective to the table, before escorting him out of the room. Even though he’s not even there any longer, he can hear Hoffman shouting in the distance. Or maybe he’s just hearing things. He isn’t sure what to believe anymore.
You still don’t appreciate life.
What the fuck does Hoffman know about appreciating life? He took that opportunity away from people who didn’t get a chance to explore that. Fuck what he says.
Coke. God, does Peter need coke.
Signs of Lindsey are all around him; he cannot escape her.
It drives him feral.
It’s as if he’s become a dog infested with fleas, addicted to the itch. A mutt that can only function by biting and killing and fucking. He should be put down.
She is his weakness incarnate, and though he hates her– hates what she has become to him, of him, hates what she represents, hates the ugliness under that pretty face– he can’t let her go.
This frustrates Peter to the point where some days, he cannot bear to be in the same room as her. At work, he’s started to avoid her as much as he possibly can, which is hard when you’re fucking partners, so when he can’t escape, he makes small-talk, keeping answers to soft grunts and less than three syllables. It’s barely bearable, but it will do. Until he knows what to do with her.
Home is another matter, but he’s stopped calling it ‘home’ now as he is nothing more than an intruder. Being there, at her home, he realises the depths of his passion for her, and he grieves. He grieves over this sickness that now infests his bones, no cure in sight.
He avoids her because he cannot do anything else for fear of destroying her. There is still guilt in him.
But that does not mean that she can redeem him; not on this path that he has walked now.
There are also days where the remnants of Peter’s kindness and affection slip through, along with that guilt. He quickly covers it up by indulging in Lindsey– silks; dresses and lingerie, and fine, frivolous things that fill her closet in a myriad of colours. It’s as if he’s stolen the rainbow and placed it in there. He buys her furs (though she has to wait until winter to wear those), coats and shawls made from the finest of pelts, probably some endangered animal.
But the real kicker is the ring; a simple band, but stuck right in the center, a large diamond that shone a multitude of colours when under the right light, crafted by an artisan’s hand.
He doubts he’ll ever give it to her.
All these things appear in her room, which once was his as much as hers, all locked away in wood and glass. Wrapped in comfort.
If it’s a cage, it is just as much of one for him as it is for her.
The two of them have seen the true nature of man, especially under extreme pressure, and have varying conclusions– they are oppositional. They shouldn’t attract.
Yet, Peter holds Lindsey close to him, a weakness, instead of disposing of her like he should. He does not have a care for ruined things, whatever horror could be hiding under her fair complexion.
There is no avoiding the truth of this matter; there is a fine line between love and hate, and he is balancing on a precipice with his hands tied together.
Mark Hoffman is sentenced to life.
To celebrate, he fucks her like the animal he is.
By September, things have begun to fall apart. The cracks have begun to show.
“Jesus–” Lindsey is pissed. Peter could tell just by the way she stormed into the apartment. She was fine, he knew, but he couldn’t leave it alone.
But it’ll happen. Someone will put you out of your fucking misery. Watch and wait.
He couldn’t let something happen to her, all out on her own, alone. He had only checked in on her, what was so wrong with that?
Probably the multitude of messages he sent.
What Peter has coincidentally forgotten over these past few months, is that Lindsey is a survivor, a fighter– despite her delicate exterior. Cunning and slippery, like a serpent in the sands.
And like all serpents, she knows how to escape.
“You’re just– god–” She can barely get out a word as she paces around and around, him watching from the kitchen island. He grips a beer bottle tightly, so much so that he fears the glass will suddenly crack and smash, leave his fingers bloody and torn.
She’s been slipping away for a while now from him, planning her great escape with the single-minded instinct of a prey animal desperate to flee. She doesn’t want him anymore.
“You know what, I’m just gonna go,” Lindsey huffs, throwing her hands up in defeat. “I’ll get a hotel, until you feel fine and can talk to me like a real man–”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” He mutters, and despite the soft tone of his voice, the ensuing silence indicated that his threat had been heard. He doesn’t even look up, but he can tell that she’s still. Terrified. “I intend to get all I want from you.” He looks her way, predatory eyes staring down doe-like ones.
“What the fuck,” She hisses. “What the fuck are you talking about, Strahm?”
The single syllable of his surname rings harsh in the air, spit out by her without a care, with loathing. There’s a pain that works its way through him. He feels weighed down all of a sudden.
But despite this, Peter goes on. He abandons the bottle on the side, instead replacing his stoic expression with a smile, jagged and cutting like glass. It holds no warmth that he once held for her.
“I’m keeping us safe.”
“You’re keeping us safe, or is it just me?”
“I–” He trails off, helpless, before swallowing. “I have reasons.” He managed to choke out, hoping that it throws Lindsey off, give him a bit of time to stall, but she’s smart.
“I’m not going to live my life in fucking fear of something that may or may not happen,” She tilts her chin defiantly towards him. “If appreciation of lie is what keeps us alive.. then I’m going to live it.”
Peter can’t help but laugh. “Jesus, you’re so fucking naïve,” He shakes his head, unaware to her sudden frown. It’s minimal, but it’s there. “It doesn’t matter if you’re the best person in the world, or a— a fucking rapist— everyone dies in the end.”
He steps forward. She steps backward.
Lindsey looks so small, so inferior, to him. As if she’s just a speck of dust in his great, big world. Even though he’s been trying to reduce his presence here, he still exists, still takes up a lot of space. He’s lived more than she ever will.
She’s like a baby, compared to you.
“I don’t need your permission, you’re not my dad.”
“No, I’m not your dad, and no, you don’t need my fucking permission, but you are mine, and I’m not going to let you fuck your life up and end up dead,” Peter’s almost towering over her now. There’s a surge of power that rushes through him. “Nothing will take you away from me, this time.”
And he wins. He always wins.
Peter stops initiating sex at all.
They still fuck. He would never want her to think that he doesn’t want to, but all emotion, all feeling, is gone.
Fucking at work has become a regular thing between them. There’s something about the danger, the adrenaline that it causes, the possibility that someone will see them. He's tempted to rip her pantyhose to access her wet cunt more quickly, but he remembers how stupid and unserious that is in reality. He does kiss her though. Grind into her to stimulate that spot inside her, bodies flush, her face hidden in his neck, in a way that fantasies don't often portray.
And then there are times where they only kiss hello, goodbye. If you were a stranger on the street, you’d think they were an arranged marriage or some shit.
Lindsey’s on her hands and knees, arching her back like she’s presenting herself. It’s weirdly innocent that she’s letting him take her like this. Neither are the most adventurous when it comes to sex, and between the two of them he has more experience, but they’ve never done this. He’s never done this.
“I think it would be better if you were on your stomach.”
She huffs. “Why?”
“Because I’ve fucked you enough time to know what you like,” Peter snaps. His hands are on her hips, and he can feel her tense up. “Sorry.” She looks a little stunted. He wonders if it’s because it’s him, or she’s just.. new to all of this. It’s hard to tell.
Peter pushes into her, gently, as if she’s made of glass. She tenses up even more, a coil wound too tight.
“You feel too big.”
“I know,” A sigh. Shuffling. “Get on your stomach, just like I said to.”
Peter places a hand onto the small of her back, applying just enough pressure to cause her knees to give out, watching as she crumbles to the bed, her cheek pressed into the mattress as his cock fills her entirely. He can see from the side of her face that she’s undecided– she can’t tell whether she likes it or not.
He reaches behind him, and crosses one of Lindsey’s ankles over the other. He groans as her cunt squeezes him as her thighs press together. He gives her a small thrust, but deep and slow enough for her to feel it– feel all of him.
“I know what feels good for you,” He grunts as he fucks her, listening to her moan. It’s all she can do for him. He pulls back and pushes in. He takes her hands, fingers gripping her wrists, locking them just above her ass. She’s his. “I know you.”
And of course, Lindsey is in no position to either accept to deny any of this. His word is the fucking gospel, she his blind follower. He leans down, bottoms out inside her, sets his mouth to her ear as she chokes out a moan.
“Better than anyone else.” Peter hisses between sharp breaths, hungry teeth branding into her, just on the back of the neck– it’s for him, and him only. She can’t see it, but it’s there. He opens his mouth and licks it. Grinds his cock into her cunt, fucking her filthy, painting an image that he knew would make her blush crimson outside of this bedroom.
She whimpers at his next words, last words.
“You are mine.”
Peter wakes up. Peter goes to work. Peter comes home. Peter does coke. Peter fucks Lindsey. Only if she feels up to it. Peter goes to bed. Repeat. Peter wakes up. Peter goes to work. Peter comes home. Peter does coke. Peter fucks Lindsey. Only if she feels up to it. Peter goes to bed. Repeat. Peter wakes up. Peter goes to work. Peter comes home. Peter does coke. Peter fucks Lindsey. Only if she feels up to it. Peter goes to bed. Repeat.
Peter doesn’t appreciate life. Repeat.
“You’re just so used to getting everything you want; it’s frankly nauseating at times.”
Peter frowns. He can’t actually remember why they’re arguing, but it's about something. Something he did, or something she did. God, the coke is really fucking with him today–
Oh, wait, Lindsey got a job offer. That’s it.
He’s not happy with it– with her.
“Is that what you expect? That I’ll just be around to give you what you want, for the rest of my life?” She says ‘my life’, like he has no part of it. Of course, he has no part of her life. He’s lived his.
“I don’t expect anything from you.”
“I– seriously?” Lindsey stops short.
Peter feels impatience seeping into his voice, bleeding from his bones. “You should go.”
“Fuck, seriously?” She repeats herself, her hands in her hair. She’s left him on the couch, already moving away from him. “Okay, I get it– we’re not together, and you’re so fucking distant from me that you’d probably love for me to go away, right?” He stares at her. She stares at him. “God, I– I do like you, Peter, really. But I can’t do– do this.”
“Don’t stay.” Peter tells her. He wants her to keep expanding her world, find someone else to take his place. Someone who isn’t going to fuck everything up, to keep her in a gilded cage–
“You were married. Once.”
Peter nods. “Yes?”
“What happened?” Lindsey asks, but seems to regret it almost immediately, as she grimaces slightly. Out of all the time that they’ve worked together, his failed marriage has been the one thing that they have never discussed– and here she is, digging up the decaying bones of a life he wants to forget.
“It wasn’t enough.” He replies. She raises a brow his way, so damn high it could reach the sky. She probably thinks that soulmates are singular, one person out there for everyone.
“You loved her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still love her?”
“Yes, but in a different way,” Peter’s standing now. “Not like I love you.”
It’s stupid. It’s obvious. It’s the closest he’s ever going to get to telling her how he really feels, and her emotionless face tells him all he needs to know.
“You've been through this before,” She says quietly. “Is that why it's so much easier for you than it is for me?”
“I guess so. Can't say I've been through this situation exactly.”
“We should’ve died. We shouldn’t have been given second chances.”
“Well, we did. And we’re here. We’re– you’re moving on.” And I still don’t appreciate life. He's sure she already knows everything he just said. She knows death. It's a reason why he feels more comfortable with her than nearly anyone else.
“Just– just don’t hold onto me.”
Peter wants to tell her no. He wants to scream and tear and kill. He’s not going to be able to let go of her that easily. They've been through too much to let it all go now.
He’s lying. He’s honest. He’s done it all.
He meets her eye, after some difficulty, not wanting to face what is to come. She’s tired. He’s tired.
It’s easy enough to ruin her, to take what is left of her pretty face and reduce it to the ugliness that lays underneath, waiting, waiting, waiting. For a brief moment, he wonders about what he could do to save this, save them, his mind a whirling cavern of thoughts. Part of him, still hurt and filled with the rage of despair, stands unyielding in the face of betrayal.
But another part of him, still gentle, and caring and sweet, and he realises that no matter what he does, he will not make it right. He could be given a thousand ‘tests’, be put through hell and back, and yet, he would not learn his lesson.
The only way to appreciate life, is to restart.
“I won’t stop you, then.” The animalistic urge to fight back claws at his ribs, threatens to spill from his mouth, but he swallows it down. Store it away for another time.
Lindsey smiles. “Okay. Thank you.”
He believes her, though he's not sure how it's possible. He simply feels too much. He wants to hold her to him and squeeze his arms until she bursts. Maybe he'll finally be satisfied then—when he's so saturated with her that she's dripping from the tips of his hair.
“So, what is this job?”
She closes her eyes, sighing heavily. “I'll be training new hires for Quantico. I want to do it.”
“Sounds good.”
“I know.”
He’s already lost her once, then again, and now, again. The next time that he won’t lose her, will be six feet underground. Dead.
Everyone dies, in the end.
Yeah, but they’re not ‘everyone’. They’re not meant to die.
Lindsey resigns.
Whatever. He doesn’t care. What-fucking-ever.
But he doesn’t let her go. He can’t keep his word.
This isn’t right.
He has to make it right.
Peter cradles Lindsey’s body, or what is left of her, into his arms. He’s weary of how he holds her, careful to not let any of her blood spill out, lose the saccharine fluid that once flowed through her. He presses his face into her hair, breathing her in.
It’s still her. She’s still with him.
The hunger has returned, and all Peter wants to do is–
He swallows. Then stops, thoughts racing.
She is still his, isn’t she? Even in death?
Nothing can stop him, not now, not ever.
The savage appetite rises in him, and this time, there’s something unorthodox about it. It’s not like it has been before, not something he can fix with a drink or a quick line.
He looks at her corpse, still young and fresh and soft and pliant. She was always so young to him. In death, there is something smaller about her, and all he wants to do is take care of her, protect her–
And there it is. Lust.
He only has a matter of time, he realises. Her body has already been here for a few days, lying so still on her bed, their bed, and he knows that the grief period will be over soon. He feels like a monster, driven by all the primal thoughts of a beast, feasting and fornicating and fucking–
But he is also a man.
He will age, and she won’t, and he knows he must take what is his, before it is too late.
A hand comes up to gently grip her cheeks, parting her lips so he may slip his tongue into her mouth. It is a kiss that speaks to all the desperation found in his desires, and it turns from aggression to tenderness in a heartbeat.
The corpse stays still. His eyes trail down.
His mouth moves too.
When he reaches her wound, the single gunshot to the heart, he laps at it; he’s like a dog in desperate need of water, trying everything to quench his thirst. The flesh puts up some resistance beneath him, but in the end, with his nails raw and bloody, he sees her heart, peaking out from behind the graceful white curve of her ribcage. He presses closer, then comes away with a mouth stained with blood.
She belongs to him.
Peter remembers the way she clung to him, terrified for her life, back in that school hallway. How she entrusted him, put her heart, her soul, in his hands. She can’t take it back, even if she tries.
He’s got his teeth in deep.
Peter reaches for her with one hand, scrambling at the growing laceration in her chest, closing a bloody fist around her heart; not roughly, nor cruelly, but in the same way one cradles something precious within the palm of one's hand.
Lindsey’s heart is in his hands, the climbing heat that gathers in the pit of his stomach grows and grows, blossoming like leaves on a tree. Hunger, lust, brokenness.
If he wanted to, he could fuck her, hard and brutal, but he doesn’t want to hurt her. He won’t hurt her. He won’t damage the pretty face that is in his arms.
His fingertips slip easily beneath the organ in her chest, and he lifts it; it hovers in his hand, resting above the gaping wound, above bone-white ribs. He bites. The taste of the muscle, bursting on his tongue in strings of flesh and muscle and sinew. He closes his teeth around the organ, ravenous as he tears into it, white teeth flashing in the dark.
The gnawing hunger within him turns into bliss.
When he raises his head again, he is sane.
He feels satiated.
Peter Strahm has been hungry all his life— love has devoured him whole.
Lin– Perez is gone. Hoffman is gone. Everyone is gone.
He is the only one left.
He’s out on the street, stumbling, crashing. People watching him as he runs past. He knows why they’re so interested in him, fearful of him– it’s the blood that drips down him. The blood that he wears so proudly. He couldn’t let Perez get away. He couldn’t.
He had tried to ignore his appetite, but it had raged on and on. He is poison-consumed, on the cusp of delirium. He took all of her, and yet, he wasn’t satisfied. He hates her as much as he craves her.
And then it happens.
Peter has always had his appetites.
After all, a boy does not grow into a man without gnawing hunger; the type that is felt bone-deep, all-encompassing, until nothing remains but the need to eat.
This hunger, however, is different. It’s not fueled by lust and savagery, but something else– sorrow, maybe, he isn’t sure, but it’s definitely different. He feels no need to nurture it, to silence the aching screams in his body.
The cacophony of blue and red closes in on him, the circle of bodies trapping him like a wild animal. They want to put him down, put him out, end him. Good. It’s what he deserves. He’s had this coming.
It’s quick and short, over before anyone can process what’s happening, but he definitely knows it happens. There’s a burst of pain through his skull, like flowers blooming, and he feels himself go limp.
A bang. Some screams. He doesn’t think he makes a sound. For a moment, all he can do is pant with anger, controlling the swell of blood that threatens to trickle out of his lungs. It finally fucking happened. But then, as it all settles in, he begins to laugh, tipping his head back in a mockery of a smile, baring his blood-stained teeth to the cool night air as he succumbs to the earth below.
What Peter hates most, is how Hoffman was right; he didn’t expect it.
The city is turning over its muggy, autumn afternoon to the insatiable nighttime. A motorbike roars. A group of cops survey the scene. A siren blares.
Peter’s dead body lies on the sidewalk. Untouched, unloved, unappreciated.
crushedmary Tue 15 Jul 2025 03:45AM UTC
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slashedgutz Tue 15 Jul 2025 12:47PM UTC
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holy3cake Tue 15 Jul 2025 08:54AM UTC
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uwuyikesowo Tue 15 Jul 2025 09:31PM UTC
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