John Kramer

He admired the old building, a relic of the past that still withstood the test of time. His meticulous plans had finally led up to this moment.

Years of studies, careful anticipation of the real estate market, and eventual independence with his own contracting firm had built this new foundation to his ever growing empire.

The Gideon meatpacking plant, still proud with all its rust scars and broken windows, stood before him wrapped with chain linked fences and barbed wire. He felt like a royal entering his castle.

"Congratulations, John," his lawyer, Art Blanck, looked smooth in his suit, giving the new property owner a smug nod. "It's a beaut."

"A fixer-upper," Jill was craning her head to the roof. The walls. When they entered the warehouse, she stepped deep into its bowels and spun around like a dancer. She took in all the equipment left behind, admiring some shelving with dusty hooks and hammers. "It's perfect," she turned to him and beamed.

Blanck had his hands in his pockets, swaggering about. "One of many, I'm sure. Considering the declining prices, now is the time to buy up whatever you can. A brilliant business opportunity-,"

"And a good opportunity to renovate these buildings for affordable housing," Jill added, wary of Blanck. "To help get people off the street."

John loved Jill's charitable heart, it being her idea to consider this line of work. Before Urban Renewal, he had been more focused on pleasing the customer, be it the private contractors who sold his creations for weapons or the latest product gimmick that got the American consumer eager to trade their paychecks for. He had not discriminated, driven only by the pursuit of wealth.

But when he met Jill, he was taken aback by her bravery. She was pure of heart. His rock in this crazy world.

He wanted to help her, in her dreams, which was to make the world a little bit better off. Her own project, Homeward Bound, was far from profitable. She spent every waking moment at the clinic and so he had decided to assist in financing it for her.

Art Blanck had not approved, the tax break not enough incentivize or justify such a poor business decision.

The tension was clear. His wife and lawyer were just civil enough, though Jill did little to hide her disapproval.

"Well, John. Jill. Congratulations. I'll leave you two to celebrate." Blanck forced a smile as he strode out of the old warehouse.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Jill's shoulders relaxed downward and her face smoothed to a beautiful twinkle. "John Kramer," she would say his name with such honey and fondness that it made his heart swell, "I'm so lucky to have met you in my life."

He took her hand and spun her around, as though about to sway to secret music. He pulled her close to him, tightly into his arms. "And I, lucky to have met you, Jill."

Angelina Acomb

It was a hot summer day. The sun was already burning her shoulders and making her sweat.

The annual Metropolitan Police Department Potluck had a full turnout, despite the growing tensions the city was experiencing, tightly clutched by rumors of terrorism in the form of explosives and gunfights in the streets.

She had brought cupcakes. Decadent little pastries with carefully swirled frosting and high end pearl sprinkles accenting them.

Her work stood out in the sea of homemade goods, though love was placed everywhere she looked.

"Angelina," a woman she recognized as Jane Matthews approached her with her son, Daniel, who was now walking around and sputtering to himself. "I love your cupcakes. It's so good to see you."

"Great to see you too," she was taken off guard when Jane pulled her tightly into a hug. She knew that Mark was now partners with her husband, thus explaining her affection, but still, she had only spoken to Jane in passing at holidays and the occasional police function. "How are things?"

"Honestly? Terrible. I'm only here because Daniel needs to spend time with his father. Though it's so awkward," the woman was staring over at her ex - or, soon-to-be ex, - husband, who was talking with Mark over some beers as they watched the grills. "I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to your wedding."

"Oh," Angie shrugged, not sure what was the right thing to say at that moment, "that's all right. I can only imagine what you're going through right now."

"Yeah. Trust me. It's not fun." Jane forced a laugh but her eyes were watering. She looked down at Daniel, as if that would hide them. "Anyways, I just wanted to say congratulations. On your wedding. I hope you and Peter are well?"

"We are. Though the distance is hard," she grimaced but remained pleasant. "He's in Iraq right now, what with the tensions in Kuwait." Her heart was already hammering in her rib cage, adrenaline coursing through her veins like acid at the thought.

Jane gave tisking and clucking sounds of sympathy. "Terrible what's happening over there. You know, I hear George Bush…" Angelina forcefully muted Jane's voice, the desire to melt where she stood and absorb into the grass at her feet overwhelming.

Angelina found herself picking faces in the crowd, hungrily searching for Alllison or Will's features to pop out and rescue her. She recognized the two curly puff balls of hair and mentally pleaded that they would be attracted by the forces of sheer friendship and she would be free from this awkward conversation.

Her prayers were answered with the glitter of recognition from Allison as she waved and turned to tap Will on the shoulder. The two cops turned and approached, though a darkening of awareness shadowed their faces from seeing Jane Matthews. They slowed their pace.

Angelina grimaced over Jane's head, nodding in understanding that they needed to keep back for just a moment longer. Will whispered something into her partner's ear, Ally shaking her head and mouthing curses.

"Oh, Tracy!" Jane let out a high pitched squeal as she walked off to join the throng of police wives.

She couldn't walk away from the desert table fast enough.

"Ange," Will put an arm around her and pulled her close. "How are things?"

"Hanging in there," her smile was no longer forced. "Seriously, though, such an awkward time with Jane."

"Yeah, tell me about it. I'm surprised she showed," Allison took a swig from her bottle, swirling the beer in her mouth with a pout. "Hoffman's keeping Eric close. Especially with how drawn out the divorce is going, he's been on a short fuse."

Well, he did cheat on her, Angelina kept the thoughts down, torn between her friendship with Allison and Eric and knowing they had gone and made a downright mess of things. The addition of negative thoughts piling onto her mental trash heap was bringing her down, so she quickly turned to Will with a mischievous need to distract from the dull pain.

"So, Will, how long have you and Mark been together?" She leaned forward, eyes wide with intensity as she watched the redhead shrink from her scrutiny. "If you say more than a few months, I will absolutely kill him for hiding this from me."

"Uh." Will whirled over to Mark, who seemed to be in a deep discussion on the precise moment a burger needed to be flipped with Daniel Rigg and Eric.

Angelina was not about to let this go. "Since when? I knew you two weren't working on cases anymore - but that was years ago." It was mostly denial, her refusal to believe that her brother would have hidden this from her for this long, but she already knew.

Mark had been pleasant lately. She had seen him make smalltalk to strangers in line at the movies. She even saw him hold the door open for a young couple, throwing a small smile at them. Though Mark was always such a loving brother, to most people he was calloused and aloof.

She had been so caught up with herself after getting married. She had not spent anywhere near as much time with Mark as she used to and this was likely another reason she never noticed. She never even thought to ask.

Still, he could have at least told her.

"Well, we may have become more than just coworkers for a while now." Will was waffling.

"Since when?" She took her hand and squeezed it. "Please, I need to know!"

"Since your wedding?" Will let out a gasp when Angelina squeezed her hand tight.

"That. Was. Three years ago." She was looking through Will and at her brother. "How come Mark didn't invite you over for the holidays?"

"Well - I usually go back to California to spend time with my relatives - and - Jesus, Angie, you've got a grip," Will pulled free and shook her fingers. "Yeah, I knew he hadn't let you know yet."

"What was he waiting for? Will I even be invited to the wedding?"

Allison choked on her drink and Will sighed. "I don't think marriage is on the radar for a while."

"Don't ruin my hopes and dreams," Angelina was already imagining a church house wedding, complete with pink roses and silver silk. Will would look like a dream in white, her hair orange fire pulled back with pearls and lace. Mark would be in a tux, hair slicked back, happy and all teeth. "I was starting to lose hope that Mark would ever get me a sister. And the kids!" She felt triumphant, fist pumping as she let out a gleeful cackle. "I'm going to be an aunt!"

"How much have you had to drink, Ange?" Ally was amused.

"None, actually," she was clinging to this good news, wrapping it around her like a blanket, nestling into the comfort of it.

"Speaking of weddings," Will effortlessly dodged the spotlight, "You've got to show me the photographs from yours. I haven't had a chance to swing by and reminisce. Sorry about that, Ange," Will looked sheepish and sympathetic. Angelina felt as if she was reading her and knew every dark thought that was barbed into her brain.

"Oh, yes! Come by any weekend. It's been slow with the catering contracts."

"Sorry, Angie honey, we've got to fly down to Virginia this Friday."

"Oh, right," disappointment was like an anvil over her head. "You two close to catching that monster?"

"We're trying. He's been quiet this summer. Part of the reason we've been staying here for so long is because he's gone underground since the last murder. It's slowing things down on our end." Will and Ally exchanged looks, as if there was a lot more going on than they let on. She knew better than to push, though. When it came to high profile murder cases, they had to keep the details under wraps. Especially if withholding information was used to verify the killer's story when they finally caught him.

Angie shook her head, shivering at the prospect. Women taken and having their hearts removed, it was gruesome. The stuff of horror movies.

Sometimes, she wished Mark hadn't chosen to go into law enforcement. She just wanted a normal, simple life, for both siblings. The Hoffmans were such a small family, really just the two of them. And it terrified her, to imagine a world where Mark was gone. She wanted him far from danger. Far from serial killers and violence.

And with that, she thought of her husband, off to war. She wanted Peter home. She wanted her future children to not worry about losing their relatives. She wanted to live somewhere safe.

And she wanted her brother to experience all these forms of happiness as well.

They were all dreams so close to coming true. And yet so far.

A part of her, in her anxious paranoia, feared it could all fall apart at any second. That Mark would one day not return her calls. That Peter would never come back.

Lately, the future plans she had felt out of reach and so fragile, like smoke on water.

"Hey, ladies," Eric called out while loudly clicking the metal tongs, "How many burgers you want?"

Mark Hoffman

Larry returned with the whiskey and two glasses, giving a clearly warmer look over at Will before turning to wipe the greasy towel onto the old wooden bar.

When his old bartender approved of the new addition to his evening ritual, he knew he must have been one of the lucky ones.

At the corner of his eye, he saw Will yawn and flip through the pages of the American Rifleman, picking at the soggy fries in her basket. Her lips were pulled together in a small pout, her freckles fading with the warmth of the late summer.

These days, she wore darker colors. Black and navy. Colors of control. The shadowed bruises under her eyes gave her a punkish look, followed with how her fingernails were all torn and chewed to the quick. The flash of amber eyes flicked a jolt of energy up his spine. She could give a look that would make him feel like a deer in the headlights getting blasted with a flamethrower. "What?"

"Nothing." He pretended he wasn't feeling eager to grip her by the hair and sink his teeth into the softness of her neck. He forced himself to look away and stare at the broadcasting football game. A fumble caused some nearby patrons to curse and grunt, shaking their heads as another let out a laugh.

"I hate how small my wrists are," she spoke, holding the shiny pages up to reveal a Big Frame Revolver Magnum, the classic western pistol, glint in its matte stainless steel finish. "Ain't he pretty?"

He smirked, reaching to where her hand pressed the magazine down to the bartop and ran his fingers over the back of her hand and up to her wrist. It was like warm butter, a teaser to the rest of her he wanted to caress. "I think you've got nice wrists. Never stopped you from throwing a good punch."

"Yeah, but imagine the recoil on this puppy." She had her lower lip stuck out. "I want it but it's not like I'd be able to use it."

"Yeah, but it'll scare the hell out of anyone who crosses you if they see that on your hip."

"Nah, they probably would just assume I wouldn't know how to use it. Because, realistically, I'm not built for it." She huffed. "But it's so pretty."

He suppressed a laugh. She had this way of raising the octave of her voice whenever she got all gushy. Usually, it was when she walked by a dog. Or a good looking weapon. The latter was a turn on. "What's wrong with Edgar?" He was referring to her Smith and Wesson 38, her preferred weapon since he'd known her. His eyes darted down to her hip holster, where it was resting on her belt. He poured her a drink.

"Nothing. Edgar's served me well. Nothing wrong with dreaming of life across the fence. A life with thick wrists."

"I think you'll hurt Edgar's feelings, looking at other guns like that," he joked, realizing as the words came out that they had an almost metaphorical bite to it. He squeezed his lips together, cursing himself. Fuck. I guess we're not going back to my place after this.

She sighed and closed the magazine, turning in her swivel barstool and leaned forward to put a hand on his thigh. Oh? They locked eyes, and he kept his as blank as he could despite feeling the warmth of her palm through his slacks.

"Hey. You know you're the only big gun in my life."

He was glad he hadn't taken a drink, because he would have choked on it. "Yeah?"

She teased, "Oh, definitely. And soon, I'll be back to spending every workday right across the hall from you. Who knows, maybe we'll be assigned to some cases together."

"So you're close to catching the Heart Stealer?"

"Maybe. Can't go too deep in the details."

"That's too bad. I could help."

"Yeah that would be nice," a want in her voice, full of denied desire, trailed her words. "But know that I'm working hard to get back to working with you. I miss not feeling like I'm constantly being watched and analyzed by the men in black."

He liked it when she complained about the feds. He had been starting to worry that she would move onto greener pastures and end up working with the FBI, permanently. "Well, I hear their benefits are better."

"But they don't have your handsome face," she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his mouth before turning back to her magazine. "What do you say we get outta here?"

"Don't have to ask me twice."

They had practically ran back to his apartment, an easy ten minute walk from Larry's Sport's Bar that they made in four, and as soon as the elevator doors locked the two of them alone he had dove upon her, pressing her against the wall as she had one palm on his face while the other reached down and fondled his groin.

He let out a hiss as he felt her push and play into his loins, cutting into his focus as hot hunger roiled out of him. He tasted the salt and scotch on her tongue, the smell of her shampoo familiar and comforting. She was like a squid, each limb rubbing and tugging at wherever they could reach. He felt his tie being loosened and his shirt being ripped open.

"Naughty girl," he growled, "that was my favorite shirt."

"I'll buy you another one," she breathlessly whispered into the fat of his lips.

Despite all the intermittent travel that forced them apart, it had only heightened their mutual physical need for each other.

Migrating from elevator to apartment was a blur, with only bits and pieces of visuals including the cream of her collar bone down to the red lace of her bra. He found himself kneeling before his goddess while he ran his tongue down her pelvic bone as she swooned against him, knees thrashing over his shoulders as he showed his devotion through his tongue.

She let out a gasp chased with a scream and he groaned against her pubic bone as he resisted the burning need to find relief. She needed to be savored and cherished. He only had her to himself every few weeks.

He continued swirling his tongue over her nub as she writhed against his chin, twitching and yowling, round calves flexing against his neck and pressing into his shoulders as her heels dug into his back ribs.

He knew he had her when she breathlessly inhaled, suddenly releasing him from her leggy vice, relaxing into his sheets as if the Great Kraken itself was appeased.

She looked spent.

But he wasn't even close.

He ascended over her, feeling her small, sweaty form underneath him as he peppered her with kisses and pushed her legs far apart with his knees. She looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, drunk from his treatment, until they burst wide from his impulsive plunge into her.

She gripped his shoulder as he began his eager thrusts, no longer composed and no longer caring. He felt her gummy walls, slick and warm, squeezing and sucking at his girth and it was like sparks were short-circuiting his brain. He didn't feel his limbs but he felt absolute fucking ecstasy up his spine as he pushed into her, grunting as he pushed as far into her as he could while she dug her nails into his arms and bleated out profanities like his dirty little angel.

"Mark! Fuck! Mark! Oh, God!"

Her cries made the hairs on the back of his neck stand and he had to slow down the pace so he wouldn't come right then and there. He pulled the sheets into his fist as he took long, careful breaths, holding onto the last thread of control as it threatened to snap.

She was grinding upward into him, taking his free hand and sucking on his thumb with such profane gusto that he let out a low growl as he pulled it away from her, gripping her wrist and holding it above her head. "Not. Yet." He was speaking more to himself, but she looked up at him with wide, lust-filled eyes that looked half-afraid and half-into-how-afraid-she-was-feeling.

He picked up one of her legs and hoisted it over his shoulder as he began drilling downward into her. She tossed her head back into the pillows and sang for him as he returned to feeling her insides, feeling her pussy spasming around him. This drove him to ram his cock deeper and deeper until he finally released.

He was panting over her, dripping with sweat, collapsed and feeling the dark comfort of sleep begin to pull his consciousness away. He felt her kiss his cheek and ear gently, her heart beat strong against his chest.

A/N: Yeah, he would name her pussy the Great Kraken. I'm so sorry, I had to.