Concept: A cannibal cook is in love with the little pie-maker next to restaurant. His little lady loves his meat pies and always ask him to give her his secret, and all he says is “everything is in the meat”.
—anonymous
a/n: sorry about the inactivity, haven’t been feeling too well the past few weeks;; i’m going to do my best and get another concept out by tomorrow after this one. enjoy!
—tw / tags: gn reader, cannibalism, unknowingly being fed human meat, meat eating, murder / death, mentions of feederism?, gore, general yandere themes, sfw, long post, unedited
—featured character(s): cannibal butcher / chef
“It’s all in the meat, darlin’.” His chuckle was a boisterous one, the kind that warmed your chest in a funny way and had you sticking out your bottom lip in a pout. His crooked grin told you he had no intention of sharing his secrets with you.
You thrummed your fingernails on his glass countertop and kept your pouting. “Oh, come on, I shared my secret peanut butter pie recipe with you! Can’t you throw me a bone just this once?” You wrung and huffed, puffing your cheeks out like a child.
You were being silly—though exchanging one of your secret recipes for his financial support to keep your little bakery floating during a hard time was cheap trade-off (he wouldn't accept anything else when he caught winds of your bakery facing the risk of being closed down for good). The chef didn’t owe you a single thing.
Still, his pulled pork was to die for. The best-tasting one you ever had, and it was even better than your uncle’s! You had to know how he bested over your uncle’s masterpiece.
The chef snorted, his smile beaming through his bushy beard. “Sorry, suga’, ‘fraid I can’t.” He teased, leaning closer to you with his elbow pressing on the shiny surface.
“Pleaseeee?” You pleaded, craning your head to meet his twinkling gaze and shooting him your best puppy-eyed look. You need to know.
He burst out laughing again and poked his finger on your forehead, dragging a scowl from your adorable face. “Lemme think about it, eh?” You flustered at how deep his voice was.
A quiet ding interrupted your parting lips, and the chef pulled away, glancing over to the roaster over in the back (or you think was a roaster oven, you weren’t sure) to where you couldn’t see. He slapped his hand on the countertop and clicked his tongue.
“Your lunch’s about ready. Gimme some minutes, darlin’.” The chef pardoned himself and ducked away from his position into his kitchen. For a hefty guy like him, he was awfully quick on his feet.
While bustling himself around through the open window you peered through, you debated on whether to buy additional meats to cook at home. You weren’t low in your meat stock yet, but your uncle might appreciate rising to the challenge to beat the chef’s.
When the chef emerged from his kitchen with a white Styrofoam box in hand, you pointed at one of his wrapped meats in his refrigerated sections, “Can I have the pork shoulder to go?” You accepted the box and absentmindedly handed over your card for the payment.
“Sure thing, hun. 5 pounders be okay?” The chef accepted your eager nod as his answer. He made quick work of it all, packing your newly acquired meat in wax paper. Settling your pork atop your styrofoam box, glancing your way with amusement when you rolled your eyes at how casual he was about propping it in your hands—literally, the chef rang you up.
Returning your card and tucking the paper receipt between your fingers, he leaned on his surface and grinned at the determination you wore on your expression, “Gonna try to beat out my secret recipe, eh?” He teased.
“It had to be your sauce.” You decided, replacing your card where it belonged, and minded your goods. You needed to hit up your uncle and see if he’d be up for experimenting with you.
“Sure, sure,” the chef’s chuckle was deep, rousing a strangely comforting feeling inside your chest. He waved you off, startling you out from your effort to sort out what exactly it was that settled in your heart. “You should get to eatin’, ya lunch won’t stay hot for long.”
“Oh, right!” You needed to get back to work—the baker’s work never ends. You scurried to the door and spread your fingers from your heavy box in an awkward wave. “Thanks, I’ll see you later, okay?”
“See you in a couple of hours,” the chef returned, resting his elbows on his countertop again and watching you hurrying back to your bakery through his storefront window. He’d have to wipe his surface down again, smearing it with some greases from his arms, but that was alright with him.
It was worth it seeing you. Worth knowing you’d be eating his meat that he worked so hard to perfect, just for you. Thinking about the image of you eating, had him salivating in his mouth.
He wished he could’ve watched you enjoying your lunch, knowing how oblivious you are to the truth of his secret recipe. It made his heart flutter and stirred something funny in his lower half.
You were a darling little thing. And he, was not.
He considered himself a tad on the ugly side, large and round, packing both fat and muscles. He was not a man most would consider perfect husband material (he certainly was not a pretty boy) nor did he have many clamoring to put a ring on his finger through his door.
Still, as he entered his kitchen and wandered inside the massive walk-in freezer he kept, he was keen on trying. To be that perfect husband material for you. Gazing across his hanged meats, most with exposed ribs and dark red meat ready to be cut and collected, he hummed and counted how many “pigs” he had left.
They were barely skeletons now, their heads absent from their bodies and tucked away elsewhere. Their brains were good ingredients for multiple recipes but weren’t popular with most common folks. What a shame, the chef absently thought, they were delicious when done right.
Anything else, like eyes and skin—all the soft bits he couldn’t make into ingredients, he’d ground up and feed to his hunting dogs. They enjoyed chewing on the uncooked bones too, though he made sure to get rid of anything far too big for them by bashing them into smaller pieces and throwing them into the grain feeds and old leftovers to the pigs he kept at his farm.
Especially the teeth, fingers, and toes.
A shriveling sob, teeth chattering, had his head turning. He tutted and crossed his beefy arms, crinkling his leather apron, at the sight of a naked man balling into a corner. His skin was pale from the cold, with a layer of frost growing, and his white breaths were so thin that the chef wasn’t sure he was breathing at all.
One side of his head was bloodied though, with the red color frozen on his face.
He didn’t use enough force earlier, it seemed.
“Pl—please…” the man begged, shuddering and rocking in a fetal position for what little warmth he had left.
Granted, the chef shook his head, he was in the rush to make his darlin’ the perfect meal, and didn’t hit him hard enough to kill him.
Closing in, he curled his hands into fists and pulled one over his shoulder.
Thin blood splashed the wall, but it was so minuscule that the splatter was hardly noticeable because of the cold. Scrubbing it off would be a pain in the freezer, but doable. The entire freezer was due for a good deep cleaning and proper look-over anyway.
The man limped over to the floor and was no longer breathing tiny clouds of white. Gripping one of his arms, the chef dragged it off the ground and examined his latest addition.
He’ll need to gut it and slice off the good cuts.
It got good meats on it too, though some bits might be a mite too chewy. Even tough meats still have their places as good proper ingredients. They were especially good in stews, marinating in broth for hours until they become so tender they’d fall apart in your mouth. Oh, that sounds so good…
A smile curled his lips at the thought of cooking this meat for you.
the quickest way to win your heart is through your stomach.
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