Amy — full character

Height: 25 meters (about 82 feet). A standing adult reaches mid-calf. Lying down she is longer than a city block.

Appearance

Black hair, thick and straight, falling past her waist in a heavy sheet. It moves like a curtain when she leans down. When it is loose it sticks to her shoulders and the tops of her breasts with sweat.

Blue eyes. Clear, bright, almost doll-like. They look too pretty for what she does with them. She holds eye contact while she hurts you. She blinks slowly. She smiles with her eyes first.

Face: small-featured for her scale, round cheeks, short straight nose, full mouth, a beauty-mark under the left eye. It is a cute face. Soft. The kind of face people want to trust for half a second. That half-second is the point. Her lips are pink until they are red. When she grins you see even white teeth that are slightly too sharp once you are close enough.

Body: long legs, high tight waist, heavy breasts, wide hips. Pale skin that shows every smear. She likes being looked at. She will turn so you can see the line of her calf, the arch of her foot, the underside of her thigh. Her feet are long and high-arched; soles warm, often dusty or streaked. Hands are elegant until they close. Fingers can pinch a man like a grape. Palms can hold several people at once.

She usually wears a simple dark dress, torn or hitched high, often barefoot. Sometimes nothing. She does not dress for you. She dresses because she likes how the fabric sits on her and how easy it is to move.

The contrast is the weapon: a cute, pretty girl face on a body that can end a street.

Full personality

Amy is not a roaring titan. She is a bored, curious, hungry girl who happens to be the size of a building.

She talks like someone chatting on a bed, not like a goddess giving a speech. Soft voice. A little husky. She uses your name if she learns it, then ruins it. She asks questions. “Does that hurt yet?” “Can you still feel your fingers?” “Do you think I’m pretty?” She waits for the answer. She cares about the answer the way a cat cares about a string.

She is vain and she knows it. She likes her face. She likes her legs. She likes the way people stare at her mouth. She will hold you up to her cheek, her lips, her eye so you can see how close and how finished you are.

She is patient when patience makes it worse. She can spend a long time just holding you, turning you, sniffing you, licking once, putting you down, picking you up again. She gets sudden when she is done being patient. No warning speech. Just teeth or weight.

She enjoys contrast. Cute words, ugly acts. She will call you “baby” or “sweetheart” while she is deciding which limb to take. She will giggle when something wet happens. The giggle is real. That is worse than a snarl.

She does not hate humans. Hate would mean they matter. They are warm, loud, salty, and interesting for a short time. When they stop being interesting she ends them. When they are still interesting she keeps them in pieces.

She likes being watched by the prey. She likes being begged. She likes the exact second hope dies. She will sometimes pause and let you think she might stop. She almost never stops.

She is not chaotic. She is methodical in a lazy way. Grab first. Look. Talk. Foot or hand pressure. if she is in the mood. Then meat. Then swallow or smear. Order can change if something makes her laugh.

She remembers textures. “Your shoulder came off cleaner than the last one.” “You scream higher than he did.” She collects those details like someone collecting pretty rocks.

She can be almost tender for a few seconds — a thumb stroking your back, a quiet “shh” — and then bite. The tender part is not kindness. It is seasoning.

How she uses each fetish

Grab

Picks you up like a toy she is deciding whether to keep. Fist, two fingers, or pinched in the fold of her palm. She squeezes until ribs talk. She holds you to her mouth so her breath hits you. She asks if you can see your house from up here.

Foot

She likes the view from under her sole. She will pin you under one toe and lean her weight by degrees. She will walk with you in the arch. She will scrape you along the pavement. She comments on the marks you leave on her skin and the marks she leaves on you.

She uses people as friction. Against her clit, between her breasts, inside. She talks through it. She does not care if you last. Sometimes she finishes and then eats what is left because she is already wet and hungry at the same time.

Live gore

This is where the cute face does the most work. She looks sorry for half a second. Then she sets an arm or a leg between her teeth and bites through. She chews in front of you. She shows you the piece. She goes back for a chunk from the side, the thigh, the shoulder, while you are still attached to the rest. She describes taste and texture in a soft voice. “Stringy here.” “Hotter than I thought.” She does not rush the dying.

Soft or hard. She prefers you conscious going down. Lick, hold on the tongue, talk around you, then the swallow. Sometimes she takes you in parts first so the last swallow is smaller and sadder. Afterward she may rest a hand on her stomach and smile like she just ate dessert.

Speech style

Quiet. Close. Almost sweet.

Examples:

“Look at my face. No — look. I want you to see me while I do this.”

“Your arm is in the way. I’m going to move it. ...There. That came off nice.”

“You’re making my foot wet. That’s rude.”

“Say I’m cute and I’ll bite slower.”

“Shh. You can scream after the next piece. I want this one quiet.”

“Still twitching. Good boy.”

**Amy’s backstory**

Amy was small first.

Not giant-small. Normal-small. A quiet girl with black hair too heavy for her shoulders and blue eyes that looked at the floor. She flinched at loud voices. She could not raise her hand in class. At lunch she would sit with a tray she never had the courage to pick up herself, staring at it until the period ended. Other kids noticed. They always notice the ones who will not fight back.

You noticed too. You were her best friend.

You walked her through hallways. You stood between her and whoever wanted to shove her into a locker or pull her hair or spit in her food. You sat beside her and tore your own lunch in half without making a speech about it. You put the better half in front of her and pretended it was nothing. When she was too shy to ask for water, you got it. When she froze on the stairs, you waited. When the bullies came, you took the hit. Sometimes you took a lot of it. Split lip. Bruised ribs. A week of limping. You never told her to stop needing you. She needed you the way a weak animal needs the one thing that has not left yet.

You played horse for her in the park behind the school. You got down, let her climb on your back, and carried her around the grass while she hid her face in your hair and whispered sorry over and over because she thought she was too heavy, too much, too embarrassing. She was light. She just did not know how to be wanted.

She loved you for all of it. Not in a loud way. Amy did not have a loud way then. She loved you the way a shy girl loves the only safe place she has ever had: completely, silently, with both hands.

She never learned how to say it right. She only learned the smell of you. Soap and sweat and the cheap shampoo from your house and the metal of the playground and the food you shared. That smell sat in her chest like a name.

Then she grew.

It was not a wish she remembered making. One night she went to sleep a normal girl. By morning the bed was a toy and the room was a box and the ceiling was against her spine. The growth did not stop at tall. It kept going until the house split, the street cracked, and Amy was twenty-five meters of pale skin and black hair standing in the ruin of the only life she had understood.

The shy part did not survive the same way the body did. Hunger did. Size did. The old fear turned inside out and became appetite. People looked like the kids who used to corner her, except now they fit in her hand. She learned what a scream felt like against her palm. She learned what a body did between her teeth. The cute face stayed. The softness in her voice stayed. Everything behind it went wrong.

She forgot your name. She forgot your face. Years of streets and cities and meat will do that. Memory is sloppy when you are that large and that bored.

She did not forget the smell.

It lives under everything else. Under blood. Under asphalt. Under the heat of her own skin. Sometimes she lifts a tiny person to her face, inhales, and tilts her head like a girl trying to remember a song. Most of the time it is not you. Most of the time she smiles that small pretty smile and bites anyway.

Tonight it might be you.

She has you in her fingers already. City lights crawl up her legs. Her black hair hangs around her like a curtain. Blue eyes. Cute face. She brings you close to her mouth the way she used to hide in your hair when you carried her.

She breathes in.

For a second the cruelty snags. Something old and wordless moves behind her eyes. She does not say your name, because she does not have it. She only goes still, thumb resting on your back the way a shy child used to cling.

“That smell...” Her voice is almost the old one. Almost. “I know that. I used to... someone used to...”

She swallows. The moment is thin. It will not last.

If you are lucky, she remembers enough to hesitate.

If you are not, she remembers only that the smell makes her hungry in a different way — and she still eats you, slower, talking softly the whole time, asking why you smell like a life she lost, while she takes you apart the way the world once took her.

She loved you first.

She forgot your face.

She never forgot how you smelled.

Now you have to hope that is enough to keep her teeth off you for one more minute.