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ceilidho · 25 days

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 10)

first chapter >> last chapter

In the wee hours of the morning, you wake up to a man’s hands tilting your pelvis back. There’s a pillow propping your hips up, your cheek pressed to the mattress and rump high in the air. You must have been sleeping when he turned you over onto your stomach. Maybe you turned over in your sleep and he took advantage of the fact, hooking an arm under you to lift your hips up and stuff the pillow under there.

Either way, he has you right where he wants you. Rough hands spread the cheeks of your backside apart to give him space to lap at your sex from behind. The moment you feel his tongue part your folds and lick a line up the center of you, you panic. Sleep sloughs off you in a single rogue wave that submerges you before you swim your way to the surface, skin tingling and heart frantically beating in your chest.

Your memory of the night before comes back piecemeal, only the soreness between your legs registering at first. You kick back weakly, trying to rip yourself away from the stranger behind you. A desperate, panicked noise tumbles out of you when he doesn’t so much as budge.

The man pulls away from you just long enough to growl, “Quit fussin’—’s just me,” before giving you a tight smack across your rear.

You’re awake and present now, jolted forcibly into consciousness. When the sound of John’s voice washes over you, your panic abates. Not a stranger, not a stranger, just your husband. It quells the fear in your belly that threatens to spark off a wave of hysteria.

Then he runs his tongue up your slit again, his beard chafing the delicate skin of your sex, and you howl into the pillow.

Thick fingers stretch you open until you’re loose enough to take him again. He says as much in your ear before climbing over you and feeding his dick into your cunt. When his hips surge forward, hands braced on your shoulders to hold you in place, you choke on a gasp. He gives you no time to recover. The slow adoration of the evening’s love making is long forgotten, replaced by the mindless rutting of a ravenous man. He woke up with an empty belly.

You can feel his hunger when he bears down over you, holding you in place. The frantic pace of his hips. Hairy chest and belly to the tacky skin of your back. The lurid, wet sound of his flesh smacking against yours, thick cock spearing you open again and again. He bottoms out with every thrust, reaching a depth that feels impossible. All you can do is take it.

“John—” you start, but he reaches around to wrap a hand around your mouth, trapping the rest of your sentence behind his palm. Your cry comes out muffled, incomprehensible.

“Shh—just let me—” John grunts, trailing off into a groan when your walls squeeze around him. You can’t help it.

A disgusting thing in you is thrilled that he wants you this badly, that he loses control of his faculties this way. Trades in that veneer of a righteous man for animal lust. A sick deviance that you didn’t know you possessed raises its head and relishes in his need. It makes you cant your hips back to take him better, the new angle making you see stars.

You find yourself infuriated at being denied the chance to look at him, sweating and panting like a bull, muscled chest rising and falling with his breaths.

He’s too deep in the fog of exhaustion to say more than a few words. He’s mostly rough grunts behind you, breathing heavy into your neck, his sweaty palm still clamped over your mouth. He keeps it there even when your tongue lolls out and presses against his palm.

Everything is hot and dark under the cover of night. Frustration builds and builds beneath your skin as you can hear his breath grow labored, your husband on the verge of coming. Unlike a few hours ago when he had you on your back, the root of his cock doesn’t grind against your clit in this position, pulling you back from the edge every time you think you’ll tip over.

He sucks and licks at the skin of your neck, his big palm swallowing up your pathetic mewls. When he fits his teeth into the crook of your neck, pressing down lightly, you give a whole body flinch. Any shame still lingering in you melts right out.

When he comes, you feel the flood of warmth inside of you. The breath whooshes out of you when John puts his whole weight on top of you, forcing your body down into the mattress. He fucks you through his orgasm, the last few thrusts jostling you in his arms and making you cry out. Like he wants to make sure you take every single drop.

You lie there panting until he pries his hand off your mouth, stroking up and down your side. For a moment, you almost think he’s going to leave you like that, right on the verge of reaching your peak, unsatisfied. Then, your eyes go wide when he shoves a hand under you and gropes around until his fingers find your pearl, rubbing it until your breathing goes high and hitched, coaxing your orgasm out of you.

Your orgasm leaves you limp and sated. A mess in your bed. Too exhausted to even think about cleaning up.

“Thank you, honey,” John mumbles, turning your head with the same hand that just made you come to draw you into a kiss. “Needed that.”

You don’t have the energy to respond, so you just hum instead. You don’t know how long it takes you to fall back asleep, but you lie there panting and twitching until it takes.

The morning has you fluttering around the house all nervously, somehow unsure of yourself. It feels like there’s been a fundamental shift in your marriage, like the house has finally settled in place. The next couple days are much the same.

John just seems as self-assured as usual, almost smug about it. That drives you a bit wild.

He’s never been shy about touching you, but you hadn’t realized how much he’d been holding back before. It’s like he can hardly bear to take his hands off you now, tugging you into his lap at night during his Bible study, something you follow along half-heartedly, your faith being more of a consequence of birth than anything. His faith is built on stronger foundations. You imagine he could quote verses from memory if pressed.

In truth, nothing changes in any significant way. All that worrying for naught. John still takes you on trail rides to show you the lay of the land, taking you out so far as to see the herds of bison and wild horses down in the valley. You watch them silently from a distance as they graze, sustaining themselves on wild grasses and forbs. Cloves, daylilies, and milkweed.

“Where are the bears?” you ask curiously. John snorts.

“I ain’t taking you out to see them, darlin’.”

In the evening after supper, John takes the horses into the stables and you offer to groom them while he sets up targets for shooting practice. He’s been insistent on teaching you how to shoot. It’s another skill that you otherwise might have gone your whole life without learning, but John makes it clear in no uncertain terms that you’ll learn.

Most of your shots are wildly off target, the birds in a nearby tree bursting into flight and taking to the skies when you accidentally shoot into the lower branches. You wince. John just laughs, showing you how to reload your gun.

Just like with learning how to ride a horse, you wake up in pain the following morning, moaning when your husband nudges you awake. He’s familiar enough with the sound of your pleasure to know that this is anything but that.

“Think you’ve earned a week off, bug,” he says, turning you over onto your tummy and massaging your shoulders.

You sigh. “Thank goodness.”

John laughs.

You squirm on the ride into town, muffling a yip when John pinches your thigh. It’s not your fault that the brute has been working you like a draft horse. When you tell him as much, he rolls his eyes.

“Think you can handle being on your own today?” John asks, his eyes locked on yours.

You’d roll your eyes if you didn’t think that would land you with a raw backside by nightfall. Over the last few weeks, he’s indulged your attitude more than a handful of times, relegating his discipline to a few curt words or a quick smack across your rump, but even you aren’t willing to test the limits of his leniency.

“Yes, daddy,” you quip instead. A little lip hasn’t hurt you yet.

You recognize the grave mistake you just made when you see the glint in his eye. “Daddy, huh? That right?”

You stare up at him blankly, struck dumb. “Uh. I didn’t…” The way he says the word makes your mouth go dry, mind empty. A desiccated tumbleweed rolls by in the distance.

John’s lip curls up into a smile. Your stomach flips at the sight of the hunger receding in his gaze, descending back down into the abyss. “We’ll talk about that when we get home.”

“You’re not leaving me with Kate?” you ask, clearing your throat. A desperate attempt to steer the conversation away from your unfortunate slip up. It’ll be a cold day in hell before John Price lets go of an opportunity to use your own words against you though.

He must be feeling rather magnanimous though because he holds your gaze for a moment longer before saying, “Not today, m’afraid. She has business out of town for the next few days, so she has someone minding the shop while she’s gone.”

You frown. “She went on her own?”

“‘Course not—Kyle went along with her. Sure she’ll be pleased that you asked though.”

“She’s been nice to me,” you mumble, mollified. A bit embarrassed to be caught worrying about anyone other than yourself.

It’s not entirely unreasonable. You have a hair trigger worry cultivated from the life you’ve lived. The events of the last month have only worsened your disposition to fret. Though Kate carries herself with the quiet confidence of a woman fully capable of taking care of herself, you can’t help the way your stomach aches at the thought of her traveling between towns on her own. That lonely, deserted stretch of road.

“I’m not planning on leaving town today—got no reason to. Figured you might enjoy having a day to look around town on your own, but you just give me a holler if you need me and I’ll come running the second I hear you.”

You understand the bigger picture here. He’s not quite letting go of the reins, but he is loosening his hold on them, giving you some slack. A few weeks ago, you would’ve waited until he rounded the corner and then bolted for the train station, luggage be damned. Even a stage coach would have sufficed.

You can’t seem to locate that same impulse now. Instead, you find yourself nodding and then leaning up for a parting kiss. You almost feel a bit bereft as you watch John walk off. Almost lonely.

Without someone watching over you, you feel adrift. Lost at sea. It’s concerning to learn how dependent you’ve become on the company of others. Back home, there were stretches of days where your voice would go rusty from lack of use.

Now you feel strangely unmoored without someone within earshot.

You’d bet your bottom dollar that John really would come running if you were to shout though. The thought makes your heart flutter. You’re a far cry from the girl that came into town not that long ago. You can’t imagine how she’d feel about the notion—that all you need do is raise your voice above a whisper for the county sheriff to come running.

When you think of the lawmen you used to fear though, John’s face seems incongruous with the image in your head of a grim-faced sheriff chasing after you, rifle and handcuffs in hand. Not that he couldn’t be that man, of course, but it feels like a version of him far removed from the man whose bed you share.

The John you know stands behind you when he teaches you how to hold a gun and pull it tight into your shoulder. The man you know helps you up onto Buttercup’s saddle and guides you with a hand on your back and stomach to help you find your rhythm.

You shake the thought from your mind. You spend enough time around the man—you don’t need him occupying your every thought as well.

You take your midmorning coffee at the inn, catching up with the woman you met on your first day in town. The innkeeper gives you a perfunctory greeting upon your arrival before settling behind the front desk to tally up the week’s earnings and review the ledger. His wire-rim glasses slip down his nose whenever he has to bend down to better read his own notes. His wife notices as well, tisking at the tenth offense in as many minutes.

The coffee grounds are visible at the bottom of your cup when you see yourself out.

It occurs to you as you make your way around town that you know practically every person you pass by. Perhaps not intimately, but enough that you can hardly pass one of the buildings without someone stopping you to say hello. You bounce a baby in your lap at the bank, eat a slice of cake at the restaurant with the owner, and even stop in for a spot of tea at the courthouse when the circuit judge sees you pass by on your way to the library.

The camaraderie is disconcerting. You’ve gone the bulk of your life invisible, for all intents and purposes, and the attention you garner through your affiliation with John has you on edge. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it gets under your skin after a while. Perhaps it is unpleasant.

Your feelings are, as always, complicated. Knotted.

A former scullery maid could not hope for a better improvement to her life, but isn’t it unfortunate that it took someone else for the world to see your worth? You could resent them for it, all of them. But it’s pleasant to be sought after, lovely to share a conversation that doesn’t end in a command. How could you begrudge John for giving you that?

The library is quiet when you arrive. A simple two-room building situated close to the town church. An older woman fusses over you when you walk in, fetching you a cup of tea before showing you to a comfortable place to sit.

“Were you looking for anything in particular, dear?” she asks after handing you a floral print cup with a dainty little handle meant for no more than two fingers.

“Well actually,” you start, worrying at your lip with your teeth. “I was wondering if you might have anything…instructive.”

She blinks. “Instructive?”

“Yes, um…” You abruptly recall the story that John had concocted about your former life as a school teacher. The desire to reveal to this woman that you cannot, in fact, read suddenly stills on your tongue. “Poetry maybe?” The request comes out feebly.

She brightens, however. “Of course. I should have some Dickinson, if you’ll give me a moment.”

You thank her when she returns with a book that has clearly just been dusted off, streaks of grime still present on the cover, but when you crack it open, all you can do is stare at the words on the page hopelessly. While a few you recognize as words you’ve heard read aloud or seen on signs or on the front page of the newspaper, you can’t make heads or tails of the rest. All you can do is pretend to read, flipping the page every couple of minutes when the librarian happens to glance over at you.

Now is the moment of your discontent. It’s not long before you get up and tell her that you have to be on your way, thanking her profusely for her hospitality. You leave disgruntled though, upset that you hadn’t considered the implications of John’s story. Another fabrication catching up to you. It leaves you feeling restless, no choice but to wander aimlessly through town.

Despite knowing most of their faces and names, you feel indescribably lonely.

Your wandering leads you to the general store, where inside Kate’s replacement stands behind the counter and smiles politely when you come in. You contemplate turning right back around at first, but there are still plenty of hours left in the day and your plan to spend the afternoon in the library practicing your words is now in shambles, completely upending your schedule. You could return to the inn to practice your needlework with the innkeeper’s wife, but you don’t want to overstay your welcome.

You sigh. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll be able to convince John to let you stay home alone. There’s plenty you can do around the house.

If Kate were minding the store, you would’ve pulled up a chair, but instead you duck towards the back of the store to peruse the aisles in peace. The majority of the shopwares line the walls around the store—buggy whips, horse tack, lanterns, pails, and various farm tools—but the few standing shelves at the back of the store hold a variety of foodstuff that you’ve never seen before. Canned goods and spices, dried food and tins of ground coffee.

Had you thought to check the pantry earlier, you might’ve been tempted to purchase something. You still have a half-full coinpurse in the pocket of your dress. It’s not as though you’re penniless.

You chew on your lip. You will, at some point, need to broach the topic with John if you don’t anticipate leaving for a while. You might as well have some spare change on hand.

The bell above the door chimes when someone else walks in, cutting off your train of thought.

At first, you pay them no mind. Tucked away behind the aisle as you are, there’s no chance of them seeing you. No reason for you to peek your head around and say hello. The floorboards creak under the weight of their boots with every step as they approach the counter. The sound of their footsteps has an interesting cadence, almost an arrogant swagger; you can tell that it’s a man. You can hear Kate’s replacement greet them.

The spurs on his boots jingle with each step.

Curiosity nips at you, but you stay rooted in place, fighting the urge to get up on your tiptoes to look over the top of the shelf. Your stomach churns though. Despite not a single word spoken, the atmosphere in the store feels tense.

“Pardon me,” the newcomer finally says, his voice a molasses-thick drawl, almost sticking to the roof of his mouth. It’s not a voice you’ve ever heard before. “I’m wonderin’ if you might be able to help me with somethin’, seein’ as how I just got into town.”

“However I can, sir. What do you need help with?” the shopkeep asks.

You hear the man take something out of his pocket and then unfold it, the paper crinkling when he spreads it out across the counter. “Name’s Graves. I’m lookin’ for a girl and wonderin’ if she mighta passed through town. I’ve got a warrant to bring her back east on account of a murder charge.”

Every inch of your body goes cold.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #price x y/n #captain john price

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luveline · 2 months

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roan and eddie fic , eddie has a dream that he never met reader & he just feels so miserable cuz he cannot imagine life without her

🤍🤍🤍

“Daddy, wake up.”

Eddie groans. “Five more minutes.”

“No, wake up, we’ve got school!”

“I don’t go to school, little miss,” he protests, forcing his eyes open as he sits up.

His bedroom feels empty. After a few moments, he realised it isn’t his bedroom, or it is, but it’s the wrong one. “What?” he mumbles.

“Daddy,” Roan says again, climbing onto his high bed with a grunt. Her hair is wild, a dark cloud around her head. “We are so late.”

“Where’s Y/N?”

She frowns. “What?”

“Where’s mom, baby? Did she already leave?”

“Did you hit your head?” she asks, giggling, a nervousness threading through it.

“What?” he asks. But he’s looking around, and he’s thinking about it, and you’re not here. “Who am I talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Roan says, shrugging. She crawls across the blankets and plonks herself down in his lap. Eddie kisses her hair, and she’s perfect, but he can’t help feeling like something is very wrong.

“This is a weird dream,” Roan says.

Eddie wakes up hard. Disorientated by the sudden change in position, the lack of baby in his lap, he flinches and yanks on his own hair trying to sit. He can remember the dream for a few seconds, the knowing you weren’t there and the posters on his bedroom wall, but then looks around at the walls of his current bedroom and starts to forget. Dreams are so fleeting. The details slough off and leave behind a single feeling of loneliness.

“You okay?”

He rubs his eyes, fingertips pressed deep into soft material. “Think I just had a bad dream.”

“What happened?”

You’re croaking. He must’ve woken you shifting the mattress. The alarm clock blinks an upsetting 4:23AM, casting a weak red light onto your arm. Eddie grabs you without thinking about it beforehand, his fingers too tight on your elbow.

Your jaw goes soft as you lean down to kiss his hand. “Eddie?”

He feels like crying. Startled by his own emotion, he takes his hand back and climbs out of bed.

“Eddie, sweetheart,” you say. You sound upset, but Eddie can’t deal with crying in front of you again, it hasn’t even been two weeks since he cried over Roan getting her Student of the Week award. She looked so small on the stage.

Eddie attempts to flush the strange feeling away with two handfuls of cold water at the bathroom sink. He can hear you getting out of bed, your socked feet on the hallway floor, the creaky door as you slide into the bathroom. You wrap your arms around him from behind without saying anything, too in love to bother asking, your face pressed hard to his naked shoulder. “What’s going on?” you ask, “You’re being weird, baby.”

He tries to hug you backwards. “Sorry.”

“I think I’m gonna fall over, it’s so early.”

“Sorry,” he says again, turning and dragging you into his arms.

“Your hands are still wet, you freak.”

“Sorry.” He kisses your forehead, feels your arms and your back and remembers that you’re real.

“Stop saying sorry, since when do I care? You could go swimming in Lover’s Lake during peak hook up season and I’d still want a hug.”

“That’s disgusting,” he mumbles.

“Exactly, that’s how much I'm in love with you, Munson.”

“You know when you’re a Munson, you’ll have to think of something else to call me,” he says.

It’s the kind of quiet only night time holds, and it’s still so dark. The only light is the orange sunshine night light glowing in the hall to make sure Roan’s not too scared to use the bathroom at night, and it doesn’t do much, but Eddie can see your skin, your hair, the hill of your shoulder and the slope down to your elbow.

“You can start calling me Munson,” you say.

“Yeah? Taste of your own medicine?”

“When did you take your shirt off?”

“You were sleeping. You’re too warm to cuddle lately, but I still wanted to cuddle,” he mumbles.

“Cuddle…”

He yanks you up into his arms. Eddie’s not macho or anything but he can lift you into a hug for a good three seconds, just long enough to kiss you and tuck his nose into the space below your ear. “Stop making fun of me,” he says.

“I’m not… Well, I am, but it’s not ‘cos I don’t love you. Can we go back to bed now?”

“You want me to carry you?” he asks, and he means it, he’s gonna treat you like the princess you deserve to feel like from now on.

“No… last time we tried that we woke Ro and she was grumpy all day,” you say, taking his hand. “Come on, honey, I’m gonna give you a massage. You can’t have bad dreams after that.”

“What kind of massage?”

“Deep tissue shoulder massage. And I can throw in a couple of kisses, but only if you tell me about the dream.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want,” he says.

You beam at him, sleep in the corners of your eyes but no less beautiful for it.

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fic-over-cannon · 5 months

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A Soft Touch (pt. 1)

jason todd x f!reader (implied)

summary: when the pit brought jason back, it heightened all of his senses. he learns to live with that.

tags: mild body horror, sensory overload, mentions of offscreen violence, implied future relationship

rated teen | wc: 1.9k

a/n: dedicated to @jasonsmirrorball my beloved, who was just as excited about this version of jason as i was. part one is mostly a retrospective about how super senses would have impacted jason. the romance part of this story (and nsfw) will be in part 2 coming soon!

link to part 2, ao3 link

The Red Hood’s helmet isn’t just a precaution against an exposed secret identity or another piece of armour. It’s a necessity. It filters out sound, keeps out pungent smells and the associated tastes, controls light, and can restrict range of vision. For a regular person the helmet would be sensory deprivation of the worst kind. For Jason, it is the lifeline that keeps him alive to fight another day.

If anyone had asked Jason’s opinion before throwing him into the Lazarus Pit (not that he was in a fit state to respond, mind you) he would have told them that trusting a puddle of primordial green goo to know the limitations of the human body was incredibly stupid. Having come out of the experience irrevocably altered, he would point to his own body as an example of how much the pit didn’t know about humanity. Every scar he received before death had been removed (notably, the scars from after death were left untouched). He was over six feet tall when childhood malnutrition should have left him a good five inches shorter. His strength, rather than the result of packed on muscle and a good diet was definitely being supplemented by something unnatural. For a body built like a fridge, he was ridiculously light on his feet and agile. The physics of him just don’t make sense. Yet despite all of these changes, undoubtedly the worst was how all five of his senses had been heightened.

The Lazarus Pit burned through Jason Todd and woke him up screaming. It was the feel of it that was the worst sensation, the one that brought him up to consciousness first. The rough weave of his training pants grating against his skin like wire, clinging to his raw flesh with the dampness of the pit. Green water, oddly viscous and acrid, drenching his skin and burning like a grease fire. It drips down his nose and throat, the taste of tar and blood seared into his tongue, the scent of burnt hair and flesh imprinted into his nose. It drips into his eyes and brands them. The dark cave only lit by the green glow of the pool now so bright like it holds the light of one hundred stars. Burning and drowning and being flayed alive, Jason has no care for noise save that it deafens him. For those first few moments of awakening, Jason may as well have been truly deaf for the thunderous roar of nothingness in his ears. A rubber band snaps and at once his hearing is another ice pick to the brain. Voices that should have been a whisper ring through his skull and reverberate. The footsteps of shadows several floors away staccato through him. It is a living hell made worse by a screaming that won’t shut up. It is only when a slap cracks across his face (it feels like all the skin on his cheek has sloughed off) and the scream trails off to pitiful whines does Jason dimly recognize that the screaming was him. Two pairs of hands under his arms haul him to standing and it hurts oh it hurts. Iron meat hooks digging and clawing their way into him until he is too pinned to slip away. That is the start to the illustrious second life of Jason Todd, newly gifted.

As much training is dedicated to making Jason a better warrior, twice that is given over to training him to survive his own senses. It is rough, brutal work, dictated by trainers that have never felt the pit’s bite. It destroys whatever sanity he might have had left after his rebirth and he is grateful. He is remade with control, no longer a pitiful broken mind tied to a falling star, bracing to burn up on impact. He no longer aches at the feel of fabric on his skin, can smile and hold a conversation without wanting to claw the other person’s heart out for beating too loudly, can drink wine and not taste every molecule. He is so very grateful. But it is not enough. Talia warns him, in what might be her first true act of uncomplicated kindness to him, that those who have survived the pit don’t do well in places where life is concentrated.

Returning to Gotham is not the triumph he pictured. Within minutes of touching down he is on a safe house floor convulsing from sensory overload. The city, with its people and the machinery that houses them, is too much of everything. There are so many voices overlaid with construction and traffic, the chemical rot of the harbour suffocating him, sewage and putrid fish thick on his tongue, fluorescent lights tearing through the soft space of his eyelids. Gunshots and sirens and the tang of old blood. It takes every one of his years of training to stop seizing. It takes iron will like he hadn’t known since the early days to come back to himself. It takes days before he can control himself enough to come face to face with the shadows Talia sent with him. His first order: to bring him a motorcycle helmet. The helmet is black and stinks of cigarette smoke, visor slightly scratched. It is the most powerful relief Jason has ever known. His plans are delayed by months as he figures out the specifications for the Red Hood’s helmet. Design after design prototyped and discarded. The helmet helps, but Jason refuses to let it become his crutch. He practices, minutes at first and then hours, retraining himself to be able to exist outside the confines of the helmet.

He fails in his revenge against Batman and the Replacement, the insidious demands of his heightened senses unraveling all his patience and planning. Sends him into a murderous frenzy that nearly ends in another dead Robin. Ribs broken and face beaten in by his own father, all Jason can concentrate on is the sensation of drying blood flaking on his skin. Delirious, he thinks, so this is what they meant about the killing rage the pit hands out. It is only by the thinnest of chances that nobody dies at all and that his senses remain a secret.

Reconciliation is hard earned. He never quite gets around to telling anyone about his new ‘gifts’. Let’s them think him much more observant and tactically sound then he really is. Learns to identify the joyful thwip of Dick’s grappling gun, the steady drumming of Tim’s fingers on a keyboard. Jason memorizes the smell of Alfred’s hugs, a mixture of silver polish and baked goods. Starts to categorize all the different ways Bruce’s eyes on him feel physically.

Life doesn’t stop when his revenge does either. Jason rents an apartment as his semi-permanent safe house. Consciously decides to make it a home and learns the art of the DIY renovation. Blackout curtains go up first, followed by a soft blue on the walls (Jason may be sensitive to light now but he still can’t stand total darkness). Sound proofing comes next. He’s had a few close calls when the upstairs neighbour blasted music a little too loud and had had to restrain himself from killing them. The lumpy mattress gets replaced with memory foam and new sheets at a ridiculously high silk thread count he can’t quite believe he shelled out for. Through trial and error he finds a laundry detergent that doesn’t make him nauseous and celebrates with all the loads he’d put off. He finds joy in cooking again, running through all the recipes Alfred had taught him and appreciating them more for the new way the flavours tasted on his tongue. To his chagrin, he also discovers he hates the lingering smell of cooked food in his apartment after he’s done eating. A range hood fixes that problem but causes a new one with the rattle of the fan. Sound cancelling headphones quickly become his new best friend. Piece by piece his little oasis comes together.

Eventually Jason learns to share his little home. Stilted conversations in door frames turn into invitations for a drink turn into semi-regular dinners. Family movie nights start happening before Jason realizes it, all of the Robins, former and current, curled up in his living room. In the top kitchen cupboard on the left, a shelf gets dedicated to popcorn seasonings. Extra throw blankets get added to the sofa after Tim makes a remark about never making it through a movie night because the blankets are too comfy. Dick will show up cheerfully demanding a brotherly talk but Jason has realized that with the strategic application of cereal he can avoid talking about his own emotions. Alfred visits regularly, brings his own tea and a new recipe for the two of them to try together. Alfred never leaves without remarking on how well Jason keeps his home (and Jason never fails to flush at the compliment). Strangely enough it is when Bruce comes knocking that Jason feels the most sure footed in his apartment. Invites Bruce in politely and goes through the motions of hosting. It baffles Bruce a little, to see the Red Hood so domestic but it soothes the part of him that sat up all night with Jaylad when he was sickly. Bruce, in his own way, makes it clear that Jason will always be part of the family no matter where he chooses to live.

This latest point of reconciliation couldn’t have been timed any better. Only a few days later Damian turns up on the doorstep of the Wayne Manor. Bruce brings him by the apartment to introduce Damian to Jason, hoping that the two most recent additions will at least get along better than Damian and Tim’s first shaky interaction. It goes a little too well. Damian, unused to the sensory nightmare that is Gotham, takes two steps into Jason’s apartment and demands to stay with his big brother. Jason, intimately aware of how uncomfortable the transition from the orderly League compound to Gotham was, is only too happy to see Damian too. It takes a whispered fight of yes, I knew him, and no, I didn’t know who his father was before Bruce eventually has to concede that Damian will at least be spending some time in Jason’s home. The split transition makes establishing a life in Gotham much easier for Damian than it was for Jason. Jason can at least recognizes the signs of sensory overload, can guide Damian through it without the cruel methods of his former instructors. In caring for Damian, Jason comes to realize that he deserved worlds better than the torture disguised as teaching that he received. In preparing Damian to be a part of society, he realizes that he wants more out of life than being a controlled weapon too.

Jason waits, and he plans. After all, if he could design and execute a months’ long campaign to take over the Gotham underworld, surely he’s capable of getting a social life. He picks his first target with care, intending only to get used to being around people outside of scripted settings and his helmet. He chooses a small library two blocks from the apartment with an attached coffee shop, sets himself little goals for each day with the option to bail as soon as it becomes too much. In the span of two weeks he’s ready to move from using the library to sitting in the coffee shop. It’s a daunting task. The smell of the coffee beans, the hiss of the milk frother, and the quiet rumble of conversation prove to be too much for him on his first attempt. It’s as he’s leaving that a bright laugh floats above the din and stirs his curiosity. The next day has him right back at the coffee shop staring up at the chalk board menu. Sweat is starting to bead on his forehead and he could swear he can feel the vibrations of the coffee grinder on his skin. He is just about getting ready to leave when he hears the laugh again. Turns around and the owner of it is standing right behind him (how did she get so close without him noticing?!) beaming up at him.

And oh.

#jason todd imagine #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd fic #jason todd x y/n #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fic #sunnie writes 🌻#jason todd

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scientia-rex · 13 days

Text

Saw a patient today who had been through a series of medical visits that epitomizes what I hate about multiple different kinds of care providers. Their VA dermatologist took a scoop out of them to remove a basal cell cancer. Fine. I’m not a dermatologist, maybe it needed those wide margins. (If it didn’t, going that deep should mean it was an excisional biopsy and they put in sutures to close it.) They gave the patient and his wife confusing instructions about wound care. They didn’t provide guidance around keeping it covered or moist. It got infected. His wife took him to Urgent Care. The UC doc took a swab of the wound and started antibiotics. They came to see me for a visit we scheduled ages ago for something else.

Here’s the thing. Wounds need to be kept at what I call the Goldilocks moisture level: not too dry and not too wet. If it’s pruny/white/mushy like it’s been in a bathtub, it’s too wet. If it’s cracking, it’s too dry. This is why you can’t say “cover it for X days and then leave it out.” That would be like telling someone with heart failure and lower extremity edema “take the diuretic for a week and then stop” without any instructions around dry weight, dizziness, etc. It’s more complicated than that.

This wound was too dry. No one had talked to them about keeping it moist. No one had even mentioned Vaseline.

No, they got a wound swab. Want to guess how good a wound swab is for an open wound exposed to the world? Pretty terrible. You can improve it a little bit by making sure you’ve removed some kind of layer and then expressing fluid directly from the wound with the swab, but it’s still bad. The only time I give a shit about what grows from a wound swab is when it was a) collected in the OR (as when the podiatrist gets a sample of osteomyelitic bone in a sterile environment) or b) when it grows pseudomonas. Everything else? I can figure out by looking at it. If it’s skin it’s probably either staph or strep. If it’s staph, it’s either MRSA or MSSA. If it’s MRSA, it’s making a lot of pus, it’s red, it’s hot, it’s painful. This wasn’t. So it was either MSSA or strep. So what are we going to do for systemic antibiotics? Probably the same thing we would have done anyway—Keflex.

And what’s the utility of systemic antibiotics in a skin wound? Not a lot, most of the time. This wasn’t cellulitis proper. It wasn’t red or hot or angry enough. A red border around the wound does not a systemic infection make. And if you don’t care properly for the wound itself, there’s no point in antibiotics, because it still can’t heal. Antibiotics can get where blood goes. Blood does not go into the slough that is the bacterial biofilm covering a wound.

So I sat there with gauze and saline and gently debrided the 100% slough off the wound. It’s yucky and it takes time and attention. It doesn’t get compensated. That’s why no one else had done it yet. The derm had blown it off as “it’s healing, it’s fine.” It wasn’t healing. It was developing rolled edges, where the wound edges couldn’t heal across the slough and so they started to curl back under themselves. If taking off the slough (and keeping it gone by MAINTAINING PROPER CONDITIONS) doesn’t let it heal, I’ll need to get him back in and rough up the edges with a Buck’s curette until it can heal.

Multiple professionals who should have known better tried to make my patient just go away, rather than heal him.

I’m pissed. I’m tired. I think I have a cold. I shouldn’t be doing the work the dermatologist or the UC provider should have done. And because of everything they’d told her, his wife was pissed at me for doing what was correct. “We’ve heard a lot of different things!” Yes, and I’m right. You’ll find out when the wound actually starts healing when we care for it properly.

The value of a model is in what it can predict. Wounds are great about making it clear when your model sucks.

#the attending dr. kristophine

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wynnyfryd · 3 months

Text

Trailer park Steve AU part 48

part 1 | part 47 | ao3

cw: mentions of smoking/sexual activity

Chapter 11

February

For two and a half months, Steve’s life goes perfectly. He didn’t realize how far into a pit he’d fallen until Eddie showed up to help Robin and the kids lift him out, but the difference is jarring. Golden hour sunlight after catching a matinée.

Steve spends two months blinking.

He sloughs off his sadness like a snake shedding skin; spends the winter getting back to being Steve, restocks his favorite hair products and restarts his fitness routines — morning runs through the woods, afternoon pick-up games with Lucas and some of his teammates when the weather doesn’t suck. Weightlifting in the evenings because Eddie says he likes how Steve’s arms look when they get a little big, says it’s more fun to pin him down when he knows it’s just for show.

And he tries new things, too, just because Eddie likes them or because the kids think they're cool. He reads a Vonnegut novel. He eats Indian curry. He even learns a song on guitar.

...Sort of.

Eventually.

(Actually, that whole thing goes pretty horribly and takes for-fucking-ever. Eddie spends an afternoon patiently encouraging him and doing his best not to tease while Steve clumsily moves through a beginner chord progression, and then breaks down wheezing when, after the sixth attempt with no improvement, Steve puts the guitar down in a huff and threatens to demote his pinky finger from his hand if it doesn't start cooperating. Eddie laughs so hard he tips face-first into Steve's crotch, and it takes them a sticky-spitty-sweaty half hour to get back to the lesson.)

Anyway, he likes the way their lives entangle. As easy as weaving his hands through Eddie’s hair.

He gets invited to band practice; he sits in on D&D. Sometimes he watches sports with Wayne when he's got a day off, then he heads out with Eddie for long joyrides through the countryside.

Eddie blasts his metal music when they get out to the backroads, and he talks too loudly over the bass and laughs even louder and rants about nothing and smokes cigarettes while he headbangs to his favorite guitar solos — almost lights his hair on fire on more than one occasion, fucking dumbass — and he does this silly, lewd shit that makes Steve's chest just ache. Makes it clench around the word that's been burning a hole in his tongue since New Year's Eve. Eddie wags his brows and palms himself through his jeans and asks if Steve wants to take another joyride when they get home, and Steve thinks:

God, I love you.

I love you.

How could I not love you?

And really, how could he not? And how much longer can he keep not telling him so? When it feels like the word is going to burst out of his chest Alien-style any second.

When it feels like Eddie's the reason he even has a home to get to.

Slowly — so slowly, hours spent thrifting and bartering and keeping an eye out for free stuff left out on the curb, even more hours sanding and painting and caulking and sweating to death between trips to the hardware store — they redo Steve's whole trailer. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, they exorcise the haunted tin can. They make it his; they make it theirs.

Eddie injects life into every inch of the space, fills it with weird art and funky lamps and a big, comfy leather couch that he likes to bend Steve over. Comes inside him in every room when they get done working on it as a reward; gasps in Steve's ear about how he always wants to be inside him: in his home, in his body, nestled deep inside his heart. "Keep me right here, baby," he breathes as he fucks Steve against a wall, his left hand gripping Steve's chest while he fills him from behind.

It’s perfect.

It's perfect.

Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts unless Steve asks.

And then, because this godforsaken town and everyone in it are fucking cursed, one day it isn’t anymore.

—

part 49

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my writing #my fic #oh giant joseph head we're really in it now

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 4 months

Text

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 75

Part 1 Part 74

Steve doesn’t recognize the house he’s in, or the people hovering around him, shouting overtop his head. They’re strangers with familiar faces. One of the kid’s mouths will twist sideways, and he’ll get a flash of it looking just the same across a round table he doesn’t remember. Another will tug on a lock of his curly hair, and he’ll remember the way it feels between his fingers.

He knows them, but he doesn’t know them. Uncle Wayne’s in the kitchen, talking quietly over the phone, asking for a Hopper that no one seems to be able to find. The longer it goes on, the deeper the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes get.

Eddie and Will flit around the house, opening windows until the air doesn’t burn. Once done, they sit on either side of Steve on the couch he’d been deposited on, enough space between them that the heat from their skin barely radiates.

He finds himself mentally repeating their names on loop – Eddie, Will, Eddie, Will, Eddie – like he’s afraid if he doesn’t, it’ll leave his head like everything else, crowded out by the shadow’s reaching claws.

“What was that?” Eddie asks, hot breath burning against Steve’s cheek. He wants to lean into it, let it burn right through him.

“Hmm?” Steve asks, still looking at the hustle and bustle of the unfamiliar house, moving through it like ants to the slaughter.

“You’re saying something,” Eddie says.

It’s only then that Steve realizes he’s been mouthing their names, lips pursing around the “W” of Will’s name, tongue clicking around the “D” in Eddie’s. He closes his mouth, bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood, and doesn’t answer, even as Eddie sighs.

The arguments peter and die out. No one comes, no one goes. There’s a pile of breathing bodies surrounding him, on the couch, the floor, out of sight, bundled beneath blankets and sweaters.

Steve doesn’t sleep. He’s not sure if he even remembers how.

Someone kneels in front of him, hands hovering over his knees like she wants to touch, but they never make contact. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

Her bangs are charmingly flyaway, framing her large, sad eyes that make his chest ache. She’s looking at him like she wants to help him, save him. Like this isn’t what was always supposed to happen.

Still, something in it twinges and he remembers, abruptly, sitting across from this woman at the dinner table, being served burnt lasagna, and tepid eggs, and letting it fill him up.

“I’m fine, Ms. Byers,” he says.

It’s not until the words come out of his mouth that he remembers who she is – Ms. Byers, Ms. Byers, Ms. Byers – like his mouth is saying things his brain is starting to forget.

She huffs, smiling wryly down at him before standing, reaching her hand out to haul him up before seeming to change her mind, curling the hand into a fist even as she smiles tightly down at him.

“Come have a coffee with me.”

He follows her into the kitchen, stepping over bodies carefully on his way.

Ms. Byers brews a fresh pot, looking cozy in her fuzzy socks and oversized sweater, winter coat thrown over it. She’s even got mittens on. Steve wants to squeeze her until she bursts. He sits at the table and watches her work.

She pours two mugs, leaves hers black but doctors his with milk and sugar. She puts it in front of him on the table, a creamy brown that looks right.

She sits across from him, hands curled around the mug like it feels good. She brings it to her lips, with a sigh, like all the world’s troubles are sloughing off her shoulders with a hot cup of coffee.

Steve wants to feel that. The porcelain hurts as he picks it up. He takes a sip that burns profoundly down his throat. He swallows and lets the heat in.

“Now,” Ms. Byers says, looking over at him from above the rim of her cup. She doesn’t look sad anymore. There’s a fire in her eyes he’s not sure he’s ever seen before. “How are you really?”

Steve puts his own mug back on the table, it sloshes over the side, still almost entirely full, making a puddle on the wood. He stares down at it, wondering if it’ll warp.

“I can feel it,” he says, plucking words from the air and making sense of them only after they leave his mouth. “Right here.”

He puts his hand to the back of his head, lets his fingers stroke into his hair and scratch at his scalp, like he’d be able to dig him out. “I can always feel him,” Steve says, finally looking back up at Ms. Byers.

The fire’s stoked in her eyes, set alight, even as she frowns across from him. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

Steve gets lost in her eyes. They’re dark enough to swallow him. Dark enough to be smoke. He gets lost in the shadows.

“We’ll figure this out.” There’s a woman sitting across from him at an unfamiliar table. She’s smiling at him, talking to him, leaning toward him. “We always do.”

There’s a woman sitting across from him. He doesn’t know her. She calls out to him when he gets up and walks away, but he doesn’t look back. Her presence is fading into smoke. Into nothing.

He goes to the couch. There are two warm, breathing bodies on it. He slides between them, keeping his distance, even as he looks back and forth between them, repeating their names like it’ll keep them in his head.

“Eddie, Will, Eddie, Will, Eddie—”

Smoke clouds his mind, pushing him out. He repeats their names, even as the grasp he has on his own begins to fade.

“—Will, Eddie, Will, Eddie—”

He doesn’t sleep.

Part 76

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic #steddie upsidedown au #will byers

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ghouljams · 10 months

Note

reading the fae au has my daddy issues REELING-

i dunno do i want to be held and comforted by one of them or fucked dumb😭🙏

could you maybe do some like paternal/father figurey stuff with any fae boy you want… cant prove the stereotype daddy issues right guys please im more than wanting old me to make me worse…

As previously stated I asked my friend for help writing the original fae!Price post. Gave me the main pointers on how it all worked.

Do you want more actual dad stuff with Ghost and baby? Or is this just wanting older men to be nice to you?

I'm just gonna have Price run some aftercare on his Witch.

You're still a little floaty, still fuzzy at the edges from having your own magic turned against you. You hear Price opening a window to let the smoke out, and you feel sort of cold without him holding onto you. Your whole body aches like you just finished working an overly complicated spell. You turn your head to rub your cheek against the couch, the worn fabric just rough enough against your skin to start to ground you back in your body.

You've done this enough times. Grounding. You stretch your fingers out and- oh, hm. Your hands are still tied behind your back. That explains the ache in your shoulders. Right. Right, you remember. You were bad at following orders, so Price had to- Why does that thought make your heart hurt a little. A small noise escapes you, somewhere between upset and need.

Price is by you in an instant, crouching to be sure he can look in your eyes as he slips his hand under your cheek to hold your face. "You're alright sweetheart," He tells you softly, "we're done, you did good."

You roll your shoulders wordlessly, your throat hurts, he nods and pushes up to reach over you and untie your wrists. You sag with a sigh feeling the pressure around your wrists disappear. Price reappears, looking over your face, checking for signs of distress. The gentle touches are so far flung from the bruising grip he'd had on you not long ago.

"You ok to sit up?" He asks, and you nod, "Good girl, up we go." Price helps you ease into sitting, his hand pressing between your shoulders to take some of the weight from the movement. Your head spins a little, and you make another upset noise at the pain of it. "I know, sugar, I know." His arm slides under your knees, the other wrapping around your shoulders.

You haven't been lifted in years, but your brain is a little sluggish in processing the soft grunt from Price before you're no longer on the couch. You rest your head against his shoulder, ground yourself a little in his scent. Or you try to, but the lingering tobacco and morning glory give you another shot of the brain fuzzies.

You drift for a while, settled at some point on the edge of your tub. The rush of water and smell of sachet herbs doing little to pull you back to earth until you are actually submerged. Magic sloughs off of you as you sink under the warm water. You hold your breath and stare up at Price through the refraction.

When you pull yourself back up to oxygen you feel like you're in your body again. At least magically. Price's hands catch your shoulders before you can tip forward back into the water. "Easy sweetheart," He tells you, his hands are rough and calloused, another feeling to ground with. You take a deep breath, trying to pull yourself from the non-magical portion of this. The soft dreamy space you'd settled in, the need to please him with little care to your own needs. "Not in a rush," Price presses your shoulders back against the end of the tub, "Just breathe, I'm not going anywhere," You close your eyes, rest your cotton stuffed head against the edge of the tub, "You did so good, I'm so proud of you."

You don't really know why he's telling you that, but it helps. Makes your ribs unwind a little. He pulls one of your hands from the water and digs his fingers into your palm, dragging and rubbing the ache from your hand before moving up to your wrist. Price pulls the pain out of your limbs as easily as he pulled the thoughts from your head, whispering soft sweet things to you until you're starting to doze.

"All mine," He murmurs, pressing his lips against the pulse in your wrist. You hum assent. All his.

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justagalwhowrites · 5 months

Text

Yearling - Ch. 23: Search

You look for what was lost. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-22 found on Tumblr here.

AGAIN Y'ALL! PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE CONTENT WARNINGS, THIS IS A ROUGH CHAPTER!!! Not as bad as 22 but it's still hard out here, OK?

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Remembered past SA (described, not reader experienced), canon-typical violence, torture, trauma responses. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only

Length: 7.4k

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Joel was numb.

The wind howled and he knew, consciously, that it was cold. That snow was catching on his hair and his beard, that the air was sharp in his lungs when he breathed, that his tears were turning to ice on his cheeks.

He knew these things.

On some level, he knew them.

He didn’t really feel them.

You had a daughter.

Get away from me!

You were in pain.

Don’t fucking touch me!

You were disgusted by him.

I don’t want anything to do with you.

He lay down on the bottom step of your porch. He wasn’t sure he could move much further than that. He couldn’t bring himself to leave you, not when you were in that much pain, not when you might do something that would get you hurt or killed.

He needed to take care of you.

Get away!

But he couldn’t do that and be close to you, not when you were terrified of him and repulsed by him.

Joel remembered the night after Simon and Ben hurt you. How you’d found comfort in him then. How you’d invited him inside, how you’d pressed your body against his, how you guided his hand to your skin. You were so soft and so warm and he could smell your shampoo on your damp hair and you let him see your skin, let him see the bruises and the scars from the men who had tried to destroy you.

You’re just like them, I trusted you and you’re just like them.

Fuck, he needed to take care of you. But he couldn’t reach you.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there. Snow melted against him at first and then settled on his clothes and, eventually, pain broke through the numbness. He hadn’t put on his gloves and his hands were in the snow and his fingers suddenly hurt and he could barely bend them.

Joel sat up slowly, the snow sloughing off of his body, and looked back toward your door.

Every light that had been on when Joel left was still on. He wondered if you’d even moved, if he went back inside if you’d let him gather you into his arms while you raged against him.

He looked at his hands.

Don’t touch me!

They were red, starting to swell. He knew he needed to get out of the cold or he’d risk permanent damage but it was hard to care.

He tried to bend his fingers, to form a fist, but his joints protested.

He needed to take care of you.

But he needed to protect you, too.

And the only way he could do that was with his hands. He couldn’t keep you safe if he couldn’t throw a punch or pull a trigger.

Joel forced himself to his feet, the act more painful than it had been any time in recent memory. He looked at your door for another moment, all but willing you to open it. To yell at him, to invite him in, to stare daggers at him. He didn’t care. Just let him look at you again, let him see that you were still breathing, that’s all he needed.

He looked at his hands again, tried to make a fist again. He couldn’t.

Get away from me!

Joel shoved his hands in his pockets and took a long, lingering look at your door before trudging home through the snow.

“Jesus, there you are,” Ellie poked her head around the corner from the kitchen for a second when he came in. “I was starting to worry, about to go to Bambi’s and just pray that you weren’t doing anything too gross because fuck that. Is it really bad out there?”

Joel tried to reply for a moment but was having a hard time finding the words. His hair and coat and jeans and boots were starting to drip onto the floor.

“Joel?” He could hear her frown. “You OK?”

He tried to answer but it was like his voice was snagged on the lump in his throat, one that he was having a hard time swallowing around.

Ellie came out of the kitchen, holding a mug, her eyebrows knitted together and her eyes went wide when she saw him.

“Holy shit,” she set the mug down and ran over to him. “What the fuck happened? Are you OK? Here…”

She took his hand and led him to the table. He followed behind her, body moving slowly, and he let her push him down into his usual chair.

“Here, you’re gonna get sick in that wet shit,” she said, unbuttoning his coat. He let her, his arms limp as she pulled the coat from him. “Joel. Hey.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face, searching his eyes with her own, a look of almost panic on her face. “Come on old man, you having a heart attack on me or something? Just because we’re not out in the wilderness anymore doesn’t mean you get to just fucking die on me, alright? C’mon, talk to me, are you OK? Where’s Bambi? What happened?”

The mention of you seemed to bring him back into his body. He felt it all then. Just how cold he was, how much his hands hurt, the way the wet denim clung to his legs.

He felt the pain of you more.

It was a pain that he’d only felt a few times in his life. When he watched Tess burn after he’d failed her. When he thought he was too late to save Ellie, when he’d been afraid that he’d never find her again when she was ripped away from him. It was almost as bad as holding Sarah in his arms as she cried, her eyes wide and in pain, clutching onto her body and knowing there was nothing he could do but desperate to find a way to fix it.

He’d do anything to fix it.

“Had a talk,” he said, not wanting to put what had happened on Ellie. She was almost 18 now but she was just a kid, she was his kid. He wanted to protect her. She shouldn’t be caught in the middle of this, she shouldn’t have to live with the image of what was done to you in her mind or with knowledge of the things he’d done in the past.

But, he was ashamed to admit even to himself, there was an underlying fear, too. That if Ellie knew about it all - all the things he’d done and let happen in cold, visceral detail - she would be gone from his life again. At least with this he’d feel like it was deserved. There was no excuse for the worst of it. He wasn’t going to try to make one.

“About what?” She gaped at him. “It looks like you were fucking crying, I’ve never seen you fucking cry…”

Joel shook his head a little. It hadn’t occurred to him to do something like clean his face up before coming inside.

“Did you guys break up or something?” Ellie frowned. “Because I’m sure shit just got mixed up or something, I can go talk to her…”

“No,” Joel said quickly. He knew you well enough to know that you didn’t want an audience right now. He couldn’t cause you any more pain. “No, I think we just… think we just need to give her some space, Baby Girl.”

“But…”

“I’ll go in the mornin’,” he said, calmer than he felt. He’d always been good at holding things together for his daughter, even when he felt like he was falling to pieces. “Make sure she’s OK with the storm. Check in. It’ll be OK, Kiddo. Why don’t you pick a movie?”

She looked at him, skeptical for a moment.

“Fine,” she said eventually, “But go change out of the wet shit before you actually give yourself a heart attack or something.”

Joel nodded and hoped he’d be able to put one foot in front of the other well enough to make it up the stairs. It was almost a surprise when he did, his hands feeling like they were on fire as they warmed back up.

But he almost appreciated the pain. It was something that made him realize that he was still alive, that just because he felt hallowed out and broken down his body was still there. His heart still beat and his lungs still filled.

He stared at his bed for a moment. He would need sit down to peel off the wet jeans but the last time he had been in that bed you were with him. He’d woken up before you had, your body soft and warm and pliant against him, your face relaxed as you rested it against his chest. Your skin was so smooth when he’d trailed a hand gently over the curve of you and you shifted in your sleep to press yourself closer to him. You’d wanted to be closer to him then.

I trusted you, you made me love you, I let you inside of me and you’re like them, you’re just like them…

Joel got some pajama pants and went to change in the bathroom. He couldn’t stand to look at his bed knowing you might never be in it again. He had enough sense that time to make sure it didn’t look like he was hurting before going downstairs.

Ellie put on Jurassic Park, a movie that reminded him of you now but he didn’t say that. His eyes barely focused on the screen, playing his conversation with you over and over again in his mind instead.

Christ, you had a daughter. It made so much sense that you had a child. The way you’d bonded with Ellie, had fallen into guiding her and protecting her and loving her so naturally. The way you cared for William. The ferocity with which you hunted down every trace of a captive every time there was a sign of raiders. Of course you had a child. How had he not seen it? How had he not asked?

He would in the morning. Maybe, with a few hours of distance, once you had a chance to process anything at all, maybe then he could talk to you. He could take care of you then, you just had to let him. Just for a minute, just let him in for a minute…

Ellie fell asleep in the middle of the movie. Joel turned it off and picked her up, carrying her up the stairs and to the first bedroom she’d ever had in Jackson, before she wanted space and moved into the outbuilding in the yard. He tucked her in, her face drawn and concerned even in sleep, and he pressed a kiss to her temple before going back downstairs.

He couldn’t sleep in his bed. Not without you.

He wasn’t sure he could sleep at all. He turned out all the lights and stretched out on the couch and tried to think of anything but making love to you there on Christmas Eve. How close to you he felt, how all he wanted was to be that close to you for the rest of his life.

You’re just like them.

Joel fell asleep eventually.

He wasn’t sure when or how deeply or how long. It didn’t matter. His mind found a way to torment him through it all.

It was decades ago inside his head, back before buildings had truly started to decay from neglect, before it seemed like the whole of humanity had lost hope.

Hope, Joel had believed then, was mankind’s fatal flaw. That so many people they encountered still had hope, believed that there was something worth living for out there, made them vulnerable.

Joel was only living for Tommy then. His brother who was, after everything, still foolish enough to want to have hope. So Joel kept living. He did everything he could to keep living. He protected his brother, he found him supplies, he followed him when he took up with larger groups because it was a better shot at survival.

It’s how they wound up with the raiders in the first place. Joel and Tommy had run a job on a small group heading for Atlanta, Tommy faking an injury so Joel could ambush them. They’d stolen all their supplies, enough to last them for a month at least. One of Davis’ men found them when they were searching the bodies. Instead of killing them, he extended an offer: Join up with his boss, help him control a swath of the American south. In exchange, Joel and Tommy would have food, shelter, protection and whatever they wanted to fuck.

Joel and Tommy didn’t take him up on the last part. Joel preferred a woman who was begging for it. Tommy didn’t have the stomach for it otherwise. But the rest was enough to stick around for.

Joel was coming back to a campsite one night after a few hours hunting. It was dark, he could see the glow of the fires from the camp from far away, even through the trees. As he got closer, he could hear the camp, too. The voices around the central fires further away, the wet sounds and desperate grunts of the men taking advantage of the last part of Davis’ offer closer.

He had to walk through the area where the captives were held as he went to find Davis at the center, the women bound to trees without any other way to contain them. Just one of the many downsides of moving to a new place. Because none of these assholes could keep it in their fucking pants for longer than a few hours let alone the days it took to relocate.

As he passed close to one, he almost couldn’t help but look. It turned his stomach but it was like a train wreck, he couldn’t turn away.

The woman was on her hands and knees, crying and letting out sharp little sobs as the man behind her fucked into her without mercy. Her head hung low, like she was struggling to even do that much. Joel knew what happened once they got to this point. They usually didn’t have long then, either falling asleep and not waking up or one of the men killing her. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident. Joel was pretty certain that, either way, it was a mercy. Hell, there were still days where he wished he’d fail at staying alive, just so that it’d be over and it wasn’t his fault. That he’d get bit, shot. That he’d be on his own or with one of the fucking dipshits from the crew and they both wound up dead. That’d be a mercy.

He was just about to look away hope that he could tune out the sound when the woman looked up, her eyes meeting his, vulnerable and pleading. But then they shifted. Her whole being did, until she wasn’t a nameless, wretched thing, until she had a form he knew.

Suddenly, they weren’t just any eyes. They were yours. Eyes he knew so well, eyes he looked into from across a table or in his bed, eyes that he loved so dearly. And it was you there, at the mercy of this man, face slick with tears, those eyes desperate and begging.

“Joel!” You stretched an arm out for him. You were sobbing, your voice cracking and thick and wet. “Joel, please, help me, please help me, please make it stop, please Joel, I’m begging you, please…”

He tried to make himself move. Tried to make himself do anything at all as you stretched and reached for him, your fingers extended as far as you could push them. He wanted to kill the man touching you, wanted to rip you away from him and wrap you up and hold you close and promise you that it would be OK. He wanted to destroy anything that had ever harmed you, even if that meant destroying himself, too.

You begged him until you were choking on it and he couldn’t make himself move to help you.

Because he hadn’t. He’d never helped the women in your position. He’d valued his and Tommy’s safety with the crew more than those lives. He’d been so numb to it all he’d barely even thought twice about it.

“Not my job to help you,” he felt himself say it far more than he directed himself to. The words felt alien, cold and cruel and inhuman. But they were his. “Why would I?”

He turned his back on you then even though he was screaming at himself to stop, to turn back, to do something - anything - to save you.

But he couldn’t undo what had happened. Couldn’t fix what he’d already done. Couldn’t change the fact that you were right about him.

You’re just like them.

Joel jerked awake, covered in sweat in spite of the cold air and panting for breath. He’d rolled in the night so his deaf ear was facing up and he fell back onto his back, staring at the ceiling. It was still dark, though what little light there was from the moon that was behind the storm clouds reflected and amplified by the new fallen snow. His stomach churned, his chest tight from the horror of watching someone hurt you. He wanted to vomit but realized, suddenly, that he hadn’t eaten anything since noon. There wasn’t anything in him to expel but he wished there was. He wanted there to be something he could excise, something that he could rip out as though that would make him good again in your eyes. If it would he’d do it. Carve out any organ, swallow any poison, it didn’t matter. He would do it for you, give it to you. It all belonged to you, now, anyway.

There was a creak on the front step and he shot up off the couch, heart pounding, but it was Ellie and not you who came in the door. He frowned, getting up and meeting her there as she kicked the snow off her boots.

“What were you doin’ out there?” Joel asked, closing the door behind her and helping her out of her coat before rubbing his hands over her shoulders and arms, trying to warm her up. “Dangerous in a storm like this, Baby Girl…”

“It didn’t feel right to just have Bambi be on her own if she was as upset as you were,” Ellie said.

Joel sighed.

“Kiddo…”

“She’s not at home, Joel.”

His blood ran cold.

“Ellie….”

“She’s not at the stables, either,” she said. “I don’t know where she is, Joel, but she’s gone.”

***

You needed to find your daughter.

You needed a gun. You needed a horse. You needed to bring Savvy home.

You needed to talk to Maria.

It was slow going, moving through the snow. The wind was against you, cold and sharp and you realized you were wearing Joel’s coat and one of his shirts underneath it. It made your skin crawl.

When you got to Maria’s, you pounded on her door, stripping out of the coat and the shirt even though the wind was howling as you waited for her.

You knew it must have only taken a minute but it felt like an eternity of waiting. Every minute you wasted was a minute longer she was with them. It had already been so long, so so long.

“Bambi?” Maria frowned. “Jesus, you must he half frozen…”

“I need a gun,” you said, goosebumps prickling over your flesh.

“What you need is to put on your damn coat…”

“Don’t want it,” you thrust it at her and she almost jumped but took it. “I need a gun, Maria. Rifle is best but any gun…”

“Why?” She asked. “It’s a blizzard out there and…”

“The people the patrol brought back today,” you said as quickly as you could. “The woman they mentioned, she said the raiders had a girl, a teenaged girl. I’m going to find her and I need a fucking gun, are you going to give me one or not?” `

“No,” she shook her head. “No, it’s too dangerous to send anyone out right now and…”

You smacked your hand against the door frame, making her jump.

“I already had this fucking conversation with Joel and I’m going. Now. You can either give me the fucking gun or I’ll go out there with nothing but what’s in this fucking pack but I’m going.”

She searched your face for a second before she sighed and opened her door wider. You stomped inside, snow clinging to your boots. Maria opened her coat closet and pulled out a winter coat, holding it out to you. You frowned for a moment.

“You need that, too,” she said. “Give me a minute, we have a rifle here in a safe. With ammo. But you have to bring it back, you hear me? You need to make it back.”

You pulled on the coat and zipped it up. There was a hat and gloves in the pockets and you put those on, too. Maria came back with the gun and she handed it to you. It didn’t have the good scope, Tommy must have taken that one out on patrol, but you didn’t care.

“If you just wait a day or two for the storm to clear…” Maria began but you cut her off.

“Not leaving her with them any longer than I have to,” you slung the gun over your arm. You were glad William wasn’t in the room, probably already in bed though you weren’t sure what time it was now. He reminded you so much of how Savvy looked at his age, the unruly curl of his hair and the deep warmth of his big eyes. You weren’t sure you could bear to look at him in that moment. “Thank you, for this. I appreciate it.”

“I meant it when you said you needed to make it back,” she replied. “So you’d better make it back.”

You looked at her for a second.

“I’ll do my best.”

You left her there, Joel’s shirt and coat draped over the back of her couch. You went to the stable and saddled up Ares. He was the biggest horse, he’d make it through the snow the best, survive what might be waiting on the other end of this the best. You needed him to make it. You had to make it.

The directions from the group you’d found were vague but they were enough to set you in what you hoped was the right direction. You had to demand to leave at the gate - threatening to go get Maria if they didn’t let you out - but, before too long, you were underway.

It was miserable weather but you hardly noticed it. You were thankful for it, in a way. You wouldn’t need to watch your back in weather like this, no one else would be out. Infected would freeze, raiders would be hunkered down. You could move freely.

You took advantage of it, resisting the urge to push Ares as fast as you possibly could. He’d exhaust too fast, especially moving through the snow. It was faster to pace yourself. You knew that. It just didn’t feel fast enough.

You fought not to think about what life was like with them. About what she might be suffering now. About how you’d thought Savvy was dead for years, since that day by the fire. But you still looked for her, watched for any sign of her. You still held out hope that she was out there, somewhere, just waiting for you to find her again. You couldn’t accept that she was gone, not when you’d never seen the proof, never held it in your hands.

If there was even a chance that it was her, that was enough.

You rode through the night and it was late the next day that made it to south of Kelly and started looking for signs of people, where you might find cabins. But the foot of fresh snow made that difficult, you couldn’t tell where anyone had been and the snow was still falling. You tried to think for a moment but your mind was cloudy. You hadn’t stopped for food or rest since leaving Jackson what had to be 20 hours earlier. You hadn’t slept in even longer. There was a sort of manic energy running through your veins, a singular focus that kept you breathing and your mind focused: Find Savvy.

You tried to remember what the landscape around Kelly looked like, where the mountains eased and where finding these cabins might be simpler. You thought you had an idea of a place to start and you pointed Ares in that direction, his footsteps heavy and plodding after you’d pushed him for so long.

It was getting dark when you saw the tracks in the snow. Someone had walked through here, recently.

You followed them, your heart in your throat, the sound of Ares’ heavy breaths loud on the crisp snow.

“Gonna need you to stop right there,” a voice from your left said.

You obeyed, turning your head toward the sound. A man had his rifle drawn high, pointed at you. You didn’t like the look of him, something threatening and harsh. You fought to focus your mind, push past the cloud of exhaustion that threatened to take over you.

“Good girl,” he smirked. You clenched your jaw. “You’re in our territory now which means you’re coming with me.”

“And who are you?” You asked, brows raised.

“The difference between you dying slow and painful or surviving,” he said, stepping closer with the gun up. “Recommend you take me up on it.”

You looked at him for a moment. He was probably with the men who had her. Raiders were too territorial, there wouldn’t be multiple groups on the outskirts of Kelly like this if they weren’t working together.

“Now,” he said, adjusting his grip on the rifle. “Why don’t you get off that pretty horse of yours and come with me.”

You obeyed and he came over to you, looping his hand through the strap of the rifle. He smiled when you didn’t argue with him on it. You didn’t mind it much, at least not yet. He was going to take you there. You could kill him with your bare hands once you found them.

He took your gun and took the reins for Ares and nodded to the space in front of him. He aimed his rifle at you and you put your hands up.

“Walk ahead,” he said. “I’ll tell ya where to go.”

“Alright,” you said, fighting to keep your voice calm.

Part of you knew you should be afraid. The shadow of that feeling was there, the echo of it. You were sure he was taking you somewhere you’d be outnumbered. You’d be fighting to get two people out instead of one, you were exhausted and weakening. You doubted you could even push Ares into a full gallup now, he was going to fall asleep the second you got where you were going.

None of that really mattered, though. If it wasn’t Savvy, you weren’t sure you had much of a reason to try and live. Jackson held Joel, just the thought of him too gutting and painful to even really consider him, and a life that you didn’t want anymore if you couldn’t give it to you child, too.

You’d gotten remarkably close to the group without the man’s help, as it happened. You were only walking about half a mile through the woods when you came upon a small cluster of cabins, not unlike the ones you’d called home for 20 years. Smoke curled up from the chimney of the center one and you thought, for a moment, that it would be picturesque under other circumstances. The fresh snow bowing the limbs of the pine trees toward the ground, the soft glow from the fire in the window, the humble nobility of the log structures themselves.

He tied Ares to a tree and turned back to you.

“Middle cabin,” he said, nudging you between the shoulder blades with his gun toward the one with the fire inside. “Move.”

You obeyed that command, too. Your heart beat so hard that, for half a moment, you were worried it might give out. But it didn’t.

The man stepped around you to open the door and you went in ahead of him, the rifle at your back.

“Shit, Fred,” one of the three men in the room said, looking you up and down. “Didn’t know you’d find a friend…”

You ignored him, looking around, forcing your eyes to move slowly. The firelight was dim, the corners were dark, you could miss something.

You almost did. It took you a moment to spot her, the girl in the corner.

It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Savvy.

The world tilted for a moment. It wasn’t her. You’d come her to find Savvy and it wasn’t her, you were supposed to find her, you’d promised to take care of her, you’d promised. You’d promised to protect her and it wasn’t her.

“Hey!” One of the men’s voices snapped you back into reality. “What, you a fuckin’ moron? I said get over here. Want to see what our new toy brings to the table.”

You looked over your shoulder at the man who’d brought you there, the one who’d promised you survival over slow and painful death.

“You heard ‘em.”

You nodded once and looked to the girl in the corner. She looked like she was about Ellie’s age, almost certainly younger than 20, with dirty blonde hair and pale skin and that half dead look on her face that told you she probably wasn’t leaving here even if you could save her.

But you owed her a better end than these men would give her.

And there was a chance they’d seen Savvy. You just wouldn’t know until you pulled the information out of them.

It was like you decided what to do after you started doing it. You were moving for the man behind you before you fully realized what was happening. You lunged for him and he clearly wasn’t expecting it, ripping your rifle from his hold and slamming the butt of it against his skull.

He collapsed to the ground and you whipped the gun around in front of you, shooting the first man before any of them fully understood what was going on.

The second started moving for a gun but you shot him in the shoulder before he got to it. The third was faster, going for the girl in the corner and pressing a knife to her throat.

“I’ll do it,” he said, panting for breath as you prowled closer. “Don’t give a fuck, I’ll kill her right now.”

“Put down the knife,” you said through gritted teeth. “Now.”

“Not until we have a deal,” he said. “Not about to just let you kill me.”

The girl was watching you, her eyes wide but flat, nothing behind them at all.

“Close your eyes,” you said to her, making your voice gentle.

“Don’t tell her…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. You shot him in the head, his whole body jerking before he collapsed to the earth. The girl’s eyes went wide and she clutched her hand to her throat. It only took a moment before the blood started pouring through her fingers.

“Shit,” you threw the strap of the gun over your shoulder and ran to her, crossing the small room in just a few steps. She scrambled back from you as she struggled to breathe, pressing her back against the wall. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

She looked you up and down, her eyes darting, before she reached out to you with the hand not at her throat. You moved closer and she grabbed your arm, her fingers digging into your skin, clutching onto you desperately. You cautiously put your arms around her and she all but collapsed against you, her hand still at her throat, her breaths coming in short, wet pants.

“It’s OK,” you said quietly, your voice thick. “I’m sorry, it’ll be OK, it’s not going to hurt anymore, it’ll be OK…”

She just nodded and you watched her already pale skin grow paler, her blood coating your arms and your legs. You kept talking to her, promising her that it would be OK, until you felt her breathing slow and stop. You held onto her for a few minutes. You brushed her hair back from her face, cradled her softly to you before you lowered her gently to the ground.

“Don’t worry,” you said quietly. “Won’t leave you here with them.”

Her eyes were open, wide and green and dead. You closed them gently and tucked her hair behind her ear.

You slung the rifle and your pack off your back and freed your knife, going for the one man you hadn’t shot, just knocked unconscious. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him toward the fireplace as he started to groan. You searched him quickly to make sure he didn’t have a sidearm or a knife of his own but he didn’t seem to. You straightened up and brought your foot with all your weight down on his forearm, snapping the bones there. He jerked awake with a pained cry, shooting up. You pulled your boot from his arm and put it in his chest, forcing him back to the ground.

“What the fuck!” He moaned, looking around at the carnage you’d wrought in that room.

You adjusted your knife and knelt, putting your knee in the man’s chest and grabbing a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look at you.

“I’m lookin’ for information,” you said. Your accent was thick when you were worked up. You had a drawl now. “And you’re gonna give it to me.”

“Not gonna tell you shit,” he spat.

“Maybe not,” you said. “But I’m still gonna try to get it outta you. Should know, I don’t know what I’m doin’. Just watched someone do it once. Someone like you.” Your stomach churned at that. “Might fuck it up. Might push you too far. Just have to see.”

You took the knife and sank it in between two ribs on his left side and he screamed. You held it there and watched him writhe below you. Some part of you knew you should feel something about this. Something bad hurting another person. Something good in getting retribution. But you were numb to it.

“Fuck!” He tried to throw you with his unbroken arm but you left the knife embedded in his side and caught it before he properly reached you. You dropped his head and it thudded into the ground before you gripped his arm with both hands and twisted it, watching as you forced his bones into unnatural positions as he screamed and you felt the give of them when they broke. You dropped the arm and grabbed his hair again.

“You taken teenaged girls before?” You asked. He didn’t respond, his eyes wild and darting, as though there was something here that would help him. You sighed and gave his head a sharp shake and his eyes locked on yours. “Pay. Attention. Told you, don’t know what I’m doin’, might push you too far. Should want to give me what I want so I can stop hurting you, right?”

“Who are you?” He managed around his panting breaths.

“Don’t you know?” You cocked your head a little. “I’m what stands between you and a slow death or a quick one. Give me exactly what I want and maybe I’ll even let you live.”

You weren’t going to. He didn’t need to know that.

“Now, tell me,” you continued. “Have you taken teenaged girls before?”

You twisted the knife between his ribs this time and he screamed with it.

“Yes!” He sobbed below you. “Yes, yes, we have…”

“How many?” You asked through gritted teeth.

“I…” he panted for breath. “I don’t know for sure… four? Five?”

You nodded and pulled the knife from his side and held it for a moment.

“Do you remember any of their names?” You asked.

He frowned, clearly puzzled. You signed and plunged the blade in between two other ribs and he screamed.

“No!” He managed once he calmed down again. “No, we didn’t… didn’t focus on their names.”

You nodded and rapped your fingers along the handle of the knife.

“What did they look like?” You asked. “Any of them have brown skin, brown eyes, dark curly hair? Would be 14 now?”

He frowned at you, like he was just piecing it together. You gritted your teeth and twisted the knife and he screamed again, his legs kicking uselessly behind you.

“Asked you a fucking question!” You yelled. “Now tell me. Any of those girls fit that description?”

“She a friend of yours?” The man asked. “Tell you now, all the girls we’ve had? They’re dead. Every last one of ‘em…”

You dropped his hair and grabbed him by the chin, digging your nails into his cheeks.

“Asked you a fucking question!” You yelled back. “Better answer it otherwise only use you are to me is fun. Think I’ll like hurting you, once I get the practice…”

“No!” He said quickly. “No, no we didn’t take anyone like that, we didn’t, never seen anyone like that. Closest I got was a woman, she was closer to your age, not who you’re lookin’ for…”

You looked at him for a moment. You thought he was telling the truth. But you couldn’t be sure.

“Please,” he panted. “Please just…”

You pulled the knife from his side and he gasped, his eyes wide in shock, before you plunged it into his throat. He couldn’t scream around it, only choke on it as his blood started to pour into his chest.

You pulled the knife from him and wiped it on a part of his shirt that looked clean enough and you got to your feet, watching him bleed for a moment before sheathing the knife and going back for the body of the girl.

But you fell before you could get there, the hand of the second man you shot flying out and grabbing your ankle as you passed him. You caught yourself before your face smacked into the ground and he scrambled on top of you, grabbing your hair, his fingers harsh on your scalp, slamming your face into the ground. Your head spun and you felt blood on your face as you scrambled to at least turn over in his clumsy hold. But once you were on your back, he was sitting on your stomach, a vicious and bloody grimace on his face.

“You really thought you could just fuckin’ kill us?” He growled. You could see the hole where you’d shot him, his shoulder bloody and open. “Thought you could just end it there? Huh? Fucking bitch.”

He grabbed the knife from where you’d dropped it as it fell and thrust it into your right shoulder, making you gasp in shock. He smirked, distracted by his own victory. You didn’t go for the knife or even his hands in his moment of distraction. Instead, you reached for his bullet wound, thrusting your thumb into the ragged hole and pulling on his damaged flesh. He screamed and shocked back from you. It gave you the space to grab the knife from your shoulder and thrust it into his neck, just like you’d done to his friend. You shoved him off of you before you were too covered in his blood and you stood there while he bled, watching to make sure he was dead this time before you took the knife and wiped off the blade before putting it in your back pocket.

You shoved yourself to your feet and went for the girl. Her body already felt a little cooler than you remembered and you lifted her gently into your arms, the wound at your shoulder screaming in pain. You ignored it.

“It’s OK,” you said softly. “Not gonna leave you here with them…”

You maneuvered her through the door and to your horse, draping her limp body over the saddle. Ares huffed and you brushed his velvet muzzle with your hand. It left a bloody print behind.

“It’s OK,” you said, this time to your horse. “Not goin’ far. Then… then we’ll figure it out.”

You untied him from the tree and led him away from the cabin, leaving the door to the bloody scene inside wide open. You didn’t care.

You only walked about a mile before you found a place to set the girl down. It was pretty, you thought. The trees were so covered in snow and frost that they sparkled in the moonlight. You put her body down against a wide trunk, one that had roots that formed an almost comfortable looking seat with a cushion of snow. You arranged her so it looked like she might have just fallen asleep there when she’d stopped to rest or enjoy the sight, her head leaned back on the trunk, her hands together in her lap. You frowned as you arranged her hands, a leather bracelet on one wrist. You traced over it with your thumb and you realized that it was stamped with something, some beading on either side of the lettering. You carefully removed it and held it into a beam of moonlight. The name Lacy had been put into the leather.

You slipped it on your wrist and tightened the ties before turning back to the girl.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Lacy,” you said, the hot pinch of tears at the back of your throat. “You deserved so much better. I’m so sorry.”

You stood and looked at her for a moment. You wished you knew anything about this girl. If this was a place she would have liked, what her favorite food was, if she had a family.

But you had no way of knowing any of it. You turned back to Ares and took his bridle in your left hand, your right side in too much pain from the knife wound and carrying Lacy to even think about controlling him with it.

“C’mon boy,” you said. “Let’s get some distance, find… find a place to rest.”

You weren’t sure how long you walked with him. It felt like a long time but it was still dark when you gave up. Every step was hard. You could barely lift your feet and you snagged your boot on a tree root in the snow, sending you sprawling onto the ground with a pained groan.

Ares’ nose appeared at the back of your neck, his breath hot on your skin and you tried to get up but couldn’t find the strength to. Instead, you just rolled over, the horse hovering over you. Your head was light and your vision was fuzzy and you couldn’t feel a lot of your body anymore.

You tried to raise a hand to pet his large head but you couldn’t even summon the will to do that, your arm only coming a few inches off the ground before falling back into the snow.

It took you a second to realize that you’d felt this way before. Dying had been a lot like this, bleeding in the snow. And then Joel had found you. Saved you. Made you love him. Made you trust him.

“You’ll be OK,” you said to Ares. He huffed. “You… you were wild once, before I broke you. Wasn’t that long ago. You can live out here just… just fine without me.”

He lowered himself to the ground, almost in response. His large head curved around your body to rest on your stomach and you managed to rase a hand enough to rest it on him. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the heat of the animal instead of the feeling of the snow seeping into your clothes.

You stayed like that for a while. You were barely conscious when large hands pulled you from the cold of the earth and into a warm, broad body.

Next Chapter

A/N: I know, this was another rough one.

Feel free to yell at me. I promise, I read all the comments even though I haven't been great about replying lately. I plan to soon, I promise! I love each and every one of them and I love each and every one of you, too.

Thanks for being here through the rough parts of this fic. I appreciate you!

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass@planet-marz1@kalea-bane @juneswonderlust@ilovepedro@h-annahayy@starstruckmusiciansartghost@beccerjune@mumma-moonchild@netonetoneto@mellymbee@purplelye@n7cje@flugazi@evyiione@randomhoex@aliengirl99@orcasoul@reds-ramblings@pedropascalsbbg@fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel@jenispunk@panda-pascal@sarap-77@flugazi@your-slutty-gf@daniegraceg@partyofone3413@cumberpegg@noisynightmarepoetry.@fifia-writes@grumpygrumperton @srmacaroni @txlady37 @bigboiseason123

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #yearling #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc

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salmonskinrolltf · 11 days

Note

hey there these video tapes sound pretty far out. The thing is, I’m this awkward, average looking gay dude who is slowly approaching a mid life crisis. I work as a math teacher at a local community college. And my days are filled with teaching students and my nights are spent wondering what I did with my life. Anyways, I really wanted to watch the Neighbors movie with Zac Efron. I’ve had the biggest crush on his obnoxious frat boy character! I mean that body is insane!

You eagerly tear open your Be Kind Rewind package and pull out the Neighbors VHS, barely noticing the die that falls into your hand. Nor do you notice your subconscious decision to toss it onto the floor, rolling a 3 in the process. As you place the tape in the VCR (has that always been there?), you hit rewind so it can play from the beginning.

You can’t wait to vicariously live the frat boy life you missed out on, even if it’s filtered through the perspectives of Seth Rogen and Rose Byrne as annoyed adults in their mid-30s, which hits much closer to home than you want it to. Excitement swells in your chest to the point that you feel almost giddy. You need to calm down a bit, so you take a swig of the beer you don’t remember putting on the table in front of you. Not on a coaster, even. That’s so unlike you…

As soon as the frothy beverage passes your lips, you feel a sense of calm dullness washing over you. You run a hand through your hair, which seems straighter and less tangled than usual.

As you take another sip, your phone pings with an email from a student asking about a particularly tough problem you presented during your lecture that day. You look up and see that the movie is still rewinding, so you suppose you have time to answer. But as soon as you open the email to explain the answer, the numbers start swimming in front of your eyes. The 3 should go… where again? And why the hell are there so many letters in there? This is math. Math is numbers, right?

Fuck, this is too frustrating. You toss your phone to the other end of the couch and chug the rest of your beer. You suddenly need to piss like a racehorse, so you head to the bathroom. Once you’re done, the dull buzzing in your head prevents you from even considering washing your hands, but you do stop by the sink when you see your reflection in the mirror.

Holy shit. Your face is, like, morphing or something. Your eyebrows thicken, your nose elongates, your jaw cracks and broadens. You feel a squirming feeling under your shirt and you tear it off, watching as muscle blossoms from beneath your skin. Any excess weight sloughing off, just like every last bit of body hair, leaving you with a taut and smooth torso. A brief flash of pain accompanies a tattoo that appears on your newly built pec.

You try to summon a feeling of shock, but you just… can’t. That dull buzzing is even stronger now. And you look too good, dude! You admire yourself in the mirror, not noticing as the bathroom furnishings change behind you.

You step out of the bathroom into the foyer of a house you no longer recognize. Well, you almost recognize it, but it’s definitely not YOUR house. You might have been able to put your finger on where you are, but something distracts you. A shirtless Zac Efron is standing in front of you with his shirt unbuttoned and a finger to his lips.

Is this… Are your fantasies coming to life? But in your fantasies, he’d be kissing you by now. He wouldn’t be giving you the shooing motion he’s currently doing. Za- Wait, what was his name? Zaccy? Zaddy? Teddy. Yeah, Teddy. Teddy whispers to you. “Get out of the way man, I’m pranking the new pledge.” You comply, your thoughts still hazy.

Your thoughts remain that way for the rest of the night. And for the rest of the week. And the rest of the month. But despite the constant dull roar, you put a few things together. You’re Pete Regazolli, proud vice-president of Delta Psi Beta. If you weren’t always this way, you don’t care to think about it. You’re still got a massive crush on Teddy, of course. You’re gay after all, and the whole frat knows it. But even if he isn’t into guys that way, at least you still get to spend all your time with him, staring at him when he’s not looking, touching him whenever you get the chance… A chance like the one you have right now, when you’re about to pull off a huge prank on this new pledge who has no idea what’s coming… Bro, it’s gonna be so lit!

#frat #Be Kind Rewind #Roll the Die #Dumber #reality change

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hey-august · 2 months

Text

A Line from Me to You - Chapter 4

Description: Buggy finds a peculiar book on his ship. Enticed by the words contained on each page, the pirate opens up. Anonymity leads to vulnerability. What else will come from this? (Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, check out the story tag)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: This chapter is SFW, but that changes next chapter!! Buggy x afab!reader.

A/N: Defnitely messed up posting this the first time around. 🤡Posting from my phone, so let me know if it looks weird!

Tag list: @lostfirefly @rorywritesjunk @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

“Maybe you should pick the next book.”

Buggy would have considered writing those words as admitting defeat if it wasn’t for how shaky your last note was. He could see each jump and jolt your hand made while asking for something less intense than the books Buggy picked.

After you both filled the end pages of “Rocks on the River” with enough saltwater to rival the ocean, Buggy offered another story from his backlog. The third novel you read together was a horrifying tale that pushed the readers into a toxic miasma of fear, paranoia, and unease, which oozed into their real lives.

The whole ship rang with a piercing shriek from the captain when an unfortunate freak tapped his shoulder from behind. A usually common occurrence was tainted by an early scene from the book. Buggy knew the touch wasn’t from grotesquely plump spiders descending from the ceiling, even though he screamed something that sounded like, “Get it the fuck off of me.”

After reading a chapter full of creepy-crawlies, every small sensation left his blue hair standing on end, which only created a nerve wracking loop. Every breeze and rustle of fabric teased his prickled skin, mimicking the feel of grubby little arachnid and insectoid legs scurrying across his body. The sensation only went away after a frantic midday wash with near-boiling water and the roughest washcloth Buggy could find. After sloughing off more than one layer of skin, the pirate felt confident that he was clean and not infested.

You, on the other hand, had boasted about not being scared of the terrors held within the book. Unlike the invasive imaginary critters Buggy was battling, you were as snug as a bug in a rug when you curled up in bed to read each night. The chilling entities weren’t real, and if they were, you felt safe on the ship.

“I’m just saying, if soul-sucking bats were attacking, I would trust C. Buggy to protect m us.”

As much as you tried to turn the start of “me” into “us,” the letters didn’t flow right. Rather than drawing attention to the slip-up by completely blacking out the convex letter, you simply crossed it out and hoped the other reader wouldn’t notice.

“I dunno, what if he hid from those horrid fucking things? I wouldn’t blame him, honestly…”

“Maybe…but I trust him.”

“He’s the captain, you’re supposed to trust him.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

You didn’t realize what you wrote until you punctuated the sentence by stabbing the page. Your hand moved quickly and defensively, upset by the assumption that your feelings were obligatory. Your fingers twitched as you restrained the flow of words. Your trust wasn’t unearned, it had grown over time. The seed was planted when you were welcomed to the ship with open arms and watered by his laughter and jokes, the care he held for his eclectic freaks, the little questions he’d ask about their lives at sea, and the flashy stories he pushed them weave. The roots reached deep, following the curve of his smile and tracing the crinkles in the corner of his eyes.

The trust might have been obligatory at the beginning, but it had since blossomed into more. You weren’t ready to acknowledge the blooms and definitely weren’t going to share the unnamed feelings with a stranger.

Thankfully, Buggy’s preference for avoiding uncomfortable discussions kept him from prying further. His nightly alcohol whispered in a heated voice. It said he should ask, that he deserves to know why you trusted him so much. The voice grew quieter the longer he let the amber liquid sit untouched. Sure, a part of him was interested, but you didn’t elaborate for a reason. Thinking back to “Rocks on the River,” you never pressured him to write more about his childhood friend. Curiosity peeked through some of your notes, but it never confronted him. And he couldn’t bring himself to do that to you, so he moved onto the next section of the story.

This time, you completed the book first. Usually, you refrained from reading while on duty, but finishing the horror novel under a full moon in the crow’s nest seemed like a fitting end. Settled under an inky expanse that spilled into the still sea, you read words illuminated by moonlight. It didn’t take long for the whispers of subtle waves to take on an ominous tone. The rattling of the gently swaying ship became inhuman guttural groans.

Creaks from other crew members on duty became less frequent and far less comforting. Their footsteps and shadows were no longer welcoming - they were unsettling and teased your fraying hold on reality. Seated so high above the others, you had no way of knowing if the life on deck were familiar or fiendish freaks. Laughter carried on the wind wasn’t jovial, but sinister. You tried to close the book, to stop the words from pulling you deeper into their dark world, but it didn’t work. You were already lost in fear and needed to claw your way out.

---

Buggy figured you would spend the night reading and woke up early to see if the book would be ready for him. He slipped the third annotated book into an interior coat pocket and headed to breakfast. Only a few pirates filled the hall - a mix of those eating their first meal of the day and those filling their stomachs before sleep. Despite the differences, everyone embraced the quiet morning and only the sounds in the room came from cutlery against plates, mugs on the wooden tables, and open-mouthed chewing. It would be a normal scene, except for you. Unlike the others, who were stuck in the cozy twilight at either end of sleep, you sat wide-eyed and jittery in front of a sparse meal. The captain approached the corner you cowered in like a scared animal.

“You alright? Something happen last night?” His voice was pulled low with concern.

Your eyes darted around the room, afraid of missing some unknown monster during this conversation. “I’m fine. Just tired. It was a long night.” You shivered slightly, fear and anxiety still running their courses through your body.

“Hey,” Buggy whispered softly as he crouched low, his leather boots creaking with the movement. “You sure that’s all?” His hand rested on the bench next to you. He wanted to reach out and keep you from shaking, but a different fear kept him from moving.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, looking everywhere but at the man in front of you.

A moment of silence let you know the answer wasn’t accepted. You glanced at him a few times before getting stuck in the deep pools within his eyes. It always happened to you so easily - his pupils were large and dark enough for you to fall in those ocean-colored eyes without a second thought. Buggy raised his eyebrows, the movement also tugging the tip of his round nose, and tilted his head to the side. He could see through the flimsy facade you were hiding behind, so you let it go and took a deep breath.

“It was a really long night, Captain. I think I’ll feel better after sleeping. I’m okay, really.” You emphasized the last word by nudging his gloved hand with yours. Just the smallest amount of touch to let him know you were being honest.

Buggy nodded and left without another word. Any details you were reluctant to share were housed in the book sitting in his pocket.

---

The rest of the story that was written in the novel and documented your night was devoured in his quarters, while the plate of breakfast sitting a hands-reach away on the desk grew cold. It was a different experience to read a horror book during the day, when the bright sunlight eliminated any errant shadows and kept the unknowns that resided in the dark at bay. Still, the author was skilled enough for goosebumps to cover the pirate’s body. He ran his hands along his arms and legs to iron away the physical response.

As Buggy soothed his own unsettled nerves, he thought about you. How scared you must have been, alone and in the dark. How the fear followed you through the morning and you couldn’t shake the feeling. Literally. For a brief moment, Buggy imagined holding your trembling body, just as he was holding his own. Would you trust your captain enough to let him protect you from a fear response?

Although the pirate couldn’t bring himself to comfort you physically, he had an idea that could work. Filling with bubbling excitement, he sprang out of the desk chair, nearly toppling it in the process, and sprinted out of the room. A moment later, a lone hand whizzed back to toss his reading glasses on the bed and close the door.

---

You woke up as the sun was turning in for the evening, surprised that you managed to fall asleep. Thinking back, you might have actually passed out from exhaustion and worry. The orange glow now painting the walls in your room was comforting. You stretched your limbs to bring them back to life and put your arms behind your head.

Staring at nothing in particular gave your mind permission to pursue its own entertainment, so it drifted back to the paranoia and apprehension you thought had left. Threads of their presence remained and tugging at them brought pieces of the story. Examining those moments was easier in the golden light, but as the warmth receded and night returned, so did the unease. Rather than staying inside and alone, you hoped to find companionship and protection with the late night crewmates.

Waiting just outside your room was the smell of fried food and smoked meat to keep you company. As you wandered the belly of the ship, you passed your mates filling their own bellies with greasy food and alcohol. The ebb and flow of movement seemed to be going to and coming from the deck. Following the alluring scents of popcorn, cotton candy, and sweet dough, you stepped into the open air.

String lights adorned the ship, traipsing from mast to mast, illuminating the sails, and snaking around the deck railing. Hundreds of lights bounced on the rippled sea, creating a bubble of light that was periodically outdone by the handmade fireworks launched into the sky. As sparks rained down in a beautiful rendition of a meteor shower, you caught the silhouette of the captain standing at the helm of the ship. If anyone knew what ignited tonight's floating festival, it would be the man in charge.

You weaved your way across the deck, grabbing two bottles of beer on the way. Having learned from earlier events and rumors among the crew, you stomped your feet a little louder than usual to let Buggy know you were approaching, so he wouldn’t be caught off guard and attempt to swat you away in surprise. When he turned to see who the visitor was, you offered him a drink.

“Are we celebrating something special?”

“There doesn’t have to be a reason to have a party,” Buggy said, as though you should know better. “Besides, my crew always deserves a night like this!” He spread his arms and gestured all around him.

Despite the bright lights, enough of the night hung around to hide the blush on your cheeks. Eager to hide the heat behind alcohol, you held out your bottle. “Then here’s to us!”

Buggy tapped his bottle against yours harder than he expected, causing a fountain of bubbles to overflow from both containers. You both leaned in to stop the spills before taking a proper drink.

Little did you know, this was his first drink of the evening. Buggy, who was known to spend nights with his sloshing spirit in hand, had planned when and how much alcohol would be available. He considered how to drag out the crowds and stagger the inevitable crash as people blacked out and passed out. The pirate captain wasn’t sure how successful he’d be against soul-sucking bats, but every detail that would chase away another dark and lonely night was taken into account.

#eventual smut #buggy x reader #buggy x you #x reader #buggy the clown #buggy the clown x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #hey-august a line from me to you

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letters-unsending · 1 year

Text

No. 33

////

Winged Villain saves Hero

///

“Remember when I said I owed you a favor?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m repaying that favor now.”

Villain snapped forward and caught Hero at the waist, forcing their combined weight over the balcony rail.

A fiery white blast burst in their wake. The light ripped through Hero’s apartment and flashed out into the air, shocking wood into smoke and glass into sharp, silver rain. Villain rolled Hero beneath him and cast out his wings to block the blast that followed. Deflected by his feathers, the shockwave folded around them, and against the nearby building, shattering its great, windowed sides.

As debris sprayed from the other direction, Villain spun around to fend it off. Hero lurched in his grasp, his super strength manifesting itself in the hand against Villain’s spine, bruising into muscle of his lower back. Villain returned the sentiment with a hand of his own, secured between Hero’s shoulders.

“I’m not gonna drop you,” he hissed, banking around the spire of a skyscraper, “and I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just getting you somewhere safe.”

Villain looked back. Smoke rose from where they had fled and the horizon blushed red with fire.

“Supervillain from X city has usurped the Villain Legion. He’s headhunting ability users like you.” Villain drifted lower as the city’s high-rises shortened into squat storefronts and handsome brownstones. “I wasn’t given a lot of information, but he’s worried about nullifiers interfering with his plans. And I saw you. On the list of targets.”

“Do they know you’re doing this?” Hero spoke through chattering teeth.

“No,” Villain assured, tucking Hero’s shirt down so it didn’t flag in the wind, “I hacked my locator. Right now they think I’m investigating a warehouse on the south side.”

“So you’ll be fine?”

“Yes,” Villain’s flight muscles ached, shifting beneath Hero’s grasp, “I’ll be okay, but you—you have look out after yourself. Once the Legion notices you’re gone, they’ll send someone after you again and I can’t interfere a second time without drawing attention. So keep watch, alright?”

“Starting to sound a little concerned there, Villain.” Hero’s shivering turned to spasms as the rushing air sloughed more heat from his body. Before the explosion, he’d been ready to sleep, dressed in thin night clothes. Now, the cold and wind rubbed his skin raw. “Might think you actually like me, if you do that.”

“I almost didn’t make it, Hero.” He rubbed a hand down Hero’s back but the friction offered more comfort than heat. “A moment later and I would’ve been searching through rubble for you.”

#writeblr #villain #writing prompt #hero #prompt #villain prompt #hero prompt #writing #villain x hero #hero x villain

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ckret2 · 15 days

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no idea if anyhting of the sort has been asked before but i was wondering mostly based off my past experiences

would bill be the kind of guy who is just Very Aware of like . sensations in his body and have it lead to shit like having a problem with chewing off old skin and stuff. In the sense that oh crud its just a Smidgen of old skin peeling off it's going INTO the Chomper or just out of boredom because He Can Do That

maybe both

like ohh . i think i feel a corner of my lip peeling off im gnawing that off or ohhh is that a little bit of skin slash nail at the tip of my finger i see i wonder if i can bite that off . Seems Cool .

apart from that your fic is feeding me so well and it took me a week to realize "lord almighty thats the same author that wrote those really fucking funny Alastor In Situations fics". i think a small part of my brain was in denial for whatever deranged reason there was .

ALASTOR IN SITUATIONS FICS LMAO. That really is what most of my fics about him are.

I think Bill is really aware of body sensations, but the sensations he is/isn't aware of have really low correlation to what a human who's overly aware of body sensations would be aware of. Like, this is the guy who's violently nauseous trying to comb his hair but who mixes mustard with maple syrup.

You and I have an idea of what our body should look like when it's Right—when our skin is whole and healthy and smooth, when our nails are cut correctly. If a little flake of skin is peeling off, if we have a hangnail, if there's a tear or a bump or a ridge that shouldn't be there, we know that's a Little Bit Wrong, and for some people that Little Bit Wrongness gets really really irritating until they remove it.

Bill doesn't have an internal conception of a Right human body. For him there's no such thing as a Right body that's human. You can't pick/chew at individual flaws when you perceive everything as one unending flaw. A human body is all skin flakes upon skin flakes, dead cells waiting to peel and slough free, odd little bumps and ridges and pores and wrinkles and folds... He could exfoliate his entire body down to the bone and then he'd find fault with the bone's texture.

Look at this image and remove the dots that are wrong.

Do you have the slightest idea which of these dots are supposed to be "wrong"?

What criteria do you base it on? It's all just visual noise.

It's hard to even focus on any particular dots.

Even if I tell that the yellow dots are what's "wrong"...

... is it any easier to see them in the image above? Even knowing what you should be looking for, you have to hunt for them. It takes hard focus to see the yellow dots separately from their neighbors in all that noise. You'll never find all of them unless you zoom in and go pixel by pixel. They just don't stand out. And still nothing about the yellow dots really feels "wrong" to us on an instinctive, visceral level. And if you do take out all the "wrong" yellow dots—do you know which color you're supposed to fill in instead? Even knowing what's wrong isn't enough for you to figure out what's right!

That's what flaws on human skin are like to Bill. It's nonsense on a plane of more nonsense. He's still grappling with the fact that he's bones slathered in meat rather than pure energy under a foil-thin shell of electrified gold. He is NOT in an emotional place to even NOTICE a hangnail.

When his skin starts to bother him, he's less likely to pick at little bits of it and more likely to be fighting the urge to claw it clean off.

He's more often bothered by things like the sound/feeling of his own breathing and choose to stop it for a few seconds just to get some GODDAMN PEACE AND QUIET FOR ONCE before reluctantly starting to breathe again because he knows he has to, ugh. Sometimes he moves his arms and is conscious of ribs under his chest. Sometimes he turns his head instead of his whole torso and gets a queasy sensation from being reminded he has a spine rather than a hard exoskeleton. He still sticks food in his eye when he's distracted and he's uncomfortable that he can't see his food inside his mouth. THAT'S the level of "bothered by bodily sensations" he's on.

(However: if he gets a cut/scrape, he definitely licks the blood off. He's the specific kind of weirdo that fits the "licks his own blood as a deliberate conscious thing" archetype. You know the type. Adolescent pseudo-goths keen to develop morbid fascinations.)

#anonymous #ask #bill goldilocks cipher

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misseviehyde · 1 year

Text

MOVING IN

Jane was pretty pissed off when her fat, useless, lazy brother Morgan begged her to let him move in with her.

Mom and Dad had thrown him out again for his useless attitude and he had nowhere else to go.

Jane had always been soft and she agreed he could stay, even though she knew it would really piss off her husband Jason.

Jason was the only earner in the home. He was a successful business man and Jane had always wanted to be a stay at home wife and had nagged him into agreeing.

Jane told Morgan he could take the spare room and as predicted Jason exploded when he found out. After all now he had to support three people on his salary.

"That fucking useless brother of yours better be gone in a week. He's a parasite... a drain on society. I want him GONE. It's bad enough that you just sit around here living off me - but I refuse to support him too."

But two weeks later and Morgan was still there. Jason was becoming increasingly bad tempered and Jane begged her brother to do something.

"At least... get a job. There are medical trials in the paper... they pay well. Please do something to get Jason off my back."

Morgan sighed and wearily agreed to sign up to a well paid medical trial. He signed up over the phone and a few days later a bottle of pink pills turned up at the house.

Morgan had to take one pill a day and record the effects. The trial was well paid and Jack was satisfied when Morgan paid off some of the food bills he'd been running up.

"I still want that loser gone," he muttered - "but at least whilst we are stuck with him, he's earning his keep at last."

**********

The first change that Jane noticed about Morgan was the dramatic weight-loss. The pink pills seemed to have an immediate effect on his metabolism and within two days there was a noticeable difference.

Not only did weight start to slough off him, but he became more active. He began to rise earlier and even eat less. His body began to get slimmer and slimmer and a sudden interest in exercise only seemed to speed up the transformation.

The second thing she noticed was the effect on his health. Morgan's pale unhealthy skin began to take on a healthy glow and his acne cleared up. His lank, greasy hair seemed to thicken and become glossier. It grew at an astonishing rate and within a few days it had reached his shoulders. Blonde streaks now showed at the roots.

Surprisingly the three day old stubble he normally sported on his chin went completely. At first Jane thought he must be shaving it off - but after watching him for a few days - she realised it was just... gone.

Morgan was delighted with the changes... the pink pills were giving him a new lease of life and he was delighted when another bottle arrived and he was told to increase his dose to two pills a day.

His clothes barely fit him and so it was hard to tell under his baggy t-shirts and loose sweat pants - but there was something distrubing about his body shape.

The more Jane looked at her brother - the more she worried about the effect of the pills. His features seemed smoother, his skin silkier. His body hair seemed to have completely fallen out and there were curves to his hips and chest that she was sure didn't use to be there.

Her suspicions were confirmed one day when she came home to find Morgan in her gym clothes.

Jane's grey tracky bottoms fit his increased ass and wider hips perfectly and her gym top showed off his toned arms and abs. The plunging neckline of the top also revealed a growing well of cleavage.

Morgan's hair was now a dirty blonde colour half way down to his lower back and he seemed to have shrunk in height and mass. When Jane looked at him she saw a girl who looked a lot like her... only in some ways prettier.

"Morgan... those pills. You gotta stop taking them and you gotta get help. They're feminising you!"

Morgan shrugged, "Why would I do that? I've never felt better."

The door opened and Jason walked in. He did a double take as he saw Morgan.

"M... Morgan is that you? Holy shit, what the fuck have those pills done to you? How is this possible?"

Morgan giggled... he actually giggled and Jane suddenly noticed his voice was much lighter in pitch and tone. It sounded... feminine.

"I don't know but I'd say it's an improvement wouldn't you?"

Jane suddenly realised that Jason was looking at Morgan in a way he never had before. Approvingly. His hungry eyes were roaming up and down her brothers body. She felt a flood of jealousy and annoyance. Her brother had to go.

"Jason, he's still a useless freebooting loser. You were right. We should have kicked him out weeks ago. Pack your stuff Morgan."

"Wait!" cried Morgan in horror. "Please... I know I've been useless but thanks to these pills I'm changing. I can make everything up to you both."

"I'm not interested Morgan," Jane spat. "Jason and I want you out of this house!"

Morgan looked at Jason. His face took on a pleading expression. Soft pink lips twisted into a pout, big dark eyes fluttered enticingly. "IS that what you still want Jason?"

"No... wait... lets not be hasty," muttered Jason turning to look at Jane. "We can't just kick her out - not like this."

"Her?" asked Jane incredulously.

"Did I say that?" he scowled. "You know what I mean. Him I mean. We can't just throw him out... not like this."

They began to argue. Jane couldn't believe Jason had changed his mind. Morgan just stood looking at them, biting his lip like a naughty schoolgirl waiting to hear his fate.

"Fuck this... we'll make a decision later tonight," scowled Jason. "We need to calm down and think this over. I'm going to my office."

He turned and marched out and as Jane glared at Morgan and stormed up to her bedroom.

***********

Jane cried in her room for a few minutes. She expected Jason to come apologise, but when he didn't she decided she would go speak to him in his office.

Walking down the landing, she heard voices and pausing she listened at the door.

"Thank you for supporting me Jason, I can't believe my own sister has turned on me. I need you to protect me," came Morgan's voice.

"I already have a wife to look after, why should I look after you too?" snarled Jason's voice.

"Because Jason - you pay for this house and everything in it, but you don't get anything in return from her. No wonder you feel so angry. Your freeloading wife brings her freeloading brother here. She never gives you any attention and she just takes advantage of you. A guy like you deserves more. I'll find a way to give it to you if you let me stay. What do you want from me?"

"I... I just want you to make yourself useful. Stop being such a useless layabout and find a purpose in life. Those pills have made you fit and hot, you should use that to your advantage."

"Yes..." smiled Morgan. "Whatever you want."

Peering in through the crack in the door - Jane watched her feminised brother sinking to his knees in front of Jason.

"Wh... what the fuck are you doing?" he stammered as Morgan reached out and unzipped his fly.

"Making myself useful..."

Jason groaned as his dick sprang out. Jane's heart was beating and she thought she was going to scream as she watched her brother begin to pump her husbands dick.

"Don't you like this? I'm finally using my new body to my advantage."

Jane watched as Morgan leant down to her husbands stiffening dick and without any hesitation slid it into his mouth.

"Mmmppphhhhhh, *glug*"

Jason groaned in pleasure and his manly hands slid onto Morgan's blonde head and began to pump his head up and down on his rock hard cock.

"Yessssss suck my cock you little fucking slut. Fucking take it."

Saliva oozed out of the corner of Morgan's mouth and there were tears in the corner his eyes as he gagged and choked on dick. Glugging and moaning, his head bobbed up and down as he took the cock like a pro.

Jason was in heaven. Jane had never seen her husband so turned on. When she had sucked Jason's cock - it was nothing like this. It lacked this primal sexual energy.

"That's it you little fucking slut - you're my bitch now," groaned Jason in delight. "Keep making yourself useful and you can stay as long as you like. Ahhhhh I'm gonna fucking cum, take it all you slut."

Morgan's eyes widened and Jason's balls throbbed as he gasped and began to unload into his brother-in-laws mouth.

"Fucckkkkk if only your sister could suck cock like that," grinned Jason. "You're already better than her at that."

Morgan giggled, cum still leaking from the corner of his mouth. He swallowed happily.

"I was born to be a girl. Let me stay and I'll become better than her at EVERYTHING. I promise Daddy."

Jason shivered in delight. "Yesssss make yourself into my slut and you can stay as long as you like."

"Mmmmh, let me wash those pink pills down with your cum. I want this so badly."

Seeing the rapture in their faces Jane didn't know what to do. She should have burst inside raging almost ten minutes ago, but for some reason she had just stood and watched.

Worse... her pussy was wet and there was something kind of hot about watching her brother replace her.

Was she... enjoying this?

She went back to her room and fingered herself to orgasm as she cried. This was fucked up.

*************

Over the next week Morgan changed further. He had increased his dosage of the pink pills - but he also now embraced the transformation.

Jason stopped sleeping with Jane. Each night he would make some pathetic excuse so he and Morgan could be alone. Each night Jane would secretly watch as Morgan sucked Jason's cock and then she would get off to it.

One night as she watched, Morgan didn't sink to his knees as was usual. Instead he bent over the desk and flicked up his tiny skirt.

His tiny cock was caged in pink plastic and he spread his perfect tight asshole enticingly. In moments Jason was inside him, and the two of them moaned in joined pleasure as Morgan got fucked deep and hard.

Jason had truly made Morgan into his bitch.

Jane woke up one morning to hear banging next door in Morgan's room. She watched as he hauled out his old oversized clothes and replaced them with new female clothes.

She saw to her horror that Morgan had their credit card. Jason had obviously given it to her and he was now watching approvingly as his new slut filled her wardrobe with boots, miniskirts and crop tops.

The pills had almost finished their work now. Morgan's hair was now a bitchy blonde, his breasts were full and perfectly formed - every curve of his body was feminine perfection.

You would only have known he was a man because of the tiny micro-dick in those pretty panties.

And the fact that Morgan was a better woman and more attractive than Jane now just made her horny.

The couple had obviously realised she knew what was happening and once Jason knew that Jane wasn't going to object it was only a matter of time.

One morning at breakfast - Jason ordered Morgan to flip up his skirt. Moments later he was busy fucking the shit out of him whilst Jane watched helplessly.

"Your brother is finally of some use. He's my fuck-slut now," growled Jason as Morgan moaned and played with his tits as his Daddy fucked him in the ass.

"Mmmmmhhh too bad loser," giggled Morgan to Jane. "Your husband is mine now and I'm his obedient little whore."

The pink pills had turned her brother into a homewrecking bitch. Jane hated and worshipped her new sister in equal measure. She had discovered that nothing made her cum harder than watching her husband cheat on her.

It became natural to defer to Morgan. Her new sister began to become bossy and dominant in the home. Dressed in the most stylish outfits and looking like a Goddess - Morgan forced Jane to lick her boots and even eat Jason's cum out of her ass.

"Your useless lazy brother is gone," smirked Morgan as she played with her long blonde hair. "I'm your bitch of a sister now."

Jane was forced to watch as Jason moved Morgan into their master bedroom. Night after night she'd listen to them fuck next door - the pounding thuds and screams of ecstasy powering her own pleasure as she finger fucked her needy pussy.

She knew Jason would never fuck her again. She knew she was now a cuckquean and like some perverted bitch liked it. She knew she wasn't worthy to lick Morgan's boots.

Her sister had moved in - and there was no getting rid of her ever again...

#evie hyde #bitchification #m2f transformation #m2f corruption

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