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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 2 years ago

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Toxic Tutorials

(Both of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Azalea here. Caliban and Murdock will only be mentioned, but my boys still deserve credit. So, for more information about Caliban, go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: talk of death/dying, poisonous plants, toxic chemicals, talk of pain/sickness, implied murder, food, talk of eating/drinking, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

A soft, satisfying crack broke the silence in Azalea’s kitchen. The egg in her hand dripped with yolk and albumen—the same way a skull might drip with brains and blood.

After tossing the broken shell into the garbage can, she spent the next moment or two incorporating the yolk into a concoction of butter, sugars and 🅥🅐🅝🅘🅛🅛🅐 🅔🅧🅣🅡🅐🅒🅣. She repeated this process with a second egg, as well as a blend of flour, baking soda and salt. Once that was done, she exchanged her hand-mixer for a silicone spatula, which she used to fold in a bag’s worth of chocolate chips.

Just like that, Azalea had a bowl full of fresh, ready-for-the-oven cookie dough on her hands.

However, she wasn’t about to bake it. She left the mixing bowl on the counter before heading to the sink to wash the equipment she’d used.

A few special ingredients had to be added before this batch of cookies could be completed. Obviously, Azalea could’ve just taken care of this herself. It wasn’t like there was anything to stop her. . .

As she set her tools on the drying rack, the long, loud, pre-recorded chime of her doorbell suddenly rang throughout the house. Azalea startled (whether or not this could indicate the cleanliness of her conscience was up for debate), but was still quick to compose herself.

She walked through the living room and took a moment to peer at her reflection on the TV’s black screen. After checking her white button-down for stains and making some adjustments to her cherry-red headband, Azalea moved to the front foyer and pulled the door open. She discovered Murdock’s tagalong on her front porch. They flinched, probably having been rocking back and forth on their heels during their wait.

“Oh, hey!” The Newcomer blurted, offering a small hand-wave as their gray eyes met her brown ones. “You, uh—you must be Azalea, right?”

Azalea hummed in affirmation. “Just call me Aza if you’d like.”

She held out a hand, which The Newcomer was quick to grasp. She took a few seconds to look them up and down as they shook. The Newcomer stood at an average height: much taller than her, about the same as Caliban and Murdock.

Aside from that, their characteristics were. . .vague. Vague enough to make the scarlet leather gloves on their hands stand out even more than they already did. A backpack was slung over their shoulder, boasting a pattern that resembled a hodge-podge of newspapers.

“Nice to meet you,” they said with a polite smile. “Thanks for taking the time today.”

“Likewise! It’s no problem at all,” Azalea answered as she stepped aside. “C’mon in.”

The Newcomer stepped forward, their eyes wandering about the decor around them as their host closed the front door. They then padded after her as she returned to the kitchen.

Azalea hovered in the space between her oven and the bar, gesturing towards the stools on the other side of said bar. “I heard you met my brother for a demonstration a little while ago. Did he treat you well?”

As they set their backpack down and took a seat, The Newcomer’s eyes widened. The smile remained on their face, though it grew ever-so-slightly nervous.

“Yeah,” they eventually answered. “Cal was super welcoming. His methods were interesting to study.”

“That’s nice to hear. He said you were a great help.” Azalea could tell they were being genuine, but she supposed she couldn’t really blame their anxiety. Sure, they were new to the whole being-a-contract-killer-and-doing-other-types-of-illegal-stuff-professionally racket, but interacting with a cannibal was in a whole other ballpark.

Gratitude manifested in The Newcomer’s eyes, slowly but surely overtaking the wariness. It was a refreshing thing to see.

“Now, to business,” Azalea pronounced. She rested her hands on the bar, lightly drumming her nails on the marble finish. “What do you know about toxic stuff?”

“I, uh. . .well. . .” The Newcomer chewed their lip in thought.

Azalea stayed quiet, raising her eyebrows, showing patience and encouragement.

“Oh! I know almonds can mask the taste of cyanide,” The Newcomer eventually answered. “And arsenic is basically untraceable, since its key elements are vital to the diets of most mammals.” They paused, awkwardly glancing around the room. “That’s about it, I guess.”

“Hey, that’s still a decent start,” Azalea reassured. “You already know more than I’d expected.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just never really worked with poison before,” The Newcomer said with wide, uncertain-yet-curious eyes. They obviously weren’t afraid of the concept; just a bit shy about it. Their tone was somewhat similar to that of a schoolkid introducing themself to their new class.

(Which, in a strange way, they kind of were. If you squinted, at least.)

“A lot of people haven’t. In fact, a lot of people probably shouldn’t, because that’s how news stories about blue-ringed octopi being handled without gloves happen.”

The Newcomer let out a light chuckle. “And that makes the professionals look bad, huh?”

“Exactly.” Azalea felt something grim etch its way into her smile. “And that’s why you’re here. Even if you don’t end up having poison as your signature, it’ll still be good for you to know your way around it. Just in case.”

Azalea stepped away from the bar, beginning to pace the kitchen floor as she continued. “Different materials have to be handled in different ways. For example: if you wanted to use venom from a snake or a spider, you’d have to inject it into your target in order to get actual results.”

“Wait, really?” The Newcomer asked. “Venom wouldn’t work on a target if it was swallowed?”

“You’d think that it would. When I first started out, I thought so, too. But it all comes back to the difference between poison and venom. Which is. . ?” Azalea gestured toward The Newcomer, encouraging them to speak.

“If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous. If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous,” The Newcomer stated, as though they were practicing with grammar flashcards.

Azalea nodded. “Very good. Venom is harmful when it gets into your veins. And the acids in your stomach are actually strong enough to break down venom before it’s absorbed into your bloodstream. You’d probably still get sick, but that’d be it.”

“. . .Oh! Okay, that makes sense.” The Newcomer replied, eyes thoughtful. They considered this for a good few seconds before inquiring, “What if the target had an ulcer? Would that make venom kill them if they ate it?”

“Yeah, it would!” Azalea laughed. “And you said you don’t have much experience with this stuff!”

The Newcomer offered a timid smile, shrugging.

“But when you’re taking on a job, you can’t really depend on something like an ulcer,” Azalea quickly added. “We may need to know as much about our targets as possible, but sometimes, our clients can only provide so much information. And even when we do our own research, we still have limits to deal with.”

The Newcomer nodded. “Right, right.”

“Getting back on track. Injecting venom can certainly be effective, but it doesn’t offer much in the discreet department.”

“And this family relies on things being handled quietly and carefully,” The Newcomer said with an air of understanding. “When in doubt, hide in plain sight.”

Azalea hummed. “And if poisoning a meal doesn’t count as camouflage, then I’m not sure what does.”

She quickly strolled over to the laundry room. On the cabinet above her washing machine, a vaguely owl-shaped watering can looked out over everything below. It was covered in pieces of colored metal, which gave the impression of spiky feathers. The very top of the can boasted a piece of coppery metal that had been cut into an upside-down, slightly-curved triangle to give the owl a pair of those ear-horn-things and a beak. The can’s spout was hidden behind said beak, which was flanked by a pair of wide yellow eyes with huge pupils.

Caliban had given this to Azalea for Christmas last year, and ever since then, it’d been one of her favorite household items. Azalea unfolded an elaborate mahogany stepstool beside the washing machine in order to reach the owl-can, then carried it over to the kitchen sink and held it under the faucet.

“Would it be okay if I took pictures throughout the process?” The Newcomer asked from behind her.

Though Azalea didn’t flinch, she became tense on instinct as she turned the water off. She then turned to face The Newcomer, her dark brown eyes drilling into their dull gray ones, looking for any trace of dishonesty or ulterior motives.

The Newcomer blinked, and another type of nervousness appeared in their expression.

They were quick to add, “Ah, if it’s a no, then I won’t push it. I just thought this could be some good material for my notes.”

“‘Notes?’” Azalea echoed. “What kind of notes?”

The Newcomer unzipped one of the compartments in their backpack, quickly fishing out a small roll of tape, an Instax camera, a mechanical pencil. . .and a journal. They offered the book to Azalea, who carefully took it and examined it.

The front cover was grayish-black card stock, adorned by image of a jumping spider which seemed to have been hand-embroidered with vivid purple threads. When she opened it up, she discovered lines of neat penmanship, as well as some sketches here and a few small photographs there. The first several pages were full, but there were still at least a hundred more pages that remained blank.

“I know my phone and laptop are safe, but Murdock said it’s good to keep an extra log,” The Newcomer mentioned. “Since I’m still just making my way here.”

Azalea pursed her lips in thought. That did sound like the kind of advice Murdock would give.

One part of her wanted to be suspicious; like The Newcomer had just said, any electronics belonging to Pentas representatives were in no danger of being tapped or recorded.

The same couldn’t exactly be said for something more physical, like this notebook. Especially if said notebook wound up being lost. . .or being turned over to an outside party. . .

However, another part of her remembered that not just anyone could join The Pentas Family. Underground business was never for the faint of heart—if you really wanted to make a name for yourself, then you had to earn it. You had to give up blood, sweat, and tears (and if you were to end up doing something traitorous, then even more of those bodily fluids would be taken from you. Violently). So, of course, The Boss was always vigilant when it came to bringing in new people.

Though she’d only known The Newcomer for a short time, Azalea could already tell that they were a good addition. They were just getting their feet wet, but they clearly had that cunning, unconventional and resourceful nature that The Boss invested in.

“As long as you don’t aim the camera flash at my eyes, I’ve got no problem with photography,” Azalea finally stated as she gave The Newcomer’s journal back to them. “Just make sure you keep close track of this book.”

“Of course,” The Newcomer said, nodding solemnly.

Azalea took a few more seconds to peer at them before turning on her heel to lead them through the laundry room, out the backdoor, and into her backyard.

The weather was lovely today. Birds were singing, clouds were slowly chasing one another across the sky. Sunlight glinted off the panes of Azalea’s greenhouse, making it almost appear to be sparkling.

The structure’s looks were truly just as deceiving as the things that it was currently protecting.

Azalea paused before the glass door, reaching into one of her pockets and fishing out a small bronze key. Although it didn’t have much of an antique appearance, its bow had been crafted to resemble one half of a pomegranate; the seeds packed inside were visible. If a mold hadn’t been used to make it, then the designing process must’ve been painstaking.

She slipped the pomegranate key’s biting cuts into the greenhouse’s doorknob, then turned it to the left. Once she heard a sharp, confirming click, Azalea held the door open, allowing The Newcomer to step inside.

They gaped in wonder, slowly turning in a circle to take in the beautiful controlled chaos. She chuckled at the sight of a killer-in-training looking like a kid in a candy store. As she worked with these plants on a regular basis, she’d gotten adjusted to the veritable explosion of color in here.

White baneberries resembled tiny eyeballs, and the red branches they sprouted from added to an eeriness factor. . .Hydrangeas gave off soft, soothing vibes; the way their blooms clustered together could almost remind one of popcorn balls. . . Angel’s trumpets were colored similarly to pale peaches. . .Larkspurs came in a lovely mixture of blue and purple. . .Bleeding hearts were vividly pink and hung from sinuous, gently-curling tendrils. . .

And that was just scratching the surface of Azalea’s collection.

The air in here was a bit more humid than the air outside, which seemed to make the various scents wafting off of the flora even stronger. Two of the four walls were adorned by wooden shelving, which in turn supported a few dozen flower pots that came in a plethora of shapes, sizes and colors (more past gifts from Caliban. He really knew how to make a horticulturist happy).

Some were kept in shade under suspended veils, and others nearly seemed to glow in the sunlight. Dew droplets clung to leaves here and there. A few baskets hung from the ceiling, almost identical to the decorations on lamp posts lining the streets downtown.

Azalea led The Newcomer over to a wide folding table at the head of everything. She set the owl-can down, then rummaged through the boxes stowed beneath said table, dragging out some basic gardening tools, a bunch of small plastic bowls, and a bag of soil. The Newcomer placed their journal and camera on one corner of the table, trying to take up as little space as possible.

“We’re gonna kill two birds with one stone.” Azalea donned some clean leather gloves. “I’ve got a job coming up this weekend, and today’s repotting day for some of the plants. So, while I’m taking care of them, you’re gonna help extract some of their poison. Sound good?”

The Newcomer nodded briskly, their eyes excited and unhinged. “Sounds great.”

Azalea grinned. “Let’s get to work, then.”

She stepped away from the table and surveyed the shelves, wondering which plant would be best to start with. She wound up choosing one specimen that was adorned by little rows of white, bell-shaped flowers dangling from thin stems. They looked like something a cartoon pixie might wear as a hat. Delicate. Innocent.

Azalea lifted its pot—which looked like a kodama sitting cross-legged—off the shelf and set it down on the table. “You know what these are?”

The Newcomer blinked at her, then cautiously leaned forward to get a closer look. Their features softened. The plant practically smelled the way it looked: sweet and fragile.

“. . .Snowdrops?” They eventually guessed.

Azalea shook her head. “Nope.”

“Ladybells?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Cassiope?”

“Close,” Azalea said, impressed, “but no. Give up?”

“Yeah,” The Newcomer admitted. Their tone was partially defeated, but still curious. “What are they?”

Azalea took one of the stems into her hand and held it away from the rest. “Lilies-of-the-valley,” she announced.

The Newcomer grabbed their Instax, kneeling in order to get a closeup on the flowers. Azalea looked the other way as they focused the lens.

Whrrrrrrrrr. . .SKRT-CLK!

A quick, sharp, bright light flashed at the press of a button. The camera softly hummed as The Newcomer stood up straight. A few seconds passed before a small photograph popped up through a slit on the camera’s side. The Newcomer pulled it out by one corner and carefully shook it up and down. The black rectangle in the center gradually filled with color.

Azalea offered a thumbs-up, which caused The Newcomer to beam as they taped the picture to a blank page in their journal.

As they wrote down and underlined the specimen’s name, Azalea wrapped one hand around the stems to bring them all together. She used her other hand to dig into the soil, gently lifting the lilies out and laying them down on the table. She separated two plants from the rest, pushing them and a pair of gardening scissors towards The Newcomer. “Just cut off the blossoms and put them in one of these bowls.”

The Newcomer took the tool into their hands, nodding enthusiastically.

While they went to work, Azalea took the kodama-pot outside and upended it over her compost mound, getting rid of the old, dry dirt. After that, she hurried back into the greenhouse and gathered the lilies up. She held them in the center of the kodama-pot, carefully pouring some fresh soil around them.

Once they had enough support, she gave them some water and returned the kodama-pot to its place on the shelves. Then, she glanced at the table and realized that The Newcomer had completed their task; one bowl was filled with the bell-shaped flowers.

“Two leaves are enough to make a target severely ill,” Azalea said. “If you’re looking for more fatal results, then you’ll need to use five of the flowers. Its berries can work just as well, but they only sprout around fall.”

The Newcomer paused at this, quickly jotting down notes beside the photograph. “How long does it take? What does the poison do to a person?”

“The symptoms can occur anywhere from two to twenty-four hours. It typically starts off with headaches and dizziness. But then there’s nausea, vomiting, and chest pain. Near the end, the target will experience an altered mental status, an irregular heart rate. . . .and, eventually, cardiac arrest.”

“Holy shit,” The Newcomer murmured, eyes widening in shock.

“Holy shit indeed,” Azalea said as she took another unique planter from the shelves.

This one was a mottled gray color, sculpted in the likeness of a wolf’s raised head. Its clay jaws were wide open and hollow; seven stems lined with dark purple, helmet-shaped flowers seemed to have sprouted from deep within the beast’s throat.

As Azalea carried it over to the table, The Newcomer looked up from their journal.

Their face lit up with recognition as they proclaimed, “Hey, I’ve seen those before! Wolfsbane!” Their uncertainty was made of some stern stuff, because it took no time at all for them to question, “Or. . .is the name monkshood? I’ve heard both, but—”

“It goes by both of those names,” Azalea interjected, “so, you’re right either way. Eating it will make your mouth go numb, your skin turn clammy, and cause awful stomach pain. And after that, a target can expect labored breathing and an irregular heartbeat. Just a two-milligram dose can kill within four hours.”

The Newcomer’s hands were nearly a blur as they readied their Instax. Once again, Azalea had to brace herself for the flash, but it wasn’t long before she was removing more old soil and leaving three of the wolfsbane plants out for The Newcomer.

“Every part is dangerous, but the roots are where this poison is at its strongest,” she explained. “You can take off the flowers if you want, but you don’t have to.”

“Got it,” The Newcomer stated, taping their new photograph to a fresh page in their journal. . .

___

“I still can’t believe I never thought to do my own research on the poinsettia myth,” The Newcomer stated. They were currently holding a calcite mortar-and-pestle, using it to grind some freshly-dried wolfsbane roots into a fine powder.

Azalea shrugged as she reduced a mound of belladonna berries to paste with a stainless steel masher. “I mean, it’s partially true. Those things are toxic, just not deadly. Besides, I can’t really blame people for wanting to keep their pets safe, y’know?”

The Newcomer hummed, nodding, probably thinking about the beloved dog they’d mentioned to their host a little while ago.

About twenty minutes had passed since Azalea’s greenhouse had returned to being silent and empty (aside from all the greenery it sheltered). Azalea found herself back in her kitchen, The Newcomer still by her side, the two of them working on the fruits of the harvest.

Oleander petals became liquified inside a food processor, and the lilies-of-the-valley met a similar fate thanks to a blender. Foxglove blossoms were being dried out inside a microwave oven, having replaced the wolfsbane’s roots just a moment ago.

“And the hemlock trick!” The Newcomer pronounced, eyes widening as their previous frustration vanished. “A flower that forces you to smile when you die? It’s crazy how something like that can actually exist!”

“Yeah, well, muscle constriction is a heck of a thing,” Azalea replied. “Too bad hemlock’s so traceable. Can’t really be used unless you’re sending a specific message.”

It was honestly delightful to have seen just how inquisitive The Newcomer really was. If she’d met them in normal society, she probably would’ve mistaken them for someone who still had the luxury of innocence.

The poison-preparation-process took almost no time at all. After lining up her used equipment by the sink, Azalea produced a box of glass vials that, while appropriately labeled, were empty. One by one, she handed a certain vial to The Newcomer, who paced around the kitchen to fill it with the right substance.

And as they were taking care of the last vial, The Newcomer suddenly stopped short.

“Why’re those in here instead of your greenhouse?” They asked, pointing over to the living room. “Are they not poisonous like the rest?”

Azalea raised an eyebrow, following their gaze and quickly understanding.

Just behind Azalea’s sofa, yet another planter sat in one corner of the front windowsill; it was in the shape of a human skull. Its teeth resembled tarnished brass, and purple spirals had been painted in the darkness of its eyesockets.

A hole had been carved out of the skull’s crown, and a healthy shrub currently protruded through said hole like an erupting geyser. Several lovely blossoms stood out against dark green leaves. The petals were a rich pink hue, funnel-shaped with a slightly rippled appearance.

The space in her house was very nicely furnished, but these were the only flowers that had apparently been grown in here rather than outside.

“Oh, no! They can definitely be life-threatening,” Azalea eventually answered. “I guess they’re just very special to me.”

“How so, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“They contain grayanotoxins. So, their side effects range from blurred vision, vomiting, and low blood-pressure to convulsions, mild full-body paralysis, and even seizures.” Azalea strolled over to the skull-planter, reaching out to gently poke at the specimen’s petals. “All parts of it are deadly, although the leaves pack a serious wallop. But its real strength is in its nectar.”

“. . .Are you saying this plant’s honey can kill?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Azalea declared.

The Newcomer blinked before starting to laugh. “I guess that must be the easiest stuff for you to use, huh?

“Yes and no. I have special connections to the local flower shop, which means I can send these off to contracted beekeepers,” Azalea explained. “But honey harvested from these flowers tends to be dark red, so, kinda-sorta-extremely identifiable.”

“Ah. I can see how that might throw a wrench into certain plans,” The Newcomer agreed, wandering closer. “But how does the honey work?”

“After bees finish ingesting the nectar and secrete it into their hive’s combs, the water inside the honey will evaporate. That’ll make the toxins even more concentrated.” Azalea paused, grinning wickedly. “When consumed in large amounts, it generally does the same damage I just told you about. In smaller doses, let’s just say that the consumer’s gonna be. . .seeing things for a while.”

The Newcomer gawked at this. If their expression didn’t qualify for morbid fascination, nothing would. “Really? You mean. . .like a hallucinogenic?”

“It isn’t called Mad Honey for nothing.”

“Wow,” The Newcomer breathed.

“I know, right? And can you guess what the best part is. . ?”

“What?” The Newcomer stared at the gorgeous pink blossoms, no doubt wondering how this risky treat they’d just learned about actually tasted.

“The honey’s actually legal to sell in the states!”

“Nuh-uh! You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not!” Azalea chortled. “It’s prohibited in plenty of other nations, but here? It’s just expensive as all hell.”

The Newcomer still looked very much disbelieving, but the shock in their eyes soon morphed into something more thoughtful. They considered this information for a long few seconds.

They eventually remarked, “So. . .if you were to sell some Mad Honey to a target, as long as you played your cards right, their death would only be seen as a case of accidental overdose?”

Azalea jokingly clapped her hands, nodding and smirking. “I can see why Murdock decided to vouch for you.”

The Newcomer stayed quiet. They offered a small smile in response; it was hesitant at first, but an undeniable trace of madness could be seen.

Azalea reached over to clap them on the back, gently leading them back over to the kitchen. “Let’s get back to it. How’d you like to choose what I put in the cookie dough?”

Though The Newcomer seemed both excited and honored by the prospect, they suddenly stuttered, almost halting in their tracks.

That made Azalea give pause. “. . .Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Don’t worry,” The Newcomer blurted, shaking their head. “I just realized—I never got the name of those flowers.” They glanced over their shoulder at the skull-planter.

Azalea’s brief concern shifted back to unconventional happiness. “Oh, didn’t I say?” Her voice was coy, as she was well-aware that she hadn’t brought up the title at all. “They’re azaleas.”

@sammys-magical-au @neons-trash-blog @insane4fandoms @callmegkiddo @safe-hayven @themarpsimp

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countlessrealities · 2 years ago

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@mcltiples sent: 👀 { To Evil Rick from Weird Rick // ofc he wants the dirty fantasy 🤭} send 👀 for a dirty GRUESOME thought and/or fantasy my muse has had about yours || no longer accepting

It's one of the rare nights when Rick isn't tucked away in his lab, working on this or that project. However, despite how much he relishes in the cold quietness of the room that has become his domain, he can't forget that he isn't on his own anymore. He has a owner now, a partner, and he deserves his attention and presence more than any of his experiments.

Usually his alternate can entertain himself, even when he spends his evening in their bunker. And, if he decides that he doesn't want to, he comes to fetch him and do with him as he pleases.

That's another difference between their routine and today. His partner hasn't come looking for his company. Rick has decided to offer it of his own free will. It's not the first time, but it's definitely not a common occurrence either.

Without a word, Rick carries two glasses over the couch, filled with a generous amount of the ale they have stolen during their last interdimensional trip. The liquor is stronger than any variety that can be find on Earth and its flavour is a well-balanced combination of sweet and sour. It also leaves on the tongue a light, sizzling metallic after taste, which is perhaps the part he likes best.

Taking a seat, he presses one of the glasses in his alternate's hand, before downing half of his own in one go. Gray blue eyes slide close for an instant, to allow him to savour that final sting, and then they open again, locking on his partner's face.

"R-Rick," he starts, shifting closer until he can comfortably press his chest against the other's side. "There's something I want to share with you."

One of his arms slides over the edge of the couch, elbow bending so that his fingers can reach those blue locks, studiously playing with them. The hand that is holding his glass casually rests on his alternate's thighs, slowly rubbing one through the thick fabric of the other's trousers.

His expression is mostly blank as per usual, but there's a dark hint in his eyes. Cold and cutting, but also relentless and avid, almost ravenous. Like the gravity of a black hole.

"I-I was thinking about you, earlier." His voice is just slightly louder than a whisper, but it's enough for his words to be perfectly audible as they are evenly breathed in his partner's ear. "S-Strapped on one of mine operating tables, naked, in place of the being I was vivisecting."

His tone grows darker at that matching the eerie look in his eyes.

"I-I'd use this little serum I've been developing...i-it should slow down your regeneration enough to let me take my time with you."

One of his personal side projects, the ones he doesn't tell his alternate about unless he has a good reason to.

"I-I'd start with a classic, a Y incision on your torso. Detach your skin and pectoral to expose your ribs. Open up your abdomen like a box full of presents."

He can see it so, so vividly. The blood spilling over from the cuts, bright red over paling skin. The way the muscles would contract, the pulsing of the intestines, the lungs expanding and emptying with every breath.

His lips brush the shell of his partner's ear. He tilts his head just a little, enough to graze the lobe with his teeth.

"I'd dig my hands in your guts, wrap your small intestine around my wrist. L-Like a shackle, keeping me where I belong. Deep inside you, deeper than anyone else will ever go. An-And I'get as many tastes as I want."

The smell of blood filling the air like incense. Its slickness warm and tick on his tongue as he would bend to lap it off his partner's ribs. The throbbing of the organs under his fingertips.

"M-Maybe I'll take a few minutes to play with you, touch all your sensitive spots from the inside. See if you like is as much."

It wouldn't be sexual for him, just curiosity. He's always eager to study his alternate, body and mind. See how he works, what makes him tick, psychically and emotionally.

"T-Then I'd move back up, cut your sternum in half, pull your ribs open. Take away your last line of defense, and then you'd be completely open to me. At my mercy, vulnerable."

That's something his partner never is. With his genius, his regenerative abilities and his technology, he is untouchable. As only true gods can be. And yet he has chosen to allow him, his property, his willing possession, to see and taste and touch and smell and hear him in such an exposed state.

The fingers he's been using to toy with the other's hair moves lower, nails pushing in the flesh, hard enough to leave red marks in their passing. What he is being offered is a gift, a unique one, and he means to treasure it by showing all his dark devotion.

"I-I'll worship you, down to your bones. As every godly being should be. I'll touch everything my hands can reach, cut through what stands in my way to reach what they can't. I'll tear into your lungs, breath the air that fills them. I'll rip your aorta open, let your blood soak my face."

By now his mouth his fully pressed against his alternat's ear, hot breath caressing the skin, sliding down towards the neck.

"I'll keep your heart for last. I want your mind, Rick, you know that." The fingers that had been digging into that neck are suddenly wrapped around the throat, squeezing hard enough to make breathing a bit harder. "B-But I'll take what I'm given, while I wait for it. I'll hold it in my hand, to feel it pulsing, tightening my grip to feel it struggling."

The his grasp moves, from his partner's neck to his jaw, forcing him to turn his head so their eyes can meet.

"An-And then I'll push my face inside your chest, let you swallow all my sense and I'll sink my teeth right into it. Make your feel that you'll be mine just as much as I'm yours."

#[ ic :: Evil Rick ]#&& Prime/Weird Rick #[ v. Are you sick like me? ; canon div :: Evil Rick ]#[ You're my obsession. I'm your possession :: Evil Rick & Weird Rick ]#mcltiples #gore tw #violence tw #blood tw #[[ don't mind the mandatory edit of the meme description xD ]]#[[ can't be any other way with Evil Rick x3 ]]#[[ and to think that this is their version of foreplay omg ]]#[[ another proof that they are perfect for each other x3 ]]#[[ also the way he sits and leans on Weird Rick would have been flirty if it had been someone else ]]#[[ but of course Evil Rick makes it look creepy af -sigh- ]]

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chronicalbutch · 1 month ago

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i think me binding has caused this coughing spell omg i cannot fucking LIVE

#firstly my ear infection is finally manageable but draining through my throat instead of out my ear #which causes me to get a sore throat but i’ve been binding and now i’m coughing #these also might not be connected at all but i’m going insane over this sick shit LET ME LIVEEEE #jude.txt #tw congestion #tw mucus #just in case i know that description was gross as hell

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cheese-water · 2 years ago

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GOD ARHHHGHHGGH this is an emotional rant because I’m exhausted and need to get this off my chest.

Wear a goddamn mask. I don’t care if you already threw them all out. I don’t care if it’s uncomfortable. I don’t care if it fogs your glasses. The ONLY REASON YOU SHOULDNT HAVE TO WEAR A MASK is if you have bad respiratory issues and literally cannot breathe while wearing them. You know who you are. Thank you for putting in more effort than whiny, ignorant, able-bodied asshats who feel that their comfort takes priority over others' lives.

God, I DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY ANYMORE. EMPATHY. JUST A SLIVER OF EMPATHY FOR OTHERS. SO MUCH GOOD IN THE WORLD CAN COME FROM IT. AND YET YOU HAVE THE GALL TO CALL ME CRAZY FROM PROTECTING YOU FROM MY GERMS? GET A FUCKING HOBBY DUDE. CAUSE WHAT YOUR TRYING TO DO NOW WILL LITERALLY KILL YOU.

I got COVID for the first time in the fall of last year. When everything was "fine and dandy." And it’s not that I was a hermit or anything. I frequently had to go to school and work and whatever. And while I always wore KN90, that didn’t fucking matter. Masks protect others around you from your germs, not vice versa—just look at any COVID mask poster.

I got COVID because people stopped caring. It felt like a fucking joke to walk into a crowded room, let alone out in public, full of people who just don’t care about what may happen to you. Something they can prevent by just doing the bare minimum. Oh! My mistake! I can’t BELIEVE I asked YOU to think of others for once. How dare I even suggest you get your head out of your ass and see that the world doesn’t revolve around you, or maybe you’re the problem? The MERE THOUGHT OF INCONVENIENTLY CHANGING YOUR DAILY LIFE FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE DIEING IS JUST TOO GOD DAMN POLITICAL FOR YOU TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

So many people have the blood of millions stained on their hands. Horrific endings to millions of great lives, full of potential. Distraught families are unable or unsure how to put themselves back together without them; like shooting a gun at a perfect piece of pottery, the supports are swiftly taken, and what remains is fine dust. All of this comes from either ignorance or laziness. We all do. Hell, I do. But at least I try to scrub my hands. You don’t see me guiltlessly parading around for all to see, wearing my negligence’s victims like a shining fucking badge of honor. Others do this. Yet I’m the crazy one. I’m the paranoid one. I'M THE POLITICAL ONE

WEARING A MASK ISNT A POLITICAL STATEMENT. SURE IT CERTAINLY BECAME ONE AFTER THE PAST BACKWARD ASS YEARS WE HAD BUT IT SHOULDNT BE. I DON’T WEAR A MASK BECAUSE I WANT TO BE ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF HISTORY OR BECAUSE ACTUALLY I WANT TO BE ON THE LEFT

There’s a reason why I’m so angry. I wish it was out of pure selflessness for my fellow humans. I wish it was purely out of my love and desire for us all to be healthy, even those who choose to ignore the facts and hurt others because of it. I really do wish I had the energy to be like that. But I’m selfish. And I’m not going to pretend all my actions and all my emotions aren’t deeply rooted in this selfishness. And if my telling you guilt trips you into actually doing some good in the world, then so fucking be it.

I don't want my mom to die. She’s immunocompromised from a chronic illness too long to spell, but in short, if she gets COVID, I don’t know what I’ll do. I really don’t. And I know so many are in this situation and can’t do anything about it, are in worse situations or conditions, or are going through the grieving process now. When I got COVID in August, I was heartbroken. For the past two and a half years, I have put in the effort to keep myself safe. I wore a mask, sat alone at lunch, used every ignored hand sanitizer bottle I saw, and stayed at home as much as possible, all for nothing. All because some strangers can’t do the bare minimum.

I wasn’t only heartbroken, though. I was scared. I was terrified for not only everyone in my household, but especially my mom. Every single day I was sick, I worried that even though I was quarantining, her contact behind my door would literally be the death of her. If she just said "I love you" for a second too long, she’d be dead by morning. All because people stopped caring. I couldn’t tell you how much I cried that week, even if I tried. I didn’t want to kill my mom, even if it were by someone else’s hands.

We’re all okay now, and nothing happened BECAUSE WE WERE ABLE TO AFFORD VACCINATIONS. NOT BECAUSE OF OMICRONS' "LACK OF HOSPITALIZATIONS AND MORTALITY RATE," BULLSHIT. Because of these lies, there was a very high likelihood of me not writing this post and instead trying to cope and grapple with the sixth month anniversary of when I gave up on the world.

There are people behind those numbers. Get that through your fucking skull. Every time you go outside, just think, "Do I want to make someone’s worst nightmare a living reality?" If you don’t, then you’re going to have to put in the effort.

Just like the rest of us fucking do

You know how sometimes you catch someone in a lie, and so they tell an even bigger lie to try and cover up the first lie they told?

Well, that’s happening right now.

Last winter, a handful of celebrity doctors went on mainstream news networks to assure us that Omicron was “mild.” They carpet-bombed us with articles and tweets, doing their best to brainwash everyone.

They were wrong.

In the end, real science junked that idea. An article in the Journal of the American Medical Association showed that Omicron killed more people than previous variants, even when adjusting for other factors. Another study by doctors at Massachusetts General and Harvard Medical found that Omicron was just as deadly. In fact, “the risks of hospitalization and mortality were nearly identical.” As it turns out, the entire idea of “mild” Omicron was based on an old, flawed idea known as the law of declining virulence, developed by a doctor who was studying tick-borne disease in cows. It was debunked decades ago.

Most epidemiologists know that viruses don’t magically evolve to become milder. Virus evolution is random and chaotic.

In some cases, viruses evolve to become more deadly.

A handful of actual scientists tried to explain all this last winter, including disease experts at Johns Hopkins. A handful of other established experts spoke out against this myth. As a microbiologist at Penn State told Politifact, “You can’t just say it’s going to become nicer.” They were largely ignored, because everyone already sort of believed the misinformation. If they knew it was based on a study about cows, they probably would’ve thought twice.

This year, the makers of “it’s mild” are back.

They’re selling “immunity debt.”

We should be skeptical.

Schools and daycares are sending letters home to parents talking about this “immunity debt.” They’re saying that healthy children are getting sicker, even dying, because they weren’t exposed to enough germs over the last two years. Newspapers and TV stations across the country are running with it, proposing it as a “possible reason” for this year’s explosion in pediatric hospitalizations. Meanwhile, major medical organizations have sent a letter to President Biden urging him to declare an emergency over an “alarming surge of pediatric hospitalizations” due to a range of respiratory viruses, including Covid.

A lot of people are drinking the “immunity debt” kool-aid.

After all, Americans have believed for generations that getting sick is “good for you.” We think our immune system behaves like a muscle. We worry that if we’re not giving it a workout, we’ll get weak.

It’s a myth, just like the law of declining virulence.

Here’s why.

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rainrot4me · 5 months ago

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Return The Favor

Summary: Stumbling in on your neighbor’s chopped up body, an unlikely friendship forms between you and Toby. Striking a deal, you agree to help the killer and his friends, buying them necessary prescriptions. But when one visit turns to multiple, Toby becomes curious, finding a not so subtle love note hidden away.

Characters: Ticci Toby x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Mentions of death, explicit description of a dismembered body, decomposition, death, gore, obsession, vomit, throwing up, blood (non-sexual), blood (sexual), vaginal fingering, degradation, biting, overstimulation, squirting, creampie, vaginal, choking, gagging, somnophilia, rough, Toby literally goes insane about you, virginity kink, first time, desperation

Words: 9.4k

A/N: This shit long asl I'm so sorry... Characters in this story are not canonical!

It’s said that when there’s a dead body nearby, your body can sense it before your brain can.

It’s almost like instinct, a survival nature programmed into your brain. It’ll start with goosebumps and chills running all over your body as if you were being watched, this uncomfortable sensation that you just can’t rationalize. Then the anxiety sets in, body aching and sweating for no apparent reason but it just knows there’s something wrong.

Finally, when you’ve finally choked it up to just being your imagination, that’s when you’ll smell it. Throat instantly closing and nostrils flaring at the putrid stench of rot and gore. It’s incomparable, no amount of food poisoning or disease compares to the sickness you feel in your stomach at the smell of a human body decomposing. Every instinct in your body pleading and begging you to get out of there, run as far away until you can’t breathe anymore.

You would know. And it seemed like the boy huddled in front of you did too.

There was no real reason for you to even be in this house in the first place, but your all-too-good heart guilted you into it. You had just come home from work, mind tired and body sleepy as you unlocked your front door, tossing your bag onto the kitchen table inside. It was well past midnight, the diner you worked at closing way later than normal, but at least you made some good tips.

Sliding into your bedroom, you changed into more comfortable clothes, tying your hair back before stepping into your kitchen. You gripped the tiny journal lying on the counter, cracking the worn pages open to where you left off, scribbling your thoughts onto the paper. It was your nightly routine, journaling things you saw or did, a coping mechanism suggested by your therapist. It wasn’t for anything intensive, just minor anxiety and self-image problems, always having negative thoughts about yourself. It helped. Glancing up, you looked through the tiny window above your sink, a clear view of your neighbor’s back porch, Mr. Higgs, an older man who made it very difficult to be friendly. He was a hateful guy, always nitpicking your choice of decorations or specific outfits he didn’t find appropriate. A real sweetheart, obviously.

But compared to his usual eight PM lights out, the living room lamp was still bright, shining directly through his open back porch door. That was odd. As long as you had known this guy, it wasn’t like him to be up this late, let alone be outside. Every instinct told you to just clean up and go to bed, his angry ass probably scooting off a raccoon or something. But you just couldn’t pass up that nagging feeling, your kindheartedness overpowering you. So, sighing, you tossed a hoodie on and slid out your back door, stepping down the porch steps into the cool grass.

You flinched as a flash of brown passed your vision, small and thin against the dark grass. Cooing, you kneeled down, holding your fingers out as Mr. Higg’s old cat, Addy, sniffed the air around you, pressing against your bare legs as she purred. The man was way too protective of his cat. Something was definitely wrong.

Standing again, Addy pranced away, meowing loudly behind you as your bare feet became wet against the midnight dew, grass sticking to your ankles as you walked, arms hugging yourself against the cold. This would probably just end with you getting told to mind your business and stomping back to bed upset, but it was the thought that counted. Gripping onto the porch rail, you stepped up his creaky wooden porch, knocking against the wooden frame of the open door.

“Mr. Higgs? Everything alright?” You called into the room, refusing to go in. There was no response, you knocked again after a couple of seconds. Still nothing. You gulped, rubbing your arms against your sides, nerves wracking you. “Okay. I’m coming in. Don’t get mad 'cause you didn’t answer me.” You called again, pressing past the door and wiping your wet feet on the welcome mat.

The house was quiet, the only light being the lamp sat on a coffee table adjacent to the old couch. All the furniture had an older look like something out of the eighties, it made you cringe. “Mr. Higgs, are you home?” You shouted down the dark hallway, all the doors shut except for one at the end which you assumed to be his room. Hugging yourself, your legs felt anxious, your mind racing with all the reasons you shouldn’t walk down there. There was no reason for it, this was all just probably some old guy who forgot to shut his door, but you just couldn’t shake the feeling.

Taking a step down the hallway, that’s when it started. Those feelings, like your body can feel shouldn’t be there. The air suddenly grew thick, a nauseating feeling setting in against your chest, pressing down like a conscious weight. But you shook it off, telling yourself it was just you scaring yourself with all of those crime shows, but you should’ve known better.

The door was cracked, moonlight from the open shades pressing against the doorframe, your hand flat against the wood as you pushed the door open. Then came the smell. It was stout, a putrid funk that wafted against the walls, souring the room. The room was dark, pupils blown wide as they fought to see, hand sliding against the wall and searching for a light switch. Your body was tense, senses on high alert against the dark, breathing ragged against the awful stench filling your senses. Your eyes were beginning to water, wondering what in the hell could be stinking this terribly, until you felt the switch, flipping it on.

Your first instinct was to throw up, throat constricting and stomach tightening, but you just couldn’t move. You were petrified by the scene in front of you. Mr. Higgs was there, at least, what you could recognize of him. His head had been cleaved from his body, intensive amounts of blood staining his beige bedsheets. His cheeks were bloated, a gnarly purple color as his veins poked against his forehead, skin wrinkled and soaked in blood as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. They were yellow now, dark veins contrasting against the orbs as puss leaked from every hole on his expressionless face. The rest of his body was scattered, chunks of muscle shredded from his arms and hands like they had been cut off, legs more or less the same. His wide stomach was completely visible, his skin swollen and dark, bloated against the same liquids spilling from his pores. The blood was the worst part. It was just everywhere. Splattered on the sheets, the nightstand, even the walls, specks reaching the roof. You were so lost in your racing thoughts, your heart pounding heavily against your chest as you gripped the door tightly, knuckles white on the frame. You could feel the cold sweat drip down your brow, utter fear chilling your body.

You wouldn’t have even noticed the tall boy standing in the corner if he hadn’t flinched, eyes wide and locked on you. He was lanky, easily taller than you and pale. No, not pale, more gray. He had curly brown hair that fell in front of his eyes, his freckled cheeks flushed against the bandages across his jaw. A pair of goggles rested amongst his curls, a dark mask covering his nose and mouth. He wore dark wash jeans loose around his hips and a heavier brown hoodie that was stained with dark blood. Oh God. The boy didn’t look much older than you despite his bruise battered skin. But he wasn’t moving, wasn’t talking, he was just watching.

His hands were behind his back, shoulders scrunched against the corner of the dark walls as you pressed back off the door frame, breathing ragged. “Who the hell are you?” You grimaced, tone coming across a lot more confident than you felt. The boy flinched, not out of fear, more like a bodily reaction. He refused to answer, eyes scanning around quickly until he pressed off the wall, sliding to the shuttered window and pinching the blinds open, scanning the night without explanation. That’s when you heard loud boots stepping up the porch steps, head spinning quickly down the hallway. “Shit.” You heard him, the boy’s voice panicked and rough, his boots stepping quickly across the hardwood and into your vicinity. Panic strained you, head spinning back quickly before your vision was filled with his arms wrapping around you, palm slapping over your mouth as he pressed you to his chest.

You tried to fight back, mumbled pleas against his hand as you shouldered his arms, your back pressed firmly against him. He was dragging you into the room, your feet dragging as you struggled, clawing his arms away but he never budged, practically unaware of the scratches you were leaving on his hands. “F- Fuckin’ quit-” He growled quietly, pressing open the small closet doors and dragging you both in, quickly shutting the door as you heard the boots grow louder down the hallway. A sliver of light shone through the crack in the door, leaving you just enough room to see the gorey scene as you pressed off of him, his muscled arms refusing to let you go.

“Toby?” A scratchy voice called into the room, the figure stepping through the door frame and into your line of sight. At his appearance, you froze completely, your body tense against the boy behind you. His arms gripped tighter, bandaged fingers digging into your cheek as he kept you quiet. He was horrifying.

This man was taller than the one in the closet with you, pasty skin a sharp contrast against his dark messy hair. His eyes were wide, pupils dark against his reddened scleras. He wore a white hoodie, dark jeans covered just the same with Mr. Higg’s blood. But the worst part, the part that made your heart pump in your throat, was his smile. It was etched in, flesh torn upwards into a mocked smile, teeth exposed from the side of his cheek. The area was mangled, seemingly unhealed as blood dried against the cut. He almost made Mr. Higgs seem not that bad.

“Twitch, come on,” He called again, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket as he strolled around the room, kicking Mr. Higg’s severed foot out of the way. “I’m gettin’ tired. This guy had some good beers and I’m tryna get back home and drink ‘em.” He snickered, turning back out of the room and back down the hallway, his loud boots stomping against the old floors. Who you presumed to be Toby didn’t let you go, arms just as tight around you as you gripping his hoodie’s sleeves tight. “Fine then! If you’re gonna play fuckin’ hide and seek then I’m leavin’ your ass here!” He called throughout the house, your body only untensing when you heard the back porch door slam shut, loud boots thunking down the porch and out of earshot.

You both waited a couple of seconds, heart thudding in your ears as arms slowly released you, palm unclasping from your mouth. Panicked, you slammed out of the closet, turning around quickly and facing Toby, back pressed against the nearest wall as you searched for something to defend yourself with. “D- Dumbass.” He grit, pressing out of the cramped closet and facing you, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie. The stench of the room pressed harder than ever, making your head dizzy as you pressed out of the room and down the hallway, Toby quick on your heels. “Whoever the fuck you are, whatever the fuck you want, I’m sure Mr. Higgs didn’t have it. Why in God’s name is he in pieces in his bedroom?” You hissed, gagging as the image replayed in your mind, turning into his kitchen and wracking the cupboards. When you found a small plastic cup, you ran water in through the sink, chugging the stout liquid down as you calmed your breathing. Toby stayed in the doorframe, crossing his arms. You probably shouldn’t have let your guard down, knowing full and well what he had just down to your neighbor, but you figured if he was going to he would have already.

“It’s none of y- your business. I don’t k- kill innocents, so you s- shoulda just stayed home, m- missy.” He growled back, stuttering through the words. You tossed the cup in the sink, the plastic clattering against the metal as you turned to face him, running your hands through your hair. “Hard to when you guys so obviously left his door open. The bastards hounded me for years, you’d think I’d be happy about his death, but not fucking like that.” You hissed, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms, bare feet cold against the porcelain tiles. “I mean, Jesus. And I mean, thanks and all for the save back there, but how is killing him and saving me any different? It’s just favoring one innocent over another.” Toby shook his head, sliding past you and tugging a drawer open, shovelling through old receipts until he found the stack he was searching for. He passed it to you, paper crinkling as you skimmed through, old pharmacy receipts for prescription medicine.

“H- Had the old bastard bu- buying our meds. Paid h- him off and everything. Un- Until he started g- giving us coun- counterfeits, sellin’ u- us out. He h- had to pay u- up somehow…” He huffed, shoving his mask down off of his nose and under his chin, his thin lips chapped against the bandages hugging his cheeks. And of course, he was cute.

“So he gets shredded?” You had to breathe through that sentence, throat tight with nausea. Toby nodded, a small smirk crooking at the corner of his lips. You grimaced, pressing off of the counter and through to the living room, the old furniture seeming a lot less homey now. You were going home, filing a police report, and praying to God these fuckers didn’t come back to get you instead.

“U- Uh, might wa- wanna clean up, t- too,” Toby chuckled from behind you. You paused, confused as you looked around, stomach twisting as you looked down. Bloody footprints trekked through the kitchen behind you, a trail leading to your bare feet as you lift your knee, gagging at the sight of Mr. Higg’s blood coating your soles. Toby was laughing, the noise muffled against the ringing in your ears as you hunched over, stomach convulsing as you puked on the hardwood floors, your lunch from work coming back up. Head straining, you panted, wiping your lips. “Oh, s- shit, okay.” Toby hissed, sliding to your side and raising you up, hugging you close to his side. He drug you through the door, stomach still churning as you watched your footprints faintly appear beneath you, purposefully dragging them through the grass to get the blood off. You felt disgusting, giving no fight as Toby brought you to your porch steps, helping you up. He was so bipolar, angry and distasteful for one second, then cautious and endearing the next. It really was like you were dealing with a teenager.

Addy circled your ankles, her dense fur tickling your skin and making you jump, Toby gripping your arms tighter. “Oh, hi kitty.” You cooed, breathing deep as you kneeled down, scooping her up into your arms as Toby helped you up the rest of the steps. Without asking, he slid open your screen door, helping you both inside as Addy purred against your chest, Toby wary as he stared at her. You dropped her on the floor gently, Toby sliding the door shut as you hunched over your sink, cleaning your mouth and grabbing a rag for your feet. Toby still eyed Addy, fidgeting his nails as he followed her. “Ever seen a cat before? She was Mr. Higg’s.” You chuckled, cleaning the soles of your feet off and tossing the rag into the sink, still feeling unclean. Toby nodded, rubbing his arms nervously as he looked back at you, smiling awkwardly. “Yeah. Us- Used to have one. T- They kinda sc- scare me now.” Smiling, you scooped Addy up again, petting her soft fur as you brought her close to the boy, his neck twitching nervously.

How could this guy shred a man to pieces, but petting a cat was too frightening for him? You couldn’t understand. Digressing, you gripped his wrist, steadying the twitches as you placed his hand on her back, rubbing gently as Toby flinched, breathing quickly. Addy purred, unbothered by the action as he became more comfortable, fingers playing with her fur before he pulled his hand back, breathing deep.

You were too nice for your own good, too easy at giving the benefit of the doubt. Of course, you would find the redeemable traits in a murderer, heart hurting for this boy who was more or less the same as you. Groaning, you dropped Addy, crossing your arms. “Listen. What you did, it’s… For my own conscience, I can’t let it happen again.” You grit, circling your countertop and sitting on a stool, your journal tucked in front of you as you fidgeted with the pages. “If we can agree, I’ll buy your meds. I have a friend who can write me prescriptions, no questions asked. But I need you to understand, under no circumstances, are you allowed to harm me. I’ll call the cops.” Like the cops could stop these lunatics. But, you needed some type of leverage.

Toby thought quietly, eyes narrowed as he flinched uncomfortably against Addy rubbing on his shins, purring loudly. If you could hold your end, there would be no trouble, but he had to know he could rely on you. “Th- The meds aren’t for m- me. My f- friends, they need ‘em to function, m- mentally… You g- gotta realize this is- is serious.” Even stuttering his voice was stern, arms crossed as he thought, contemplating. You nodded, brushing your hair from your face as you groaned, realizing how desperately you needed to learn to set boundaries. “I can get them. But you have to keep your end, too.” You hissed back, pinching your fingers nervously. Toby smiled, crossing his heart, literally. Rolling your eyes, you nodded, rubbing your face as you groaned. What the fuck were you even doing?

“I’ll have them by the end of the week. Come later at night, cops’ll be swarming for weeks thanks to you.” Toby nodded, sliding over to the counter and gripping your journal, tearing a page out as he wrote the list of prescriptions you would need to get. It was a hefty list, some of that shit intense. “Abou- About that,” He slid his mask up over his nose, sliding the screen door open as he stepped out, chuckling. “Do- Don’t go outside. Gonna ma- make it look like a g- gas leak.” You could hear the smile in his voice as he shut the screen, sliding his hood over his head and peeling down the porch steps. Finally taking a deep breath, you stared at Addy, wondering what in the absolute fuck you were doing. Rest in hell, Mr. Higgs.

He made it look like a gas leak alright. The house was on fire in minutes, the bright orange flames lighting your room as you heard sirens in the distance, your other neighbors gathered outside their houses as you climbed into bed, groaning your displeasure. Cops and firefighters swarmed for days afterwards, investigating the area thoroughly, but never finding any remains of Mr. Higgs, his body buried somewhere far away. They eventually grew restless, the city quickly cleaned up the charred remains of the house and a new plan for construction was set in soon. It went over smoothly, no one even suspecting a thing.

The days passed slowly, nervousness building as the end of the week grew closer, feet shuffling as you stood in line at the pharmacy. You got the doctor’s notes easily, already called in and waiting to be picked up as you were handed a small paper bag, the pharmacist eyeing you closely as you hurried out. Once in your car, you rummaged the sack, eyes wide as you read the dosage instructions on each little pill bottle. You read each bottle carefully, cringing at the names of the contents: Thorazine, Prolixin, Haldol, and even Aripiprazole. They were all high-end antipsychotics, the list of treatments for schizophrenia and mania, along with treatment-resistant depression. The last bottle caught your eye, a quick Google search told you it was for tourette's. So his twitching wasn’t just nervousness, huh. Shoveling the sack into your bag, you sped home, Toby well on his way as the sun set low.

The first week was easy, Toby in and out without so much as a hello, nodding his thanks as he bolted back into the woods, eyes dark and heavy. It was easy for you, moving along with your life despite the one night of the week. You felt easier, the boy quick about his stops with some chat, but never hanging around for too long, eyes always scanning the tree line nervously.

As weeks passed, he grew more comfortable, you learned that he was quick about stopping due to his friends, their curiosity about you making him nervous about losing his ‘dealer.’ You learned to leave his meds on the counter, sometimes not even present when he would sneak in at the late hours of the night, your job taking precedence over your sleep schedule. But with all of this money being spent weekly on medicine, you had to pick up more time at work, everything being paid for out of pocket not to raise suspicion. You were sleeping more, journaling and your hobbies taking less importance until they were practically nonexistent. It was hard, your serving heart refusing to let you rest, making sure Toby got his medication is the most important thing. You were strained, to say the least.

However, surprisingly, after a couple of weeks, Toby wasn’t in a hurry to leave. He had slid in like he always did, you sat at the counter eating your dinner as you scribbled through the pages of your notebook, summing up the previous days. You were exhausted, Toby making you jump slightly as he shut the screen door, rummaging through the paper sack. “G- Got any more?” He grinned shyly, sliding his mask and goggles off and tossing them onto the counter. You nodded to the fridge, an extra container of leftovers from the diner quickly opened in front of him as he shoveled it into his mouth. “It’s better heated up,” You laughed, shutting your journal as you slid off the stool, gripping the to-go container from him and popping it into the microwave. You both sat there awkwardly, Toby kneeling down to rub Addy’s back as she appeared beneath him, soft purrs echoing. He was still nervous, never petting her for too long before standing back up, the microwave beeping. The food came out steaming, sliding open a drawer and handing him a fork, Toby continued to shovel the food into his mouth. You hissed, holding his arm as the steaming food sizzled inside his mouth, it had to be burning him. “Oh. Y- Yeah, I don’t fe- feel pain. Th’s good, tho- though.” He grinned, slurping up more of the food. He acted like he hadn’t had warm food in forever, stuffing his face and barely giving himself time to chew. You rolled your eyes, chuckling as he ate.

The stays became longer after that, his excuse being he was hungry, continuously raiding your fridge until you began to have food ready for him, prepping his meals along with your own. Thirty minutes turned to an hour, to two hours, and then eventually through the night. He would crash on your couch, Addy curled in his lap as the television blared some old movie. That was one of the only times you didn’t see him ticcing, the cat acting as an anchor against his restless body. He looked truly comfortable, using your blankets and pillows to his advantage, beginning to invite himself to stay the night after a while.

You sat at the counter, Toby snoring loudly as he laid face first into the couch pillow, scribbling into your journal. It was the one thing you had time for, having to get up early for work as the soft glow of the kitchen light lit the pages. Toby was practically pushing himself into your life, his lack of manners and curious mannerisms leading him to take initiative. You were grateful for his friendliness, giving great detail of his missions with his friends and explaining that whole situation. Even still, you were wary.

But against your better judgment, your relationship with the killer was becoming less transactional. He brought you things to make for dinner, talked with you through your mutual sleepiness, and even took care of Addy when you were too delusional after work. For lack of a better word, he was becoming a friend, showing up for more than just his medication, even sometimes forgetting the bag and having to chase him down. He was infesting your life, arriving earlier than he should and leaving later than you cared for. The end of the week was becoming optional, the screen of your porch door sliding open nearly every night of the week Toby didn’t have a mission. It was annoying but in a comforting way, like you both were becoming closer naturally despite your differences.

As you heard his snores, you groaned, rubbing your tired eyes as you began to write, letting your pencil guide on the page numbly as you wrote your thoughts. It wasn’t directed at Toby on purpose, but the further you got down the page the further your heart sank, hand fisted in your hair as you rested your elbow on the cold marble counter. “Ah, Jesus…” You grit, scribbling the final few words as you lean back, rubbing your head. The words weren’t lies, more of a hard truth you weren’t willing to accept, chalking it up that you were just tired and desperate. The words could have been about Toby, or they could have been about anyone, you didn’t really care. Sighing, you tore the page out, folding it and shoving it into the back of the book, closing the pages quickly. Sleep sounded much easier as you flipped the kitchen light off, turning the volume of the television down as you trudged upstairs to your room, giving one last glance to the snoring boy and his matching cat.

Toby knew his mishaps with you, his moral compass long forgotten the more time he spent inside your home. He told himself it was just easier, food and shelter at his disposal whenever, but he knew better. It was so much more than just picking up medicine for Tim and Brian now, it was a solid relationship, a bond that was forming in his eyes.

It had been almost four months since the unfortunate death of your neighbor, a smile creeping every time he saw the charred flecks of wood buried in the overgrown grass. You had begun to leave the back door unlocked, reasoning that someone breaking and entering would be less of a hassle than him. That was what Toby really hooked onto the most about you, your humor about everything. Despite your hardships and the emotions you had to overcome, you held a caring heart, compassion always lacing every action. He found it admirable, your humor through your busy life. And, likewise, he did feel bad for making you work so much, tired eyes always hurting his heart whenever you were around. But, it wasn’t like he could get a job, so he helped where he could, cleaning and learning to cook for your sake. He needed this medicine, for his friend’s and his own stability, even at your expense.

You were already nestled at your spot on the counter, writing your thoughts in that damn journal. You barely even looked up as he entered, diving for the fridge as he scooped up Addy with one arm, her purs a nice vibration against his shoulder. Popping the container in the microwave, he leaned in over your shoulder, trying to catch a glance at your scribbling before you shoved him off, closing the book quickly. “Ah, ah, mind yours.” You smiled, forking your own food into your mouth. “O- Oh come on, [Y/N], just a pe- peak.” He smiled back, gathering his food as he began to eat, sliding onto his familiar spot on the couch. It was routine now: where you sat, what he watched, what you both talked about. He explained his latest mission with Masky in more detail than you enjoyed, pushing your food away as you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. You both laughed throughout the night before you whisked your food into the fridge, calling your goodnights before heading upstairs.

Toby continued to watch the television, brushing Addy’s back with his bandaged fingers as he sat his empty container to the side. His curiosity nudging him, he raised up, tossing his trash before he slid to the counter, you all too confidently leaving your journal there. Slipping back onto the couch, he began to flip through the pages, listening closely for your footsteps as he read your entries, smiling as they dated all the way back to your high school years.

It seemed as though everything you thought spilt onto these lines, emotions erratic between every page as he realized just how much of a people pleaser you really were. All through your recent years, it was nothing but service, acting through the goodness of your soul until it felt sickening, fake almost. He cringed, flipping quickly through but finding nothing juicy, no deep dark secrets that he felt were interesting. Sighing, he closed the journal, standing to set it back onto the counter, until a slip of paper fell from between the pages. Smiling, Toby leaned down, arms twitching as he slid the journal back onto the counter, leaning against the marble as he flipped the paper open, reading carefully.

“Sometimes, when I think about it too hard, I get all emotional about myself. I know I put on a front, like everything I do I’m in charge of and can handle, always putting everyone around me first. But what if I wanted to be put first? I do so much for the sake of others but it never seems to be returned, never compensated for the mental strain. Well, maybe I want to. Maybe I want to be loved like I see others, rough and real. I have no clue how I even would, I can barely handle touching myself before I'm overwhelmed. But I just want someone else to take the reins, show me that I don't have to work my brain so hard and can just numb out. That's not too much to ask, right? Just someone who can love me, not some creep or one night thing, someone who cares. If I never ask for anything again, that would be it. Someone who wants me for me.”

He could have died. The brunette’s cheeks dark as he re-read the crumbled page, excitement coursing through him. In his mind, he wanted to storm upstairs and just rattle you then, showing you how good he could treat you. It was like a bomb had gone off, Toby having to pretend like him having a crush on you wasn’t achingly obvious, convincing himself he just didn’t know how to act around women. But now it was clear, his mind racing with a million wants and needs, body spasming under the excitement.

Convincing himself to leave, he slipped the note into his pocket, body buzzing with excitement as he slid out your door. He would be back, like always. But this time, he would show you what you truly needed, what only he could give you.

Like always, Toby left a note for the medication you needed to pick up, it sometimes changing week to week. Everything looked normal, the usual combination of pills reading off. But as you scanned the bottom, you groaned, shoving the paper into your pocket. Trilafon, Saphris, and… Plan B. As if your desperation for some affection couldn’t have gotten much worse, your heart twisted, a lump growing. Whether it be for some girl he was laying or a girlfriend he already had, you didn’t care, all you wanted was to get the medicine and go. Crawling into your bed sounded like a much more exciting activity than dwelling on the brunette, heart saddened in all the way you knew it shouldn’t.

To make your night even better, Toby didn’t show. It wasn’t unusual, for him sometimes not to show up for days due to extensive missions. But a part of you longed to see him, especially after today, just to help your mind with the whole morning-after pill situation. So now, instead of imagining him surrounded by his friends on a mission, you imagined him towering over a girl. Strong arms holding her, body contorting to fit against hers… You could’ve been sick, shaking your head as you ate quickly and pressed upstairs, barely petting Addy before you slinked into bed, hauling the covers over your head.

It was lonely on nights without his presence in your house. But especially tonight, thoughts racing uncontrollably to the point of tears, thick droplets streaking down your face as your chest hurt, longing for a body, any body, to hold close to yours. Maybe you really were just a transactional thing.

Toby smiled as he trekked through the familiar stretch of woods to your house, heart racing in his chest. He had it all planned out, exactly what he wanted to do, his cock already twitching in his jeans.

He hadn’t shown up tonight on purpose, hanging back at the mansion to take the best shower he could, Ben teasing him about how good he smelled as he was leaving. You had to be well in bed by now, body tired after working all day just for him. He would take care of you, showing just how grateful he was for how much you were giving up just for his friends and him. Pressing past the tree line, he smiled, pulling his hood down as all the lights in your home were out, signaling your retirement.

Pressing up the steps, he slid the screen door open quietly, careful not to alert you as he clicked it shut. Stripping his hoodie, he tossed it onto the couch, Addy purring light against the cushions. It was warm in your house, black t-shirt hugging his arms as he untucked it from his jeans, climbing up the steps, his mask and goggles quick to come off next.

He was too excited for his own good, boots stepping quietly against the old hardwood as he slinked to your door, fidgeting with the knob. A rush of your scent blew into his face, your perfume stout in your small bedroom, eyes searching around in the dark space for your bed. It wasn’t hard with your breathing, quiet snores making him smile as he leaned against your mattress, admiring your unawareness. You looked so peaceful, his bandaged fingers tracing your cheeks and brushing your hair from your face, your skin flinching under his touch. “Hi, baby…” He whispered, the pet name sounding right against his tongue as he referred to you, tugging the sheets down.

Toby always knew how nice of a body you had, you sometimes sauntering around the house with shorts and a t-shirt and making his eyes trail just a little longer than normal. But now, under his cold hands, you were even more gorgeous. You were wearing an oversized shirt, a slight tug at the fabric revealing that you only had panties on underneath, you slightly stirring as his nails brushed your skin. The brunette was excitedly jittering, kicking his boots off as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling at your curled body sound asleep. You shifted, rolling onto your back as you breathed deep, stretching your arms before settling back into yourself. Toby could have died, your legs stretching out to rest around him, his cock twitching with interest against your now visible panties. A quiet sigh breathed through your lips.

That was all the invitation he needed. Running his cold hands under your shirt, he felt your warm skin and goosebumps rising as you squirmed under them. Your brows scrunched but Toby pressed further, running his fingers along your waist and up to your tits, palming the mounds gently as he smiled. It was crazy to him just how soft your skin was, not weathered or bruised from missions or nature, perfectly smooth under his axe-calloused hands. Pushing your shirt up to your chest, he gasped at your round tits, the weight so perfect in his hands as he pinched at your nipples, rubbing the nubs gently. Toby was never very sure of anything, always brushing through life at the command of others. But the one thing he was sure about? His love for boobs, especially yours.

Nudging closer between your legs, he rested your knees on his thighs, leaning down to your chest as he popped a nipple into your mouth, sucking gently. The nub was hard against his tongue, slowly circling as he massaged the opposite one in his palm, pinching your nipple gently. That’s when you began to stir, hands sliding against the bed and unconsciously searching for the cause of your sensitivity. Lazy hands pushed against his face, soft groans echoing in the boy’s ears as he popped off your nipple and moved to the next one. Your hands fingered through his hair, tugging lightly until your eyes were beginning to flutter, your mind slowly coming alive. Toby let off your tit, kissing along your chest and licking a stripe between your tits, humming as he watched your eyes slowly blink open, confusion rocking you. He kneaded your tits gently, tugging at your nipples as you realized what was happening, eyes slowly widening as you strained to sit up against him. “Toby? Wha-” Your voice was scratchy, ridden with exhaustion as the brunette kissed up your neck to your cheeks, pushing you back down as he slotted himself flush between your legs. Slowly realizing what was happening, your cheeks flushed dark, hands pressing against his chest as you squirmed, nervously babbling as your body was still half asleep. “Lay b- back, baby… You’re so ti- tired, let me take c- care of you…” Toby sighed, running his hands back down along your skin, relishing in the way your body nervously shook under him.

You physically could not believe what was happening. This had to be a dream, some sick trick your mind was playing as you felt cold fingers hook under your panties, sliding them down. Heavy eyes wide, you grabbed his arms, clenching your thighs together against his waist. “No- No, wait- I don’t even, I mean, I’ve never-” Toby was already shushing you, gripping your wrists together and kissing your palms before pushing them back down to your sides, resuming his tug down your thighs. “I’ve go- got you. Don- Don’t gotta worry about a- a thing…” He smiled, raising your legs up to slide your panties down the rest of the way, hooking them off of your raised ankles before pulling you down closer to him, pushing your shirt over your head. “Read y- your journal, you don- don't gotta act protective, ba- baby. I know this is what y- you want…” If you weren’t already panicking, you definitely were now.

You wanted to hound him for snooping through your journal, mouth opening to tell him off. But as his fingers brushed against the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your folds, you lost all train of thought. He was watching you, eyes excited in the darkness of your room as he swiped his thumb closer again, your thighs flinching shut. “Anyone else e- ever touched here before?” He mumbled, pressing his thumb against your plump lips and tugging them open, getting a nice look at the wetness that was already forming between your folds. Shaking your head, Toby lit up, cock pushing hard against his jeans as he had to adjust his position, using both hands to pull your lips apart, sighing at how pretty your cunt was. Just something about knowing that Toby was claiming his stake on you, imprinting his touch for the first time before anyone else could, made something deep inside of him burn. It wasn’t like the brunette got much play himself, hooking up with a girl here and there, but being your first? That already made this so much better than any other girl could even try.

Sliding his fingers through your wetness, you gasped, hands clutching the pillow behind your head as he groaned, spreading your arousal across your lower abdomen. You whined, thighs begging to clench together as he purposefully slid your juices over your cunt, pressing his thumb down against your swollen clit and jolting your back off the mattress. You had only ever masturbated here and there, your body getting too overwhelmed after one orgasm and forcing you to stop, but would Toby stop? As he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, you doubted his restraint.

“Please be gentle…” You warned, hands planting on the mattress as you sat up, resting on your elbows as you watched Toby bring his digits back down to your cunt. He rolled his eyes playfully, tugging your folds open with his opposite hand as he pressed the tips of his fingers against your entrance, pressing in slowly. “I’ll try…” He laughed, your fingers gripping the sheets tight as you watched his fingers sink in slow, stretching your cunt uncomfortably. His index and middle fingers screwed into your tight walls gently, twisting his wrist to draw a moan from your lips, digits spreading against your gummy walls and making your entrance ache. “Just i- imagine my dick in here…” He cooed, eyes darting between your nervous face and your pretty cunt fluttering around just his fingers, barely even handling them.

Pressing his opposite thumb against your clit, he began to rub in small circles, dragging your hips further and further off of the mattress until you were practically rolling your hips against him. His fingers probed in and out of your cunt at a slow pace, just enough to make you comfortable with the unfamiliar intrusion, but his arms ached to go faster, curl his fingers until you spasmed. “Toby…” You sighed, his hands moving in time with other as he screwed his fingers inside of you, angling them just enough so they pressed against your tight walls. His name sounded like heaven against your aroused tongue, so quiet but so desperate, secretly drawling for more. “Tell me w- what you want, ba- baby…” The pet name made your face hot, your stomach fluttering as you pressed back into the pillows, running your hands down to your thighs and squeezing the flesh. “I want… more…” You sighed through your arousal, cunt clenching desperately around Toby’s cold fingers, sucking them back inside every time he drew them out. The brunette laughed, pushing his feet under him to push his hips up against your ass, your hips raising off the bed as he fingered down into you. You could feel his cock straining behind his jeans below your raised ass, twitching needily with every tug of his fingers and moan that whined from your throat. His size was overwhelming, making your heart pound as Toby began to curl his fingers, making your eyes shut quickly.

His fingers pressed so deep in your cunt, curling against your sensitive walls and making your jaw hang, beginning to press against your walls at a steady rhythm. It was like a new fire had lit under Toby, fingers screwing in at a quicker pace and making your stomach clench, face screwing into an overwhelmed feeling. His fingers pumped in, knuckles sinking in through your wetness and gripped by your gummy walls, curling his fingertips just right as he got deep. It was so intense, so rough, just a mess of slick and your wet cunt sounding through the room with every squelch as he abused your clit, swiping left and right quickly. Your thighs twitched and ached with every curl, trying to close around his hand practically fucking you into sensitivity. Your hands wrapped around his forearm quickly, begging his wrists to stop curling abusively inside of you as you tugged your nails into his skin. Toby wouldn’t, continuing to pump his fingers as he stared at your flushed face, cunt squelching embarrassingly loud. “Just a l- little more… Co- Come on…” He groaned, nudging his hips against your bare ass as his fingers milked moans and whines out of you, his fingers glistening with your arousal every time he tugged them out. He couldn’t feel you clawing at his arms, loud groans begging him to let up as your cunt clenched, molding around his thick fingers.

You could feel your orgasm rolling through you, Toby huffing as the veins in his arms popped, his shoulder muscles straining against his shirt as he watched your face carefully, picking up as your moans became louder. “Gonna come f- for me? Yeah?” He teased, clothed cock twitching against your ass, pushing your cheeks apart as he rutted against you. He curled his fingers quicker, mumbling his arousal as he watched your cunt swell around him, clit throbbing under his thumb. Your orgasm hit you like a truck, stomach tightening and forcing you to sit up, Toby was quick to let off your clit and wrap his arm around your back, holding you up as he pumped your through your cunt squelching, tightening around his digits. Your eyes rolled, teeth grit tight as he palmed your clit, slowing his pace to a slow thrust as you became undone against him. No orgasm of your own had ever compared to that, head light and chest heavy as you breathed quickly, gripping Toby’s shirt tight.

Refusing to let you go, Toby leaned in, pressing kisses against your neck and licking at your sweat, relishing in the warmth around his digits. You whined, cunt sensitive as he tugged his fingers out, his skin raw and pruned against the wetness coating his digits. Your folds were absolutely drenched, Toby spreading his fingers through your lips and pushing his sopping fingers over your warm thighs wrapped around him. “God, y- you’re so wet-” He gasped, pressing his fingertips back against your clit as he laid you back, gripping your tit. Your mind panicked, cunt flashing with sensitivity as he began to rub against your clit, swiping left and right against the rub quickly. “Toby- Stop- Toby, please-” You cried, breath catching in your throat as your stomach clenched, his fingers pressing hard as he pinched your nipples, eyes trained on your wet pussy. “You e- ever squirt before?” He smiled, transitioning fast between digging his fingers into your cunt and pulling them back out to swipe against your clit. It was nauseating, cunt crying desperately for relief as he dug nails into your tits. Gasping loudly, you gripped his arms, knees screwing tight against his sides as you cried out, hips bucking up against his hands.

Every time his fingers slipped into your entrance, they squelched loudly, fluttering around the intrusion before desperately aching as they tugged out and moved onto your clit. “Squirt li- like a whore, m- mkay? Quit fightin’.” He hissed, letting his hand off your tit and scooping under your left knee, pushing it back to open your cunt wider, spreading your legs further apart. Your head was dizzy, heart pounding as you gasped for air, panting at every push of his fingers. You were already quick to cumming, but it felt weird, not that normal clench you felt in your stomach, more of a strain against your cunt itself. You cried out, tears slipping down your cheeks as he forced your pussy against his will, ruining you.

As he swiped his fingertips down hard against your clit, your entrance clenched, mouth opening wide as you cried out, hips bucking up as you felt your cunt squirt, thighs trembling hard. There was literally nothing to compare it to, mind hazy as you sprayed onto his black shirt, his fingers digging into your entrance and pushing more juices out of your swollen folds. Toby was smiling, moaning his approval as he rubbed your clit softly, pushing the last of your orgasm out as you strained against the mattress. “Gunna fu- fuck you dumb, baby…” He growled, tugging the soaked shirt over his head and tossing it as he unzipped his jeans, tugging them down and off his legs as his cock hung heavy against your drenched cunt. You couldn’t even react, head spinning as Toby gripped your hips, pushing you onto your side as he grabbed your ankle, pulling it onto his shoulder and straddling your other.

Neck craning with excitement, he teased the tip of his swollen cock between your folds, slicking himself up with your ruined juices. “This is wh- what you wanted, is- isn’t it?” He smiled wildly, pressing his cock into your ruined cunt, groaning loudly as you swallowed him in, warmth gripping tight as he gripped your leg, other hand stable on your tit. You groaned, face turned into the pillow as he began to thrust deep, giving you no mercy as he tugged at your nipple, biting at your calf as he fucked into you. You felt so full, your body so exhausted already as stretched you further, your entrance burning against the sting of this new girth. You squeezed him so tight, cock forcing itself deeper with every tug of his hips as you began to cry, tears staining your pillowcase.

“Fuckin’ tal- alk to me, baby. Gunna mak- make me cum al- already.” He sighed, teeth chewing against the meat of your calf as he pressed your cunt wider, sweat dripping from his nose as his curls clung to his forehead. He let off your tit, left hand slinking up to grip your jaw and turn your face back to look at him, your eyes heavy as they blurred with tears. Toby looked so good right now, cheeks dark against his freckles as he towered above you, cock pushing against your gummy walls and making your mouth hang. “So pretty…” He smiled, slinking his hand down to your throat and squeezing, cock pulsing as your face tightened, mouth gasping out as he clamped tighter, refusing you air. There was something so orgasmic about cutting your airway, watching your body react as he fucked your virgin cunt, holding your life in his hands. He had to breathe deep to stop himself from cumming, his violent brain spasming out.

He pushed your ankle over his head, pulling out roughly as he rolled you onto your stomach, you gasping from the wave of air hitting your lungs. Pushing himself against your ass, Toby swore, pushing his cock back into your cunt as he pushed your back down, making you arch against him. “Just a l- little more, m’kay?” He growled, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and squeezing hard, pressing your face down into the pillow. With a new pace, he fucked down into you wildly, hand kneading your ass hard as digging his nails into your skin, little welts forming across the soft flesh. Your muffled cries sounded against the pillow, head light and static filled as you gasped for air, Toby’s cock ramming down against your g-spot. “Never s- seen a bitch so willing, so des- desperate for my dick you’d gi- give it up so easily.” He teased, growling as he let off your neck, neck sore as he leaned down, pushing your hair off your neck. Toby hadn’t felt like this before, wanting to mark you, fucking you so desperately he wanted to carve his shape deep inside. He couldn’t let you go without knowing exactly who you craved, corrupting you, ruining you, molding you to fit only him.

He licked against your shoulder, sucking onto the skin before he pressed his teeth, digging both hands into your hips as he sunk them in, groaning at the pop as your blood soaked his teeth. You were crying, screaming into the pillow as your entire body begged for him, craving him, mind going blank as your blood dripped from his chin as he licked at the wound. He pressed on, nibbling into the crook of your neck and sucking revolting hickies into your skin, marking you like an animal. “Wan- Want you to come on m- my cock, baby. I got- gotta fill you full, want y- you ruined for everyone b- but me.” He mumbled quickly, cock begging to spill inside of your warm cunt as you reached around, gripping his hair as he sunk his teeth in again, walls fluttering around him. You pulled his hair, dragging his mouth off of your neck and to your lips, smashing your swollen, tear-stained lips against his as he groaned, kissing you roughly.

You were cumming again, back arching onto Toby’s cock as you moaned into his mouth, walls holding him tight inside. He tried to move, to continue thrusting, but you were so tight all he could do was rutt his hips, begging for friction as his own seed spilt, his brows screwing tight as he came deep inside of you, warm cum seeping deep into your cunt. Your mind was blank, eyes rolled as you cried into his grasp, his nails digging into your hips until you were nearly bleeding. Your cunt squelched, milking his cock as he finally pulled from your lips, letting the last of your orgasms fizzle out before he pushed off of you, slowly tugging himself out as you whined. Looking back, his cock was soaked, glistening with your arousal and streaks of blood, Toby’s eyes wide. “Ah… Yo- You tore…” He hissed, wiping his soft cock with his shirt before pulling his boxers on, quickly trotting out of your room. You dropped your head back onto the pillow, cunt aching and body ruined as you sat in your sweat and each other’s cum, mind tired as you slowly blinked.

Toby was back in seconds, a water bottle, a wet rag, and a small bag all in tow as he climbed back onto the bed, flipping your lazy body onto your back. You smiled, sipping the water bottle slowly as he began to clean you up, gently running the warm rag between your folds and against your thighs until he was satisfied, gently rubbing your skin. Finally, he grabbed the bag, your confusion evident as he tugged out the prescription bag, rummaging for the plan b he made you buy and popping one of the pills out, handing it to you as he smiled. Your chest welled, previous anxiety dissipating until you began to tear up, taking the small pill before reaching to wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him down next to you. Toby went easily, body cradling against yours as he kissed against the bruised spots on your neck, rubbing your bite mark gently.

As you began to doze, Toby mumbled something about your note, your mind too dizzy to hear the rest. The last thing you saw was a subtle flash behind your eyelids, sleep overtaking you as Toby held you close.

Morning came quickly, your body stirring, reaching for Toby but finding the bed empty. Confused, you sat up, eyes heavy and head still pounding but you pressed off the bed anyway, searching for the boy. Downstairs, on the countertop, laid his hoodie neatly folded, with a small piece of paper resting on top. Sauntering over, you reached for the top, sliding it over your head, it falling before your hips as you gripped the paper, reading its contents.

On a mission. Be back later tonight. Meanwhile, enjoy ;)

Flipping the paper over, you gasped, slapping your hand over your mouth. A small picture was taped to the back, a polaroid-type photo of the two of you cradled together, your bare body pressed against his, bruises and sweat on full display. Smiling, you tucked it into his pocket, breathing the scent of his hoodie deep as Addy circled your ankles, begging for breakfast.

Staring out your back porch door, you made sure it was unlocked, always open for him. Killer or not, that boy was yours now, accepting his every mishap the same way he did yours. For the first time in a long time, you felt wanted.

Rest in Hell, Mr. Higgs.

This was an anonymous request!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

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losthedge · 1 year ago

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so we watched a video about ebola in class and this just kinda happened.. [warning graphic description of Ebola]

Honestly quite a tragic death, it can start with a headache and fever and then within a few days you start vomiting blood. Your organs begin to liquify within you causing them to leak out through your eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. After a few more days your skin becomes easily torn, and your liquid organs start to seep out through your skin. By the end of the week you will die from blood loss, cardiac arrest, or shock. This disease is passed through coming into contact with infected blood, and the disease can survive outside of the human body. At the time of the outbreak, the survival rate for Ebola was 1/10, and 90% of the people who caught it died. Today there is still no cure, but there is a treatment. Within the U.S there has only been 2 cases, both of which the patients survived.

#tw blood #tw sickness #tw illness #my art #random sketches #tw graphic description

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pedrospatch · 8 months ago

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flutter

Jackson! Joel Miller x Pregnant! Female Reader

snapshots masterlist

summary: When you finally start to show, Joel has a tough time with it as the reality sinks in—he’s going to be a father again.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) PREGNANCY. established relationship. no mention of reader’s age, however in other works for this universe, it is implied she is younger than Joel, her specific age will never be stated so do with that what you will. brief descriptions of a pregnant woman’s changing body, brief mention of morning sickness, mention of breastfeeding (it only comes up in a conversation very briefly) these subjects can possibly be triggering, especially mentions of a changing body, so while i try to handle everything with the utmost care, i still ask that you proceed with caution. domesticity, reader enjoys taking care of her family, ellie is a little shit, grumpy joel, he’s sort of a dick at first? but only because he’s working through some feelings so let’s forgive him, okay?

word count: 3.5k

a/n: this is part of the snapshots universe, but it could absolutely be read as a standalone too. minimal editing, this has been sitting in my drafts and i did a quick edit during my lunch hour, so please excuse any mistakes.

“Shit.”

You almost can’t believe your own two eyes. Staring at your reflection in the large, oval shaped mirror hanging over the porcelain bathroom sink, your gaze widens in complete surprise. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, turning to the side. It takes your brain about a good minute or two to process, really process, the way that your belly strains against the thin, white cotton of your camisole. It had seemingly swollen overnight—because it hadn’t been this prominent the day before, had it?

Over the last few months, there’d been changes.

Some subtle and some not so subtle.

“Ellie! Stop fucking staring at them,” you’d scolded the teenager late one evening during yours and hers weekly game night. For as hard as you tried focusing on what move you should make next, it was hard to concentrate on the chessboard in front of you when you could feel the way her eyes were fixed on your breasts. “I mean it! Quit staring at my boobs, you little shit.”

She held up her hands, her mouth full of popcorn.

“Hey, in my defense, they’re just fucking there, man. If anything, they’re fucking staring at me, okay?”

During your chess rematch the following week, you had accidentally knocked one of your pawn pieces off of the table. When you’d stood up and bent over to pick it up, she had made the observation that your butt seemed to have gotten a little bigger too.

“Bet Joel’s liking these changes,” Ellie had smirked. “It sure as hell explains why the headboard’s been banging against the wall more than usual lately.”

You threw the pawn at her, smiling in satisfaction when it bounced off her forehead and landed into her glass of lemonade.

One part of your body, however, hadn’t changed.

Not until now.

“Hon, trust me, you have nothing to be worried about,” Maria had assured you with confidence when you had brought up your concerns about your stomach. “Every woman, and every pregnancy, is different. I didn’t start showing until I was around six months, remember?”

“I guess you’re right.” You’d been around four months, then. “Doesn’t help that I haven’t felt the baby move.”

“You will,” Maria had promised. “Just be patient”

Biting your lip, you place a hand on your belly.

It’s always been one of the softer parts of you, but now, it’s firmed into a perfect, round bump.

“Maybe soon I’ll feel you move,” you murmur, giving it a gentle pat. You tug the lace hem of your camisole down as far as it can go and then pull at the elastic waistband of your blue, terry cloth shorts.

Shutting off the lights in the bathroom, you slip out into the bedroom where you find that Joel’s still tangled up in the sheets, fast asleep. He had been assigned to the afternoon patrol route today—normally an early riser, if he was still snoozing, it meant that he really needed the rest. Deciding it was best to let him keep sleeping for a little while longer, you quietly tiptoe out of your shared bedroom and head downstairs into the kitchen.

After making yourself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, and one for the kid as well, you prepare the coffee maker for Joel. You spoon dark roast grounds into the filter and set the timer for the coffee to start brewing in thirty minutes.

He should be up by then, you think, pulling a basket of eggs out of the refrigerator.

You’re starting to get used to this. Domesticity.

Despite your protests, Maria had made the decision to pull you off patrol that same afternoon you had shared the news of your pregnancy. “I’m putting you on leave,” she’d told you. “Effective immediately. I don’t want to see you outside of these walls. Got it?”

“That’s not fair, Maria. You were out on patrol until—”

One stern glare from her had shut you right up.

“Fine.”

Sure, you missed it and looked forward to the day when you’d be able to get back into the saddle with your rifle in hand, but this way of life had grown on you. Certainly a lot more than you thought it would.

You enjoyed taking care of the house. Packing Ellie her lunch for school and checking her homework. Having a nice a meal on the table for the three of you to enjoy in the comfort of your own home instead of having to go down to the crowded mess hall for supper because you and Joel were both always much, much too tired after a long day out on patrol to bother with cooking.

With the baby due to arrive in the winter, looking after your little family had become your purpose, and you did not mind it one bit.

As strips of bacon sizzle in one pan on the gas powered stove, you crack a couple of eggs into another, knowing the kid is already on her way downstairs. You can hear the sound of her old, tattered low top sneakers that you have been trying to throw away for almost a year now squeaking on the kitchen tiles just as you finish plating her breakfast.

“Morning!” Ellie pipes, the loud plop of her backpack into a chair prompting you to turn around. “What’s for brea—whoa! Holy shit!” Her brown eyes widen in shock when she sees you and her jaw drops. “Dude.”

“Ellie,” you say her name warningly as you walk over to the table. “Don’t.”

“You’re bigger!”

With a playful glare, you set her plate down, along with her glass of orange juice. “Thanks a lot, you little jerk.” You feign offense. “You’re making your own eggs from now on.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Ellie’s cheeks flush a shade of red and she squirms, sputtering apologetically, “I swear, I don’t mean it like that at all. It’s just, your stomach, it didn’t—you didn’t look like this last night, you know?”

She’s fucking lucky that your raging hormones decided to take the morning off duty.

“You look different. I mean, you look great—”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and eat.”

“Deal.”

She shoots you a sheepish grin and sits down, scarfing down her food in her usual manner.

“You get your fractions homework done?”

“Yeah.” Ellie huffs, rolling her eyes. “Took me forever. I was up until fucking midnight.”

Amused, you offer, “Want me to check your work?”

“Sure.”

As Ellie inhales the rest of her breakfast, you pull out a green, single subject notebook from her backpack and look over her homework for miscalculations.

“So, uh, how are you feeling?” she asks after a minute.

“I’m feeling alright. I think the morning sickness finally stopped, so can’t complain.” Shrugging, you close the notebook and stick it into her backpack. “You did good, kid. Only got two problems wrong.”

“Man, I really wish we knew whether it’s a boy or girl,” Ellie mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “What do you want to have, anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Ellie,” you answer, honestly. Clocking the skepticism on her face, you laugh and say, “It’s true. As long as the baby’s healthy, that’s all I care about.” And you mean it. As an expectant mother in the post outbreak world where medicine is scarce, supplies are limited, and the closest thing you have to a hospital is the town’s old clinic, the only thing you can hope for is the smooth, safe delivery of a healthy child.

Before she can say anything, you both catch the sound of Joel’s heavy boots as he descends the staircase.

She quirks an eyebrow. “Uh, has Joel seen you yet?”

Grimacing, you shake your head. “No.”

“Well, I don’t wanna be here for all that awkward,” Ellie says, chugging the rest of her orange juice. She stands up and snatches up her backpack, along with her lunch bag, which you’d packed for her earlier that morning. Just as she’s about to whirl around on the heel of her sneaker and make a run for the front door, she pauses, watching as you make your way back over to the stove to light another flame. “Unless you want me to be?”

“I’ll be fine, Ellie,” you assure her. “Go on, get to school. Maybe you’ll be on time to class for once.”

“If you say so.” She wishes you luck and then bolts out of the kitchen, throwing a quick goodbye at Joel on the way out. “See ya later, old man!”

Nervously, you turn around and start cracking another two eggs into the pan. There’s no telling how he’s going to react.

Joel’s been fairly supportive since you’d found out you were pregnant, considering how unplanned it was. But you know him like the back of your own hand, and you know, despite the numerous times he’s denied it, that it has been weighing heavily on him. Each time you’d try to sit down to talk to him about it, he would brush you off and insist he was fine. But he wasn’t fine.

And you wish he would spit it out and tell you why.

In your periphery, you notice the stained glass butterfly he had hung in front of the window above the sink, the ornament catching and refracting the sunlight. Flecks of color dance across the walls in captivating patterns, brightening the space. You think of the sweet little girl he’d hung it for, the little girl he rarely talks about, that he keeps tucked away safely in his memory.

You bite back a small sigh.

By now, you’ve learned not to push him. Especially not about what he was feeling. He would tell you when he was ready.

“Who the hell lit a fire under her ass this mornin’?” Joel asks gruffly as he walks into the kitchen. “She ain’t ever this fuckin’ eager to go to school.”

“Not sure,” you reply in the most nonchalant tone you can muster as you use a spatula to scramble the eggs. Transferring them onto a plate, you add three strips of bacon, and then pour his coffee. “I have your breakfast ready, Joel. Have a seat.”

You hear a chair scrape against the tile.

“I keep tellin’ you I can make my own breakfast, darlin’.”

“And I keep telling you I don’t mind making it for you,” you quip, and you hear him grumble something under his breath.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath through your nose, you take the plate of eggs and bacon in one hand, and his cup of coffee in the other. Your fingers grasp the handle of his ceramic, owl mug in a near death grip. You exhale slowly, and then turn around to face him.

He sees your swollen middle and stiffens in his chair.

The tension is instantaneous. Palpable.

Uncomfortable.

Awkwardly, you shift from one foot to the other.

“Your belly,” Joel murmurs, a visible tick in his jaw as his gaze drags over your midsection. “S’bigger.”

“Yeah. It is. Guess I’m going to have to start trading for maternity clothes soon,” you remark, shuffling over to the table. Setting down the plate and mug of coffee in front of him, you take a seat across the table. Your eyes try desperately to meet his, but they refuse. There’s no way for you to decipher what he’s thinking. You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Can you please say something?”

He lightly clears his throat. “I’ll take you to Main Street on Saturday,” he tells you, picking up his mug. “I’ve got the day off from patrol. I’ll, uh, pick through some of my own things and see what I don’t need so we can make a trade for some clothes.” He pauses, then offers quietly, “In the meantime, you can wear my shirts. They might be more comfortable for you.”

You flash him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Joel.”

Sipping his coffee, he continues to avoid your gaze.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

Your smile falters.

It’s the middle of August.

The afternoon heat is sweltering. Unforgiving.

“Jesus, it’s a fuckin’ scorcher,” Tommy sighs, glancing over towards the lake where his mare, Maxine, is taking a drink beside his brother’s stallion, Phoenix. His raven curls are damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Hotter than the devil’s fuckin’ balls out here, ain’t it?”

He’s met with silence.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees Joel leaning against a tree, his rifle in hand as he stares at the Grand Tetons in the distance almost like he’s in a trance. “Joel?”

Blinking furiously, Joel shakes his head. “Sorry, you say somethin’ to me just now?” He asks in a daze, pushing away from the lodgepole pine. “We headin’ out?”

“You’ve been actin’ real strange all afternoon,” Tommy observes, walking towards him with his own gun slung over his shoulder. “Either the heat is startin’ to get to you, or you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, big brother.”

Joel hesitates. His dark eyes flit to the other side of the lake where the other members of their afternoon patrol group are refilling their canteens with water.

“S’alright,” his younger brother says. “Don’t worry ‘bout them. Can’t hear us.”

Joel’s chest heaves with a heavy sigh. “She popped.”

“Huh?”

“Her belly finally popped. She’s showin’ now.”

Amused, Tommy lightly shakes his head. “Y’shouldn’t be so surprised, Joel. Was ‘bout time,” he remarks with a shrug. “What is she—like six months along now?”

“She’ll be six months in a couple weeks.” Joel wipes the perspiration off his brow with the back of his hand and sighs once more. “Look, I ain’t stupid, Tommy. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it still caught me by surprise. When I saw her, it became real for me. She’s got my kid in there. I’m gonna be a dad again.”

“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Shitless,” Joel confesses, feeling his chest tighten.

“What are you afraid of?”

Joel almost laughs.

He doesn’t know where to start.

He’s afraid of everything.

“All of it, Tommy. I’m afraid for her, havin’ to give birth with no medicine,” he tells him, his voice breaking. “I’m afraid I won’t remember what to do with a newborn or that I won’t know how to help her durin’ those first few months—”

“This ain’t your first rodeo,” Tommy reminds him. “You did it once, and you did just fine, Joel.”

“That was over three fuckin’ decades ago. And it was a different world. If Sarah—” He stops, taking a second to catch his breath. The image of his daughter’s little face flashing in his mind feels like a violent punch to the gut. Even after all this time, it still knocks all of the wind out of his lungs. “When her mom had trouble breastfeedin’ her, I could head to the grocery store and buy her baby formula. If she got a real bad fever, I could load her up in the truck and drive her to the emergency room.” He glances down at his broken watch. “Besides, I was a lot younger, then. And I wasn’t half fuckin’ deaf like I am now. When Sarah would wake up cryin’ in the middle of the night because she needed a diaper change, I’d hear her. What if I can’t hear my own kid cryin’?”

“Joel—”

“I’m in my fifties. What if I can’t keep up because I’m too fuckin’ old?”

Tommy reaches out, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Brother, I need you to take a fuckin’ breath,” he says, chuckling softly. “You’re puttin’ the weight of the world of your shoulders right now—you need to put some of it down. Look, we might not have everythin’ we used to before the world ended, but we make do with what we do have. Considerin’ just how many growin’ families we have and how many little ones we’ve got runnin’ around our town, I’d say it’s workin’ out pretty fuckin well.” He gives his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And as far as your ability to be a good dad, you’ve still got it, Joel. You know what to do, and so does she. I’ve seen her in action with my little boy, and it seems like she’s already got those maternal instincts, y’know?”

“Yeah, she does,” Joels agrees quietly, thinking of how you had stepped up to help him care for Ellie.

“Trust me, between the two of you, it’ll be alright.”

He peers at him. “You really believe I still got it in me?”

“I do.” Tommy smiles. “You never stopped knowin’ how to be a father, Joel. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Their patrol shift extends into the evening, turning into a double, and it’s late when he gets home.

“What the hell are you still doin’ up?” Joel asks when he finds Ellie sitting at the kitchen table, cursing to herself as she flips through the stale, yellowing pages of an old life science text book.

“What does it fucking look like, man?”

“Shouldn’t have waited until the last minute, kiddo—”

Ellie holds up a hand and cuts him off.

“Save the lecture for another time, dude. I’m busy.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Finish up and get to bed. S’late.”

Without waiting for some smartass response, he turns on the heel of his boot and then heads upstairs to your shared bedroom. He flips on the lights only to find that you’re already in bed, fast asleep, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. He toes off his boots and leaves them by the door, being as quiet as he possibly can as he rummages through his top drawer for some clean boxers to sleep in.

He slips into the bathroom where he takes a quick, hot shower, scrubbing off that day’s sweat, dirt, and grime. After he’s dressed and his sopping wet, salt and pepper curls are haphazardly towel dried, Joel walks back out into the bedroom where he switches off the lights and climbs into bed next to you.

He lays on his side and he’s just about to close his eyes when he feels a light shift beside him. You roll over and curl into him, your belly pressing up against his curve of his spine.

He stiffens, freezing as if someone had just placed the barrel of their pistol against his back, their finger over the trigger.

Christ, get a damn grip, he thinks silently to himself.

Joel thinks about that morning in the kitchen.

He knows his reaction had hurt you. Or rather, his lack of a reaction. His shitty ways of coping aren’t your fault, and his struggle to come to terms with your pregnancy sure as hell isn’t your fault, either. He owed it to you to try harder to be the man you needed.

The man you both needed.

Joel’s train of thought comes to a screeching halt when he feels a soft flutter against his middle of his back, the spot right where your tummy is nestled—did the baby just move?

He lies still, waiting to see if he feels it again, and when he doesn’t, he rolls over to face you, causing you to stir.

“Joel?” you mumble his name, sleepily. “What time—?”

“Shh,” Joel soothes, pulling you into his bare chest. He kisses your temple. “S’okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice.

Within seconds, you’re asleep again, snuggled into him and snoring softly.

Lifting a hand, he hesitates, then rests it on your belly.

He waits.

And waits.

Until the minutes turn into hours.

Until dawn’s light filters in through the lace curtains.

Until he finally feels that little flutter again.

He feels it against the palm of his hand. Faint, nothing more than a brief whisper against his skin, but there is no mistaking it.

He’d just felt the baby’s movement.

There’s a sudden shift.

Tense muscles that had been painfully wound up since the moment you’d mentioned to him your period was a week late back in the spring loosen slightly—the breath he had been holding since he’d picked up that positive pregnancy test from the bathroom counter finally falls from his lips, fanning over yours.

His fears, his worries, his uncertainties about what lies ahead, they’re all still there, of course, but he finds they are now accompanied by a glimmer of hope, a sliver of optimism that maybe, just maybe, Joel doesn’t have to be as afraid as he is.

Joel’s eyes glaze over your face, warmth radiating in his chest when you breathe a little a sigh of content in your sleep as he gently rubs your stomach through his shirt.

With his hand still splayed over your belly, he closes his eyes and begins to drift off, falling into the most decent sleep he’s had in the last few months.

Maybe his brother’s right.

Maybe he will be just fine.

divider credit to @saradika 🤍

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