Chapter #5Living The Dream by: fggggyy   This story arc is a sort of a small continuation, a small nod from me to the former story "Abuse of Power" that used to exist here before it got deleted.
(It's based on the arc where Carl sent Officer Stark to jail and takes his wife's identity. And continues to torment him as her.)
We follow our favorite main protagonist, 33-year-old Carl Jason Edwards, a career criminal who is about to meet our current story's cast.
Let's roll shall we
****
Carl Edwards—or rather, Jennifer Trask now—stretched luxuriously in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the soft curves of his stolen body. Nearly six months had passed since he’d plunged himself deep into Jennifer Trask’s life—six months of living in her skin, sleeping in her bed, and defiling everything about her sweet, devoted existence. And what a fucking ride it had been.
He smirked as he ran his hands over the swell of Jennifer’s hips, the subtle roundness of her belly that still hadn’t quite fully recovered from giving birth. "Honey, you are a masterpiece," he murmured in her sugary voice, twisting to get a better view of his stolen ass. The reflection in the mirror was flawless—a gorgeous woman in her early thirties, dark hair cascading over smooth shoulders, a body that still turned heads despite the slight postpartum softness.
But the real masterpiece?
Carl Jr.
A giddy chuckle escaped his—her—lips as he glanced toward the crib near the window, where Carl Jr. (Trask to the outside world, naturally) dozed peacefully. His son now. Oh, Trask Sr. had thrown a fit when he’d found out what "Jennifer" had named their baby. The footage from the prison visiting room played in Carl’s mind like a highlight reel—Trask's face turning beet-red, his flabby fists slamming the table, screaming about insanity, possession, blah blah blah. Too bad nobody believed the rantings of a disgraced cop locked up for assault.
Carl was so fucking proud of himself.
"He’s got your eyes," he cooed at the baby, grinning wickedly as he leaned over the crib. Brown eyes blinked back at him—Trask’s stupid fucking eyes, sure, but the name? That was all Carl.
A faint cry from down the hall pulled him out of his gloating. His grin faltered for half a second.
Right.
He sighed heavily and waddled—seriously, how the fuck did women do this every day?—toward the guest room where his original, barely-alive body lay. One of the less fun aspects of long-term possession was the required upkeep. His meat-suit back home was still technically breathing, thanks to the occasional hospital visit for fluids and the bare minimum of nutrition when he checked back in for maintenance. But it was fucking weird to see himself, all hollow-cheeked and scruffy, curled up like some goddamn coma patient.
"Alright, shitbag," he muttered, kneeling beside the bed. He placed Jennifer’s soft hands on his own sunken chest and concentrated, feeling the familiar dizzying rush as his essence flickered between bodies.
Blink.
And just like that, he was back.
The ache.
Carl groaned, rolling his stiff neck, cracking knuckles that hadn’t moved in days. Fuck, this body was trashed. He barely had time to relish the return before the smell hit him—unwashed clothes, stale sweat, the sickly film of neglect.
"Ugh, fuck that."
He staggered to his feet, limbs trembling, and immediately headed for the shower. Ten minutes of scalding water couldn’t wash away the prison-pale skin or the sharp jut of his ribs, but at least he smelled slightly less like roadkill. Once dried off, he dragged himself back to the bedroom and dumped a bottle of water down his throat, followed by a few handfuls of dry cereal straight from the box. Maintenance feeding—just enough to keep this pathetic shell going.
Then it was back to Jennifer.
Blink.
The return to her lush, warm, alive body was like plunging into a heated pool. This was home now.
"Better?" he asked sweetly, patting baby Carl’s head before sauntering back to the mirror, admiring himself again.
God, she’s delicious.
And the best part? He wasn’t just playing house. He was winning.
---
That evening, Jennifer Trask—Carl—sashayed through downtown in a tight sundress, pushing the stroller with one hand while the other scrolled through her phone. A little shopping, some coffee, the occasional Oh, he’s so precious, Jennifer! from clueless suburban moms.
Perfect.
Until she walked in.
Carl froze mid-sip on his caramel latte.
Brenda.
Brenda fucking Nelson.
The blonde officer from the bar. The one whose tits he'd groped while drunk in Trask’s body all those months ago. The one he’d also briefly possessed, leaving her with no memory of the event (just like everyone else he jumped into, thankfully).
And she was heading right for him.
"Jennifer!" Brenda beamed, waving. "Long time no see!"Carl plastered on Jennifer’s perfected Stepford-wife smile. "Brenda! Hi!"
Small talk. Ugh. But manageable. Until—
"God, you look amazing post-baby," Brenda gushed, leaning in. "How’s Nick holding up?"
Carl’s grip tightened on the stroller. "Oh, you know. Prison life." He gave a delicate shrug. "He’s adjusting."
Brenda’s smile flickered with discomfort before she switched to cooing at Carl Jr.
Carl let her. He’d let them all coo and fuss.
Because he’d already won.
Trask was in jail.
This was his family now.
****
Brenda Nelson never would've called herself a superstitious woman.
But after Nick Trask’s drunken meltdown in the bar—groping her like a frat boy before collapsing into slurred, horror-movie ramblings about "ghosts on his skin"—she’d started digging.
And she didn’t love what she found.
Trask’s old arrest records. Witness statements about a perp named Carl Edwards, a real shitbag with a knack for vanishing from crime scenes. And then, most disturbingly, notes from that night at McGuffy’s, scribbled in her own handwriting, describing blank spots in her memory.
Nick had been right about one thing: something was off.
So she’d swallowed her skepticism and shown up today with three things in her pocket:
1. A silver crucifix (just in case).
2. A taser (always).
3. A hunch.
And the second Jennifer Trask’s fingers twitched too tightly around that coffee cup—the way her smile froze just a fraction too long—Brenda knew.
Got you, you slippery sonofabitch.
She kept her voice light, friendly. "You know, Jennifer, Nick keeps saying the weirdest things in visitation," she said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Like he thinks you're not you anymore."
Carl—still wearing Jennifer’s face—blinked. Then laughed, high and sweet. "Oh God, poor Nick. He’s still on that?" She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Prison stress, I guess." Then, with a perfectly timed sigh: "I just wish he’d accept it’s over."
Brenda nodded sympathetically—then struck.
"Funny," she murmured. "Because the Jennifer I know always called him 'Nicky.'"
A beat of silence.
Carl stopped breathing.
Shit.
In that split second, Brenda flicked the tiny switch on her pocket taser.
Carl saw it coming.
His hand shot out—Jennifer’s delicate fingers clamping around Brenda’s wrist before she could jam the prongs into his side.
But he miscalculated.
Instead of recoiling, Brenda smiled—and grabbed Jennifer’s other hand.
Carl barely had time to think Oh, fuck me sideways before—
—BLINK—
The world lurched, tilting sideways in a dizzying rush as Carl’s consciousness tore free of Jennifer’s body—for half a breath—before slamming into Brenda Nelson like a freight train.
---
"Goddamn," Carl wheezed, stumbling back as Brenda’s shorter, curvier frame settled around him.
He barely had time to adjust before Jennifer’s abandoned body collapsed onto the café floor, sending a coffee cup shattering across the tiles. Carl Jr. wailed in his stroller.
People gasped. "Oh my God—Jen!"
Carl—Brenda—froze.
Brenda’s mind, however, was very much awake.
Inside her own skull, screaming in outrage.
*WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!*
Carl grinned. Oh, this is gold. She’s conscious?
Brenda’s voice (his voice now) hissed between clenched teeth. "Let. Me. Go."
Carl’s grin widened. "Make me, Officer."
Then, louder—to the horrified onlookers—he pitched Brenda’s voice into perfect distress.
"Give her space! I’ll call an ambulance!"
He yanked Brenda’s phone out of her back pocket—ignoring her mental howls—and pretended to dial 911 while actually snapping a quick pic of Jennifer’s unconscious form on the floor. For Trask’s prison scrapbook.
Then, with an inner chuckle, he bent down—Brenda’s ample cleavage straining against her blouse—and whispered directly into Jennifer’s ear.
"Miss me yet, princess?"
And with that, he straightened up, spun Brenda’s body on its heel, and strutted out of the cafe—leaving Jennifer’s empty shell behind, a screaming baby, and a barista frantically calling for help.
Brenda’s shrieks in his skull were just the cherry on top.
This, Carl decided, is gonna be fun.
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