#explodes into millions of tiny crumbles

[fratricidee]

ANYWAY gonna re put the post bc I deleted a while back(idk why)

BUT

ANYONE WHO SHIPS WEIRD PROSHIP SHIT, DNI and if you do, feel free to comment to I can block you :]]]

That shit is weird, keep it away

THIS INCLUDES DREAMMARE- Cause some of y’all little cretins say they aren’t related but idc- it’s still proship

Anyway that’s all for now, have this sans doodle

[eringobragh420]

➺ pairing — damian priest ♥︎ f!reader ➺ summary — damian’s girlfriend is pissed off. ➺ words — 2.3k ➺ warnings — nsfw. dirty talk, spanking, unprotected p in v, slapping, cum 18+ ➺ notes — spanish translations are at the end of the story provided by google translate. ➺ taglist — if you'd like to be added, please click here!

➺ MASTERLIST ➺ DAMIAN PRIEST KINK LIST

➺ if you enjoy my writing, please consider donating toward my IVF journey!

“Don’t fucking touch me, Priest,” she says, yanking her arm out of his grasp before shoving his stupid, giant body as hard as she can. He stumbles back a couple steps, arms spread, palms to his girlfriend, and the unadulterated befuddlement painted on his face is enough to make her head explode.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Damian chuckles.

“What’s wrong with me?” she screams. Damian’s smirk is gone in an instant and his muscles stiffen, bringing him to his full terrifying height, but she can’t back down now. Not after what she just saw. Fuck him and the click he claims. “The fuck is wrong with you?” she continues yelling. They’re drawing attention—well, she is, anyway—but she couldn’t care less. She wants these people—his friends, coworkers, bosses, fans—to know exactly how much Damian Priest sucks, what kind of man is, what kind of boyfriend he is.

“Come here,” he grumbles, snatching her bicep, squeezing hard enough she knows there will be a bruise left behind, and he lifts, nearly bringing her feet off the ground, making it completely impossible for her to escape this time. She feels like her shoulder is dislocating the closer they get to the locker room, and she’s nearly flung into the door when it opens unexpectedly.

“Everything … okay here?” Seth Rollins asks, chocolate eyes passing back and forth between the couple.

“Everything’s fine,” Damian roars, swinging the tiny woman inside the empty locker room. As she goes by, she lifts her middle finger at Rollins, who instantly backs away, hands up, not wanting any trouble. Damian releases his death grip on her arm before kicking the door closed behind him. “Okay.” He sets his hands on his trim hips, shrugging, big eyes and raised brows. “Seriously. What’s your problem?”

Her lips purse as she massages her arm and considers his question. On one hand, she’s pissed because the asshole should know what he did. On the other hand, she could accuse him only to have him deny it, and then what does she do? On the other, other hand—a much smaller, less significant, barely existing other, other hand—there’s a chance she’s wrong, and while it would be good news, she would be embarrassed, and their relationship would be damaged … if it isn’t already. But then the image from earlier flashes in her brain and, not only does she want to die a little, she believes she knows the truth, so decides to stay the course.

“You’re—” She clears her throat because suddenly it’s scratchy and it hurts much like the pain in her chest. “You’re cheating on me.”

The allegation hangs heavily in the ether. She feels stupid actually saying the words. She never, in a million years, would have believed him to be the type, but she knows what her eyes saw. Rhea Ripley—the incomparable, exquisitely beautiful—Rhea Bloody Ripley in Damian’s strong arms, her muscular legs wrapped around his waist. They weren’t kissing, but they might as well have been, and somehow, in her crumbling mental capacity, that alone served as plenty of evidence for an affair.

“What?” Damian asks, the tone of his voice lowering several levels. “I’m—” He pauses, shaking his head. “You think I’m cheating on you?”

“Yeah, Damian, you’re fucking cheating on me,” she replies with more force than she thought she was capable of.

He nods, plump lips forming a deep frown. “And you thought acting like a psychopath in front of everyone we know was the way to handle it?”

“I don’t hear you denying it,” she seethes, nostrils flaring. Her skin crawls at the thought of the two of them together. She wants to vomit imagining a life without her Papí. She just can’t fucking believe they’ve ended up here.

“I shouldn’t have to,” Damian replies, bending over to her height. “You’re talkin’ nonsense!”

“I saw you, Damian. I fucking saw both of you.”

He shakes his head, shoulders coming up to his ears as he considers her statement. And then it dawns on him—she watches in real time as the lightbulb flashes on above his stupid man bun. “Are you talkin’ about Rhea?”

Her mind is blank, erased like a math problem on a chalkboard, leaving her heart in control of her body—and right now?—that heart is fractured, splintering, promising to disintegrate at any given moment. She feels her feet moving of their own volition, closing the space between them. She stands before him for half a moment at less than half his height before reeling back and slapping him across the face. The palm of her hand erupts with fire, tears she’s been battling since the moment she witnessed the embrace now streaming freely down her contoured cheeks. Damian stands frozen, looking somewhere over her head. The muscles in his jaws flex as he clenches his teeth, inhaling long and hard through his nose. He opens his mouth to spin a web of lies, so she slaps him again before he can get started. She’s crying now because of the pain in her hand and the pain behind her ribcage, so she slaps him once again because it’s his goddamn fault. Damian catches her wrist as she makes another attempt, and this is a brand new pain.

“Mírame!” he bellows, backing her up until she slams into the nearest wall. She loses her breath a bit, but Damian places his free hand behind her head to prevent any impact. His grip on her wrist is unrelenting as he holds it against her chest. She is miniscule in this awkward embrace, her eyes looking everywhere but where he wants her to. But when he bends his knees and dips down to her level, ducking his head until he’s in her line of sight, she’s forced to meet his gaze. “I’m gonna make you pay for those slaps in a minute …” he cautions. His hand starts applying pressure to the back of her head. “But first I have to tell you, because for some reason you need to fucking hear it, I’m not cheating on you.” 

She swallows, having her breath stolen again because she feels the truth of his words vibrating her bone marrow. She also feels the shame and embarrassment of being wrong. With her free hand she struggles to unclamp his vice-like grip from her wrist, and having had enough of her shit, Damian grabs both wrists this time and smashes them into the wall above her.

“Do you hear me?” he carries on, with quite a bit more hostility than she’s used to, shoving his knee into the wall between her legs. His knee pad becomes a cushion for her pussy—he’s still in his gear, still sweaty, because she accosted him right after his match—elevating her to the toes of her sneakers, and she is completely at the mercy of Damian Priest.

“Yes,” she says through clenched teeth.

“Good. Do you believe me? Hmm?” Capturing both wrists in one hand, he cups her chin with the other and touches his cheek to hers. “Do you believe that I’d rather die than hear someone else call me Papí?” It’s actually an incredibly sweet confession, but the venom in his tone scorches the honey in his words.

She believes him. By all that is good and holy in this world, she believes him and she is equal parts mortified, thankful, and contrite. She’d allowed her imagination to run wild because of an act of love between close friends, never once considering having a civil conversation with either of them about how it clearly made her uncomfortable. Did she just cause a rift in their relationship? Contaminate it with her jealousy? How many people is she going to have to apologize to? Seth, for sure, although he usually deserves any middle finger aimed in his direction. Christ, what’s she gonna say to Rhea?

“Damian,” she whispers, doing everything she can to not sound pathetic, and if her own ears are to be trusted, she is failing miserably.

“No,” he interrupts her, “you started this. I’m gonna fucking finish it. Now answer me.”

She grits her teeth, rolling her hips unconsciously because the position he’s put her in isn’t all that comfortable, probably by design, and suddenly she remembers how and why she’s propped on her boyfriend’s thigh. Even the slightest friction renders a groan from her. Damian tilts his head, eyes unforgiving, a sable shade she’s never seen before, and she regrets having made any noise at all, no matter how unintentional. His cheek is transforming into a furious vermillion, and the guilt that washes over her is nearly unbearable. She has no hand left to play, not that she did in the first fucking place, and she resigns herself to the punishment she’s about to receive. Well-deserved punishment, she understands.

“Yes,” she breathes, his eyes boring into her, chipping away any residual resolve she might have left inside.

“¿Si, que?” he booms, as if he expected the incorrect response. His anger hasn’t abated.

She can’t feel her fingers anymore and she’s struggling to maintain balance on Damian’s thigh. The slightest lean this way or that sends jolts of pleasure throughout her body, and it’s a losing battle trying to keep the satisfaction off her face. “Yes, Papí,” she says, “I believe you.”

He eyes her for a long moment, searching her face for any clue she might be lying or still angry. She keeps her own eyes open and on him, seemingly baring her soul before him, feeling more vulnerable now than she has in her entire life. At last he pushes away from her and the wall, releasing her wrists, removing his thigh from between her legs, and maybe she misses that last part a little bit.

“Now take those off—” He points at her denim shorts. “—and bend the fuck over.” And then he moves his arm to the right, pointing at a giant WWE trunk on wheels wedged against the corner of the room. She knows her place, and she has her orders.

She kicks her shorts toward him, standing before him in nothing but a pair of Nike hightops, a white thong, and a t-shirt-turned-tube-top that demands the audience to ALL RISE. He doesn’t even look at her body before nodding toward the trunk, and Jesus Christ, she’s in so much trouble. She passes him while rubbing her wrists and when she’s standing less than a foot from the trunk, she realizes she’s too short for this fucking thing too. She glances at Damian over her shoulder, and he’s stomping toward her, and her heart jumps into her throat. She hops onto the trunk, tips of her shoes barely kissing the floor just like when she was straddling Damian’s thigh.

The smack to her right ass cheek echoes throughout the locker room, same with the slap to her left, and she yelps.  Damian grabs her hair and pulls, arching her back into a spine-busting half-circle. He lets go, but before she can fall forward, one of his huge hands clamps over her mouth and holds her in position. With the other, he wrenches at her thong to pull it aside—she hears the material rip at the same time—then bends her leg at the knee and props it onto the trunk beside her.

“You know, the jealousy is kinda sexy on you,” Damian comments. Now she feels his hand working at his pants as it bumps against her sore ass. Then comes a different kind of smacking as he swats the sensitive skin with the underside of his rigid cock. He traces the head along both cheeks and along the crack, on down until she feels the huge, blunt head at her soaking entrance. “But don’t you ever fucking slap me again.”

Without warning, he is wholly sheathed inside her, his hips slamming into hers. She cries out from behind his hand, clutching his wrist with one hand as the other claws at the trunk in a desperate search for leverage to launch herself away. Damian is not a small man, in any way, shape, or form, so he’s always allowed her a few minutes to get used to his size. Not this time. This is her penance. He squeezes her hip, in full control of her body, and he’s simply using her pussy to get off now, without regard for her pleasure. She feels almost like a fleshlight, but her hormones are confused because she’s wet as fuck and, whether he likes it or not, she’s liable to get off just from him fucking her.

Damian stretches across her backside, her spine still bowed, and his teeth scrape across the shell of her ear as he grunts, “Say you’re fucking sorry.” He removes his hand from her mouth.

She gulps oxygen before panting, “I’m sorry, Papí. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He kisses her sweaty neck and sighs, hanging his head over her shoulder in unison with slowing the pummeling of her pussy. “I’m sorry, too. Lo siento, mi vida.” His rhythm starts speeding up following several moments. “But I am gonna come in this pussy,” he advises, standing up straight, gripping both hips. “And you are gonna walk outta here with it dripping down your thighs.”

“Yes, Papí.”

“Because I fucking love you.”

She groans, bucking back against him. “I love you, baby.”

One final thrust and he makes good on his promise. He even squeezes the base of his cock to make sure every drop is inside her before pulling out. He’s much more gentle with her now, his enormous hands sliding up her back to her shoulder and arm so he can assist her into a standing position. As soon as she turns to him, she grabs his face and pulls his lips to hers. Their kiss is long, deliberate, and by the time they’re finished, his hands are cupping her face and hers are clutching his neck, and goddamn it, she’s so fucking stupid. But love makes people do crazy things.

“Now what do I do?” she asks, holding up the tattered side of her thong. Damian inspects the damage, then takes the lacey material in both hands and rips it into several pieces, which fall one by one to the floor.

“Problem solved.”

➺ Mírame — Look at me ➺ Si, que — Yes, what ➺ Papí — Daddy ➺ Lo siento — I'm sorry

[mariacallous]

Search for Airbnbs in Paris in late July and you’ll be offered options ranging from a tiny studio with glimpses of the Eiffel Tower for $167 a night up to a stunning luxury apartment steps from the Champs Elysees for nearly $3,500 a night. The company is also offering two lucky fans the opportunity to sleep in the iconic clock facade of the Musée D’Orsay on the night of the 2024 Summer Olympics opening ceremony.

Some 3 million visitors are expected to attend the Olympics in Paris and like one of the 10,500 athletes competing, Airbnb has been preparing for years. In 2019 the company inked a nine-year partnership with the International Olympic Committee that runs through the 2028 Summer Games. Airbnb said at the time that it expected the deal to lead to hundreds of thousands of new hosts in cities around the globe as the games rolled through.

In Paris, the Olympics give Airbnb a chance of winning a bigger foothold in a city where local officials have introduced restrictions on short-term rentals. The company has faced similar resistance from cities around the world after Airbnb and similar platforms exploded in popularity over the past decade. Critics accuse them of driving up rent and bringing unwelcome trash, noise, and physical dangers to residential neighborhoods. Airbnb and its rivals say they provide flexibility to travelers and extra income to hosts, who themselves may be squeezed by rising housing costs. If Airbnb rentals are seen as largely successful during the Paris Olympics, by providing cheaper stays than hotels and a cash infusion for some locals without too much inconvenience for others, the platform could permanently grow its already substantial presence in the city. Last summer, Airbnb CEO Brian Chesky urged Parisians to list their homes for the games to keep prices down, and the company hopes some new hosts drawn by Olympic demand will stick with the platform long-term.

Airbnb claims the Olympics effect is already at work. The number of nights booked during the games is already five times greater than for the same dates in Paris in 2023, according to new data released by the company. Olympic events will also be spread throughout the rest of France; the Paris suburbs and other French cities have also seen high rates of short-term rental activity.

The number of active listings in Paris is now at an all-time high, having increased by some 40 percent. The average Airbnb host expected to earn 2,000 euros ($2,145) during the games. But how much cash reaches the pockets of hosts will depend on getting their stays booked, and WIRED’s searches showed that many Airbnbs remain available with the games just five weeks away.

French Disconnection

Relations between the city of Paris government and Airbnb have been rocky for years. The city’s mayor Anne Hidalgo immediately opposed the company’s Olympics partnership when it was announced in 2019, and wrote a scathing letter to games organizers about Airbnb’s impact on residents in the city. The city had already passed a regulation mandating that people can only rent their entire primary residences for short-term stays totaling 120 nights a year.

Paris also recently mulled a ban on the small lock boxes hosts use to store keys, often a tell-tale sign of short-term rentals, citing them as an eyesore. The city did not immediately respond to a request for comment for this story but said in 2023 that tightening restrictions on short-term rentals led to decline in fines for breaking the rules.

Dave Stephenson, Airbnb's chief business officer, claims that without short-term rentals Paris may have crumbled under the pressure from outside guests—and been forced to build new hotels. There are an estimated 160,000 hotel rooms in the greater Paris area, but many of them will be occupied by Olympic staff and athletes. “These spikes in demand are a great way for people to use Airbnb,” Stephenson says. “It’s a great way for local Parisians to earn money and enable the games to be successful.”

Short-term rentals can function as a quick release valve for a city expecting an influx of visitors, increasing capacity for a short time nearly instantly. In fact, despite the usual hype around the Olympic Games, there are still many places to stay in Paris this summer.

A search on Airbnb for a two-person stay during the first weekend of the games returned more than 1,000 results, with many charging less than $200 a night. A search for hotel rooms on Expedia only turned up about 20 hotels offering similarly low rates. Hotel prices for the dates of the Olympics have actually fallen in Paris since December, but remain higher than the same time last summer, with the average cost of a hotel room during the opening weekend of the games going for around 440 euros as of May.

Booking rates for short-term rentals during the Olympics are up by 8 percent compared to the dates two weeks before the games across all locations hosting Olympic events, but the number of available rooms has increased by 38 percent, according to AirDNA, a third party platform that tracks short-term rentals.

The average price in Paris for a short-term rental during the Olympics is $481 a night, while those who booked earlier paid an average of $350. Outside of Paris, rates average $289, up from a previous $198. The “vast majority” of these listings on Airbnb, says Stephenson, come from families listing their primary homes. But other Parisians are begging travelers to stay away, warning that the games will bring chaos to the city, and some are planning to flee the city.

People from more than 160 countries and regions have booked stays on Airbnb for the Olympics, according to the company. The largest influx of tourists comes from the US, with American travelers making up 20 percent of the bookings, with many other guests coming from the UK, Germany, and the Netherlands.

Against that background, and with Airbnb's marketing push, Jamie Lane, chief economist and senior vice president of research of AirDNA, says it makes sense that more people are signing up with Airbnb to host. “Everyone starts getting Olympic fever,” he says, especially “with Airbnb doing more and more ads and market outreach within the city of Paris.”

Despite the flood of visitors, the ready availability of vacancies suggests that like many athletes competing in Paris, some Airbnb hosts will end the games with disappointment as their listings remained unbooked. But Lane says that in the past large events have been seen to provide a lasting boost to Airbnb’s footprint in a place. “A city is left with more listings than it had going in,” Lane says. For “people that maybe decide to do it for the first time, it ends up being a good experience. It was very little work. They think: ‘I should do this again.’”

[i-love-jay-walker]

Jaya Week 2023

I wasn't gonna post any of my fics from Jaya Week on tumblr, besides the original link, but I'll be honest, I think this is the only good thing I've written in a while. So if you're interested in reading some Jaya stuff, here you go! I hope you enjoy!

You can also read it under here:

Promise

The first time his hand held hers, he felt delighted. He swore he felt his heart explode with a million butterflies, filling up his stomach and crowding his mind. He could hardly think, seeing nothing but the beautiful butterflies, whispering promises of love to come.

The first time they kissed, he felt ecstatic. Not only from his true potential, but from the unspoken promise of something more. The low zimmer of currents in his blood, whispering and polluting his mind, promising so much. 

The first time he saw her with Cole, he felt resentment. An unspoken promise had been broken. It had been taken, bent it till it broke, shattering to pieces much like his broken heart. The whispers had fallen silent, a dying hope of something better no longer promised.

The first time they went out again, he had felt uncertain. He had spent so long, picking up the pieces of his heart, slowly glueing the bits and pieces together. It wasn’t easy, seeing how both her and Cole had pieces of it stuck to them, to their bodies, their souls and their clothes. He wasn’t sure he could ever truly repair it, so he kept it to himself, not letting her touch his mangled heart. A promise to himself to not trust again, to not let his heart shatter any further. The whispers fell on deaf ears as he cradled his crumbled heart.

The first time he lost her, he felt misery. His marred heart crackled, the old cracks splitting open, letting the love he’d carefully hidden away oozing out. It smelled foul and putrid, something no one was deserving of. It was ugly and vile, having been stowed up with molded hatred and jealousy. He carefully tried to tape up the bits, hoping no one would see the revolting, broken heart spilling out all of his anguish. The muck had yearned for a girl no longer there, yearned for a love it could never have. It whispered for a promise that was too late.

The first time he held out his defective heart, he felt hesitant. Her gentle hands caressed the stitched up soul, slowly warming it up. She had sat down, gently pulling out each ragged thread, dissolving the clumped up glue. She cleaned and polished each tiny piece, displaying them in front her. Baring his soul and heart to herself and he let her. He would always let her. She slowly began rebuilding the bond, adding each small, polished piece by piece. She gave him back the remains she’d stolen, the bits shiny and well cared for. In the end, his fractured heart was mending as she cradled the bond, gentle and caring. The whispers of a promise to return, to care and to help. To never be alone again. 

The second time he lost her, he felt despair. His restored heart shattering in impossibly many pieces, his mind going with it. He sprawled on the floor, reaching for pieces that seemed endlessly far away, pieces that would scatter farther off with each reach. He heard the cry of his broken soul, the million pieces mourning a loss he didn’t know how to handle. He scooped up the pieces he could, cradling the memory of a lost love. He rocked it gently, hoping if he put his weeping heart to sleep, maybe the pain would leave him alone. He cried along with his wailing soul, his tears showering the memories he had cherished, the imagery of a girl he’d loved. The whispers were howling, a sobbing promise to never let go, a tearful promise to never forget. 

The second time he held out his defective heart, he felt relieved. Her hands, as gentle as he remembered, cradled and kissed his shattered heart. She helped him put it back together, gently kissing each jagged shard before stitching them up. His misshapen heart may not be a pleasant glance, but to him it meant everything. It whispered promises of love, promises of care and promises of never being alone. It was a repulsive heart, one only one person could love. And that she did. Every night she cradled his heart, kissing and polishing every crack and rift. She promised to take care of the repelling soul, the one she loved so dearly. She promised that to her, the grotesque heart was beautiful.

[mjonthetrack]

queen

Chapter Thirty-Nine: “The Reckoning”

Inside the cold, grey walls of Rikers Island, Chanel sat alone in a tiny cell. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but the glow in her eyes refused to flicker out. Not a single tear. Not a single break. The storm that was her life outside had quieted for a moment, but make no mistake—the war was far from over.

Back in the city, the real battle was raging.

The District Attorney’s office? Slapped with a federal civil rights lawsuit so thick, it made the NYPD’s annual budget look like pocket change.

The Sheriff’s department? Hit with an official investigation for excessive force and false arrest, plus another personal injury suit from Chanel’s lawyers that had their heads spinning.

The Chief of Police? Summoned to a public hearing, facing questions so sharp it felt like the city itself was carving away at the system’s rotten core.

The county? On the hook for negligence and failure to protect a citizen—legal experts predicting millions in settlements and huge public backlash.

And the judge who sentenced her to 20 to life? Under investigation for judicial misconduct and bias, facing potential removal and a barrage of complaints from civil rights groups.

Meanwhile, the city’s social feeds exploded with hashtags like:

#JusticeForChanel

#CorruptNoMore

#FreeTheQueen

Media outlets ran exclusive exposés on the case’s flaws, the inconsistencies in the arrest report, and leaked footage of the arrest that clearly showed Chanel defending herself.

Inside her Rikers cell, Chanel’s phone was confiscated, but her spirit wasn’t. Her legal team was a beast—working round the clock, flying in civil rights heavy hitters, top criminal defense lawyers, and even a few celebrity advocates to keep the fire burning.

She lay back on the thin mattress, arms folded, eyes closed. The faint sound of distant city sirens mixed with the murmur of other inmates—yet she remained untouched, unshaken.

Her mind replayed the moments of raw injustice, but also the thousands of messages flooding her attorney’s inbox: love, support, donations, and promises to fight alongside her.

This wasn’t just about one woman in a cell anymore. This was the entire system getting called out. The power, the money, the corruption—now on trial.

And Chanel? She was ready.

She was the revolution.

Back in Brooklyn, Joey paced in the studio, phone in hand, eyes glued to the latest news. The lawsuits piling up. The public outcry growing. The movement his girl started, now unstoppable.

“They fucked with the wrong queen,” he muttered.

“We ‘bout to make this city burn down, one courtroom at a time.”

Chapter Forty: “Unbreakable”

The moment the news broke, it was like dropping a bomb on the city’s corrupt infrastructure. The lawsuits didn’t just stop—they multiplied. The DA’s office got slapped with a massive countersuit from victims and civil rights groups. The sheriff’s department found themselves drowning in internal probes and financial demands from every side. Judges, officers, county officials—they all scrambled, their legal teams scrambling harder, realizing the money train had come to a screeching halt and they were the ones standing on the tracks.

The whispers behind closed doors weren’t just nervous—they were panic-stricken. Bank accounts freezing, budgets slashed, legal firms pulling out, politicians distancing themselves. The city’s crooked system was crumbling under the weight of its own greed.

And Chanel? She sat in her cell like the queen she was born to be.

A photo leaked by an officer—probably trying to get under her skin—showed her dressed in the orange prisoner’s uniform, expression stone-cold, no tears, no fear. But make no mistake—she looked fine as fuck. Her stare pierced through the camera, silent and unyielding.

Later that day, a video surfaced. A guard, clearly pissed, shoved her food tray to the floor, trying to provoke a reaction. The clatter echoed through the cellblock.

But Chanel? She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shout. Didn’t even blink.

With deliberate calm, she brushed herself off, picked up the mess, and went back in line to head to the cells.

That silence was louder than any outburst.

She owned that moment.

The city was watching. The world was watching.

And they all knew—the harder they pushed, the stronger she got.

Meanwhile, lawsuits kept raining down like a storm:

The sheriff’s department got hit with false imprisonment suits from multiple inmates.

The DA’s office faced public corruption investigations.

The judge’s office had to answer to judicial conduct review boards with evidence piling up.

The county’s taxpayers were furious, demanding answers and accountability.

Politicians started distancing themselves faster than paparazzi at a secret celeb hookup. News anchors tried to spin the story, but even they couldn’t ignore the avalanche of evidence and public outrage.

Inside Rikers, Chanel remained unbreakable. No tears, no cries for mercy—just pure, raw, unshakable power.

Because some queens don’t wear crowns—they wear chains, and they still rule.

Chapter Forty-One: “Boom Box Love”

Outside the cold concrete walls of Rikers, Joey’s standing under that gray sky, holding an old-school boom box on his shoulder like it’s 1987. The speakers are blasting that song—“Soon as I get home, I’ll make it up to you, baby I’ll do what I gotta dooo~”—the melody echoing against the steel and brick.

He’s rocking that goofy grin, the kind only someone totally smitten can pull off, eyes glistening with something softer beneath the Brooklyn grit. His cap’s tilted back, hoodie up, but nothing can hide the way he’s vibing heavy with every note.

Joey looks up, yelling loud enough for the whole block to hear, “Yo, Chanel! It’s your baby daddy! I got you, queen! Hold tight, I’m comin’!”

From one of the barred windows on the upper floor, a group of prisoners spot him—some waving, others pointing excitedly to the glass where they swear they saw her. They holler back, “Joey! You wildin’, bro! That’s love right there!”

Joey laughs, spins the boom box around, cranks the volume higher, and bounces on his feet like a kid ready to get caught sneaking into a party.

Passersby stop, cameras pop up, some smile at the scene, some judge. But Joey? He’s only got eyes and heart locked on that prison window.

Because even behind those walls, he knows she’s still his queen.

And bro, he ain’t stopping—not for a second.

Chapter Forty-Two: “Window Wars”

The video’s already blowing up — some random bystander caught Joey standing outside the prison, boom box blasting that slow jam, yelling up at the window like a lovesick teenager. Clips are everywhere: TikTok, Insta, Twitter — all with captions like “Joey’s out here wildin’ for love,” and “When you ride or die but prison’s got you separated.”

Suddenly, the camera pans up to the barred window. And there she is — Chanel, framed in that cold, gray cell light, looking too good for a prison cell. She’s smirking, eyes sparkling with mischief. Then, with zero shame and all the Brooklyn boss energy, she points right at Joey and bursts out laughing. Loud. Full-on belly laugh that cracks through the silence like a shot.

Then, with all the sass in the world, she flips him off.

The internet loses it.

The clip loops over and over — the queen clowning her king, making it crystal clear: “I see you, but you better step up your game.”

Joey watches the clip on his phone, that goofy grin back full force, texting her immediately, “You wildin’, baby. Ima get you outta there. Soon as I get home, for real.”

And just like that, their love story? Still messy, still raw, but absolutely untouchable.

Chapter Forty-Three: “The Rooftop Serenade”

It started with a speaker. A boxy old-school boom box duct-taped to hell and back, resting on Joey’s shoulder like some kind of throwback declaration of war — not the violent kind, but the kind that said: I love her. Out loud. No matter who’s watching.

He stood right across the street from Rikers, hoodie half-on, gold chain swinging over a beat-up Knicks tee. Cops posted up around the facility gave him side-eyes, but didn’t dare step in — not when there were already TMZ vans idling across the road, and influencers livestreaming, catching every note. He hit play. The Temptations flooded the Brooklyn air like a love letter. “I got sunshine… on a cloudy day…” His voice cracked as he belted along, dramatically and off-key, but with so much feeling it didn’t matter. Not to him. Not to the crowd growing around him. Not to her.

Word had spread like wildfire. First a few teens, then some industry heads, now a whole scene had gathered. SZA leaned against the hood of a G-Wagon in an oversized hoodie and Yeezys, lip gloss shimmering in the fading light. She clapped her hands over her mouth and squealed, “Ain’t no way this man really doing a full John Cusack!” Megan had a flask in hand, curls bouncing as she hollered, “THAT’S YOUR MAN, CHANEL?” Tyler the Creator showed up in a neon golf hat and Hawaiian shorts, filming with a retro camcorder. A$AP stood posted, lighting up a blunt like it was just another Tuesday. Rihanna, in dark shades and diamonds, only smirked.

Joey ignored them all.

He kept his eyes fixed on a single window, fourth row from the top, seventh across. And then — Movement. A silhouette.

Chanel.

She stepped into view like it was nothing, like she didn’t have the entire city on edge waiting to see her face again. Inmates screamed in the background. You could faintly hear, “SING TO HER, JOEY!” and “AYYYY, THAT’S REAL LOVE!” Joey’s heart damn near left his chest. She pressed her palm against the window. Her lips moved, silent.

“My girl.”

He froze mid-verse. Then exploded into laughter, clutching his chest like she shot him through it. “Yooo! Y’all see that? That’s my girl!” he shouted, spinning in a circle. She shook her head through the glass and raised her hand… middle finger out. Crowd. Erupted.

Phones went flying in the air, SZA cackling so hard she bent over. Rihanna laughed, sliding her glasses down. “Yeah, she flipped you off. That’s real love right there.”

Joey grinned, spinning back to the mic of his boom box. “And that right there,” he yelled, pointing back at her window, “is why I’ll pull up every fuckin’ day. Rikers can’t stop love, baby!”

The entire sidewalk was a block party now — cops not even bothering to break it up, because what could they say? Joey Bada$$ just turned prison walls into a stage, and the whole damn world was watching.

Up in her cell, Chanel leaned her head back against the wall. She was tired. Angry. A little scared still. But for the first time in days… she smiled. For real.

Not for a camera. Not for a campaign. Just for him.

Chapter Forty-Four: “The Fold”

The courtroom was colder than it needed to be. Sterile walls. Cameras mounted high like vultures. Rows packed to the brim—press, protesters, people of power pretending they weren’t sweating under the weight of the entire damn world watching. #FreeChanel had gone global. Lawsuits stacked higher than egos, and under it all, Chanel Amari Tate stood quiet.

In a beige prison-issued uniform. Face bare. Nails chipped. But chin held high like the crown was still there.

Her hands were cuffed in front of her as she was led into the courtroom by two guards. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But the cameras caught it — the slight tremble in her bottom lip. The exhausted hollowness in her eyes.

She’d been locked up in isolation for weeks. Bruised. Stripped. Mocked. Her name dragged like it was worthless.

But not today.

Today, she was the hammer.

Her lawyers looked like they hadn’t slept in days. Suits wrinkled, papers stacked. But they were grinning—nervous, shaky grins. Because they knew. The state was cornered. The lawsuits were nuclear. And behind the scenes? The whole DA’s office was being torn to shreds by civil rights groups and Black-led law firms backed by A-list money and God’s own pressure.

The judge cleared his throat. His voice tried to stay neutral, but even he sounded shaken.

“The court… acknowledges due review of the evidence, constitutional violations, and external litigation pending. As such, all charges against Ms. Chanel Amari Tate are—” he paused, eyes scanning her face, “—hereby dropped in full. Ms. Tate will be released immediately.”

Silence.

Not even a gasp.

Just her.

Chanel stared straight ahead. Blinked once.

Then her knees buckled.

One of her lawyers lunged forward, catching her as she folded, mouth pressed to her own trembling hands. A sob tore from her throat—raw, real, unfiltered emotion exploding out like a dam broke. The mic picked it up, every syllable as clear as day:

“Oh my God… Ma… Daddy—we did it. I’m free. I’m free, I’m—Thank You, God, thank You…”

Tears streamed down her face, hot and unforgiving. She sobbed into her lawyer’s chest, her body racked with the weight of everything she'd carried. Grief. Rage. Fear. Exhaustion. And finally… relief.

Outside, crowds were already screaming. Car horns. Chanting. Signs lifted high. Helicopters. Drones. Cameras blinking like fireworks.

Inside, one of her attorneys slipped her a message from the back row, handwritten and folded tight.

She opened it with shaking hands.

“I’m outside. Whole city here for you. And I’ll be waiting right at the steps, Baby Mama. —J.”

A choked laugh burst through her tears. The world hadn’t stopped spinning. Not yet. But for the first time in weeks, Chanel felt the ground beneath her again.

The steel cuffs clicked off. And she stood up.

Chapter Forty-Five: “Brooklyn Bred. Brooklyn Built.”

The double courthouse doors cracked open like a dam about to burst, and the noise outside hit her like a wave—sirens, cheers, camera shutters, the rumble of voices all shouting her name.

Her team flanked her, tight and protective. Designers, lawyers, stylists, assistants—everyone who had fought like hell to keep her name out the mud. But no one could shield her from the moment.

She stepped into the light.

And her legs went weak.

Flashbulbs snapped like lightning, and it was like the sky opened up. The city was outside waiting for her. Black folks posted deep. Bodega owners with handmade signs. Aunties screaming “We love you, baby!” and little girls on their parents’ shoulders holding up “Chanel Strong” posters.

She shook. Literally. Shoulders trembling. A breath snagging in her throat as tears rushed forward faster than she could stop them. It wasn’t staged, it wasn’t for the cameras. It was grief and triumph and exhaustion colliding at once.

Her sunglasses slipped slightly as her head dipped, her hand coming to her face. But it didn’t matter. The world already saw the tears.

Real ones.

And then—him.

Joey was already moving before she clocked him. Not walking. Jogging. Elbows pushing past the cameras, hoodie pulled up, his chain clinking with each step, that damn goofy grin on his face like he ain’t give a single solitary fuck about the press or the noise or the law. His only focus was her.

She looked up.

Locked eyes.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

She ran.

Right past her team. Right through the wall of paparazzi. Straight into him.

And he caught her.

Lifted her clean off the ground like it was instinct, like his arms were designed to hold her and only her. She wrapped around him tight—legs around his waist, arms locked behind his neck, her face buried deep in the crook of it, tears soaking into his hoodie as the whole city watched.

“I got you,” he whispered, voice thick, hand pressing into the back of her head like he was anchoring her to earth. “Ain’t nobody taking you from me again, you hear me? I got you.”

And Chanel sobbed. Loud and real. Shaking in his arms.

He didn’t put her down for a full minute.

Her team didn’t say a word.

The cameras didn’t dare ask a question.

Even the cops stood back.

It was her moment.

And his.

Joey looked up from where she clung to him, eyes rimmed red too now, and shouted over the noise to the crowd, voice hoarse but proud:

“Y’all better recognize royalty when you see it—Queen Chanel’s home.”

And Brooklyn? Brooklyn screamed for her.

Chapter Forty-Six: “You’re Such a Fucking Simp.”

She didn’t even realize she was laughing until the sound bubbled out of her, chest still hiccuping from the tears, cheeks soaked and lips trembling.

Still in his arms. Still being held like something precious.

Joey looked up at her with that same love-sick, dumb-ass grin, eyes glazed like he was high off just seeing her smile. And she blinked through wet lashes, wiped her eyes clumsily with the heel of her palm, then looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And just shook her head, chuckling low through the mess of it all.

“You’re such a fucking simp—” she said, voice half-broken from crying, half-cracked from laughing.

And that made him grin wider.

He laughed too, snorting as he hoisted her up a bit more securely, still not letting her down. “Damn right I am,” he said, voice raspy. “Loud and proud, baby. I’m ya number one fan, what you expect?”

The crowd around them started catching on.

Phones were already out. Screens glowing. One girl yelled, “OH MY GOD THEY IN LOVE FORREALLL!” and Twitter had already collapsed under a trending topic before they even made it off the courthouse steps.

#ChanelAndJoey #RealLove #QueenHome

Clips from every angle were uploading. She was in his arms. Crying and smiling. Calling him a simp.

And him? Smiling like he won the lottery and the city of Brooklyn in the same breath.

“You know they watching this, right?” Joey teased, leaning in, voice low by her ear. “We viral like a muhfuckin’ meme right now. Probably got us on The Shade Room and Vogue at the same time.”

She laughed louder at that, head falling back as tears still glistened on her lashes.

“I can’t believe I’m crying in public,” she mumbled, still smiling.

“Shit,” Joey said, stepping back just enough to look at her—still holding her, still grounding her. “You earned that cry. You survived. You here. That’s some goddess-level shit.”

She blinked at him, tears still falling despite herself, even as she smiled.

“You always been this corny?” she asked, voice thick with emotion.

Joey just winked. “Only for you, shorty.”

The camera shutters were still going. The city was still screaming.

But for a moment—it was just them.

And Brooklyn got to witness the kind of moment people write songs about.

A woman who refused to be broken.

And a man who never left her side.

Chapter Forty-Seven: “You can stay here… until you feel safe.”

The car ride had been quiet—except for the occasional flash of her wiping under her eyes, the world outside still screaming her name, still hashtagging her freedom. But in this car, in this space beside him—everything felt like an exhale.

His place was tucked behind a gated entrance in Fort Greene. Not too flashy, but the kind of cozy-luxe that felt real. Like home without trying too hard. When he opened the door for her and let her step inside first, her brows lifted just slightly at the scent of sandalwood and a touch of weed still lingering in the walls. She didn’t say it out loud, but she liked it.

He locked the door behind them.

“Yo,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, voice all nervous and warm. “I ain’t wanna pressure you or nothin’, but… you know you good here, right?”

She turned slowly to look at him. He was already gazing at her—those beautiful, stupid, heart-sweet brown eyes paired with that boyish ass grin that always looked like it belonged on a teen heartthrob poster.

Chanel blinked.

And then bit her bottom lip.

“I mean—if you don’t feel comfortable, I could grab a hotel—”

“Joey.”

He stopped talking, brows lifting.

She stepped forward, slow, cautious. Her face unreadable but her eyes? Her eyes were seeing him. Like really seeing him. She’d spent so long not looking at people too long. Not letting herself linger on faces. But now?

Now she was standing so close he could smell her skin, fresh from a courthouse victory and trauma and too many battles to name. But still her.

Still his lil shorty.

Her voice was low. Softer than usual. Not trying to mask it in bravado or a Brooklyn bark.

“I'm tired,” she said, like it was a confession. “Like… really tired. And I don’t know where else I’d go right now that don’t feel like another goddamn battlefield.”

Joey’s chest tightened.

“I got you,” he said instantly, his voice that perfect blend of promise and prayer. “You can stay here… until you feel safe. I mean that.”

She stared at him again.

Looked into those brown eyes. Looked past the goofiness and saw the loyalty. The softness. The realness.

She nodded, just once. Biting her lip again, but this time not to hold anything back—just to keep herself from smiling too hard.

“Okay.”

And that one word made Joey grin so damn big he had to look away, running a hand down his face like a flustered teen.

She caught that.

Laughed softly under her breath.

“Goddamn, you really are a simp,” she teased, voice cracking a little with amusement.

Joey shrugged. “Only for my girl.”

That made her blink—but she didn’t correct him. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t hit him with that usual “boy shut the fuck up.”

Instead, she stepped past him.

Dropped her bag near the couch.

Kicked her shoes off and said:

“You got any chopped cheese in the fridge?”

Joey just laughed. “I’ll Postmate that shit right now.”

And just like that, she was home—for now.

Chapter Forty-Eight: "She here. She really here."

It started out innocent.

Joey had come back from the kitchen with her chopped cheese—extra bacon, grilled onions just how she liked it. She’d barely touched it though, tired behind her eyes and quiet as hell, eyes wandering over the space like she couldn’t believe it was all real.

His place was lived in, but warm. Vinyl records stacked like trophies, Polaroids pinned to the fridge, incense on the counter still letting off a faint wisp of smoke. His studio room was tucked behind a sliding door with her Calvin Klein shoot framed beside the mixing board.

He noticed her looking at it.

He didn’t say nothin’.

She just blinked at it for a second, expression unreadable, then wandered off—soft socks on hardwood floors, curls frizzing slightly from the humidity. She found his bedroom next.

Didn’t ask.

Just leaned on the doorframe.

He followed, watching her take it in.

The room was low lit. Air smelling like something warm and earthy. Big bed. Cream comforter. Dark wood furniture. One of his hoodies tossed across a chair like a lazy afterthought.

“Damn…” she mumbled, head tilting slightly.

“What?”

“You got good taste.”

Joey tried to play it cool, but he smiled way too damn wide. “Well… my baby mama got expensive taste, so I had to learn.”

She shot him a lazy side-eye, but the corner of her mouth curved up.

She didn’t sit on the bed at first. Just brushed her fingertips along his dresser. His nightstand. The speakers set up by the windows.

But then?

She yawned.

A soft, sleepy little sound.

And before he could even joke about it, she dropped her body right into the center of his bed. Face-first. Deadass starfish style.

“Ayo!” he laughed. “Not you takin’ over my shit like this your spot!”

She didn’t move.

“Shut up. I’m not movin’. This bed feels like it was built by angels.”

Joey was losing his mind. This was really happening. She was here. In his bed. Wearing his hoodie now too 'cause she got cold and he offered without thinking.

And then?

She knocked out.

Gone. Fully passed out, mouth parted slightly against his pillow. Arms tucked underneath her. One Timb still dangling off her foot like she passed out mid-complaint.

Joey stood in the doorway like he’d just walked in on a spiritual experience.

He didn’t dare move her.

Didn’t want to wake her.

So he backed out, slow, into the living room—grinning like a dumbass. Picked up his phone. Opened Instagram Live.

A second later, thousands joined in.

Joey’s grin grew wider.

Camera flipped to his face, cap low over his locs, chain glinting a little in the warm lamp light. That boy was glowing.

“She here,” he said, grinning into the phone. “She really here.”

Comments flying:

“OMGGGGGGG SHE STAYIN W U??” “baby mama arc complete 😭” “joey in his LOYAL ERA” “we eating yall 🥹🫶🏽”

He tried to keep his voice low, but he was cheesin’ hard.

“She fell asleep in my bed, y’all. In my damn hoodie. This woman… I’m—yo I’m dumb for her. Y’all don’t even know.”

He paused, tilted his head back.

That smile turned into something softer. Something that hurt a little in the chest.

“I just want her to feel safe again. That’s it.”

He glanced off camera.

“She already home to me.”

The comments exploded again.

And inside that room?

Chanel shifted once, sighing softly in her sleep. The camera didn’t catch it, but Joey did. He just smiled, ending the live quietly with:

“Y’all keep her in y’all prayers, aight? That’s a queen in there.”

Click.

[weird-coordinates]

positive affirmations. my music taste is unreal and cool as fuck. my unblinking, unfocused gaze DOESNT freak out strangers and they can pick up on my cool vibes. the guy who did my “””assessment””” in physio will live in shame and squallor forever for disrespecting me like that. all my enemies will crumble to dust, my abusive ex partner will be exploded by 1 million tiny suns. i will know peace, then

[why-am-i-like-this-why-am-i]

My knuckles are white hanging on to my own skin for dear life.

My ears are buzzing and everything's hazy.

"He's gone" is all I hear.

I lose it. I don't remember much just tears and screaming. I can feel arms around me but they're not the ones I want. The ones I want are no longer here.

I can't feel a thing but my heart feels like it's shattered into a million tiny little pieces and my brain has exploded into a great pile of mush.

No no no. This isn't how things are supposed to be. He's not supposed to be gone. I've waited all this time for my person, the one who makes me feel alive inside, the one who drowns out all the bad thoughts, the one who makes me truly happy, and now we've finally reached our happiness...he's gone.

My knees crumble and I can no longer stand but nor do I want to sit. I want to lay with him and beg him to wake up. You're cold to touch. You were never cold. I want to scream from the bottom of my lungs for him to stop and just wake up.

"I'm not asleep" yeah this time you're definitely not. You're gone. I'll never forget seeing you like that. Its etched into my brain on repeat and every time I close my eyes you're all I see.

I can't do this.

I wake up and I'm covered in sweat, snot and tears. I look beside me and no its not my imagination. Just a fucking never-ending nightmare.  Nearly 2 years. Nearly every single night. The only solace is when my heart is happy enough to forget just for a few hours, normally that's with her. She's so far away but close all the same. I can't  forget when I'm alone and even when I do forget even just for a moment i'm consumed with guilt. I cant be happy, i dont want to be happy without you. I feel sick and hot, my head hurts,  I can't breathe. In for 4 out for 4.

I'm tearing at my skin, willing to repeat my previous mistakes, the bottle that numbs the pain is within reach, just half a bottle and I'll make it through. I want to get wasted and forget this life just for an evening.

I don't want to do this anymore. I can't....but I have to.

I don't have an option to push self destruct. I have 2 angels and a best friend that need me to keep going, keep trying to be better. If it wasn't for them I'm not sure where I'd be but I think it's safe to say I'd have seen you again. I fucking miss you and I'm a total wreck without you.

Everyone thinks I'm ok. I'm fine. But I'm not and no one sees underneath. Maybe I should take up acting.

[slimeciclecock]

I think the day I see qmariana in the shy/nervous pose is the day I explode and crumble into a million tiny pieces

[eternaljunkyard]

They That Bargain Ghosts

a sad little ficlet because @noahcaptainn told me about the Nastya coat theory with Death to the Mechanisms so my brain went off the rails because I want to know how Jonny got it so uh,,,, enjoy

cw guns and mourning

---------------------

Brian threw a hand out to stop the others in their tracks. It had been a long while since they had a proper family outing, but this planet had looked as good as any and they needed time to think. After Ashes disappeared in a bizarre encounter involving time travel, and with Ivy, Marius, and Raphaella currently absent, it couldn’t exactly be counted as the whole family, but at least they knew the other three were coming back. Brian, Jonny, the Toy Soldier, and Tim had decided to do some violence, take time to process, and perhaps formulate how to find Ashes.

Brian felt himself shaking, one hand wrapped into a cold bronze fist and the other held out stiffly across Jonny’s torso. His gaze was fixed on a small shop across the street, his dead metal eyes somehow containing the angry embers of a glare. He turned slowly to look at Jonny. The ache in his chest was the only real sensation, and therefore the most acute.

It didn’t take long for Jonny to see what had caught Brian’s gaze.

It was a long, dark coat, hanging in the window of the run-down shop. It wasn’t anything particularly unique — almost every planet had something similar for the citizens in colder climes — but it was distinct. The coarse cloth hung stiffly, the same way it had for millennia. It looked a bit odd without the body it was made to be wrapped around and the belt to cinch it tight, but the dull gold chevrons on the cuffed sleeves were recognizable enough. 

It only took Jonny twelve steps to reach the window, where the name clumsily stitched onto the collar’s inside lining was distinct. Brian didn’t need to approach, didn’t even need to see Jonny’s face to know what it said.

Nastya.

But Brian did see Jonny’s face, and it fell, crumbled, and shattered into utter, overwhelming grief. Brian’s heart began to scream in pain as the usually stoic and coarse gunslinger had to put a hand on the window to steady himself. The telltale flashes of falling tears glittered momentarily in the air as they fell, and Brian noticed that Jonny’s knees were shaking, his shoulders curling in on himself like they hadn’t in so long. Jonny looked a bit like a child in that moment, frozen and trembling and trying in vain to hide his tears.

Brian walked to Jonny haltingly, although not quite as unnaturally as the Toy Soldier who joined their group mere seconds later, and Tim after that. They didn’t touch, they just stood in a silent cluster about their first mate and stared at that dark figment from another time.

Nastya had gone Out. She had gone a long time ago. So where had the shopkeeper gotten the coat? Jonny was apparently asking the same question, because in an instant the solidarity of grief was broken by Jonny’s fist slamming through the window, causing millions of tiny shards to explode like stars as it broke. Jonny was through the window and into the shop before any of them could stop him, and he breezed past the display with Nastya’s coat on it to squeeze a hand around the shopkeeper’s throat.

“Where did you get it?” Jonny growled at the poor old woman, gasping for breath as she looked at him with pure fear and bewilderment. “The coat.” Jonny gestured and shoved her towards the relic.

“A-A traveling merchant I do business with,” she stammered, her hands fluttering in panic. “They have excellent vintage finds, and I’d never seen anything of quite fine make, so I bought it.” There was a long silence, and Brian stepped through the now-open window. Faintly, he registered the doorbell — that must be Tim and TS entering as well.

“How much is it?” Brian asked. Jonny’s eyes were glazed and angry, and Brian did not want to cause this woman any more distress. Better they bought the coat and got out of there. The woman stammered and stuttered through her response, and Brian paid her what she was owed (plus a little extra for the broken window). He picked the coat off the display gently, brushing away broken glass, and offered it to Jonny.

The look in Jonny’s eyes as he accepted the coat was hollow and lost, as dark as a cavern and just as empty. 

It took a long time to get back to the ship — at least it felt like it. It didn’t take long for Aurora to notice the thing in Jonny’s arms, and when she did she fell immediately silent. Brian and Tim and TS sat around the kitchen table without saying a word — what was there to say? Presumably, that Nastya was finally gone for good, there was no more hope of her return. Presumably, that someone had scavenged the well-kept coat from her gray corpse. Presumably, that none of them knew how they were feeling, even TS, who was only supposed to be pretending. It only took fifteen minutes before Tim’s shoulders shook and he broke down into tearless sobs, and he got up and left because Brian and TS were too mechanical to provide comfort. Nobody tried to stop Jonny when gunshot after gunshot fired in his room, and nobody went to check to see what he was shooting. They knew.

It was nearly a year before Jonny would wear the coat, and then he hardly took it off. It was nearly a year before Aurora became anything more than an ordinary spaceship again, and her return was the same day Jonny’s grief grew into determined homage. 

“How do I look?” Jonny asked the group in the dining room, now consisting of Brian, Ivy, Marius, Raphaella, Tim, and TS. The coat was big on him but in an oddly comforting way, like Nastya’s presence was still there somehow.

‘You look like a captain,’ Aurora’s words — the first in eleven and a half months —  illuminated on the wall opposite him. ‘She would be proud.’

[junisfics]

teacher's pet* — eren jaeger

eren jaeger x puppy! reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings: smut / nsfw 18 + (mirrors, slight pet play, corruption kink, humiliation, mentions of f! masturbation)

notes: i was going to write a full length hard core pet play fic but i ended up running out of time so here's a little blurb :)

eren had your back to his chest as you both sat on the floor. your legs were spread out and up and over his thighs so you couldn't even close them if you tried.

you were squirming against his chest and the hard on pressing into your back, eyes squeezing shut because in front of you was a giant, full body mirror.

with only a skimpy tank top on, eren had you blushing and writhing in front of this mirror without even laying a finger on you. you felt so exposed, so vunerable.

you had walked to his dorm, just down the hall from yours, pushed open his door real quietly and tip toed into his room all sheepishly.

"eren," you had said, with your voice all tiny and submissive, "can you help me?"

and without even asking you what you needed help with, eren had said yes. you're his sweet little girlfriend; so dependent on him, so needy for him... of course he'd help you.

but he wasn't expecting you to tell him, with your eyes to the floor and fiddling with your fingers, "can't get off"

now, eren knew you were a virgin... you told him. and it was quite obvious. the way you trembled and moaned at the gentlest brushes of his fingers or lips, the way your hips stuttered when you got a good feel of his hard on. he thought it was the cutest thing.

but what he didn't know, is that you've never gotten yourself off before.

you've played with yourself, teased yourself, stuffed your little fingers inside your cunt until you were a shaky mess. but you could never bring yourself to an orgasm.

and tonight was all the same.

you were in your dorm, your own one at that, laid out onto your bed with your little hand shoved down your panties, two fingers curling inside you while you bit down on your other hand to muffle your moans.

and you were sure you were gonna do it this time, you were so sure of it!

but as quickly as your high climbed, your poor hand got tired just as fast. and you were a hot and bothered, frustrated mess when you explained to him what happened.

you told him that you've never came before, that you've never gotten to the best part.

and it made erens cock throb in his pants.

so, when he grabbed ahold of your hips and sat you down in front of the mirror, peeling your panties down your legs, he was determined to make you cum. he needed to feel you cream around his fingers for your very first time.

"look at you. so pretty for me, hm?" he mumbles, head tilted down so he can speak against your ear.

you had turned your head away from the reflective glass, vision narrowed as you buried the side of your head into his chest. every so often your eyes flit to the side to catch a glance of you all spread out for him, but they returned just as fast.

"c'mon, be a good girl 'n look for me." one of the hands around your waist slid up your chest to grab ahold of your chin, turning it gently to bring your eyes to the mirror.

his other hand tickles at the skin below your navel, sending waves of goosebumps over your exposed flesh.

"'s embarassing." you whine, eyes darting to the plush grey carpet on the floor beside you.

eren presses a gentle kiss to your hair, "no it's not, puppy. it's to help teach you."

"you gonna be a good girl 'n watch for me? watch me finger your cunt nice and good so you can learn how to do it yourself?" the hand against your stomach slides a little lower, teasing just above your clit, "'m not always gonna be here to do it for you."

you know that. you know that, physically, eren won't always be around to take care of you the way you really need it. so, you let your eyes skim over the carpet and inch up the glass of the mirror

"that's my girl," he says, voice low and velvety and dripping with sensuality, "if you take your eyes off yourself... i'll stop."

both of you were aching with anticipation. you just wanted him to treat you, finger you how you need it until you're cumming around his digits. you need that release, you need it from him.

and eren was desperate to have you writhing in his grasp, choking out moans for him as you gush for the very first time, and all over his fingers.

his fingers brush over your clit real soft, circling it slowly. he can hear your breath hitch, your little hands coming to the forearm that still has a hold on your chin. you were so sensitive, all fidgety in front of him and your body growing even hotter at his touch.

“eren —“ you speak no louder than a whisper, just enough for him to hear you.

he lets his hand fall from your chin to the bottom hem of your shirt, dipping up and under it and teasing the soft skin under your right breast. you jerked a little at the sensation.

“this alright?” he mumbles. you can feel his lips turn into a smirk against your ear.

you nod, quickly and desperately, taking your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle another whine. you realize then, that your gaze has shifted away from the  mirror. your head had fallen forward once he released your head and you were watching his fingers tease at you.

“head up,” he says, like he could read your thoughts. 

you bring your head up, your cheek brushing against his jaw as you rest back onto his shoulder. in the mirror, you see his fingers begin to slide lower, sliding through the slick arousal that’s gathered against your hot skin.

“you this wet for me?” he chuckles, sliding the tips of his fingers through your heat.

his comment makes your face and neck grow warm, crinkling your nose, legs attempting to close. but his own are in the way and preventing you from doing so.

“eren, this is humiliating,” you mutter, backing farther up into his chest like you were trying to escape. but you knew you weren’t. you were too riled up, to desperate for him to fill you.

“take a lick, puppy.” he teases, bringing his hand away from your cunt and up to your face.

you turn your head into his neck, eyes only flitting to his fingers for brief seconds to look at the creamy slick that’s gathered on his fingertips. you look up to him, eyes wide.

“be a good girl ‘n get my fingers nice and wet for you.” he smiles, looking down at you.

hesitantly, and eager to please, you turn back to his hand. you take his wrist in both of your much smaller hands and bring his hand forth towards your mouth. sticking your tongue out, you slide two of his glistening fingers inside your mouth.

you taste yourself on his skin, slightly bitter and tarte, and let his fingers press against the soft of your tongue to coat them in your saliva. he tells you to open your mouth as he pulls them out, to avoid your lips, and they leave your tongue with a slimey string of saliva in their wake.

the spit drips off his fingers and down your stomach before his hand reaches your center again. they’re warm, and wet from your tongue when they tease your entrance. eren can feel your cunt flutter against his fingertips.

“fuck baby —” he mutters, beginning to tease his middle finger inside, “oh god.”

your hands return to his forearm, the one that has a hand now palming at your breast, and etch your blunt nails into the sinew there.

“please, please,” your breath catches in your throat again, voice getting all shaky as he slides in just a little more and a little more until he’s two knuckles deep.

you’re so tight around him, squeezing his single digit so well. every shift of his hand has your cunt pulsing around his knuckles. 

“jesus fuck, ‘can feel you.” 

when his finger is to it’s hilt, he has it stay there for a little. he only moves it to curl it against your gummy walls and press against your sweet spot real gently. it has you keening.

“eren,” you whimper, your legs beginning to tremble over his own.

it was pathetic. he was only a finger deep inside you and you were falling apart, crumbling into a stupid mess before him.

his hand on your breast shifts upwards, his fingers grazing over your raised nipple and sending your head falling back against his collarbone. your back was arching into his dualty touches, your ass grinding against his hard cock.

“need more, please.” you beg with a breathy moan

you’ve lost all care towards memorizing his actions for later. because never, never ever, would you be able to possibly come close to replicating the pleasure he’s making you feel right now.

he slides his finger out of you, relishing the cries that leave your lips as he does so. then, he slips it back in real easily. you’re sucking him back in, clenching around him and begging for more.

he starts with languid pumps of that one finger, pairing it with dirty praises against your ear as you tremble and shake in his arms. your stomach was twisting so deliciously in pleasure; at an intensity you’ve never felt before.

he was skilled with his actions, you don’t even care if he’s done them a million times before, because the way his was making you feel right now had you so on edge. you thought you’d explode.

and then, as he pulls back out once more, he returns with another finger.

“oh my god.” your legs clamp around his own.

eren can feel your stomach tense up as he fills you even more. he can feel your breathing grow ragged and the volume of your cries become careless.

“fuck, you’re close aren’t you, puppy?” he asks. his tongue slips past his lips to lick at the skin of your neck, covered in a sheen of sweat.

“eren! i — i’m —“ your mouth falls open, legs thrashing around.

“fuck yeah, cum for me.” he mumbles, hand on your breast sliding farther up your shirt to grab your chin again, turning your head to him and taking your lips in his with a sloppy kiss.

it was messy, you gushed all over his fingers and hand and fuzzy carpet. you moaned into his mouth, his hot tongue licking against your own and the roof of you mouth. your body was spasming in his arms, ass grinding up against him as he rode through his own orgasm.

just from watching you, from watching your pretty little cunt squeeze his fingers and leak all over him, he came in thick hot spurts and all in his pants.

JUNISFICS © 2021

[mizunetzu]

Tags~: @scifiji @shiny-bun @luv-hqs @gummiebearsmp4 @aquariusmurderer @inarizza @roadkillarr (finally I made the part two AHAHAH)

——————

Kita x reader - warm, warm professions (God I love you so much) (cold cold obvs. Part 2)

Warnings - ahaha angst, crying Kita

Pronouns - male, he/him

you can find part one here!

——————

“Shicchan, your hands are so cold...”

(Y/n) cupped both of Kita’s numb hands in his own. Kita tensed, looking down at both of their hands. He felt his own hands being attacked with (Y/n’s) warm ones, his cold, cold hands already thawing just at the one touch.

“Isn’t it hard to toss the ball when you’re hands are numb? That’s bad!” (Y/n) brought Kita’s hands to cup his face, his hands stinging from how warm his cheeks were.

(Y/n) nuzzled his face into Kita’s left hand. He practically murmured into his palm. “How’d they get so cold in the first place?”

Kita wouldn’t show it, in fact he didn’t think he could if he tried, but the warmth that spread across his chest made him suddenly want to run laps. He settled for slightly gripping and rubbing (Y/n’s) cheeks with his thumbs. “I don’t know.” Was all Kita could muster. He was too lost in (Y/n’s) captivating eyes.

God, he loved him so much.

——

Numb.

Numb was the way Kita would describe the feeling in his mouth.

He sat quietly on a foldable chair in the gym, twirling his fingers together instead of watching the practice match going on. He didn’t think he could pay attention if he tried, when he used to be able to have his eyes glued onto the ball even though he was on the sidelines. His fingers felt kind of numb.

He wrapped his fingers up in his shirt to no avail. All it did was make his stomach cold from his fingers bitter touch. It wasn’t even that cold outside. It was a rather nice day in terms of weather. But it didn’t feel like that at all.

“-ita. Kita!”

Kita raised his head. Atsumu loomed above him with his arms crossed.

“...Did you need something, Atsumu-san?”

“Yeah. Why’re ya actin’ all depressed? You’re makin’ everyone feel depressed too, y’know.”

“Atsumu! Shut the fuck up!” Kita heard someone whisper-yell, as well as a grunt of pain from Atsumu. Kita blinked.

“Nothing...much.”

“Nothin’ much?! How bout’ when you started cryin’ yer ass off during practice a week ago? Didn’t seem like nothin’ to me!”

Osamu slapped Atsumu upside the head. Aran sighed.

“I gotta agree with Atsumu-san on this. You don’t look too good these days. Especially since (L/n)-san stopped showin’ up to practice.”

There was hums and nods of agreement. Kita pursed his lips.

“Did...did something happen between y’all?”

Kita couldn’t look Aran in the eyes. He, also, used to have no problem speaking his mind (in fact sometimes it came out automatically) but right now his mouth was glued shut. Now, and probably forever. He didn’t wanna say it. He didn’t wanna think it. He didn’t wanna hear it-

“Kita and (L/n) broke up a week ago.”

Suna pitched in monotonously. Kita flinched subtly. The gym was silent. All eyes were on Kita. His throbbing, cold hands didn’t help, as he tried warming them up discreetly by stuffing them under the backside of his shirt.

“Oh...uh, sorry.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t mind.”

The awkward, sympathetic pats on the back didn’t really help either, but he replied with a curt “s’fine.” nonetheless.

——

(Y/n) kissed the back of Kita’s hand.

“Looks like your hands warmin’ up...” He drew it away from his lips and examined it with half lidded eyes and a reserved smile. Kita watched as tiny specs of sun fluttered around (Y/n’s) warm face, painting his face and hair with light that made him look like an angel sent from heaven.

Kita mindlessly brought his free hand up to the side of (Y/n’s) face, touching and stroking his cheek with the grace of a feather. (Y/n) looked up from his hand, up at Kita’s face.

(Y/n) leaned into his touch. He used his other hand to cup the hand resting peacefully on his cheek, nuzzling his nose further into Kita’s palm.

“Something wrong?”

“No...”

Kita felt a throbbing, hazy feeling in his chest. Like something inside his ribcage was trying to break free, and explode into a million pieces.

“Then, do you just like holding my face?” (Y/n) smiled that smile that made him go weak in the knees. “That’s good...I like it when you hold my face too.”

God, he loved him so much.

——

Kita slumped down, doubled over himself panting and heaving on the sidewalk where Inarizaki was collectively jogging. Ginjima stopped in front of Kita, jogging in place.

“You’re usually in the very front of the pack when we all run.” He said in between huffs.

Kita said nothing, only panting and crouching down to catch his breath.

“You run in the very back of the group now.”

He was met with no response again. Ginjima stopped running in place, and stared down pitifully at Kita’s hunched over body.

“S’everything alright back there?!” Aran called out from a distance. Ginjima yelled out a “Everything’s fine!” While waving his arms around in the air until Aran waved back. Ginjima looked back at Kitas scrunched up form.

“Y’know-maybe you should just...go home for the day. Take a break.”

Kita looked up at him with dry, tired eyes. His throat refused to put out any other sounds than exhales the occasional cough.

“Go freshen up and go home. You won’t die missing a day of practice.” Ginjima crouched down to Kita’s face, his voice noticeably softer and careful. “It’s not like you to push yourself when you know you’re not doing well.”

“I’m not sick, it’s not the same thing-“

“But you’re heartbroken.”

Heartbroken. Kita supposed that was the word to describe his situation right now. Heartbroken, yet it didn’t feel like the correct word to describe how he felt. He felt like he was dying. Drowning. Freezing.

“I’ll walk you back, ‘kay?” Ginjima pushed off his feet, extending a hand over to Kita. He pulled him up, and Kita swayed in the air like a bobblehead. “Go change and go home. We’ll see you tomorrow, don’t worry. I’ll tell the others you went home.”

Ginjima and Kita walked in the opposite direction they were running. Kita downcast his face.

“M’kay.”

——

“Do you love me?”

Kita remembered the way (Y/n’s) face didn’t radiate the warm glow it usually did when he was around him. His eyes looked strained, infuriated even, and he looked like he wanted to say something more. But it was a simple question, ‘do you love me?’. And of course he did. So that’s what he said.

“...Of course I-“

“”of course I do.” That’s what you always say..! Say something else, dammit! Say you love me!”

(Y/n) abruptly rose from his seat, stepping over the bench and grabbing Kita by the collar. He pulled him closer to his face, shaking him by the shirt with knuckles that almost turned white.

“M-Make me believe that you love me!”

He really wish he didn’t remember how much tears flowed freely from (Y/n’s) eyes, and how he was biting and gnawing at his lip to keep from screaming, or the way he shook with despair in general. It played over and over again, the same sorrow-riddled expression that made Kita’s stomach drop.

He really wish he didn’t remember. But he wished he’d said something, anything, even more.

(Y/n’s) face went from angry and sad, to numb and cold in a matter of seconds. He’d much rather prefer the heated look of (Y/n’s) angry face, than the stone cold lifeless look (Y/n) held when he let go of his shirt. Because even with his angry sobs and screams, there was still a hint of warmth. Even if it was angry passion, it was still better than the cold, dead stare he held that Kita couldn’t meet.

“...I think we should break up.”

Kita’s world went silent. He was struck with an immediate shock of dread, panic, stress, and everything in between. He had so many questions. Why? Didn’t he know that he loved him? He loved him so, so much, so why was he saying that he didn’t? Was his love not enough? Didn’t he know how much he needed him?

He had so many questions, yet his face made of cold stone could only say one thing.

“Why?”

(Y/n’s) iron clad grip on Kita’s shirt loosened, he stepped back, face feeling raw after crying. “I don’t want to be with someone who can’t tell me they love me. Once you can tell me you love me, and mean it, I’m all ears.”

Kita watched as (Y/n) turned his back on him for the first and last time. More thoughts raced in his head. He could change. He could do better. He’d love him a thousand times more, fix every little imperfection, hell, do it a thousand times over again if it meant that (Y/n) would turn around with that warm smile again. He wanted see that smile again. That smile that made him feel so warm. Please. One more time. Kita’s arm gravitated outwards, reaching for (Y/n’s) cold back as he turned away. One more time, please smile for me.

But he didn’t. He was met with nothing more than a cold shoulder.

He was left with the sudden drop in temperature, the world once filled with so much warmth being winded away into a cold wasteland. Kita looked down, his eyes numb and wide.

“Please come back...” he remembered saying, though he didn’t think it ever came out audibly.

“I love you, (Y/n)...”

‘God...dear God...’

He loved him so much.

‘Why did you take him away from me?’

‘The gods were always listening, is what my Baa-san would always say. Were the gods not listening to my undying love for you, (L/n)(Y/n)? Was my feelings for you not enough to make you smile for me one last time? God, I loved you so much.’

‘So did I not love you enough?’

——

Kita found himself sitting on the same bench (Y/n) professed his love for him to. Granted, it was the same bench they had broken up on, but Kita didn’t want to think about that.

He twirled a wilted cherry blossom petal in between his fingers. The rigid, dark pink petal cracked and crumbled, turning into dust in Kita’s hand.

As much as he hated this place, this stupid stone bench with a cherry blossom tree, it was a beautiful sight that not much students knew about. It was quiet, but it caused (Y/n’s) cold, cold eyes to bore into his mind all the more he stayed. It was a double edged sword.

He sometimes wondered what (Y/n) was doing with his free time outside of the club. What did he do? Did he take a nap after classes? His sleeping face looked very cute, though he only saw it once when he dozed off studying at his house. Did he spend time with his parents? He always found people respectable to their parents very attractive. Did he find a new club to stay with?

Kita clenched his fists. The thought of (Y/n) playing a different sport, doing something else after school, didn’t sit right with him. Was that what he was doing? Did he realize how cold and uncomfortable he made volleyball for him, and decided to leave? Would he never see him smiling up at him again after school?

Would he never see (L/n) (Y/n’s) warm, warm smile directed at him ever again?

He heard footsteps echo on the grass behind him. The footsteps halted awkwardly, and Kita turned around.

(Y/n) locked eyes with Kita. He should’ve been paying attention to where he was going, huh? Maybe if he was looking where he was walking, he could’ve noticed Kita Shinsuke sitting there, and could’ve found a different spot to sit at after school.

(Y/n) wasted no time spinning on his heel and leaving. He didn’t wanna face Kita after everything that went down.

Kita feet sprang him up and off the bench. He didn’t know what he was doing, but the next thing he knew was that his arms wrapped around (Y/n’s) body, holding him while he was facing away. Kita’s mind raced with thoughts and went absolutely blank at the same time.

(Y/n) pursed his lips. “What do you want?” He said. It came out harsher than he intended, but Kita paid no mind. He wordlessly buried his face into the crook of (Y/n’s) neck, nuzzling it and relishing in the warmth that was not intended for him.

“H-hey! What gives!” (Y/n) half-heartedly tried pushing Kita away. He knew if he gave in now, he’d come crawling back into Kita’s cold, loveless arms, craving that touch and pretending it was indeed, love. “Don’t...don’t touch me, Kita-“

“Shinsuke.”

The arm that was trying to push Kita away went limp. (Y/n’s) hardened exterior cracked as his resolve faltered. Kita buried himself deeper into (Y/n’s) shoulder, firmly wrapping his arms around (Y/n) tightly. He was practically murmuring into (Y/n’s) school uniform.

“Call...call me Shinsuke...it’s what you used to call me...when we first started dating...”

“Well,” (Y/n) downcast his face, his eyes hardened and cold while he balled up his fists. “We aren’t dating. So why does it-“

All of (Y/n’s) resolve, all the time he spent putting up the barrier to his emotions, shattered once he heard the first sniffle from Kita.

After that, Kita fell apart like dominoes.

His grip on (Y/n’s) waist tightened as he shook violently, sobs crescendoed and ripping through his body explosively, unlike the silent tears that he shed that day he left. His whimpers and choked cries were muffled from the cloth of (Y/n’s) uniform. He loved him so much. Why couldn’t he see how much he loved him?

Kita cried and cried on (Y/n’s) shoulder. He couldn’t see the type of face (Y/n) was making, and that made him all the more nervous. He wanted to feel the warmth of (Y/n) at least one last time. After that, he swore he would move on. He swore. He swore, so one last time. Please.

(Y/n) sighed. “Kita...”

Kita didn’t respond. He continued to cry pathetically onto (Y/n’s) shoulder.

“Kita-kun.”

This time, Kita shakily shook his head. (Y/n) sighed, this time more stably, and untangled Kita’s vice grip from his body.

“Shinsuke-kun...”

Kita, confused and sad, finally caught a glimpse of (Y/n’s) face when he turned around. He had a look of empathy, his warm hands brought up to his cheeks, melting his ice cold skin awake. Kita rumbled with another choked sob, closing his eyes and sobbing into (Y/n’s) hands. It was so warm. After the cold winter storm he’d suffered through, the first ray of sunshine that shone through always felt the best.

“Shinsuke-kun,” (Y/n) repeated. Kita hiccuped, trying to stop his tears from falling.

“P-lease come back...” Kita’s voice was hoarse, cracking with every word. “I-I don’t like this...”

(Y/n) said nothing. Kita broke free from (Y/n’s) soft grip on his face, and brought him into a hug. He was never much for physical affection, but right now (Y/n) felt so, so warm.

“You’ve...you’ve treated me so kind...I-I’m sorry...i’ve been so cold...” Kita rambled on, sobbing into (Y/n’s) hair quietly. (Y/n) still didn’t say anything.

“I-I...didn’t mean to...I swear...! I’ll be a better boyfriend...please...I’ll love you correctly...”

(Y/n’s) silence was defecating. Kita felt his ears go numb with the silent treatment he was being put through. Was this his punishment?

“I...say something...! Please...” Kita whispered, tears gathering at his eyes once more. “Please...”

Then, (Y/n) finally wrapped his warm arms around Kita. He mumbled pathetically, “Y’know I don’t like it when people cry, Shinsuke...”

It was Kita’s turn to go quiet. (Y/n) pulled away, much to Kita’s protest. However, the warm smile (Y/n) gave him made his heart throb and his throat close up.

(Y/n) caressed Kita’s face with his thumb. “Stop crying...”

“I love you...” Kita whispered, his voice cracking at the seams. (Y/n’s) face adorned a look of astonishment, a slight blush lighting up his already perfect sunny face.

(Y/n) smiled again. That same smile Kita had been craving for forever.

“T-Tell me that again...please.”

Kita collapsed into (Y/n’s) warm arms. Choked sobs of “I-I love you-!” And “I-I love you so much...” echoed through the air. The emotionless barrier, holding all of Kita’s emotions captive to the world, cracked and shattered, his crying face bearing the weight of a man who loved (L/n) (Y/n) with his entire being.

(Y/n) stroked the back of Kita’s head softly.

“Of course you do...”

God, he loved him so much.

——————

[smoosnoom]

you are literally the coolest person ever i love your fics so much you are so talented!!!!!! just making sure u know you are very talented and amazing❤️❤️

i can't take flattery like this ill explode into a million tiny pieces . i hope u know this has made me crumble to the ground . i need to be swept up i need to be disposed of Thank u so so much 🫂🤍🤍

[fallouttboy]

every time i think i’m done thinking ab trans gerard i think of a tiny thing and my brain explodes and i blow up into a million tiny trans pieces and i have to he/they them back together like pronoun glue and gerard is the stuff that makes it not sticky but not in a mean way. they just make me crumble. in a trans way.

[itsbeaconhillsbaby]

shatter us || tom holland x reader

a/n: hello gorgeous people. this is not the cutesy road trip fic that I have planned - the follow up for a luminous love. but instead just a little sprinkle, little dash of some angst for your casual sunday. yikes, I hope you all still enjoy (still ends fluffy bc I'm not a heathen...yet) 

since I love hearing your thoughts so much, is there anything you’d personally like to see from me, alongside what i’m working on? hit me up and I might just work on some fic for you, got a full week off work so let me know! as always, stay wonderful and come chat! x 

word count: 2166 warnings: we do have a swear and some smashed glass, some sad thoughts but nothing too dark or dangerous - very tame summary: emotional outbursts lead to some much needed conversations

6:10.

There was a lack of chirping birds that morning. The sun stayed behind the clouds, keeping itself out of view. The air cold and stale. Sheets were pulled taught at either end of the bed. Two bodies, usually yearning to be held in each other’s embrace clutching instead to their designated edges.

You were fearful to exhale your breath, one small movement and this frozen moment could all come crashing down around you. As though you were stood at the very edge of a precipice, toes hanging over the side. One tiny blow away from tumbling into a dark abyss.

Before you thought your chest was going to explode from the inside, you felt the springs next to you dip only slightly. The signs of someone moving.

He hadn’t moved all night. You wondered if he’d managed to catch any sleep at all before you felt the bed dip further as he untangled his legs from the sheets, heading into the en suite bathroom.

You reached a hand out from your cocoon, your phone lighting up as you tilted it towards you.

10 missed calls.

15 texts

You’d told your best friend that you’d screwed everything up, unwilling to reveal what happened before you let your tears lull to into a restless sleep.

You weren’t sure at what time Tom joined you. Sighing, you heard the click of your phone locking as you lay it back down.

Tom comes back out of the bathroom, slowing slightly as he sees you curled up in the corner of the bed instead of star-fished or snuggling into his pillow as you usually did when he left the room – resulting in playfighting or cuddles.

“I think we need to talk.”

His voice was rough and scratchy. You slid yourself up against the headboard, pulling your jumper sleeves over your hands and nodding in agreement. You couldn’t speak yet, you weren’t sure you knew how. Words refusing to form as your stomach churned.

“Okay, I’ll see you downstairs then.” He grabs a hoodie of his own before leaving the room, you could hear him moving through the flat.

You take a few deep breaths, taking note of the room around you. glancing over the space you had shared for the past year and a half. Something told you this could be the last morning you’d wake up here.

Exhaling, you slide your feet onto the golden wood crossing the room to reach the bathroom. You splash water over your face, fluffy towel ready to catch the droplets before finishing up.

“Here we go,” you mumble to yourself as you push against the sink counter and head for the kitchen.

////

Tom fills up the kettle, unfocussed eyes staring into the distance. He put it back on its stand before flicking down the switch.

A hand ran through his messy bed head of curls. This was all so wrong, all of it. He told you that he wanted to talk but as he routinely made two teas, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. But he began filming in four days and you both had to fix this tension between you. For the first time, you were both unsure of what the outcome would be. 

Taking a small brush and pan over to the wall he brushes up the broken glass, hearing it tinkle as he gathers it into the pan, releasing it into the bin, frustrated at his own outburst the previous night.

He’s against the counter stirring the two mugs when you walk in. He motions to the sofa.

He takes you in as you stand in front of him, shyer and more nervous that he’d ever seen you. He hated that you felt like that. Drowning in one of his sweatshirts and a pair of his cotton shorts, your face was tinged pink and he hoped that you hadn’t been crying in the short time it took to make your teas.

You gave a small smile of thanks at the steaming mug he slid across to you before heading to the sofa. You rolled your shoulders, caressing the mug between your hands - letting the heat warm them.

“I’m so sorry-“

“I’m so sorry-“

You both blurt out simultaneously. His eyes twinkle slightly, as he huffed out a slight chuckle.

“Well that’s a good start at least.”

You nod, stifling a nervous laugh, mouth upturned. He offers you to go first. You take a sip of your tea, letting it soothe your nauseous stomach.

Swallowing, you trace your finger around the rim of your mug. Closing your eyes for a single moment before staring into his, so wide and filled with hurt.

Last night played on repeat in your head.

“Stop saying you love me as a response for when things get too hard - it’s just words Tom! Just because you love me doesn’t mean that I feel loved by you!”

Tom’s mouth fell open, eyes wide as he stood transfixed on you. You stared at him in shock, completely taken aback by your own outburst. The room was blanketed in an unforgiving silence, your voice wobbling at the building honesty that had come tumbling out.

“Wow. I offered to fly you out to be with me before filming officially started for fucks sake! You declined! Was that not enough for you?! Does that not show you I love you? My career is important and I’m sorry that annoys you!”

“That is not what I meant Tom, and you know it.”

His brows furrow, eyes darkening with anger. You wanted to straighten them out with your fingers, lightly gliding over the uncontrollable hairs and press a feathery light kiss in the space between them. Something you usually did when he was tense or frustrated.

“Please, enlighten me then.”

“Fly across the other side of the world to do what?! Sit in silence in a room with you as you read over scripts with Harry. Sit alone in a room whilst you meet the cast and team, stay away so you can go for your lush dinners and lunches. And then fly out when things get underway, that’s unless I want to sit in your trailer day in and day out. I love you Tom and I support you and I think you’re brilliant - I always will think that. But being your hidden girlfriend is exhausting and lonely, and I don’t know if I can do it!”

You’ve never been this vulnerable with Tom before. You’d never let on before how hard it could be sometimes being his girlfriend, how utterly alone you felt. How much of a stranger you felt in regards to Tom and parts of his life.

“Then don’t! If you hate it so much, then don’t be my girlfriend then. Problem solved!”

You gasp slightly, standing completely rigid. Heart pounding in your ears, heat rising through your entire body. You can feel the moisture building behind your eyes, trying so hard to keep it at bay.

“Fine. Wow. Easy fix for the golden boy, got it.”

And with that you turn on your heel and head straight into the bedroom. Door slamming behind you.

Tom throws his beer bottle at the opposite wall. Hands going straight up to his face as he let out a cry of frustration. Glass shards littering the floor.

“Fuck!”

////

“I’m so sorry for saying what I said. It didn’t come out right and I don’t know, I think I was just being dramatic and anno-“

Tom cuts you off with a shake of his head, resting one hand on your leg.

“Don’t do that. Please don’t do that. My response was completely irrational, but you...you were honest and hurt and valid. Do not deny your emotions to make me feel better, that’s not going to fix this. You know I love you, you said it yourself, but you don’t feel loved - and that’s on me.”

You bite the inside of your lip, looking down into your swirling cup. Your heart was beating so fast, it was making you feel almost dizzy. 

“I feel pathetic, please let’s just forget it happened Tom.”

Tom takes the cup out of your hand, planting it on the coffee table in front of the couch. He pulls your legs that little bit closer, your body moving forward, closing the gap between you both.

“I can’t forget it. I’ve been playing it on repeat all night. Please just be honest with me. I want to listen. I want to understand.”

You exhale a shaky sigh,

“Sometimes it’s just so much harder than I ever thought it would be, Tom. I love how much you adore your job, you inspire me every single day as I watch you inspire millions of people. but sometimes I feel like an outsider looking in on your life. Instead of feeling like someone you want to share your life with, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate that.”

He nods, his forehead creasing slightly as he takes in your words, and presses for you to continue,

“And take away all that comes with your job. On the rare days when it’s just me and you, you make me feel so alive. I feel needed and wanted and loved. So loved. But it’s not enough for me to have a few gulps of that feeling. God, it sounds so selfish. I hear it from my own mouth and I sound ridiculous.”

You take a pause. wishing for your voice to straighten out. For that wobble to stop as you can see the concern on Tom’s face rising,

“Maybe there’s been a reason we’ve kept it a secret for so long, because you and I both know that the minute this gets out...everything is going to crumble beneath us, and I’m the one not going to be able to handle it.”

You let out a shaky breath, sniffling as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve.

When you didn’t start up again, Tom gave a deep sigh, before pressing ahead,

“I’ve been doing this all wrong. I thought keeping you out of things would protect you, we agreed on that being the best option. And in the beginning it was. The sneaking around, the constant phone calls, video calls, surprise visits - we did it all.”

You nod in agreement. Your heart sinking. Even though you’d brought it on yourself, letting your insecurities and loneliness take over - you still weren’t ready for the inevitable goodbye that was coming your way.

“But we’ve grown individually, and our relationship has grown. And yeah, there’s a part of me who still wants to keep you all to myself, I know what press and fans can be like. But you’re right.”

You look up at him through wet eyelashes. He catches a tear with his thumb, wiping it away from your cheek,

“I’m not losing you to my own fear. And you’re not losing me to yours.”

“Wait, what?” you whisper, confused.

“You need to talk to me. You need to tell me when I’m not pulling my weight in this relationship, when you’re feeling low like this. Sometimes I do get stuck in my own world a little...and you’re the one suffering for it.”

“So. You do still want me as your girlfriend?” More traitorous tears fall from your eyes, your body relaxing and therefore no longer willing to keep them at bay.

“Oh my god I can’t believe I said that. Of course, I do! There’s no still wanting about it, I’ve always wanted you. Never questioned it for a second. The real question is, do you want to make this public? I want this to be your choice. It’s going to be crazy, but I promise you, I’ll be beside you every single step of the way. I won’t make you feel like you’re on your own again, I promise. Or, if you feel like it’s too much…then we figure something else out.”

He cups the side of your face, thumb still trailing after the tear tracks.

“I’m just scared that it’ll break us, Tom. But we can’t keep going as we are.”  

He nods in understanding,

“I won’t let it break us. You have me, all of me, for however long you want.”

You pushed your forehead against his shoulder, his hands coming up to cradle the back of your head as you curl into him.

He can feel your body quivering against him as you finally let yourself feel all the emotions you’d gone through in the past 12 hours, feelings you’d been hiding for far longer than that.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise. I think we needed this. Now we can be better, work harder on loving each other properly. Communicate.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” You whisper into his chest, “I thought I’d ruined everything.”

He squeezes his eyes clothes. pressing his lips to the top of your head, releasing soft kisses in between every couple of words,

“No, you’ve not ruined anything. All you’ve done is remind me how much I truly love you. And every day I promise I’m going to show you just how much.”

[hyperpsychomaniac]

The Curse of the Black Hound - Chapter 3

Summary: Sequel to 'Lost in the Wilderness'. Erik Ahlberg has a problem. And he’ll solve it like a man - by himself, and dragging no one he cares for needlessly into the whole confounded mess. Gerda is having none of it. She’s determined to figure out why he’s being so secretive and protect him, whether he likes it or not. But when Erik finally asks for help, he finds himself alone, with those he’d always thought would stand by him, his biggest threat.

Author's note: Okay this chapter took a bit longer to put together. It’s a bit bigger than the others, both in size and content. But I needed to fit everything in one chapter. And, yeah, this is where things start getting… traumatic. Please leave a comment if you’d like would love to hear what you think!

First Chapter

***

Once again, Erik faced Trundle, the Troll’s king, towering high above Trolberg’s wall. And yet, he was unafraid. He was Erik Ahlberg.

“Erik, you left me in charge,” said Gerda. “And I will not fire on that Troll.”

How dare she! Questioning him in front of all of Safety Patrol. She had no right. But that she had, Erik realised. This had happened before. But here, now, it hadn’t. He could fix this. “Gerda, deputy!” He reached out for her, laughing shakily, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You always had my back, didn’t you? Even when you stood up to me. But I wouldn’t listen. I won’t make that mistake again, I promise! I won’t ask you to fire on him. I won’t shoot him either.”

It was no longer Gerda before him, but Hilda. Glaring at him, fire in her eyes. “Their mother is under there. And if you attack her children, she’s going to stand up.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I am not that man any more!”

He was behind the light cannon, finger on the trigger. Trundle exploded into a million tiny pieces. It rained not stone, but blood.

“I’m not…” Erik held his hands out before him, covered in blood.

“You killed that Troll,” said Hilda.

“I had to! I had to slay a Troll! Only that would be good enough!”

Hilda’s eyes widened, and as she backed away, she grew smaller. As Erik grew, turning into a great beast. “You’re a monster.”

“I’m not! Hilda, it’s me, Erik. I’m your friend. Come back!” Erik lunged for her, desperate for her to know he had meant no harm. His big hand enveloped her and clamped closed with a resounding boom. The girl’s tiny body broke, cracking like a stale biscuit, and she drooped, twisted in his fingers. “Hi-Hilda?”

Erik fell to his knees. “Gerda!” He cried her name, voice breaking, and held Hilda out to her, like a child with a broken doll. “I didn’t mean to. Help me, please, do something.”

Gerda’s face betrayed no emotion. “Any man who could destroy Trolberg,” she said, as behind her, the Trolls’ mother rose, and the city crumbled, “is a monster.” She fired the light cannon.

Erik woke, gasping, clutching his bedsheets, drenched in sweat. “Hilda…” In that moment upon waking, when the dream blurred with reality, when he thought the thing he had done still needed fixing, he held his hands before him, searching for the broken doll he had to mend.

“Damn.” Erik wiped at his eyes. He hadn’t hurt Hilda. And Gerda would never turn on him, never destroy Trundle, him, whoever, whatever it had been. Like he had. “Just a stupid dream.” He flopped back down and threw an arm over his eyes, panting. With a groan, he rolled out of bed and went to put the coffee pot on.

Erik cleaned the few dishes he’d left in the sink overnight while he waited. That he shouldn’t have left. That was just slack. Scrubbing, like he could scrub away the image of Hilda’s broken body. Of Gerda abandoning him.

Thinking of Gerda made him think of the lecture she’d given him the evening before. Irritation flared up, and he focused on that, because it would push away the dream. He smiled, because although she had overstepped, it was only because she cared. No, he didn’t need to worry about her thinking him a monster. She knew what he’d done. She was still his friend.

And she had to be seriously confused. He’d made that poor woman’s job hard enough as it was. He wished he didn’t have to lie to her now, but it wasn’t fair to drag her into this. Good thing it was just so easy. I mean, he’d stuffed up lying about knowing Trollish. Yet she’d bought it. She was so competent. He couldn’t understand how she could be so blonde at the same time.

And Hilda. Hilda he would never hurt.

Erik dropped the plate back into the sink. “Erik, you ass!” He’d forgotten to meet her last night. Too caught up in his own problems, big as they were, that was no excuse! He paced his kitchen a few times, swinging back between rushing out the door right away, and the fact the sun had barely risen. With a snarl, he turned back to finishing the dishes, finishing his coffee and getting dressed. He should call before going over, but it was still a tad early. Besides, Johanna couldn’t forbid him from coming if he didn’t call.

Erik rushed out the door, shrugging on his coat - not his favourite leather one, which the Barghest had torn to shreds - and headed for his front gate. He almost made it.

“Is your mother coming to bingo tonight?” said a frail voice from over the neighbouring fence.

Erik groaned. The mention of his mother brought a faint tug on his chest that still hurt a little. “Dorothy, my mother’s dead. You know that.”

Dorothy looked over her spectacles at him. “Well, that’s no excuse. She should still let us know if she can’t make it.”

“Look, did you need something?” Erik snapped. He rarely minded talking to his neighbour. He’d known her since he was a child. And, he enjoyed speaking with her a lot more now he was an adult. For one, she always responded to his flirting, no matter how outrageous he made it. And, with her memory not what it was, he could reuse the same material, and she still thought him hilarious.

Today, however, he didn’t have the time. “I was supposed to meet Hilda yesterday, and well…” Erik trailed off, unsure he wanted to confide his failure in her. Even if she would forget.

“You mean the blue-haired girl? She reminds me of you when you were a child. Tell me, I know you kids don’t always like to get married nowadays, even with children involved, but does she belong to that lovely young blonde lady with the accent?”

“What? Who, Gerda?” Good lord, did Dorothy always speak this slowly?

“Ah yes. I know your mother probably wouldn’t approve of her. But I always thought she was too hard on you. I would see you out here, all alone, sitting on your little swing and looking so downcast…”

“She’s not Gerda’s,” Erik said, a little quickly. “Gerda doesn’t have any children.”

“Oh, so Hilda’s from another one of your girlfriends?” Dorothy cheekily raised an eyebrow. “Why Erik, I hope you haven’t been breaking too many hearts.”

“Another of my…” Erik had a terrible thought. “Do you think… Hilda’s mine… and…”

“Come now, Erik. You’ve had that lovely woman over here often enough.”

Erik flushed. “She was my deputy. We were doing paperwork!”

“So that’s what they’re calling it nowadays.” Dorthy winked. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I won’t tell your mother.”

“We’re not…” What had ever possessed him to move back into his mother’s cottage when she’d left it to him? “Goodbye, Mrs Ferguson,” he squeaked, as politely as possible. And then he bolted for his front gate.

***

Erik knocked on the door. Then he waited. He fidgeted. He loosened his collar. And then, reluctantly, he took off his hat and held it in front of him.

The door opened. Johanna stood before him. She was in pajamas, fluffy bunny slippers, and she held a steaming cup of tea. She glared over the cup with lowered brows. “Oh. Hello, Mr Ahlberg.”

At that moment, Erik would have rather returned to his nightmare. Or back to being chased by the Troll. Neither was an option.

“Er, good morning, Mrs…” Crap. He wasn’t twelve! Coming, hat in hand, to ask his mate’s mother if it was okay if he could please play. Erik gulped and looked at his hat, held in his hands. He scowled and slapped it back on. Bald patch covered, his confidence racked up a precarious notch. “Johanna. I came to see Hilda. I seem to have, well, it’s rather awkward. I was supposed to meet her yesterday. And I… I forgot.”

“Hilda told me.” Johanna’s voice was cold.

“Well, you see, I… something important came up and…”

“I hope you remember our conversation. I only agreed to this on certain conditions. But Hilda came home last night, and she was very upset. You had a commitment to her, and you ditched her.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll understand if you’d just let me talk to her…”

“You blew it, Erik.”

Those words hit him like a fist to the gut. “I… I know. I screwed up, okay? But it was a legitimate mistake. I only remembered this morning. That’s why I’m here. To apologise and make it up to her. With… your permission, of course.”

Johanna put down her teacup, then stepped out the door.

Erik backed up across the landing, only stopping when the banister stabbed into his spine. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Johanna raised an eyebrow.

Had he said that out loud?

“I’ll ask her if she wants to see you. But.”

“But?”

Johanna stepped closer. Erik shifted a millimetre back, even though it pressed the banister just that bit more into his back, enough to send a twinge of pain across his shoulder. He was certain, had it not been there, he would have tumbled down the stairs.

“Hilda doesn’t have a father. That’s the only reason I can think of why she’s taken such a shine to you, of all people. It’s the only reason I let you take her on outings. But I’ll be damned if I let you hurt her, or abandon her!” Johanna’s voice rose in volume as she spoke, and she finished by stabbing her finger into his chest.

Erik might have let her get away with it too, if he wasn’t in danger of hurting himself if he backed up any farther. So he shifted his weight forward instead. Johanna didn’t back down an inch. “Look, I understand…”

Johanna huffed. “Oh, I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

“My mother raised me by herself as well, all right? And whatever mistakes she made, I know she’d do anything to protect me. So I get that’s what you’re doing for Hilda now.”

Johanna shifted her weight back and folded her arms.

“But, look, I made a mistake. Anyone she shows an interest in her is going to make mistakes. That’s why I want to do the right thing and make it up to her, and… and I don’t want to think I hurt her, either.” He huffed and looked away.

“Okay,” said Johanna.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I believe you. You’re right, sometimes mistakes happen. So, you can make it up to her. But this is your last chance. Because, if you hurt her, mister, I will belt you from pillar to post and then this whole arrangement will be over.”

Erik gulped. “Understood.”

“Good. Give me one minute.” Johanna disappeared back inside, and came back out, not with Hilda, but with a scrap of paper.

Erik felt his stomach dip.

“I haven't spoken to her,” Johanna said. “She’s still asleep, and I want to talk to her first. But if you come back this afternoon, and if Hilda agrees, you can make it up to her. In the meantime, you can make it up to me.” She handed him the paper.

Erik skimmed it in a second, then glared at her, brow lowered. “This is a shopping a list.”

Johanna smirked. “It is. I’m behind on a job. So, you can make yourself useful. Had nothing better to do with your Saturday, I hope?”

Nothing had happened last night, so it seemed not. Erik kept glaring.

“Good. See you this afternoon.” She shut the door on him.

Well, it’d give him time to figure out what he needed to do with Hilda. And keep him focused. So, inside Trolberg, and out of trouble with Gerda. Erik looked at the list and sighed. “There are far too many formidable women in my life.”

***

Erik returned late in the afternoon, along with his new car. Hilda had been begging him for a ride in it but she was just the kind of child to make a mess of it, so, up until now, he had refused. Rocking up with the passenger seat and the slim excuse for a backseat of the convertible packed with Johanna’s groceries spoiled the look, though.

After two trips up the stairs, which had him wheezing as Johanna hadn’t lifted a finger to help, Erik piled into the car with Hilda.

She seemed less than enthused.

“I thought we’d start with ice cream,” Erik said as he put the vehicle in drive and pulled out from the curb. “I mean, who made it a rule you have to have it after dinner, right?”

“Mum talked me into this, okay?”

“Johanna….?” Well. Erik had not expected that. “Oh. So you didn’t want to come.”

Hilda folded her arms and glared at the passing houses. “I don’t know.”

Erik found a free spot, and pulled up. “Hey…” He tapped her shoulder with his fist. “I know I screwed up. But I’ve got a lot going on and I really did forget.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better! You know I’ve been trying to tell my friends you’re not all that bad? That, out in the Wilderness, you were nice to me. You’re not making it easy.”

Erik sighed and looked away. “Well, when you think about it, I put my ego above the lives of them and their families. I don’t blame them.”

“What you did was dumb. But you were being stupid, not evil. Once you realised what you nearly did, you regretted it.”

“What if regret’s not enough?”

“Erik, you saved me from a Barghest. How bad it hurt you, that would’ve been worse for me.”

Erik’s hand absentmindedly went to his shoulder. No. He wouldn’t have wished this on Hilda. Now more than ever.

Hilda squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “You’re just… you’re a little difficult, and it makes things hard, I guess. But you’re not a bad person.”

Erik snorted. “By who’s definition? Hilda, what I did… gods, do you know how bad that could have been? What if I can’t come back from that? What if…” He shifted in his seat, feeling cooped up, and fiddled with the steering wheel. “What if something… the universe or… I don’t know… it’s punishing me for what I did?”

Hilda frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Because I’m…” Erik huffed. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot of stuff going on.”

“Like what? Would it help if you talked about it?”

Erik shook his head. This kid. He was supposed to be making her feel better! He forced a smile. “Adult stuff, Hilda. Like paying off this stupid car and other dumb decisions you don’t need to worry about. I don’t know. Maybe your friends are right about me.”

“Well then, I guess if they feel that way, they don’t get ice cream?” She smiled at him. “Come on, you owe me.”

“You’re as bad as your mother.” Despite everything, Erik grinned. Tonight, at least, he would have a bit of harmless fun. And, with the thought of Johanna and that she would very much not like him driving her daughter around erratically, Erik floored the car to Hilda’s delight.

Ice cream was right near their coffee shop. So, after getting Hilda the biggest cone she could carry, Erik decided he’d pop in and grab a coffee. Johanna had run him ragged, so he needed the pick up.

The place was winding down. Few people wanted coffee this late in the day. Erik was certain what kept it going this late was the Safety Patrol night shift. He saw a few uniforms as he and Hilda walked in but, hopefully, no one would stop him. He didn’t mind seeing his former colleagues, but always preferred to do so at the pub with Gerda. At least then, with everyone somewhat inebriated, including himself, he could pretend they weren’t remembering what a fool he’d made of himself that night.

“Well, I think you should take me to the pier,” said Hilda. “There’re rides, you know.”

“I thought you said they were boring? Unlike real adventures.”

“Sure. But I should try them at least once. And they cost money. Mum said I should make sure you do something that costs you.”

Erik huffed. “I was planning to spend money. I was going to take you to dinner. A ride would be cheap and silly. I am trying to do this properly, you know!”

Hilda rolled her eyes. “Why do you have to do everything properly, anyway?”

“Because that’s the way I was brought up.” Erik folded his arms and stared sullenly ahead.

“Forget doing it properly!” Hilda dragged on his hand. “Restaurants are always so stuffy. We could just buy dinner, and go down to the beach or something? Erik? Pleeease….”

She was being annoying for kicks, Erik was sure. But, as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, he remembered not a specific incident, but how he’d begged and nagged his own mother whenever she wouldn’t pay him mind.

“You’re an Ahlberg. I’ll speak to you when you stop-“ Getting poor grades. Picking on the other children. Skipping classes. Stop seeing that girl. Anything and everything; he was always doing something wrong! She was his mother, she was all he’d had, and all he’d wanted was for her to be there for him, even when he’d mucked up. Because that was all the bloody time.

Erik dropped to one knee and grasped Hilda’s shoulders. “Do you really want to just… get something cheap we can take to the beach?”

Hilda stared at him, wide eyed at his sudden movement. “I… yeah?”

Erik looked up at her, chest heaving. “Okay, as long as it makes things up. I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I forgot. I wasn’t deliberately ignoring you.”

She smiled at him, a little confused. “It’s okay, Erik. I know.”

In front of them, the Safety Patrol officer, whom Erik had not been paying much attention to, turned around and jerked to a halt as she nearly tripped over them.

Erik rose.

Gerda stood before him, clutching a tray of coffee cups. Somehow, she held an entire pastry in her mouth. She wasn’t wearing her hat, and her hair was a little disheveled, a few wisps sticking out of her ponytail. “Efish” she said, as her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed.

Sure, she’d chewed him out only yesterday, but she’d squared up to a Troll for him too. Hell, he’d worked with this woman. And now, here she stood, clutching more food than she could carry and looking up at him with that sweet, round face. Erik felt his cheeks grow warm.

“Erik,” Hilda whispered, hands full of ice cream. “Help her.”

He nearly grabbed the pastry. Damn it all, he nearly grabbed the pastry right out of Gerda’s mouth. Erik took the tray off her. “Um, here, er, let me help.” Why was he suddenly so awkward? It was just Gerda!

Gerda’s shoulders slumped and, free of her burden, she took the pastry from her mouth. “Phew. Thanks. I’ve been at it all day. I’m ravenous.”

“It’s nearly dinner time. You should eat more than a pastry.” Erik frowned. “I thought you didn’t like the jam filled ones?”

“You know how cranky you used to get when everyone took them. So, I gave specific orders they leave them for you. It… kind of just made things easier.”

“You mean you didn’t have the ones you wanted because of me?” Erik knew he’d been a jerk in his time at Safety Patrol. Gerda had done so much for him, backed him up, got all the practicalities of his stupid ideas sorted and made things happen. And the one time she’d stood up to him, as respectfully as she could, he’d shot her down and treated her like dirt. In comparison, a pastry was such a silly little thing. But that one little admission made Erik’s stomach plummet. Gods, he had to have been the biggest pain in the ass to work for.

“Erik… no.” Gerda shrugged. “I liked all the pastries.”

It was more to make up for. Properly. He should invite her to dinner with them. Except that would be weird. He only went with Gerda to the pub for drinks. And only on the days Safety Patrol often frequented there. Besides, this was Hilda’s dinner.

Hilda tugged on his sleeve.

***

Erik was one strange man. There was no doubt about that. He’d been distracted, even though he was supposed to be making things up to her. That had kind of hurt a little. Still, Hilda had been determined to make the best of it, and give him the chance, the one chance, her mother said she should.

He was certainly acting strange about Gerda all of a sudden. At least this Hilda had some inkling of what was going on. There was no way she’d let Erik muck it up, because, well, he would. So, she grasped him by the sleeve.

“Ask her to come to dinner with us,” she said, voice low. Not that that stopped anyone else hearing. Gerda’s eyes went a little wide, and she kind of froze. Meanwhile, the few Safety Patrol officers in earshot became attentive. Deputy Selby for one. And David’s mother, who had taken a more active role in Safety Patrol under Captain Gustav’s leadership, both glanced over their shoulders, then pretended they were much more interested in their respective muffins.

Erik flushed. “What? But… this was for you?”

Hilda threw the remains of her ice cream in the bin. Yes, she wanted her make up dinner, and to spend some time with him. But this was more important. Besides, she’d still get to spend time with him. The best part would be seeing how this all turned out. She took the tray off Erik and handed it to the nearest Safety Patrol officer. Then she pulled him aside. “I’ll still be there. It’ll be fun. I like Captain Gustav. Besides, so do you.”

“What are you talking about?” Erik snapped.

“Well, I meant you guys are really good friends. But now that I think about it, you talk about her a lot.”

“Because she’s my friend.”

“Well, friends can have dinner, can’t they?”

Hilda wasn’t imagining it. The nearby Safety Patrol officers were definitely interested in this turn of the conversation. Deputy Selby shifted up beside Gerda. “You know, ma’am, we’ve got things all under control here.” Not that Hilda understood what there was to control. From the looks of things, all Safety Patrol had control of was copious amounts of coffee.

Erik glanced around at everyone, then grabbed Hilda by the shoulder and pulled her in front of him. Like a shield. “You’re all being ridiculous. Besides, I don’t want Hilda to miss out.”

She looked straight up at him. “I said it was fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, um, I…” Erik rubbed at his shoulder. Then he paled. He kept steady for a moment, then groaned and almost doubled over on himself.

Before Hilda could so much as move, Gerda darted between them and put a supporting arm around Erik’s back. “Erik, are you okay?”

“Don’t touch me!” Erik’s arms flew out to sweep a wide clearance.

If Gerda hadn’t jumped back, Hilda was sure the movement would have struck her.

“Erik, what’s wrong?” Hilda asked. She held back, staying out of swiping range.

Erik panted, and his eyes darted left to right. He swallowed hard, gritted his teeth, and straightened himself. Hilda could still see sweat on his brow. “Hilda, I’m sorry. I just… I can’t do this tonight. I’m sorry. I need to go home.”

Hilda’s fists bunched. She knew it was coming. She could handle sharing him with Gerda. Had been looking forward to it. But, or course, he had to spoil it! “What, is it your shoulder again? It can’t hurt that much! It was months ago! You’re just making it excuses. You’ve hardly spent any time with me lately. And you’re always distracted. And you’re…”

“Hilda,” said Gerda. “It’s all right. He won’t have fun if he’s in pain. Maybe we can do another night.”

“Damn it, Gerda. My shoulder is bloody fine. I don’t need you to look out for me. So back off!”

“Well, what is it?” Hilda demanded.

Erik’s voice softened. “Hilda, look, I just, I um, I remembered there was something I had to do, and…” He backed away as he spoke.

“Erik, please,” said Hilda, the anger draining from her. “I don’t mind if you don’t feel up to doing much. You don’t have to, you know, put on a show or perform. Can we just get another ice cream and hang out for a bit? Please?” Her friends had to be wrong.

Erik stared at her for a long moment, chest heaving. Then his face scrunched up. “Son of a WOFF!” He slammed a fist down on the nearest table. It bounced up under the impact and clattered over onto the ground. Erik spun on his heel, all but slammed the glass door back on its hinges and stalked outside. A few seconds later, the gutsy roar of his engine started up, tyres screeched, and his car tore away into the fading dusk.

Hilda stared at the glass door as it swung back and forth, back and forth, then squeaked to rest.

“Did he just seriously?”

“I don’t know. He’s been nicer at the pub. Maybe something’s wrong?”

“You know he’s a jerk…”

“Alright, that’s enough,” said Gerda. She picked up her hat and pulled it down low. “Officer, can you take Hilda home? I need to go after Erik.”

“Ma’am,” said Deputy Selby. “You don’t need to go after him.”

“I said that’s enough.” Gerda stalked out behind Erik, throwing the door back almost as roughly.

“If one of you breaks that bloody door,” said the coffee shop owner. “It’s coming out of Safety Patrol’s budget.”

A hand squeezed Hilda’s shoulder. David’s mother sighed. “Gerda can do better. And so can you, Hilda. Come on sweetie, I’ll take you home.”

***

Erik wove between cars and through red lights. Gerda stomped her foot to the floor, drove right up behind him, and flashed her lights. He sped off. Towards Trolberg’s wall. To the Wilderness. Right where she was certain he would. But had hoped he would not. Gerda thumped a fist on the wheel. “Damn it, Erik! What are you doing?”

Within the confines of the wall, and the well-kept streets, he outpaced her in that ridiculous convertible he’d purchased after quitting Safety Patrol. Gerda’s vehicle strained, and the engine revved high. By the time she cleared the wall, she feared she’d lost him. With less traffic, she caught sight of a single pair of taillights. The roads became rougher, and it forced him to slow down. She caught up with him, just as he veered off onto the road’s shoulder, scraping his car’s low belly on the gravel.

Erik got out, vaulting right over the car door instead of opening it. He stumbled as he landed. The way he’d treated it seemed not to bother him, though Gerda was sure he had damaged the suspension when he left the road.

“Erik, wait!” She leapt out of her own car. “Where are you going?”

About to step into the woods, Erik whirled and grabbed her by the wrists. “Gerda! Why did you follow me?”

“Why did I…?” Gerda wrenched her arms down, breaking his grip. He was holding her far too tightly, anyway. “What did we just talk about last night?”

“Well, I, for one, told you to mind your own damn business!”

“And I told you that if you keep going out here and putting my people in danger…”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me. There’s simply something I need to deal with. If you would stop sticking your nose into my business, then Safety Patrol wouldn’t need to be involved at all.”

“That is not the way it works; you know that. A Troll attacked you only yesterday. He might still be out here. You’re going to get hurt.”

“I don’t care! I don’t need you. I don’t need Safety Patrol. If I want to do something dangerous, I don’t need your permission. And if the only person I’m hurting is myself, well, then that’s my business too!”

Gerda swallowed hard. “If you got hurt, that would hurt me also.”

Erik stared at her, chest heaving, then he hung his head. “Oh, Gerda…”

“What is going on?” She reached out for him. This time, he didn’t swipe her away. He felt warm, and his shirt was damp with sweat. “Your heart’s pounding. Are you hurting? Are you sick… Erik, would you just talk to me? I want to help.”

Erik stepped back, away from her touch. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I can’t. This is something I need to fix myself. So, you’re just going to have to trust me. ”

Gerda’s jaw set. “I wish I could.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I wish I could, okay? But I did once and… you know, I thought you had it all together? Safety Patrol, I mean. When I started everything was such a mess, nothing got done. And then you became captain. And out of everyone, you chose me as your deputy.”

“I read your file,” Erik said. “You were efficient, and you got the job done. You had enough initiative to make decisions on your own, but you always carried out orders. You were due for it, you know.”

“Yes, and I thought you were protecting Trolberg, getting rid of outdated systems and procedures. Preparing us, so we would be ready if anything attacked.”

“Except I provoked that attack. Deliberately,” Erik said. “I get it. I’m not the man you thought I was.”

“You did it all for you! And I know you got all caught up in everything. But I tried to talk to you! When I realised you were not making sense, I tried and… you shot me down.”

“Oh, and let me guess? You’re not mad, you’re just disappointed.”

“I don’t know, okay? I gave you an out. Hilda gave you an out! That Troll was not going to attack until something was done, and you went, and you did it! You killed him. There was no reason for it. I know you made a lot of mistakes. Nearly destroyed Trolberg was an accident, but killing that Troll? That was deliberate. I can’t understand how anyone can hate a creature enough to do that.”

Erik held her gaze, but she could see tears glinting in the corner of his eyes. “Well, I’m not surprised you didn’t understand. Gods Gerda, I blathered to you what I was up to every chance I got. It’s not my fault if went right over your thick head. If you hadn’t been so good at pushing paper, you would have made a terrible deputy.”

Gerda flushed. “Don’t speak to me like I’m stupid!” With effort, she reigned in her temper, fighting down the urge to spit out every achievement she’d made that proved she was not an idiot. Even though she still did stupid things, stupid things like trust people too easily, and believe things that left her hot faced when she figured out how obvious it had been. “Don’t push my buttons. I know I’m not the sharpest crayon in the crayon box, but I know when someone is saying horrible things just to make me back off.”

“So then, back off. Seriously? After your little speech, I’m the one being a jerk for calling you daft? If I’m pushing you away, it’s only because I’m trying to protect you!”

“Safety Patrol can protect you, as can I. You asked for my help…”

“To have someone to talk to…”

“So then talk to me! Tell me what you think you need to protect me from!”

“From what? Gerda, I was hunted by a Barghest, it ripped me open. It could have done that to Hilda. All because of me. As much blood as I lost, that would’ve killed her.”

“You have every right to protect Hilda. She’s a child. But I have an entire trained safety force, weapons, and… and I’m your friend…”

“But why? Gods Gerda, why? You said it yourself, I, I killed that Troll.” He moved closer to her, towering over her. Leaned down, so his forehead touched the brim of her hat. “I enjoyed it! It was massive, but I, Erik Ahlberg, had power over it. And with the push of a button I shattered it and every little thing that ever held me back into a million pieces. You’re right not to trust me. And you shouldn’t waste your time being my friend.” And though he fought to appear the big, imposing, threatening bully, this close, Gerda saw the tremble in his jaw. “I’m a monster.”

“You are not a monster, Erik,” she said softly. “And playing the part will not make me see you so. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said those things, not now. But if you won’t tell me what is going on, then I don’t know what to think. But…” And she took his hand. “Look, even if you are up to something and it’s backfired, it doesn’t matter to me. I am still your friend. And I always will be. And I will be here for you and help you whether or not you feel you deserve it. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Erik’s hand tightened in hers, and he looked away. Gerda waited. Gave him that moment to catch himself, to realise that no matter what he thought of himself, what she thought of him, she was serious about this. She just had to wait. He would come back to Trolberg with her and tell her whatever mess he’d gotten himself into.

“I can’t.”

Gerda’s stomach knotted. “Okay. Either you come back to Trolberg willingly. Or I arrest you. If you won’t tell me what’s going on, then that is the easiest way for me to find out. And at least you’ll be someplace I can protect you.”

Erik shook his head, still unable to meet her gaze. “No. No, I’m sorry, Gerda.” He stepped away.

Gerda shifted her grip, clamping tightly around his wrist.

“Let go of me!”

“Don’t fight me! Erik, please. Whatever is going on, it’s okay. I mean business, but I don’t want to hurt…”

Erik dragged her towards him, then when she crashed into him, he shoved her back. Hard. It broke her grip, and she slammed back into the Safety Patrol car with such a clang, it knocked the wind right out of her. She gasped and put a hand on the bonnet, steadying herself.

“Gerda… I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.” Erik turned and ran.

Gerda hauled herself up with a grunt. “Erik, wait! I’m fine. Erik, you idiot, wait!”

Gerda ran after him. What had gotten into him? Surely he would slow. He was not particularly fit, and she could easily outrun him. But he kept going. She heard him crashing through the bush ahead, pulling away.

Gerda hauled herself over a log, panting. Now she felt she was the one who was not as fit as she should be. But she couldn’t stop. It didn’t matter what Erik was doing out here. If those Trolls, or their Barghest, found him, he’d be in great danger.

“Erik! Erik, wait…”

A scream pierced the night air.

Erik’s wail turned Gerda’s blood to ice. She ran for the sound, even as some part of her mind clamoured, no, no, no one screamed like that. Not unless it was already too late.

Gerda burst out of the trees into a clearing. She’d made it. She’d found him. Found him down on his knees, shirt torn, face twisted up in agony.

Then Erik tore in two. Where he’d knelt, a Black Hound’s grin split through his skin and rose higher and higher, until it towered over her. The beast lowered its head, panting. Jaws, fur, everything, dripping black with fresh blood.

“Erik!” Gerda crashed into the beast’s chest, gripping its slick, soaked fur. She froze, gazing up at the creature, trying to make sense of what she’d seen. Where was Erik?

Before her was the Hound. Erik was gone. The terrible beast had come upon him, torn him in two, and gulped him down. Here it stood, dripping in his blood.

It had killed him.

Gerda only snapped back to reality when she slammed into the Safety Patrol car door. She didn’t know how she’d got there. What was she doing? She had to go back and help Erik.

She scrabbled for the door handle. For some reason, it was slippery, and ripped the door open. The keys bit almost through her glove as she gripped them tight, still in the ignition, and started her up. She stomped her foot flat on the gas. The vehicle spun around, tyres spitting gravel, rear end clipping Erik’s car and sending the smaller vehicle bouncing out of the way.

The engine screamed. Gerda headed not back to Erik’s clearing, but towards the wall. Farther and farther away from Erik. She should go to help him. But she could not. All she could see was him being torn apart in a way no human could survive. But Trolberg had backup. Safety Patrol, her Safety Patrol, they could fix this.

Gerda’s gaze locked on her gloves on the rim of the steering wheel. They glistened black, soaked in blood. Her breath rasped in her throat. She could not tear her eyes away.

The wall. Gerda reefed the steering wheel sideways at the last second. The vehicle scraped along the inside of the wall’s entrance and jerked to a stop. She’d bled off most of the speed but still smacked into the steering wheel hard, not wearing her seatbelt. Steam and smoke poured from the fractured engine.

The Bell Keeper threw open the driver’s side door. “Are you okay?! Captain? Good lord, what happened? You’re… you’re covered in blood.” He pawed over her, grabbing at her jacket and shoulders, chest and arms, checking for damage. Gerda couldn’t tell him to stop, that she wasn’t hurt. Her breath came in gasps that were almost sobs.

“This isn’t your blood.” The Bell Keeper drew his hands back, then put them, gentler now, on her shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe. Catch yourself.”

Gerda breathed. That seemed like a very good idea right now. She should have thought of it herself. And the world around her steadied. Yes. She was covered in blood. It glistened on her Safety Patrol gloves, sticky and thick. Her hands trembled before her, her vision narrowed. She could not look away.

“Captain? Gustav, look at me.” The man’s voice, firm but gentle, snapped her back to reality. “You’re alright. What happened? How is there all this blood?”

“It’s… it’s Erik’s. Erik’s dead. A Barghest killed him. And I let it. Oh gods, I let it.” Gerda choked off and doubled over. Then the Bell Keeper’s arms were around her, pulling her into his embrace, bloodied and all.

[kenmei]

-ˏˋ ON THIS SIDE OF PARADISE ˊˎ-

♡ the third installment of what love is, i think… ft. tendou satori x gn!reader

cw: tooth-rotting fluff, romance, slice of life, established relationship, timskip!au

synopsis: in which, during the wee hours of the night, satori remembers why he loves you so much

wc: 900+

notes from mei!

hihi !! mushy satori makes heart go brrr

underneath the pale moonlight, satori looks at you, chest feeling as though it would burst at the sight of your sleeping figure. he wonders what you’re dreaming of this time.

so at peace, he thinks, smiling. that’s how it should be.

he ponders on moving the hair that’s slipped into your mouth, but decides against it, finding the sight much more amusing. satori smiles, the kind that makes his eyes all soft and full of adoration; the smile he learned through loving you.

his heart feels so happy that he wants to shake you awake at quarter past midnight, fingers itching to caress every part of your skin.

this is love, his heart whispers to him, this is it.

and satori truly, wholeheartedly doesn’t mind. this—you are who he wants forever. from that awkward encounter during his last summer in miyagi, to now, satori’s feelings don’t waver even in the slightest. he feels like his world shifted into a perfect placement.

he’s shaken with the magnitude of emotions surging in his chest. steadily, his hand reaches to you, thumb caressing your cheek as he subconsciously goes through the “routine” he follows when he gets in this mood.

like his walls are crumbling apart, he feels so out in the open—it’s the daunting vulnerability he’s still adjusting to that scares him. but when he watches you unconsciously lean into his hand that still sits lovingly on your cheek, satori knows there really is nothing to be afraid of.

you accept him as he is. you love him for who he is.

satori knows it’s a privilege to have a love like this, and he thinks, that this is the greatest honour one could have in their life. a love like this, he doesn’t think anything can compare.

“you look lonely.” were his first words to you, the person sitting under the tree in shiratorizawa’s courtyard, eyes gazing longingly at the other students.

“do you wanna join me, then?” were your first words to him, they were muttered under your breath, a sour tone underlining your words.

satori remembers how he broke into a laugh that day, hands flinging out of his pockets as he sat himself in the spot beside you.

he remembers how no words were exchanged after that, as he watched you with curious eyes.

“you’re staring.” you had mumbled, “stop it.”

it had sounded like you were pouting and satori couldn’t help but chuckle. “my bad.”

he chuckles now, as he feels as though his heart is now lodged in his throat. it reminds him of the him the day he confessed. the feeling reminds him of that gentle wave brushing past his ankles when you admitted your own feelings to him; like life felt like millions of colours bursting before his eyes, exploding with such a terrifying fervor that left him breathless.

each time he felt that emotion, he remembers. when he kissed you for the first time, after your first fight and the times when you showed your vulnerability to him.

there were more, certainly. satori just had so many memories of you that his head feels like it’s going to explode. but even then, he does his best to remember even the most tiny, insignificant moments with you, because you’re his everything—because his love for you could never be put into words.

it’s in the small memories that make your love so dear to him—the little moments with you that makes him learn to cherish himself.

all of it; it makes his chest thrum with a fondness he now knows he’s deserving of, and he can’t help the tears that prick his eyes when he leans forward to kiss you.

you, the one who gazes at him with most abundant and passionate, yet gentle love. you, the one that teaches him the beauties of himself. you, the one he thinks of during every hour of the day.

you, the one he’s sure to spend the rest of life with.

satori closes his eyes, the hand once on your cheek, drifting under the blanket to hold yours. he smiles at the remembrance of the velvet box hidden in his underwear drawer, he smiles fondly at the memory of spending hours going from jewelry shop to jewelry shop.

a ring he exhausted so much of his time and efforts for, isn’t even close to how he can repay you for everything you’ve done. but that doesn’t change the fact that he wants this ring to embody even a sliver of how much he loves you.

for the rest, perhaps it’ll show when another, much smaller human sleeps between you both, waking you up during the uncanny hours of the night because they had a nightmare or they’re hungry.

perhaps, it’ll show when you’re both wrinkly and old, still together and still feeling the rush you both feel today, holding hands while you watch your grandchildren play on the front yard.

perhaps, to his dismay, his love will never fully reveal itself it you. however, when you open your eyes as the morning light splays across your ceilings, when you meet his gaze that’s so full of tenderness, he thinks that you already know how much he loves you.

nudging your nose with his, he kisses your cheek, singing playfully. “good morning~”

this is paradise. he knows it with every steady thrum of his heart, with the gentle intimacy that swallows his whole being when his fingers innocently dance with yours, he knows.

you are his paradise.

extra notes from mei!

im still on the high of finishing fruits basket,, so i wrote this all in one sitting,, lmk what u think !!