#chapter6

Chapter 6: More Pants Pooping

The precinct bathroom was dimly lit, the fluorescent hum the only sound breaking the late-night silence as Jake locked the door behind him and Reyes. Jake's belly churned with the familiar buildup—days of holding back, his gut bloated and heavy from the laxatives he'd popped earlier. He could feel the pressure mounting, a hot coil ready to unleash, but this time, he wasn't alone. Reyes leaned against the sink, eyes dark with hunger, his uniform shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the gleam of sweat on his chest. "Go on, Jake," Reyes murmured, voice low and gravelly, "I wanna see you lose it right here. Fill those pants like the dirty pig you are."

Jake's cock twitched at the words, hardening against his thigh as he stepped into the largest stall, leaving the door cracked open. He didn't bother with the toilet; instead, he turned his back to Reyes, dropping into a low squat right there on the tile floor. His uniform pants stretched tight over his ass, the fabric whispering as he spread his legs wider for balance. The first cramp hit like a fist, twisting his insides, and he grunted, pushing down hard. "That's it, buddy," Reyes encouraged from the doorway, stepping closer, his breath quickening. "Push it out. I bet it's been brewing in you forever—just dump it right into your underwear, make 'em sag with your hot load."

Sweat beaded on Jake's forehead as he bore down, his sphincter clenching then yielding with a wet squelch. A thick spurt of mushy diarrhea erupted into his briefs, the warm sludge splattering against his hole and soaking the cotton instantly. It spread like molten paste, heavy and lumpy, pressing back against his cheeks with a squelch that echoed in the stall. Jake rocked his hips, thighs quivering from the squat, the sensation filthy and freeing all at once. "Fuck yes, look at that bulge forming," Reyes groaned, palming his own growing erection through his pants. "You're shitting yourself like a desperate slut--keep going, flood those pants with every nasty drop. I can smell it already, that ripe, stinking mess you deserve."

Another wave cramped through Jake's gut, forcing a deep "Hrrngh!" from his throat. He pushed harder, feeling the diarrhea gush out in forceful bursts--semi-liquid ropes that piled up in his underwear, the weight pulling at the waistband. Wet farts bubbled through the flow, pllfrrt-splat, sending flecks of soft waste smearing along his ass-crack and dripping towards his balls. The heat built, scalding his sensitive skin, but Reyes' voice spurred him on. "Damn, Jake, you're packing it in there good. Feel that shit hugging your ass? That's what you get for holding it—now unload the rest, make your pants overflow with your filthy diarrhea. I wanna hear it squish when you move."

Jake's hand trembled as he reached back, pressing against the growing mound in his pants, the mush yielding under his fingers with a sticky slurp. His cock throbbed painfully now, leaking pre-cum into his soaked briefs, the mix of waste and arousal making everything slick and obscene. He angled his squat deeper, boots scraping the floor, and bore down again--"Uuungh!"--releasing a torrent that ballooned the seat of his underwear. Chunks of undigested matter caught on his rim, stretching it wide before plopping into the mess in his underwear, the friction sending sparks up his spine. Reyes edged closer, eyes locked on the dark stain spreading down Jake's thighs. "Shit, that's beautiful," he rasped, unzipping his fly to stroke himself openly. "Keep shitting, you nasty fuck—fill 'em till they leak. Imagine walking out like this, your ass reeking of a fresh dump. You're my favorite toilet right now."

The cramps kept coming, relentless, each push met with Reyes' filthy praise. "Yeah, grunt for it--push out those lumpy bits, let 'em coat your hole. You're shitting so good, Jake, like you we're born for this. More, give me more of that sloppy mess." Jake's face flushed red, veins bulging as he strained, the diarrhea now a steady stream that soaked through the fabric, dark patches blooming on the cotton of his brown stained underwear. Gas popped wetly inside the confines of his bulging underwear, the smell thick and pungent, filling the air like a fog. His free hand fumbled with his zipper, pulling out his rigid cock to jerk it roughly, the taboo thrill pushing him closer to the brink.

Fortnite x KPop Demon Hunters 🎵🎶⚔️

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ

ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ

ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ/ʜᴀʀꜱʜ ᴅɪꜱᴄɪᴘʟɪɴᴇ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ

ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴄᴏɴꜰʟɪᴄᴛ

ᴛᴏxɪᴄ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ

ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ

How did she know the woman?

That question burned through (Y/n)’s mind ever since she first glimpsed Nanny Rosa’s eyes beneath the brim of her headscarf—that brief moment in the paddock when she helped the boy, her boy, and the older woman whisked him away with a look that said everything and nothing at once.

Because she did know her.

Not from Leo’s infancy, nor from some fleeting encounter in Monaco. No, the thread tied deeper. It led all the way back to childhood, back to summer afternoons and the scent of pomelo peel in the air, to another house in another country, Manila, and to a boy named Caleb Altamiras.

Caleb had been a part of her childhood as much as her brothers had. They had played together, studied under the same private tutors, attended formal balls their families hosted to show off legacies and surnames. From a young age, they had been promised to each other, not out of love, but alliance. The Altamiras name came with old money. The Young name came with power.

It was a neat agreement. Polished. Inevitable.

But the heart rarely walks the path the world lays out for it.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

She was nineteen when everything changed.

It had been a rainy April in London, her second year at the Royal College of Art—her focus then still on jewelry design, a quiet passion nurtured in secret behind the walls of boardrooms and stock valuations.

He was twenty, already in Formula 1, already known, a name murmured across screens and speed headlines.

She hadn’t recognized him at first. He was in the corner of the café, hoodie drawn low, nursing an espresso like it held the answers to the universe.

They’d fought over the last warm croissant.

He offered it to her anyway.

That was how it started.

Casual. Unexpected.

Lando Norris—British, fast, infuriatingly disarming—became the bright interruption in her otherwise planned life. They began to meet between lectures and late-night races. Sometimes he'd fly back just to see her, only to leave again with the taste of her kiss still lingering in the air.

She hadn’t meant to fall in love.

But it was the kind of love that didn’t ask for permission.

The kind that shattered childhood promises.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Caleb had not taken it well.

He had tried to be polite at first, tried to believe it was a phase, a rebellion, something fleeting and excusable.

But the months passed. The photos spread. The stories leaked.

(Y/n) was smiling with someone else now.

And the boy who had once traced the shape of her name in cursive on his palm turned cold.

When the Young family severed ties with the Altamiras, citing the relationship’s irrelevance to (Y/n)’s future, the Altamiras name, once a close ally, vanished from their circles like a stain scrubbed out.

But anger lingers where silence settles.

And so, Caleb, quietly, over the years, let that rage consume him. He used his inheritance, his access, his charm. He built masks and wore them well.

And when the moment came, when (Y/n) and Lando had their child, and the world celebrated with champagne and headlines, Caleb made his move.

He took what he thought had always belonged to him.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

It was Rosa who had watched it unfold. She had raised Caleb since he was eight—watched the boy grow bitter, possessive, too quiet when he should’ve laughed, too calculating when he should’ve loved. She had tried to stop him that night in Monaco. Screamed. Cried. Threatened.

He had turned on her with eyes like glass.

“You raised me,” he hissed. “Now raise him.”

And so, she had.

For five years, she raised Leo with all the love she could give, all the gentleness she could sneak in between Caleb’s wrath and suspicion. She kept his scars hidden. Tended his bruises when Caleb turned away. Hid the truth until Leo was old enough to feel it.

But now, now that Caleb had begun to slip further into cruelty, Rosa could no longer remain still.

She risked everything.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The message came at midnight.

“Aquaria KLCC. 3PM. I’ll bring him. Come alone.”

(Y/n) had stared at the screen for minutes before her breathing returned.

Her fingers trembled.

She didn’t ask her brothers. Didn’t alert the team.

This was something she had to do on her own.

By sunrise, she had slipped out of the estate in a modest grey sedan, hair pinned beneath a scarf, sunglasses heavy on her nose. She crossed the border into Malaysia without drawing a single eye. Years of diplomatic privilege had taught her how to disappear when she needed to.

The journey felt endless.

Her hands remained clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white. She played no music. Spoke no words. Her only companion was the hope that bloomed so violently in her chest it hurt to contain.

By the time she reached Kuala Lumpur, the sky was low and humming with heat.

Aquaria KLCC, the vast aquarium beneath the glittering towers, SSSstood like a submerged dream. Children rushed through the entrance. Tourists posed beside plastic sharks. Life buzzed.

And then she saw them.

A small boy, hand in hand with a woman whose back she knew even after so many years.

Nanny Rosa.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

(Y/n) didn’t move too quickly. She kept her distance, heart pounding. Her steps were steady, composed—though her entire soul burned with the urge to run and sweep the boy into her arms.

Rosa turned slightly. Her face had aged, but her eyes, deep and kind and endlessly tired, met hers.

She smiled. Small. Sad.

Then she stepped aside and murmured, “I’ll be waiting outside.”

Just like that, she slipped away.

And (Y/n) was left with the boy.

Her boy.

Leo.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

He was crouched near a tank of jellyfish, pointing at their glow with a kind of awe only children possessed. The light played over his features—high cheekbones, soft curls, and those eyes. Her eyes.

She knelt down beside him.

“Hello again.”

He turned, then stared.

“You…” he whispered. “You’re the lady I bumped into. In Singapore.”

She smiled, lips trembling. “Yes. That was me.”

He blinked at her for a long moment, then gave the softest grin. “You helped me with my hand.”

“Yes,” she said. “It looked like it hurt.”

He held out the same hand— now clean, the skin nearly healed—and she gently took it in hers.

“I still have your handkerchief,” he added. “Nanay said I should keep it.”

(Y/n)’s throat closed. She swallowed hard. “That was sweet of her.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. No words. Just the sound of water and muffled footsteps.

Then Leo tilted his head.

“You look like me,” he said.

And she broke.

Not visibly. Not loudly.

But inside, every wall shattered.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

They spent the afternoon walking the winding halls of the aquarium, pausing at every tank, watching the sharks drift by in the long glass tunnel. She bought him snacks. A toy turtle. A novelty fish hat he insisted on wearing sideways. He giggled freely. Spoke endlessly.

He told her he liked drawing.

He hated green beans.

He didn’t understand why his Papa never smiled at him.

At that, (Y/n)’s heart splintered again.

“You know,” she said softly, crouching beside him near the penguin enclosure, “if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here.”

Leo beamed at her. “You’re nice.”

She laughed gently. “Thank you.”

“You should meet my Nanay,” he added. “She says nice people are rare.”

“I think I already have.”

He blinked, confused, but accepted her hand when she offered it.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

By the end of the day, Rosa returned.

She didn’t speak at first. Only looked at (Y/n), eyes glistening.

Then quietly, she said, “He’s starting to remember.”

(Y/n) nodded.

They exchanged a long look—heavy with gratitude, regret, and something deeper.

And when Rosa walked Leo back toward the car, the boy turned, waving enthusiastically at (Y/n).

“I hope I see you again!”

She smiled through the ache. “You will.”

And she meant it.

To be continued...

🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴꜱ🌅

📝 Note from the Author: Hello, my dear Alarwynnites!

So… how are we feeling after that chapter? HAHAHAHAHA

Because personally, I am not okay. Ehhhh, not really HAHAHAHA

Leo spent five years unknowingly missing his real family, Rosa has been carrying the most heartbreaking secret imaginable, and (Y/n) nearly got taken out by a six-year-old casually saying, "You look like me." Like EXCUSE ME??? SIR??? ~(>_<。)＼

Also, can we please talk about Rosa for a second? Everyone say thank you, Rosa. Everyone give Rosa a hug. Everyone buy Rosa flowers. Because this woman has been doing the Lord's work for FIVE YEARS while Caleb has been busy collecting red flags like Pokémon cards. 💀

And Caleb… My guy really saw a happy family and said, "I think I'll make that everyone's problem."

Therapy was free compared to whatever this was.

But honestly, my favorite part of this chapter is that despite everything, Leo's heart is still so kind. He doesn't know the truth yet. He doesn't understand why meeting (Y/n) feels different. He just knows she makes him feel safe.

And if that doesn't hurt your feelings, I don't know what will.

Thank you so much for reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, screaming, crying, throwing your phones across the room, and joining me on this emotional roller coaster. Every interaction means the world to me ヾ(≧▽≦*)o(≧∇≦)ﾉ(/≧▽≦)/

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go continue writing a story that is somehow becoming more painful with every chapter.

With love, me 🧡

What happens when grief and love collide? This one holds the answer. 💜

Hi! I'm MarCoral, but you can call me Coral or just Mar, and this blog is where i post my art and small side-stories of my fanfic over at ao3! my main is @mar-coral

-You can ask me anything about the story and characters! i might answer with a drawing, text post, or a extra scene just for you!

Tags!

Asks will be under #ask 🐸

My art will be under #Speedrun art and #Doodles

Stories will be under #main's side-story

Chapters will be under #main story

You might also see the tag #chapter [number] for easy archiving and placing side stories into the main one (ei. #chapter1 for things related to chap 1, headcanons, scenes off-screen, etc)

You'll also find the tag #Mar's yapping for my yapping

Masterlist (so far! Updt: 30/12/2025)

☆ Chapter 1: the start [ao3]

☆ Chapter 2: The patrol [ao3]

☆ Chapter 3: The manor [ao3]

☆ Chapter 4: Setting sun [ao3]

☆ Chapter 5: Puppies & Rain [ao3]

☆ Chapter 6: Sapphire News [ao3]

☆ Chapter 7: Lion’s den [ao3]

☆ Chapter 8: Said, Unsaid [ao3]

☆ Chapter 9: Sour gum [ao3]

(Rick’s POV)

O tempo passou com a lentidão cruel dos dias que carregam silêncio entre palavras não ditas.

Desde aquela última noite, desde a discussão, desde o tom rouco de Negan cuspindo mágoa com controle cirúrgico, tudo em mim parecia suspenso, como um cigarro esquecido no cinzeiro ainda queimando lentamente, sem pressa de apagar.

Ele não me procurou. E eu também não procurei. Mas quase todos os dias, em algum momento entre o nascer do sol e o som abafado dos passos no corredor da delegacia, meus olhos percorriam sem querer o horizonte. Às vezes pegava caminhos mais longos, às vezes desviava do previsto. Só pra passar em frente à Sanctuary Motors. Só pra ver se ele estava lá. E ele sempre estava, sujo de graxa, sujo de mundo, limpo demais de mim.

Negan tinha virado ausência. Uma ausência barulhenta.

A viatura continuava dando problema, como se o próprio carro soubesse o que nos conectava. Mas, depois da última briga, Negan recusou qualquer serviço que envolvesse diretamente o meu nome. Quando eu mandava recado, ele fingia que não escutava, quando o carro era levado por outro policial, ele aceitava, fazia o reparo, enviava de volta, mas nunca com uma mensagem, nunca com uma nota. Nem mesmo um recibo assinado. 

Eu merecia. Talvez. 

Mas aquilo me corroía mais do que eu admitia. Até que o caso surgiu.

Uma caminhonete azul foi encontrada abandonada no limite sul da cidade, na borda do matagal onde o asfalto vira pó. O cheiro foi o primeiro alerta. Depois, o que vimos dentro da carroceria: um corpo jogado entre lonas plásticas e panos sujos. Nenhuma identificação, nada nos bolsos. Apenas vestígios de ferrugem sob as unhas, marcas no braço, graxa escura nas solas do tênis. E a única pista: o veículo havia passado dias antes na oficina de Negan para troca de óleo.

Eu li o registro uma, duas vezes. O nome da oficina, carimbado com tinta quase desbotada, me deu um calafrio estranho. Não era só o nome, era o retorno de algo que eu estava tentando enterrar com o tempo. Fiquei parado por minutos com o papel nas mãos, depois me levantei. O caminho até a Sanctuary foi mais longo do que o habitual e mais curto do que eu desejava.

A oficina estava aberta, como sempre. Portas metálicas erguidas, um rádio velho chiando uma música sem melodia definida, e o cheiro conhecido de óleo, poeira, e umidade. Ele estava de costas, abaixado sob o capô de um carro escuro, suado, com a camisa colada nas costas e sozinho, pela primeira vez estavamos sozinho em seu território, mas não me viu, ou fingiu não ver.

— Negan. —  Minha voz saiu mais firme do que minha vontade. E nada.  — Preciso falar com você. —  Ele não levantou. Apenas deixou o silêncio crescer. Mais uns segundos e puxou o pano do bolso, limpando as mãos devagar, como se o gesto fosse um ritual e quando se virou, seus olhos eram puro aço.

— Tem alguém morto, é isso? —  Direto. Sem rodeios. Ele sabia.

— Sim. —  respondi, tentando não ceder ao peso daquele olhar.  — E o veículo passou por aqui. Precisamos conversar. —

— "Precisamos". —  ele repetiu, o gosto da palavra escorrendo com ironia. — Agora você fala "precisamos"? —

— Isso é uma investigação. —  reforcei.  — Eu sou o xerife. —

Ele se aproximou, andando devagar, o olhar cravado no meu como um aviso e quando parou, ficou a poucos centímetros. O calor do ambiente parecia se dobrar ao redor dele.

— Então seja xerife. Faça o que precisa. Me interroga, me revira, me acusa. Mas não vem aqui fingir que ainda tem direito de entrar nesse lugar como se fosse bem-vindo. —

Aquilo doeu e talvez porque fosse verdade. — Eu nunca te acusei de nada. —

— Não precisou. Sua ausência fez isso por você. — Ficamos em silêncio. Um trovão retumbou ao longe. O cheiro de chuva se aproximava como prenúncio.

Negan voltou a andar, como se já tivesse encerrado o diálogo. Pegou uma caixa de ferramentas, passou por mim e sumiu na parte dos fundos. Não me mandou embora, mas também não me impediu de ficar.

E eu fiquei.

A chuva caiu de repente, forte, molhando o chão de terra em segundos. Os pneus dos carros no pátio afundavam devagar, formando marcas. A camisa dele grudava no corpo como segunda pele quando voltou, e pela primeira vez em semanas, nossos olhos se cruzaram com algo além da raiva.

Era desejo, frustração, medo. Era tudo o que a gente evitava nomear.

— Vai embora, Rick. —  ele disse, sem elevar a voz. — Eu não vim aqui por mim. — Na verdade eu nem sabia se isso era verdade.— Não minta pra mim. Nem pra você. — ele continuava a responder com calma e frieza.

Fechei os olhos por um instante. A água escorria pelo telhado, batendo em ritmos irregulares e eu ainda estava ali, parado, sujo de dúvidas, mais molhado por dentro do que por fora.

E pela primeira vez em muito tempo, eu não sabia o que fazer a seguir.

— Eu só quero entender o que está acontecendo. — soltei, tentando encontrar alguma firmeza na voz. — Com o caso. Com você. Comigo. —

— Esse é o problema. — ele rebateu, enfim se aproximando mais. — Você quer entender, mas não quer sentir. Quer encaixar tudo na lógica de xerife, na moral do seu mundinho limpo. Mas isso aqui... — ele apontou entre nós dois — isso aqui nunca foi limpo. —

— Eu não tô aqui pra negar o que aconteceu. — Mas negou. Por semanas. — O tom dele se elevou, ainda controlado, mas afiado. — Fingiu que não existiu. Que eu não existia. Que aquele toque foi só um erro de cálculo. —

— Eu não sei lidar com isso, Negan. — E você acha que eu sei? — O trovão trovejou mais perto agora. O chão sob nossos pés parecia vibrar. Eu já não sabia mais se estava ali como policial, como homem... ou como o garoto perdido que ainda morava em algum lugar dentro de mim.

— Eu não queria te machucar. — Eu falava com sinceridade.— E machucou mesmo assim.— Você acha que isso é fácil pra mim? Que eu tô jogando? Que tudo isso é um jogo? — Não é um jogo. — ele disse, mais baixo, mas com mais raiva. — É a minha vida. E eu não sou teu experimento emocional. —

— Então me diz o que fazer.— Não sou eu quem tem que dizer, Rick. É você quem tem que decidir se vai continuar fugindo ou se vai finalmente parar de mentir pra si mesmo.

Havia algo nos olhos dele, algo entre frustração e dor, entre desejo e defesa. Eu dei um passo. Ele não recuou. O som da chuva agora batia nos carros do pátio como uma marcha crescente. Nossas roupas estavam coladas à pele, nossos pés sujos de lama.

O ar entre nós ficou denso. Quente. A respiração dele batia na minha boca. A minha encostava no queixo dele. Se eu estendesse a mão, tocaria seu rosto. Se ele se inclinasse um centímetro, nossos narizes se encostariam.

Mas ninguém se moveu.

— Eu não sou um caso, Rick. — ele disse, a voz falhando só no final. — E você não é só o xerife. Mas se continuar fingindo que é, eu prometo... eu prometo que da próxima vez, eu não vou nem abrir essa porta. —

Ficamos ali. Quase nos tocando. Quase dizendo. E então ele se virou. Sem pressa. Sem mais palavras.

Eu fiquei.

Previous | next

(I’m alive I swear guys)

His fingers went over the scars on her skin, his touch soft and gentle. She didn’t like the way her body leaned into his touch a little, as if she liked it. 

“What are you doing?” Y/n asked Ao’nung. His eyes left her skin and looked up into hers. He does that face she hates, that dumb one with his dumb smirk. 

“You know scars like these take years to fade. You’ll probably still have them by the time you’ve had kids. That is if there is any man unfortunate enough to have you as his wife.” 

Y/n wanted to throw another shell at him so bad right now. It was a week ago when she had both her brothers came out of the sea with fish bites, though it seemed Y/n got the most out of the three. Now most of the bites had healed but left behind scars. She already had scars from previous fish bites so now it seems as if her whole body is littered with them. 

“Shut up.” She stood up from her spot on the sand, dusting herself off. 

“Am I lying though?” There was a small laugh in his tone as he got up as well. 

“Go annoy someone else, I don’t have time for you.” She scowled, walking in the direction back to her marui but he kept taunting her, teasing her. How is she supposed to not punch him? Her patience wore thin and she then shoved him away from her, making him stumble back and fall down. 

“Vonvä’” She mumbles and continues walking away. 

snippet here ⬇

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