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tehuti88-art · 9 months ago

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5/10/24: r/SketchDaily theme, "Free Draw Friday." This week's characters from my anthro WWII storyline are Louis (Gerhardt) von Dobermann II and Diepold (Gerhardt) von Dobermann. They're the sons of Adelina (von) Dobermann and Stephen Gerhardt. They appear only briefly in flash-forward at the very end of the story, long after the deaths of their namesakes (Louis von Dobermann and Gunter Diepold Hesse), when they return to the derelict von Dobermann estate to fix it up, seeking neighbor Katharina von Thiel's memory of how the place used to look. There'll be more about them later in my art Tumblr and Toyhou.se.

Regarding their design, they're half German shepherd, half Doberman pinscher, but resemble their mother's side of the family more. They're twins, though obviously not identical. Louis resembles his grandfather Louis more (fawn and tan/rust), while Diepold takes more after his mother Adelina and grandmother Inga (black and tan/rust).

TUMBLR EDIT: Louis II and Diepold aren't developed characters yet in their own right, as they don't appear in the main story, and so far play only a small role in flash-forward; their purpose is mostly to illustrate the story's theme of the continuity of family and repetition of history, something that shows up repeatedly, for example in Otto Himmel's history (see his parents' entry, then his wife's, then Johanna Wolfstein's). I got into genealogy shortly after this story popped abruptly back into my head, and then my dad died, so I found such themes appearing over and over again.

Louis II and Diepold are born a bit after the story's end and the death of Louis von Dobermann and Gunter Hesse in Ultima Thule; at Gerhardt's suggestion, Adelina keeps her family name and passes it on to their sons so it doesn't die out, though they do include "Gerhardt" in their names, before "von Dobermann" (unsure if this is more like a compound surname or a middle name, I play fast and loose with German naming customs here, sorry). By then the von Dobermann family--having reclaimed the "von," dropped by Louis during the Great War--are living in the mountains, having vacated their family home, so the twins never live there. Von Dobermann's widow, Inga, partners with Josef Diamant some time after (von Dobermann, knowing Diamant loved his wife, gave his blessing for this before he died); she herself dies of early-onset Alzheimer's or some kind of dementia when the twins are probably around ten years old. She'd never stopped mourning her beloved Louis; at the end, she mistakes Diamant for him, telling Louis she loves him, while Diamant plays along. She then experiences a brief moment of lucidity, addresses him as Josef, and tells him she loves him, not long before she passes. Adelina isn't at her side when she goes; she arrives just afterward with her sons, heartbroken herself to lose both her parents so young. She latches on to Diamant as the only parental figure she has left; touched, he commissions a sculptor, who creates a statue to be shared by the von Dobermanns' graves: Louis and Inga, holding hands and gazing at each other. Louis's headstone bears a cross, Inga's a Star of David. Hesse, meanwhile, as a disgraced SS officer, has no official grave--his body remains in the collapsed Alpine Fortress--though Adelina still thinks of him when visiting her parents' graves. Before he died, Hesse tried to do the right thing for once, and did save them.

Von Dobermann, Hesse, Inga, and presumably Diamant--as well as Gerhardt, and von Dobermann's neighbor and childhood friend Katharina von Thiel--all share something in common with Addy: They all lost their parents relatively young. (Hesse's parents died when he was still an infant so he never knew them, and he was never adopted so was raised by the state; most of the others were orphaned in their late teens/early twenties.) Family loss and grief are another recurring theme, even before I lost my own dad. Adelina and Gerhardt (and Diamant, who himself never stops mourning Inga) live to old age, so Louis II and Diepold don't have to experience this same loss. Life goes on in its own way, even if it breaks your heart.

I don't know much yet, if ever, about the twins, as their own story occurs outside the scope of The Trench Rats, but they do reappear long after all these events, likely when in their twenties or so, meaning probably in the 1970s. By now the area they live in is under communist rule, though some of the families remaining in this area have ongoing arrangements with the local authorities to basically be allowed to live much as they did before this government was instituted; they're way out in the country (including the mountain town the von Dobermanns move to) and mostly isolated from city life anyway. Though von Dobermann does have a statue, Der Wächter Der Stadt, dedicated to him in the city square, and is considered a sort of local hero due to financial donations he and his family made to the city and the mountain town previously, as well as his and Inga's resistance efforts. (Diamant, the leader of the resistance movement and the one who recruited the von Dobermanns, declines recognition, resumes his old job of jeweler, and lets himself fade into obscurity.)

Louis II and Diepold decide they'd like to reclaim the old estate, which fortunately still belongs to the family--technically, Adelina--and wasn't seized and destroyed by the Soviets like many other Junker homes. For many years the manor house was maintained by a skeleton crew of help staff, though in more recent times it's pretty much boarded up as the staff moved on. Adelina, still too sore over the loss of her parents and Hesse, has paid the estate a few visits, but never moved back in, choosing to remain in the mountain town which welcomed her family with open arms at the war's end. Louis II and Diepold are quite different in temperament--the former being aloof, taciturn, and reserved much like his namesake, the latter being warmer, a little more sociable, and idealistic, like their grandmother Inga--yet they both agree that they want to see and experience their old family home the way it once was, before they were born.

This part is hinted at in Katharina von Thiel's entry:

Katharina is on hand, still living on her own estate, over the years as Addy and Gerhardt marry (Addy combining their names so the von Dobermann name doesn't die out with her) and have twin sons, naming them Louis and Diepold (the latter named after Hesse's middle name); as Inga continues her new life with Diamant by her side; as Inga's health declines, her memory fading (she mixes Diamant up with Dobermann toward the end), before she too passes on; then as Louis and Diepold Gerhardt von Dobermann, young men now, return to the old Dobermann estate, hoping to restore the semi-neglected manor to its former beauty. Katharina, by now elderly but just as sharp as ever, is glad to meet the young men who look and act so much like Louis and Inga in some ways. They ask if she can help them out, by telling them what it was like before. Katharina replies that of course she would love to. She says the house once had a lovely solarium...they can start there.

(This part itself is a repetition of history, from when Katharina and Louis were teenagers, their parents hoping to pair them off together; Katharina had requested that Louis show her around his home, starting with the "lovely solarium.")

The von Dobermann solarium dates back to at least the time of von Dobermann's mother, Ilse, who spent many hours cultivating plants and flowers from all around the world; it fell into neglect shortly before she and the rest of the von Dobermann family succumbed to the flu, and was in a sorry state by the time von Dobermann and Inga married and moved into the home following the war. Inga asked permission to try to revive it, and von Dobermann consented to get her anything she needed. The solarium was rejuvenated during their marriage, and Adelina spent much time wandering and daydreaming among the lush plant life. Unfortunately, it was abandoned and left to go to seed yet again following the von Dobermanns' flight to the mountains, before the manor itself was boarded up. Louis and Diepold take it upon themselves to restore it all to the way it was before; as their grandparents are both deceased, and they're reluctant to ask their mother, they seek out the nearest surviving neighbor who may remember the place in its former glory, Katharina von Thiel.

Katharina welcomes the two into her home. She was always dear friends with their father, despite the two never hitting it off romantically, and is glad to meet his grandsons. She's elderly by now--around her seventies/eighties--but just as sharp minded as ever, and is as enthusiastic about the old estate being fixed up as they are. She agrees to tour the house with them and describe how it used to be. The trio make plans and head first for the solarium. Despite its withered state, it's even more impressive than they'd thought, for a huge, live tree arises in the middle, through all three stories of the house (the solarium occupies the upper two floors) and up past the roof; its top is visible from the outside, yet the twins figured it was growing in a courtyard. The solarium literally wraps around it. Katharina says it's unlikely Ilse planted it, as it was full grown even back when she tended to it, so either some even earlier member of the von Dobermann family placed it, or it's just always been there, and the manor was built around it. Diepold muses that the tree must be well over a century old. Katharina claims that von Dobermann once told her it's an ash tree, repeating what Ilse had told him, that it harked back to the old legends of the great tree which connects all the worlds; Inga, not coming from the same sort of old Prussian ancestry as he did, never really understood its symbolism, but did understand its importance, and tended to it as lovingly as Ilse had, though the tree seems to have done fine on its own. Louis and Inga were from two vastly different worlds--one never would have guessed they would be compatible--yet despite the barriers between them, they understood and complemented each other. "I wish you had had the chance to see them together," Katharina says. "But I can tell they both passed on their best to you." When Diepold says he'd like to fix up the solarium a second time, Katharina smiles--"Ja, I had a feeling there's a reason why you remind me of your grandmother"--and promises to dig through old photos and records of how it once looked, and try to find the right plants to order.

Louis, meanwhile, takes it upon himself to see to restoring the rest of the house. One of the first tasks is to retrieve a missing tapestry, as family photos show that an antique tapestry of an angel, hanging in a hallway, was once one of a pair, the other tapestry featuring a devil. Louis discreetly asks around, not wanting to alert his mother to what he's doing; after a while, he receives a letter from a name he doesn't recognize, Hasso Reinhardt. Herr Reinhardt informs him that he was the last commandant of a labor camp that once existed at the edge of the city, and spent about twelve years in prison for his crimes. He knew Freiherr von Dobermann in passing, and he knows how the tapestry went missing. The last he knew, it had been hanging in the administration building of the camp, concealing a tunnel entrance that was once used in a prisoner escape. According to what he was told, von Dobermann had given the tapestry to the previous commandant, Dannecker (AKA "Der Teufel"), in exchange for a prisoner von Dobermann saw as he toured the camp: von Dobermann effectively bought a person for the price of a wall hanging. "I know it sounds horrendous, when put this way," Herr Reinhardt writes, "yet your grandfather saved that prisoner's life that day." He tells Louis to get in touch with Tobias Schäfer, the former prisoner in question, to confirm the story and try to figure out where the tapestry ended up after the camp was liberated.

The von Dobermanns know Schäfer already: He served their grandparents' household as family physician after his rescue, and still lives in the city. He confirms the story, and helps Louis get in touch with some Allied soldiers who scoured the camp for valuables before it was destroyed. It's likely the tapestry was mistaken for prisoner spoils and was taken into custody in hopes of finding its original owners someday, in the slim chance they're still alive. The authorities look through storage and manage to locate the tapestry; upon verifying that it has indeed belonged to the von Dobermanns for generations, and wasn't stolen from a dead prisoner, it's returned to its rightful owners, and placed back on the wall beside the angel. Louis and Diepold stand and stare at the restored tapestry for a few moments; "It's hideous," Diepold finally says, and Louis agrees. They go back about their work.

It takes time, and money, but Louis and Diepold at last restore the old estate to much the way it once was. The simple farm no longer functions, and it has no more live-in staff, but it looks nearly identical to the old photos and accounts they've browsed. They use Katharina as a gauge to determine how well they've done; when invited within, she clasps her gnarled hands and beams, eyes damp. "Perfect," she says, simply; "Just perfect." The twins head home to finally tell their parents what they've been up to; Gerhardt suggests they not fill in Adelina yet, just ask that they all go to visit the old estate for the day. Adelina is uncertain why they're suddenly interested, but agrees; although she loves her old home dearly, she's avoided revisiting it since her mother's death, so the state she finds it in upon their return stuns her. Her eyes tear up as she meanders the halls, now straightened out and swept and free of dust, the rooms bright and airy and reopened, the windows and doors thrown wide, everything fully functioning again. The large library has been sorted, books brushed off and put back in order, musty furnishings freshly redone. Her room, her parents', Schäfer's, Hesse's, look as if they've been empty but a moment. They save the solarium for last; Adelina puts her hands to her mouth and lets out a soft sound when she sees the great ash again, young new plants and flowers surrounding it and once again filling in all the empty spaces. It still has a long way to go, but it's getting there. Adelina turns to her husband and sons and embraces them.

Louis and Diepold move into the manor to properly care for it. They hire a new help staff, reopen the big kitchens, employ farmers to work some of the land and tend to livestock again; during the war the estate was well known for its small batches of eggs and dairy products. It's opened for the public to view, which, with von Dobermann being a local hero, many are curious to visit and see the place where he once lived. Aside from the solarium (of course), the feature that draws the most attention is the network of hidden passages weaving throughout the property; visitors are allowed to step into the passages, peering about in wonder at the lengths the von Dobermanns once went to to aid in the resistance. Louis describes the features of the house and property--bringing life to the place--while Diepold tells stories of his family and their associates and all they did--bringing life to the people. They're careful to not let crowds overwhelm the estate, though it does become a popular site to visit. The twins, having enough family money to get by, spend part of the small admission fees and related earnings on maintaining the property, and donate the rest to the city and the mountain town.

For a long time it looked as if the von Dobermann name, or at least the legacy of der Wächter der Stadt, would die out with Louis and Inga; yet their daughter and grandsons, and their descendants, manage to keep it going for a good long while.

[Louis von Dobermann II 2024 [‎Friday, ‎May ‎10, ‎2024, ‏‎12:00:16 AM]]

#artists on tumblr #ibisPaint x #SketchDaily #original characters

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theshelbyclan · 3 years ago

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Cursed

Summary: After Grace’s death, Tommy is still mourning his wife. And when he sees his baby sister wearing her old things, before he can stop himself, he snaps.

(gif by @nofckingfighting)

A/N: As some of you know, my entire inbox was cleared a while ago (damn you Tumblr!), so I lost most of my messages. Luckily, I saved some of my requests and a few have popped up again, like this one! I’m so sorry you had to wait for this one for so long, sweet anon, but thank you so much for requesting: Can I request a Shelby sis imagine. Maybe Tommy catches her wearing some of graces earrings or a dress of hers and he get SO angry and she feels so guilty. Maybe Polly or graces ghost has to remind him that she didn't mean any harm. Shelby sis would be like late teens? Early twenties? This is set around season 4 and Shelby sis is sixteen in this one. Hope you like it! Words: 2541 ***

Silently, you tiptoed around the house. You’d been living in Arrow House for a few years now, but still you felt like an intruder somehow. Ada used to say you all looked like you’d snuck in through the window, hiding in those big fancy rooms, that were simply too grand for the likes of you Shelby’s. But you liked to pretend that you really were trespassing. That you were a thief in the night, ready to steal some jewelry and riches. That you were just a maid, secretly trying on milady’s clothes. And even though you were sixteen already, you still liked to play pretend.

Tommy had given you an entire set of rooms, all to yourself. There was your bedroom of course, but also a boudoir, a sitting room and a small, personal library. Little did he know that most nights you silently walked over to the nursery, where little Charlie couldn’t sleep for the quiet either, and with your nephew in your arms, the two of you finally managed to sleep soundly. The entire house felt just a little too big and you could wander for days. You often did. But there was one set of rooms where you weren’t allowed to enter.

Grace’s old rooms were forbidden. This rule applied to you, the maids and even to Charlie. These rooms were to be left alone, they weren’t to be cleaned and no one was allowed to even open the doors. It was like Tommy wanted to trap her ghost inside and he was scared that if someone would even open a window, he’d lose Grace all over again. Naturally, this was where you were headed.

Without making a sound, you lowered the handle to her boudoir and peeked around the door. A part of you was always afraid you’d find Tommy inside, even though you knew he never went there himself. Then you slid inside the room, that still smelled of her, like sickly sweet roses and beauty powders. The dust floated around in the sunlight and for a moment you stood still, waiting. No ghost came to visit you. A few moments later, you plucked up the courage and opened her closets. Inside it you found a beautiful green dress, which you tried on at once. You had never considered yourself beautiful, you were far too dark for that, but this dress almost did the trick. With a small giggle to yourself, you spun around the room, posing in front of the large mirror. Then you took out an exquisite mink scarf and draped it around your neck. In the mirror, a fancy lady looked back at you. You frowned and told yourself, your much younger self, to behave and use a knife when you eat, in a fake strict voice. Patting your clothes, you walked over to Grace’s vanity. There you found her priceless necklaces, all stolen by Tommy, her rich bracelets and posh trinkets. A pair of earrings caught your eye. As you tried them on, the green stones hanging from your ears erupted with fire as they danced in the afternoon sun. And you disappeared into yet another adventure of your daydreams… Suddenly, a bang sounded through the house. At once, you spun around with only one thought in your mind: Tommy’s home early. In seconds, you’d taken off the dress, thrown off the scarf and put them back in the closet, making sure nothing appeared to be touched. In a flash, you were back in your own clothes and you even managed to put back the furniture just as it had been. Nothing seemed touched. Heart beating in your throat, you closed the door again, hardly daring to breathe. “Tommy, you’re back!” you greeted him cheerfully, when he walked into the library, where you had positioned yourself with one of your favourite books. It looked like you’d been there for hours. “Yes,” he sighed, “I’m back.” It was clear the day hadn’t gone as he’d hoped, which made you even more nervous. Still, there was a lot to preoccupy him. Apparently, gangsters from New York were now after you Shelby’s as well, which was frankly all you needed. “What’re you reading?” he did manage to ask you. There was much to be said about Thomas Shelby, but he did love his baby sister. “The same one,” you smiled, “Always, the same one.” He lit a cigarette and nodded, “You better remember to take it with you then, eh?” “Take it where?” “Y/N,” he sighed yet another deep sigh, “we might have to leave this house for a while.” “Why?” you looked up, “we can’t just leave. It’s almost Christmas!” He waved a hand, “This thing with the Italians…” “Oh right, that thing with the Italians.” “Yes.” “That thing you told me about?” Tommy frowned, “Did I?” “No,” you smiled your most charming smile, “but Ada phoned me the other day and told me all about it.” “Of course she did,” and your brother nearly smiled as well.

A sudden gush of wind made one of the windows in the house slam shut. Startled, you turned your head, and as you did, your earrings sparkled like fireworks going off.

You noticed Tommy noticing at once. Immediately, you winced, like that would stop the jewelry from attracting attention. But, of course, it didn’t.

“Tommy…” you started, when his icy blue eyes staring at them started to make you feel nervous. But he interrupted your excuses before you could even start them, “What the fuck is that?” The words were stuck in your throat.

“Did you go in there?” Tommy asked in a low, soft voice, which frightened you even more somehow. And suddenly he shouted, “Did you fucking go in there when you know I want it to be left undisturbed, Y/N?” “I did,” you confessed in a small voice, “I’m so sorry, Tommy…” He nodded and stared at the floor for a moment, “And now you’re wearing her earrings, yes?” I wasn’t a question, not really. “Give them to me.” Tommy Shelby had never looked more menacing. At once, you took them off and handed it over to him. Seconds later, and without any warning, he slapped you hard across the face, his hand quivering slightly and his features stone. Then he pointed at you, “Never, ever disobey me again.” After he’d left the room, you didn’t move for a long time. Minutes and minutes passed, before you slowly started sobbing and you hid your face in pain and shame.

*** A week had gone by and you kept reliving those moments with your big brother. His white-hot anger, him lashing out and the hours that followed. That night, all of you left Arrow House and moved back to Small Heath. Tommy didn’t even tell you, but made Frances do it, and Charlie slept in your lap, because his father had refused to explain. He hadn’t spoken to you once since the incident. And even though you were happy to be back in Watery Lane, back home, it felt like you were being punished still. “Y/N,” a small voice from very far away called, “Y/N! Look, I’ve got daddy’s old horse!” You looked up and shook off your deep thoughts, and saw Charlie holding up a wooden figure. And you remembered how Tommy used to play with you, telling you stories of how he was going to buy a horse just like that and race her. He’d make them all rich, he used to joke, and he’d buy you a horse, a real one! But now it’d happened, and it wasn’t at all as great as you’d hoped back then.

“Look, Y/N,” Charlie urged, “I’ll sell her for three shillings, won’t I?” “Charlie,” a warm firm voice came from the doorway, “Leave your aunt for a minute. She’s tired, alright?” And Charlie promptly left the room, taking his horse with him of course. You smiled a little, “Still can’t get used to being called ‘aunt’.” “Neither could I,” Aunt Polly said, “My nephews aren’t that much older than me…” “Yeah, but you’re so much like an aunt, you know?” you thought out loud, “I mean, everyone who knows you thinks of you as Aunt Polly. How could you ever be anything else then our Aunt Polly?” She laughed, “You know perfectly well my darling that I am Mrs. Shelby, and Mrs. Shelby only, to all those fucking bastards out there.” “You’ll always be my Aunt Pol.” “I am,” and she took the chair opposite you, resolutely, “so speak. Tell me what’s wrong, and don’t lie to me.”

You hadn’t thought about lying for a second, not to Aunt Pol, “I think I fucked up.” “Language,” she warned, “Fucked up how?” “With Tommy…” You told her the whole story and managed to the end without actually crying. It felt good to get it off your chest, even if your aunt could do nothing to help. “I see,” she said, after you’d finished. “Do you?” “Let me deal with Thomas, I think I know what’s going on.” “So do I,” you replied bleakly, “he hates me.” “He really doesn’t, sweetheart, he’s just a wild Romani boy.” You stared at her, gaze full of questions. “Do you remember what he did after Grace died?” You shrugged, “He left. Camped out I guess.” “Yes, he simply up and left for a few days. Weeks later he told me where he’d been. See, he’d taken the necklace, the blue sapphire one, to see a woman up in Wales. Because in Tommy’s mind, it wasn’t his fault…” “…if they jewel was cursed,” you finished her sentence for her. You know Tommy better than most people did, so it suddenly all started to make sense. “Exactly,” Aunt Polly confirmed, “so we can only guess at what his superstitious mind has come up with now.” “It’s not, though, is it,” you said, “it’s not all superstition.” “No, it’s not.”

The two of you were silent, and then, “But, Aunt Polly, he slapped me.” And for a moment, anger flashed through her eyes. Then she said in a comforting voice, leaning over to put a hand on your leg, “Let me talk to him. Let me fix this.” And, of course, you did. ***

As the days went on, you became more and more certain that your brother would never speak to you again. In your mind, the scenarios became more and more bleak, and loneliness crept into your bones. Every free moment, you thought about curses and you had managed to convince yourself that misfortune seemed to follow this family everywhere. The Italians hardly even mattered to you, not when more important things were on your mind. Even Aunt Polly had stopped mentioning the incident, which must mean things were really hopeless.

Of course, you had no idea that Aunt Polly had gone to find Tommy with every intention of setting her nephew straight. You weren’t aware that she’d found him in a church, of all places, and had beaten him like he was still a little boy, for slapping his baby sister. You didn’t know that she’d demanded he’d apologize and told him that losing you would mean he would lose the one person who would love him no matter what. You weren’t there when Polly eventually softened and whispered to her broken nephew that curses didn’t last and the necklace had no power anymore, nor did any of the other jewels. You didn’t witness her stroking his head as he let it fall in despair and telling him you’d be safe, and that he could stop being scared now, because he wouldn’t lose anyone else. Somewhere, without you knowing, Aunt Polly was still holding onto him, comforting and loving him, and teaching him how to trust again. So when he suddenly stood in front of you, you jumped, both in confusion and fear.

“Sit down, Y/N,” Tommy said gently, “we need to talk.” Numb, you sat back down. “I fucked up…” he started. Purely out of habit, you mumbled, “Language…” And when Tommy smirked a little, you felt the first bit of the burden dropped from you. “I hurt you and I had no right. But, Y/N, the thing is, I was scared, alright?” he started explaining, waving his hands around frantically, like he was desperate for you to understand, “I was scared and when I get scared, I react badly. Those earrings, they were…wrong.” “You thought they were cursed,” you added. “I did,” he nodded, “I fucking did, and you know what? Maybe they fucking were, because they made me hurt my little sister, and there’s no excuse for that.” Warmth spread through you, and when Tommy finally asked, “Am I forgiven?” He already was. Silently, you sat together and when he offered you a cigarette, you smoked together, without saying a word. After a long time, you said, “It is true, though, Tommy, isn’t it? Curses are real?” “Yes,” he sighed, “They are. I wish I could tell you they’re just something that we create out of fear, but I’d be lying.” You frowned, thinking, “Aunt Polly told me a curse and a promise is the same thing. Words, creating or destroying realities.” “She’s right, Y/N.” You looked up, “So I brought it on us. I went into her room and took the earrings and they were cursed. That’s why all of this is happening with the Italians. And if that’s true, I ruined everything, and you were right to get angry. ”

“Y/N, listen to me,” your brother took your hand, “I was scared, yes, but not because you wore the earrings. When I saw you, I thought of the night Grace died. She took a bullet, Y/N,” his voice trembled a little, “A fucking bullet meant for me. The woman in Wales didn’t tell me, but it wasn’t the necklace, it wasn’t even the stone. It was me.” You had never seen your brother like this. When he was conducting business, he seemed powerful. When at home, he often looked sad, busy most of the time, deeply preoccupied. And when you were little, he was playful and fun even. But you’d never really seen him this vulnerable.

“You really think so?” you questioned, “you think you’re cursed?” “They all die, Y/N.” “Not me,” you promptly said, “Or did you think that?” “When I saw you wearing those earrings, yes.” “Well, I’m not,” and you raised your head in a defiant manner. Tommy smiled, “You used to do that when you were little. And we all knew you were going to say ‘no’ to something.” Your eyes met and you shared something only siblings share. Eventually you offered, “You need a hug, Tommy?” “Nope,” he said, “I’m more than happy with my cigarette.” But you persisted, “I think you need a hug.” And you walked over to him and sort of climbed on top of him while hugging him close. You felt him tense up; he wasn’t used to hugs and, truth be told, it wasn’t really something the Shelby’s did often. “See,” you whispered gently, “no curse. You can relax now. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve broken the curse. You’re safe now.” And finally, he softened. *** Masterlist

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write-and-buried · 2 years ago

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Celestial Navigation

Part 6 - Waning Gibbous

Summary; Whatever happened to that guy anyway?

Warnings; jesus christ listing them makes me want to hide my face under pillows. Oral sex (m!receiving), excessive rimming, cum play, dirty talk, very messy sex, cum eating, spitting, and some discussions of toxic workplaces

A/N; This got filthy... fast. Huge thanks to @astroboots @the-ginger-hedge-witch @radiowallet and @jazzelsaur for encouraging every single whore thot I've ever had

Series Masterlist \\ Main Masterlist

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Whatever Happened to Derek Brown?

You couldn’t go to the movies without seeing his face. From the round cheeks and eyes filled with wonder as a child discovering life on other planets from his backyard telescope to the chiselled jaw and sharp cheekbones as a peasant teen in the period drama that won him an Oscar at only 14, Derek Brown was a staple of early nineties cinema.

A clean-cut heart throb, the duelling box office titans of Eric Webster and Derek Brown plastered the walls of teenage girls (and boys) across the nation.

But while you only have to scroll through Twitter to catch a glimpse of Webster’s latest escapades (yacht orgy, need we elaborate?) Brown has been absent from public life for almost two decades. Emancipated at sixteen, running wild through Hollywood throughout his late teens, he suddenly vanished after the death of his parents. What was assumed to be a brief period of quiet mourning has since turned into a mysterious disappearance, fuelled further by Eric’s locked lips on the subject.

“I wish him happiness, wherever he is” the only official statement he’s ever given, referring all other questions about him to his publicist, who parrots the same line.

His sizeable talent notwithstanding, Derek’s disappearance has sparked numerous conspiracy theories about the cocky young stars whereabouts. Every few years an unconfirmed sighting emerges along with a new theory, a monastery in Brazil, a surf instructor in Australia, an extra in the background of Marvel’s latest release. The lack of tax returns, public filings or holdings make most believe he has left the United States and lives a quiet life of anonymity out of the public eye.

With the twenty-year anniversary of ‘Rebel of Owls’ on the horizon, his last, and most famous film, many fans have wondered…

Whatever Happened to Derek Brown?

Buzzfeed News.

“Here it is” Dieter grunts, the sound of falling debris as he pulls a box from the back of his closet. Shining in the lamplight, the statue doesn’t look real. He tosses it on the couch next to you as your eyes scan the slideshow. You barely recognise him, your brain only tickling familiarity as the quintessentially 90s photos scroll across your vision.

Red carpets, cigarettes tucked behind his ear, set photos with the young face of Eric Webster, one of the most famous celebrities in the world, their arms linked around the others neck, brotherly love in all its glory.

ACADEMY AWARD

DEREK BROWN

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

‘FOUNDERS AND PEASANTS’

“I never saw it” you say, running your thumb across the grooves in the metal.

“Don’t bother. It’s not very good” Derek replies, sparking a joint held between his lips. The flame illuminates his face, and you see the ghost of the boy on the screen.

“I had to wear these stupid lifts in my shoes. I hadn’t had a growth spurt yet, and my voice cracked all over the acceptance speech. Hackman should have won it, for Unforgiven, but I guess the voters thought I was a cute kid with a good story, and that’s what they vote for anyway”

He flops down on the couch next to you, peering at your phone screen to see Eric Webster and him, linked together in the past.

“I met Eric a few years before that. We both auditioned for Judgement Day, but obviously didn’t get it. Became friends and stayed that way. Roared through Hollywood like a couple of young-dumb-full of cum idiots and caused havoc for our agents.”

“That’s why everyone recognised you at the party” Your voice is quiet, the realisations coming to you in waves as he blows smoke rings to the ceiling.

“It happens. But I do have one of those faces, and nobody thinks they’re gonna meet a child actor one day”

“It’s been a secret? This whole time?”

“No… not really” he says carefully. “I don’t hide it. I never legally changed my name, so my accountant knows. My old agent knows, Owen and Molly know. Eric, obviously, he knows too. He visits at Christmas once every few years”

“But I didn’t know” your voice cracks for the first time.

“Hey, no, hey hey” grabs your cheeks, your phone falling into your lap, the screen illuminated as he scrambles toward you.

“How did I break my nose?” he asks, swiping tears from your cheeks as he tilts your face upward.

“You got punched in the face in a bar fight you thought you could win”

“What’s my favourite movie snack”

“Kit Kats”

“What’s my favourite medium?”

“Charcoal… or acrylic depending on the canvas” you’re sobbing now, reaching to touch his wrist as he looks at your face.

“Why do I paint so many stars?”

“You think stories are told there”

“Including ours” he says, brushing a kiss across your mouth. “I didn’t tell you, because that isn’t important to me. That’s a life I left behind, I shed my name and everything about it. It wasn’t me Lou. It was something I did, not who I am, remember?”

You take a deep breath, forcing the tears back as you circle your fingers to feel his pulse.

“Why did Eric call?”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to yours as you stroke his skin.

“He calls whenever he gets a weird question. They ask about me whenever an anniversary is coming up, or when nostalgia is going to help them get more clicks on an article. Usually its just the vague, where is he, stuff that he never answers. But they asked him, through his publicist if he spends a lot of time in New York, and where his favourite coffee shop is. He thinks they might know I own this place. He wanted to warn me.”

“And what happens if they find you?”

“Mayhem, I would guess. If I could do it over, I wouldn’t have vanished, just publicly stepped away. Let it fade in people’s memories and have an ending to the story. That’s what they’re looking for, a satisfying conclusion to the Derek Brown ‘mystery’” he scoffs.

“They’ll come here”

“At least, trying to get a photo. They’ll want interviews and canned sound bites and all that fake bullshit. When they don’t get it, they’ll start digging. Derek Brown might not exist anymore, but Dieter Bravo has been thrown around enough that they’ll get some good stories out of it”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I always do” he grins, “whatever I want”

The scent distracts you, an acrid burning as your eyes flick to the threadbare rug under his coffee table, currently smouldering from a half smoked joint. He follows your gaze and smothers it with a military green croc. When he turns back to you he shrugs, an apology on his face.

You reach out, hooking your pinkie with his own.

It takes four days. A weekend of waiting in an anxious puddle, two days of staring at your spreadsheets with Twitter open on your phone, refreshing the top trending stories and TMZ between each click of the mouse. There aren’t enough interns left for you to fade into the background. Your co-workers ask you repeatedly if you’re okay. Your boss makes you take a COVID test in the bathroom, when it comes back negative, she rolls her eyes and tells you to get back to work.

The first photo of him is grainy. Tousled hair and mismatched socks, sweats rolled over one knee. It’s outside the café, leaning against the brick with sunglasses hooked into his threadbare shirt. You sleep in that shirt sometimes.

It takes an hour for the internet to catch fire. More recent photos appear, Molly and Owen in the background as blurry ghosts as his form is shown painting the walls of the café, or as a hunched figure carrying a mustard yellow armchair down a busy street.

The stories come that evening. People that have slept with him, done drugs with him, snorted lines off his body or had him snort lines of theirs. A woman who shared tabs of molly with crushing kisses in the middle of a silent rave. None of the stories surprise you, he’s told you most of them. They’re good experiences, memories he laughs at, turned suddenly sinister.

His first naked photo hits the internet less than 24 hours later. He’s sprawled on his round bed, cock laying thick and imposing on his thigh as he grins into the camera, offering a cup of unknown liquor to the taker. More follow. They begin to form a narrative, one of a life of pleasure and excess, of unconcerned privilege and recklessness.

Your co-workers begin to whisper that afternoon. You had always assumed watercooler gossip was a trope, overused and never actually happening, until you caught your name in a hushed tone as you walked back to your desk with your fifth, shitty, coffee. There are glances, out of the corner of their eyes you can feel them, pinpricks all over your skin that make you feel itchy, under hot lamps.

You ignore a colleague when he calls your name at 5pm, packing your journal into your handbag you spill into the anonymity of the street. You keep your eyes glued to your phone as you walk, the first of many think pieces about Dieter beginning to appear on TMZ and Buzzfeed, asking what happened to give him such a fall from grace.

You’ve seen the photos from the café, texted by Molly in a moment of peace, full to the brim with fans holding DVDs of his movies, paparazzi with jiggling knees and separate flashes, people taking photos of the paintings on the walls. You haven’t heard from Dieter since it broke, your phone silent except for the reminders for meetings, deadlines, notifications that you once lived by now causing you to grit your teeth as you felt a flush of disappointment.

Your apartment is quiet. The dead plant in the corner seems to mock you as you microwave a poor imitation of macaroni and cheese, your shoes kicked haphazardly across the rug. The sunset is beautiful across the windows outside your apartment, streaking purples and oranges that remind you of his paintings.

Everything feels uncertain. You hover over his contact in your phone as you settle on your couch, too rigid to truly be comfortable, but a stylistic choice in the space. Your phone screen goes dark, giving you a glimpse of your pinched face, the teeth burrowed into your bottom lip. You grab your laptop instead, dragging it and a blanket over your knees as you scroll through the list of classic movies Dieter has mentioned in passing, organised into a spreadsheet.

Selecting one at random, you feel a tug of loneliness at his absence, the stream of consciousness commentary that’s always accompanied these black and white pieces of history.

The colours aren’t mixing right. The contrast not dark enough to make the light glow, dimming the image on the canvas in front of him. He can taste the splinters of his paintbrush as he stares at the unsatisfactory image, the purples in the palette on his arm seeming suddenly wrong. The sunset had looked so beautiful tonight, reflecting off the shining concrete buildings as he sat on the overgrown balcony, listening to the cacophony of the street.

Usually, it was anonymous, the noise below. Horns and screaming and laughter and crying, floating up to him like a symphony he could view from afar, enjoy while staring at the blankness of the universe and wondering how it all came to matter so much it hurts.

But today, his name is the primary noise. Owen and Molly had told him to stay upstairs, as if he had any intention of going down, of allowing them to split him open and feast on the aged flesh. Find a story that only mattered because of a life he willingly gave up.

He wanted to create. It burned like a dying sun inside him for as long as he could remember. Everything itched and scorched until he had a pencil in his hand or a play to perform. Drama club, into auditions, acting into stardom. It was a round peg in an oval hole… right enough to think it worked.

Worked for his parents, anyhow. Supportive but distant, they enjoyed the high society of their sudden famous surname. Never pushing him, never encouraging him, they just were. He can hardly remember their faces now, the scent of his mother’s perfume sometimes caught and followed on the summer air.

Eric had always understood. Standing in line in the same auditions, the blonde hair in perfect spikes, his eyes somehow smouldering at the tender age of fifteen. They ran along parallel lines, his parents shaving down his edges until he was round enough to slide right through the hole. They would sneak off the back lot at Warner Brothers and smoke clove cigarettes, drink whiskey until they were sick and shaking, a makeup artist with glassy eyes giving them eyedrops, breath mints.

Nobody cared, until they did. Until the photos hit the papers, glossy and high def, Dieter on a bar top at eighteen, loops of women’s lingerie collected around his wrist. Eric sucking tequila out of a Victoria’s Secret models bellybutton. Fame and excess rolled together until they were packaged together, saran wrapped for consumption.

They never showed up drunk or high to interviews, they toed the line of playful bad boy together, always yanking the other back by the collar until it stopped being enough. If he dug deep enough, he’d know why he stopped when they died, taken within months of each other, cancer and a stroke. He’d proved enough, they loved him enough, and they were there. Until they weren’t.

He read some of the coverage about his parents’ deaths. The family photo’s he doesn’t remember posing for in contrast to the questions about his morality. Everyone expected him to go off the rails, to join the elusive 27 club and sell pictures of his coked-up face. Everyone would have been sad, and moved on.

Instead, he picked up a paint brush, and bought a cheap canvas at an art supply store. He sat in the back of a rented limousine and ruined the seats with shitty acrylics and painted what the world looked like behind tinted glass. When he left Hollywood, he never had the urge to look back.

He saw this place on the 8th of August. The flat brick exterior with no windows, an old oak door with rusted hinges, tucked between new developments like the least appealing fruit at Whole Foods. It was owned by an estate, nobody wanting it and nobody offering enough to take it off their hands. A grimy shop with a small apartment overhead, the balcony overrun with weeds. His skin had hummed when he touched the brickwork, a promise zapping through his skin.

He didn’t know what it was until you had walked through the door.

Dieter wasn’t expecting you to call. He knows the story has broken, can only imagine what is being thrown around about him on the internet, the conclusions people are jumping to as they dig up more, and more again. He stayed upstairs for most of it, hearing Owens voice boom out against the brickwork, insisting that he wasn’t here, that they didn’t know where he was and wouldn’t say even if they did. He snuck a muffin up an hour later.

He could imagine you now, sitting in your apartment, an empty microwave meal next to you on the couch. Maybe you were watching a movie, you might have been consuming every new article about him – continuing on the trend of the day he assumed. He wondered what you were watching, if his not-so-subtle steering towards Bette Davis had taken root yet, or if you had chosen something mindless, something you’d seen a thousand times and could recite from memory, its words etched on your brain, a script nobody asked you to memorise.

The stories about his family start the next day. Innocuous enough, his parents, his upbringing. They have him in their teeth, it seems, unwilling to let go as his silence begins to annoy. Undeterred by the swirling uncertainty they speculate wildly. His relationship with his parents picked to shreds, interviews and DVD extras dragged forth from memory and replayed on loops. TikTok analysis of his body language, a livestream of someone getting coffee from the shop, the line now snaking down the street.

Owen and Molly are next. A photo of Molly flipping off the paparazzi sparks a new wave of speculating about his chosen family. You giggle when you see she makes it her Instagram profile picture. They find Owen’s friend in L.A – the one who works in porn. Not as an actor, but a makeup artist, and that’s enough for the morality police to come down even harder on Dieter.

They’re ripping him limb from limb, an evisceration in 180 characters, each pillar of his personality smashed to dust with memes and jokes and vicious hatred. Eric cops some of the blowback as well, refusing to distance himself from his friend. There’s a clip of him, drunk at a party, shouting support for his former partner in crime, daring anyone to question him. In a room full of glitzy yes men, nobody does.

It tickles beneath your skin. That everyone cares so much about him while knowing very little. None of the articles mention his paintings. None of them talk about his apparent connection to the human spirit, his obsession with the stars and their stories, classic Hollywood. He could recite the general principles of the Hays code from memory, and he liked to explain all the ways you’d broken them while he licked cum from between your thighs.

He talked until you fell asleep every night, a soothing rumble of a story you’d have never known otherwise. It’s the same feeling from the party, a thousand years and barely a fortnight ago, where they fell in love with an image, only this time it’s the reverse. You haven’t watched his movies, no morbid curiosity to see the cheekbones that could cut glass. It was something he did, not who he was, and it became clearer with every tweet that it wasn’t who you know.

It settles like a dull ache, a burning chasm of loneliness that drags you from your desk at 5pm that day, again. Committing cardinal sin as you close your laptop and leave, not looking over your shoulder for what you once considered vital additional responsibilities. You’re wearing heels today, and the bones of your feet hurt when you reach the building.

There’s still a crowd outside, despite the door being closed. People are taking pictures against the brickwork, jostling for the best light, the capture of the frayed cardboard closed sign that greets them. A few men in jeans with expensive cameras mill off to the side, glancing upwards to the light just visible through his heavy curtains.

You don’t think before you hit his contact. If you strain over the noise, you can hear the foghorn alarm, his ringtone before he picks up.

“I’m outside”

It’s pandemonium when the door opens. Flashes blind you as you feel fingers lace into your own, tugging you inside the door before shutting it with a slam. It barely dims the noise. The bell falls from overhead, cracking into three pieces on the ground as you feel his arms wrap around you, the tension draining from your body for the first time in days as he squeezes your waist, pressing his face into your neck.

“Missed you” is all he says before dragging you upstairs.

He’s covered in paint. Muddy browns cover his hands, sticking through his hair and smeared on his cheek. The canvas in the corner is dripping, long sludgy trails of paint on the floor. You can see the stubs of three joints in it, his palette peeling from the weight of it.

“Couldn’t get it right” he shrugs, following your eyeline to the ruined canvas. “It will happen when it’s supposed to”

His thumb brushes your cheek as you take him in fully. His hair is unruly, his eyes creased deeper than you’ve seen them, his clothing creased and stained. You can smell paint thinner, weed and Makers Mark on him, and you wonder if he’s showered since the story broke.

“Want to take a shower?” you ask, feeling his fingers round brush against your skin

“Together?” he asks, a grin that makes your chest crack breaking his face.

“Wash the paint off first, then we can talk” you reply, the laugh he lets out a shaft of sunlight through your skin. He nods, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead before turning towards the bathroom.

You know where his things are. You know where yours fit in this space, where you leave your bag, kick off your shoes, shed the corporate layers. You know which drawer to dig through for his softest shirts and you pick one that smells just like him to slip on. Your clothes tangle with his in a laundry basket. You know there’s a pile that has clean ones somewhere. You grab fruit from his fridge, a punnet of blueberries and misshapen plums, setting them on the edge of the coffee table as you hear him through the wall, humming under the spray of the shower.

You pick a movie, something in the endless queue and wait, checking your phone and not worrying about its dying battery. You respond to Molly’s questions about her aid relief form, you double tap Owen’s picture on Instagram, the caption something witty about being famous and wanting his dick sucked. You check your email. The sharp one from your boss demanding a meeting in the morning barely makes a dent as you toss the device on the table, stretching your limbs back into the deep couch, waiting for him to emerge.

He brings a cloud of steam with him. His hair damp and curling around his neck, a towel slung low on his hips as he continues humming to himself. His rings catch the light, throwing silver across the walls like stars as he comes to you, seemingly distracted, to grab your wrist and pull you to your feet.

“You forgot this” he says, bringing his mouth to yours.

You’d always broken this into body parts. Lips touched lips, hands clasped hands, the rhythmic sectional breakdown of affection, neatly categorised and labelled as one progressed to another, switched their categories to explore further.

Kissing Dieter is a full body experience, you’ve since learned. From lazy and slow and sleep heavy, to frantic and primal, he kisses you with his whole body. His hands roam your back, tangle in your hair, grab your ass and squeeze your flesh. He mumbles into your mouth, feeding you words like candy as he hovers indecisively between your neck and earlobe, fluttering between the two to scrape his teeth and make your knees tremble.

The towel loosens under the growing erection beneath it as he walks you backwards to the bed. His hands slide under your shirt, tracing over the lines left by your bra as his mouth travels down your throat. He’s consuming, the familiar feeling of being completely overwhelmed by him settling like a weighted blanket on your soul as the damp towel falls free, his encouraging hands pulling his shirt from your body.

“Really fuckin’ missed you” he moans, his mouth travelling across your chest as he backs you right against the rounded edge of his mattress, the sheets and blankets tangled in the middle.

You need more. The days without him have rubbed you raw, left you feeling adrift and furious on his behalf, and feeling his skin on yours, so warm and soothing sparks something deep inside your gut you’re unwilling to name.

“Can I taste you?” you ask, the question feeling ridiculous on your tongue. His hands dig into your skin, you hear his sharp inhale around your chest as his beard scrapes the sensitive flesh.

“As if I’m ever going to say no to that” he says, grinning up at you with a wink.

For all you’ve done together, this is a rarity. He tends towards worship, the focus of his body seemingly on yours alone, save for moments where you manage to catch him off guard, your teeth scraping his hip as he orients his hands on your body, prying you open for spit slicked fingers as you lick the weeping head of his cock.

He throws pillows to the floor before you sink to your knees, his aim precise enough to ensure a soft landing as your hands trail his thighs, encouraging him to sit, the softness of his stomach, the warmth of his skin making you catch alight. His hand is confident, trailing your cheek to the crown of your head, settling comfortably with a broad palm as he watches you, gasping lightly at the scrape of your nail along the sensitive skin of his thigh.

“You can’t fit it all Lou… But I’d love to watch you try”

Heavy. It’s the word that always comes to mind, whenever you take him in hand or feel him thicken beneath or behind you. The veins that run the length of him, pulsing inside you, the drips that leak from the fat head of his cock whenever he looms over you, watching your cunt pulse in wanting.

It flushes darker than his skin, like a storm on the horizon, swollen and tempting as you watch a single shining drop of precum appear at the head, sliding to drip sticky on his thigh. His hand tightens in your hair when you dart your tongue to taste it. Salty and hot, the heady feel of the weight of it on your tongue makes you squirm, your thighs pressing together as you guide him between your lips.

His hand tightens in your hair, a groan escaping his lips as you stretch your mouth around him. He fills you everywhere. The press of him on the roof of your mouth, immediately filling with saliva as you dig your nails into his strong thighs, shuffling closer as he spreads them for you, a low curse and a shifting of the sheets as he grips them in a wide palm.

“Fuck, yes… that’s it” he’s breathless.

You manage a third the first time, your throat protesting the attempted intrusion as you swallow around him, pulling off to watch the thick spit drip from the sides of your mouth, feeling your eyes prick with tears as he reaches to curl a hand around the base of it, holding himself steady for you to resume.

He watches you. His eyes only squeezing shut each time you choke around him, the depraved groan he lets out as you watch his hips twitch, suppressing the urge to fuck into the tightness of your throat, to apply a little more pressure to the back of your head. You’d let him, you’d like it.

Instead he lets you lead, a pool of your spit now dripping over his knuckles as you take as much of him as you can, a steady, slow rhythm as you synchronise your breathing, enough to stave off the tears in your eyes, focused only on the salty, hot taste of him as you feel his skin heat under your palm.

Your jaw aches, the unnatural stretch of him in your mouth as you pull off him, watching as he twitches, the thick vein pulsing as he grips himself tight around the base. With a gentle tug he pulls your head back, makes you meet his eyes as he strokes his length with a lewd squelch of spit and precum, his own wide hand barely fitting around the thickness of him as he squeezes more the swollen tip. You kiss his thighs, his skin still warm and clean from the shower as you scrape your teeth along the soft skin.

“Look at me” he says, his voice gravel rough as you stare past his lazy strokes to meet his eyes, blown dark and focused on you as your mouth travels further up his thighs.

He can do this, he knows how to control himself, has had this same sensation enough times. But the feeling of your breath, ghosting lightly over his skin makes him feel fevered as he shifts, allows your cautious exploration of the crease of his thigh, your cheek brushing his balls as he lifts his foot onto the bed.

You look like you want to ask, as if he’d ever say no to you, and he nods his head before you can find the words. This is new to you, not something you’ve ever ventured towards, despite a forbidden thrill at the thought. Dieter tries to relax, tries to breathe as your mouth travels lower, as the first cautious kitten lick of your tongue flicks across his hole.

The sound he makes is broken, ripped from his chest without permission as he half strangles his cock in response, the sudden locking of his muscles as he sees your eyebrows raise in a smile. You liked it. Slowly, torturously you explore him, every ridge of furled muscle, the sensitive skin of its surrounds as Dieter feels his hair begin to stick to his forehead with sweat. He can’t breathe for how good it feels.

You’re so careful with him, gently coaxing him open with your mouth as he pants and groans, finding exactly what way he likes to be touched, shifting lower to get enough access. He can still see your eyes, watching him as you lick and trace his glistening hole.

“You want to see me lose it don’t you?” he asks, braving a single stroke of his cock, his whole body shuddering from the searing pleasure that races up his spine.

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you, to watch? Or do you want to do it yourself, you want to have me like this, loose and begging for it, fucking myself back onto something just as thick as I am. You want to watch my face? Want to see what it looks like when I get fucked just as hard as I fuck you? I can tell, I can fucking smell your cunt right now, you’re soaked you filthy perfect thing. Don’t you dare stop”

You’re squirming, shifting your slick thighs together as he talks, his hand squeezing his cock in an unsteady rhythm, drops of sweat rolling down his chest as you breach his ass with the tip of your tongue, enough to feel the tight ring of muscle give under your ministrations, swollen and sensitive from your mouth.

“Fuck, don’t fucking stop, please, so good, fuck”

Dieter can’t help it, the barest scrape of your teeth around his fluttering rim and he sees stars. It explodes from the base of his spine with shocking force travelling through his limbs and robbing him of his senses. He comes thick and heavy splattering his stomach and chest, flowing over his knuckles as you lick across his sac, drawing it further, making everything oblivion as he half screams your name.

Your lips are swollen, wet with his cum. Its on your cheek, sliding down in a thick river as you watch him come back to himself, squeezing the last drops from the thick head of his cock. His hand is still in your hair as his eyes swim back into focus, watching you lick the taste of him from your skin. His knuckles are covered in it, and you watch as he releases himself with a wet smack, bringing his hand to his own mouth, collecting it on his tongue.

He leans over you, close enough for his nose to brush your cheek as your lips part for him, feeling him spit his own cum into your mouth as he follows it with a messy kiss. He drags you onto his lap with surprising strength and shaking fingers, and you feel your slick cunt graze against his cock as he tastes himself on your teeth.

You’re desperate, rutting yourself along the underside of his twitching length as you feel his hands grip you, guide your rhythm as your swollen clit catches on the slick head of him, making you gasp into his mouth.

“That’s it, there’s my girl. Use me, get yourself off on me, I want to see you cum on me. Got so wet, so needy from sucking my cock. Wasn’t enough for you was it, next time you want to, I’ll plant this pretty cunt on my face as well, so you can drip down my throat while you choke on me. And I want payback, I’m going to spread you wide open, show you just how good it feels to cum that hard with a tongue in your ass. I’ll stretch you enough to take me one day, get you nice and open and begging for it, hm?”

His hand slips between your own cheeks, slick still with spit and cum as he brushes lightly against your ass.

“You want that? Want me to fuck you here as well, treat me to the sight of your ass swallowing my fat cock while I make you cum on it?”

“Dieter… fuck”

“I know, you’re right there aren’t you. I can feel it, you’re soaking me, you always get so wet for me, just desperate to be filled up properly”

He holds you close when you come, wrapping his arms tight around you and holding you firm to his lap, so that every shudder passes through him as well his mouth claiming yours as you scratch down his spine, seizing in place as he spreads his hands wide across your spine. It’s those same kisses. The lazy, long and slow ones that bring you back to him, each gentle pass of his hands on your skin as he chases your mouth, catches his own breath in between.

“I need another shower now” he says, grinning as he presses his forehead into yours. “You’re coming with this time” You squeal when he stands, wrapping an arm under your ass as he lifts you both with seeming ease.

He’s had less sleep than you, you can tell. His arms wrap around you from behind as he buries you both in blankets, freshly showered on clean sheets as he kisses behind your ear. He insisted on you naked, cupping at your breasts, his hands sliding over your stomach as his breathing slows, the lazy circuit of his hands becoming heavier.

“Dieter…” you whisper, feeling him scoot closer to you, a half-conscious hum of acknowledgement.

“You could leave for real you know.”

“Mm, no” he says, nuzzling closer into your neck. “Your job is here”

“They’re eviscerating you, going after your family, and Owen and Molly and… I don’t know, if you went away for a while, maybe it would die down”

“Won’t” he grumbles, “Do you want me to?”

“No” you answer, the thought of it pulling gravity from your stomach as you feel him smile into your skin. “But you don’t have to put up with it, and if you wanted to… get away from it… I’d understand”

You feel him huff a laugh into your neck.

“They’ll get bored eventually. Find some other scandal and leave me to fuck you in peace. Besides… I’m not going anywhere without you”

It makes tears prick the back of your eyes, some swelling bursting feeling you can’t name erupting in your chest as he kisses your neck again, finding your hand to lace your fingers together.

“I watched Jezebel” You say, clearing your throat of a warm, soothing blockage that heats your insides.

“Oh, that’s a good one. Bette Davis did that one because she didn’t get to play Scarlett in Gone With the Wind. It’s funny though, it’s the first real link between her and Tallulah, because she originated it on the stage. Then there’s Dark Victory, and of course, The Little Foxes. They had these mirrored careers, one on stage and one on screen, and even though Bette had bad things to say about everyone, she never really did about Lou…”

His voice lulls you to sleep. You’ll hear the rest in the morning.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo smut #the bubble fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

314 notes · View notes

mizufae · 2 years ago

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Different hooks for the sundry stranger things fics I want to write but probably never will unless I find a partner in crime because apparently writing is a fully collaborative activity for me:

Speculative season five action adventure wherein Hopper has brought that big sword back from Russia and Mike steals it and fucking tromps around slicing monsters in half like a real life paladin and Will faints because it’s 2 hot 2 handle but then a second later Mike trips over nothing at all and they both end up on the ground embarrassed

Meandering post-climax ponderings on hair symbolism that starts with Mike realizing Eddie is truly dead and chopping off his hair in a dramatic fit of teen mourning, eleven and hop growing their hair back together, will also chopping off his hair in sibling solidarity and it transforming from Mike’s grief to the three of them processing their traumas together via hair growth, Steve tutting at everyone as they all complain while it grows back through awkward stages, and Robin going through a very long manic panic phase. (Would need to do historical hair dye research)

The Sinclair parents being the only competent married people in town, helping out Max’s mom, who doesn’t want to accept because she is kinda racist, scenes about blackness and class status in a small town and the intersectionality of stigma

A whole thing where Karen Wheeler sends Ted off with Holly out of town asap and thinks she is going to go confront wtf is going on only she gets trapped or otherwise goes missing and Nancy and Mike think she is dead and fucking go off to rescue their mom and have sibling power duo scenes and they have fun bickering chemistry and rescue their mom who is alive and doing okay all things considered. Meanwhile Ted is like, inventing the internet so he can ask yahoo how to legally divest himself of a small child

A Labyrinth inspired plot wherein Holly gets kidnapped by Vecna and Mike has to embark on a scary journey to get her back and on the way discovers he is so super gay, at some point Henry shows up in tight pants

Dustin and Steve convince Joyce and Hop to read Claudia into all the secrets so they all pick their way over to Dustin’s house to find Claudia with a rifle and dozens of knives and also a meatloaf in the oven and she is like “Do you honestly think I don’t listen in on every walkie talkie conversation you boys have ever had???” because Dustin has to get his brains from somewhere

A Barb Lives AU where she gets away from the upsidedown pool in the nick of time and defends baby Will in season 1, who she knows because they are both constantly at the Wheeler’s house. And after they are both rescued they process their trauma together and Jonathan is like “how DARE you take my spot as older sibling” and Barb is like, “why don’t we kiss about it”

Joyce and Nancy 80s makeover montage

The party all go see Star Trek: The Voyage Home in theaters (1986) and they endure a friendship cataclysm as nobody can agree if it was amazing or if it sucked immensely

Steve and Eleven attending college together in their early thirties / late twenties to study childhood psychology

#stranger things #WRITE FOR ME PEONS #that’s my fic prompt tag

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love-bokumono-fics · 3 years ago

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WIP Wednesday - Trio of Towns

Trio of Towns has no shortage of wonderful works that are in progress. Some of them I know are years in the making and I always look forward to an update.

So here's hoping you find a new story to love!

If you're reading or writing a Trio of Towns WIP that didn't get featured today, please feel more than welcome to drop it in the Submission box and share with the rest of us! (When I only share 10 fics at a time, there's always something that's bound to be missed.)

Two in One - by PineconeTheKitten; WIP, 1/?, 1.3k

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationships: Ford/Wayne, Female Farmer/Ford, Female Farmer/Wayne; Characters: Female Farmer, Ford, Wayne, Dessie, Inari, Witchie

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Magic Revealed, Gods, Goddesses, Spirits

Summary: Ford and Wayne were once two people. Now they aren't. Holly doesn't know what to do. As it turns out, Ward is pretty into Holly, and she into him.

Two Individuals in Love can be Asexual, a Case Study - by chickadeequill; WIP, 1/?, <1k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationship: Farmer/Ford; Characters: Ford, Female Farmer, Wayne

Additional Tags: Asexual Relationship, Romantic Fluff

Summary: After years of painstakingly avoiding romance, the town's eligible and single doctor Ford finds himself facing a simple question: is there room in his life for love? It seems the hardworking farmer just past the crossroads is still single as well, and Ford just can't figure out why she keeps declining advances from the other eligible singles in all three towns.

Watered-Down Ideals - by LemWrites; WIP, 3/?, 4k

Rating: Not Rated; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Categories: M/M, Multi

Fandoms: Trio of Towns

Relationships: Farmer/Ludus; Characters: Original Male Character(s), Frank, Megan, Hector, Colin, Noel | Noelle

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Fluff, Self Confidence Issues, ADHD, I gave a farmer adhd and anxiety, this may have more projection then intended

Summary: Join Steve, the newly appointed farmer in the Trio of Towns world, on a journey full of; useless gay pinning, being a disaster, self hatred and more!

Earth and Rebirth - by TheBeckster; WIP, 17/?, 66k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Categories: Multi, Gen

Fandoms: Trio of Towns

Characters: Holly | Nanami, Frank, Marlena, Wayne, Ford, Lisette, Brad, Carrie, everyone

Additional Tags: Undecided Relationship(s), Additional Tags to Be Added, lots of headcanons, Minor Character Death, Eventual Friends to Lovers, I'm not going to tag every single character, but they will all have a part in the story, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, New friends and found family, world building, Angst with a Happy Ending, Holly is an extrovert, endgame ship tbd, Cover Art

Summary: Holly considered herself fortunate to be living about as close to the dream as any young twenty-something could. A great family, a loving husband, and well, she'd admit their apartment was awful, but they'd be moving onto bigger and better things soon enough. She truthfully couldn't wish for more. But when an accident rips it all away from her, Holly finds herself seeking a change of scenery. Her Uncle's farm out in the middle of nowhere is the perfect place for her to hide to mourn. A familiar story with a twist or two.

Fire and Dew - by Juliko; WIP, 9/26, 73k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings; Category: F/M

Fandoms: Trio of Towns

Relationship: Yuzuki/Original Character(s)

Characters: Original Female Character(s), Yuzuki, Sumomo, Lisette, Colin, Wayne, Brad, Carrie, Shizu, Yaichi, Tatsumi, Omiyo, Umekichi, Lynn, Marlena, Daryl | Darius, Ittetsu, Moriya

Additional Tags: farming, Slice of Life, Drama, Family Drama, Family Issues, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Original Character(s), Major Original Character(s), Female Character of Color, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Friendship/Love, Past Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Humor, Eventual Happy Ending, Comedy, Friends to Lovers, Adoption, Sick Character, Lulukoko characters won't appear in this fic, Falling In Love, Dorks, Ableism, Happy Ending, Romantic Fluff, Break Up, Past Relationship(s), Cows, Chickens, Sheep, Rabbits, Flowers, Stimming, Family Fluff, Bisexual Female Character, Pansexual Character, Lesbian Character, Children, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma

Summary: For as long as she could remember, Harper Leigh Maxwell's dream has always been to become a farmer, but her father's job makes it hard to do so, since it involves lots of moving. After graduating from college, she finally decides to take a chance and get her own farm. She's determined to make the most of this opportunity and do what she's wanted. In the process, she makes new friends, learns many new things, and faces many hardships. One of the friends she makes is Yuzuki Fujiwara, a mellow, sweet natured man from the town of Tsuyukusa who doesn't have the best constitution. The two of them form a strong connection that may even end up blossoming into love. But Harper's past might make things complicated, and when it threatens to catch up with her, she may find herself facing the demons from her pre-adoption early childhood. This is the story of two different people, with different interests, passions, and paths in life, walking the same dirt road every day...

Tiny Steps to Big Leaps - by Distracteddiddlin; WIP, 29/?, 28k

Rating: Mature; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: Other

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationship: Ford/Holly | Nanami; Characters: Ford, Holly | Nanami, Brad, Wayne

Additional Tags: Fluff, Developing Relationship, surprise parenting, rating and tags will update, NB Farmer, Idiots in Love, Wet Dream, Love Confessions, oh it's fucking started now, Mildly Dubious Consent, for like the smallest split second

Summary: Me while writing this months ago: what if I did that that Ford/farmer fic again but with a twist? Basically it's what if Ford accidentally became a single dad after the farmer meets him

Stranded - by TheBeckster; WIP, 2/?, 4k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: Gen

Fandoms: Trio of Towns

Relationships: Ludus & Siluka, Ludus & Iluka, Iluka & Siluka; Characters: Ludus, Iluka, Siluka, Tototara, Zahau, Caolila

Additional Tags: all aboard the childhood trauma boat!, Pre-Canon, Peril, Wilderness Survival, Mild Blood

Summary: Desperate for an adventure to break up the interminable boredom of a long summer, three kids set to the high seas and get way more adventure than they ever hoped for or wanted. AKA: Let's explore the Lulukoko Trio's shared childhood trauma!

Trio Of Towns - Figuring Out Love - by vampireprincess624; WIP, 6/?, 5k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: Multi

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationship: Ford/Pixie; Characters: Ford, Pixie, Wayne, Brad, Lisette, Carrie, Noelle, Colin, Miranda, Frank, Megan, Hector, Other(s)

Summary: Pixie Fawn is left with a mess she has to sort out after leaving Ludus at their wedding because Ford, who had been away for seven months, appeared as a guest. But how is fixing things with the stubborn doctor more difficult than sorting things out with her ex husband-to-be? Are they destined to be friends or will their stronger feelings for each other lead to love? A lot of Ford/Pixie scenes where they figure out their love for each other. This is Part 3 to my series, Life In The Towns, and I strongly advise you read Part 1 (or at least the last few chapters) before this, but it should still make sense anyway. Hope you enjoy :)

The House That We Built - by CherryQDoodles; WIP, 2/?, 8k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences; Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationships: Holly | Nanami/Ludus; Characters: Ludus, Original Characters, Lulukoko Villagers, Westown Villagers, Tsuyukusa Villagers

Additional Tags: Slow Burn, story building, Learning from the Past, Tons of fluffy moments, farmlife shenanigans, Festivals, Romance, Dark skinned MC, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Summary: Nicola knew as soon as she was able to talk that she was very different from the family she was raised in. From her dark skin to her snow white hair she stuck out as the black sheep, but she loved them like they were her blood, and vice versa. But Nicola always dreamed of wanting more: to become a farmer. Growing crops, raising animals and everything in between! She just had to convince her father that she could handle the hard work within two years time. Follow Nicola's journey to becoming the best farmer she dreams of, and her adventures in the Trio of Towns!

Ford's Roses - by thelighthouse33; WIP, 5/?, 3k

Rating: General Audiences; Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply; Category: F/M

Fandom: Trio of Towns

Relationship: Farmer/Ford; Characters: Ford, Female Farmer, Wayne, Megan, Frank, Miranda, Carrie, Brad, Lisette, Noel | Noelle, Colin

Additional Tags: My First Work in This Fandom, better late than never, Ford x Holly, Story of Seasons Trio of Towns, Harvest Moon - Freeform, Gaming

Summary: This is a story of how the doctor of Westown, in charge of The White Capsule Clinic, falls in love with the new farm girl...

#wip wednesday #story of seasons #harvest moon #trio of towns #sos 3ot #story of seasons trio of towns #3ot #sos tot

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colehasapen · 4 years ago

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(ONE SHOT) we can turn it into gold dust STAR WARS

Jangobi Week Day 2 - Time Travel

A03

When Ben had first woken up in the past, he’d had nowhere to go. He hadn’t known where he was, what he was doing, or what he would do, he hadn’t even been aware that he was in the past at first. He had still been shaking with adrenaline from his battle against - against Vader. Bone weary from the grief of losing his family, from the ache of the betrayal of his men, he hadn’t been sure of anything, but the fact that he’d had two children in his arms that needed protection and that he was no longer on Bail’s ship. No longer standing beside his Grandmaster and the body of one of his dearest friends.

At first, he hadn’t even realized that he was over a decade younger than he had been only months before, all he’d known was that he was immensely grateful for the peculiarities of Stewjoni biology, because he’d had two very hungry newborns to feed before he could truly wonder about what had happened.

He’d disguised himself as a farmer, hiding his and Anakins’ lightsabers, stealing some clothing from an abandoned homestead, and that had been when he’d truly gotten his first good look at his face, and he’d nearly retched in his shock. The face staring back at him had been fresh with young, a face round with immaturity and smattered with freckles Ben hadn’t worn since he was a Padawan, free of the beard he had once worn. He barely looked out of his teens, like he should still be following his Master around on missions and attending lessons in the Temple. He had stood them, bare as the day he had been born, for a long time, just staring at his reflection in the broken glass until one of the twins started wailing to be fed and Ben had forced himself to move.

Luke and Leia needed him, so he couldn’t let himself crumble.

Ben had forced himself to keep moving, because he had two orphaned infants who needed him for everything. Without him, they’d have no food, no warmth, no care - so he’d kept moving forward, looking to the Force for guidance. The lack of slimy Darkness around him had been a shock at first, had made him realize how used to it he had become over the years, and it wasn’t only all from the two supernovas that he carried around with him, one strapped to his chest, the other to his back, as they’d worked their way through the countryside of a snow-covered planet that Ben didn’t recognize.

It had been beautiful, at least, seeing the sun glinting off of ice crystals and snow capped trees, white dusted on the undergrowth like a layer of powdered sugar on those donuts he remembered Garen enjoying a little too much when they had been children. He had spent too long confined to the war front and Coruscant, unable to see the beauty of nature like he could on the unknown planet he had found himself on.

The peace hadn’t lasted.

Urged on by the Force, Ben had kept walking, and eventually he’d found himself stumbling upon a camp of armoured Mandalorians - who had all seemed equally as surprised to see him as he was to see them. It had been a tense stand-off, staring down the business end of almost a hundred blasters, until Luke had started fussing under his coat, uneasy with the emotions being broadcasted into the Force and hungry once more.

The sights and sounds of a fussy baby had been the sign that the Mando’ade had needed, and Ben had found himself immediately ushered further into the camp by protective and worried warriors. They’d been utterly delighted when both children had been unveiled, like seeing a second infant was the most precious thing they’d all ever seen. He’d found himself and the twins herded to the tent at the very center of the camp, the most well-defended position with the best insulation and heating, private enough to let him breastfeed in peace. Eventually, a medic had come to him, carrying a scanner and leading a younger verd laden with blankets and pillows behind xem. Blood work had been done, a medical profile created, and none of them had even blinked an eye when neither Luke or Leias’ genetics matched his own.

To them, he was Ben Tano, twenty years old, just another refugee who had gotten in over his head, who had taken in two orphans who had needed care and comfort. Baar’ur Nawara had been knowledgeable and well-trained, and perhaps Ben shouldn’t have been as surprised as he had been that the Twi’Lek had known the specifics of Stewjoni biology, considering that Mandalorians had once been known to take in beings regardless of species, as long as they swore the resol’nare.

Eventually, their leader had returned from scouting, had swept into the tent and into Ben’s life, and then there he had stayed.

It was then, shirtless under one of the blankets offered to him, cradling the twins in his arms as they’d fed, that the truth of his situation had truly sunk in, because when the buy’ce had come off, Ben had found himself staring into a hauntingly familiar face, one he had spent the last three years of his life surrounded by at all sides. Jango Fett, young enough that he could have been mistaken as one of his clones, dressed in beskar’gam painted in a way that Ben had never seen, dark hair curling around a face unlined by years of hatred and suffering, had stared back at him. Barely out of his teenaged years himself, Jango Fett had proven himself to be a completely different person than the man Ben had met in his own time, the one that had consigned millions of his own children to a life of slavery and death. This was a Jango Fett who was still Mand’alor, still a leader among his people, one who had not yet been given the name of Jedi Killer - and Ben had made sure that he never would.

Somehow, he had been thrown decades into the past, in a body young enough that he could be mistake for a teenager, on Galidraan before the slaughter of the True Mandalorians, before the Mandalorian Civil War had truly spun out of control and Death Watch gained the amount of traction Ben had once known them to have. He’d been thrown into a past before Jango had given himself over to a life of vengeance, before the clones had even been created, and Ben had made sure it would never happen.

He mourned for the friends he lost by meddling; mourned good, strong Cody, kind Waxer and Boil, cheerful Wooley, and so many more that had been lost. He mourned for his 212th, who had betrayed him for reasons Ben doubted he’d ever know, for Rex and the 501st, for all of the clones who would never get to live. By making sure the True Mandalorians didn’t die on Galidraan, Ben had ensured that they’d never live, he had changed the course of history and everything he had known.

He had nowhere to go, no home to go back to - there was already an Obi-Wan Kenobi at the Temple, and even the thought of returning made him think of the bodies of his family on the floor, of smoke rising above the spires and fear staining the walls like blood. So when Jango had offered him a place with the True Mandalorians, among people he hadn’t known in his own time, he had accepted.

He had accepted, had become a Mandalorian, and, eventually, he became the Be’alor as well.

An arm slides across his waist, pulling him closer against a warm, broad chest, and Ben feels lips press against the back of his neck, hot breath ruffling the shaggy copper hair there. “It’s too early to be thinking, Mesh’la.” His husband murmurs, his end of their Force bond buzzing groggily, and Ben hums, enjoying the pleasant tingle of human contact, melting into Jango’s embrace as a large hand splays across the faint bump of his abdomen. “What’s wrong, riduur? Is the ikaad bothering you?”

“Just thinking, cyar’ika.” He soothes, pulling away just enough that he can roll over to face his husband, letting the other man tuck his head under his chin, dark curls brushing against the clean shaven skin there, hand moving back to the ever-growing baby bump. This late in the night cycle, it’s just the two of them in the Mand’alor’s suite, far too early as it is for even energetic five year olds to be running around. The Keldabe palace is a fortress, impenetrable and safe, and it lets Ben relax, allowing him to be sure that his ade are safe. “It’s been five years.” He muses, almost amazed by the fact, playing absently with Jango’s soft hair.

Jango purrs deep in his chest as his nails drag over his scalp, a genetic hold over from the nonhuman ancestors Ben had never known he’d had - but maybe he shouldn’t have been too surprised to learn, considering how pack-minded the clones had been. “Best five years of my life.” The man rumbles sleepily, nuzzling against Ben’s collarbone. “I might just like your Force-shit after all. It gave me you.” Then, when Ben’s mouth opens to say something appropriately witty, still unsure what to do with the love and care aimed towards him to this day, Jango silences him with a sweet kiss that tastes like morning breath and makes both of them screw up their faces in exaggerated disgust.

“Urg.” Ben says dramatically, like some great insult had been given to him, flopping over onto his back and ignoring the faint roll of nausea that follows when the baby makes their displeasure known. Jango follows like a limpet, burying his face in Ben’s stomach and rubbing his cheek against the delightfully soft fabric of his sleep shirt as he stretches his arms across him like another blanket. “So uncivilized.”

“You love me.” Jango grins at him, soft with sleep and his cheek resting against the bump of their growing child, dark eyes shimmering with so much love that Ben wants to cry sometimes.

He doesn’t know what he ever could have done to deserve this sweet happiness.

“Unfortunately.” Ben teases, reaching out to ruffle his hair again, and Jango melts into his touch, purrs kicking up once more. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you and accepted Myles’ proposal instead.”

“Betrayal.” Jango grumps, voice thickening once more as sleep creeps towards him once again, “My own brother, betraying me. I should have him hanged.”

He can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up in response, “You wouldn’t.” He says playfully, dodging the half-hearted swat that lands on his pillow instead, leaving Jango’s wrist to rest against his mouth, and Ben nips at it teasingly. “You love Myles too much.”

“Lies and slander.”

Ben laughs again, the weight of his past long forgotten in the face of his husband’s warmth, and he gently kisses the pulse point he can feel beating against his lips. “Go back to sleep, Jan’ika. We have a few hours yet until your court needs us.”

“Our court.” Jango mumbles, surrendering to the gentle Force suggestion Ben had lined his words with. “You got half of it when you agreed to marry me.” His breath evens as he slips back to sleep, filling the room and the Force with foggy contentment and gentle love, and Ben smiles.

“Of course.” He teases his sleeping husband, unable to not get the last word even as he finds himself being pulled back to his dreams. “How dare I forget that.”

Taglist: @a-mediocre-succulent @yellowisharo @spoofymcgee @roseofalderaan @everything-or-anything @bellablue42

#cole writes #jangobi week 2021 #jangobi week day 2 #Obi-Wan Kenobi #jango fett #obi wan kenobi #time travel #trans obi wan kenobi #luke skywalker #leia organa #true mandalorians #breastfeeding #galidraan fix-it #star wars fanfiction #jangobi

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xo-cuteplosion-xo · 4 years ago

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The Ending of The Everlasting Sun.

Soukoku angst: will have 2 parts, one is Chuuya pov another is Dazai pov (Dazai is part 1 aka this piece. I'll start chuuya's tomorrow)

I’ll do a version for Dazai after (not pov but version so Chuuya can have the dose of Dazai’s pain T_T).

Warnings: Death, gore, violence, angst with just more angst. (idk if i consider dazai ooc but towards the end is mostly how i feel the situation would happen, so kinda ooc)

TBH, I don't know why I wrote this but hey I love feeding peeps and myself angst so, here you go.

The Ending of The Everlasting Sun. | A Soukoku Angst one-shot |

words: 4264

Dazai’s pov- (it swaps between third and first. I know my writing style is weird af)

The sun, a forever gleaming light in life. They say even in death, the sun won’t fade from your view. For light, something that brings reason to a life so pitched in black is everlasting. There is a place that resides within a person the sun that will never leave. Like the memories that one left behind shall forever hold. Memories will not fade, even as the deceased are placed within mounds of dirt, their body left to neatly decompose.

They say it is natural to feel your heart so heavy. To feel so pained when death washes over. Death can change a human, they say, death is rebirth, something shall always come from it. In some ways, Dazai knew the truth of such words. For he’s experienced the death of his light. At least he had thought the brunette, who’d stuck by his suicidal tendencies, his cruel ways, he thought that man had been the light. He had changed, he’d moved on into the light of this world. His heart may still be shadowed in the darkness the mafia left. The memories of those he left may never leave, but he was in the light. He was the light for another now. Still, dark himself, he’d help lead his news pupil to the light. He repeated this so often, yet why, why did his mind travel back to those days, the days when he was alongside that small ginger boy? The boy with anger issues could be heard a mile away, was he important? Why must he feel as if he left behind something important when he’d listened to a friend's dying wish? Surely he was better off now? He felt better, life wasn’t as black or as unlit as it had once been. So why? Why was it always that ginger that popped into his head on those restless nights? He worried so much if he was okay. If he was out there using that uncontrollable side without him. Ever since he left, he’d worried that ginger would do something as stupid as that. So maybe, just maybe, this world had blessed him with two lights. A light to change, that light had left him to save him. Then the second light, the light that showed him he could love and be loved. This world could take both lights to make such a realization, and eventually, this world, so cruel and dark would. Not by fate, but by the hand of an enemy who sought out Dazai’s weakness.

I stood beneath pelting rain, my mind held within it one thought, where was he? Never had the small boy I'd fallen for in my early teens missed a chance to torment me as I had tormented him. Never had he let the phone, to which we still held each other's numbers unblocked, reach the full number of rings before the voicemail kicked in. I had never felt this before. Nor had I the courage to admit such a thing. For feelings were only a danger to men like myself. I am undoubtedly cruel. Even now, in my early twenties, I stand beneath the rain alone. The mistakes of my past hanging over me for somebody to eventually discover. The past profession I had tried to hide and had hidden well for many years was creeping to my heels. The man whom I'd sought help from was gone, his final words my reason to be in the light. If neither side means anything, he told me to help the defenseless, to help the orphans. That is what I did. I left behind the ginger-haired boy whom, I now say with hesitance, I loved. It is a fine point that I was able to decline such things until after I left the mafia, for otherwise, I may have tried to do good whilst in the mafia, so I could stay with my final light within my life. Many have shed their light on me. The orphan I took in has shocked me many times, reading me in a way I thought only Oda, my extinguished light, could. He knew I was mourning that past friend when he found me at his grave. He continues to shock me to this day, the only one who can occasionally see past the mask I've worn since I was 14, since Mori found me. Kunikida has taught me responsibility and morals. There is still a bottle of things I shall never change. Some people can’t change. My mind prevents me from collecting such information about being human. My ability says it all, does it not? It is a perfect description of myself. The intelligence I share with Dostoevsky is merely one of the many things that keep me behind the wall of change. I may do things for another reason, but I am still a shadow over the people around me. I curse them all, I have brought heavy burdens onto the agency, I harm all of those around me. Love is a feeling I'm incapable of. At least, I can not recognize true love, only conclude that is what this pain is. It is a pain like no other, it is not physical, but no sense of being can push away the tangent throb of every beat. It is my mind, and the way I was brought up so young, that initially warped me beyond repair. That is why I am here, running in the rain despite my coworkers protesting to stop me.

Dazai understood the trap he was headed for, but he knew the trap would result in a fatality either way. If it was his death that waited for him, then he was alright with that. If it was painless, and he died a quick death before his mouth could run to say final bidding words to Chuuya, then he’d die. If this taunt was to break him, if he were to be late, he would drop to his knees and beg his old friend, who lay watching over him, to be forgiven for his actions tonight. If some awful being really did oversee this world, let it give Dazai one moment of peace. Let him have one good light stay until he is gone. He couldn’t do it again, the pain of holding a bloodied body within his arms, it would be hell. He knew not of true mourning, the pain of losing the one, who in a storybook, could be considered a soulmate. He knew it, others knew it, so many people knew the way he stared at Chuuya was not a friendly matter. There was lust within his soft chocolate hues, a hidden cave behind closed doors. Secret thoughts hidden in his mind. The things he wished he could have done before he left, the way he wanted to fix things, to regain what he had lost by leaving the mafia.

With every soft patter, Dazai flew between streets and yards. With every step, he grew closer and closer. With every new step, he felt his heart sink. For the area around was brittle and frail. The ground was crushed and indented. Some buildings lay in tattered pieces. Holes the size of beds lay stretched in the buildings and grass. The worst began to form in his head as his legs picked up into a pace he thought he could never take into. His lungs burned with the inhaled drips of water that turned to flames within his lungs. He pushed past the pain, the burn, the tired flail of limbs. His legs grew numb, but he refused to stop until his arms were flying open doors to a building that looked so horribly damaged.

As if I were the show that night, I could remember the lights. My lungs felt like fire, and my legs were ready to buckle beneath my frail body. I had not eaten a proper meal for weeks, my pockets empty from money spent to cover the scars I had littered my body with. The night is a haze within my mind. An unwilling nightmare I wish to set aside and to never look at again. A night I wish could be rewritten. It was a night that even I had thought the same way as Destoveski. My mind was no longer set right, that side of me to which was feared, had ripped from its confines and torn through to confine me to my own mind. I had truly wanted to tear a sheet from the book spoken about so much in this little town of Yokohama. If it meant my lights could come back and this world could change, then I would, I would do it without a blink. I’d make myself the villain to free my light. I would do it for the right reasons. Yet, I could never ruin the lights of others. There would be too many sacrifices to do such a thing at that moment. To this day, I curse myself for thinking like that man, thinking about such things would make me like him. Dostoevsky was no man I wanted to be.

The light pulsed for a moment before illuminating the room in a sharp glow of white. Dazai stood blinded before the room came into focus, the empty space warm in comparison to the pelting rain. For a moment, the world had paused, allowing his mind to make a sharp halt and think. Though his thoughts were not something he wished to hear. The thoughts inside his head screamed an equal verse to the night he’d lost Oda. He had no more time to pause, as soon as he’d adjusted to the blaring lights, he was scanning the room, finding the spots of blood, the corpses littered on the ground. Then, he was running against his will again. The next thing he knew, he was diving forward too quickly brush against the ginger, who’d consumed his thoughts since they reunited all that time ago.

The first thoughts I had when I felt the cloth of his jacket, the same one I had sown hat-rack into when we were 15, were thoughts of panic. I was always the type of man who wore a mask, but that mask only masked my depression. I yearned for death, I lived to be human, and that feeling you have right as you fall victim to death may be my only chance at life. My co-workers were never worried about me. At first, I had shocked them. I remember the way Kunikida halted with his trust, how on my first job he watched me with a hawk's eye. Never once did I not feel the burning gaze of his judgment. I never blamed him, I was a man with an erased past. There was nothing to tell whether I was good or evil. The day I entered the agency, I would have said I was that darker gray that wisps on the side of black. Today, I would tell you I wanted to be the light, to be good, but I am far from it. It shall always be my nature to look up into another and dive within their soul. My hands are skilled in ways of torture. I could shoot down an enemy with my eyes closed. These pieces of me still exist, even though I had locked them to the confine of my mind, a faraway nightmare that haunted me. The faces of the victims who plead because they had family, haunt me. It’s not remorse I feel, it’s a haunting reminder that I shall never see that friend again. When I die, I shall not meet him in the afterlife, if there is one at all. I like to believe that one can look up and think there is such a place. These thoughts, wishes, all suddenly reappeared the moment his body fell to the floor. Yet, even coated in his own blood, his breathing so unsteady I feared he was only a few breaths from death, he remained beautiful. How could I, a genius strategist with an inhumane IQ, let this happen? Why had I not called him, this ginger, ocean-eyed slug? Chuuya, he’d always be those names to me. I still wonder why we call each other such things, but it makes us both feel alive. With him, I could act like a child, as I never had a true chance to be a child. Even now, if I could muster up the courage as I write, I'd twist the narrative so it looked as if I did not care. If I did that, I would dishonor the words we had shared that night.

Dazai rushed over the pavement to grab hold of Chuuya. His hands sliding over the boy's body to pull him over his lap. His eyes are a sea of worry and panic. One of his hands grabbed the boy’s wrist lightly, his pulse was so slow, his eyes were already slowly dropping, but Dazai stayed confident. “Hey Chibi, you’re an idiot.”

The frail form of the boy beneath him cracked a small smile. “You’re the idiot you- his body racked itself with a spurt of coughs, his lips dripping crimson to join the stains on his perfectly pale skin.- d-damn mackerel.”

Dazai dropped the boy's wrist with a chuckle, pressing his hand to the boy's lips. “Yeah, I know Chibi, I know. - The ginger's eyes began to flutter shut.- No Chibi, your eyes have to stay open. Look, I've got people coming to fix you up. So just try to keep yourself awake.” Dazai’s hand moved to cup the other's cheek. “You’ll be okay.”

Chuuya’s breath staggered a wheeze interrupting the shallow breaths he’d been going through. “I’m dying, aren't I?”

Dazai shook his head, feeling his chest sting with the familiar pain of grief. As if somebody took a microscope over the feeling, it continued to grow. By now, he was sure the pain exceeded the total amount of grief he’d gone through with Oda’s passing. “No Chibi, you’re not… you're not dying.” He paused in that sentence looking down at Chuuya, who laughed dryly.

“So fucking optimistic.” They sat in silence, and Chuuya's eyes fixed on Dazai. Though it was unnoticed by Dazai, his clouded tired eyes were on his lips. He was taking into memory the parts of wishes he’d never get. Every passing second, Chuuya felt his eyes threaten to drip shut. He was trying to listen to Dazai, but his eyes were bricks; sleep a melody that sang to him. With the fear of never waking up again, Chuuya lifted his hand from his side to reach Dazai’s cheek, his blood leaving a mark. “Hey, Dazai.” His voice lacked anything but sincerity.

“No Chuuya. No, you’re okay! Just a few more minutes and Yosano will be here! Fuck, just stop moving, keep your eyes open, keep breathing because you’re alright.” Chuuya had never seen Dazai act like this before. So as Dazai’s hand warmly wrapped around his, his head pressing into the cold touch of Chuuya’s, words were spoken.

“Dazai, I. Never. H-hated… you. I. lov-” before those words could finish, his body was shaking. Tears were forming, he was still conscious and very much alive, but his entire system of organs and cells were rejecting him. The use of corruption had been at its limit long before Dazai had touched him. Before his ability had been canceled out, he was beyond death. The way he coughed his hands, flailing out to grab Dazai’s shirt and press their bodies together, made even Dazai emotional. Dazai managed to still the boy's movements. His eyes half-open as he tried to hold onto whatever string was left. “Lo-” this time he was cut off by Dazai’s hand. His head shaking, hearing Chuuya speak would make this far too real.

He wasn’t ready to let him go. For the first time, he wanted to be far from death, far from the pain and suffering of humankind. So as Chuuya smiled and looked to the ceiling, his hand continued to stroke Dazai’s cheek. A reminder he was still alive.

That moment ended all too quickly when Chuuya took a final staggered breath and looked to Dazai. “Loved you.” He finished his sentence before his eyes dropped shut. His hand slipped into a limp state within Dazai’s hold.

It took the brunette no time to jump to compressions. He continuously screamed. A voice that had never once mourned, or shed a tear, now sat in a contorted expression between agony and doubt. His mind was static, for the first time nothing clear could form within his head. He shrieked out for Chuuya. Open your eyes, he had chanted and begged before he no longer had the strength to continue. He simply fell on top of Chuuya, his ear to his chest praying to hear a soft thud. Three minutes passed before his body, devoid of any, and everything was yanked away. Had he been shown a mirror, one would not have recognized Dazai. His clothes were bloodied, his hair disheveled and wet from the rain he’d run in only a handful of minutes ago.

Dazai sat numbly as his co-workers looked around trying to find if there was any danger left. When the scene was clear and Yosano made the final statement, the world truly crumbled. Still, despite having started CPR and rescue breaths, despite having felt the cooling touch of his skin, Dazai had held onto the hope that Yosano would fix this. He watched as she put on a work face. Her heels clicked across the ground as she walked over to Dazai with a doctor's approach, not a friend's approach. She bent before Dazai and began to speak. “Dazai, I need you to focus your eyes on me, alright?” Dazai could read her mind like an open book. His mind, in his numb state, had returned to his 17-year-old self. Devoid of any real feeling, bent on causing pain and suffering. He tilted his head like that child-self would in this situation. For once, he genuinely felt human. “I understand you were close to Nakahara-san. You were also here at the scene. It’s with much regret-” before she could finish, Dazai’s eyes grew cold and clouded, his lips a snarl as he shoved her.

“He’s okay! Chuuya is okay, he’ll wake up! He always does, even when I have to change things in a second advance because I fucked up. He's okay! We’re soukoku, double black. We can’t be put down. We’re partners, we need each other." even Yosano froze at the sudden outburst. The way Dazai cried without realizing the tears were falling. The way he tried to look happy as if he hadn’t watched Chuuya die within his arms. “Right… he’s okay right?” Dazai hardly knew what he was saying, his head foggy, his mind trying to stay collected.

If one could compare him to anything, one would say that moment he'd looked like a child, no older than fourteen, who’d watched a death before their eyes. Yosano collected herself before shaking her head. She decided to take the approach she’d have with a child instead of an adult. For in this moment, Dazai was experiencing what one could call his first-ever truly emotional loss. This was the first time his mind was catching up with him. “Dazai, Chuuya cared very much for you. You know that right?”

Dazai seemed to calm slightly at the thought as he focused on Yosano. “Yeah, he loved me… he said he loved me.” Suddenly, the situation became worse than she’d thought.

“Mhm, and you loved him too?” Dazai took his time to slowly nod before gulping and shrinking down.

“And now… he’s not coming home. No more loud, annoying comments. No more nights at the bar…” Dazai’s voice choked before the sounds of more footsteps followed in.

A high-pitched female voice screamed in a shrieking roar. “Where is he!” Dazai knew that voice. Kouyo, his Ane-san. At least, at one point she’d been his Ane-san. But his eyes stopped looking at Yosano and instead took a glimpse at Chuuya, whose corpse still lay there.

Once more, Dazai’s emotions took control, and he placed his hands over his eyes and shut himself away. Yosano swore under her breath and stood up. “Which one is he?” Yosano stood up rather angrily. She disliked her conversations being so rudely interrupted, even if it were somebody she had a small connection with.

“Chuuya…” the red-haired female stormed over before spotting Dazai first. His body cradled in like a child. A position she’d never seen him in. Her heart could only lurch to the worst. Hesitantly, she looked off to the side and saw it. The bloodied corpse. She spent no more time looking, she couldn’t.

She shoved Yosano away from Dazai, a boy she had once helped to look after and almost raise. Though she resented the boy for abandoning his role as an executive, she knew how much the pair had been connected. So she’d be a mother or older sister for a bit. Something Dazai had never seemed to have. “Dazai, it’s Kouyo, can you look at me? I just wanna make sure you’re alright.”

Dazai peeked from his arms, sniffing in his delirious state as he lunged towards her. Not in a hostile way, but an embrace. Something he never thought he’d need. He felt so human, so alive, but at the same time, he felt so dead inside. He felt as if his life had been torn and replaced within seconds. This feeling he couldn’t place a name on. “I was too late… I couldn’t, and now he’s and I… it’s all my-'' Kouyo was quick to shut him down, muffling her own sobs as she rocked Dazai in her arms.

“Hush child, these things happen. The fault is never that you could not make it in time. The fault lies within the bastard who did this. He always took extremes to protect you, Dazai. So hush now, let yourself grieve.” There was a slight pause as the agency starred in shock. This woman, who most of them knew as a vengeful woman with no remorse, sat cradling a grown man from an opposing organization as if he were her child, no more like an older sister cradling a younger brother. “Dazai, I won’t criticize your reaction, I've seen it many times in the mafia. Little children who witness death at such a young age think they are immune to it. They find another blame or they say they are monsters. You were 14 when Mori took you in. You never had somebody to teach you to grieve. You never needed to, not until now. So listen to me child, you’re going to let it all out, the years of pain and suffering, the years of grief for lost friends, even I have cried in my life. Nobody is immune to pain, some of us just think we are.” As Kouyo spoke, she noted Dazai’s breathing reached a slowing point. He was fast asleep before she finished her words. Her touch was gentle as she brushed a lock of his hair behind his ears.

Next, she walked over to Chuuya and hung her head, murmuring words of mourning. She walked off quickly, but came back moments later with his hat. “He’d want somebody to have it.” Yosano stood beside Kouyo, who choked back her own tears.

“I think it should go to Dazai. He always mocked his hats, even though he loved seeing Chuuya in them. They really were meant for each other. It’s unfortunate such a great pair ended up… in a life like this. Perhaps they will be reborn in an era where they are nothing but students who fall in love. I like to think there is always a second chance for lives that end too short.”

With a nod, they both looked to Dazai, who looked at peace sleeping on the ground.

When I woke up that day after, I could hardly remember anything. I had lost myself completely to the side that was human. I truly did try to live on, but it was difficult. No matter where I looked, I could see his laugh, I hated it. The pain that constantly wrapped around me. Hence, why I sit here with a pen. I never took myself to write my thoughts down. Oda had once ruminated about being a reader, he died before he ever could. I miss them both. I say that, but when I look down at the tear-stained paper, so many of them were for Chuuya. A love I never got to kiss or truly love. Today, I will not wake up. I no longer care about things like making my death overly complex and comfortable. I shall go to sleep with Chuuya’s hat at my side. I shall die with him at my side. That is how it should have been. Chuuya should have lived that night. I shall never know what sparked him to use corruption without me there. All I know is the worst person in the world, Destovesky, who now lay in a ditch from my own pistol, threatened the ginger to such an extent he felt the need to use it. In a way, I have solved several problems with one action. I killed the criminal, and I'm killing the single person whose blood runs more mafia black than any other.

Tag list If you want to be added when I upload fics/HC etc., just shoot me an ask: @jadegreenimmortality

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spontaneousstupidwriting · 4 years ago

Text

FebuWhump Day 3: Imprisonment

Peter gets locked in a closet at school and can't get out without risking his secret being found out.

Also on AO3

Peter sighs as Flash continues to taunt him as he walks through the halls. Normally Peter wouldn't care so much about the bully but both Ned and MJ are out today.

“Hey, Penis, I’m talking to you!” Flash shouts, Peter rolls his eyes and ignores his spidey-sense telling him something is about to happen. He grunts as he's shoved into the lockers. Flash crowds him and the rest of the students don't spare more than a glance at the familiar scene. "You should know better than to ignore me by now, Parker."

Peter huffs, "Whatever, Flash, can we just get this over with, we're going to be late for class."

Flash looks to the left of the lockers then to the thinning hallway crowd before turning back to him, "Oh I don't think you'll need to worry about that."

Flash grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him to the door by the lockers that he glanced at earlier. "What are you-" Peter isn't given time to finish his question before the other teen opens the door and shoves him into the rooms. Peter stumbles into the shelves lining the back of what is apparently a small storage room. Dust fills the air after he disturbs it leading to a coughing fit.

"Have fun in there, Penis. Maybe you shouldn't ignore people," is the last thing Peter hears before the door is slammed and the light disappears.

His coughing dying down, Peter takes a second to get his bearings. The only light in the closet is what comes through the bottom of the door and as his eyes adjust to the low lighting he sees that he must be in an old janitor’s closet. The shelves are lined with cleaning supplies and everything seems to be layered in dust.

The bell signaling the beginning of first period rings and Peter sighs, one of the few days that he gets to school early and he still doesn’t get to class before the bell. He reaches for the handle and twists. Instead of turning as it should, it makes a grinding sound before it stops twisting completely. Peter uses a little more strength but it quickly becomes apparent that he’d have to use some more than he’s usually comfortable using outside of his suit. He debates with himself, remembering that the school recently installed cameras after someone raided the lockers and that it’d see him breaking the doorknob on his way out. Peter’s shoulders slump in defeat, he can’t handle another mark on his record.

Of all the days to forget my phone, Peter mourns. He resigns himself to waiting and settles on the floor, maybe he can use the small bit of light to outline his English essay. Surely Flash will come back.

So he waits.

He waits through the bell signaling the end of first period, and waits as the beginning of second period starts. He waits as the following periods begin and end and debates breaking the doorknob again as he regrets forgetting to put more snacks in his backpack and lunch begins. He waits as it ends and the later classes begin and waits some more till the end bell rings.

Throughout the day as he hears his classmates walk by Peter can’t bring himself to call out and face the humiliation that awaits his release that way. It’s only until about a half-hour after school ends that Peter gives up hope of being released by his tormentor that he gives in and starts pounding on the door calling for help. He can hear that the few people in the hall can hear him as steps slow and a few mention it to someone else, but no one comes to help him. That doesn’t stop Peter from continuing because surely someone will come to help.

But no one does. Not the stragglers or the club goers, even a janitor passes by later long after school ends, the sound of music coming from his direction, likely from headphones.

Eventually, the school clears out, void of any sounds. Peter slumps against the door, not believing that he was still stuck in here. By this point, there’s no light coming from the bottom of the door and it starts to cool as the heaters turn off for the night.

Peter reconsiders his options, while there's no chance of a person seeing him break the knob the cameras likely continue rolling after school ends and there are security alarms on the doors in case someone breaks in. Would they activate if he opens them from the inside? He doesn’t want to risk it. May is supposed to get home around ten tonight, a time still far off. Once again he resigns himself to wait, but this time it’s much more unpleasant.

His stomach has been growling since school ended and the cold begins to seep into his bones. It’s wintertime now and the temperature continues to drop as the night continues. The lack of food and overwhelming cold slows his thoughts and he just stares at the door in front of him. When was the last time he went so long without food? Mr. Stark is always hounding him to eat because of his metabolism so it’s been a while.

Despite how cold he is, Peter doesn’t shiver, something that seemed to happen due to the bite. He pulls his jacket even tighter around him and regrets not wearing a scarf like May told him to that morning. He shuffles into the corner connected to the door on autopilot and his eyes get heavier and heavier as the temperature continues its descent.

May, finally able to take a break, checks her phone as she takes her break getting some fresh air in the hospital courtyard. She frowns when she sees that she has a voicemail from Peter’s school and immediately checks it.

An absence notice? She checks for any messages from her nephew or Tony, because while these notices used to be pretty common, Tony usually checks Peter out at the office after being appointed as one of his emergency contacts. But there’s nothing from either of them, nothing to tell her where Peter is or if he’s okay.

Panic beginning to rise in her chest she clicks on Peter’s contact and waits with bated breath as it continues to ring. Maybe he’s asleep or in the shower she tries to assure herself but that excuse becomes a bit harder after Peter’s voicemail greets her for the third time. Giving up on that she scrolls over to Tony’s contact, hoping that he’ll answer and have some answers.

Tony’s working in the lab when FRIDAY interrupts his music, “May Parker is calling you, boss.”

Tony frowns, “What time is it, baby girl?”

“It is eight twenty-two p.m. May is scheduled to be working right now and Peter’s suit has not been online since his patrol two days ago. Would you like to answer the call?”

Tony nods, “Answer it and save everything here, for now, something seems off about this.”

Instead of a response from FRIDAY, the next thing Tony hears is May’s voice, “Tony?”

Wiping his hands off on a cloth, Tony answers, “Hey May, everything alright? FRI says you’re supposed to be at work.”

“Is Peter with you? Or have you heard from him at all today?”

Tony freezes, “No, he sent his usually good morning text at the ungodly hour he usually does but nothing else. What’s wrong?”

He can hear May’s shaky breath, “His school says he wasn’t at school today and he isn’t answering his phone. I haven’t heard from him since he left for school this morning,” by the end of it her voice starts to break.

A pit grows in his stomach as he tries to keep his voice steady for May, “You need to take a deep breath okay? I have multiple trackers on him. I'm sure he has at least one on him,” A hologram pops up on his workstation with various items and locations.

“In any other circumstance that’d be extremely creepy,” she faintly laughs.

“From the looks of it his phone and suits are at home but his wallet, keys, nano bracelets, and watch are at Midtown and got there right before school started. So he did make it to school, and because he never takes off the nanotech I’m willing to bet he’s still there.”

“What is he doing there?”

Tony signals for FRIDAY to shut the lab down, “I don’t know but I’m going to head down there, don’t worry May. I’ll call you when I find out what’s going on.”

May sighs, “I’m going to leave early and head to the apartment, please let me know as soon as possible.”

“As soon as I find him, and I will find him.”

“I know you will,” is the last thing she says before hanging up.

Tony makes his way up to the elevator, “FRI, landing pad, please. I want an update if there’s any movement on a tracker.”

“Of course, boss, shall I alert Happy to meet you at Midtown?”

Tony is enveloped by a waiting suit, “Tell him to bring some food and water too, it looks like Peter’s barely moved all day and it’s been a long time since breakfast.”

FRIDAY tells him that Happy will arrive ten minutes after him as he navigates the suit to Peter’s school. “What should be waiting for us at the school security-wise?”

“There are cameras in the hallways and classrooms as well as alarms on the doors and windows activated at six-fifteen today.”

Midtown comes into view and he starts to descend, “Disable the alarms and keep the camera footage on loop until we leave. Is there any footage with Peter there today?”

“Yes, boss, in it he appears to be walking to class when another student approaches him and shoves him into a room by himself, there is no footage of Peter leaving the room.”

The pit in Tony’s stomach grows as he enters the school still in his suit, is Peter hurt? Did he hit his head? “Where is the room?”

“Take a left at the end of the hall then a right into the hall after the cafeteria, the last door on the right is the one Peter was seen pushed into.”

Tony thanks his AI as he rushes down the halls. He stops when he gets to the door and notices the knob not turning as it should, “FRI?”

“The lock appears to be tampered with.”

Tony’s frown deepens and he uses the suit's increased strength to rip the door open. He’s greeted by a seemingly empty room. But Peter has to be here. He looks up to the ceiling and lets out a breath of relief before the worry sets back in, why hasn’t he responded to the door breaking,

“Pete?” no response. “FRI, vitals!”

“Heartbeat is dangerously slow and his core temperature is ninety-six degrees, nearing hypothermic levels. He appears to be in a deep sleep,” FRIDAY responds, voice worried.

“Shit.” Tony activates hover mode to reach Peter and catches a glimpse of his pale face. He reaches to pry Peter from the ceiling, be as careful as he can as he gives FRIDAY instructions, “Tell Happy to crank the heat all the way up and get the emergency blankets from the trunk. Also, alert medbay.”

“Already done, he will arrive in two minutes.”

Tony thanks his AI as he finally gets Peter into his arms, there’s no reaction from the teen. Tony steps onto solid ground and quickly makes his way to the front entrance again while trying not to jostle Peter.

Happy makes it to the front as soon as Tony opens the door, likely having sped more after the update. He opens the back door then quickly grabs the blankets from the trunk as Tony sets Peter onto the seat. He orders the driver to wrap Peter in them as the suit retracts around him before speeding off into the air back to the tower. When Happy finishes he gets back into the driver's seat as Tony slides in next to Peter. He wraps his arms around his mentee and rubs his arms.

Happy immediately starts driving off to the tower, questions coming, “What happened to the kid? Why the hell is he still at school?”

Fire starts to grow in his chest as he’s reminded how this supposedly started, “May called me saying that Peter was missing and didn’t show up for school but his trackers said he was at school. At eight-thirty. FRI checked the cams and saw another teen lock him in a closet but never saw him come out. Now we’re here.” Tony couldn’t help the anger that shone in his tone, what the fuck was that kid thinking, and why didn’t anyone help Peter? “I’m going through the rest of the footage after we take care of Pete and call May.”

Happy nods silently and speeds up.

The next morning Peter’s still sleeping in medbay, his condition improved with gradual warming and a nutrient drip. According to Cho, Peter adapted more spider-like traits than they previously thought, including hibernation. Because of course he did.

But instead of sitting by Peter’s side Tony is up in the penthouse, boiling with rage after seeing how no one helped his mentee, his kid , as he was thrown into lockers then shoved into that damned closet, and ignored him again as he yelled for help. Hell, some laughed instead of helping him. There was some slight frustration with Peter and how he didn’t use his powers to get out and just ask him to change the footage and lock like really, Peter, it was so easy, kid. It wasn’t even a new thing, Tony checked back and that kid had been bullying Peter since before the cameras were even installed. Why didn’t he tell me? Instead of wallowing on that he calls May up, his aunt deserving to know what this punk has been doing to their kid.

It’s only a couple of minutes later that May approaches him, having been downstairs with Peter. “Is this where you’ve been?” she asks quietly. “You should come down, you know Pete would love to see you there when he wakes up.” She touches his arm and gives him a sympathetic smile.

Tony smiles back tightly, “I’ll go down after this and handle the rest later, but there’s something you should see.” May nods in assent and he plays the video of Peter being harassed yesterday morning. May gasps and clutches his arm. Before she can say anything Tony stops the video and starts talking, “This isn’t an isolated incident either. I had FRIDAY check all of the footage, and this punk has been messing with our kid since before the cameras were installed a couple of months ago."

May's face tightens and her eyes seem to glow, “And the teachers do nothing? Does anyone help him? This is bullshit! It never should have gotten to this point! If Peter had been in there any longer who the hell knows what could have happened? We have to do something!”

Tony grips her shoulders and looks her in the eyes, “You’re right, and I’ll be with you every step of the way, and with me will be my best lawyers and even better, Pepper. As soon as she finds out about this there will be nothing stopping her from tearing that school apart for what’s happened to Peter.”

May goes to respond but is interrupted by FRIDAY, “I recommend heading back to medbay, Peter is showing signs of waking.”

Instead of saying anything, May takes a deep breath and shakily smiles, “Thank you, Tony. For being here for him.”

Tony relaxes and smiles back, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

#irondad #febuwhump #febuwhump day 3 #febuwhump 2021 #peter parker #tony stark #marvel #irondad and spiderson #fanfiction

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