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taeyohonic · 3 years

Text

stolen dances | chap. 10

summary: sometimes supporting the person you love is the hardest challenge you’ll ever face.

pairing: jeon jungkook x fem!reader

rating: m

warning: alcohol consumption (drunk people / hungover people), swear words

additional tags: f2l, ceo!jungkook, bestfriend!jungkook, shrink!yoongi, my best friend’s wedding meets 27 dresses (if the boss/secretary couple had happened), angst-y

words: 2100

links: prev. | next [masterlist]

note: lower case letters intended

chapter summary: jimin is team jungkook... whatever that means

“fuck”, jungkook hisses in your ears as the sizzling pan burns his hand. even years after their final performance, seokjin still inhabits the second nature of being the leader. he moves swiftly around the table to check on jungkook, who stays in his position. his breath is hot on your neck as you try to kill yoongi with your stare. with caution you touch jungkook’s burned hand, but the singer won’t let your fingers rest on his before he withdraws himself from you. jimin looks at the scene in front of him with distaste while the oldest coos at jungkook.

“let me be, hyung.”

“you’re hurt, kookie. we have to ice it”, seokjin insists and you pry your eyes away from your therapist to turn around, only to find jungkook watching you intensely.

“_____ knows where the ice is.” yeah, every single one of his friends knows where the freezer is. it’s essential for margarita wednesday. but you don’t dare to voice that – not when even the loudmouthed taehyung is keeping quiet.

“come on, kook”, you say softly and stand up, the delicious chicken completely forgotten.

there is the faint sound of yoongi’s apology in your ears as you move closer to the kitchen, jungkook like a cloak following behind you.

“how bad is the pain?”, you ask and collect an icepack, looking more at the granite worktop in jungkook’s spotless kitchen than your best friend.

“____, look at me”, he orders roughly. instead of taking the ice from you, he waits.

after a second too long, you face him. his eyes are hot on your skin and you feel yourself shrink inch by inch.

“you sang for him?”

“i… no – i just helped him out”, you explain. “yoongi needed the track for his audition and … he really tried other options – you, you know how terrible my voice is. but the label demanded the tape – we didn’t have time.”

you don’t know why an apology is nestled on your lips; there is nothing to be sorry for. jungkook disagrees.

“you sang for him”, he repeats, not in question, but as an accusation.

“what’s the big deal?”, you whisper and press the icepack onto his hand. for a split-second you think he’ll push you back and throw the cooling aid across the room. but your best friend does the complete opposite, taking a step closer to you. you feel his chest heaving as the space between the two of you grows smaller and smaller.

there are a lot of reasons why you love jungkook. one of them is that you are oh so attracted to him.

your heart kindly reminds you of that fact by beating heavily against your ribcage. you can smell his skin and see the tiniest scar his brother gave him when he was a toddler. this is not good.

“you won’t even sing karaoke with me, but you’ll sing for him?”, he asks and grips your hand to push it onto his burn. he hisses in pain but does not stop the pressure.

“you’re all famous singers, jungkook… i.. i don’t wanne embarrass myself in front of you”, you answer. he only huffs.

“____, you puked on me.”

“the rollercoaster was too fast – even jimin said that.”

“you had diarrhea during our last road trip.”

“nobody noticed that.” his eyes widen in disbelieve at your claim.

“i massaged your stomach the whole night to get the cramps to stop. everybody noticed, ____.”

“i don’t know what you want to achieve with this, jungkook”, you whine and try not to notice how delicious his collarbone looks under the kitchen lights.

“___”, he starts, “you can’t embarrass yourself in front of me.”

your eyes are still set on his collarbone and he breathes, clearly annoyed.

“there is no shame in this friendship, ___”, jungkook states with finality in his voice. you do not dare to meet his eyes, after the word ‘friendship’ burns itself onto your mind.

“music is half of who i am”, he continues, “i’d love to share it with my best friend.”

“okay”

your answer is met with a soft smile you do not see.

“okay”, he repeats and gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

he steps away from you a moment later and now, his skin out of reach, you look at his face. his eyes are kind on you.

“let’s see if they left some chicken”, you say and before jungkook can respond, you’ve left the kitchen and your beating heart behind.

“where is all the chicken?”, you exclaim as you join the boys again. jimin’s faint blush is overshadowed by taehyung’s snicker.

“we were only gone for a second, hyungs!”, jungkook adds and helps you by adjusting your chair after you take your seat across from a full-mouthed yoongi.

“there is enough pasta for you to not go hungry”, seokjin answers and passes on the sauce to your best friend, who coats his spaghetti with the citrusy sauce, muttering to himself.

“so, you’ll help with the remix?”, taehyung asks yoongi, clearly done with your complaints.

yoongi looks at jungkook instead of taehyung as he replies.

“yeah, joon and i have been drabbling for a few days.” they have?

“maybe you can bring your demo next week to movie night?”, taehyung questions next.

“next movie night?”, yonngi repeats with furrowed eyebrows matching jungkook’s expression.

“or you can bring it by the office to my meeting with namjoon?”, seokjin offers. sorry, what?

“joon called you already?”, you ask. you distinctly remember the business card you’ve given your favorite barista at the restaurant. but you never imagined him to act this fast. even yoongi seems surprised.

“i like his voice”, seokjin nods at you and continues to eat his last chicken piece.

“but not as much as mine, right?”, jimin whines only to get slapped by the youngest.

your friends are really, really spoiled, you think with a smile and nudge yoongi’s foot under the table.

you hate how heavy your eyes feel while you blink at jungkook.

“you sure you don’t want to have a sleepover?”, he whispers as he helps you into your jacket. scratch that, your arms are heavier than your eyelids. your whine reminds him more of a kitten than a human and he smiles at you.

“nooo, i just… i-i wanne have my special pillow. and my socks.”

“okay, okay, okay – honey – don’t need any tears in this hallway”, seokjin hushes before hugging you. “drink lots of water, understood?”, he asks and lets you go. you nod silently and smile at him. even that is a task.

jungkook looks at the both of you and can’t help his chuckles at your big eyes in front of seokjin’s wide shoulders. it’s just… too cute.

“thanks for the invite.” yoongi pulls the host back to reality and jungkook nods at him with a fake smile.

“sure”, he says. now that you are half-away in dreamland, he doesn’t have to pretend to like your friend. he just wants him out of his house and your life. it physically pains jungkook to let you go together. how special can your at-home-pillow really be?

even in your state you notice how jimin sidesteps yoongi’s hand and how fast taehyung opens the door to lead your therapist out in the hallway. jimin pushes seokjin aside to say goodbye to you, huffing into your hairline as you squeeze him half-heartedly back. his behavior towards yoongi makes you dislike him more than you care to admit.

your friend bows to the boys before moving to the hallway. there is just taehyung between you and the exit now. jimin passes you off to the troublemaker, but not without some clouded thunder in his eyes. embraced by taehyung, you whisper: “what’s up with jimin?”

the former singer knows that eyes and ears are on you – they always are when you’re with them – so he presses his lips close to your ear before answering.

“he’s always been team jungkook.”

it takes you six hours of sleep, two coffees and one aspirin before his words reach your brain the next morning.

you to troublemaker: what’s team jungkook?

your message to taehyung goes unanswered. it makes you mad and you do not like being ignored. after crafting the whole day with your kids in pottery class, you make your way out of the school. you try to repress memories of the awkward lunch with jisoo, not ready to face the reality that she made jungkook uncomfortable, and the alcohol still makes your steps more sluggish than graceful.

jungkook’s mercedes in front of the building comes as a surprise.

“surprise!”, he exclaims and opens the car door for you.

“what are you doing here?”, you ask, too drained to be more forthcoming. the former idol smiles behind his sunglasses.

“surprising my very chipper, sunshine-y best friend.” jungkook sounds so excited that you can feel your lips – and mood – lifting by the second.

“and what’s the surprise?” other than your very busy ceo taking the afternoon off to give you a ride instead of letting you take the crowded train home.

“i wanted to take you to the park!” he points to the basket hidden in his car and your cheeks flush while looking at his long, long finger.

“come ooon”, jungkook tries to shush you into the seat, not ready for some of the pedestrians to notice the famous man. maybe he shouldn’t flash his gucci sunglasses.

“okay, okay, kookie, okay”, you relent and squeeze his shoulder before getting into the mercedes.

it only takes him seconds and then he’s in the driver’s seat, smiling happily at you.

“how was pottery?”, he asks and speeds out into the traffic. you’ve sent him some of your students’ creations from today during lunch, trying to escape jisoo’s eyes – they’d been so proud. you haven’t shown him yours.

“my mug looks so ugly”, you mutter, only to hear a huff from jungkook.

“no way – your designs are unique… never ugly.”

at the next red light, you flash him a picture of your grotesque creation. he is silent until the lights change to green. eyes on the road, jungkook tries to soothe you.

“practice makes perfect, ___.” you only snort.

“yeah well… i think we’ll focus more on learning tomorrow. minimal creativity. maximal brains.”

there is a comfortable silence in the car – but not for long.

“how was your day?”, you ask and turn your upper body to the driver so you’re more focused on his hands gripping the steering wheel.

jungkook sighs before responding. “the board doesn’t like our promotion strategy for europe. so, we’ll have to revise the concept. sales are good – the finance department had a boner for their whole thirty minutes presentation, calculating how much money we’ll make this quarter.”

he takes a turn and you can already see the green from the park.

“had lunch with jin and went for a mini workout after that.”

jungkook parks the car in one swift motion and you have to suppress the moan at his controlled handling of the wheel. he doesn’t even look bothered by the vehicles waiting for him to maneuver into the tight space. after he turns off the engine, your best friend faces you fully.

“and i googled a bit”, he admits. it’s a random fact, making you conscious of its deeper meaning.

“during your lunch with jin?”, you ask. “or while doing squats?”

“during the finance presentation – it was so boring, ____”, he groans and falls forward onto your shoulder.

“and what did you google?”, you ask and press his earlobe between your fingertips. you can still feel the numerous holes from his idol days. it’s a shame he doesn’t wear earrings anymore.

“you know…”, jungkook starts softly, “i wondered – at the restaurant, with namjoon.” his forehead is still resting on you, so he easily notices your stiffened body.

“i would have kind of believed it if you met him first. you drink way too much coffee. he’s a barista.” jungkook’s explanation is hushed against your skin.

“but you met yoongi first, _____.”

“yeah”, you admit quietly.

“min yoongi’s practice has a website, ____.”

“yeah”

“min yoongi is a licensed therapist, ____.”

there is a beat of silence as he waits for you to decide how open you want to be with your best friend… and yourself.

“he is my licensed therapist, jungkook.”

_____

sorry for the late update. hope you are all healthy! love, dana

p.s. this had a whole lot of “uhhh she went to therapy” vibe. therapy is cool, i only survived because i went to see a therapist. jungkook thinks so too; don’t let the last scene fool you. so… we’ll have the park “outing” next and after that… all goes down the drain. I promise.

taglist: @livewittykid @thequeen-kat @kagami-s-void @goldenclosethobi @youwannabelostandnotbefound @jinsalpaca @bishuthot @laabellaavitaa21 @baekstans @jalexad @jinsearthh @kseokwu

#btswriterscollective #bangtanuniversity #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #ceo!jungkook #idol!jungkook #bts x reader #bts x you #bts angst #jeon jungkook

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sparks-joy-imagines · 3 years

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Hello admins, hope you're having a great day ! I just read your rules and I didn't quite understand the asking process, so I'll just shoot my shot and ask here if you don't mind ?

I have a request for a nsfw scenario with sabo (one piece) and fem!reader, in which he's jealous of new trainees checking her out while she shows them moves and she's clueless about it ? Maybe a little angst with it ? Nothing violent ofc

Thank you so much have a great day ❤

Hello there❤ Thank you so much for reading the rules, and sorry if they got you confused! Your request is perfectly fine, as is anything within our boundaries! I hope you can enjoy this scenario, it’s been a lot of fun to write uwu~ have a great day, too✨ - mesu.

Sabo x f!reader

warnings: not sfw, reader gets penetrated, unsafe intercourse (pls don’t do this), (gentle) choking

An aggravated sigh left his lips when the chief of staff finally stepped out of the meeting room. For the past couple hours all of the revolutionary army’s higher ups had discussed the most recent concerning developments in the world and by now all he wanted to do was to pull you close and call it a day.

Sabo started pacing the base’s grounds, checking the spots where he’d usually find you but with no luck. About to give up and just head back to his quarters without you, he vaguely recalled that you muttered something about the new recruits lacking basic hand to hand combat skills this morning. Turning on the spot, he headed over to the gym, yet stopped short right in front of the folding doors which lead to the training area.

“Thank you so much for your guidance, [Y/N]-chan!”

Since when exactly were the new recruits addressing you so casually?

“Yeah, this training session’s amazing… I’m afraid I still don’t really get the choke hold defence though. Mind showing us again?”

Then your voice.

“Always happy to help out! And sure thing, will you please resume position so I can show you how it’s done once again?” Sabo could hear the joyous bliss in your voice, but the tones of the new recruits struck him somewhat off.

When he turned the corner, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. There you were, lying on the ground, knees cocked up while one of the new recruits was kneeling on top of you, legs grinding in your sides, his hands around your neck and feeling way too comfortable in this suggestive position; the other recruit who stood just a couple steps away leering at the scene unfolding in front of him while you were happily chatting away about the technique oblivious to the thoughts of your new comrades.

It had been long since Sabo felt such ferocious flames of fury gnawing at his stomach. He barely noticed how he entered the training grounds, taking long strides and only stopping to squat down to the recruit kneeling over you, his hand – almost distinctly resembling his trademark dragon claw – placed firmly on the guy’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry lads, but I’ll have to steal [Y/N] away now. I’m most confident that you guys are perfectly capable of figuring out how to escape the choke hold on your own from here on.”

Even though his tone was cheerful, the high intensity of his gaze and tightness of his grip on the recruit’s shoulder made it unmistakably clear that he was not tolerating any of their low-key harassment towards you. The second recruit took a step back, almost stumbling over his feet, “Of course, chief of staff, Sabo, sir..”. He shot his mate a look who didn’t dare move an inch whatsoever. You however didn’t notice anything about the shift in atmosphere and happily jumped on your feet when Sabo simply pulled the recruit up at his shoulder, not caring about the little squeal he made. “All finished up, Sabo?” You went to give Sabo a hug, eager to feel his arms around your frame but before you could get your hands on him he just grabbed you and flung you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing more than a feather, making you squeak in surprise. “Gentlemen.”

You felt Sabo’s head move in greeting beside your frame but his voice was as cold as ice.

“Sabo?“ you inquired softly but were silenced by a light slap on your buttock from your boyfriend as he casually, yet swiftly, carried you off to his quarters. Soon you were thrown onto his bed and it’s mere seconds until he’s over you, kneeling in the same position you had just taught the new recruits to escape from earlier. Your breath caught in your throat when you met his dark gaze. There was something feral about the way he looked. You could feel his hands cup your cheeks hard, just so it wouldn’t hurt. “Do you have any idea what just happened in the gym, [Y/N]?” His voice was low, dangerously so, and you felt his grip loosen a little so you could shake your head in response, before clarifying, “Nothing out of the ordinary? I mean, they had trouble at hand to hand combat and I showed them how to get out of a choke hold and that’s–“

“And exactly how many times did you show them to get out of the choke hold? Them kneeling over you? Pinning you to the ground? Alternatively, you cradling them between your thighs?” By now, one of his hands had wandered to your neck, long fingers smoothly wrapping around your throat, the other starting to knead your breasts. You felt a shiver running down your spine as you muttered, “A couple..”. Sabo raised his brows and leaned down to you, his lips touching yours with every word he uttered. “And what exactly do you think they imagined doing to you when they were on top of you like this?” Your eyes finally widened in realisation when he rocked his hips against your core, a gasp escaping your lips. “I don’t know about you, but I will not tolerate any other man even thinking about what’s mine.” His fingers squeezed your neck, restricting your air flow just the right amount for you to start feeling everything ever so slightly more intense and you knew instantly you couldn’t escape this choke hold even if you tried to. Not that you actually wanted to.

You felt his free hand tugging and pulling away at your garments while the hand around your neck kept up the pressure. You didn’t dare to speak up but the more he touched you, the more lewd sounds of yours validated him and his actions.

Unsure of what to do with your hands you let them timidly roam up his thighs and felt his weight shift towards you when you reached his growing bulge, earning an expectant grunt.

Once Sabo got rid of your clothes, he didn’t hesitate to pull away and help you free his member from its containment. You felt his intense gaze back on you almost instantly, looking for any clue of resistance, but it was futile to find. The heat in your core was almost unbearable by now. “Sabo…mh.. just take me,” you whispered breathlessly when you felt his fingers at your slick pussy. “Oh I will,” Sabo muttered under his breath as he brought you into position and suddenly slid his entire length into you in one smooth motion, making you scream softly.

He gave you but a moment to adjust before he pulled out almost completely, prodding at your entrance as he caught your gaze, a cheeky smirk on his lips while his fingertips circled at your clit enhancing the sensation. “Why don’t we try to let them hear who you belong to?” Sabo smirked and pressed a single hard kiss on your lips before he finally let go of your neck just as he thrust into you again, building up a steady deep pace. You couldn’t help but suck in the newfound oxygen greedily just to moan out Sabo’s name seconds later, following his suggestion without any second thought. This man knew how he needed to fuck you into the sheets, and he knew it well.

It wasn’t long until he had you on the edge, one hand at your hips to ensure he hit the very point in you that made you see stars, the other massaging at your boobs.

Another thrust and you contracted around him screaming his name for the world to hear, pushing Sabo over the edge as well. He spread his sticky cum in you and continued to move for a couple more strides, allowing you to ride out your high.

Finally, Sabo pulled out of you carefully, rolling down from your form, a satisfied smile on his lips. He immediately pulled you in his arms and let you get comfortable on his chest. After a few moments of Sabo absentmindedly playing with your hair, you decided to break the silence, “Sorry for not realising what they were thinking….”. “It’s not your fault that some people don’t know any boundaries.” “Still..,” you sighed softly and peeked up to Sabo’s face, “You think they heard?”. A hearty chuckle escaped your lovers lips, “They better did.”

#sabo x reader #sabo #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #not sfw #one piece #text #mesu #request #requests are open #imagine

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irondadfics · 4 years

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I’m looking for fanfics where Peter is Tony’s biological child and he goes missing/gets kidnapped as a young child. He is raised by someone else and doesn’t know he’s Tony’s son. I’ve already read Lost Boy and Things I Almost Remember on archive of our own and I wanted to find stories with a similar plot.

WHEW! It’s kind of a long list, but we did our best finding several fics that feature both BioDad!Tony and Peter being kidnapped at a very young age. ENJOY!!

PETER IS TONY’S SON BUT THEY WERE SEPARATED WHEN PETER WAS A CHILD REC LIST

Lost Boy by winterda

Isaac Stark disappeared from a crowded park a few months shy of his third birthday. There were never any signs of him, and no arrest were ever made in connection to the case. It was as if the toddler had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Twelve years later, Peter Parker has a really bad day, which only get worse when his prints are put through the system.

Things I Almost Remember by IcedAquarius @icedaquarius31

Peter's past is not as it appears. It all starts one day with a genetics project and slowly spirals into something Peter never could have imagined.

hydra's not a home by tempestaurora @tempestaurora

At 6 years old, the son of Tony and Pepper Stark, Peter, is kidnapped, never to be seen again. Or, so they thought. Ten years later, while raiding a HYDRA base, the Avengers come across a new, enhanced individual, working for the enemy: in black spandex, with a tendency to stick to walls and shoot webs from his wrists, the Black Spider is a pain in the ass in more ways than one.

If They Knew All About You by MsHermia

Tony Stark had lost his son when he was only 2 years old, stolen away in broad daylight with nobody the wiser of what exactly happened. Years later, Tony has just made it through the disaster with Ultron. He is trying to keep himself and the team together but relationships are strained and tempers are running high. Then a random turn of events leads to his path crossing with that of a particular vigilante. They are strangers to each other, or so they think.

Peter Parker is on top of the world. After a few shitty years, losing his parents and then losing his Uncle, things are finally looking up. Sure he lives in a crappy little apartment with his Aunt but he might have just found his mission in life.

------

This is an AU story obvious by some of the tags. I'm starting out a few weeks after Age of Ultron took place. Civil War will be a thing. Other than that I'm not too concerned about sticking to every canon detail and storyline.

Finding Their Way Home by ElliahRose

Peter Benjamin-Edward Stark went missing on a Tuesday. For months the entirety of the New York police department, as well as anyone else the Starks could convince to join, searched for the tot. He was only three when he was taken and for four months, two weeks, and four days, Tony Stark and Pepper Stark (nee Potts) worried and fretted over their beloved child.

Peter Benjamin-Edward Stark was murdered on a Friday. A ransom call gone wrong spelt the end of the child’s life. The world grieved as the kidnappers gleefully told the devastated parents they’d find his body in the morning.

They never did.

Twelve years passed and the family was still grieving, and Tony Stark worked tirelessly to find his only child’s killer and gain justice for his son.

Meanwhile Peter Parker was having literally the worst day ever. He just wanted to help make the world a better place, but instead he got stabbed. That's just his luck, isn't it?

missing, presumed dead by hailingstars @hailing-stars

They hadn’t had a funeral for Peter.

There hadn’t been a casket or a service inside a church.

There had been, before Tony decided in his heart that Peter was gone, candlelight vigils and pleas on the media for whoever had taken him to bring him home. Neither of those did any good. Neither of those brought Peter home.

Tony Stark's son gets kidnapped when he's two. Twelve years later he comes back.

I told you to be better (and you became the best) by HaruK

Tony was blessed with a healthy baby boy, and for once in his life, was actually happy. Until everything derailed and he had to send his son away to keep him safe, because those related to the Stark family, one of the worlds biggest and most targeted families in the black market, always end up hurt. With a new name and identity that Tony himself doesn't know, the young baby was wiped off the map, his existence erased, never to be heard of again. . Years later, Anti-hero Iron Man meets a local superhero vigilante and Tony becomes surprisingly close with young Peter Parker.

The Curly-Haired Boy In The Paper by Svn_f1ower @svn-f1ower

When Tony sees the blurry, grey scale photograph of someone he thought he had lost years ago, he follows the trail to a newspaper company, to a hospital, to an adoption agency, to the police station and finally to May Parker's house.

hold him tight & don’t let go by jessicagoddamnjones @farremoved

Peter Stark went missing when he was four years old.

Eleven years later, he’s found.

Only now he’s Peter Parker by day, Spider-Man by night, and he doesn’t like the idea that his entire life is a lie.

Rise from the Ashes; Just to See You Again by Mintstream @iwritedumbshit

Tony Stark didn't expect Mary Fitzpatrick, or the news she delivered. He didn't expect that he would become a father, or that he would actually enjoy it. He didn't expect Penny to love him just as fiercely as he did her.

He didn't expect to lose her so soon.

In the wake of the loss of his daughter he tried--tried to do right by her. He became Iron Man, he was an Avenger, he protected his world because he couldn't protect his daughter, but through it all, he hoped to be reunited with his daughter.

He didn't expect to be alive when he was.

AKA the biological daughter kidnapping AU no one asked for. Hope you read, and hope you enjoy.

Updates on Saturdays.

Coming Home by inkinmyheartandonthepage

AU – Peter Stark was kidnapped when he was just three years old. Tony and Pepper never stopped looking for their boy. Years later, Peter finds his way back home.

A Change In What We Knew by Imissyoutoo @imissyoutoo

Tony scoured the floor behind Steve as though his one-year-old son had somehow crawled to him, before finally, he looked up. The realisation dawned on him like an eclipse; the decaying darkness hiding the sun. Hiding his son. Because his boy wasn't there.

”Where is he? Steve? Where's my son Rogers?!” At only a year old, Tony Stark’s son is taken, leaving him shattered. Little does he know, his journey to find what is lost only begins twelve years later. In the most unlikely of places, and all because of two words.

”Hey kid.”

I Found You by honestchick

Tony had a son; he raised him for two years until someone kidnapped him. Tony was devastated and heartbroken. And who would have thought in Starks Expo, he’d be able to see his son once again?

move back home forever by chasingflower @evahmohns

The results say he’s not actually Peter Parker.

They say he’s Peter Stark. You know, the one who’s been missing for 10 years.

Yeah. He knows.

Soon You'll Get Better by lostinmorewaysthan1

Peter Stark was kidnapped. That was all anyone knew. He vanished into thin air, no traces left behind, when he was eight years old.

Six years later, on one of the final raids on the HYDRA bases, they find an enhanced assassin, with super strength and the ability to climb walls. No one imagined that it would be Peter. Least of all Tony.

With no memory and brainwashed by HYDRA, Peter Stark goes home and tries to recover.

Let This Road Be Mine by CommunicationFlail

Ten years ago, five year old Peter Stark disappeared. When the trail went cold, the case was closed. Now new evidence has been brought to light and Tony will stop at nothing to get his son back. No matter how many fakes he has to meet. His son is out there, and he will find him.

Return to me, the one I love so endlessly by SuperHeroTiger @superherotiger

James Edwin Stark was born on the 10th of August 2001, and for the first time in his life, Tony Stark cried tears of joy.

All the fears, all the dread that had once consumed his soul washed away with a single look at the baby’s gentle features, so familiar and yet so distinctly unique at the same time. Tony made many promises that day. Promises to love his son, to protect him, to always be there for him.

On the 10th of August 2002, James Edwin Stark was stolen in the middle of the night, and his father’s world came crashing down. Shattered and alone, Tony whispered the same promise he’d made to his son the day that he was born.

‘…My love for you is endless…’

Fourteen years later, hidden away from the world in a forest of pine, Peter Beck would dream of a day he might get to see the towering city of New York. And when a wounded stranger stumbles onto their property a week out from his birthday claiming to be a famous billionaire from New York, his dream might just come true.

Once Lost Now Found by FreckledAvenger11

Peter Parker was just trying to get used to life without his uncle. He wasn't expecting to find a familiar face in an article about Tony Stark's missing son. Follow Peter on his journey to discover just who he is. Is he Peter Parker? Is he Spider-Man? Or is he someone else entirely? Just who is he and what secrets died along with his parents in that plane crash?

So He Walks The World Alone by Miola014

This is a story 'bout a broken boy With his headphones in just to block out the noise Of everyone around him telling him the way to go So he walks the world alone Wondering if it gets better Or if he's always gonna feel empty forever So he gets lost tryna find another way back home As he walks the world alone

The Kidnapped Peter Stark AU that I promised y'all!

#fic rec list #tony is peter's biological dad #kidnapping

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thathopelessromantic · 3 years

Text

your hand in mine

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia Rating: Teen+ (for blood/injuries and minor language) Pairing: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yagi Toshinori | All Might (EraserMight) Note: Part of the EMMB 2021

The difference a year makes

A developing relationship told in seasons

AO3: (X) Companion Playlist: (X)

Summer

My love, he caught me crying Freedom can die so hard When you have a broken heart -God in Jeans, Ryan Beatty

Shouta is determined to ignore the sounds coming through the adjoining wall to his apartment. But it’s hard. There was an adjustment period to living in the apartments on campus, to stay close to the students in case of another attack. In his old apartment, the hours he kept were so erratic he rarely, if ever, ran into his neighbors. Now he knows all of them, some to a degree he never needed to know a coworker. And aside from the occasional hero work, they kept essentially the same hours. So even through the walls of the apartment, there’s usually the buzz of life around him – friends and co-workers settling down after a long day, cooking, cleaning. There was an adjustment period to being so aware of the people around him, but he thought he had well…adjusted.

He’s reconsidering that position now.

He’d like to blame it on the neighbor in question. Yagi, All Might, made so much noise as All Might, announcing his every arrival and departure with a booming voice or the crushing of some man-made structure not meant to withstand the superpowered strength of a 225 kg giant using it as a landing pad or springboard. But Yagi Toshinori as himself, at least while alone, seemed to make up for all the noise he made as his alter ego by being eerily quiet. Shouta had gotten so accustomed to hearing silence from the apartment to his right he thought it was empty. Originally, he thought it just made sense for All Might to take it for show like all the other teachers, but actually spend his time at his real home, some lavish penthouse in the Might Tower or something equally as ridiculous and extravagant. Though now that he was retired, and essentially quirkless, that trip from Tokyo to Musutafu was probably a little harder to manage every morning. Still, it seemed silly for the previous number one hero to be slumming it in glorified student dorms with the rest of them.

But Shouta was wrong about that fact too, just as he had been with many of his assumptions about the old hero. He had spent the last few months reassessing most of his assumptions about All Might, but he tended to fall back into old habits without evidence to the contrary. When a violent crash came from the otherwise silent apartment a few weeks prior, he rushed in, assuming an intruder. Instead he found Yagi in the middle of a starkly decorated living room amongst the splintered pieces of a coffee table he had fallen through. Yagi had insisted it was an accident, and an unusual one at that, and begged him to leave the subject. Shouta agreed with little argument, helping him clean up the mess, and going back to his apartment without much fuss. But he before he even realized it, Shouta found himself listening for signs of life in the adjacent apartment after that.

Occasionally he could pick up the sound of running water or the quiet beep of an oven timer or microwave. Very rarely, a quiet radio or TV station would drift through the walls. Most of the sounds would easily get lost in the bustle of every day life between a dozen or so heroes coming and going, or could have been mistaken for someone else’s noise, so it wasn’t a surprise that Shouta had missed the fact that it came from All Might’s apartment. But once he knew to listen for it, he couldn’t seem to stop listening for it.

It wasn’t…worry, exactly, that had him keeping tabs on Yagi, but he couldn’t find another word for it. He just couldn’t stop wondering how long Yagi had lived there before he realized. Couldn’t stop thinking about how dark, how cold, how empty the apartment was when he burst in before. Shouta wouldn’t have thought he ever considered what All Might’s house might have looked like until he saw how the retired hero was living and it struck him distinctly as wrong.

The coughing he hears tonight cuts over the quiet music Yagi has playing and he wonders if he normally plays it to cover the sound of his coughs before he banishes the thought from his mind. He has a week’s worth of lessons to plan still and papers to grade and what Yagi chooses to do in his own apartment is none of his business. And he is an adult who is perfectly capable of taking care of himself and doesn’t need Shouta of all people fretting over him. But all of Shouta’s logical reasons for why he should ignore the sounds coming through their shared wall can’t seem to stop him from hesitating at every harsh sound, from looking to the door and considering going over every time a coughing fit lasts more than a minute or so.

Eventually, Yagi seems to settle for the night and the coughing fits interrupt the slow music less and less. Finally able to focus on his work instead of his neighbor, Shouta lets the quiet sounds from his apartment fade into the chorus of background noise. So when, almost an hour later, there’s a new coughing fit followed by a large crack of something on the other side of the wall, Shouta is on his feet and moving to the door before he realizes what he’s doing.

He freezes in the hallway, staring at the closed door of Yagi’s apartment. No one else came to investigate the sounds, which seems strange to Shouta. It seems…impossible that no one else heard that and he knows for a fact their other neighbors on this floor are not particularly good at minding their business. But no one else comes to see what’s happening, so Shouta stands in the hall staring at the door feeling torn between an obligation to check on Yagi and a nervous, clawing sensation that makes him want to turn and never step foot back inside All Might’s apartment.

The coughing and some other muffled sounds continue through the door and eventually Shouta’s sense of obligation to help wins out because he knocks on the door, calling for All Might. No one answers.

Shouta knocks again, harder, but still after a few minutes he gets no response. Finally, he tries the handle.

The door swings open easily, unlocked.

Shouta has a lecture building in his head on the basic safety of locking your doors as he steps through the doorway. Like the last time, All Might’s apartment is dark. There’s a single pair of shoes in the entrance way that leads to the empty kitchen. The table pushed to the side of the room is identical to the one in Shouta’s apartment, but whereas his is covered in bills and homework in need of grading, All Might’s is empty. Only a single chair sits at the table meant to seat four.

Shouta steps through the kitchen into the living room, calling for All Might. He can hear someone coughing, and swearing as he gets close enough to make out the muffled talking, but still no one replies. The table Yagi had fallen through weeks before still hasn’t been replaced, so the only thing in the living room now is a large couch that looks virtually unused and Yagi’s briefcase on the floor besides it. Moonlight pours into the room from the glass balcony doors painting the room a cold blue despite the summer heat. Shouta can almost imagine the room, cold and dusty, the single piece of furniture covered in a sheet, it’s previous occupant gone, without enough of a fingerprint to even be forgotten within the space.

Shouta shakes the thought from his head and moves further into the apartment. Finally, down the hall to the two bedrooms, he sees light seeping into the hallway from the open bathroom door.

“All Might? It’s Aizawa. I heard a crash. I was just coming to-” Shouta feels the words catch in his throat as he takes in the sight before him. The laminate countertop and sink basin are broken in half, and water soaks the floor of the bathroom from a burst pipe under the sink. There is no mirror on the wall above the sink, which strikes Shouta as odd in the moment, though it is perhaps the least weird thing happening in the bathroom in that moment. All Might…Yagi stands in the middle of the room, the bottom of his pants are soaked with water. His hands, clutched in fists at his sides, are bloody, though if its from breaking the skin against the sink or from wiping at the blood dripping from his mouth, Shouta isn’t sure. The blood there is smeared across the bottom half of his face, the deep red staining his clenched teeth and seeping through the cracks in thin, dry lips that hold back his coughs. There’s a furious, wild look in his eye as the curses Yagi was spewing die on his lips and Shouta isn’t sure if he looks more ready to yell or cry.

But through all of that, it’s the bright red, gnarled scar on the side of Yagi’s chest that seems to be eating him from the inside that makes Shouta take a step back in shock. Yagi’s baggy clothes hid most of his form like this, even with his more updated wardrobe fitting him better. But the crater in his chest mangles his form. Even if he was standing up straight, if he even can fully stand straight with that much scar tissue stretched across his torso, it was obvious the scar had made his chest uneven, like it was slowly collapsing into itself, ribs and organs giving way to nothingness.

How many years had he lived like this? How many years had he worked like this?

“Aizawa,” Yagi grinds out hoarsely, the single word sounding like gravel in his abused throat.

It pulls Shouta out of his shock regardless, and he takes a few steps closer, as if they could both forget his broken composure. “I’m sorry for coming in unannounced. I heard the…crash. But there was no answer and your door was unlocked.”

Yagi stares at him for a long time and Shouta isn’t sure if it is because he doesn’t know what else to say, or just that he can’t bring himself to say anything else.

“Can I…help with anything?” Shouta finally asks.

Yagi pops his jaw a few times before he tries to speak again. “If you could…call someone…about the water…”

“Of course,” Shouta starts to pull out his cell, hoping he remembered to keep the stupid thing charged for once, when Yagi starts to speak again.

“Could you also…grab some towels…and a…a change of clothes?”

Shouta looks up but Yagi isn’t looking at him anymore. Just staring hard at the wall in front of him as if it had personally caused all of this. Shouta looks down again at the slowly-flooding room and wonders if Yagi even owns enough towels to make a difference.

“In the closet in the bedroom?” Shouta guesses.

Yagi nods once, stiffly.

Shouta takes the opportunity to flee for a moment gratefully. He calls Nezu and the maintenance number they had all been given when they moved in as he goes to the bedroom to rummage through the closet. He doesn’t turn the light on in the bedroom, he’s not sure why he doesn’t want to, maybe just to afford Yagi even a sliver more of privacy after tonight. But it doesn’t make a difference. The moon is full tonight and enough light comes through the open window to show that nothing is in the room except for an unnaturally large bed, the dark plain sheets slipping to the ground, and a bedside table covered in enough pill bottles to fill a small pharmacy.

There are only two more full-sized towels in the closet and a single hand towel, so Shouta just grabs all three. He’s not sure the clothes matter that much, so he just grabs the first pair of pants he sees that don’t look like slacks and a t-shirt.

He returns to the bathroom. The water is still steadily pouring in and there is no way the three thin towels will make much of a difference, if any. Still, Yagi takes them from him, dropping the two full-sized towels onto the ground. He uses the hand towel to wipe off his arms and chest first, though dry it doesn’t do much to help the blood that seems to be everywhere.

Uncaring of Shouta standing there, Yagi undoes the belt that keeps his jeans on his body and they drop to join the already-soaked towels and the stained lump between his legs Shouta thinks might have been his shirt. Yagi steps out of them, gingerly walking through the water until he joins Shouta in the hallway. He drops the hand towel to the ground, mopping up what water had already begun to leak out of the room. Shouta doesn’t mean to stare, but like every other part of him, Yagi’s legs are unbearably thin, nothing but skin and bone and scar tissue, the pale pink and white lines crisscrossing over his calves and thighs like a roadmap.

Yagi holds out a hand for the clothes. Shouta realizes his mistake in not looking carefully a moment later as he pulls on the jeans and dark t-shirt obviously meant for All Might’s pre-retirement body. Shouta feels an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Yagi barely blinks at the ill-fitting clothes. He wraps a fist around the waist band of the pants to keep them up and shuffles past Shouta into the dark living room.

Shouta follows hesitantly behind him. “Nezu said he would be here soon,” Shouta says as Yagi falls miserably onto the couch. He drops his head to rest on the back of the couch and sighs, exhausted. Despite his open, splayed position, Yagi’s body is still tense, coiled tight like he’s ready for a fight at any moment.

“Can I do anything else?” Shouta asks.

Yagi licks his lips. “A glass of water would be appreciated.”

Shouta nods, heading into the kitchen. He turns the light on above the stove for something to see by, but he worries the overhead light would be too harsh in this odd darkness. He finds a glass easily enough, Yagi only has things in two cupboards. He opens the fridge, but it’s empty. Not empty like Shouta’s is “empty,” as in home to just a water pitcher, some old condiments, and his latest package of jelly pouches, but completely and entirely empty. Shouta closes and opens the door again as if it would change the contents of the fridge. He opens the freezer above, just to check, but expecting more of the same. There Yagi has an ice pack and ice tray with two ice cubes left.

Shouta fills the glass at the sink and returns to the living room. Yagi’s position hasn’t changed at all, though he turns his head to watch Shouta reenter the room. He sits up to accept the glass once Shouta is closer, and at that distance Shouta can see there are cuts across his knuckles. They don’t seem to be actively bleeding any more, but they’re not a pretty sight regardless.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

Yagi takes a drink before he answers Shouta. “Under the sink in the kitchen.”

Shouta turns back around to retrieve it. He also finds a dry dish cloth in a drawer that he dampens at the sink. He’s wringing the towel out when there’s a quiet knock at the door before it swings open. Nezu stands on the other side with a plumber.

Shouta bows his head in hello. “Principal.”

“Aizawa-sensei!” Nezu replies brightly. “Thank you for being such a dutiful neighbor and checking on All Might.”

Shouta follows Nezu and the plumber back into the living room. The small principal shows the plumber to the bathroom, waving off Shouta’s offer to show them the way, before he returns and stops at the couch. His head just barely rises above Yagi’s knee as he looks at him in concern.

“How are you, Toshinori?”

Shouta freezes at the familiarity in his tone. Yagi’s expression changes ever so slightly as he looks down at Nezu.

“I’ve survived much worse than this, old friend.”

Nezu laughs off the comment, good naturedly, but the laugh sounds hollow even to Shouta. “Yes, well I suppose that’s true.” Nezu reaches over and pats Yagi’s knee. “I’ll let Aizawa-sensei here clean you up a little while I look at the damage, hm?”

He scurries off back down the hall before either hero can argue. That had been Shouta’s plan, even before Nezu announced it, but now he hesitates, frozen and staring at the old hero before him. The towel he brought drips slowly but steadily down his hand and onto the floor. He’s not sure Yagi wants his help, and normally he would prioritize the man’s injuries over his personal hang-ups in the moment, but he already feels as if he’s intruded too much into the man’s space, into his privacy.

So Yagi breaks the silence, holding out a bloodied hand towards him. “I can clean up the blood,” he offers.

“I’m not worried about a little blood,” Shouta snaps, unthinkingly. Irritated back into movement, he sets the first aid kit on the ground besides the couch and grabs Yagi’s outstretched hand. Mindful of the open wounds, he wipes at the blood furthest away first, where it dripped past his hand and down his wrist before drying in dark, cracking trails.

Yagi’s eyes glint for a moment and Shouta thinks he almost looks amused.

Shouta has to rinse out the towel twice before he’s finished with both of Yagi’s hands. The wounds on his left knuckles started bleeding again as he washed his hands, but thankfully it was a slow, sluggish bleed that didn’t go far. Satisfied with his work there, Shouta starts to drop the towel but Yagi’s hand darts out catching it before it can hit the floor. Shouta stops, surprised by the quick movement, as Yagi looks for the cleanest spot on the towel before wiping at his own face.

Shouta watches for a moment before he remembers himself and busies himself with going through the first aid kit. In comparison to the rest of Yagi’s apartment, it’s surprisingly well stocked. Yagi drops the bloodied towel uncaringly onto the couch cushion besides him as Shouta pulls out some antibiotic ointment, a gauze wrap, and some clasps.

When he looks up, Yagi is watching him curiously, like he’s still trying to figure out Shouta’s bizarre behavior. And there’s still blood around his mouth. Shouta sets the supplies aside, picking the towel back up. He steps between Yagi’s long legs, carefully holding his chin in place.

“You could just tell me I missed a spot,” Yagi reminds him quietly as Shouta wipes gently around his mouth.

“This is just more efficient,” Shouta says harshly. He tries to look only at the bottom half of Yagi’s face where there’s still blood, but he can feel his bright eyes boring into him.

Finally, Yagi says, “You haven’t asked.”

Shouta’s hand clenches around his chin, a reflex, a flinch, before he forces himself to relax. He looks up finally meeting Yagi’s eyes. The bright blue sears him in the dark. “It’s none of my business.”

“You can ask, Aizawa.” Yagi replies and it’s the use of his name that gets him. They’re All Might and Eraserhead to each other. Co-workers. That’s all they were supposed to be, ever. But Shouta’s aware Yagi’s slowly become Yagi more than he is All Might to him, and even if he leaves now, doesn’t ask any more, insists on knowing nothing else, he now knows something big about All Might that he imagines very few know. He can’t unlearn this secret, so he might as well have the whole story.

“What happened…to your side?”

“My first fight with All For One was six years ago,” Yagi starts and it takes all of Shouta’s self control not to react. Six years. “I crushed his head and damaged his body, originally I believe to an extent that he could not recover, though, obviously, I was wrong.” Yagi makes an odd, self-deprecating smile. “In return, after the fight I lost my stomach and part of my left lung, among some other irreparable damage to my respiratory system. I could still fight, but I was weakened considerably…it limited the amount of time I could use my quirk. And eventually left me like this.”

“…Why?” Shouta isn’t entirely sure what he’s asking until Yagi tilts his head and looks at him as if the answer is the most obvious one in the world.

“I’m…I was a hero. It was my job. I couldn’t retire yet.”

Shouta feels some kind of emotion welling up in his chest, choking him, as he looks at the weathered hands he’s bandaging and thinks of all they’ve done. All they did while withstanding this immense pain and loss. But he doesn’t know how to articulate that. Doesn’t know how to say thank you in a way that matters, in a way that he’ll even believe. So instead he says, “You’re an idiot.”

Yagi’s head drops back against the couch and he laughs. Not the same, booming laugh of All Might, but something somehow familiar and comforting all the same.

“Thank you, Aizawa,” Yagi says.

Shouta isn’t sure exactly what Yagi is thanking him for, but he can’t quite bring himself to ask.

Fall

Please don’t be afraid I will always be here I will cry your tears Share your sweet, sad fears Please don’t look away Take my hand in your hand Come and rest my dear I will always be here -Always Be Here, Ha Jin

Eri clutches tightly to Shouta, one small hand twisted in the capture weapon around his neck while the other holds the front of his jumpsuit. Her head is tucked against his shoulder, hiding her face from the world, but even through the layers of his clothes he can feel how she’s burning up. Her quirk had started acting up the night before, after a nightmare she hasn’t wanted to talk about. Shouta was able to stop it quickly enough, thankfully, but she’s been sick since he woke her from the nightmare and he’s running out of ideas for what to do.

She’s so impossibly light in his arms, and clutches so desperately to him, he can’t help but wonder how many times she had actually been held and cared for like a young child should be before she came to live with him. If she had been comforted at all the last time she was sick like this. And the thought makes him hold her a little tighter, a little closer to him.

He felt a little bad to disturb her when he picked her up and carried her from bed, but he needed help. And he couldn’t leave her alone. The hallway is quiet, most of his coworkers taking advantage of the last few hours of their weekend to relax, so he realizes it might be a long shot for someone to be home to help, but he knocks on Yagi’s door anyways.

It only takes a moment before Yagi answers. His bright greeting trails off when he sees Eri, Shouta’s own haggard appearance probably not helping matters.

“Hello, Aizawa, little Eri-chan,” Yagi says quietly.

Eri twists in his arms and for a moment, Shouta is worried this was a terrible idea. When they first met, Yagi’s size and appearance had made Eri a little nervous. She’s gotten better with him, and with people all around, but even when she hasn’t been battling a fever and a nightmare, she has bad days when everything is too strange or just too much for her to handle. But instead of getting more upset, Eri turns just enough to peek up at Yagi from behind a thick curtain of hair. She waves meekly to him once.

“She’s been sick since last night, and nothing I’ve done has gotten her fever down,” Shouta says instead of a greeting. “Could you look after her for a little while I get Recov-”

Before Shouta can finish his question, Eri’s arms tighten around him and she shakes her head, kicking weakly against him.

Yagi smiles softly, stepping back to open the door wider. “Why don’t you both come in, and I’ll see if I can’t get ahold of Recovery Girl another way.”

Yagi leads them through the kitchen to the living room. There’s an old standing record player pushed against the wall playing something soft and low. The rest of Yagi’s décor has been updated, as well. There’s a new table in the middle of the room with a cup of tea and some papers, as well as a thick book full of brightly colored tabs. The couch, where he gestures for Shouta to sit with Eri, now has a shocking number of pillows piled on it and a few brightly colored blankets thrown over the back. Yagi makes sure they’re both comfortable, or as comfortable as they can be, before he goes to call Recovery Girl. Shouta can just barely make out the low timbre of his voice in the other room as he talks.

“Yagi is going to get a doctor to come check on you, but she’s a friend, nothing to be afraid of.” Shouta tells Eri quietly, brushing back her hair. It’s damp with sweat and sticks to her in messy clumps. “Do you remember Recovery Girl?”

After a moment, Eri nods against him.

Yagi returns before Shouta can ask something else, his phone pressed against his chest as he crouches down besides the couch. He looks between them.

“Recovery Girl wanted to know if there was anything else besides her fever?”

“Her quirk started up after a nightmare, that’s when it started. And she hasn’t been able to keep anything down.”

As Shouta finishes talking, Eri signs to him. Pressed against Shouta as she is, it takes him a moment to realize what she’s trying to do.

Almost immediately after they were (pretty) sure they weren’t going to lose their jobs at U.A., Hizashi pitched a fit that sign language was still not a required part of the curriculum for hero students, protesting and appealing to school boards and other pro heroes until things changed and people saw the sense in heroes being able to communicate, not only silently with themselves if there was a need, but with any deaf, hard of hearing, or nonverbal civilians a hero might interact with during a job, and hero programs across the country slowly began adding it to the curriculum.

Shortly after Eri came to live with him fulltime, they began to teach her sign language as well, not only so that she might be able to communicate with Hizashi no matter what, but also because they quickly realized sometimes she had bad days and talking, holding full conversations was just too much for her to handle. Even just simple signs like “yes,” “no,” “food,” and “drink,” made navigating those bad days a thousand times easier.

Shouta tilts his head as she signs again, hoping to see enough of the movement to interpret for Yagi when he picks the phone back up and says, “She says her chest hurts. Aizawa said it started after a nightmare that triggered her quirk and that she hasn’t been able to keep anything down.”

Shouta blinks a few times in surprise, but Yagi doesn’t acknowledge him. He nods a few times while Recovery Girl talks on the other end. Eventually, he thanks her and ends the call.

“Recovery Girl said to try and make her as comfortable as possible, and to try and get some food into her, but I don’t have any medicine safe enough for someone so young, so she’ll bring some by soon.”

“Thank you.”

Yagi smiles softly at Shouta’s quiet thanks. He rises to his feet, muttering mostly to himself, a habit Shouta is sure he’s picked up from Midoriya, about what he has on hand to help Eri feel better. He leans down to brush a comforting hand over Eri’s head. His hand is giant against her tiny body, but she leans into the touch rather than shying away. Yagi hesitates, and for a moment, Shouta thinks he’s going to get a similar, gentle touch before Yagi steps away, promising to return in a moment.

Shouta repositions himself on the couch so they can recline, but Eri still refuses to let go of him, and eventually he has to accept letting Yagi take care of them. Yagi helps replace a cooling patch on Eri’s forehead, wiping down her face and neck with a soft washcloth as best he can. He asks Eri a few times if she wants something to eat, or if anything sounds good to her, but her sleepy, subdued signing in reply doesn’t give him much of an answer. Yagi, thankfully, takes it all in stride, running another gentle hand over her back.

“That’s alright. I happen to be an expert now at making yummy things, even when food doesn’t sound good. Do you trust me?”

And for the first time in almost two days, Shouta hears Eri’s quiet voice again in a soft “yes.”

Yagi shares a triumphant smile with Shouta before he offers a pinky to Eri. “I’ll cook you something that makes you feel better in no time, okay?”

Eri reaches out to complete the pinky-promise, her tiny finger barely able to bend around his.

Shouta doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up again. He’s disoriented for a moment, trying to remember where he is and why he isn’t in his own home. He’s used to dozing off in random places, stealing a few minutes of sleep where he can, but falling deeply, completely asleep in somewhere other than home feels...wrong. The quiet record still playing in the corner is what brings him back. Yagi’s apartment. Eri isn’t lying against his chest any more, but when he sits up, looking for her, he sees Yagi on the opposite end of the couch, the small girl cradled against his chest, fast asleep. His eyes are closed, but he rubs slow circles over her back, humming quietly along with the music, so Shouta knows he’s awake.

“How is she?”

To his credit, Yagi doesn’t startle at Shouta’s sudden question. “A little cooler.” He nods to a bowl on the table. “She managed to keep down about half a serving of porridge and some water. Chiyo…Recovery Girl just left a little while ago.”

“You could have woken me.”

“You looked like you could use some rest. I’m sure you’ve been up with her the whole time.”

Shouta doesn’t bother to acknowledge that, he’s right, of course. “I didn’t know you knew sign.”

Yagi looks away, considering. “When I was still…new, I was trying to help a young woman who was trapped, but she was deaf and couldn’t understand me, barely recognized me. I think I scared her more than I helped her at first,” he admits with a laugh. “I realized there was something I had overlooked in my drive to help people, people I had overlooked, and I wanted to rectify that.” He finally turns to look at Shouta. “I’m not fluent, I let my skills…atrophy a little these last few years, and even before I didn’t dedicate as much time as I could have. But parts of the body, pain or injuries, those were important for me to learn…and easier to remember.”

“…if you ever wanted to brush up on your skills, I could help you.”

Yagi laughs quietly. “Always the sensei, Aizawa.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I appreciate the offer. I would love to work on it more with you.”

Shouta doesn’t know why the word choice makes him feel suddenly flustered, but he has to look away, willing his quirk not to activate at his strange embarrassment.

“You’re good with her,” he says, changing the subject instead of acknowledging it.

Yagi doesn’t reply for a while and when Shouta looks to him again, he could swear it looks like the other man is blushing. Yagi’s expression is incredibly fond as he looks down at the sleeping girl, thankfully undisturbed by their conversation.

“I was worried I frightened her.”

“You did, at first.” Shouta confirms. There’s no point in beating around the bush. “She just needed time to get to know you better. To know she could trust you.”

Shouta isn’t oblivious to how easily his statement could be applied to himself and his relationship with Yagi. If Yagi’s expression is anything to go by, he’s also aware of the similarities between them, but he has the decency not to call him out on it.

Winter

I was a wolf, dear, apart from the pack But you answered my call in the dead of the night And told me you had my back, oh I can’t do this alone anymore Cause I’m not good on my own anymore -I Was An Island, Allison Weiss

“You know more about Midoriya’s quirk than you’re letting on.”

It’s an accusation. For that matter, it’s an accusation based on little more than a hunch. But the way Yagi freezes up, immediately, tensed like he’s deciding between fight or flight right there just about confirms all of Shouta’s suspicions. Or, at least, most of them.

“Ai-Aizawa, I didn’t see you there…” Yagi mumbles, slowly turning to face him.

Shouta crosses his arms and waits.

“Was there a…question?” Yagi asks eventually, when he can’t seem to take squirming under Shouta’s intense glare any longer.

“What is going on with Midoriya’s quirk?”

Yagi glances at something behind Shouta’s head, as if looking for an escape, but Shouta could definitely catch him if he tried to make a break for it past him, and he knows no one followed them into the lounge. Yagi wrings his hands nervously in front of him. Shouta knows he wants to go check on Midoriya, but he’s hoping that sense of urgency will speed up this conversation. It’s been a long time coming now, and Shouta is getting some answers.

“I can assure you, Aizawa, I didn’t know young Midoriya’s quirk could…or would produce something like that.”

Shouta leans against a desk. “I’m not buying it. You know something.”

Finally, Yagi seems to grow tired of being on the opposite side of the interrogation because there’s a fire in his eyes that hasn’t been there in a while, that Shouta realizes he…missed seeing there, as Yagi advances on him across the room.

“Where was this concern for him when his quirk was going out of control during the lesson today?”

Shouta brushes off the accusation. The second time Midoriya’s quirk had acted up, it was Yagi, after all, who insisted they let the students keep going. “We both know his explanation about power just overwhelming him is bullshit. We’ve seen what happens to Midoriya’s body when his quirk is overpowered and it’s not whatever that was.”

Yagi’s hands clench in fists at his sides and he looks away from Shouta, clenching his jaw. He reminds Shouta a little of the Yagi from a few months ago, the wild-eyed frustration welling up inside him to a breaking point. He’s just missing the blood and flooding bathroom.

Some part of Shouta feels a little guilty, intentionally pushing Yagi near to a breaking point, but this has been going on for far too long. Shouta had been prepared to send Midoriya home from day one, and from day one Midoriya, and Yagi, had been trying to convince him not to.

“Could it be you see the potential in Midoriya, as well?” All Might had asked Shouta after the first class training exercise, when Midoriya proved he could use his quirk without completely incapacitating himself for the rest of the fight. Shouta had wanted to brush the comment off, but the ‘as well’ echoed around in his head for days. How did All Might know anything about this one, random, incoming first-year? And why was he so invested in him? Why did he care about Shouta seeing his potential?

After that, it was impossible to miss the odd behavior between the two. They were constantly together, darting around corners and whispering in the backs of rooms, having lunch together when Midoriya should have been spending more time socializing with his classmates.

Even the other teachers began to notice something. He still remembers the first time someone had joked during a night out about the two being related. Yagi had almost choked on his drink, while Hizashi laughed, drunkenly, gleefully telling them about the conversation he had overheard from students that Todoroki apparently once accused Midoriya of being All Might’s secret lovechild.

If it was one or the other – some odd behavior or similar quirks – Shouta thinks he would be able to brush it off, put it out of his mind, but too many things keep adding up to there being a connection between the two of them. He just can’t, for the life of him, figure out what that connection is.

“I can’t help if I don’t know the whole story,” Shouta finally changes tactics, hoping he can appeal to some part of Yagi. “You’re both keeping secrets, badly, but Midoriya has been struggling with his quirk since he started at U.A. If there’s something about his quirk…” Shouta sighs, frustrated. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Silence stretches on between them. Shouta is starting to brainstorm a new approach when Yagi seems to deflate in front of him, body sagging against the desks beside them. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends of his bangs in a nervous tick.

Finally, finally, he says, “What happened at the training exercise today was a surprise to me too. I didn’t know it could happen…I…I have a theory, now, but until it happened today, I never even would have thought it was possible.”

Shouta lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relieved. “I can work with a theory.”

“I think it was someone else’s quirk.”

What?

If Midoriya had a quirk like Monoma and could somehow “borrow” other’s abilities, it could maybe explain similarities between his quirk and All Might’s power before he retired, but no one in either of the hero course classes had a quirk anything like what Midoriya had displayed today. There was no way he could have borrowed that from anyone recently. And before now, Shouta would have been out of other explanations past that. Now, he thinks about the Nomus they’ve interacted with, the…monsters made up of different quirks, and of Shirakumo and Kurogiri. And he feels a little sick to his stomach at the possible implications.

“What? How would Midoriya have someone else’s quirk? Whose quirk would he have?”

Yagi makes a complicated expression. “Someone from a long time ago.” He says.

Shouta isn’t sure if he wants to pull out his own hair or shake the older man for such an unbelievably unhelp answer.

“Yagi,” Shouta hasn’t figured out what he even wants to say yet, but just his name is enough to finally make Yagi look at him.

“Young Midoirya’s quirk is registered as ‘Super-Power’ in public records, but the true name of his quirk is ‘One for All.’ It’s a quirk that can be cultivated and passed on to someone else. And it was my quirk until I gave it to him when he was fourteen.”

Shouta is half convinced he’s in a dream. “You…gave him your quirk?”

Yagi nods. “Just as my master gave it to me before I started at U.A.”

“So before…”

“Midoriya was quirkless.”

Well that at least explained a few of his, and Bakugo’s, weird behaviors at the beginning of the year. Not everything, by any means, but enough.

Shouta realizes this is another secret he can’t unlearn, only this is one he walked into knowingly. He knew he was pushing for something serious, something to be guarded the same way Yagi hid his injury. It was the only thing that made sense, the pieces fall into place perfectly, filling all the holes in his and Midoriya’s pasts.

Shouta hates to ask the next question, he’s not sure it’s entirely relevant, but he needs all the information he can get to start making sense of things. Yagi seems to know what he wants to ask next, however, because he offers more information before Shouta can figure out how to word what he wants to say next.

“I was also quirkless before being given One for All,” Yagi admits. “I think it’s partially what enamored me to Midoriya. I saw something of myself in the young boy.”

And that’s perhaps the least surprising thing Shouta’s heard today. You’d have to be oblivious to miss the similarities between the two, even with their quirk taken out of the equation.

“So you knew what would happen to him until he gained control?”

Yagi grimaces at the question, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Not exactly. The quirk naturally has an effect on the body, because you aren’t born with adaptations to it, but it is also just a lot to handle. If you aren’t properly trained and prepared for it, it could, theoretically…blow the user’s body apart from the inside. But after my training, I had no problem accessing one hundred percent of the power. Meanwhile…well, you’ve seen what happens to young Midoriya when he uses one hundred percent, even now.”

Shouta closes his eyes for a moment and takes a few deep, calming breaths. There is still so much more information he needs about Yagi and Midoriya and their quirk, now is not the time for him to blow up over that particular detail. Later, definitely, but not now.

When he opens his eyes again, Yagi is glancing nervously between him and the clock on the wall. “Aizawa,” he says, and it half sounds like a plea. “I know you must have more questions, but-”

“You want to go check on Midoriya.” Obviously. “I’m coming with you.”

Yagi gives a wryly smile. “I thought as much.”

He leads Shouta to a private office down the hall. The door opens to reveal Midoriya and Bakugo waiting for them. Bakugo’s presence is a surprise, but if he shares the same feeling he doesn’t show it. Midoriya, on the other hand, jumps to his feet when he sees the two teachers, looking between them nervously until Yagi holds up a pacifying hand.

“It’s alright, young Midoriya. Aizawa knows now.”

Midoriya continues to react to things in ways that confuse Shouta, rather than relaxing or appearing relieved, he makes a complicated expression, wringing his hands together nervously as he retakes his seat.

Bakugo scoffs, slouching even further in his seat.

“I’m surprised it took you two dumbasses this long to ask for his help. Obviously you were hopeless on your own.”

“Yes, well…” Yagi trails off with an awkward cough, a bright blush high on his cheeks as he fusses with something on the other side of the room.

Shouta sees the two boys exchange a look on the couch, and it’s obvious if they didn’t already know, they definitely now know that Yagi was not the one doing any asking.

It feels like hours have passed by the time they dismiss the boys back to the dorms. Shouta’s head is still spinning with all the new information he learned, and all the theories about the quirk and how it’s developing. He’s a little in awe of, and a little frightened for, Midoriya if he is already unlocking more of One for All than All Might ever did. He can’t even imagine how strong of a hero he might become, but it’s obvious, now, what a toll that kind of power, that kind of secret, took on Yagi and he’s concerned about how it might, or might already be, affecting Midoriya.

It’s quiet between them for a long time after the students have left while they both dwell on everything that had been discussed tonight.

Finally, Shouta breaks the silence. “I know you had no reason to trust me with a huge secret about yourself, but you could have come up with some kind of…lie about Midoriya, so I could have helped you both earlier.”

Yagi laughs humorlessly besides him. “I still don’t think I could have come up with a convincing enough lie, or one that you wouldn’t have seen through immediately.” He looks down at his hands. “Even then, I don’t know if I could have brought myself to come to you for help.’

Shouta’s first instinct is to ask why, but he’s not an idiot. He’s well aware he didn’t make the start of the year easy for Midoriya or Yagi.

“I know that’s shameful,” Yagi continues, quieter. “To have too much pride to ask you for help with a student-”

“Yagi,” Shouta interrupts, seriously. “There’s a lot you handled…badly, or just plain wrong, with Midoriya. But I was an asshole to you when we started working together. I made snap judgements about you. And, frankly, teaching is hard. I was clueless when I first started. I should have tried to help you more.” Shouta sighs, taking a deep breath. This apology has been a long time coming, but still it’s hard to get it all out at once. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you in the beginning, and…I’m sorry for making this harder for the both you without realizing it.”

Yagi stares at him, astonished. Obviously when this revelation first happened in the teacher’s lounge, the last thing he ever anticipated happening was Shouta apologizing. But it needed to happen the same as this secret needed to come out. They were supposed to be partners when it came to teaching this class, and it would just keep getting harder to do that with so much unsaid between them.

“I…Thank, thank you.”

Shouta has to look away, he can’t bring himself to see whatever expression accompanies such raw emotion. And he forces down the guilt that wonders why such a simple apology brings about such a reaction. It won’t do him any good to dwell on the past, he just has to do better in the future. They both do.

“What’s important now is that going forward we’ll figure these things out, together.”

Yagi nods, sounding more than a little mystified as he agrees, “Together.”

Spring

Oh, be here when I sleep When I dream, when the devils meet Oh, be here when I wake up When I wake up, when I wake up Whatever makes you stay Whatever makes yu smile Whatever makes you come and be with me a while -Whatever Makes You Mine, John Van Deusen

Shouta has every intention of going straight for his own dorm and passing out after his patrol. It’s late enough that Eri should be asleep and he doesn’t need to wake her just to carry her a few feet down the hall to her own room in his apartment. But as he’s swinging by the building, he can’t help but notice the light is still on in Toshinori’s room. Surprised that Toshinori would still be awake at this hour, Shouta drops down onto his balcony, peering in through the glass door. The small living room is dark and he can only make out the faintest shapes with the campus lights behind him. Shouta debates with himself for a moment before he lets himself in through the sliding door.

Eri’s coloring books and crayons are spread out across the small coffee table besides what Shouta is pretty sure are Toshinori’s unfinished grades. Part of him wishes Toshinori would encourage Eri to clean up after herself a little more, but he knows that’s a losing battle with Toshinori. They both like to see the young girl more comfortable in her living spaces, and Toshinori is too soft on her to impart any real discipline. And when Shouta thinks of the first time he saw Toshinori’s apartment, the cold, empty space that barely seemed worthy of being called a home, he understands why Toshinori waves him off of trying to clean up. “I like the mess,” Toshinori admitted once with a laugh. “It makes it feel lived in.”

Shouta leaves the mess in the living room as it is and goes to the spare room first. Eri is fast asleep in the extra bed. Even just a twin mattress seems giant with the small girl curled up near the top of it, surrounded on all sides by pillows and stuffed animals. He recognizes a few she must have brought with her from his apartment, but the rest are ones just for Toshinori’s. The night light Toshinori got for the nights she stays over casts small stars across the room. A few of them shine against her pale hair.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Shouta continues down the hall towards Toshinori’s room. The door is cracked, an open invitation for Eri to come in if she needs something, and it leaves a sliver of light across the hallway floor. Shouta knocks on the open door, but Toshinori never replies. Confused, Shouta pushes the door open the rest of the way.

He finds Toshinori sleeping more soundly than he’s ever known the ex-hero to be in the time they’ve known each other. He's sprawled on top of the duvet, head below the pillows and one foot hanging off the bed. In a loose t-shirt and faded blue jeans, it doesn’t look remotely comfortable, and yet he looks so peaceful, Shouta is hesitant to wake him. For once his sleep doesn’t seem to be interrupted by wracking coughs or twisted nightmares.

Shouta rummages, as politely as possible, through the closet for a blanket. He drapes it carefully over Toshinori, making sure it falls over the foot hanging off the bed, and around his bare arms. Shouta swears it seems like his hands are moving on their own as he brushes Toshinori’s wild bangs away from his face.

The man beneath him stirs, and Shouta freezes, hand still curled to tuck Toshinori’s bangs behind his ear. Bright blue eyes blink open, but there’s something unfamiliar and hazy as they flit over Shouta’s face. A slow smile spills across Toshinori’s lips and it’s the softest smile Shouta’s ever seen on him.

“Shouta!” Toshinori says in a sleepy whisper that makes something in Shouta’s chest squeeze. Toshinori must still be asleep. That didn’t explain everything perhaps, like the use of his given name or that dreamy smile, but God it certainly left fewer questions for all of that than if he was awake. “What are you doing here?”

“Just giving you another blanket. Go back to sleep.” Shouta snaps quickly, pulling his hands back.

Toshinori catches his wrist before he can move too far. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he says with another one of those gut-twisting smiles. “You should rest too.”

Toshinori shifts on the mattress, not that there wasn’t already plenty of room - the bed was unreasonably large even if Toshinori’s unreasonably long body didn’t fit quite right - and tugs gently on his arm. Shouta had every intention of arguing with him on the matter, so he has absolutely no idea what possesses him to listen to Toshinori and lie down besides him.

Satisfied, and perhaps even a little smug, Toshinori pulls part of the blanket to drape over Shouta’s shoulders as well.

“Okay, go back to sleep now.” Shouta insists stiffly, already making a plan of escape for once Toshinori is unconscious again.

Instead, Toshinori reaches out, cradling Shouta’s face in one of his large hands. Shouta feels his entire body freeze, he’s not even entirely sure he’s breathing, as Toshinori touches him ever so gently. A thumb runs carefully under his eye, as if Toshinori could sweep away the bags there with a single touch.

“I know this is just a dream,” Toshinori says softly, his fingers feather light as they trace over Shouta’s skin. “But I hope the real you can feel just a little more rested for it.”

“I’m…I’m sure I will.” Shouta swallows thickly. “So don’t worry so much and sleep.”

Toshinori finally, finally, takes his hand back and Shouta can breathe a little easier. He snuggles deeper into the blanket, closing his eyes.

“Good night, Shouta.”

Shouta doesn’t dare speak again until he knows he is fully asleep. Carefully extracting himself from the blanket, he folds it back over the sleeping man on the bed.

“Good night, Toshinori.”

Shouta moves on autopilot back to his own dorm, not even fully sure of the path he takes or who he might have passed on the way. His mind is still in Toshinori’s room, in bed beside him. He lied to Toshinori. There’s absolutely no way the “real him” was getting any rest tonight. Not with the memory of his gentle touch and soft smile still fresh in his memory.

Shouta only just barely registers the whistle from behind him as he unlocks his door. Turning around, he finds Hizashi standing in his open doorway across the hall. With a teasing grin, Hizashi makes a show of looking at his (watch-less) wrist to check the time and whistling again. Hizashi is far too…awake for someone in a robe and bunny slippers at three in the morning, Shouta decides.

“Coming home so late, Shou? And in the same jumpsuit from yesterday? What were you up to, hm?”

“I’m always in the same jumpsuit.” Shouta mutters, already regretting acknowledging him.

Hizashi slides up next to him, leaning against the wall to look him in the eye. “And the late hour? The sneaking in?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Shouta still curses the day Kayama taught him that.

“I work late hours. And not all of us can make as much as noise as you do.” Shouta pushes open his door and takes a step in, hoping, despite what all prior experience has taught him, that Hizashi will take a hint.

“But you weren’t still working, were you? You were with a certain someone-”

“Go to bed, Mic.” Shouta interrupts as he feels his quirk activate, shutting his door before the blond can push any further. He can hear Hizashi’s laughter even through the closed door.

He waves at his face, willing the heat to leave his cheeks and for his stupid quirk to deactivate and stop giving him away with glowing eyes and floating hair like some damn anime character. How could he be more embarrassed being caught coming home from, what, tucking Toshinori into bed, than he would have been from an actual walk of shame?

Summer

I just want to love you, to love you, to love you well I just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved mysel Like a force to be reckoned with A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss I will love you without any strings attached -Two, Sleeping at Last

The evening air is cooling down, a reprieve from the last few sweltering summer days as Shouta steps outside the dorm. He isn’t sure when he got so good at understanding Toshinori or predicting his behavior, but he already knows where to find him when he realizes the old hero is missing after the class dinner. And sure enough, he finds him on the bench outside the dorm. The setting sun sets his light hair aglow.

Toshinori seems to hear him coming because he turns around to watch Shouta before he says anything.

“It’s not that cold out tonight, Aizawa-sensei,” Toshinori says instead of a greeting. “You can’t scold me for being out in the cold this time.”

Shouta rolls his eyes at the accusation as he approaches the bench. “Not everything out of my mouth is a scolding.”

Toshinori stares hard at him for a moment, and Shouta can’t meet his eyes when Toshinori replies, strangely quiet, with “I know.”

Toshinori shifts further down the bench, making room for Shouta to sit besides him. Silence settles between them as they sit together, watching the vibrant pink of the sky slowly be overtaken with a pale violet.

“The first time I found you out here, you told me you had decided to live again,” Shouta says, breaking the quiet between them.

“Why are you bringing that up again?” Toshinori asks, almost in a whine, turning away from Shouta for a moment as if embarrassed. It feels so long ago that they had that conversation, when they agreed to train Eri together, though its become more like co-parenting, and when they both truly bared some of their souls to each other, but Shouta remembers it all so clearly. Especially Toshinori’s first confession.

He’d seen the hints of it before, the emptiness of Toshinori’s apartment, his baggy clothes that didn’t fit his new life, the causal dismissals of himself and his health. But that confession brought all those strange quirks about the number one hero into jarring clarity, painting a coherent picture of the life he had that Shouta was willfully ignorant of before. His new dedication to life is so obvious in comparison. The person on the bench besides him is not the same one Shouta started working with a year ago.

“You seem just as serious now,” he admits. “I’m wondering what other new revelations you’ve come to.”

Shouta doesn’t expect Toshinori to reply at all, let alone clue him in on any of those new revelations if he has come to them. Toshinori doesn’t owe him anything, let alone an insight to his most intimate thoughts, but after a long moment, Toshinori takes a deep breath as if preparing for a large declaration.

Instead he looks down at his hands and says softly, “I’ve been thinking about a lot recently but I’m still confused and torn about most of it.” Toshinori pauses for a moment and Shouta knows there is so much more that isn’t being said. But he doesn’t know how to help Toshinori say it, if that’s even what he really needs from him, so he just reaches for him instead. His hand against Toshinori’s is dwarfed in a way he doesn’t think he will ever get used to. But even bony and thin as they are now, the skin scarred and knuckles crooked from repeated breaks, not unlike his student’s, those hands still feel safe to Shouta. Those hands helped him carry the weight of the world for all those years and they show the strain that weight left on him. But they are still gentle. Their touch is soft enough to wipe the tears from Eri’s cheeks after her latest nightmare. Their touch is tender enough to ruffle their students’ hair and send their worries away without leaving behind any of that weight.

Toshinori’s hands are safe, and Shouta can’t help but wonder who held them when he was young and helped make them that way. Who taught him to use such strength and gentleness in tandem.

“You don’t have to have all the answers,” Shouta finally says. “I know sometimes it feels like we have to, when the students are counting on us, nothing feels more like a failure than having to admit you don’t know, but you don’t have to have all the answers. Especially not right now, not here with me.”

Toshinori looks up from their hands. His expression is raw and open, but also incredibly soft and fond, and Shouta doesn’t feel capable enough to be on the receiving end of such a look.

“I’m still confused and torn,” Toshinori starts again, softer this time. “But one thing that I know for sure, is I’m tired of listening to my anxieties and worries. I’m tired of doing my best to ignore all the things I’ve wanted. I’ve decided I want to just follow my heart, but to do that I will have to be a little selfish, so…I’m sorry.”

Shouta thinks if anyone deserves a chance to be selfish, if anyone has earned that, it’s Toshinori. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Yagi. You can be a little selfish sometimes.”

“Then…can I love you, Shouta?”

#bnha #mha #erasermight #emmb2021 #embb2021 #aizawa shouta #yagi toshinori #all might #fic #rita writes #fluff #hurt/comfort #6.29.21

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cupsofsuga · 4 years

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𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 ━ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 *:·。.

{ ⚠️} WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers. I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

{ 💐} REQUEST - ❝ Can I have the boys reactions to an s/o who show her possessiveness by wearing their clothes ? She's all happy and proud to go to the university or whatever wearing their shirt because " That way everyone will know that I'm yours and you're mine , plus it smells like you 🥺 " ❞

{ ☕️} NOTE - thank you so so much for requesting, dollface!

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊𝐉𝐈𝐍

━━━ November’s essence kisses the air of your living room, it’s fierce caress trailing across your skin. You, ever so intelligently, stated with pride that you could handle the cold, regretting the choice as the embers of moonlight trace their fingertips across naked goosebumps. Strolling through the halls of your home, shivering from the sharp wind, you find your bedroom with intentions of retrieving some form of warmth. You discover a grey hoodie, lethargically tossed over a chair. The owner’s identity is quickly exposed, as the sweatshirt descends down your form due to your lover’s broad shoulders. You have now found solace, drowned in the scent of cologne.

Oh, and the blush that blooms beat-red across Jin’s cheeks is a sight you’ll never forget.

Following that occurrence (and the rest of the night spent smothered in your boyfriend’s lily-pure affection), you’ve taken notice of Jin’s not-so-subtle efforts to usher you into wearing his clothes again. At first, it began with leaving articles of clothing in numerous places, but that plan backfired as you silently scolded him under your breath for not tidying up after himself. This strategy escalated into Jin planting his clothes in your drawer’s, then claiming it was an “accident” or "a way to save space.” The red hues painting his ears and the way he avoids eye-contact jeopardizes his weak filter, though. At least you find his everlasting, spring-scented infatuation beneath the facade of damp rain and rotten trees. Be careful, though. If you venture too deep into the depths of Kim Seokjin and you’ll find sights of crimson-stained sins.

❝ God, you have way too much power over me, y’know? I’m always so soft for you, ‘fucking moron. ❞

𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈

━━━ The evening mist glides through the brume of your boudoir, where you are embraced by the neglected clothes of your boyfriend like snow sleeping on a pine tree. After a particularly cold night strikes your studio apartment, the empty sheets and abandoned blankets failed to bring the solace of the sweltering summer-warmth your lover possesses. You yearned for Yoongi and the moonlight, the coffee stains, and stormy nights that kiss his form. The rhythmic melody of his gentle voice; the crow’s caress that wanders his skin. And despite his overbearing worry and protectiveness that you’ve brushed off as “concern for your health,” you crave those December eyes and that feeble heart. Fortunately for you, your knight in shining armor didn’t venture too far away. And finding you nestled under numerous covers causes worry to immediately swell within his heart.

His concern is distinctly evident, as his shrill voice of distress invades the midnight breeze. You swear you feel him shiver with dread when he feels how frigid you are when he shakily takes your hand into his. And before you express your refusal to his care, Yoongi vanishes from the bedroom to draw you a bath. If you think he’s exaggerating your discomfort due to the November weather, think again. Your name is then sung into the air, blossoming into the twilight’s brume as you escape the warmth of your bed and stroll to your lover. Before you, you’ll find the hot water adorned in bubbles and flower petals, candles littered around the room (far from the tub, for your safety), melodies of violin and piano reverberating through the area, and the sugary caresses from your Yoongi as the cherry on top. Whilst adorned in the blissful harmony of peace, you can't help but let your mind wander. His worry has always been grand, so grand that you fear his heart may actually stop beating if your safety was ever at stake.

Oh, well, at least he cares. Maybe a little too much.

❝ My Y/N, if you ever, ever need anything, I will always be right here… Always… ❞

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊

━━━ Finding your boyfriend nestled under a canopy of your clothing was never a shock, as your scent of cheap whiskey and jasmines beneath the August sun lulled his soul to ease. The sultry high he’s given when inhaling another article of clothing is euphoric, infinite. To breathe in your musk is to find an eternal night beneath the purple rain; to drown in the depths of you is to savor the stars as they breathe out the dust of twilight. There’s a garden that thrives around the simple presence of your fragrance and Hoseok can’t imagine a greater bliss that is your essence. That is until he finds you draped in one of the many sweaters he owns, the red threading like Autumn against your form.

He was always swift to recognize his infatuation, but to know the emotions he immerses himself into are mutual emits a variety of nymphs to tangle themselves with his heartbeat. He feels the rhythms of sunlight as they batter against his ribcage and nothing, nothing is as ecstatic as this.

Twilight has occurred, the moonlight bleeds through the glass panes and hits your eyes ever so elegantly. It reflects a soft radiance as if the moon was swimming in your irises. You are beautiful, lying on the couch with his sweater on like a stray cat who will soon vanish into the arms of the night. It was no secret that Hoseok adored seeing you in his clothes, as his boisterous admiration morphed into suffocating infatuation. There was even a time where you reached into the pocket of his sweater during class and find a folded piece of paper containing a sweet note (that was just a tad bit creepy) along with doodles of hearts, flowers, cats, and dogs. Hoseok's love may cut deep with its shattered-lily touch, but it is entirely pure. Despite the obsession seeping through his affections, he loves you more than you could ever possibly know.

❝ Hey, isn’t it crazy how after all this time, you still manage to give me so many butterflies? I… I think I’m gonna love you forever… ❞

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍

━━━ You anticipate for your lover to return to your home, stumbling around the adobe in utter boredom. Although this lifeless night is all too dull, you notice how the penthouse you wander around resembles a palace. With its crystalline chandeliers and marble tiles, its paradisiac view of the city that never sleeps and melodies of chefs and maids rustling around the residence. Through the lavish estate, you find the bedroom, embellished in opulent riches of all kinds. Then, there’s the closet, decked out to the brim in treasures of Gucci, Chanel, and Prada. There’s jewelry, bags, shoes, nearly every single article of clothing an item you couldn’t dream of affording in your past, mundane life. Your eyes settle on a blazer, exquisitely threaded with the finest of silks nestled deep within the closet.

The coat is a tad bit too large for your form, but you believe it fits you like a glove. And despite there being a faint stain of spilled champagne on the sleeve, coming home to his summer sunset wearing his attire like its armor, Namjoon has never tasted bliss as divine as this.

The skies once painted baby blue morph into the dark hues of twilight. Night has come, euphoria has been found within the tendrils of your hair on his chest and the littering of bubblegum-pink kisses across your skin. For reasons Namjoon can’t define, seeing you in his clothes causes his heart to tremble and plummet. There’s this sudden veil of exhilaration, like a July night spent with your record collection and red wine. It’s an enchantment that aches deep within his chest, where the desire to submerge you in his affections burns within his heart. He gazes at your now sleeping form, naming off every detail of you that he loves so much like he’s counting dollar bills in his hands. His moonlight’s essence, his lavender’s breath, his garden full of violets. You have taught him how to live without rain and he can’t gift you enough gratitude for this blessing. But, just don’t be surprised when you find your closet covered in dust. You’re only allowed to wear his clothes from now on.

❝ Damn, blue is an outstanding color on you. Maybe that should be the color for our wedding… Wait- shit! I-I-I didn’t say anything! ❞

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍

━━━ Upon the surface of your bed, the voice of rain trembles against the thin roof above you. Tree branches sway with the heavy wind, lightning lashes like a whip against the evening floor. You feel the nightly embrace of bitter inclemency, as the earthly musk swims around the bedroom. Despite finally having a night alone, you notice yourself longing for the tumultuous warmth of your lover. A single night spent in isolation, Jimin didn’t take it lightly. After all, what is life without the iridescence of a Summer’s kiss? How can he breathe without immersing himself within the depths of his angel’s orchestra? You can assume what thoughts of hunger are rumbling through the boy’s mind, but you are oblivious to the saturated sound of Jimin weeping into his cold flesh.

You retrieve one of his sweaters in the meantime, inhaling his fragile scent of honey and moonflowers. He must be adorned in several layers of just your clothes, you joke to yourself. The enchantment of the rain’s melody and the fragrance of your boyfriend then lulls you into slumber, to where you then awake the following morning to dawn painting the optimistic face of Jimin.

Finding you in his sweater, knowing you had missed him, he had blushed like a tomato ready to harvest, that confident and broad facade melting like ice cream, to where he became a sugary puddle of flowering feelings and summer velvet. He looked like a young schoolboy who had received a love letter in his locker, as the blood of Aphrodite paints his cheeks rosy and utter bewitchment has him smiling like a lovestruck idiot. As you then regain consciousness, you are then smothered in Jimin’s affections. He kisses you everywhere wild as if leaving a single inch of skin unloved would kill him. He’ll even go as far as to order a shirt that reads “JIMIN + Y/N 5EVER” or just straight-up purchasing a conjoined sweater, so you’ll never be separated ever again. It is insane how infatuated he is, yes, but there is not a single soul within our universe that could cherish you as utterly as he does. And Jimin will walk with that fact to the grave.

❝ Ngh! No, don’t leave! Stay in bed, just for a couple more minutes! Maybe even a couple more hours, please…? A couple days…? ❞

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆

━━━ October has bloomed, the saturated leaves are painted damp as rain kisses the earth below. You have lost track of the months settled within the isolated cottage, but enough time has been spent for your new boyfriend to grant you the privilege of taking a hike (with his presence alongside yours, of course). To stay warm within the frigid weather, you encounter one of Taehyung’s sweaters, arm sleeve hung over the side of the hamper. As the clothing sits on your form, you immerse yourself in the expensive musk of your lover. He smells like a century spent in the clouds with peaches and fairies; he smells like Autumn as pumpkin pie and Halloween nights essence dances with the ghosts in the attic. It is ethereal the way summer’s affection seems to litter the fragrance he dresses with.

Upon seeing you standing beneath the rickety door frame, adorned in his moss-colored sweater, Taehyung had blushed with utter joy and bewilderment. He had nearly dropped the midnight-black umbrella in his hands, stunned upon witnessing you in attire as mere as his coat.

After a stroll through the empty fields beneath the rainfall (and hearing the shutter of a camera for the umpteenth time), you retreat to your humble adobe. The following night is spent in blissful harmony, where you’ll sleep beneath the canopy of stars, locked within his daisy-chain embrace. You are his scarlet kingdom, his summer’s honey, his garden adorned in fineries such as nymphs and emeralds and birdsong. As dawn blossoms in the sky, you awake alone within silken sheets, the revelation peculiar. As you regain consciousness and study the sunlit bedroom, you find Taehyung’s clothes folded neatly on the end of the bed, drenched heavily in cologne. You nearly cough from the intensity, studying the note rested on top, where your partner exclaims he needed to run for groceries in calligraphy. Besides this note, however, is a necklace with a vial swung upon the string. With closer inspection, you come to the horrifying conclusion that the crimson fluid within the glass was his blood. You now shall never be apart again, not with Taehyung right beside your beating heart.

❝ Oh, Y/N, to spent everyday with you like this, it’s like everything I’ve lost has returned home to me. You truly are a blessing, my love… ❞

𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐊𝐎𝐎𝐊

━━━ It is a muggy Wednesday morning, where fog coats the floor of dawn, and the dense breeze embraces the earth’s redolence. Today is frigid, as the embers of the piercing winds kiss your honeyed skin. You can’t help but long for Summer to return home, where the sky turns pink in its sugary excellence and where you’ll find youthful infatuation on the curb of Cherry Street, like two poodles whose leashes have entangled beneath the Eiffel Tower. With philosophies of sweltering fantasies, you clutch a leather jacket, oblivious to its owner. Into the grey forest of high school, you’ll find every fragment of boredom known to mankind. But, throughout the dull conditions, at least you have your Jungkook.

Catching sight of you in his jacket causes a heavenly glow to inflate his heart, the essence of clouds and angel’s tears scattering his soul. It feeds into his possessiveness as if he was marking you with his scent, claiming you like a wolf would with his mate.

From thereon, you take notice of Jungkook’s subtle efforts to indulge you within his scent. His affections morphed from shy, rosy-pink compliments to physical touches, as if clasping onto you would drown out the musk of all those heathens you call “friends.” Your scent of moonlit harmonies and dusk in California had since dissolved into his scent of melting chocolate and cigarette smoke. His possessive tendencies may be extreme (like that time he snuck into your closet at 4 in the morning and perfumed every article of clothing with his cologne), but his intentions are ever so pure. You are his siren song, his sunset gaze, his purple rain. You are everything to this boy, with galaxies burning within your chest and distant realities snaking their way through your soul. Within the heart of Jeon Jungkook, you live inside Eden's garden, crafted just for you. And there’s only so much time before he scoops you into his embrace and never let's go.

❝ … You smell different… Who is it? Who have you been talking to? What is that blonde I always see you with? I swear, I’ll gouge out his eyeballs with a plastic spoon and force him to eat them!! ❞

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seasonsofeverlark · 3 years

Text

Hope Lies In Tomorrow

Author: @mega-aulover

Prompt: Katniss is caught crossing the fence by peacekeepers. Serves time. Conditions of parole: employment nearby (busy bakery?) and reporting weekly to the parole officer (Haymitch?) Will she find anything to be thankful for this thanksgiving [submitted by @567inpanem]

Rating: M (Because, well, it will get to that status. There will be violence and mentions of abuse, and some characters are off canon.)

Author’s Notes: This story took me for a loop. I couldn’t resist it. I tried to make it light and fun, but it just wanted to be a freight train to the gut. The words “serves time.” I kept on getting back to that, and my imagination just took flight so much that the first two chapters are about 9.5K words. I promise chapter 3 will be a painful doozy. Special thanks to @norbertsmom.

Chapter One

The spotlight made Katniss wince as she distinctly heard Darius say, “Pluck a duck,” into the cold dark night.

“We caught a Poacher!” The young Peacekeeper said out loud. He jumped and clapped his hands like a preschool girl with pigtails who just won a prized sticker. He was one of the new cadets brought in for training.

Daruis was the new Head Peacekeeper. He earned the promotion when Cray retired. Darius also inherited the group of new Peacekeepers. They were eager rule-following Cadets.

“Everdeen!” Darius groused.

Katniss sighed. She kept her hands in the air. It was the perfect ending to the worst day. It started with the evil spawn of Buttercup peeing inside her drawer. Things got worse when Gale announced he wasn’t going to be able to join her tonight, and he wouldn’t tell her why either. Then this afternoon she discovered her baby sister, well technically, Prim was seventeen and taller than Katniss, but that’s neither here nor there, she was rolling in the hay with Vick Hawthorne.

Prim wasn’t supposed to be…. well…sex crazed. Katniss saw red, took a bucket of ice-cold water, and dumped it on top of the two idiots. Vick was fifteen and, like Gale, looked older than Prim’s baby-faced self. Needless to say, Prim was livid. Vick went home with blue balls. And the arguing match that ensued gave Katniss a massive headache.

However, finding her sister doing the equivalent of two goats breeding in Lady’s pen was nothing compared to their mothers’ reactions to Prim’s escapade. Euadora Everdeen backed Prim and said, “Prim was doing what came natural.” It was what came next that flabbergasted Katniss. “At least I have one normal daughter.”

It was the last straw, until this moment.

This day was supposed to go so differently. She’d woken up with so much hope then things fell apart. But she’d kept thinking, tomorrow, tomorrow would be a brighter day. Just get through today and tomorrow would be a better day.

“Katniss,” Darius growled.

Katniss shrugged. There was nothing Darius could do. If he had been alone, he would have looked the other way.

“I’m sorry, but I have to take you in.”

She held out her hands; she knew the drill. This wasn’t going to be her first time in the District Twelve lock up. In fact, as Darius pulled her toward the transport, and she quietly climbed into the back, this was all familiar. The last time was at that darned Harvest Fair five years ago.

“This would have been easier had you gone to the Fair,” Darius said.

Her scowl was instantaneous.

“What,” Darius said, jumping inside of the wagon while the young Peacekeeper closed the door.

“I’m sorry, Darius.

“I know, Katniss,” Darius was sympathetic. His communicator crackled with a voice that communicated a code. “Roger that.”

In the semi-darkness Katniss could see Darius teeth as he grinned.

“Old man Haymitch is going to throw the book at you.” Haymitch and she had a long-standing history. She stayed out of trouble and he wouldn’t bring trouble to her.

Haymitch Abernathy was the former Victor of the 50th Hunger Games and town drunk. The transition from a government run by one man, President Snow, to one run by a council with a true elected leader were the scariest months in Panem. No one knew what would happen. Fears of retaliation from the former government ran high. The word came down from the Capitol for each district to send a District Liaison.

Haymitch volunteered.

Turns out the drunken Victor was smart, wilier than anyone could perceive. Haymitch helped form the transition team to create the new charter between the Capitol and the Districts. When he came back, Haymitch could have been elected to become the mayor. He could have taken over the position of Head Peacekeeper, since Cray was from the old regime. Instead, Haymitch made up a position, the town Magistrate. Every district would have a way to fairly dispense justice, with the Peacekeepers relegated to do just what their name described keeping the peace. From town drunk to judge, this was the world of the new Panem.

Though Katniss would rather face Haymitch than her mother.

“Has your mother calmed down?”

Katniss grimaced. It all started with the initiative. Ever since the President went crazy and abolished the Games, calling it the Lucy Grey Baird initiative, and then promptly dying before anyone could change the law, her mother’s focus changed from reliving the past to finding Katniss a husband.

Her mother began railing against her plan to stay single. Mind you Katniss was only sixteen at the time and she could only focus on the fact that her baby sister would never again experience a Reaping.

Nope, not her mother, Eudora Everdeen, somewhere between her melancholy that ensued after pa’s death and the cancellation of the 74th Hunger Games, decided to become a holy nightmare, worse than any horror Katniss’s imagination could conjure up. Her mother tried to fix her up with various men throughout the district. Her mother’s sting about her single status was the last straw tonight.

“She’s stopped,” Katniss flinched; it wasn’t the entire truth.

Eudora hadn’t really stopped, there were introductions all of the time. There was Waylon, Adam, Zachary, Jackson, Hank, Lee, Hunter, Davis, Ashley, Samuel, Vernon, Beau, Elijah, not to mention Humperdinck, who was also known as the Goat Man. It was always the same pattern. A subtle introduction, followed by an invitation to tea or supper or both, a run in in the Seam or the Hob, before the guy in question lost interest and her mother went back to the drawing board. Eudora didn’t push, but she didn’t relent either. However, recently, her mother had been quiet. Katniss hoped after 5 years, her mother finally gave up.

“But?” Darius asked.

The transport shook as it began to move.

“Nothing.”

“You know, you’re a bad liar.”

“She doesn’t like me being alone.”

“That’s preposterous. I know plenty of women Peacekeepers.”

“You know we are talking about Eudora Everdeen?”

Darius grinned. “You mother did tell one of my new recruits she should leave her hair down because it would make her look pretty. She even asked me when my time was up and if I was interested in courting you.”

“Yup,” Katniss breathed, “that’s my mother.”

“So is it true she tried to pair you with Gale and even Gale got scared.”

“How do you know?” Katniss’ mother first picked Gale, who conversely, after seeing her mother try to manipulate them as a couple, was shocked. One good thing came off Eudora’s meddling. Gale laid off the entire, we-make-sense offer to toast angle, and suddenly became a perfect angel around her and the rogue doubled his efforts around other women to prove that he wasn’t interested in Katniss.

“You forget how small District Twelve is,“ Darius said looking tired as he rubbed his face.

He’s right. Twelve is the smallest of all the Districts. And nothing stayed buried, just like a piece of coal, it would be eventually unearthed.

"Gale said my mother was loonier than the Goat man when he got drunk on Ripper’s special liquor.” Ripper called her special liquor, the ‘shine.’ There were rumors the shine caused people to do strange things. Katniss wasn’t interested in drinking anything that wasn’t life sustaining. Her only thought was to keep food on the table and maintain the roof over her family’s heads. Just last summer she had to fix the roof all by herself. Drinking or marriage were out of the picture.

When Gale politely said he wasn’t interested in Katniss, her mother was upset, but said she understood that Gale only saw Katniss as a sister. Five years ago, Katniss hoped with her mother’s attempts thwarted, Eudora would give up getting her hitched. Little did she know it wasn’t over by a long shot.

Darius snorted. “Your name comes up every year."

"Ugh. I avoid that damned dance every year.” There were three main social events in District Twelve, where parents shoved their young for possible partnerships and couples did coupley things, The Spring Formal, The Harvest Fair, and the Winter Festival. The last of these major social events had been the Harvest Fair.

“Waylon still asks about you every time.”

Katniss groaned hearing that name again. He was Leevy’s brother, who was in Gale’s class. Waylon was the next on her mother’s list. Waylon’s obsession began slowly. He failed his last year of school and became a quasi-associate. He would show up at her locker and want to walk with her to class. At first it was nice. He was Gale’s friend and as long as he didn’t talk, she didn’t mind. When they graduated, he went to work in the mines. Katniss set up a booth in the Hob selling her jerky.

And for a time, everything was calm. Then he started coming to supper. He tried to become friends with Prim. Her sister thought him weird. Then one day, Waylon tried to kiss her. When she pushed him away, he chased her straight into the forest. Thankfully, he didn’t dare go into the woods.

The woods became her refuge. As soon as she knew Waylon was let loose of his shift at the mines, he would head straight to the Hob. Katniss would pack up her booth and run off into the woods. She began hunting at night to get away from him. Also, she sort of used Gale as an unofficial bodyguard to keep Waylon at a distance. Waylon was a sore spot in her relatively short life span.

“He does?” The words slipped out before they could be stopped.

“He’s got a thing for you Katniss,” Darius’ voice sounded full of mirth, “He’s one of many in the district.”

“If I weren’t in handcuffs, I’d deck you.”

Darius grinned. “He still shoots Peeta the evil eye.”

At the mention of Peeta’s name, her brain misfires.

Peeta.

Sigh, strong, capable, dependable, sweet, kind, lovely, delicious…always lurking in her dreams, Peeta.

That night at the Harvest Fair, every time she saw Waylon come her way she hid. Thankfully Peeta came to her rescue. He asked her to dance and afterwards he escorted her the entire time.

Oh, Peeta tried to keep her out of trouble. He was so nice, and she had no way to pay him for his kindness in rescuing her that night. Even four years later she could still recall every detail. He did admirably despite her lack of social graces, and inability to dance.

Katniss groaned in the transport, her head leaning up against the metal wall. Dancing with Peeta was heavenly, being with Peeta was indescribable, but Katniss shoved that feeling deep, deep, way deep inside of her, locked it up and only took out that memory in the dead of night. When she was alone in her bed, her fingers drifted to her lady parts and she sought relief from the thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him over and over.

She had a secret bond with Peeta, a bond she couldn’t shake. “Peeta,” her heart whispered with longing. Katnis hoped Darius couldn’t see how deeply she was affected by her baker. Peeta was the one soul in the district who knew her better than anyone else.

“So, it’s Peeta you have a thing for. Waylon’s not wrong in giving him the evil eye.”

Katniss scowled at Darius, causing him to laugh.

“I’d have to be drunk on the shine,” Katniss grumbled. She hoped to redirect Darius, he was so near the truth.

“Katniss,” Darius rubs his face. “Please don’t tell me you’ve drunk the shine.”

“No. Gale swears he has. He said it’s so strong it has the power to peel paint off the walls. Is it true…about you and the shine?” Katniss asked.

Darius became serious.

"So, it isn’t true. I knew Gale was lying."

Darius cleared his throat. "It made me hallucinate. There are things, Everdeen, you shouldn’t ever try.”

"Duly noted.”

The transport rolled, and another command came through the radio. Darius “What?”

“Star 451,” the voice answered back.

“Pluck a duck,” Darius whispered angrily. “Are you sure?”

His angry voice sounded out of control as if he wanted to hit something or someone. The atmosphere changed suddenly. It crackled with foreboding darkness. Katniss tried to ignore it, she knew she was in trouble.

For the rest of the journey Katniss wondered what was going on, what did that Star 451 mean? Katniss noted Darius became quiet, and sullen; all the traces of humor left his face. Darius stopped looking at her as if he couldn’t face her. Finally, the transport came to a halt.

“We’re here.”

Katniss winced, thinking of Haymitch Abernathy, and the uncertainty that faced her outside of the transport.

“Wait for me to get down before you get up,” Darius bit out as the door opened and the cold wind caused Katniss to shiver.

Katniss wrinkled her nose. Haymitch was going to be a pain in the neck. The last time she’d been before him things were not pleasant. When she got down, her eyes widened. They weren’t at the Justice building. They were at the Victors Village.

It was one thing to stand in the Justice building, a cold sterile edifice made of white stone. It was another to stand inside of a home. “Darius?”

The transport moved on and there was another waiting, one that did not have any insignia on the side. It was black and it reminded Katniss of the one they used to transport the corpses of the deceased.

“Come on,” Darius said gently, once more avoiding looking at her.

Katniss nodded. She wasn’t someone who let things affect her. She didn’t scare easily, this however, put pure fear in her heart.

Darius escorted her inside of the massive house and guided her into a room by the side. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace. The warmth stung her cold skin. There was a dark wooden desk, two comfortable chairs, and another pair facing the fireplace. “Sit.”

Katniss sat in one of the chairs facing the desk.

“Give me your hands, Katniss,” Darius said.

Katniss lifted her trembling hands.

“What did I tell you ‘bout keeping your nose out of trouble, Sweetheart?” Haymitch grumbled from the door.

Katniss masked her fear.

Four years ago Gale was sick and couldn’t attend that darned Harvest Fair. Katniss needed a way out, thankfully Peeta rescued her.

Everything was splendid and at one point while staring into his gorgeous blue eyes Katniss was breathless. It was toward the end of the night when his mother, the witch, pulled him away and that’s where all hell broke loose. Accidentally, in her haste to get away from Waylon, a small fire started when one of the glass lamps fell, and broke. Several bales of hay caught fire. It somehow escalated and concluded with a goat stampede down the center of town.

Her mother blamed Katniss for embarrassing Waylon and his family, and basically setting the fair on fire. Haymitch told her mother that her unfettered meddling would one day cause the destruction of all she held dear. Eudora Everdeen was not amused, nor was she happy with the outcome. Haymitch let Katniss go with a slap on the wrist because her only criminal act was trying to flee the unwanted attention of a man. Plus, thanks to Peeta’s quick thinking, it was only the stage that burned. He and his brothers managed to get the fire out and they built another stage, how they did it in one day, Katniss didn’t know.

She kept away for the rest of the Harvest Fair, thinking it was better not to remind the community of her stupidity. She’d been lulled under Peeta’s spell. She’d done more than dance and start a fire at that fair. Heat rose from the pit of her belly and flowed to her core and spilled on to her cheeks.

The sound of a chair being scraped on the wood floor caused her bubble to break. Katniss shook her head. Her eyes came back into focus to the present.

“Darius, you can wait outside. Katniss isn’t going to do anything stupid,” Haymitch turned his grey eyes toward her, “are you?”

Katniss shook her head no.

Darius nodded and walked outside, closing the door.

Katniss didn’t even bother rubbing her wrists. She balled her hands and rested them at her side.

“You’re probably wondering why you got caught?”

She hadn’t really. Katniss thought it was just a routine inspection. There were bears in the woods and just one week ago the electric fence had been damaged.

“Your mother.”

“What?” Katniss growled. Her lips thinned her anger skyrocketing. Then she thought for a second it couldn’t be. “She wouldn’t…”

“She did, and there wasn’t anything Darius or I could do. We had to arrest you?”

A combination of bitterness and sadness swept into her soul like the bitter winds that brought the frigid winter air. It was one thing to try to get her to marry; it showed that her mother cared. However, handing her over to the authority showed Katniss that her mother had fallen out of love for her. Can a mother un-love a child? It could happen, she supposed, thinking of Peeta’s mother, the witch. That woman only cared for one person, herself.

“Sorry Sweetheart, Darius tried to dissuade her. She said it was time for you to learn what the real world was all about. But instead of leaving it with me and Darius, she went to the Justice building and filed a complaint with Panem’s Bureau of Justice. She got Seneca Crane’s underwear in a twist. He’s demanding you pay for your crimes.”

Katniss gasped. Seneca Crane was from the old regime. He was the Head Gamemaker of the 74th Hunger Games. His arena was never used. The man was so twisted and evil that he was merciless with those who came under his thumb, and she was one of them. Katniss wondered how someone like him still had power in this new Panem.

There was no doubt in her mind she was going to serve time. Those who served time were often sent away to another District. She could be sentenced to District Eleven to work in the fields, District Two to work in the mines, or work in District Four in the fish processing plants doing the lowest of menial jobs. “How much time will I be sentenced?

“A year Sweetheart, you can get out early for good behavior, come back here and work the rest of your sentence as a parole.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. She’d never been away from home, never was tempted to escape into the wilds of the forest. Now she was going to be carted out in the middle of the night. She was a blemish to society, unwanted, a problem for her mother. A solitary tear rolled down her face.

Katniss didn’t need handcuffs any more; she was about to be branded as undesirable.

Darius quietly walked in with the machine. They slid her hand in the machine and she cried as the skin of her wrist was seared with an imprint. Cradling her hand she read *451. Now she understood.

“I’m sorry Katniss,” Darius whispered.

Two heavy set men dressed in black came in and pushed her inside of the waiting black transport.

Chapter Two

Peeta whistled.

“You’re in a good mood,” Norma Jean, his brother Graham’s wife said.

Norma Jean was his favorite sister in law. Graham had fallen head-over-heels for her. It was funny because before Norma Jean, Graham’s type were tall statuesque thin blondes. Norma Jean was short, and as she put it, rounder than an apple. She was also sweeter than the candy she and Graham sold at the confectioners’ shop.

“I am.” He couldn’t help himself.

Today was Saturday, his favorite day of the week, one because the bakery closed early, and two because Katniss always came by on Saturday to trade with him. No one else. Peeta knew for certain Katniss didn’t trade with anyone else but him.

“Well it’s my favorite day.”

Norma Jean grinned. “Is it because of a certain huntress?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Hmmm,” Norma Jean said, rubbing her belly, she was heavily pregnant. She was sniffing the air. When pregnant, Norma Jean had the ability to identify different herbs by smell. Her nose was that good.

Peeta kept quiet and wondered how long it would be before she sniffed the cheese buns he had hidden in the back.

“Have you heard from Rye?”

Peeta grinned. “He’s back in District Two.”

Rye was the reason Peeta had inherited the family bakery. With Graham married to Norma Jean, their mother thought Rye would take over the bakery, leaving Peeta out of the inheritance. Then, one-and-a-half years ago Rye announced he wanted to be a Peacekeeper. Nothing their mother said or threatened dissuaded Rye from becoming a Peacekeeper.

“He’s great actually, talked to him last night.”

“Graham’s still upset with him. He didn’t want Rye to sign up to a twenty year commitment to be celibate to serve home and country.”

Peeta recalled. “You know how Rye gets when he wants something.”

“Yeah.” Norma Jean nodded.

“His training is over, and he’s waiting for his assignment. When we were talking at least ten guys came by to say hello.” Peeta had gotten to know the guys in Rye’s squad. They were from all over Panem.

“Good, I am glad.”

“Won’t Graham miss you?”

“Nope, my sister Virginia is helping him set up; the boys were fast asleep.”

“You do realize today is Saturday and they’re up early on Saturday.” Peeta said.

“Exactly, no one bothers the sweet shop at six in the morning, nine maybe, but six…only those who are craving stuff like me…now, hot buns, give me one of those treat’s you’re saving for your huntress,” Norma Jean demanded.

Peeta shook his head. “I would never deny you anything.”

He walked into the back whistling and grabbed two of the cheese buns he’d saved for himself to share with Katniss.

“For you,” Peeta said, bowing slightly.

“I haven’t seen you like this since that Harvest Fair?” Norma Jean raised an eyebrow.

“Oh,” Peeta said.

“You can’t lie to me, Peeta,” Norma Jean said, narrowing her eyes, one fist curled around the cheese bun.

“You’re right,” Peeta said.

“So, it is Katniss,” Norma Jean said.

Peeta could feel the heat raising up to his cheeks. He looked at his reflection in the smooth surface of the metal case; he looked ruddy.

After they graduated, Katniss set up her shop in the Hob. Her jerky was a favorite amongst the residents. Katniss had enough coins to buy everything she needed. She could buy bread, but she didn’t. Their friendship began slowly. At first it was a slight nod, with her cheeks so rosy she couldn’t look him in the eyes.

The Harvest Fair changed everything. They’d been a little tipsy as a result of the hard apple cider Greasy Sae offered them. She’d pulled him into Mr. Plover’s blacksmith and horse barn and kissed him. The kiss got out of hand and one thing led to another. Soon they were in one of the empty horse stalls and tearing their clothing off. Katniss had given him her virginity and he had given her his. When they walked out hand in hand Peeta couldn’t help the goofy grin on his face. He would never forget how soft her eyes looked.

Then his mother came looking for him, and everything became a nightmare. Peeta advocated for Katniss, got his brothers and his friends to clean up and rebuild the stage. Katniss was arrested, and the community shunned her. They took Waylon’s side, no thanks to Mrs. Everdeen. Katniss had never attended another social event after that.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Norma said excitedly.

“Well.” His eyes went to the store front. Mrs. Bernelle came into the store. With Thanksgiving tomorrow Peeta expected a brisk business today.

“Hello Mrs. Bernelle,” Peeta greeted.

“Hello Peeta, Norma Jean.”

“Hello,” Norma Jean said, rubbing her stomach.

“You’re due any day now?” Mrs. Burnelle said warmly to Norma Jean.

“ Just about.” Norma Jean smiled warmly.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Burnelle,” Peeta said, wanting Mrs. Burnelle out of the store so that he could speak to Norma Jean.

“May I have a dozen of your dinner rolls, but only the freshest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peeta said, grabbing a brown paper bag. He quickly dispensed the rolls.”

Mrs. Burnelle smelled the bread, “These smell delicious,” she leaned over and with a mischievous lilt in her voice. “Don’t tell you father, but you are the better baker.”

“I won’t,” Peeta laughed. “Is that all for today?”

“Yes.” She had the exact amount. She put it on the counter. “Thank you Peeta and Happy Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving became a national Holiday after the treaty between the Capitol and the Districts was ratified as law. A day for both sides to come together and celebrate everlasting peace and tranquility and celebrated with a big meal. Normally the Capitol sent all of the Districts a parcel with some sort of treat. Each year a District was selected to make a parcel to send to the Capitol. District Twelve had yet to be selected.

“Thank you, you too,” Peeta said. He waited until the door was closed before he turned his attention back to Norma Jean.

“Whatever you have to tell me has got to be really good for you to be acting like you did four years ago?”

Peeta sighed happily.

“Did something happen between you two?”

Norma Jean knew all. Peeta confided in her. When Katniss didn’t show up that Saturday after the Fair, she encouraged him to seek out Katniss. Peeta gathered his courage and found her at the Hob. She looked like hell and she wouldn’t even look at him in the eyes. Peeta found out from Greasy Sae, no one was buying her jerky.

Peeta brazenly bought her jerky and told her he’d run out of squirrels. Then he sent Norma Jean, and Norma sent Rye, and Rye sent Delly to buy her jerky. Delly sent someone else and so forth. There was no way he was going to allow the people of District Twelve to turn their backs on Katniss.

The following Saturday he found a package at his doorstep. Norma Jean packed up some bread and told him to pay her for her game meat. He’d gone down to the Hob and put the bread on her table and told her she’d forgotten her payment before he walked away.

This went on for weeks until she came by and shyly waited to make the exchange. Every Saturday he’d do his best to tamp down his own yearnings because Katniss needed a friend. He made it his mission to befriend her. Like a flower blossoming she opened up to him.

Peeta remained tight lipped.

Mrs. Evangeline walked into the shop.

“Good Morning Mrs. Evangeline,” Peeta greeted, but he could see Norma Jean wanted to shove the nosy woman out of the bakery.

“Hello Peeta,” Mrs. Evangeline said with her list in hand. She nodded at Norma Jean. This morning Mrs. Evangeline was in battle mode. “I am in a rush this morning. I have to get to the butchers before the best cut of meat is taken,” she muttered.

“What can I help you with today?”

“My daughter is coming home with her new husband and I need her favorite bread, a baguette.”

“Oh yes, I remember Rosalee loves the sourdough with Mrs. Caries strawberry preserves.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Evangeline said. “May I also have a loaf of the sourdough?”

“Absolutely,” Peeta said.

“Thank you Peeta, you always remember everything,” Mrs. Evangeline gushed.

“It’s no problem,” Peeta smiled but he saw Norma Jean’s impatience.

“So, when you are due?” Mrs. Evangeline asked Norma Jean.

“Any day now,” Norma Jean answered.

Peeta bagged the baguettes and the loaf of Sourdough. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Evangeline. “How much?”

“Ten credits,” Peeta said.

Mrs. Evangeline took out her credits and paid Peeta. “Thank you and happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.”

“Thank you, you too.” Peeta waved as Mrs. Evangeline left.

“Finally,” Norma Jean exclaimed.

Peeta shrugged not wanting to give anything away.

“I thought she’d never leave,” Norma Jean huffed.

He feigned innocence.

“Okay hot stuff, what happened? And don’t spare any details. I know Katniss has been coming here every Saturday for the past three years.”

Norma Jean wasn’t wrong. Katniss had been coming to the bakery every Saturday. She’d knock on his door precisely at nine in the morning. They would talk and sometimes she’d linger to drink tea. Recently he began showing her some new recipe he’d been working on.

Peeta grabbed a cleanser and a squeegee and wiped down the counter.

“Uh-uh…none of those diversionary tactics!”

Peeta put his hands in the air.

“Go on, what happened?” Norma Jean fixed with him the mommy glare.

“We kissed,” Peeta whispered.

“What,” she screeched. “When?”

“Last week.”

“Okay, more!”

“Katniss came to the door, we traded, we drank tea. I introduced her to my newest creation. These cheese buns. And I saw that same sparkle in her eyes, as the night of the Fair. I do not exactly know how it happened. But we kissed.” How precisely their lips met Peeta was still fuzzy on that, but he did recall the desire and longing that shot through him like the fireworks that lit the sky at Thanksgiving. Her lips were soft and warm, and he marveled once more at the taste of wild berries, sweet and tart, crisp and delicious.

“Good for you,” Norma Jean said. “Are you guys going to talk today, going to, you know, talk about getting together?”

“I hope so. I’ve waited so long for her to see me, and not just as a friend.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Norma Jean said. Her eyes looked past him above him at the clock, and she groaned, picking up her packages. “I’m late, I have to drop this off at your mother’s house.”

“Good luck,” Peeta grinned.

“Nothing to it,” she rubbed her expanded belly. “Your mother is always rainbows and hearts when I’m pregnant. She keeps on expecting a girl. Sadly, I keep on producing strong Mellark men, much to your father’s delight. He loves his grandchildren. But not as much as your brother loves to keep me fat and round.”

“Norma Jean, you’re not fat,” Peeta replied.

“And that’s why my wife prefers you over me.” Graham came into the shop with his twin boys, one in each arm. Their other child was wrapped around his ankle.

Norma Jean patted Peeta’s hand. “Graham is the grouchy one and Rye is the wild one and you, Peeta are the good Mellark. You’re the hot goods every girl in District Twelve wants to get her grubby hands on, but only one can have.”

“Please don’t call my baby brother hot in front of me,” Graham whined.

Norma Jean grinned wickedly. “Sorry Graham we both know that even Rye with all of his wild ways isn’t as hot as Peeta.”

“Evil woman,” Graham said, handing one of his boys to Peeta.

“Hey buddy!” Peeta grabbed Malcom and tossed him in the air.

“Uncle Peeta,” his twin brother Marvin shouted. “Me, I’m next.”

Martin who was wrapped around Graham’s ankle popped up, “Me too, me too.”

Peeta loved his nephews.

“Boys,” Norma Jean said with that firm mommy voice they listened to.

“Yes mama?” All boys said with rapt attention.

“Your uncle is working. He will wrestle with you tomorrow,” Norma Jean said.

All three boys nodded their pale blue eyes wide with excitement.

“Here’s a cookie for each of you,” Peeta said, taking three plain cookies out. Norma and Graham were careful about the sugar the kids ate. “Why don’t you guys sit at the table and eat the cookies?”

All three of them scampered to the table and sat, eating.

“So if uncle Peeta comes over then maybe mommy and me can…”

“Nope,” Norma Jean said. “Peeta and mommy have serious girl stuff going on.”

“Seriously,” Graham settled his eyes on Peeta. “What the heck? What kind of pull do you have over the ladies?”

“I told you Peeta’s the hot one,” Norma Jean winked. But then placed a playful kiss on Graham’s lips.

Graham stared lovingly into Norma Jean’s eyes then turned to Peeta and playfully growled, “She’s mine, all mine.”

“I know,” Peeta shrugged. “Besides, she’s not my type.”

“I’m not,” Norma Jean said. Then she stood on tiptoe to place a small kiss on Graham’s chin. “If we leave the kids today at grampa’s, maybe we can have a private chat about my candy shop, after we close at noon?”

“Oh,” Graham said, his voice brightening.

Peeta was grossed out by the innuendo.

“Okay, Mellark Clan, march out,” Graham said. “We’re going to grandpa’s.”

The store emptied of his brother’s family, but then the customers came in filling the store for two solid hours. As the time neared 9 o’clock, Peeta started whistling.

Nothing could get him down.

He had the tea prepared, he had cream, and plenty of sugar. Peeta grimaced. How Katniss could drink her tea that way, he didn’t know, but Katniss loved her tea with loads of cream and sugar. He whistled as he wiped down the display cases.

He looked at the clock, 9 o’clock. His gut twisted, anticipating her soft knock. But it didn’t come. He put his cloth away and walked to the back door.

He opened the door looking to see if he could spot her trademark bag or braided hair. He worried something was wrong. Katniss wouldn’t have stayed away. He knew kissing her could have been a mistake and maybe she was regretting the kiss. Peeta shook his head. This was different. Something felt off and he didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t put his finger on it either.

Peeta looked at the clock, she was fifteen minutes late. Katniss was never late; she was alway punctual. He was truly worried, maybe she’d gotten into another argument with her mother over her single status. Mrs. Everdeen was dogged in her search for a husband for Katniss. All of the men Mrs. Everdeen picked for Katniss were strong minded individuals. Men who liked to be in charge. Peeta chuckled, Katniss didn’t need a domineering guy. Anyone with her same fire would cause them both to combust.

These four years Peeta had gotten to know Katniss, and from what he gleaned she needed someone who treated her as equal or someone to balance her fire. Someone who understood the value of partnership. Peeta hoped he was that man for her.

He once more looked at the clock and another five minutes went by. Foreboding crept inside of his being, causing the hairs of his neck to stand on end. The last time he felt that was right before the fire. Something was wrong.

“Where are you, Kat?” Peeta asked. He had half a mind to close the shop and walk to her home in the Seam.

The bell to the front door rang. He sighed then went to the front. Though his mind was made up, he was going to close up shop and head to the Seam as soon as he finished with the patron waiting for him.

“Dad?”

“Son,” his father glanced at him and there was concern in his eyes.

His father hardly came to the bakery now that he had retired. His parents moved to a house just outside the central market. His father enjoyed gardening and canning. He enjoyed his little group of other gardeners. His mother didn’t like the sedate life but she didn’t really have much of a say.

“What’s going on dad?”

“I came to check on you,” his father searched his eyes.

“Dad, you’re acting weird,” Peeta said, frowning.

His father was uneasy, his feet shifted, his hands were buried deep in his pocket, and there was something about the way that his dad looked at him reminded Peeta of the day that his dad sat him down and talked about what it meant to be the third son of a baker. It was one of the hardest conversations they’d ever had. Peeta loved the bakery, loved the smell of yeast, and yes even though he didn’t like the heat, he loved the smell of the hot ovens. There was something immensely enjoyable about seeing the awe and wonder in a customer’s face when he delivered a cake for a special occasion.

He hoped one day to see that same awe and wonder in Katniss’ face, if he could only find her talk to her.

His father cleared his throat.

“What is it dad?” Peeta said, walking to the shop door and flipping the sign from open to close. He closed the door. Peeta squared his shoulders waiting for whatever news his father had for him.

“Son,” his father drifted off. He closed his eyes then said, “…it’s about Katniss…”

“What about Katniss,” Peeta couldn’t believe how calm his voice was. He should have been freaking out. His father knew how important Katniss was to him, though he didn’t know the extent of their friendship.

“She’s been arrested.”

That feeling in his gut that told him Katniss wasn’t okay, caused Peeta’s senses to sharpen. He needed to help her get out of trouble. He stalked to the cash register as if it was his mortal enemy, opening the drawer he took out all of the credits and emptied it into a bag. “I’m going to Darius; what’s her bail?”

“She was caught last night in the middle of the night, with squirrels, poaching.”

Peeta’s heart stopped beating. She’d been hunting for him. At least now he knew Katniss wasn’t running from him. His mind quickly formulated a plan. He walked to the back and put his coat on. As he walked, he talked, “Fine I can talk to Haymitch, tell him why.”

“Son,” his father’s grave voice let Peeta know there was more. His father put his hands on his shoulder. Peeta was still. He didn’t want to know more but he knew he needed to listen. “Her mother.”

“What has she done now?” Peeta didn’t wait; he shook his head. “No, I need to see Haymitch.” Peeta ran out of the back door and speedily ran to the Justice Building. He tore up the stairs taking them two at a time. She’d spent the night in jail.

He didn’t even bother talking to Haymitch’s assistant Anna.

“Mr. Mellark, you can’t go in there,” Anna stood.

Peeta had never been uncourteous to anyone. He was always kind, always aware of other’s feelings. It’s why his mother thought him soft, but he wasn’t really. Not when it came to Katniss. He loved her, and for Katniss he would give up his life.

“Anna,” Peeta growled, and her eyes opened wide as if she’d encountered a feral beast in the meadow.

She stepped to the side.

Peeta barged right through into Haymitch’s office. The last time he’d been here he was eighteen. Desperate to help Katniss. He wasn’t a kid anymore; he was a man, a man who was willing to move heaven and earth for the woman he loved.

Haymitch had a drink on his desk, and an opened bottle. Another was tossed into the waste paper basket. His office smelled of malt whisky and white liquor. Peeta hadn’t seen Haymitch drunk in years. Not since he was fifteen. His eyes swept the room and he noted Haymitch was not alone.

Mrs. Everdeen and her sister Primrose stood in a corner. Mrs. Everdeen looked surprised to see him. Her pale blue eyes were like stones in a river, hard and cold. Her sister Primrose stood away from her mother. Her arms clamped around her middle. Her eyes were red rimmed and her nose was bright red. The rest of her, her face, hands, and legs looked pale, ashen really.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to get here,” Haymitch rasped gruffly.

“Where’s Katniss?” he demanded.

“Boy, sit, have a drink,” Haymitch said, pointing to the two chairs in front of his desk.

“No, where’s Katniss and how much to bail her out?”

Haymitch rubbed his face. “When I took this job on I did it because I knew that the people didn’t trust Cray or any Head Peacekeepers to make the laws just. I set up this position for each district so that they could have one of their own to make decisions on their cases. I specifically set it up with loopholes so that no party could have the ultimate power over the other.”

Haymitch gave Mrs. Everdeen a scathing look.

Mrs. Everdeen lifted her nose. “I only did what was right. She was poaching.” Her voice was filled with indignation, as if she couldn’t understand why she was being reprimanded.

“Eudora, what you did was send an innocent girl into hell because of your stupid pride. You’re no better than the folks that tossed you out into the street when you chose to marry Jack,” Haymitch barked.

Peeta noted how Eudora blinked and her eyes flickered with momentary pain before they went back to that cool indifference. Katniss had a similar look, but unlike Mrs. Everdeen’s which held no personality depth, Katniss’ look always showed a small bit of vulnerability, compassion, fiery resistance and some trace of emotion. Peeta could spend a lifetime examining Katniss’ smallest gestures.

“What happened, Haymitch, where’s Katniss?”

“I don’t see why he should be here,” Eudora said coolly.

“He has every right to be here,” Haymitch said, standing up. “That boy is the one fella your daughter loves.”

Eudora’s eyes widened with shock and she looked at Peeta, really looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. She shook her head, “No, not him, she doesn’t love him. She doesn’t even know him.”

“She does, mama,” Primrose said.

“Katniss was caught poaching for me,” Peeta said quietly. “Every Saturday she comes to my shop and we trade, and talk…” Peeta looked at Haymitch, “Where is she? I need to see her?”

Her mother suddenly looked pale.

“Eudora tipped Darius about Katniss poaching on Fridays late in the evening. I guess she thought Darius wasn’t going to do anything and filed a complaint to Panem’s Bureau of Justice. It got to Crane; that bastard ordered me to hand her over for justice.”

“No,” Peeta roared. He stood up, his eyes landing on Mrs. Everdeen. Prim stood at his side.

“No,” Prim said quietly.

His hands were stretched out resting on Mrs. Everdeen’s neck.

“Boy,” Haymitch ordered.

Mrs. Everdeen’s eyes were wider than saucers. Her body trembled underneath his fingers. There were horror stories about landing in the clutches of Seneca Crane. “Do you realize Katniss can be killed because she was bringing me squirrels.” His voice cracked. Tears stung his eyes. He let go of Mrs. Everdeen and sat in the chair.

“Momma, you’d done wrong.”

“Primrose, I wasn’t going to let her stop you from marrying. I wasn’t going to let her…”

“MOMMA!” Primrose squeaked.

Mrs. Everdeen became quiet.

“If you bothered to get to know Katniss, you would know that she would never stop me from getting married if that’s what I wanted. You would know that all Katniss wants is for me to be happy. Yes, I got mad at her for walking in on me and Vick.” Prim stopped, wiping the tears from her face. “But I know she did it because she loves me and she did not want me to foolishly get pregnant.” Prim squared her shoulders.

Peeta raised an eyebrow; he’d never seen this side to Katniss’ sister. Prim was a sweet girl, innocent, loving and caring. The girl before him had grit and integrity, something she learned from Katniss. Prim leveled a look at her mother before turning to look at Peeta.

“Yesterday she said she knew what it was like to get carried away in the arms of a man that loved you so much it hurt. She knew what it was like to give into pleasure so deep without thought of the future. She told me she didn’t want me to go through the worry of a pregnancy scare.”

Peeta’s hands gripped the arm of the chair he sat in. Katniss thought she was pregnant. He could just imagine her terror. He thought she’d been avoiding him because of the fire; he didn’t know it was because she didn’t know if they’d made a baby together. Katniss was right to be scared. They weren’t ready back then. He had no future and she still had her sister to rear. He looked up to Prim and nodded acknowledging her words.

“You and Katniss,” her mother sounded brittle.

“No Momma, don’t redirect; look at me,” Prim ordered.

Mrs. Everdeen looked at her youngest daughter.

“If you would have taken the time to get to know your eldest daughter, you’d know she sacrificed herself for me. I made her promise me that after I graduated that she would follow her dreams. Katniss promised me,” Prim looked at Peeta. “She’d promised me she’d talk to you, Peeta.”

“I,” Mrs. Everdeen said.

“Katniss helped me, after I graduate, I was going to go to District 3. Dr. Jensen helped me get into an accelerated course in medicine. Everything is set up.” Prim’s voice sounded watery, she had tears running down her face. “Now I can’t go knowing my sister is in the hands of that butcher.”

Mrs. Everdeen flinched.

Peeta stood and gently held Prim in his arms as she cried. “I don’t understand how you could do this to Katniss. I don’t understand how you could betray her when all she’s ever done is to put food on your table and keep a roof over your head. She is the most selfless person. The most loyal. All Katniss has ever done is tried to protect her family, yet you betrayed her.”

“I did it for her own good. I didn’t betray her.” Mrs. Everdeen stood straighter. “This new regime, it may not last forever. There are men like Seneca Crane out there who are vying for power. What if one of them becomes president and then we end up worse? Katniss is a foolish child. I had to do what I thought was best for Katniss, and taking away her ability to hunt was the only way I could think of to get her to think…to see how dangerous this world was.”

“What you did was feed her to the wolves,” Peeta spat. “They called my mother the witch, but you lady, you are a cold hearted bitch.”

Mrs. Everdeen’s eyes became colder. “Primrose we are leaving.”

“No momma,” Prim said, shaking her head. “I’m not going back to that house. I’m gonna to do everything in my power for my sister.”

“How long?” Peeta asked Haymich.

“A year,” Haymitch sighed. He looked tired and drained as he spoke, “Maybe less for good behavior.”

“Where?” Peeta asked.

“District Two.”

Hope bloomed in Peeta’s chest. “My brother is in District 2, maybe he can watch out for Katniss, keep an eye on her, and make sure nothing happens to her.”

“You think Rye would do that?”

“Yeah, he would,” Peeta said. Then he turned to Haymitch and asked, “What happens when… if she gets out for good behavior?”

“If Crane’s people let her go for good behavior, and I doubt it’ll happen, Katniss will be paroled and required to work the rest of her sentence.”

“I want her assigned to me. She can work off the rest of her parole in my bakery. She can live under my roof and I can take care of her.”

“Okay I can do that.” Haymitch sat down at his desk. He pushed the bottle and the glass into the waste paper basket. He took out a form.

“Wait, what’s going on,” Mrs. Everdeen said.

“There’s no way I’m going to give up on Katniss. When she gets out of there she’s going to need a home, a place where she can be safe, and know that she’s wanted and loved.”

“What will your mother say?”

“My mother has no decision in the bakery or how it’s run. The bakery became mine last year when my father and Rye signed it over to me. Believe me, I’m going to make a Katniss campaign and when she comes back everyone in town will welcome her with open arms.”

“Haymitch,” Prim said, stepping out of Peeta’s arms. She sat in the chair facing his desk. “You said Seneca might not let her be released for good behavior. Does that mean he will make sure that she serves out her full sentence?’

“Yes, that rat bastard makes all of his victims pay.” Haymitch set the paperwork aside. His eyes though, were churning as if he was working on a puzzle.

“Then how can we make sure, or what can we do to make certain Crane has to shorten my sister’s sentence?” Prim asked on the edge of her chair.

“What are you thinking about?” Peeta asked, sitting down in the empty chair.

Haymitch opened his drawer and pulled out a slim electronic device. Because District 12 was the outlying district, and it was the poorest one, it dealt mostly with papers. However, there were things that needed to be done with the fancy electronics that the Capitol favored.

Peeta had a computer at the bakery, it was one of the first things he splurged on. It helped him maintain his accounting and supplies. It also was a way for him to get incontact with his brother in District Two.

“This is a computer, and it contains all of the bylaws of Panem. When we set up the justice system, I wanted to make sure there was a catch. Our newly appointed President Paylor helped come up with this. I had forgotten about it until this moment, Prim.”

“What is it?” Prim asked, voicing what Peeta was asking himself.

“Ha!” Haymitch said triumphantly. “There is a clause in the law that stipulates that family members can step in and volunteer for family in case they unjustly fall into the hands of Panem’s Bureau of Justice. Your sister was caught with two squirrels at the time she was caught poaching. Now poaching is a serious offense. But squirrel hunting is completely legal. In fact it just happens to be hunting season for the little critters.”

“So in reality all Katniss did was get caught crossing the fence,” Peeta said.

“And that is a lesser offence than poaching.” Haymitch turned to Primrose. “Which means that her conviction is unjust and a family member can volunteer to work some of her time off here in the district. If someone volunteers, Katniss’ hard labor sentence will be cut in half, but she’ll still have to be paroled.”

“Six months of labor?” Prim whispered, before looking to Haymitch and asking. “Will I be able to finish school?”

“I don’t see why not, we just need someone to take you in for six months for you to work for them for free.”

“No,” Mrs. Everdeen said.

“I’m seventeen Momma, well past the age of consent in Panem,” Prim said.

“I forbade you,” Mrs. Everdeen said, stomping her foot.

“Haymitch, I volunteer for my sister. I volunteer to work off of her debt.”

“YOU CAN’T!”

Prim turned to her mother. “This is all your doing Momma, if you’d let Katniss alone, she’d be with Peeta now talking about the future. Talking to the man she loved about a toasting, children, everything she denied herself for a long time. But you wanted to punish her. You wanted to punish her for looking like Papa, for being his daughter. For always doing the right thing even if it meant going against your archaic wishes. Now you will take the punishment the way I am sure Katniss took hers, with dignity.” Turning to Haymitch Prim said, “Where do I sign?”

Mrs. Everdeen cried, and ran out of the room.

Peeta turned to Prim. “Will she be alright?”

“No,” Prim said. “But Katniss was right; our mother is selfish. I didn’t see it until now. She thinks what she did is justified, that she did the right thing. But she didn’t and now it’s up to us to save Katniss.”

“You’re a lot like her,” Peeta said.

“Thank you, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Prim said.

“I think we need to get my sister-in-law,” Peeta said to Haymitch.

“Norma Jean,” Haymitch said.

My sister-in-law is pregnant with her fourth child. She said she is ready to give birth any time. Anyways, her sister Virginia’s getting married in a month to Jason Swanson, the railroad engineer’s son. Once she gets married, she’s going to work full time there, which means my brother will be alone in the store. They’re going to need help, and I know Norma Jean would never treat you poorly. She’s the only one I trust to help out. My brother Graham will pretty much do anything Norma Jean says.”

“Anne,” Haymitch barked.

Anne walked in, “Yes, Mr. Abernathy?”

“Go have one of Darius’ do-gooders get Peeta’s brother and sister-in-law here,” Haymitch grabbed another piece of paper. “We’re going to save Sweetheart’s butt.”

Peeta sat back, but he knew the battle was far from over. That night he called his brother. His brother was like him, but his features weren’t as soft. His face was angular, and his blonde hair was darker and it was curlier, though you couldn’t tell since he was sporting a buzz cut.

“Hey Peeta,”

“Rye I need…”

“Don’t I know. I heard about Katniss. It’s all everyone is talking about. The girl whose mother betrayed her for you. I’m kind of a celebrity now.”

“You saw her?”

“No, she’s been put deep in the tunnels. The star squad is so deep they don’t surface for months at a time. Communication down there is only done when necessary.”

“Will you keep me apprised if you do see her, take care of her for me?” Peeta asked.

Rye nodded then he said, “Did Graham really say yes to Primrose staying with him?”

“Yeah,” Peeta smiled ruefully. He was tired and he wished he could have done more.

“Huh, was it Norma Jean?”

“No, he volunteered when he heard what happened to Katniss, before I could even ask.”

“Really, I guess he’s not like mom.”

“Nope, if he were like mom he would have married Esme Smith.”

Rye laughed. “I forgot about Esme; man you know she popped my cherry.”

“Rye, really, I don’t need to know your escapades,” Peeta joked but it didn’t reach his eyes. Rye was trying to make him feel better, but it wasn’t working.

“Look Peeta, I know Katniss is your girl, and I promise, in fact all of the guys in my squad, in all of the squads know how special she is, they told me if they’ll take care of her.”

“Except for the guys working under Crane,” Peeta muttered. He closed his eyes. He wanted to punch the wall, wanted to scream.

“Just hang in there, Katniss is strong, she’s tough. For any girl of twelve to brave the forest and hunt animals with the threat of predatory beasts to put food on the table, that takes bigger balls than I have.”

“Thanks Rye,” Peeta whispered.

“I’ve got to go, but maybe the next time tell Graham that what he did for Prim was great.”

“I will.”

The communication went off. Peeta sighed and leaned back. He looked up at the darkened sky just beyond his bedroom window. “Hang in there Katniss. Please hang in there,” he whispered brokenly.

A lot of things could happen in six months. Katniss could be beaten mercilessly. She could be raped by one of the prisoners or even by a sadistic guard. She could catch a disease and die. The fear he’d been fighting threaded through him and for the first time in all of his life he was unsure of the future. Sleep was not an option for him tonight and he couldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow. Not with the love of his life in some hellhole beneath the earth.

Getting up, he began to clean and sometime around midnight he decided to make bread for the children tomorrow; that would keep his mind occupied. The next six months were going to be the hardest of his life.

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #autumn #autumn 2020 #mega-aulover #submission #prompt

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sondepoch · 4 years

Text

1 Day Before Rebellion

All Hail (Diavolo x Reader)

The current ruling class is brutal. Draconian. Tyrannical. Every demon who has sat the throne for the past ninety thousand years has brought nothing but hardship to the Devildom—something Diavolo and his father intend to remedy by seizing power as leaders of the Resistance. When Diavolo happens to come across the princess of the Devildom, he’s overjoyed. He sees you as an opportunity, a sign from a higher power that his cause is just; and he plans to use you as a pawn in his Rebellion. But life rarely goes as planned, especially in Hell. And when Diavolo realizes that he’s falling in love with you, things suddenly feel a lot more complicated than they used to be.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

MASTERLIST

All you can think about is Diavolo.

And the overwhelming stench of blood that lingers in the air.

You swallow thickly and study the arena, gripping the edge of your bench in hopes that the action will soothe the sick feeling in your stomach.

Have the cage fights always been this bloody?

You toy with the question in your mind, struggling to come up with an answer. It's been nearly half a year since you last visited one of these underground rings—you've been using your free time on Diavolo instead, these past few months—and your memories are foggy. The only proper thing you remember is how savagely the Victor had assaulted Diavolo the night you met, and how this season doesn't seem to be any less violent.

"It's okay," You mumble to no one, forcing yourself to heed the words. You have to be calm. Diavolo has enough to worry about without knowing that you're terrified to the core on the benches. "He's going to be okay."

But no matter how many times your mind whispers that your lover will be fine, your heart beats a different rhythm.

"And now, we have the first of our competitors for the fourth round of combat! On one side of the cage, we have the second-place semifinalist from last season's tournament! And on the other side, we have a total newbie, calling themselves the Fists of Purgatory! Let the fight begin!"

You wince as the two fighters start for each other, a shudder running up your spine when the unfamiliar men grab at each other's throats.

There isn't an ounce of restraint in the way their fists swing. These men are making use of sick lack of rules for these underground fights. They have nothing to hold them back, and their fists are flying wild, blood already spilling onto the floor.

They're fighting to kill.

You shiver, gripping the bench tighter.

Diavolo told you not to come. He knew that seeing these fights wouldn't be good for you. That you're already worrying enough about how he'll fare when he inevitably goes against the Victor, and that this will do nothing but further your concerns.

At the time, you whacked him on the head and told him not to be ridiculous. You'd been sneaking out to watch cage fights for years, and the violence had only unnerved you once or twice.

But now?

Every demon who gets injured takes the face of Diavolo. And when the stronger demon in the ring grabs the weaker one by the neck and bashes his head against the wall, it's Diavolo's face you imagine being brutalized.

The very thought makes everything so much worse.

"And we have a winner! In record time of just forty-two seconds, our semifinalist from last year advances to the fifth round! Check back in two hours to find out if our losing demon is truly dead, or if he's simply unconscious. And now, onto the next set of competitors—"

You tune the announcer out, standing abruptly. Diavolo defeated his opponent for this round a long time ago; he won't be fighting for another half hour, at the very least.

But a voice pulls your attention away.

"Where are you going, miss?"

Your eyes dart down to the man sitting next to you, surprised to find him looking up at you in an expression of curiosity. You can't see his face, given that his mask covers everything except his eyes, but you're positive that there's a smile on his face as he speaks.

"A-ah," You mumble, feeling caught off guard. It's rare for people to speak to each other during these fights. Most conversations happen between those who already know each other, and the rest simply wear their masks in silence, guarding their anonymity like it's the only treasure they possess. This may just be the first time someone has spoken to you from within the stands. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to disturb your view of the fighters. It's just that I was feeling rather lightheaded, so I was hoping to get some fresh air outside. If you don't mind, might I go past you?"

"I see," The demon responds, looking thoughtful. "I have no qualms with letting you past, miss, but would you entertain the notion of me joining you? These fights have been rather boring, after all, and I also would like a change in scenery."

"Of course, Sir!" You exclaim instantly, your princessly instincts taking over as you accept the man's courteous invitation. You wince a little on the inside, abruptly realizing that this might not have been the best idea, especially given the shadiness of all things and people tied to these underground cage fights—but you're confident in your strength, so if this mysterious man tries anything, you're positive that you'll be able to defend yourself.

"Let us go," The man responds with a twinkle in his eye, extending his arm to you. Without a moment's hesitation, you take it, masking all your inner reservations as the two of you walk in line until you're outdoors.

"Ahh," You whisper the moment you've stepped outside. The cool wind rushes through your body like a tidal wave, and you're overcome with the urge to rip your clay mask off to feel the breeze against your face, but you resist it. "It's much more pleasant out here. Wouldn't you agree, Sir?"

"Indeed. Perhaps we ought to recommend that these cage fights be held outdoors instead. I can never sit through a full night of watching without sneaking out to the balconies at least once."

The man lets out a low chuckle, and you can't help but think that the sound is awfully similar to Diavolo's laugh. Of course, this man is nothing like your lover, his stature built smaller and leaner—but a quiet voice at the back of your mind tells you that there are more similarities between them. Perhaps the way they walk or the aura that hovers over them—but something about this man distinctly reminds you of Diavolo.

You study him from the corner of your eye.

Now that the two of you are outside, you can properly see the demon. The moon watches over the two of you, illuminating the green hair that peeks out from behind his mask, curtained just behind a bright patch of turquoise that hangs off one side of his face.

Lovely, you can't help but think.

The boldness of the green reminds you of Diavolo's own fiery reds.

"What brings you to these cage fights, Sir?" You try to start a conversation, breaking the silence of the night.

"Boredom, I suppose. Though on occasion, it is duty that calls." The man muses. "I often tell myself that I come to watch the fighters fight. The tides of the realm are ever-changing, and it's crucial for us commonfolk to know where the power lies in the underground. Other times, I come on the orders of the man I owe fealty to. He enjoys learning about new combat techniques."

"And tonight?" You keep your tone light, almost teasing.

"I'm here to visit a friend and an enemy."

The demon doesn't say anything after that.

"I see," You murmur, bringing a hand to your face, pushing your mask further up so that it doesn't impair your vision. "I hope happiness finds your friend and that vengeance is delivered for your enemy. May the lords of Hell see your wishes true."

"Thank you, miss." The demon takes another step forward, bringing you both so close to the balcony that the loose fabric of your commoner's robe touches it. "And what brings you here? You do not seem the type to view violence for the entertainment of it."

A light laugh leaves your throat at that, awkward at the realization that this man saw how unnerved you were. It's wholly unbefitting of a demon to flinch at the sight of blood—but you couldn't help yourself. The very thought of Diavolo being hurt sends a chill down your spine.

"I'm also here for a friend. In case he gets hurt."

"I see. Do you worry that he will be defeated?"

"Oh no. Not at all. If I'm being perfectly candid, Sir, I'm quite confident that he'll make it to the finals. It's simply that I fear he may get injured in the process. I spent a rather long time healing him before, you see, so I'd rather not have him get hurt again."

"A noble sentiment. You must be a healer, then." The demon's words are even, and you abruptly realize your mistake.

"Y-yes," You mumble instantly, hoping that he won't press on the subject. Only royalty has access to medicines and most healing products; nearly all healers have been driven out of business by your family's laws. If the man asks a single question, you know all too well that your lying skills will be no defense.

You draw your hands into fists as subtly as you can, already preparing to knock him out.

"If I know your profession, I suppose it's only fair that you know mine." You blink as the man skips over your words entirely, not a single word of doubt crossing his lips.

"Which is?" You press, eager to move on from the topic of your own supposed occupation.

"A butler."

You blink.

"A butler?" You ask, trying to confirm what you heard.

"A butler."

You nod your head slowly, forcing yourself to process the words. A butler, you think, squinting at the demon from the corner of your eye. Only the royal palace and the highest-ranking nobles have butlers—nearly all commoners are either too poor or too oppressed to have any—but you're positive you've never seen this man in your life. Namely, you've never seen that patch of teal before, the only distinctive feature you can identify when this demon's face is hidden by his mask.

"I see," You mumble after a long time. "That's quite fascinating, Sir."

"Is it? A butler's duty is hardly anything special. I'm sure that healers are much more interesting. Especially given the condition of the medical markets. It must be quite the journey, obtaining all the materials you need for your work."

"Do you truly think so?" You laugh awkwardly, beginning to sense an edge to the butler's voice. Was it always there? "The underground markets have everything, Sir. Even those which the imperial palace has denied to the commoners."

"I did not know that, miss." The butler looks at you from behind his mask, and suddenly his deep green eyes no longer seem casual. His gaze is dark, as if he's seeing into your very soul. "Despite all my connections, I can't think of a single demon who has received any medical supplies in a millennium. You simply must tell me where you're buying your goods from."

The shrewd, calculating look in the butler's eye sharpens, and now it feels like he's no longer staring into your soul but surveying its contents, analyzing every truth you have hidden away.

It sends a jolt of fear straight to your heart.

"I'm getting rather cold, Sir," You deflect, hoping that your nervousness doesn't seep into your voice. You were confident before that you could defeat this man if the situation called for it, but you're beginning to have doubts now that you can feel how sturdy his grip on your arm is. "Might we go inside?"

"Of course, miss."

Abruptly, the greens of his eyes lose their scrutinous edge and fade into a softer tone.

You instinctively relax.

A voice at the back of your mind whispers that maybe it was all your imagination. Your paranoia at being found out. Your fear for Diavolo infecting all else, causing you to view everyone and everything through a lens of skepticism.

But when you glance at the butler on your right, your eyes glazing over his features once more, you're certain that you didn't imagine that cunning gaze. You may have read too deeply into his words and overanalyzed actions, but that look he gave you was real.

And it was terrifying.

"Oh my," The demon murmurs, though the surprise in his voice sounds fake. "It would appear that we missed quite a few matches."

You blink in surprise, your eyes flying to the far wall where the winners from each block are drawn up. Your eyes widen when you realize that the fifth column is almost completely filled, only the bottom bracket left without a clear winner.

The man at your side pulls you forward, walking you back to your seat, and you squint to make out the figures in the cage below.

Alas, it seems that the two of you are late even for this fight, and it's clear that the battle is over. One demon stands over the other, the standing demon's foot hovering just above the weaker's stomach in a silent threat as to what will happen if surrender isn't swift and immediate.

The demon on top presses his foot down a little further, now touching skin, and his eyes take on an intimidating glint, burning bright with the adrenaline of combat—and then the demon beneath him has raised a hand with four fingers extended in surrender, and the round is complete.

The winner withdraws immediately, stepping back as the crowd rises to their feet with the ringing of bells, everyone elated at the realization that the first night is over.

But then, the demon looks up. Up at the crowd. Up at you. And your eyes widen, because you recognize those eyes.

His mask hides his face well, and his outfit is different than anything you've ever seen. But you know that shade of red too well.

Diavolo.

But as you watch the demon raise his fist, egged on by the cheers of the crowd, a small part of you think that this isn't quite the Diavolo you know. That this man, with such a dark glint in his eyes, is as unfamiliar to you as the butler you met outside.

You shake the thought from your mind, forcing yourself to applaud with the audience as you stand in congratulations and try not to think about the look in Diavolo's eyes.

It must have been your imagination.

Diavolo's training room stinks of sweat, blood, and grime.

The sweat is Diavolo's own—one can hardly participate in a cage fight and not expect a little perspiration.

The blood is of his enemies; not a single one has been able to land a clean hit on him, though their ichor paints his knuckles as a reminder of every punch he's delivered today, every punch you taught him to deliver.

But the grime?

The grime is an entirely different story.

The grime has been in this room from the very start. The grime is a reminder, a filthy, disgraceful reminder of the overwhelming loss Diavolo suffered at the hands of the Victor in the previous season. The grime is a message from those running the cage fights that Diavolo means nothing to them, that they see no potential in him. The grime is an outright insult, not an ounce of subtlety, claiming that he doesn't even have the right to a clean room like his competitors.

In this awful, disgusting room, Diavolo hardly cares about how the towels on the floor are covered in dried blood and sweat.

No, it's the grime that disturbs him.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance, yanking his shirt off and throwing it into a locker, one of the only things in this room that isn't downright filthy. At this point, he just wants to change as fast as possible and wrap you in his arms, showering you in kisses and affection.

Of course, the world never gives Diavolo what he wants.

"There you are."

The demon freezes, his eyes widening. Impossible, he thinks. There's no way…

Diavolo turns around slowly, eyes round in disbelief as he casts a glance behind his shoulder—and sure enough, there stands the demon butler that has been by his side for so many centuries.

"Barbatos," He whispers softly, turning around.

"My lord."

The butler smiles cryptically, but Diavolo knows him well enough to see the quiet happiness that lurks in the greens, pushed far back but still not far enough.

The men stare at each other for a moment, eyes communicating everything that words cannot—and instantly, they understand each other's stories. Barbatos sees the trouble Diavolo has been facing for months on end, the struggle of love and obligation, battling each other eternally in the back of the future prince's mind. Diavolo, in turn, realizes how much his friend seems to have aged over the course of these past months, a soft sympathy settling into his eyes when he considers just how much Barbatos must have been working in preparation for Rebellion, his workload nearly doubled since Diavolo hasn't been there to help him.

The demons stare at each other for a beat longer, eyes searching for anything that might have been missed—and then the moment has passed, the spell broken. Barbatos steps forward, and Diavolo turns around fully.

"It has been too long," The redhead murmurs, leaning back against a wall.

"Indeed. But there is no time to speak, my lord."

"Oh?" Diavolo's lips curve into a frown. A bitterness settles in his heart, the abrupt realization: Ah yes, you fool. What did you expect? Barbatos is here for one reason, and one reason alone.

"Tell me," He grunts with as much politeness as he can muster, continuing to dress. "What is so urgent that you couldn't use magic to speak with me?"

"It is not a matter of magic. I am here to fight you."

"Excuse me?"

Diavolo stares dumbly at the butler, wondering if he misheard the man. But the utterly serious look in Barbatos's eyes leaves no room for confusion, and the demon is positive that he did not misspeak.

"Barbatos, why would you ever want to—"

Diavolo can't even finish his sentence before the demon is attacking him, swift punches being thrown left, right, and center as the redhead scrambles back in defense.

"Barbatos!" He shouts, desperately scrambling around the tiny room as he evades the butler's kicks. "What are you doing?! This is madness!"

But the butler pays him no heed, only continuing to throw a flurry of attacks that Diavolo scrambles to avoid. "I order you!" He tries, eyes wide in alarm. "As your liege lord's son, I order you to stop!" Yet Diavolo has no authority over the teal-haired demon, for the butler works for his father, not him, and it's hardly long before Barbatos has begun to wear the redhead down, the abrupt assault after a long night of nonstop fighting forcing Diavolo's hand.

He grunts in anger as he begins to fight back, no longer dodging Barbatos's kicks but countering them with his own, red eyes narrowing in an odd mix of fury and confusion as he begins returning attacks.

Within minutes, the two are genuinely sparring and giving it their all in the small space, Diavolo panting and shirtless as he throws what little strength he has left at the butler and Barbatos only mildly disheveled as he continues to attack.

Diavolo is practically gasping for air by the time he finally traps Barbatos against a locker, slamming the demon against it with enough force to kill, though the demon of time looks wholly unaffected by the motion. Fighting Barbatos is nothing like fighting you—you, at the very least, have the graciousness to warn Diavolo before you start. And when you punch, there isn't the risk of shattering bone.

Diavolo grabs the butler by the collar and uses what little magic he knows to trap the demon in place, holding him still even as he stumbles back and collapses against the other side of the wall.

"Good," Barbatos blurts, abruptly freeing himself of Diavolo's magic. "That was very well-fought, my lord."

"What?" Diavolo snaps, and this time, he's genuinely irritated. He raises his fists in preparation to fight once more, but the butler waves him away.

"Your father wished for me to come and test the extent of your skills. Indeed, you have improved as much as you claimed to have. I assume that this was not your full strength, given that you've spent the greater majority of the night fighting other demons in cages, but you do indeed have the potential to defeat the Victor."

"You...were testing me?" Diavolo asks suspiciously, eyebrows still furrowed.

"Yes, my lord."

The redhead groans.

"Why couldn't you have just said that, Barbatos?" Diavolo runs a hand through his hair, noting with frustration that it's damp with sweat once more.

"Why, that would have taken all the fun out of it, wouldn't you agree?" The butler smiles his usual cryptic smile. To anyone else, it looks ominous. Cold. Maybe even scary. But Diavolo can see the childlike amusement that curves the butler's lips upward, the man almost giddy with satisfaction after his little stunt.

"Thank you for that," Diavolo blurts sarcastically, reaching for a towel. He tries not to think about the fact that he'll have to wash up all over again.

"You're welcome, my lord. At the same time, however, we do have urgent matters to discuss." Diavolo arches an eyebrow. "The princess."

He sighs.

Whatever illusions he may have harbored about Barbatos's sudden appearance are shattered the moment those words leave the demon's lips. Hearing them from another Resistance member makes the situation feel so much more dire, so much more real.

So much more urgent.

"Say what you need to," Diavolo mumbles, keeping his eyes low.

"I met her."

Diavolo’s eyes narrow.

"Barbatos, do not—"

"I did not do anything to her, my lord. We merely had a conversation. A rather brief one, at that. Do not look at me like that. It was entirely unplanned. I might not have even spoken to her if she didn't appear so nervous during the cage fights."

"She was nervous?" Diavolo interrupts, eyebrows raised. You had assured him time and time again that this wouldn't be a problem, that you wouldn't be uncomfortable with watching him fight.

"She was trembling, my lord."

Diavolo clicks his tongue in aggravation. "I told her it wouldn't be a good idea…"

"No matter. There were no bystanders around us when we spoke, so you do not need to worry for her safety. Though I must say, you were right about her utter inability to lie." A ghost of a smile appears on Barbatos's face. "It was almost enjoyable to watch her attempt to deceive me."

"Quiet, Barbatos," Diavolo warns sharply, though there's no real edge to his voice. He leans back, a soft smile dancing on his lips as his mind fills with pictures of you. "But what did you think of her? You must understand what I mean now, don't you? She's genuinely good, Barbatos. I'm certain that if we introduce her to Father, he'll realize that she's nothing like the family she hails from, and—"

"My lord."

Barbatos shakes his head disapprovingly.

"You are beyond the age of fairy tales. There is no happy ending for this princess, no matter how much you like her."

And with those words, Diavolo completely deflates.

His shoulders drop and he turns around, quietly knowing better than to argue with the butler when he speaks these truths. But when Barbatos sees Diavolo dressing so sullenly, he's reminded not of the future prince he will one day serve but is instead brought to thoughts of the past: a time where he and Diavolo were nothing but casual friends, a time when Diavolo had the luxury to pout like this and do nothing but brood.

"She does—" Barbatos clears his throat uncomfortably, not used to speaking of people in this way. "I did not mean to invalidate your feelings, my lord. She does have a...strange sort of charm. And there is...a certain...kindness, ahem, that one might find in her."

"There is, isn't there?" Diavolo pauses in buttoning his shirt to cast a wistful glance at his friend—and for a moment, Barbatos shudders, because the look that Diavolo wears as he thinks of you is pure love. "She's absolutely amazing in every regard. You can't help but be drawn to her. No matter how you try to fight it. Which is why I truly believe that if we introduce her to Father, we—"

Barbatos cuts Diavolo off abruptly, raising a hand.

The redhead quiets instantly, already prepared for his butler to launch into another lecture about how ridiculous it is that Diavolo is even entertaining these notions in his mind—but then he sees the alarmed look in his butler's eye, and Barbatos drops his voice to a whisper.

"I must leave, my lord." Barbatos sounds panicked, rushed as he mumbles words out while glancing at the door. "But remember, Rebellion is hinged on your success in defeating the Victor. You have it in you, my lord, you simply must be prepared for—"

He's cut off in the middle of his sentence when the sound of a click rings through the room, and then Barbatos has vanished entirely, gone in the blink of an eye such that when the door to Diavolo's room opens, the demon is standing alone.

"Diavolo?" You call gently, somewhat surprised to see him staring at empty space.

The moment Diavolo hears your voice, all thoughts of Barbatos and his warnings go out the window. He grins, kicking a towel away to trap you in a hug that lifts you off your feet for a few seconds as you laugh and press a kiss to the demon's cheek.

"Why are you taking so long?" You pout, buttoning up the remainder of Diavolo's shirt. "Nearly all the other cage fighters have left for the night."

"I'm sorry, darling," Diavolo apologizes, sighing. "I got caught up. I'm ready to head out now, though."

"No worries," You mumble casually, wrapping your arm around Diavolo's as you slip his mask onto his face and open the door, gesturing dramatically with a giggle as the two of you step outside. "But I just wanted to let you know that I'm very proud of you."

"Oh?" Diavolo asks, interlacing his fingers with yours. It's a bit awkward due to the height difference between the two of you, but within moments your arms are swinging at a leisurely pace, one comfortable for you both. "You know, I think you were more scared than proud up on the bleachers."

"I was not!" You defend indignantly. "If—if you saw me shaking, it was with excitement, Diavolo! Not—not fear! I was excited!"

The demon opens his mouth to say something more, to criticize your atrocious attempt at lying or to laugh some more and lay a kiss across your forehead, but he's interrupted when another demon pops up out of seemingly nowhere.

"Ma'am!" The demon shouts, waving a bandaged arm as he's carried away by a stretcher. "Thank you so much again!"

"I am glad to have helped you, Sir," You call back, cheerful. Your mask hides your face, but Diavolo is already aware of the beaming smile you wear based on how bright your eyes shine. "I hope your injuries heal well!"

The demon shouts something back at you, too far for either you or Diavolo to understand, but you respond with a gentle wave, calling "Good luck!" to the man for good measure.

"What was that all about?" Diavolo asks once the two of you have stepped outside. "You helped him?"

"Yeah." You let out a light laugh, almost sheepish. "Right before I went to see you, I saw him on the ground. His arm was injured rather severely, but had some medical ointment with me in case you got injured, so I used it on him. That's why I was late in coming to your room. He must have wanted to thank me, since he was mostly unconscious while I patched him up."

A warm smile crosses Diavolo's face at that, the demon proud to know that his lover has such a selfless heart.

"You really are too good, do you know that?" He squeezes your hand gently, wishing that he could rip his mask off and kiss you here.

"Hush," You mumble. "You would have done the same. It's our obligation to help those who need it."

"Oh?" Diavolo's eyes are filled with teasing mirth. "Are you saying that when you first tended to my wounds, it was out of obligation?"

"Hey!" You pout, swatting Diavolo's arm. "You know it's not like that! I just…"

"You just…?" Diavolo quirks an eyebrow at you, grinning as he pulls you outside the cage fighting arena and onto the street, already heading in the direction of the Temple of the Grim Reaper.

"I just want to help everyone I can." You relax as Diavolo tenses his hold around your fingers, the demon instinctively stiffening the moment those words leave your mouth.

"I do, too," Diavolo mumbles. But he's no longer thinking of you helping that demon, but instead of everything he'll have to do to you in the name of saving the greater good.

"I know, Diavolo." You grin at him, untying your mask as you beam up at him.

For a moment, the soft, understanding light in your eyes makes it seem like you really do know.

But then Diavolo is exhaling sharply, hiding his pained expression behind his mask as he realizes that you don't. That you can't. That Barbatos was right, and your story will end in nothing but misery.

You've never seen so much death.

All around you, there are corpses: bodies lying on the ground, either already lost to the world or drowning in their own blood. But you don't stop to look at them. Your dress is bundled up in your fists as you sprint down the hall, racing to a secret exit that only you know about.

The place that surrounds you seems to be the palace. Seems to be, because you're certain that the real palace isn't this dark. This ominous. This foreboding.

You shudder as a voice calls your name, a weak "princess" escaping the lips of a palace worker you vaguely recognize the voice of. Still, though, you don't stop.

The bodies that you've left behind in your run seem to be pulling you back. The weight of their burden falls on your shoulders as you struggle to take each step, the secret exit to the palace so close but so far away.

You reach a hand out, trying desperately to grab at a corner of the wall. To yank your body forward and pull your way to safety, to a place free of all this bloodshed.

But your fingers only touch air, and you're left struggling to move forward once more.

You fight your way forward, a garbled gasp leaving your lips as you struggle past a room—but you make the mistake of looking inside.

And there you see it.

Him.

Diavolo.

He's sitting in the throne room, though you can't come up with a single reason why he's here. You can only see the vague outline of his body, but you've spent too many hours running your fingers through his hair to miss the distinctive shape that the tresses take.

You halt in your run, your arm abruptly reaching for the man you love.

"Diavolo!" You shout, hoping that he'll come forward. That his silhouette will turn clear. That he'll save you from this dark, violent dream.

You call his name again, the word forcing its way past your lips despite the difficulty it takes to say it, but then it doesn't even matter because you're screaming for him, and you're desperately wondering why he isn't moving. Why his silhouette is so still. Why he does nothing as the outline of his figure watches you drop to your knees.

"Are you dead too?" You ask meekly, dropping to your knees. You glance around you, and even more bodies litter the floor.

But Diavolo is poised as ever: too upright to be dead but too still to be alive.

There's a man behind him. Another distinctly familiar figure, though you can't place where you know him from. You glance up at the two of them, your eyes filled with tears, and you reach an arm forward to crawl your way to the throne—to the darkness that Diavolo seems to emanate.

"Please," You whisper, practically dragging your body forward as you throw yourself at his feet. "Please be alive," You pray, clasping his foot when you're close enough.

And it's only here, when you're this close, that you can look up and see the expression on his face. If you do, you'll see his eyes, the amber eyes you've fallen in love with, and you'll know whether he truly is alive.

So you raise your head.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, you lift your gaze from his feet to his knees. His knees to his chest. His chest to his jaw.

You brace yourself for the worst, your sobs already worsening, and you begin to look higher and higher, just below his eyes and then you've looked up and—

"Darling!"

The shout pulls you from your nightmare, your eyes flying open in alarm.

Diavolo.

You shoot off his chest abruptly, impossibly alert despite having woken from your nap mere seconds ago, and spin around in his arms, cupping his cheeks with both your hands.

"Diavolo?" You mumble, a rush of emotion hitting you all at once. You were crying in your sleep before, but now is when you truly begin to sob, giving the demon no choice as you fling yourself forward and trap him in an embrace so tight he seems to choke. "You're alive," You mumble, still not believing the words. "You're alive. You're alive. You're alive."

If Diavolo didn't know what was troubling you in your sleep before, he's able to piece together the clues from your words. Within seconds, he's got his arms wrapped around you in quiet reassurance.

"Shh," He mumbles into your ear even as you continue to choke over the fact that he's actually here. That it was just a nightmare. That you're not surrounded by death and blood and violence, and that things are okay once more. "It was just a dream, darling," He rocks you in his arms, fingers running through your hair in soothing motions as you struggle to compose yourself. "I'm here. I'm alive. No one hurt me. I'm alive."

Your fingers tremble for a moment as you recall the contents of your dream: that he might be alive, but those palace workers were doubtlessly dead as you crossed them.

A sick feeling settles in your stomach. An overwhelming sense of anxiety, prompted by the inexplicable notion that this wasn't just a dream. That it was something more.

The very thought makes your eyes widen.

It felt like a warning.

"Diavolo," You blurt, leaning back. You force him to look you in the eyes, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you in return. "You can't go back to the cage fighting ring."

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"I'm serious! In—in my dream, I didn't know if you were alive or dead! It was—everyone was—there was death in the air, Diavolo! It—"

"Shh," He mumbles, quieting you as he pulls you into another embrace. "Darling, seeing those cage fights must have scared you more than you thought. I'm not going to get hurt. And even if I lose to the Victor, I'm not going to die. Alright?"

"No," You blurt, withdrawing. "Diavolo, you don't understand. My dream—my dream felt real! Like—like it was a sign—I'm being honest! And I know it sounds stupid, but I hardly think it's a coincidence that you were the focus of my dream, and now you're going off to the in the final night of the cage fights."

But the demon shakes his head, the look in his eyes disbelieving even as you try to get him to understand your dream.

"Diavolo, please! Just do this one thing for me! I know that it's a matter of pride, that you want to defeat the man who humiliated you—but I feel like my dream was urging us against this very thing!"

"Darling," Diavolo interrupts softly, touching your cheek. "You know you're a terrible liar, right?"

Your cheeks warm at that, and you feel a slight blow to your pride, but you nod your head. "Fine. I am. But how exactly does this relate?"

Diavolo chuckles, stealing a chaste kiss from your lips. "You're just as terrible at hiding things, love. I know that you've been on edge ever since you saw me fight on the first night of the cage fights." The demon leans back, tracing the outline of your cheek. "This dream is just the manifestation of those nerves. It means nothing. I'll be fine, I promise you."

"You don't know that," You grumble. But in your heart, you do see the merit to Diavolo's words.

It's been three nights now of nonstop fighting. You've already fallen into a schedule. You stay at the palace for breakfast and dinner, pretend to travel to the homes of various nobles for lunch while you visit (and nap with) Diavolo, and spend your nights watching the demon fight his way through the tournament.

But tonight is the fourth night.

And short as the fighting "season" is, none of the past three nights' combat will be able to compare to the brutalities Diavolo encounter tonight.

Every waking moment has been spent in quiet fear for Diavolo; you believe in his skills, but you have no faith in those around him. Cage fighting is a sport of the underground for a reason—the participants are not to be trusted. These past few days, you've been living in constant fear that Diavolo is going to go against a less-than-honorable fighter who will approach him with poison coating his knuckles. Or that he'll face someone concealing a weapon. Or that the no-teeth rule will be "forgotten," and your lover will be publicly mutilated.

You can't even try to pretend that the fear hasn't been messing with your mind.

"I don't think you should come tonight," Diavolo mumbles quietly.

"What?" You snap. You lean back, glaring harshly. "Diavolo, tonight is the single most important night—"

"And it will be the bloodiest. Those remaining are strong, but fierce. I made it to the fourth night when I last fought, and you remember how savagely I was defeated."

"Exactly!" You protest. "Diavolo, you can't possibly expect me to let you go in there alone. The arena is practically a den of wolves!"

"And this year, I'm going to be the strongest wolf of them all." Diavolo holds his gaze firm as he stares at you, his resolve nowhere near cracking. "You and I both know that I have what it takes to defeat the Victor. And even if I don't, I can defend myself better this year."

You stay quiet for a moment.

Internally, your brain is running at top speed. Weighing the pros and cons of letting Diavolo go alone. Trying to gauge the potential risk he might face. Figuring out how likely he is to get injured, and whether those injuries will need immediate treatment or not.

"Please," Diavolo mumbles quietly. "I know it must have been scary for you to have that nightmare, but it was just as awful to have you in my arms and shivering in fear, all without being able to do anything. I don't…If we can avoid that, I want us to do it. At all costs."

"Even at the price of me not being able to celebrate your victory with you?" You mumble quietly, trying to detect the faintest trace of hesitation in Diavolo's eyes.

"Yes." His answer is swift and immediate. "The second I leave the cage, win or lose, I will come here." Diavolo intertwines his fingers with yours and brings your hands to his lips. "And then we can celebrate together."

"You're awfully confident," You laugh lightly, already beginning to forget your dream in lieu of Diavolo's charms.

"Only because you trained me yourself," Diavolo grins cheekily, kissing your hand once more. "And because I already know how beautiful your smile will be when I tell you that I've won."

Convincing you to stay behind was the right decision.

Diavolo fights back the sick feeling that emerges in his stomach every time he glances at the pile of bodies that has been crammed unceremoniously into the corner of the prep room, just beyond the sight of the spectators but practically in perfect lighting for all fighters to see.

Thus far, there have been eight deaths. Three demons are expected to be dead within the hour (though a medical expert said that if they survive this hour, they'll make full recoveries), and two more seem to have lost their pulses but not their souls.

None of this has been at Diavolo's own hand, of course.

It's almost entirely been the work of the Victor.

Diavolo swallows nervously as he remembers snapshots of the fights he's watched. The Victor seems more unhinged this year than the last, and his combat style has been wholly erratic. Where he had some semblance of control in previous seasons, he seemed to care for nothing today as he swung his opponents around, thrusting them throughout the cage and giving them little chance to surrender, even if they wanted to.

Yeah, Diavolo thinks. Definitely a good idea to convince her to stay back.

He shudders, remembering how desperately you had cried his name during your nightmare. How he had shaken your shoulders but had been powerless to wake you. How, even after you awoke, he was hardly able to console you, only pulling you away from your memories of the dream with distractions.

If you were disturbed enough to have nightmares from the things you'd seen before, today's battles would send you to an entirely new realm of night terrors.

Diavolo has to try his hardest to push the memories out of his mind, continuing to change into his shirt. The last one had been ripped during combat—so the runners gave him something else. It barely fits, tight around Diavolo's chest but loose around his midsection, but the demon hardly minds.

After all, there's only one fight left.

He leans his neck from side to side, stretching the stiffness out as he prepares to enter, listening quietly to the growing noise around him. The break that took place right after the last match—held so that all spectators would wrap up any last-minute business to watch the final free of disruptions—finished five minutes ago. Diavolo isn't sure what the holdup is, but he's not going to let the delay shake him from his preparedness.

As such, he's entirely ready when, not four minutes later, he hears his title being announced through a microphone, his name booming through the room as he pulls his mask higher on his face and steps forward.

He enters the cage to the sound of restrained applause.

Diavolo's the underdog, he knows. The people who cheer for him cheer out of politeness, out of courtesy. No one expects the defending Victor to have his title stripped from him. Not when he's held the title for so long. Not when people are so used to seeing him defeat everyone who stands in his path. Not when it's public knowledge that Diavolo was practically obliterated by him last season.

The roars that erupt from the crowds the moment the Victor enters the cage from the other end are a reminder of who the expected winner is. Diavolo can already see the cruel glint in his opponent's eye, the calculated method the demon is planning on using to secure the final win.

But Diavolo has no plans of giving him the chance.

The moment the bell rings and the match has begun, he has already ducked low, prepared for the way the Victor's fist swings forward.

And then there's truly nothing but a flurry of fists, feet, and pain.

Diavolo holds his hands high as he retains his combat stance, never sacrificing his form even when he sees the rare openings in the Victor's movements. He approaches the fight the same way he would approach training with you: minimal offense, maximum defense. His goal is to tire his opponent out before he strikes, twisting the odds ever in his favor.

The Victor seems to have an inexhaustible source of energy, though. And while you were absolutely right when you said that you were stronger than him, the fact is that this demon is bigger than you, and Diavolo has to account for that every time he steps back to avoid a punch.

Curses, the demon thinks the moment he finds himself backed into a corner. His eyes widen momentarily, panic and raw, primal instincts taking over, and Diavolo closes his eyes as he lowers his head, thrusting all his weight into a single punch.

He makes contact.

Everyone's eyes seem to widen at the same time. It's the first decent hit someone has gotten in on the Victor all night. But while Diavolo was confident that he'd eventually be able to begin his offense, he never expected that such a poorly executed attack would make contact.

He could have dodged that easily, Diavolo thinks to himself, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

But then a sudden realization strikes him.

You could have dodged that easily.

But the Victor is too big to evade like you.

And the demon grins. Because if the Victor's defense is weaker than yours, then Diavolo knows he has this fight locked down.

He begins attacking his opponent with renewed purpose, and he can almost feel the shift in the room as the crowd slowly begins to realize just how strong Diavolo truly is.

It only emboldens him.

Within seconds, it looks like he and the Victor are going toe to toe with each other, both men getting in an equal amount of kicks and having to dodge the same number of punches. But Diavolo can feel his competitor's defense crumbling under the nonstop barrage of assaults. It starts with a fingernail just grazing his shoulder, then a stray punch landing on the demon's abdomen, and then Diavolo has managed to deliver a swift kick to the Victor's stomach, sending him flying back.

The Victor jumps back up within seconds, but the damage is already done. The crowd is murmuring now, and tension settles over the room.

But Diavolo can feel the tides of the fight. And they wave in his favor.

"Do you remember the last time we fought?" He hisses, glaring at the Victor even as they continue to spar. "You—" Diavolo grunts, trying to land a kick, though it's deflected by his opponent's arm. "Shattered my ribs—" Diavolo dodges an uppercut. "Bashed my head against the ground—" He throws a punch, and it catches the Victor square in the jaw. "Stood on top of me—" Both men kick. Their legs cross, both deflected. "And when I wanted to surrender," Diavolo practically spit the word, grabbing the Victor's collar and throwing him backward. "You broke my arm so I wouldn't be able to."

Diavolo's gaze darkens as he draws closer to the Victor, making use of the fact that his opponent is now backed against the wall. The roles are reversed as they stand, this time, but Diavolo doesn't make the same mistake as the Victor. He continues to throw punches, refusing to let up even as his competitor fights back, wincing only briefly when the demon lands a hit to his jaw.

Diavolo spits blood onto the ground, wiping his mouth.

Careless, he thinks. I'm getting careless.

But while that thought should stir Diavolo back into action, it only pulls the redhead deeper into his own mind, obsessed with thoughts of strategy and technique.

The Victor sees the moment of distraction.

He lunges forward, making a grab for Diavolo's throat. It's an attempt to tackle him to the ground, to thrust his head against the iron cage and beat him to death.

It's a move that will end the fight, should he succeed.

Diavolo's eyes widen when he realizes his predicament: his utter lack of defense as the Victor all but flies toward him, and for the second time in this fight, he lets his body's autopilot take over, legs moving faster than his mind could ever tell them to.

Diavolo forces his eyes to stay open as his leg swings upward and then clamps down, hitting the Victor straight on the head as the force thrusts the demon to the floor, where Diavolo stands over him.

The opponent's eyes widen instantly, and Diavolo seizes the moment, wasting no time in forcing the Victor to roll over before pressing his foot against the man's throat, standing over him.

It's one of the first moves you taught him.

And he executed it perfectly.

The look in Diavolo's eyes is nothing but menacing as he towers over his competitor, eyes blazing.

All around him, the crowd cheers. Masked watchers stand to get a better view of what is doubtlessly a defining moment of the fight, but no one can hear the words Diavolo speaks to the Victor.

"I will not kill you," The redhead warns sharply. But he continues to balance one foot on the Victor's neck and uses his other foot to step on the demon's stomach, Diavolo using his own body weight to force the Victor to stay on the ground. "I will not give you the privilege of escaping this fight by death."

Diavolo glares at the man beneath him. "Nor will I break a single bone of yours."

Diavolo presses down harder on the demon's neck until he can hear the quiet wheezes of the Victor.

"You will surrender to me now, or you will suffer for hours on end like this until you're ready."

And indeed, Diavolo has that luxury.

The Victor is in an inescapable position, weighed down by an opponent too heavy to throw off, his neck open and vulnerable. Every time his fingers twitch, Diavolo presses down a little harder on his neck, eyes bright with the promise of pain.

“Surrender,” Diavolo demands.

And for the first time, his eyes take on those of a king's.

His words are not spoken as a cage fighter urging another to end this fight. They are a command, spoken so icily that the Victor can sense the unspoken threat that underlines them.

Diavolo watches with unwavering eyes as the Victor braces himself before lifting his left hand, four fingers extended in the telltale symbol of surrender.

The crowd goes wild.

Diavolo can hardly hear the sound of the bell ringing as the audience screams in shock, elation, and confusion as they realize that this season has borne a new Victor, usurping the old. In fact, the redhead can barely hear his competitor's words of shame as the demon hangs his head while the crowd continues to whoop and cheer, and Diavolo abruptly thinks that you must be able to hear this noise from your location on the cliffside.

But then there's another sound.

And this one is coming from inside his head.

My son.

Diavolo flinches on instinct, eyes widening as he gazes around to check if anyone has noticed the magic. They're all too preoccupied with their cheering, though, but it unnerves Diavolo.

Raise your fist, my son. Let them bow to you.

The demon realizes abruptly that his father must be in this room. That his father is here, in this arena, just like Barbatos was, three nights ago. Diavolo's eyes fly everywhere that he can see, searching for the hulking frame of the true leader of the Resistance.

But amid the sea of masks, he finds nothing.

What are you waiting for? Do it now, before their cheers die out.

Diavolo gives up his search for his father, opting instead to heed the demon's demands. He raises a fist, slow and steady, to the sky. It's the mark of a Victor: only the strongest may assume this pose, and all before them must bow in submission as an acknowledgment of their power.

It's an awe-inspiring experience.

Diavolo watches with wary eyes as the (ex) Victor next to him bows first, the demon's head touching the ground. Then the first row of demons in the audience halt their cheering to drop to the floor; then the second; the third; the fourth—until every demon in the room is bowing to Diavolo, head lowered in loyal submission.

All except one.

Diavolo almost lets out a cry of surprise when he sees his father standing directly ahead, in the very midst of all the other spectators.

"My friends," The man announces in that booming voice of his. Everyone stares at him in surprise, confused as to why he isn't bowing. "You may rise."

All heads turn to Diavolo for reassurance, no one willing to withdraw from their bowed positions without explicit assent from their strongest, their protector, their Victor.

Diavolo nods his head quietly, and one by one, they begin to rise.

And then the magic begins.

Diavolo watches as his father takes to the air, robes flying up around him as the room gasps in shock at the use of magic.

"S-Sir!" Someone shouts. "It's—it's forbidden—if the imperial palace sees you using—using—"

Diavolo winces. The palace has driven such fear into the peoples' hearts that they can't even say the word magic.

"The imperial palace is our concern no longer," Diavolo's father responds smoothly once he's in the center of the room, floating to where all may see him. The man reaches behind his head, removing the elegant mask which had covered his face, and another collective gasp goes around the room—for removing one's mask breaks the single most important tradition of cage fighting.

"It is my pleasure to meet you," He announces, arms crossed proudly. "I am the leader of the Resistance, the rebel faction that is seeking to usurp the current crown."

The demon gestures downward.

"And the new Victor you have before you is my son."

Everything else that his father says is textbook. It's the same exact speech that he uses whenever he wants to bring people over to the Resistance. It starts with a list of the imperial palace's wrongdoings, goes on to explain how the oppression of the people has only worsened through the past hundred millennia, includes a few impassioned "We will not stand for this!" statements here and there, but it always ends the same way.

In cheers.

Diavolo's gaze is level when the sound of cries surrounds him once more, every soul in the room raising their own fists at the encouragement of his father, ready to defy the crown.

"It's time for the royal family to answer for their crimes!"

Hurrahs and whoops.

"It's time to restore balance to the Devildom!"

Shouts of agreement.

"It's time to usher in a new royal family—one chosen by the people!!"

Screams of approval.

Diavolo waits until his father is done speaking, used to every thought-out line in this speech. But then, right at the end, where the crowd is supposed to descend into cheers and every soul in the room is supposed to pledge loyalty to the Resistance and to Rebellion, his Father goes off-script.

"And now," The future demon king practically roars, and Diavolo looks up in confusion. Doesn't it end there? "The time has at last come for our Rebellion to venture out of the shadows and into the open!"

What?

"We have prepared for this moment for millennia! With the powers of foresight, power, and magic in our hands, the time has never been better for the people of the Devildom to take back what is rightfully ours!! To take back our rights! Our happiness! Our freedom!"

I've never heard this part before.

"The time is ripe, everything has at last aligned! Our Rebellion is no longer a process in the works, my friends, it can at last begin!"

Wait…

"The thousands of members of the Resistance are loyal to me! Every soul in this room recognizes my son as the strongest! And now, with these forces combined, the power harnessed in my faction and your strength as those who are honor-bound to follow my son, we have everything we need!"

No. This can't be. Father can't do this. Father won't do this.

"Tonight, the moon fell from the sky and closed its eyes to a broken nation! A shadow of its former glory! A miserable Devildom, more pitiful than it ever has been! But tomorrow, when the moon rises in the sky to gaze down at us once more, let it look upon a new world! A Devildom ruled by the good! The people! Us!"

"Father," Diavolo mumbles, numb with shock. But his voice is a whisper next to the roars of approval from all around them.

"Our Rebellion begins tomorrow, and with it, we shall burn everyone in the palace who has ever wronged us!"

Those words throw the crowd over the edge, and Diavolo's father raises his fist in response, the overwhelming support coming in the shape of shouts, whoops, cheers, and applause. The demon fills the room with magic, a forbidden hum that only further frenzies those in this room after it has been banned for so long, and Diavolo nearly shudders under its intensity, for it is more powerful than anything he has ever felt.

Diavolo.

The voice is small, almost quiet. Soft enough that no one else can notice it, but Diavolo looks at his father instantly.

"You didn't tell me Rebellion would come this soon," The demon blurts instantly, still slightly in shock.

Rebellion's arrival was dependent on when we would be able to harness the power of the underground. Timing was a coincidence.

"You knew," Diavolo mumbles, his breath shaky. "You knew I wouldn't fight if I—"

I did what I had to for the greater good.

"No, you lied to me, Father. You lied to me, and you used me, and—"

Go, Diavolo.

The demon blinks up at his father, looking almost stupid in his momentary confusion.

Go to your princess, and spend the four hours you have left in her arms. But do not try to stop the inevitable. You know as well as I do that the wheels of Rebellion have already begun to move—and I will send Barbatos to infiltrate the palace with you at the break of dawn. Say your goodbyes tonight, for it is the final night you shall have.

"Father, this doesn't change the fact that—"

Listen to me, Diavolo. If you do not want to spend your life regretting this, leave now.

"But—"

Go.

Diavolo doesn't wait any longer at that, spinning on his heel as he all but sprints out of the cage. The demon doesn't bother trying to contact anyone, doesn't bother changing out of the clothes that are drenched in sweat and blood, doesn't bother acknowledging anyone who bows to him as he passes.

He has only one goal in mind: to find you.

And to save you.

He transforms into his demon form the second he's outside, blending into the darkness as his wings carry him to your location within minutes. He drops himself in the swamp outside the cliffside so as to not scare you, but he's so desperate that he bursts out of it all the same, sprinting in your direction as you widen your eyes at him.

"Diavolo!" You shout, grinning that beautiful smile that he would appreciate so much more if he hadn't just learned that Rebellion will begin tomorrow. "How did it go?" Your eyebrows furrow the moment you see him. "Why are you running? Darling? You're still in your training clothes, do you know tha—"

Diavolo barrels straight into you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he all but clings to your figure.

"Diavolo?" You ask gently, running a hand through his hair. A wave of sympathy washes through your body, seeping into Diavolo's own. "Don't feel bad. There's always the next season, and—"

"I won."

"Huh?"

"I won," The demon repeats, reluctantly unburying his head from your stomach, leaning back to look you earnestly in the eye. "But we have to get out of here."

"What?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Diavolo, you're not making any sense."

"Please," The redhead blurts, grabbing your hand. "We have to go. Now. I can explain...later. But we have to get as far away as possible right now, so please—"

"Diavolo," You mumble, pulling him into a serene kiss. Your disposition is nothing but calm and soothing.

Of course, Diavolo thinks bitterly. It's not like she knows that she's going to die tomorrow.

"Tell me what's wrong," You mumble quietly. "Slowly. Take your time."

"I…" Can't.

Diavolo stares at the ground, knowing all too well that if he tells you the truth—that he's part of a Resistance faction that's about to throw a coup tomorrow in an attempt to usurp and kill you alongside your entire family—you're not going to go with him. And if you attempt to head out onto the streets without him, your naive trust in the world will end in nothing but death. Only death, if you're lucky. But Diavolo knows you won't be.

"Please," He pleads dumbly, not knowing what else to say. He tries to come up with a lie. He tries so hard. But for the first time, he comes up with nothing. As if he's already told you so many lies that his brain refuses to supply him with any more, as punishment for his actions from months ago.

"Please, just believe me. We have to go. Right now. You're going to get hurt otherwise."

"Diavolo," You chuckle, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Your demeanor is still light and casual, not understanding the true gravity of the situation. "Whoever threatened you, I'm sure it will be fine. I can handle myself. And even if I can't, I have you to protect me, don't I?"

Diavolo swears his heart breaks a little at that.

"I love you," He mumbles, gripping your arm. The words are fast and clumsy, hardly romantic—but Diavolo fears he may never get to say them to you if he doesn't tell you the words now. He curses his past self for not saying the words earlier. For lying to you, to himself, and to the world in a pathetic attempt to be loyal to a Rebellion he no longer cares about. "I love you so much. And it hurts so much to love you this much—but I will always love you. No matter what. Please, you believe me, right?"

The demon tenses his grip around your arm, his eyes desperate.

"Diavolo," You whisper softly, pulling him into a hug. "I love you too. Just as much, I'm positive. But whatever has you so worked up is going to be fine, alright?" You press a chaste kiss to his lips, letting your lips linger until you can feel the way the tension has melted from Diavolo's muscles.

"If you love me," He mumbles, and Diavolo feels sick for resorting to this, but he doesn't know any other way to convince you. "If you love me, then you'll listen to me. Please. We have to leave right now." A faint light sparks in his eyes. "We can...we can run away together. And get married. And we can have a big house on an island—any island you want, as long as it's uninhabited. I'll—I'll even build you the house. And we can have children—unless you don't want children. And—and we can—we can—we can—"

Diavolo's eyes light up, imagining a future with you where the two of you get to grow old together, happy until the end of your days.

"We can do all that later," You whisper, embracing Diavolo. The demon realizes that he's shaking. "But for now, let's just get you back to normal, alright?"

"No," Diavolo mumbles weakly. "No please, if we wait, it's going to be too late."

And indeed, he means those words not in the context of Rebellion but in the frame of his own mind. Because the moment he begins thinking about the greater good and the fact that running away with you will doubtlessly doom the Devildom, he'll realize that he has to go through with Rebellion, no matter how much he doesn't want to.

"We have to go. Please, if I tell you why, then you won't come. We need to move now—before—before I change my mind and do something stupid—"

"Shh," You mumble, quieting him. "Close your eyes, darling," You mumble, pressing a kiss to Diavolo's lips. "Relax."

You pull your arms around him and he sobs freely into your arms, clinging to your figure like it's a lifeline as he realizes that he failed. That you're not going to run away with him. That the picture of the two of you, old and happy, holding hands on a beautiful island with no one to disturb you, was nothing more than a stupid dream.

The worst part is that he can't even continue his attempt to convince you. Because he knows it's wrong. That Rebellion is what the Devildom needs. And that Diavolo will be a monster for standing in the way of that.

But won't he still be a monster if he kills you?

"I don't want..." To watch you die, Diavolo wants to say, pulling you close so that he can memorize the warmth of your embrace, the shape of your body, the little details he can savor tonight but never again.

"Shhh, close your eyes, darling. Everything's going to be okay." You kiss him. "I promise."

He lets out a sob, clutching your figure in silent apology as he heeds your instructions and savors these moments of peace, for they will be the last. But as he shuts his eyes and tries to focus on the sensation of your arms around him, warm and loving, all he can imagine is the sight of your body in chains beneath him, the whole world watching as he kills you.

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Word count: 11.1k

Notes: In my original draft of this fic, Diavolo never gives MC his real name. He calls himself "Brutus," tossing her the name of a character he heard Barbatos talk about once, not really knowing the context of it. At that time, the fic title was going to be The Tragedy of Julius Caesar.

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Next Update: 8/13/20

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