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realmsofdreams · 2 months ago

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hearth

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: as the second wife of lord cregan stark, you’ve poured your heart into raising his son rickon as your own, finding purpose in a north that views you as an outsider from a minor house. but at rickon’s third nameday feast, northern lords, obsessed with the stark legacy, dismiss your role and pressure cregan to wed a “proven” noblewoman to secure heirs, ignoring your unfruitful womb. when lady cerys, cregan’s former love, is proposed as his new bride, her venomous revelations and cregan’s wavering loyalty shatter your trust.

warnings: intense angst, emotional betrayal, public humiliation, themes of infertility pressure, verbal cruelty, pregnancy-related tension, mild language, heated arguments, emotional manipulation, themes of isolation and rejection. suitable for mature readers due to heavy emotional content.

rickon’s third nameday feast, a rare burst of joy in the north’s eternal frost. you sit at the high table, your spine straight, your smile practiced, as you watch rickon, your heart’s son, toddle through the crowd, chasing a hound pup with a giggle that melts the hardest of northern hearts. he’s yours, not by blood but by every stitch you’ve sewn into his cloaks, every lullaby sung in the dark, every scraped knee kissed. you’ve loved him since the day you wed cregan stark, mere moons after arra norrey’s death, vowing to be his mother in all but name. rickon calls you “mama,” and that word is your anchor, your shield against the north’s cold judgment.

but tonight, something darker than winter’s chill. the northern lords, their faces weathered by war and duty, drink deeply and cast sharp glances your way. you hear their whispers, carried like blades on the wind, stark line, no heirs, barren wife. your fingers clench the arm of your chair, the wood biting into your palm. you’re no stranger to their doubts, but on this night, with rickon’s laughter and your role as his mother so vivid, their words carve deeper, slicing at the fragile pride you’ve built as lady stark.

cregan sits beside you, his presence a mountain of strength, his eyes warm when they meet yours. his hand, calloused from sword and plow, rests briefly on your knee beneath the table, a gesture that once steadied you. but as the feast wears on, you notice his jaw tighten, his gaze flicker to lord umber, who approaches with a grim purpose. their voices are low, but you catch fragments, duty, legacy, a stronger match. cregan’s responses are curt, his eyes darting to you once, then away. your chest tightens. you know what they speak of: your womb, empty after two years of marriage, and the stark line’s precarious future.

you don’t crumble. you’ve never crumbled, not when you left your minor house to wed a stark, not when the north’s lords sneered at your lack of noble blood, not when the maesters whispered of your ‘unproven’ body. you are steel, forged in the fire of their scorn, and you will not break now. instead, you lift your goblet, your smile a mask, and toast rickon’s health, your voice clear and unwavering. the hall echoes your call, but the lords’ eyes linger, judging, dismissing.

the feast ends late, and you carry rickon to his chambers, his small body heavy with sleep. cregan follows, silent, his boots heavy on the stone. you tuck rickon into his furs, brushing a kiss to his brow, and when you turn, cregan’s watching, his face shadowed.

“what did umber want?” you ask, your tone even, though your pulse races.

he hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.

“the same as always. talk of the stark line, the future.”

“and me,” you say, stepping closer, your eyes locked on his.

“they spoke of me, cregan. of my failure to give you heirs.”

his sigh is a gust of winter wind.

“they’re worried, that’s all. they’re old men, set in their ways. they see rickon and want more.”

“more than i’ve given,” you say, your voice low but sharp.

“they don’t see me as rickon’s mother. they see me as a barren outsider, don’t they?”

“you’re his mother,” he says, voice firm.

“i’ve never doubted that.”

“but you let them doubt me,” you counter, your words precise, cutting.

“you let them question my place, my worth. what did you say to umber? did you defend me, or did you listen?”

his silence is a wound. he steps toward you, but you hold up a hand, stopping him.

“if you can’t answer, don’t touch me.” you say, your voice cold.

“i’m not considering their nonsense,” he says, frustration creeping into his tone.

“but i can’t just dismiss them. they’re my bannermen, my father’s men. they’ve fought for this house.”

“and i haven’t?” you snap, your control fraying.

“i’ve fought everyday to be rickon’s mother, to be your wife, to prove myself to a north that doesn’t want me. but you’re leaving the door open, cregan. you’re letting them think another wife, a ‘proven’ wife might be better.”

“i’m not,”

he insists, but there’s a crack in his voice, a hesitation that betrays him. you step back, your heart a storm of hurt and fury.

“i won’t be your placeholder,”

you say, your voice steady despite the ache.

“i deserve better than your half-answers.”

you turn, leaving him in rickon’s chamber, your head high, your tears held back. you are steel, and steel does not bend.

you rise early the next morning, your body heavy with a secret you’ve carried for days. the maester confirmed you’re with child, a fragile hope you’ve guarded fiercely. you meant to tell cregan, to share the joy and bind your fractured trust, but his silence last night changed everything. now, the secret feels like a weapon, one you’re not ready to wield.

you avoid the great hall, breaking your fast with rickon in his nursery. he babbles about his nameday gifts, a wooden wolf cregan carved himself, and you smile, your love for him a light in the dark. but your thoughts churn. the lords’ whispers, cregan’s wavering, the weight of a north that sees you as less, these are battles you’ve fought alone, and you’re tired, so tired, but you will not break.

sara, cregan’s half-sister, finds you at midday, her face etched with worry.

“there’s a council meeting,” she says, her voice low.

“the norreys are here, and they’re pushing hard. you need to know.”

your blood chills. the norreys, arra’s kin, are a proud, unyielding clan, and their loyalty to her memory is a blade they’ve never sheathed. you nod, entrusting rickon to his nursemaid, and follow sara to the council chamber. you don’t enter, ladies don’t, not uninvited but you linger outside, the cracked door revealing a storm of voices.

lord norrey’s is loudest, his words a hammer.

“lady cerys is proven, my lord. she’d honor arra’s legacy and give you heirs. your current lady, forgive me, hasn’t, and the stark line cannot falter.”

cerys. the name is a dagger, twisting old wounds. you’ve heard of her. cregan’s courtship after arra’s death, a fleeting flame before he chose you. you thought it buried, but the norreys’ proposal unearths it, raw and bleeding. cregan’s voice is measured, deflecting without refusing, and that ambiguity is a betrayal in itself.

“i’ve made my vows,”

he says, but it’s weak, a shield with cracks. the lords press harder, and he doesn’t silence them.

you step away, your breath shallow, your resolve hardening. you will not weep, not here, not where they can smell weakness. you return to rickon, your hands steady as you braid his hair, your voice calm as you sing him a northern ballad. but inside, you’re a furnace of rage and hurt, forging your pain into armor.

that afternoon, in the godswood’s crimson hush, lady cerys finds you. she’s a vision of northern beauty, a tall, with piercing blue eyes and hair like spun gold, her presence a calculated strike. you’re kneeling by the heart tree, praying for strength, when her shadow falls over you.

“so you’re the one he chose,”

she says, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.

“i expected more, not a mouse from a house no one remembers.”

you rise, your chin high, your eyes unflinching.

“i’m lady stark,” you say, your tone ice. “and you’re trespassing on my peace.”

she laughs, sharp and cruel.

“your peace? you’re a shadow in a seat that should’ve been mine. cregan loved me, you know. after arra died, he came to me, swore he’d make me his lady. we shared nights, promises things you’ll never understand. but his council wanted someone safe, someone who wouldn’t stir the north. so he settled for you.”

her words are venom, each one a precise cut. you feel them, deep and raw, but you don’t flinch.

“if he loved you, why am i his wife?” you ask, your voice steady, though your heart screams.

“duty,” she spits, stepping closer.

“he’s a stark, chained to honor. but he’ll always want me. you’re a duty, a compromise. and now the north sees you for what you are, a barren, weak, unworthy. i’m leaving winterfell, but i wanted you to know the truth that he’ll never love you like he loved me.”

you hold her gaze, your face a mask of stone.

“leave, then,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“but don’t mistake my silence for weakness. i’m cregan’s wife, the mother of his son, and i’ll outlast you.”

she smirks, but there’s a flicker of frustration in her eyes. she turns, her cloak sweeping the snow, and you’re left alone, the weirwood’s red eyes watching. her words burn, searing doubts you’ve buried cregan’s choice, his heart, your place. you’re carrying his child, but cerys’s venom and cregan’s silence make it feel like ash. you press a hand to your stomach, your resolve steeling. you will not break, not for her, not for him, not for anyone.

you withdraw. it’s a calculated retreat, not a surrender. you stop dining in the great hall, taking meals with rickon or alone in your chambers. you avoid cregan, your paths crossing only when duty demands, rickon’s lessons, winterfell’s upkeep. when he speaks, you’re polite, distant, your words clipped, your eyes averted. you tend to winterfell’s needs with ruthless efficiency, settling disputes, overseeing stores, earning the smallfolk’s respect. but with cregan, you’re a ghost, present but untouchable.

he notices, of course. you see it in his furrowed brow, the way his hand hovers when you pass, the tightening of his mouth when you excuse yourself early. but you don’t yield. let him feel the weight of his silence, the cost of his hesitation. you’ve given him your heart, your body, your life now he must earn them back.

the northern lords their whispers louder, and cerys remains, her departure delayed by some pretext. her presence is a constant barb, her smiles at cregan in the hall a public wound. the norreys push their case, and cregan’s deflections grow weaker, his patience fraying. you hear from sara that he’s clashing with the lords, but he hasn’t banished cerys or silenced the talk. each day, your hurt festers, your trust erodes, but you channel it into strength, into rickon, into the child growing inside you.

one evening, in the library, you’re reviewing grain ledgers when cerys’s voice cuts through the quiet. she’s with a norrey cousin, unaware of your presence behind the shelves.

“he’s faltering,” she says, her tone smug.

“he’ll bend soon. the north needs a true stark wife, not that barren girl. i’ll have him yet, and she’ll be nothing.”

you step forward, your voice like a whip.

“say it to my face, cerys.”

she startles, then smirks, her cousin shifting uncomfortably.

“you’re bold for a woman with nothing to show for it,” she says. “no heirs, no lineage, no hold on cregan’s heart. enjoy your title while it lasts. lady stark.”

you advance, your eyes blazing, and she falters.

“i’ve raised rickon, held winterfell, and earned the love of its people,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“what have you done, cerys, besides cling to a past that doesn’t want you? leave, or i’ll make you.”

her cousin tugs her away, and you’re left trembling, not with fear but with fury. you return to the ledgers, your hands steady, but the encounter hardens your resolve. you won’t let cerys or the lords define you. but cregan’s silence, his failure to end this, is a wound you can’t ignore.

weeks pass, and cregan’s patience snaps. you’re in the courtyard, overseeing a shipment of furs, when he strides toward you, his face a storm.

“enough,” he says, his voice rough, drawing eyes.

“you’ve shut me out for weeks. i can’t bear it anymore.”

you straighten, your face impassive, though your heart races.

“i’m busy, my lord,” you say, turning to the furs.

“winter’s coming. there’s work to be done.”

“damn the work,”

he snaps, grabbing your arm, his grip firm but not cruel.

“talk to me. you’re my wife, not a stranger.”

you pull free, your eyes flashing. “am i your wife? because the north seems to think otherwise. your lords, cerys they’ve made that clear, and you’ve done nothing to stop them.”

his jaw clenches, guilt flickering in his eyes. “i’ve tried—”

“tried?” you cut in, your voice rising, heedless of the onlookers.

“you’ve let them humiliate me, cregan! you’ve let cerys spit venom, let your bannermen call me barren, let them propose her as your new bride while i stand here, carrying your child!”

the courtyard stills, the words hanging like a thunderclap. cregan’s eyes widen, shock and hope warring in his face.

“you’re with child?”

you curse your slip, your throat tightening.

“yes,” you say, voice low, trembling.

“and i’ve carried it alone, wondering if you’d cast me aside for cerys, for a ‘proven’ wife. you loved her, cregan. she told me… nights, promises, a future. was i just duty? a safe choice?”

he steps closer, his voice raw.

“cerys was a mistake, a comfort when i was broken after arra. i cared for her, aye, but it was fleeting. i chose you because you were light, because you loved rickon, because you made winterfell home. i’ve never regretted it.”

“then why didn’t you fight for me?”

you demand, tears threatening but held back.

“why let them tear me apart? i’ve given you everything, my heart, my life, my body and you’ve left me to face this alone.”

“i was a fool,” he says, his voice breaking.

“i thought i could balance duty and love, keep the lords in line without bloodshed. but i failed you. i see it now, and it’s killing me.”

you shake your head, stepping back.

“words aren’t enough, cregan. i’m tired of fighting for a place you won’t defend. i’m rickon’s mother, i’m your wife, and i’m done begging for you to see it.”

you turn, walking away, your head high, the courtyard watching. he calls your name, but you don’t stop. you’re steel, and steel doesn’t bend.

that night, he acts. you’re in your chambers, braiding rickon’s hair, when sara bursts in, breathless.

“he’s done it,” she says.

“he banished cerys and her kin. told the norreys if they speak of another wife again, they’ll answer to his sword. he’s in the great hall now, facing the lords.”

you pause, your heart lurching. you hand rickon to his nursemaid and follow sara, your steps quick but steady. in the great hall, cregan stands before the lords, his voice like iron.

“lady stark is my wife,” he says, his tone unyielding.

“she’s rickon’s mother, the heart of winterfell, and she carries my child. anyone who questions her place insults me, insults house stark. speak of another wife again, and you’ll find no mercy here.”

lord umber shifts, but cregan’s glare silences him.

“the stark line is secure,” he continues. “and my loyalty is to my family, my wife, my son, my unborn child. if you can’t honor that, leave this hall and don’t return.”

the lords murmur, some chastened, others defiant, but none dare challenge him. you watch from the shadows, your heart a tangle of hurt and hope. he’s fighting for you, finally, but the wounds are deep, the trust fractured.

later, he finds you in the godswood, the snow falling soft around the heart tree. you’re bundled in furs, your face pale but resolute. he kneels before you, a rare vulnerability in his eyes.

“i’ve been a coward,” he says, his voice rough.

“i let duty blind me, let the lords and cerys wound you. i thought i could protect you by staying silent, but i only hurt you more. i don’t deserve your forgiveness, but i’m begging for it.”

you study him, the man you love, the man who’s broken you.

“you should’ve fought for me from the start,” you say, your voice steady, though it trembles inside.

“i’ve stood alone, cregan, while you wavered. i’m strong, but i shouldn’t have to be steel for both of us.”

“i know,” he says, his hands reaching for yours, hesitant.

“i see you, your strength, your love, your fire. you’re more stark than any of them, and i’ll spend my life proving it. no more silence, no more hesitation. you’re my wife, my love, my home.”

you let him take your hands, his warmth seeping through the cold.

“i’m tired,”

you admit, your voice softer now, the weight of weeks spilling out.

“i’m tired of fighting, of doubting. i want us, rickon, this child, you. but i need to trust you.”

“you will,” he vows, his eyes fierce.

“i’ll guard your heart as fiercely as i guard winterfell. no one will hurt you again not cerys, not the lords, not me.”

you nod, tears finally falling, but they’re cleansing, a release. he pulls you into his arms, and you let him, your strength meeting his, your hurt finding solace in his promise. the snow falls, the weirwood watches, and you begin to mend.

moons later, you birth a son, torrhen, with cregan’s stormy eyes and your fierce spirit. rickon dotes on him, calling him ‘torry.’ and winterfell’s halls echo with their laughter. the northern lords, humbled by cregan’s wrath, toast your son’s health, their doubts buried. cerys is a fading memory, her name unspoken.

one night, as you lie with cregan, torrhen asleep between you, he kisses your brow.

“i’ll never fail you again,” he murmurs.

you smile, your hand on his heart.

“you’re learning,” you tease, but your eyes are warm. “we’re enough, cregan. we always were.”

#hotd #house of the dragon #cregan stark x fem!reader #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark imagines #cregan stark #cregan fanfiction #hotd cregan #tom taylor as cregan stark #tom taylor imagines #tom taylor x reader #tom taylor imagine

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hellsslibrary · 5 months ago

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hi so ive been binging ur works lol I love that u write for blue lock and specifically the male reader !!! Sosoo I'd love to request a shidou x mean top male reader ? Like shidou keeps acting out so reader puts him in his place?

I do three things on purpose. I make you cut onions so I don't cry, I cling to you during horror movies because you get too focused, and I bend over in front of you during training because you're a dirty dog (real quotes from my husband as titles day one).

MASTERLIST is here.

#a.n. : You two humiliating a non-existent guy for the size of his dick........ Basic Tuesday for any gays, I guess.

!!Warnings: tom!dom!male!reader, sub!bottom! Shidou, overstimulation, time before the first selection, so you fuck in a room full of other people at night..... So, humiliation of a guy for a dick actually (not in his face tho), sex on a futon, Shidou without hair gel (I heard that someone didn't like Shidou without gel and cried hyperbolically), he calls you 'cupcake' one time.

One hundred and seven times.

You've thought about killing him so many times. Strangle him. Take his head off. Castrate him. Burn him. Drown him... Anything, really. Why is this idiot even more annoying than usual? Who knows. Well, obviously not you.

Your eyes watched him praise a player again. Of course, this is not surprising for him, he is very respectful to good players, but now? Fuck, this is out of bounds.

You can see perfectly well how his hands stay on this guy for too long. And the way his eyes look at you from time to time. It's been repeated too many times today.

Does he want you to crack? But no. He's going to do it today. And it won't just crack, it will come apart at the seams.

The sound of the futon moving can be heard in an almost empty room as your body bends over his, while his face is buried in the pillow, trying not to moan too loudly. Not that he cares about it, but you do very much.

"I'm s-sorry, cu-cupcake, please—!" he exhales raggedly, clutching at the thin fabric, trying with all his might to stabilize himself and his body from your obviously not gentle thrusts, which seemed to knock his soul out of him piece by piece.

A rhetorical question escapes your lips, and an almost animal grin appears on your lips, seeing his condition. "Now we're just barking, right? You forgot how to bite pretty quickly."

Shidou just whimpers, feeling his body twitching from your thrusts inside his sloppy hole. His curls are disheveled on the bed, and some are stuck to his cheeks or neck from sweat. He just couldn't look into your eyes as usual, knowing full well that he would break even more... He dug his own grave after all.

"That guy couldn't have brought you to this state, you know? He definitely has a dick smaller than my little finger," you reason, lowering one of your hands from his waist lower, feeling the muscles of his stomach tighten as you slide over them, reaching his v-shaped line, and then his crotch. "Don't you agree?"

"Fuck, yes! Def-definitely, yes... Probably th-the same size as an a-ant," Ryusei giggles, swallowing his saliva, arching his back harder, which makes you hiss, feeling like he's become a little tighter.

Although his giggles immediately fade away when you grab his overexcited, spent cock. You immediately slap the hand that's trying to stop you, grabbing his length, making him choke on his own sob.

Tears began to form in his eyes, lingering on his blond eyelashes, and then trickling down his cheeks. He couldn't take another round! He wanted to, but probably couldn't. You're huge, you tease him, you fuck him, you humiliate someone for the size of his dick... Did I mention that you're huge? Anyway, it's fucking Hell! He's a fucking puddle under you, even though he wanted to stay under you like that, because that's actually what he wanted.

Maybe you'd be more gentle if your count of murder methods stopped at about sixty.

"Still fucking want me like this, huh? How many times did you cum?" you ask rhetorically, realizing that he won't answer, just smiling, and then slapping his ass, which makes him squeak, and you enjoy his sounds, because you can't see almost anything.

"Don't worry, I'll do it over and over again until you don't even have the thought of leaving me anymore, do you understand?" Ryusei nodded, and his cock jerked in your grip, forcing you to enter him up to the hilt, and then pull your dick out of him, which immediately turns around to look at you. "Or maybe I need to make it so that you can't stand at all without help..."

Shido pales almost immediately, sensing the sincerity in your voice, and then moans too loudly when you thrust into him again. Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his face back into the pillows so that he doesn't wake anyone up and so that he stops making silly excuses about how he wants you to pull out your dick.

He looked like a black hole right now, honestly. So he'd better not pretend to be a clogged pipe right now.

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voxslays · 7 months ago

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DECORATING THE CHRISTMAS TREE

⤷ Featuring; Lucifer x Reader, In which: Reader and Lucifer decorate the Hotel’s Christmas tree for Charlie. ˋ°•*⁀➷

It was the beginning of the holiday season in hell. Imps, Succubi, and other hellborn celebrated their familial winter traditions, while sinners celebrated the earth traditions they brought with them when they died. You were one of them. Once a simple human, now damned to eternal suffering in hell…yet it never seemed so bad. You had met Lucifer a few months back, when he had first arrived at the hotel, and once again when he saved the hotel residents from Adam and the exterminators. You had talked to him frequently since he moved in, and you two had become close friends.

Earlier this morning, Charlie had called you and the other residents down into the lobby. She explained she wanted to decorate the hotel and make it extra festive to give everyone a little holiday spirit. You were assigned tree duty. Firstly, you needed a tree. “Hey, Alastor…?” You smile sweetly. “Yes, my dear?” Alastor says, his usual radio static even more prominent this morning. “Could you make us a tree?” Before you can even blink, there is a beautiful snowy evergreen standing straight up in the middle of the lobby. “Thanks Alastor!” You run over to admire the tree.

Next you marched down into the hotel's cellar. It was dark and damp, not the kind of place you would like to spend very long in. You hurriedly grabbed the ornaments Charlie had stored. Unfortunately, there were at least ten decent sized crates of fragile ornaments, forcing you to take multiple trips. Once all of the tree’s decorations (and a tall orange ladder) were in the lobby, you could finally begin. This was going to take hours.

And then Lucifer entered the lobby, his golden eyes immediately locking onto you as you decorated the tree. It was obvious he had just woken up. There were slight eyebags under his eyes, and his hair was slightly disheveled, yet he was even more beautiful in your opinion. You couldn't help but stare at the way the lights reflected in his eyes, casting a warm glow on his face. You felt your heart skip a beat as he watched you, completely entranced by your presence. “Good Morning, your highness. I’m surprised you’re awake so soon.” You jest playfully.

Lucifer chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving yours as he walks closer to you. He leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you continue to decorate the tree. His gaze is intense, filled with a joyful and adoring look that only you seem to notice. “So… what do you think so far?” You ask, stepping down from the step stool you were standing on and admiring your work. The tree was empty except for the Christmas lights you had wrapped around its branches. "It's beautiful... just like you." Luci’s voice comes out in a childish, playful manner as he reaches out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You laugh sweetly. “Well I still have about two thousand…ish-? ornaments to put on the tree.” He watches as you grab a box of ornaments, his eyes never leaving your form. He steps closer to you, his presence looming over you. "Need any help?" His tone is gentle and charming. “Yes please!” You smile gratefully. He sits down next to you on the floor, his long legs stretched out as he begins to help you unwrap the ornaments. Luci carefully takes each one from the box, his fingers brushing against yours occasionally as he hands them to you to hang on the tree. With Luci’s help, you have to quickly pull out the stool again…and then a ladder. You almost think Alastor chose the tallest tree he could find on purpose, just to make you suffer. The tree was almost to the roof of the two-story lobby!

Lucifer laughs at your struggle, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners. He leans the ladder against the tree, watching as you climb up to decorate the harder to reach branches. "You know, Alastor did this on purpose, didn't he?" He laughs in a jolly tone. “That’s what I was thinking!” You laugh. You have reach to put the next ornament up. You shift your weight a little too much, and feel the ladder start to fall. You let out a shriek. Without missing a beat, Lucifer’s wings appear as he flies up and catches you midair. "Whoa there!" His wings wrap slightly around you protectively as he slowly descends with you in his arms. His heart was racing—not from the sudden movement, but from the feel of you in his arms. "Careful there...don't want you getting hurt."

“Thanks…!” You say out of breath. Luci sets you back down on your feet, keeping one arm around your waist to steady you. "Maybe we should just skip the top branches and focus on the lower ones, huh?" He smiles, his warm breath tickling your ear. "I can always use my wings to reach anything we miss." You smile warmly. “I’d like that.” You say, grabbing a light blue ornament gently from his grasp. As you continue decorating, Luci stays close by your side, occasionally reaching up to grab a decoration and hand it to you to hang. He hums along to the music playing in the background, his arm never leaving your waist.

After a few hours of decorating, the only thing left is the star. You carefully unwrap the silk red and golden cover and hand it to Lucifer. “Would you do the honors?” He leans in, his arm around your waist tightening slightly as he takes the star. "Of course." He gently places the star at the very top of the tree, his wings fluttering slightly as he reaches. "There we go. Perfect." Lucifer slowly descends from the tree, his golden eyes meeting yours. He keeps one hand around your waist, pulling you slightly closer. "You know, the tree looks great, but..." His voice trails off, his face lighting up with a devilish grin. "There's still something missing." He chuckles, his arm around your waist tightening. “Hm?” You hum teasingly.

Without warning, Lucifer leans in and presses his lips against yours in a gentle yet passionate kiss. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin. "Now it's perfect." You laugh gently, your giggles like music to hell’s ears. “You are so cheeky.” Lucifer chuckles softly, his red pupils sparkling with amusement and something more. "Cheeky? Me? Never!" He presses another quick kiss to your lips, then whispers close to your ear. "Though I do love it when you make that little giggle of yours." You smirk. “Maybe I’ll do it more often then.” His face lights up with a brilliant smile, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners. "I’d love that.”

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bluebellles · 1 month ago

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“I’ve been looking at you so long, now I only see me”

little habits you and the LADS boys pick up from each other as a couple

genre: sfw, fluff, brain empty little bite sized moments

cw: rafmc emotionally abusing thomas, grandpa behavior from sylus, whatever tf caleb has going on (par for the course), zayne’s a mealprepper i think that’s canon, i wrote sylus’s first and it actually inspired the series but it ended up being shorter than the others, idk i was satisfied with it so i dont wanna add anything though, threw in a tiny bit of angst in caleb’s (tiny) what can i say i learned from infold

Gossip

You had turned your boyfriend into an absolute menace.

It wasn’t on purpose, really. It had started innocently enough when the two of you had gone out for your usual Thursday night hotpot (much different from your Saturday night hotpot and Tuesday night hotpot if anyone cared to ask).

The couple two tables down from you began arguing over the man’s Instagram likes and you had, like anyone in your situation would, instantly stopped speaking to overhear their conversation.

Xavier noticed your change in demeanor immediately, swallowing his bite of meat and leaning closer to you in concern.

“Why are you so quiet?” he frowned, glancing down at your bowl, “Are the mushrooms overcooked? I followed the instructions on the sheet…”

He had reluctantly stopped experimenting with the cooking times at your vehement, repeated request.

The silver haired man blinked in surprise when you simply pressed a finger to his lips but made no move to stop you. You tilted your head to the couple who was now scrolling through the man’s entire feed while he shook a ladle at her animatedly.

His eyes tracked your movement and landed on the couple in confusion. Why were you so concerned? Were they bothering you? Did you need him to get them to leave so you could go back to eating hotpot in peace?

As if sensing his intentions, you shook your head and pointed to your ear. He took the cue to listen in, growing more and more interested as the argument escalated. Why did he care? He wasn’t sure, but suddenly listening in on the man’s insistence that he was just supporting young women was even more interesting than his sliced pork.

The pair of you stayed quiet until the couple stormed out of the restaurant after slamming down a stack of bills on the table as if they were in a K-Drama.

“...She should dump him,” he speaks simply, picking his spoon back up without further ado.

“I’m saying,” you agreed, sipping your drink, “She is way too pretty for him anyways.”

You hadn’t thought much of the moment at the time, but apparently you had sparked a new interest for your normally docile boyfriend. Suddenly he was a man on a mission and he had become very dutiful in his reports to you during your evening debriefs (cuddling on the couch).

The woman who lived in the apartment below you was illegally subletting to her grandson, as witnessed during a trip to the P.O. boxes in the lobby.

That’s not really news. I hear him screaming at his PC at three a.m. every day.

The teenage boy who had sat next to him on the train was running an illegal essay-forgery ring and seemed to be making a decent profit, as overheard when he was pretending to be asleep.

In this economy? Good for him.

Tara and Jenna were holding hands under the table during the morning meeting.

This one actually made you gasp in excitement, and your boyfriend was smug with pride as you slapped your hands against his chest repeatedly and demanded more details.

For better or for worse, you had created a bit of a gossip monster out of your boyfriend. Thursday night hotpot (slightly less sacred than Saturday night hotpot and more populated than Tuesday night hotpot) was now dedicated to eavesdropping on the surrounding tables. You could only be grateful he was no longer focused on experimenting with the broth.

Vocal Stims

Your boyfriend lets out a deep sigh, lackadaisically kicking his feet up onto the coffee table in Thomas’s office as he mindlessly twirls a pen between his fingers. You sit beside him, steadfastly ignoring his antics as you focus on completing a report from your last mission. As usual, Rafayel had dragged you along to a meeting with his art manager to ‘protect him from potential threats’, the most prevalent of which was boredom.

You usually tried your best to be polite and well behaved to supplement your other half’s determination to make a general nuisance of himself in the unfounded hopes of getting Thomas to agree to meet less frequently.

“Is this guy seriously so inept that he needs someone to hold his hand through the process of buying an art piece?” Rafayel scoffed at his manager’s attempts to get him to meet with a potential client personally, “Either he likes the piece or he doesn’t. What’s so difficult to comprehend? Is he stupid? I don’t want stupid people buying my artwork Thomas.”

“He’s the sole founder of a multibillion dollar tech company,” Thomas lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Do they specialize in making technology for idiots?” He looks over at you expectantly. You solemnly shake your head. He’s in rare form today, crabby from his interrupted bathtub time (two hours instead of four). That wasn’t even worth a fake chuckle. He pouts, looking away from you again.

“Some clients just like to know what kind of artist they're supporting before giving them their money,” Thomas explained as if this was a new concept, “I mean, some people love the whole flighty, elusive artist thing you have going on but to be honest, Rafayel, you can be a tough nut to swallow.”

The room immediately falls into complete silence. You pause your rhythmic typing. The pen falls from Rafayel’s hand. Thomas’s face fills with dread.

Completely stone-faced, you and your boyfriend stare at each other before slowly turning your heads to face the panicking art manager. From his perspective you are no different from two sharks circling their prey.

“Thomas…,” Rafayel starts, with absolutely no emotion in his voice.

“...what?” you finish his sentence in the same tone.

“I meant- I got confused between ‘tough nut to crack’ and ‘bitter pill to swallow’,” he mumbles with no small amount of horror, “It was an honest mistake! Anyone could make it after talking in circles like this for hours!”

Your shoulders are now shaking as you fight to keep the sinister delight off your face.

“Please don’t,” Thomas turns to you in his desperation, already knowing his most problematic artist is a lost cause.

“Should I be worried, Thomas?” you offer him no reprieve.

Beside you, your boyfriend tilts his head back and cackles like some kind of ancient sea witch as his poor manager puts his head in his hands and groans.

After that day, you and Rafayel terrorize everyone you cross paths with for weeks with the phrase. Mainly Thomas, but also the poor old lady who runs your favorite fish market, the seagulls down by Rafayel’s preferred outcropping of rocks, whoever has the misfortune of sitting next to the two of you on the train into town. Nobody is safe from your tyranny.

Next month, it might be a random quote from a TikTok or a random tourist’s mispronunciation of the word ‘anemone’. Whatever the case may be, the world will always fall victim to your mutual vocal stims.

Trash TV Shows

“Two days off a week and you choose to spend one of them staring at a screen for hours on end,” your ever-logical boyfriend cannot resist making the comment as he sips from his mug superiorly.

“If you hate me and wish I was dead just say that,” you brush him off as you point the remote at his giant flat-screen and try to pick something to watch.

“Oh, is that what I said?” he hums noncommittally, reaching over to steady your bowl of popcorn as it teeters dangerously on the couch next to you.

“It basically is, in summation,” you insist, nodding your head emphatically, “God forbid women have hobbies! Why do you even have this giant TV if you never use it anyways?”

“Knitting is a hobby. Watching reality television is a surefire way to ensure early cognitive decline. And I use it to review past surgeries and study recordings of new techniques in the field.”

You groan dramatically, kicking a slipper-covered foot halfheartedly in his direction. He catches it with his usual barely-there grin that crinkles the corners of his hazel eyes softly.

“Fine then, I won’t watch reality TV,” you scroll to find Grey’s Anatomy and begin loading up your favorite episode, “This isn’t trash. This is art.”

“It’s medical malpractice and constant HIPAA violations, actually,” he counters, adjusting the cuff of your sweatpants from where they had rolled up on your right leg.

“Objectively that may be true but I don’t really want to hear about HIPAA violations from you.”

Zayne eventually relents with his teasing and leaves you to veg out after a grueling workweek. As much as he may pretend to protest, he would never genuinely diminish anything that helped you relax. Instead, he made himself busy meal-prepping his usual health-over-flavor lunches in the kitchen and contented himself to admire your blissed out form from the archway that separated him from the living room.

Against his will, however, his attention kept drifting to the dramatic antics taking place on the screen in front of you.

“That is an exorbitant dosage for the patient’s age and weight,” he couldn't help himself from interjecting with a displeased frown, “and why would so many doctors respond to the same distress call. Are they overstaffed?”

It’s his fourth comment this episode alone.

“Just come sit next to me if you’re already watching,” you giggle at his genuine offense over the inaccuracies.

“I’m not watching,” he insists, but abandons the rice cooker and sinks down next to you without taking his eyes off the screen.

You happily snuggle into his side, pleased to bask in the comfort of your boyfriend’s arms as they wrap around you with a gentle kiss placed to your forehead. The silence lasts for approximately three minutes and sixteen seconds.

“...Why would he sleep with her when he knows she is going through a hard time and then walk around like a kicked puppy? He should be more worried about his inadequate suturing technique, if anything.”

“Right???”

Selfies

You should never have taken a selfie with Sylus. And not just because he mogged you.

He had looked at you with his version of startled confusion (a slightly higher than usual raise of his right eyebrow) when you first brought out your phone and leaned in close with a cheesy smile on your face.

Even in the first few shots, where he looked stiff and awkward as he tried to deduce your intentions, he looked like a marble statue of an ancient god brought to life. Once he settled into himself and leaned a little closer into you with that barely-there smile and gentle eyes he only reserved for your moments together, it was completely over for you.

Which was fine. You could be humble enough to acknowledge that bad angles simply did not exist for Sylus. That and the pleased "send that to me" he had rumbled into your ear as you scrolled through the pictures for him made it worth it.

It wasn't until later you realized you had unleashed an absolute menace on the world. Not even in the usual hellfire and brimstone related way.

Pre night-out? Lean a little closer to the camera, sweetie. Post night-out? Smile first, then he'll pick you up and carry you home princess-style to protect your aching feet.

In the middle of scarfing down some pizza after a particularly grueling protocore hunt that left your hair in disarray and your eyeliner smudged almost completely off? Just look up for one second, kitten.

His camera roll had to be nearly completely full of the most random, innocuous moments of the two of you together. You once sarcastically commented that he'd have to get a new phone just for pictures soon. He genuinely considered it.

He could now often be found mid-illegal arms deal nonchalantly scrolling through his camera roll, letting out a small rich person chuckle at a photo of you yelling at him for whipping out his phone in the middle of a shoot-out while he made sure the camera got his good side.

It was a hoard he considered more precious than the stacks of gold bars overflowing from his cellar or the offshore bank accounts he kept his real estate funds in. For all the qualms he had about this new century, he could at least say he was grateful for this new way of collecting treasures.

Literally everything, if he had his way.

It wasn’t an anomalous occurrence for you and Caleb to subconsciously mimic each other’s habits. An entire lifetime together and your boyfriend’s inclination to fuse himself to you any time he has the opportunity practically ensured some overlap.

His high school basketball teammates thought he must be the only person in the world who used the term “hedgehogging” instead of “jogging” during practice before learning the story of how you misused the word when you were kids.

Your university roommate had a similar reaction to you referring to your mini fridge as “steelless stain” instead of “stainless steel”, an embarrassing blunder you had picked up from Caleb after he got his (first) concussion.

Perhaps the most humiliating had been when Caleb had been flipping through a manual in the pilot academy mess hall next to Gideon as his friend scarfed down a sandwich. He had made a noise of disgust after biting down on a wilted piece of lettuce and, without flinching or looking up, Caleb had stuck his hand underneath the other man’s chin as if to catch the food if he spit it out.

“...Force of habit,” he spoke gravely as he slowly pulled his hand away.

“Uh-huh.”

Over the years, much to his delight, it was often difficult for outside observers to discern where one of you ended and the other began. The problem only intensified when you actually started dating.

Shared inside jokes that no longer even required vocal cues for you both to start snickering in the middle of the grocery store when you see a ‘buy one get one free’ sign on the chicken wings. Your tendency to simply hold your arms above your head when you get sick of your sweater, knowing he’ll be there to tug it off for you. The automatic sorting of bags of candy into two piles: your favorite flavors and the flavors-you-don’t-like-as-much for your dedicated boyfriend.

Being around Caleb had always felt like creating your own unique language that only the two of you could comprehend.

You had never really known what being alone really meant until those long, grueling months when you were the only one left in the world who spoke it.

The thought settled uncomfortably in your chest, prompting you to stretch your hand out across the divider that separated you from your boyfriend who was currently driving you both to the pier for a casual Friday night date.

Without even looking, Caleb moved his free hand from your thigh to intertwine with your own. His thumb tapped a steady rhythm against you, spelling out the beat of your shared favorite song. It wasn’t even playing on the radio. Just another quiet little affirmation of the two of you.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #l&ds #lads x reader #l&ds x reader #lads fluff #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace sfw #lads sfw #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #sylus x reader #caleb x reader #belle's bakery

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nemo-writes · 8 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; as dawn breaks, you tend to sybil and the remains of the wreckage left by the attack. determined to root out the force behind this dark chapter, you turn to an old friend for guidance.

⚠️ warnings; slight descriptions of injuries and blood

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Morning breaks with the first faint light creeping through the cracks of your blinds, and the relentless scratching at the door finally ceases. Exhausted but relieved, you uncurl from your spot on the floor, where you spent the night huddled with Sybil. Her breathing is steady now, though a quiet whine escapes her occasionally. You gently stroke her white fur, matted with dirt and dried blood from the night’s violent encounter.

You rise cautiously, the movement tugging at the pain in your ankle. Sybil stirs beside you, lifting her head as if sensing your intent. Before focusing on her, you steal a peek through the blinds. The street below lies empty, no sign of any lurking danger. Then you check outside your apartment door, and there too, it's empty.

Reassured for now, you bend down, wrapping your arms around Sybil and lifting her up with a pained grunt. The adrenaline that had fueled you the night before has vanished, leaving only raw, trembling determination. Step by agonizing step, you make your way down the stairs, each descent slow and labored, every creak of the wood magnifying the weight of your exhaustion.

The shop is unrecognisable.

Shelves that once held carefully labelled jars and vials are toppled, their contents spilled across the floor in a kaleidoscope of shattered glass and stained herbs. Your cauldron lies overturned near the counter, its contents long soaked into the wooden floorboards. The air still smells of the burnt potion that had scorched Ghost’s skin.

The destruction around you is overwhelming, but Sybil’s soft whine pulls you back to the present. You set her down gently on a comfortable patch of floor, cleared from the chaos.

You scavenge what’s left, finding a few unbroken jars of salve and bandages hidden under the counter. Working methodically, you tend to Sybil's wounds, cleaning and wrapping them with as much care as your shaky hands allow. She remains still, enduring the discomfort with quiet patience.

Once she is cared for, you turn to your own leg. Your ankle is swollen and caked in dry blood, bruised from where Ghost had dragged you across the floor, his claws tearing into your flesh. You bite your lip as you clean the puncture wound. Wraith poison. It seeps slowly into the bloodstream, and if not treated, it can be lethal. You rub a poultice into the marks and wrap your leg tightly, knowing it will take time to heal, but at least it’s no longer a death sentence for either of you.

As you move to clean and pick up the remains of your shattered apothecary, every movement feels like an effort. You work slowly, but you push through, driven by the need to restore some sense of order.

While sweeping debris near where Ghost had writhed in pain, you freeze. Embedded in the floor, glinting faintly under the dim light, is one of Ghost’s nails, sharp and black, splintered into the wood from his violent struggle. You kneel down, inspecting it closely—its edges are jagged, coated in dried blood, and it radiates an eerie, dark energy. Carefully, you take a cloth and extract it.

Holding the nail in your hands, an idea begins to form.

You know of someone who can and will help. You swallow hard, the decision settling heavily within you. She’s not someone you reach out to lightly, but this time… there’s no other choice.

. . .

You leave Sybil resting on your bed, and only when her eyes flutter closed, do you leave her side, the familiar warmth of her presence a small comfort in the back of your mind.

You gather what you need, moving with purpose despite the clammines in your hands. The bathroom becomes your makeshift altar, and though the tub is humble, it will serve.

Carefully, you sprinkle the salvaged herbs into the water, watching as they drift across the surface. Each herb was chosen with intent—rosemary for protection, thyme for courage, lavender for clarity. A handful of salt follows, grounding the mixture and cleansing it.

With a slow exhale, you press your own nail hard against your thumb with a flinch, allowing a drop of your blood to fall into the tub. The water shudders, rippling outward in response, as though alive to your plea. Then, you murmur her name.

The surface of the water begins to glow with a faint, silvery light, casting soft reflections on the walls. The air thickens, each breath becoming heavier as the veil between worlds trembles before finally falling open.

Slowly, deliberately, she emerges from the tub. The top of her head, crowned with dark, damp hair, breaks through first, followed by her sharp, regal features, her eyes pale pools. She rises until her neck and shoulders hover just above the waterline, her arms gracefully settling over the edge of the tub.

Her gaze finds yours, calm but penetrating, a knowing smile flickering across her lips as she studies your face. The familiarity settles comfortably in the air between the two of you.

"Thou art troubled, mine old friend," she speaks, her voice a soft echo in the space. "What darkness doth plague thy heart?"

Her presence, while comforting, still commands your respect. You were taught from childhood to call her name only when truly needed, for she was an ally to your bloodline, but not a spirit to be called upon lightly.

Her eyes fix upon your battered state. “Thou art a sight most grievous,” she says, her voice rich with the cadence of old English. “Fear gnaws at thy bones, and pain hath left thee ragged, hollow. Wounded, indeed.”

You breathe deeply, pulling yourself together as you lift the cloth-wrapped object from your side. Silently, you offer her Ghost's nail, dark and deadly. Her gaze sharpens as she accepts it, her slender fingers turning it over in quiet, focused examination.

“Reveal to me the source of his madness,” you plea, “and of the others’. Please, show me what’s driven them to this.”

She studies the nail, tracing its jagged edges. Finally, she speaks.

“Aye,” she begins, voice grave, “thou seeketh the truth behind his descent. Yet, be warned: the truth is not what it seemeth. She, the one they pursue—she is not untouched, not unscarred by the same darkness. Though she is the centre, she is not the cause. She is but human, and another hand doth shape this tale.”

Your pulse quickens, mind racing as her words sink in. Leah—she was a source, but not the architect of this obsession. Her eyes hold yours, unreadable but certain.

“There is a design here, a careful orchestration. Another, cunning and cloaked, doth play upon thy pack’s nature, bending their hearts to obsession, their minds to ruin. This plan hath taken root already; what was begun is now well underway.”

Leah is as much a victim in this as the pack—only a piece in someone else’s scheme. "Who?" you ask, desperation slipping into your voice. “Who would do this?”

Her expression softens, but she shakes her head. "The shadow hath yet to reveal itself. But know this: as long as the threads go unseen, the madness shall deepen. The one who drives this seeks not thy destruction alone. Their aim is vast—boundless.”

With a slight tilt of her head, she turns back to you, holding the nail delicately between her fingers. She then extends it to you, resting it on the cloth. Her cool hand closes around yours, a silent reminder of the weight and danger that this fragment carries.

“Hold this close, child,” she murmurs. “For it may yet serve thee well. In times of shadow, such remnants of truth may be weapons against the dark.”

Then her hand releases yours, trailing up to your cheek with a tender, cool touch, thumb tracing a slow, reassuring line as her gaze holds yours, unyielding and steady.

“Do not let thy heart waver,” she whispers, voice soft yet powerful. “Thou art not so easily uprooted, nor cast aside by such an evil. Thy roots run deep, born of stronger stock than this darkness anticipates. Hold fast.”

Then, as swiftly as she’d come, she begins to sink back beneath the water, her fingers slipping from the edge of the tub, leaving you with more questions than answers. Alone in the dim light of your bathroom, each revelation settles like stones in your chest.

You’re not without fault either. You’d fed your own resentments, let jealousy twist your perspective until you’d unknowingly played into the hands of whatever force sought to divide and conquer. And that needs to end here.

With clarity finally settled on your mind, your thoughts turn again to Laswell. She’s always been the town’s first line of defence, and whatever is lurking here has crept under her watch. If anyone can help you make sense of things, it’s her.

With Ghost’s nail clutched tightly in your hand, you gather yourself and start moving. You leave Sybil behind, resting and safe as you focus on Laswell. It’s time to face everything—to confront whatever has been taking root here.

. . .

On the other side of town, Alejandro and Rudy moved through the quiet, pre-dawn streets, taking care of some early business that couldn’t wait for full daylight. Alejandro was scanning over the market supplies they’d been tasked to retrieve while Rudy jotted down some notes, the calm routine a welcome reprieve.

The usual scent of bread and spice mingled with the morning chill—until something sharp, unsettling, cut through it.

Alejandro stopped short, head tilting as his trained nose caught the unmistakable hint of blood. A slow tension crept up his spine as he recognized it, mixed with something familiar and wrong all at once His grip tightened around his gear, and he motioned for Rudy to follow.

They followed the faint trail toward the edge of the Rose District, its shadowy streets still cast in the muted dawn light. And there, half-shifted and sprawled against the stone, lay none other than Ghost. A mix of something matted his clothes, his form slumped but menacing even in partial human form.

Alejandro moved closer, but as Rudy reached out instinctively to help, Alejandro’s hand shot out, stopping him. “Espérate,” he hissed, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on Ghost's red-stained neck and knuckles. The fury building within him found confirmation in the scent lingering on the half-wraith's skin—it was unmistakably yours.

“It’s her blood,” Alejandro said, voice low and furious.

Rudy’s eyes widened, and before either could demand answers, Ghost’s eyes shot open, wild and feral. With a snarl, he surged to his feet, tearing away from their reach and disappearing back into the shadows, leaving only their unanswered questions and a trail of dread in his wake.

Rudy turned to Alejandro, jaw clenched. "We need to check on her. Now."

Without hesitation, they both turned on their heels, abandoning their morning duties. The journey back to your shop felt longer than it should, the urgency of what they might find gnawing at both of them.

The strange behaviour of the pack had lingered at the edges of Alejandro's thoughts. He remembered how odd they’d been the last time he and Rudy had delivered your tonics and potions to them—unsettled, like they were barely holding themselves together. He cursed at his carelessness. Whatever had been brewing beneath the surface had clearly boiled over, and now, you were caught on it dead and centre.

When they finally arrived at your shop, the destruction greeted them like a wound left open. Clearly someone had attempted to clean up, but shelves remained overturned, dried patches of blood staining the wooden floor. Alejandro could smell Ghost’s all over. But you were already gone. His eyes flickered upstairs when a soft whine from upstairs reached his ears.

“Sybil’s here,” Alejandro murmured. Rudy followed him cautiously up the stairs, where they came face-to-face with the door of your apartment—warded heavily with a spell they both recognized. It allowed only those with genuine intentions to pass.

A moment passed before the door clicked softly open, just enough to let them through. They ventured deeper inside and into your room, where the found Sybil laying in your bed, her head lifting as the pair approached. Her intelligent eyes locked with their, and though she couldn’t speak, her exhaustion told them everything.

"Pobrecita (Poor girl)," Rudy sighed, eyes soft as he looked at the injured familiar.

Alejandro, as a Perro Negro (Black Dog), possessed a bond with spirits, especially those of dogs or wolves. He knelt by her side, hand resting gently on her fur. Their connection deepened, and in the quiet of the room, Sybil communicated what she had witnessed. Through her thoughts, he saw the chaos that had unfolded—the fight, the terror, the injury. And most importantly, he saw where you had gone.

“Se fue a buscar a Laswell, (She went to look for Laswell)” Alejandro said, standing, his voice heavy with understanding. “That’s where we need to go.”

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norristrii · 2 months ago

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SO CLOSE TO GET ALONG.

“If you think they lookin’ at you, they lookin’ at me.” — How else to gain Lando's respect and attention than with your driving skills and knowledge of cars? Especially when you beat his best friend in race.

pairing. step cousin! Lando Norris x fem! reader

warnings. step cousin romance, Max F. being asshole, mention of cheating, longer than I expected, this part was written before chapter 2.

music. Looking At Me by Sabrina Carpenter.

Series masterlist.

FOUR DAYS INTO YOUR NEW LIFE IN LONDON, and the emptiness was starting to weight on you. The villa—grand and beautiful as it was—seemed far too large for just one person. Its towering ceilings and sprawling hallways echoed with silence, the kind of quiet that made you feel even more out of place.

Your aunt and Thomas were off living their best lives, constantly on trips, as though the move had unlocked a new chapter of bliss for them. They hardly seemed to stay still, returning only briefly to the villa before heading off to yet another excursion. You didn’t begrudge them for their happiness—they deserved it—but that didn’t make the solitude any easier to bear.

And Lando? He was nowhere to be found. Not that you’d expected him to stick around much, but his absence was still noticeable. You imagined him out in the city, partying, living it up, doing whatever it was rich boys did. The roaring engines of his McLaren had been missing for days, leaving behind a quiet emptiness that contrasted sharply with his flashy entrance when you first met him.

You wandered the villa, trying to fill the hours with anything that might distract you from the loneliness. You browsed through the library, flipping aimlessly through books you didn’t have the focus to read. You found yourself drawn to the framed photos of cars and F1 memorabilia, their energy and movement frozen in time—a stark contrast to the stillness surrounding you now.

Sometimes you’d sit by the French windows, staring out at the greenery, letting your thoughts drift. London was beautiful, you couldn’t deny that, but it felt foreign, too large and unfamiliar to find comfort in. Back in Los Angeles, your world had been full—of friends, routines, and the sun-soaked streets you’d known since childhood. Here, everything felt like it belonged to someone else, and you were just a guest passing through.

Your footsteps echoed softly as they carried you through the quiet villa, down unfamiliar hallways that seemed to stretch forever. Somehow, you found yourself standing in front of a door you hadn’t noticed before. The garage. You hesitated for a moment, your hand hovering over the handle, before slowly pushing it open.

The scent of polished metal and faint gasoline hit you immediately, a strangely comforting mix that brought back flashes of childhood memories with your dad. Stepping inside, the sheer scale of the space took your breath away. It wasn’t just a garage—it was a shrine to luxury and power, to speed and engineering perfection.

Your eyes widened as they wandered over the vehicles lined up like trophies. Ferraris in glossy red, their curves gleaming under the overhead lights. Mercedes in sleek silver, embodying elegance and precision. Lamborghinis with sharp, aggressive lines that seemed to demand attention. And of course, the McLarens—a whole row of them, their signature design instantly recognizable, each one more stunning than the last.

You couldn’t help but let out a low whistle of appreciation. The sight was overwhelming, but in the best way. You moved slowly, careful not to touch anything, as you took it all in. These weren’t just cars—they were art, every detail crafted with purpose and passion.

Your fingers itched to run along the edge of the nearest McLaren, to feel the smooth paint beneath your touch, but you held back, unsure if you were even allowed to be here. Still, being surrounded by these machines, so full of power and potential, felt strangely grounding. You couldn’t explain it, but for the first time in days, you didn’t feel quite so out of place.

“Like what you see?” The voice startled you, sharp yet casual, cutting through the hum of silence in the garage. You jumped slightly, your hand instinctively clutching your chest as you spun around. There he was, Lando, leaning against the doorframe, his posture effortlessly casual, yet there was something about his presence that felt magnetic. You couldn’t help but wonder how he managed to appear so quietly—no roaring McLaren engine to announce his arrival this time.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, your voice tinged with exasperation, though your pulse was still racing from the surprise.

He shrugged, smirking as he ignored your question entirely. “So,” he drawled, his green eyes glinting with amusement as they flicked from the cars back to you, “do you like what you see?”

For a moment, you debated whether to respond, not entirely sure if he was referring to the cars—or maybe to himself. But something in his expression challenged you to match his tone, so you sighed and said, “Yeah, I love cars.” Your voice softened as you continued, almost out of habit, “That’s the only thing I’ve got after my dad.”

The words tumbled out before you realized it, and your stomach tightened the moment you heard yourself say them. Really? You thought. You were opening up to someone like Lando? Of all people? You barely knew him, and yet here you were, sharing a piece of yourself you normally kept buried.

Lando didn’t interrupt. He didn’t fill the space with another quip. Instead, his smirk faded slightly, his expression unreadable as he remained leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed in his pockets. It was hard to tell if he was mocking you, intrigued, or perhaps—just perhaps—genuinely listening.

Your defenses kicked in almost immediately. “Never mind,” you added quickly, brushing the moment aside, your tone sharper now as you waved a hand toward the cars. “They’re impressive, though. Typical rich-boy collection, I guess.”

Lando ignored this comment of yours. “Max is hosting a party,” he said casually, his tone carrying that same cocky edge, like he was offering you the world instead of just a night out. “You want to come with me?”

The question felt odd, unexpected—especially coming from him. Did he actually want you there, or was this just something your aunt had told him to offer? It was hard to tell, and his expression wasn’t giving anything away. That smirk of his was still firmly in place, as though he already knew what your answer would be.

You hesitated, the silence stretching out between you as you weighed the idea in your mind. Parties weren’t usually your thing, and the thought of diving into Lando’s world—the world of rich boys, fast cars, and loud nights—felt daunting. But then again, you were four days into life in London, and you hadn’t exactly made any friends yet. The villa felt too quiet, too empty, and maybe, this was your chance to change that.

“Sure,” you said finally, your tone careful but steady. “Why not?”

Lando’s smirk widened slightly, like he’d been expecting your answer all along. “Good choice,” he said, stepping away from the doorframe with an easy confidence. “I’ll make sure you don’t get too bored.”

You weren’t sure whether to take that as reassurance or another one of his teasing remarks, but either way, you had a feeling this party was going to be... interesting, to say the least.

You followed him outside, the cool London air brushing against your skin as you stepped toward the sleek navy blue McLaren parked in the driveway. To your surprise, Lando walked around the car first, his hand reaching for the door. He opened it for you with an effortless motion, stepping back slightly as he gestured for you to get in.

Wow. Gentleman. You didn’t expect that from someone like him—someone who carried himself with such an air of cockiness—but it caught you off guard in a way that almost made you smile. Almost.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you noticed the details immediately. Bright yellow highlights stood out against the luxurious interior—subtle but undeniably personal. The stitching along the seats, the key fob on the dash, even the accents on the steering wheel bore his unmistakable initials. It was a bold choice, undeniably materialistic, but you couldn’t deny that it suited him perfectly.

Lando rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life with a sound that reverberated through your chest. You glanced at him briefly, noticing the self-assured grin tugging at his lips as he adjusted the mirror. For all the confidence that bordered on arrogance, there was something about his flair for style and detail that you couldn’t help but admire—whether you wanted to or not.

The silence in the car had stretched on long enough to teeter into awkward territory, the faint hum of the engine filling the space between you. You didn’t particularly mind the quiet, but something about being alone in the car with Lando made you feel the need to say something—anything. Without giving it too much thought, you blurted out, “The initials are cute.”

It was the kind of comment that felt awkward the moment you said it, the words lingering in the air as you wondered if he’d take it as a genuine compliment or simply as small talk. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye and were surprised to catch a small shift in his expression. That usual cocky smirk softened just slightly, replaced by something more genuine—a smile that, for a fleeting moment, felt almost disarming. “Thank you,” he replied, his voice easy, almost playful. “It’s a custom car, so…”

You nodded, sensing an opening to steer the conversation. “Custom McLaren 765LT,” you said casually, your tone light but deliberate, as if discussing high-end supercars was an everyday thing for you. As the words left your mouth, you noticed his head turn toward you sharply, his green eyes narrowing in surprise. Clearly, he hadn’t expected you to say that—or to know exactly what kind of car you were riding in.

“Custom McLaren 765LT Spider, actually,” he corrected, his smirk returning with a touch of pride as he emphasized the distinction. His tone carried a hint of satisfaction, the way someone might feel when sharing a detail they were sure no one else would notice. The way he said it wasn’t condescending, though—more like he couldn’t resist showing off, just a little.

You rolled your eyes in response, your lips curving into a faint smile despite yourself. “Of course,” you replied, letting the sarcasm slip into your voice. But before you could add anything more, he leaned back in his seat, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. The light of the passing streetlamps flickered through the windows, casting soft shadows across his face.

“But now you see it every day,” he pointed out, his grin widening as if he’d just won some unspoken contest of wit. His words were smooth, effortlessly confident, and completely characteristic of him. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes again, though the smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed that you didn’t entirely mind.

The car purred smoothly along the road, the city lights of London beginning to blur past in soft streaks. Something about that little exchange—playful, teasing, and oddly comfortable—seemed to ease the weight of the silence that had hung over the ride before. And for the first time in days, you felt just a little more at ease. Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe this golden boy, for all his arrogance, wouldn’t be quite so insufferable as you’d first thought.

The McLaren purred to a stop in front of yet another villa, smaller than the one you now lived in but still exuding a quiet elegance. It seemed like wealth wasn’t just a part of Lando’s life—it was everywhere, shared by everyone in his orbit. The thought crossed your mind with a faint smirk: So, all rich boys have rich friends?

Outside, a guy stood waiting by the entrance, his grin wide and welcoming as he spotted Lando. “Max! My bro!” Lando shouted, his voice carrying easily as he hopped out of the car. The energy between them was immediate, loud and full of ease, like old friends picking up right where they left off. You followed a few steps behind, unsure of where you fit into the dynamic. The whole thing felt… awkward. Like you were stumbling into someone else’s world without an invitation.

Before you could dwell too much on the awkwardness, another figure appeared from behind Max—a brunette girl with a bright, carefree smile. “Hi, Lando!” she called, her voice warm and bubbly as she threw her arms around him in a hug. You watched the way he hugged her back, his grin as wide as ever, and you felt the faintest pang of… something. Was it jealousy? You weren’t sure. It sat uncomfortably in your chest, a feeling you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone explain.

But as quickly as the feeling bubbled up, it melted away when the girl turned to you, her smile growing even brighter. “This is Y/n,” Lando said, his tone almost reluctant as he introduced you. You noticed the hesitation in his words—how he paused just a beat too long before finishing, “My… friend.” Friend? The label felt hollow, like it didn’t quite capture whatever this was. Roommate? Step cousin? Something entirely else? The uncertainty hung in the air, but no one seemed to question it.

“Hi Y/n! I’m Ria!” she exclaimed, her enthusiasm unmistakable as she pulled you into a hug before you could even react. The gesture was disarming, her warmth cutting through some of the awkward tension you’d carried from the car. Max greeted you with a casual smile, his hands tucked into his pockets, clearly content to let Ria handle the introductions.

You and Ria moved together through the crowd, the energy of the party buzzing around you. Conversations overlapped, laughter echoed off the walls, and the faint beat of music pulsed in the background. You couldn’t help but notice the effortless way Ria navigated the room, greeting people with an easy familiarity that made it clear she was well within her element.

It wasn’t long before you realized you’d lost track of Lando and Max, the two of them seemingly swallowed up by the throng of people. You didn’t mind, though—being with Ria felt much less intimidating. Her presence was warm, almost grounding, as she turned her attention back to you.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Ria asked, her tone light but knowing, her eyes scanning your face like she was piecing together a puzzle. It wasn’t really a question—it was a statement, her ability to read you almost instant.

“Is it that obvious?” you replied with a small laugh, feeling a little exposed but grateful for her openness.

“Kind of,” she said with a playful smile, brushing a strand of her brunette hair behind her ear. “But don’t worry, that’s not a bad thing.” Her sincerity softened the moment, and you felt a flicker of ease in her words.

As the party buzzed around you, you couldn’t help but wonder how Ria seemed so effortlessly comfortable here—so at home in this world that still felt foreign to you. Maybe it wouldn’t be impossible for you to find your place here too, given a little time.

“Yeah, I just needed a change,” you said, your voice carrying the weight of the unspoken emotions you’d been bottling up. The words hung in the air for a moment, as you hesitated, gathering the courage to continue. You glanced at Ria, her open expression encouraging you without needing to say anything. She let you speak, her presence gentle yet supportive.

You took a quiet breath and finally admitted what you’d been holding back, the words tumbling out like a confession. “Right before I moved, my boyfriend cheated on me.” It felt strange to say it aloud, the truth exposing itself like a fresh wound. You’d never mentioned it—not to your aunt, not to anyone. You’d kept it buried deep inside, pretending it didn’t hurt as much as it did.

Ria didn’t react with surprise or pity. She simply nodded slightly, her expression soft and understanding. She didn’t interrupt or press you for details, and her silence made the moment feel less suffocating.

The thought crossed your mind—there wasn’t really anyone else your age who might understand. Not here in London. Well, apart from Lando, but his world felt so far removed from your own, and you couldn’t imagine talking to him about something like this. Ria, though… she was different. She was a girl, and there was something about her warmth that made the words spill out more easily than you’d expected.

“That sucks,” Ria said, her tone heartfelt and steady as she met your gaze. “He’s an idiot and doesn’t deserve you, Y/n.” Her words were sharp but comforting, carrying just enough certainty to make you feel a little better about it all. “There are way better people out there,” she continued, her expression softening into a reassuring smile.

Her comment lingered in the air, the meaning obvious—but your mind drifted as you couldn’t help but think of Lando for just a moment. Better people? People like Lando? The thought caught you off guard, and you dismissed it quickly, unsure why it had even crossed your mind. He was arrogant, loud, and more complicated than you cared to admit. But there was something about him, wasn’t there? Something that made it hard to ignore him entirely.

Ria didn’t press you for a response. She simply stayed by your side, her presence steady and unshakable as the party swirled around you. It felt grounding somehow, like you weren’t as alone as you’d feared when you arrived here in London. Maybe she was right—there were better people. You weren’t sure who they were yet, but you felt just a little more hopeful about finding them. Even if it meant crossing paths with a certain golden boy along the way.

You stopped in your tracks, the sound of their voices catching your attention like a spark igniting a fire. “She said she loves cars,” Lando’s voice rang out, the tone unmistakable—amused and full of that cocky charm he carried so effortlessly.

“Yeah, but I’d bet she can’t even drive,” Max added, his laughter following close behind. The casual dismissiveness in his comment made your jaw tighten. You exchanged a glance with Ria, who gave a slight eye-roll before muttering, “He’s an idiot sometimes.”

Before you could react, you turned to find that Lando had already vanished into the crowd. He moved like a ghost, slipping away before you could even process it. Typical. Your focus snapped back to Max, though—still standing there, obliviously grinning as if his words hadn’t hit a nerve. You weren’t about to let it slide.

“Hey, Max!” you called out sharply, your voice cutting through the hum of the party. The challenge was already forming on your lips before you even fully thought it through. “You wanna race?”

The grin slipped from his face for just a moment, replaced by a flicker of surprise. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting, clearly. Ria’s laugh bubbled beside you, her hand brushing your arm as if to say, Oh, this is going to be good.

Max recovered quickly, the playful arrogance returning to his expression. “Race? You think you can take me on?” he asked, tilting his head with a smirk.

You stepped forward slightly, squaring your shoulders as you shot him a confident look. “Guess we’ll find out,” you replied, the fire in your tone leaving no room for doubt.

You walked down the driveway, the cool night air brushing against your face as the party buzzed faintly in the background. A line of cars stood before you, gleaming under the soft glow of the villa’s outdoor lights, each one more extravagant than the last. But your attention zeroed in on the one you knew best—the navy blue McLaren 765LT.

Lando’s McLaren.

You approached it with purpose, your fingertips brushing lightly against the smooth, cool surface of the car. The thought crossed your mind—Idiot always leaving his doors unlocked—as you reached for the handle. Sure enough, the door pulled open without a hitch, the soft whir of the mechanism breaking the quiet.

And then you saw it: the keys, casually sitting in the ignition as if Lando had left them there just for you. You couldn’t help but shake your head, a mix of incredulity and amusement bubbling inside you. What kind of person leaves a car like this unlocked with the keys still in it? you thought, though you already knew the answer. Lando Norris. That’s who.

The temptation settled into your chest, electric and undeniable. The car seemed to almost call to you, a thrilling invitation to prove Max—and maybe even Lando—wrong. You slid into the driver’s seat carefully, the leather cool beneath you, the intoxicating scent of luxury enveloping you. Your fingers hovered over the wheel, your heart pounding as you considered your next move.

“So where are we going?” Max asked, his voice casual as he parked next to you, the engine of his car humming softly. You glanced at him, a flicker of doubt crossing your mind. Honestly, you had no clue. You barely remembered how you got to the villa, much less how to navigate the streets of London at high speeds. But you weren’t about to let him know that.

“Around London,” you replied, your tone calm and confident as you met his gaze. His eyes widened slightly, the surprise evident on his face. “Wait,” you continued, catching the way his expression shifted, “isn’t street racing illegal here?” you asked, your voice laced with a hint of challenge.

Max hesitated for a beat, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a sly grin, he shrugged. “Not until they catch you,” he said, his words carrying a reckless edge that made your heart race—though not nearly as much as what happened next.

Without warning, Max slammed down on the gas, his tires screeching against the pavement as he took off down the street. Cheating. You narrowed your eyes, the adrenaline already coursing through your veins. He didn’t even give you a chance to count down. Typical.

You didn’t hesitate, your hands gripping the wheel of the McLaren as you started the engine. The roar filled your ears, and you could feel the power vibrating through you as you pressed down on the accelerator. The car shot forward, smooth and fast, as you sped after him, the lights of London blurring past in streaks of gold and white.

The house was alive with music and chatter, a chaotic symphony of energy that echoed through its halls, but Lando’s sharp, agitated voice pierced through it all like an alarm. “Ria!” he shouted, his tone carrying an edge of urgency that immediately caught attention. His footsteps echoed as he stormed through the rooms, each one empty of the people he was looking for. His frustration was palpable, radiating from the tense set of his shoulders as he scanned the space around him. He wasn’t usually like this, but something was clearly off.

He found Ria standing on the balcony, her posture relaxed, her eyes focused on the sprawling city below as though she were lost in thought. “Ria,” Lando called again, stepping closer to her. His voice was slightly steadier now, but it was impossible to miss the irritation beneath it. “Where’s Max and Y/n?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the house as if the answer might suddenly reveal itself in the quiet corners.

Ria turned her head just enough to acknowledge him, her expression neutral, calm. She didn’t respond right away, her silence stretching the tension in the air even thinner. Lando stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he waited for an answer he clearly wasn’t getting. “Well?” he pressed, his tone sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation from the party below.

Still, Ria didn’t say a word. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her lips twitching with what looked suspiciously like amusement. Lando’s frustration boiled over as he stepped past her, his patience officially gone. He leaned over the railing of the balcony, his green eyes scanning the driveway below—and that’s when he saw it.

The space where his navy blue McLaren 765LT had been parked just hours ago was glaringly empty, its absence striking like a punch to the gut. His eyes widened, disbelief flooding his features as the realization hit him hard.

“And where’s my car?!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in shock and fury. The sharpness of his tone echoed through the night air, leaving no doubt about his current state of mind. This wasn’t just irritation anymore—it was full-blown outrage mixed with an incredulous kind of confusion.

Ria, still leaning casually against the railing, finally broke the silence with a small laugh. She couldn’t help herself, the situation unfolding before her far too entertaining to ignore. “Relax, Lando,” she said lightly, her tone far too casual given the circumstances. “I’m sure they’re just... bonding.” Her smirk was faint but unmistakable, and it only seemed to fuel Lando’s exasperation further.

Lando’s hands moved quickly, almost frantically, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and navigated to the city’s traffic camera website. His jaw tightened, his green eyes scanning the screen as he clicked through feed after feed, the tension in his movements palpable.

And then he saw it. The unmistakable navy blue car, tearing through the streets of London. The camera caught you mid-drift, the car sliding effortlessly through a sharp turn as you overtook Max with precision that left even Lando momentarily stunned.

“She’s so good,” Ria remarked, her voice cutting through the silence as she leaned over his shoulder to get a better look. There was no sarcasm in her tone—just genuine admiration.

Lando, however, didn’t respond. He just stared at the screen, his expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and sheer exasperation. His wide eyes flicked between the car and the driver, his mind racing to process what he was seeing. Finally, he let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his curls as he muttered under his breath, “Who the fuck is living in my house?”

Ria stifled a laugh, clearly enjoying his reaction far more than she should have. But Lando wasn’t laughing. His prized car was out there, speeding through the city in the hands of someone who, until a few days ago, was practically a stranger. And the worst part? You were good—too good. It was infuriating, and yet, he couldn’t look away.

The screen went dark abruptly, the live feed disappearing without warning. “Fuck,” Lando muttered under his breath, his frustration boiling over as he stared at his phone, willing the signal to come back. But it didn’t. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the party still buzzing in the background.

And then, he heard it—the unmistakable roar of engines cutting through the night air. His head snapped up, his green eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to the balcony railing. The sound grew louder, sharper, until finally, he saw it: his McLaren 765LT speeding into the driveway, its tires screeching slightly as it came to a halt.

Ria leaned casually against the railing beside him, her expression unreadable as she watched the scene unfold. “Well,” she said lightly, her tone carrying a hint of amusement, “looks like they’re back.”

Lando’s movements stilled for a moment, his gaze locked on the screen as the McLaren he held so dear blazed into the driveway, unmistakably driven by you. For a second, the world seemed to pause as he processed what had just happened. His car. His car. Not only being driven by someone else but crossing the finish line first, beating his best friend in a race he hadn’t even known was happening.

A smirk slowly tugged at the corner of his lips, despite himself. He hated to admit it—really hated to—but the sight of his car speeding to victory at your hands was impressive. More than impressive, actually. But his pride wasn’t going to let him say that outright, at least not yet. Snapping himself out of his momentary stupor, he bolted out of the house, his footsteps pounding against the driveway as he approached.

“Y/n, what the fuck!” he shouted as he neared, his voice sharp with a mix of panic and disbelief. You stood by the car now, your heart still racing from the adrenaline of the race, your hands tingling from gripping the wheel. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze darted between you and his McLaren as though he couldn’t decide which one of you to scold first.

You understood why he was mad—you’d practically stolen his car without asking, after all. But there was also something in his expression that stopped you from feeling too guilty. It wasn’t just frustration; there was something deeper there. Something like… admiration?

“What did you think?” Lando demanded, his tone trying to mask that faint hint of awe. His words hung in the air, a challenge and a test all at once. You knew exactly what he thought. You’d beaten his best friend, in his car, on your very first drive. That wasn’t something anyone could ignore.

Before you could answer, Ria appeared beside you, her calm presence instantly shifting the dynamic. She folded her arms, her expression equal parts amused and protective as she addressed Lando. “Lando, leave her alone,” she said firmly, her tone steady yet playful. “Her boyfriend cheated—she needed to get it out somehow.”

The words hit like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the tension and drawing all attention to the vulnerability Ria had just exposed. You felt the color rise to your cheeks, embarrassment curling in your stomach as you glanced at Lando. Did she really have to say that? You hadn’t even told your aunt, let alone expected it to come up here, in front of him.

Your eyes locked with Lando’s, and you braced yourself for the reaction. His gaze softened, just slightly, as the sharp edges of his frustration seemed to shift. He was still angry—you could see that much—but it wasn’t directed at you. His lips pressed into a thin line as he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. The look in his eyes wasn’t one of judgment but of something else entirely. Understanding? Or maybe just the realization that this wasn’t about his car, not really.

Max finally rolled into the driveway, his car screeching to a stop next to the McLaren as he stepped out. He looked a little sheepish, his pride clearly bruised but not enough to stop him from acknowledging the obvious. “Well, I am sorry… this was impressive,” he said, his words carrying the weight of reluctant admiration. He wasn’t one to hand out compliments easily, but tonight had forced his hand.

You nodded, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips as you accepted his apology. The adrenaline was still coursing through you, but the tension in the air had softened. “Thanks,” you replied simply, letting the weight of your victory speak for itself.

Lando, who had been standing just a few steps away, crossed his arms as he glanced between you and Max, his expression unreadable at first. But then, his lips curved slightly into a smirk, the frustration from earlier giving way to something else—acknowledgment. “It really was,” he admitted, his voice quieter now but no less sincere.

For a moment, the three of you stood in the driveway, the hum of the engines fading into the background as the buzz of the night settled. Even Ria, who had been lingering on the edge of the group, gave you a knowing look. You’d done something unexpected, something bold—and whether they wanted to admit it or not, you’d earned their respect tonight.

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kyunghwannie · 1 month ago

Text

"The Silent Room"

Myoui Mina x Male Reader

➤Word Count: 13666

➤ Tags: Psychological Horror, Acknowledgement and Desire Isolation, Hallucination or Reality?, Possession, Twisted Romance, Angst, Ballet, Is it even considered supernatural?

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

The realtor called it a “charming fixer-upper.” I called it affordable isolation. The roof creaked with age, the wallpaper peeled like old skin, and dust clung to the floorboards like it had nowhere else to go. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t running toward anything—I was running away.

They told me the countryside would be quiet. Peaceful, even.

They never mentioned the kind of silence that crawls up your spine and sits behind your ears—like it's waiting.

I unpacked the essentials—laptop, instant coffee, a few half-read books I told myself I’d finally finish. The rest stayed boxed. I didn’t plan to stay long. I just wanted to breathe somewhere people couldn’t reach me. Somewhere I could forget the noise, the deadlines, the expectations.

Then I found the room.

At the end of the narrow hallway, a door stood quietly shut. Just sealed, like it had been forgotten on purpose. I knocked once, like a fool. No answer, of course. I should’ve let it be. I should’ve walked away. But something about it... unsettled me. Like it didn’t belong to the house—but the house belonged to it.

The night was uneventful. The second—just wind against the windows and my own breathing.

But by then, I heard it.

A piano. Soft. Distant. And unmistakably coming from that locked room.

The melody was delicate, like a memory trying not to fade. I pressed my ear to the door and listened. No lyrics. No voice. Just aching ivory keys and a sadness that didn’t feel like mine—but somehow was.

I couldn’t sleep after that.

Then the dreams started.

A woman

====================

Part I – Arrival

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as I pulled up to the house, the sound strangely loud in the hush of the countryside. I killed the engine and sat for a moment, staring at the crooked silhouette of the place through my windshield. Old, weather-worn, and quiet—like the house itself had been waiting, just like I had been.

The wind moved through the trees in slow waves, the kind that made the leaves rustle like whispers. I stepped out, slamming the car door behind me, and was greeted by the scent of damp wood, overgrown grass, and something faintly sweet—maybe lavender, though I hadn’t seen a flowerbed on the property listing.

My boots sank a little into the muddy path leading up to the porch. The wood creaked as I stepped on it, worn and soft under my weight. I found the spare key tucked exactly where the realtor said it’d be—beneath the third loose plank beside the door. Cheap, easy, forgettable. Just like the man who’d sold me the place.

The key turned with resistance. The door opened reluctantly.

Inside, the house greeted me with a sigh.

Dust floated through shafts of light from half-covered windows. The air was heavy—like a sealed room finally breathing again. My footsteps echoed dully on the old wooden floors as I stepped inside.

It wasn’t grand, just old. Lived-in. The kind of place that had soaked up decades of memories and then been abandoned by them. Wallpaper peeled in lazy curls down the hallway, and the walls were stained with the slow, patient work of time.

But there was something comforting in the stillness.

I told myself that’s why I came here—to escape. To disappear from the deadlines, the noise, the constant expectation to be someone. Maybe that’s why the silence didn’t scare me. At least not at first.

I walked through each room, half out of curiosity, half out of obligation. A narrow kitchen with a cracked tile floor. A sitting room with an ancient fireplace and a mirror too fogged to reflect anything properly. Two bedrooms upstairs—empty but not cold.

And then, at the end of the hallway near the stairs, a door.

It was different.

Where the other doors were chipped and loose at the hinges, this one was almost pristine. Darker wood, smooth and without a handle. Just... sealed. Like it wasn’t made to open. Like it never had.

It just was.

I stood in front of it for longer than I meant to.

No breeze. No sound. No draft under the door.

I told myself it was nothing. An old house quirk. Probably locked from the other side. Maybe storage. Maybe just... forgotten.

Still, I didn’t like how it felt. Like it knew I was standing there.

I turned away.

My first night was quiet. I unpacked the essentials—two bags of clothes, my laptop, a coffee maker, and a stack of journals I hadn’t touched in months. I made a bed out of the couch cushions and covered it with a thin blanket. It was enough.

The sun set early here. By seven, the house had gone dim, and by eight, the shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should. I lit a candle more out of instinct than need. Electricity worked fine, but I didn’t like how bright the bulbs were in this place. Like they exposed things better left hidden.

I sat by the window with a lukewarm cup of coffee, watching the woods breathe in the wind. Everything felt slower. Calmer. Detached.

And yet...

Even as I tried to unwind, I couldn’t stop glancing toward the hallway.

Toward that door.

There was something unnatural in the way the shadows curved toward it, like gravity itself bent slightly around that one part of the house. It wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was more like curiosity—wrapped in something colder.

Still, I told myself it didn’t matter. Not tonight. I hadn’t come here to chase ghosts or haunted doors. I’d come here for silence, and the house was more than happy to give it.

I lay down on the makeshift bed, the soft hum of the countryside wrapping around me like a blanket. No cars. No neighbors. Just the sound of the wind and my own thoughts.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in a long while, I slept.

I dreamed of nothing.

But the silence felt... full.

Like someone else was dreaming with me.

Part II – The Town Whispers

The next morning greeted me with dew-streaked windows and the soft chirp of birds I couldn’t name. I hadn’t heard an alarm clock, hadn’t needed one. My body woke up naturally—as if it knew it didn’t need to rush anymore.

Still, I felt restless.

There was no food in the house except a can of instant coffee and some expired tea bags left in a dusty cupboard. So after a quick wash with lukewarm water and a glance at the strange, sealed door—still untouched, still quiet—I grabbed my jacket and headed into town.

The road was narrow, flanked by tall trees that arched overhead like they were protecting the path. The walk was quiet, peaceful. The kind of silence that almost felt staged, like a set made to look natural but missing one critical detail. Still, it soothed the tension in my chest.

The town was small, more like a cluster of buildings than a proper village. A post office, a hardware store, a few cafes. The kind of place where everyone probably knew each other by name, and any stranger stood out like a drop of ink in water.

I found a little general store tucked between a pottery shop and a local bakery. Its sign read “Yoon’s Mart,” hand-painted and faded, but charming in its own way.

The door jingled as I stepped inside.

“Oh, hello there,” came a warm voice from behind the counter.

An older woman looked up from a crossword puzzle, her silver hair tied in a loose bun. Her face lit up the moment she saw me, eyes crinkling with curiosity rather than suspicion.

“New face. You must be staying in the old Hanseong house, aren’t you?”

I blinked. “Yeah… just moved in yesterday. Didn’t know it had a name.”

“Oh, it does. All old homes here do. That one’s been empty for... goodness, it must be over fifteen years now.”

I offered a polite nod and started collecting some essentials—instant rice, bottled water, toiletries. Her eyes followed me with a soft smile as I moved about.

“You here to work? Or just... running from something?”

I froze for a second before chuckling nervously. “Maybe both.”

She laughed, not unkindly, and began ringing up the items.

“Most folks who stay there don’t last more than a week. They always complain about the noise, or the cold, or... other things.”

I tilted my head. “Other things?”

She hesitated, fingers pausing over a pack of ramen.

“You didn’t hear any piano right?”

My stomach dropped slightly.

“…No,” I lied.

She studied me quietly. Then smiled again, this time more wistfully.

“There was a girl once. A dancer. Used to live in that house before everything went quiet. Gorgeous thing—skin like porcelain, voice softer than wind. Always wore her hair in a bun, always humming ballet melodies when she walked into town.”

“…What happened to her?” I asked, the question leaving my mouth slower than I intended.

“No one knows for sure. They said she practiced endlessly. That she was meant to be something big. The next great ballerina. She lived alone after her parents passed, and then one day... she just disappeared.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice though the store was empty.

“Some say she went mad. Others say the house turned on her. But a few... a few believe she never left.”

The air inside the store seemed colder all of a sudden.

I tried to keep my voice level. “Is there a name?”

The woman nodded slowly. “Mina. Myoui Mina.”

A pause stretched between us like a held breath.

Then she laughed softly, shaking her head. “Of course, it’s just an old story. Small towns cling to ghosts like cats to sunbeams. But you’ll be fine, dear. Just don’t listen too closely at night. And if you hear the music… don’t follow it.”

She handed me the bag of groceries with a smile too gentle to be a warning.

“Enjoy your stay, alright? Let the house rest, and it’ll let you rest. That’s the deal.”

I stepped outside, the bells above the door chiming one last time behind me.

The walk back felt longer somehow. The trees denser. The wind heavier.

I kept replaying her words in my mind.

“Myoui Mina.”

It sounded familiar in a way I couldn’t explain. Like a melody I hadn’t heard but already knew how to hum.

When I reached the house, I placed the groceries on the counter and stood at the edge of the hallway, staring down at that sealed door again.

And this time, I could’ve sworn—Somewhere deep behind it...

I heard the faintest note of a piano.

Myoui Mina.

Soft. Lonely. Calling.

The name lingered in my mind like smoke in still air—fragile, but impossible to ignore. It rolled off the tongue delicately, like silk across skin. There was something foreign about it, something that didn’t quite belong in this quiet Korean countryside. It didn’t sound local. No one in town had a name like that.

I carried the name with me as I unpacked the groceries, my thoughts spiraling around it like moths drawn to flame. The ahjumma’s story should’ve been just that—an old tale passed around to make outsiders feel uneasy. Yet the way she said it… like she still saw Mina in that house. Like she believed it.

Japanese? Maybe. Probably.

But what would a Japanese ballerina be doing out here, tucked away in a creaky old house miles from anywhere?

And then there was the photo I’d found in the attic on my first night. The one I hadn’t told her about. The one of the ballerina frozen mid-pirouette, poised and elegant, with that hauntingly serene face. The resemblance was uncanny.

Could it really be her?

The piano. The photo. The sealed room.

No... coincidence doesn't string itself together this tightly.

There was something here. Something the town had buried beneath whispered warnings and polite smiles. And now the house had begun to speak—to sing. And in its notes, I heard her name.

Myoui Mina.

Not just a name anymore. A presence. A shadow clinging to the corners of every room I entered. And despite the chill crawling up my spine...

I wanted to see her.

Even if it meant losing something I hadn’t yet realized I was already offering:

Myself.

Part III – The One Who Stayed

The photo felt heavier in my hand than it should have. Faded along the edges, browned slightly at the corners, but the image remained intact—almost too intact. Her eyes didn’t blur. Her outline didn’t fade. Even the poise of her arms, suspended mid-turn like she’d never fallen, was preserved perfectly in time.

And now I knew her name.

Myoui Mina.

The air had grown sharp with cold by the time I found myself standing in front of Yoon’s Mart again. Most stores in Seoul would have shuttered hours ago, but here, in this sleepy town that refused to fully sleep, the light in the store still glowed a dim yellow. A lantern outside swung gently in the breeze.

I stepped inside. The bell jingled.

“Oh—you again, dear. Couldn’t stay away?”

The ahjumma looked up from a radio, her hands wrapped around a cup of barley tea.

I held up the photograph. “I found this. In the house. It’s her, isn’t it?”

She took it gently from me, the amusement in her face dropping away.

“Myoui Mina. Yes. That’s her. I haven’t seen this photo in… my goodness. Decades.” She traced the edges with a thumb, like it might bleed if she touched too hard. “Where’d you find it?”

“In the attic. Buried under an old suitcase. It just… it called to me, I guess.”

She smiled faintly. “She had that effect on people. Always quiet. Polite. But you couldn’t look away once she entered a room. And when she danced... people swore they could hear the world stop.”

I took the photo back, my fingers grazing hers.

“You said no one knows what happened to her. But didn’t anyone try to find her? Look into it?”

She exhaled. “They did. But there was never anything to find. Her things were still there. Her shoes, her costumes, the music box she loved. But she was just… gone. Like the wind swallowed her up.”

“What about her family?”

“Parents gone before her. No siblings. No fiancé. No friends, really. Mina lived in her world. Some thought she liked it that way.”

I hesitated. The cold that had started in my fingertips had now crept into my arms.

“I heard something. The first night. The piano. It was faint. Barely there, but... real.”

She looked at me long and hard. Her eyes no longer smiled.

“That’s the part I never understood.”

“What do you mean?”

She stood slowly, walking to a shelf behind the counter. After a moment, she returned—not with an object, but with a memory etched across her face.

“Others moved into that house. Not many, but a few. None stayed long. They said it was too quiet. Too cold. Some were even angry—said they’d been tricked, that the town exaggerated its charm. But what they really meant was... the house wouldn’t let them in.”

She leaned in. “No matter how calm they tried to be, no matter how open their hearts… no one ever heard a note. Not even the smallest sound.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“That room stayed silent. Completely. Like it was waiting. Or watching. Or mourning. But never playing.”

I felt the weight of her words fall across my chest like a snowfall too quiet to notice until you’re buried beneath it.

“So why did I hear it?” I asked.

She said nothing for a long while. Then finally:

“Maybe she finally found someone worth playing for.”

I wanted to laugh. To wave it off. But the weight in her voice wasn’t superstition—it was certainty. And in that moment, the warmth of the store felt like a shield between me and something far colder, waiting just down the road.

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

The ahjumma’s eyes searched mine. Her voice, when it came, was too soft to echo.

“I don’t think she ever left.”

The walk home was colder than before. Not the weather—just the feel of the world around me. The trees seemed taller, their limbs creaking in protest as wind swept between them. The moon followed me in patches of silver and cloud.

I pushed the door open slowly, stepping into a house that felt like it had been holding its breath.

My steps were deliberate. I turned the photo over in my hand. No date. No name written on the back. Just her image—frozen in time.

The groceries still sat untouched on the counter. I passed them, heading straight for the hallway.

The sealed door waited. Still shut. Still heavy with silence.

I stared at it for what felt like an eternity. And then…

A note. One. Soft. Lingering. Just behind the wood. Not loud. Not urgent. Just… there. Faint as a sigh. Clear as day.

My fingers curled around the edge of the photo.

“Mina…?”

No reply. But the note played again. A second. A third. Building into something tender. Mourning. Calling.

But from whom?

I stepped back slowly, my heartbeat too loud in my ears.

Everyone said she was gone. Everyone assumed. But no one knew. Not really.

And tonight—under this old roof with no answers and a room that sang when it should’ve slept—I realized something terrible.

Maybe she hadn’t been asking anyone to listen. Maybe she was waiting for someone to hear.

And somehow… I had.

Part IV – Beneath the Door

The house had sunk into silence again. A silence that wasn’t natural—too absolute, too deliberate. Like something was waiting to breathe, but hadn’t yet decided if I was worth exhaling for.

I stood there, unmoving, groceries still untouched on the counter behind me. The hallway stretched before me like a tunnel carved from shadow, ending at that door—the one that hadn’t so much as creaked since I arrived.

But something had changed.

That sound. That note.

I wasn’t even sure it had happened. It was like hearing your name in a dream—uncertain if it was real or just memory playing tricks. But even now, I could feel the cold of it nestled just behind my ears, like a phantom whisper.

I should’ve left it alone. Should’ve done what the others did. Leave. Pack up. Run like hell.

But instead…

Instead, I walked slowly to the locked door and sat down beside it.

Back against the wall. Legs pulled up, arms resting across my knees. I didn’t knock. Didn’t call out.

I just sat there. A quiet offering.

Why?

I couldn’t tell you. Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe loneliness. Or maybe… my fucking stupid heart was too soft.

A part of me wanted to believe. To believe that someone—she—might still be there. That she might be waiting for someone to sit with her, instead of fearing her.

The wood of the door was old, warped by years of weather and time, but it felt strangely warm against my shoulder. And beyond it—quiet.

No wind. No breathing. No music. Just silence again. But not empty.

It was the kind of silence that feels like it’s watching you. A listening silence.

I swallowed hard and whispered before I could stop myself.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

No answer. My voice felt out of place here—like it didn’t belong in the atmosphere, like even sound was foreign to these halls.

Still, I sat there.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. I checked the time only once, then gave up. Time didn’t move normally in this place. It curled and folded and crept sideways.

Eventually, I whispered again.

“I know everyone left. I know no one stayed.”

“But I’m not them.”

My voice was soft. Measured. Like I was speaking to a wound, not a person. “You don’t have to come out. You don’t have to say anything.”

“I just… I just wanted you to know you’re not forgotten.”

Still nothing. I leaned my head against the door and let my eyes close, just for a moment.

That’s when the cold came. Sudden. Sharp. Piercing. It didn’t sweep in like a breeze—it invaded, crawling up my spine like a skeletal hand. I gasped softly, breath turning to fog in the air.

But I didn’t move.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But something in me stayed rooted there. Maybe I was still waiting. Maybe I was hoping. Or maybe…

Maybe I just wanted her to feel something other than fear for once.

Another minute passed.

Then—

Thud.

My heart stopped.

It wasn’t loud. Just a small sound. Like something lightly tapping the floor on the other side of the door.

I held my breath.

Tap... Tap…

It was rhythmic. Deliberate.

Then, faintly, as if someone were moving with incredible care, I heard something that made my throat tighten—

A sigh. A human sigh. Fragile. Barely audible.

“…Hello?” I breathed.

No answer. But the tap-tap continued. And with it, an image bloomed in my mind—bare feet moving across wooden floors, slow, elegant steps… a dancer’s rhythm.

I whispered again. “Mina…?”

Then—

A single piano note. Clear. Beautiful. Cold.

It floated through the door like fog, curling into my bones. It was impossible, and yet it rang so true. Not like an old recording. Not like a dream. It was there.

I flinched, instinctively leaning away—but something held me in place. A feeling, or maybe something more. Not quite a hand. Not quite a voice. Just… presence.

Then, like a response to my stillness, another note followed. Then another.

The melody was sad. Not tragic, but quiet. A song played for no audience, no applause. A lullaby for empty rooms.

And for a moment—just a breath—I wasn’t scared.

My chest hurt in a way I couldn’t explain. Like my ribs were wrapped in thread, tightening with each note.

She was still here. Not in the way people stay. Not with flesh and voice and names.

But in feeling. In the ach In the way my presence wasn’t pushed away.e of the air. In the sorrow that creaked through the walls.

I whispered again, barely audible. “…I’m sorry it took someone this long to sit with you.”

The music paused. One long moment. Then a final note rang out—sharper than the others. High, isolated. Like a tear hitting a frozen lake.

And then—nothing. Gone. The air warmed again. Slightly. The frost in my lungs melted. I blinked, realizing how long I’d been holding still.

I stood up slowly. Knees stiff. Back aching. But I didn’t feel regret.

Was it dumb and reckless? Yes.

Was it scary? God, yes.

Was it worth it? I still don’t know.

But something in me… felt a little less hollow.

I turned back toward the kitchen, casting one last glance at the sealed door. It didn’t look different. But it felt different. And that was enough—for now.

Part V – Through the Glass

Nightfall crawled across the windows like ink in water—slow, deliberate, suffocating.

The kind of dark that doesn’t just replace the light, but swallows it.

I turned off the last light in the kitchen. Not by choice. The bulb fizzled and died with a soft hiss, like it had given up. I didn’t bother replacing it. Somehow, it felt… wrong to try.

Instead, I let the darkness take over.

There was comfort in letting it surround me now. It wasn’t the same darkness I feared before. This one felt more like… company.

I poured a glass of water and stood at the sink, sipping slowly, eyes trained on the large window across from me.

That’s when I saw it. Movement. Just a flicker. Not outside the house. No. That would’ve made sense. But inside the reflection.

My heart paused. The kitchen was empty. I hadn’t moved. But the reflection—something behind me. A silhouette. Thin. Feminine. Still. Right behind me.

I turned. Nothing. Just the chair I always forget to push in and the counter I hadn’t wiped down yet. No one there.

But when I looked back at the window, my throat went dry.

She was still there. In the glass. A girl. Hair dark and straight, soaked in shadow. Bare feet. Pale skin. Just standing. Looking at me.

Not through the window— From inside it.

My hands trembled, but I couldn’t look away. There was no scream, no cinematic panic. Just… stillness.

Then, her head tilted slightly. Like a question My breath caught. And something—not sound, not speech— moved through my mind like a thought that wasn’t mine.

“Why… didn’t you leave?”

It wasn’t words. But it had meaning. Intent. Like a feeling wrapped in frost.

I stepped closer to the window. “Because…” I whispered, “you shouldn’t have been left alone in the first place.”

Her eyes didn’t change. Not softer. Not angry. Just… watching. Like she was trying to decide if I meant it.

Then slowly, her hand lifted—barely visible in the darkened reflection—and pressed to the glass. Palm first.

A gentle touch. Tentative. A test.

I stared at it. My pulse thundered. I should’ve walked away. I should’ve run to my room and locked the door and prayed for daylight.

Instead…

I raised my hand and pressed it gently to the glass from my side.

A breathless moment passed. And then, the kitchen lights flickered on again. All of them. Flashing. Sparking. Buzzing.

I yelped, stumbling backward as the bulbs above surged and died in one violent burst, plunging the house into darkness once more.

When I looked back at the window, she was gone. Completely. No trace. No fog. No silhouette. Just my own reflection—wide-eyed, pale, shaken.

I collapsed into the nearest chair, gripping the edge of the table like it was the only real thing in the house. My breath came in sharp pulls, like I’d just escaped drowning.

What the hell had I just seen?

Was I losing it? Or was she trying to reach out?

And if she was… why?

A soft knock broke the silence. Not from the front door. Not from the hallway.

From the living room mirror.

I stood slowly. Unwilling. But my feet moved anyway. Drawn like thread pulled through fabric.

The mirror over the mantle—a tall, ornate thing that came with the house—reflected nothing out of the ordinary. Just the empty couch, the cold fireplace, and me.

But then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three distinct knocks. From inside the mirror. I took a step closer. The air around it was colder now. As if the glass itself was breathing frost.

And there she was again. This time, not a full body.

Just her face, that delicate neck and collarbone so beautiful my heart stuttered. She was closer as if touching the inside of mirror

Her eyes were softer now. Sad. Lonely. Mouth unmoving, but again, I felt it. A message that wasn’t spoken: “Do you see me?”

I nodded before I could stop myself. “I do.”

The reflection blinked. Her lips parted, trembling. Another wave of thought, like a scream trapped behind silk: “Don’t forget me.”

My chest ached. Before I could answer—before I could say anything—the mirror shattered. No sound. No shards. Just… gone. Like it had never existed at all. Just empty wall behind the mantle.

I staggered back, breath caught in my throat. This wasn’t a haunting. It was a reminder. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. She just didn’t want to be forgotten. And somehow, she chose me to remember.

I sank to the floor, trembling. Not from fear. From the weight of it. She had been here. Once. Alive. Human. With music, and breath, and hope.

And now—just echoes. Reflections. And the desperate need to be seen.

The clock struck midnight.

And I sat there, alone again, staring at where the mirror used to be. Whispering to the empty room: “I won’t forget.”

And deep in the bones of the house, I swear I heard a note on the piano. Soft. Grateful.

Part V – The Wake-Up Call

I woke up gasping.

The sheets twisted around me like ropes, sticky with sweat. My chest heaved and my mind screamed with confusion. Was it a nightmare? A dream? Or… something worse?

The room was too quiet. Too dark.

My heartbeat thudded like a warning drum in my ears.

The smell of cold wood and dust clung to the air, heavier than usual. And that cold… that unnatural chill that always lingered near the locked door at the end of the hall.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, fingers trembling. My eyes darted around the ceiling, the shadows shifting like they had a life of their own.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something that couldn’t be explained by sleep paralysis or nightmares.

Especially that door. The Silent Room.

Earlier today—or maybe it was yesterday—I had been sitting in the small convenience store, Yoon’s Mart, clutching that faded photo of Mina.

The old ahjumma had looked at it as if holding a piece of her own soul. Her voice had dropped, her eyes clouded with memories she’d buried deep.

“No one stayed long in that house,” she said, her hands trembling slightly as she poured barley tea into a chipped cup.

“The room… the Silent Room… it doesn’t just lock out sound. It locks out people’s hearts.”

I had wanted to ask more, but she only shook her head.

“Maybe Mina was the one who stayed. Maybe she was the one the room waited for.”

Her words echoed inside me, heavier than the humid air outside.

Back in the house, the hallway felt colder than usual. The photo still in my pocket, I’d walked past the groceries I’d forgotten to put away, past the dim lightbulbs that flickered every few seconds.

And then I stopped.

The door. I stood in front of it and pressed my palm flat against the cool wood. The silence inside was so deep it roared in my ears. That’s when I thought I heard it. A note. A single, trembling note.

The faintest sound of piano keys—soft, sorrowful, like a voice barely clinging to the edge of hearing.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

“Mina?” I whispered.

The note came again—longer this time. A slow, aching melody. Calling. Waiting.

I wanted to run. But I stayed.

Because maybe… just maybe… she wasn’t alone in there anymore. I didn’t have the answers. Hell, I didn’t even understand the questions.

But something inside me had shifted. I was no longer just a stranger in this house. I was part of the story. And the house wanted me to listen.

Now, awake in the dark, I glanced at the clock by the bedside.

3:17 AM.

Too early to be this haunted. Too early to lose myself to shadows. Yet my eyes wouldn’t close again.

I rolled out of bed, still trembling, and pulled on a hoodie.

I had to know. I had to see if that note—the piano—was real or just a trick of my fraying mind. The air was thick with cold, heavier with each step. The hallway stretched endlessly before me, the door at the end still shut, ominous.

I placed my hand on the door again. This time, the note played louder. Clearer.

Like the keys were pressed just on the other side, but no sound escaped. The house was holding its breath.

I pressed my ear to the wood. Then, with a soft exhale, I put my shoulder against the door and pushed. Locked. Again.

But it wasn’t just a lock—it felt like resistance. Like the house itself was telling me no.

My heart thudded harder.

What was I getting myself into?

I stepped back.

And that’s when I noticed the small glint on the floor near the doorframe. A key. Rusty. Almost invisible beneath layers of dust and grime. I picked it up carefully. A chill ran down my spine.

I slid it into the lock.

It fit. Slowly, reluctantly, I turned the key. The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

A breath escaped my lungs.

Inside was darkness deeper than any shadow I’d ever seen. A room that didn’t just swallow light but time.

I flicked on my phone’s flashlight and stepped inside.

Dust motes danced in the beam, hanging like ghosts in the stale air.

And then I saw it. The piano. Old. Covered in a thick veil of dust. Its keys yellowed, some chipped. But the strings were silent.

Until I heard it. A faint vibration. Like the breath of a forgotten song.

I moved closer. Touched the keys. And the note came again. Soft. Mournful. Like It was Mina’s voice, still trapped in these walls.

I closed my eyes. For a moment, I wasn’t just in the Room.

I was with her.

In a place outside time. Where music and memory tangled. The weight of her loneliness pressed down on me.

I whispered, almost afraid the sound would shatter the fragile moment— “I’m here. I hear you.”

The room responded. Not with sound. But with a warmth. A pulse. A promise.

And I knew, then, I wasn’t alone. That night, the house didn’t feel so empty anymore.

Why was I so drawn to her?

I came here to escape—from the noise, from the weight of everything back home. I wanted quiet mornings, forgettable afternoons, peace so empty it could swallow all the things I didn’t want to face.

But instead, I found her.

A name. A photograph. A room that shouldn’t sing but did.

And now I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Myoui Mina. A woman I’ve never met, whose face was frozen in time, yet somehow breathed in my mind. Why?

Why did the story of her disappearance grip me tighter than it should’ve?

Was it pity? The kind you feel when you hear a tragic tale over coffee and sigh at the unfairness of the world?

Or was it something deeper—something older? A thread that had always been there, tugging silently beneath my skin, waiting for this moment, this house, this melody… to pull.

Why did I want to be her comfort?

Why did the idea of her loneliness ache like it was my own?

I don’t know. But it didn’t feel like chance. It felt like… I’d been found.

Part VI – The Key That Wasn’t There

I managed to sleep—barely.

Not restfully. Not deeply. Just enough to escape for a few hours, if only to let my body recharge while my mind never stopped spinning. The night was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful. Every creak of the floorboard. Every sigh of wind brushing against the old windowpanes. I heard it all. Felt it in my spine.

And still, somehow, I woke up.

But with more questions than I’d ever had before.

Because that door—that damned door—wasn’t supposed to be opened.

The ahjumma said no one ever had. That it was sealed, like the house had swallowed it whole. That people had tried, failed, given up. That the silence behind it had stayed untouched for decades.

Then why... why did I find the key?

It was too specific. Too intentional. It wasn’t hidden under floorboards or tucked behind some obscure drawer. It was in the back of the old piano stool, rusted but waiting. Waiting for someone. For me?

Was I overthinking it?

Maybe. Maybe I was just exhausted. Maybe grief and isolation and all the pent-up anxiety I’d packed in my bags when I left the city was boiling over, warping reality into fantasy.

But it felt real.

So real that I couldn’t just sit here in this suffocating house anymore.

Later that afternoon, I rushed through the sleepy streets and found myself standing outside Yoon’s Mart again, heart racing like I’d just run a marathon. The soft ring of the bell above the door was almost too normal for the storm twisting inside me.

The ahjumma looked up from behind the counter, wiping her hands with a dish towel. Her expression shifted the moment she saw my face—frantic, pale, wide-eyed.

“Oh dear. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Maybe I had. I didn’t even wait for her to offer tea or small talk. “You said no one ever opened the door. Right? You said it couldn’t be. That it was sealed. That no one even heard the piano because it stayed silent.”

She blinked at me, slow and careful, like I was suddenly speaking in riddles. “That’s right. No one ever did. The house didn’t let them.”

“Then what is this?” I pulled the key from my pocket—still cold despite being so close to me all day—and laid it on the counter.

She stared at it like it didn’t belong in this world. Like I didn’t belong in this world. “Where did you get that?”

“It was in the piano stool. In the room with the old upright. Hidden in the back latch. I thought it was nothing at first, just junk. But I tried it. And it—” I swallowed. “It opened the door.”

Her expression didn’t change immediately. But something about the air shifted. Heavier now. Like even the store had started holding its breath.

She leaned down slightly, examining the key as though it would disappear.

Then, finally, she whispered, “That... that shouldn’t be possible.”

“But it happened. I swear to you. I opened the door. And inside—” I hesitated. “It wasn’t what I expected. I don’t even know what I expected. But I heard the music again. And the mirror... it was cold. Fogged, even though there wasn’t any heat. Something was off.”

The ahjumma looked at me like I had just told her time bent backward.

But then, something softened in her face.

Maybe she saw the way my hands trembled. Maybe she heard the desperation in my voice—the raw kind that couldn’t be faked. She gave a quiet sigh and moved toward a shelf near the back, pulling down a small thermos and bowl.

“Come. Sit. You’re shaking.”

She poured a steaming ladle of her handmade soup into a chipped ceramic bowl and set it in front of me. The scent hit me first—something earthy, nostalgic. Like winter nights in a home that no longer existed.

“Eat. You need warmth, whatever this is.”

I didn’t argue. I let the heat of the soup calm the tremble in my fingers as I brought it to my lips.

She sat across from me, folding her hands. “Maybe it was just your imagination, dear. Stress, loneliness. The mind plays tricks when we’re tired, when we want something so badly to mean something. Maybe... it’s just that.”

I nodded slowly, politely. I knew she meant well. But I couldn’t make myself believe it. It wasn’t just in my head. It couldn’t be.

“You said others tried and failed. But what if the house chose who could open it? What if the silence wasn’t rejection—but waiting?”

Her eyes flicked to the key again. And for a flicker of a moment, I saw it—fear. Real, quiet, restrained fear. “Then be careful, son. Because if something was waiting... you need to ask yourself why. And what it wants from you.”

I swallowed the rest of the soup, warmth crawling into my chest, but it couldn’t chase away the chill that still curled in my ribs.

Because that was the problem. I didn’t know what it wanted.

I walked back slower that evening. The sun was setting now, painting the clouds in streaks of blood-orange and rose gold, but I didn’t really see it.

All I could hear was her voice again, like breath in the music. All I could see was the key in my hand and the look in the ahjumma’s eyes—disbelief barely masking dread.

Back at the house, I stood before the door once more. The key was still in my hand. Still cool. Still rusted. Still real.

Why me? Why had I found it? Why did it feel like something ancient and lonely had waited just for me to walk through that door? Was it pity that bound me to this ethereal woman named Myoui Mina? Or something far more dangerous—far more personal?

Maybe I was just a fool, craving connection in the wrong place. Maybe I was a moth, fluttering closer to a flame I didn’t understand.

But even if it was reckless… my heart didn’t feel scared.

It felt called. And that was the scariest part of all.

Part VII – The One Who Waited

I didn’t remember unlocking the door again.

I didn’t even remember setting my shoes aside or climbing the stairs. My hands moved on their own, drawn by something I couldn’t name—an instinct, a thread, a breath.

All I knew was that I returned home, walked into that room, and fell deeper into a kind of horror I didn’t know how to name.

Because this time, she was there. Not in a dream. Not as a sound behind the mirror or a warmth in the dust.

She was there.

Myoui Mina.

Or someone who looked like her.

Someone who moved like her, who breathed as if her lungs still carried the weight of air. Someone whose eyes met mine like they had always been waiting to.

And I froze. Because logic told me she couldn’t be real.

Because the world outside told me Mina was a memory, a tragedy, a forgotten song tied to a sealed room in a creaking house no one wanted to remember.

But none of that mattered. Not when I could see her now. Not when I could feel her.

Her presence was soft but certain, like a slow ripple in still water. She didn’t blink in confusion or smile like a specter. She stood by the piano, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the bench. Waiting.

Her eyes met mine like she already knew my name. Like she’d been watching from the other side of that door long before I ever stepped foot in this place.

And I… I didn’t run. I didn’t scream or question or tear the room apart looking for wires, tricks, illusions. Because none of it mattered. Because I could feel her.

I walked closer, careful, like approaching a deer in the woods. Like one sudden movement would make her vanish into dust and silence again.

“...Who are you?” I whispered, but it wasn’t the question I needed to ask.

Because I already knew who she was. I’d seen her photo. Heard her melody. Read the dust-covered sorrow stitched into this house. The better question—the one clawing at my throat—was why me? Why now?

But she tilted her head, a ghost of a smile curling at her lips. And when she spoke, it wasn’t in riddles or echoes. It was real. Tangible.

“You came back.”

Her voice was light, almost childlike in its awe. She stepped forward, one slow movement at a time, like we were stuck in a world that moved slower than the rest. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

I swallowed. “...I didn’t know I would.”

Silence settled between us. Not awkward. Just full. Like we’d stepped into a conversation that had started long ago and paused only until now.

She glanced toward the mirror behind the piano—now spotless, glowing faintly in the dim light. No fog. No dust. Just clarity.

“I tried to reach you,” she said, “when you were here the first time.”

My heart pounded.

“That was you... in the music?”

She nodded once. “It was all I had. The song… it remembers. Even when the walls forget.”

My throat was dry. “What are you?”

She looked at me for a long time, as if weighing whether the answer would help me—or shatter me.

“I don’t know anymore,” she finally said, voice soft, “but I know I’m not a dream.”

Her fingers reached out then, brushing against mine. Warm. Soft. Solid. Not like mist. Not like memory. Real.

I felt my breath hitch. And suddenly it wasn’t about ghosts or spirits or haunted houses anymore. It was about her. This woman with sad eyes and a voice like a lullaby. This mystery with a presence I couldn’t turn away from.

I didn’t care if logic spat in my face and said I’d gone mad. I didn’t care if tomorrow I woke up and none of this was true. Because right now, she was standing in front of me.

And my soul felt like it recognized her.

“Why me?” I asked again, quieter this time.

She hesitated. Looked down, then back at me. “I don’t know. I just know… the house chose you. Or maybe I did.”

I blinked. “You wanted to see me?”

She gave the faintest smile. “Not see. Know.”

I don’t know what it was, but something in me cracked.

This entire time, I thought I’d come here to escape. To run from life. From pressure. From expectations and chaos.

But here was this woman—this presence—saying she wanted to know me, and something about that broke open a door inside me I didn’t even know existed.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I admitted. “And maybe I’m not supposed to. But when I saw your photo… when I heard your music…”

My voice trembled. “...I wanted to be your comfort.”

Her breath caught. I saw it—just barely—but it was there.

A ripple. A real reaction.

“Was it pity?” I whispered. “Or something else...?”

She stepped closer. And her hand cupped my cheek. Her fingers were trembling.

But they were real. And so was her gaze—melancholy, wonder, and something deeper swimming just below the surface.

“I don’t care what you call it,” she said. “Just don’t leave.”

The words weren’t desperate. They weren’t commands. They were pleas.

A quiet hope wrapped in years of silence and waiting. And for once… I didn’t want to run.

Part VIII – The Ballerina and the Watcher

I don’t know how long we stood there.

The weight of the silence didn’t crush me like it did before. It wrapped around us instead—gentle, reverent. Like the house itself knew not to interrupt.

And maybe I should’ve asked her more questions. Pressed her on what she was. How she was.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she looked like this.

A ballerina.

No—something beyond that.

There was eerie grace in every tilt of her head, in the way her hands floated at her sides like petals on water. The woman in the photo was beautiful, yes—but the photo hadn’t captured this stillness. This living, breathing contradiction of fragility and power.

And in that moment, all I could do was stare.

As if sensing the worship in my gaze, she turned her head, expression soft. Curious.

“Do you want to watch ballet?” she asked, like it was the most natural question in the world.

I nodded before I even registered it, slow and mesmerized. My body answered for me.

She smiled. That same, infuriating, maddening, breathtaking smile.

“Then watch me.”

She stepped back, light as a whisper, and I sat down on the faded chaise without breaking eye contact.

The music started—her music. Somehow the piano played itself. Or perhaps her presence played it. Perhaps the melody lived in the walls, awakened by her.

I didn’t know. And I didn’t care. Because then she moved. Spun. Lifted.

She didn’t dance like the world was watching. She danced like only I was watching. Like she had been waiting all this time for an audience of one.

I barely breathed.

Her arms curved through the air, every motion smooth, measured, deliberate. The grace was unreal—but she was real. Too real. Her feet landed like falling feathers, her body defied gravity, but the air shifted with every step. I could feel her presence stir the dust, command the silence.

She wasn’t just dancing. She was existing. And I watched like a man spellbound by divinity.

“You’re beautiful…” The words fell from my lips before I could stop them.

She didn’t pause or falter. But she smiled, faintly, while twirling, as if she’d heard them perfectly. “You say that like it’s hard to believe.”

“No,” I murmured, “I say it like it hurts to believe.”

She paused at the edge of her turn, light resting on her profile. A portrait of movement frozen in reverence. “Why does it hurt?”

I hesitated. Then told the truth. “Because you’re not supposed to be here. None of this is.”

“But I am here.”

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

Her eyes softened as she took a step closer. “You fear what you don’t understand?”

“No.” My voice was lower now. “I fear what I’ll never deserve.”

She blinked, surprised. And I immediately regretted saying it. But it was too late. The truth had cracked open. I’d said what had been lodged in my throat since the first time I saw her.

She stood still for a heartbeat. Then walked to me—slow, sure, quiet as moonlight.

When she reached me, she leaned forward slightly. Our faces only inches apart.

“You’re not here by mistake,” she whispered.

I looked into her eyes—those sad, starlit eyes that felt like they’d seen a hundred lifetimes of solitude. And I whispered back. “Then what am I doing here?”

“Seeing me.” Her voice was velvet and silence wrapped together. “When no one else ever could.”

I swallowed hard. “Because they were scared of you?”

She shook her head slowly. “Because they never tried. Impatient. Filled with expectations to see me”

We stared at each other for a moment, something raw and quiet passing between us. Not love. Not yet. But understanding. That aching, dangerous pull that lives between strangers who aren’t strangers anymore.

“Why did you choose me?” I asked, voice cracking slightly.

She looked away, almost shy. “Because you didn’t treat me like a secret.”

The words pierced something soft in me. I stood without thinking. Now we were eye-level. My hand raised slowly—not to touch her, just to exist in the space near her.

And for the first time, she let herself look at me fully. Not as a ghost. Not as a memory. But as a woman.

“You watch me like I’m more than I am,” she said.

I exhaled slowly. “And you move like you’re more than real.”

A silence.bThen a faint laugh slipped from her lips. Not mocking. Just… warm. Like she hadn’t laughed in a long, long time.

“What do I look like to you?”

I didn’t know how to answer. So I didn’t. I just looked. Every inch of her was poetry—the kind of beauty that a man could live a hundred years and still never write properly.

Her presence filled the space with something sacred. And maybe it was worship. Not the kind bound to religion. But the kind that blooms in quiet admiration. In awe.

In the way a man watches a ballerina dancing in a room the world forgot.

Part IX – The Ballerina’s Story

It was after her dance that I finally dared to ask.

The room had quieted again, save for the soft echo of her presence still lingering in the corners. She had returned to her seat on the old velvet stool by the window, her silhouette a living portrait framed by moonlight.

I watched her fingers gently trail along the edge of the cracked wooden sill, her expression unreadable.

I swallowed, hesitant. “Mina… can I ask you something?”

She glanced at me, eyes calm but alert. Like she already knew what I was about to say.

“You want to know what happened to me.”

“I do,” I admitted. “I heard some things. The townsfolk… the ahjumma at the store. They said you were always dancing. Like you were training for something. Something big.”

She smiled faintly, as if the memory tasted distant on her tongue.

“I was.”

“What was it for?”

She looked back out the window.

“A future that never came.”

I felt something sink in my chest.

“They said you came here with your parents. Rich family. Art-lovers. They bought this place for peace. Quiet.”

She nodded slowly.

“They loved nature. Old homes. Silence.” She paused. “And me.”

“They passed early?” I asked gently.

She turned her head, that smile no longer warm. Just soft. Distant.

“Too early. Car accident. I was seventeen.”

I exhaled sharply, guilt crawling in my stomach.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She folded her hands on her lap. “They were kind. And they left me everything. The house. The funds. The dreams.”

“You were going to perform internationally?”

“That was the plan.” She tilted her head. “Paris. Moscow. London. Stages I used to dream about as a child.”

She stood then, walked to the bookshelf in the corner. Ran her fingers along the worn spines of forgotten novels.

“But then…” she trailed off.

I waited. But she didn’t finish.

“You disappeared,” I said quietly.

She faced me again. “I did.”

“Why?”

Another pause.

Then her voice, a whisper: “Because I was forgotten.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer directly.

Instead, she crossed the room and sat across from me, close enough that I could see the faint shimmer in her eyes. She looked so real in that moment. Not a ghost. Not a vision. Just a woman with a story she wasn’t ready to fully tell.

“You ask about what happened to me,” she said softly. “But you never asked why I let you find me.”

I blinked. “You let me?”

She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over mine. The touch was cool—but solid. Present. Real.

“You came here to escape something,” she whispered. “You think I didn’t notice? The way your hands shake at night? The way your eyes look like they’re always searching for peace?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

“You think you found me by accident?” Her eyes bore into mine. “No. You came here because you needed to.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Then why won’t you just tell me what happened to you?”

She leaned in slightly. “Because if I told you everything… you might let go.”

That made me freeze.

“What?”

“You’re focusing so hard on my story,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “but you don’t see what I see.”

“And what’s that?” I asked slowly.

She smiled—but it didn’t reach her eyes this time.

“You’re falling.”

My breath caught.

“Falling?”

“Into me.” Her hand was still gently resting atop mine. “And I want you to.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

More intimate. Or maybe just more honest.

“That’s why you’re being vague,” I said, realization dawning. “You want me to stay… not because of your story. But because of you.”

“Is that so bad?”

Her voice held no manipulation. No malice.

Just truth.

And longing.

I pulled my hand away slightly, not because I didn’t want the contact—but because I needed space to think.

To breathe.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said, quietly.

She looked down at her lap.

“Neither do I.”

“You were… gone for years. No one knew where you went.”

“And yet you found me,” she said softly.

I stared at her, at the curve of her jaw, the quiet ache in her eyes.

“I was supposed to come here for peace. For rest. To be alone.”

“So was I,” she replied.

And that silence fell between us again.

Except now it was heavier. More honest.

I stood, pacing slightly to the other side of the room.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to be haunted by someone like you,” I confessed.

“What if I’m not here to haunt you?”

I turned to look at her. “Then what are you here for?”

She stood slowly, approaching me. No sound. Just presence.

When she reached me, she looked up, and for once there was no mystery in her expression.

Just softness.

“To be seen. To be remembered. To be loved.”

The air seemed to still.

I searched her face for a sign.

A lie. A trick. Some ghostly veil to lift.

But all I found was her. The girl in the photo. The woman who danced alone in a house no one remembered. The soul who had waited for something—someone—to make her more than a memory.

“And you think I’m that someone?” I asked, unsure if I was terrified or honored.

“You already are.”

My heart was hammering.

Not from fear.

But from something far more dangerous.

The beginning of surrender.

Part X – The Beginning of Surrender

That night, I didn’t sleep.

Not from fear. Not anymore.

But from a restlessness I couldn’t name. A presence under my skin, whispering, humming—Mina.

I kept going back to her words, to the way she looked at me.

“You already are.”

I was never meant to stay here long. A few weeks. A month. Just enough time to breathe, write, recover from the chaos of the life I’d been drowning in. But now… time felt slippery here. Days passed without rhythm. The line between dream and waking had thinned.

I couldn’t tell how many nights had passed since I found the key. Since I opened the room that was never supposed to be opened.

I stood in the hallway now, outside that very door. My hand on the knob.

I didn’t knock anymore.

She always knew when I was coming.

And she was always waiting.

The door creaked open.

There she was.

Standing in the middle of the room barefoot, her arms crossed in front of her chest lightly, dressed in a soft cream gown that shimmered like mist. Her long black hair was tied in a low ribbon, swaying gently as she turned to me.

She smiled.

And I was already falling again.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I didn’t sleep,” I admitted.

“Because of me?”

“Because of everything.”

She walked to me without a sound, took my hand like it belonged to her.

“Then let me help you forget.”

I didn’t ask what she meant.

Because I didn’t care.

I let her pull me into the room, the air scented faintly with old wood and dried rose petals. She guided me to sit on the edge of the couch near the fireplace—the one that hadn't been lit in years but still somehow gave warmth.

Then she sat beside me, barely an inch between us.

She didn’t speak at first.

Neither did I.

It was enough that we were here.

After a while, she turned to me.

“Do you believe people can return from pain?”

I looked at her, startled.

“What do you mean?”

“Not physically. Not from injury. I mean… when something invisible breaks inside you.”

I swallowed.

“I think that’s harder than healing anything physical.”

She nodded slowly.

“That’s what I thought too. Until you came.”

My throat tightened.

“Mina…”

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to understand me,” she whispered. “You’re just supposed to feel me.”

And I did.

Everything about her was subtle intensity. A slow burning candle in a pitch-black room. She wasn’t loud. Or demanding. But she was everywhere.

My every thought, every heartbeat.

“I came here to be alone,” I said, not looking at her.

“So did I.”

“And now?”

She paused.

“Now, I don’t want to disappear again.”

“Is that what happened to you? You disappeared?”

She closed her eyes.

“Or maybe the world just stopped seeing me.”

We sat in silence again, her weight warm and real against my side.

I didn’t know what time it was. I didn’t care.

“Are you… real?” I finally asked, the question haunting me every day since that first night.

She pulled back, met my eyes.

“Does it matter?”

I wanted to say yes.

That I needed answers. Clarity. That I couldn’t fall for something if it wasn’t tangible. If it wasn’t grounded in reality.

But I didn’t say anything.

Because the truth was… I was already in too deep.

“You feel real.”

“That’s enough.”

I stared at her.

Her eyes. Her lips. Her existence.

My mind screamed for logic. My body begged for closeness.

“You’re dangerous,” I murmured.

She smiled.

“So are you.”

Then she leaned forward. Gently. Carefully. Giving me space to move back.

I didn’t.

Her forehead touched mine.

And suddenly, the world didn’t matter.

Not the town.

Not the house.

Not the years she’d been missing.

Just her. Just now.

I closed my eyes, breathing her in.

“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered.

“Neither do I.”

“I should walk away.”

“But you won’t.”

I opened my eyes.

She was already looking into me, as if searching for a place to belong.

And she found it.

In me.

“Stay tonight,” she said softly. “Don’t leave this room.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just stay.”

I should’ve said no.

I should’ve run.

But all I did was nod.

And when she took my hand and led me to the floor where she laid out soft blankets and pillows that hadn’t been there before, I let her.

We lay beside each other, not touching, but so close I could hear her breathing.

“Will you be here in the morning?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she whispered:

“Will you?”

Part XI – Where Morning Feels Like a Dream

I woke up with a chill tracing the nape of my neck.

Not from cold.

From breath.

Her breath.

Soft. Measured. Almost deliberate.

I opened my eyes.

She was there.

Lying beside me on her side, her face inches from mine, eyes wide open, watching me.

And smiling.

Not in the way lovers smile. Not warm, not teasing. It was… reverent. Curious. As if she’d been watching me sleep for hours, memorizing the subtle twitches in my face. The rise and fall of my chest.

“You don’t snore,” she whispered.

My voice cracked when I tried to respond.

“Were you watching me all night?”

She blinked. Once. Slowly.

“I didn’t want to miss a single second of you being real.”

Something about that should’ve terrified me.

Instead, it sent goosebumps crawling down my arms.

She sat up, gracefully, her hair a cascade of night. The light was soft this morning, seeping in through drawn curtains like milk through water. She was barely glowing in it. Still unreal. Still ethereal.

Still Mina.

She stretched, her back arched, eyes closed in serenity. Her bare feet slid against the wooden floor with no sound.

I sat up slowly.

The room smelled different.

Like crushed lavender and candle wax. Not from the night before.

Like it had been… tended to while I slept.

“Did you leave?” I asked.

“Only for a moment,” she said, already twirling slowly in the space between us. Her gown fluttered around her like mist.

“Where did you go?”

She stopped mid-spin.

“To make tea.”

I hadn’t heard a kettle. No clinking. Nothing.

She turned back to me, tilting her head.

“I wanted your first morning here to feel like a dream.”

I swallowed.

“It already does.”

She smiled wider at that.

I noticed something then—subtle but sharp.

Her hands.

Red along the edges. Faint marks.

As if pressed too long into something solid. Like she'd gripped a railing too hard. Or pulled herself from somewhere heavy.

I didn’t ask.

I didn’t want to break whatever spell this was.

She stepped closer, barefoot and silent.

“You stayed.”

“You asked me to.”

“Most don’t.”

That stopped me.

“What do you mean… ‘most’?”

She just looked at me.

And then leaned down, her face a breath away from mine again.

“Don’t ask questions you aren’t ready to understand.”

The room pulsed with quiet. A tension, not threatening but… electric. Every second that passed with her near felt like temptation personified. Not lust. Not desire. Something deeper. Like if I said the wrong thing, she’d disappear forever. Or worse—never leave.

She sat beside me again, brushing hair behind her ear.

“You asked me once if I was real.”

“I remember.”

“You never asked if you were.”

I froze.

“What are you trying to say?”

She tilted her head again, watching me with that impossible calm.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just something I dreamed up when I got too lonely.”

My heart stuttered.

“But I found the key. I came here. I—”

She placed a finger over my lips.

“Shh.”

Silence pressed in. Only the sound of the wind tapping gently against the old windows. No birds. No traffic. No time.

She whispered, as if confessing to herself:

“I used to dance every morning. Even after they were gone. Even when the curtains stayed closed and the floorboards creaked like ghosts. I danced until I forgot what silence meant.”

She looked at me, eyes glassy.

“And then one day… I stopped. And the world stopped with me.”

I reached for her hand.

It was cold.

But not dead.

Not lifeless.

Just… waiting for warmth.

“I’m here now,” I said softly.

She smiled at that. A real smile this time.

Soft. Fragile.

“Then don’t be in a rush to wake up.”

And for once, I wasn’t.

Part XII – If I Am Dead, Tell Me When

There was a point where my mind stopped asking questions.

Not because I had the answers.

But because I was afraid of what they might be.

That morning, as Mina’s fingers gently traced the rim of a porcelain teacup, I sat across from her… breathing, blinking, pretending everything was fine.

But deep down, something kept whispering to me.

What if I’m not alive?

What if this—this house, this silence, this hauntingly beautiful woman—isn’t a dream at all… but the end?

I didn’t remember dying. But how could you? Wouldn’t death feel like sleep if you weren’t looking?

Had I crashed on the road coming here? Slipped in the woods and hit my head? Never made it past the threshold of the house?

Is that why I could see her?

Because I’d crossed some invisible line between memory and spirit?

I watched her lips move as she spoke softly about tea leaves and dreams, but I wasn’t hearing the words anymore. I was stuck.

Inside my own mind.

“You’re quiet,” she said, tilting her head with that eerie elegance.

“Just thinking,” I answered, managing a tight smile.

“That sounds dangerous,” she teased, and smiled. “Don’t get lost in that mind of yours. You’ll forget how to return.”

Her words hit too close.

Too precisely.

Was that a warning?

Was this all some trick my brain was playing on me—a hallucination? Some elaborate mental theater born from loneliness and grief? The photo. The ahjumma’s stories. The locked door. The aura of this house. The silence.

Had I conjured her out of a desperate need to be held by something that wouldn’t abandon me?

Was I so broken that I gave that need a face?

Her face?

I gripped the teacup harder.

It was warm. Real.

But dreams felt real too. And so did death, I imagined.

I looked at her again. Her features flawless, symmetrical, too soft for reality. Like an oil painting that stepped down from the canvas to whisper your name.

“Mina.”

She looked up, her eyes catching the gold streaks of morning light.

“Yes?”

“Are you… real?”

She didn’t react with offense or confusion. Instead, she placed the teacup down gently, and stood up with the grace of moonlight itself.

Then she came to me.

And sat down beside me.

Her fingers touched my jaw, and turned my face toward hers.

“If I wasn’t, would it change the way you feel about me?”

I swallowed.

She leaned closer.

“You want answers. But you never ask yourself the right question.”

“And what is that?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Why does it matter?”

That stopped me.

“Because I need to know what’s happening to me.”

“You’re falling in love,” she said plainly, almost sadly.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

I stared into her eyes. There were galaxies in them. Pain. Centuries of longing. And something else… a strange reflection of me.

Was she even capable of lying?

Or was this my mind’s way of dressing up the truth in a gown?

I stood up, pacing slightly.

“What if I’m dead, Mina?” I asked, voice rising just enough. “What if that’s why I can see you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Tell me—when did I die? Was it the moment I walked into this house? Was it before? Did I just imagine everything after that?”

Still, she said nothing.

I turned to her.

“Or worse… What if you’re the one who’s dead? What if I’m losing my mind and you’re just a story I wanted to save so badly, I made you real?”

Silence.

Mina rose slowly.

And walked toward me.

She didn’t touch me.

Not this time.

She just stood in front of me. Close. Still.

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes every difference.”

“Then tell me,” she said, voice trembling now. “If I’m just a story, why do I remember your touch? Why does my heart race when you look at me like that?”

I stared.

She took a step closer.

“Why do I feel jealous of the world you left behind? Why do I fear the moment you’ll leave me too?”

I reached for her hand.

It wasn’t cold this time.

It was trembling.

Just like mine.

Our fingers interlaced.

And something in me cracked.

Maybe I was alive. Maybe I was not.

Maybe she was a ghost.

Maybe I was.

But standing there, holding her… I didn’t care.

Because she felt.

Because I felt.

And that had to mean something.

She rested her forehead against mine, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t ask me if I’m real,” she whispered. “Ask yourself why you don’t want to leave.”

And I knew, at last, what terrified me the most.

It wasn’t the mystery.

It wasn’t death.

It wasn’t even the idea that she was a hallucination born of grief and obsession.

It was that none of it mattered anymore.

I didn’t want to wake up.

Because this haunting… was the only thing that had ever made me feel seen.

Part XIII – The One Who Watched Me Dance

That evening, the house was quieter than usual.

No wind.

No creaking.

No shadows dancing at the edges of my sight.

Only her.

Mina.

Standing by the old record player, her fingers ghosting over its surface, as if recalling songs she hadn’t heard in decades.

I sat on the worn velvet chair, staring.

Still unsure what realm I was in, still unsure if the ground beneath me was real or if my own longing had pulled me into a dream I never wanted to wake up from.

But then, she turned.

And the moment our eyes met, I felt it again.

That stillness.

That ache.

She walked toward me slowly, not like a ghost, but like someone burdened with something heavy… a truth maybe.

She stopped a step away.

“I never imagined I would be seen again.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

She smiled, faint and weary.

“But you saw me.”

I frowned.

“I didn’t know you. Not really.”

She shook her head gently.

“No. You didn’t. But you wanted to.”

Mina sat down on the armrest beside me, her fingers brushing through my hair with a touch too real for fiction.

“You didn’t fall for the woman in the photo. Not truly.”

I looked at her.

“Then what did I fall for?”

She leaned in, her voice the softest it had ever been.

“The story. The idea. The silent ballerina no one ever waited for. The girl who danced for no one. The girl who was left behind… until you.”

A lump built in my throat.

She took a breath—deep and shaking.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited to be remembered? Not found, not pitied—but remembered. Wished for.”

She looked at me now. Not like a mystery. Not like a ghost. But as a woman with heart and ache.

“I felt it. The moment you stepped into this house. I felt your longing. Like it was calling out to me through the floorboards, through the cracked wallpaper and dust.”

“Mina…”

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” she admitted. “A spirit? A memory? A thought you made real?”

She looked down.

“But I know what you are.”

I blinked slowly.

“What?”

She pressed a hand against my chest, over my heart.

“You’re the one who didn’t need a reason to love me.”

Silence fell.

She was trembling now.

“You didn’t need my voice. You didn’t need my presence. You didn’t even need a full story. Just… a glimpse. A whisper. A photograph. And still… something inside you decided—‘I’ll stay. I’ll wait. I’ll watch.’”

My throat burned.

She smiled sadly.

“There’s something so pure about that.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“No one waited for me. Not when the applause stopped. Not when my parents passed. Not when I danced until my feet bled in this house with no one to hear. They all forgot.”

She paused.

“But you—a stranger who never knew me—you stayed.”

She lowered her forehead to my shoulder now.

“And I don’t know if this is heaven or some cruel dream. But for the first time… I’m not alone.”

I wrapped my arms around her.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

But desperately.

As if holding her could stop time.

As if gripping her tightly enough would keep the truth from unraveling again.

“I didn’t know you,” I whispered against her hair. “But I knew that I wanted to.”

She looked up at me then, eyes shimmering with pain and something deeper.

Hope.

“Even if I was just a picture?”

“Even then.”

“Even if you only heard of me through stories?”

“Even then.”

“Even if I was never real?”

I cupped her face.

“Especially then.”

She smiled.

And I swear—for a moment—I saw her glow.

Like her body was lit from the inside by something no physics could explain.

A dancer’s soul reignited by love.

By longing.

By someone who simply wanted to watch her dance, even if it meant staying forever in a room where time no longer mattered.

She stood now, wordless.

And stepped into the center of the room.

The floor creaked gently as she took position.

No music played.

No applause waited.

But she began to move.

To dance.

And I—rooted to my chair—watched.

Because that’s what I came here for, didn’t I?

Not to be healed.

Not to find peace.

But to find her.

To witness something the world had forgotten.

And never let it be forgotten again.

Even if it took me a lifetime.

Even if it cost me one.

Part XIV – In the Grasp of Her Dance

Time blurred into something abstract—not measured in hours or days but in dances, kisses, and glances exchanged under dim light. I don’t remember when it started.

But she was always there. Mina. With that same ballerina grace. That same smile laced with secrets. That same voice that melted through silence like candle wax.

Every day, we danced. She showed me how to move like her, how to bend and twirl and fall into her rhythm. We laughed—sometimes so hard that it echoed through the hollow walls, as if the house itself had begun to breathe with us.

And in between, there were kisses. Gentle at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. Passionate in a way that felt sacred.

Her skin against mine felt like silk soaked in moonlight. Her voice, a lullaby and a curse. Love turned into something else. Something more. Something I couldn't name.

We danced until the floor creaked under our feet like it wanted to cry out. We kissed until the windows fogged, as if the house was too shy to witness our hunger. We touched each other like we were the only things left in a world that had forgotten everyone else.

But as the days passed, a slow, creeping fear began to slither under the surface of our paradise. Sometimes I would turn around, and she wouldn’t be there. Not vanished. Just... gone. Like she was never in the room at all. I’d call her name. No answer.

But then she would reappear behind me, smile softly and kiss me like nothing had changed. "You disappeared," I would say, breath shaky.

"Did I?" she would reply, serene.

"You're real, right?"

"I'm neither real nor unreal," she would whisper, lips brushing my ear. "I am what you need me to be."

There was something frightening about that. But I didn’t run. Because how could I run from something that felt this divine?

Mina became... more. Not just a woman. A presence. A force that wrapped around me. She became my routine, my oxygen, my reason to wake up and close my eyes. She began to ask me strange things.

"Would you follow me anywhere?" she asked one night, body pressed against mine, skin cold and fire at once.

"Would you let the world go?"

"Would you give up your name, your life, your memories—just to stay with me?"

Her words were sweet and terrifying. The kind of horror that seduces you while slowly swallowing your soul. And the worst part? I said yes. Every time. Without hesitation.

I didn’t know how long it’d been since I left the house. A week? A month? I only went out for food when I had to.

The city outside had become something foreign. People didn’t greet me anymore. Some didn’t even seem to notice me. As if I had become invisible. A shade walking among the living. But it didn’t matter.

Because she was there. Always waiting when I came back, standing barefoot in the hallway, smiling like she knew I’d never truly leave.

"They can’t see you now," she whispered once. "You're already mine."

I laughed it off at the time. But later that night, as I stared at the mirror and saw something pale and unfamiliar staring back, I wasn’t so sure.

Was I still me? Was I ever? Maybe the Silent Room had taken me in the same way it took her. Maybe I had been absorbed, swallowed into its floorboards, its memories.

Maybe Mina had me in her grasp. A ghost bride in an eternal pirouette. A curse. But to me? It wasn’t a curse. It was heaven.

She would cling to me in the middle of the night, whispering secrets in my ear I didn’t understand.

She would trace her fingers over my spine and say: "You feel like a man still holding onto something."

"Let it go. Let it die."

Her words were like silk wrapping tighter around my throat, and I didn’t resist.

Because what is life without love? What is sanity without someone to lose it for?

We danced in the dead of night. With no music. Just the sound of our heartbeats. Sometimes I would see her eyes glow faintly in the dark, and I would pretend not to notice. Sometimes she would hum a tune that I was sure hadn’t existed in decades, and I would hum along, pretending I knew it.

One night, mid-dance, she stopped and pressed her forehead to mine. "You’re mine now."

"Yes," I breathed.

"Even if I’m not real?"

"Especially then."

She kissed me then. And it was the kind of kiss that didn't belong in reality. The kind that unmade the walls around me. The kind that erased every voice but hers.

I forgot what my old life was. I couldn’t remember the last time I held my phone. My job, my bills, my name—all distant echoes in a theater where only she performed. And I applauded her. Over and over.

Because even if this was a hallucination, even if I had lost my mind completely, I wanted to remain in this madness. In her arms. In her world.

The lines between dream and waking were already dust. What mattered was that I could feel her. Touch her. Love her.

Even if she was bliss or malice. Even if I was no longer in the world I came from. Even if I was no longer me. Because she was everything.

And she had me. In her dance. In her grasp.

Forever.

#twice #mina #myoui mina #twice mina #myoui mina x reader #twice x male reader #twice x reader #nayeon #chaeyoung #jeongyeon #jihyo #sana #momo #tzuyu #twice smut #mina x reader

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inuyashaluver · 1 year ago

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Hi lovely I love ur stuff 🩷 I have a little request/idea - obviously feel free to ignore it

I was thinking R has a really thick accent (English - either Scouse (Liverpool), Geordie (Newcastle) or West Country (Devon/Somerset/Farmer) or Aussie or something really thick like hard to understand from native speakers let alone anyone else) but R plays in Barca and has a crush on a Spanish player (Maybe Patri? maybe Ona? Maybe Alexia?) and is tryna talk to them more and maybe ask them out but they just get looked at funny and they walk off and she goes to Kiera and Lucy and is like what have I done? Do they all hate me? And [Crush] overheads them and goes round to their house after training and is like I really wanna get to know u, I think you’re really pretty etc but I cannot understand a word that comes out of ur mouth to the point where I am questioning whether it’s English

qué? - alexia putellas

alexia putellas x reader

description: in which your accent proves to be difficult to understand

warnings: LONG!! swearing, misunderstandings, spanish in bold italics

a/n: i love this woman, your honour!! i was writing alexia angst but had to put out the fluff haha!! thank you so much for the love and request, lovely!! ily and enjoy ❤️

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

you never thought your accent would get you into trouble but you were entirely wrong. and we’re not talking about trouble like criminal, we’re talking romantically.

—

you’re from liverpool, your thick, scouse accent distinct in your dialect. at home in england, the accent was understood most of the time, with an occasional person asking for clarification about your words but you didn’t mind.

even some of your england teammates had to ask you to repeat yourself occasionally when you got overly excited or stressed, your accent proving to be the hardest to understand at those moments.

you often needed a translator for even native english speakers if you spoke too quickly, lucy and later grace helping out when people were truly confused.

when lucy and keira moved from manchester city, you moved with them, having played in the club for 2 years and desperately wanting a change. and so, when the contract arrived from barcelona for the three of you, you accepted it without a second thought.

you had supported barcelona in liga F, having a huge appreciation for the way the spanish players moved, the quick passes and the goals that came out of nowhere. you were excited to pick up those skills to adapt to your own play.

and through your extensive research, you grew a special appreciation for alexia. in your eyes, alexia was the definition of perfect, not only her football skills, but her as a whole.

you would watch her interviews and videos for ‘research purposes’, claiming it was to practise your spanish. and it was, until you zoned out hearing the gentle hum of alexia’s voice, getting distracted entirely but you weren’t complaining.

when you got caught making heart eyes at your phone during england camp, the teasing was so relentless it wasn’t even funny.

—

“our little (y/n) has a crush on la reina! (the queen)” lucy exclaims in the change room, you immediately turn off your phone and look up at her with an icy glare, only making her smile at you affectionately with a pinch to your cheek that you were quick to swat away.

“you’re not much older than me” you glare, “5 years is 5 years” she shrugs, moving away when you launched an empty bottle at her.

“go on, tell us about your crush” leah smiles, millie and rachel pretend to kiss each other while looking at you and you heat up in the cheeks.

“i’m only watching so i can pick up spanish” you defend, lucy laughs loudly, out of the three transfers, she was definitely the one who picked up the most spanish.

“excuse me, lucia, and everyone in here,” you scoff, “is it such a crime to watch a video of my future captain?” your accent was so heavy at this point, everyone cracked a little smile at you.

“so you were watching videos of alexia then?” leah smirks, you let out a frustrated groan, “leah, shut up man” everyone laughs, the teasing continuing until keira and alessia told everyone to stop.

during the whole of camp, it wasn’t uncommon you got caught looking at photos or videos of alexia, the teasing was so bad you thought you would explode.

—

when the time finally came for you to join barcelona, you were incredibly nervous. the fear of underperforming playing on your mind, only becoming worse at the thought of embarrassing yourself in front of a certain blonde you couldn’t take your mind off.

lucy and keira assured you everything would be fine, but you weren’t convinced, unsure of how you’d react when you finally saw alexia.

when you all walked to the change rooms, it was shocking how welcoming everyone was. hugs and kisses to the cheeks had you feeling so accepted amongst your new team.

and funnily enough, the last person to greet you was alexia, sending you a charming smile that had your stomach erupting with butterflies.

“(y/n), yes? bienvenida! (welcome)” alexia grins, her arms pulling you into a warm hug, her scent enveloping you and making you borderline dizzy.

“(y/n) is a big fan of you” lucy teases as alexia lets you slip from the hug after you mumble a quick hello. alexia gives a surprised smile, looking between a cheeky looking lucy and a sheepish looking you.

“you’re very good, too, I look forward to playing with you,” alexia’s hand moved to give your bicep a gentle squeeze and you swore your heart stopped, your cheeks were tinged with pink and you could barely formulate a sentence.

“yeah, i’m excited to play with ya” you breathe out, you move to your new cubby and get changed into the barcelona kit, feeling at home already even though it was your first day.

due to you busying yourself with avoiding alexia, you missed the way her gaze lingered on you as you changed, she was intrigued by you.

what you didn’t know was alexia had done her own forms of research. she had heard your name countless times in the media, a rising star in the making.

she respected the way you played, a midfielder who wasn’t afraid to take risks but also managed to avoid fouls frequently.

she wanted to get to know you as much as you wanted to get to know her.

—

weeks and months fly by and it was easy to say you felt comfortable amongst the team. your spanish was surprisingly getting better, being able to go through training without a translator most of the time.

the girls reciprocated you well, you’d go to team bonding nights and laugh and joke around with them. it was obvious to everyone except alexia that you were harbouring a crush on the captain.

the ways your eyes would follow her every move with pink cheeks honestly exposed yourself. and what made it harder was that alexia and you were growing closer each day.

—

one day you were chatting with mapi and ingrid, more like you getting teased while you begged them to stop before you were interrupted by a certain someone.

“do you want to be my partner?” alexia questions from behind you suddenly, making you choke on your own spit as she looked at you with a kind smile. “really?” you breathe out, she nods, nodding her head to the pitch for you to follow her.

you’d both been able to converse easily as the months went by, she’d have to ask you to slow down a couple of times when you both talked about something you had in common but it worked.

as you both trained together, you chatted and laughed, talking about random topics.

when you both got to shooting practice, alexia analysed your every move. she would give little nods of approval when you touched the ball, sending you an encouraging smile if you made eye contact, your heart was fluttering around her.

“you should put more weight into your hips when you kick” alexia corrects, you look at her questioningly, she huffs out a little laugh and comes to stand behind you.

her large hands place themselves on your hips and she turns them slightly to the front. her front was pressed against your back and you certainly weren’t breathing. she noticed you tense but chose to ignore it.

“focus here before you kick so it’s stronger” alexia says next to your ear, squeezing your hips gently before letting go of you. “try again, vamos! (let’s go)” she exclaims, you do as she says with her corrections and it was a much better result.

she smiles proudly, “buena niña! (good girl)” she laughs, coming up to you to squeeze your shoulders encouragingly, your cheeks were burning.

the entire team watched the interaction with big grins, ready to tease you for how sheepish you looked.

“gracias (thank you), ale” you scratch the back of your neck with an embarrassed smile, she shakes her head, “it’s nothing, thank me with a goal next game” she jokes, pinching your cheek teasingly before walking off to get some water.

you’re left there in shock, lucy and keira approaching with cheesy grins. “you’re in love” lucy coos, poking your shoulder teasingly while you shielded yourself in a hug from keira.

“i’m so fucking stupid, why can’t i be normal” you groan, keira laughs, her hand rubbing up and down your back. “you’re just shy, which is weird to see because you’re the complete opposite” she laughs, you pull back to throw her a glare.

“it’s cute” lucy chuckles, “i can’t wait to tell everyone about the development” she grins, her and keira share a hearty laugh seeing your face go pale, while you attempted not to scream.

“don’t you fucking dare” you grit out, “i won’t” lucy winks, unfortunately she did and by the time training was over, your phone was blowing up with text messages talking about the interaction.

you looked at lucy with a stone cold glare while she blew you a kiss, alexia watched how angry you were, she could practically feel it radiating off you on the other side of the change room.

“estás bien? (are you okay)” alexia walks up to you, holding a cold drink out to you. you take it after a moment of hesitation, “uh, yeah, sí” you smile, “lucia is annoying you?” alexia grins, looking over at lucy to see her and keira whispering while looking at you. “yes, she’s very annoying” you grumble, your eyebrows furrowing.

alexia smiles fondly at you, her hand moving to your face, her thumb smoothing out the crease between your eyebrows. “wrinkles” she tutts, your breath caught in the back of your throat as you looked up at her.

“are you coming tonight?” she says like she didn’t just make you flatline. she’s talking about a team bonding session at her house. “yeah, i think so” you smile at her, “think or know?” she teases, was she flirting with you?

“know, i’ll be there” you mock, she nods with a pleased expression, “hasta luego, lindura (see you later, cutie)” she winks, moving to grab her bag from her cubby and leave, making sure to look back at you another time with a soft smile before walking out.

you get pulled out of your trance once you hear your phone blowing up again, checking it to see lucy had recorded you watching alexia leave. you throw your head back in frustration but chose to avoid letting the older girl feel your wrath, you were still on a buzz from the thought of alexia flirting with you.

—

when you arrived at alexia’s house, you brought her a bottle of wine with a sheepish grin. when she opened the door for you, she pulled you into the warmest hug, both of you fitting together like a puzzle.

“finalmente! (finally) i was waiting for you!” she grins as she pulls away, taking the wine out of your hands and grabbing one of yours to drag you into the living room where everyone was.

her hand was so warm against yours, soft against your skin and you really didn’t want her to let go. “you look beautiful” alexia smiles before she ushers you to sit down, you barely had the time to tell her how breathtaking she looked, dressed casually but still looking like she could be on the front of a magazine.

you sit next to mapi and she immediately bombards you with questions, “have you kissed yet?” she questions, you slap her knee, “ingrid, your girlfriend is a bully” you huff, ingrid laughs, nodding along with you with an apologetic smile.

everyone was watching a movie while eating, alexia sitting beside you, the two of you would chat back and forth with small giggles and smiles shared between you.

by the time the night was ending, alexia’s arm was resting behind you on the couch, basically over your shoulder while you were in your own little bubble.

when you left that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about all the interactions you had with the catalan, you needed to do something about it. fast.

—

on a match day for barcelona, you decided it was time for you to tell her about your feelings. it was clear you were flirting with each other. confirmed during the game.

in the second half, you managed to get a goal, using the technique alexia had taught you a couple of days prior.

she was the first one to you after, the loud roar of the crowd drowned out when you felt alexia’s strong arms wrapping around your waist.

you both smiled so brightly as she congratulated you, placing you on the ground, giving you an affectionate kiss on the forehead and squeezing your shoulders. this told you everything. it wasn’t just her being friendly, it was alexia making a move.

at the end of the match, the two of you lingered in the middle of the pitch, you were fidgeting so much alexia was worried.

“(y/n)?” she dips her head to make eye contact with you, “estás bien? (are you okay)” you nod, opening your mouth to speak but nothing came out. “take a deep breath” she smiles, a hand on your shoulder offering you comfort but also stressing you out.

“ale” you start, she nods with an encouraging smile, “i really fancy ya, ale, i’ve been wantin’ to tell ya for a while” you blurt out, alexia’s eyebrows furrow, she looks a little confused.

the silence was loud, why hasn’t she said anything back. if this was her rejection, it hurt more than anything she could have verbalised.

“you know what, forget i said anythin’” you run off before she could say anything. “qué? (what)” she was about to ask you to repeat yourself, one - because you were speaking too fast, two - she didn’t know what fancy meant.

you heard her call out for you but you ran into the change room, knowing keira and lucy were in there. “keira!” you yell, “fucking check my pulse!” you shove your arm in her face and she looks at you in shock. only a couple of people were inside, and the ones that were were shocked at how you tumbled into the room.

“jesus, your heart is going so fast” keira says as she presses her fingers to the inside of your wrist. “fuck, why couldn’t you tell me i’m dead and this is a nightmare” you groan, your hands running over your face frustratingly.

“what’s wrong with you?” lucy says as she walks out of the shower to see you in absolute shambles. “everything!” you explain each and every detail and they look at you sympathetically, understanding now why you were so upset.

what you didn’t know was alexia was outside, ear pressed to the door as she heard you explain that you were trying to confess. she feels her stomach tighten, cursing herself for not understanding what you were saying.

“whatever, i’m going home, don’t follow me” you grit, tears pooling at your waterline as you rush out. alexia had moved out of eyeline when she heard you, quickly going into the change room and drilling lucy and keira for your address that they happily gave her with sly grins. happy to know it was all a misunderstanding.

—

that afternoon, you hastily wiped your tears away thinking about alexia. you had misunderstood her intentions clearly, you were disappointed with yourself.

you heard the banging from the front door and groaned, knowing your fellow england teammates were probably on the other side with ice cream and apologetic smiles.

“i told you both not to follow me-” you huff, the door opening to see alexia standing there, a bouquet of bright flowers in hand. “hola (hello)” she smiles, “what are you doing here?” you ask softly, “can i come in?” you nod, moving back a little so she could step inside. she hands you the flowers and you take them with a confused expression.

what type of rejection was this?

“i heard you speaking to lucy and keira before” she starts nervously, both of you walking to the kitchen so you could put the flowers in water, they were beautiful.

“it’s fine if you don’t feel the same” you shrink into yourself, brushing the petals of one of the flowers between your fingers.

“hermosa (beautiful)” she calls out, moving around your counter to stand directly in front of you. “me gustas mucho, y quiero estar contigo (i like you a lot, i want to be with you)” she says earnestly, speaking in her mother tongue and hoping you understood because she was speaking from the heart.

you freeze, each and every word quickly translated in your head. “amor (love), you’re very beautiful and nice but you speak very fast, i did not understand a word you said before” she laughs, you can’t help but laugh too, shaking your head at how fast you fled the situation.

“i’m sorry, ale” you grin, “don’t be” she dismisses, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, relishing in the blush she just produced on your cheeks.

“me gustas mucho (i like you a lot), alexia” you smile, she gives you a dazzling expression, appreciating how you spoke her mother tongue to her so she really understood this time. “muy bien, preciosa! (very good, precious)” she coos affectionately, her hand cradling your cheek as she directed your eyes to hers.

“we will teach each other, sí?” she grins cheekily, you hum along with her words, “sí”.

she pulls you closer to place a sweet kiss on your lips, your stomach lurching at how soft they were against yours.

you both smile into it as she drew you closer, your arms wrapping around her neck while her free hand came to rest on the small of your back to press you against her.

she pulls away, not without pressing a few more kisses to your lips through the giggles and the small chatter between the two of you.

—

when you both came to training the next day hand in hand, sighs of relief were heard from everyone. lucy whipped out her phone as quickly as she could and sent pictures to the england group chat, your phone blowing up more than ever.

now that the team saw you interact, the teasing somehow got worse every time alexia would kiss you, or even hold your hand.

the pining drove everyone insane but the loved up versions of the two of you were insufferable. you were attached at the hip, just how you and alexia wanted.

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

you know the drill, just pretend it’s you xx

liked by keirawalsh and 44,232 others

alexiaputellas: mi niña (my girl)

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yourname: mami

↳ alexiaputellas: i didn’t teach her this

↳ marialeonn16: sureeeee

lucybronze: the most annoying couple ever

↳ yourname: shut up man

↳ leahwilliamsonn: there she is!!

↳ keirawalsh: she went soft but is still a shit head

↳ yourname: @/alexiaputellas bebé! defend me!

↳ alexiaputellas: you are soft

↳ yourname: the betrayal is unreal

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso one shot #woso imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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ficsloverblog · 2 months ago

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A story where the reader has been fake-dating Tywin for a few months now? They married for political purposes, naturally, and because Tywin requires an heir for Casterly Rock, but there's never been any genuine love between them. People have grown suspicious of the fact that R! has yet to have taken with a child, considering they've been wed for many moons now... Perhaps just a twinge of drama is involved? It could be that Tyrion overhears rumors in court, and he promptly puts an end to it. For some strange reason, the notion of anyone speaking poorly of his lady wife makes him angry, and he's slowly starting to realize he likes her? Maybe he sees her interacting with a child, and for a split moment, his face softens, and he's ready to *properly* give her a child, lol. I'm not even sure if that counts as fake dating but 🤷 the idea is there, hopefully it made sense. It could just be their first time together instead? virgin!reader vibes, I suppose

Idle Tongues (NSFW)

Tywin Lannister x wife!reader

A/N: Giggling and kicking my feet as I got to write yet another Tywin fic. Thank you for your request, and for feeding my totally healthy obsession with this man!! Enjoy! <3

It had began as whispers, and like all things in court, it grew into something with fangs.

You heard it first in the corridor outside the sept, when a noblewoman’s handmaid flinched at your approach, silencing her tongue mid-sentence. Then in the godswood, where two ladies paused too long in their embroidery when you passed. A week later, the smile that Lady Serylla gave you at supper was edged with something sharp and pitiful.

You were a ghost among lions.

And then the words began to reach you. Not directly,they were never that bold. But woven into the silences, the way one might slip poison into honeyed wine.

Months had passed since your wedding, and still your womb remained empty. No subtle glow of pregnancy, no adjustments to your corsets, no whispers of midwives being summoned discreetly in the night. And so, naturally, the conclusion was drawn: the Lady of Casterly Rock was barren.

Your silence had always made you a quiet curiosity. Now, it made you suspect.

Some said you were too young, your body unready. Others, that you were cursed, or worse, frigid. That Lord Tywin had chosen poorly in his second wife. That perhaps he regretted you.

They never said these things where he could hear them. But the walls of the Rock were old, and the stone kept secrets badly.

You endured it as you always had: with stillness. With dignity. With hands folded in your lap and your eyes fixed somewhere above their reach.

But silence cannot drown a rumor. And in time, even Tywin heard.

It was a council meeting that ran long and frayed his patience. Trade tariffs in Oldtown. Bandit uprisings in the northern hills. A merchant's son demanding the repayment of a debt long forgotten.

He left the room without waiting for his bannermen to follow. There was a tightness behind his eyes that even the finest Arbor wine couldn’t soothe. His footsteps echoed through the hall as he cut down a side corridor, seeking quiet. He passed beneath a high window, where morning light dappled the red-and-gold stone. And there, just as he turned the corner, he heard it.

“—still no child, and they’ve been wed how long now?”

Tywin paused mid-step.

“They say she’s untouched. Or barely touched. He’s not known for tenderness, is he? Perhaps she couldn’t bear it. Or perhaps he’s lost interest.”

A low chuckle. “Can’t imagine Lord Tywin letting his new lady call the terms. And yet, here we are.”

“They say she was nervous at the wedding feast. Didn’t even look at him as he gave the toast.”

“She looked afraid.”

Tywin said nothing. He didn’t move. His hand curled around the edge of the stone arch, grip tightening.

“And what use is she if she can’t carry an heir? Pretty thing, sure. But that doesn’t last. He’s wasted a name on her.”

“Worse than a waste. A softness like that in the Rock? It’s like leaving silk in the lion’s den.”

Their laughter was quiet, but it echoed far too loudly.

Tywin stepped forward. Deliberately.

The men, minor bannermen, froze.

“My lord—”

“Your names,” Tywin said, voice low, calm, and somehow more terrifying for it.

“Ser Daryn, my lord. Of House Buckwell. This is Ser Ronnet—”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll know them when I strip you of your tongues.”

They paled.

“My lord—please, we meant no—”

“Speak of her again,” Tywin said, “Say anything of her again, and I will send your heads to your wives in a box lined with Lannister gold.”

He left them trembling in the hallway.

The words still echoed in his ears long after the corridor fell silent. A softness like that in the Rock. Worse than a waste.

He clenched his jaw. Not because the gossip was new, he’d suspected the tide of it for weeks, but because it had found a voice so near his own halls. Because those who owed him loyalty had allowed themselves to mock you as if you were decoration.

As if you weren’t his wife.

The marriage had been strategic. Practical. You were younger, softer-spoken than Joanna had been, with gentle manners and no ambition to rival his own. You asked little of him. You never pried. In truth, he had found your quiet company... agreeable.

But now…

Now, the court thought you weak. Barren.

Useless.

And something beneath his breastbone twisted at that thought.

You were in the gardens, unaware. There was a small girl in your arms—the daughter of a visiting vassal—all auburn curls and inquisitive eyes. She had tripped chasing a butterfly and scraped her knee, and while the nurses fretted, you had simply gathered her close and brushed the dust from her cheek.

You cradled her with the ease of someone who wanted children, who might have been a mother already if fate had been kinder.

Tywin watched you from the window of his solar.

Your head was bent, hair falling like silk across your shoulder. The child tugged at your necklace and you laughed. A soft, breathless thing he realized he’d never heard from you before. The warmth of it curled in his chest unexpectedly.

A strange thing, affection. It crept in, uninvited.

You looked up.

For a moment, your eyes met. He expected you to flinch, or to look away. Instead, you smiled. Not the practiced smile of court etiquette, but something simpler. Earnest. Something that made him take a step backward so he could hide from you.

That evening, he found you in the small solar that overlooked the western cliffs. You often came here to read, though he’d never seen you with the same book twice. The firelight painted your face in gold, your fingers were threaded loosely through a teacup’s handle.

You did not startle when he entered. You simply turned your gaze to him, still and composed.

“Tywin.”

Not my lord. Not since the third month. A small defiance he had allowed, though he’d never said why.

He crossed the room without speaking, pouring himself a goblet of wine from the decanter near the hearth. For a long moment, there was only the hush of the waves far below, and the soft clink of glass.

“You’ve heard,” you said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

He took a slow sip. “Yes.”

You set the teacup down.

“I imagine they thought themselves clever.”

“They thought themselves safe,” he corrected, with a touch of venom. “They were not.”

You looked away, out to the sea. “It doesn’t matter. The court will believe what it wants. They always do.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he studied you. Not the careful posture or the elegant gown, but the shadow beneath your eyes, the tension held so tightly in your shoulders.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked at last.

You blinked. Then, softly: “Because I thought you didn’t care.”

He went still.

“I assumed,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper, “that as long as I kept the peace, you would tolerate me. That was our arrangement. Wasn’t it?”

Something in his chest, something long caged, shifted.

You rose then, slowly, moving to the window. The sea wind stirred your hair, lifting it gently, and when you spoke again your voice carried a soft ache.

“They think me weak. That I cannot hold your attention. That I’ve failed my duty. That I’m only a pretty thing you regret.”

Tywin stepped forward once, then again, until he stood beside you.

“I do not regret you.”

You turned to look at him.

“I chose you,” he said. “Not for beauty. Not for meekness. I chose you because you were smart. Quiet. Because you would not scheme behind my back or sell your womb to every rumor in the Rock.”

The words were not romantic. Not tender. But they were honest.

“Then why haven’t you touched me?”

His breath caught.

It was not said accusingly. Merely… truthfully.

“I’ve been negligent,” he said. “We married for strategy. That was clear.”

You nodded.

“But I find myself regretting the… limitations of that agreement.”

The wind stirred around you, carrying the scent of wildflowers and sea salt.

“What are you saying, Tywin?”

“I’m saying,” he said slowly, “that I would like to… revisit the terms. If you’re willing.”

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

“And if I am?” you asked.

His eyes burned into yours, unflinching.

“Then perhaps,” he said, “we should see whether Casterly Rock might finally gain its heir.”

Your breath caught.

“And if it doesn’t happen?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “If I am barren?”

“Then I will not allow them to speak your name again.”

You nodded once, careful not to smile too quickly, too much.

Later, when your maid had gone and the candles burned low, there was a knock. Just once. No hesitation.

You rose and opened the door.

He stood there, as he had stood before battle and judgment both—tall, stern, unreadable. But when his eyes found yours, something shifted. Not soft, no. But open. A gate unbarred after too many seasons closed.

“Come in,” you said, your voice even, your hands steady.

He stepped inside. You didn’t ask what had brought him. You already knew.

He did not rush to you. Tywin Lannister was never rushed. He looked at your room as if memorizing it, as if it were foreign to him even after months of shared roofs and shared vows. Then his gaze returned to you, and did not leave.

“I won’t be gentle,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “Not cruel. But not false either. I have waited too long for that.”

You swallowed. “I don’t want gentleness,” you whispered. “Not if it’s hollow.”

That was all.

He crossed to you, then—one stride, two—and his mouth was on yours.

Not sweet. Not soft. But real. His hand caught the back of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw as he kissed you like a man claiming something long denied. You parted for him, lips opening with a soft sound you didn’t recognize until it broke in your throat. One of his hands found your waist, the other pressing against the small of your back, guiding you toward the bed as his mouth continued its slow, deliberate conquest of yours.

When he pulled back, your breath chased after him.

“Take it off,” he said, looking at your gown. “I want to see you.”

You obeyed, fingers trembling only slightly as you untied the laces, the gown slipping from your shoulders like spilled wine. You stood before him in your shift, and he reached for it without asking, lifting it over your head in one smooth motion.

His breath caught. Not audibly, but you felt it in the stillness that followed, in the heat of his gaze as he looked his fill.

“You are not weak,” he said. “Not in this, not anywhere.”

You reached for him next, unfastening his doublet with fingers more certain now. He allowed it. Watched you. His body was all tension and shadow under the firelight. Broad chest, scarred skin, the strength of a man who had spent a life at war. When you laid a hand over his heart, it beat steady beneath your palm.

He pushed you back onto the bed then, climbing over you with the slow, controlled force of a lion circling its prize. His mouth found your throat, then your collarbone. Then lower. Teeth grazed, tongue soothed. Your hips arched, and he caught them in strong hands, pinning you with ease.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he said against your skin.

“I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

That made him smile. Just barely, but it was there.

When he pushed inside you, it was not with hesitation but with something far more dangerous: intention. You gasped, the stretch sharp at first, but grounding. He filled you slowly, deeply, until you were more full than you’d ever been.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. And he moved.

The rhythm he set was unrelenting, but not careless. Each thrust purposeful, building heat between your hips, curling it deeper. He grunted softly when your nails dragged down his back, when your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Say it,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, “Tywin—I’m yours—”

He caught your mouth again, swallowing the sounds you made as he thrust harder, faster. One hand found your breast, the other gripping your thigh as your body began to tremble around him.

“I’ll put an heir in you,” he growled. “I’ll make them choke on their words.”

And you shattered.

It crashed through you like a tide, white-hot and blinding, your body arching against his as you broke apart beneath him. He followed seconds later, his rhythm stuttering, teeth clenched, his release spilling deep inside you.

Afterward, he did not speak. He lay beside you, breathing heavy, his hand brushing your waist as if to anchor you both.

But when you turned to face him, eyes heavy-lidded, you saw the look in his eyes.

Possession, yes. But something else too.

You weren’t simply a bride of strategy anymore, you were a woman finally seen.

#tywin lannister x reader #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #got tywin #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf

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hidden-poet · 7 months ago

Text

Poison: part 2

Summary: Coriolanus always hated Sejanus Plinth. He had everything that Coriolanus should of had; money, influence, and you.

Warnings: Coryo being de-lu-lu, unrequited love, Reader insert, dark!Coriolanus snow, unedited, dead dove to not eat

Word count: 15,053

Part 1 here

Part 2

Part 3 here

Coriolaus wakes early the next morning and races to the Citadel to drop off Dr Gauls homework.

He carried his anxiety about Dr Gauls potential comments along with him to his session with Lucy-Grey.

He struggled to sit still, twirling his pen around and around in his hand. It was not how he wanted to present himself to Lucy-gray.

What he wanted was her trust, her loyalty, her obedience. Things that would be hard to gain if he gave off a school-boy impression.

Instead he forced his nails into the palm of his hand under the table, and tried to focus on Lucy-Gray as she spoke.

“I am sorry about your friend”, she offered.

“Thank you”, he returned.

“That other girl. Was she okay? The guards whisked you away so fast. I couldn’t see-”.

Something about her asking about you made Coriolanus irritated.

He supposed it was just the image it brought back. The sheer shock upon your face, the fear that he wouldn’t get to you in time.

“She’s fine”, he interrupted. His pen began twirling in his hand again.

He wished he could have seen you this morning to check on you. You most likely woke up in the arms of Sejanus. He wouldn’t check on you like he should. His first words would have been complaints about the games.

He shouldn’t be here really. Who choses mentoring a boy sure to die rather than taking care of you at home. Coriolanus bet he made no protest when you got ready for school.

If it had been Coriolanus, as it should be, he would have ensured you stayed home in bed. He wouldn’t have left your side after yesterday. He wouldn’t have even let you be there yesterday.

First Sejanus causes the wound, and then he isn’t man enough to take care of you properly. How sweet it will be, the day you finally belong to Coriolanus Snow.

“I need you to sing in these interviews. It’s your last chance to win people over. I can’t send you gifts in the area without their money”, he states.

“Maybe a guitar could persuade me. Maybe”, Lucy-gray offers.

“Snow. Dovecote” Dean highbottom calls.

Coriolanus whips around to see Peacekeepers waiting for them by the door.

He could piece the clues together to come to the conclusion that Dr Gaul had called them.

Clemmie on the other hand waited until they were climbing the Citadel steps to ask her obvious question.

“She can’t actually have expected us to write that report. Could she? I was crying for hours last night”.

Corionaus sighs. If Clemmie had kept her mouth shut he would have been next to you. You’d be nervous and in need of comfort, no matter how tough you talked.

“We did write it. I handed it in this morning”, he states.

This time Clemmie sighed, “Great, give me the highlights”.

Coriolanus obliged her if only to keep his mind focused. His bullet points took him up the entry stairs and through the doorway to Dr Gauls lab.

The lab exceeded coriolanus horrific expectations.

It was cold and the large space only housed a long corridor of strange creatures in glass cabinets.

Coriolanus taps the casing of a fish-type creature only to see if it moves.

Its eyes shoot open only for a second before falling back into a drugged sleepy state.

What exactly was Dr Gaul doing? What were these things? For what purpose could they be used for?

“Mr Snow. Ms Dovecote. Come and see my new babies”. Dr Gaul's voice boomed in the empty space.

Coriolaus left the fish, following Clemmie as Dr Gaul led them to a new section and over to a large tank of colorful serpents.

The rainbow moved within the glass in perfect sync. It was hard to tell where one snake started and another ended.

“Is there a point to the color?”Clemmie asked.

Dr Gaul scoffs at her as she ascends the stairs to the top of the glass cage.

“There’s a point to everything, Ms Dovecote, or nothing at all”, Dr Gauls answers.

She spins to face the children, and rests against the side of the enclosure.

“I must say I was expecting Miss y/n, in your place Ms Dovecott”.

“As I said, Dr Gaul, Coriolanus and I do all our assignments together”, Clemmie defended.

“Which is exactly why I was expecting the other one”. Dr Gauls eyes flick to Coriolanus, “exactly, which part did you write Miss Dovecott?”.

Coriolanus tries to pull Clemmie out of the hole she was in but Clemmie talks over top of him.

“There was-”.

“I was inspired by Coriolanus, of course. But the sponsorships, and the gifts in the arena. They were all mine”, she cut him off.

“Clemmie”, he warns. Dr Gaul already knew she played no part. Lying to her would only aggravate her sadistic tenancies.

Dr Gual takes the bait. Crossing her hands in an almost gleeful manner she addresses Clemmie.

“So it’s your sweaty handwriting on that page? Very impressive, Miss Dovecote”, Dr Gauls fawns.

Coriolanus knew it was a tease. He anticipated the come down and the potential consequences of her lie.

“Unfortunately’, Dr Gaul continues, “My assistant mistook it for trash and lined the shelf of this very terrarium with it”.

Dr Gaul slides back the hatch to show the students the paper that was trapped between the snakes.

“Retrieve it for us, won't you? So we might all consider your inspired ideas”, Dr Gaul smiles.

Coriolanus hand twitched. He imagines you in Clemmies place now. How close he would have pulled you. How his own hands would latch themselves over yours and shield them against your chest.

He wondered if he should do the same for Clemmie. She was an old friend, and her grades helped him to the top.

Still he only stood back and watched. Half-Curious as to what would happen.

The snakes couldn't be poisonous. Dr Gaul wouldn’t play with a students life. Especially a student from a high status family like Clemmie’s.

Maybe. Coriolanus thinks back to the weird, mutated animals that lined the hallway. There was really no telling what Dr Gaul was capable of.

“Don’t worry. My little predators are perfectly docile with those they can trust. So if they’re used to your scent, if you’ve handled their food, for example, or if they have inhaled the sweat of your palm on a page..they’ll leave you alone. If not, You’d be on your own, little girl”.

Coriolanus knew from her words that Dr Gaul words were a threat. Those Snakes would harm Clemmie.

Yet she reached her hand into the enclosure.

“Clemmie!” Coriolanus grits.

He is ignored to her own peril.

As soon as her hand brushes against the edge of the page, a Snake lashes out and strikes the flesh that proposes to retrieve the paper.

Clemmie screams upon impact. Trying desperately to shake the snake from her hand, she loses balance and topples off the stand.

“Clemmie! No, no!” Coriolanus attempts to catch her as she falls, but Dr Gaul hinders him by pulling him back by his arm.

She lands with a heavy thud on her back. Gasps fill the air as she tires to regain her breath.

Already she looked pale. The skin on her hand turned a pale green color, and her eyes refused to blink or look anywhere else but directly in front of her.

“You asked about the colors, Ms Dovecott. I want my enemies to see a rainbow of destruction engulfing the world. I am not above using spectacle to create a little terror. A strategy your classmate here articulated very well in his proposal”.

Coriolanus watches as two peacekeepers and assistant come running over. The assistant administered a large needle which helped Clemmie regain her breath but not her composition.

The Peacekeepers then, without care, began to drag Clemmie across the floor and out a near door.

Coriolanus was left alone with Dr Gaul who turned her attention to him.

“I wonder if y/n would have chosen the same decision?”, she questioned.

“Will she die?” Coriolanus asked in a hard tone. More than Dr Gaul mentioning you, he hated the image of you lying in Clemmies place.

Dr Gaul shrugs her shoulders as if it didn’t really matter.

“The pleasure of breaking ground in one’s research is one gets to find out”, she dismissed.

She smirks as she turns back to the enclosure. Her hand reaches in and she begins to play with her pet snakes.

“You don’t like me talking about her do you?”, Dr Gaul picks up a loose piece of paper and thrusts it at Coriolanus, “for a boy who came up with these proposals, you sure do wear your heart on your sleeve”.

The paper crumbles in Coriolanus' grip. He looks at it to avoid eye contact with Dr Gaul.

“What would Miss y/n think if she saw them? They’re good, these proposals. I am planning to implement as many as possible”.

This causes Coriolanus to look up at Dr Gaul. If you knew, you were sure to never forgive him.

“Don’t worry” Dr Gaul said, as if she could read his mind, “I’ll take credit for this one. Miss y/n is yet to realize her place in this world”.

Dr Gaul closes the hatch to the snakes enclosure, turning her body towards Coriolanus.

“And who is to be beside her, wouldn’t you say?”, she taunts.

Coriolanus straightens up, dropping the ruined paper to the ground.

“Y/n isn’t part of this conversation”, Coriolanus snaps.

Dr Gaul grins at him in response, stepping closer so she could talk quieter but still be heard.

“We both want a new world, Mr Snow. My only question is how far are you willing to go to get it?’

She doesn’t let him answer. Seemingly, now bored of the conversation.

“Now run along, you have an arena to promote and it’s time for my milk and crackers”, she dismisses.

He takes the chance to leave. Storming down the steps and back along the hallway as fast as he could.

Coriolanus tries to keep himself from running out of the Citadel. He nearly stumbles over his feet trying to get out as quick as he can.

Turning behind him every so often to make sure no one was following him.

The whole scene plays in his mind again and again.

He was glad it wasn’t you in the end. You were already so traumatized after yesterday, it was a relief to not have to put you through that ordeal.

The walk through of the arena was not for another hour. He had time to check on you.

He was sure you were at school. Your parents wouldn’t let Sejanus into the house, and you wouldn’t have left Sejanus after yesterday. There was little chance you would have stayed at the Plinths. A smaller chance of Sejanus forcing you to as he should have.

Suddenly, Sejanus’ lack of care turned out to be a good thing.

Sejanus would be with his mentor getting ready for the tour. Which meant Coriolanus could see you without company.

He knew your class schedule well. He liked the knowledge while he was in one class, he knew which one you were in.

So he knew where to go and wait until the bell rang.

A group of people rushed out of the classroom before you. You were the only one walking alone so you were easy to spot.

You almost walk past him but he grabs your wrist and pulls you out of the line of people to a quiet staircase.

“Coriolanus?” you question.

You don’t fight him as he pulls you against the wall and stands in front of you like a shield.

The people who walk past eye the scene but make nothing of it.

“Coriolanus, are you okay?” you question.

He couldn’t tell you about Clemmie and Dr Gaul but he was also so desperate for comfort.

“Is it Arachne?” you ask. He nods his head ‘yes’ although his mind was far from it.

You put your hand that was free from the weight of your books on his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault’’, you console.

“I just wish I could have done more”, he lied.

He had thought little about Arachne since last night. But she was once again bringing you closer to him.

You shake your head, a sad expression pulls across your face and he instantly regrets his lie. Yesterday was traumatic to you, he shouldn't have played it up just for some sympathy.

“No” you repeat, “what happened was no one's fault but her own”.

He wanted to make the argument that perhaps the fault lies with no one else but the tribute, but it would open a conversation he did not want to have.

Instead he reaches up and places his hand on your elbow that had reached out to him.

“Are you okay?” he asks. It should have been his first question.

“I am fine” you say.

Your hand drops from his shoulder and he is forced to put his hand on the brick wall next to your hip.

The position wedged you in a corner. With his tall frame towering over you and now his arm blocking you in. It felt as if you were trapped.

“You should talk to someone. Arachne was your friend”, you state.

You shuffle slightly forward to hint to him that he was too close but he remains stagnant in his place.

“Arachne was not my friend”, he deflects.

You never liked her which meant Coriolanus never liked her.

“You're my friend. Arachne was just someone I grew up with. I hardly knew her”, Coriolanus tried a softer tone as his previous speech came off harder than intended.

He offered a kind smile that you did not return.

“I’ve been worried about you all day” he breathes.

His hand moves to your hip, and you are quick to push it off.

“Coriolanus you are acting strange, perhaps you should go see the school doctor. No one would blame you if you chose to drop out of mentoring after yesterday”.

Strange you called it. Not a man desperately in love. But a mad man that needs to be taken away.

This causes him to take a step back away from you. His eyes go down to the ground but shoot back up at you. Mentoring. In a haste he checks his watch.

He was supposed to be at the Arena in fifteen minutes but he is twenty minutes away.

He groans, cursing the length of the Citadel from here, and cursing your late class.

“I have to leave”, he says, “i just came to make sure you were okay”.

“I am”, you acknowledge.

He steps forward again, placing his hands on your shoulder blades and pulling you forward into his chest.

You stumble into him, timidly raising your hands to pat his lower back.

“Forget your last class, you should go home”, he begs.

He feels you push back against him so he lets you go and takes a step back.

“You should worry more about yourself. You look so pale”.

When you reach out to touch his forehead, he leans into your touch. Loving the way your little warm hand felt.

He knew it didn’t mean anything. You were kind. He could have been anyone and you would have done the same thing.

Still he allows himself a second of pretend that it meant more.

“I have to go”, he says again, “Just promise me that you’ll go home”.

“Sure, Coriolanus”, you amuse.

It was enough to hear it. He didn’t need to believe it.

With a final smile, he reaches up to touch your elbow once more and leaves you in the dark corner.

His run to the arena would have been easier for him if he had any fuel to burn.

His breakfast of a single potato did not provide enough energy to make the distance, yet he pushed himself further than his body wanted him to.

It paid off when he reached the arena just in time for walk-in.

He filed in next to Lucy-Grey seconds before the doors opened.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it”, lucy-Grey admits.

“We’re going to win this” Coriolanus vows, “Together”.

The arena is dark. An ominous red glow from the ticket vendor invites them in.

The camera crew are already there, pointing their large frames in the faces of the tributes.

Lucy-Grey smiles at it, before it pans to a Solomon looking Sejanus walking behind his tribute.

When the shutters open, the streaming light startles Lucy-Grey who pulls back against Coriolanus.

He steadies her, looking around for possible strategies.

“Please” Lucy-Grey grabs his arm to turn him towards her, “Please, Coriolanus, don’t let me die in here tomorrow”.

Before he can answer he is knocked off his feet by a large explosion. He feels heavy gusts of wind from three other directions meaning there was no safe direction he could turn too.

Lucy-Grey lands beside him, and he scrambles to help her to her feet.

The dust is heavy and clouds them. He could feel lucy-gray in his grasp but could only faintly see her. The screams and commotion make it impossible to hear what she is trying to say.

Another loud explosion tore the roof down over them.

He releases Lucy-gray so they could both run for cover.

Days of the war spring to his memory. The rebels were back to finish him off.

The force of the explosion knocked him off balance and onto the floor.

He could see peoples feet as they scramble past but none stop to help him.

A louder, cracking noise spoke of his bigger issue and he turns to see a large pailing coming down towards him.

Knowing he wouldn't have enough time to get to his feet, he began to crawl as fast as he could.

It wasn’t fast enough. The hot metal pailing pins his shoulder to the ground. He could smell his own flesh burning as he lay trapped.

Was this how it ended? He regrets not kissing you today. He had always been reserved. Afraid of your rejection. But he should have just took. Now he’ll die without ever getting to taste you.

Through the smoke he could see Lucy-Grays boots come into view.

“Help me” he begs. He still had so much to do.

She looks to be bending down to assist when she is interrupted by Marcus flying across towards the open door.

“Leave him” he demands, “He wouldn’t save you”.

Marcus doesn’t stick around for her decision. Running to his freedom just across the room.

It was true, if it come down to it Coriolanus would save himself. But Lucy-Gray needed him to survive. She would only get caught in the Capitol and then thrown in the area without a mentor.

She must have realized that too because she bent back down to lift the burning metal off Coriolanus. She didn’t have to lift it far for Coriolanus to roll out from under it.

He is panting heavily he realizes, and is unable to move his shoulder.When Peacekeeper came to take lucy-gray away. Coriolanus couldn’t even rise from the floor to stop them.

He throws out his good hand in an attempt to do something. But the searing pain in his shoulder and his cloudy head hindered him from being able to help.

The last image he could see was her looking down at her burnt hands before it all went black.

His pounding headache woke him to the sight of you by his bed.

He didn’t believe it. He had to be dead.

His hand lashes out to take a hold of your wrist. You felt real.

Your reaction seemed real. A startled look of surprise and discomfort.

“Woah, Corio, take it slow”, the voice of Tigres calls to him.

He looks away from your face to see Tigres sitting in the chair next to you.

“What?” Coriolanus questioned, “What happened?”.

He lets go of your wrist only so he could rise from the bed. The ache in his shoulder becoming more apparent as he moved.

“It was a rebel bombing. They must have been planning it for months. Four tributes were killed”.

Coriolanus almost scowls hearing his voice.

Sejanus sat in a chair positioned on the other side of the bed. You hadn’t come to him in his hour of need. You were merely tagging along with your boyfriend.

“Everyone is terrified, Corio” Tigres explains, “Fliex Ravenstill is on life support”.

“The rebels released a message. They said they want to tear down the symbol of the Hunger Games. Marcus got out. He’s the only one. Peacekeepers are hunting him in the streets but at least he has a better chance out there than he would tomorrow”, Sejanus gravely mutters.

“Tomorrow?” Coriolanus expounds, “They’re not still going ahead with the Games?”

“We can’t look weak in front of the enemy,” you spat, “Everything is going ahead as scheduled. I don’t even know if Lucy-Gray will be able to play tonight”.

“The interviews”, Coriolanus guessed, still hazy.

He pulls himself up out of bed, holding out his arm for you to help his rise.

You do, automatically, hooking his good arm over your shoulder and wrapping your arm across his waist to keep him up.

‘‘You shouldn’t get out of bed”, you criticize him.

Normally he wouldn’t ignore you, but the interviews started fifty minutes ago.

Sejanus rises to in order to assist Coriolanus as he shuffles forward, but Coriolanus barks another order at him.

“Sejanus, turn the Tv to the interviews”.

Like a good dog, he obeys. Leaving another man hanging onto his girlfriend.

“Careful, Corio” Tigres directs.

Coriolanus takes tigres arm as he couldn’t lift his shoulder so all his weight wasn’t passed on to you.

The Tv turns just in time to watch Lucy-gray come out with a guitar, and a big smile.

Sejanus makes his way over to you, offering to take your place as Coriolanus’ anchor.

He is quick to speak for you. Stating that the change would topple him to the floor.

Sejanus relents and takes his place beside you. You made no complaints so Coriolanus’ weight couldn’t have been hurting you.

Coriolanus had missed the opening introduction due to Sejanus, but was now focused enough as Lucy-Gray went into her song.

“Where did she get the guitar?” Coriolanus asks. He had been too busy to organize her one before the bombing.

“I brought it for her”, you answer, “i went to see if she was okay after the bombing and she said she needed a guitar for her interview. Said she’ll feel naked without it”.

“Thank you. That was very kind”, Coriolanus commended softly.

Coriolanus always knew someday that you and him would make a great team.

Your eyes are trained on Lucy-gray, and Coriolanus followed suit.

She sang about a boy back home and a betrayal. Was that what she was referring to when she said it was complicated back home. Will she fight with everything she had in her or does she secretly hope that she will die just to spite her past lover.

It was additional stress Coriolanus could have lived without.

“The poor girl” you mutter with tears rolling down your face.

Coriolanus squeezes your shoulders in comfort.

‘She’ll be okay” he promises. He would ensure it for his own survival and your personal satisfaction now that you and his tribute were friendly.

“Thank you for being here”, he says looking down at you, before turning his sights to Tigres, “All of you”.

“It’s what friends do”, Sejanus answers. The only person Coriolanus was not speaking to.

“I don’t think you should be standing”, you say, trying to turn Coriolanus back to bed.

He allows you to lead him there where you tuck him back into bed.

You ruin the moment by going straight back into Sejanus’ arms once Coriolanus has settled.

“We’ll leave you to rest” Sejanus states.

He looked too unhappy for a man who held you in his arms.

“Goodnight” he bids, ‘and y/n, thank you for helping Lucy-Gray tonight”.

Her performance wouldn't have been half as moving with the soft, sad melody accompanying it.

“Good luck, Coriolanus. I hope she wins”, you remark.

With the Plinth prize and the love of his life on the line; lucy-gray was going to be the 10th annual winner of the Hunger Games.

Coriolanus just had to figure out how to give her a competitive edge.

He visited the zoo later that night after scouting out the new arena. With four tributes already dead and the new tunnels revealed, the bombing may have been the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Lucy-gray!” he calls softly, “Lucy-gray!”

He can hear the pounding of her footsteps as they come closer. He checks for Guards and woken tributes as she made unnecessary noise. None were aroused so he remained in his spot.

“You’re alive!” She exclaims as she nears the fence.

“Those bombs have changed everything”, he wastes no time to explain his purpose here, “They blew the walls out. So that means you can escape up into the stands. Theres a hole down in the floor, it leads down to some tunnels. You can escape there, I tried it.So the moment you hear that bell ring, you run as fast as you can for that hole and find a palace to hide down below alone”.

‘Alone? No, jessups my friend”, she argues.

He shakes his head ‘no’.

“The moment that bell rings, you can’t trust anyone. Not even jessup. Just lay low down there until its safe to come out”, he demands.

Couldn't she see that she was risking not only her own life, but his, with her undying loyalty.

“Thank you. You and y/n have been so nice to me. I don’t know what I would have done without you both”, Lucy-Grey declares, “I don’t know how i’ll ever pay you back for your kindness”.

“You can win”, Coriolanus orders, “you winning will be life changing for y/n and I. We can finally live the life we want to live. When you win, you’ll win for all of us”.

‘I’ll try, but-” she begins but never finishes as Coriolanus cuts her off.

“Theres no ‘buts’. Theres no other option”, he asserts.

Lucy-Gray begins to cry from the pressure of it all.

“Hey”, he whispers in sympathy.

“I am sorry. I am more hopeful in the day light but when it gets to night”, she whimpers.

“It’s okay” he consoles, reaching for his handkerchief in his pocket. The same one he used to wipe your tears, he now used to wipe the tears of Lucy-gray.

“We are going to win, Lucy-Gray. I promise.”.

“Y/n, real lucky to have a friend like you” Lucy-gray comments.

He knew that. Who else would be willing to risk everything for your happiness. It didn’t even bother him that Lucy-gray referred to him as your friend.

All that matters is that someone else realizes the depth of his love.

“I am very lucky to have her”. He breaths. He was cautious to say too much.

“Look, that song, I need to know that you are serious about winning”, he demands.

“That song? That was just pay back, that’s all”, she defenders, “my old boyfriend Billy taupe was cheating on me with the mayor's daughter. She got crazy jealous, had her pa read my name out on stage, and now everyone will know what they did to me”.

The look upon her face told him that she was serious, so he reached into his breast pocket to pull out his most prized possession.

“Here” he shoves the compact into Lucy’s-Grays hand.

“I can’t” she resists, “It’s too fine”

He clasps his hands over hers to stop her passing it back.

“It’s not a gift. It’s a loan. His large hands wrap entirely around Lucy-Gray’s little fingers.

“Whats in here, don’t touch it. Don’t even breathe it in because small amounts can be deadly”.

He could faintly see Lucy-gray staring back at him in the dark. Her big brown eyes caught the lighting of the Zoo and shined back at him.

“I have seen what war does to people, okay?”, he lectures, “I’ve seen it, and there will come a time when you need this, when you need to act. We all do things we’re not proud of to survive.”

Unexpectedly she brings her head forward to bars in an attempt to kiss him. He lowers his head slightly to dissuade her.

The last thing he needed was word getting back to you through a Tribute pretending to be asleep, or just his poor luck to have a Capitol citizen decide to visit the Zoo at the exact moment of weakness.

“I am sorry”, she gasps, “you said it was complicated with y/n, and y/n said she was with Sejanus so I”.

She doesn’t finish her sentence, too embarrassed.

Coriolanus shakes it off like it was nothing, in an attempt to ease her.

“It’s fine. I just”, Coriolanus wasn’t sure what to say.

You were with Sejanus. There was no real reason why he couldn’t kiss lucy-gray.

It was mis-guided loyalty to a woman who kissed another man. Sometimes right in front of Coriolanus.

Still it didn’t feel right. He wanted you to be the only person he kissed.

“It’s”, Coriolanus begins.

“Complicated”, Lucy-Gray finishes.

Coriolanus moves closer, bringing his head as far as he could to the bars.

“We’re gonna win this Lucy-Gray. We’re gonna win this together. I’m going to get you home, back to the Covery, okay? I promise”.

Coriolanus looks at his victor. His dog in the race. He’s bet it all on her, and he’ll be damned if she was going to let him down.

The morning of the Games, Coriolanus couldn’t even eat his cabbage soup that Tigres had worked so hard to prepare.

He kisses Grandma’am and Tigress goodbye before beginning his long journey to school.

There would be cameras and crowds of people. He had to look composed, but inside he felt the most scared he had ever been.

The feeling eased seeing you across the auditorium.

Your hair was down, and your uniform looked freshly pressed. Sejanus held you by the waist as you spoke to him, and you rested your hands on top of his.

It didn’t matter you were here for Coriolanus just as much as you were for Sejanus. His tribute wasn’t even participating. If anything you had come to support Coriolanus and Lucy-Gray.

“Coryo!” Sejanus called for him as he approached the mentors chairs.

Sejanus lets go of you, which is something Coriolanus would never do, to place a hand on Coriolanus shoulder.

“Hey” Coriolanus greets. His eyes remain on you and how you smile at him.

“How you doing? You alright?” Sejanus asks.

“Better”, Coriolanus dismisses.

He sees a photographer approaching from the corner of his eye, and takes the opportunity to take a step back to invite you between Sejanus and himself.

With a hand on your lower back, he propels you forward. The hand remains as you shuffle next to him.

“Over here please!”, the man with the large camera calls.

Coriolanus smiles at the camera, and he hoped you were too. The flash blinds him, and your smiles fades too fast to be certain it ever was really there.

“How are you this morning?”, Coriolanus asks softly.

“Not about to be forced to fight to the death”, you snap.

You don’t look at him as you speak as you often choose not to do.

“Here we go. Here we go, everyone, come on”, Lucky flickerman diverts people back to their seats, before Coriolanus has the opportunity to comfort you.

Sejanus' large hand goes to the back of your neck, and he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“Wait for me over there?” he asks, flicking his head to the nearest bleacher to his seat.

It was the furthest from Coriolanus’ seat, but you nod in agreement and move to his direction.

Coriolanus is ushered into his own seat. He has to crane his neck to look at you sitting on the end of the bleacher all by yourself. He hates to see you as a social out-cast.

“Five, four, three, two”, the music signals the start of Lucky Flickerman's introduction.

Coriolanus ignores him mostly. Turning in his chair to watch you engrossed in the large television in front of you.

Your hands grip the seat underneath you. He would give anything to be able to comfort you.

He wanted to tell you that it was all going to be okay. If he sat you where he wanted, he would have been able to hold your hand, but Sejanus had put distance between you and him, so he would have to watch from afar.

Suddenly you gasp, bring your hand up to your mouth with a frightened expression.

Coriolanus turns back to the screens to see what could have caused such a reaction.

They had found Marcus and left him strung up and half-alive in the arena. It was cruel even for Coriolanus.

You shouldn’t have had to see that. Coriolanus wished he could have protected you from it. A district boy taught a lesson, at the expense of your poor, soft heart.

You’ll be crying about it for weeks with only Sejanus for consolation.

Coriolanus wasn’t sure who would be comforting who with the way Sejanus jumped from his chair.

As soon as he is out of it, the chair was flying across the room. Only stopping when it hits the force of the wall.

“You’re monsters! All of you!” He screams to the audience.

He storms past Lucky flickerman who begins the countdown to the Games as if Sejanus had never existed at all.

Coriolanus gets up, rushing over to you as you rise to follow Sejanus.

He manages to catch your arm just as you make it to the exit way.

The scene was out of the line of camera-shot. Past the first three rows of seats, and hidden by the depth of the stands.

Coriolanus felt hidden enough to not let go of your arm, despite you struggling against him.

You turn back to see how had stopped you with an angry expression, but it doesn’t soften when you see it’s him.

“Don’t”, he begs. He wanted you to stay and support him.

It didn’t matter if you knew it or not, but you were his biggest comfort, and that’s what he needed as he watched Lucy-Gray fight for his life.

You don’t listen to him, tugging your arm out of his grip and chasing after Sejanus without looking back.

Coriolanus watches as you go with a heavy breath.

‘And they’re off!” Lucky announces.

Coriolanus turns to watch Lucy-Gray run from her mark.

“Run”, he demands softly. He takes a few steps forward but is halted when Lucy-Gray remains in the same spot, looking around.

“What are you doing? Run” he groans.

He staggers back to his seat, gripping the plastic back tightly in his hand.

His eyes shut when Lucy-Gray narrowly avoids a strike from Reaper.

Why won’t anyone ever listen to him, he wondered.

A district 2 kid gets slaughtered which gains the Cameras full attention. When it pans back to a field shot, Lucy-Gray was crossing the broken fragments with Coral hot on her heels.

Coriolanus felt the need to take a seat as he watched. A few of his eliminated classmates wished him well as they left, but Coriolanus remained slumped against his hand.

It wasn’t until she had gathered Jessup and began racing for the hole in the ground that Coriolanus lifted his head again.

“Go, go, go”, he muttered. The pack was closing in. Hell bent on taking out Lucy-gray.

They almost manage to, but Lucy-Gray slips through the broken door, and a squabble prohibits the hunters coming in.

He sighs. At least she was safe for now. He would worry about Jessup when it came time for it. Whats the point of worrying now? It was still anybody's game. He could very well die within the next hour from a surprise attack.

Coriolanus squirms in his seat watching as another child is hacked apart by dull weapons.

He pushes it from his mind as soon as the camera shifts. Lucy-Gray was safe, thats all that mattered. She still has a shot at winning.

Nothing more happened. All the tributes found shelter in one corner or another. Only Reaper paced the opened space, willing someone to come attack him.

Coriolanus wonders if you will be back. He hoped you would come check on him.

Coriolanus rises his head to the screen once more as Lamina makes her way up the broken fragments to where Marcus hung. Reaper gave her space, seemingly knowing what she was doing.

A small conversation between the two preceded Lamina swinging her axe down.

Coriolanus shudders hearing the impact. He hoped you didn’t see that.

He could only imagine the sobbing it would cause.

Lamina cuts marcus down and he falls like a bag of bricks.

She gazes down at him. Coriolanus couldn’t tell if it was in remorse, or in quiet pride of giving him a merciful death.

The sound of the drone coming near broke her concentration. The water attached swung in the air as it flew too fast towards her. She rose, reaching out to catch it.

Coriolanus almost laughed when it drove straight past her and smashed into the rocks.

The night dragged on, but Coriolanus remained. Eyes glued to the screen in hope of a glance of Lucy-Gray.

The camera stayed mainly above ground where the action was, but sometimes he got a dash at what Lucy-Gray was doing.

She was still alive. Or at least was, ten minutes ago.

The other mentors, and most of the audience had left as the night bled.

Nothing had really happened for hours. A squabble or a chase here and there but most of the fight had left the tributes.

“If only you could trap y/n as easily as you have trapped that poor girl”, Dean Highbottoms voice surprised Coriolanus.

“I’ve trapped her?”Coriolanus fought, “I didn’t create the Games”.

He saw Dean Highbottom flinch ever so slightly. If he hadn't been looking so intensely, he would have missed it.

“No”, Highbottom concedes, “but you’ve fueled its continuance. You’ve turned dying children into spectacles , Mr Snow. Congratulations”.

Coriolanus ignores him, turning back to the screens.

“Are you honestly hoping that winning the plinth prize will win you the girl?”, Dean Highbottom mocks.

“I am hoping my hard work will pay off”, Coriolanus bites.

“I saw you before with miss y/n, trying to stop her from leaving”.

“I was trying to stop her from making a fool out of herself”.

“What do you want from that poor girl?”.

Coriolanus knew there was no point in lying. Dean Highbottom had already figured out Coriolanus’ intentions.

“Only whats best”, he answers.

“Hm and you think winning the Plinth prize will help you decide what is best for her?”, Hightbom begins to laugh, his voice taking on a sing-songy tone, “Wake up mr Snow. Who do you think decides? Even if your songbird wins, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure you don’t see a single dime of that prize money’.

Coriolanus turns back to Highbottom with his anger logged in his throat.

The older man smiles back. Coriolanus knew the man was trying to get him to slip up. But his aggravation won’t lose him the prize. If Highbottom wanted it, he would have to rip it from Coriolanus’s hands.

Instead he turns back to the screen. Lucy-gray was still underground, feeding Jessup water.

He could hear Dean Highbottom walking away which left him with a small victory.

Coriolanus takes a deep breath, and sits straightener in his chair.

It wasn’t over. Dean Highbottom wasn’t the only authority. When Coriolanus won, surely Dr Gaul would fight for him. The other teachers too. The star pupil robbed of the victory? Coriolanus would see to an up roar.

At some point Coriolanus began to doze off. The late night and the slow turn of events left him the last one in the auditorium. The quietness of it all had his eyes shutting.

“Coriolanus?”. He heard your voice call.

He ignores it ,sure it was a dream. But you tap his arm, and his eyes shoot open to see you standing in front of him.

You were still in your school uniform, your hair slightly more messy than a couple of hours prior and you looked on the verge of tears.

It panicked him greatly to see you in such a state.

He reaches out, quickly taking your wrist in his hold.

“Huh, what happened? Are you okay?”, he asks.

“Has Sejanus been here?”, you quake.

Coriolanus shakes his head ‘no’.

He could have rolled his eyes. Of course, Sejanus was behind your tears once more. Coriolanus had never made you cry.

“Why would he be here?”, Coriolanus asks. It seemed an unlikely place to visit while his old friend lay dead on several different screens.

Tears begin to roll down your cheeks causing Coriolanus to spring up, attempting to bring you in his arms. You push him away, keeping an arms length distance between you both.

“I thought maybe he would come see you. We were sleeping and I woke up, and he was gone”, you explain with a shaky breath, “I don’t know where he could have went, Coriolanus. He’s not in a good place. I am worried-”

“Not in a good place, indeed” Dr Gauls voice booms through the open space.

This time when Coriolanus touched you, he was given permission. He pulls you next to him to face Dr Gaul together.

Dr Gaul was disinterested in the couple, taking the master remote and turning all the channels to the same camera.

“Sejanus!”, you gasp upon seeing your boyfriend knelt down next to his old friend in the arena.

Your hand takes a hold of Coriolanus' arm in a tight grip. Your painted nails dig into his uniform jacket.

“Breadcrumbs” Dr Gaul annotates while the room watches Sejanus spread the food over his friend, “I believe substance for a fallen comrade in his final journey. A district 2 superstition”.

“How did he get in there?” you question, never once tearing your eyes from the screen.

“I’ll work on finding the peacekeeper he bribed to let him in, and remove his tongue”, Dr Gual snarls, “in the meantime I need you to get him out right now”.

Dr Gaul looked directly at you which spiked Coriolanus heart rate,

“You should send Peacekeepers in”, he demanded. There was no way you were joining Sejanus in the arena.

“Only to have him bolt and hide like a rabbit?”, Dr Gaul retorts. “Fleix Ravenstill is fighting for his life in a hospital bed, Mr Snow. I will not have these rebels make a further mockery of my games. Anyone sees us lose control of this arena, it might as well be sounding a horn to the districts to revolt!”.

Dr Gaul takes a breath, trying to regain the composure lost. She turns her sight back on you, who had dropped Coriolanus' arm during her speech.

You stood brave, staring straight back at her with discontempt.

“You choose to be lovers with the radical. Don’t you want him out?”, Dr Gaul gages you.

Coriolanus steps forward trying to take Dr Gauls attention away from you.

‘‘Sending her into the arena will get her killed. It’ll look a lot worse if the tributes kill two Capitol students”, Coriolanus justifies.

“A volunteer then?”,Dr Gual pushes.

“I’ll go”, You say too quickly, “I can get him out”.

“I’ll go”, Coriolanus declares.

The mere thought of you in the arena left a sick feeling in his stomach. He wouldn’t watch helplessly on the other side of the screen while you risked your life for Sejanus.

He couldn’t believe Sejanus had put you in this position. Coriolanus’s every move was calculated with you in mind.

It was pure luck that you had chosen to seek Coriolanus out. If you hadn’t he would have woken the next morning to see you dead in the arena next to Sejanus.

He would go into the arena to save Sejanus if it meant saving you.

“No!” you protested, once again grabbing hold of Coriolanus arm to pull him back.

He turns to you with a look of irritation on his face.

“What chance do you think you stand if one of the tributes decide to attack? I am stronger, faster”, Coriolanus explained. He hated being irritated at you, but you wouldn’t see sense, “I’ll get him out, y/n. I promise”.

“Unless you are both secretly hoping he’ll die in that arena, we need to move fast”, Dr Gaul utters.

Her expression had changed from one of anger to quiet amusement, but she had not forgotten the task at hand.

She turns, expecting the children to follow her as she talks. Coriolanus follows suit, leading you as you wrap yourself around his arm.

He would have shaken you off. You had no place being even near the arena, let alone outside of its gates, but he loved the way you clung to him.

Your tight hold told him you would fight if he tried to leave you. Really it was the way you should be holding him. Not just now, in a state of emergency.

“I’ll freeze the feed for one hour”, Dr Gaul says as she moves out of the school, “I expect thats all the time we have until someone notices”.

A Peacekeeper van is waiting down the steps of the school. Dr Gaul jumps in, leaving the back of the van open for the children.

Coriolanus helps you up into the back of the van before lifting himself up behind you. The doors are closed shut as he enters, and the van takes off before he is fully sat next to you.

You are unusually quiet. Coriolanus could tell you were scared from the way you sat. Arms crossed across your chest, looking straight ahead of you with a glazed look.

Coriolanus places a hand on your knee in comfort but you don’t seem to register it.

He tries not to mind Dr Gauls' searing stare from the other bench. He focuses on you and your state of worry.

You begin to chew your lip absentmindedly. He wanted to pull it from between your teeth to get you to stop, but the van lurched forward as it stopped.

The drive wasn’t long, but the peacekeeper sped to it anyway.

As the doors are pulled open, Coriolanus takes a deep breath. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't be beaten to death by a tribute trying to save a man he loathed.

Grandma’am and Tigres wouldn’t survive without him, but if he died, he would at least make sure Sejanus died along with him.

If he couldn't have you, Sejanus definitely couldn’t.

“Lets go, Mr Snow”, Dr Gual urges.

She jumps out first. Coriolanus could hear her directing the Peacekeepers on what was about to happen.

You rise with Coriolanus. But He doesn’t allow you to get to the door as he does.

He jumps down and spins, placing his hand on the doors and bringing them closer together.

"Stay in the van”, he orders.

Surely, even on the off chance that a tribute managed to get through the gates, you would be safe in a locked van.

You nod your head in understanding, trying to ease his worry.

It doesn’t work but he appreciates it anyway.

He smiles up at you, taking the time to have a good look at you in case it was his last time.

With the doors shut on you, he could focus more clearly. He wasn’t going to die in that arena. He wasn’t going to die by a district hand.

He was going to get out alive. You were going to wake up to yourself and realise that you had been hopelessly in love with Coriolanus this whole time.

The gates are unlocked and he feels his confidence waver. Nevertheless, he persits with his mission and with a careful step he enters the arena.

It’s dark and quiet. The moonlight does little to help. A tribute could jump out at any time and Coriolanus would never see them coming.

He was cautious to make any sounds, stepping softly on the fragmented rocks.

The gate makes it stupid welcome message as he passes through it under the belief the game makers would have been smart enough to disable it.

His breath gets caught in his throat while waiting to see who it attracts. He doesn’t move.

He feels the blood rush to his ears, and his body ready itself to fight. No one comes.

Coriolanus’s eyes scan the room for whatever movement he could pick up on. It seemed there was none.

With a shaky breath he attempts to continue on, when his heightened ears pick up on a scuffle behind him.

He spins quickly, ready to dodge an attack. He wished it had been a tribute, and not you trying to climb over the turn stalls.

On its own accord, his face scrunches in anger. His footsteps are louder than he liked as he stormed over to you.

He takes your hips into what he was sure was a painful hold, and looks past you to see they had already locked the gate. You were now trapped in here with angry Tributes with nothing to lose.

Previously, he had never thought it possible to be angry with you. Now he wanted to scream in your face until you cried.

He helps you down, softly to the ground, and catches your hand harshly in his.

“You’re an idiot”, he whispers, “Stay close”.

He squeezes your fingers into the palm of his hand, but you make no complaint as you follow him into the arena.

Coriolanus felt his anxiety and senses heightened. He could faintly see Sejanus in the moonlight still knelt on the ground next to Marcus.

He felt you pull against his hold as you near Sejanus, but he refuses to let you go an inch.

If there was a tribute lurking he wanted to know where you were.

“Sejanus”, you whisper when you are within earshot.

He spins straight away upon hearing you. The panic he should have had all along, comes crashing all at once. He looked like a man who had seen a ghost as he rose from the floor.

‘What are you doing here?”, he questions in a strained, soft voice.

Sejanus takes your arms in his hands. Coriolanus wanted to yank you out of his hold, but a squabble would cause unnecessary attention.

“Get her out of here, Coryo”, Sejanus demands.

“I would like to. Believe me”, Coriolanus scolds. His eyes darted around the room, ensuring that all was still unnoticed.

“I am not leaving without you”, with your free hand you reach out to take a fist full of Sejanus shirt.

“I have to do this” Sejanus justifies, “I have to go where the cameras are”.

“You think anyone is watching this?” Coriolanus spat, taking a step closer to the couple, “Gaul cut the feed. Tributes kill you in here, she’s just going to say you died from the flu”.

“They won’t kill me”, Sejanus vows.

“Yes they will!” you reproach.

Maybe there was hope for you, Coriolanus thinks, Maybe Sejanus hadn’t brainwashed you fully.

The moonlight as it bounces off Lamina’s axe catches Coriolanus’s eye, and the safety net had now disappeared. She wouldn’t attack, but she could draw attention at any time.

“You need to decide right now”, Coriolanus demands, he breaks Sejanus' hold on you in case you need to run, and focuses Sejanus attention on himself, “do you want to fight these tributes or fight for them? Because if you want to make real change, you need to stay alive”.

“How can I make any change from out there?”, Sejanus discredits his power.

He was not worthy of his power if he had no brains on how to use it.

“You’re rich, smart. You care. You stood up to Gaul in that class, didn’t you? Spend your fathers money, do some real good”, a clash of the metal resounds in the arena. More would wake from the noise, and the group wouldn’t stand a chance.

“We’re dead. Y/n’s dead if we don’t leave right now”, Coriolanus reprimand, “Come with us, or just be another body in Gaul’s war”.

He knew he would have to fight to get you to leave Sejanus. But he was only allowing a few more seconds before he raced you to the exit.

Worried that you would get yourself killed in the struggle to save Sejanus, Coriolanus turns to begging as a last resort.

Placing a hand on Sejanus' shoulder, he brings the delusional boy closer.

“Please, Sejanus. We’re friends. Trust me”, Coriolanus pleaded.

You tug on Sejanus' shirt to move, “Come” you implore.

His large, dirty palm goes over your hand, “Alright”, he whispers.

The attack came at the perfect time. Coriolanus heard the shuffling of the boys shoes giving him time to pull you back towards the exit, before the war cry resounded through the arena.

“Go, Run!” he demands, pushing you ahead of him.

You sprint as fast as you can across the broken floor. Coriolanus caught up easily, pushing you forward urging you to move faster.

Sejanus lagged behind, choosing to look at the fast approaching tribute.

“Go! Go!” Coriolanus yells at you when you turn around to see where Sejanus was.

You don’t look back again, until you reach the turn stalls.

Coriolanus jumps over with ease, turning back to help you over. You stumble as your foot gets stuck on the rusty metal turn, and Coriolanus drags you over it as fast as he could.

His hand takes a hold of yours once more as Sejanus approaches the stand with the tribute hot on his heels.

He runs forward with you, eager to get you to safety beyond the gates.

Sejanus screams as he stumbles over the hard metal and you halt your quick pace to safety.

You call for him, trying to tug your hand out of Coriolanus’s. He resists, trying to get you to leave Sejanus.

Coriolanus promises to go back for him once you were beyond the gates but you wouldn’t have it.

He drops your hand, rathering his own life to be in danger for Sejanus than yours.

Coriolanus reaches Sejanus quicker than you do, and yanks him off the ground.

‘Come on, get up!”Sejanus tries to regain his feet but his knee refuses to take any weight, “y/n, get to the gate!”, Coriolanus commands.

You don’t turn, running towards Sejanus instead of away. You take his other arm over your shoulder, trying to assist Coriolanus.

The screaming of the tribute came closer, and before Coriolanus could move, the sharp edge of a blade hacked into his shoulder. It was a far swing from the tribute but with enough force to split skin.

He drops Sejanus to dodge the next attack. You fall into the wall, unable to support Sejanus by yourself.

The tribute now closer, stalks over to you with his sword held high. Sejanus tries a feeble attempt to shield you, but Coriolanus takes hold of a metal ruin that was stuck between cement, determined that not one hair on your head would be touched.

He scrambles off the ground and swings the cement at the tribute with a loud scream.

The young boy stumbles off balance, but readies himself again. He swung back with the blade which Coriolanus narrowly missed before bringing the cement down across the boy's head.

It lands him on the ground, but Coriolanus doesn’t stop there, bringing it down once more on the boy who threatened his girl

“Coriolanus!” you call to him. More tributes were coming out of the shadows.

He drops his weapon, going back over to you to help lift the weight of Sejanus.

Sejanus pushes through the pain to quicken the pace of the shuffle, but comotion had inlived the most dangerous pack. Corals groups hooped and hollered as they approached.

“Y/n, open the gate!”, Coriolanus demands, wanting you to be first out.

Sejanus drops his arm from your shoulder, and you take the permission to take off ahead and bang on the gate until it opens.

Coriolanus could hear the tributes as they run. They weren’t far off. He wasn’t sure they would even make it to the gate in time, but you would and that’s what matters.

You push yourself out with the gate as it opens, turning back to look at the boys with wide, fearful eyes.

Coriolanus pushes himself to be faster, taking nearly all of Sejanus' weight onto him.

They make it just in time, and fall to a heap on the floor next to Peacekeepers boots.

Corioanus pushes Sejanus off him. His hand reaches for his shoulder that now weeped blood.

He groans as he feels the ache of the gash, next to his still searing burn mark.

He is distracted momentarily when Coral reaches the gate, and throws her spear into it.

“Keep your eyes on the screen, gorgeous”, she taunts Coriolaus, throwing her head in the direction of you, “ I may have missed her tonight, but your songbirds next on my list”.

The Peacekeepers demand that her group get back and the tributes disappear back into the dark tunnel.

He had followed Corals gaze to you on the floor. Your tears run down your cheeks now that the adrenaline is gone.

Coriolanus moves to get you off the floor and into his arms, but you move as he does, and crawl across the floor to where Sejanus lay.

You wrap your arms around his neck and sob into him.

“I am okay”, he promises. His large hand rubs soothing circles on your back.

You pull back in anger and begin hitting his chest as you speak.

“How could you?”, you reprimand, “how could you do that?”.

“I am sorry, I had to do something”. Sejanus winces as he tries to sit up. His knee no doubt, completely ruined.

“You could have been killed”, you cry with a push against his attempted hold.

Was this the end of the bleeding heart couple? Coriolanus felt a spark of joy, watching as you fought.

“Coriolanus could have died!”, as if you had forgotten about him you now turn to him, ‘Oh, Coriolanus”, you cry, “Are you okay?”.

Coriolanus hand went back to his shoulder, feeling the wet patch of blood soak through his school jacket. He had no other uniform, even Tigres wouldn't be able to fix it.

“Coryo, I am so sorry”, Sejanus apologies. It meant nothing to Coriolanus who ignored him.

A car screeches to a stop and two car doors slam.

The car is sleek and expensive with its own full time driver waiting with the lights on.

Next to it stood Ma and Mr Plinth, who were well dressed as always.

Ma was crying, but Mr Plinth stood stoic and angry.

He gave Coriolanus a thankful nod but remained far away expecting his son to come to him.

Ma runs over to her baby, wrapping herself around her sons head.

Coriolanus takes the opportunity to move closer to you. You stand upon seeing him approach.

“Are you alright?’, he questioned.

You reach up, taking his neck and bringing him down into a hug. He gratefully goes, never expecting a hug before the relationship began.

“Thank you, Coriolanus. I would have died in there”, you muttered.

The hug is too short, before he is ready you are pulling away to look at his shoulder.

“Coriolanus needs help!’, you announce, “Somebody needs to take him to the hospital!”.

“Come with me”, he begs you.

“Don’t worry, Miss y/n. I’ll take care of our hero here”, Dr Gaul inserts herself where she is not wanted once more. She looked amused at Coriolanus’s physical and emotional pain.

“Y/n, baby”, Sejanus calls to you. The driver had left the car to assist Sejanus while his father looks on.

Coriolanus reluctantly lets go as you move to the sound of your name.

“You’ll look after him?”, you question Dr Gaul. Coriolanus wanted to beg you not to believe her.

“He’ll be good as new. You have my word”, Dr Gaul promises.

He shutters as you move further back.

Mr Plinth does not cross for his son, but he crosses to come collect you.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to lead you to the car.

You look back at Coriolanus as you are led. Taking one final glance before entering the car with Sejanus.

Coriolanus watches as the car takes off. He wondered if you had your arms wrapped around Sejanus in the back.

He decides it is best not to submit his body to further stress and pushes it out of his mind. The walk home would help him clear his head, and focus only on the positives of the night. You relied on him tonight. Even acknowledged that he had saved your life. That was a step in the right direction.

“And where do you think you are going, Mr Snow”, Dr Gaul calls out after him.

“Home”, he announces over his good shoulder.

‘And make a liar out of me?” she walks in the opposite direction towards the Peacekeeper van, “Come”.

The ride back is silent. The same hurry to get there was not offered on the way back. Coriolanus shoulder ached, the blood would not stop pouring, sticking his shirt to his back and irritating his wound.

Dr gaul doesn’t speak again until they are back in her lab.

He couldn’t believe she had taken him back to her experimental freak show instead of a hospital. But he was in pain and in need of medical care so he didn’t verbalize his complaints.

“How did it feel?” she asks as she readies her station for him, “when you killed the boy to save y/n?”.

He should have known she was watching.

‘I didn’t have a choice”, he spat as he unbuttoned his shirt and took a seat in front of her.

She laughs at him as she begins her first stitch.

“All your fine manners, education, background, stripped away in a blink of an eye. Fueled with the terror of becoming prey, how fast we become predators".

Coriolanus lets out a shaky breath as the adrenaline dies down and the needle stitches him together.

“Who would have thought that one day Crassus Snow’s boy would be fighting for his life in the area over a girl?”, he feels her stop stitching while she waits for the answer to her next question, “That's why you did it no? It wasn’t until news of her involvement that you volunteered. Or did you still wish to proceed with the guise of friendship?”

“Sejanus is not my friend”, Coriolanus declares.

Her needle work began again, pleased with his answer.

“You want to protect y/n, Mr Snow? Then it’s essential that you accept what human beings are, and what it takes to control them”.

He feels her knot the thread into his skin

“So I’ll ask you again, when you beat that boy to death with a club, how did it feel?”.

“It felt”, Coriolanus breathed, wondering if he should give the honest answer. Deciding he had nothing to lose from it, he answers.

“It felt powerful”.

“Answer this next one honestly and you won’t have to walk home”, Dr Gaul teases, “Were you hoping that Sejanus died tonight?”

“Yes”, Coriolanus croaks. His own tears welling in his eyes. He refuses to let any more than two fall, which are wiped away harshly.

“How did it feel to have her life in your hands tonight?”, Dr Gaul pushes.

Coriolanus nods, unable to form words.

A hand is placed on his good shoulder. She squeezes to let him know the sincerity of her words.

“People will do anything to survive, Mr Snow. It doesn’t matter how miserable of an existence it is”.

Coriolanus thinks to his bare apartment, and cinder block bed. It was true, and he was living proof.

Survival meant hope.

He closes his eyes, feeling more tears forming and remembers how malleable you were tonight. You trusted him wholly with your survival, and with that came power over you.

Lucy-Gray was the same. Tonight you showed him the same loyalty, and respect that you had denied him previously.

Lucy-Gray had tried to kiss him, and you melded your body to him when you could. He was sure if you were alone, you would have kissed him for saving your life.

If only he could trap you as easily as Lucy-gray. Keep you in a state of panic that rendered you totally dependent on him.

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, remembering Dean Highbottoms words.

Maybe the old man could see more than Coriolanus would like.

Despite the pain in his shoulder and his little sleep, Coriolanus arrived back at the auditorium bright and early.

Lucy-Gray was still alive. He could see her sleeping against a pole next to Jessup.

The dead tribute was noticed, but soon forgotten. Only Lysistrata pushed to know more, but she too dropped the subject as the tributes began to wake and fight.

There were ten tributes left. Not an impossible task for Lucy-Gray to outlive them all.

He kept careful watch of the screens. While the rest of the mentors took lunch, and socialized, Coriolanus sat with his head in his hand, hoping for a split second of screen time that told him Lucy-Gray was okay.

“Coriolanus!”. Your voice shocked him as it appeared.

He stood to greet you. It was a welcomed but unexpected visit. The games were announced a public holiday, you had no obligation to be at school.

He would have thought after last night that you would be glued to Sejanus’s side. Was this the beginning of the end?

“Y/n, what are you doing here?”, he questioned.

In the daylight he could see a bruise on your temple from when toppled into the wall, under Sejanus. He reaches out to run his finger across the black spot, and you hit his hand away.

“What are you doing here?”, you push back with a hard tone “I went to your house to check on you, but Tigres said you were here?”.

Coriolanus felt his body twitch at your words. You went to his run down apartment? How much did you see? Surely, Tigres shielded his shame. Your eyes didn’t carry pity, maybe you didn’t know.

“Don’t you ever go to my apartment without my permission again”, he scolded.

That was close. Too close. He was days from getting the plinth prize. Days from burying his decade long shame.

You seemed drawn back at his harsh tone. He had never spoken to you unkindly before.

In an effort to ease the mood once more, before you left, he threw his hands up as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“My Grandmother has severe social anxiety. We can’t have unexpected visitors”, he lies with a soft and airy tone.

“Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t know”, you offer.

Coriolanus tuts, bringing his hand up once more to brush the hair off your bruise.

“You shouldn’t have been in there”, he complains.

The bruise looked painful. He was sure it would cause you a headache. You should be resting with ice upon it, not here talking to him.

“No one should be in there”, you return.

His hand is pushed away again, but he attributes it being too soft to touch, rather than disdain for him touching you.

"Thank you for checking on me”, he says.

“You shouldn’t be here, Coriolanus. Not after last night”.

“Lucy-Gray needs me”, he observes.

Your eyes flick to the screen behind him, before back to Coriolanus’s eyes and nod in agreement.

“Sejanus is in the hospital. They have him on morphline. His knee will never work fully, but he is alive and that's because of you”, you proclaim, “Lucy-Gray is fortunate to have you looking out for her. We all are”.

His heart flutters. ‘We all are’, yes! Yes! You were lucky to have him looking out for you. Have you finally come to appreciate all he does for you?

He smiles down at you. If his shoulder didn’t ache, he would have reached out for you.

“If there’s anything I can do”, you offer.

“There is!” He responds too quickly.

He clears his throat, trying to conceal his eagerness.

“There is”, repeats more even toned, “You could stay. I could use the support”.

You looked unsure of the request, but he had saved your life just hours prior, so you felt an obligation to do as he asked.

“Sure, Coriolanus”, you finally say, although you still looked unsure, “I can stay for a little bit”.

He could barely breathe. The “great” he manages to get out is hardly above a whisper.

He leads you to the front bench just in front of the first row of mentor chairs.

You sit obediently and he takes his new seat in front of you.

The tributes have become more lively. Coral was on the hunt for Lucy-Gray trying to convince one of her group members to go down and flush her out.

None would so they go back to making traps to catch Reaper.

Coriolanus reaches his hand back to you, trying to see how far his luck would take him.

You do take his hand into your own, but only for the time it took to give him three encouraging pats to the back of his hand.

It was close enough. Leaving Coriolanus with a feeling of satisfaction.

The feeling stayed for less than a second. His good mood disappeared when the camera flew back to Lucy-Gray underground.

Jessup was getting agitated. Yelling at Lucy-Gray and twitching uncontrollably.

“What’s he doing?”Coriolanus jumps out of his chair and moves closer to the screens.

“They’re friends. He wouldn’t hurt her”, you comment, coming up beside him.

“Somethings wrong”, Lysistrata agrees, “He wouldn’t turn on her like this”.

Lucy-Gray makes a mad dash away which only further angers Jessup, determined that he had done something.

Coriolanus watches in panic. Lucy-gray couldn't defend herself. She would never hurt Jessup, even in his mad state.

“Go to the stands, go to the stands!”, he directs.

Lucy-gray does go to the stands, climbing up as fast as she could but Jessup was determined to catch her.

Coriolanus couldn’t watch. He turns and paces, trying to figure out a way to save Lucy-Gray.

It couldn’t be over. You had only just come around, he needed more time.

The camera zooms in on Jessup allowing full view of the white form dripping down his lips.

‘Wait, look”, he tells you.

Your hand balls at your mouth. He hated to see you so frightened yet again.

As soon as this was all over, he would ensure nothing would ever worry you again.

“I think it rabies," he announces.

He could have danced. There was a way out of this mess. The game wasn’t over yet.

“That bite from the train”, Lysistrata deducts.

“Send him water”. He demands of Lysistrata.

“What? No”, she denines.

He leans across her desk so she is forced to look at him. He was half tempted to just take control of her computer himself.

“You remember the posters from the war. Rabies. It makes you scared of water. Send him a drone”, he demanded.

“That’ll scare him”.

He knew Livy had come to care for Jessup

“Yes” Coriolanus agrees in a hard tone, “away from her”.

Lysistrata still looked in denial. There was no other option, both their tributes didn’t have to die.

“Jessup is done”, he says with haste, “Livy, you’re the only one that can get it right to him”.

Coming to grips with reality, Livy does as she is told, sending a water drone in the direction of Jessup.

“Thank you”, Coriolanus feels better watching the drone fly in.

“Nothing to be proud of”, Livy mutters.

As planned, the drone smashes into him just as he reaches Lucy-gray.

He hears you gasp as Jessup falls to his death and hits the bottom with a heavy thud.

He turns to see you still with your hand pressed tightly against your mouth, and eyes squeezed shut.

The sight makes him feel horrible that he had asked you to stay.

You were on the side of his sore shoulder so he had to reach across with his good hand to touch you.

“Coryo”, Livy called as Carol’s group came out of hiding.

The hand on you balls watching as Corals group surrounds Lucy-gray.

“Oh no”, he complains.

He needed to make a distraction, so she could run and hide. He couldn’t just stand and watch. But the only thing he could do was send food and water in on badly operated drones.

The same badly operated drones that just took Jessup out.

He reaches for his communipad, and selects as many bottles of water as it would let him.

He didn’t need to kill the group. Only give Lucy-Gray a chance to get away

The drones go flying in. He hoped Lucy-Gray wouldn’t give the surprise away, but she managed to keep her cool until it was time to duck.

“Hey! You can’t attack the tributes” a fellow mentor complained.

“I am just sending water”, Coriolanus jeered.

He could hear your chuckle of approval behind him. You reach out to his good shoulder and murmur in his ear.

“Good work”, you encouraged.

He wished he could have stayed in the moment but it wasn’t over yet. Lucy-gray disappears into the dust, taking with her a bottle of water.

She hides in the shelter of the ruin and he can faintly see her take something from her dress pocket.

No there, he wanted to say. What if someone saw her poison the water and he was disquailified.

He looks around the room to check no one else is noticing. All eyes seemed to be on the group turning against Lamina.

Lucy-Gray ducks back out with the water, placing it back on the ground before emptying the others collected. It wasn’t a bad idea.

Lamina's death stopped the clock and the attention was once more turned back to Lucy-gray.

“Go” you mutter, flicking your hands out as if she could see.

Lucy-Gray takes off with Coral and her group chasing her back up the stands. She finds an air duct and dives to close it in time.

Coral catches it before it fully closes and it begins a tug of war against the two.

“No, No”, you complain.

He wanted to shield your eyes from the screen. With every inch Coral got, Lucy-Gray found the strength to tug it back.

When it finally closes, sealing Lucy-gray in safety, Coriolanus lets out a sigh of relief.

“She’s Okay” he says to you.

Coral takes out another tribute over a squabble over the water, and Dill drinks the poisoned water.

So that was three dead tributes in less than 20 minutes. With this pace Coriolanus would be announced winner before the night ended.

He sat you back down on your seat, and retook his in front of you. Your fingers cling to the bench underneath you, and your posture is tight and unnatural.

He expects you to leave him, but you remain watching as Reaper collects the fallen tributes into a neat line and draps the Panam flag over him.

“Are you going to punish me now?” reaper yells to the cameras.

He begins to scream again but his words are cut off by a broadcast from Dr Gaul.

“Capitol Citizens, I’m afraid I must interrupt our games to announce a tragic loss. Fleix Ravienstill, son of our beloved president, has this morning succumbed to his injuries sustained in the rebel bombing.Out there, in the districts, they will be celebrating this young boys death. I will not allow my games to give our enemies such a victory. I swear to you here and now, before the sun goes down tonight, a rainbow of destruction will engulf our arena. Even if it means there’s to be no victor in these games”.

The broadcast ends, and the tributes go back on screen.

“What?” you spit, “What does she mean no victor? That's not fair. She can't do that”.

You rise from your outrage, ranting to Coriolanus. Your anxiety has been taken over by your anger. Coriolanus agreed it was not fair. All his hard work gone down the drain because of the death of Felix, who was never going to amount to anything anyway.

A rainbow of destruction. The snakes. There was no way he could protect lucy-Gray from them.

He would need something with her scent. Could he get the string of her guitar that she played in the interviews? He didn’t even know where it was. By the time he found it, the Games were sure to be over.

Maybe, he could go to the zoo. Toss as many things as he could into the snake pit and hope one of them was hers? It might mean the survival of everyone but her too.

The zoo, he remembers. He digs into his breast pocket to pull out the handkerchief he used to wipe her tears away. If the sweat of his palm can keep him safe against the snakes, then surely her fresh tears dried on the handkerchief could.

He had to get it to the lab before it was too late.

He grabs your forearms and turns you away from the screen to him so he had your full attention.

“Stay here, okay. I’ll be right back”. He commands.

“Where are you going?”, you ask astounded that he could be leaving after such news.

“Just stay here. Don’t move”, he reiterated.

You nod sensing his urgency and he dashes out of the auditorium into the empty hallway.

He knew he couldn’t walk into Dr Guals lab without a reason, and begging for Lucy-Grays life wasn’t a good one.

As he jogs down the steps, he claws at the stitches in his back, reopening the wound.

He groans from the pain but ensures all eight stitches have torn open.

His body is weak as he sprints to Dr gauls lab. It barely gets him through the front door, where he demands to see Dr gaul.

As if she was expecting him, the Peacekeeper lets him directly through.

“Come to beg for her life?” Dr gaul asks uninterested.

“No” Coriolanus puffs, “No, my stitches. They came loose. I didn’t want the doctors asking questions”.

She looks at him suspiciously but relents, going to her work table.

“Come, pull down your shirt”, she directs.

He walks past a row of black birds locked in cages. Her newest toys.

“The news must have shocked you Mr Snow. With no tributes, no victor, with no victor, no girl”.

Coriolanus faces the birds as Dr Gaul stitches the needle into his shoulder. He eyes the large snake tank in the corner and the people who ready it for transport.

“Y/n’s actually at the auditorium. She came to support me. She’s the one who noticed the stitches”, Coriolanus lies.

“Support you and not her boyfriend in hospital? Things are looking promising”, she says.

"Looking promising, looking promising” her voice echoes across the room. Seemingly from the mouth of the birds.

She sighs and stops stitching to click a receiver.

“Jabberjays”, she explained, “We sent them out during the war to pick up rebel conversations. A failed experiment. They only pick up useless phrases unless manually operated. I am collecting them to see what better purpose they serve”.

Coriolanus remains quiet trying to figure out how he could reach the cage before it was too late.

The needle knots in his back, a feeling Coriolanus had come to know to mean that the stitching was done.

“I’ll see you and your girl back in the auditorium for the finale, Mr Snow”, Dr Gaul dismisses, “you should be proud of yourself. Your songbird put on a wonderful show, and you didn’t need money to steal the girl after all”.

Coriolanus quickly buttons up his shirt, watching as the cage was wheeled out.

“Thank you, Dr Gaul”, he says.

He races to catch up to the assistants wheeling the cage, pretending to be following them out.

They don’t see him as a threat so pay him no mind. He falls back as they take a hallway just off the exit, and watches as they leave the cage out for an airlift.

He stays hidden behind a pole until it was time. Leaving his jacket to keep the door wedged open. With their back turned, he dashes out to cage. The snakes are upset when he slams into the large cage, beginning to move and fight with each other.

He finds an air hole large enough and stuffs the handkerchief in. it moves along the bodies of the snakes until Coriolanus could no longer see the white in between the rainbow.

When the harness is lowered, Coriolanus makes a run back to the door, taking his jacket and making his own exit from the Citadel.

He pays for the taxi this time. Sure that his body couldn’t take anymore strain.

It cost him his fathers watch, but he arrived back in the auditorium before the entrance of the snakes.

“What happened?” he quizzes you, taking a hold of your arm, “Lucy-gray is she okay?”.

You point to the screen where Coral and Treech poke and prod a vent.

“She’s in there”, you address with horror in your voice.

Treech points up and Coral takes his palace directly under the vent.

Blocking the camera, Treech begins to sway of balance and nose begins leek small amounts of blood.

“Wait, what's wrong with Treech?” his mentor asks.

Corilanious was worried about his own tribute, who was three lucky strikes away from being impaled.

Coral hits the metal too many times and the vent collapses on top of her.

Coriolanus' hand latches out to yours, which you accept with the same nervous tension in your fingers.

“Run, run” Coriolanus begs.

She runs back into the arena. Not the safest place with reaper still sitting by the dead tributes.

Coral chases after her, too slow to catch up.

The whole arena stops when the chopper lowers in the cage.

“Please work”, Coriolanus whispers.

“What is that?” you ask.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if it was candy?” Lucy Flickerman answers you.

Coriolanus feels your hand tense in his, then open in surprise when the glass cage cracks and the snakes fly out.

“Not candy!” Lucky Flickerman announces as three tributes are overtaken in rainbow.

The Snakes chase the last two tribute who head to the stands for higher ground.

“Lucy-Gray, please” Coral begs. The snakes lash at her heels as she tries to drag herself up the stands, “Please it couldn’t have all be for nothing”.

It was. More snakes latch on and Coral dies with two loud screams.

“Now all colors lead to Gray” Lucy Flickerman narrates.

The snakes slither up and around Lucy-Gray but none bite her.

Coriolanus lets out an unbelievable scoff.

‘She’s..She’s won” he says watching as the snakes continue to follow Lucy-Gray. He had won. The 10th annual victor. She was last standing, even Dean Highbottom couldn’t contest his win.

“It’a over. She won”, he says in a louder voice. Why was no one doing anything to stop the snakes, “Let her out!”

“Afraid that’s not your call to make, mr Snow”, Lucky insists.

He turns to the audience. Dr Gaul had come to see the final show. She sat high up in the breeches and must of come in when Coriolanus was distracted.

He drops your hand so he could turn and face her. She stared back with the same hateful and curious gaze. She knew what he had done.

But if she squealed on him, he would return the favor.

Your hands fly up to your face once more when Lucy-gray begins to sing. Tears pour from your eyes watching the young girl sing her last song.

Looking to get away from the camera that played on your pain, you pushed your way to the back.

“Dr gaul. She’s won”, Coriolanus yells, “It’s over let her out”.

“Why aren’t they attacking her?” Festus asks.

Dr Gual raises her eyebrows at him in a mocking fashion.

“It must be the signing. It’s calming them”, he deceives.

“She can’t sing forever”, Festus comments bitterly.

She just needs to sing long enough for Coriolanus to figure out a way to get her out.

“Dr Gaul, please”, Coriolanus tries, “Get her out”.

He could see the audience engrossed in the scene. He just needed to figure out how to turn it against Dr Gaul.

“Get her out!”, you yell across the room, following Coriolanus stare to Dr gaul.

Her eyes flick to you and you scream at her once more to release Lucy-gray.

Others join, chanting in protest.

“Who will watch the games if there is no victor?” he threatens.

Dr Gaul raises her hand to silence the audience, before turning to her assistant.

“Get her out”, she says loud enough for everyone to hear.

A cheer erupts the auditorium and Dr gaul wades herself through it to the silence of the hallway.

“She’s won! Lucy-Gray! Coriolanus Snow is the winner of the tenth annual Hunger games!” Lucky announces.

People rush from the stands to swarm him. Offering him congratulations and applause.

It all felt real now. He had done it. The plinth prize, you, were all his now.

He pushes to the crowd to get to where you stood in front of the bleaches.

You were smiling and clapping. He wasn’t sure if it was entirely for him, or if you were just glad Lucy-gray would live.

You looked beautiful and for once Sejanus was nowhere by your side. In this moment, you were entirely his.

You treated you as such, taking your face between his hands and stilling you for a kiss.

His lips smashed against you, his teeth nipped at the skin of your bottom lip asking you to part them for him.

You don’t pull away at first, but his lips are on you for less than ten seconds before you are shoving against his sore shoulder.

He is forced to drop his hand upon the impact. His shoulder ached from pain of being moved, and on reflux he lowered his arm to ease it.

Coriolanus could tell by the look on your face, you did not enjoy the kiss. Did he come on too strong? Did he accidently hit your bruise when he kissed you?

He opened his mouth to apologize for the above, but you took off before he could catch you.

It was impossible to follow you through the crowd of people. People would not part to let him through.

Some jeered at him for being pushed away but most still rode his victory wave.

Had he made a mistake? Where you not ready to leave Sejanus for him yet?

You had no right to reject him. He had won. Saved your life. Risked his own.

Coriolanus took a seat while the crowd surrounded him, and then disappeared. He stayed there until he was summoned by a peacekeeper much later.

He figured he was to see his victor before they sent her back home. The Peacekeeper led him to a chamber, but Lucy-Gray was nowhere to be seen.

“Lucy-Gray?” he called, “Lucy-Gray?”.

He sees a table in the middle of the room with his fathers handkerchief and his mother compact.

“To think, Mr Snow, you almost had it all” Dean Highbottom's voice taunts him.

“Where’s Lucy-Gray?”Coriolanus demanded. Had they hurt her for Coriolanus’s mistake?

“I would be more worried about yourself” Highbottom answered, stalking towards him.

“First y/n rejects you and now the prize money slips through your fingers”, Highbottom torments, “it’s fitting that both your parents could be here for your big moment”.

He gestures to the items on the table in front of Coriolanus.

“That compact, how many times did I see your mother use it? Come now, we both know that child from eleven didn’t die of disease. And that old handkerchief, we found it in the snake tank, condemning you with your fathers own initials”.

Highbottom rounds Coriolanus completely before standing in front of Coriolanus across the table.

“President Ravenstill has left your form of punishment up to me, and I’ve decided banishment to the districts where you’ll serve your Capitol in exile for the next twenty years as an anonymous, peacekeeping grunt”.

Dean Highbottom grins at Coriolanus who felt too frozen to do anything.

“You’ll never get your hands on y/n. She’s too good for you Mr Snow. By the time you get back I imagine her and Sejanus will be married with three or four children”.

It was true. Coriolanus wouldn’t be able to block the ongoing turn of events that was sure to happen with Sejanus. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He had worked so hard to have you, only to be taken away as soon as he got on equal footing with Sejanus.

“You hear that boy? That’s the sound of snow failing”, Highbottom proclaims.

He’ll be left with nothing more than a memory of you, while you will forget completely of the man who loved you so.

#coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #commander snow #dead dove do not eat

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