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mrs-kmikaelson · 1 year ago

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Our Song and Dance⁴

Pairing: Finnick Odair x reader Summary: You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end. Warnings: LONGGGG, descriptions of torture, suicidal thoughts and tendencies, violence, exploitation of minors, mentions of forced prostitution, very complicated relationships, complex mental health issues, death, grief, and some unhealthy coping mechanisms Words: 18.2K

Masterlist | Part 5

a/n: since it's that time of year, i decided to give u guys a lil present. merry christmas and enjoy!!!

You had never felt so cold.

Growing up in a working home, you sometimes went through winter just hoping that your sheets would be enough to keep you alive, unable to afford a heater. In your first Games, you nearly froze to death, your matches being the only thing that saved you. Then once you had won and made it to the Capitol, you went through those cold nights with Finnick, sometimes hoping that you really would freeze to death, even if you never told him that.

Yet none of those times could compare to how cold you felt now.

Cold as you were brought out of the Capitol. Cold on the hovercraft. Cold when they sedated you. Cold as you were wrapped in blankets. Cold as Finnick went to touch you. And now, as the doctors examined you like you were an artifact, you were still just as cold.

But you were an artifact, weren’t you? You were the Princess.

So it didn’t really matter how cold you were at all.

You had been transported from the open medical area to your own room. It was almost like you blinked and, just like that, you were in a different room. Like magic.

Even though magic did not exist. Not in Panem. Not in this world.

Someone named Boggs had come to see you, explaining that you were in district 13, a district that you thought didn’t exist for your entire life. This is the revolution, he said. He was meant to bring you up to speed, ease your confusion, but you weren’t sure that was possible at the moment.

Throughout his explanation, you didn’t say a word, just staring up at him. This may have been seen as rude, but you weren’t doing it on purpose. You really didn’t know what to say.

He eventually left, not getting anywhere with you. From what you could tell, he had a lot more to deal with than just one girl. For a supposedly dead district, there was a lot going on in 13, but that wasn’t where your mind was.

Your body was in 13, but your mind was in the Capitol.

“Please, don’t-”

You closed your eyes, trying to rid yourself of these memories, but that only made it worse, images appearing underneath your eyelids. Your eyes quickly snapped open, darting around the room, your chest rapidly falling and rising.

You were in a bed. There was a desk, some chairs, a glass of water on the night stand next to you. The floor was white, tiled, not grey concrete. There were lights. You were in 13, where the lights were on, not in the Capitol, surrounded by darkness.

You’re alive, Y/N, you told yourself. But that didn’t seem to make anything better.

When did it ever?

You ran your hands up and down your arms, feeling new scars that hadn’t been there before, scars that could maybe heal one day, but you knew there were still open wounds you had that couldn’t be treated, open wounds that may never scar at all.

You didn’t think the wounds you had right now would ever close.

Your heart was racing, beating so loudly that you could hear it, so you imagined it wasn’t yours at all, that it was Finnick’s heart that you heard. Though you supposed that your heart did belong to him.

Even though you didn’t want to see him.

Nevertheless, imagining him sitting with you and pretending to listen to his heartbeat was what calmed you down. It always would. In a way, that was the only thing about you that remained sure, the only thing you had left from the life you lived.

Because that’s what it was: a life lived. Y/N Y/L/N lived her life. For a time, she was happy. She fell in love. And then she died. Now… now, you didn’t know who you were.

What you did know was that you weren’t the same Y/N that Finnick knew, the same Y/N who’d fall asleep in his arms. Now, you weren’t sure you could fall asleep at all, not for long, never for long.

Johanna and Peeta’s faces flashed through your mind. Their screams still echoed in your head. They were different now, too. Johanna wasn’t so fearless anymore, and the golden boy wasn’t so golden. His bright gold had been captured by darkness, and you weren’t sure if any of you would ever see it again.

At that thought, you finally got up, ignoring the ache in your bones. You couldn’t just sit there. You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t eat. You couldn’t think anymore- you wouldn’t. You had to see them.

You left your room, a nurse coming up to you right away. “Ma’am, please, you need to rest-”

“I’m fine.” Your voice was raspy and scratched at your throat, so you cleared it. You didn’t know what you looked like, but you knew it couldn’t have been great with the way the nurse was looking at you. “Could you please take me to my friend Johanna?”

Hesitance was painted all over her face, as well as fear. You didn’t know why; you weren’t in any position to fight. “I’m sorry, I- I can’t-”

You cut her off. “I just want to see my friend.” Annoyance laced your voice, but if one listened closely, they’d also hear the desperation. You needed to see her, you needed to see someone familiar, someone that wasn’t there just because you were their responsibility, someone that wasn’t the boy you loved.

Her mouth opened and closed for several seconds before she responded, “I- she’s with a counsellor right now-”

You sharply inhaled, blinking and seeing Johanna, hearing her cry. When you opened your eyes again, you only saw the nurse staring at you anxiously, expectantly. You ran a hand through your hair. You needed to see someone. “Peeta then,” you said. “Take me to Peeta.”

Her fright seemed to increase. She looked at you like you weren’t in your right mind, which was right, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. There was something else in her expression, like there was something you didn’t know, something she didn’t want to tell you, but she nodded, anyway, agreeing.

This nurse was young, kind, and even a little naive. If you were in your right mind, you’d feel more empathy for her, be more compassionate or soft, but you weren’t. Your mind was in all of the wrong places all at once.

She reminded you of the nurse you had in the Capitol. She wasn’t there to ease your pain but to keep you alive, make sure you didn’t bleed to death so that you could go through the whole routine all over again the next day. She looked at you like that, too, like she was scared of you, even though you were the one that was powerless, even though you were the one on the brink of death.

Now you weren’t. You’re safe now, Boggs had told you. You didn’t say anything in that moment, but what you wanted to say was that he was wrong.

You’d never feel safe again.

When the nurse brought you to Peeta, Katniss was also there, but she didn’t notice you, staring through the glass of a white room. There was a blond boy in that room, strapped down to the bed.

But this boy wasn’t Peeta.

He wasn’t Peeta at all.

“Y/N?”

You turned away from the sight in front of you to the voice that called your name. The voice belonged to none other than Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the 50th Hunger Games and second Quarter Quell, but you knew him better as the man who drank his sorrows away until he couldn’t remember all that’d happened to him.

You nodded in greeting, but didn’t speak. He looked like he had more he wanted to say but held it in as he glanced back at the room, a young blonde girl entering it and carefully going to sit on the bed.

“She’s too close,” he remarked.

“It’s okay,” someone else responded. You turned and saw a greying man on the other side of Katniss, recognizing him immediately as opposed to when you first met him. Plutarch Heavensbee.

You glanced to Haymitch who was already looking at you. He glanced at the Gamemaker then nodded to you. Whatever he was trying to say didn’t fully translate, and you didn’t understand why this man who had caused so much pain was standing right next to Katniss like it was nothing, but for now, you still remained silent, choosing to let it be.

Throughout this interaction, Katniss had practically been none the wiser, eyes fixed on the inside of that room. When you redirected your attention to the scene, you realized why she was so focused. You still recognized the blonde girl from the reaping, even though it’d been over a year since they took place.

Primrose Everdeen.

Yet little Primrose never went into The Games. Her sister took her place. This was Katniss’ sister.

We live in district 13 now, she told him, her voice soft, soft enough to tell you that even though she was surrounded by war, her childhood was still there. It’s a real place. Stories are true. A pause. You were rescued.

Peeta didn’t look fazed by what she was saying, his attention on something else entirely. The look in his eyes was contained, but you saw it. Anger. My family hasn’t come to see me, he said, but he was talking to himself more than he was talking to Prim.

Family.

You saw your mother’s face in your mind, but you weren’t sure if that was still what she looked like. The last time you saw her was a year ago, her face stricken with grief, tears leaking from her eyes.

She hadn’t come to see you, either.

And you realized it was probably for the same reason Peeta’s family hadn’t come to see him.

At that realization, anything else Peeta or Prim said fell upon deaf ears. You couldn’t hear a thing, your song playing in your head on a loop, dancing so fast that the world blurred and you couldn’t see a thing.

Dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing-

“Y/N.”

The call of your name cut through the music, making you turn your head to see Katniss staring at you. You glanced around; Haymitch and Plutarch were gone now, so was Prim. It was just Peeta on the other side of the glass, kicking and yelling, people in scrubs going to sedate him.

You actually looked at her now, noticing the purple marks around her neck that matched the bags underneath her eyes. She looked different now, different from the last time you saw her in person and different from when you saw her on TV.

The Girl on Fire looked like her spark had been extinguished.

And, suddenly, she reminded you of yourself now more than ever.

You nodded to her and then turned to walk away, but her hand caught your wrist. Like a reflex, you yanked it away, spinning around to face her. She muttered a sorry under her breath, making you inhale.

“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice quiet. She couldn’t be blamed for how you could no longer handle touch, neither could Finnick. You felt guilt wash over you as you heard his voice cracking in your head, remembering how you didn’t say a word to him.

He’s fine, you told yourself. He has Annie.

Your thoughts were diverted away from him and back to Katniss as she spoke. “Has anyone explained it all to you yet?” This was a question, even though her voice was monotone while she asked it.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, thinking back to Boggs. “Yeah- um, a little.”

She looked at you like you were a puzzle and she was rearranging the pieces in her head, using what little energy she had. “Did they tell you?”

You furrowed your brows. You were just as if not more tired than her, your mind all over the place, too all over the place to understand what she was asking you. “Tell me what?” You questioned.

She didn’t respond right away, still looking at you as if she was trying to figure you out. Her eyes told you this story; however, her expression was blank. You’d seen snippets of her videos, not in full, never in full, but even from a snippet, you were able to see that look.

The way a victor looked.

When you met Katniss, you thought to yourself that she hadn’t been under the spotlight long enough to have been burned.

But with the spotlight they had on her now, she’d gone up in flames.

After a beat, she ceased her mental debate and decided to speak her thoughts. “I think we should talk.”

And she may not have known it, but what she told you may have just changed the course of your life.

Katniss took you to her room, sat you down, and with her raspy voice, she explained your situation to you. I’m The Mockingjay, she said. And they wanted you, too, Y/N. They wanted the Princess of Panem and The Mockingjay to be the voices of this revolution.

You stared at her wordlessly as she went on, just listening. To her, you must have looked crazy, listening to everything she said without any reaction whatsoever, but you knew that Katniss had been dancing long enough now to read you, too.

You were mind-blown. She was telling you that they wanted you to be a voice for the people, but wasn’t that so ironic? Your voice had been on mute for years. You were silent as you were used in the Capitol. You were silent as they made you go back and take everything from kids, kids just like you. Even when you thought you were about to die and had so many things to say to the boy that you loved, you didn’t say any of it.

How could you ever be a voice?

They chose the wrong person. Katniss was good. She was good at being The Mockingjay, good at saying the right things, and great at being a voice for Panem. But you? You weren’t cut out for this.

Why would she tell you this? This revolution had been well-planned and was proceeding fine without you. Why would she tell you this- why now?

You cut her off mid-sentence. “Katniss, what exactly are you trying to tell me?”

She paused as if she didn’t know the answer, either. Her red eyes glazed over and, for a few seconds, you both sat in silence. You thought she wouldn’t say anything until she looked back up at you. This time, her eyes were full of light, like she’d just realized she held the key to all she ever wanted, all you ever wanted.

And, in a way, she did.

“Hope,” she breathed. “I’m telling you that I have hope for a better world.”

A better world.

Once, you had hopes, too. You hoped that your kids would make it through The Games. You hoped that you could be loved back by the person you loved. You hoped that you could one day mend your relationship with your mother. You hoped that you could be happy.

But each of these hopes were crushed until nothing remained but disappointment.

You didn’t have any hope left.

After Katniss’ declaration, you sat silently before eventually leaving without saying a word.

She was so young. Sometimes, you forgot that. She wasn’t a child, but she was supposed to be. She was supposed to have a childhood, not the weight of a country resting on her shoulders.

But you’d carried the weight of the crown for years now.

You knew better.

You abandoned the idea of hope as soon as you dived off that pedestal in The Games, and then it abandoned you for good the second you woke up in the Capitol.

There wasn’t any hope left, not for you.

You got back to your room, ignoring your nurse who opened her mouth to speak to you but ultimately didn’t say anything, letting the door close in her face. It wasn’t personal. There were too many different people on your mind to think about her, so many words you said and didn’t say floating around, things you did and what was done to you.

You didn’t want to be awake anymore, to think about these things. Sometimes, nightmares offered more relief than your real life ever could.

But as you went to go lie down, you suddenly stopped, seeing something on your bed that hadn’t been there before. It was a sleek black box, one that wasn’t so common back where you were from but became an everyday custom after you won The Games. You picked up, clicking the side button and watching light shoot of it and project an image in front of you.

For a moment, you could’ve sworn your heart stopped.

Because that image that the box projected was of Finnick Odair.

It was a video shot here, in 13, similar to others you’d seen, but you’d never seen this. This was the first time you saw him on camera since before the Quell. And this was also the first time you’d looked into his eyes since you left that night.

Even if you weren’t really looking at him.

Finnick was always charming, the corners of his lips always quirked upward. He had mastered this façade- oh, Finnick knew how to dance, dance around all of the hard topics, dance around everything that was wrong with your lives to make you seem like the perfect happy couple, like victors.

But he didn’t look like that in the video.

He looked solemn. And maybe even a little scared.

No matter his appearance, you could’ve never expected the words that came out of his mouth, never from Finnick, never from one of you, from a victor. But he still said them.

Your mouth fell open. For the first time since you arrived in 13, you let tears fall down your cheeks, though you didn’t know if you could stop them, even if you tried. They burned on their way down, rubbing salt into the bruises you could see and the bruises you could never fix.

May the odds be ever in your favour, darling.

The box in your hands clattered to the ground, the video cutting out as you ran to the toilet, but Finnick’s voice still echoed in your ears. You threw up what very little you had eaten, head spinning.

Dancing, dancing, dancing.

This song didn’t sound right anymore. This dance didn’t feel right anymore. You were so tired of dancing- you just wanted to stop.

But Finnick hadn’t stopped at all.

Finnick was still dancing. Katniss was still dancing. Peeta, Johanna, every single person in Panem was now dancing with you. They knew now. They could hear the music, too. And who would save them?

You had wished for years and years that someone would pull you off the dance floor, that someone would make it stop. There were so many people that knew, so many people that just let you endure it- let you all endure it. How could you let any more people endure anything close to that?

You couldn’t stand on the sidelines and watch as everything burned to the ground. No, you wanted to help them set fire to the Capitol and burn Snow alive.

Hope. I’m telling you that I have hope for a better world.

You may not have had this hope. There was no better world out there for you.

But you’d be damned if you didn’t try to make one for every kid out there that cried and prayed their name didn’t get called at the reapings.

You would not get to live in this better world.

But you would make it in memory of the younger you that could have.

You later found Katniss again, telling her that you’d do it. You left out the part about how you sobbed for hours at the recording you knew she left you because that wasn’t what was important right now. You were not important right now.

This was about something much bigger.

She took you to Coin, who cleared the room at the sight of you, a surprised expression on her face. “Ms. Y/L/N, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She stood up, shaking your hand, glancing at Katniss periodically before looking back to you. “I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you sooner-”

“It’s alright,” you cut her off, trying your best to pull your lips into a smile. You had barely been in the room with her for a few seconds, but there was something about this woman that threw you off.

Katniss explained her story to you, how she was a widow, how her entire family died in a day. You sympathized with that, but Alma Coin did not remind you of a widow in the slightest.

She reminded you of the people you saw in the Capitol.

Clearly, she sensed the tension, giving you a smile and letting go of your hand, beckoning you both to sit. You sat down in the chair across from her, surveying the room, looking at the blueprints and papers sprawled everywhere. Your attention was drawn back to the woman when she spoke.

“So, how may I help you? I know adjusting to life here must be hard for you. But I will be here every step of the if you so need it.” You opened your mouth to speak, but she kept going, “You are an incredibly strong young woman. I cannot imagine what it must have been like to live through those Games, nor could I imagine what it must have been like within the walls of the Capitol.”

No, you couldn’t, you thought, but you didn’t say that. Instead, you gave her a stiff smile, hoping that all your practice faking it could make it look believable. It seemed that President Coin had some practice faking it, too.

However, you cut straight to the point. “Madam President, I want to help the rebels in any way that I can.”

Her mouth fell open slightly, as if that was the last thing she was expecting. She looked to Katniss again, like you were out of it. And maybe you were, but so was The Girl on Fire. So were all of you.

It wasn’t fair of her to treat you like glass because, the truth was, she was right. You went through The Games not once but twice, and then you were immediately thrown into the Capitol, facing horrors that you weren’t sure you could ever speak aloud, horrors that flashed before your eyes every time you blinked, even as you sat across from her.

But you were. You were sitting across from her. You were ready to do something.

You may have just been pulled from the Devil’s clutches, but you were ready to walk through Hell all over again if it meant you got to kill him.

Katniss didn’t waver. “So do I.”

Coin’s hesitance was easier than expected to spot. For someone who wanted to lead Panem, she surely wore her heart on her sleeve. Or maybe you had just gotten too good at this dance that you could spot anyone’s slightest misstep.

Slowly, she cautioned, “You both are going through a lot right now-”

The brunette sharply cut her off, “That doesn’t matter.” Your eyes were trained on Coin, but if you stole a glance at Katniss, then you knew you would’ve seen the fire in her eyes. In a way, she hadn’t changed at all since the last time you saw her.

And you wished that was true.

“Send me to the Capitol- send us to the Capitol.” Underneath her demand was pleading. “I’ll do anything.”

Coin brought her hand to her mouth, an indent on her finger where her ring was supposed to be yet no ring in sight. “I can’t.” But she wanted to. “I can’t send you there. We can’t get into the Capitol until we control district 2.”

“Then send us to 2,” you spoke up, her eyes moving to yours. There was some emotion in her eyes, pity or fear, you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t want to know what you looked like to find out. “I can fire up your troops, call out to the loyalists. You’ve seen what The Mockingjay can do, and I don’t doubt that you know what I am capable of.” You paused. “Let us win this for you, Madam President.”

She was silent for a moment, continuing to stare at you as if she was waiting for you to break, to do something that showed her that you weren’t capable of this, but she wouldn’t get that opening. You wanted this more than anything, and you would stop at nothing to get it.

Finally, she blinked, and you knew you had her.

“It would be an honour.”

You didn’t tell Katniss, and you certainly didn’t tell Coin, but a part of you was relieved that you weren’t going back to the Capitol so soon. You just left, and yet it felt like it had both been a world ago and just yesterday.

You didn’t know if you could handle it so soon, going back there. You could barely even handle looking at Finnick.

It wasn’t his fault. It was never his fault. You could never blame him, never for this.

How could you blame him when picturing his face was what got you through it?

How could you blame him when the only reason you survived was to find out if he was still alive?

They told you he was dead. They played his screams on a loop until you couldn’t tell that they stopped. His screams now blended in with the music so well.

Oh, you loved him. You loved him so much more than you could ever express. And maybe that’s why you never told him, but now you knew it was for the best. Finnick was strong, and beautiful, and he had a long life ahead of him with the woman of his dreams. You weren’t gonna get in the way of that.

You knew that you’d never truly be happy without him.

But you also knew from experience that he’d never be happy with you.

These were the thoughts that filled your head on the hovercraft. Even as he was nowhere in sight, his face was still all you could see.

He was here, too. You knew he was. Katniss told you beforehand. She didn’t know the whole story between you two, but she still told you. She had no idea how grateful you were.

You were hiding from him. You accepted the fact that the two of you would never get a happy ending, but that didn’t mean that you were ready to see him, knowing that. If you looked into his ocean blue eyes, God knew that he’d only pull you in and drown you in them.

You couldn’t do that.

It wasn’t fair to him.

It wasn’t fair to Annie.

It wasn’t fair to you.

And it wasn’t fair to all the people that were depending on you.

Suddenly, your thoughts were cut off the sound of footsteps came your way. You looked up, letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you saw it was just Haymitch.

He nodded to you. “Princess.”

You held back a scoff as he sat down next to you on the floor. “Haymitch.”

You still remembered when you met him. He was one of the first people to actually speak to you after you won your Games. For some reason, the others were too “intimidated” by you, but Haymitch didn’t have much left to be scared of, not when he went into an arena with 47 people and was the only one who walked out.

What you couldn’t remember was the last time you had an actual conversation with him, or at least the last time you had a conversation and he was sober.

“How’d you find me?” you asked, but your eyes were still trained on the floor. He didn’t seem to mind.

“I hang around here sometimes, go through the boxes and see if there’s anything medicinal in ‘em,” he responded, making you chuckle.

If he was looking for something medicinal, then you weren’t such a great replacement.

“Well, sorry you couldn’t find what you were looking for.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shake his head. “No, I need to be brought back to reality, anyway. And you, uh, you do a good job at that.”

You snorted, sensing the compliment was backhanded, even if he didn’t see it that way. Or maybe he did, but Haymitch was never one to hold his thoughts in. “Why, because I’m so fucked up?”

“No.” A beat of silence passed. “Because you remind me of a human’s will to live better than those Games ever did.”

You finally looked up, seeing that he was already looking at you. The sincerity in his eyes was so strong that it burned into yours, making you look away before it burned just enough to spark tears. “I don’t think I’m the best example of that.”

His reply came quick, like he didn’t even have to think about it, but he had no idea how much you would after he said it. “You’re still standing, aren’t you?”

Aren’t you?

You didn’t say anything after that, nor did you look at him, and he didn’t force you to. You spent the rest of the ride pondering over his words.

You thought of every painful thing you ever went through. The Hunger Games. Being sold. The Quarter Quell. The Capitol. Falling in love.

You went through all that, and you were still here. You were still standing.

Weren’t you?

Or were you just waiting for the right moment to fall?

Your thoughts were halted as you felt the hovercraft come to a stop, realizing just how long you’d been thinking. You both stood up, going to leave this room. Like most real conversation you’d had with victors, you thought you both would just pretend it never happened, but right before you were about to enter the main ops room, he stopped you, grabbing your wrist. This time, you stopped the flinch before it could happen, looking up at him.

Haymitch Abernathy was not a soft man. After being cut so many times, his edges were jagged and sharp, but looking at you in that moment, he looked more than just soft. He looked sorry.

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure to say what he wanted to say or not, something unusual for him. He seemed to have made up his mind, telling you, “Stay standing, Y/N. There are still people out there that can’t do that by themselves.” Then he paused, eyes glazing over.

“Show them that they can.”

Getting off the hovercraft, damage surrounded you. The once pristine nature of district 2 was gone, replaced by devastation, rubble everywhere. If this was district 2, then you couldn’t imagine that any of the other districts were any better, that your district was any better.

Your mind was drawn back to your mother before you shook it away. You couldn’t be thinking of that right now.

A man in black attire carrying an assault rifle greeted you. Not a Peacekeeper. But a chill still went down your spine.

You couldn’t really tell if it was because of the soldier or if it was because you felt Finnick staring at you.

He wasn’t far behind you, in the row behind you and Katniss with Boggs and Gale. You tried to ignore it, but that proved to be harder said than done.

Katniss carried her bow in her hand while a sword was strapped to your belt, lightly hitting your leg as you walked, but you got used to this feeling during your first Games. In a way, it was almost comforting, even though it never should’ve been, even though weapons should’ve never been comforting to a child so young.

But you weren’t a child anymore.

In your hand, you carried a crossbow, Beetee’s special arrows on your back. The sword was really only there for show. This wasn’t The Hunger Games; no, this was a very different and special game entirely.

This was war.

You wouldn’t be getting up close for combat very often, so a crossbow made more sense, but after The Games, weapons started to hold sentimental value, both for the victors and the viewers that watched them. For Katniss, it was her bow; for Finnick, it was his trident; and for you, it was your sword.

Suddenly, as you were making your way to the Justice Building, a bomb went off, shaking the ground and making you spin, your grip on your bow tightening. Your heart was beating rapidly, but Corporal Homes wasn’t fazed, even letting out a little laugh. “Don’t worry. It’s just how the loyalists say good morning.”

You let out a shaky breath, holding the bow tighter to try and stop your hands from trembling. You shut your eyes, trying to calm down, but all that did was bring you right back to the Capitol. Your eyes quickly reopened, but when they did, they met those ocean blues that you’d been trying to avoid.

Your body went rigid. It begged you to look away, but you couldn’t. You were pulled to him like a magnet, a magnet that scraped against you, a magnet that nearly stopped your heart with how strong it was, but no matter how much it hurt you, fighting against it was useless.

Concern swam through his eyes, along with another familiar emotion you couldn’t pinpoint. It had been so long since you last saw him, since you last really saw him. Maybe that was why you couldn’t decipher it.

But, really, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Are you okay?” God, and his voice. How was it possible that his voice could both fill and create a hole in your heart at the same time? It was both quiet and loud, both sure and uncertain, and caring in every sense of the word.

So warm but made you feel so cold at the same time.

You just looked at him for a few seconds, as if you were hypnotized, until you realized you needed to respond. You nodded, afraid that your voice would crack if you tried to speak.

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but a hand came to your shoulder, yanking you out of trance. You turned to see Katniss, glancing between you both for a second before her eyes rested on you. She nodded towards the building and the rest of the crew who had walked ahead of you. You nodded back, walking away from Finnick without another word.

How did we get here? you wondered.

We’re gonna be fine. Look, whenever you get nervous up there, you just hold my hand, alright? You’re not alone in this, okay? I’m right here.

He was right there. He was still right there.

But the difference between then and now was that you could no longer just hold his hand.

He was right there.

But you were still alone.

Once you had put some distance between yourselves and Finnick, Katniss whispered, “I’m sorry.” You turned your head, but her eyes were directed in front of her. “That looked personal.”

“No, it’s fine,” you assured her, and then you left it at that. Because, truth be told, you were grateful for Katniss interrupting you. You weren’t sure you would’ve ever walked away if she hadn’t. But you did. And now you had bigger problems to worry about than your love life, if you could even call it that.

You finally made it into the Justice Building, being greeted by both Commander Lyme and Paylor. While they lived in higher ranks, they were still soldiers. You appreciated how they cut right to the chase.

You and your squad from 13 stood around a table projecting a hologram of district 2’s mountains with at least a dozen other soldiers, more littered throughout the room with Coin on a TV in front of you.

Lyme started, “President Coin, we’re indebted to you for the reinforcements, the Princess, and the Mockingjay.” She glanced at you. “But I’m not sure that anyone outside of 2 knows what we’ve been up against.” She pointed at the hologram. “This is The Nut. The Capitol’s headquarters for all offensive operations. It’s manned by both military and civilian personnel from district 2.” She then continued to explain what all more or less knew, that it lied so deep beneath bedrock that it was untouchable.

“Yesterday, we attempted to take the northeastern gate. The enemy countered from higher up and we were forced to pull back.” She momentarily looked down, her mask of a stone cold commander falling and showing the human behind it. “We took heavy losses.”

Another commander spoke up. “Could we create a decoy? Send troops towards one gate, launch a staggered attack on another.”

Paylor didn’t miss a beat. “Whose troops do you propose as a decoy, Commander?”

Although the question was not directed towards her, Coin still responded, “We have the Mockingjay and we have the Princess of Panem. Do not underestimate their influence. We could use them to erode support, sway some of the loyalists.”

“You’ve been underground a long time, Madam Coin,” Lyme said. “This isn’t like the rest of Panem. Support for the Capitol runs deep here.” And why wouldn’t it? When the oppressor had done just about everything but oppress you, then how could you see the oppression happening everywhere else?

Coin quickly retorted, “Then there is no sacrifice too great.” Her voice was like that of a widow: soft enough that you could tell what she’d been through but firm enough for the exact same reason.

No sacrifice too great… but wasn’t there?

“We need to control the arsenal inside that fortress. Even with every district in this alliance, we are outgunned.” All twelve other districts could band together, but without 2, none of you stood a chance.

No sacrifice too great.

“I won’t commit my people to a ground assault just to pillage weapons.”

“Commander Paylor, your people have suffered more than just about anyone else at the hands of the Capitol.”

“Which is why I won’t condone a mass suicide.”

“If we don’t take district 2, we won’t get into the Capitol.”

For the first time since your entrance, you spoke up. “What if we don’t have to take it?” You felt everyone’s eyes on you but yours remained focused on the hologram in front of you, unblinking as if you weren’t there at all.

And maybe you weren’t.

Lyme responded, “What are you proposing, Ms. Y/L/N?”

What were you proposing? You couldn’t be sure. But you knew what you needed, and that was this war ending in Snow’s final breath.

No sacrifice too great.

“What if we don’t need The Nut to win?” You looked up. “What if we could take it away from them instead?”

Gale seemed to be the only one who caught onto what you were saying, or at least the only one willing to speak it aloud. “We could disable it, trap them inside or flush ‘em out.” He continued, gesturing the hologram. “If we can’t attack straight on, then couldn’t we use our hovercraft to strike around it? We’ll use the mountains; we’ll hit weak spots in the peaks.”

“We could design the bomb targets in sequence using seismic data.”

“Trigger avalanches,” you muttered just above a whisper, imagining it in your head. Something like this happened in The Games once, one of the years you were mentoring. It was catastrophic, akin to a bloodbath. It was a miracle there was even anyone left alive to fight for a victor’s title.

You wondered if Finnick thought of this, too, but you didn’t dare look over at him, looking back to hologram and trying to block the images of blood and terror from your mind.

But as you stood there and spoke about war, you didn’t know if that was possible.

Not when the war in your mind had still yet to be won.

“Block all exits, cut off their supplies. You make it impossible for them to launch their hovercraft.”

Paylor had a look of realization on her face. “Bury them alive.”

“We’d forfeit any chance to control the weapons-”

Beetee cut Coin off, “Yes, but we’d face a weakened Capitol.”

“There’s civilians in there,” Boggs interjected, stoic but any hearing person could hear the compassion in his voice. Civilians. Is that what they were?

You were a civilian too, once. Then you were a tribute, a pawn, a victor, the Princess. Did civilians still exist? What kind of civilians could support the Capitol? What kind of human beings could support the torture you were subjected to, the torture people in the districts were subjected to on a daily basis?

You wondered if your mother was given the courtesy of a civilian before the Capitol took her life.

You weren’t.

“They should be given a chance to surrender. Could use one of the supply tunnels for the evacuees.”

“It’s a luxury we weren’t given when they firebombed 12,” Gale said, as if he were reminding you, as if any of you needed a reminder.

“There’s gotta be a better way.” You were already so focused, but if you were losing attention in any way, Katniss brought it back, the disbelief in her voice audible to everyone in the room. She glanced in between Gale and you, but she didn’t get whatever response she expected of you.

Katniss may have had hope for the good of humanity, but you didn’t have that. The Capitol took that away from you without a second thought. She may have been driven by hope, but you were driven by anger.

There was no sacrifice too great.

“I suggest we try the avalanche, but leave the train tunnel alone,” Coin decided. “Civilians can escape into the square, where our armies will be waiting for their surrender.”

“We should have every available medic standing by.”

“And if they won’t surrender?” Lyme challenged.

Coin’s lips almost formed a smile. “Then we will need a compelling voice to persuade them.” And a voice was something she had.

The Mockingjay and the Princess, two sides of the same coin. Heads or tails, luck was on the President’s side either way.

You tuned out after that, letting everyone else talk logistics. Throughout the entire conversation, you didn’t hear Finnick say a word. He was perhaps the most talkative person you had ever met, and yet now, he had nothing to say.

He only looked at you the whole time, like an artifact.

And even as you walked away, you still felt the cold burn of his stare.

You watched from a broken window of the Justice Building as the hovercrafts started, rubble blowing in the wind. The sight was magnetic, pulling you in to look at it. It was almost beautiful.

This world could’ve been beautiful.

You wished that this dance could have been more beautiful before it made your feet bleed.

You watched as the hovercrafts danced in the sky before dropping bombs on the mountains, dancing to the sound of explosions and then to the sound of cheers around you.

Dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing-

“This isn’t right.” A voice brought you out of your trance. You turned to see Katniss, her eyes on the scene outside the window, as mesmerized as you were. But mesmerized wasn’t the right word. She was stricken by horror.

Oh, if she saw what happened to you that could make you ever justify this. If she saw what happened to Peeta to make him hysteric. If she saw what happened to Johanna to make her numb. If she saw, then would she still be so transfixed then?

If she saw, would she still be standing?

If she saw, would she understand why you still were?

You stared at her for a moment, contemplating if you would say any of this before deciding against it, turning back and monotonously replying, “It’s fire catching, Everdeen.”

She scoffed, “And we’re lighting the match.”

Sharply, you countered, “Don’t forget that the Capitol poured gasoline everywhere first.” You turned back to see her already looking at you. A sigh left your lips. “They did this, Katniss.”

“And so anyone that had anything to do with it deserves to burn for it?”

No.

Yes.

“Did we deserve to burn, Girl on Fire?” You caught her off guard, anger slipping through the cracks of your voice, resolution filling your eyes. “Did we deserve to burn in those reapings, in those parades, in those damn Games as they all made a spectacle of it? All those kids and their families, did they deserve to burn just because the Capitol saw fit?” She was silent, tears coming to her eyes that she refused to let fall, so different from that girl you were with in the arena yet the exact same. Your eyes burned, too. “The way I see it, we’re fighting fire with fire.” You scoffed. “At least we’re giving them a way out.”

You didn’t stick around to hear Katniss’ response, walking away to find whoever would tell you what do next. You could’ve stood by that window for the rest of the night, watching as the terror unfolded, but you had more important things to do than watch the fire.

You had to go light a match.

You examined yourself in the mirror blankly. You were donning a black costume, and a costume it was. Because what was a costume if not an impersonation of something you were not?

But someone thought that this was what you were. Someone thought that you could be a leader. Cinna did—or at least that’s what Effie Trinket told you. You didn’t know why she seemed to be in charge of “design” or why she showed such an interest in you, but you supposed it wasn’t so unusual for an artifact.

Your makeup artists did their jobs fabulously, painting your face until you were almost unrecognizable, until you looked like that girl from before The Games, that girl that the people of Panem knew and loved. With this makeup, you couldn’t see the circles under your eyes, the discolouration of your face. They made you look alive again.

On the outside, at least.

On the inside, you weren’t sure if there was any makeup that could repair the damage that’d been done.

Your hair had been braided into an updo, like a crown. They tried to give you back your necklace, the one Finnick gave to you before The Games, but you never wanted to see that necklace again, never wanted to see a rose ever again.

You would hate the smell of roses for the rest of your life.

“It’s time.” You looked away from your reflection to see Haymitch standing at the door. You nodded to him, glancing back at the mirror one last time before exiting the room. Katniss fell into step with you both as you made your way toward the train tunnel, but remained silent. You didn’t speak, either.

Soon, you were joined by the rest of your Star Squad, but you avoided any and all eye contact with Finnick. It’d be a shame to cry and ruin all that beautiful makeup on your face.

It’d be a shame to feel something right now when you felt so numb.

But you’d quickly be feeling a lot.

“Don’t worry, Katniss. There’ll be survivors,” Boggs tried to reassure. She glanced at him, but didn’t respond.

Haymitch was more concentrated on what you came here to do. “Let’s focus on what it is you gotta say.” He looked in between both of you. “Now, Plutarch wrote a speech that either of you can read-”

“No,” you both simultaneously said, briefly glancing at each other.

Haymitch sighed, throwing the cards to the side. “Okay, didn’t think so. Let’s, uh…” he stopped you both, standing in front of you. “But just remember you’re talking to everybody. Not just the rebels, but the Capitol, the survivors in 2. We want them to lay down their arms. So you- both of you might wanna experiment with a little sensitivity, warmth.”

They have the upper-hand, that’s what he was really saying. But you understood how this worked. You’ve danced this dance a million times already.

“Don’t worry, Haymitch. I know how to fake it.” He looked over at you as if he wanted to say something, but Boggs spoke before he could.

“Make it quick, you’re exposed.”

Katniss walked toward the tunnel first, turning once she was far enough to face the rest of you. They decided that she would go first. She had been at this for a while now, much longer than you.

You’re lucky, you know.

How so?

You just are.

Maybe the Katniss Everdeen that you met in the training centre was lucky, but this one, the one who shot an arrow at the force field in the Quarter Quell, the one who became a symbol before she could even blink… you weren’t so sure that this one was so lucky. Not anymore. Not in this world.

Luck didn’t exist in this new world.

“This is Katniss Everdeen, speaking to all of the loyalists from the heart of district 2-”

“Survivors! Inbound!”

The sound of the train’s horn became audible to you, its wheels screeching against the train tracks. Boggs went running for Katniss while a hand grabbed your shoulder. This time, you couldn’t hold back the flinch.

“We need to go, Y/N.” And then your body went rigid.

That was your name.

That was your name coming from Finnick Odair.

You didn’t even notice when he moved so close to you.

You swallowed, nodding, but it was like your feet were cemented to ground. You couldn’t move. If you moved, if you turned around, then you’d be looking right into his eyes.

Oh, there was time when the only thing you wanted to do was stare into his eyes all day. And maybe the problem was that you still wanted to.

You closed your eyes, inhaling a shaky breath, and when you opened them, the survivors were jumping off the train, being forced down to the ground, guns pointed at them, loud noise everywhere. Suddenly, you couldn’t take your eyes off of what was happening, even as every bone in your body begged you to, even as your head spun.

Finnick’s hand was still on your shoulder, but neither of you moved. None of you did.

Another man jumped off, looking disoriented, but what drew your attention to him wasn’t his appearance but the gun in his hand. The grip on your shoulder got tighter.

“Drop it! Drop your weapon! You! Drop it,” Boggs shouted, aiming his machine gun at him as he moved in your direction. “Drop the gun! Drop it-”

Suddenly, a gun went off, and everyone was screaming. You ducked down, eyes frantically darting everywhere before they settled on Katniss, running towards him, yelling. Your eyes widened, a wave of déjà vu passing over you as you remembered this exact scenario in the Quell, Katniss running towards danger and you running after her.

And just like that, even though you were paralyzed by fear, you quickly shot up, running after her without a thought. “Katniss!”

“Y/N!”

“Stop! He needs help!” She screamed as you were about to reach her. The next moment happened too fast for you to grasp it, the man jabbing his gun at her chin and cocking it. You skidded to a stop where you were, your breath catching in your throat.

Boggs was shouting, but your ears rang. It was almost as if you could feel that barrel on your own skin, and maybe it was because you had.

Snow’s voice rang through your head, Tell me about the rebel plan, Y/N.

You’re gonna have to kill me first.

Oh, sweet girl. He had knelt down next to you. I will make you wish that you died in that arena.

The man’s voice shook you out of your daze. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot you.”

“Drop the gun!”

Katniss was silent, staring right into his eyes, but you saw what was behind the brave façade she was putting on. She didn’t have a reason.

“She can’t.” His eyes went to you, widening as if he hadn’t realized you were there. You stepped forward, feeling everyone’s eyes on you. Inside, you were shaking, but on the outside, you were calm and collected. On the inside, you were just a tribute in this game, but on the outside, you were the victor that everyone had crowned you.

“We blew up your mine. But you burned her district to the ground- my district to the ground.” You stepped closer, your resolve hardening. “So I guess we both have every reason to want to kill each other, but, really, does that make sense?” You asked, not looking away from his eyes once. “You know who I am. You know who she is, and I can bet that you know a few of the people standing behind me. So many people that the Capitol has rooted for, that you have rooted for- why would we be doing this? After the riches, and the glitz, and the glamour, why would we fight back against a system that has supposedly given us everything?”

Because they took everything from you first.

You took another step closer, putting your hands up when he jabbed the gun in Katniss’ neck. “Look around you.” He quickly glanced around before his eyes fell back on you. “Are these the people you want to kill? The same people that you cheered for?” Slowly, your hands fell. “Why are you fighting us? Why are you fighting the rebels? You’re neighbours. You’re family.”

He looked up at you for a few seconds, but those seconds felt like hours. In his eyes, you could see evil, chaos. But you also a sliver of humanity, and you prayed to God that you reached past the chaos to the humanity. You prayed to whoever would listen that he heard you. And, maybe, for the first time, the universe was on your side, because his gun slowly lowered to the ground.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Katniss was stuck in a trance until you pulled her up, but you weren’t so focused on her. Your eyes panned over the people, your people and the loyalists alike, but they were all just people, you realized.

They were all just people.

“There is no our side or your side,” you yelled, backing away from the man and facing everyone. “There is only freedom and captivity. These people are not your enemy.” You turned, facing the rest of the crowd. “We all have one enemy. And that’s Snow.” Tears gathered in your eyes. “He does not care who you are or how loyal you are, how important you are—to him, we are all just pieces in a game.”

You pointed to your people behind you. “Katniss Everdeen, Haymitch Abernathy, Finnick Odair, Peeta Mellark, Annie Cresta, Johanna, Beetee, Enobaria- we are all that is left from three generations of victors. The rest of them are dead.” The faces of those that you killed flashed through your mind. “Slaughtered in the Quarter Quell or killed in the aftermath, it’s all the same. They were murdered by the Capitol—and it didn’t matter how important, or loyal, or loved they were- their lives were ended like they didn’t mean a thing.”

“And they would do the same to any of you if it benefit them.” You shook your head, raising your voice. “Stop killing for him.” You paused, breathing heavily. Your fight was not with people in the districts. Your fight was with one person and one person only. It was time that everyone else saw that. “Tonight, turn your weapons to the Capitol. Turn your weapons to Snow.”

Before you could say another word, gunfire erupted and you were falling to the ground.

And then your vision went black.

“Please, I don’t know anything,” you sobbed, fighting against your restraints, but it was no use.

Snow tutted, coming out from the shadows in which he hid. “Oh, Y/N, I wish I could believe that.”

Your body shook. “Please, I’m telling the truth, I don’t know anything about a revolution.”

“And yet all of your comrades did?”

You rapidly shook your head back and forth, worsening the pounding in your mind. They kept telling you about an uprising, but you didn’t know what they were talking about. They said you knew, but you didn’t know. They said that Katniss knew, that Peeta knew, that Johanna knew, that Finnick knew, but they couldn’t have.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know where they were.

You prayed that Finnick was safe, but if he wasn’t, then you prayed that he was dead. You’d rather him be dead than ever face what you were facing now.

“They didn’t. I didn’t- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow looked at you silently for a few moments, and you had no idea what he was thinking. Then brought his hand up. You flinched, but his hand only went to your hair, petting it. The look in his eyes was almost something like pity, you realized, but it wasn’t real. You didn’t know how long you’d been there, wherever you were, but in the time you there, you learned that President Snow was incapable of sympathy.

You even thought that he enjoyed this.

“Oh, my dear princess… I would’ve hoped that you would’ve learned to be honest with me by now,” he sighed, and then he took his hand away and looked away from you altogether, looking to the Peacekeeper that’d moved to the wall. “Again. And let’s be a little more… effective this time.” He moved to walk away, and you shook your head.

“No, no- please don’t- please, please- no- no!”

You shot up, panting, your hands digging into blankets. Your eyes darted around the room and you realized you were back in your bed in the medical centre. A hand was placed over yours and you immediately shuffled away, your eyes going to the person and meeting blue, concerned orbs.

Finnick held his hands up in surrender. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me.” Your chest still rapidly fell up and down, but for some reason his presence calmed you down and put you into a panic all at the same time.

Only Finnick could do that to you.

You closed your eyes, blinking the remnants of your nightmare away, even if that nightmare wasn’t a nightmare but rather just the life you so happened to live. You’re here, Y/N. You’re alive.

But why?

“How am I alive?” you croaked, looking down at the dull bed sheets instead of into his eyes. It was funny: you looked down to avoid the blue of his eyes, but the colour of these sheets was so similar.

What’s your favourite colour?

It’s blue, not really dark or light either. Sort of green- it’s close to grey, too.

Now that colour just made you want to cry.

Finnick didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he was shocked that you were even speaking to him. And you were, too. You hadn’t spoken to him in weeks, and if you went back to the last time you spoke, back in the arena, you would’ve never thought that this was how it would turn out. Even if you went back to just your first days in the Capitol, you still could’ve never imagined a reality where you didn’t speak to Finnick.

But you could’ve never imagined any of this happening in the first place.

If you went back to the night you met him, you could’ve never imagined how deeply you’d fall for this boy.

And you never could’ve imagined how much it’d hurt when you hit the ground.

Finnick’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “You were shot back in 2. But the bullets were stopped by your costume. Cinna made sure that it was bulletproof.”

Cinna.

The way people spoke about him, in the past tense, the way you hadn’t seen him anywhere. You’d figured that he was dead.

You wondered how many more people would die for this revolution before you could all be free.

“The doctor says you sustained minor injuries, bruised rib, bruised lung. But nothing worse than the injuries you came back from the Capitol with.” At that, you turned your head to face him, meeting his eyes immediately. His eyes were soft but almost hard. He was almost looking at you the same way he did after you volunteered for Annie. In his eyes, you saw care, confusion, sadness, some anger, and emotions you couldn’t name, but most of all, you could see the pure exhaustion weighing him down.

He stared at you for a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes, maybe longer than that—time didn’t seem to exist. “Why would you do that, Y/N?” He whispered. And in that moment, you knew you weren’t talking to the Prince of Panem, the victor of The 65th Hunger Games, or the soldier who wanted to build a better world.

You were just talking to Finnick.

And that scared you.

Your breath hitched.

Why would you do that?

Finn-

Why would you volunteer?

Because you had to.You volunteered for Annie because you had to, the same way you did what you just did because you had to. To you, there was no choice, only one path to follow.

“I did what I was meant to do, Finnick.” Even as you willed it not to, your body betrayed you, your voice cracking on his name, but this time, you kept eye contact. And even though you were talking to Finnick, the Finnick that held you at night and soothed you when you cried, your Finnick, he was not talking to Y/N, not the Y/N that he held and soothed.

That Y/N could not talk to Finnick, not this Finnick.

If she did, you didn’t know if you’d ever get her back again.

He was shaking his head before you even finished speaking. “No, you could’ve died.” I’m already dead.

“But I didn’t.” But I did.

“But you almost did!” You flinched as his hands went up in the air, and then he froze, freezing you with him. You flinched. You flinched like he was gonna hit you, and he saw that. You cursed yourself immediately, wishing you could take it back as the look that encompassed his eyes became hurt.

There were few times when Finnick ever looked at you like that, and you could remember each as if they just happened. You never wanted to see that look on his face again, to be the reason for that look.

Time stopped again. You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to apologize, but you couldn’t find the words. And before you could, time picked back up. Finnick’s hands fell down to the bed, and he looked away from you, lowering his voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Y/N.”

Tears welled in your eyes. He didn’t know what he was saying. “You could have the world at your fingertips, Finnick.”

“There is no world for me if you’re not in it.” He looked back at you. And you couldn’t tell if your imagination was playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn there were tears in his eyes, too. “You’re my world, Y/N.” And just like that, any hope you had of remaining invulnerable shattered and the dam you were trying to hold in your eyes broke, tears falling down your face.

You shook your head, silent sobs wracking your body. Did he have any idea the effect he had on you? Did he have any idea what he was doing to you? “Why are you saying these things?”

Something akin to a scoff left his lips. “Because it’s true-”

“No- no, they’re not-”

Finnick latched onto your hand, making you look right at him. This time, you saw tears trailing down his cheeks, and they seemed so real. “Y/N, I swear to you on everything I believe in that I’m telling you the truth.”

You wished it was the truth. You wished that this was real. You had been wishing that your pretending could become real for ages now.

But you’d danced this dance long enough to know that wasn’t gonna happen.

Even if Finnick had convinced himself that it would.

“It’s impossible.”

“I l-”

“Ms Y/L/N?” You both turned the source of the new voice, finding your doctor at your door. She glanced between you both carefully as you ripped your hands away from Finnick’s, wiping at the tears that’d fallen and the ones that continued to fall. “May I speak with you, please?” She requested, glancing at him.

He quickly stood up, but this time, you weren’t looking. “Yeah, I’ll, uh- I’ll head out.” He paused for a second, like he was waiting for you to say something, but you weren’t sure that you could continue to speak to him right now, even if you wanted to. When you remained silent, you heard his shoes pitter-patter against the ground as he made his way out of the room.

When he was gone, you exhaled and Dr. Terren looked back at you. She hesitated, “Did I… interrupt something?”

“No,” you breathed out. “Nothing important.”

She nodded after a beat, getting right into her medical talk, but she didn’t look so convinced.

And you weren’t sure that you were, either.

You were hit bad, the doctor said, but it could’ve been worse. And she was right. It could’ve been worse.

You didn’t feel a thing. Lung, ribs—all you felt was heartache. Maybe it was good that you couldn’t feel the pain. But you couldn’t be sure.

She kept pushing the same idea: therapy. That’s where Johanna was. That’s where Peeta was. But that wasn’t gonna be where you were. Terren kept talking about trauma, about how this near-death experience called for you to talk to someone, but really, what good would that do?

Would that therapist understand? Did they go through what you went through? Did they understand what you were going through? You didn’t have time to stop and talk about your feelings, if you could even sort them out into words, nor did you want to reminisce over anything that happened while you were in the Capitol.

Even if reminiscing was all you could do.

When Terren left, you ripped the IV out of your arm, leaving your hospital room to go to the other room they gave you. At least that one wasn’t filled with your favourite colour.

Your room in 13 was grey, like most things here. It was drab, but you wouldn’t complain. Anything was better than the Capitol. The door to your room slid open, and then you stopped. On your floor was the same black box Katniss left you, the same one you watched Finnick from.

Poison.

You swallowed, deciding to ignore the box altogether and go to your ensuite. You never wanted to see that video again. Watching it from that box was the first time you ever saw it, and it would be the last.

They must have gone through extra effort to hide it from you in the Capitol. They made you believe he was dead. You believed this was such conviction that, when you saw him again after the rescue, you thought you were dreaming.

You even thought you’d died.

You even wished you did.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, dead is what you looked like. That bullet may not have killed you, but you still looked like a corpse. You’re very lucky to be alive, Y/N, Dr. Terren told you.

Luck.

If luck was what kept you alive, then it wasn’t good luck at all. Luck would’ve been that bullet puncturing like it was intended to.

Your hand went to your ribs, looking at the bandages wrapped around them in the mirror. Then your hand travelled to your hair. Long and silky, so sought after in Panem. But as you ran your hands through it, you didn’t feel its softness. All you felt was Snow’s hand, petting you as you begged him not to kill you.

And then that turned into you begging for the exact opposite.

You don’t know how long you were looking at your reflection before you were opening and closing the sink drawers, your hands moving with a mind of their own. Part of you didn’t know what you were doing, but another part of you must have as you suddenly stopped, having found what you were looking for.

Scissors.

You picked them up, staring at them as if they were treasures, watching the light glare off the blades. You didn’t know what you were doing.

All you knew was that this feeling was tearing you apart.

And that’s all you could focus on.

Suddenly, your hand holding the scissors was moving. You still didn’t know what you were doing, but before you could find out, your name sounded.

“Y/N?”

You looked up, seeing Katniss stand in the doorway, confusion on her face that slowly contorted to fear. She glanced down at your hands, making you do the same. Quickly, you moved the scissors away from your wrist, unknowing of how they even got there.

You looked back at Katniss, your mouth opening and closing. You didn’t know what to say. Finally, you stammered, “I- I-” she looked back up at you and you realized that she, too, didn’t know what to say. “My hair. It’s- I want to cut my hair.”

That’s not what you were doing.

Katniss seemed to know that, not looking convinced in the slightest. She was quiet for a few moments, eyes on the scissors before she was walking towards you. Gently, she pried them out of your hand, as if you were a child holding a gun.

Then her eyes met yours. The eyes that were once hard as stone now looked at you with softness. “I’ll help you,” she whispered. She nodded to herself, repeating, “I’ll help you.”

You were grateful for her going with your story, even if it was just because she didn’t know what to say to what she really saw. She moved behind you, exhaling and getting ready right away.

And she may not have known this, but in just her walking in, she had already helped you more than you could’ve ever helped yourself.

Muffled chatter came to your ears as you sat in one of the common areas. Most people ate in the cafeteria, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go in there. Finnick was in there, along with Katniss, and you couldn’t really talk to either of them right now.

With Finnick, you didn’t know where you stood. He said so much to you in your hospital room, after you were shot, but you didn’t know what to make of any of it. He was talking to you like you were more than just fake lovers—and truth be told, that’s what you were. You may have forgotten that for a while or pretended for too long, but it was fake. The dance changed every so often, but at its core, it was the same.

Finnick was acting like this was a dance you engaged in voluntarily, like this was a dance he enjoyed dancing. While you had no one you’d rather dance with, you knew it wasn’t the same for him. You saw the way he looked at Annie; you saw it for the entirety of your “relationship.” He looked at her with such tenderness and care, like she put the stars in the sky. The second you saw her, the second you saw the way he looked at her, you knew that you didn’t stand a chance.

But for some reason, in that hospital room, you almost felt like he looked at you that way.

And that didn’t make sense.

That didn’t make sense at all.

Another part of you didn’t want him to see you like this, not again. Katniss did, and you weren’t ready to see her so soon, either. It was a weak moment, you told yourself, but you were fine now. You were here for a reason—you were still here for a reason.

Show them that they can.

You didn’t have hope, but you were still the hope of so many people, the hope of Panem. You weren’t gonna let them down. You were not going to stand by and let Snow’s reign of terror continue.

You made a pact with yourself. As Katniss was cutting your hair, you promised yourself that you would see this through. Afterward, it didn’t matter what happened, but you would fight until this country was free.

Even if you died for it in the process.

“Looking good, Princess.”

Your head shot up from your tray and, for the first time since you arrived in 13, you felt a smile arise on your face. “Johanna.” Your tray was pushed to the side as you stood, wrapping your arms around her.

“Easy. I hear you’re injured.”

“I’m fine, Jo,” you reassured her, pulling away. She mirrored your smile, a sight you never thought you’d see again after what you heard in the Capitol.

“You always are, aren’t you?” She retorted. You only continued to smile, opting not to respond. She must’ve seen your discomfort—of course she did, she knew you so well—so she changed the subject. “It’s good to see you.”

“Ditto,” you responded, even if it was a little untrue. You loved Johanna. She was the first person you looked for when you got to 13, and seeing her right now made you so unbelievably happy, a happy you didn’t anticipate feeling for a long time, but it wasn’t good to see her like this.

She had always put on a brave face, was always so much stronger than you, but right now, she looked like she was barely holding on. Her eyes were hollow, bags underneath them that matched yours. Her face was pale. And the beautiful red streaks that had once filled her hair, the hair that she loved, was now gone. It was all gone.

The Capitol took it just to show her that they could.

And even though you cut yours out of your own will, they still took yours, too.

Eventually, she sat down with you, resting her head on your shoulder. Before, when things were bad before they got worse, you’d sit together in the Capitol, you, her and Finnick, and you’d pass time together, just like this.

Except Finnick wasn’t here.

However, you convinced yourself that it was for the best.

Annie. He had Annie. You volunteered for Annie, got yourself in this position for Annie, so that he could have a life with her, the life he always wanted. He may have denied it, or maybe he didn’t know that you knew, but some nights, he’d dream about her, talking in his sleep. He wanted to marry her, to have kids with her.

He could do that now. This is what you did this for, so that he could have his happy ending. Even if it meant taking away yours for good.

Like she was reading your thoughts, Johanna muttered, “How come you aren’t in the cafeteria with prince charming?”

You stiffened, but you still knew how to dance this dance, deflecting, “Why aren’t you?”

She lightly chuckled. “Good point.” She didn’t answer, even though you knew the reason why, just as she probably knew the answer to her question. You expected her to drop it, but you supposed you should’ve known better from Johanna Mason. She was silent for a few moments until she spoke again. “He loves you, you know.”

You sighed, “Jo-”

“That boy loves you with all he has, Y/N.” She lifted her head up from your shoulder, making you look at her. “Always has, still does.”

Oh, Finnick and you were incredible. You made the masses believe that the love you shared was real- he made them believe it. You didn’t have to do any work. It wasn’t acting for you, but you knew it was for him.

Not even Johanna knew that it wasn’t real. She might’ve suspected, but for all she knew, you two were really in love. You wished that was true. For years, you wished that was true.

But your wishes rarely ever came true.

“It’s not that simple,” you said.

She slightly tilted her head. “Isn’t it?” Her words echoed throughout your head. Isn’t it? It should’ve been. In a different world, maybe it was that simple. In a different world, maybe the two of you really were as in love as everyone thought you were. In a different world, maybe all those wishes and all that pretending could’ve been a reality.

But that was not this world.

So you didn’t say anything, instead resting your head on her shoulder this time, conveying your thoughts to her without speaking them.

I wish it was.

You lied on your bed in silence, staring up at the plain ceiling and imagining patterns of your own. Back at home, the ceilings had colourful swirls on them, muted tones swooshing together. But that wasn’t really your home. The home you came from didn’t have pretty designs or fancy furniture. The home you came from had paint peeling off the walls. The home you came from didn’t have furniture at all.

But that wasn’t really your home, either.

At some point, you think, that place was something like a home. When your dad was still alive, you’d wake up every morning to the scent of food cooking in the kitchen, even if it was only a bit. But then he died, and there was no one to buy food at all.

That year, you barely ate a thing.

The next year, you picked up the slack. You could still remember it, being ten years old and finding your father’s hunting gear. Going into the forest, you were scared. You didn’t want to harm an animal.

But you did.

And then you did it every time after that.

When you came home, you saw the way your mother looked at you. Somewhere inside of her, something cracked. Somewhere inside of her, she saw something that you couldn’t. And, after that, she started looking at you a lot less.

Five years later, you were sent off to The Games. You could remember seeing your mother in the crowd, but when you got into the Justice Building, she wasn’t there. You waited. And she never showed. But you held your tears and told yourself you had to stay strong, for her, because she couldn’t.

You thought about her in the arena. You thought about her when you picked up that sword. You thought about her when you took your first life. You thought about her when Bay died. And you thought about her when Claudius announced that you, Y/N Y/L/N, had won the 67th Hunger Games.

Was she watching? you wondered. Is she happy?

When you got back to 4 and opened the door to your house, her jaw fell. Like she didn’t know. Like she was shocked. Like she never thought you’d win at all.

Like she didn’t want you to.

Mom, I- I won. Did you watch?

Silence. I watched. I tried, I just- I couldn’t watch you kill after that first- that-... The boy. A boy your age. A boy you stabbed into. A boy who you watched bleed out. A boy whose blood was on your hands–and with the way your mother stared at you, you almost felt like the stains were still there.

And they might as well have been.

She hugged you. But it didn’t feel like she was doing it because she missed you. It felt like she was doing it because that’s what a mother is supposed to do. They’re supposed to hug you–they’re supposed to love you.

But you weren’t you anymore.

You moved into the new house together. Then, soon after, you were moving into Finnick’s, leaving the house to her. You think she was relieved, relieved that she wouldn’t be sleeping in the same house as a killer.

And now, as you lied on this rough bed in 13, there was no house at all. No old house, no new one, no Finnick’s house, no district 4 at all. No mom, either.

What was the last thing I said to her? you wondered. Why can’t I remember the last thing I said to her?

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes. You couldn’t even remember when you last spoke to her. Your own mother. She was the woman who gave birth to you, the woman who raised you. Yet you couldn’t remember the last time you were in the same room.

And now you’d never be in the same room again.

A burning grew in your throat, but you didn’t let the tears fall, blinking them away. You’d cried an ocean of tears already. Now wasn’t the time to cry anymore. Now was the time to be strong.

You never wanted this. You didn’t choose this, to be princess of a country that only abused its citizens, a country that threw you to the wolves then claimed they loved you when you came out seemingly unscathed, a country that wouldn’t have loved you so much if they knew just how scathed you were.

You did not choose this. But, for some reason, it chose you. The people chose you. The people believed in you. They believed that you were some sort of hero, coming to save them all from this villain that had hurt them all so badly. They didn’t know that it wasn’t true, that you weren’t a hero. They didn’t know that you were scared of the villain, too.

But if the people in the districts could believe in you, the people being bombed and attacked, the people grieving the loss of their loved ones–if they could believe that, then you could, too.

If the people of Panem believed you could be a hero, then you promised yourself that that’s what you’d be.

“So I changed the chemical compound of the powder, adding more fluorine to excite the electrons, causing them to jump more rapidly from orbital to orbital and ignite faster as-”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Beetee paused, like he was surprised that you couldn’t understand. To him, it was so simple, but to most people, like yourself, it had no meaning. “Chemical reaction,” he reiterated. “I increased the strength of the chemical reaction so you can hit more.”

Your mouth formed an O shape. “Makes sense. That’s all you had to say, y’know.”

His mouth opened, likely to say something sweet and snarky as per usual when the two of you spoke, but he was halted by the door to the armory sliding open. You both turned to see The Mockingjay making her way into the room.

Your breath got caught in your throat for a moment before you regulated it, calming yourself down. You hadn’t seen Katniss since she walked in on you in the bathroom. The way her eyes met yours told you that she remembered that day well, too. But if you knew anything about Katniss Everdeen, it was that feelings were not her strong suit. If you knew her as well as you thought you did, then she’d pretend it never happened.

You hoped she’d pretend. If you knew Katniss as well as you thought you did, then she was just as good at pretending as you.

“You wanted to see me?” she queried, directing her vision to Beetee. A breath left you.

“Yeah, I wanted to show you both your new arrows. I adde-”

You cut him off, “He did something to the chemicals to make the arrows better.”

“Reaction. I increased the force of the chemical reaction.”

“Same difference.”

Beetee took a deep breath, closing his eyes and then reopening them. “Since you’re so… well-versed, you can explain it to her.” You snorted at his response while he wheeled away. Beetee always had the ability to make you laugh, even if it wasn’t his intention.

When you looked away from his retreating figure, you were met with Katniss staring right at you, realizing she was still in the room. Her brows furrowed, a light, light smile on her face that would otherwise be invisible to a stranger. “I’ve never seen Beetee get so… irritated.”

The tension in your shoulders dissipated as they shook with your laughter. Nobody had seen him get annoyed often, unless you were around. “Yeah, that happens when you're stuck in the Capitol with someone for years on end.”

Beetee was always a pretty good friend. You met at a Capitol function, of course, and from then on, you made it a point to annoy him whenever you could. Besides amusing you, it also served as a reminder that he was a human, too, not just some Capitol pawn.

Snow didn’t sell Beetee, but he used him in so many other ways. You and Finnick were their pride, but insiders knew that Beetee was their prize. He was perhaps the smartest person you’d ever met, but you figured that, every once in a while, he deserved to let his guard down and just be normal for a few minutes.

And, deep down, you knew he wasn’t as annoyed as he seemed.

Even though you were laughing, the smile on the brunette’s face slowly dimmed as she looked down. Your smile disappeared. “What is it?”

She was quiet for a second until she spoke, “You and the other victors… you all seemed close.”

Seemed.

Pictures flashed through your mind, pictures of your time in the Capitol. Normally, when you thought about your time there, you pictured all the bad, all the conversations behind closed doors, all the grown men and women who used you when you were still a child. What you didn’t think about was all the kids who were there with you, all the kids who had to grow up just as you did.

Some of these people were people you killed, the same people you had conversations with, the same people who were going through exactly what you were going through.

You were close.

Until you weren’t.

You didn’t say anything for a while, letting yourself remember it all. “Yeah,” you finally responded. “Yeah, we were.” And you didn’t say anything more on the matter. You didn’t know what more there was to say. You cleared your throat, changing the topic. “Anyways, this is what Beetee wanted to show us.” You picked up the arrows, showing them to her.

She hummed, looking back up. You knew that she knew what you were doing, but fortunately, she went along with it. “Never knew you could shoot.”

“Oh, please, Everdeen, anyone who grew up in the districts can shoot.”

“Yeah, doesn’t mean they’re any good,” she retorted, shrugging.

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

She shrugged again. “I don’t know, is it?”

Another laugh left your lips, your third time laughing since arriving in 13. “You’re on, Girl on Fire.” You grabbed one of the non-incendiary arrows and a random bow lying on the table, loading the arrow in.

You faced your body to the targets across the room, bringing the bow up to your ear, pulling the arrow back, and eying the red. The corners of your lips quirked upward and, as soon as you turned your head to face Katniss, you let it fly. The look on her face made your smirk widen, turning to see that you hit the target dead-centre.

“How the hell did you just do that?” She walked closer, shock etched onto her face.

“Precision. And years of experience,” you replied, lowering the bow. “My father was a hunter.”

When you looked back at her, she had a different expression, like she was remembering something. Her eyes glazed over. “So was mine.” Her eyes found yours again, and this time, there was something there that wasn’t there before.

Back when you met, she was just Katniss Everdeen, and you were just the Princess. But now, you were both a lot more than that.

It seemed that you and Katniss Everdeen were more alike than you thought.

Right before the 74th Hunger Games, when you and Finnick were watching the training scores on TV, you didn’t think the tributes from 12 stood a chance, even though the girl had the highest score.

Watching the Games, you disregarded them completely, even as they got just as many sponsors as your tributes. You watched as Haymitch Abernathy actually tried, actually cared for these kids, but not even that deterred you.

You ignored the possibility of them winning at all. You wanted it to be your tributes, so badly. They were good. You wanted them to survive, one of them to survive, to make it out of this, to live the rest of their lives. But you should’ve known better.

No matter your best efforts, those kids died, and there was nothing you could’ve done about it.

After that, you assumed it’d go to the Careers. Glimmer and Marvel were crowd favourites, flashy and luxurious, but not as cutthroat as Cato and Clove. A part of you even rooted for them. Maybe tradition would be broken, you thought, maybe it’d go to that kid from 11. Thresh had the determination and resilience to win.

That’s why you were surprised when you turned on the TV to see Peeta and Katniss as the last ones standing.

One of us has to die; they have to have their victor.

No. They don’t.

You were even more surprised when they both walked out of that arena alive.

Peeta became Panem’s golden boy, and he knew exactly what strings to pull, as if he’d been doing this his whole life. Katniss, on the other hand, was not a performer, not the performer you knew Snow wanted her to be. You could tell she was angry, but being angry was not her job.

You knew this because it wasn’t yours, either.

People like you and her didn’t get to be angry. You were supposed to be grateful for the opportunity that the Capitol so generously bestowed upon you, not angry or sad or guilty. That wasn’t for you.

You saw so much of yourself in her. And for that reason, you thought you’d never meet her. Too rebellious, too jagged, too questioning–she was nothing that Snow wanted around the Princess. You were right; you didn’t meet her.

Until the time came for the 75th Hunger Games.

You were surprised when she was the one who came up to you. She was confident and put-together, but you knew better. This was your dance she was dancing. You could hear the lyrics so well.

She was scared.

And she was angry.

Her attitude made you like her. You could’ve been friends, you noted, but not in this lifetime, not when she was meant to be your opponent. You never thought that you and Katniss Everdeen would be friends.

Little did you know, she’d become one of the only friends you had.

“C’mon, Everdeen. You’re going easy on me,” you said, holding your arms out. Katniss stood opposite to you, lightly panting with her hands held up.

“I’m just- I’m just tired-”

“No, you’re not. You’re going easy,” you deadpanned. “Stop stalling and hit me.”

The brunette hesitated for a moment before going in for a punch that you easily caught. “You call that a punch? Where’s that Mockingjay fire?”

She scoffed, yanking her fist out of your grasp. “I’m not going to hit you, Y/N. You were just shot-”

“Well, the revolution doesn’t care if I’m shot or not.” You gestured to your body. “I’m perfectly fine. So hit me like you mean it.”

“No-”

“Hit me like I’m Snow.”

She scoffed again. “This is ridiculous. I’m not going to hit you. You’ve barely healed-”

You cut her off. “Fine. If you won’t, then I will.” Without another word, you threw a sharp punch for her face that she narrowly dodged. You didn’t miss a beat, throwing another one right after, and another one right after that like rapid fire.

She blocked your hits, but your pace didn’t alter. The two of you moved around the ring, but Katniss' hands remained in front of her face, not once swinging. You weren’t relenting; you weren’t gonna stop until she swung back.

You had almost backed her into the corner when, suddenly, the wind was knocked out of you and your back was hitting the ground. The world spun. You blinked and you were back in the arena, lying on the ground with Johanna hovering over you. You opened them and you were back in the training room, and now it was Katniss that hovered.

“Holy shit, Y/N, are you okay?” Her eyes were worried and her voice was panicked. Holy shit, she actually hit me. With that realization, a smile slowly formed on your face. “What? Why are you smiling-”

She was abruptly cut off as you swept her feet out from under her, sending her to the ground right next to you. She groaned while you laughed, almost hysterical.

If the old you could’ve seen you now. You never thought you’d be friends with Katniss Everdeen, much less that you’d be laughing with her after she kicked you.

“It’s not that funny,” she heaved, but you didn’t stop, uncontrollably giggling.

“You- you actually did it-” you cackled, tears in your eyes. She looked over at you, still panting, until you made eye contact and she was laughing, too.

You stayed there on the floor together for a while, laughing your hearts out. For all you knew, you wouldn’t get many moments like this for a while, moments where you could just lie down and rest. For all you knew, this revolution would kill you.

So there you were, the Princess and The Mockingjay, pretending that you were just Y/N, and she was just Katniss.

And for now, that made you forget about everything else.

“Please. Please, I’m begging you- please don’t do it again.” Your shoulders shook with sobs, vision blurred.

“Ah, you know that that is not how the game works, my dear.”

“Please- please, I don’t want to play anymore.”

Snow tutted. “You know the rules. You give me something, and you get something in return. If you do not give me anything, then I will take something.”

“Please, I don’t- I don’t have anything more to give-”

He sighed. “Is that so?” He didn’t give you time to say anything else. “In that case, I won’t take from you.”

You blinked the tears in your eyes away to look up at him, a chill going down your spine at his expression. He didn’t look angry. No, he was smiling. “W-what?”

He hummed. “I’ll take from Peeta.” Your heart dropped. You pulled at your restraints as he turned to leave the room.

“No, please! Please, stop! Stop!” He ignored you, walking out the door and letting the door slide closed behind him.

And then the room went black.

You shot up out of bed panting, heart racing with your eyes darting around the room. The walls were grey, but there was a window. There wasn’t a window where you were in the tribute centre. Moonlight shone into the room. There was light. There weren’t Peacekeepers waiting by your bed, waking you up when you fell asleep. You were alone. You were safe. It’s okay. You’re in 13. You’re alive.

You’re alive.

Somehow, that didn’t make it any better.

You breathed in and out slowly, trying to regain control of your breathing like how Dr. Terren showed you. When you were rescued, you couldn’t breathe and you couldn’t be consoled. This feeling that you felt right now was like that, but you don’t know if any panic attack could ever compare to that one.

You were rescued. But it didn’t feel that way.

It didn’t feel that way at all.

Once you calmed down or reached some semblance of feeling calm, your mind went right back to Peeta. You hadn’t been to see him since you first arrived in 13–and even then, you didn’t speak. He wasn’t really in a condition to be spoken to. That’s what you tell yourself, at least. But there was more to it than that.

There was always more to it than what you were willing to acknowledge.

As if your body was moving on its own accord, you threw your bed sheets to the side, slipping on a sweater and sliding your feet into the slippers next to your bed. Walking out of the room, you didn’t spare the clock a glance, walking with a subtle determination that many wouldn’t understand.

You called it a victor’s drive. It was a certain determination that came with fighting for your life, even if it meant taking another’s. It was not wanting to kill, but doing it anyway. It was not wanting to live, but doing that, too.

There were many things a victor did not want to do.

And there were just as many things that you’d do, anyway.

A part of you didn’t know where you were going while the other part was sure of herself. Regardless, you let your body take you to where your mind didn’t want to go, making your way through the dark hallways with no sound other than your feet heard.

Before you knew it, you stood in front of the glass wall that you hadn’t seen since you first got to 13. On the other side lied Peeta, looking no better than the last time you saw him. His screams echoed throughout your brain.

Please! Stop! No-

You screwed your eyes shut, trying to block out the noise that surrounded you even in such silence. His screams quieted after a few seconds, but no matter your resilience or techniques the doctor taught you, no matter what, you’d never be able to silence your song.

There was a time when you almost believed that you could escape it, the music. When Finnick and you were pretending, it felt like you could really have it, a family, like one day it would be more than pretending. But now you knew that wasn’t possible.

This song would never skip.

And you’d be dancing until the day you died.

When you opened your eyes, you were met with blue ones staring back at you, as if he knew you were there. You took in a sharp breath, scared, but maintained your stare. His hair looked shorter and more unkept than you’d ever seen it. It wasn’t so gold anymore.

Peeta’s eyes were blue, but not blue like Finnick’s. They were bright like the sky and full of a childlike innocence that you no longer saw. His eyes weren’t so bright anymore.

He looked like a ghost.

And maybe that’s what you looked like, too.

Without thinking, you went for the door, pulling the handle only for it to remain still. You furrowed your brows, trying again with the same outcome. That’s when you saw the pin pad on the side and realized that it was locked.

Of course, it was. They weren’t gonna leave Peeta Mellark in a room by himself with the door unlocked. Not this Peeta.

This Peeta had to be strapped down to the bed because his one and only objective was to kill the woman he loved. This Peeta wasn’t the same Peeta you met at the parade.

This wasn’t him at all.

With that realization, you turned around, letting his eyes burn into your skull as you walked away. You weren’t sure of anything, but what you were sure of was that you couldn’t be alone right now. If you listened to the music by yourself right now, you didn’t know what you’d do.

Your feet pitter-pattered against the floor in quick motions. You didn’t know where you were going, just that you needed to find Johanna. If you couldn’t talk to Peeta, then you needed to talk to her.

Suddenly, you turned a corner and went tumbling to the ground. You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the fall, but it never came. Slowly, you opened them and the first thing you saw were another set of blue eyes, not bright or vibrant, but your favourite colour.

Finnick.

Your heart sped up. Suddenly, you could feel that the hands on your arms were his. Suddenly, you realized you were in Finnick Odair’s arms.

You think he only just realized that, too.

He cleared his throat, helping you up and letting you go. As soon as his hands were no longer on your skin, you felt cold. You felt just as cold as when the two of you were in the Capitol, standing outside together.

Except, now, you couldn’t hold each other like you did then.

Even if it was the one thing you wanted more than anything in the world.

Your breath got caught in your throat as you realized just how close he was. He was right there, in front of you.

You’re not alone in this, okay? I’m right here.

Right here.

And not at all at the same time.

He looked at you quietly, not saying a word, but after so long, you’d learned to read Finnick well. He looked like he had so much to say but couldn’t find the words to put them in. He looked like how he looked that night, that night that you were in the Capitol and that poor boy and girl died, that night that you kissed for the first time.

But as you looked at him, really looked at him, he also looked nothing like the Finnick you knew. You’d avoided looking into his eyes ever since you got to 13, in fear of what you’d see, and now that you finally were, you could see that his eyes weren’t so lively anymore. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

Could you ever?

“What are you-” he cleared his throat again, “What are you doing up?”

At his question, you diverted your eyes, suddenly finding the floors much more interesting to look at. “I, um, I couldn’t sleep,” you reasoned. You didn’t explain why.

“Yeah, neither could I,” he muttered back, voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t explain, either.

There was a time when you’d seek him out if you couldn’t sleep, a time when you’d go to him if you had a nightmare. That wasn’t possible anymore.

If you danced with him, you didn’t know if he’d be enough to keep you from collapsing.

If you danced with him, you didn’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep going.

After a beat of silence, you spoke, “I should, um… I should get going now.”

You moved to leave, but Finnick grabbing onto your wrist stopped you. You masked your flinch, not because someone was touching you anymore, but because of who that person was. Your skin ignited so hot that it burned.

“Wait, can-” he hesitated, “can we talk?”

Your breath hitched, back still turned to him. His voice was pleading, a tone you never would’ve imagined him taking when you first met. You closed your eyes at the memory, feeling tears gather.

You wanted to say yes—oh, you always wanted to say yes to Finnick. His happiness became the only thing you strived for. You stayed with him even when you knew he loved Annie, you fought for her, you volunteered for her, you pretended you were okay, you pretended you didn’t love him, you pretended all the time.

But you couldn’t pretend anymore.

A nation was counting on you. People were counting on you. People needed you.

You couldn’t fall apart right now. And if you talked to Finnick, you weren’t sure you’d be able to put yourself back together again.

“I-” your voice cracked, “I can’t-”

“Please. Please, Y/N, I just need to talk to you.” You shook your head, holding in the sobs that were begging to escape.

Why was he doing this to you? Why, why, why, why, why, why-

“Please.”

Y/N, please. I’m just asking you to trust me. Please just trust me.

Trust you to do what?

I just need you to trust me, Y/N, please. Trust me.

I trust you.

You would die for this man. You died for this man. And if it came down to it, you’d die again if it meant that he’d get to live in a better world. But you couldn’t talk to him now.

If you talked to him, then it didn’t matter what the Capitol would throw at you, what bullets you’d take. Those eyes would drown you.

You couldn’t do this. Not now.

“No.” You removed your hand from his grasp and walked away as fast as you could, even as your feet felt anchored to the ground, each step hurting more and more. You didn’t turn back once.

The tears that you held in fell as you walked away, running down your face like a waterfall. You walked faster and faster until your walk escalated into a run. The door to your room slid open before you ran in, locking it as it closed. You slid down the metal and let out a sob, more and more following it.

Your hands went over your ears, trying to block out the music, but it only got louder and louder.

No, no, nothing is okay!

We will never be free, Y/N.

Ladies and gentlemen, our tributes for the Hunger Games.

Mom?

President Snow used to sell me.

We are both coming home, Y/N, I swear.

May the odds be ever in your favour, darling.

You screamed in agony, nearly ripping your hair out, uncaring if anyone heard you. Your body shook with sobs and your heart ached. It hurt so bad. You never thought it could hurt this bad.

You didn’t wanna dance anymore. You didn’t wanna feel like this anymore. You didn’t wanna feel anymore at all if this was all it’d feel like.

But it didn’t matter. How you felt didn’t matter. What you wanted didn’t matter. It stopped mattering the second you won those Games, the second you stabbed that boy. You stopped being a person and became the person Snow wanted you to be. You became the Princess.

And now it was your job to make sure there wouldn’t ever be another Princess, another you, another Finnick, another Katniss, Peeta, Johanna, Haymitch, Annie, Bay—it was your job to make sure this never happened to anyone again, that there would never be another group of kids that were forced to kill each other and themselves in the process. It was your job to make sure nobody else ever felt how you felt right now.

As you reminded yourself of that, your sobs gradually subsided and your heart rate came down. You weren’t okay.

But you had to be. You still had things to do- dancing to do.

You were gonna dance one last time, for this country, for all the kids that died, for the kids you were, for the kids you could’ve had, for yourself, and for the man that you loved. You were gonna dance until you couldn’t anymore. You were gonna dance until the music stopped. And amidst all the unknown, one thing was certain.

The day the music died, so would you.

It’s the things we love most, that destroy us.

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amethystarachnid · 8 days ago

Note

I absolutely adore your Tony Stark fics and I love the fluff they usually have but I was hoping to request some angst. preferably where Tony and reader have been fighting lately cause he’s always down in the lab and won’t come to bed, then reader comes down late one night and he confesses to having nightmare’s and about being afraid, there’s a lot of reassurance and tears: maybe some yelling at the beginning and ofc fluff at the end ;3 Tysm, <3

STARK REALITIES

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: angst, angst, some more angst and some fluff / romance at the end

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.3k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): tony spending tooo much time in the lab but in the end he makes up for it <3

ᯓ★ oh I love the angst!

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You sit on the edge of the couch, arms folded tightly across your chest as you glare at the muted television. The flickering images do little to distract you from the simmering anger boiling just beneath your skin. It's late—too late for you to be awake, and certainly too late for Tony to still be in his lab. Yet, here you are, alone in the penthouse again, waiting for a man who’s made promises he doesn’t seem to care to keep anymore.

The silence of the apartment is oppressive. It stretches out, thin and brittle, like glass about to shatter. Even JARVIS, with his ever-present butler-like demeanor, seems to sense the tension and keeps his usual comments to himself. Your foot bounces restlessly against the floor, each tap echoing in the empty space like a metronome ticking away at your patience.

The elevator dings faintly, the sound nearly lost in the expansive living room, and you straighten instinctively. The doors slide open with their familiar hiss, and Tony strides out, his steps unhurried, his focus glued to the holographic projection on the tablet in his hand. He’s still wearing his grease-streaked tank top and the same pair of sweatpants he’s had on for three days straight, looking every bit like the genius billionaire inventor the world reveres but nothing like the man you fell in love with.

“You’re finally done playing God in your lab?” you say, voice laced with sarcasm sharp enough to cut steel. It’s not the greeting he deserves, but it’s the only one you’re capable of mustering right now.

Tony glances up, his brow furrowing briefly before the mask of indifference slides into place. “Nice to see you too, sweetheart,” he replies, his tone dismissive as he sets the tablet down on the kitchen counter and pours himself a glass of water.

You scoff, leaning back against the couch as your arms tighten around yourself. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s not like I’ve been waiting up for you or anything.”

“I told you I’d be working late,” he says without looking at you, his voice calm in that maddeningly detached way that makes you feel like you’re shouting into the void.

“You always work late,” you snap, your voice rising despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Do you even remember the last time we had a normal conversation? Or… hell, even a meal together that didn’t involve you shoving takeout boxes aside so you could get back to tinkering with one of your precious suits?”

Tony sighs, finally turning to face you. His face is tired, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but there’s a flicker of irritation there too, a spark that ignites your own fury. “You knew what you were signing up for,” he says, his voice edging toward defensive. “This is who I am, Y/N. It’s not like any of this is new.”

“No, it’s not new,” you agree, standing now, unable to keep still under the weight of your emotions. “But it’s worse. You’re worse. You barely look at me anymore, Tony. Half the time, I don’t even know if you’re listening when I talk to you. It’s like you’ve replaced me with… with your damn lab.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, the gesture so practiced it’s almost automatic. “You’re overreacting.”

The words hit you like a slap, and your chest tightens as a bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Overreacting?” you repeat, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. “God, you really don’t get it, do you?”

Tony crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter as he regards you with a mixture of exasperation and something that looks suspiciously like guilt. “What do you want me to say, Y/N? That I’m sorry? Fine. I’m sorry. But I have responsibilities. You think I’m down there because I enjoy ignoring you?”

“I don’t know, Tony,” you shoot back. “Do you?”

He flinches, the question hitting closer to home than either of you expected. For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the silence between you heavy and suffocating. You can feel the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not now. Not in front of him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you say finally, your voice quieter but no less firm. “You can’t keep shutting me out, Tony. I… I love you. But I can’t keep waiting for you to decide that I’m worth your time.”

His expression softens, the irritation fading to reveal the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide. He takes a step toward you, but you hold up a hand to stop him. “Don’t,” you say, your voice breaking. “Don’t say anything unless you actually mean it.”

Tony stops, his hand falling to his side. He looks at you, really looks at you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see a flicker of the man you fell in love with. But it’s not enough. Not this time.

Without another word, you turn and walk toward the bedroom, your heart heavy in your chest. You don’t slam the door behind you—you don’t have the energy for it. Instead, you close it softly, leaning against it as the tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over.

In the silence of the room, you hear Tony’s footsteps retreating back toward the elevator. Of course he’s going back to the lab. You don’t know why you expected anything different.

Sliding down to the floor, you bury your face in your hands and let yourself cry, the weight of your frustration and heartbreak washing over you in waves. You love him. God, you love him so much it hurts. But love isn’t enough to bridge the growing chasm between you. Not when he’s so determined to keep building walls.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ll ever be enough to tear them down.

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed, the sheets cold on Tony’s side. You expected it. He didn’t come to bed last night, just like he hasn’t for weeks. Still, the sight of the undisturbed pillow and blanket twists something sharp and painful in your chest.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you go through the motions of your morning routine, pretending it doesn’t bother you. Pretending it isn’t slowly eating you alive. By the time you make it to the kitchen, you find evidence of Tony’s presence—an empty mug in the sink, a crumpled napkin on the counter—but he’s nowhere to be found.

He’s in the lab. Of course.

Despite the ache in your chest, you decide to try again. Maybe today will be different. Maybe he’ll look at you like he used to, with warmth and affection instead of that distracted, faraway gaze he’s perfected over the past few months.

You make coffee, brewing it just the way he likes. It’s a small thing, but it feels like an offering, a token of the love you’re struggling to keep alive. Balancing the steaming mug in your hand, you head toward the lab, your heart heavy but hopeful.

When you step inside, the familiar hum of machinery greets you, along with the sight of Tony hunched over his workbench. His hair is a mess, his eyes glued to the glowing hologram in front of him. He doesn’t even look up when you enter.

“Morning,” you say, forcing cheerfulness into your voice.

“Morning,” he mumbles, not bothering to glance your way.

You place the coffee beside him, lingering for a moment in case he acknowledges you. But he doesn’t. He keeps tinkering, muttering under his breath about calibrations and power outputs.

“Thought we could have breakfast together,” you try, your voice softer now, hesitant.

“Can’t. Busy,” he replies curtly, tapping at the hologram with quick, precise movements.

Your heart sinks. “You’re always busy, Tony.”

“Yeah, because someone has to be,” he snaps, finally looking at you but only to shoot you a brief, irritated glare.

The words sting, and you bite your lip to keep the tears at bay. “Right. Of course. Sorry for interrupting.”

You turn and walk away before he can see how much his dismissal hurts. The coffee sits untouched on the table, a silent reminder of your failed attempt to connect with him.

Later, you sit in a café with your closest friends, picking at the edges of a croissant you have no intention of eating. The conversation around you is lighthearted, but you’re too distracted to participate. Eventually, one of them notices your silence.

“Y/N? You okay?”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

They don’t buy it. They never do. “Come on, what’s going on? Is it Tony?”

The mention of his name is enough to make your carefully constructed façade crumble. You sigh, leaning back in your chair as you stare out the window. “It’s… it’s like he’s not even there anymore. I try to talk to him, to spend time with him, but it’s like I don’t exist. He’s always in his lab, and when he does talk to me, it’s just… nothing. He doesn’t see me. Not really.”

Your friends exchange glances, their concern evident. “Maybe you need to stop trying so hard,” one of them suggests gently. “Let him come to you for a change. See if he notices.”

The idea lodges itself in your mind, and though it feels counterintuitive, you decide to try. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you’re smothering him. Maybe giving him space will make him realize what he’s missing.

The next few days are agony.

You stop going to the lab. You stop leaving coffee by his workstation. You stop waiting up for him at night. You don’t even text him anymore. It’s excruciating, every second of silence stretching longer and heavier than the last.

Tony doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t come to bed. He doesn’t ask where you are. He doesn’t even look for you. Days turn into nights and then into more days, and the distance between you grows until it feels insurmountable.

You start to feel like a ghost in your own home, haunting the spaces you used to share. The living room, the kitchen, the bedroom—all of them feel emptier than ever. Even when Tony is there, it’s like he isn’t.

You try to distract yourself. You throw yourself into work, into hobbies, into anything that might fill the gaping void in your chest. But it’s no use. You miss him. God, you miss him so much it’s unbearable.

One night, you find yourself sitting on the couch, staring at the empty hallway that leads to the lab. Your chest is tight, your hands trembling as you fight the urge to go to him. You promised yourself you wouldn’t. You promised yourself you’d wait for him to come to you.

But he hasn’t.

And deep down, you know he won’t.

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, and you curl in on yourself, pressing your face into your hands as sobs wrack your body. You’ve never felt so lonely, so unloved, so utterly invisible.

This isn’t what love is supposed to feel like.

A week passes before you finally see Tony again. He emerges from the lab late one night, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. You’re sitting on the couch, the TV playing softly in the background, but you don’t acknowledge him.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze flickering toward you. For a second, you think he’s going to say something, but then he turns and heads to the kitchen without a word.

It’s the final straw.

You stand, your hands clenched at your sides as you follow him. He’s pouring himself a glass of water when you speak, your voice trembling with barely contained emotion.

“Do you even care anymore?”

Tony freezes, the glass halfway to his lips. Slowly, he sets it down and turns to face you. “What are you talking about?”

“You!” you shout, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in. “Us! This… whatever this is! Do you even care? Because it doesn’t feel like it, Tony. It hasn’t felt like it for a long time.”

His brow furrows, confusion and defensiveness warring on his face. “Of course I care. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then show me!” you plead, your voice breaking. “God, Tony, I’ve been trying so hard, and you don’t even notice. I’ve given you space, I’ve stopped bothering you, I’ve waited for you to come to me, and you haven’t. Not once.”

He looks away, his jaw tightening. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy,” you repeat bitterly. “Right. Busy. Always busy. Too busy to talk to me, to spend time with me, to even look at me. Is that all I am to you? A distraction?”

Tony’s silence is deafening, and it cuts deeper than any words ever could.

You feel your heart shatter as you take a shaky step back. “I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Without waiting for a response, you turn and walk away, the weight of your heartbreak threatening to crush you with every step. You don’t know where you’re going, but you know you can’t stay here. Not like this.

Not when it feels like you’re already gone.

Tony's p.o.v.

I don’t hear the bedroom door shut behind her, but I feel it. That silence—the kind that wraps around your chest like a steel vice—settles over the room, and I just stand there, staring at the glass of water in my hand like it holds the answers I need. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

Her words ring in my ears long after she’s gone. Do you even care anymore? Of course I care. God, of course I care. She knows that, doesn’t she?

Doesn’t she?

I don’t follow her. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know what the hell to say if I do. Every time we talk lately, it’s a minefield. One wrong step, and everything blows up.

So, I stay put. Like a coward.

I drain the glass in one gulp and set it down harder than I mean to, the sharp clink echoing in the empty kitchen. My hands are shaking. My hands never shake.

I retreat to the lab because it’s the only place that feels safe anymore. It’s easier down there—quiet, predictable, full of problems I can solve with equations and torque adjustments. Not the kind of problems that have your girlfriend looking at you like she doesn’t recognize you anymore.

The elevator ride feels longer than usual. Or maybe that’s just my guilt stretching out the seconds. When I step into the lab, the familiar hum of machinery greets me, and for a moment, I can almost pretend everything’s fine.

But it’s not.

I drop into the chair by my workstation and rub a hand over my face. The holograms I left running earlier flicker back to life, but I can’t focus on them. All I can see is the way she looked at me—her eyes red-rimmed, her voice cracking. She’s been crying. Again.

I hate that I’m the reason.

The worst part? I don’t even know when it got this bad. It didn’t happen overnight. It crept in, slow and insidious, until one day we were strangers living under the same roof.

I’ve been here before. Not with her, but with people I’ve cared about. Pepper. Rhodey. Hell, even my parents. I’m great at pushing people away—gold medal level, actually—but this? This is different. This is her.

And I’m screwing it up.

Days blur together. I bury myself in work because it’s what I do best. There’s always something to fix, always some new crisis to prepare for, always another project to distract me from the sinking feeling in my gut.

But no amount of work can distract me from the emptiness in the penthouse. She’s still here—I hear her moving around sometimes, quiet as a ghost—but we don’t see each other. She doesn’t come to the lab anymore, and I don’t go looking for her.

I tell myself it’s for the best. Give her space. Let things cool down. That’s what people do, right? They take time to figure things out.

But the days stretch on, and the silence between us grows louder.

One night, I sit in the lab staring at the half-finished schematics for a new suit, and my mind won’t stop replaying her voice. I can’t do this anymore.

It’s not the first time she’s said something like that, but this time it sounded different. Final.

The thought sends a jolt of panic through me. What if she meant it? What if she’s done?

My hands tighten into fists, and I shove back from the desk, pacing the length of the lab like a caged animal. I’ve been here before, too—standing on the edge of losing someone who matters. Every time, I tell myself I’ll do better, and every time, I fall back into the same damn patterns.

But this time… this time feels worse. Because I don’t just care about her. I need her.

I grab the tablet off the desk and scroll through the security feeds until I find her. She’s in the living room, curled up on the couch with a blanket pulled tightly around her. The TV is on, but she’s not watching it. She’s staring at the floor, her expression blank, like she’s not even there.

The sight punches me in the gut.

I want to go to her. I want to tell her I’m sorry, that I’ll do better, that she means more to me than any suit or project ever could. But the words catch in my throat, trapped behind years of bad habits and emotional walls.

Instead, I turn off the tablet and pour myself another drink.

A week goes by, and I start to wonder if this is it. If this is how we end—not with a fight, but with silence.

The thought terrifies me.

I sit in the lab one night, staring at the arc reactor glowing in my chest. It’s supposed to keep me alive, this thing I built with my own two hands. But right now, it feels like it’s killing me. Because what’s the point of staying alive if I’m driving away the one person who makes it worth it?

I think about going upstairs, about finding her and saying everything I’ve been too afraid to say. But what if she doesn’t want to hear it? What if I’m too late?

The thought paralyzes me. So, I stay in the lab, surrounded by machines that can’t fix this.

Y/n's p.o.v.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. One moment, you’re staring at the ceiling, trying to will yourself into calm, and the next, you’re dreaming. At first, it’s nothing—a blur of memories and emotions—until suddenly, it’s not.

You’re in the penthouse, calling out Tony’s name. The rooms are dark, unfamiliar, like you’re walking through a house you no longer belong to. You call again, but there’s no answer. Panic builds in your chest, clawing at your ribs.

When you finally find him, he’s standing in the middle of the lab, surrounded by blue holograms and the hum of machinery. Relief floods you, and you step toward him, but something’s wrong. He won’t look at you.

“Tony,” you say, your voice trembling. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, his voice cold and detached.

The words hit you like a slap. “What are you talking about?”

He finally turns to face you, and the look in his eyes is like ice. “This. Us. It’s too much. I’m better off alone.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You don’t mean that.”

But he does. You can see it in the way he turns away, in the finality of his movements as he walks out of the lab, out of the house, out of your life. You try to follow him, but your feet won’t move, like you’re rooted to the spot. You scream his name, over and over, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look back.

And then you wake up.

Your chest heaves as you sit up, your heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribs. The room is dark, the sheets twisted around you, damp with sweat. For a moment, you can’t breathe.

It was just a dream.

But the panic doesn’t ease.

You reach out instinctively, your hand searching for him in the dark, but his side of the bed is empty. The sheets are cold.

“Tony?” you call out, your voice hoarse.

Silence.

The panic surges again, a tidal wave crashing over you. You throw off the covers and stumble out of bed, your legs trembling as you make your way to the door. The penthouse is quiet—too quiet—and every shadow feels like it’s mocking you.

You know where he is.

Your feet carry you toward the lab, your breath hitching with every step. Tears blur your vision, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

By the time you reach the lab, you’re sobbing, your chest heaving with a mix of fear and relief as you see him sitting at his workbench. He’s hunched over, focused on something in his hands, the glow of the arc reactor casting soft blue light across the room.

“Tony,” you choke out, your voice breaking.

He startles, turning toward you, and the moment he sees you, his expression shifts from confusion to concern. “Y/N? What—what’s wrong?”

You can’t get the words out. You take a shaky step forward, then another, until you’re standing in front of him, tears streaming down your face.

“I thought you—” You can’t finish the sentence. The dream is still too fresh, the fear too real.

Tony stands immediately, his hands reaching for you. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

The moment his arms wrap around you, the dam breaks. You cling to him, sobbing into his chest, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt like he might disappear if you let go.

“I thought you left,” you whisper between sobs. “I dreamed you left, and I couldn’t find you, and I—”

He pulls you closer, his hand cradling the back of your head as he presses his lips to your temple. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice steady and soothing. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“But you’re always here,” you cry, gesturing weakly toward the lab. “You’re always in the lab, and I—I feel like I’ve already lost you, Tony. And then the dream—”

“Shh,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. He cups your face in his hands, tilting your head up so you can see the sincerity in his eyes. “Listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been a shitty boyfriend lately, and I hate that I’ve made you feel like this.”

Your lip trembles as you try to speak, but he shakes his head, cutting you off gently.

“You’re the most important thing in my life, Y/N,” he says, his voice breaking. “Not this lab, not the suits, not any of it. You. And I know I’ve been taking you for granted, and I hate myself for it. But I swear to you, I’m going to do better. I’m going to make this right.”

His words are like a balm on your heart, but the fear still lingers. “What if you don’t?” you whisper.

“I will,” he says, his hands framing your face like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world. “I swear to you, I will. I’m going to spend less time in the lab. Hell, I’ll shut it down for a week if that’s what it takes. I’ll take you out, we’ll go somewhere—anywhere you want. Just say the word, and I’ll do it.”

You search his eyes, looking for any sign of insincerity, but all you see is the raw, unfiltered love you’ve been missing for so long.

“I love you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

The tears start again, but this time they’re different. They’re not from fear or sadness but from relief, from the overwhelming weight of his words sinking in.

“I love you too,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you wrap your arms around him.

He holds you tight, his lips brushing against your hair as he murmurs reassurances over and over, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he stops.

For the first time in months, the knot in your chest starts to loosen. It’s not perfect—it’s not fixed—but it’s a start.

And as you stand there in his arms, the steady hum of the arc reactor filling the room, you let yourself believe that maybe everything will be okay.

Tony doesn’t let go of you, not even for a second. He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his arms wrapped so tightly around you that it’s almost as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip. His hand strokes your back in slow, comforting circles as your breathing starts to even out, the weight of your nightmare slowly ebbing away.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your hair, his voice softer than you’ve heard it in weeks. “I’ve got you, and I’m never letting go.”

You press your face into his chest, the steady hum of the arc reactor soothing in a way you didn’t think it could be anymore. His warmth, his scent, his presence—they’re everything you’ve been aching for, and now that you have them, you’re terrified of losing them all over again.

“Come on,” Tony says gently, his lips brushing against your temple. “Let’s get out of here. You need rest, and I’m not letting you wake up alone again.”

You nod, too drained to argue, and he shifts just enough to pick you up, cradling you against him like you weigh nothing. He’s always been strong, but this feels different—like he’s carrying you not just physically but emotionally, too.

When he lays you down in bed, he doesn’t hesitate to climb in beside you. He pulls you close, tangling his legs with yours and wrapping his arms around you like he’s determined to make up for every night he’s spent away. You feel his lips press softly against your forehead, then your cheek, and finally, he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ve been an idiot, and I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t my everything. Because you are, Y/N. You’re everything to me.”

You don’t say anything. You just bury your face in his chest and let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you into the most peaceful sleep you’ve had in months.

When you wake up the next morning, he’s still there.

True to his word, Tony doesn’t let himself get sucked back into the lab. The very next day, he shuts down half his projects, instructing JARVIS to notify him only in case of emergencies. You don’t realize how serious he is until he emerges from the lab with a packed suitcase in one hand and a mischievous grin on his face.

“You,” he says, pointing at you like he’s just cracked the code to the universe, “and me. Anywhere you want to go. Name it.”

You laugh, thinking he’s joking, but when you realize he’s not, your heart skips a beat. “You mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “You’ve been stuck with the brooding, workaholic version of me for too long. It’s time you got the fun one again. Now, come on—where to? Paris? Rome? That weird island with the bioluminescent plankton?”

You can’t help but laugh at the way he lists the options like a kid flipping through a catalog. “Tony, we don’t have to go anywhere fancy—”

He cuts you off with a kiss, his lips warm and soft against yours. “This isn’t about fancy. This is about you and me, getting out of here and seeing the world. So pick a place, any place.”

You do, and before you know it, you’re on a plane to Italy, watching the sun set over the Mediterranean with a glass of wine in your hand and Tony’s arm draped casually around your shoulders. It’s the first of many trips—each one more magical than the last.

In Paris, he takes you to a quiet little bistro tucked away in a cobblestone alley, where the two of you share a bottle of wine and laugh until your sides hurt. He even attempts to speak French to the waiter, which ends in spectacular failure and has you both in stitches.

In Tokyo, he gets you lost in a maze of neon-lit streets, insisting he doesn’t need a map because “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, remember?” You end up finding a tiny ramen shop that serves the best bowl of noodles you’ve ever had, and Tony spends the rest of the night bragging about his “impeccable sense of direction.”

In Egypt, he arranges for a private tour of the pyramids at sunrise. You watch the sky turn shades of pink and gold as he wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Beautiful,” he says, but when you glance at him, he’s not looking at the pyramids—he’s looking at you.

It’s not just the grand gestures, though. It’s the little things that make your heart ache in the best way. The way he holds your hand on crowded streets, the way he carries your bags even when you insist you can manage, the way he sneaks kisses when he thinks no one’s looking.

One night in Santorini, he surprises you with a candlelit dinner on the balcony of your villa. The view is breathtaking—the whitewashed buildings glowing against the deep blue of the sea—but it’s nothing compared to the way Tony looks at you across the table.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says out of nowhere, his voice quiet but earnest.

You reach across the table to take his hand. “You’re wrong. We deserve each other.”

He smiles, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re too good for me, you know that?”

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” you counter, leaning forward to press a kiss to his hand.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm—one that feels like the way things used to be, before the fights and the distance. He’s not perfect—there are days when he slips back into his old habits, disappearing into the lab for hours—but he always makes up for it.

He surprises you with breakfast in bed, takes you on spontaneous dates, and even sits through a rom-com marathon with you, groaning dramatically every time a character makes a clichéd speech.

“I can’t believe people watch this stuff voluntarily,” he grumbles during one particularly cheesy scene, but the way he keeps sneaking glances at you suggests he’s enjoying it more than he lets on.

It’s not just about making up for lost time—it’s about creating new memories, new traditions, new reasons to fall in love with each other all over again.

And every time he holds your hand or whispers something ridiculous in your ear to make you laugh, you’re reminded of why you fell in love with him in the first place.

He’s Tony Stark—brilliant, infuriating, impossible Tony Stark. And as much as he drives you crazy sometimes, he’s also the man who loves you with every fiber of his being, the man who would move heaven and earth to make you happy.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

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sweets-library · 2 months ago

Text

care and consequence

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 7.9k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU. 18+ content warnings: spanking, improper use of a hairbrush, punishment, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline and D/S dynamics

a/n: holy shit guys, the reception on that last one was actually insane, thank you all so much! i hope you guys like this one too, I'm sorry it took so long! i have a lot of personal life drama going on rn, plus I'm sick again :/ anyways, enjoy and strap in, its a long one! ao3

You had regretted coming to the bar about an hour ago, though you’d never admit it. The music thrummed in your chest, matching the relentless pounding in your head. Around you, people were dancing, drinking, and laughing, lost in their own worlds. As much as you wanted to join in, your body felt like it was rebelling against you. Still, you clung to the idea that one more drink might just do the trick.

Navigating through the chaotic sea of heroes, you pushed your way to the bar and ordered a vodka cranberry with a shot on the side. Your last drink had taken a while to finish, but this one? This one needed to count. The bartender turned away, and just as you started to feel the room sway, the door flew open with a booming, "WHAT IS UP, PARTY PEOPLEEEEE!"

Ah, Mic made it!. He had been unsure if he could, with the radio show’s schedule, but he must’ve handed the reins to someone else to show up fashionably late. You watched as he carved a path through the crowd, greeting everyone with that infectious energy, before you turned your attention back to your drinks. Downing the shot in one swift motion, you grabbed your cocktail, setting your sights on Nemuri.

You found her in conversation with Kamui Woods and Mount Lady, her laughter carrying over the din. Sliding up beside her, you felt the brush of her nails as she pinched your side with a knowing grin. Without missing a beat, she continued chatting, but you knew she had clocked you. You were happy to wait, sipping your drink and letting its warmth spread through you, barely tuning into the conversation until Nemuri said her goodbyes.

She grabbed your hand, giggling as she pulled you onto the dance floor, and you let her lead—hoping the music might drown out how unwell you felt.

As the tequila and vodka settled into your veins, the world around you softened into a hazy blur of neon lights and pulsing bass. The club was packed, bodies moving in sync with the heavy beat that rattled the floor beneath your feet. Strobe lights flickered overhead, casting quick flashes of colour across the writhing crowd, while smoke machines filled the air with a thin mist that clung to your skin. The music was loud, so loud that it vibrated through your chest, matching the heat rising in your cheeks.

You finally started to feel it, the carefree buzz you’d been chasing all night. The alcohol loosened your limbs, and you let yourself get lost in whatever dirty, hypnotic rhythm Nemuri was dragging you into. Around you, people shouted over the music, laughed too loudly, and clinked glasses at the bar. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, spilled drinks, and the faint hint of perfume mingling with something more electric. It was the kind of energy that pulled you in deeper, making everything else fade away.

A few songs passed in a blur of flashing lights and sweaty bodies. You floated from partner to partner, dancing with Thirteen, Snipe, and Nemuri again, before you found yourself twirled straight into the arms of Present Mic.

“Zashi! Hi!” you practically shouted, grinning at him with the same excitement that buzzed through the room. It felt like he was the only one who hadn’t made it to the party yet, and now, everything was perfect. You could imagine him being stopped by every person on the way in, catching up and spreading his contagious energy.

“Heya, baby, how’s it hangin’?” he grinned, pulling you in so close you could feel the bass rumbling through his chest. But even here, his voice cut through the noise effortlessly.

“Soooo good! I love dancing, I’m so happy you came! Thought you’d get stuck at the station,” you gushed, letting the sway of the music carry you from foot to foot.

He laughed and gave you a playful dip, sending you squealing in delight as the room spun for a brief moment. But when he pulled you back up, his smile faltered as you coughed into your arm, the noise cutting through the music like a reminder that not everything was as smooth as the party felt.

“Gave one of the interns the mic for the night. She was over the moon to take it,” Hizashi said with a chuckle, leaning in closer to cut through the pounding music. His usual energy seemed slightly tempered, though his voice still carried effortlessly. He lowered his tone as he added, “Didn’t think you’d make it out tonight. Shouta told me earlier you weren’t feeling so hot.”

At the mention of your boyfriend, you scanned the room out of habit, already knowing he wasn’t there. This kind of scene was never his thing; too loud, too crowded. Besides, he had patrol tonight.

“Sho’s just paranoid. I’m fine, see?” you replied, brushing off the comment with a lighthearted twirl under Hizashi’s arm. The movement made your head spin a bit, but you ignored it, flashing him a grin as you let go of his hand, intent on heading back to the bar for another drink. Before you could get far, his arm looped around your waist, pulling you back gently but firmly.

“Hey, you trying to leave me all alone out here? This party’s not even close to over,” Hizashi laughed, his voice rising just above the thrum of the bass. You joined in his laughter, not noticing how, with each song, he subtly steered you away from the bar. The colours around you swirled in a kaleidoscope of neon lights, flickering across faces and catching in the smoke-filled air. Every beat seemed to vibrate through your body, keeping you in a daze of music, movement, and heat.

As the hours blurred, so did the people. Dance partners came and went, their faces brief ly illuminated by strobe lights before they disappeared back into the crowd. But through it all, Hizashi never left your side, keeping a playful hand on your shoulder or at your waist as if he were your lifeline in the chaotic sea of bodies.

Then, a slower song melted into the speakers, and the mood shifted. The lights dimmed to soft blues and purples, and the frenetic energy on the dance floor calmed. Hizashi took the opportunity to pull you close, his arm wrapping around you with a gentleness that felt comforting against the heat of the room. Your head fell naturally onto his shoulder as the world seemed to slow down for the first time that night. The sway of the music was soothing now, and the chatter around you dropped to a murmur.

Couples paired off, holding each other close, moving in time to the slow beat, while others used the moment to catch their breath. The heavy scent of spilled drinks, sweat, and perfume lingered in the air, but here, in Hizashi’s arms, you felt an odd sense of calm. You giggled softly as he whispered in your ear, making quiet jokes about the unlikely pairings that had formed on the dance floor. His voice was steady and warm, grounding you.

But then, he stopped abruptly. The sway of his body stilled, and you blinked, the moment interrupted. Confused, you lifted your head to look at him, but his attention was no longer on the dance floor.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I think your song’s been played out,” Hizashi said softly, his voice taking on a tone that felt more final than playful. You lifted your head to question him, confusion crossing your face, but before you could get a word out, he spun you around; right into the arms of someone new.

Or rather, someone far more familiar than you would have preferred.

“Shouta!” you gasped, looking up to find him staring down at you, his dark eyes narrowed in that way that instantly made you feel small. His gaze wasn’t angry, exactly, but there was a sharpness in it that cut through the fog of your drunken haze. You straightened up, biting your lip as emotions flashed across your face, impossible to hide in your current state.

“I thought you had patrol?” you asked, voice tinged with uncertainty.

“I finished early,” he said, his tone even but firm as he wrapped an arm around your waist. His grip was gentle, but the intention was clear as he began guiding you through the crowd and toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, wait, I gotta-” you started to protest, trying to twist out of his hold. But Shouta cut you off before you could finish, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“I paid your tab. You can see everyone another time,” Shouta said curtly, his voice as firm as his grip around your waist. The finality in his words made your chest tighten, but you huffed anyway, stubbornly digging in your heels.

“I promised Nemuri another dance, and I was gonna get another drink!” you protested, though the moment the words were out, you knew they were a mistake. Shouta’s gaze sharpened, his eyes darkening as they bore into you. It was a look that made your heart skip a beat and sent a nervous tremor down your spine. Your feet shuffled on instinct, your earlier defiance wilting under the heat of his stare.

“We are leaving right now, little girl,” he said, his tone low and deliberate. The words slid over you like a command, impossible to ignore. His hand drifted down to your ass, the touch firm and possessive, sending a shiver through your body. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he continued, “Unless you’d like to get a head start on your punishment in the bathroom. Here. And. Now.”

Your pulse quickened at his words, your breath catching in your throat. The heavy atmosphere of the club seemed to fade, the sound of the crowd growing distant. All that remained was the heat of his presence and the weight of his words. The tension coiled in your stomach, leaving you unsure whether to push back or submit.

“No… m’sorry. Let’s go,” you mumbled, your voice barely rising above the pulsing music, but your regretful look and the way you let him pull you along seemed to say enough. Once outside, the sudden quiet enveloped you, your ears ringing from the absence of sound. The contrast was jarring, but it was nothing compared to the weight of Shouta’s disappointment radiating off him like an invisible force.

He guided you to the car, and without even a hint of protest, you slid into the back seat. The cool leather felt grounding against your skin as he buckled you in silently, his focus unwavering. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable, as he leaned in, resting his hand on the headrest. His expression softened slightly, a hint of concern breaking through his earlier sternness.

“Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?” he inquired, his voice steady yet laced with a quiet urgency. You shook your head, trying to muster a reassuring smile, though the flutter of anxiety in your stomach made it hard.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze steady on yours. “Start drinking this.” He handed you a bottle of water, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I want at least half of it gone by the time we get home. And if you think you’re feeling sick, just tell me, and I’ll pull over.”

The seriousness in his voice made your heart race. You nodded, taking the bottle from him, the cool plastic a small comfort in the heated moment. As you unscrewed the cap, you could sense the shift in his demeanour. He was looking out for you, but there was a firmness in his words that reminded you of the line you’d crossed.

“Okay.” you mumble, staring at his chin to avoid the intensity of his eyes. He sighed and closed the door before climbing into the driver's seat and starting the journey home. The ride wasn't long but it was dead silent and it gave you enough time for some of the alcohol to wear off and the reminders that you were sick to kick in.

Shouta, of course, knew you at the very least, had a bad cold. That morning, he had taken charge, insisting you call off work and ordering you to stay in bed. He had been so sweetly concerned and caring. He had meticulously arranged everything, ensuring you had enough food and medicine at hand. You could still picture him moving around the kitchen, checking in on you with a watchful eye, his brow slightly furrowed in that familiar expression of worry.

Throughout the afternoon, he had kept in touch, sending periodic texts to check on your well-being. Each notification was a reminder of how deeply he cared. The messages were gentle nudges, urging you to rest and take care of yourself. You could almost feel his presence with each ping, as if he were there beside you, coaxing you to indulge in soup and reminding you when to take the next dose of cold and flu medicine.

But as the hours slipped by and daylight faded into evening, the excitement of your friends celebrating the end of the semester began to tug at you. The allure of laughter and music beckoned from the outside world, tempting you to leave the cocoon of blankets and soothing remedies he had encouraged you to embrace. You hadn’t mentioned your plans to Shouta, knowing full well the firm stance he had taken. He had told you when he left for his night patrol that you were to be doing nothing for the rest of the night but resting and getting better.

In a moment of weakness, you had chosen to ignore his guidance, allowing the crippling fear of missing out to get to you. Now, as the consequences of your decision loomed large, you felt a heavy weight settle in your chest, a blend of regret and dread creating a terrible cocktail with how awful you were already feeling physically.

As Shouta pulled into the driveway, the rush of emotions overwhelmed you. The tears welled up, unbidden and hot, as the guilt of your choices crashed over you like a wave. You hiccuped, desperately trying to swallow back the sobs, but it was futile. When he parked the car and came around to your door, you barely registered his movements, lost in your own turmoil. As soon as he opened the door, he unbuckled you and gathered you into his arms, cradling you against him.

“Fuck, baby, you’re okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, as he felt you trembling against him. “I know you’re not feeling too hot. Come on, let’s get you inside and into some comfy clothes. Does that sound good?”

You nodded against his shoulder, the gesture almost instinctual as the weight of your exhaustion settled in. With a gentle yet firm motion, he hoisted you out of the car, his strength reassuring. You instinctively wrapped your limbs around him like a koala, seeking the comfort of his embrace. He adjusted his hold, securing you against him effortlessly as he maneuvered to get the door open with one arm, not even considering putting you down for a moment. The night air was cool against your skin, but Shouta's warmth kept the chill at bay. As he carried you inside, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

He took care of you mostly in silence, his hands moving with a practiced ease as he guided your movements. Gently, he slipped off your heels, his touch tender against your tired feet. Without a word, he helped you out of your dress, replacing the once-glamorous outfit with the softness of your favourite pajamas. His fingers were careful as he wiped away the makeup you'd used to hide the ruddiness in your cheeks and the shadows beneath your eyes, his brow creasing slightly as he worked, focused but gentle.

When he pressed the cool glass of water into your hands, you drank obediently, the quiet rustle of him preparing the medicine a comforting sound in the background. As he handed you the pills, his eyes softened, a silent reminder that he was looking out for you. After you’d swallowed them, he guided you to sit down at your vanity, still working methodically, brushing away the remnants of the night.

The makeup wipe brushed over your nose, tickling slightly, and despite the exhaustion and the lingering tipsiness, a small giggle escaped your lips. You leaned up, catching his eyes in the mirror, and smiled mischievously, asking for a kiss. He indulged you, pressing a brief, soft kiss to your lips before continuing, his attention shifting to your hair. The tender motions of his hands as he brushed it through were almost hypnotic, lulling you into a sense of calm as he completed your nighttime routine for you.

A thought bubbled up, slipping out before you could stop it. “How did you know where I was? Thought patrol didn’t end till 4?” you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur as he turned you to face the mirror. Catching his eyes in the reflection, you saw a flicker of irritation still lingering there, and the weight of it made you shy away. You broke eye contact, your gaze dropping to the clutter of items strewn across the vanity from earlier in the night.

“Hizashi texted me when he got there,” he replied quietly, his voice steady but tinged with that edge of disappointment. You couldn't help but pout at the mention of it, feeling the sting of being caught, of letting him down. The weight of his gaze lingered on you, but you felt his concern just as deeply, even in the silence between you.

“Tattle-tale,” you mumbled under your breath, but before you could sink too far into your pout, Shouta’s fingers tipped under your chin, gently but firmly, guiding you to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“He wouldn’t have to tattle if you hadn’t been misbehaving, would he?” His voice held that familiar grumble, a mix of irritation and concern that made your heart skip. You swallowed, feeling the weight of his gaze and the undeniable truth behind his words.

“No, sir,” you murmured, looking as contrite as you felt. His expression softened slightly, and he let out a quiet puff of air, almost a sigh, before pulling you up from the vanity.

With his hand steadying you, he guided you toward the bed, but your legs still wobbled beneath you. Dizzy, you tumbled onto the mattress, a soft giggle escaping your lips as you sank into the plush blankets. Shouta rolled his eyes, but there was a tenderness behind it, and with practiced care, he shifted you to the other side and tucked you in properly, smoothing the covers over you.

“Wait, Sho... you’re not... are you mad at me?” you asked, your voice suddenly small and sincere, cutting through the haze of your tipsiness. His brow furrowed at the question, and for a moment, you held your breath, waiting for his answer.

“No, baby, I’m not mad. We’ll talk tomorrow,” he assured you, his voice softer now. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, the warmth of his lips lingering for a moment before he straightened up. Rounding the bed, he moved to his side, slipping in beside you.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew that conversation tomorrow wasn’t going to be a pleasant one. But as Shouta’s strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against his chest, the heaviness of the night melted away. His familiar scent, the steady beat of his heart, and the warmth of his body drowned out any lingering bad feelings. For now, wrapped up in him, everything felt right, and you let yourself drift into the comfort of sleep.

The morning greeted you with a vengeance, leaving you feeling every bit as awful as you feared. Your head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache, your sinuses were stuffed to the brim, and your body felt clammy and weak, so much more wrung out than you had been jus the day before. Groaning, you burrowed deeper into the blankets, hiding from the sunlight streaming through the windows. Despite the warmth of the covers, a bone-deep chill had taken root, making you shiver as you curled in on yourself.

“Wake up, baby. You have to take some medicine.” Shouta’s voice, calm and resolute, pierced your cocoon of self-pity. You whined in response, a pitiful sound muffled by the blankets.

“M’sleeping. No thanks,” you muttered petulantly, half-hoping he’d let it slide. Usually, this was when you’d hear him chuckle softly, maybe feel the comforting weight of his hand on your thigh as he gave you a few more moments to stir.

Instead, the covers were suddenly pulled back from your face, exposing you to the cool morning air and making you gasp at the loss of warmth. The sudden brightness forced your eyes to flutter open, though they quickly squinted against the light. Before you could protest, Shouta’s hand was on your face, gentle and deliberate, as he smoothed the strands of damp hair plastered to your clammy skin. The touch sent a shiver through you, the tenderness soothing away your irritation.

His expression hovered between stern and soft, his dark eyes scanning your flushed, pale face with an almost clinical precision. You could feel the weight of his worry as he brushed his thumb over your temple. Despite your exhaustion, guilt pooled in your chest, mingling with the sickness that had you pinned to the bed.

“It wasn’t really a request. Come on, sit up.” His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the firmness behind it. Before you could muster a protest, his strong hands slipped under your back and shoulders, lifting you with ease. The sudden shift left you disoriented, and before you knew it, you were propped up against the headboard.

Two pills rested on the palm he held in front of your face, his dark eyes steady and expectant. “Open,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Something in the commanding gentleness of his voice had you obeying instinctively, parting your lips without hesitation. He placed the pills on your tongue, and you grimaced as you swallowed them with a few sips of the water he pressed to your lips.

Just as you moved to push the glass away, his hand caught yours, steadying it. “Finish this,” he said firmly, guiding it back toward your mouth. The weight of his worry lingered in the way his fingers stayed wrapped around yours, ensuring you drank more.

You managed another sip, your movements sluggish and reluctant, before he spoke again, his voice softening. “Are you hungry?”

You shook your head, too weary to form words, and he nodded in quiet acceptance. “Okay,” he murmured, taking the now half-empty glass from your hands and setting it on the bedside table. His fingers brushed against your knuckles briefly, grounding you in the moment. “You can sleep a little longer until the meds kick in. We’ll talk when you’re feeling a bit better.”

You gulped and cast your eyes downward, unable to meet his steady gaze. The words he didn’t say lingered in the air, unspoken but heavy, a reminder of the talk you’d hoped that you might avoid. Shouta, ever composed, didn’t press. Instead, his hand smoothed over your hair, the motion tender and familiar, as if to reassure you that his frustration didn’t mean he cared any less.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss between your brows, a soft, lingering gesture that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t fair how easily he could dissolve your guilt and stubbornness in a single moment of care. You couldn’t even summon the faintest trace of upset, not when his touch was so gentle, so grounding. Instead, your eyelids grew heavier, the pull of exhaustion impossible to resist. With a quiet sigh, you let yourself drift, surrendering to the lull of warmth and safety he left behind.

Time passed in a haze, unmeasured and weightless. When you woke again, the pounding in your head had dulled to a faint, manageable throb, and though your limbs still felt heavy, they no longer ached with the same intensity. The room was empty now, sunlight spilling through the windows in soft golden streaks that painted the walls and the rumpled sheets beside you. If Shouta hadn't insisted on taking some medicine earlier, the light would probably be giving you the worst of headaches, but instead, you were able to enjoy the warmth. Of course, Shouta was right, as always. It was no wonder you let him take the reins so often; he had a knack for knowing exactly what you needed, even when you couldn’t see it yourself. It went beyond simple intuition, it was deliberate and unwavering care. It was why you trusted him so deeply.

If you didn’t know that, if you couldn’t feel it in the way he cared for you, you wouldn’t be in this dynamic with him in the first place. You wouldn’t be sitting here now, heart pounding in the quiet aftermath, debating whether pretending to sleep a little longer might save you from the punishment just a little longer, or if it would only make things worse.

But even as your thoughts tangled with uncertainty, you knew you wouldn’t trade this for anything. For all the moments like these, where guilt and the weight of your mistakes pressed down on you, there was always the unwavering reassurance that Shouta would steady you. He’d take you in hand, reminding you in no uncertain terms just how much you mattered to him.

He wouldn’t tolerate behaviour that diminished your worth, not in his eyes, and not in your own. It wasn’t just discipline; it was care, deeply rooted and uncompromising. And when all was said and done, forgiveness would follow, that was never an uncertainty. With Shouta, there was no lingering doubt, no unspoken resentment, only the quiet, steady rhythm of love in its most honest form.

It was about more than letting go; it was about giving that trust to someone who cherished it, someone who didn’t just take care of you but found joy in doing so. And in turn, you found joy in being cared for. It could be terrifying sometimes, to put that kind of trust in someone, but with Shouta it had always felt worth it.

You sigh and slide out of bed, resigned to your fate. The chill in the air bites at your skin, and the sickness still clings to you making you shiver. You rummage through the closet until your fingers find the familiar softness of one of Shouta’s sweaters. It’s an old crew neck, worn and slightly stretched out, big even on him and perfect for wrapping yourself in his warmth.

Pulling it over your head, you pad out to the living room on bare feet. The sight that greets you stops you in your tracks, drawing a soft, dreamy sigh from your lips.

Shouta is perched on the couch, papers spread across the coffee table in neat stacks. A faint furrow creases his brow as he grades with careful precision, the rhythmic scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. One of the cats is curled in his lap snoring, and a ray of sunlight streams through the window, bathing the scene in a golden glow that feels almost unreal. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming.

His sharp eyes flick up, catching yours as you linger in the doorway. Before he can say a word, you shuffle over and flop down beside him, burying yourself against his shoulder and letting your eyes drift closed again. The familiar scent of him wraps around you, as grounding as the weight of his presence.

“G’morning baby.” you sigh, and his arm curls around you to tug you to his side properly.

“Good morning, my love. Feeling a little better?” he murmurs, his voice soft and low, vibrating gently against your ear. You nod, nestling closer into his shoulder, letting the comforting rhythm of his breathing soothe your lingering unease.

The two of you sit in companionable silence, the occasional scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. He finishes grading the last test on his stack, and you catch a glimpse of his expression as he marks something on the page. Oof. Poor kid.

You might have dozed off again if not for the fluttering unease in your stomach, a familiar mix of guilt and anticipation. The thought of the looming punishment makes it impossible to relax entirely, though Shouta’s calm presence keeps you from fully spiralling.

And then, as if he could read your mind, he sets the papers aside with a quiet sigh. The finality of it settles in your chest like a stone. He turns his face into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple as he speaks softly, a warmth and firmness interwoven in his tone.

“We need to have a talk, little girl.”

You bite your lip, the weight of his gaze settling heavily over you. A sigh escapes your lips as you try to find the right words. “I know. I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Shouta doesn’t immediately respond. He pulls back slightly, his eyes scanning your face, assessing. The silence stretches just long enough to make you squirm.

Finally, he exhales deeply, sitting back and crossing his arms. His posture is relaxed, but the intensity in his eyes keeps you rooted in place.

“Why?” he asks, his voice calm but piercing.

Your stomach churns. You know the answer, of course, you do, but the way he asks makes your guilt multiply. He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. You glance down at your lap, your fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on your pajama pants, anything to avoid the weight of his disappointment.

“For… for not listening,” you whisper, each word sticking in your throat. “And going out when you told me not to.”

“That’s correct,” he says, his tone steady but no less cutting. “But more broadly, I’m extremely not thrilled with your complete disregard for your own health and well-being.”

The words land with a precision that makes your chest ache.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice softening but still firm. “I love taking care of you. But part of that is making sure you take care of yourself when I’m not there. I need to trust that when I tell you to rest and recover, you’ll actually listen. Instead, you put yourself in harm’s way, and for what? A few hours of fun?”

His gaze locks onto yours, and the weight of his disappointment has you nodding mutely.

“And,” he continues, his voice sharpening, “I have never, and will never, tolerate you lying to me.”

Your head snaps up, a reflexive protest bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t lie—”

The glare he fixes you with stops the words dead in their tracks. It’s a look that leaves no room for negotiation.

“What did you say,” he asks, his voice low and measured, “when I told you to spend the night resting and recovering before I left for work?”

Your cheeks burn as you break eye contact. His stare feels like a spotlight, illuminating every guilty thought you’re trying to suppress. You shift uncomfortably, your voice trembling as you admit, “I… I said, ‘Yes, Daddy.’”

The silence that follows feels deafening. You dare a glance up at him, but his expression is unreadable. The weight of your admission hangs heavy in the air, and you shrink under the judgment you can feel emanating from him.

Finally, he sighs, the sound carrying more disappointment than anger. “You know what you did,” he says, each word deliberate. “Now it’s time to face the consequences.”

Your stomach twists, dread pooling in your chest. His tone is calm, almost gentle, but it carries a finality that leaves no room for debate.

“I wouldn’t normally punish you while you’re sick,” he continues, leaning back against the couch, his voice even. “But since you seem to think that being sick has no bearing on your decisions, I won’t let it affect mine either. Stand up.”

Your knees feel weak as you scramble to obey, rising unsteadily to your feet. Confusion flickers across your face- why not just pull you over his lap like usual? Why make you stand?

“Go and get the wooden hairbrush,” he says, his voice low and dispassionate, the command sending a shiver down your spine. “The flat, square one. And lose your pants on the way.”

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it, your hands instinctively clutching at the waistband of your pajama pants.

He doesn’t budge, his expression firm, his gaze unwavering. “You heard me.”

The room feels colder as you move, your steps hesitant. The gravity of the moment weighs heavily with each step you take toward the bedroom. Your heart races as you reach for the brush, the smooth wood cool against your palm. Sliding your pajama pants down your legs, you feel your cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and anticipation. You decide to take off the sweater as well, knowing Shouta would have you sweating soon.

When you return to the living room, brush in hand and pants abandoned, Shouta’s eyes meet yours. His gaze softens slightly, a flicker of care visible beneath the stern exterior, but it does nothing to ease the butterflies raging in your stomach.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, gesturing for you to come closer. You obey silently, beyond arguing at this point. There would be no getting out of this, Shouta cares too much about you to let you get away with this. You hand over the brush and he places it on the arm of the couch, and then you fold yourself over his lap obediently. Without another word he folds your shirt up to expose the entirety of your backside, and places his hand on it, making you squirm with dread.

“Safeword?”

“Red” you whimper, accepting your fate.

He doesn't hesitate any longer, steadily applying his hand to your ass with all the restrained muscle of a pro hero, just hard enough to make sure you know exactly where you belong. The first few swats land on your bare ass, and you already want to start crying. And then he starts talking.

“Let's go through each unfortunate choice you made yesterday, shall we?” he says, and you try not to tense up at his disappointed tone.

“First, you disobeyed me when I specifically told you to stay in bed while you weren't feeling well, and second, you lied to me and said that you would be home for the night. Third, you disregarded yourself and your health, which we will be going into great detail about with the hairbrush.”

As he laid out your actions, your ass got steadily reddened, and the tears started falling against your will. You fisted the fabric of the couch and willed yourself not to squirm, knowing it would only make things worse for you.

Shouta’s voice was calm but carried the weight of unshakable authority, each word landing like a stone in your chest. “Do you think I asked you to stay home for no reason? That I ask you to listen to me for my own amusement?”

Your stomach churned at his tone, the disappointment in his voice far worse than any raised voice could have been.

“You trust me to know what’s best for you, and in turn, I trust you to be honest with me. I specifically told you to stay home, to rest and recover. Instead, I get a text from Hizashi that you’re out, you’re drinking, and completely ignoring what I asked of you. What if he hadn’t messaged me? What if I had come home to an empty house, no idea where you were, and no way to ensure you were safe?”

The image his words painted made your chest tighten with guilt. You could hear the strain in his voice, the quiet upset that cut deeper than anger ever could. You knew how much this dynamic meant to him—not just as a way to care for you, but as a source of reassurance in a life that was chaotic and dangerous. Being a pro-hero came with enough unpredictability; this was one area of his life he could keep steady.

Even with that realization weighing heavy on your chest, you couldn’t help it. Against your better judgment, a pouty response escaped your lips, soft and stubborn, laced with defiance that you immediately regretted.

“I was gonna be home before you got back—” The sharp crack of his hand meeting your thigh cut off your words with a yelp, the sting blooming as tears welled in your eyes. His hand rested firmly on the offended area, grounding you.

“That is not the point and you know it. You dont get to have a bratty attitude with me about this, or the hairbrush is going to be followed by a long time out in the corner for you to fix it. Am. I. Clear.”

“Yes- ‘m sorry, I'm sorry sir.” you cry, your face soaked and dripping onto the cushion.

“Hm. As I was saying, this will not be happening again. You misbehave, you get consequences. For the next two weeks, you will be in this house and in our bed by 9 p.m. sharp. If I’m not home, I expect a picture of you in bed, and then you will put your phone in my bedside table.”

The shame of his words was almost as unbearable as the sting still radiating from your thighs. You sobbed into the couch, mortified at the level of supervision he felt you required. “Yes, Daddy,” you whimpered, your voice hoarse.

“I am not playing about this,” he pressed on, his gaze unyielding. “If I find out you’ve stepped foot out of this apartment, you had better have a damn good reason—or you’ll find yourself right back here, no excuses. If you can’t take care of yourself on your own, I will do it for you.”

You nodded again, your sobs turning into shaky, uneven breaths. The shame was overwhelming, and yet you knew he wasn’t done.

As the spanks land, the force behind them pulls a sharp gasp from you, and each strike feels like a wave of guilt crashing over you. His words pierce through the haze of pain. "I think this way you might begin to understand how serious your actions are. His disappointment lingers in your chest, making it harder to breathe.

The spanks stopped for a moment, and you gasped, your body trembling as you tried to catch your breath. Shouta’s hands, firm and unyielding just moments ago, softened as they rubbed soothing circles on your spine. His voice, low and steady, cut through the haze of your tears.

“Breathe, baby. Take a few deep breaths,” he murmured, his tone no longer sharp but filled with an unyielding care that made your chest ache.

You hiccupped, following his instruction as you sucked in shaky gulps of air. The relief of his touch warred with the knowledge that this reprieve was temporary. Your breath finally evened out, and your tears slowed, but they didn’t stop.

“Good girl,” he said quietly, though there was no warmth in his praise—just a steady, measured approval for doing as you were told. His hand drifted to your shoulder, squeezing gently before he continued.

“Now,” he began, his tone sharp once more, “let’s discuss the way you’ve been treating your health.”

Your stomach churned, and your heart thudded as the words landed. His hand left your shoulder, and you braced yourself for what was to come, dread building with every passing second.

The hairbrush came down with a crack, the sound cutting through the room and drawing a pained cry from your lips. Shouta didn’t bother to shush you; the punishment was meant to leave a lasting impression, and he doesn't want you to hide where you are at emotionally. The strikes weren’t as rapid as the earlier flurry of his hands, but each one was deliberate, the wide, heavy impact sinking deep into your already tender skin.

You sobbed with each blow, your cries punctuating the rhythm he set.

“I will never, ever stand for you treating yourself the way you chose to last night.” His voice was calm, but the sharpness in his tone felt like another lash, hitting somewhere deeper than just your body. “You were sick- you are sick- and the fact that you thought you could just disregard that to go party makes me think you don’t understand how seriously I take your wellbeing. Not to mention how seriously I expect you to take it yourself.”

The hairbrush came down again, and you twisted slightly, though his firm grip kept you in place. The dull thud seemed to echo in your chest, a physical reminder of just how much you had messed up.

“Every part of you is important, mind and body,” he continued, the cadence of his strikes steady and unrelenting. “One of our biggest rules is that you don’t disrespect yourself, and you know very well I don’t just mean self-deprecating words. I expect you to take the same care for yourself when I’m gone that I do when I’m here.”

The words hit harder than the brush, and your quiet whimper turned into a full sob. His disappointment was unbearable, an ache in your chest that far outweighed the sting of your reddened skin.

“Clearly, you can’t be trusted to do so on your own,” he said, pausing for a moment to let his words sink in.

The tears streaking down your face weren’t just from the physical pain; they came from the overwhelming guilt of letting him down. You knew how much he valued self-care, and how hard he worked to instill that same value in you, even when he struggled to prioritize it for himself.

You sniffled, hiccuping through your tears, and a treacherous thought flitted through your mind. Hypocrite. He barely looked after himself most days. Your attitude almost made itself known again before the next blow snapped you out of your thoughts, and you yelped, realizing too late that the silence had stretched on too long.

“Every day until you are one-hundred percent better,” he said, his tone unyielding, “you’re going to sit at that table and write me fifty lines, telling me exactly how well you’re going to take care of yourself in the future.”

You let out a soft wail of protest at the thought, but he ignored it, leaning in to speak into your ear.

“And trust me, little girl, you do not want to have this discussion again.”

And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. The punishing rhythm of the hairbrush ceased, and the room settled into a heavy, tear-soaked silence. Your sobs, however, remained steady, shaking your body as it lay slumped over his lap.

Shouta’s hands shifted, their movements no longer firm and corrective but gentle, smoothing up and down your back and thighs. He didn’t rush you, letting you cry as long as you needed, his presence grounding you even as your emotions spilled over.

When your cries softened to hiccups, he gently helped you upright, maneuvering you so you were straddling his lap. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you buried your tear-streaked face into his shirt, soaking the fabric with every breathy sob. He didn’t mind; his arms held you just as tightly, encasing you in a protective warmth.

“Okay, kid,” he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of your head as he swayed you gently. “Alright, you’re okay now. I love you so much, baby.”

His voice was soft, full of love and patience, and it was that tenderness that finally cracked the dam inside you. The moment you had enough air in your lungs, you blurted out in a desperate rush:

“I’m so sorry, Daddy! I’m sorry I fucked up—I didn’t mean to! I just—I wanted—I’m just so, so sorry,” you wailed, clinging to him like a lifeline. The words poured out of you like water from a broken dam, each one carrying the weight of your regret. You weren’t just apologizing for the mistake, you were apologizing for letting him down, for making him feel like his care wasn’t enough to anchor you. The thought of betraying the trust he put in you made the tears fall faster.

“Oh, baby,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he hugged you even closer. “Okay, okay. I know. Thank you, babygirl, I know you are. You’re forgiven now, okay? You did so good for me, you’re all forgiven.”

His words were a balm to your guilt, soothing and grounding you as you took shuddering breaths, gradually winding down. Your sobs quieted into occasional hiccups, and he gently tilted you back to examine your tear-streaked face. Shouta’s soft smile held no trace of the earlier sternness. He reached over, plucking a tissue from the side table, and methodically wiped away your tears, along with the snot and drool that added to your humiliation. He discarded the tissue without a second thought, his focus entirely on you.

“Let’s go take a bath, baby, clear up your sinuses,” he murmured, his voice warm and soothing. He hoisted you into his arms with ease and carried you to the bathroom, grabbing two towels along the way. Setting them on the counter, he gingerly placed you atop them, your seated position making you just a little taller than him. He stood between your legs, his hands resting gently on your thighs, and studied your face with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice earnest and patient.

You took a moment to check in with yourself, cataloging the aches in your body, the tenderness in your emotions, and the lingering sting of your punishment. Eventually, you nodded and murmured, “Yeah, ‘m okay. I’m just really sorry.”

His brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. Leaning up, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “I know, sweetheart. I believe you.”

He didn’t push for more, understanding how fragile you felt. Instead, he gave you space, letting you sit quietly while he started filling the tub. The sound of water rushing against porcelain filled the room, and he quickly stripped down before helping you out of your oversized shirt. His movements were efficient but tender as if he were afraid to overwhelm you.

Once the tub was full, he climbed in first and extended a hand to guide you in, settling you between his legs with your back pressed firmly to his chest. The warm water enveloped you, and his arms encircled your middle, holding you close.

“There we go, my good girl,” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your temple. The praise made you shiver, the tension in your body melting away as you nestled further into his embrace.

“Always my good girl, no matter what,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you so much.”

His words wrapped around you like the heat of the water, comforting and secure, and you let yourself relax completely. This was where you belonged—wrapped in his love and care, forgiven and cherished.

#aizawa thirst #aizawa/reader #aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #daddy k!nk #daddy issues

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jaykaysthicthighs · 11 months ago

Text

The Path Of A Singer | JJK

excerpt | the appearance of your old lover pops up on tv, and the horrible memories showed itself once again.

genre | heavy angst, cheating, abuse, minor fluff

rating | 18+

warnings | strong language, present & past, toxic relationship, mental & physical abuse, jk cheating, panic attack, alcohol and drug consumption, lots of crying, heartbreaking conversations, jk being vile, lots of yelling, jk manhandles the reader, mention of abusive father, mention of ptsd, reader being selfless (you might not agree with the decisions she's made, but don't hate her; she's a broken person), maybe more

wc | 4K+ (very short)

notes | it's been a hell of a long time since i wrote and posted anything....!!!

my inspiration came from watching the movie insidious: the red door lol. the reason for the mature rating is because of the strong language, the heavy conversations said, and the talks of alcohol and drugs. i want to say that i'm not romanticizing this type of relationship or the behaviors of the characters, i'm just making a story that maybe some people might have gone through. sometimes the decisions made or thought of does not make you a bad/horrible person. everyone had a reason good or bad; you just have try to be understanding. i also tried to make this as heartbreaking as possible, but for some reason i feel like it's not. hopefully it does pull some heartstrings for you guys.

You finally arrived home after an exhausting day of work. Your roommate wasn't home yet, so, luckily for you, you're able to binge eat without the concerned eyes of your friend watching you.

You walked your way to the kitchen and made yourself some sandwiches, you also grabbed some water on the way to the living room. When you made it to the couch, you plopped down heavily. You grabbed the remote and started scrolling through the channels. You came across a channel that was showing a music festival, and without thinking about who might be performing you clicked on it.

The first performer was a group called XG. As they were performing, you happily ate while vibing to their songs. At one point, you started singing as well, not caring that you still had some food in your mouth. If the neighbors were able to hear you, they would probably think someone is dying - yelling for help.

When you finished, you got up put away your dishes, and made your way to your room to change your clothes. As you were changing, you felt a bit lonely. You and your friend don't have any pets, no companion to keep any of you guys company. You exited your room with a simple sweater and shorts.

You made it back to the living room with a content expression on your face, unfortunately, it wouldn't last long. As you were about to get yourself situated on the couch, you looked at the TV screen, and the one person you never wanted to see again was singing.

You fell to your knees with a hard thud, watching the screen with horrid eyes. It's been three years since you saw him. In those three years, you tried your damned hardest to avoid anything and everything that involved him in it. The pain he caused you still resides in your little heart.

You didn't realize but you started crying; the tears rapidly falling. Your body started shaking; the little goosebumps displaying your skin. Your chest felt heavy like a huge wave crashing on you, and the water is rising up into your nose, making it hard for you to breathe. You felt like you were suffocating, and the lack of air was making your head light; dizziness taking its place.

On the outside, you were frozen, but on the inside, you were trying to claw your way out. You felt like you were scratching every surface of your body, but you weren't moving an inch. Your brain was screaming for help, but the only thing leaving your mouth was the hardness and unstableness of your breathing. Right now, you were wishing for your friend to come home right now and save you.

Three Years Ago

You were in your car driving your way to your boyfriend. Jungkook's manager called you demanding that you come and pick him up. You don't really know what happened, but from how his manager sounded, you were thinking that he got himself drunk and high again, causing thoughtless actions.

Not too long ago, Jungkook was able to get into his dream record label. After years and years of hard work, passion, and dedication he was able to pursue his dream. What you didn't realize is that with Jungkook getting to follow his dream of being a singer, he would soon lose his sense of self. In just two weeks he was starting to drink, and in another week, he started experimenting with drugs.

As time went on, so did your patience. You would try and try to stop him - to help him, but every time Jungkook would stop your advances. Pushing you away and causing you pain made Jungkook feel superior, it made him feel proud that he reached a certain height in life.

Your guy's relationship now consists of yelling and crying. Jungkook started to mentally abuse you, but even so, you would accept it. You didn't have the strength to leave him - to leave the man you love since middle school. You couldn't leave the man who would write songs about you, the man who would wake up during dawn and make you a big breakfast, the man who would call you no matter the time, the man who would always tell you how much he loves you every second of the day. You didn't have the strength to leave him.

With all your anger, you finally made it to the studio in one piece. When you entered the building, the looks on the staff's faces were concerning you. One of the staff went up to you and told you to not go inside the studio. You looked at them judgingly and pushed your way through them, but they still tried to stop you.

"What is the problem? Let me through!" you yelled. They gave you a sad look and apologized, "I'm sorry ma'am, but Jungkook is very busy, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to go inside there." Your anger was boiling, steam coming out of your ears. "Sorry for yelling at you, but I don't fucking care if he is busy. Jonny called me saying that I need to pick this asshole up, okay? If you're worried about me finding out that he is high or drunk - even both, don't. This is not new to me."

The staff in front of you looked like she was on the verge of tears. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she got the chance, a disheveled woman left the room your boyfriend was in. You watched her with wide eyes as she left the building with a smile on her face. You stomped your way to the studio door ignoring the pleas from the staff. You pushed open the door causing a loud bang, startling the man recognized as Jonny.

Jonny swiftly got up and the first thing you noticed was the bloody nose. You walked your way to him digging in your bag grabbing some tissues for his nose. Gently placing it on him, you politely demanded, "Where is he, Jonny?" The man before you faced his eyes on the floor. "Jonny, you called me here, so, don't fucking hide anything from me. Where is he?"

The man took a step back letting the blood freely fall again. He shook his head, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you. I've ruined everything." You gritted your teeth and threw the bloody tissue at his face. "Where the hell is he, Jonny?" you yelled.

A second later, Jungkook swung the bathroom door open with nothing but some sweats on. Your heart dropped from his appearance. It was evident that he had fucked the girl from earlier. You guys made eye contact, and you could tell immediately that he was high out of his mind. "Get out, Jonny," you said without looking.

When you heard the door shut, that's when you crumbled. Your eyes started blurring with the tears that were coming. Your body shaking with rage. You walked up to the fucked-up man and slapped him. "Why? Why? Why the hell would you do this to me?"

Jungkook harshly grabbed your wrists and laughed. He laughed like what you had said was something funny. You can smell the horrible alcohol leaving his mouth as he laughed. "Because it's fun, babe."

The pain rippled throughout your body. You snatched your wrists away and bellowed, "You're hurting me! You're destroying me! What does she have that I don't? I thought you loved me?" Jungkook towered over you; he grinned, "I don't love you." Your whole world died. Never had Jungkook spouted those words. It tore you limb from limb, slowly but surely. And that was all it took for you to call it done.

You were fine dealing with his hurtful ways. You were fine being the punching bag. But you were not fine being cheated on. Even with Jungkook in this fucked-up state, not once had he said that he didn't love you, and not once did he ever cheat on you. You felt lower than before, and you didn't want to feel like that. You knew that the moment he started doing drugs and drinking alcohol, the man you once knew would be gone. Still, you had hoped there might be a tiny sliver of him inside, but today proved - his words proved you wrong.

Your eyes hardened and your expression became stoic. Without trying to sound broken you seethed, "We are done! You fucking hear me? I am done with your shit - with everything!" As you walked your way to the door, Jungkook rushed in front of you and pushed you to the ground.

The wind got knocked out of you; you started bawling your eyes. For the first time, you were scared of the man before you. Jungkook locked the door behind him and dragged you by your feet. You tried kicking your feet, hoping that his release would loosen, and you could run away. But before you knew it, Jungkook locked you both into the soundproof booth.

When his grip on you was gone, you scurried to the corner of the booth shielding yourself with your bag. Jungkook walked to you and kneeled to your level. "Don't hide from me, baby." He gently grabbed your bag and tossed it to the other side of the booth. You closed your eyes; you couldn't see the monster of the man you love.

You felt Jungkook tenderly cupping your jaw. You trembled beneath his fingertips; quietly whimpering. It stayed like this for a few seconds until you felt his touch disappear. With your eyes still closed, you could hear Jungkook digging for something. You heard a rustling sound of a Ziplock bag. You knew better, you knew that he was using drugs right now.

"Open your eyes, ____," Jungkook demanded.

You didn't answer, you didn't move. This pissed off the man in front of you. He slapped you, making your body jolt, making your eyes open. You brought your hand to your cheek, tears threatening to fall. "See, it wasn't that hard?"

"W-what do you want... from me?" you stammered.

Jungkook seethed, "You can't leave me. I won't let you leave me. You owe me. All that money I spent on you, all those years I wasted on you - I want that back! And the only way you can pay me back is by being my bitch. You are fucking mine, ____!"

You finally let the tears fall again. Your whole body shook like lightning shooting throughout you. Shaking your head, you wailed, "No! No! No! Please! Don't do this to me, Dad! Stop hurting me!" For the first time today, Jungkook felt his senses come back. Your words panged his heart.

Your mother was never in your life. It was always you and your father, but your father was an abusive man. He would try to find any little thing to blame you for, just for him to lay his hands on you; from hitting, kicking, even to cutting. You had met Jungkook when you were thirteen years old, he comforted, protected, and helped you. When you finally turned eighteen, that's when you moved in with him - that's when you finally felt peace.

Jungkook cupped your face into place. He frantically said, "____, it's me. Your dad's not here. It's me, Jungkook." His touch burned you; you felt like dying. You mustered all your strength and pushed him away. You gripped your shirt and yelled, "No! You're not him! You're not Jungkook! You're a monster and I don't even recognize you!"

Monster... That simple word rang in Jungkook's mind. Monster... Such a terrifying word. If he was a monster, his reason would be because of you. Unfortunately, all the drugs and alcohol in his system weren't enough to keep him sane for one minute. Jungkook launched at you. His hands wrapped around your throat, choking you, but still letting you breathe.

You started clawing your nails on his bare arms. Digging deep that blood starts making its presence. But all that Jungkook could see right now was red. He couldn't feel the pain you were giving him; he couldn't hear the agony in your voice; he couldn't see your wrecked state. Red became his friend.

"You are the reason for my horrible being. You are the reason why I'm a monster. You bitch! If you hadn't kept pushing me to pursue this fucking career, I would've still been the same. If you hadn't been so loving and caring and supportive, we wouldn't be in this predicament. I can't believe that I fell in love with a disgusting person like you. I can't fucking believe that I let you take control of my whole being!"

Right when you were on the verge of passing out, Jungkook released his hold on you; he backed himself on the other side of the booth. You were catching your breath. Your hands shakingly touched your neck, throbbing against your frail fingers. You were painfully coughing; mentally asking God to help ease your pain. Your eyes went in and out of vision; red and black dots were the only thing in sight.

Jungkook watched you with dark eyes. He watched as you were struggling to regain your previous state. He watched as you were crying from the pain, he inflicted on you. He watched the one person who was always with him, the one person who loved and cared for him no longer be the same. He killed you, painfully and slowly.

Present

"____, look at me. It's okay. It's okay." Your friend Lia gently held your face in place. She called out your name, praying that you would settle. She watched as you were frantically breathing; your eyes looking everywhere but her; your body shaking like the room was freezing.

Your panic attacks rarely happen, but when they do, Lia feels so useless. She wished that she could help ease your pain, she wished that she had the power to prevent this. But all she could do was hold you and tell you that you're okay.

Minutes go by until you are finally back. "____?" Lia cautioned, "____, look at me. Are you okay?" As you looked at Lia, you could see the worried expression painting her beautiful face. You hated yourself for making her feel like this, but you couldn't help it. This feeling will never go away; it gets buried six feet under, but once he appears they come back.

"Lia," you whispered, "I saw him again... on TV." Lia took a deep sigh; she hated the pain he caused you before and now. She wrapped you in her arms, holding you with such care. The second you were in her arms, you broke. You cried and cried, loudly speaking your pain.

Lia felt her shirt dampen, but she didn't care. Whatever you do to her, she will take it all in, as long as you feel better in the end, Lia will gladly be your tissue, your enemy, your punching bag. Lia murmured against your hair, "I'm here. I will always be here." She held you tighter; she didn't want you to fade away from her.

You took deep breaths to calm down your nerves. You pulled away from Lia and made your way to the couch. You brought your knees up and buried your face in the space between. You hissed, "I hate what he does to me. He's not even here!" This time you whispered, "And yet, he's able to bring me down to my knees... scared."

Lia met you three years ago; months after your event. You were just a newly hired TA. When Lia first saw you, you looked like a girl who was barely keeping her life together. You told her beforehand - when you started room mating with her, that you have PTSD and that your panic attacks happen from time to time. You didn't really tell her the whole story, just that you were in a very abusive relationship and that you experienced something so terrifying. She accepted you with an open mind and open arms; from then on, Lia became your rock.

Lia got up and sat right next to you. She wanted to ask you a question, but she was scared that you would hate her or push her away for asking. But this question has been in her mind for a while now. After taking a few seconds thinking to think it through, Lia wiped her sweating palms on her pants and inquired, "____, if you don't mind me asking... why didn't you call the police on him? You should've, 'cause I don't think he should be performing after everything he's done to you."

Your eyes started getting blurry; you told yourself the exact same thing, but there was a reason. With your head still buried, you softly replied, "It's easier said than done, Lia. I wished I called the police on him - I wish I could call the police on him, but I can't. Because in simple words... I love him. I hate myself for loving him. Even after everything he has done to me, and everything he has said to me, I love him. Does that make me a horrible person?"

Lia felt herself invisibly jumping out of the couch. No way does she think you're a horrible person. You're just a person who's been through something horribly traumatic. Her heart was filled with so much pain for you. Lia positioned herself so she was facing your small figure, and expressed, "____, no way in hell are you a horrible person. Far from it! I won't be able to say that I relate or know what you're going through, because I don't. But I am able to say that I'll support you and understand your feelings and decisions."

You lifted your head but still kept your eyes on your knees; you muttered, "I met him when we were thirteen years old. He was a very shy and reserved kid - hated social interactions. I remember..." you quietly giggled without realizing when you were remembering the fond memories, "I remember when he used to make small mixtapes every anniversary with letters. He wasn't always a horrible person. He used to be kind, supportive, and loving. One of my favorite things about him was his selflessness towards me. I loved that he would always think about my needs, what I wanted, what I was thinking, and how I was feeling, but in turn, he did the opposite for himself. It was a blessing and a curse."

Lia looked at you and saw the small smile showing. This look was rare for you, and every time it made its appearance, Lia would always treasure it. "He must have been a great person for you to smile like that." You furrowed your brows; you turned to Lia with confusion. "What smile?" you questioned. Lia rolled her eyes, "Well, there's no smile anymore."

You took a deep sigh and apologized, "I'm sorry for talking about him. It's just - just talking about him in this light makes me happy and warm... even if it only lasts for a few seconds." Lia noticed that you started tearing up. Your face was slightly contorted with pain; you were trying not to cry, holding it in but it didn't work. Your tears were freely falling, and Lia comforted you once again. You quietly whimpered, "During that time I called him a monster, but really, I don't want to remember him as the monster in my life because at one point he used to be my prince who saved me from one. I try to think and talk about him in this beautiful light that he used to be under - I want to remember him as that, but the pain he brought upon me is too hard to ignore." You started wailing at this point, "It continues to haunt me, and I hate it! I want to hate him, but I can't! I can't!"

Lia felt herself crying for your pain. She felt herself slowly dying by your words. It truly kills her that her most precious and beautiful friend is going through so much pain. As you both cried into each other's arms, you could hear Lia continuously apologize through her cries. You were so grateful to have such an amazing person as her.

Once you were calmed down, you pulled away from the still tearful woman and wiped her tears away. "Don't cry anymore, Lia." you sniffled, "What happened to me - what's still happening to me would never be fully cured, but I know that whatever happens next, you'll be by my side, and slowly but surely, I won't be able to be to feel the pain anymore. Okay?" Lia nodded her head with a soft smile. You're right, as long as she's with you and as long as you are with her everything will be fine. You guys are each other's glue - each other's person.

There is no doubt in your mind that this pain will pass by. You don't know how long that will take, but until the day comes, having Lia with you eases your heart from pain as much as possible.

"You mailed her my letter?"

"Yes, Jungkook."

The tired man finished his show with a bang, and even though people enjoyed his performance, Jungkook couldn't seem to feel all that happy. For the past year since he finished his rehab, nothing has felt more depressing.

The morning of that night when he woke up, Jonny had told him that you had left, and he was to go to rehab immediately. He hated you for leaving, he hated that you left him in such a messy state. Jungkook blamed everything on you. Jonny had told the ill man that if it wasn't for you, everything that he had worked so hard on would go down the drain. At first, Jungkook didn't understand why you left or what Jonny was saying, but as time went on, he knew that everything was his fault. His addictions and his abusive behavior were all his fault. The reason for your disappearance was his fault. Your pain - everything was all him.

Jungkook knows that there will be no way for him to fix the things he has done and the things he had said, but even so, he would try his damn hardest to fix it. When he finished rehab, Jungkook made it a mission to send you a letter every week, telling you about his days throughout the week, how much he loves and cares for you, telling you how much he is so regretful. Deep down he knows that he is being selfish, he knows that he should let you go - let you move on, but the helpless man is stuck in the past. The past is what keeps him alive. The past is his only source of reason. Jungkook doesn't want to let go of that one thing he has left of you.

Jonny felt so much pity for the man, he didn't have the heart to tell him that he didn't know your address. He would accept the letters, promising that he would mail them, but when night rolls around your letters would be burned. Jonny wanted to quit being Jungkook's manager, but you begged and begged for him to stay with the broken singer. You wanted Jungkook to at least have one person for him to lean on when things get hard. Jonny admires your strength - how strong of a woman you are, so, he agreed.

"You should just stop already, Jungkook. She's never gonna mail you back. I know your reason, but you lost her, and you can never fix that." Jonny was getting tired; tired of seeing the broken singer trying with no prevail.

Jungkook walked up to his manager and lowly whispered, "You think I don't know that, Jonny? Ever since I learned that everything is my fault... I knew that she would never come back to me. Yet I still hope - even if that hope is microscopic or nonexistent, I hope that I will be able to see or be with her again."

The fatigued man took a few steps back and lowered his heavy head down. His eyes searched the floor trying to keep his tears at bay, but it didn't work. The salty tears of this poor singer escaped and landed harshly on the wooden floor. Sniffling, the fatigued man uttered, "You think I don't know that you burn my letters?" Jungkook lifted his head up and saw the ashamed manager looking back at him.

He continued, "You're not as discreet as you think you are, Jonny. I went to your hotel room to ask for a favor... and I saw you burn my eighth letter with sadness swimming in your eyes. I connected the dots from there, and I realized that you never sent any of my letters because you don't know her address, huh? You're left in the dark like I am, huh? You know nothing about her whereabouts, about how she's doing, about anything, huh, Jonny!" The manager kept quiet; didn't know what to say.

Jungkook slumped down on the nearest chair with a hard thump. He leaned his head back with closed eyes and softly whimpered, "I now understand the meaning ‘You reap what you sow’… I'm never gonna stop. I know I can never fix this, but I promise you Jonny, I will never stop. Ten years - fifty years from now, I will keep writing her letters... knowing that deep down all of this is for nothing. I don't care if I'm shaming myself by doing this - I don't care about anything but her. She's not mine anymore but I'm forever hers. Let me live like this. Let me live with the consequences. Let me drown myself in this regret."

The destroyed man opened his eyes and gently moved his head to the side to see the lone figure of his manager feet away. With a deep sigh, Jungkook claimed, "You're just my manager, right? So, don't involve yourself in my pitiful life. Just do the job you were hired to do, along with getting my letters. Don't care what you do to them - burn them, keep them hidden, rip them up... doesn't matter, just don't let me know about it; let me falsely believe that you mailed them to her. Alright? Now please get the car... I wanna go home."

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offtorivendell · 1 year ago

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My thoughts on the Bryce, Azriel and Nesta HOFAS bonus chapter...

Disclaimer: as suggested by the title, the following discusses the Walmart HOFAS bonus chapter featuring Azriel, Bryce and Nesta. I haven't read the main text, so it won't feature anything related to that, but there are massive Maasverse and HOFAS spoilers ahead regardless. Please beware.

These are just my initial thoughts, not expanded upon in any substantial way and, as usual, I could always be way off the mark.

Also, yes, fair warning that I'll be mentioning the ACOTAR characters a lot. If that's not your jam, and you'd rather avoid any of the possible implications of the crossover, then I'd give this post a miss. On the other hand, if you're interested in how CC/HOFAS may affect Prythian going forward, please read on.

Music:

The Stone Mother song has me 👀 especially as the stone and water were "talking" at the start.

@cassianfanclub and @wingedblooms have already posted about the Stone Mother (here and here); @ladynightcourt3 has found the Phrygian goddess Cybele, also known as the "Mountain Mother," who sounds very relevant.

That being said, am I crazy to think Elain could have been listening in? Is Azriel stone and Elain water? His stone siphons - which Elain called beautiful, did she hear their song, as kin? - and Elain possibly as water? Was she using salt water to boost her powers, or a reflection pool to scry, and keep tabs on her sister and friend?

Or is it the space between linking worlds? Are the old gods talking?

Alternatively, could stone be referring to Nuala and Cerridwen, who are capable of manifesting stone around themselves and others (ACOTAR).

Is this what SJM meant when she said we'd see Elain in "some form" in the next book?

@psychee92 said she wished that SJM had somehow included Mr Brightside, and now I wish the same; even a mention of indie rock. 😭

Josie and Laurel - "He/god will add/increase" "(laurel) trees/victory"? Elain? Lol sorry, but it's either giving gardener, or Elain killing Hybern.

Wraith-like harmonies? After the description of Josie and Laurel's voices? It's crack, but is it a metaphor for Nuala and Cerridwen?

The musical similarities between what Juniper dances to and Prythian's music?!

Azriel's humming/singing made the shadows dance, once more suggesting that shadows dancing is a response to power, not mate bonds

The music Az liked was death metal. Could this link to any sort of metal artefact, like an iron crown for grounding? Or wyrdstone jewellery?

The glass coffin?

"Nineteenth century literature presents the glass coffin as a prison within which sleeping women are frequently mistaken for dead or vice versa." (Source). It's giving Sleeping Beauty (credit to @elriell for the OG SB theory), and a little Snow White.

Check out this tale from The Brothers Grimm, which sounds... suspiciously relevant to Elain.

@cassianfanclub also suggested that it's giving necromancer vibes, and I'd love that for Elain.

Feyre once said she could sleep for a hundred years after coming back from the Prison, right before going to the Hewn City in ACOWAR. After Elain had left the room, and before Feyre went to check in on her to find her "asleep—breathing."

Let's not forget Elain's assistance in rescuing the human COTB, Briar, from Hybern's camp.

Will Elain prick herself while weaving?

I was tired enough that I could barely summon the breath to ask, “Do you think the Cauldron made her insane?” “I think she went through something terrible,” Lucien countered carefully. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have your best healer do a thorough examination.” I rubbed my hand over my face. “All right.” My breath snagged on the words. “Tomorrow morning.” I managed a shallow nod, rallying my strength to rise from the chair. Heavy—there was an old heaviness in me. Like I could sleep for a hundred years and it wouldn’t be enough. “Please tell me,” Lucien said when I crossed the threshold into the foyer. “What the healer says. And if—if you need me for anything.” I gave him one final nod, speech suddenly beyond me. I knew Nesta still wasn’t asleep as I walked past her room. Knew she’d heard every word of our conversation thanks to that Fae hearing. And I knew she heard as I listened at Elain’s door, knocked once, and poked my head in to find her asleep—breathing. - ACOWAR, chapter 27

Azriel specifically said Nesta "beheaded" Hybern, after looking down at Truth-Teller.

This is not Azriel giving Nesta credit for the assassination. If anything he's hiding Elain's involvement.

I've said before, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who has done so, but I would expect Azriel to protect his LI with silence, whoever they are.

He had to have been thinking about Elain, who I've theorised could now/soon be known as "The Shadowsinger's Knife" after she became the "knife in the dark" in Azriel's place at the end of ACOWAR.

The young girl sitting on the mushroom:

I'm still looking into the carving of the young girl sitting on the toadstool with the hound sprawled on the ground beside her, as I find it really interesting. My initial thought was that it seemed like a convenient place to drop a mention of a garden-like fairy carving with a hound right after Bryce had quizzed Azriel about his hypothetical mate, or lack thereof (Elain being both heavily associated with plant life, thanks to her "little garden," as well as dogs, after Nesta called her one in ACOSF).

I also wonder if it has anything to do with the Czech tale that amanita muscaria - while psychoactive/toxic - are said to protect from lightning and other ill fortune. If this is correct, it reminds me a little of the markings - wyrdmarks - on the Archeron cottage.

I don't know where Bryce and co were walking, as I have only read this bonus chapter and the prologue, but given it was carved on an underground wall, and I suspect that there are underground portals in at least the Hewn City and the Prison, and maybe the waterways... could it have been for protection against the invading lightning Asteri? Or did the Asteri (Daglan?) put them there to protect against Thunderbirds, or whatever Hunt is?

Miscellany

Maybe Bryce hadn't been sent there by Urd? Who then? Was @silverlinedeyes right all along?

The mention of pleasure halls seems like a call back to Azriel's bonus chapter, but it's also likely that they aren't all brothels (see Rita's).

Azriel listening closely about Nesta now liking being Fae; he could extrapolate her responses to Elain. Maybe she's no longer miserable, and in need of their pity. And maybe she's changed her mind from ACOFAS, when she said to Feyre "I don't want a mate, I don't want a male."

Azriel said "no" to whether or not he has a mate rather quickly. Hmm... the shadowsinger doth protest too much?

It's also potentially important that Nesta said "yes, WE are" curious about Azriel's mate status. Her, Azriel and most of the fandom! 😂

"Okay, okay," Bryce said. "But it'd be cool to know something about your world. Or about you." They were both silent. Bryce asked Nesta, "You have a mate, right?" She nodded to Azriel. "Do you?" "No." Azriel said quickly, flatly. "A partner or spouse?" "No." Bryce sighed. "Okay, then." Azriel's wings twitched. "You're incurably nosy." "I think that's the nicest thing you've said about me." Bryce winked at him. "Look, I just... I'm curious. Aren't you?" Azriel didn't answer, but Nesta said, "Yes. We are." - HOFAS, Bryce, Azriel and Nesta bonus chapter

All in all, while there were no overt mentions of Elain - and really, why would SJM do that in a series that wasn't Elain's own - imo we got the Elain-shaped holes in the text that I was hoping for, and I can't wait to see if there are any more in the full book.

#hofas spoilers #hofas bonus chapter #bryce azriel nesta bonus chapter #crescent city spoilers #hofas #hosab spoilers #acotar cc tog crossover theory #bryce quinlan #azriel shadowsinger #nesta archeron #elain archeron

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juniperdugong · 5 months ago

Text

Perfection Pt.6; Rising Tides

Pairing: mortician!mingyu x corpse!fem!reader

Genre: Mortician!au, Horror!au || Fluff, Crack, Romance, Angst || Inspired by Frankenstein and other undead media

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts || Depression || Minor wounds || Mentions of death and corpses (Nothing in-depth and nothing intended to disturb) || Mentions of suicide || Necro-romance, aka romantic attraction to a corpse. || {Please let me know if there are other warnings you would like me to add}

WC: 4.1k

Songs that inspired this fic

Series Masterlist

The ride home was long and silent.

After you woke up and got your bearings Mingyu carried you to the car, he moved to drive on instinct but Wonwoo insisted that the two of you take the backseat while he drove. As confused as he was, Wonwoo could decipher Gyu's worried face from a mile away. So - at least for the moment, he was willing to put his curiosity aside for your comfort.

Gyu held your hand the entire way home, doting on every slight movement you made with a look of concern. You on the other hand were quick to drop your gaze whenever he held it. The embarrassment taking over all other emotions. Every so often you would catch Wonwoo's eyes in the rearview mirror, the look was cold.

Mingyu always wore his heart on his sleeve with you but Wonwoo was a different story - it was near impossible to tell what he was thinking by expressions alone. You wondered what he thought about the situation - you wondered what Gyu thought of the situation, your one secret was revealed within days, and danger was now at an all-time high in your mind.

While thinking about your worries, you hadn't noticed the way your hand squeezed Mingyu's so tight the entire drive, your fingers picking at his nails like a habit. He wanted to say something to soothe you - he wanted to press his lips to your fingers to ease any of your negative thoughts… But he understood if you needed time to settle after everything that had happened and he knew that he would probably be crossing a line, especially with Wonwoo practically inches away.

Wonwoo sat across from you and Gyu in the living room. The air palpable with the tension being held. The only thing cutting the thickness being the muffled sound of the TV behind Woo. It felt like some sort of trial had begun and you and Mingyu were the suspects of a horrendous crime… And technically you were. Thankfully, this isn't a courtroom though.

Sunlight was just beginning to peak through the blinds. Everyone's eyes revealed the lack of sleep and at the same time, everyone was on high alert - well at least you and Mingyu were. Wonwoo stared both of you down, his glasses dropping so you could see his intense gaze - it felt like you both were a bunch of prey that had been caught trying to escape the grasp of a dragon. Gyu attempted to lighten the mood with some giggling - no doubt out of nerves but nonetheless, it failed as Wonwoo remained as stoic as ever.

"So…" Woo started.

"Listen! I- I can explain!" Mingyu nearly jumped from his seat. "Just- Let's just talk about this me and you Wonwoo. Let her rest, please." It sounded like a plea - and how could Wonwoo say no to one of his longest friends?

"Right." For the first time, Wonwoo turned to face you, "I'm so sorry, y/n. You've been through a lot today. The sun's already up, you should go wash up and rest.", a gentle smile landed on his lips as he spoke to you, the harshness of his demeanor suddenly fading away.

"Wait- but-" everything happened so fast you barely had time to interject.

"It's okay. I think it's better for me to try and explain the situation…" Gyu gave your hand a reassuring tap as he motioned for you to head upstairs. You felt a bit helpless - they want to speak alone but the subject of their conversation is YOU, so you should be present, no? After an exchange of looks to both of the men that conveyed something along the lines of "You're talking about me and you have the audacity to leave me out of the conversation?!" with a huff you stomped your way upstairs. Oblivious to the lovesick look on Gyu's face at your frustration and the look of reluctant understanding as Wonwoo observed Gyu observing you.

You honestly couldn't tell if the water was steaming from how hot you had it or if the excess annoyance made your body so hot it could pass as a boiler. Either way, once you finished showering your anger had only slightly subsided.

As you dried your hair the sun was now settling its rays over every inch of the streets. You took a moment to recall what you'd experienced while you were out - the overwhelming darkness of depression, the lowest you've ever been. The heat of the blow dryer burning a hole into one spot on your head snapped you out of your daze, putting it down you couldn't help but wonder why the only things you can remember seem to be your darkest days.

Soon your anger faded into curiosity. Exiting your room you could hear murmurs as the boys continued their conversation. You know you wouldn't be able to sleep if you didn't hear at least a small bit of what the boys were talking about - that's right! Completely justifiable to listen in for just a second to ease you own worries, right?

Creeping ever so slowly down the stairs you made sure to keep close to the wall - the closer to the wall the less of a chance of creaking floorboards. Peaking through the living room entrance you could see just a sliver of Mingyu resting his elbows on the coffee table, despite the limited vision you could tell he looked relieved. You couldn't make out most of what they were saying unless you focused intently on just listening, so you pressed you ear as close as you could to the wall.

"Sorry, it's just hard for me to understand, Mingyu."

"I know. It's a lot."

"She's technically dead…"

"I know."

"What do you plan to do next time something like this happens?"

"Take her back to the mortuary and-"

"Mingyu. I know she's important to you but it's not like she can stay here forever."

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen." Wonwoo took a deep breath in before continuing, "I don't know how to put this exactly… but sometimes- most of the time, things die for a reason."

"Wonwoo, I know you're looking out for me but-"

"No no no, Mingyu. Listen to me, she doesn't belong to this world anymore."

"But she's here, isn't she!? She's here. She's upstairs right now! I know you think that this can all be cleaned up with base reason and logic but it can't, it's beyond life and death, it's a miracle. For now, all I can do is continue living in this ignorance, okay? I don't know what'll happen next time, I don't know. But I will continue to love her until whatever happens happens." Mingyu's rapidly speaking so Wonwoo can't get a word in, you can't help but clutch at your chest as your heart begins to sting.

"You've only known her a couple of days."

"I don't care."

"Mingyu-"

"I don't care!" He sounds breathless, "I know it's crazy. I know that. I'm not stupid. But let me have this, let me have her, even if it's just for a moment. It's so fucking crazy but- Right now I can't think straight. I can't think of a future without her. So I won't even encourage the thought until I have to face it head-on."

Wonwoo stayed silent for a long while. You took another peak into the living room and saw the two men just staring at each other. Wonwoo looked as calm as the ocean in his contemplation of Gyu's words. You couldn't see Gyu's face from this angle but as he began to catch his breath you could almost hear silent pleas being said with every exhale.

This was all too much. Of course, the danger of all of this was apparent to you but maybe the severity of that danger should've made you more on edge. Maybe you'd gotten too comfortable with Mingyu and with this entire situation. You felt your heartbeat rise, an anxious rhythm. You clutched your chest feeling a sudden panging, like a small needle being pierced through you - bearable but not painless. What would happen the next time you suddenly faint? What if all your memories came back? What were these past few days in the expanse of your entire lives? Maybe you shouldn't have come downstairs.

With all of this swirling inside you, you quietly made your way back to your room. You didn't know why but tears began to fall. Resting on the pillow you thought about your memories and about Mingyu; In this second chance at life, which mattered more?

Finally, Wonwoo stood up. Mingyu quickly scrambled to his feet to meet him. One glance is all he took towards Gyu, he nodded his head, "I still don't understand but you're obviously passionate. I can't force you to do anything at the end of the day but- Just be safe. For your sake and hers. I really hate seeing any of you guys (referring to their friend group) get all twisted up like this."

Mingyu walked Wonwoo out, the weight on his chest easing with every step and every word said after the conversation. A weight lifted but there was still an unease in his stomach - Wonwoo knew but he didn't understand. How could he understand something that came to Mingyu like instinct? How could he know about the ache in Mingyu's chest every time you aren't in his sight? The type of connection, the type of attraction, Mingyu holds for you is something like worship and he understands the unhealthiness of it all but it's not like he can help himself. He's become content with his imperfections and obsessions - as long as you're able to take him as he is then he's happy.

A sigh of relief comes from him once the door closes. He basks in the shadow that it casts - the coldness it provides amongst the heat of all the tension from before. He drags his heavy, tired legs upstairs and to your door. A few gentle knocks to see if you're still up. He presses his ear up against the door and waits for far too long a time before deciding the coast is clear and entering your room. Soft sunlight warms your face but he can still see tear stains as he sits at your bedside. "Pretty girl, why were you crying? Was it a nightmare?", he questions knowing he won't get an answer, bringing his hand to gently trace your cheek. He doesn't say it but just knowing that something caused you pain puts him on edge, he knows he shouldn't pry but how could he rest when you're hurting?

Exhaustion caught up to him as he left your room. Not bothering to wash up or even close his bedroom door, he flopped onto his bed unceremoniously and knocked out within the minutes following.

Sunday came and went. Honestly, the following week went by like a blur.

After all the hectic stuff had passed Mingyu seemed to give you your space. That coupled with you avoiding most interactions with him if you could help it made for, for the first time since you've been awake, an unwelcoming atmosphere in the house.

It's not that you didn't want to see Mingyu, if anything it was quite the opposite. But your heart never settled around him and your thoughts always ate at you like sharks. Is this right? What if I'm not good for him? What if I'm only holding him back or keeping him in harm's way? He doesn't deserve to be hurt.

So you resolved to walking on eggshells, at least for the time being. If he clung to you even more than he already has there's a higher chance that he'll be hurt in the future. That's not what you want for him. You want only good things to happen to Mingyu, he's already done so much for you! He's, quite literally, done nearly everything for you. At your beck and call if you asked him to be. But that's not right - that's not fair to Mingyu and that's not how he should be living. You had your time… It's time for him to have his.

Mingyu on the other hand hated this. He hated seeing you lock yourself away. But he understood that you needed space. He didn't know what had happened when you were passed out but obviously, it left some sort of toll on you. It took everything in him not to shower you with praise and love when you entered a room he was in, his all was put into making you feel comfortable. He was absolutely restless, sleep became an afterthought as you occupied his mind. He wondered if he should say something or do something to show you how much he cared but his pondering only made him seem more distant. Unknowingly he was building walls… just like he had feared he would. But this was for you, right? This was what needed to happen for you to be better, you needed time, at least that's what Gyu had thought.

The days were filled with text messages about leaving for work, food left in the fridge, and idle talk about less-than-trivial things - all of this initiated by Mingyu of course. When he would come home he'd simply wash and make dinner. At the table nothing more than a few sentences were exchanged with the excuse of focusing on whatever was on the TV, as if it really mattered to either of you. A quick glance at each other before saying goodnight or that you were gonna wash up first was all that you could manage before bed.

It felt like torture.

"Hey, y/n…" Mingyu sauntered up to you in the kitchen. It's the first time he's approached you directly in days. You'd been lucky that he'd had work all week so that you could easily avoid him but tomorrow was Saturday, you'd be a fool to think you could get away from him this easily on the weekend.

Mingyu was completely entranced by your visage the moment he stepped foot into the room. The way you leaned back against the counter, your hair still messy from waking up, and in house clothes - Oh god… You look so good right now. His throat began to dry up-

"Mingyu?"

Right, back to reality Kim Mingyu…

"The boys have been talking about getting together, I hope you don't mind but my house is the best for gatherings. You don't have to come down or anything but I just wanted to let you know…" His words came out before he could process them, the only thing on his mind is the way your fingers picked up the strawberries on your plate and brought them to your plush lips- Holy shit Mingyu! Get it together man!

"Okay, I don't mind."

"Huh? Oh!" Once again he's brought back down from the alien spaceship (of love) that he was on, "Alright, they'll come around tomorrow by the way, I'll let them know that they have the green light." He took out his phone and began typing. He licked his lips in concentration and suddenly your brain turned to mush. Have his arms always been that big? A blush adorned your face like a wildfire in the California summer, quick and red hot.

Good god if this is how you two act facing each other after a week of little contact… Maybe you truly are crazy for each other.

You had foolishly assumed that the Kim Mingyu only invited 4-6 friends like last time. So imagine your surprise when you hear the doorbell ring… and keep ringing every. 5. Minutes. For. An. Entire. Hour. Jeez does no one carpool?

You didn't know exactly how many people had come around but to your untrained ear you could guestimate anywhere between 10-20 people, all of whom seem to be men but you aren't completely sure. He did say "the boys" but what does that even mean? Rolling that pearl around in your mind suddenly a loud growling came from below, dang, I'm really hungry. You wondered if you should go down to get something to eat. It was around dinner time but was it worth the risk of running into one of them?

After the talk with Mingyu, you guys avoided each other around the house like the plague. Even dinner was had separately, which was a first for the both of you. At first, your distance all week was out of hesitation and fear but now the distance was purely made out of embarrassment and awkward blushing, like over the course of a minute conversation you both had gone back to square one. Oh, the effects of mutual crushes and pining… sigh.

The impact of the previous week and all the contemplation wasn't lost on either of you but the weight of living under the same roof and not so much as smiling at each other was making you both stir crazy. Like your hearts, minds, and souls begged to be nearer and nearer and the time apart only made them grow "fonder" or perhaps more ravenous…

You cursed yourself for not grabbing at least a snack from the kitchen earlier. You had all the time in the world but… God that Kim Mingyu! It was like he was standing guard in that section of the house all damn day! The two most traveled places in a home are the kitchen and the living room. And both of them were occupied by the one other person in the house, the man you couldn't face right now. You knew that he was just preparing for tonight but you couldn't help but feel a bit slighted by his actions. As if he were taunting you by staying there all day.

The way he'd smiled devilishly at breakfast and lunch but not so much as a word being said between you when you got your food and brought it back up to your room. It felt like he was saying, "Come join me y/n… Or are you too scared?", you shook the image from your head. Then there was the TV, the TV that you know is set at a constant 38 volume, the perfect volume to be heard from the kitchen but not so loud that it would reach upstairs. But suddenly you can hear the muffled sounds of what you swear are rom-coms playing from down there. And finally, the haunting sound of him singing along to cheesy songs about romance made your heart churn like it was your stomach. What was he hoping to gain?

The answer, well… your attention of course. While you spent your day brooding in your room, thinking of all the ways Kim Mingyu was trying to tear you down, Mingyu was busy setting the mood. He made foods that you expressed a liking for since your time with him, plated them extra pretty, and even gave you the sweetest smile while handing it to you. So why in the world was he met with your face full of disgust?! He mulled over it the whole time he marinated the meats for the party, while he filled the coolers with ice, even while he prepared the side dishes from Seungkwan's mom. He couldn't believe it, every time you looked at him like that he could've sworn he felt his little cartoon heart break just a teensy bit. He put on romantic movies to quell his emotions… but that only made him even sadder. All these happy couples in love hmph while my girl isn't even my girl yet and ON TOP OF THAT SHE'S MAD AT ME! If anyone saw him in this state they'd have thought someone took away his PlayStation or something. Oh, and the singing… Of course, the only rational thing to do in a situation of complete and utter heartbreak at the hands of your unrequited crush is to belt out lovelorn songs like your life depends on it! How could he do anything else?

And he continued with that up until the doorbell rang. Then everything went silent for a time, you listened diligently to get a lay of the land. There was some movement, then chattering, and then the noise and voices just continued to multiply until you were certain an entire class was invited into your home now. It didn't help that you had a nice view of the backyard from your room and opening the window invited the smell of BBQ into your space. Your mouth salivated at the thought of stuffing yourself full of whatever they were having down there. You could also hear them, the conversation was as lively as you'd expect and all of them seemed like such good friends. At some points, you even heard mention of yourself but Mingyu would shut down any attempts to pry into you - it's funny, although you couldn't see his face, his tone definitely conveyed something a kin to a guard dog protecting its owner. The thought made you smile as you propped your elbows on the windowsill.

That's it! You've finally had enough! You can smell the food, you can hear cans popping open, and the worst part, you can hear everyone's mmm's and ahh's at Mingyu's cooking! It's as if he's a five-star chef getting compliments at his restaurant. Of course, you know Mingyu can cook and he can do that damn well, but did they have to say all this while you're sitting up here on an empty stomach looming over them like a starved hound? No, you're fed up! And you're going to do something about it!

You hastily put on a random sweatshirt that Mingyu had bought for you on your shopping trip and tip-toed your way to the stairs. Most of the party was outside shooting the shit right now so you knew you were able to get away with being slightly less cautious.

Like before you kept close to the walls, no creaks of the floor to be heard beneath your feet. Getting to the kitchen entrance you pop your head out just enough to scan the area. "Haha don't worry Hyung! I'll get it!", you quickly retreat as someone walks in. It's a young man, with fluffy hair, and a boyish smile - ah! That voice! You've heard before in the background of some of Mingyu's calls, this must be Chan, the Crematory tech.

Your heart's pounding after almost getting caught. Minutes pass as you make sure that absolutely zero people are walking into the kitchen while you get something to eat. You make your way out of the safety of the shadow and into the warm ambient light. All of them are outside and you can't help but notice how comfortable Mingyu is. All that tension he's been holding erased completely by their presence.

You were a little envious of how many close friends he had at his age, but the thought of envy was quickly replaced with thanks, a part of you feeling as though you should thank these men for sticking by Gyu's side. You took your time daydreaming about Mingyu, so much time that you didn't notice as a shadow growing over your body from behind.

"Excuse me." You're shaken to your core by an unfamiliar voice, frozen in place out of fear.

Unmoving from your spot, firm but gentle hands rest on your shoulders and give you a nudge to the side. You move willingly but aren't able to turn and face what feels like impending doom. Doom however walks ahead of you and when you do eventually come face to face with doom it's actually a lot nicer than you'd expected.

Doom doesn't look like a devil tricking you into the arms of Kim Mingyu. No, not at all! Doom looks like a very nice man, shorter than Mingyu but built like a brick house (lovingly), with a smile that could kill and dimples to boot! His hair covered his eyes a bit but the kindness shone through. He gave a gentle pat to your shoulders as he let go. "Ha ha, sorry. I'm Seungcheol, one of Mingyu's friends. You must be y/n!", he felt warm, a similar aura to Mingyu but more distant, less comfortable.

You grew a shy smile as you met his eyes, his unending charm shining through and making you blush.

"Woah y/n! Nice of you to join the party!", you hear the condescending tone of Boo Seungkwan's voice as you become aware of all of the eyes on the two of you right now. Every single body turned in confusion and curiosity at your presence.

All of this terrified you to your core but perhaps the scariest thing was the seething heat of rage you felt emanating off of Mingyu's gaze. Boring holes into your body with his eyes alone. Oh no oh no oh no oh no. He's jealous.

A/N: I'm back~ And with more perfection! This was actually the cutest little thing to write. And guess what? I actually took my time to write this! A whole 3 days for 4k words. (Usually, I rush lol) But let me know what y'all think... I would love to hear some opinions people!!! Seriously though, I missed y'all~ Did you miss me?

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Taglist (OPEN): @jjin-kun @mydolle-dd @sojuxxi @zimzalaminho @hollxe1

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