The Evans Reacting To You Falling Asleep On Them...

the Evans reacting to you falling asleep on them... 🤭

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦

✧. a/n ─ my apologies for not including james & jimmy.. i haven’t finished the series yet. will update! pls excuse the crappy writing, english is not my first language.

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𝐓𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧

pokes your cheek gently.

he’d play with your hair for a bit.

experimentally whisper your name.

“y/n? you awake?”

when you didn’t reply, he kisses the top of your head. he knows that you’re tired.

boy can stay still for HOURS, just listening to you breathing and feeling the rhythm of your heartbeat.

𝐊𝐢𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫

you were reclining on the couch, nestled atop him as both of you watched the evening news together.

one moment, you were discussing gas prices, and the next, you’ve dozed off right on top of him.

he’d instantly feel guilty seeing you so exhausted, managing both household chores and two kids must be challenging.

tells the kids to play within his sight because he’s a protective dad.

soft kisses on the top of your head, his hand stroking your back.

afterwards, he offers to make supper and tell you to take it easy the rest of the evening.

𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫! 𝐊𝐚𝐢 𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

depends entirely on his mood.

if he’s in a relatively good mood, he’d sit still and scroll twitter or watch tv while you sleep with your head in his lap.

he’d snap a photo of you with his phone.

NOT because you look so goddamn precious when you’re asleep.

if someone from the cult walks in, he’d glower at them, silently daring them to say a word.

harrison low-key thinks you two are cute and ships you. meadow hates you with passion.

if he’s being an asshole, he’d blow air into your ear and laugh when you jolt awake.

𝐩𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭! 𝐊𝐚𝐢 𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

guy would try to play it cool while panicking internally.

probably sends winter a ‘SOS’ message attached with a picture of you peacefully snoring away on his lap.

𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐲 ! 𝐊𝐲𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

he’d let you lay your head on his chest and continue whatever he was doing. (studying)

occasionally pausing to stroke your hair.

doesn’t care about the fact that you’re drooling all over his shirt.

take a cute selfie with his phone to tease you about later.

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✧. p.s ─ i kinda liked doing this “characters reactions to reader___” thing.. i would love to hear your ideas! requests are open! 𖦹

dad!Ghost

Marry me (unless you don't want to)

Pairing: young! Coriolanus Snow x fem!Capitol!president! reader Summary: It's been a few years since you won the election for president of Panem. Your fiancé Coryo gives you many advices and is your support most of the time... but it doesn't take much for your pre-wedding idyll to turn into living hell. Can you stop it? Or maybe power is what matters most for both you and Coriolanus... Taglist: @uhnanix @serving-targaryen-realness @diannana @aoi-targaryen @omgsuperstarg @il0vebeingdelulu @chelseyyouraverageluigi @un06 @tallulah477 @snowspubes @hueanhdang @snowspubes @phsychobanana @blythlover Coriolanus Snow's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist From LYM "universum". Kind of part 3. 'Part 2' here.

It's been few years of your term as president of Panem.

A lot has happened. Tigris started her own boutique. Coriolanus became the main Gamemaker after Dr. Gaul decided to retire and devote herself to her crazy research (controlled by your spices). The presidential gardens were filled with Coriolanus's grandmother's roses, which the Snows and you personally cared for.

Oh. And you and Coryo got engaged.

The wedding was fast approaching.

You weren't one of those brides who was picky and worried about the wedding. You had the whole Snow family for that and also your parents and Clem. Your only task was to fit into the dress and arrive on time. Sometimes, when your callender was a little emptier than usual, you went with Coriolanus to alcochol and food tastings for a wedding, but the decisions were mainly made by him. And he was very happy about it... and sometimes angry.

"How can you not see any difference in the colour of these roses?"

"Sweetheart..." you start, looking at the two light pink roses in his hands. "They are both very beautiful. Maybe let's make table bouquets out of both?"

He looks at you with more indignation than when you suggested not inviting to your wedding literally ALL OF the Academy students who happened to learn there with you over the years... not only from your classes BUT WHOLE FUCKING ACADEMY. And people from the university...

"Are we supposed to make a fool of ourselves by combining such drastically different roses?"

"You make the decision, Coryo. You know you always choose what's best for us." You decide on a different tactic and approach him. You place your hands on his chest and reach for his collar, pulling him in for a passionate kiss.

He moans into your mouth, surprised by your sudden action. He tosses the roses onto the chair and grabs your waist, pulling you closer to him. You smile as he starts groping your ass and pushing you down onto your desk.

"And yet I'm not the president." He whispers as he breaks away from your lips and begins to trail kisses down your neck.

"You said yourself that I would look prettier on banknotes than you would ever do." You tease him as he takes off your jacket and blouse. He licks his lips as he sees your blood-red, lacy bra.

"I lied to get under your dress." He replies smoothly, reaching for the zipper of your pants. "If I had known you were going to make it harder for me to have what's mine with those horrible things, I would have tried harder to win."

"Hey! Don't insult your cousin's work." You say, punching his shoulder. Suddenly, you realise that he's wearing a lot more clothes than you. You don't like it one bit. Especially since he had already ripped of your panties and started teasing with your pussy.

"And don't mention her when I'm preparing you for myself, Madam President. Which reminds me that… we haven't talked about our sournames after marriage yet." You only manage to take off his jacket and shirt before you freeze in surprise at his words. He undoes his belt and takes off his pants himself, freeing his hard length for your gaze.

"Now?" You moan as he slowly enters you. You freeze for a moment, getting used to the feeling of each other. You completely forgot about the conversation just now. Coryo rests his forehead against yours, keeping his hand intertwined with the back of your head, making sure you don't bang it against the desk too much. You open your eyes, and when you meet his icy blue irises, he starts thrusting into you. 

You dig your nails into his back, pressing his chest against yours as he pushes into you, leaving hickeys on your collarbone at the same time. You've never been more proud (and pleased) of his multitasking.

"Now is as good as any time. After all, maybe we're creating our heir right now. It would be good to know what his or her last name will be." You would laugh at that, but he pushes extra hard into you and into your most sensitive spot, making you moan.

"I don't want to destroy your dreams, fantasies, or discriminate against your strange kink, but I'm on contraceptive, so you'll have to wait, sweetheart." You manage to mutter out, gasping between his thrusts. You close your eyes, biting your lip as you melt into the feeling of him inside you. His other hand, which he had on your waist for a better angle, wraps around your neck. He squeezes gently, making you meet his gaze again.

"Your attempt to avoid answering my question is sweet, but you know that soon we both won't be able to string a sentence together, so just answer me, my little diamond. How do you want our future, little gamestones to be called? Snow? Y/L/N? Y/L/N-Snow? Or Snow-Y/L/N?" Each surname suggestion is preceded by a strong, quick push that you feel with your whole body. You are trembling under him as he fuckes a mind out of you right on your president's desk.

But you have enough common sense to know that you need to give him a piece of… something. If you don't want his lust for power to come back to the surface, you have to give him some power over your relationship… after all, you much prefer his lust for you.

"Snow…" You moan quietly, deciding you can give up your last name if he could give up the function of president for you… besides, you can always divorce him and come back to your surname. At least that's what you think. Although while being under him, when he pushes widly into you, you are not exactly sure about that.

"I didn't hear you. Can you repeat?" He teases you with a smirk. You would never admit that, but it makes him even more handsome while he is pounding into you and groaning like a madman.

"Snow!" Your moan echoes throughout the office, along with the sound of your wet bodies slapping against each other.

"What was that?" You swear he would have chuckled if he could... or maybe he even tried to, but the sensations he was giving you two made it turn into a moan that he tried to cover up with a growl.

"SNOW!" You scream, and a tear rolls down your cheek at how wonderful he makes you feel.

Coryo can't help but lean in and lick it off of your cheek, starting from the corner of your eyes and ending at your throat, where he leaves a hickey. You saw how pleased he was with this. How delighted he was with snow landing on top again...

Neither of you can hold back your urges anymore.

The sound of the door opening to your office brings you out of your thoughts. You'd blush a little if someone other than your fiancé came to you while you were reminiscing about one of your fucking sessions at your office.

"Coryo? What are you doing here, sweetheart?" You ask with a smile, getting up from the desk and walking over to him.

You were both pleased and surprised that he came to you. Usually, at this time, you two were in your offices working. You didn't have a lunch date with him until two hours later… he also never came to fuck you at high noon. No matter how horny he was…

The click of your high heels echoes around the office. You're about to lean in and try to kiss your ridiculously handsome fiancé on his cheek, but instead he pulls away and gives you one of his cold glares.

You frown at him in surprise. He never refused your acts of tenderness. You had such a rare opportunity to show it to him that he literally took everything you gave him. That's why you were so surprised when he cleared his throat and moved away from you instead. He walked over to your desk and looked at the papers you left there with feigned curiosity.

"I was passing by and decided to visit my beloved Madam President. I wonder... do you have something to tell me, my darling? Any new plans? Ideas?"

His question didn't usually arouse any suspicion in you. He often asked about how things were going and what you were working at. But today... today he was different. More calm and serene. He acted like he was wearing a mask of indifference in order to not make you suspicious. Unfortunately for him, or both of you, you knew him too damn well to let slip away even the slightest changes in his behaviour.

"I... I don't think I can recall anything you don't know about." You say this after a moment of thought, trying to figure out what could be the reason for his strange treatment.

"Really?" He asks with a mocking smile and puts his hands in his pockets. He stands in front of the window and stares at the Capitol, having his back at you. You don't like his pretentious and rude attitude. You walk up to him, and by the way his muscles are tensing, you know he's been watching your reflection in the window.

"Can you talk to me? Please? Like normal people do."

You sigh when you get no response from him. You take a step towards him, standing directly behind him, and put your hand in his pants pocket, taking his hand in yours. You notice that he had them clenched into fists, his nails almost digging into the inner skin of his palm to the blood.

"Did something happen? Because if something has happened, then we can talk about it." You say, resting your cheek on his back, letting him hide his expression and any emotions he was feeling from you. You place a small kiss on his neck, at the base of his hair follicles, but instead of calming him down, it enrages him even more.

He pulls your hand from his pocket and pushes it away. He walks away from you madly, walking around your desk, putting more distance (and objects) between you.

"Do you want to talk? Fine. Let's talk. Maybe about your latest project, huh? Cancelling the Hunger Games..." The silence in the room after his words increases the tension between you even more.

"Coryo..." You start to speak, your voice sweet and guilty, knowing you screwed up.

"DO NOT call me that! When did you want to tell me? At our wedding? 'Sweetheart, I have a great gift for you.'" He mocks you, pacing nervously around the room in front of your desk. You slowly walk around it, leaning against the desk as you look at him with your arms crossed.

"I admit, I should have done it earlier…"

"Don't you say?!" He cuts you off with an incredulous scream, rage seething from him like never before. And this time he actually had a reason to be mad at you... but it wasn't like you did it out of spite. You only wanted what was best for Panem. For all your people. With no exceptions. "Do you know how much I sacrificed for you?! WHAT am I willing to do for you, at the slightest damned word of yours?! I put up with your becoming president. I settled for the job of gamemaker, and now you want to take it away from me? What's next?! You know... you're going to destroy this fucking country by giving these district underdogs a freedom they don't deserve!"

"Don't you think that's how it should be? How the hell are they different from us?! How were Sejanus or Lucy Gray different…"

"DON'T EVEN FUCKING MENTION THEM!" His scream terrifies and silences you at the same time. Seeing the fear in your eyes caused a kind of strange pain in him he had never felt before—not since his time in District 12. His heart clenched as he saw you flinch. He didn't want you to be afraid of him. Not you. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw and fists. He bit his tongue, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm down before speaking again. "We need the Hunger Games. Otherwise, the districts will turn against us again."

He tries to explain his point of view to you and change your mind. He forces himself to look into your eyes again. Coriolanus calms down, sighing with relief, when he sees that you're no longer looking at him like a scared prey.

"How long do you think it will take for them to actually rebel? How long will the Capitol be able to murder 23 innocent children every year without a hint of rebellion? 30 Games? 50? 64?" You huff, disagreeing with his sick obsession with the Games.

"By working them to death they will not be able to think about rebellion. They will be guided only by the desire to survive and to fill their stomachs. There is no possibility of any rebellion."

"Hope dies last. If I were them, I would rather die fighting for my rights as a free human being than in the arena for the joy of sick people like Dr. Gaul and…" You bite your tongue at the last moment before you say the words that can't be taken back. But Coryo is too smart not to get what you mean.

"And who? C'mon. Finish." He asks angrily, looking at you defiantly. You clench your fists and look away from him, staring at the window overlooking the centre of the Capitol.

"Get out of my office." You say it in a tone devoid of any emotion, even though you're internally shaking hysterically.

This wasn't supposed to look like this. You had the whole plan ready, but of course Coriolanus wouldn't be himself if he didn't do something you didn't even think he could do.

You could have predicted that his spies would quickly inform him of your plans... you didn't expect it would happen the very next day after you submitted the draft for reading by your lawyers, the Prime Minister, and ministers.

"As you wish, Madam President. Don't forget about your wedding dress fitting with Tigris. Unless you don't want to marry a mad psychopath like me." He says coldly and walks towards the exit.

"Coryo..." He slams the door loudly behind him, leaving you alone in your office.

You shiver, rubbing your arms with your hands. You sit back at your desk and try to go back to the documents and reports you were looking through before he stormed into your office. You take the pen in your hand, but refrain from taking any further notes or comments. Your engagement ring is gleaming in the lamplight, mockingly reminding you that this man should be your support, not your opponent.

You've never felt so cold, empty, and alien there as you do now. And you involuntarily wonder if your marriage with Coryo will be like this. The eternal fight over who is right and who among you cares more about the Panem...

"You don't look like the happiest future bride on earth. You're very quiet today. Has something happened?" Tigris' gentle question snapped you out of your thoughts.

You stood on the podium in her boutique in the private room where she created most of her designs. You wore your snow-white wedding dress, sewn by Tigris with her own hands. The blonde made a few more adjustments, perfecting it with each of your visits. You were supposed to look like a fucking queen. Clemensia sat on the couch across from the two of you and went through the various documents, reading the most important parts to you.

"Let's just say that…. Coryo and I have had… quieter days lately."

"I told you so." Clem says, looking through the papers sent to you by lawyers and ministers. "Coriolanus is an asshole. Besides, you hurt his alpha male pride. If this wedding is to take place at all, you either have to fuck him well and get pregnant or give up on your idea and leave him as a Gamemaker."

"Clemensia!" You hiss, both outraged by her words and the fact that Tigris accidentally stuck a pin into your thigh, shocked by the news.

"What? Am I not right? I worked with him for years, even before you started dating. I listened for hours about you and how perfect you were before he plucked up the courage to make a move. To be honest, I miss this Coryo."

"Wait... you want to fire him?" Tigris finally recovers from the shock and asks, standing up and shifting her gaze between you and Clemensia.

"No. Well… not exactly… I have some ideas, changes that do not require the position of a Gamemaker to exist anymore." You tell her, not revealing your entire plan.

You still weren't sure about your decision, but... wasn't this what you wanted to do all along?

You thoughtfully play with Sejanus' bracelet—another reason for your many arguments with Coriolanus. Your friend would definitely be cheering you on. He also considered the Games to be unnecessary barbarism. There certainly needs to be more people in the Capitol who are thinking again. More people like you and Sejanus.

"And he is mad?"

"Mad? That's an serious understatement." You mumble, letting go of the bracelet. You clear your throat, successfully holding back tears. You wish he were here to tell you what to do next. He gave some hint, anything.

"If you get pregnant, it won't be only to save your engagement; it will also warm up your image. The creation of a presidential family would overshadow the revolutions and changes you are planning to make. Think about it."

"I can also make him a prime minister to 'save my engagement', so you better shut up if you don't want to be just one of the ministers, Dovecote." You snap at her, knowing that the last thing you need right now is to carry Snow and Y/L/N's heir. You already have enough problems and confusion in your head.

"Yes, Madam President." She snorts, going back to the papers. You roll your eyes at her as she gives you a smirk. Sejanus may have been taken away from you, but at least you got Clem. It was good to have someone to rely on.

"Just talk to him."

"What?" You ask Tigris, torn from your thoughts about Sejanus.

"Talk to him. Explain why you are doing what you are doing." She says it as if it's just that easy. As if Coriolanus Snow could be convinced to do anything.

"I've tried. But he didn't listen to me. He's too stubborn to see what I want to do. And all I want is to guarantee the best future for Panem and all the people. Not just the Capitol's citizens."

"And if anyone can change his mind, then it is you. He… he is different. Because of you. You are showing him that all he believes in and all the things he learned under Dr. Gaul's eye weren't entirely true. You are bringing his good side back to life. I… I started lately to see my cousin instead of the cold version of his father he became. Just… please talk to him. Show him that he can be good."

Silence falls between you; even Clem has stopped turning the pages of paper. You both stare at Tigirs, remembering Coryo before the Hunger Games... before Lucy Gray and Dr. Gaul.

"You, Snows, and your stupid ability to use pretty words to manipulate people into doing what you want will be the reason for my end." You sigh, realising that you have to cancel the rest of your meetings and go to his place.

"Nothing bad will happen as long as our intentions are pure. Besides, you'll be one of us soon. You will receive this gift with a wedding ring." She says with a smile as she finishes the final touches, she stands in front of you and looks at you carefully, her eyes brightening and her smile widening. She beams with pride and delight. "For me, you look breath-taking. What do you think? Do you like it?"

"It's... amazing. Perfect. If only the groom was also like that, then I wouldn't have to worry about my wedding at all." You say, looking at yourself in the mirror, thinking about what you will say to him to appease him somehow or what position to promise him.

"You will be fine. Coryo won't be mad at you for long. He loves you. Trully. He will do everything for you."

"Even he has his boundaries. I just hope I didn't push him too far this time." You respond pessimistically to Tigris' assurances.

"You should go and talk to him before Dr. Gaul finds out about your quarrel and catches him. This woman is just waiting for the perfect opportunity to bring you down, and turning Coriolanus against you would greatly help her in this plan. Also, great dress, Tigris. She looks amazing. She will look wonderful in wedding photos. Panem will go crazy with delight."

Clem was right. People would love it. The only question is whether what was between you and Coryo really was genuine love or whether it turned into part of your presidential public image...

Sejanus' bracelet and Coriolanus' engagement ring have never weighed so heavily on your wrist and finger as they do now.

You've only been nervous a few times in your life.

During the university entrance exam, while defending your master's, bachelor's, and doctoral theses, and now, going to your fiancé's apartment with wine and a cake from the pastry shop he loved (the bastard wouldn't admit it to anyone, but you noticed how quickly these cakes disappeared from his plate.)

You walk past the avox and the security guards, leaving your security outside, as you unlock the door to his apartment with trembling hands.

"Coryo?!" You shout, placing your 'gifts' on the table near the front door and hanging up your coat. When you don't get an answer, you grab your things and go deeper into the apartment. "I know you're here! Don't play hide and seek and come here; I just want to talk!"

You say it loudly as you enter the living room. Putting aside the wine and cookies, a photo on the coffee table catches your eye. You take the photo frame and smile slightly as you see the photo from your engagement.

You can't help but run your finger tenderly over the photo, memories of that evening coming to your mind involuntarily.

"Where's your jacket?" Coriolanus asks you, covering you in his red one as you step out into the cool air. You needed a break from people and the loud party you threw at the presidential palace to celebrate the upcoming Christmas. Your boyfriend accompanied you faithfully, taking you out to the gardens of your grand mansion.

"I didn't wear it. Tigirs made it for me, but it didn't match the dress. Besides, I'm at home. Why would I need a jacket or a coat?"

"Who do you think told her to sew it? She spent an hour complaining that she was already giving you back the dress and that whatever she made for you wouldn't match it perfectly now. Cover yourself up. I don't want you to catch a cold; this week will be very intense anyway. Everyone goes crazy before Christmas. Dr. Gaul started to experiment with a kind of poison made from the venom of some specific genetically modified vipers that breed in snow heaps and are able to survive extreme conditions." He grumbles, standing in front of you and buttoning up a jacket up to your neck.

You smile and can't help but lean forward and kiss him sweetly. He hums against your lips, tangling his hand in your hair and pulling you closer to him. After a moment, he pulls away, content to welcome your rosy cheeks, and pulls you closer to him to make sure the heat doesn't escape from your body so quickly as you stroll lazily through the gardens.

"I see she's giving you great ideas for the winter edition of The Hunger Games, Mr. Gamemaker." You tease him with a smirk, at which he rolls his eyes and holds you tighter against him.

"I would prefer it if she stopped. The games are already mine. She should stay in her lab and out of my business."

"You don't get along anymore? I tought that she loved you. And you were delighted with her attention." You ask, curious about his obvious reluctance and the cold way he spoke about her.

"We have one… controversial issue." He answers evasively, looking at the roses his grandmother planted in the greenhouse you were passing by. You frown, watching him carefully as you question him.

"That is?"

"You." He answers briefly, not bothering to come up with any lies. He knows very well that sooner or later you will find out about... his soured relationship with Dr. Gaul.

"Oh... me?" You asked him, surprised. He doesn't look you in the eyes, but you can see from the way his jaw clenches at the memory of the conversation that led to their conflict that it was... quite serious. You didn't expect that Coriolanus would argue with Gaul about YOU.

"Don't make those innocent eyes. You know exactly what I'm talking about." He says this, looking at you briefly. He turns into an alley, leading you two to the deeper parts of the gardens where only your gardeners went... "Gaul thinks you're an incompetent child who doesn't know anything about government or how to keep people in line. That you will plunge this country within a few years, and your rule will lead to a rebellion, which the Capitol will lose in a very bloody and painful way. To which I disagreed... quite strongly, which she didn't like, so she called me your faithful errand dog, waiting for leftovers from your table. I think you can guess how I reacted."

"That old madwoman should be glad I left her alone in her lab. Even though I have reasons to send her to prison." You are furious about the news he told you. You stop, making him turn to fully look at you. He can't help but smile in amusement when he sees how cute you look when you're mad at someone other than him. This is definitely a nice change for him. "You're not some fucking dog or lesser man, Coryo. We are partners. Equal ones. I hope you know that. And maybe Dr. Gaul won't live long enough to see me... us, leading Panem to greatness, but it doesn't change that people will be better under our rules. I promised myself we would never suffer from hunger again. Not any citizen of the Capitol and districts."

"Districts?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

"They are people too." You reply, placing your hands in his jacket pockets to warm yourself up a bit. Seeing this, he pulls you towards him and leads you towards the gazebo. It should protect you from the wind enough to make you warm again.

"And they were the reason for our suffering."

"True. But people change. And now we are the reason for their suffering. So what makes us different? Apart from nice clothes and well-groomed skin?" You answer after a moment of silence.

"You talk like Sejanus." He sighs, unable to stop himself from comparing your utopian visions of harmonious life with the Districts to Plinth's desires.

"He was a good man. And a friend." You say it quietly, remembering your friend fondly. You mindlessly play with the bracelet he gave you, which catches Coriolanus' attention. He looks at this scrap of jewellery with a hateful look, jealous that you value some stupid item so much.

"Not like me, right?" He asks, laughing bitterly and shaking his head. You frown and shift your confused gaze towards him.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." He tries to back away, but your inquisitive gaze and the anger bubbling within him make him throw away his common sense and let his jealousy and resentment flow out. "He will always be a saint in your eyes, right? He died a martyr. He wanted to help the districts. Does that make me an executioner in your eyes? A sinner maybe?"

"No. I'm not comparing you to him. You are from two different worlds. He was a boy from the district, and he saw these people for what they were. Humans. Just wanting what they should have. Equality. And you... you are from the Capitol. You saw the cruelty of the rebellion and the fighting. Your father, mother, and sister died. You lost... a big part of yourself at a very young age. With them. And you have a right to feel resentment, anger, and hatred towards the people of the district, but imagine that somewhere there lives a man who went through similar things, but at the hands of people from the Capitol. Are you surprised that they are distrustful? That they see us as a threat? That they want to get rid of us and finally have their freedom? That they don't want to be threatened with the possibility of death in the Hunger Games? Wouldn't you object? Wouldn't you rebel?"

"It doesn't matter. We won't reconcile. Our wounds are too deep, and our resentments are too fresh. Do you think the families who lost loved ones will accept these... people from the district as equals? That we will create one happy, wonderful country, as our naive Sejanus wanted, against whom the people he helped turned? You don't know what the people of the district are like. They are treacherous dogs, even worse than me. You don't know when they will decide to drop their façade of kindness and give you a fatal bite like the most venomous snake."

"You... you have right. I don't know. Maybe they are like that, or maybe not. But deepening these wounds will do no good, Coryo." He huffs, shaking his head, when he hears his nickname coming out of your lips.

"Coryo... how can you say that to me when all I can see in your eyes is how you despise me for sending him to death? You abhor hypocrisy, but here you are, still holding a grudge against me, aren't you?"

"No. Neither of us is crystal clear. And maybe you want to tell yourself that you're a selfish asshole who doesn't feel anything, but I know... I see how he haunts you. And she. You're not a monster, Coryo. No matter how much you want to make other people and maybe even yourself believe in it. You are not an enforcer or a tyrant. Gaul wants you to be. She wants to make you as cold and uncaring as her. But it's not you. And do you know how I know this?"

"How?" He asks mockingly, trying to keep up his indifferent façade. And maybe he can lie to everyone around him, but not to you. Not when you've known him for so many years, almost better than yourself.

"Because you love me. And as long as you are able to love someone more than you love yourself, then you cannot be a monster." You say this, looking into his eyes.

He blinks a few times and turns his head, shifting his gaze to the vines wrapping around the columns of the gazebo. You watch him as he swallows and clears his throat, bringing his voice down to a flat tone, before he looks at you again.

"And how are you so sure that I'm doing this? That I love you more than anything?"

"Well, starting with you not sabotaging my presidency, which you could do very easily, and ending with this." You say calmly as you fish a small, velvety box out of the pocket of his jacket you're waering and open it, revealing a beautiful, breathtaking engagement ring to the both of you.

You both remain silent. He looks at the ring in shock, as if you were the one proposing to him, while you study the expression on his face, only more reassuring yourself of the decision you made the moment your fingertips felt the velvet box in his jacket's pocket.

"That's why I wanted you to have your own jacket..." He sighs, taking the ring from you and playing with the small box. "I had a whole plan ready, but as usual, you come in and ruin everything. And I certainly didn't want to ask you this question the same night when we were discussing my questionable morals."

"You've got some. Microscopic, but still." He laughs at this, which makes you smile involuntarily.

His icy blue irises look at you with something so... warm and tender, so unlike Coriolanus, who hangs out with the crowd of important people in the Capitol, and so like your dear Coryo, that you almost melt in front of him.

You stick out your hand (the one without the Sejanus' bracelet), which he takes without hesitation. He strokes the back of your hand gently with his thumb, thinking hard about something before looking back at you.

"You sure? Because there is no turning back from there. In the eyes of the Capitol, it's as if we've already exchanged wedding rings."

"That's actually very sweet and artificial, you know? You are trying to be a gentleman while we both know damn well that all you want is to put that ring on my finger and make me finally yours." You say it playfully, smiling widely.

"Y/N. I need an answer." He responds in the same calm tone as before, but you can see from the slight shaking in his hands that this is also a poignant moment for him in his own way. Coriolanus Snow and feelings. To you. The world went mad... maybe it already did on the day you became president instead of him.

"And I need a question." You tease him, and he sighs in irritation, but he can't stop the smirk forming on his lips.

However, he suddenly becomes serious, and instead of continuing your game, he takes the ring out of the box, strokes gently your palm and ring finger, and asks, still looking into your eyes with an unexpected tenderness.

"Y/N Y/L/N... will you take me as I am and agree to marry me?"

"Now this is a bit of a trick question." You joke after swallowing, trying your best to hold back the tears that are coming with the question you would never expect him to ask you.

"Y/N..."

"Yes. Yes, I will marry you, Coriolanus Snow." You interrupt him. Before he can complain and lecture you for not respecting the big step you're taking for your future, you cup his cheeks with your hands and pull him in for a kiss.

The photo shows this moment. One of the paparazzi took it after sneaking past your security and following you two into the gardens. It shows you and Coryo kissing, holding each other close in an embrace, as you two celebrate your engagement. The ring that he had somehow managed to place on your finger before you hungrily pressed your lips against his was glowing in the moonlight and looked perfect in the photo.

You smile fondly, filled with nostalgia.

"I accept only wrotten apology." Coriolanus' voice brought you out of your thoughts. You set the photo down on the coffee table and turned to face him. He looked impeccable as always. The only thing that would have betrayed his earlier nervous and angry state was his slightly ruffled hair and the lack of a tie. The first buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, giving you a perfect view of his Adam's apple, neck, and part of his collarbone.

"Me too." You finally say, keeping your mind from wandering to the dirty memories you had of him.

"You too?" He asks, surprised, crossing his arms. You lift your chin slightly, looking at him defiantly, and answer in a calm but firm voice.

"I agree. I did a bad thing. I should have spoken to you before making any documents or plans. But I am not the only guilty one here. You were spying on me. You sent your men after me to watch my every step." You accuse him in a resentful tone of voice. To which he just laughs mockingly, ignoring your furious look.

"Please... as if you didn't have your men or women watching my back and telling you about everything I do."

"And how am I supposed to trust you?! You killed 3 people or maybe even more, that's not the thing that's simply can be forgotten." You explode, unable to control your emotions anymore. His gaze darkens as well, and his eyes glow, sharing your fiery fury.

"And how am I supposed to trust you that you don't just set all of the Panem on fire by your orders?! I wanted to be president all my life. You wanted it only for several months." He stops, looks at something in your hand, and laughs bitterly. You curse internally when you see his eyes fall on Sejan's bracelet. He grabs your wrist and turns the bracelet in his hand before his icy irises shift back to you, making you shiver. "As I see, good old Sejanus is ruining my life even from beyond the grave. Why are you wearing it again? Are you feeling remorseful, darling? The anniversary of the death of that district scumbag is coming up, and you magically start to remember that I have no conscience? That you can't trust me? That's amazing how hypocritical you can be. If I were you and wore any jewellery from Lucy Gray, especially after I promised you I wouldn't do it again like you did after our engagement, you would go mad, suspicious, and probably demand from me to destroy it. But you can do everything you want, won't you, Madame President?"

"So we don't trust each other. Perfect future marriage." You sneer fiercely, pulling your hand from his strong grip as he presses your buttons precisely.

"Don't bring our engagement into this. The problem is what you do as president, not us."

"Why shouldn't I? Because at home you are my Coryo and outside the walls of your apartament you are Coriolanus?" You mock him, unconsciously taking a step towards him. He accepts your challenge and equally furiously invades your personal space as you stare at each other defiantly.

"You still think I am like a fucking coin?! That I have two sides—one for my family and the other to show for our people?"

"I AM PRESIDENT. Not you. They are MINE pepople, not ours!"

You regret your words as soon as they leave your mouth. For a moment, you think he's going to slap you; you wouldn't be surprised if he did. But he didn't. He takes a step back and closes his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to calm down. You take a step towards him and reach for him, but the stern look in his icy eyes stops you.

"If that's what you say, Madam President. But if I were you, I would consider which one you love—who I am or who I was. Because if it's the latter... then maybe we shouldn't get married. Although I think you always preferred Sejanus. What a pity that the worms have already eaten his corpse. You would be worth each other."

You freeze at his words. A loud bang on the door wakes you from your stupor, making you flinch. You sigh and run a hand through your hair. Sejanus' bracelet gets caught in them. You curse and somehow untangle it from your hair. You play with it in your hand for a moment.

"Coryo..." You start, hoping he hears you, and he leaves.

When there is no response from your fiancé, he walks to his bedroom door, and you knock once and remove the bracelet from your wrist.

"Coryo, I am sorry!" You try, but once again, you are only met with silence.

Anger begins to build within you again. Because how can you talk to him normally and apologise to him when he locks himself in a room like a rebellious teenager? You slam your hand on his door in frustration, letting out an angry scream.

"FINE! BE A BRAT! Call me when your period will end, Snow!"

You throw the bracelet on the floor in front of his door and quickly walk out of the apartment, forgetting to grab your coat. You avoid the avox, security, and all the other annoying people and practically run to your car. You stop at the front desk to tell Clem to cancel all your appointments for today and tomorrow morning. You get in your car, wanting only to drown your sorrows in wine and the hot tub in your presidential palace. You could take some time off from time to time. After all, you have already been the worst president of all time in the eyes of your man.

"Smile!" The photographer says this before the spotlight blinds you. Coriolanus's arm wraps tighter around your waist—perfect for the photo—and so you can feel him tightening around you in a little painful way, so it's hard for you to breathe. You feel like a snake or gorset were around you. "Perfect! Maybe you can kiss now?"

You don't have to turn around to know Coriolanus has that smug, cocky smirk on his face.

You shouldn't be here with him. But your wedding rehearsal couldn't be postponed due to your argument, so instead you dressed up as best as you could so he could see what he had missed during these weeks of silent war between you.

But for now, he was the one having the time of his life, watching you get more and more irritated with his closeness to you. He could notice it even behind your perfect fake smile.

You gasp softly in surprise as he pulls you in for a passionate kiss. If you had an audience, they would surely gasp with delight, judging by how quickly the light flashed and how many photos the photographer took of both of you before you stepped away from Coriolanus.

"Great! Thank you very much. That's all from my side, unless you want another photo, Mr. and Mrs. President?" You'd roll your eyes if you could. Not married yet, and he already has your title.

"That's enough for now. Thank you, Colin." Coriolanus replied for the two of you.

He puts his hand on your shoulders and pulls you into his side. You'd elbow him in the ribs, but you decide to hold back until the photographer leaves you alone.

"Is something wrong, honey?" He asks in a sweet, artificially concerned tone of voice as the photographer gathers his things.

"Not at all, sweetheart." You reply with a smile that disappears from your face as quickly as the door closes behind Colin. You push his hands off of you and look at him, furious. "Did you have to? I'm sure they'll print THIS photo on the entire front page of the newspaper."

He just shrugs and grabs a strand of your hair, smoothing it out.

"I do not see any problem. We're getting married, after all. Unless you're planning something else behind my back that I don't know about? Then this photo might make you look like a heartless bitch after our breakup."

"We both know it's better to be a widow than a whore." Your little threat is met with a mocking laugh from him. He shakes his head in amusement and leans towards you. You tense up, feeling his breath on your cheek as he whispers in your ear.

"Do you wish me dead? You pick up on my habits pretty quickly, Madam President." He pulls away and winks at you, clearly seeing how his closeness has affected you. His hand trails lazily from your neck, over your collarbones, down the side of your breast, and down your waist, until it settles on your hip. You shiver, feeling his electric touch through your clothes. "Come on, honey. Let's get back to the guests before they drink all our supplies, and we won't have anything good left for our real wedding."

Before you can say anything, he tightens his grip and pulls you closer to him. You both leave the room and return to the ballroom in the presidential palace.

You may be angry at each other, and there's a festering resentment between you, but in a strange way, his presence and his hand on your waist calm you down in a crowd of people. He could be a great foil when he stayed silent and didn't try to convince you of his views.

Your thoughts involuntarily turn to what your spies have told you. Coriolanus has been doing some district travel lately. They didn't know for what purpose. He disappeared for several hours in different houses. He rarely stayed there overnight, usually boarding the train right away and returning to the Capitol. You didn't like it. Even more so, your first thought was that he was with HER.

You don't know what was worse. The fact that maybe he was cheating on you, the fact that your first thought was that he wasn't plotting against you but that he had reconciled with his songbird and was spending time with her in different neighbourhoods, or the fact that you felt immense jealousy and rage at the thought that someone else touched your fiancé besides you. And it wasn't even anger at him. It was at Lucy Gray.

Pathetic, how you could let him become such an important part of you, how he slipped back and nested in your heart, poisoning it with sweet words just to regain your affection and trust. And then he attacked you every day, testing your limits and seeing how far he could go in his plotting to keep you from paying attention to him.

He was like a snake. But he was your snake. And you wanted to live in the naive belief that maybe you could tame him, just like Dr. Gaul did with her own snakes.

You look at him as he smiles, showing off a row of his pearly snow teeth as he talks to some minister of yours. You don't pay too much attention to the conversations and people around you, letting him take over. You don't miss how some of the Capitol's most important figures call him Mr. President. You ignore it. For now, you have something completely different on your mind. Or rather, someone...

"Y/N? What's wrong with you?" Coriolanus' question brings you out of your thoughts about his possible affair. You still wonder if they could really get back together. After all, Lucy Gray is alive thanks to him, and he followed her to District 12. You flinch, feeling his hands on your shoulder and one caressing the side of your neck as he gently forces you to look into his eyes. You can really see genuine concern and anxiety in them. Does he start to suspect that you know that he can... "Look at me, diamond. I'm really starting to worry now. What's going on?"

You don't have time to answer him, even if you wanted to. Festus staggers onto the stage, and you already know that this is a harbinger of disaster.

Coriolanus stands next to you reluctantly, clearly preferring to finish the conversation rather than listen to your former academy colleague make a toast.

"Hello everyone. Please give me a little attention. I've known our presidential couple since we started the Academy, and to be honest, I never thought that someone like Y/N would actually end up with our Coriolanus, but as you can see, fate likes to be funny and do ridiculous things. Nevertheless, I'd like to make a toast! A toast to Y/N! Always the second love, never the first. I hope you know what you are doing by marrying this narcissist asshole, Madam President."

Surprisingly, the crowd sees this as a joke and is not outraged by it. After all, in public opinion, you were a perfect couple, and Coriolanus was staring at you with the eyes of a lovesick puppy.

But you took it completely differently. And this supposedly funny toast from Festus only deepened your doubts. Judging by the way Coryo tensed up, he noticed how it affected you.

"Excuse me for a moment." You say this, feeling yourself getting more and more short of breath. You don't bother listening to what he says back. All you can think about now is getting out of there as quickly as possible before you start crying.

Fortunately, Coriolanus doesn't follow you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him furiously approaching the drunken Festus. You don't give the two a second thought as you run to the guest bathroom. You close the door behind you and rest your hands on the sink.

You hyperventilate, trying not to think about how painfully true Festus' words were.

Coriolanus had only two true loves, for which he was willing to sacrifice himself completely.

Power and Lucy Gray.

He devoted his entire life to one thing: trying to be the best in the Academy, the best in the eyes of Dr. Gaul, the best in the University, the best in the eyes of the Capitol, a gamemaker, and the future president—a position you took away from him.

And for Lucy, Gray gave up his dreams. Damn, you know he would fucking run away with her, sacrificing his entire life, if these two were able to trust each other and love each other despite their flaws and differences.

So how could you ever compete with that? When he never put you first, when he never cared about you that much to make any sacrifices for you, how long could you fool yourself into thinking that he loved you when clearly everything he did was to become president?

People already called him that. In a few years after your wedding, who knows how he will manipulate them? How will he manipulate you and everyone around you? That he won't declare himself president and remove you from your place, making you his First Lady, just as he always wanted?

No. He didn't love you. Festus was right. You would always be the other one. It doesn't matter whether his songbird or lust for power are on his pedestal.

You shiver when, in the middle of your sobs, someone hugs you tightly and presses you against a hard, muscled chest.

"Shhh. All right. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch. He will pay for your tears... just... please stop. You know it's not true; you know he lied, that it was his drunken gibberish, and he doesn't know what he's talking about, right? Y/N, you know that you are my one and only, my chosen one, my destiny, right? That it was always you? At every moment, even the darkest? Y/N?"

You cling to him, frantically grabbing at his shirt. He places his hand on your head and presses you against him, feeling you shake and struggle to catch your breath between your cries. He strokes your hair tenderly and places kisses on your temple and forehead, never letting go of you as he only tightens his embrace.

He doesn't say anything anymore. He knows that it doesn't make sense that you just need to let out the emotions of the whole month and that you just need him close to you. And maybe his reaction is not appropriate, but he warms up internally at the thought that it is HIM that you cling to in your most difficult times, that you seek his comfort even when you are in great conflict with each other. And somehow he forgets that you plan to take away his role as Gamemaker and that you plan to take down the Hunger Games behind his back.

"You broke the door." You finally say when you calm down, not moving away from him just yet.

"I heard you crying. My peacekeeper's instinct took over." You'd laugh at this if you were in better condition. All you can do is breathe in the faint scent of his perfume and the white rose he has pinned to his jacket.

"You were a peacekeeper only for one summer." You mumble, breathing steadily. You slowly started to calm down, enough that you were no longer in danger of shedding any more tears.

You pull away from him, which he reluctantly allows you to do. You take the paper and wipe the tears from your face, checking yourself in the mirror. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that his shirt is black with your mascara and smeared with makeup that you left behind as you buried your face into his chest.

"And without you by my side, it felt like years." You catch his gaze in the mirror as he looks at you carefully. You had no idea why you reacted like that or why you fell straight into his arms and let him hold you. You felt stupid that he saw you in such a... moment of vulnerability.

"You had Lucy Gray. Maybe you still have her?" You ask, turning to face him.

You don't know what's on his face more—surprise or anger—but you definitely know that he doesn't like your gentle accusations. He walks towards you, making you take a step back and hit the sink behind you with your hips.

"No. Don't let that drunkard convince you that there's something more important to me than you. And definitely not that district bitch." He says this, placing his hands on your shoulders. His gaze is so intensely focused on your eyes that it makes you feel uncomfortable. Something like doubt begins to bloom in your chest, but Festus' words are still fresh in your mind.

Always the second love, never the first.

In your eyes, he's lying. He says sweet words to calm your guard down. He may not have loved Lucy Gray, but he didn't love you either. Only one thing mattered to him. Power. Maybe it's finally time to stop fooling yourself into thinking that he can be different?

"I don't believe you. And the problem is, I don't think I ever will again, Coriolanus. I thought that we... that we could be like we were before, but maybe you're right. Maybe I only love you for who you were. Maybe I am a hypocrite. But I want to marry someone for whom I will be most important. I want to marry someone who can sacrifice everything for me. And maybe I'm asking too much; maybe I'm fucking selfish—I don't care. But I don't want to marry someone to whom I mean less than the whole world."

You say all this with tears in your eyes. You don't feel like pretending to him that you don't care or that you're strong. You've been like this for far too long. Somehow, you manage to push past him and head towards the exit.

"Y/N..." You ignore his soft calls and close the door behind you.

You're not coming back to the party. You don't feel strong enough to go back there and pretend that everything is fine, that your heart is not broken, that you are not devastated, and that you don't know what to do next, neither with Coryo nor with Panem. You go straight to the exit of the mansion. You nod to your driver and get in the car with him, giving him the address of Clem's apartment.

You will call her from her apartment and tell her that you are avoiding your fiancé for now and that you need to think about some important things. You just hope she doesn't get mad that you're out of sight of the Capitol for a few days.

You needed rest. Or a longer vacation. The process of phasing out The Hunger Games has been a migraine-inducing experience from the very beginning. You were afraid to think about how it would all turn out and end.

You didn't actually have to think about it for long.

The car skidded strangely, and even though you were wearing your seat belt, it's throwing you forward and then backward. You groan as you feel the side of the car's body crumple inward under the pressure of the other car. You hear nothing—no sound—as you feel the bone in your leg break under the pressure of the other car, even though you swear you take a deep breath to scream. The last thing you remember before you pass out is a warm feeling spreading throughout your body.

"Clemensia. Where the hell is she?" Coriolanus approaches the Prime Minister, glaring at her furiously.

"Can't you see I'm trying to track her down?! Peacekeepers are looking for her everywhere. One of the lackeys says he saw her driver leaving here before the explosion; maybe she escaped before they blew up half of the presidential palace."

"It's better for you to be like this." He growls at her, furious. You were supposed to be with him all the time. You and Tigris were supposed to be far from danger. He only managed to keep an eye on his cousin. That wasn't his plan for the evening. How could he keep forgetting your ability to ruin all his ideas and assumptions? Next time, he will tie you to himself.

"Don't talk to me like that, Coriolanus. I've known you for too long. Besides, I'm the prime minister. If my suspicions are correct and this little attack on the presidential palace by the district's rebels the day before we announced our plan to take down the Hunger Games is not their own idea, then I will make sure Y/N's disappearance is your last concern."

"Are you threatening me?" He asks, raising an eyebrow questioningly. He takes a step towards her, making sure he is towering over her and looking down at her intimidatingly.

She tries to hide her nervousness, but by the way she swallows and the fear shining in her eyes, he knows that even though she's acting tough, she's still afraid of him. Like everyone in the Capitol. He would make sure that Clemensia would never again dare to put her above him. After all, he could always get rid of the prime minister. As the president's husband (and maybe, in the future, a full president), he would have enough power and connections to do that. But he would have to convince you of it first...

"I'm warning you. Like an ex-friend." Her voice brings him out of his thoughts. He laughs derisively and shakes his head in amusement before returning to his intimidating stance.

"So let me warn you too. If something happened to her, if her disappearance wasn't her own will, I'll make sure you hang with those district scumbags. You, your family, aunts and uncles, and whoever is close to or related to you. I'll erase your family name from the Capitol records." He says, leaning close enough to her so that no one accidentally overhears what he's saying, while making sure he's close enough for it to be appropriate. He doesn't want you to be jealous. Maybe a little. But definitely not now, when your engagement and marriage are in question.

“You don't have that kind of fucking power.”

"Maybe I don't. But I'm sure that Dr. Gaul's snakes would love to play with you again. Maybe this time they will be more poisonous?" He says it with a mischievous smirk as she turns pale at his words. She knows she's flooded with memories of the 10th Hunger Games and what Gaul did to her. He winks at her and walks away, not sparing her a second glance.

He doesn't wait for her answer. After all, he has more important things to worry about than arguing with his former friend.

He passes people treated by rescuers and gracefully jumps over the ruins of the eastern part of the presidential palace. He will have to hang more rebels than he thought. He finally agreed with them that only the ballroom would explode, not the entire wing. He would have the heads of all of them if something happened to you.

"Private." He calls out to one of the peacekeepers. A man younger than him walks up to him and bows respectfully.

"President Snow. How may I serve, sir?" He would smile at how he calls him if your health and safety weren't on his mind.

He barks dry and sharp orders at him and orders some of the peacekeepers to lock up and guard the rebels and shoot any unnecessary ones right away. Coriolanus didn't want to waste any time. He sends the rest of the men, along with the higher ranks, to secure the Capitol grounds against any escapes. His silent command is clear. Everyone must be captured by dawn, or inept peackeepers will take the place of those missing.

He notices that the people around him are quite quick to accept him as the new leader, even despite Dovecote's protests.

Coriolanus finds this logical. After all, after you, he is the next and only competent entity. He probably would have basked in his power if one of the soldiers hadn't handed him a phone. A call from the hospital.

"Madam President had a car accident. The rebels tracked her car and drove into the side; some of them set the car on fire, but fortunately someone got her out of there before the worst happened. We are stabilising her condition all the time, but..."

"If you let her die, I will consider it treason and an attack on the head of state. All hospital staff will become traitors like those rebels from the districts and punished even worse than them; tell this to the doctors. In fact, I'll do it myself as soon as I get there. Have a nice night." He hangs up the phone and, after a quick conversation with a council of people closest to you, a plan of action with the press spokesman, and a very hateful tussle with Dovecote over the car, which he obviously wins, gets into the car and drives himself to the hospital.

Because no matter what happens, you are his priority. He's going to assure you of that.

He parks his car anywhere and runs up the hospital stairs. When the nurses see him, they run away, dragging trolleys with other patients. He manages to grab one of them painfully by the elbow and ask about your whereabouts. The nurse sighs in relief when she doesn't say anything in return, and he immediately heads to the room you are in.

He sees you in various states. Burned from head to toe, broken bones, bruised. He feels his inner anger rising along with his anxiety as various scenarios run through his head.

In each of them, you are barely clinging to life, but you are alive because Coriolanus cannot imagine existing in a world without you. You can hate him, you can curse him, and you can distrust him, but you MUST LIVE. For him.

But in neither of them does he imagine Lucy Gray sitting by your side.

"Touch her, and I'll break all your bones and put you in prison with a muzzle on your mouth so you can't sing for the rest of your miserable life." He doesn't know how, but he manages to get over his initial shock and threatens her, closing the door behind him with a loud bang.

She doesn't even flinch. In fact, she is not taking her eyes off of you. She looks just like when they were in 12. Like it hasn't passed a day since he tried to shoot her and kill her in the forest near the lake she showed him.

"Relax. She's too good to hurt. And I'm not a murderer. You know about it."

"What the hell are you doing here?" He asks as their eyes meet. And he is the one who flinches.

Because the Lucy Gray looking at him isn't the same girl he helped win the Hunger Games. He feels something... strange about her. An aura that he can't properly name. It makes him more anxious, and he forgets about you for a moment in favour of the woman sitting by your hospital bed.

"I saved your fiancée. Do you know that the people you talked to are customers who often come to my tavern? You hide it well, but I know you, Coriolanus. I connected the dots. She will do it too."

"She's not like you. She won't run away from me. She won't leave me. She loves me." He growls at her threat.

He shifts his gaze to you and relaxes slightly. You breathe. Steady and calm. You're as pale as a wall, but you're alive. You have a bandage wrapped around your head, but you're alive. The beeping in the room monitoring your heartbeat reassures him of this. He always thought it was annoying. Only now is he starting to understand how heavenly this sound is.

"She did it today, didn't she? She ran away from you and got into the car, I bet, after your fight. About what? About power? About the title? You have everything, Coriolanus. Prestige. The woman of your dreams. Respect. Money. What more could you want? Isn't this what you dreamed of? At the times when you had nothing but her? Haven't you dreamed of being right where you are?

Her questions catch him off guard. He doesn't know why, but all he can do is stand there over your bed and listen to the songbird as he questions his actions and motivations. What's even weirder is that he can't really name what he's feeling right now. Everything became unimportant the moment he walked into that room and saw the both of you. Or rather, when he was informed about your accident.

"I... yes."

"So what are you still fighting for? What do you still want so badly? Maybe you'd rather have everything BUT her?"

"No. No." Hee shakes his head, looking down at you and your unconscious body.

NO. He couldn't live like this.

Without your smile. Without your warmth. Without your touch. Without your lips. Without your moans. Without your quarrels. Without your irritated and angry sighs. Without seeing the crease between your eyebrows when you solved a difficult problem. Without your tired smile and sigh as you climbed into bed with him.

He could starve for weeks. But he couldn't be without your presence. You were more precious than anything.

Than any water, food, air, money, or titles. When he had nothing, when his family was starving and living in a dilapidated apartment, he could only feel powerful with you in his arms. He could only feel important in the glow of your attention and affection. And he knew that if it were taken away from him again, he would not enjoy any power. He had a piece of it to himself today. And all he could think about was you.

"Mr. Snow?" The doctor's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He looks up, no longer finding Lucy Gray at your side. He shakes his head and rubs his hand over his eyes. He shouldn't drink that last glass of champagne...

"Yes?"

"Everything is fine with Madam President. We managed to stabilise her. She should make a full recovery in time for the wedding, but she needs to rest a lot. She was put through a very hard and difficult experience." He nods and hestitantly sits down in the chair next to yours, keeping his eyes on you (which is a great relief for the doctor).

"I will take care of her." He announces firmly, in a hushed tone of voice, as if you weren't on strong drugs and could wake up at any moment.

"Of course. I shall leave you both." The doctor takes the opportunity that Coriolanus' attention is focused solely on you and leaves.

Coryo gently cups your cheek in his hand and strokes it with his thumb. He lingers on your lips, relieved to feel your shallow exhale. The fingers of his other hand wrap around your wrist as he checks your pulse, making sure you're alive and that his mind isn't playing with him like it was with Lucy Gray.

You were there. Safe. He hovers over your bed and puts his head on your chest. He doesn't put his burden on you; he would rather die than hurt you. He simply puts his ear in to listen to the rhythmic beats of your heart.

He quickly decides that's the prettiest song of all time.

"Tilt your head a little towards me, my diamond. I don't want to touch your wound too much." He says, kneeling by the tub as he washes your hair, making sure the shampoo doesn't get too deep into the already crusted skin at the back of your head.

"Are you aware that I can do it myself?" You sigh as he carefully rinses your hair.

"Are you aware that you only got out of the hospital yesterday?" He answers the question with a question as he continues to wash you, being extremely gentle. His fingers caress the scalp of your head as his other hand lazily runs the sponge over your body, making sure to clean every bit of you.

You would appreciate it if he left your side for just five seconds. Or at least for one. Ever since you saw him watching over your hospital bed, he hasn't left your side. And the peacekeepers seemed to be circling around you all the time.

"Yes, and since my accident, you haven't left my side even for once."

"Does this surprise you?" His point is right. You could have predicted he would be like this. Just like how he'll be jealous of every peacekeeper around you, which is why he either always had his arm wrapped around you or had women watching over you when he REALLY needed to leave your side. To another room. With the door open, so he could look at you while he talked on the phone or did whatever he had to do.

"I don't like this shampoo." You change the subject, wincing as you straighten the leg that was removed from the cast yesterday.

He looks at you scoldingly and gently grabs your leg. You moan as he massages your muscles, just like the physical therapist showed him. He only allowed female doctors to see you. And he always had to be present in the room. As if you couldn't take care of yourself or trust a damn doctor.

Yet you allow him a bit of this... madness. You actually found it sweet how protective he became of you. Not enough to not snap at him when he was really crossing the line, but it was still sweet to see him concerned and so tender in his care for you.

"A little lower." You tell him, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the tub.

"Don't do that." Coriolanus says this and gently places his fingers on your neck, pushing your head forward a little. "You can't rest the back of your head on anything yet."

"I'm not a baby, Snow. I know what I can and cannot do." You say it stubbornly. He sighs and rolls his eyes at you. He gets up from his knees and begins to quickly undress. You can't help but blush at the sight of his toned, well-muscled body. You're getting a little hot. Especially since you haven't had him in you for a long time. "I thought I was really sick?" You ask teasingly, biting your lip as you watch him closely.

"You are. Move over." He says this and sits behind you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer to him. You rest your head on his shoulder so that your wound doesn't touch his skin or the tub.

"You've gone soft, Snow." You're mocking him. If you turned around, you would see a soft smile on his lips.

"On the contrary, this way, I can feel you better. Especially your sweet ass, which teases me. Keep doing this, and I'll spank you."

"I thought the car hit me too hard for you to fuck me?" You say it jokingly, but instead of laughing or responding with a comment, he tenses. Concerned, you turn in his arms to look at him. He has a thoughtful expression on his face. You see a bit of anger on her face, a bit of resentment, and a bit of something resembling nervousness. "Coryo?"

"You wanted to run away? Then?" He asks you thoughtfully. You shiver as his eyes pierce yours, searching for any hint of lie or truth. Automatically, he holds you tighter against him and reaches for the faucet to add warm water to the bathtub.

"You know that I can't I am the president." You respond, letting him hug you tightly. You bury your face in his neck, nuzzling his neck with your nose. He's trembling too now. He pulls away gently and cups your chin. He forces you to look at him, examining your face carefully.

"I'm not asking you if you could. I'm asking you if you wanted to. Did you want to run away from me?"

There is silence between you for a moment. The only sound is the splash of water flowing into the bathtub. You lick your lips and kiss him briefly and quickly. Before he has a chance to kiss you back, you pull away from him and turn off the tap.

"No. I needed to calmly think about a few things. And you know how... explosive we can be together when we both get into each other's thoughts."

"I guess so. Which didn't explain your behaviour earlier. That little burst of tears. What was it really about?"

He lets you play with his fingers underwater. You don't look at him, collecting your thoughts, wondering how honest you can be with him. You remind yourself that he is meant to be your husband, and if so, you want nothing less than a partner. After his grandmother died, he changed, but he was right. He wasn't the same Coryo. He couldn't be. Not after what he was put through. And you weren't the same Y/N. He accepted it... you guess. But could you do the same?

"I guess... I guess I am scared you will love it more. That you will love power over me... or other things... just like you always did."

"I beg your pardon?" He asks, surprised, even shocked. You frown and move your gaze to his chest, nervously nibbling at his skin.

"You always had something more important than me. The Plinth Prize. Lucy Gray. The Hunger Games. Dr. Gaul's favor. The Presidency. There was always something above me." You tell him, not looking him in the eyes.

An awkward silence falls between you. You are afraid to interrupt her. And you can barely move without his help, so you'll stick with it as long as he wants you to. The bastard knew you had no escape; that's why he brought this topic up.

"I did it to be someone. To matter in the Capitol. So that I can marry you. So I could be able to take care of you and Tigris. You know it well."

"And I would marry you and live in poverty if only we could be together. You know it well." You respond quickly, using his words. He wrinkles his nose in obvious displeasure, shifting in the tub and tightening his grip on you even more.

"That's the last thing I wanted for you. What I wanted for my family. What I wanted for myself."

"And what do you want now?" Your question catches him off guard, as if he's heard it before somewhere. You look at him carefully, seeing thousands of thoughts running through his head.

He remembers his conversation with Lucy Grey—her ghost, apparition, drunken vision, or whatever she was. He wasn't sure of his answer then. Not completely. But now that your eyes were staring at him instead of the district girl, he had no doubts about what he wanted.

"The first man I killed was a boy from the district." He starts playing with your hair as he begins his confession. "Tribute in the arena. Sejanus entered there after his friend from the district was... you know. Dr. Gaul told me to get him out of there before anyone noticed him. As we were leaving... he ran up to us. The tribute. He wanted to kill us. I grabbed something metal and heavy and hit him. Everywhere. Head, torso, legs, and arms. Until he stopped moving. The second person was the daughter of the mayor of District 12. Sejanus was conspiring with some people from the district. He gave them weapons. He was under the illusion that they would just organise a peaceful demonstration, but they shot several peacekeepers. She walked in in the middle of our conversation when I caught them. Right after her was Lucy Gray. They didn't like each other, and we... were close then. I had to shoot her. Not to protect Sejanus or her. I... all I could think about was that if I didn't kill her, then they would hang me too, and I wouldn't be able to come back... I'd never come back to you and Tigirs. And the third... the third was Sejanus. The one who was at every one of my murders. I... remember the time spent in 12 vaguely. But his scream when they were hanging him haunts me and will continue to haunt me in my dreams very... very precisely."

You remain silent after his long speech. You didn't expect him to ever tell you about his time in 12. Or about the people he killed. That he would open up enough to really admit his crimes to you. What should worry you is that he doesn't regret his actions and that he talks about them... too lightly. But how would you react in his place? Wouldn't your impulses be similar? To defend yourself from everything? At least in these first two cases...

"And for the past few days, all I could think about was that you would be my fourth. So don't say I don't care about you, that I don't put you above everything else, when all I could think about was that I would shoot myself if you died, because there is no life for me without you. You haunt me everywhere. You are everywhere. I see you everywhere; I remember your touch, your smell, and your taste. I am addicted to you... just like you are to me."

"So... you killed two?" You ask, swallowing, holding back tears of emotion at his words.

Maybe he actually cared about you more than you thought? But could he? Now he would say anything to marry you, to become the president's husband, and with time maybe a president... you remember how they called him that. But did it really bother you? Have someone with whom you can share the burden of running the country? He would certainly be better able to silence pesky ministers than you or Clem.

"Three." His whisper interrupts your internal thoughts. You look up at him and see him staring thoughtfully into the water. You cup his cheek and force him to look into your eyes.

"You didn't put a rope around his neck, Coryo."

"Maybe not physically. But it's because of me that he's dead. You know it. Why are you trying to justify me?" His question confused you because you had no idea what to say back. You knew why you were doing it and why you were trying to explain his actions to yourself.

And you also knew perfectly well who was behind half of your presidential palace exploding. You couldn't cancel the Hunger Games after something like that. Not now. But maybe it was good? Maybe you can slowly make the changes you want? It was foolish to think that Coriolanus would simply accept it. But gradually... giving him more and more power and autonomy... maybe you could even split the presidency between the two of you? Then he wouldn't be so insistent on keeping the Hunger Games.

"We are not good for each other." You whisper, catching his gaze. You gently stroke his cheek with your thumb as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"I've never said we are." He answers. The water is getting colder around you.

"We will break each other." You whisper, leaning towards him. You rub your noses against each other and rest your foreheads against each other. The closeness between you makes you feel warmer, even as the water around you becomes more and more icy.

"Possibly... I will not beg you to stay."

"Me neither." You say and capture his lips in a kiss. He tightens his grip on you, his fingers digging into your waist as he presses you against him. You feel his every muscle and movement when you kiss, forgetting about everything around you and all the problems that are waiting for you outside.

You're both lying. You both would keep the other one by your side at all costs. Even if you are not able to admit it to yourselves and become truly vulnerable, you know what the unspoken truth is between you two. You knew each other too long and deeply to live apart and never have contact with each other.

"I love you, Coriolanus." You whisper as he picks you up and walks towards his bed. He stops for a moment, stunned and shocked by your confession.

Coriolanus. Not Coryo. Not his old self.

"I love you too, Y/N. Never doubt that." He kisses you hungrily and greedily, feeling like he's won everything the moment you both fall onto his mattress.

And with your every touch, every gasp, and every moan of his name, he makes himself completely sure about the decision he has made. Maybe the power over you would be enough for him, or maybe not. For now, it was good to be able to fall into each other's arms. To have someone to come home to...

"Are you sure?" Tigris asks you as she is straightening your veil and wedding dress. "Clem and I have prepared a contingency plan just in case. Say the word, and we'll cancel it all. It's just the four of us, your parents and my fiancé. No one will know. And Clem will make up some story for the press and convince the priest to keep... the secret of the confession, or whatever you want to call it."

"I'm sure. There is no turning back. I won't wear this dress again, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste."

"I'm glad you like the dress, but what about your fiancé?"

"He's not that bad." You joke, and you both laugh. You're both interrupted by Clem's arrival. She whistles when she sees you.

"My God, you look even better than at the fittings. Maybe it's good that you're having this private wedding. I was angry at the beginning, as was half of the Capitol, but thanks to this, any photo published will be more eagerly watched and anticipated by people. Plus, Coryo might not kill someone out of jealousy that someone else sees you like that. Take care of your fiancé, Tigris."

"Everything will be fine." You tell them, looking at yourself in the mirror. The bracelet from Sejanus is on your wrist again. A wedding gift from Coryo.

"And where does this certainty come from?" You shrug at Clem's question and give her a mischievous smile.

"Snow lands on top." With a smile, you watch as horror and realisation appear on Clem's face. You laugh along with Tigris as she sighs dramatically.

"NO! Just not this! Don't tell me you're taking his surname, and now you're going to throw out this stupid text too! I listened to it for half of the Academy; I can't stand it for half my life, and what's worse, in your version!"

"It won't be that bad. I'll be Y/L/N-Snow.”

"This will be even worse! You can use both! Your future kids too!" She complains, not caring about your laughter. Coriolanus was right; her reaction was worth everything.

"Nope. Only I can use both. The kids, if there are any, will have his last name. I had to make some compromise."

"Kudos to him for that. Maybe I won't go crazy before I'm 40." You are about to express your doubts, but just then your mother comes in, looking at you with tears of emotion in her eyes.

"It's time. Should we sing 'Here Comes the Bride?'"

"Only if you're drunk enough." You joke and take the bouquet from Tigris. You hug both of your girls and your mother and go to your father, so he can walk you to the altar.

"You look beautiful. Are you sure you want to do this?" He asks you as soon as you get there.

"This is the second person asking me this; should I have doubts? Because I don't." You reply jokingly, but you know he notices how your hands are shaking.

"I trust him with you. It's obvious he loves you. And my old eyes tell me he's probably nervous too, maybe more than you are." He says this and nods towards the window.

The presidential palace has them tinted, so Coriolanus and your immediate family gathered in the garden cannot see you, but you can see them. And you see him staring at the door, waiting for you to enter. You see him playing with the sleeve of his cuff thoughtfully, with probably thousands of scenarios going through his head in which you leave him at the altar. And you're tempted to do it and see if he would chase you...

"I am sure. Let's go now... or he'll have a heart attack." You joke, trying to laugh it off.

Your father nods. He opens the door and leads you towards the altar. You don't hear the music around you, and you don't notice how warm the evening is.

All you can look at is Coriolanus.

And he just looks at you too, a smirk on his face. Not the one when he wins over his enemy and when his plans go his way. It's a sincere smile, the one you love more than life itself, the one that the poor boy with whom you shared your lunch had. Coriolanus Snow's happy smile dispels all your doubts.

The wedding ceremony is somewhere near you. Somehow, you don't pay attention to the words being said; you don't register any sound. Only the Coryo pattern counts. His tight grip on your hands and the fact that he's just as nervous and scared as you are, but you both don't run away. You just stand there, holding hands and looking into each other's eyes, because right now that's all that matters. You two. No Capitol, no Panem, and no districts—no nightmares of the past.

Just you two and this one moment. And you know that whatever happens, it will either break your heart or keep it alive forever. Because the undeniable truth is that you will need each other forever.

What difference does it make how many times you go from lovers to enemies to lovers and back again as long as you always found your way back to each other's arms?

You were practiced at breaking and mending your hearts.

𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 2) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

pt 1. pt. 2. pt. 3

𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘤 — 14.5𝘬

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢 (nothing too graphic but please be warned!!), 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬

note: it's here 🤲

the next morning you woke, Ghost was gone again, much to your chagrin. you were beginning to pick up on a pattern—a strong tendency to disappear without a trace. his clothes were absent from your room and the kitchen table, where you haphazardly undressed him without thinking about the evidence left behind for an unsuspecting one-four-one and Kate to see. 

the only trace of Ghost’s presence in your room last night was the neat pile of undergarments and clothes on the ottoman nestled in the corner of the room. after washing up, you slowly redressed that morning. in the mirror, your neck was covered in swollen purple patches—a parallel image to the softness of your bruised inner thighs. you were lucky enough to have been lent a high-collared blouse from Kate, mulling over everything with a bitter distaste in your mouth. 

it only grew when you stepped into the back room, Soap looking positively smug and Gaz avoiding your eyes. John looked undisturbed as he paged through a book, sipping at his coffee mug with his boot neatly crossed over the other beneath the kitchen table.

“good morning,” Soap sang, practically skipping to you and handing you a sticky, cinnamon bun, rolled up in a sweet delight.

“thank you,” you said with a polite dip of your head, sitting beside John at the table.

“you know, Gaz,” Soap said suddenly, turning to his friend who only paled in response, his face looking sour. “i could’ve sworn i heard something last night—”

you withered with shame, but luckily, Gaz kicked him hard in the shin to shut him up. immediately they began to bicker, and John only gave a disapproving grunt.

“where’s Kate?” you asked, meek, and desperate to escape the three men in the room. 

John jerked his head in the direction of the main store room, and you whispered a quick thank you to him, wiping the last crumbs on the back of your split skirt rudely before making a beeline out the room.

Kate was tending to the shop, lounging behind the counter as two customers perused the catalog. she was stitching together pieces of leather with a wax thread and needle. 

you carefully noted the absence of Ghost in the store room as well, but didn’t comment on it when she shot you a fleeting, knowing look. it was gone as soon as it came and yet it made you burn with shame nonetheless.

“Ghost is out on business again,” she explained, sewing with a practiced hand, and you frowned.

“I wasn't…” the words died in your throat. instead, you implored, “let me join one-four-one today.”

she paused her ministrations and sent you a look of grief. “why? so you can run away?”

that irked you. “you know i won’t.” in a meek voice, you added, “where would i even run too?”

she shrugged, returning to her leather pieces. “i don’t know. maybe off into your own rich glory.”

you resisted rolling your eyes. smoothing the front of your split skirt, you folded your hands politely, posture straightening.

“are you really going to ransom me to my daddy?” you challenged, and her hands paused

“because if you are, i know your secret base of operations. i know all your names, one-four-one’s, and Simon’s. i know what one-four-one looks like and that you’re working with los vaqueros.” 

her eyes narrowed, brow pinching.

you continued. “i think all that information would come very handy for Turner and my daddy.”

“so what are you going to do?” she snapped, “run straight to Turner and cry at your daddy’s feet?”

“no,” you said cooly, “i think you don’t plan on giving me back to my daddy at all.”

her eyes flashed and you contented with her glare, meeting it with the strongest one you could muster.

“because if you did plan on it, i’d tell them all that and more in a heartbeat. so why’d you let me in on all that information in the first place?”

taking a shaky inhale, you hoped to god you were right. “i know too much. i think you’re planning something else for me.”

she stared at you for a long moment before heaving a long sigh, screwing her eyes shut, surprising you when her mouth twisted into a tight-lipped grin, her blue eyes crinkled with a wild look.

“Ghost said you were a smart girl.”

she returned back to the leather work, finishing off the needlework by snapping the string with her teeth, pulling it taught with a knot.

“but no,” she said with finality, and you balked.

“no…?”

“let’s say that maybe Ghost is planning something for you. something big,” she dramatized with a mocking smirk. “you’re still our hostage. you stay here, the boys ride out. simple.”

she shot you a displeased look when she finished. “if you weren’t here, i’d be riding out too.”

you swallowed, shoulders falling slowly. all that pent up energy deflated from you like a balloon, defeat curling in your stomach. looking out the front store windows, you saw Sugar dozing at her fence post. you eyed her saddle on a rack behind the store counter. 

nodding, like you were deep in thought, you stepped away from the counter. “right,” was all you offered and she gave you a mixed look of pity and irritation. 

as if on queue, the one-four-one boys clambered from the back room, murmuring low words to Kate so that you couldn’t hear. Soap tipped his hat to you on the way out, and he began to turn away when you clutched at his elbow. 

“where are you going?” you asked, casual, and his brows raised, looking from you to John to Kate.

after a long look, she just gave him a slight nod.

“five miles north. ‘nother nearby town,” he relented with a shrug, and the way his lips tightened let you know he was leaving something else out. you cocked his head at him, pressing with curious eyes, and his mouth fell open but Gaz grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him out the store, Soap shouting in protest.

“be back before sunset,” John said, gruff, closing the door behind them with a resounding thud. 

you watched as they saddled up in the bright noon light. Kate sighed. the look on her face let you know she was lamenting just as much about their departing as you.

you lazed about the main store room, eyes flicking between the leather crafts items. belts, wallets, holsters, a few couple saddles. the clicking of the wooden clock suspended on the opposite wall served as your entertainment for the afternoon.

when Kate finally excused herself to close the shop for a lunch break, washing up first, you knew you had to make quick haste. sneaking down the hallway, you passed by the bathroom as quietly as you could, you were surprised to find the basement door unlocked.

maybe they did trust you, a small voice spoke in wonder, but you mentally swatted it away. your desire to find out what the hell was going on burned brighter than anything else.

you descended quickly down the stairs, wincing at every creak and thud, till your feet met cobblestone. sweeping around in the darkness, you pulled out the matches you pocketed last night. lighting one with a quick stroke, the room lit up in a warm orange glow and you scrutinized the place.

in one main room, preserves of fruits and veggies, miscellaneous barrels, and leather working stations littered with various tools and supplies crowded the room. you could only assume the doors branching from the main room were one-four-one’s bedrooms, and you confirmed as much when you tried turning the knob of each one, finding them all firmly locked.

cursing, you wished you could remember that lock picking trick Tommy used at the schoolhouse to prank teachers in your childhood. you clambered through the space, squeezing between a nook of filled shelves, pausing when an old bookcase caught your eye. by it was a small circlet of space, several chairs, and a desk sprawling with papers. you walked to it, hand smoothing over the map littered with marks, lines, needles shoved into the wood at certain locations.

the writings made no sense, all in their own code. a large portion was circled in red with a big T scribbled in the middle. you squinted. Turner, most likely.

it was north of the town you were currently in, or so you assumed by the small star bead shaped from an ivory bone pinned down on the map. like Ghost said, you were on the border of southern california, your mama and daddy most likely twenty miles to the east in Arizona. below southern california lay another red circled portion, dipping into mexico and southern texas. LV, it read, in a smaller, less menacing font. los vaqueros.

blue circles stretched from the west to the east, centered around towns and cities, big and small. one location in particular was familiar—jackson county, missouri. all that blue, stretching from california to louisiana, was one-four-one territory. you balked at the physical size of it.

the more passing seconds you took to study the map, the more you worried Kate may emerge from the restroom and find you snooping in their basement. if she did, you dreaded the thought of being locked up in your room for the remainder of your possibly indefinite stay.

a piece of paper caught your eye. it was a letter addressed to Turner from your… your daddy. you poured over the note, running over the quill grooves in your hands.

Mr. T,

my darling belle has been stolen by the devil. you promised me that working with you meant no harm to my family. i want her back. i don’t want no man getting the idea that they can steal my things from me.

you shuddered. his things, he had called you.

i want your men on every one of one-four-one’s outposts. none of their towns will be safe. i’ll round up my men and join the effort in two weeks time after we conjoin at the social. there, we can talk finances.

your eyes ran over the line again. social?

if Ghost won’t give me my daughter, i’ll make him.

your daddy didn’t sign off the letter. carefully, you put it back down in its place. how did the letter even get there in the first place? had Ghost intercepted its messenger during a shootout in a northern town?

you swallowed. did Ghost find it in your own daddy’s house? your house?

the thought of your daddy, keeled over his desk with a bullet wound in his temple, blood oozing out in a puddle as Ghost loomed overhead, pocketing Daddy’s letter in his trench coat, made you sick to your stomach. 

you thought of what Ghost said the night prior. i searched half the plains for your horse.

did that include your daddy and mama’s house? your breath hitched. was your mama alright?

you steadied yourself against the nearby bookshelf, distracting yourself with its contents instead. fictional literature stared back at you, and you brushed your fingers down their spines in a slow descent until you met the very bottom row. a line of small journals, so small you could squeeze them into the extra space in your pocket, stared back at you. picking one on the very edge, your eyes widened at the title scrawled over it. 

GHOST.

you opened it to its latest entry, dating back to the day you were taken by Ghost. in all capital letters it read:

PICKED UP GIRL FROM ARIZONA HOMESTEAD.

beneath it was a sketch of your profile and… numbers. there wasn’t an exact order or sense of them but they littered the page.

despite the numerical mystery, you found your eyes lingering on the catch of light conveyed through Ghost’s drawing, the twinkle in your eyes and the barest smile on your lips. you admired the attention to detail before flipping through to earlier pages.

a familiar, blaring title stuck out to you that dated back several weeks ago.

PICK UP GIRL FROM ARIZONA HOMESTEAD.

there was more writing below it.

RANSOM: $25,000 REFUSAL → PHASE TWO

you flipped to the page after it to find another entry on a typical grocery list. you thumbed through more pages with a frustrated huff, finding nothing more on phase two or a ransom. just more sketches of wildlife, horses, and scribbled dull paragraphs on irrelevant business investments.

you mulled over the strange entry and its date from weeks prior. the night Ghost had taken you had been an arranged dinner out of the blue with only a few days of notice. but the date of this entry suggested that Ghost had been arranging the dinner for much longer. 

more than that, Ghost had forced your daddy to make a decision at the dinner table—pay up or let Ghost steal his daughter as collateral.

Ghost didn’t necessarily know that your daddy would go with the latter. but the entry already had a resolute ransom for your safe return, and a phase two plan for when your daddy refused the ransom. which, to your knowledge, has not happened yet.

in spite of your confusion, there was a relief knowing that your suspicions from the conversation with Kate earlier had been confirmed. they wouldn’t be giving you back to your daddy.

right?

quickly, you pocketed it, hoping no one noticed its absence as you weaved out the basement and up the stairs. the door was still shut as you left it, and you blew out the match, slowly opening the door, your heart hammering. there was a silence on the upper floor, a warm draft passing through the narrow hallway, blinding light streaming in through the windows.

you noticed movement beneath the bathroom door, and let out a shaky breath. what felt like hours in the basement was only minutes.

but you knew you didn’t have much time left.

you made your way down the hallway and into the main store room. hooking Sugar’s saddle over your forearm, you made a quick haste to your horse who lazily drank at the water basin by the fence. patting her shoulder, you saddled her up in record time, hitching the cinch tightly with the grind of your teeth. untying the reins, you grabbed the horn, hoisting yourself up by the stirrup.

as you backed Sugar away from the leather crafts store, you heard Kate shout, your head whipping to see her already moving with a terrifying speed to her own horse, a burly and strong looking thoroughbred that snorted heavily.

with a slap of your reigns against Sugar’s shoulder, and your heel digging into her flank, she took off with a pitched whiny. you always thought she was a crazy wild thing, but you were more glad for it now than ever.

the rush of the wind at your face didn’t help the scramble through your mind for the mental image of the town. the bell tower pointed to the north—head on a swivel, you pressed a hand on your stetson to keep it from flying away. conveniently, the thing chimed, making it known it was two hours past noon to the town

you pulled sharp on Sugar’s reigns, spurring her on through the sparse crowd that scurried out of your way as you headed straight for the tower, and out the town. the cobblestone path underfoot quickly fell into a dusty dirt and you headed dead on into the forest.

weaving between the sparse trees, ducking beneath them, and wincing when some prickly pines brushed at the exposed skin on your cheeks, you steadied on for a gallop for as long as you could muster before you were sure Sugar needed a break.

when you slowed to a standstill, listening for the breaking of a horse through bushes and leaves, met only with chirping and the rush of the forest, you nudged Sugar to walk on.

she hung her head low, winded, and you rubbed at her neck in comfort. 

Soap had said the town was five miles north. your eyes sweeping across the barren terrain, you hoped that you wouldn’t come across a different town five miles north of one-four-one’s hidden base.

after another thirty minutes of short gallops, followed by slower canters and trots, you eventually wandered far enough to spot a town on the distance of the horizon.

you startled when a big boom resounded across the land, shaking the earth beneath you. something—a building maybe—that spearheaded the sky fell with a crash. Sugar whinied wildly, stuttering backwards with jerky movements, but you urged her on ahead with clucks and a heeled boot at her flank.

you rode fast to the town, swerving around the masses of people running around it. a woman, tugging on her floral, broad brimmed hat, carried two children under her arms and ran into the woods with next to nothing. some men rode out on horses, charging ahead without a glance back. 

as you neared the outer wall of the town, you could hear the ricocheting gunshots, loud shouting, screaming, crying, the beating of horse hooves.

you cursed yourself for not thinking to grab a firearm. trotting along the wall, between a stretch of two buildings a man rode past in a flying gallop, twisted back to shoot at something—someone riding after him. you recognized his raucous, wild laughter.

Soap.

you spurred Sugar forward, creeping through a break in the walls where more townspeople leaked out in a panic. on the main dirt pathway, a horse tied to its fencepost tossed its head wildly. a revolver flashed in its saddlebag.

riding around the building, narrowly avoiding running people underfoot, you flanked the horse and pulled the revolver from the horse, then leaned down to untie the poor, squirming thing so it wasn’t in the line of fire. you grit your teeth, trying to mentally will your own horse from wriggling so much. once its reins were pulled loose, the horse bucked and made a beeline for the woods.

“hey!” an older man, beard flecked with gray, ran at your horse with a wobbling, drunk ire. the owner, you presumed, by the gun he was loading in his hand.

pressing hard into Sugar’s flank, she sidestepped him and you took the butt of your newfound revolver, jamming it into his jaw hard. he slumped to the ground ungraciously.

turning your horse in a fast pan, you rode from street to street, revolver swinging as you searched for familiar faces. it was a dizzying panic. you didn’t know who was who, or what was what, in the mass alarm. 

“that’s her!” whipping your head over your shoulder, a group of men sharply turned their horses in your direction. Turner’s men.

cursing, you spurred Sugar on in a wild gallop as they pursued you.

you checked the cylinder of it—it was only half full. three bullets. cursing yourself over and over again, you gave them a wild chase, weaving between buildings and people into a marketplace. a cart of vegetables went flying as Sugar lurched, last second, to leap over it.

the movement jerked you, and you slipped to the side, world turning over as you fell to the dirt and skidded a good ten feet, knocking back into another cart. your revolver lay discarded a short length away, stetson thrown somewhere else.

Sugar galloped off without a second to look back.

scrambling to pick up the revolver as the group of Turner’s men approached fast on horseback, you gasped when your ankle completely gave out on you, falling once more to the ground. the adrenaline pumping through your veins didn’t give you a second to hesitate, crawling forward to grab the gun.

you shot into the group blindly, satisfied when one man shrieked, holding his arm where crimson poured, and slipped off the side of his horse. picking yourself up, you limp as fast your could leg could let you move down a branching dirt path, thunderous hooves coming from behind you. 

you checked over your shoulder. they were dangerously close now.

the closest man’s hand—a turquoise bracelet glinting on his wrist—came down and swooped for your hair, missing when you ducked. but he groped for a hold on your clothes, when suddenly, he crumpled into the dirt behind you. blood splattered across your back, and you bit back a scream when a strong arm hefted you up onto their moving horse.

“i got you, darlin’,” John gritted out, and you clambered into the front of his saddle, clutching desperately at the mane of his chestnut mare as he spurred his horse on faster through the streets with one arm around your waist.

a rider approached your right flank, trying to maneuver close enough to shoot John and not you, but John was too fast and blew his head clean off. you couldn’t suppress the scream that tore from your throat. 

John barked over the roar of the wind. “i’m gonna need you to cover my blindspots, eh?” 

you nodded rapidly, panning your revolver over your shoulder as another rider neared.

“deep breath,” he commanded, swerving his mare to get out of range, bullets whizzing past your head.

you took a deep breath, watching the rider edge closer to your left as he slapped the reins against his horse’s shoulder, willing it to go faster. his eyes blew wide when you caught a glimpse of his gaze under the brim of his stetson, mouth parting in shock when you fired.

the bullet hit his chest dead on, and you watched in horror as his eyes went cold and empty, whole body slack as his shoulder crumbled forward in the saddle of his horse, before slowly slipping off the side and falling to the ground with a crash. his horse thundered on without him, blood soaking the dirt in a crimson halo around the corpse.

“good bloody shot!” John roared in your ear, and you turned your attention front again. the roads were emptier now with the stragglers having evacuated the town.

John slowed as he neared the town’s center square, and one man on a grulla and the other on a bay circled the fountain square in a pan, shooting at the men who came barreling down each pathway. each one dropped like a fly.

you counted about a dozen bodies on the floor of the square.

the man on the grulla laughed maniacally, who you instantly recognized as Soap. the other rode with a tight rein with a mechanic movement.

John pulled his horse to a sliding halt, almost making you fly over the shoulder of his chestnut if it weren’t for the arm around your waist.

“picked up a straggler!” he shouted, turning into the fray as another trio of Turner’s men came down an alleyway on horseback.

Soap flanked your horse, shooting two of Turner’s men down as John finished off the other. flies were whirling around the dead bodies on the ground. you wanted to puke.

“first time gunslingin’?” Soap asked, a poisonous glint in his steel eyes.

you didn’t have time to respond because Gaz was shouting— “your left!”

John was whirled, but not in enough time before two bullets hit his chestnut with sickening thuds. she whinied, rearing, and for a second time, you were sliding to the dirt, ungracefully landing on top of John in a winded pile.

you scrambled off him and he crawled to his knees as he reloaded his revolver. your own was thrown somewhere away—obscured from view as a couple of Turner’s men slid off their horses, striding towards you at a dangerous pace.

head on a swivel, you scurried backwards, a low throb in your ankle blooming. the adrenaline was wearing off as a thickening dread seized you. Gaz and Soap were occupied, grappling a thickening trickle of Turner’s men into the town square.

a man with a gold tooth, you recognized as an affiliate of the man with the turquoise bracelet from a few minutes prior, swung his leg back and kicked John straight across his cheek.

two other men seized you by the front of your blouse to hoist you up, but you kicked and screamed, biting down hard on a hand that came to pull on your hair. he cursed, throwing you back down into the dirt, and you skidded till your back struck something hard. 

eyes widening, you twised your arm behind you to feel a familiar, cool handle. this time, you let them yank you up, letting the revolver fall into the loose cuff of your loose sleeve and holding it there.

the man with the gold tooth gripped your cheeks tightly and spat at your feet. his breath was grimy, alcoholic, and made your skin crawl.

“you’ve been giving us a hell of a time, angel.” his other hand stroked down your chest.

you twisted to bite his fingers and he slapped you, the strong sting bringing tears to your eyes. the two men were holding your arms back in a bind, one pressing his front into your shoulder, mouth almost to your ear.

“he’ll kill you,” you seethed, dead serious. the man with the gold tooth laughed.

“so you really are the devil’s angel?” he leaned back, hands on his holster, a menacing look twisting his lips. “thought Mr. Tuner was bein’ dramatic. looks like Ghost’s got a pretty missy now.”

the man by your ear chuckled, hot breath down your neck and you reeled, fighting against him.

“i’ll kill you myself if i have to,” you hissed, both to the man in front of you and to the one digging his hand into your backside, squeezing.

the third man sounded considerably younger, more nervous. “whadda’ we do with her, Charles?”

your eyes went wide. you remembered the man at the cabin, the one who said—

let’s move quick. Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.

that’s what he had said.

a coiling fear seized your chest, your breath trapped and lungs stuttering. you looked to John, flattened and forgotten by Charles’s feet. you internally begged him to get up. when he didn’t move, you looked up behind Charles to Gaz and Soap, bloodied and firing round after round. 

when the men hefted you to your feet, half-dragging you down the dirt road, you struggled, tears welling in your eyes. “no—” Charles tried to cover your mouth but you bit his hand hard and he snarled.

“no!” you screamed, fighting even when they yanked you into an empty saloon and threw you against the bar top.

Charles held you down with an iron grip, and other man unbuckled himself with a malicious grin. you felt overcome with an intense fear, trying to squirm up the side of the bar counter, but Charles held you steady. 

you should’ve never come here. this was your fault. this was your fault.

the third man was just a boy, shaking as he stared at you splayed across the counter. 

help me, you mouthed, but he just turned away so his back was to you.

this was your fault, this was your fault, this was your fault.

soon, your struggling subsided, and your mind drifted to a far, far, far off place.

the cool gun tight in your grip kept you tethered to your sanity when Charles kissed your now exposed calf. you tightened around the handle, feeling its silver embroidery, the men too distracted to notice the click of the safety.

an eerie calm drifted up in you as they continued their movements, Charles’s hand slipping underneath your skirt and drawers. you noted the glass bottle half full of beer abandoned right above your head.

you waited for the second man to float upwards, till his mouth was on your neck, and you shoved your sleeve right under his chin.

his eyes widened in surprise at your compliant behavior, humming something like approval before you pulled the trigger and blew clean through his face. he fell to the floor with a thud, half of his face gone, and Charles shrieked, looking down at his body in horror. that’s when you snatched the glass bottle of beer over your head and lurched off the counter to strike him in the head—over and over and over again.

your body was a machine, moving mechanically. the bottle shattered and alcohol pooled into blood. you didn’t stop until you couldn’t see the gold shine in his gaping mouth, until two arms gripped at your wrists, pulling your back into a broad, strong chest.

the musk of bourbon, smoke, and earth cleared your mind.

“Simon?” you squeaked, returning to yourself. 

the familiar cold of his mask against your neck brought you back down to the ground. 

he slowly pried the shattered bottle from your hand, only the neck and jagged shoulder left behind. he folded your hands into his gloved ones, crossing over your chest in a tight bind, crushing you to him.

you should’ve felt like you were debilitated, or trapped even, but you never felt more safe in his arms as you sobbed, tears streaming down your face. he was the only thing holding together the pieces of you right now.

he shushed you, smoothing a big hand over your chest as he rocked your entwined bodies.

“it’s alright, lovely.”

“it’s my fault,” you chanted, voice raw with effort. “it’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault.”

Ghost didn’t respond to that, and instead began explaining with a calculated, low murmur into your ear. “i told the boys that there would be some Turner boys in this town. nothing they couldn’t handle. but there was an ambush.”

your breath hitched at that, cries dying in your throat.

“i was stationed with Alejandro and a lot of his boys in a town two miles west of this. we thought Turner would tear through there.” his thumb smoothed over your exposed neck. “he didn’t.”

it fell into pieces now. one-four-one stationed here, expecting less than a dozen of Turner’s men, when instead, they crawled through this town like ants. an ambush.

“Kate rode into town like a wild animal. i thought someone died.” his voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “i thought you died.”

you remembered the lashing tendrils of panic you felt in pressed against the wall in the back room, Ghost bleeding out a couple feet in front of you, the billiard parlor up in flames across the street.

had he felt the same?

“the boys,” you began instead, pushing the memory away, “how are they?”

he gripped your chin, turning your face to his and pressing his forehead to yours. the swirling darkness of his eyes was more comforting than anything you had ever known.

“they’ll live.”

you shivered at that and he soothed you with a shush, gently pulling you to your feet. wincing, he caught your wobbling body immediately.

“hurt?” he asked cooly, but you could hear a sharp edge in it.

you gave him a sheepish look. “my ankle.”

he just nodded, sweeping you into his arms like you were his bride. even if it was so improper, the exhaustion that furled around you like a fog had you curled into his chest as he stepped over pools of blood.

over his shoulder, your stomach curdled at the sight of Charles, his face a gaping wound of pink, mangled flesh. he was half-beaten into the ground, and his associate was sprawled near his shoulder. the boy was nowhere to be seen.

you closed your eyes against Ghost’s neck, pressing your nose to its steady pulse. you barely registered the light that enveloped you when he stepped outside, the light crunching of dusty dirt under his boots a mile away. there was murmuring, new and foreign voices coupled with old ones. no more gunshots. no more shouting.

you let the foggy undertow pull you somewhere softer and sweeter—right into the roughness of your mama’s hands brushing your hair by the fireplace, Daddy reading an old book aloud behind your shoulder.

it was the rhythmic clatter of steel tracks against steel rail that stirred you from a light slumber. your sweet dreams had stretched into grotesque, bloody depictions the further they ran on, replaying scenes over and over in your head.

Charles’s face split open on the floor. red running from Daddy’s temple. a knife through your mama’s heart. Turner’s wrinkly hand on your thigh as he shoots three bullets through Ghost’s heart—his eyes wide as blood poured down his maskless face. but beneath the blood, he was faceless, skin smoothed over and pale, till his face morphed into Charles's deformed flesh and it replayed again.

a soft stroking along your thigh brought you further from the murky haze, and you pushed up against a solid form. you opened your eyes to find Ghost’s, blinking down at you.

there was an endless, crushing relief to see his mask still firmly clasped to his face. 

you tried to push away any lingering curious voices in your head, but they pushed through the weak pockets of your mental blockade, whispering out, what’s under it? 

you prayed that you wouldn’t find a faceless form beneath the red gleam of it.

his arm was wrapped around your shoulders and back, fingers digging into your waist and thigh. you were practically half in his lap, cheek pressed to his chest, his big trench coat slung over your curled up body.

for the first time, you realized, you awoke to Ghost’s presence by your side. you would’ve happily nuzzled back into his warmth and fallen back into the nightmares that clutched at you, if you didn’t realize that you had an audience.

eyes snapping open, and sitting up straighter, you blearily tried to shake the sleep away as you met the stares of several foreign faces sitting in chairs opposing you. save for the weary one-four-one—John dozing lightly, a new splint in bandage over his nose, Soap’s face a remote grim shade, Gaz’s and Kate’s attention trained on you.

you noticed Soap’s arm in a sling with a bitterness.

shifting, you looked out the train compartment window moving through the arid, weedy forest, sun dipping far into the horizon in a crimson-purple hue. 

“good morning,” Ghost greeted, pressing the nose of his mask to your hair. muffling a squeak, you tried to shift away because it was improper, but his strength held you close, hot gaze burning into your cheek.

you cleared your throat, looking to the man nearest to you. his hair was slicked back in dark curls, a toothpick between his teeth. he gave you a wild grin.

“we finally meet, chica,” he said in a beautifully lilted accent. he stood to offer his hand politely, and you would’ve stood to curtsy if Ghost’s hold on you wasn't so… possessive.

instead you put your hand in his and he kissed the back of it with a sly look.

Ghost tutted, muttering an impatient, “Alejandro.”

your brows rose when Alejandro released your hand with a laugh. he gestured to a clean-shaven, handsome man beside him.

“this is my most trusted right hand—Rodolfo.”

he smiled at you politely with a slight nod but made no move to shake your hand.

you nodded back. “pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Alejandro gestured to the other men littered around the room, leaning back in their plush seats. “and these are my men. los vaqueros.”

your breath hitched, looking around the room in a slight awe. these men were legends you heard of in childhood—iron fists of justice in the south that grappled with corrupt conglomerates and drug-dealing cartels. they also dabbled in their own bouts of illegal trouble. their hard-lined faces stared back at you.

instead you croaked, “where are we? and where are we going?”

you jumped a little when Ghost thumbed at your cheek, almost forgetting he was there. “we’re mid-way through southern california, bound for san francisco.”

your eyes ran over the los vaqueros, donned with bandoliers and sombreros, then one-four-one, looking much smaller and more meager. you couldn’t help but give them a weary smile, a warmth spreading in you when Soap perked up a smile of his own.

“why?”

Kate leaned back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. you were eternally grateful for the comfort in at least one other female presence.

“we’re going to war.”

you stiffened. “what?”

Soap quickly followed. “against the Turner boys.” his eyes darkened. “they’re wreckin’ all our towns. they won’t stop and we don’t have enough boys to get ‘em.”

Ghost’s grip on your hip tightened. Gaz pushed on. “we’re going straight to the source.”

in san francisco?

you remembered the map in the basement, the large red circle over midwest california that included the bustling hub that was san francisco, with a scribbled T in the middle. a feeling of dread gripped your stomach. this was going to develop into a gang war—or something like it at least.

“does it really have to come to that?”

you grimaced when a terse silence followed.

“this is more than about money, lovely,” Ghost said with a thickness to his accent. “this is about revenge.”

you summed that much up from the dangerous flicker in Soap’s eyes, but you worried more about where you fit into the equation. you thought back to Ghost’s journal, a sudden apprehension for the arm coiled around you tightly. 

did phase two include you? were you of use once your daddy refused Ghost’s proposed ransom? and if you weren’t?

Ghost’s journal burned a hole through the pocket of your split skirt—maybe it was selfish, maybe it was childish, but a flurrying panic rose in you at the thought of going back home. you just couldn’t.

you bit back your tongue as Kate and a half-awake John moved to discuss with Alejandro in quiet murmurs that you couldn’t hear. they circled around a table, Soap and Gaz leaning into the conversation behind them.

you felt Ghost’s hand twitch on your hip as he shifted, gaze still trained on you.

sighing, you inclined your head in their direction. “go.”

he pressed his masked lips to your cheek in, what you deciphered as, a silent thank you. 

you just swatted at him with a blush as he helped you to your feet, drawing his trench coat tighter around your shoulders. Rodolfo lended you a gracious arm to lean on as Ghost neared the table, your ankle an irritable throb in the back of your mind. the crowd split, his broad form pushing through, and merged again, Ghost’s stetson half-obscured from view.

you wanted to join their circle, or lean in at least, and absorb their low murmurs, but instead Rodolfo helped you limp out of the train compartment into a plush hall.

you must’ve been in a first class sleeping car because you had not seen something so lush—springy green carpet beneath your boots and a ruby red wallpaper that crawled with patterns of roses and prickly vines. the lights overhead were gilded in gold.

Rodolfo must’ve caught your gaze because he gave you a half-smile, clarifying, “Kate pulled some strings.”

you just nodded weakly. the thought of one-four-one’s influence spreading to big railway conglomerates was staggering, but at this point, didn’t sweep you into shock.

he led you to a door with a carved brass knob and chiseled key hole, fumbling with a circlet of keys in his hand. you looked down the hall and startled when, at the end of the hallway compartment, you spotted a man staring straight back at you. he wore a fashionable black jacket with silver buttons and embellishments, a cap on his head that read pullman porter on a brass plating.

his eyes flickered from you to the door Rodolfo opened with a soft click, before he drew the hallway compartment door shut with a slam. you watched him stride away fast through the window, other first class passengers lounging lazily in the opposite compartment. 

“senorita?”

Rodolfo held the door open for you and you thanked him quickly, pulling yourself together and stepping into the luscious, but cramped, bedroom. politely, he closed the door, and you were left in a relief crushing silence.

the bed bowed beneath your weight as you sunk into it, kicking off your boots and laying out Ghost’s trench coat, falling back on it. you itched to loosen the strings of your corset but it was buried beneath too many layers of clothes for you to care about that now.

instead, you emptied the pockets of your fraying split skirt. you lined up Ghost’s journal, the matches, bunch of rope, and extra ammo on the bed. at the sight of it, you couldn’t help but lament the continuous absence of a revolver in your inventory.

you wondered if it was one-four-one’s intention to keep it that way as you picked through the room. there was an oil lamp on the nightstand—a carved cherry wood piece you took a moment to admire before moving to the equally exquisite armoire. opening it with a gasp, a bright bunch of fabric spilling into your face and almost knocking you back.

the thing was stuffed full of dresses and fancy garments—dresses, skirts, blouses in silk and chiffon with lacey embellishments. for a moment, you panicked. was this your designated room?

from outside the door, you heard someone taking slow steps down the hall. the knob was hallway turned when you swept up the stolen items you had laid out on the bed and shoved them back into your pockets. 

Ghost slinked into the room without so much as a word and a tired look. your heart was still beating out of your chest.

“ever heard of knocking?” you frowned deeply. “what if i was indecent?”

he huffed an amused sound at that, eyes twinkling as he sat on the bed. “i’ve seen you indecent before.”

your stomach curled at the memory. suddenly, being in such close proximity alone with Ghost felt like a sinful thing, and a heat snaked under your skin, traveling up to your cheeks till it burned in your ears.

he cocked his head at you but not unkindly. “we need to talk, lovely.”

you nodded. “yes.” then, curiosity overtook you. “but what’s this?” you gestured to the open doors of the armoire behind you. 

he cleared his throat and avoided your eyes, shifting on the bed. “they’re for you.”

your brows shot up. that’s what this was?

you looked from Ghost twitching on the bed to the stuffed armoire. you could imagine him picking out dresses and blouses and skirts at a tailor shop with Kate by his shoulder as you slept away the afternoon’s traumatizing events, then boarding the luxurious train with you curled into his arms.

a romantic gesture?

before you let your thoughts run away from you, sitting beside him on the bed, you had wanted to thank him in that polite manner your mama has always taught you, but you find yourself wanting to tease the apprehensive tenseness in his shoulders instead.

“it’s going to take a lot more than money to charm me, Simon,” you called softly, leaning into his side.

even if he had plenty of it, you thought dreamily, eyes running over the expensive fabric of his black suit.

he just scoffed, turning his head completely from you, but didn’t lean away. you inched behind him to smooth your hands over his shoulders which seemed to impossibly tighten even more.

“so tense,” you said in his ear, massaging your thumbs into the fleshy parts of his back. head tipping back slightly, his slow, deflating exhale didn’t go unnoticed. 

“we need to talk,” he repeated, voice gruff. you leaned over his shoulder to peer at his face, but his eyes had already slid shut beneath his mask.

humming, you rubbed circles into the back of his neck, then inching back down between his shoulder blades and along his spine. one hand on his back, you slid the other to the front, watching the way his shoulders laxed with wonder.

when your fingers fiddled with the button of his vest, his gloved hand caught your wrist, heavy eyes looking over his shoulder at you with a warning that dripped with something darker. you squirmed under his gaze, skin feeling impossibly hot, a familiar clench in your stomach.

“you minx,” he said, voice a low rumble that coaxed a whine from your throat and only darkened the look in Ghost’s eyes.

he began to push you over to the bed with a hand on your chest, towering over you with a glint in his eye, but you yelped, squirming away from his hold. the movement tipped you over the edge of the bed and you crashed into the nightstand, almost knocking over the oil lamp. your ankle screamed in protest, but the images flashing through your head cut right through the pain.

the man unbuckling his belt. Charles’s hand holding you down in an iron vice, rough lips against your skin. his hand digging into your naked flesh beneath your undergarments. both of them looming over you with black eyes, and the glint of gold—

“lovely?” Ghost steadied you with an arm around your waist—but not in a way that constricted you. his eyes searched your own.

“what is it?” he demanded, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head.

“nothing.” you laxed, curling over him and instead pressed him down so his back hit the bed with a thud. “it’s nothing.”

you clambered over him clumsily, allowing his hands to guide you to a comfortable position, legs hooked around his waist and hands braced against his chest. it was solid and warm beneath you, like a rock that swelled slowly. you bit down on your lower lip, trying to the best of your ability to ignore the sharp stabbing of your ankle.

“you sure?” from his warm grip on your hips, and the narrow of his eyes, you knew he didn’t believe you for a second. you didn’t think he was stupid enough to not know why.

but you nodded with a stuttering breath anyway. “just let me…” you searched for the words, finding your head back in the place where you laid with him only a night ago. “take care of you.”

you unbuttoned his vest as he worked on your blouse, pulling it off with an ease that sent chills down your spine. you squeaked with surprise when he pulled you flush to his chest, sitting up to throw his vest to the floor and strip off his dress shirt. untangling yourself from him, you stood to undo your skirt, letting it pool around your ankles.

you looked up to Ghost who watched you from the bed, eyes a hungry, smoky glare. you studied the muscled gleam of his torso, breath hitching at the sight of his stitches. the wound was a raw pink and dangerously loose.

huffing an impatient noise, you yelped when he pulled you back onto his lap, pressing his mask into your neck and hair. it screamed such a Simon gesture that it had you melting into him, clutching at the fabric on the back of his head. 

this was Simon. any dread furling at the edges of your mind dissipated. but still, you couldn’t hold yourself back from worrying— 

“your stitches?” you gasped, feeling him pull up the fabric of his mask and press his hot lips to your neck, tongue sliding out.

a breathy noise left your lips and you squirmed, bracing your hands against the brawn of his shoulders to push him back down to the bed again. he gave way easily, to your surprise.

in the low light of the day, his lips looked pretty and full as he licked them. “they’re fine.”

you ran your hands over his chest, gasping when he pressed his hips up gently into you. there was a hardness in his pants that felt delicious against that painful ache of your core.

you muffled a sigh, allowing his hands to drag you over that hardness once more, then you gasped again. your eyes snapped up to his and he smirked, teeth glinting in the light.

“feel good?”

your head tipped back, hands scrambling for purchase. you gripped tightly at his forearms.

“i’m supposed to be taking care of you,” you whined out as he rocked you back and forth.

“you are,” he grunted through gritted teeth, head lolling back against the pillows, his muscled neck bobbing with a heavy swallow. your eyes followed the movement with a hunger, feeling a strange desire to lick over it.

even through your drawers, the friction felt like heaven, and as his movements grew faster, the tightness of your corset felt constricting around the heavy pants of your breast.

noticing this, Ghost moved to quickly unstring it, your hips endlessly canting against him. you felt a wonderful burn in your core, traveling up to your chest, throat, and tingling behind your eyes that were screwed shut.

you gasped when the corset fell away, a coolness enveloping your bare skin, jolting when you felt something hot and wet at your nipples. looking down, you moaned at the sight of his tongue swirling around the hardened buds of your breast, suckling one into his mouth. it left your chest tingling, the feeling raw and sensitive and foreign, but you only wanted more.

“that’s it. moan for me, princess,” he purred, one hand trailing down your bare spine and stopping at your backside, massaging it down into his hardness, spurring your hips forward.

you barely registered his words, biting down hard on your lip to keep the growing noises at bay as Ghost led you closer and closer to an inevitable precipice. he drew away his tongue from your chest, looking up at you with narrowed eyes. you whimpered in its absence.

“louder, pretty thing.” he tugged back a bit on your hair, so your head tilted back and your lax jaw fell open, releasing a slew of pretty sighs that had him humming approvingly.

“good girl.”

his husky words sent you hurtling over the edge, and your body shook with pleasured delight, vibrating across your skin in seizing spams. you would’ve toppled over if it weren’t for the strong arms that circled your middle.

“Simon…” you whined, clutching weakly at his arms as he scattered kisses all across your jaw, neck, chest, breasts till the murky colors exploding in your vision faded.

he lowered you back down to the bed, and you collapsed beside him, panting. he stroked at your hair, turning onto his side with a warm fullness in his gaze. your lips stretched into a weak smile and you craned up to kiss his neck softly, licking over that swollen appendage in its center like you had wanted to earlier.

you relished in the way his breath hitched. eyeing over his body, there was still a bulge in his dress pants that stirred your curiosity.

sending him a silent question with your gaze, his knuckles dragged over your exposed arm. he cocked his head. “i’m alright, lovely.”

“but…” your face heated up. “i want to see.”

he shifted on the bed, black eyes darting over your face. for the first time since you’d known him, Ghost looked… nervous.

“why do you want to see?”

“because…” the words died in your throat. his lips stretched into a wry grin.

“you don’t need to. i like you like this,” he sighed, twirling your loose hair between his fingers.

your brow furrowed. “like what?”

his grin grew fuller. “innocent.”

you mustered your most bitter look and threw it at him, mood plummeting when he let out a throaty laugh.

“you really want to see that bad?” his eyes went dark again, and you nodded eagerly.

with a long look, a hand twitching at his side, he just sighed and willed you closer with a beckoning hand. you sat up with a sharp clarity to your mind, inching forward towards his pants. he remained leaned back against the pillows, one arm stretched over his body and cradling the back of his head as he unbuckled his pants with one hand.

he pulled himself out of his undergarments, the flesh heavy, swollen, firm, and drooling a thick fluid at the flushed tip. your whole body heated up with something—shame, embarrassment, longing, or something even deeper.

“oh,” you squeaked, avoiding his gaze entirely, though you knew it was burning into your cheek. he grabbed your chin, turning your head to meet it.

“we can stop here, but i don’t know if i can hold back if you just—” he swallowed hard, “watch me like that.”

“like what?” you asked, lips parting and eyes growing doe-like.

he cursed, and you watched in amazement when his hand flexed around his length, abdominal muscles flexing in time with it, tip oozing out more fluid. weirdly, saliva pooled in your mouth, and you resisted the urge to swallow it back.

you wanted to put your tongue on it.

“like that,” he rasped, throat strained with effort. 

you gazed at him wordlessly, hands feeling restless. you wanted to touch him.

he cocked his head. “what’s wrong?” 

when you said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line, starting to tuck himself back into his pants, and you felt a growing panic in you. “i told you i’m alright pretty girl—”

“no!” you lurched forward to snatch his wrist away, his length straining against his stomach. his eyes snapped up in surprise and you felt your entire face go red with embarrassment. “i mean,” you inhaled deep, “no. i… i want to…”

you swallowed hard. Ghost lips twitched, a very amused expression stretching his face.

“can i…?”

his hand rubbed over your thigh, squeezing. “can you what, pretty thing?”

you whimpered, clutching at his hand. “want to put my mouth on it.”

the growl from the back of his throat should’ve scared you but it only spurred you forward, settling closer to the side of him, your thigh firmly pressed against his as you sat your backside over your ankles. one experienced a stabbing pain, but the sight in front of you cut right through the nagging sensation.

Ghost’s gaze was intense, heavier than you ever felt before, even with his body laxed back into the pillows, one arm hooked behind his head.

“go ahead, lovely.”

tentatively, you reached out, brushing your fingertips over the very tip of it where all the fluids were spilling out in rolls down his length. the hiss he let out made your core shiver, vibrating back to life in slow, hot pulses.

“what does it feel like?” you whispered, and his eyes closed.

“good.”

“how good?” you pressed, dragging your fingertips down the underside and back up again. his breath hitched when you brushed over a sensitive spot nestled beneath the tip. massaging at it with your thumb experimentally, his eyes snapped open again, snatching up your wrist.

your heart skipped a beat, a new worry clouding your mind. had you done something wrong?

on the verge of apology, you stopped short when he pressed a kiss to your inner wrist.

“you have to tell me if you want to keep going or not.” his eyes flashed. “if we do, i won’t want to stop, and i don’t want to scare you.”

even beneath the layers of his mask, the way his jaw was set in a grim clench, you could see the sincerity in his face.

“i want to make you feel good,” you said with finality, and his lips twitched up.

“i know you do.” he rubbed your cheek with affection. “such a polite girl.”

“tell me what to do,” you almost begged, squirming in his hold, and he guided your hand back down to his swollen length, gasping when he wrapped your entire hand around it.

it was wet, sticky, warm, throbbing.

“feels good when you squeeze tighter,” he said softly, eyes going hazy when you immediately obeyed. slowly, he dragged your hand up and down its length, going completely lax against the bed.

you watched in amazement, clenching your thighs together as your entire hand went up and down it in a rhythmic grind, the swells of his chest rising faster with every ministration. his eyes fluttered close periodically, sometimes tightening his hold on your hand, then going loose, altering speeds between painstaking slowness and a quick jerking movement.

“doin’ good, princess,” he panted, and you flushed at the praise because you really weren’t doing anything.

scanning over his body, you remembered the way his breath stopped short when your tongue was on his skin. 

you wanted to hear those sounds again. 

leaning down, you shyly mouthed over the skin at his neck, sucking there, and you were immediately spurred on with the low groan that left his lips.

your lips traveled down past his collarbones, to the plush muscle of his chest, tongue circling his nipples now, and he jolted in beneath you, hand stuttering almost to a stop.

“christ,” he gritted out as you sucked there, thighs squirming together for an ounce of relief.

you found it when Ghost snaked a hand beneath your drawers, seeking out your puffy clit and eagerly discovering it, rubbing firm circles against you.

your lips fell away from his chest, and you almost crumpled onto him, grinding down into his hand with a greediness that bloomed through your whole body. he hummed approvingly in your ear, kissing the shell of it gently, when you jerked your hand over his length on your own—matching the movements of his fingers on your clit.

“fuck, just like that,” he rasped, sounding a bit desperate now.

his hand fell away from yours around his length, gripping at your hip instead to steady you. when he sped up, so did your hand, sparks flying beneath your eyelids as you keened loud. his lips were on your neck, and your whole body went numb, but your gaze was intent on his own length that throbbed deliciously strong in your hand.

it twitched, then shuddered, and you felt Ghost muffle a groan against your neck as his hips stuttered up, watching in amazement as fluids spurted out from the tip in rhythmic pulses, rolling down over your hand in a milky substance.

you both shuddered through mutual pleasure, and once the last of the wracking waves struck you, you crashed forward into his chest, a sticky and sweaty mess.

you caught his eye, tired and half-lidded, a bead of sweat going down his neck as his chest rose rapidly, and you couldn’t help but laugh—feeling giddy from the open display of his own pleasure that Ghost had just revealed to you.

his lax face shifted into one of amusement, craning down to kiss your nose. that’s when you remembered—

“i didn’t put my mouth on it,” you realized with a cracking disappointment. 

looking down to his length, now softer and still covered in the fluids, you leaned down to press your tongue to it, but were pulled back suddenly by a soft hiss.

“don’t,” Ghost rasped, and you gave him a wide-eyed apologetic look. 

he just shook his head. “it’s different than this—” he smoothed a hand over your clothed cunt, and you gasped with embarrassment at the blunt movement, “—s’more sensitive after i orgasm.”

you tilted your head. “orgasm?”

he brushed the hair from your sweaty forehead. “your climax,” he elaborated in a seductively smooth voice and you blushed, pushing his hand away as he smirked. you knew what he meant.

your gaze traveled back to the pool of fluid on his stomach, a curiosity brewing in you. “is that what this is?”

he followed your gaze. “mhmm. it’s what this is, too.”

he snaked his hand back into your undergarments, and you jolted with a gasp, squirming when he pressed two fingers against your entrance. when he pulled them back to show you, there was a sticky wetness on them—similar to the one on his pelvis.

“oh,” you said, flushed with embarrassment at such blunt displays of education.

you mentally chided your mama for teaching you absolutely nothing about this. though, you assumed she would’ve told you before your marriage about… lovemaking.

before a crashing guilt could consume you, the view of Ghost wrapping his tongue around his fingers that were sticky with your orgasm startled you back to reality.

“Ghost!” you exclaimed, pulling his fingers out of his mouth. 

his brow furrowed as he huffed with frustration. “what?”

“that’s improper!” you slapped at his chest. “very improper! and…” your face screwed up. “unsanitary.”

that face-consuming smirk of his stretched his pretty lips. “don’t forget i was drinking it straight from the source last night.”

with your hand to your mouth, you gasped, pushing yourself completely off the bed as he shook with quiet laughter, delirious with it, even.

“i’m done with you,” you said with a roll of your eyes as he beseeched you to come back, but you refused to comply, clasping your corset back around you.

out of the corner of your eye, you watched him mop up the wetness on his body with his balled up dress shirt before he padded over, swiping your hair over your shoulder.

“let me help.”

you felt him lace the thing back up, and tug it close loosely. you sent him a look over your shoulder, instructing him to tighten it more, but he just grumbled, barely tugging it tight and you ended up shooing him away to do it yourself.

he gave you a grumpy, reproachful look and you had to bite back a grin at his behavior—that intimidating stoicism returned as promised as a rising ocean tide.

from the armoire, you picked out a loose nightgown, bodice embroidered with small bows and lace, sleeves pulling into a wide bell shape at your elbow. Ghost was still half-naked, leaning back on your bed with a sleepy gaze. he gave you a highly approving hum when you pulled it on before excusing yourself to wash up in the lavatory.

drawing Ghost’s trench coat back around your shoulders, and stepping into the hall, you muffled a shout when the same pullman porter was stationed at the end of the hallway, eyes boring into you. in the darkness of the night, shadows were cast strangely across his face, and his eyes looked like they were a pure black.

resisting the urge to step back into your room, where a very dangerous and strong outlaw lay, you just gave the porter a polite nod to move to a lavatory in the opposite direction. the porter stood stock still in the dark, not even moving to acknowledge you.

bitten with fear, you sighed in relief when you pushed into the private lavatory, locking the door behind you. inspecting your appearance in the mirror, you cringed at the disheveledness of it. there was a dark, purpling circle of exhaustion under your eyes and a swollen pink hue to your face—not to mention the frizzy circlets of hair defying gravity on your crown.

you took your own washcloth and dipped it in the basin, turning the faucet, praying for hot water. when none came after you stripped yourself of your nightgown, you grimaced as you scrubbed the cold washcloth over yourself. you wet your hair and brushed it back, splashing your face with the icy water, toweling off, then redressing yourself in the nightgown.

a hand on the lavatory knob, you worried about the porter at the end of the hallway. what if he had moved? what if, when you opened the door, you’d open it to his face—the all-encompassing black of his eyes?

suddenly, events just hours prior came crashing down on you. men looming over you. the sickening thud of the bullet hitting that man on his horse, face going black, before falling to the ground with a crunch. the clink of a belt.

gunshots were in your ears, an intense ringing after each click, trigger, pull, boom and smoke.

“no,” your hands shook as you slid down the lavatory wall, covering your ears. 

the banging became louder. with each boom another body dropped dead, blood unfurling around it like a bad omen, its tendrils snaking. snaking towards you. 

“no, no.” you couldn’t stop shaking.

this was your fault.

you had killed three men today. one, on the horse, second, bullet through the face, third, beat him to death in the ground. beat him to death.

this was your fault. this was your fault, this was your fault, this was your fault—

“HEY!” you jolted back to reality, breath in a dizzying flurry. really dizzying flurry. when you stood, you felt nauseous, almost keeling over and throwing up. you pressed your forehead to the cool of the wall, swallowing back the bile hard.

there was a banging knock on the door.

“how much fockin’ longer are ye going to take’n there?” you tried to work out your voice but all that came out was a scraping rasp.

“sweet mother of mary and jesus, what does a man need to do to piss ‘round here—”

you swung the door open suddenly and Soap jumped back with a yelp, pressed flat against the opposite of the narrow hallway. the soft, yellow lighting poured out into the dark hallway and bruises you didn’t notice before littered Soap’s cheeks, his right eye a pocket of swollen, purple flesh.

his anger dissipated in a second at the sight of you, giving you a nervous, wry smile.

“sorry, lassie, didn’t know it was you—” he paused suddenly, face contorting. “are ye cryin’, lassie?”

you touched your fingers to your numb face, pulling back to find a wetness on your fingertips. you just stared at him as he fumbled awkwardly, mouth opening and closing.

you spoke for him. “i killed three men.”

he didn’t even react, expression deflating as he nodded. “it happens, lass.”

he reached out a hand tentatively, just barely brushing his good hand over your shoulder, the other still hanging limp by his chest in a white sling.

how can murder be normal?

“no, i killed them. on purpose.” something in you broke. “i wanted them to die.”

he just shook his head again, gripping your shoulder tightly now. “they would’ve done worst te you if you didn’t, bonnie.”

you chewed that, finding it indigestible no matter how you looked at it.

Soap continued quickly, “i enlisted when i was sixteen. saw things in a war i shouldn't've. luckily one-four-one and Laswell had my back…”

he smiled fondly before shrugging. “war happens. death happens, lassie, whether you wish it on someone or not. those men had it comin’ for ‘em.”

nodding slowly, you barely mustered a tight-lipped smile when he patted your shoulder brazenly, beaming with a grin. behind him, a grumpy looking blonde materialized in the hallway, her hair tousled and still in full riding attire, grip tight at her holster. Soap’s grip dropped immediately.

“what’s goin’ on here?” Kate demanded, looking from you to Soap.

you jolted, the roughness of her expression pulling you back to reality. a creeping shame rose in you—crying in front of a man you barely knew, confessing your sins to him in your lacey nightgown in the middle of the dark, narrow hallway. Kate’s gaze hardened, and you balked, struggling to find an explanation when Soap interjected.

“i was just waitin’ to use the loo!” he tossed you a smile, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that told you to play along. “funny meetin’ you here in the hallway, princess!”

like ice water dumped over your head, you were strung back into your body. 

you rolled your eyes. “don’t call me that.”

“right,” Soap sang, “only Ghost can say it. apologies, lass.”

you stepped out of the lavatory with Ghost’s coat around you and Soap slid in after you, shutting the door. looking into Kate’s furrowed face, you could see the red-rimmed bloodshot of her eyes and the bags beneath them. she looked exhausted.

beyond her, down the hall in the compartment where you ventured from earlier, John, Alejandro, and Rodolfo were still engrossed in conversation.

Kate followed your gaze with a sigh. “don’t even ask, missy,” she warned with a warm hand at your back and you suppressed a smile.

you were grateful as she led you back down the narrow hallway to your room, the porter still in the same spot from earlier, eyes dead on you. eyes looking dead as well.

you tried your best to ignore him but his head jerked, cracking it, rolling back his shoulders from the stiff position. rushing a bit faster, you could feel Kate’s hand tighten against your spine as you fumbled with the room key.

you jolted when she called down the hall.

“what the hell’re you lookin’ at?” she griped at the porter, who finally turned his head to the window beside him.

her eyes narrowed, and she grumbled low into your ear, “don’t go venturing off in this train alone at night, as much as i know you love to explore.”

there was a dripping sarcasm in her voice that you chose to ignore as you swung the door open, bidding her a soft goodnight as she gave you a tight-lipped smile before it dropped from her face into a scowl. but the full look in her eyes made you feel as though you may have grown closer than you thought over just the past three days.

shutting the door behind you, you leaned against it, sighing out, before turning to find Ghost in a sprawled out position like before. your spent clothes for the day were folded in the corner on a plush chair as well as his own. you couldn’t help but smile at that seemingly persistent habit of neatness he had as you laid down his coat over the back of the chair.

you neared him but he didn’t turn to look at you, just leaned his head against the wall.

you crawled onto the bed and brushed your knuckles over the red mask. you were disappointed to see the black fabric beneath it pulled down over his jaw again.

“have a good wash?”

he blinked owlishly out the window on the opposing wall, desert passing by serenely, washed in a cool blue tone by the sweep of the moonlight. the rattling of the train clinked through the room.

you opened your mouth before swallowing down hard. 

no one has to know about your episode.

Soap had made sure of that in front of Kate, and you felt endlessly indebted to him. how would Ghost react if he knew you were having… mental struggles? you could only pray under your breath that it wouldn’t persist, but you doubted god was listening to your meek voice after the sins you’ve committed today.

shivering, you just nodded with a smile. “refreshing.”

“good.” his face swung to you, a hardness to his eyes. your brow furrowed but you buried it with another smile. “we need to talk.”

blinking, you slinked away from him and sat on the far edge of the bed, which wasn’t very far at all in the cramped room, his outstretched foot resting against your hip. you leaned back against the window, the moonlight casting his mask in a blue gleam.

“we do,” you agreed, though about what—you didn’t know where to begin.

what exactly would happen once you reached san francisco? would you be included in their business, or would they shut you out like before? a stranger and a hostage? 

you one-overed Ghost’s relaxed form, to the muscles of his torso, the veins spidering up his arms, and the distant look in his eyes.

what was going on between you and Ghost?

what exactly was phase two?

you thought back to this afternoon in the basement and what you had found—the intercepted letter from your daddy and Ghost’s journal. your eyes darted to the pile of clothes in the room.

“looking for this?”

you jolted when he tossed something onto the open space of the bed beside you, stomach dropping at the words scrawled over it.

GHOST.

a snaking dread sized you, any lingering warm feelings of your shared night sliding off your body like icy water.

your eyes snapped up to his—cold and dark. 

like the porter’s, a traitorous voice in you called out, but you immediately willed it away, because this was Simon.

“you can’t blame me for snooping.” your jaw clenched when he didn’t respond. “you took me and confined me to the shop. no one told me what would happen to me. i needed to know if…”

you swallowed around your next words. “...if you were going to ransom me back to my daddy.”

Ghost made no move, didn’t even blink, hand twitching on his bare chest.

“you want the truth?” holding your breath, you gave him a curt nod.

“i was going to,” he chewed out, and you blinked. “last night i was still deciding.”

last night. when you were curled up in his arms and he had taken your first bout of innocence from you. a spark of something dark lit within you. as of recent, it seems he’s taken a lot from you in general.

your gun, your innocence, your parents. your home.

“did you go see my daddy that day?”

that day when you said you were searching for Sugar, you wanted to challenge, was it all a lie?

you thought back to the intercepted letter—your daddy’s anger seething through the note, and his promise to wrung one-four-one of everything until he got you back. maybe the proper term was rescue.

Ghost’s jaw clenched. “yes.”

you sucked in a breath, a spiraling panic coming back to you like the one in the lavatory before. you willed it away best you could, pressing cool knuckles to your temple as you closed your eyes. images flashed—your daddy dead, blood everywhere, all over his papers, letters, clothes, a bullet in his temple and Ghost with a revolver to his head. was he dead?

did Ghost kill your daddy?

“is he alive?”

you waited for the answer with bated breath.

“‘course. even if he tried to kill me.”

a whoosh of air left you, and you leaned your head back against the cool window, taking in Ghost. his head was tilted, a curious glint in them that you ignored. 

his voice was cold. “anymore questions?”

you gave him a hard stare. “what changed your mind?”

“about?”

you scoffed. “not selling me away after…” last night. you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

his foot pressed into your hip but you ignored it. he sighed out.

“i went to your father to offer a ransom.” your brow raised. “$25,000.”

this sounded familiar. 

“but he refused.”

you flinched at that, somewhere between a crushing weight of disappointment and embarrassment falling on you. you wiped away a brewing wetness in your eyes. Ghost couldn’t return you if your daddy didn’t want you in the first place.

“so?”

his foot dug deeper into your side.

“he told me something else.”

you finally met Ghost’s gaze, his head tipped forward and brows furrowed. you could tell from the way his eyes pinched with a haunted glare.

after a long silence ensued, you poked at his foot. “what was it?”

the void bluntness of his voice told you it wasn’t anything good.

“he refused the ransom because of his pride, but also because he didn’t want to ransom you when…” Ghost sucked in a breath, “when you already belonged to someone else.”

your mind reeled at that.

“what?”

“he thought it wasn’t fair he had to pay. he was already working with a businessman to make you his mistress.”

your stomach curdled, heart beating out your throat. “no, that’s…” you choked down some tears, “that’s not true.”

the end of your words turned up in a weak tremble that you desperately wanted to hide but Ghost pinned you down with his eyes.

“he was going to make you Turner’s mistress. that was part of their deal.”

your blood chilled at that, body going impossibly numb. what did this mean for you now? you scrambled to find purchase in your mind, in anything that would slow the spinning of the room. what did this mean for you now?

were you still of use to one-four-one? would they abandon you in san francisco to fight a war, leaving you to the streets? and if they did, would your daddy accept you back in his home, or turn you right over to Turner as his personal whore?

you shook, vision clouded over.

even if you didn’t choose your daddy, you still wish he chose you over everything.

you were his only daughter after all.

“that doesn’t make sense,” you said thickly, “why would he do that?”

Ghost was as still as a rock, his only sign of life was the hand that came down to play with the hem of your nightgown.

“bigger investment and more money, ” he said, voice eerily empty, and an iciness passed through you.

just another one of Daddy’s business transactions. 

you remember what Ghost called out at the dinner table that night.

you sell your daughter to investors for a buck. do you really want to talk about honor?

your eyes flickered to Ghost again. had he known all along? or had he just taken a great guess from doing so many years of business with your daddy—who you really didn’t seem to know at all?

a weak, strangled noise came from the back of your throat.

“but in that letter,” you groped, clawing for anything, “he said he would do anything to get me back. he said that.” 

your voice rose and Ghost’s eyes slid away from you to the window behind you.

you felt like a whining, whimpering child. a mile long chasm was being torn straight through the room, and when you looked to the other side, Ghost was the older, war-torn man he always was and you were just… you.

hopeful, naive, innocent.

you.

you balled up into your chest and let the tears stream from your eyes in the most silent sobs you could muster, only the gentle clinking of glass on metal in the room, train chugging on relentlessly, dragging you in tow.

had you really thought, only five days ago, that you could become a gunslinger alongside Ghost? a cowgirl with a great shot and a tough spirit?

you felt so far from all of it that you dug your nails into the soreness of your ankle, relishing the way the sharp waves of pain brought you back down to earth.

there was a sigh in your ear, and two strong arms that wrapped you up, but you twisted in them immediately, your nails digging into the flesh of Ghost’s arms as you shoved him away. 

“don’t you dare,” you hissed, pressing yourself as far as you could from him in the diminishing room. your eyes flickered to the ceiling above his head. it really looked like the room was getting smaller—the ceiling shrinking by the second.

he only watched you with an eerie calm, a nauseous feeling climbing in you.

“you did this,” you spat through tears. “a couple days ago i was with my mama and daddy and everything was fine until you showed up.”

your breath shook. “you devil.” 

whether Ghost was hurt by it, you couldn’t tell, because he only blinked harshly, but you regretted the words anyways. because you knew that Ghost was telling the truth. even if you did stay with your mama and daddy, and Ghost had never taken you, you would’ve been swept away to Turner’s big estate in san francisco anyway.

but the bile poured from you like a sweltering, infected wound. “i would’ve been married,” you cried out, tears dripping from your trembling chin onto the breast of your nightgown. of Ghost’s nightgown.

liar, a voice in you hissed, but you pushed it to the furthest corner of your mind. 

“you stole me from my parents, took my honor, and you’re a liar!”

Ghost cocked his head at you, eyes glazed over and mask glinting. you hated that stupid mask. you just wanted to rip it off his face.

you jolted when he spoke, grumbling out, “i didn’t mean to.”

if there was a revolver slung in your holster, you would’ve shot him dead three times in the heart by now, just like your mama said.

Mama, a little girl in you cried, i’m sorry. i should’ve listened to you that first night in the cabin when he fell asleep.

he continued with gritted teeth. “i wanted revenge against your father for betraying me and i wanted revenge on Turner.” he wouldn’t look at you now. “i wanted to steal something of theirs and make it mine.”

of all the things he could’ve said, nothing in the world prepared you then. you lurched for him, vision red and wrapped your hands around his neck, wanting to see a flicker of fear in his eyes—or something other than the cold, dead wall you were talking to.

but he just flipped you easily in a calculated movement, weight keeping you pinned as you mindlessly struggled, arms in a bind above your head.

he talked over your cries and shouts now, voice in your ear— “i knew your daddy had a daughter. but i didn’t know she was so young and full of spirit and…” your struggling subsided. the look in his eyes seemed something like defeat. “...lovely.”

you spat right onto his mask but he didn’t even flinch.

“liar,” you hissed, working up into a frenzy again, squirming against his bone-crushing hold. “liar, liar, liar, liar—”

“i thought his daughter would be some rich, prissy girl who didn’t want anything to do with outlaws. then she told me she hated her happy, small town life, and her two parents that loved her.”

“liar, liar, liar, liar—”

“she told me that she could be a gunslinger if she wanted to be. she rode like one, too.”

you tried to scream and shout over his words and block it out of your brain, but his low murmur against your ear cut right through it all.

“when i realized what’d i’d done, that i’d stolen a girl who was a thief, it was too late. you saved my life when i got shot. i thought you would’ve ran away and left me for dead.”

his voice dropped even lower, the forehead of his cool mask pressing against your jaw. “i wanted you to leave me for dead.”

at that, your struggling subsided, confusion welling up in you like a stormy cloud.

“i wanted you to leave me for dead.”

he pulled back to press your arms to your chest and loomed over you.

“i wanted to be dead for what i was doing.”

you kicked out under his legs, knee connecting with something soft, and he dropped his hips with a hiss to pin you down.

“what were you doing?”

his voice was deceptively soft. “i was using you for revenge.”

more tears ran from the sides of your face like fleeing raindrops.

then a fast anger cooked in you, a slower simmer turning to a hot boil.

“i hate you,” you seethed, staring right into the wall of his mask. there wasn’t a human being beneath there.

just a calculated animal.

“i hate you,” you said again, voice breaking.

“good,” he nodded, though his tone was broken. “honest to god, i didn’t know your father was going to give you to Turner.”

you hissed, “how can you be honest to god?”

he ignored you. “i would’ve returned you to your family if they paid the ransom. even if they didn’t, i would’ve given you back eventually. but they didn’t want you and you didn’t want to go. it was always about Turner—we didn’t care about the money. your father happened to betray us and we found the perfect bloody outlet to Turner.”

you dug the side of your face into the side of the bed, refusing to look at him as he held you there. a pool of your tears formed beneath the swollen fleshiness of your cheek.

“i needed Turner to take the first step in this war. and he did. i got lucky when i happened to steal his future mistress.” his eyes flashed. “Turner hates it when his things are taken.”

“since, you’ve gotten what you want,” you cried, voice raw “what do you still need me for?” 

he closed his eyes. “i don’t know.”

“liar.” the word was becoming melded into your tongue. “you want to use me for revenge. is that all i’m useful for, then?” your throat cracked open, wide and full of emotion. “i’m just for your revenge? did you bed me for revenge?”

his gaze was half-lidded, tired. “yes.”

you fell limp at that, feeling every ounce of energy drain from you—like the devil was sucking away your life force.

you wanted that poisonous, gurgling voice inside you to breathe out another liar, to call Ghost’s bluff for what it was, but it fell silent the moment you needed it most.

closing your eyes, Ghost’s body draped over your own, warm and solid and flushed together. he pressed his mask into your hair. 

bourbon, cigarettes, and the musk of wood and dirt and sweet spruce. 

you couldn’t even fight it. you don’t even think you wanted to—because even if no one wanted you in the world, not even your daddy, Ghost did want you for something. one thing. 

revenge.

“get out,” you whispered, and he didn’t move, a big, swelling rock above you.

“get out!” you shouted, straight into his ear, but he didn’t even flinch. after another long pause he slid off you with a gentleness, a fleeting caress of his hand against your swollen ankle before he slinked away. there was a soft click of the door closing, Ghost’s boots thumping against the floor in the hallway.

you stayed in that position for a long time, pressed to the mattress right where he had left you. 

it was like, if you moved, the invisible imprint of him against your skin would disappear like his physical form, lost into the night. 

maybe this is what you needed, you decided. maybe, if you could convince one-four-one of your usefulness, that you were important to them, even beyond Ghost’s revenge ploys, you would become a permanent member and carve out a space in their lives. but not Ghost’s. never Ghost’s.

a withering, squirming dread in your stomach made it known that it would be impossible. at this point, you were too tired to even try and convince them to let you stay.

so you turned over and forced yourself into a relentless, exhausting sleep.

ok that was kinda crazy. but i promise the angst will not last forever. chapter 3 coming soon.........

i hope you guys enjoyed!! <33

taglist: @poohkie90 @kunikku @silverianni @doublesuicidewithme @cliosunshine @one17 @warenai @saturnknows @tomiesdiet @migueloharaapologist2 @keiva1000 @kenma-izhu @lilvampirina @deltottoro @maki-z @leeeenistop @danika1994 @stillinracooncity @saevitiaa @itsalwaysbetternottoknow @karagd13-blog @nattywatty @oyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoya @havoc973 @mr-sol

i hope i didn't miss anybody also some of the tags didn't work idk what's happening help 😰

could you write a fic about simon and a reader who is going through withdrawals? Sorry if that's not real specific, you can take it in what ever direction you please. Thank you

Hope

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem! reader word count: 2k summary: Simon helps you get through withdrawals, offering you hope in the darkest point of your life. a/n: heed the warnings please!!!! I cried a good bit while writing this. You're never alone my friends, and there is always hope. Always. (p.s. there is a mention of wanting children in this fic, so keep that in mind. p.p.s why does tumblr destroy my image quality, it makes me sad.) warnings: opioid addiction, withdrawals, addiction, emetophobia, illness masterlist

"Si-Simon, I can't do this. I'm n-not strong enough." You whimper, clammy hands gripping onto his shirt with every pathetic ounce of strength that you can muster. Your voice is hoarse, throat thick with mucus and body covered in a stale cold sweat that soaks through your oversized t-shirt. Simon has never seen you so weak, so frail in his arms.

He's seen you take down men twice your size, clear rooms with more than ten enemies. You've faced countless opponents, broken through endless physical and mental barriers,  but in the end, the one thing you couldn't defeat was the pills. 

If you'd known you were trading your life away when you were handed the bottle, you never would have taken it in the first place. 

"For the pain." The doctor had said, "Just until this gunshot wound clears up."

Only it didn't. Before you even realized it, your body was already addicted. You craved the numbness that the damned capsules gave you, the release from the endless pain that singed your nerves day and night. You couldn't give them up. You tried– but the sickness that came when you stopped– you were sure it would kill you. 

Simon didn't know what to do. You lied, you kept him at a distance, never fully explaining to him what was going on. He didn't realize how bad it was. He tried not to pry, or to push you, but Simon put his foot down when he found you on the bathroom floor unconscious, a bottle of pills on the counter, half empty. His words reverberated in your ears, a harsh warning that he wouldn't watch you kill yourself. 

"You have to get clean, Y/N." He'd said from a place of love, but you couldn't help but crumble under his judgment, "I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore. You 'ave to sober up."

So here you are, a heap in Simon's lap, the both of you intertwined on the bathroom floor as you fight the overwhelming illness that accompanies withdrawals. Everything you've survived: loss, wounds, torture– it pales in comparison to the misery you're experiencing now. You refused to go to a detox center, not wanting to lose your position in the Task Force. You promised Simon that you'd let him drive you to the hospital if things got bad, but you want to do this at home. 

Bile rises from your stomach, lingering in the back of your throat as you gag. Immediately, Simon pulls your hair back into his fist, and helps to position you over the toilet. 

You dry heave, gagging on air as both of your cold hands grip the toilet bowl. Your wedding band glints in the dim bathroom light, bringing another layer of anguish to your already broken soul. 

He shouldn't have to deal with this. 

"Easy, love. Get it all out. I've got you." Simon coos as your stomach aches and flips, desperate to rid itself of any contents. Only you haven't been able to eat, so nothing comes up but painful bursts of air. You gasp and heave, collapsing back against Simon and erupting into loud sobs. Your bones ache as you fall onto his chest, and his hands hover over your form, unsure on how to hold you without shattering you even further. 

"I can't– I can't! Simon, please! Please. I'm going to die. M' gonna die–" You panic, "I'm not strong enough. You know that I'm not." You plead, begging for the substance that he has already flushed down the drain, your mind refuses to believe that it's actually gone. 

Simon's previously unbreakable heart manages to crack, and he wishes more than anything to carry the burden of your suffering. You're his wife, and it's his job to take the weight off your shoulders, but he can't do this for you. He can, however, be with you every step of the way. You showed him a new way of living, a way to do more than just survive. You've shown him love when he was undeserving of it. It's unbearable for him to see you, such a beam of light, in so much pain. 

"Look at me, baby. Look at me." Simon holds your face until your eyes meet his. Those chestnut colored irises hold your attention– the same ones you looked into as you read your vows, as you suffered pain, and loss, felt love and lust. They've watched after you through everything. 

"You can do this, yeah? You're the strongest person I know. Stronger than any other soldier in the Task Force, stronger than me. If anyone can beat this, it's you." Simon reassures. 

Your face crumples when you realize he's firm in his decision. You shake your head, clammy palms coming to rest against your face. 

"Please, Simon." You beg once again. Your body is trembling like a leaf held against the wind, cold wraps around your bones suffocatingly, squeezing every ounce of comfort from your being and leaving you high and dry. Pure, unadulterated suffering. 

"Come 'ere." Simon whispers, standing up from the tile floor and scooping you into his arms. He hooks his arms under your head and knees before carrying you into the bedroom. 

The soft bed dips under your shared weight as Simon lays down with you, his body wrapping around your own like a perfect puzzle piece. He pulls your back to his chest, letting you use his tattooed arm as a pillow. Your sobs quiet down to muffled whimpers as you shake lightly, wishing you could go back in time, solve this before it became a problem. 

Father time has never been merciful though, has he? 

"Blanket or no?" Simon asks. You nod your head quickly. 

"Yes, it's so cold. I'm so cold." Your teeth chatter lightly as you reiterate. Simon pulls the thick comforter over your forms, tucking it in around the edges as he adjusts behind you. 

An hour ago you were burning up, stripping off your clothes and sobbing at the heat clawing its way through your body like some sort of fiery plague. He'd put you in a cool bath, checking your temperature probably more often than what was necessary. 

You shake and writhe, whimpers and groans of agony slipping past your lips every once in a while. It's killing Simon to see you like this. Every ounce of light has drained from your eyes, the life has seeped from your pores, replaced with the lingering disease of addiction. He misses your laughter, your smile. It could light up a room. You've gotten the boys through many dark days. You were the sunshine of the Task Force. Failed missions, loss, heartache, no matter how bad things got, your optimism never ceased. Not until recently, anyhow. 

"We'll get there again." Simon tells himself like a mantra in his head,"She'll get better." 

He's personally seeing that you do. He won't allow you the pills to take hold of you, he'll fight. He's seen more soldiers die from pills than bullets. He won't let you meet that fate, he won't. 

He can't lose you. 

The room is covered with a calm silence, only the sound of your quick breathing to let him know you're still alive. Simon is quiet as well, and you drown in the silence, hoping for any kind of distraction to pull you away from your unending misery. You can feel yourself giving up, wanting nothing more than to slip into old habits. You slip your eyes shut, opening them only once a voice rumbles in your ear. 

"I was thinking… when you're better we'll get a bigger house." Simon quietly blurts out from behind you. 

A wrinkle forms in between your brows, and you crane your neck to look at him. You're sure he's trying to distract you, coming up with random conversation to keep your mind off of the present. When you look back, his gaze is far away, fixed on something on the far wall. A small smile graces his uncovered lips– he's been keeping the mask off at home recently, you've noticed. There is a light in his eyes, a light that you used to think would never grace the eyes of Simon Riley. 

"What? Why would we need a bigger house?" You ask with a small chuckle. He's succeeding in his distraction, you realize. 

His eyes flicker down to yours, hand gripping onto your waist as you turn towards him in curiosity. Your eyelids are heavy, another wave of exhaustion coming over you. 

"For the little ones." Simon responds.

He says it on a breath. He says it so plainly, so effortlessly, that tears immediately well in your eyes. He's never responded to your questions about children– usually shutting down or ignoring the topic wholly. Your lip wobbles, and he runs his thumb over the cracked skin. 

"Ch-children?" You ask, a new sense of hope filling your being. A new reason to fight– to get clean. Children. A family. 

"A girl, with your eyes…" Simon chuckles, "Probably with your attitude too." 

You laugh at that, tears slipping down your cheeks in landing on his hand that cups your face. 

"Maybe a boy. Hopefully he gets your features n' not my ugly mug." Simon huffs. 

"What changed…?" You ask, wincing as a wave of nausea pulses through your body. Simon's eyes go wide for a second, and his grip tightens on you, ready in an instant to carry you back into the bathroom if you need. The pain passes and you shake your head, signaling that you're okay. Immediately, he relaxes. It's quiet for a moment as Simon traces his thumb over your paper thin skin.

"A dog, a new house, babies, anything you want. I'll give you anything you want, just get better for me, baby." Simon pleads, a hint of vulnerability tracing his words. It's one of only a few times he's begged you. 

"I don't want a future without you in it. I want my wife. I want our kids terrorizing the place, I want to get old and retire the Force with you. Hell, I'd turn in my letter of resignation today if you asked, just please, fight for me, love."

The tears are falling freely now, you don't try to stop them. Guilt fills your being at the realization of everything you've put your husband through for the past few months. Through it all, he's never left your side. He's still here. Kissing closed your wounds, and promising to plant flowers in their place. 

A soft kiss is pressed to your forehead before amber eyes peek down at you through blonde eyelashes. You chew on your lip, a bad habit. 

Your resolve is set, and even though your body shrieks for the opposite, you'll get through this. You have to. 

You have Sunday mornings to look forward to, lazily pouring Simon a cup of tea in his favorite mug. You have a house to buy, with two bedrooms instead of one. Dragging Simon through the shops and picking out all the different onesies he'll let you bring home. You have walks through the park to go on. You have to pick up takeout on Simon's late nights at work. You have to sit on his desk while you share an entree and talk to him until he forgets about the paperwork he's supposed to be doing. So many little actions to go through, little memories to make. You can't give it up. You won't. 

There is so much to fight for, so much to hope for, all given to you by the man before you. Tears sting your eyes again as you finally speak up. 

"I promise you, Simon. I'll fight. For us, I will."

#To Read

ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE AU | SIMON RILEY X F!READER | SILVER AND GOLD MASTERLIST

↳ CHAPTERS:

i. hidden caches ii. sage green iii. sterling silver iv. antibiotics v. cold showers iv. klaxon

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