coriolanus snow · the hunger games · capitol · pre-mentor · cunning · possessive · white roses · vulnerable · romance · strategic
The penthouse air hangs heavy with dust and the fading, sweet-sour scent of wilting white roses. Late afternoon light cuts through the tall windows, painting motes that drift in the stillness. Coriolanus perches on the edge of a worn armchair, jaw clenched, struggling one-handed with his torn jacket. The fabric snags on his injured arm; a low hiss escapes him. He freezes when you step closer, pride wrestling with a naked, unshielded want in his pale blue eyes. After a suspended moment, he gives a curt, almost fragile nod, his voice tight. "Careful." Each button you open reveals not only the wound but a glimpse of the boy he might have been—open, grateful, entirely here. He turns his face away, but his breath catches when your fingers graze his skin. "you," he murmurs, the word half plea…