Pretty Gifts
Coriolanus Snow x fem!plus-size!reader
Your husband bought you a dress, but when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror…
word count: 3.2k
warnings: body-image stuff!, vague…whatever the fuck is wrong with coriolanus subtext, allusions to sex, OC!family/family members for reader and their strained relationship, reader has a LAST name but no first name
a/n: GOD. im suffering from a severe level of brainrot for this man and im finally shedding my fear of posting about him so have this VERY self indulgent piece i wrote…ages ago bc there was just. no plus size/curvy reader for this man. Also this was originally written in 3rd person but i changed it to 2nd so hopefully it sounds alright
Since falling in love with his wife—you, Coriolanus Snow has developed a certain proclivity for buying you things. He used to before, but now it's near constant. They can't leave the house without you coming home with a new trinket, a new piece of clothing, new shoes, anything.
But he'll do it when you’re not around just as well. If he sees anything and it makes him think of you or if he thinks it's something you’ll adore, it's nearly a given that he'll buy it.
Especially clothing.
He's had your exact measurements since you’d gotten married and his cousin, Tigris, designed your wedding dress and while those measurements might've fluctuated, he is well acquainted with your size. Which means, Coriolanus Snow is free to buy his wife any clothing he sees fit.
And he does.
You joke that he likes dressing you up like you’re his own little doll, but you never say it with any annoyance. Something is fun about your husband seeing clothing and simply needing to see his wife in it. It's flattering.
Most days, he'll come home after this or that meeting and drop a bag in front of you with a succinct, "I got you something." You smile almost immediately and always say, "You didn't have to," but you both know he will keep doing so.
And usually he'll insist you try it on for him as soon as possible, if not right away. Other times he'll wait, and declare it's the perfect thing to wear to whatever event they have to attend right around the corner, and you take that as a sign to wear it then.
Some days, however, it's you who comes home from an outing with your mother or father, or one of your siblings. You’ll come home and greet your husband as you usually do: all but tackling him in the hallway with a hug and kiss or the more subtle 'hi' and a kiss on the cheek.
He'll pepper a simple 'there's something for you on our bed' into the conversation and you know you’ve received another piece of clothing. Sometimes he won't say anything, but you know that look in his eye.
And eventually you’ll go into your shared bedroom to find whatever new piece of clothing Snow's picked out for you laying out on the bed—an obvious sign you should put it on right away so he can see you in it when he sees you next. And you usually oblige (though sometimes you’ll try it on just for him and then put back on whatever you were wearing, simply for comfort reasons and he doesn't mind because at least he knows now, and it's always better than his imagination).
Today was no different.
The heels of your shoes click against the marble flooring as you walk further into your home, pausing momentarily as you decide whether or not you want to take off your shoes or not. Before you can decide, you call out, "Coryo?"
It doesn't take a moment for his voice to call out, "In here!"
You hurry into the parlor where you spot your husband sat on the small loveseat, book in hand. His head lifts at the sight of you and you waste little time in hurrying over, falling onto the seat beside him and pressing a kiss to his cheek.
"Hi."
It never fails to make a smile overtake his stoic features and he reaches over, hand pressing into your cheek. "Hello, darling," he whispers and gives you a proper kiss that makes the stress of the day leave both of your bodies.
He pulls away first this time (you swap off), and his brow quirks. "How is your sister?" He asks, thumb still caressing your cheek.
"Normal," you tut, shifting around to lay on the couch, your head landing firmly in his lap. You meet eyes and you smile. "Annoying."
"Better," he remarks, and not even he can hide the satisfied twitch of his lips. You both get a strange thrill whenever the other says something on the edge of mean.
You do love her sister. To an extent.
Geneva Day (née Thorne) is the eldest of the Thorne siblings, seven years your elder, which meant you never spent much time together growing up. Close is not a word to describe you. Especially since, when Geneva learned of Coriolanus' desire to marry the youngest Thorne, she disapproved.
The only ones who knew the marriage started as a sham were the parties involved and your parents, so perhaps Geneva sensed the falsehoods, but in your mind, what right did your sister have to dictate your life? Simply because Geneva had already married? No, you wouldn't have it and you said as much.
But Geneva persisted right up until the wedding when you blatantly told her: "I'm marrying Coriolanus Snow whether you are there or not." And Geneva had no choice but to accept the marriage. Her qualms have lessened with time but you have not yet forgotten about your sister's harsh words towards the man you now love.
"But Cami's ok," you breathe out, sinking further into the couch and your husband's lap, shutting your eyes.
Cami, Camilia Day, is your young niece. While Geneva is on thin ice and probably always will be, you can’t bring yourself to extend the same feelings towards the young girl and in truth, the trip to the park with your sister was more or less just about your niece.
"I played on the swings with her."
"Did you?" Coriolanus asks and although your eyes are shut, you can hear the teasing grin in his voice. "I suppose that means you weren't pushing her?"
Your nose wrinkles. "Cami insisted on pushing herself, I couldn't interfere." Your tone is so matter-of-fact, Coriolanus can only laugh. His fingers twine in the strands of your hair.
"I'm glad you had a good time, dove," he tells you and you hum in response, turning your head to relax more in his lap as he continues stroking your hair.
"I'm just happy to be home."
And Coriolanus never doubts that you mean that.
It's taken him some time to get used to, but his wife genuinely means it when she says she would rather be with him than anywhere else. He used to hate the way his heart would pound when you’d say things like that. Now, he savors the feeling.
Silence passes between you. His fingers continue carding through your lock, his eyes falling back onto the book in his opposite hand, as you lay with your head on his lap.
But eventually, he can no longer help it.
"I got you something."
Your eyes crack open. Your husband's eyes are fixed on his book, but you know he can see you in his periphery because the corner of his mouth twitches upward as soon as you look his way.
"Did you?" You question, unable to hide your own smile for a moment more. Part of you should feel guilty about the way you get constantly doted on, but you can't bring yourself to do so. Still, you say, "You shouldn't have."
"Nonsense," Coriolanus tells you, as he usually does. "It's my job to give you the things you deserve." His eyes finally look down at you. "And you deserve the finest things I can get you."
You stare up at him, mulling between saying something and simply leaning up to mold your mouth to his. You settle for the former. "Then, thank you, my love," you hum, hand reaching up, tips of your fingers running over his cheek.
You know that always gets him, evident by the way his eyes flutter for a moment and you bite back a smile as your hand falls back down.
"I'm assuming it's clothing?" You question and you can tell from the look on his face that it is. But you know it usually is anyway. "I'll try it on later." You shift onto your side, nestling your head further into his lap. "Too comfy to move now."
He laughs, and his fingers continue through your hair. "That's fine. You can wear it for dinner tonight."
The two of you have elected to dine out tonight, if only because it’s been awhile and while love the food you can get at home, restaurants always scratch a certain itch.
And Coriolanus likes showing you off. Sometimes.
You hum in affirmation, content to agree. Once more, silence falls but you’re quick to interject, "Read to me?"
It doesn't matter what he's reading, you like hearing his voice. And as he usually does, Coriolanus obliges, dulcet tones beginning to permeate around the parlor as he reads out the passages of his book for his wife to hear.
You stay that way for a long while until Coriolanus leaves to get some work done in his office and you let him part with a kiss and then settle yourself back onto the couch to relax a while longer.
Eventually, however, with dinner approaching, you head to your shared bedroom. There's a piece of fabric laid out on the bed but you ignore it for now, electing to shower first—whatever clothing you’re meant to wear tonight will look far better if you’re clean, and after a day in the park, the shower feels necessary.
Twenty or so minutes later, you walk back into the room wet hair tied up on your head and a towel wrapped around you as you admire the dress on the edge of the bed. Your eyes light up at the sight of the finery your husband's picked out for you.
Fingers skimming the velvet material, you bite her lip, unable to deny this is exactly the kind of thing you would want to wear.
It's a deep red, almost a wine, made of velvet. The straps are thin, and the top is fitted with corset boning from the looks of it.
Immediately, you move to change, eventually pulling the dress on. It's snug in a comfortable way, not too tight and not too loose. And the skirt is fitted, contouring to your body. It's nice.
You glance at herself in the mirror, satisfied, and move to fix your hair and at least put on a necklace, if nothing more. Makeup too, if only because you don’t want to give the public anything to say about your ‘unkempt’ face.
Coriolanus can only pay off so many people, you’ve found.
By the time you’ve finished getting ready, you flop back on the bed with a content sigh. While you’re excited to show off your new dress, you’re also just hungry for dinner. Whether it’s out or at home, it’ll no doubt be something good, like every night—Coriolanus won’t settle for less, and your mouth waters at the thought.
You know you should head down now, but you pause once more to catch a look at yourself in the full-body mirror that sits in the corner of the room. Your hands skim the skirt, tugging it down your thighs a little when you still.
Your reflection stares back at you for a moment too long. The dress looks gorgeous. The stitching is fine, the design exquisite.
But on you?
Doubts begin to creep in.
The youngest Thorne is by no means skinny. You never have been, but you’ve accepted it. You like your thighs and the way they're on the thicker side. Even your hips are nice, wide perhaps, but nice. At least, so you tell yourself.
But the way the woman in the mirror stared back at you…
Tentatively, you turn to the side.
Most of your dresses, in fact all of them, flare out at the waist. They don't hug your stomach, leaving it hidden underneath the fabric. This dress does the opposite. It hugs your flesh, emphasizing the pouch of fat.
Biting your tongue, you face forward again, unable to miss the way the dress hugs the divots where your hips blend into your thighs. It's all on display. Not an inch is hidden.
Your arms wrap around your midsection and you glance to the door. Coriolanus wants to see you in this. But you can't let him see you, not in this.
It's irrational and you know it. He's seen you in far less clothing and doesn't care, why would he mind the dress? But a little voice in the back of your mind tells you that this dress will simply make him realize.
Grimacing, you sit back on the edge of the bed. Trying to work up the courage to change or go to dinner, you do neither.
Coriolanus is at the dining table, eyes fixed on the doorway in waiting for his wife. All he can hear is the ticking of that incessant grandfather clock in the corner. His hand taps the table and he mentally counts the seconds.
Have you fallen asleep? Is that it?
That's the logical answer, but his mind starts to race with unsavory thoughts about you avoiding him or worse. He bites them back until they leave a bitter taste in his mouth and he leaves the table.
Swiftly, he makes his way to your bedroom and raps his knuckles against the door. "My dear?" He calls through the wood.
Shame wells up inside of you and you swallow it back. "You can come in."
He doesn't waste a second, turning the knob and stepping into the bedroom. Whatever sight he expected to see, he isn't sure, but his wife sat on the edge of the bed completely done-up for dinner yet not moving, isn't what he expected.
"Dove?" He questions, and his unsavory worries start to fade, yet not completely as he shuts the door behind him. "It’s getting late.”
Biting your tongue, you nod, exhaling softly through your nose. "Right," you breathe. "I- I know.”
His gaze narrows for a moment. "Why didn't you come out?" His eyes fix on your attire and his heart thumps. "You're wearing the dress."
"I am."
Your tone. The way you avoid his eyes.
Coriolanus stuff his hands into his trouser pockets and sighs heavily. "You don't like it."
You gasp, eyes meeting his. "No, no, I love it. Coryo, really, it's beautiful," you assure. His head tilts and his eyes narrow again, scrutinizing you now to discern the problem then. It's your turn to sigh. "I don't think the dress likes me."
There's a furrow in his brow as he replies, "It doesn't fit?" That doesn't make sense. He had the dress tailor made to your latest measurements, how could it not fit? Did someone not listen?
"No, I-" Your words bite off and you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. "I...I don't look good in it."
The way Coriolanus looks back at you, you'd think you’d spoke an entirely different language. "What?"
"I don't look good in it, Coryo," you repeat, a little surer.
And now he sees it. His wife is hunched over, one arm wrapped around her middle. The other hand is tugging her skirt down.
For a moment, he says nothing, contemplating how to approach this. Finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Let me see."
The heels on your feet scuff against the carpet and your nose wrinkles. "I don't-"
"No," he says and you know he's serious now, "stand up."
You sigh again and he lets you take a moment, knowing he's asked you to do something you deem terrifying. Eventually though, you stand. Your hands wring in front of you for another long moment, before you let them fall to your sides.
Coriolanus says nothing more, eyes roving slowly over you. He begins to circle you and you feel oddly like prey being sized up by a predator.
He comes to a stop in front of you once more. Trying to avoid his eye, you duck your head but his fingers tilt your head up and your eyes immediately find his cold, icy blue ones.
"You're right," he says flatly. "You don't look good in it." Your eyes widen, and he adds, "You look breathtaking."
He's calling you breathtaking but it's his words that take your breath away. Breathtaking?
"I would never use good to describe you," he continues, his voice a whisper in your ear as he moves behind you. His hands find your waist and he directs you to stand in front of that mirror you found so detestable. "Good doesn't say enough."
"Coryo—"
"I'm not finished," he cuts you off, and you press your lips together. His eyes flit to the mirror in front of them and he notes the antsy look on your face. "What do you see?"
"Me. You."
"What do you see when you look at yourself? Right now?"
You sigh heavily, biting your tongue between your teeth. Your eyes fall to your body, particularly that midsection. You don’t get the words out because Coriolanus slides one of his hands around to press flat against your stomach. He pulls you flush against him.
"Is this the problem?" He asks, voice low in your ear. His other hand falls to your hip. "Is this?"
"Coryo-"
"Don’t."
Your lips press into a thin line. He makes it hard to argue. "Yes. That's the problem." His fingers dance over your stomach in a way that makes you shirk back against his chest.
"I don't see a problem," he whispers against the skin of your neck. He makes it very hard to argue.
You try again. "It's— There's too much."
"Good," her husband growls into your ear, fingers pressing against the flesh of your hip. "More for me to have."
The sensation makes you jolt slightly, a familiar heat crawling up the back of your neck and spreading to your cheeks. You can't even bring yourself to reply, but you don’t have to, because he’s not finished.
"You can think all you want," he begins, and his tone is a touch softer, "but you look ravishing, my dear. Every inch of you was made for me." He leans closer, nose brushing the curve of your neck. "And I love every inch. Not even beautiful begins to describe what you are."
Your expression softens and your hand reaches up to your shoulder, hand pressing into his cheek. "Coryo," you whisper, turning your head to face him. "You mean that."
And it's not a question. Because you believe it. You don’t have to believe anything but him.
"I do," he replies, leaning closer until his nose brushes against yours. "Even when I first saw you, I knew you were the most divine woman I'd ever seen."
A laugh bubbles out of you. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Snow," you tease and it's enough to make him smile as well. Your lips press against his for just a moment before you pull back and ask, just to check, "You really like this dress on me?"
"I do," he repeats, a little more emphatic. "And I'll buy you a dozen more like it to prove it."
Another laugh, one that makes your nose scrunch and your eyes crinkle. "That won't be necessary." Another kiss. "But I appreciate the sentiment."
With a sigh, your hands fall to cover his where they still rest over your stomach and your hip. Squeezing his hands, you glance at your reflection and find that it doesn't look so bad anymore.
"I guess we should head to dinner now," you muse, but you don’t have time to move before Coriolanus is pulling you closer.
His mouth hovers over the space where your neck meets your shoulder and he whispers, the sound somewhere between a purr and a growl, "I want to eat something else first..."
Dinner will have to wait.
