My stories take place in an alternate universe of TBoSaS. Some of them will contain triggering themes so please make sure you are comfortable with the content warnings before reading. MDNI.
Comments are welcome but please be kind! I write for fun and I may miss some canon details accidentally. Requests are also welcome, if my muse cooperates.
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𝓈𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 🩷🪽
Little Mouse (Ongoing)
PART 1 | PART 2 PART 3
Gods & Monsters (Ongoing)
PART 1 | PART 2 PART 3 PART 4
Tolerate It (Ongoing)
PART 1 PART 2
My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (Ongoing)
PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4
Oxytocin (Ongoing)
PART 1
𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓉𝓈 💘🪽
The Little Things
🎀 Strangers
🎀 Sun Bleached Flies (Strangers part 2)
epiphany
Picture You
🎀 - favorites
credit to @/anitalenia & @/angeliicide for the dividers!
Contents: NONCON/DUBCON, DDDNE, Alternate Universe, Abuse of Authority, Power Imbalance, Degradation, Smut, maids, Contracts, Infidelity, Blackmail, Misogyny, Mirror Sex, Dollification, Objectification, Possessive Behavior, Controlling Behavior, Dissociation, Aphrodisiacs, Jealousy, Emotional Manipulation, Age Difference, Old Money Society, Daddy Issues, Pet Play (use of collar), Spanking, Surveillance, Rough Sex
A/N: PLEASE MIND THE TAGS! This part takes quite a turn. Please be careful if you are uncomfortable with non-con/dub-con, degradation, rough sex, and pet play themes (use of a collar). Also, I pulled some lines from the TBOSAS book.
Phoebe’s POV
One day, it occurred to her that it had been months since she left the Snow penthouse.
Months.
There was much work to be done and Coriolanus Snow ran a tight ship. Cameras were installed in every crevice of this place, for security reasons, he’d said. And to ensure she wasn’t slacking off, she was certain. Nothing peeved him more than a lazy woman.
She wondered how often he checked those cameras.
It was unsettling knowing that at any hour, as she was going about her day, she was being watched. Scrutinized. There was no true escape from prying eyes, not even in the secrecy of her bedroom, as she was uncertain whether he’d planted cameras in there too. That would no doubt be an invasion of her privacy, though privacy was a foreign concept when it concerned her, which he’d proven when he took it upon himself to update her entire wardrobe. If he could do that much, what more could he do?
The hours he had her work were borderline unethical, but she kept her mouth shut about it, so grateful was she to be in her position. No ordinary maid was rewarded the salary she had. Not that she’d seen a dime of it—it all went straight towards that debt. That seemingly insurmountable debt. She looked forward to the end of each week so she could count how much she’d earned and watch that number in her notebook dwindle.
With the steady pay she was earning, it would take roughly a year to pay off her debt.
After that was dealt with, she could save for a rainy day. It was inevitable that she would be replaced. Once Mr. Snow married, he would have no time for such rakish joys when he had a family to raise. A wife to cater to.
She’d become an afterthought.
A liability.
Then what?
Phoebe imagined she’d spend the rest of her days working as a maid under a new employer. Cleaning was the best sort of job she could have, as it required few qualifications. Her one year at the University was not enough to earn her a degree and a high school diploma wasn’t exactly laudable. It was the bare minimum in society.
This wasn’t how she pictured living out her youth, but she ought to get used to it.
It was just so monotonous, this routine of hers. All work and no play.
Coriolanus worked her to the bone, eager to squeeze every bit of worth from her that he could. During the day, she tended to his penthouse. Come nightfall, she warmed his bed. Even that required preparation beforehand, as he expected nothing less than perfection of her.
He curated every little thing, she found. As he went about his penthouse, he straightened things up, even if they were slightly off-place. His schedule was rigid and he prided himself on his punctuality. Once, she’d heard him tear apart his assistant Lydia for being a few minutes late. So what if there was traffic? She ought to plan for that.
It also peeved him when people showed up too early.
On the dot was his expectation.
Sundays were Phoebe’s only day off, and she often found herself so drained by her schedule that the idea of going out had lost its appeal. She was a bit of a homebody anyway, even before, preferring to spend her time reading and baking. But now Coriolanus had taken those joys from her, too.
He didn’t want her reading filth, so he curated her library. A small one had been set up in her bedroom, which he added titles to upon her request (and his subsequent review). Sometimes he snuck in his own recommendations for her enrichment. History and science books to be exact. A few philosophy titles, too, for her sponge of a mind to absorb. Baking was no longer a pleasure of hers, but an expectation to fulfill. The recipes were all tailored to his preference: not too sweet.
Sunday, to her dismay, was also his day off.
She was never truly alone in this gilded cage. It was unnatural, being caged for so long. Part of her yearned to spread her wings and fly.
She brought it up to him, her concern.
“I was wondering if I could go book shopping myself,” Phoebe had requested gingerly while he was enjoying his afternoon tea in his study. “I don’t want to trouble your assistant—she works so hard.” Usually, she jotted down the names of some titles on a note card, which he handed to his assistant. Lydia was a meticulous woman at his beck and call, too. Though she didn’t live here, she frequently delivered things and also brought him groceries.
They’d seldom exchanged more than a clipped greeting whenever she stopped by to hand her bags. Anything confidential was delivered to Mr. Snow personally while he was in his study. She wasn’t trusted to handle those sealed envelopes, which had her wondering what on earth those entailed.
“There’s no need for that,” Coriolanus had replied crisply. “Let her do her job.”
“But…” Speaking of doing one’s job—he handed her his empty teacup.
“Fetch me a refill, please.”
Attempt unsuccessful.
Phoebe didn’t let that deter her, though. She came back again another day and said, “There’s a recipe I want to try, but it’s only as good as the fruits are. I’d like to pick them myself. I was wondering if maybe this Sunday, I could go to the store.”
She sort of required his permission since she didn’t have a dime in her pocket.
“I can see you’re feeling a bit cooped up,” he observed, his sharp gaze boring through her with an intensity to it, as if sifting through her mind. Did he see through her ruse? A hint of amusement bled into his expression as if he were thinking, that won't work with me. “If some fresh air is what you desire, why don’t you head up to the rooftop?” he suggested in turn. His final judgment.
So that was a resounding no.
“I just want to get out. It’s not the same,” she couldn’t help but complain. She seldom complained but surely he would cut her some slack since it had been so long. “I’m off on Sundays, aren’t I? It should be no trouble to you if I leave for a little.”
He instead handed her his empty teacup. Again.
Phoebe set it back down, her eye twitching. He wasn’t listening, not really. In fact, the longer she stood there trying to string together the words to say, the more bored he grew. “Is there anything else you have to say?” he asked languidly. “I have things to do, if you don’t mind.”
“This Sunday, I’m going for an outing,” she blurted out before she was able to stop herself. Are you now? His raised brow implied. She straightened up, mustering all the courage she could to tell him: “I won’t be home in the morning.”
“You can’t go shopping without any money,” he retorted. And he was right. “What will you do? Browse around?”
“Maybe.” She folded her hands behind her back, attempting nonchalance. “Or I could go for a stroll in the park. Take in some sights.”
“Not a good time for that. The leaves are falling.”
“I do need to exercise more, too,” she countered. “I’ve put on some weight.”
That she has. She looked better—more alive now thanks to the strict regimen he had her on, which included plenty of vitamin supplements. That was beside the point.
“My cup is still empty, Phoebe.” In translation, shut up and be a good girl for me, won’t you? He glanced down at it pointedly.
Frowning, she grabbed the teacup, then set off, her heels clicking with haste.
But then he called for her.
She fought that impulse to look over her shoulder and snap—what else? Surely if she snapped like that, some punishments would be in order. He punished her before for snapping at him. Beckoned her over, so deceptively smooth before he seized her by the waist and bent her over his lap. She’d barely recovered from that when he pulled her dress up over her hips and ripped her panties down her legs, exposing her to the elements. “That is no way to speak to me,” he’d chided, so displeased with her. “It appears you’ve forgotten your place.”
She truly did, when the lines were so blurred. Who punished their maid like this? Who had them warm their bed at night? He was merciful enough to use his bare hand to strike her ass and not the metal ruler on his desk. She’d squirmed so much that he had to rip off his silk tie and use it to bind her wrists behind her back. Thighs clenching, she endured that awful stinging ache whenever his heavy hand came down. He had her count each strike until she was left in tears, her skin burning like it was set ablaze. Not in a good way. Not like that pit of fire in her loins whenever he touched her, gently, that coursed throughout her body in ripples. Though she hadn’t bled, it hurt to sit down for a while.
“This pains me as much as it does you,” he’d admitted when he saw the ugly red splotches marring her ass. “But it had to be done. I can’t have you acting like a brat.”
He could be so cruel sometimes, confusing her like this. So soft in the aftermath, his knuckles wrapped in velvet, while he rubbed cream over her wounds. He’d asked, “Have you learned your lesson, now?”
Phoebe nodded in a heartbeat, fearing if she waited too long to respond, he’d start over.
“Use your words, doll,” came his cool response.
“Y-Yes,” she’d managed, gripping the armrest of his seat. “Yes, sir.”
He ran his fingers through her silky tresses, stroking her as if she were a pet, and like one, she leaned into his forgiving touch. Instinctively. Against better judgment. Because that was the reaction he sought from her. Not because she liked being comforted. She didn’t like how whenever he was upset with her, he never appeared upset. Just disappointed. It brought her back to when she was a child, trying not to cry when she let her father down again.
Whenever she talked back or said a bad word, her father made her wash her mouth with soap.
“What have you learned? Tell me,” Coriolanus pressed on.
“Never… to talk back to you,” she’d replied shakily, telling him what he wanted to hear.
“Good girl.” He’d wiped the tears from her face, so sweet about it. So pleased to see that she’d learned.
This time, she didn’t make the mistake of snapping at him. She had instead, in her sweetest voice, replied, “Yes?”
“Fetch me another scone too,” he ordered.
“Right away, sir.”
Sir. Mr. Snow. That was what she called him.
He, on the other hand, had a plethora of names for her.
The one he was most fond of was doll.
In the presence of others, however, she was only ever Phoebe or Miss Blackwood.
◆ ◆ ◆
It was a Saturday when she worked up the courage to go out.
Not a Sunday.
Coriolanus wasn’t home and she thought, what would be the harm in going for a short stroll? Her tasks for the day were complete. The lists he gave her were suspiciously longer lately, but she took things in stride, pooling her efforts into rushing it, though not obviously so. Like a hawk, he could spot anything. Any imperfection, any shortcut she took, like that. If he deemed she did a sloppy job, he’d make her start over.
After checking once, twice—thrice—for anything she forgot to clean, she threw on her coat and snuck out.
Without a dime in her pocket.
It was strange, walking these streets after being kept off them for so long. Come autumn, the leaves were starting to change color and fall. An array of warm colors caught her eye—dazzling shades of reds, yellows, and oranges. She watched as the cars rolled down the Corso: what was possibly the busiest street in all of the Capitol, where all the expensive townhouses and apartments were located.
Look at all these people, she thought. Driving their fancy cars. Living their fancy lives. Most drivers in the Capitol were lower class if not Avoxes, but there was no need to be pedantic. Case in point—there were many living better lives than her.
A bit of envy flared in her when she saw a Capitolite woman strolling out of a boutique with an Avox on her tail, struggling to carry the loads of shopping bags on his arms. In her purse was a shivering puppy donning what was probably a cashmere sweater, if its diamond collar was any indicator of its owner’s wealth. No one would dare to buy fake diamonds here. She was laughing alongside another woman who donned the same outfit as hers, only in a different shade. A matching pooch stuck its head out of her purse.
Another Avox popped out of the door, rushing to keep up with the other lady. Also struggling to carry her bags.
She used to go shopping like that with her friend, Priscilla. They ran all along The Promenade with one mission alone: to drain their father’s wallets. A seemingly impossible challenge.
Phoebe had not planned this outing, in truth. The idea was to get out for the sake of it. She pulled the hood of her coat up over her head and adjusted her sunglasses, hoping that no one would recognize her in this disguise. It was a possibility, especially on a Saturday when people tended to visit The Promenade—the shopping complex located near the Corso.
She walked and walked until her legs felt numb.
Before she knew it, she’d ended up in the park. Nothing pretty to see here—just leaves falling, this time of year. Though come spring, it was absolutely beautiful, sprawling with lush blossoms, the air so sweet. Spring was her favorite season because of how beautiful it was, and how the Capitol seemed to come alive with color after months of everything appearing so barren.
There were small joys she found this time of year, too. She liked to step on the colorful leaves to hear that satisfying crunch sound. While she walked, she made sure not to step on the lines in the pavement. A game she liked to play to keep things interesting.
She’d been so enveloped in her game, unaware of how time had passed, until she clipped the shoulder of someone strolling by. When she turned to apologize…
He appeared familiar.
She tilted her shades down to get a closer look at this tall raven-haired man.
“Phoebe?” His smooth voice startled her into slipping her shades back on. It was Marcellus Whimsiwick. “Long time no see,” he greeted her, not letting her frigid response deter him.
“It’s been a while,” she replied stiffly, before looking around for the nearest exit. She hadn’t intended to run into anyone. Hadn’t mentally prepared for it, either.
“Going for a walk?” he inquired.
Some silence, and then, “Yes. I thought I’d stretch my legs for a bit.”
The last time they’d seen each other was before summer break. After he left for the districts, Julia and her peers had thought it humorous to cook up some rumor about them eloping. Because they had history. Not much history, really. Partnering up for assignments together a few times was hardly a declaration of romance, but bored people tend to gossip. They probably all knew about him asking her to be his date to the Yule Ball, but never mind her rejecting him.
“I see. Me too.” Little rays of sunlight brought out the specks of blue in his startling green eyes. “If you have no company, will you allow me to join you?”
What harm could that do? It had been some time since she talked to anyone other than Coriolanus and his guests. With that in mind, she nodded.
Then they walked together along the winding paths surrounding the perfectly manicured lawns.
“What have you been up to lately?” inquired Marcellus. “We’ve all been wondering where you’ve disappeared to.” We as in her nosy former classmates, she assumed. “You weren’t at Priscilla’s birthday party.” Unusual, considering the two of them were like peas in a pod ever since they could walk. She dreaded parties, truly dreaded them, but made an exception for any events hosted by the Darlings. “I haven’t seen you at the University either…”
Priscilla had been worried sick for her after she seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. The calls and messages were endless.
Please talk to me, Phoebe. I’m worried about you.
Your father asked if I was hiding you. What is this about? Did you two get into a fight again?
Talk to me, please.
If you ever need a place to stay, I’m always here for you. Stay safe out there. Wherever you are.
The guilt ate away at her. Each call she let ring, each message she silently read. Both from her, Father, and Mr. Grant. It wouldn’t take much effort to pick up the phone and respond. To give them some sign that she was alive and well. But what good would that do when that life was behind her now?
Priscilla wouldn’t understand. All she’d do was try to talk her into ‘seeing sense’ and marrying Mr. Grant to preserve the peace. All her life, she’d been raised to be an obedient daughter. To do whatever she was told without question. A perfect Capitol darling.
If only she could’ve been that way, too. Life would’ve been simpler had she listened to her father. Simpler, yes, though arguably depressing, to be in a loveless marriage with a man twice her age. It rubbed her wrong, the haste with which Father had insisted she marry that man. All to clean up his mess.
Did he even love her? Was a word he said to her ever true? He might’ve brought her into this world, but that was as far as their familial bond went. She was under no obligation to do him such a favor when it concerned the rest of her future.
On Priscilla’s birthday, she messaged her to wish her a happy birthday. And of course she never attended her party. It would’ve been an extravagant affair if Mrs. Darling was in charge of coordinating things, which meant everyone they knew would be in attendance.
She used to help Priscilla plan her parties. Had been so excited to sample endless flavors of cakes with her, to settle upon the best one. They made a day out of shopping for decorations together while their Avoxes struggled to carry their things.
Those days were behind her now.
“Nothing, really. A bit of this. A bit of that.” Phoebe played it cool, trying to ignore that lump forming in her throat. “I thought I’d take a break from school. My grades haven’t exactly been stellar. Father will have my head if I get another D.”
Mathematics was never her strong suit.
“I see,” Marcellus replied, looking off to the side in contemplation. He hesitated over his next words. “Julia told me that you’ve been… going through it. If you’d like to talk about it—”
“I do not,” she snapped defensively, before mentally scolding herself. Decorum, Phoebe. “Sorry. I mean, I’d rather not talk about it.”
His brow arched at her unusual outburst.
He didn’t mention it, fortunately. Phoebe asked if he would be so kind as to give her the scoop about what’s been going on with their peers and he told her all about the new courtships in their circle—including the ones that fell through. There was even an announcement of an engagement! For a moment, she forgot about her blunder, instead enveloped in the developments of her peers and their (mostly) successful lives.
A sharp, distressed meow halted their conversation.
It came from… the sky?
Phoebe glanced up and of course there was nothing in the sky. But there was a rather tall tree and an orange ball of fluff dangling precariously from one of its slender branches. The branch was bending, on the brink of snapping under the weight of the squirming critter attached to it. Paling, she rushed forward to get a closer look, which might’ve been a mistake since it started to squirm even more.
The ball of fluff perked up to reveal a pair of pointy ears, a flicking tail and a set of beady green eyes. It was a kitten who, by the looks of it, was barely past weaning age. Their adventure had somehow landed them all the way up there.
“The branch—it’s going to break!” Phoebe frantically gestured towards it, glancing back at Marcellus, who was wide-eyed. A small thing like that wouldn’t survive such a drop. If it did, it’d be gravely injured.
“Leave it there.” He fumbled for the phone in his pocket. “I’ll call the Peacekeepers.”
“What if it falls? We can’t wait!” she insisted, calculating how long it would take for her to make it to the top. She wasn’t equipped for this, in her heeled shoes and dress. The last time she’d climbed a tree was when she was seven, and her father had chided her for falling off of it and getting mud on her dress. It was safe to say that her tree climbing skills were rusty, and time was of the essence.
Marcellus was tall and limber. He could do the job.
He hesitated, looking down at his immaculate suit.
Never mind. Phoebe made a beeline for the tree, struggling to make it up there. In the process, her shoe slipped off, which was when he saw fit to jump in and help. Finally.
“No—let me do it.” Sighing, he helped her back down. She hopped to grab her shoe and slid it back on. In the interim, he climbed his way up there with impressive speed, albeit awkwardly, fighting with the rigid fabric of his suit.
He was precariously perched up there, now. If he were to slip and fall, surely he would break a bone or two. Or several.
“Here kitty, kitty,” Marcellus called out to the feline, who wasn’t a fan of him by the looks of it, given her pinned-back ears. He scooted closer, gripping the branch for dear life—probably praying to himself that it wouldn’t snap. After all that effort, the kitten leapt down onto the branch beneath him.
Phoebe held out her arms to catch the kitten just in case it fell. It seemed all too enticed with her now, ducking its head, hesitating whether to jump for it. “Don’t worry,” she gasped, “We’re going to get you down!”
A soft, sad meow was the kitten’s only response.
“Put your hands down,” a rather flustered Marcellus snapped. Where was all that decorum now? Thrown out the window in a moment of undue stress. “It’s going to jump.”
She elected to ignore his unpleasant tone and lowered her hands.
Eventually, he leaned over and snatched the muddy kitten up in his arms. It squirmed with all its tiny might as he, all frazzled (and slightly disgusted), held onto it to the best of his ability. She waited with bated breath until he climbed down the tree and finally planted his feet on the ground.
“You poor thing,” Phoebe cooed, taking the kitten from Marcellus and cradling it to her chest. He seemed almost wounded that her concern wasn’t directed towards him, as he’d been scratched up. But he would live. The poor thing, however, was in such pitiful shape in comparison. “You must be so cold.” And so hungry, surely; she could see its ribs. It was in dire need of a bath, its fur all greasy and muddy. “I wonder where your mother is…”
“What now?” queried Marcellus as he brushed the dirt off his wool coat. “Are you going to let it go? It doesn’t have a collar.” He mumbled something under his breath about his coat being brand-new.
The kitten sniffed her for a good minute until it decided it wanted to be let go. So she let it go. “Maybe it’ll go back to its mother. Wherever she is.”
But it didn’t move. It just sat there at her feet, sniffing her curiously.
Go away, she thought. I can’t take you with me.
It was out of the question, her bringing this kitten home. What if it had fleas? What if Coriolanus was allergic to cats? She more than anyone knew how much he valued cleanliness and order, which kittens had no concern for. It would be unprofessional of her to return home with some animal she plucked off the street.
“Let’s keep walking,” she suggested, and Marcellus followed suit.
A moment later, she was made aware of how painfully awkward the silence between them was. So she said, “It got you good… I’m sorry for making you go up there.”
“I couldn’t have you getting hurt,” he replied in good fun, though he was in fact not having fun. Grimacing, at that. More silence. Should she offer to foot his medical bill and hope he declined? She didn’t bother bringing her wallet. Not that she had any need for it, so flat-out broke.
A raspy cry caught her attention, and she looked back to find the kitten limping towards her, trying to follow her. She exchanged a look with Marcellus as they both thought, what now? They couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“Seems like it’s hurt,” he observed. She nodded, swallowing.
The kitten stopped at her feet, its beady eyes blinking at her. Almost as if imploring her for help. Her heart broke.
“We could take it to a vet,” she proposed.
“My afternoon schedule is tight,” came his curt response. “I’m afraid I’ll be too busy to accompany you there.”
There wasn’t a dime in her pocket, so footing the vet bill on her own was impossible. It’d be worth, what, a week of her salary, if not more? Regardless, she couldn’t leave the poor thing here to fend for itself. At the very least, she could feed it. But all the food was at home.
Sighing, Phoebe knelt and scooped the kitten into her arms. “What am I going to do with you, little one?” Take it home, she thought. She could sneak it in for a moment to feed it, then release it. With that in mind, she unzipped her coat and the feline squirmed as she slipped it inside. A moment later, however, once it decided that the warmth radiating from her was preferable to the chilly wind, it relaxed. Curled up against her chest, trying to make itself comfortable.
“I’ll look after it for a bit,” she decided, “until it’s in better shape.”
Strays were a rarity once. During the Dark Days, animals vanished mysteriously, she’d heard. It was a mystery whether they’d perished from starvation or heaven knows what. Thankfully, those days were in the past. Now, it was more economically feasible to keep pets. In fact, it was a trend. Shops catering specifically to pets had opened.
“I’m going to walk home now,” she told Marcellus.
“May I accompany you?” He held his scratched-up hand behind his back. “You live nearby, don’t you?”
“It’s fine, I can walk alone since you’re busy. It’s no trouble at all.” She didn’t want him knowing where she lived. Of course he insisted, ever the gentleman, saying he still had time to kill.
Marcellus walked her down the Corso, up to the entrance of what was possibly the fanciest apartment complex in the Capitol. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said, “and helping me.” She stroked the kitten’s soft orange fur. If the penthouse was hers, she would’ve asked if he’d like to come in for some tea and biscuits, but Coriolanus wouldn’t take kindly to surprise guests.
“Of course. You take care, Phoebe. It was nice catching up with you,” said Marcellus. Before she entered the complex, he added, “Actually—I’d like to stay in touch with you, if that’s alright. I hope it’s not too bold of me to ask for your number.”
He sure knew how to lay it on thick. His bravado must’ve been credited to his looks. A handsome face could let you get away with a lot in a society so fixated on vanity. My father doesn’t want me talking to men would’ve been a feasible excuse to give, because her father was in fact insufferable about who he allowed near her before. Most men are no better than dogs, he’d warned her. “How about you give me your number instead?” she proposed.
He came prepared with a napkin and a pen in his pocket.
◆ ◆ ◆
The doorman gave her a funny look when he greeted her, only to find a tiny orange head sticking out the top of her coat. “What’s this?” he asked.
“A new friend,” she answered, in brighter spirits than she was when she left earlier. “You have a good day, sir!”
After riding the elevator up to the top floor, she slipped inside the penthouse.
There were a few hours to go until Coriolanus returned.
Then she could ask him, if he would be so kind as to hand her her paycheck… If he could find it in himself, just this once, not to put it all towards her debt…
That wouldn’t go down well.
He wouldn’t want this thing in his house, even temporarily, she was sure. But she had to keep it alive and well so she could ask him. Calling him during work was out of the question. The only option, as she saw it, was to keep the kitten safe here, temporarily. In the meantime, she would feed and bathe it. Keep it warm.
After turning on the portable heater in her bedroom, she sat beside it. For now (until it was bathed), the kitten was confined to the jail cell that was her coat. Something it wasn’t thrilled about, as it squirmed, wanting to explore already. She didn’t want to think about the mess those muddy paws would leave on the tiles. Though she feared it was already too late for her coat and dress.
“Do you want out? We’ll have to get you cleaned up first.” Phoebe booped its nose with her finger.
That led them to the bathroom, soon enough.
After closing the door behind her, Phoebe unzipped her coat. The kitten sprang before she’d even blinked, eager to be set free. It took one step before letting out a sharp cry when it stepped on its back paw.
Carefully, she cradled the kitten, and it squirmed, not liking that it was on its back. Upon further examination, the source of its pain was a thorn in its paw. It was nearly impossible to extract with her bare hands, so deeply embedded. She cleaned a pair of tweezers, then brought out a handful of cubed cheese. Hopefully that’ll distract it, she thought, giving it a cube as a treat before she began. Though it broke her heart to hear it cry, the thorn had to be removed.
After a while of effort, she removed it, then handed the kitten another cube to nibble on, which it gratefully scarfed down.
She’d never bathed a cat before. They didn’t have cat shampoo, let alone a single thing made for a cat here. In the meantime, a warm washcloth and some water would do.
Bathing it was nothing short of a fight. The kitten didn’t like the water touching her, period. Not even with a cloth. It bit her hand politely at first, then with insistence. She apologized profusely whilst it hissed, its tail flicking in agitation as if to say, unhand me this instant.
After that was over, she had a few scratches on her arms. Nothing major, though they were noticeable. If Father were here, he’d insist she rush to the hospital at once, in case she caught something.
Whilst drying the kitten, she noticed that it was a girl.
“Are you hungry, kitty? Shall I fix you something to eat?” A soft meow in response. She was all fluffed up, wobbling in front of the heater by her bedside, now. “First we have to bandage you,” she told her. Naming her was out of the question; she couldn’t get attached to a cat she couldn’t keep. So she called her kitty, because cat seemed too impersonal a nickname.
Phoebe made her foray to the medicine cabinet in the upstairs loft and swiped a random assortment of things. A pair of medical scissors, gauze, bandages, and ointment gel. Was that safe for a cat? It was better than nothing, she supposed.
Putting the ointment on kitty was no easy task; she squirmed the entire time. Phoebe fumbled with the gauze, trying to wrap it right, but it looked like a wad attached to her paw. It stayed on for all of three minutes, until kitty started gnawing at her feet, not having it. The bandage came off.
“What am I to do with you?” She sighed.
◆ ◆ ◆
The cook had given her a funny look when she requested a bit of unseasoned boiled chicken and a tiny dish of warm milk. Not her usual fare. Still she gave it to her anyway, then got straight to work, cooking up an elaborate dinner in preparation for Mr. Snow’s return.
She made a cozy setup in her bedroom. A heap of blankets was a makeshift cat bed. In the bathroom, there was a station for milk, water, plenty of chicken, and a space for a litter box (the sand stolen from the rooftop garden). Phoebe busied herself with making cat toys whilst kitty, curious as can be, sniffed and explored every inch of the space she was given free rein to.
Kitty loved her toys. She played with them, her belly round as can be after all that food. It was a challenge getting her to stop messing with her paw, which she’d rebandaged.
Their peaceful moment was soon disrupted by the telltale beep of the security system, alerting her to the front door opening. He was home early today. Unusually early. There could only be one explanation for that. He knew.
Either that or it was a coincidence. How funny would that be?
Her stomach twisted in knots as she rushed to make herself presentable, pulling on her uniform with haste. In the process, she ripped her stockings and cursed herself for that. The man of the hour liked to be greeted properly when he arrived, so she had to hurry.
She made it downstairs, her uniform disheveled and twisted, but at least it was on.
“Good evening, Mr. Snow.” She bowed, trying not to wince at how breathless she sounded after running across the penthouse. He took one good look at her, mild amusement in his expression as he noted her disarray.
The silence lingered as if on purpose, as if he were sniffing out her stress. As if by design. Until he relented, offering a curt nod in acknowledgement of her presence. She took off his coat and hung it on the rack for him.
Now he’d head upstairs to his study to stow away his briefcase. He never liked her being in his study unattended; he guarded it under lock and key. She only cleaned it when he was in his office watching her every move. Men could get so territorial over that one room in the house. Father was the same way with his study, which she referred to as the mancave.
She followed him to the foot of the stairs, head lowered demurely. “Would you… would you like anything to drink, sir?”
He narrowed his eyes for a second, adjusting his cufflinks.
Perhaps she was a bit more hover-y than usual. Typically she just took his coat before disappearing. She never catered to him at hand and foot unless he requested it.
“A glass of water would be fine,” he replied. “I’ll have it in my study.”
Ice cold as always.
She delivered it to him while he was setting his briefcase down on the desk in his study.
“You seem chipper. Did you have a nice day?” he inquired, opening it to review his documents. It wasn’t unusual for him to inquire about her day, though it typically happened during dinner.
She nodded. “It feels like any other day.”
“What did you do today?” he thumbed through the dividers in his briefcase, seemingly bored. But at least not suspicious. Though his early appearance in the penthouse was quite suspicious.
“Clean,” she replied in a heartbeat.
“Of course, I know that. What else did you do?” he clarified. “I’ve known you long enough to know that cleaning doesn’t bring you joy.”
“I tidied my bookshelf.” That wasn’t a lie. But that wasn’t all she did.
“Is that how you got all scratched up?” His perceptive gaze flicked to the scratches on her wrists, which she’d forgotten about.
“No…” She folded her hands behind her back and lowered her head like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
He ignored her for a good long moment, sitting down, sipping his water, leafing through his papers. So much so that she stole the opportunity to try and slip out, but was halted by his clear voice:
“Did I dismiss you?”
She inhaled sharply before turning around, her lips stretching into the fakest smile. “No, sir.”
“You aren’t permitted to leave until I dismiss you,” he sternly reminded her. “You should know this already.”
“Sorry, sir.” He sounded nothing short of terrifying like this, like he was onto her. She rushed over to his side at once. There were cameras everywhere, but how often did he check them?
◆ ◆ ◆
Coriolanus’ POV
“Sit,” he ordered.
Like the good girl she was, she sank to her knees onto the velvet cushion at his feet. She looked so tempting like this, shaking like a leaf for good reason after that stunt she pulled. It was one thing for her to leave without informing him to gallivant with some man, but another to sneak that filthy creature into his house. Like he wouldn’t know. Surely that was an act of defiance; she knew he had cameras everywhere.
He kept a close eye on her, his little maid. When he was bored at work, he liked to check the security feed. It was nothing he hadn’t done with his previous staff, to ensure they weren’t slacking off or pocketing anything. His observations over time had proven her diligence. Yet he kept watching her during his lunch breaks, with the same appreciation one would reserve for a colorful bird in a cage. He liked knowing that no matter where he was, she was always in his line of sight if he felt compelled to check.
Until she wasn’t.
Today, she went out. After that conversation they had, it was inevitable she would. She’d gotten all worked up over his constant dismissal of her feelings, and part of him wondered, how obedient would she be if this went on?
He’d never explicitly told her she wasn’t permitted to leave. After all the work he had her do, she was more interested in resting her feet instead of going out for a walk. There wasn’t much in the way of recreation for her outside, anyway, when she didn’t have a dime in her pocket. Or any friends for the matter.
The door of her cage was wide open. It had always been. She’d never tried flying away.
Until she had enough of it and those shiny gifts he offered as a distraction. Those weren’t a supplement for the freedom she evidently craved. This afternoon, he was compelled to check the cameras when he received an alert for the front door opening.
There she was, on that screen, putting on her coat to leave.
The camera feed later revealed that she’d gone on quite the excursion. She’d even brought back a tiny souvenir that was waiting for him down the hall.
“I saw you went out today,” he revealed, setting his papers down. She tensed up—guilty as charged. “How was it, your little outing? Did you do anything fun today?”
She inhaled softly, albeit shakily, wiping her palms on her uniform skirt. “I went for a walk, if that’s your idea of fun.” Her uniform reflected her sorry state, disheveled like her. Short orange hairs festooned it.
“The park down the street?” he queried, and she flinched at his fingers finding her face. He played with the tresses framing it.
She nodded. “It’s still beautiful this time of year. Not as beautiful as it is during spring.”
“You love flowers.” She loved them, but didn’t know a thing about cultivating them the way he did. Perhaps he could delegate a section of his garden for her to tend to, to preoccupy her. Her handling his precious roses was completely out of the question. “Would you like to get into gardening?”
“No. Not really.”
Not that it mattered. She’d have no choice but to give it a try if he added it to her task list as a chore. He liked to keep her busy.
She regarded him expectantly, with bated breath, as if waiting for some ball to drop. That moment never came. He kept quiet as she squirmed on that velvet cushion without purpose, watching him leaf through his paperwork.
He preferred to let the fear linger.
◆ ◆ ◆
Dinner came and went without much of a fuss.
He’d hardly uttered a word to her in the interim. Instead, he ate quietly at the other side of the dining table while she pushed her food around on her plate, trying to whet her appetite.
“I’m full,” she announced, her plate still half-full.
“Finish your food. That’s an order.”
Once Phoebe begrudgingly finished her plate, they both heard a soft meow coming from upstairs.
“What’s that sound?” he asked, playing dumb as he quirked his brow.
“What sound?” Phoebe stood, plate in her hands.
Another meow. A more insistent one, followed by the sound of scratching. Her bedroom door being shredded to pieces.
“That sound. It sounds like a meow,” he stated plainly. She froze, the cogs in her mind working overtime to figure out how to break this secret to him. Or was it a secret at all? Was she waiting for him to break the ice? She was terrible with confrontation like that. Her gaze flitted between him and the staircase, over and over, which gave him his answer. “I want to see it,” he said finally. “That thing you brought home.”
Her eyes went wide as if she were thinking, he knows.
◆ ◆ ◆
She brought it downstairs without a word and carefully set it down on the carpet in front of him, as if presenting a gift.
What a hideous thing, he thought immediately, watching the orange kitten limp over to him. It was no pedigree, that was for sure; its stripy fur was an amalgamation of patterns and splotches. Typical of a cat plucked off the street. Not like those well-kept kittens on shop displays, their fur sleek and shiny. Ragdolls were all the rage lately. Not whatever this was—more the type of pet a commoner would keep.
It froze at his feet, its beady green eyes wide as can be. So full of rambunctious curiosity. He allowed it to sniff him just once before scooting his chair away, causing it to spring back at the sudden movement.
“So,” he crossed his arms, “this is what you’ve snuck into my house. Without my permission.”
“I can explain.” She gingerly wet her lips.
“I understand that you’ve been living under my roof for a while, so you’ve gotten comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable. Past a certain point, you’re overstepping boundaries,” he explained, slowly and with plenty of patience, as if breaking this down for a child to understand. “Has it occurred to you to ask first if you could bring home a new pet? What if I was allergic to cats?” She tried to speak, but he wasn’t done yet. “Sit down,” he ordered, and she did in a heartbeat. “What if it had rabies or it tore up my furniture? Need I remind you of your debt?”
Roughly how much would it cost to replace her bedroom door, with all its intricate carvings?
“I wanted to call you during work, but you told me not to call unless it was an emergency.” That he had. “You’re misunderstanding—I don’t intend to keep her. I just wanted to take her to the vet, but I had to wait for you to come home to ask. Since you’re in charge of how my paycheck’s spent.”
That last part sounded a bit backhanded to him.
The kitten, meanwhile, was limping laps around the dining area, sniffing everything. He kept a close eye on it to ensure it wasn’t gnawing on anything.
“Why do you want to take it to the vet?” he inquired.
“She’s hurt,” she told him. “She’s limping and I thought maybe she broke her leg.”
“Vet bills aren’t cheap,” he pointed out. “Are you willing to shell out a few weeks’ worth of your salary for some stray who’ll probably get hurt again? Anything can happen out in the wild.”
“I’m fine with that,” she insisted, straightening up. “I can work extra hours too. I can do whatever you want. You can pay me less—”
He shook his head, cutting her off mid-tangent. “What if another stray comes along? You can’t possibly save them all.”
That threw her for a loop. She glanced down at her lap, rather crestfallen, like he’d shattered her hopes and dreams. That big heart of hers was a rarity. A big heart could also cause someone to make irrational decisions, and in this case, she was willing to drag herself deeper into debt. All for something that could never repay her for her kindness. She wouldn’t think twice about giving someone the clothes off her back if she felt so compelled to believe they needed it.
“I could try to make a difference,” Phoebe murmured, just as the kitten stopped at her feet. Leaning, she scooped it into her arms. For a moment it squirmed, trying to break free, until it decided her lap was a comfy spot to curl up. It was so tiny, and tiny things could be cute to some people, he supposed. People were so easily manipulated by cute things.
“What’s the point in doing that?” It was a genuine question. He considered her.
“There is no point. It’s more for myself,” she confessed, scratching behind the kitten’s ears. It purred like an engine, trilling and butting her hand with its head when she stopped. “I guess it would make me happy.”
It would make her happy. She wasn’t happy.
“Being in debt makes you happy?” he questioned her, brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of this.
“When was the last time you helped someone? Or something?” she challenged him. “When was the last time you did anything for anyone other than yourself?”
That was also a bit backhanded.
“I did a great service to this country not long ago, as you know,” he explained. “With the Games. Every year, I help plan them.”
“The Games help people.” Those words came out like a statement, not a question, yet she seemed so unsure.
“It helps maintain the order. The peace. It’s a delicate balance.” Orchestrating the Games every year was a thankless job, but someone had to do it. There was no one more fit for it than him—someone who had seen all sides of Panem in the flesh. The good, the bad, the ugly. And oh, this world could be ugly.
Her lips pressed into a thin line the way they did when there was something she wanted to say, but was refraining. He encouraged her with a nod and she said, “I… I wish there was a way to go about it without hurting anyone.”
Such a naïve perspective. One that could only come from someone who’d never known what the war was like and what it had cost their people. It was moments like these when he was reminded of how young she truly was, and how she didn’t have to endure what he and his friends had growing up. People her age only had history lessons and stories passed down by word of mouth.
“Violence is a natural part of life,” he said, thinking back on it all. Everything it had taken to get him to this point. “It’s innate in us all.”
“I think everyone’s capable of goodness.” Her gaze softened as she glanced at the cat on her lap who was lazing away. “People aren’t so bad. It’s what the world does to them.”
And where was she finding this wisdom? Surely it wasn’t from anything she’d lived or seen.
“What are the Hunger Games for?” he asked her plainly, and she was taken aback by this shift in their conversation.
“They’re to punish the districts,” she replied, not thinking twice about it.
“That’s what I thought it was for, at first,” he confessed, thinking back to his sessions with the late Dr. Gaul. “It’s much more than that. It’s a reminder of what we did to each other. What we have the potential to do again because of who we are.”
She was shifting in her seat, uncomfortable with where this conversation was heading. “And who are we?”
“Creatures who need the Capitol to survive.”
Her fingers stilled against the kitten’s matted fur. The thing purred away, so blissfully unaware that this moment of peace was only a temporary reprieve. For now its belly was round as can be, and it was warm. Safe. Soon it would be kicked out onto the street where it belonged.
“You could still govern with kindness. Find a way to break that cycle,” she thought out loud.
Such an idyllic way of viewing things, when the reality was, this was a selfish world where the selfish succeeded. During the war, he had been bombed and starved and abused in multiple ways, and not just by the rebels. A cabbage ripped from his hands. A Peacekeeper bruising his jaw when he mistakenly wandered too close to the president’s mansion. He thought of the time he had collapsed and lain in the street with the swan flu and no one, no one would stop to help. Racked with chills, burning with fever, limbs spiked with pain.
“And what happens if kindness is not enough?” He humored her anyway.
She glanced to the side, truly giving it some thought. “I don’t know, but it’s better than perpetuating things.” It all came full circle as she looked down at the kitten who had begun to knead at her with its tiny paws. “I want to help this little one, however I can.”
There was such conviction in her now as she cradled the kitten close, with such love towards this thing she barely knew. Perhaps this was what she needed to settle her. A companion who would stay beside her, and keep her from feeling lonely when he wasn’t around.
“I’ll give you your pay in advance,” he decided. “Lydia will accompany you to see the vet tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir.” She brightened up at that. “I am grateful for your consideration.”
“Keep it in your room. If it damages anything, the cost for repairs will be added to your debt. As will any medical bills. That is all.”
He dismissed her with a wave.
◆ ◆ ◆
On a late Sunday afternoon, Phoebe returned with Lydia in tow and an unhappy, drowsy kitten in a carrier. From a distance, it appeared to be wearing a cone.
“Well,” he said, “what’s wrong with it?” Not that he cared to know, but since he was temporarily footing the bill, it was his concern.
“The doctor did an X-ray. She had a minor fracture in her hind leg and a paw injury. She’s been given her shot and dewormer, and she’s temporarily wearing a splint,” Lydia, his assistant, informed him in Phoebe’s stead, handing him a set of papers. “She was prescribed some pain medication and flea treatment as well.” Phoebe was far too busy peeking into the carrier, checking on the kitten, to pay him any heed.
He noticed something funny on the first document. A name for a pet. Penny.
She named it.
His lips pressed into a thin line as he watched her coo at the kitten.
“You named it,” is all he said to Phoebe once Lydia left.
“They told me I had to provide a name,” she insisted, so innocently, though he wasn’t buying it. Was this some ruse to guilt him into letting her keep the cat?
“Don’t get too comfortable with keeping it here. Once it heals, it has to go,” he reminded her, and her shoulders dropped at that.
“I know.”
◆ ◆ ◆
He joined her upstairs in her bedroom later that day to check on her, since she’d been holed up in there for quite some time.
The kitten was out of its carrier now, sprawled out on the covers, lazily batting at the string Phoebe was dangling over it. All shiny and clean, because he’d also booked it an appointment at the groomers. It looked ridiculous in its cone and that splint on its leg.
He saw numerous makeshift cat toys sprawled out beside it. A ball of yarn, a stick with feathers attached to it, and even a ratty-looking plush toy. “What’s all this?” he gestured at them, then cleared off a spot beside her on the bed. He settled down, watching the kitten retreat to the headboard at his arrival.
“Just toys I made for Penny—I mean, the kitten.”
“Don’t get too attached,” he cautioned her again, then picked up the stick, twirling it in his hand. She could be so resourceful. A moment later, “I see you’ve come home with a hefty bill. You still haven’t bought it any supplies.”
“Can Lydia bring some later?” she requested.
He nodded. “Write a list and I’ll deduct the cost from your pay.”
◆ ◆ ◆
On Monday, he checked the camera feed.
Lo and behold, Phoebe broke another rule.
It was rather difficult focusing on her work when just upstairs, her kitten was crying and clawing at her bedroom door, demanding to be set free.
So she let it out.
It happily followed her around the penthouse as she cleaned, wanting to be involved in all her menial tasks. The kitten pounced on her broom, chewing it, and he was amused to see that at some point she’d given up trying to shoo it away. She elected to keep cleaning with a four-pound weight glued to her broom.
The kitten trilled, following Phoebe into the kitchen for her lunch break. After scarfing down its bowl of kitten food, it still wanted scraps. Its round eyes blinked pleadingly at the fish on Phoebe’s plate. So she snuck it a bite. One bite and no more.
Afterwards, with more time to kill, she played with it. Disappeared behind her bedroom door and sprang out the side once it padded in, scaring the daylights out of it. She giggled when it arched its back, and then she was in a world of trouble because it retaliated, chasing her. Well, it tried to; it was slow with that splint on its leg.
It was endearing, this side of Phoebe, so animated and almost childlike. After brushing its fur, she curled up on the bed beside it, then read it a chapter of some book, as if it understood a word she was saying. A rather long break if you’d ask him, but he had been overworking her lately. She deserved a break before he put her through the wringer again.
Her lunch breaks before were less eventful. Just her pushing food around on her plate as she stared out the window, seemingly lost in her head about something. Clearly lacking enrichment.
He considered the possibility of her slipping out again for another outing, or perhaps a rendezvous with that man he saw on the camera, who’d dropped her off after their walk. Marcellus Whimsiwick, his resources had later informed him. The younger brother of Domitia Whimsiwick, the heiress of the largest dairy business in Panem.
He knew nothing of the man—just bits and pieces from what he’d heard from that ever so loquacious Cardew sister. Julia loved to talk about her peers, to make small talk to distract from how utterly bland she was as a person. That was the impression he’d gotten, at least.
What was it that he wrote down for her on that napkin? His number? That left a bitter taste in his mouth. Surely that man had no good intentions with her. He knew all about the rakish joys young men were up to, especially in their teens. At the tender age of nineteen, most of those born with silver spoons in their mouths were yet to be burdened by responsibility. They had plenty of time to fool around, but the fun ended once their University days were over.
The thought of anyone touching—coveting—what belonged to Coriolanus was nearly enough to boil his blood.
But what did she think of him, Phoebe? If he’d inquire, would she swear up and down that the two were just friends? That Marcellus didn’t like her like that anymore? She was a terrible liar, which came in handy. It was so easy to read her. Which made her that much easier to control.
The only question was, how should he proceed?
Phoebe had been on her best behavior for a week since, so grateful was she to have her little pet. Even if it was temporarily.
One evening, after dinner, he allowed her to bring the kitten out into the living room to play. The first thing it did (after sniffing the entire place) was hobble over to him. He tensed up.
“What is that reaction? Are you scared of cats?” She laughed.
“I’m not scared of cats,” he replied calmly in his defense. “I’m just not fond of their parasitical nature.”
“Parasitical.” She blinked incredulously. “How so…?”
“You feed them, take care of them, and what do they give you in return? Nothing.” In fact, her kitten was now nibbling on his expensive leather shoe. He shooed it away before it could destroy it any further.
“That’s not true,” she insisted, her brows furrowing as if he’d offended her directly. Why is that? He tilted his head, and for a moment, compared her usefulness to that of a pet. It was somewhere in the zone. The only difference was, she was better behaved than her pet. “Pets provide you with companionship. Loyalty.”
“They’re also a commitment,” he pressed on, watching her call her kitten back to her side.
“It can be therapeutic, having a pet,” she argued. “People come and go, but your pets never leave.” She brought out a toy from behind her back—a proper cat toy that Lydia had bought. Something infused with catnip apparently, because the thing had been addicted to it at the first sniff. Now it was rolling over the toy she gave it.
Therapeutic. Coriolanus thought of how having Phoebe by his side made his sleepless nights a bit better. He liked to hear her read; he found it relaxing and it muffled the chaotic backdrop of his thoughts.
Until he made her leave.
He always did. Had never once let himself fall asleep beside her, since he talked in his sleep. Who knew what she’d hear if he gave her the opportunity? He also didn’t like the idea of being unconscious beside her. If she felt compelled to, it would be so easy for her to slit his throat, or wrap her hands around it and choke him. Not that she had a reason to, but for years now, he had this looming fear of his inevitable death. Often he dreamed of paying his weight in blood.
That was also why before he ate or drank anything she gave him lately, he made her try it first. It confused her to no end, but she never protested.
“Would it make you happy? Having a pet?” he asked her.
She nodded in a heartbeat. “I’ve always wanted to have a cat. My father never allowed it.”
“Is that so?” he hummed, truly considering her. “Maybe if you’re on your best behavior, your wish may come true someday.”
She’d never looked so excited before.
◆ ◆ ◆
“I bought you a little something,” Coriolanus announced one night when she was sitting by his feet on the velvet cushion in his study.
She perked up at the mention of a gift, so pretty, barefoot in her pink sundress.
He plucked the pink gift bag, which had been resting in his study for a few days, off his desk. “What is it?” she inquired, brightening. She’d been nosy, eyeing it every time she came by to deliver him his tea. Leaning over, trying to take a peek at it. Probably to see which lucky lady’s name was on the gift tag.
“Open it and find out.”
She sighed, almost as if in relief. He didn’t have to tell her twice—she plucked out the colorful tissue hiding her gift, then eagerly reached in to pull out her surprise.
“What’s this?” She blinked slowly, trying to process what the leather thing was in her hand.
“It’s a collar,” he told her patiently, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
“You’re going to let me keep Penny?” Her expression was full of hope, then confusion because… the collar was far too big for a kitten. Far too big and encrusted in pink jewels. “It’s a bit big for her, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t say I was going to let you keep her.”
Her shoulders dropped. “Then… what is this for?”
Phoebe was many things, but not particularly bright. Luckily, he didn’t need her to be bright. Just loyal. And what better symbolization was there for her loyalty than this? “Read the tag,” he instructed her. “Tell me what it says.”
Phoebe flipped over the gold heart tag and read it, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Property of… Coriolanus Snow.” She dropped it back into the bag, looking sick to her stomach. “Is this a joke?” Her vision blurred as she blinked back the emotions threatening to burst out.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, tipping her chin up to command her attention. “I thought pink was your favorite color.”
She shook her head, her fingers gripping the sides of her cushion so tight.
“You might change your mind once you try it on. Shall we find a mirror?”
She shook her head again, so red. And disappointed, too. It was a thoughtful gift worth weeks of her paycheck. Were the jewels over the top? Would she have preferred something simpler?
Women were such mysterious creatures.
He stood, yet she remained glued to her pillow, shaking as she stared at the gift bag on her lap. “Follow me,” he ordered, and surely she’d heard. Yet she did nothing. So he sighed, and with plenty of patience mustered, dragged her to her feet.
He guided her to the mirror of his bedroom dresser down the hall.
She refused to look at the mirror as he pushed her hair over her shoulder, then flinched at the cool leather sliding around her neck. After sliding the strap through the buckle and tightening the notch, he tipped her chin up, commanding her to look. “Look at how pretty it is,” he crooned, and her teary gaze locked with his. There was so much there. So much hatred towards him in this moment. Hatred and sheer humiliation. “Pink suits you well,” he thought aloud, but she didn’t agree.
Instead, in a voice so low he barely caught it, she murmured, “Why did you buy me this? What am I to you?”
What indeed? “You are mine,” he told her. “You belong to me and this is proof of that.” He messed with her hair, fixing it just right, the way he did those quiet nights before he indulged in her company. She stiffened at the unspoken expectation of what was to occur next. “Clearly, it seems you’ve forgotten.” He leaned down close enough for his lips to barely graze her ear, and she shivered. “Do you think I didn’t know what you were up to that day? With that boy?”
A tear of humiliation rolled down her flushed cheek. “We went for a walk,” she insisted, throat tightening. “That’s all. He’s an old school friend.” Fussing with the strap of her collar, she attempted to remove it, but he wouldn’t have that. He grabbed both of her hands and pinned them behind her back.
“A walk,” he repeated, then looked off to the side, chuckling. There was no humor in his tone, no amusement there. “Tell me, if there were no cameras in my house, would you have invited him in for a drink or two?” When she didn’t say anything, he gave her a shake, forcing the words out of her throat:
“Maybe—” she broke, perhaps figuring if she lied, he’d see right through her. “Just to thank him for helping me save Penny.”
“You naïve little girl,” he taunted, none of his usual politeness in his tone. “Do you know what it means when you invite a boy who likes you home?” She blinked, incredulous, not used to this side of him that was so blunt. Try as she might, the words wouldn’t come. “You’re inviting him home to fuck you.”
She tried to wiggle free from his grip, but that was a near-impossible challenge when the weight of his body pinned her against the dresser, trapping her right where he wanted her. He was not a tall man, not by any reasonable measure, yet he always felt so imposing near her.
“Since you’re so confused, allow me to make one thing clear for you.” It took a moment for her struggling to seize as she huffed, seemingly distressed. “You belong to me. You are not to speak with any man unless I am present. And you certainly won’t take his number.”
She was breathing fast, the pulse in her wrists nothing short of frantic.
“Why does it matter to you?” she hissed out, tears falling, her eyes imploring him to make it make sense. “Do I not get to have a life? How is it fair that I can’t talk to anyone, but you can—” she struggled with the words there, “—fuck whoever you want?”
Again with Julia Cardew. They had been on a few dates, but in all honesty, he was bored with the girl and how vapid she was, and how childish she behaved, unlike her elder sister. Perhaps in a few years, she’d shape up well. But he was still deciding whether he wanted to put the effort into shaping her himself.
“Who keeps a roof over your head, Phoebe?” he challenged, releasing her hands to grab a fistful of her damp waves. “Who makes sure you’re taken care of? I would think twice about biting the hand that feeds. Do not take my lenience for granted.” He gave her hair a yank and she hissed at the ache in her tender scalp. The sweetness of her strawberry-scented shampoo was near intoxicating, but he had to remain focused. She’d spent a whole hour showering, shaving and moisturizing every inch of herself before coming to see him.
She looked so pretty like this, even in tears—even more so when it looked like she wanted to tear him apart. He sensed the unpredictability of a flame in her and despite how much he despised unpredictability, he relished that. Took pleasure in snuffing out that flame, over and over, until there was nothing but an ember. But those had a way of catching.
“Do you want to keep that cat?” he asked her. Despite how livid she was, she nodded. “Good. It is a reward, not a right. So if you want to keep it, be good for me. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you do that much?”
She was thinking hard about it now. Should she swallow her pride? It was like pulling teeth for her to nod, but she managed that much.
“Good.” He relinquished his grip on her hair, but kept her pinned against the dresser despite her trying to break free again. His fingers found her neck and she tensed as they danced along her smooth skin, along the edge of her pink collar, then down to that heart-shaped tag.
Property of Coriolanus Snow.
“Who do you belong to, doll?” his lips brushed the shell of her ear as he held her gaze through the mirror. “Say it.”
When she hesitated, he waited patiently for her to manage to say those words that must’ve felt like shards of glass shoved down her throat. “You,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I belong to you, Mr. Snow.”
He rewarded her with a chaste kiss to her throat, right above where the collar wrapped snug around her was. Unmistakable proof of his claim. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Good girl.” His hands slid down her sides as he appreciated the vision before him in the mirror, in the warm glow of the candlelight. She’d filled out nicely over these past few months; he enjoyed tracing the newfound curve of her body.
“Now,” he said, gathering the hem of her pink sundress, “I want you to take this off for me.” He released her and once she turned to remove her dress, he halted her. “No. Look into the mirror while you do it.”
Phoebe shakily turned, watching herself die a little inside as she lifted her dress over her head, probably thinking what a fool she looked, standing there naked with a fucking collar on. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her dress, nor any panties, because it was another thing in the way. Unless he had her wear a special set, she wore nothing underneath her dresses upon his request.
“You’re angry with me,” he observed gently, watching her tense up at his hands finding her slim waist. “That is alright. You can be angry. But you will still give me what is mine.” He guided her backward, letting her knees touch the edge of the mattress, on which the sheets were covered with a velvety red duvet. “Lie back for me.”
She obeyed, albeit reluctantly, crossing her legs and wrapping her arms around her chest as if that would make her more decent, although he’d already memorized every inch of her body. Every detail. Every mole. She had one on her chest and one between her legs.
Meanwhile, he was fully clothed.
He slid over her on the mattress and she crawled back, touching the headboard, glaring at him as if he couldn’t see her face in the dark. To that, he reacted by wrapping his hand around her ankle, dragging her back under him. A startled squeak escaped her.
Coriolanus settled between her silky thighs and inhaled the sweet scent emanating from her. He didn’t kiss her; it was far too intimate, he found, though he enjoyed sitting her in front of the mirror at the edge of his bed so she could watch him play with her. A different kind of intimacy.
She watched through the mirror as he slid his finger inside the warmth of her mouth—one then another, her brows furrowing as she tried not to gag. She’d come far from before, when she’d gagged at anything being in her mouth. He had her spit on his hand, then he guided it down between her legs.
Coriolanus was normally not a generous lover, caring only for his own pleasure, but with her it was different. Pleasure was a weapon, he discovered. It was control, which he wielded against her. Part of him derived some twisted satisfaction from working her up to that edge until she was begging for release, only for him to leave her high and dry. Sometimes, he rewarded her. Sometimes he left her like that, when she’d either displeased him or he felt she hadn’t earned a reward.
She clamped her thighs shut, so worried about what he’d do to her tonight after that attitude she gave him. He would be anything but merciful. “Open up,” he ordered, giving her a stern look, which had her folding because he always got his way. Even if it meant prying her legs apart.
She whimpered at his fingers brushing between her legs, teasing languidly. Despite everything, she was still wet; he couldn’t help the satisfied smirk on his face. “Even when you’re angry with me, your body knows who it belongs to,” he murmured, his breath hot against her shivering skin. He expected nothing less of her; he’d trained her well. Some nights, she was as dry as a bone whenever he touched her, too wound up to relax, and so he had her eat those special chocolates that always made her so willing and pliant. So wet.
Now, she didn’t need them, already eating out of the palm of his hand; little did she know. Still, whenever she requested those chocolates, he provided them.
His fingers glided through her silken folds, working her open as she tensed, lying there, yes, but looking away, as if not wanting to give him the satisfaction of her pleasure. Each time she looked away, he forced her to look back at the mirror, to confront her pathetic reflection. Look at what you’ve become.
“Why do you shy away?” he teased, his fingers pressing inside her. She bit her lip, stifling a gasp as her fingers gripped the sheets. “Do you not like what you see?”
“I don’t like this thing.” Phoebe grasped at her collar, trying to rip it off again. “I’m not a fucking dog.”
“What would you have preferred? A diamond necklace?” He slapped her hand away, watching her grind her teeth. “Do not be greedy. I had this custom made just for you.” He chose to ignore her ungrateful comment, instead enjoying the moment. “Look how prettily you open up for me,” he crooned, spreading her open, relishing the mortified sound she gave. The gold heart tag swayed with her shallow breaths, so rapid, she could’ve been panicking.
You’re mine, he thought. If you find that hard to swallow, I can loosen up your collar.
He curled his fingers, stroking that special spot inside her that never failed to make her weak in her knees. “Oh!” She gripped his hand tight, so tight he could’ve sworn she was trying to crush it.
“That’s it,” he crooned, “be a good girl for me and take what I give you.”
The tears started again, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from whatever was running around in her head or the pleasure he was making her feel. This time she wasn’t babbling and begging him to let her cum like she usually did, instead bucking her hips to chase his touch.
“If you want to cum, you’re going to have to ask for it, doll,” he reminded her, relishing the whine she gave when his hand pulled away. Always, she had to work for it.
But she didn’t ask. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pulling herself together. Out of all the things she could’ve blurted out, it was—“Are you going to fuck me already?”
Such bold words.
“Not with that attitude,” he replied in a clipped tone, his eyes darkening.
◆ ◆ ◆
How long had it been now?
Long enough for his hand to be cramped. It had been an hour of him teasing her, only to pull back before she could cum. She’d sobbed, yet never told him those few words, so stubborn about it, as if trying to prove some point.
All that squirming had gotten her tied to the headboard.
“No more,” she pleaded, half-breathless and hardly aware of herself. A sweaty mess on his sheets, her energy depleted from tugging futilely at her restraints. This time, he used rough ropes on her wrists. She didn’t deserve the softness of silk with that attitude.
“If you want it to end, all you have to do is ask me to let you cum,” he explained. “It’s that simple, doll.” In the dark, he made out the fiery glare on her face, then the conflict within her dampening it ever so slightly.
“Please,” she murmured so quietly, he’d hardly heard it.
“What’s that?” he taunted her, pulling his hand away again. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Please…” Again, those words were like glass shoved down her throat. “Please let me cum, sir.” Did she want to cum or did she just want it to end? For a moment, he thought it would be nice to hear his name on her lips, to hear her singing it sweetly in pleasure, but a girl as lowly as her was beneath that privilege.
To that, he offered a satisfied smile, rewarding her immediately. She’d fought hard but inevitably it wasn’t enough. He lowered his head between her legs, licking slow, torturous stripes along her cunt, his fingers curling against her sweet spot until finally she came.
But it was different this time.
A surge of release, one that could only come from being pent up and teased for so long.
So she could squirt.
She arched her back off the sheets, crying out, half mortified, half confused at what her body was doing. “It’s alright,” he soothed her, rubbing her clit as he worked her through it, “just let it happen. Let yourself feel it.”
He licked every last drop, his tongue unrelenting, overstimulating her until it hurt. “I came!” She cried out, bucking her hips in protest, getting nowhere with that. “I came—”
“I know. I felt it.” He came up for air, half-lidded, his cock heavy and hard with desire, and the urge to take what was his. Meanwhile, she was wide-eyed and mortified at what she’d just done. “Have you ever squirted before, doll?” he asked, and she offered a lethargic shake of her head. “How did it feel?”
“Overwhelming,” she confessed.
Coriolanus gave her a moment to recover before moving on, shedding the layers of fabric off his body until he was undressed just the same.
“I want to be untied,” she demanded, tugging at her restraints again. He could already see the red rings forming around her wrists from all that resistance.
“After we’re done, I’ll untie you,” he told her, and he decided then that it would be another one of those long, long nights.
◆ ◆ ◆
“I’m tired,” she sobbed, “Please, let me take a break.”
He had her pressed against the dresser now as he fucked into her at an unforgiving pace. It banged against the wall as she gripped it for dear life, her face lowered against its cool surface. What a mess she was, drooling on it, hardly capable of speech. Rightfully so. It had been two hours now with some breaks in between, but he had more stamina than her.
“Keep your head up for me, doll,” he commanded, grabbing the band of her collar and pulling at it, forcing her to ease up just to breathe once it constricted her throat. He liked that—being in charge of everything down to the air she breathed.
Phoebe clawed at her neck, coughing until he relinquished her, and she was left to stare at what a pitiful mess she’d become.
Coriolanus came in her twice already, her thighs sticky with his seed. He liked that—liked seeing her get all dolled up for him just so he could ruin her like this. He’d took her on his bed, of course, folding her over and pressing her into the mattress while she squirmed against her restraints. So ticklish, so sensitive to every slight touch; being unable to move was torturous for her.
Be gentler, she’d pleaded with him, but it was never about her when her job, as far as he was concerned, was to please him. So far she’d fallen short of his expectations and had rejected his gift. Surely if he weren’t forcing her to wear that collar, it’d be tossed to some far corner of the room in spite. She didn’t even know that collar was worth as much as her debt. It was, in every way, a symbolization of his ownership.
He took her from behind too, face down, ass up.
And now against his dresser.
She came twice so far, which was more than fair. It was more than she deserved. “It’s too much,” she managed between gasps as he grabbed a fistful of her hair, tilting her head back to expose the column of her neck. He sank his teeth into her shoulder, biting down hard, leaving another mark of his claim. Hissing, she bore with the pain.
“One more round,” he told her, “one more round and it’ll be over.”
He used her for all she was worth.
◆ ◆ ◆
Normally they didn’t bathe together.
Normally he left her on his bed, cold and shaking, to clean up after herself.
But today, he’d pushed her hard. Some harshness ought to be balanced with softness. He had to handle her with care. After it was all said and done, he undid her restraints. Removed her collar. Swept her into his arms and carried her off to his bathroom.
Phoebe stood there in all her nakedness, absolutely drained as he messed with the faucets of the bathtub until the temperature was just right and the tub was filled. After mixing the oils and soaps in, he lowered her into the warm water with him.
She hissed when it stung her open wounds—the rings around her wrists and that bite mark on her shoulder. Coriolanus noticed how she hugged the other side of the tub and drew her knees to her chest like she wanted to be anywhere but with him, but he forgave her for that. Although he wouldn’t allow her any space. He pulled her back against his chest, and she stiffened.
“I was hard on you tonight,” he began, cradling her head against his chest, “but it won’t happen again since you’ve learned your lesson.”
“What lesson?” she replied, her voice hollow as her fingers tapped the bathtub sill. When she looked up at him, it was as if she were thinking, I don’t believe you. I don’t understand.
“You’re a smart girl,” he said for her sake, petting her wet waves. “Do not play dumb with me. You know what it is. You know what pleases me and what doesn’t.” She scooped a handful of bubbles off the surface of the water and played with them, ignoring him, but he knew she’d heard.
Usually when he took her, the room was dark, which meant he couldn’t see quite well the extent of the bruises and scratches he left on her. Now, under the fluorescent light, he saw it all, like colorful paint across the canvas of her skin. All that she’d endured, working hard to please him. He ran his fingers along each and every one of them, admiring his handiwork. Blues, purples, and reds.
“I want you to tell me what you’ve learned today.”
“You are a jealous man,” she decided, so tired that she’d perhaps forgotten to slip back on her mask. “You want to have your cake and eat it.”
“It seems you’ve misunderstood my intent. I’m not jealous.” He took her hand in his and traced over the red ring on her wrist. She flinched at that, at the rawness of anything touching her fresh wound. “I’m merely following the contract you signed. Have you read it at all?”
Of course she didn’t. He was there, watching her skim over the pages of microscopic text for all of one minute before jumping to the dotted line to sign. To hell with those clauses—all she needed was a job. He gave her just that and saved her from a life that was destitute.
“I highly suggest you look it over again. It might clarify your confusion,” he added. “You’ll find that what I ask of you is perfectly reasonable. It is what you agreed to, after all.”
A loud, raspy meow broke through the silence. It came from Phoebe’s bedroom down the hall. She perked up like a concerned mother.
“Penny,” she stirred in the water, trying to leave already.
“Stay.” His arm tightened around her, anchoring her in place. “She’ll survive a few minutes without you.”
“It’s been hours,” she stressed. “She’ll tear up the place.”
Was her bedroom already in shambles? He’d witnessed firsthand how destructive her little pet could be when it tore its chew toy’s limbs off one by one. In the span of a day, at that.
There was a sort of intimacy to how they scrubbed each other’s backs. Not that she’d scrubbed his of her own accord—he had to ask. Afterwards, after they dried off, he took his sweet time rubbing lotion all over her, and blow-drying her hair so she didn’t catch her death. It was more than he’d normally do for her, but some gentleness was necessary to smooth things over. He even carried her to her room down the hall and set her down on her bed. Then he picked out a nightdress for her to wear and helped her put it on.
The cat, in the meantime, was hiding under the bed, too terrified to come out after it had heard the blow dryer. He braided Phoebe’s hair in a simple pattern he’d picked up from doing Tigris’ braids growing up. She couldn’t help but wonder drowsily, as he tucked her into bed, “Why are you doing all of this?”
“I take care of what is mine,” he answered, brushing her hair back.
He spoiled her too much for her own good, truly. The nightlight on her nightstand doubled as a projector of some sort, and so when she looked up at the ceiling, she was staring at the night sky.
“Do you know what I do when I have trouble falling asleep?” she said, blinking rapidly to fight the heaviness in her eyelids. “I count the stars. I always fall asleep before I can count them all.”
“Shall I count them with you?” He humored her. What a waste of his time, counting stars. It was so hard to see the stars outside with all that smog, so this projector was the closest thing he could get to stargazing in the Capitol.
Despite her insistence that he go to bed (in translation, leave her be), he’d ended up beside her under the covers.
One. Two. Three…
She wedged the biggest plushie on her bed between them.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve…
Penny crept up onto the bed and curled up at the edge of it.
Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six…
He counted the stars until sleep took him too, before he knew it.
Tag List: @likklemy @coryoslut
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A/N: Holy $hit 😇! I need to go bathe in holy water. I didn't expect this chapter to turn out so kinky asdfghj. When I listen to inspo music, it possesses me
can you pls pls pls write for dee but like maybe an out off prison Au where hes your drug dealer and your his customer he kinda fancies you idk im so bad at requests 😭
Thank you so so much for the request. Sorry it took me so long — it was hard to write for Dee initially but the AU gave me a better way into his character. Please, mind the tags but I hope it matches your expectations in terms of characterization/depth I attempted here 🙏 Contains how they met + snippets of them growing closer and bonding...
(Dividers are done by me, but if anyone wants to use them when writing for Dee, it'd be an honor to see them get mileage lol)
❝Nobody's Son, Nobody's Daughter...❞
↪ read on ao3
Tags: m/f ∘ drug dealer! Dee x reader, so weed smoking ∘ + as a bonding experience ∘ no use of Y/N, Dee calls reader "angel" ∘ a not-so-healthy/undefined relationship ∘ initially inexperienced reader — slight corruption kink ∘ toxic masculinity ∘ canon-compliant anger issues ∘ canon characters and some additions — Taylor is here too and he has anxiety ∘ gang dynamics ∘ territorial Dee ∘ Dee is bad at feelings ∘ both reader and Dee aren't well-adjusted individuals, but are trying ∘ angst sandwiched between fluff and finally, intimacy ∘ sprinkled silliness — reader reads tarot for Dee, they share milkshakes ∘ no full-on smut (making out, body worship, dry humping, some nipple play and size kink)
TWs (DDDNE): panic attacks (one caused by Dee but he fixes it) ∘ past DV (Dee's father, uxoricide — described family member/character death due to DV) ∘ past abusive relationship (for reader — short references, not detailed), but it all has consequences aka trauma discussed ∘ one (1) dog fight mention
Word count: ~8.8k
🎧ྀི Full Wasteman/Dee playlist if anyone's interested
a/n: I worked with the trope but obviously took directions that made sense for the characters. The angst/trauma parts aren't a walk in the park, as the movie wasn't either. Although it's an out-of-prison AU, this is still the same character — just not as rigid in his means of survival, because obviously he has more options available to him. I tried scenes where he's far more emotionally intelligent from the get go but it just didn't feel natural to the character without proper development. And I didn't want to have a Mary Sue character who just ‘fixes him’ — I'd be doing a disservice to the source material themes. That and also as far as I can tell, this is the first Dee x reader fic on here, so... yeah, the pressure was on.
TLDR: I didn't set out to glorify any parts of Dee's character or the backstory I headcanon, so no shock value here. Just two characters in real-life bad circumstances who try to find peace in each other.
Dee was sitting on the shabby couch in the living room, his legs spread wide, owning the space around him like he usual does—blue eyes glued to the large equally cold glow of the plasma as small wobbly figures awkwardly alternate between shimmying and rapid zooming on the screen. The soft, torn polyester probably had his ass imprinted on it by that point—what with him and his ‘associates’ turning his grandmother’s old terraced house into a proper down-low den.
He is practically slamming onto the buttons of his Nintendo controller now… with purpose, mind you—he has a plan, he will always pattern it, before anything has the chance to bite him back.
Yes, even a stupid game.
But with this amount of rigorous dedication—it is a miracle the joystick hasn’t come off—especially because then Dee might be tempted to force feed it to T.
The single source of all his frustration—Taylor, who seems to have the reflects of a wet wipe. According to Dee, that might even be a generous assessment, especially when he is stoned.
“Yo, dickhead—you have to chop the fucking lettuce before I can put it in the salad!”, Dee doesn’t look at T, laser-focused on getting his alligator chef to run to the serving station. Somehow that is even more terrifying than him actually putting down the game to have a go at the other man.
Taylor filches instinctively, muttering a half-cognizant apology, trying desperately to keep up—like his life depends on it. Dee has this way of flipping everything on its head. If it is his problem, you can bet your nan’s birthday money that he will make it everyone else’s too.
“Who in their right fucking mind suggested we play ‘Overcooked’? When this clown can’t even tie his own shoes in this sorry state?!”, he is close to throwing that controller across the room as he slaps the back of Taylor’s neck. It’s not like the wall doesn’t bear evidence of his repeated appliance misuse.
Instead, the level does that for him—the chiming ‘We are Toast!’ screen appearing in his face. Dee runs a hand through his face, yawning—suddenly bored when the adrenaline lowers enough. He is reactive like that without even realizing why—correction, before he can even realize why. “Introspection” was for pussies who deserve to get kicked in—what is important is what’s in front of you—surviving another day.
Paul—the oldest man in the crew, gives an exacerbated look from where he is lounging at his usual deckchair. Why is that thing currently propped inside so he could read his newspaper? It's an old man thing—Dee stopped questioning it a long time ago. Especially now, when Paul had to lay low because he was reckless enough to get himself almost locked up. His seat was placed higher than the sunken lounge of the couch area—a testament to his place in the hierarchy. Some days ago, Dee had watched a ‘Planet Earth’ episode about alpha baboons sitting on elevated spots… the parallel sure get a laugh out of him in this baked state.
The older man's usual slow-paced cadence is even more dragged out, relaying just how tired he's gotten by the other two’s antics: “Settle down, will you? Bloody toddlers…”
Dee scoffs, already reaching for the bong again—another hit never hurt anyone… maybe? At least it never hurt him, not like people can. What little light enters the room through the taped cardboard boxes and newspaper clippings on the windows still manages to hurt his eyes—courtesy of dilated capillaries. And then his phone dings—not even the burner one, but the proper smartphone. He hasn’t heard that sound in ages, not unless it is noise from some Instagram page.
He lowers the brightness and makes out the message—you, well the nickname he had fashioned for you after that night.
Hey, haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope you are doing okay, Dee…
I was wondering if we could hang out again soon? If you wanted to, of course.
His neck strains as he sends his head flying backwards. He doesn’t deserve good things. You definitely don’t need to be going down that road with him. Sure, he had been your trip sitter so many times, and sure he loved every second of how your face would somehow grow even softer as you let the weed relax you. But a girl like you… shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t want him.
Had he been anyone else from this crew, save for Taylor—you'd probably been taken advantage of when you first met... and any time after. Hell, he knew even Paul had girls hooked on his shit, so he'd get the occasional fuck. “Strawberries”, they call them… And Dee is no saint either… but when he saw you that night—the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He just wanted to see what you were about, how you moved… to rub his eyes to a reality where something good still existed in this fucked up world.
Maybe it had been the Sabutex talking…
You know, angel, people don’t usually ask their dealer about their day before demanding smack.
Great deflection, he feels almost proud if it’s not for the pang in his chest at the forced distance he put between you.
His thumb joints tremble across the phone screen as he adds:
Appreciate it, still.
“You linking that girl again?”, Gaz, second in command, asks from the cushion next to Paul—voice far too peppy for Dee's liking. The man is making fun of him for growing soft—anything 'genuine' around these blokes reads like that. And the confirmation comes swiftly: “Look who's got man smiling at his phone!”, he laughs hoarsely, a guttural sound from his blackened lungs and nudges Paul like the lap dog he is.
“Whatever—just don't go moving my stock for free, yeah?”, Paul warns, putting his newspaper back up. Nonchalance embodied even if he can bite any second.
‘His’ stock… Dee hated being dependent on that snake. But the old man is clever—he didn't let any of the ‘low-level’ dealers get close to his supplier, or even meet him. If there is one thing big ego pricks like Paul hate is for someone to go over their heads. Paul eats first while shit… always flows downwards. But Dee has plans—a bigger player on the horizon. One he'd linked up with thanks to his work at a local garage. Patience is the name of the game now—even if he hates waiting. He has the ‘entrepreneurial’ mind to move stock better than Paul—has better ideas about it than that dinosaur could ever scramble together with his eggs of a brain.
“She's not my girl—”, Dee bites back, far too defensive, temperature slowly rising to a boiling point.
“No one said she was…”, Taylor corrects meekly.
That warning makes Dee’s jaw tense. He doesn't need the nervous wreck looking out for him. “And last I checked, bruv, no one was chatting to you!”, he gets off the couch abruptly.
As he passes the two older men on his way upstairs, however, Gaz can't help but rub salt in the wound—still sitting leisurely as ever, but extending a hand to stop Dee: “No? Say it with your chest then, big man… Maybe if she is free use, us old dogs can get some?”, he gestures between himself and Paul, getting up in Dee’s face. God help him—Dee tries to not cause a scene. He has to make this new connection work and for that… he needs to not have such a short fuse, to not call attention to himself like this. And over some... supposedly random girl?
But then the slimy fuck continues: “She looked mad with her pretty little dress. Bet she'd cry real sweet when I—”
That does it—Dee sees red and swings. And it's none of them pillow hands—he lands heavy, putting his whole body into it without letting the man finish that sentence. The fat on Gaz's face isn't enough to cushion the blow, not when Dee is already looking to land a second, a third—his knuckles throbbing, already bloody. He can't hear anything around him at that point—not Paul shouting for his other attack dogs, not them coming hauling down and certainly not Taylor muttering self-soothing stims, curled on the couch, knees pressed against his face. Dee would get like this when he perceives a challenge, a threat—no way out of the gutter except for punching his way out.
Gaz has already stumbled backwards into his cheap folding chair—its limbs creaking under the sudden weight. Unlike Dee… who feels renewed. But then, two pairs of hands grab at each shoulder and drag him backwards. And just like that, he is swiftly put in time out…
Laying at his old childhood bedroom, Dee stares at his phone, catching a glimpse of the slashes across his knuckles. He is suddenly reminded of how he'd lay here—his mother having bandaged him tenderly after a fight at school... or at home—protecting her. She'd hum to him… the only sound that would get his heart to beat calmer, that would make his thoughts quieten. Even with a split lip—courtesy of Dee's father—her voice would never tremble. She had that quiet strength about her—that's not enough in this world. He shakes his head like the memory can slip loose with it…
You haven't responded yet… Did he scare you off by suggesting you'd text him just for exchanging favors? Nah, you are a smart girl… you had patience, even for low lives like him. A bleeding heart. Like his mother had been…
‘Angel’—damn it, damn you with that red sparking soft dress when you had entered their 'place of business' among the neon glow of that posh house party. Rich kids had vices—and they could indulge gluttonously. Dee enjoyed working the nights in these places—milking all those trust fund, silver spooned college kids. He could up his prices without any protest on the other side. They'd just hand the cash like it was nothing—all to get another high. Need for instant gratification definitely ran deeper for spoiled brats.
And then, there you were—you didn’t even know what you were in the mood for—just being sent on a mission from your friends, hoping your inexperience would result in a discount. Dee lets out a huff now, remembering how you had a list prepared, crumpled from sweat and nerves. What a good, proper girl—he'd thought to himself. You looked overwhelmed, not just by the fact you were soliciting drugs but something about the music at that point had made you flinch at almost every beat drop.
What were you doing here? You'd almost bumped into him on the way in—looking anywhere else in an attempt to not meet anyone's eyes. Like someone would be able to sniff out that you didn't belong.
“S-sorry—”, you'd murmured. Dee wouldn't have known what you were saying hadn't he gotten scarily good at reading lips in such loud environments.
He could see that you were trying to gather yourself as you were forced to take him in. His tall, broad and covered in tattoos frame probably made him look like the big bad wolf, just itching to munch on the little red riding hood in front of him, who'd wandered into his debauched forest.
“I-I am looking for Dee?”, you had clarified.
He was definitely making you nervous… why did he enjoy that?
“Well, you've found him.”, he stretched out his arms to emphasize: “Though you look like you've stumbled into the wrong fairytale, angel…”, the pet name had left his lips before he could think better of it. It was far too fitting...
And then there was your chuckle that cut through the thrumming bass like sun rays through rain clouds. He wanted to bottle that sound and listen to it on repeat when things got dark.
In the meantime, someone was gracefully vomiting into a potted plant just behind you in the hallway, but Dee didn't hear, couldn't and wouldn't care… not when he was certain you were placing him under some spell. When you'd looked back to your mandated 'shopping list' and he lost your gaze, he wanted to gain it back immediately—bending at his knees slightly just to catch that curious twinkle as you came back up.
“Believe me… I'd much rather be getting a milkshake or something.”, you'd confessed: “Uhm, just the pie—silo—psilo—sila—”
Shrooms. Your friends had sent you for shrooms and you'd written down their scientific name all proper like it was some textbook you were getting for your courses. You shook your head, abandoning any attempt to pronounce it and just listed off the rest—looking up at him, relief in your eyes like he would finally give you candy.
Instead, he just took the paper, crumpled it and stuffed it into his pocket: “Sweetheart, no.”, his voice sliced—determination so palpable that it left no room for rebuttals. His blue eyes had fixed you with a look that was far too… careful?
Dee didn't want to believe it—as he doesn't want to accept it now while waiting for your text back. He'd denied easy money and for what? So that you wouldn't be 'corrupted' by your so-called friends? He somehow knew exactly who would send you, because he'd seen his sorry ass getting shitfaced in the garden of the large house not ten minutes ago… that crackhead Alex with too much money and too little sense.
His folks had figured out his habits—like it was hard detective work to put two and two together when his allowance would get drained faster than he could fail his exams. Alex had gone to Dee after—tail between his legs—asking to sell as a means to fund his addiction. But in all his experience, the dealer knew better. Sure he’d partake—“get high on his own supply” every now and again, but he wasn't a slave to it. He could be trusted. And that was precisely why he didn't want you doing Alex’s dirty business. Or worse yet—that waste man getting you hooked on shit.
Why did he have an issue with that? He sold drugs, for crying out loud—he had no morals to speak of. Many people went down the rabbit hole because of him. But maybe when it came to you… it wasn't something as general as suddenly growing a heart.
“B-but I have to—”, you tried to argue, voice quivering. As your eyes darted around, worried about what to tell that leech if you didn't return with his order—you'd landed on Paul's scowl... and just froze. Like a deer caught in headlights.
The old bastard wasn't exactly pleasant, but… your reaction had been something far beyond casual discomfort. Weird—he cataloged it for later.
Wait—run that back? He noted something about someone that wasn't pure business? Maybe he was indeed more stoned than usual…
“You don't have to do anything, angel.”, he was almost pissed at you, for you? No, no way—but his mouth had moved on its own: “Tell you what…”, he'd sidestepped, shielding you automatically: “I'll go speak with that mug myself. And this—”, he reached into his endless pocket—the metallic shine of his cigarette case catching in the colorful lights all around the room. With a soft clink, it opened and he produced a joint, inspecting it almost proudly. Tightly wound, the filter tip so carefully folded into a signature triangle shape—a slight squeeze of it sealed it as Dee had passed it to you: “—is on the house. For you. Not Alex's greedy ass.”
You'd picked it up, the brush of your fingers with his was far too electric. Then… you were sniffing it like a… curious rabbit.
“It smells like basement—but thanks… I think.”, you'd smiled—small and careful and Dee was sure he must have some undiagnosed heart issues.
He recovered quickly though, or he liked to remember he did: “Basement's one way to put it…”, he rolled his eyes, feigning offense as you’d fumbled with the joint he'd so carefully crafted—ground, laid out, mixed with tobacco and rolled. To him, it was a science—a ritual that'd calm him every time he would open a baggie and now… he was passing the dissolute torch to you. Yet there you were—pawing at it like a kitten with a new toy. “You know, streets call my cali top-shelf more like—”, he corrected with no bite to it, just a joke that settled like tasty smoke between the two of you: “—but sure, let's go with ‘dank crypt’.”
Yet another chuckle, although more strained as you’d tried to exit the room—putting any distance you could with Paul… for some reason. Dee should have let you walk away then… he should have—he had a whole shift to cover, more money to make. You know—the actually important things.
But he wanted to see what you were made of—looking all anxious, yet as if you'd seen enough from the world and people in it to know better. Not timid, but careful… He enjoyed taking complicated things apart, only to make sense of them and put them back together. A mechanic at heart as well as in practice—he needed to see it for himself that there were good things in life still, kind things—not because they were untouched by its ugly sides but in spite of that.
And so, he had reached for your retreating form, grabbing lightly on your shoulder out of nowhere—that rose tattoo sprouting on the back of his hand weirdly fitting right in with the red straps of your dress. Your shoulders had slumped—not in fear but relief—like you'd been holding your breath all night but for some unexplainable reason you'd finally let it out when you met his eyes again.
“About that milkshake—”, he wanted to speak more softly—discussing something as innocent seemed far more daunting to him than shouting off his various illegal on-sell options. But, forced to raise his voice over the music, he continued: “There's a 24-hour diner two blocks from here. They do mad desserts and… something tells me you could use a break from this place. Maybe have a chill trip after and all?”, he'd enticed.
You'd looked around, biting your lip in contemplation… he wanted to bring his fingers to your chin—tilt it just so, in order to never lose sight of your warmth. But this wasn't some “get down fast and dirty” situation… he'd savor this—like you were his to grind and roll. His ritual.
“You sure? I don't want to get in the way of your work.”, you'd tilted your head inquisitively as your voice cut through his brain fog. That's all the confirmation he needed that you, in fact, were itching to get in the way—to share this with someone.
“Work?”, Dee echoed with a wholehearted snort, shaking his head: “Nah, angel—these idiots'll still be here at sunrise—begging for another hit.”
Like a conveniently placed prop, proving his point, Dee kicked at a fully passed out guy with his sneakers—just to check if he was still breathing. The poor trust-fund bloke was alive, alright—bet his pride would be intact as well come morning even if he was gone down the slide now. Money could earn you all of it back.
You’d looked between Dee and the sight at your feet, nodding along. Then, something had crept up in you—an unguarded smile spreading to your eyes as you'd added more confidently: “Okay but fair warning… I get an extreme case of the munchies when I'm high.”
That sweet smile juxtaposed your words in the most maddeningly enticing way possible. You weren't all that innocent after all… the little red riding hood didn't know how to get her supply well enough but she'd indulged before… Perfect.
“Oh, angel, Jacob's waffles will have you full in no time. But if you get that desperate, we could always go back for round two…”, he winked and almost instantly regretted it.
What happened to getting to see what you were, instead of pouncing on you? It was a difficult instinct to keep in check. Again… he was no better than his associates and he wasn't trying to be. It'd more so be… an experiment—taking you apart.
That diner had become his meeting spot for all things unsavory. What with Jacob—the owner—having known Dee from as far back as when he’d barely reach the gruff man’s waist. Now, Dee towered over the old guy with good two heads or so—allowing him to move however he pleased. A dangerous thing to get used to. Jacob had seen worse… used needles and wrappers left all over the small bathroom stalls after Dee would bring some of his prettier clientele. But he would always cut Jacob a piece of the pie. So, yes—you could show up with him—high as a kite and the owner wouldn't bat an eye. No reason to gut your golden goose if it can continue shitting you golden eggs.
You hadn't addressed his double entendre directly—your own way of graciously allowing him to correct the course: “I'll see you in ten minutes then—by the statue outside the house? I'd prefer the milkshake sober…”
That's when Dee had realized that maybe it was an experiment for you too. The other side of the same coin—seeing whether people like him were all bad after all.
He is so lost in the memory now, almost reliving it—heavy limbs and eyes—just staring at the gray skyline as he lays on his side. When he was little and staying over at his grandparents… he'd imagine he could grow wings and fly over the roofs of all those identical houses. Going… nowhere—just consumed by a constant need to run and escape from life. Even his image as “top dog” now is… well, just another form of escape—‘the “good life” lets you hide all the sadness you feel’… or whatever that song is that he pretended he didn’t give a rat’s ass about.
Then there was your shared getaway—you'd never told Dee what it was about Paul that made you fold in on yourself and he never asked… he figured you telling him about your abusive shit of an ex was more than enough. That your only ever experience with weed had actually been a panic attack, caused by your ex's shouting—not some warm, hungry feeling like you'd made it out to be initially. You'd been running late, unable to cook him dinner because you had to study… he'd made you believe it was okay— even offered you to smoke together. Turns out, it had all been a ploy to get you vulnerable and more pliant… as he'd start accusing and throwing things.
“Granted, I'd get panic attacks just on the daily—it really messes with your head when someone that's supposed to love you tells you that you don’t deserve to live… Just for not being of use to them...”, you'd said as Dee pushed you on the swing.
“You are much more than that—”, he'd tried to assure. Empty words that were spoken a thousand times in human history. But he'd tried—to relay something meaningful with them.
“Issue is, you feel like that's all you can be when you are with someone like that… it's like… that it's all you ever were—useless.”, you'd interrupted, like you were afraid Dee would fill your heart with void promises. And he knew that feeling well—maybe not firsthand but… the dynamic of it.
“But now you are finding out who you can be? Ain't that exciting?”, he'd tried and you'd nodded with a carefree giggle.
He'd found it hard to speak at that moment… but once he could, he told you about Sophia—about his mother. Her name—a constant tattooed reminder on his neck. The stars had become so blurry that night but he didn’t think for a second about leaving you as he sat on the swing next to you, passing you a lit cigarette.
“Those always taste more tolerable when I'm not sober…”, you'd admitted. Not to try and wallow in pity or as a self-deprecating joke, but to just be present… to observe it all.
Dee had noticed you were far more chatty when you were high—perceptive, analytical and daring all at once. Your next question assured him of it.
“Why have it tattooed there?”, you'd just taken a long drag as if the question had been brewing in your lungs and now you had to fill them back up with something—with the smoke. Your legs dangled off the swing and for a moment he thought maybe you were flying—not off to somewhere, not away—but with him.
“My father strangled her—”, he said, his turn to fill his chest: “—it's fucked up—”, the tar burned his throat: “—but I needed to remember… that she had a chance to find out what she can be without him too… But he took it from her.”, he'd averted his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek as his voice wavered uncharacteristically: “And I wasn't there to—”
He hadn't cried… at least that's what he'd liked to remember of that night as you took his hand, squeezing it tight. That moment had felt far more intimate than any physical “escape” he'd ever had before… with girls who'd rather snort lines he'd chop in the bathroom for a quick blowjob than notice the amazing Oreo crunch Jacob would always add to the strawberry milkshakes.
You'd noticed. You'd seen so much it felt like he'd shed his skin.
“The forget-me-nots are beautiful around her name… we used to have so many of these blue little things in my grandfather's garden.”, you'd illustrated as your hand had trembled in his. Like you could reach out to the past and grab the flowers and maybe something else too.
The memory of the sun coming up, washing the two of you clean as you'd sat there in the park suddenly shrinked as Dee feels his phone vibrate against his hand on the bed. Blurry stars turn into blurry pixels as he reads…
I just want to see you… if you want it too. I prefer my milkshake sober.
He laughs out loud, a breathless sound… he'd sold you weed a couple of times after. Each of them resulted in you calling him hyperventilating and him telling you about his stupid day to calm you down. You were his favorite customer but once you'd stopped calling or texting—he'd figured you got your fix and moved on.
Maybe there's more to it after all. Maybe not everyone flies away eventually.
Your apartment is a reflection of you—soft but hiding under layers of doubt. Blankets and plushies tucked away hastily as you make him tea.
“My roommate is on an exchange thing…”, you aren't sure where you are going with that sentence. It's not like you expect to sleep with him—you'd called, texted, been in his van but he never once made a move on you… not fully.
“Ah, so I'm just a replacement because you got bored, angel?”, he teases as he takes the tea from you—warmth spreading from his palms across his body.
You chuckle, nudging him as you settle on the couch: “No! Of course not…”, you assure: “I've actually wanted to invite you over for a while now. But my ex started showing up to uni, he almost… followed me here until campus security got involved. So I guess I've been… hiding from everything.”, you shrug, buzzing with honesty like you need to untie that ball of nerves that's been matted.
“You should've said something—”, Dee puts down the tea, suddenly pained: “—I mean, angel—look at me, I can scare that coward shitless just by glaring at him.”
He doesn't say it from a place of care, he can't admit to that. More territorial than anything, expecting you to hang onto his every word. Wanting you to swoon at his show of raw power over everything and anything, to rely on him. Instead, you do something far more precarious—you see him as human—
“You don't owe me that…”, you assure, thumb tracing the warm mug where you hold it—self-soothing.
He doubles down, putting that distance back between you two: “Psh”, he releases a breath between his teeth, dismissive: “Of course not—I'm just the guy you buy from every single fucking week—knowing it'd make you feel anxious. Then you don't get a restraining order on your ex's ass, you play errand girl for the likes of Alex—the list goes on. What—you don't have a head on your shoulders?”, he raises his voice, fully facing you from where he sits.
“I didn't say that, Dee, come on. I told you—this isn't about me wanting a free hit!”, you defend, voice catching in your throat: “You came knowing it'd just be… us.”
He laughs with his full body, almost offended: “And what's ‘us’, angel? What do you think I am to you, hm, if not your dealer? Since I don't ‘owe you’ shit.”, he air quotes, mimicking your voice in a shrill.
Dee could be anywhere else now, yet in his mind—he is humiliating himself with petty things like ‘emotions’, dangerous things—all because you know how to pull at his strings. There are half a dozen girls who are one call away, waiting for the cheap thrill of it. But he is here… So maybe his “needs” were of a far different caliber ever since that first night.
“That's what I'm trying to figure out… with you. Don't you think there's more to this than feeling like a puppet on strings? After how much we've shared?”, you emphasize.
That's how you'd described being high—uninhibited but not on your own accord, like something was pulling you and the honesty out. It had aided in stripping down some walls between you two… but what is the point if, once sober, it's like nothing happened?
You don't dare ask what he sees you as—not now, after he got to the question first. But at the mere reminder of how open he'd been with you, he flinches like you'd burned him—like you are using it against him. He doesn't see the care in your voice—and even if he does, he cannot trust it. Dee had never trusted anyone else enough to share the meaning of that tattoo. To him, the way you'd held him that night should've made him nauseous. He is a man, a pillar, he isn't weak… he will show you as much.
“More to it?”, he huffs a frustrated laugh as he smirks sharply—an aligator ready to deliver its death roll: “Cuz you shared so much, yeah? The little sob story over your ex? Bet you never went where it really hurts—not like I did.”, he accuses, cruel now.
“It's not a competition of who opens up first, Dee—”, you try but that only angers him more, as you try to get through to him: “I didn't bring it up to make you feel like you owe me something… just to know it meant a lot to me.”
“Aw that's just precious—”, his tone bites, teeth-grinding, hating what bubbles inside him… he turns on the offensive again: “Who's Paul to you then, angel?”
You widen your eyes, trying to swallow down the lump that suddenly forms in your throat… so you keep silent, thoughts racing. Had he seen how you reacted that night? Of course he did —you'd tried to not let it affect you but you always wear your emotions on your sleeve.
“Ha, not so easy to ‘share’, is it? So what—you just want to squeeze it out of me—get to dangle it in my face, thinking you know me?! But when it's time for you to pay up, you play scared…”, he taunts to assert he's stronger, braver for not caring. Always on the lookout…
“Paul? I—I don't know a Paul…”, you try to play, but your voice is thinner now.
“Angel…”, his voice wavered with frustration: “—don’t play nitty with me, yeah? I saw how small you got that night when you caught just a whiff of him…”, every word was slower, building up to him glaring at you: “Here, imma spell it out real nice and slow: Who. Is. Paul. To. You?”. Every word feels like an icicle drilling into you.
You suck in air as you look away—gripping onto the cushions tight, your knuckles almost white. “Why do you think I'll tell you, when you're being like this?”, your voice is barely audible.
Dee abandons his tea then, pushing himself off the couch fast—to look at you, to corner you: “Like what?! News flash, angel—this is who I am!”, his voice raises slowly but surely, hands flailing to match his tone: “Not some sorry case you can ‘save’ if you just sit pretty and listen to my shit! Some fucking stray you can domesticate so you can feel better about yourself!”
You flinch at the sudden movement, recoiling in an attempt to become one with the couch. The look on his face is cold and detached, a furious storm dancing in his blue eyes—like his words come from the deepest pits of his soul but emotionally he is somewhere else, protecting himself too. You've seen that look before—granted, not on Dee— but like muscle memory, your immediate response is to make yourself smaller, hands over your ears, chanting apologies that no one heard before…. that were never needed.
Suddenly, his rant stops with a hiccup—like a hammer has come to nail him down back to reality—and he sees you, trembling, shrinking… because of him. And for what is probably the first time in his life, he doesn't feel good about asserting his ego above all else. For the first time —the cost of it is too great. Because you are the only person with whom life hasn't felt like it's all about survival. Even if he doesn't allow himself to think that—even if it's ‘beneath him’ to consider it. Maybe it was the weed… or a weird ass combination of you and the weed. It hurts to think about emotions, when he’s so unused to. It’s foreign, because ‘men shouldn't cry’. Anger—that is allowed, in fact, it's ‘good’, because it means you are an authority. But that belief… is what got him here—the reflection of his father staring back from the glass coffee table. In all his attempts to escape—he'd wound up exactly where he'd feared... because he knew nothing else.
And just like that, the big bad wolf, covered in ink from head to toe, crouches next to you—shedding his fur, his shield—to reveal a lamb long-lost, approaching another. It isn’t warm, it isn’t even fully realized, but he is trying—even if it is just to get through to you.
“Shit, I—”, Dee starts, fog lifting from his eyes: “—I didn't mean to get you spooked.”
He did mean it—but just never thought it'd hurt to see the results. You shake your head, trying to apologize on repeat—like a broken record. He is suddenly reminded of Taylor and how he'd get all twitchy. Not that Dee knew how to deal with that besides popping a pill and running from it.
Then two words enter his mind. Dog fights… Well, not the fighting itself, dumbass—Dee thinks to himself. But rather… he knows how to calm a pit bull after—his father had made sure of it. And in a sense… you are battling with yourself now, right? It shouldn't be so different…
He raises his hand from a distance, testing the waters—shushing you, largely speaking nonsense of ‘you are okay, it's safe’. But when someone is so scared… would the contents really matter? So long as the intent was there—selfish intent, yet fully his. You blink, like you are coming back from a particularly nasty dream—seeing his mouth move, perceiving more so his body language and… his eyes—clearer, brighter, almost hopeful and begging you to come back to him.
You don't know why… but it just feels right to slowly remove one hand from where it was cupping your ear and bring it up to his extended palm. First, the fingers, then the rest—making full contact. His hand was so much bigger than yours… and somehow that doesn't make you feel scared but… safe and warm. You swear you see Dee's breath hitch at that as he takes his other hand to unclasp yours from where it still gripped your hair on the other side—gently. You had never imagined him being capable of that, yet here he is—trying. Maybe for a selfish reason… maybe even manipulating his way into your heart, but fuck… it works.
And then you realize, it isn't just words anymore… he is singing. Not with his full chest like one would do at karaoke but— softly humming.
Oh the good life
To be free and explore the unknown
Please remember, I still want you
And in case you wonder why
Well, just wake up and kiss the good life goodbye
A song his mother would sing to him too—about the facade of an ideal life… about how waking up from it means being vulnerable.
“Y-you have a nice voice—calming…”, you admit and your sudden lucidity almost startles him.
“The only good thing my old man left me, it seems.”, he sighs.
“I'm sorry—you're right. I can't—well, it's hard for me to put myself first, you know. Talking to you, buying from you was actually an attempt at that… sounds pathetic probably.”, you chuckle self-degrading and realize just how tangled the two of you are now. Each hand was occupied with the other's.
“It's not—it wasn't fair for me to hold it against you, angel…”, he admits, far too introspective for his liking—'kissing' the ‘good life’ goodbye it seems, if only attempting to: “Hell, I am the one who sold to you—hoping you'd call all nervous, that you'd come again… I liked… seeing you like that.”
Dependent on him—he’d just admitted as much. Yet, in your head—the only thing that matters, the only thing that echoes and that you want to make sense of is—
Your brows furrow: “You… wanted me coming back?”
Not all the other fucked up implications of it—he is who he is and you are who you are. And maybe that's enough… for two lost people.
Dee nods, not able to voice the real feelings underneath it, masking them still: “I mean who’s gonna ask me all those stupid questions? ‘Hey, Dee do you think squirrels know they are cute—like, conceptually?’—who thinks of shit like this but you, angel? And then... you doing all that magic card trickery for me—that sent me in a frenzy… deadass.”, he chuckles so fondly remembering it now.
Over the facetime—you having laid the cards out and suddenly going: ‘Yikes’ when The Tower had fallen off. He had that big meeting with his then-potential supplier the next day. So, there he’d been—pacing his room, low groans of frustration leaving him with each step, hands combing through his hair messily: ‘Why's The Tower bad?! Ain't they like escaping from it and shit? Look at that bloke, he is basically out of the flames already! Angel, don't play with me—this is some serious shit I'm dealing with, yeah?’. You'd laughed with tears in your eyes then, assuring him it could be just ‘new beginnings’. Then, the Ace of Pentacles appeared and he could breathe more easily. ‘Gave me heart palpitations worse than my parley… I should let you tag along next time I'm betting, you hear?’
You are his lucky charm after all. Because he'd scored the deal… just like the cards—just like you—had told him.
“Yeah, well—”, you sniff, lighter now: “—you have to think on those existential topics from time to time… it's good for your brain!”
You flick Dee's forehead for emphasis and he is just as surprised as you are at the audacity. Then, he matches it by plopping back next to you—sinking into the couch cushions.
“You know what else’s real good for the brain?”, he drawls as he raises his hips slightly—his sweatpants leaving little to the imagination with the teasing V-line that appears—producing the very same cigarette case you’d seen when you first met him. And there, in its silvery confines, stood a perfectly rolled joint… with a bow on its narrow tip, made from the same rolling paper. “The paper smells like Skittles by the way—thought you might appreciate a little flare and all.”
“Thank you, but... I think I want to tell you about Paul before that…”, you say—putting yourself first.
He nods and leaves the cigarette case opened on the table—a silent offering. But he doesn't say another word—both because he doesn't know what he should be saying right now and because he wants you to have the space. Intuitively… that's the right move.
“Paul is… was my father.”, you say, swallowing the truth down: “He left or… was made to leave when my mom was pregnant with my sister. I'm not sure he even recognized me at the party—it's been years, but… it felt like I was back again at that awful place when I saw him.”, you take a sip from the tea, long gone cold, in an attempt to ground yourself.
Dee inches closer, wanting to feel what it's like to be so open without the high. He doesn't like it—not fully. It's like small wasp bites dancing on his skin or like low but persistent voltage settling in his stomach. Uncomfortable… not unwanted, maybe?
“But you aren't—I'm not there either.”, he tells you and himself—even if he knows he acts the way he does, because sometimes he too gets sent to his own helpless time. “You know…”, Dee says, throat dry but he continues grating through it: “… I'll be leaving Paul's ‘employment’ soon enough—he is a jackass to everyone ‘under’ him. So, let's just say, I'm even more motivated to succeed now, in my endeavors and all. Bastard deserves a proper beating.” You shake your head with a huff and Dee puts his hands up in mock defense: “Metaphorically speaking or whatever—”
He doesn't thank you for telling him about it… somehow it feels like if he does, he'd be suggesting it's really ‘leverage’. But a part of him definitely wishes he'd taken a swing at Paul too this morning, or at least made sure Gaz landed conveniently on top of him. Things happen in a fight…
Whatever life had been—it got you two here, passing a skittles-smelling twinkling stick on the small apartment terrace.
You are not sure how you'd ended up in his lap but the bean bag is snug enough for two… and his solid chest is far more comfortable than the raggedy metal chair. His hands come to encircle your waist as he taps to get rid of the residue in the ashtray.
Then, instead of passing you the joint like he'd done the past three rounds or so, he pinches the tip between his thumb and pointer finger—like he might take another hit himself. He is a greedy man but it seems his indulgence takes another, more pointed direction as he brings it to your lips directly. You turn slightly, surprised—your left peripheral vision meeting his eyes, set dead on you and your every movement.
“What? Afraid it'll suddenly bite because it's from my hands?”, Dee teases, his voice thicker from all the heavy smoke that still rests at his throat: “Guess you won't be needing that then…”
As he slowly tries to bring the joint back to his lips instead, you clasp your fingers around his wrist, trying to pull his hand back to your mouth with a small whine. He's unmoving through it—the tiniest bracing of his forearm muscles enough to catch you at a standstill. “Nah, you had your chance for a freebie—now you gotta ask real nice, angel… grease a bit, come on.”
You puff out in a pout and squirm in place—trapped between his thighs. Now that you look down you realize just how massive he is compared to you. It makes you feel… flustered, safely so. Not the kind that rushes, but the slow and steady kind. The kind that makes you stand up, turn to face him and bracket his legs with your own—effectively straddling him.
“Is this better?”, you ask, trying to sound more confident… more alluring.
He huffs in disbelief but quickly nudges his chest forward… pretending that the abrupt change in position doesn't affect him in the slightest.
“I didn't hear you asking, angel… just trying to take like this—very naughty.”, he tsks with a smirk, stretching so that the joint is even further away from your reach. The moment he leans back, you feel an unmistakable hardness pressing against your core—like you'd slotted in the perfect spot with your thighs spread like this. You try to not make a sound as you clutch your knees like it will somehow make the want spreading through you less obvious. He doesn't move to get you off of him… but he isn't pushing for anything to happen. Like he's content with playing this game—so long as it's with you. Instead, he snakes his free hand up your thigh where your shorts ride higher… you feel each callous—undoubtedly from all the lifting at the gym and it sends shivers through you. And then a yelp as he pinches at your waist… a reprimand for taking your time, for getting lost without him.
He isn't used to the patience of it—but it seems everything around him demanded he start taking things in stride. Starting with the supplier deal and ending with you, both intoxicatingly lucrative for entirely different reasons—one to give him independence, the other—his to savor, long and sweet.
“May I have the joint back, Dee…”, you look away, licking your lips—tasting the artificial rainbow: “… please?", you add with forced reluctance.
He scratches the slight stubble on his chin in mock contemplation, rolling his eyes from side to side—the capillaries already so angry and red… unlike him.
“Sure… but you gotta kiss me first.”, he says, and surprisingly points to his cheek. You want to laugh out loud at that—you never expected him to ask for something so childishly silly. Yet, it makes you melt… that he isn't pressuring you into anything further—just wants you to enjoy the feeling of him.
It feels so right… so dizzyingly right that you lean and press your lips right next to where his finger still rests. You sense the rough stubble against your plush lips and you take him in… lavender, his grandmother’s detergent—always used, he'd told you, even all those years later. Your eyelashes flutter against his face— and you can't help yourself… you move to gently bite on his finger. It's his fault that he is so frozen by your willingness after all… He hissed at that, hips stuttering below you in synchrony with his breath as he then tugs the very same hand up through your scalp—the small pull making you roll your hips unintentionally against him.
Dee drawls in that dangerous but warm tone, just for you: “Baby… I said ‘ask nicely’, not ‘bite the hand that feeds you’…”
“Something tells me you preferred the second option.”, you assure, pulling out your tongue at him as you try to bring your mouth closer to the joint that threatened to go out soon.
He relents that much and offers it up to you—holding tightly on both you and it with almost equal intensity. As you inhale deeply, your throat tingling with that rich taste like honey, Dee doesn't let you rest. He leaves your scalp only for his now free hand to travel up your sides—below his hoodie, the one he'd draped over you on the first night so you won't get cold. You held onto it, greedily and now—you are paying with interest. Because watching it swallow you whole does things to him, makes him want to feel just how much his hands could cup and cherish. It's ticklish, how his fingers dance along your ribs, so much so that your breath catches around the tip of the joint, making you choke. He tries to bite back a groan the moment he realizes you really aren't wearing a bra. It's your house after all… you are just getting comfy—lucky him…
“Easy, angel…”, he hushes as his hand cups the swell of your breast, thumb resting but not yet teasing your nipple.
“Dee—”, you whine into his touch, choking out smoke and inevitably driving him mad with all those small little trembles against him.
“What's that? Just some weed and a little touching and you're already all stupid f'me, huh?”, he teases but it's clear from how tight his jaw clenches, how slurred his words are and the slow drag he takes—that he's just as far gone as you are. His eyes never leave yours though as he holds the smoke, swallowing it down all the while pressing circles into your nipple… like he's trying to memorize the shape of you, every tremble you make. You can't help but nod feverishly, agreeing with his assessment—twisting your hands into the fabric of his tee, searching to stay present, to not fly away at how good it feels.
As he leaves the joint onto the ashtray, appearing carefree… the casualty of it all makes your heart stutter. You take that hand gently in yours, scratching your nails along his forearm purposefully as you bring his fingers to your lips. Slowly, you kiss every tip, open-mouthed, sighing as you close your eyes—like the action itself, being so close to him is the most soothing thing. And maybe right now it is… when you are both so floaty. He lets out soft curses, rolling your nipples with every kiss you leave as he cups your cheek, bringing you closer—forehead to forehead. Now, it's his turn to drive upward into you—chasing some pressure, any pressure, every inch of you against the throbbing ache.
The joke is right on the tip of his tongue— are you both in high-school or something? Humping like rabbits in heat… but it doesn't leave his mouth, not when you whimper so sweetly, breath heavy against his lips. It's desperate but waiting, savoring—just what he needs but could never bring himself to seek. And with you—he doesn't have to—you are the velvet wrapping around his ragged edges. Never able to smooth them, always poking and prodding at you, lodging in the very fibre of your being. You won't have it any other way, you realize as his face inches impossibly closer—tongue darting out to swipe across your lips, curling in tandem with a smirk—the softest question he can muster. And you let it consume you as you chase the taste of him back. He captures your lips earnestly then—hunger given flesh, not a fairytale, but a cacophony of teeth and ragged breaths. A desperate sound is caught in your throat as he pulls at your bottom lip, hand twitching around the back of your neck—unsure of whether to claim more or to push you away. Instead, both of his hands come to rest around you, low on your back—making sure you are still real as he looks past your shoulder onto the skyline.
“I love the sunset after rain…”, he ponders absent-mindedly.
“Me too—feels like it takes everything bad away.”, you smile as you rest your head on his chest.
He is big, so it is no wonder, but it still catches you by surprise—just how big his heart is as the thumps pull you inevitably closer to him. You reach your hand up and comb through his buzzcut, feeling the small hairs prickle at your fingers as he rests his head on top of yours. And when the sun fully sets and the smell of rain lingers… everything bad flies away, but somehow there's enough left of everything else for both of you to finally stay.
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I just woke up in a COLD SWEAT because I had a dream where I accidentally posted a discussion post on my college board which was basically an entire chapter of Gods & Monsters. AND IT WOULDN’T LET ME EDIT IT!! I was like no pls. They all read my smut. Even if I could’ve edited it I would’ve been cooked because the professor can see my edit history. And ma’am that story is raunchyyy.
Contents: DUB-CON, Smut (not in this part), Alternate Universe, Situationships, Toxic Relationships, Degradation, Possessive Behavior, Social Anxiety, Tutoring, Emotional Manipulation, Drama, Misogyny, Bets & Wagers, Denial of Feelings, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, Dumbification, Objectification, Humiliation, Power Imbalance, Jealousy, Miscommunication
A/N: Please mind the content warnings before reading! This chapter includes a lot of misogyny. Also, I pulled some lines from the TBOSAS book.
Coriolanus POV
She was losing her pretty little head, trying to figure out who her secret admirer was.
He was right here, watching her. Only she was too caught up in her own world to notice, wasn’t she? Ever since she found those flowers and notes in her locker, she regarded her peers with a sort of exasperation, as if trying to pin down the culprit cluttering it.
Not the reaction he’d expected.
She should’ve been over the moon to discover there was someone so enamored with her, enough to leave her thoughtful gifts.
Then it occurred to him how much she disliked surprises and what she couldn’t wrap her head around. How typical of her to give it ten minutes of her effort before deeming the mystery unsolvable, the same way she abandoned her mathematics when he wasn’t leaning over her shoulder, guiding her along. Whatever would she do without him?
It left a bitter taste in his mouth, her sharing his chocolates with her friends. Doling them out like mints, like they meant nothing. So utterly unappreciative.
The next day, it was not a gift she found in her locker, but a clipped note from her ‘secret admirer’, scrawled in red ink this time:
Do not share them. They were meant for you.
It seemed she needed a more direct hint. Coriolanus took matters into his own hands and started snacking on those same chocolates during class. Artisanal, heart-shaped with drizzles of pink on them.
“Do you want some?” He’d asked when he caught her staring at them with narrowed eyes. “They’re milk chocolate. Your favorite.”
That was the first thing he said to her in days.
He knew all of her favorite things. It wasn’t his intention to; she had a tendency to ask him stupid questions, sometimes about his favorite things, which was how he learned about her favorite things, in turn. Her favorite fruit? Strawberries. Favorite color? Pink. Favorite animal? Cat. Favorite vegetable? Well, she hardly ate those and preferred sweets.
Finally—finally—it clicked in her pretty little head as she blanched, and he couldn’t help but smile at that. It was so easy to ruffle her feathers. There was something suggestive about the way he licked the pink drizzle off his fingers that transformed her shock into disgust. His gaze dragged over her, greedily, like that sweet treat wasn’t enough to satiate him and there was something far sweeter before him, tempting him to take a bite.
The next round of gifts he left in her locker went straight into the trash in retaliation.
To which he responded with another note. Only this one ended up on top of her pillow with a large stuffed rabbit, and of course, a rose. Of a different color: not pure white, but red, the color of desire. Proof that some part of him burned for her. In her eyes, he imagined it would’ve been a random flower, and that was by design. She didn’t need to know the extent of his feelings—just that she was in his thoughts. Those white roses he gave her before symbolized new beginnings. A point of no return.
The gift was delivered directly to Prunella herself, with specific instructions on where to place it: right on her bed. She’d been so giddy to receive the gift, as if it were meant for her and not her stepdaughter. He winked and told her to keep it a secret. The note read:
That wasn’t very nice of you. But you’re lucky I’ll forgive you for that.
I bought this the other day. It reminded me of you.
It wasn’t very nice of her to toss out his gifts. Still, he would forgive her for that, because he was gracious.
The stuffed rabbits’ beady hazel eyes were the same shade as Phoebe’s, and he thought she might’ve appreciated one as a gift, since her shelf was overrun with stuffed animals. More stuffed animals than a grown woman could possibly need, but she could pass them on to her children someday. Their children, he’d mused against better judgment, playing with the pink bow tied around the rabbit’s neck when he’d plucked it off the store shelf.
He was briefly bombarded with the image of her with a ring on her finger. A little one in her belly. Another one on her lap, playing with the stuffed rabbit. Penny, her cat, basking in the window of his penthouse, soaking in the rays of sunlight. A warm, idyllic picture of a sort of life he’d never experienced with his family. Not when his father was so removed from his life and the war had taken away many whom they held dear. The Snow penthouse was cold and devoid of joy.
Especially since Tigris moved out, and with her went all those colorful touches she made to the place. Now she was so enveloped in her endeavor to become a designer; they hardly talked. And when they did, it was usually about her witch of an employer, Fabricia Whatnot. A woman as ridiculous as her name was, who used her more as a slave than an apprentice, having her clean clumps of her magenta hair out of the shower drain and massage her feet. Tigris never complained, so grateful was she to have a position in fashion. It had taken lots of coaxing for her to open up about her struggles, as she wasn’t the type of person to speak about them.
Coriolanus didn’t have a warm family, though he relished the idea of creating his own someday, and making it the one he longed for growing up. He was an only child, but his heir wouldn’t be. Perhaps he would give him a sister. Two children seemed like a sensible number. Three was fine, too. Four was an absurd number of children for any elite family to have. Not long ago, it was a luxury to have that many children, because it meant another mouth to feed in these trying times after the war. But times were changing, and Father had said that once he became president, he would put an end to the problems plaguing the Capitol.
Coriolanus pictured Phoebe’s future, and well, it was a no-brainer, what sort of life she’d go on to live. Someday, her father would marry her off to a rich man, and she would become a devoted wife and mother. With her maternal nature, she would serve her purpose well. He’d seen her before, treating her kitten like a baby, feeding her human food and dressing her up. Cooing and coddling her.
How ridiculous, he’d thought, when he first saw Penny running around her townhouse with a collar resembling a diamond choker rather than anything meant for a pet. And a matching pink dress to boot. When Phoebe was downstairs fetching them snacks, he briefly glanced at her wardrobe and discovered a large section of it dedicated not to her, but her pet. Why on earth did an animal need an entire wardrobe? Would she be the same way with her children, spoiling them rotten and dressing them up?
He’d wanted a cat, growing up, although his father was allergic to them and disliked animals anyway. Did not care much for their filth, either. Coriolanus made do with petting Boa Bell whenever they stopped by to see Pluribus Bell to trade.
Prunella, ever an eager hostess, invited him inside the townhouse for some refreshments when he dropped off Phoebe’s gift. Though he wasn’t interested in chatting with the woman, he found that a bit of flattery went a long way in unearthing secrets (particularly about a certain someone he had his eye on). After a round of pleasantries, their discussion veered towards the upcoming Yule Ball, and of course, the topic of suitors. Who Phoebe was to attend the Ball with.
“There is one gentleman coming over this week,” Prunella confessed.
Oh? That was news. Phoebe had never mentioned a gentleman caller. Granted she had not spoken to him in days, still nursing that frosty demeanor towards him. Not only that, she appeared almost… frightened of him. Had he scared her then, in her room? But she had invited him there. Did he intimidate her with all that talk about the future and how he wanted her to be his? Well, wasn’t that what she longed for? A sign of devotion? He’d given her just that.
Women were such mysterious creatures.
“Who, might I ask?” Coriolanus inquired. “I do not mean to be nosy. I’m merely looking out for Phoebe. I make it my duty to get to know my peers.”
Prunella spat out the name of some nobody—someone who could hardly afford their tuition for the Academy, he later discovered through his resources—from another one of those families that lived well beyond their means. A recipe for disaster that he deemed was no good for the girl. She’d been horrified to hear of that and had subsequently thanked him for letting her know. Then, over the phone, she went on about how time was ticking, and she still had to find a match for her daughter.
What about a certain Plinth? He hinted. That was when he discovered that the Plinth boy had never approached the Blackwoods to ask for permission to attend the Ball with their daughter. Phoebe had apparently not spoken of the boy once.
So it appeared that after all, she’d lied to make him jealous.
What a petty schoolyard trick.
Coriolanus shook his head. “I can do something about your situation,” he then offered—an opportunity out of the goodness of his heart. He imagined how sad it would’ve been for Phoebe to have no date for the Ball. People would talk, now that they were aware of her existence. Even if she lucked out and found someone in time, her going with anyone but him was not an option. Not when there were rumors that she was his girl.
All that was left was to make it official.
And what would be more official than him showing up to such a prestigious event with her on his shoulder?
Nevertheless, he freed his schedule for a Saturday night, to have dinner with the Blackwoods.
She could forget all about that other boy.
✦ ✦ ✦
When Phoebe descended the spiraling staircase, the whole room stopped to stare.
Her father, Silas Blackwood, wore a look of sheer pride on his face, and it was no wonder. Whatever she’d done, she’d done it well and had managed to capture the interest of a Snow. If there were any achievement she made in her life, it would’ve been dwarfed by this one alone. Everything had come together to make this evening possible.
She looked so different outside of her academy rouge—all dolled up in a purple dress, with her hair done up and her makeup perfect. Absolutely ravishing. Coriolanus imagined she would look even more so in a gown made of a sumptuous red silk.
Dinner had gone as expected.
Of course, Silas Blackwood had approved of him courting his daughter. A union between their families would be advantageous for him; it’d be just what he needed to bolster his reputation and claw his way up in society. Before coming over, Coriolanus had rehearsed before the mirror what to say to the man and how to react to any curveball thrown his way.
Inevitably, he passed his test with flying colors.
Snow lands on top.
The only issue was, how would Father react? What would he think of the girl and the Blackwoods?
His father, Crassus Xanthos Snow, was a different beast entirely. A man adamant on tradition. This Yule Ball was not any Ball; it would be improper for Coriolanus to show up with some random girl on his shoulder. Whomever he chose would share the limelight with him and be toted around for all to see. It was customary for the couples to take pictures together, and those were plastered in yearbooks—immortalized for all to remember. The Yule Ball was also a way for couples to establish courtships.
An exciting time for everyone.
He could picture it—his name plastered on the front page of The Capitol Gazette, along with the lucky lady he chose. It had happened to Father when he attended the Yule Ball with the woman he later married.
The old newspaper was buried somewhere in his father’s study, collecting dust, along with the pictures he kept of her. Most everything of hers had been given away, save for those pictures. There were only a few things of hers that Father permitted him to keep: her powder compact and her orange scarf, which still smelled like roses. Like her.
Coriolanus remembered how his father’s eyes, as cold and hard as ice, would thaw under the warmth of Mother’s gaze. She was so warm with everyone and it was hard not to fall in love with her, he’d heard, from those who knew her back then. And he remembered how she had the sweetest voice when she sang him to sleep. Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. In difficult times, when he had trouble falling asleep, he would click open his mother’s compact and inhale the rose scent of the silken cake of powder within. It never failed to calm him with the memory of how it had felt to be loved like that.
He’d asked his father once, what was it about her that he’d been drawn to?
Her voice, he’d answered. How sweetly she sang in the choir. She was a choir girl, always singing in the front at every performance.
Lucilla Snow was, without a doubt, the only soft part of his father. When they lowered her into the ground, it was like a part of him had been buried with her. He’d always been focused on his work, but after she passed, he threw himself into it. Less of a father working to provide for his family, but the head of a Dynasty—someone who reigned at the top but was untouchable.
The piano in their living room had been among the first of Mother’s belongings to go because it took up so much space, he’d said, but Coriolanus wondered if sometimes when he saw it, he pictured her sitting there, running her fingers along the keys.
She used to teach Tigris how to play the piano. But Coriolanus was never allowed to play. From a young age, his father had told him it was best he spent his time learning practical skills. He buried him in books so that his sponge of a mind could absorb whatever knowledge it was capable of.
Coriolanus had asked his father if he had married for love. It was a practical match, he’d said, but he was no fool. Lucilla was not among the cream of the crop. A well-bred elite, yes, but not of old money. Back then, wealth was in tiers; even the upper class was divided. Even more so than it was now.
So, he thought, it would be rather hypocritical of him to turn his nose up at him courting a girl of the same tier his mother once belonged in. If he could marry a bit beneath his status, why couldn’t he, too? Didn’t he want him to follow in his footsteps? Times were changing, too. The Capitol was a small place, especially after the war. There were only so many elites in existence. Especially those of old money.
Coriolanus approached his father about Phoebe, and how he wanted him to meet her and her family.
“What’s gotten into you, boy?” Father looked him up and down, suspiciously, because he’d never brought home a girl to meet him before. He was, however, used to him sneaking girls upstairs for a romp in the sheets. They never spoke of his rakish habits; this was a phase many youths had. Perhaps someday he’d outgrow it.
It was never Coriolanus’s intention to indulge. His studies were his focus (because Father expected nothing less than perfection from his heir). It was just that—exceptional people like him attracted attention. Girls were on him like bees to honey, showering him with affection, perhaps hoping to become his lucky missus someday. They were inevitably left jaded because, after he had his fun with the girl, he dropped her and never looked back. It was never his intention to break her heart; he couldn’t help that he felt nothing for her. For any girl.
And then she came along.
Phoebe Blackwood.
That unassuming girl who had somehow weaseled her way into his life without meaning to.
His male friends were no better than pigs, eyeing the women around them like they were tasty morsels. Placing bets to see whom they could seduce. It was like a sport to them, adding more notches to their belts, since elite women were notoriously harder to seduce than ‘loose common girls’. Those girls were taught from a young age that their ‘virtue’ was their worth.
The Academy hosted only a fraction of the students in the Capitol—a prestigious and private institution that only the elite could afford to attend. Those poorer made do with public schools. Seldom did the Academy accept new students, but it did occasionally happen, with new families allotting wealth. Which meant, whenever there was a new face, people noticed. Especially a pretty face.
That new girl, they noticed, was a bit odd. So quiet and poor with conversation. Nowhere to be seen during lunch, and she had no friends. A few of the boys had tried flirting with her and she brushed them off, not the least bit swayed. Even Urban Canville had been unsuccessful in working his charms. Her one true love, it seemed, were her books.
Clearly she was that type of girl, the boys had thought—the stuck-up and prudish type who believed she was better than everyone. Someone ought to knock her down a peg, was the idea that they had. The bet came to him one evening, when they were all gathered at Festus’s place, drinking and playing cards. How hard would it be to seduce that girl? he’d thought. It would be an interesting change to seek someone out for once.
And now he’d ended up here, all these months later. Still seeing that same girl. He could say it was all for the sake of the bet, but that wouldn’t explain him approaching his father like this, to ask for his permission to court her. It was dedication at an unprecedented level.
After a few months, he’d expected to grow bored with her, yet he hadn’t. This anticipation he felt, knowing he had this girl all to himself, was so new to him. It was a pleasure to mold her. This freedom was something he never had with those other girls who were already shaped, having been raised their entire lives to be bona fide Capitol darlings. But Phoebe—she was unchiseled. Something raw waiting to be shaped.
Father agreed to meet with the Blackwoods.
Phoebe, the poor thing, had been terrified of his father, whose piercing gaze picked her apart, assessing her worth. His military stint had that effect on people; he was a man both feared and revered.
He’d already decided before inviting them over (and digging up whatever he could on their family) that the girl was good enough for his son to court. Perhaps someday he’d grow bored with her and they’d call it off. That was clearly his assumption, since beforehand, he’d brought up the names of other girls to him. Daughters of his closest friends. What of the Cardew girl? he’d suggested. Or Arachne Crane?
Livia Cardew was as mean-spirited as a Capitolite could be and Arachne Crane was simply so… Loudmouthed. Some evenings, he could hear her bellowing across the street from her apartment. Whenever she found something funny, she socked his arm so hard she left a bruise. Father threw around a few more names, as if he hadn’t already considered those girls.
None of them were of any interest to him.
✦ ✦ ✦
She was so scared of him, his girl.
Ignoring his calls, pretending she couldn’t see him in school after his father had approved of them attending the Ball together. He let her get away with that behavior for an entire day. Almost.
Until the last period of class, when he snatched the books from her arms before she could flee from her locker.
“Thought you could run away from me?” he teased.
Phoebe blinked a few times, all caught off guard.
“I can carry my own books,” she retorted once she recovered from her shock. And then jumped, attempting to retrieve them from him, but he held them above her head, letting her get all worked up. “This is ridiculous!” She huffed, as red as a tomato. “Give me my books back.”
“What sort of man would I be if I let my girl carry her things?” He ruffled her hair and she scowled. Today, a red ribbon adorned her honey blonde ponytail—the same one he’d gifted her before. It was a small token to him, but she wore it proudly, every day.
“Why don’t you help Clemensia carry her books instead?” she muttered under her breath, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. Again with Clemmie. He shook his head. You’d think she was obsessed with that girl, with how often she looked at her and brought her up.
After the last bell of the day rang, he guided her out onto the front steps of the Academy entrance and then captured her lips in a daring kiss for all to see. A few of his friends, who’d been watching, whistled. It was adorable the way she hid on his shoulder, so embarrassed for them to be seen like this. But she’d get used to it.
His closest friends knew she belonged to him.
He told the boys all about Phoebe Blackwood long ago, ever since that evening when he first tasted her. They knew all about how tight her cunt was and how eager she was for it. But he didn’t lie; she was saving herself for her husband. How typical, they all agreed. So what, then? Of course, he could always trick her into falling for him and have her think that he loved her, too. Courting her was one way to secure the affections of a girl who longed for dramatic displays of devotion. It was only natural she was hesitant to give it all up, when there was no promise she wouldn’t be left in the dirt afterwards. Breaking a girl like her called for a delicate method.
Coriolanus relished the idea of conquering her completely, both body and mind. Perhaps there would come a day when they called things off, and she’d be so distraught, so broken-hearted thinking, if only she’d gotten away while she had the chance. If only she'd hadn’t given herself to him, only to be thrown away like a broken toy.
What if he didn’t break her heart? What if they never called it off?
She was falling for him; he could see it. Whenever he was around, a dazed look filled her eyes, and she was so eager to be in his presence. So eager to be near him, despite her caution. After they indulged, whenever he tried to get up and leave, she would sometimes make an excuse to have him stay a while longer. To ‘talk’.
They rarely talked much (about anything meaningful, that is). He liked her better when she was quiet, with her lips wrapped around his cock.
It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy speaking with her; he just didn’t enjoy the vulnerability he felt, getting close to her. But he had to give her something if she was to fall for him. So sometimes he allowed her to curl up against his chest and prattle on.
And then he had to leave, unless he wanted to be caught tangled in the sheets with Mr. Blackwood’s daughter. Then he would surely pressure him to marry her, to save her from ruin.
He didn’t like being rushed.
✦ ✦ ✦
They went on their first date together.
Well, he’d not framed it as one when he dragged her to his car after school. Just a chore they had to get out of the way: picking their outfits for the Yule Ball. She wasn’t thrilled to be there, trying on dresses she didn’t like, but it wasn’t about her. It was about them.
Phoebe gravitated towards soft colors and designs replete with ruffles and frills, he noticed. Fabricia Whatnot’s specialty. Like a child in a candy store, she touched everything, running her fingers along the sumptuous silks and chiffons until he told her to leave them be. For each dress she reached for, he offered his two cents. Not that dress—it was too bright and childish. Not that one either—it’d drown her silhouette. That dress was a fine choice—if she wanted to look like a pastry.
She piped down so quickly at that, crossing her arms over her chest. He could’ve sworn for a moment that she was sulking, but he paid her no heed, instead gathering whatever caught his eye as their assistant, Violetta, paraded them around the shop.
Coriolanus sat before the mirror as Phoebe modeled one dress after the other.
What a strenuous effort for her. Just beyond the sitting room, he could hear her wrestling with the zipper of her dress, muttering something under her breath. Do you need any help? he’d offered, although she never liked to ask for help. So she was left to struggle by herself.
After her hiccup in the dressing room with the purple dress that didn’t fit, they settled upon another. It was perfect, really. A beautiful red number, the bodice clinging to her like the stem of a rose, then flaring out into petal-like drapes. A lovely gown fit for a lady as lovely as a rose. They found a suit and some accessories to match.
It hadn’t become a date until they stopped at the ice cream parlor along The Promenade.
To reward her for being on her best behavior, he treated her to whatever she wanted. He allowed her that much for putting up with him, even though he knew she wanted to give him a piece of her mind in that fitting room earlier. In a way, it was a reward for him to see her happy now, enjoying her ice cream. Her favorite thing in the world to eat.
The sugar gave her a bounce in her step. She struggled to keep up with him as they walked, so he slowed his strides to match hers. They stopped before the fountain in the heart of the square, to enjoy the view.
Though while she was looking at it, he was looking at her.
More specifically how when she licked her spoon, a bit of marshmallow sauce dripped down it, onto the corner of her mouth.
It took a good deal of self-control for him to rein in his thoughts. To keep them grounded in the present, and not how much he wanted to have her back then in the fitting room, pressed against the glass. Oh, she would’ve been mortified, and he would’ve pocketed her panties just so he could watch her squirm in her uniform, holding the hem of her skirt down to not flash anyone.
But he was not an animal.
He couldn’t give in to every impulsive thought on his mind, however tempting.
Where would he take her next? he instead thought.
The ice cream had certainly cheered her up, and also made her teeth chatter because it was freezing outside. A flurry of snow floated down on them and she sneezed. As they walked, she shivered, rubbing her hands around herself to try and keep warm. It had not been his initial idea to take her to eat ice cream in this weather, but he knew how much she loved ice cream, and she said she ate it even in cold weather. Even if it made her sick.
He sighed, unbuttoning his coat and shrugging it off his shoulders. “Here,” he said, draping it around her. “This’ll warm you up.”
“But what about you? Won’t you get cold?” She blinked a few times.
“I’m a Snow, darling. We never get cold.”
“Don’t call me that.” She wrinkled her nose at the pet name.
“You don’t like it? What else would you prefer?” He caught a snowflake on his glove and watched it melt.
“My name,” she answered, her oversized sleeves flopping as she gestured. She looked utterly adorable, drowning in his coat. It was like a dress on her.
He allowed her to take the lead and guide him wherever she wanted.
Which was how they ended up in a boring bookshop. A compromise, since she’d not wanted to go to Fabricia’s. It was, coincidentally, the same store he went to when he bought that stuffed rabbit for her.
“Oh, it’s that ugly thing,” Phoebe mused, picking it up off the shelf and playing with its soft ears.
“Really? Because I thought it looked like you,” he quipped in turn. “I thought you’d like it. What’s wrong with it?”
“Penny liked it more so I gave it to her instead.” She shoved the rabbit against his chest and took off, leaving him all alone in the aisle, feeling a bit wounded. Did she think his gift was better fit to be a chew toy for her cat?
Women were so hard to please.
He placed the bunny back on the shelf and followed her as she perused the shelves of books and knick-knacks.
“Oh, I’ve been looking for the third volume of this series!” She plucked the book off the shelf and thumbed through it. And then, folded it against her chest and rocked on her heels. Looked off to the side, and then back at him, as if expecting something. “I really wanted this one… It’s a shame I forgot my wallet at home. If I’d known we’d go shopping together—”
Coriolanus rolled his eyes and snatched the book from her. “Just say you want me to buy it for you.”
“I’ll pay you back tomorrow! I promise.” And now she was holding her hands behind her back, trying to be cute about it.
“Darling, when you’re with me, you won’t be paying a dime.”
Darling. It had a ring to it.
✦ ✦ ✦
“You’ve never been to a party before?”
Clemmie gasped at Phoebe from across the lunch table, as if she’d committed a crime. For elites like them, parties were commonplace. People threw parties for no reason—just because they could, for the hell of it, lately. A sign that times were indeed prosperous this long after the war.
Partying. Indulgence. It was creeping back into fashion.
“Not even once?” Didi covered her mouth in shock, adding to Clemensia’s dramatics.
“Do they throw parties out in the districts?” Her twin brother, Pollo, questioned.
“Sort of. But I was never allowed to go.” Phoebe frowned.
“Your father didn’t want you exposed to the likes of those people,” Coriolanus corrected her blunder, squeezing her thigh under the table. She swallowed, and as his friends blabbed on, her attention drifted across the cafeteria towards the pairs of eyes watching her. Sejanus, Lyssie, and Io.
They weren’t any good for her, he decided. It was best that she stuck with him and stayed far away from the likes of that Plinth boy who would corrupt her with his sentimentality and ideologies.
Their conversation drifted towards the upcoming party Clemmie was to host in her townhouse. Of course, they asked his girl to attend. Anyone and everyone relevant in their school would be invited, and her being his girl landed her a spot on the exclusive guest list. “I don’t know. I don’t want her exposed to that sort of stuff,” said Coriolanus, and Phoebe’s anticipation for this party deflated so quickly.
He didn’t want her exposed to their games, nor the drinking and other paraphernalia involved. All sorts of wild things happened at parties like these; he would know because he was one of those partygoers. Though he didn’t care much for parties, he made an effort to attend to fulfill social obligations.
He pictured Phoebe for a moment, drunk off her mind, or high as a kite. Of course, a dumb girl like her would think nothing of someone with shady intentions handing her something to drink or eat. She would take it to be polite, and then what? Let them carry her off to some far corner to do whatever?
Absolutely not.
His blood boiled just imagining one of his friends laying a finger on her.
No doubt they’d be curious to have a taste of what was his.
“Relax, Coryo.” Didi patted Phoebe’s shoulder reassuringly. “She’ll be in safe hands with us. You’ll be there too, will you not?”
“Don’t worry,” Festus teased. “We’ll make sure she’s not corrupted.”
He didn’t want to hear that coming from Festus Creed of all people, the one who gave out those pills. There was something particularly greasy about his smile and the way he sometimes ogled what wasn’t his. That boy could not be trusted around his girl.
Coriolanus pulled Phoebe closer and tucked her hair behind her ear. “…I’d like to experience this, just once,” she murmured, as quiet as a mouse. “I’ve never been to a party like this before.”
After a while of going back and forth about it with his friends, he allowed her to go. So long as she was with him the entire time so he could keep her safe.
✦ ✦ ✦
Thus the night of the party came.
An exciting time for his girl. Phoebe descended the spiraling stairs of her townhouse with such haste that she tripped on her heels, crashing right into him. How fortunate that he was there to catch her. She squeaked, flailing her arms, and he effortlessly scooped her up by the waist, setting her down on her feet.
“Oops.” An awkward smile formed on her lips. “I’ve got two left feet. These heels are taller than what I usually wear.”
“But you look stunning in them,” Prunella agreed, from her spot at the top of the stairs. When Coriolanus spotted her, she offered him a wink. She was still holding a brush in her hand. He supposed she’d probably helped preen her for the evening. And indeed she had done a wonderful job.
Phoebe’s honey blonde hair was styled into loose curls cascading down her back, and they bounced as she moved. Her pink dress and heels were picked out by him. This time he made sure to pick out something she liked, as she wasn’t thrilled about not having a say in the dress he chose for her to wear to the Ball. The flowy pink dress was a perfect choice for the evening—not too flashy and not too casual. To complete the look, she had a fluffy white shawl draped around her shoulders.
Silas Blackwood soon joined them in the foyer, grunting in acknowledgement of his presence. “I trust you remember what we’ve discussed before, Mr. Snow?” His piercing gray stare fixed him, and there was something imposing about the fact that he was taller than him. Even at his imposing height of six feet, with broad shoulders to boot.
Coriolanus straightened up, taking things in stride. “Of course. I’ll remain by her side, and I’ll make sure to bring her back by ten.”
“Good.” He grunted, and his piercing stare softened once it settled upon his daughter, who was raring to go.
“We should go now! We’re running a bit late.” Phoebe nudged Coriolanus.
“And whose fault is that?” he retorted on their way out of the townhouse. “How long did you spend getting ready, pray tell?”
“Only two hours.”
What could’ve taken that long? She must have given herself a full-body scrub and shaved every inch of herself before getting dressed. He ran his hand along her arm and, as expected, it was silky smooth.
To think she’d gotten all dolled up just for him.
Seeing her like this was enjoyable. Maybe he’d buy her more dresses—give her more reasons to get dolled up. For now, they’d take their time. Ease into this new dynamic of theirs.
Before they entered the Dovecote townhouse, Coriolanus pulled Phoebe aside and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Do you remember what we discussed?” he inquired, arranging her neat curls over her shoulders.
During the car ride over, he’d instructed her on what to do and say, to be polite: Chin up. Shoulders straight—do not slouch. Remember to speak clearly. And most importantly, remember that you represent not only yourself but me as well now, as my girl. Also, it was important that she looked people in the eye when speaking.
In case she forgot, he reminded her again, and then he captured her lips in a chaste kiss, savoring the sweetness of strawberry on his tongue. Her flavored lip gloss. So delicious, he could eat her up. Maybe later, he would.
They stepped into Clemensia’s townhouse.
It hadn’t been his intention to leave her side, because, he’d promised Mr. Blackwood that he’d keep an eye on her. But he trusted Clemensia to keep her safe, and Phoebe needed to practice socializing. She could not rely on him forever to be her anchor in conversations.
Besides, most of his concerns—Festus and his equally dubious friends—would be in his company. The party was set up so that the girls and boys could separate, then reconvene later.
The greenhouse was devoid of any feminine touch for a while. There he was surrounded by men—men who were loud and sweaty after having had too much to drink. Festus roped him into an evening of drinking games, and was subsequently annoyed at how good he was at them. Both him and Urban Canville were beasts at party games.
While the rest of the boys were in various states of tipsy to drunk, he was bored and still quite dry.
Soon, the boys had started to become restless, being cooped up in the backyard, so they made their foray back inside, to check with the girls.
Coriolanus was among the last of them to step inside.
Only to see the most peculiar thing.
Urban Canville kissing his girl.
✦ ✦ ✦
His blood boiled.
He couldn’t even say it was a drunken mistake the boy made, because he had fucking been there, watching him this entire time. This bravado was nothing unusual for him. A smug expression formed on Urban’s face when Phoebe froze beneath him, her fists balling at her sides. His mouth muffled her surprised squeak.
When he pulled away, she turned to find Coriolanus standing in the threshold. She was so flushed and dazed. Certainly not from that kiss. He spotted the cup of punch in front of her and briefly wondered—was that her third glass? Her fourth? She hiccupped.
Coriolanus sauntered over, ignoring all the eyes plastered on him. All the hushed whispers and the tension teeming in the room. “Am I interrupting something?” he began, placing a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. She flinched.
“Snow. Nice of you to show up,” Urban began, as if he had not just kissed his girl in front of everyone. “We’re playing truth or dare. Care to join us?”
Phoebe slumped back in her seat, so floaty, like she was not aware of her existence. It led him to wonder if Clemensia had fed her anything that was not of the alcohol variety. He’d explicitly told her not to. “You are aware that is my girlfriend you just kissed,” Coriolanus said, so calmly despite the itching urge he had to deck Urban Canville’s face.
Phoebe gave him a stupid smile, and that was his last straw. He unceremoniously pulled her out of her seat and she stumbled forward, bracing against his shoulder to balance herself.
“Look at you. So smitten with this girl. I have never seen you like this before,” Urban taunted, coolly. “So whipt. What did you do to him?” He looked down at Phoebe, expecting some sort of explanation, though she wasn’t all there. She blinked, readjusting her focus.
Leave it to Urban Canville to stir up shit; it was what he did best, and that tendency had landed him in a few tousles throughout the years. Of course, he’d always gotten off scot-free. That tended to happen when your daddy was rich and influential enough to bail you out of trouble. He had a thing for his girl, too—always lingering around Phoebe, trying to partner up with her for class assignments. Always inquiring about what he was up to with her, to make small talk. Was he, in truth, imagining being in his shoes?
Gaius Breen and Felix Ravinstill popped into the room and froze for a moment, so awkward about it, as if they’d intervened in what appeared to be a private matter.
“Do not be so sour,” Urban continued. “It was a dare. You know what that’s like, don’t you? We’re not the type to back down from those.”
“Sit down, won’t you?” Felix gritted out to his friend.
“I’m quite comfortable here,” he replied, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “What I don’t understand is why you’re still keeping her to yourself.” He gave it some thought. “It’s been months already. Just accept that you’ve lost and let us carry on with the game. There's no need to cause a scene.”
“What are you talking about?” Phoebe murmured. “What has he lost?”
It was getting so stuffy in here. So hard to breathe—but that could’ve been the stench of cigars wafting in through the screen door. Coriolanus loosened the collar of his shirt, trying not to look at her, his girl. Still he caught a glimpse of her hazy gaze sharpening as she tried to make sense of it all. He couldn’t let her know.
But it was inevitable that he broke her heart. If not this way, then another. He’d never imagined, however, that it would be at the expense of his image. To hell with hers, he’d thought then. Until she’d become so entangled with him. If one of them went down for this, they’d go down together. Fuck.
“For fucks sake,” Festus muttered under his breath before rushing over to Urban’s side and pulling him back by the collar. “How much have you had to drink? We’re cutting you off here.”
“I’m feeling quite sober.” He shrugged, breaking free without much effort on his part. “I was just curious. Haven’t you had enough, stringing the poor thing along?”
“Coriolanus. What is he talking about?” She tugged at his sleeve, demanding an explanation.
What a spectacle this was. His gaze swept over the room and sure enough, some of the girls here were having a field day watching this. Livia Cardew and Arachne Crane had never looked so entertained. Few had the decency to appear uncomfortable with the conflict unfolding here.
“Nothing,” Coriolanus retorted. “He’s just bitter you didn’t choose him to be your date to the Ball.”
Urban sighed. “Perhaps we should leave it at that for her sake.”
“For my sake?” Phoebe faltered, her fingers tightening around Coriolanus’s sleeve. “I deserve an explanation.”
The solution was simple. They needed to remove themselves from the situation. Now, before things got worse. Before she knew too much.
“Enough.” Coriolanus moved his hand to the small of her back, gently steering her in the direction of the exit. “We’re taking our leave now.”
Before they could make it out of the living room, Urban Canville had said, “If you won’t tell her, I will.”
“Phoebe,” Coriolanus gritted out into her ear and then tugged her arm, but she was a stubborn weed rooted in place.
She gave Urban an imploring look, which was all the permission he needed to elaborate. “There was a bet among him and a few of his friends. To see how soon it would take him to deflower the most prudish girl in our year.”
“Is that so?” She swallowed. For a moment, she just stood there, confused, letting those cruel words sink in. Then she pulled away from Coriolanus. Steeling her expression into a cool indifference, she crossed her arms. “Well, then. How does it feel to know you’ve lost?”
How does it feel, Coriolanus?
He’d never lost. Not once in his life.
He parted his lips to speak, but no words came. Just a soft exhale. His tongue refused to yield.
You are dead to me. Though she was silent, the cold look in her eyes told him that much.
“At least we assumed you were a prude at first,” Urban Canville clarified, as an afterthought. “None of us had expected you would be such—”
Such a slut? So eager to spread her legs for a good grade? Although she didn’t spend nearly as much time studying as she did sucking his cock, they’d heard. It was an inside joke she could never understand—the boys grinning whenever they asked what grade she got on her assignment, and she proudly showed off her paper. The bright red A on it. What’s so funny? she’d ask, and they’d poke fun at her, saying things like, Coryo taught you well, didn’t he? Or—It seems those tutoring sessions are paying off.
Coriolanus fixed him with a cold look and rolled his shoulders, fully prepared to pummel him (if need be). “Respectfully, Urban, you’d do well to keep my girl’s name out of your mouth, if you know what’s best for you.”
Phoebe swiped up her cup of punch and stared at Coriolanus’s perfectly white shirt for a moment longer than was appropriate. She squeezed the cup so hard, almost threatening to shatter it. The look in her eyes said, Shall I throw it at you? See if you’d like that. He took a step back just in case, but to his relief, she gulped the punch instead. Like a tall glass of water, before slamming it down on the table with such force that the girl beside her flinched.
Then she took off, her heels clicking on the marbled tile as she did.
Her gait was a bit wobbly and pathetic—how much did she have to drink, again? Phoebe nearly broke her ankle on the way out, her heel slipping as she bumped into Festus, but she simply ignored him (and his attempt to catch her). She fumbled with the doorknob and made her way outside, slamming it shut.
“Good luck, man.” Festus fixed Coriolanus with a terse smile and patted his shoulder.
He paid his friend (and his lousy attempt at defusing the situation) no heed, instead following his girl out onto the front steps of the townhouse. Thanks to his long strides, he caught up to her in no time.
“Don’t, don’t follow me,” she scowled, not having it.
“I can explain,” Coriolanus reasoned calmly, though he was anything but calm. Often, before going out, he rehearsed before the mirror, what to do and say in conversations. That way he was never caught off guard, and, for his eighteen years of life, that practice had served him well.
Until now, when he was wholly unprepared for a situation he hadn’t anticipated.
“Save your breath. I don’t want to hear it.” Phoebe rushed down the front steps in her haste to put some distance between them.
“Where are you going?” He jogged, matching her stride. Though the snow had been plowed off the sidewalk, it was still slippery in light of the recent snowfall.
“Away from you,” she huffed. Bits of ice covered the ground and she slipped in her haste to get away.
Luckily, he’d made it there just in time to catch her. “Wait—I’ll call my chauffeur to pick us up.” He seized her by the arm.
She shot him a nasty look. “I’m perfectly capable of walking home.”
“Dressed like that?” He gestured at her, as if she’d gone mad. “In the freezing cold?” It was, what, fifteen degrees outside? Her teeth chattered as she glared at him, and it was rather hard for him to take her seriously when she looked like a shivering puppy. Of the vicious type—whatever they were called. The tiny ones rich women were starting to carry in their purses, who were particularly ill-mannered.
She ground her teeth. “Yes. Now let go of me, or I will scream.”
“Oh, be my guest. That will only make you look more mad,” he spat. There was no way in hell she’d be walking home alone. Even a place like the Capitol, with all its order, had its share of shady figures lurking in the dark, with no good intentions towards young women like her. Besides, he’d promised to keep her safe.
She opened her mouth to scream and he panicked, clamping his hand over her mouth to stop her. “How much have you had to drink?” He inquired, although he knew she was drunk. The question was, how drunk? She attempted to speak through the hand clamped over her mouth, but something muffled came out instead. “Enough.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered her. “If I uncover your mouth, will you scream?”
She shook her head and he gingerly relinquished her.
“You are the scum of this earth,” she spat out, unceremoniously shoving him back.
He grunted, falling back onto his bottom in the snow. “You haven’t given me the chance to speak!” he said, for crying out loud.
“Why? So you can lie to my face?”
It was then that he noticed her cheeks were wet. She was crying because of him. And trying so hard to handle this situation with grace.
He’d never lied to her. Ever. He’d been duplicitous, yes, phrasing his words in a way that left her confused, always wondering what he truly felt—but he’d never outright lied to her.
He faltered for a moment too long, and she shook her head.
Then she stormed off, her heels precariously slipping with each step made. She was seconds away from breaking her ankle or worse—falling onto the street. What if she got hit by something? That crazy woman. He rushed onto his feet, just as she rounded the corner of the street.
“Yes, there was some sort of bet,” he admitted in exasperation, and then took a moment to catch his breath. “It was a game to me, at first. But I didn’t think—” he tugged her back by the bow of her dress and she flailed, falling back against his chest. “I didn’t think I’d grow… fond of you.”
The words sounded foreign coming from his mouth. So foreign and… wrong. Yet they weren’t a lie. This was, however, a moment of weakness.
“Really?” She remarked bitterly, then hastily wiped her face.
“Yes. Though I wish we could have this conversation somewhere warm. In the car, maybe? You’re freezing, Phoebe.” He spun her around and squeezed her shoulders, trying to settle her, to no avail. He could still fix this; he just had to figure out how.
She jerked free from his grasp one last time. The bow on her dress was now askew, the stitches of one corner ripped from her previous effort to break free. A bright punch stain sullied it, and what a shame that was. Perhaps he could buy her another dress to make it up to her, but she’d proven time after time to have no appreciation for the gifts he gave. “Because I am gracious,” she huffed, half breathless, “I won’t tell my father what you did. But I never wish to speak with you again, am I clear?”
She was a mess, mascara streaks staining her cheeks, her dress disheveled.
“Can I… at least take you home?” he murmured, tersely. “Your father would have my head if anything were to happen to you.”
He swallowed at the mention of her father. Would she tell him what he did? That he had played her? There would be no way in hell he’d let him court her daughter after this, even if they patched things up. Or… would he allow it?
He imagined an industrious man like Silas Blackwood prioritized practicality over sentimentality.
If he was under the assumption that he’d ruined her, that would create a predicament for him. She’d be lucky if any respectable elite wanted to marry her then. The cleanest solution in that case was, truly, to grovel and hope that he married his daughter.
Phoebe begrudgingly allowed Coriolanus to escort her back to the front steps of Clemensia’s townhouse. She refused to enter, not wanting to make a spectacle of herself, he assumed, as everyone was still inside. He made a quick call to his chauffeur before joining her out on the steps, to freeze with her in solidarity.
Her teeth chattered as she pulled her shawl tighter around herself, seeking what little warmth she could. “Come wait inside,” he implored, and she stubbornly shook her head. Sighing, he unbuttoned his coat and then draped it over her shoulders. The way he did on their first date, when she was shivering after eating all that ice cream.
A wall of roses cloaked her. His scent. He rather liked the idea of her being covered in it, smelling like him. Despite how much he was sure she hated him now, her need for warmth took precedence over it. She bounced on her heels and when he tried to pull her close, she pushed him back. “Don’t.”
I’m just keeping you warm, he wanted to say, but refrained from doing so. “The car’s already on its way,” he informed her. “It’ll be three minutes.”
Those three minutes felt like an eternity until finally his chauffeur pulled up to the curb. Phoebe didn’t wait for him to open the door for her like he usually did; she helped herself inside and hugged the other side of the vehicle, attempting to insert as much space between them as physically possible.
For a long moment, they stuck to their corners, staring out the windows awkwardly.
Now was his chance to speak. While she was still trapped in here and the car was rolling.
“You must hate me right now,” he began, delicately.
She hummed, chin propped on her palm.
“But what I said earlier was true. When I approached your father, it was after I decided not to follow through with that bet.” Sort of. He’d not officially brought it up to his friends, though he figured, why not let things run their natural course? Eventually, he’d have her. All of her. And, in that way, he’d win. It was the cleanest solution.
“So.” She tilted her head. “Am I to forgive you, then? Forget about that?”
“What do you want me to say?” Exasperation laced his tone.
“Nothing, preferably.” She finally turned to him.
“I don’t expect your forgiveness. I just wanted to come clean,” he explained, straightening up in his seat. “I don’t know what it is about you that I’m drawn to. But I know that I am, and I cannot help it.” In a way, she’d bewitched him. It was unlike him to feel anything for one of his girls. Anything but lust, perhaps, and that feeling was fleeting at best. Whatever he’d felt for this girl, however, had lingered. No… festered. “You’re free to do whatever you’d like. Scorn me, hit me if you want, I’ll allow it—”
She brightened up at that. “Are you offering?”
“… Go ahead.”
He would allow her this much, to give her a chance to simmer down. Maybe she’d feel better afterwards. Coriolanus braced for it as she scooted closer, then raised her hand. She didn’t strike him like he anticipated she would; he flinched when he felt nothing but air on his cheek from her hand grazing past it. “I will not hit you, as tempting as it sounds.” She withdrew and he exhaled slowly.
“As I was saying. I can’t control how you feel about all of this, and I apologize if I hurt you.” He sighed. “There is no bet anymore. There hasn’t been one for a while now. Urban Canville’s simply bitter that you didn’t choose him, so he caused a scene.” It wouldn’t make things better, but it was something. If she expected him to grovel, she’d be sorely disappointed.
“I see.” Phoebe shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and then went back to ignoring him. She stared out the window, at the passing fixtures and buildings illuminated by the streetlamps. Once they neared the Blackwood townhouse, she wiped her face and fixed her hair, attempting to make herself presentable. Probably to avoid her father’s suspicion.
“You can ignore me all you want, I won’t blame you for it. It’s only natural that you’re upset,” he continued, not letting her frigid behavior deter him. “But I wanted to inform you that you’re still mine.”
Mine, in every way.
Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. Their fingers brushed and she shivered. “I won’t let you go. Make do with that what you will,” he told her. Every couple had their obstacles. Their quarrels, their meaningless spats. This was one of them, he supposed. He could give her some time to simmer down so they could reflect on this.
Only they didn’t have time.
The Ball was right around the corner.
A minute later, they arrived at her townhouse. She stepped out as soon as the car rolled to a stop, not wanting to be stuck in there with him for a second longer, it seemed. “Here,” she fumbled with the buttons of his coat and tossed it to him, “have your coat back.”
He escorted her to the front door of her house because he insisted it was the right thing to do. Phoebe held it together, smiling and playing along as Coriolanus debriefed the gathering they attended to her father. At least the version of it that he would’ve liked to hear.
Then he returned to his car.
✦ ✦ ✦
The interior of the Snow penthouse provided little reprieve from the frosty air outside.
Father liked it cold, as did he. But she didn’t, his girl, always shivering here. So much that he usually gave her something warm to drink, a blanket, and one of his jackets. He took care of her like that. Liked to watch her play with the oversized sleeves.
And then he rolled his eyes, because he’d thought of her again.
“You’re back early.”
Father’s imposing voice boomed from across the living room. He was relaxing on the couch—a rare sight for a man who could not stay put without purpose. Perhaps he had a busy day and had earned himself a break. Now he was enjoying a drink, and through the TV, he heard Lucky Flickerman’s eccentric voice.
“It was a boring party,” he informed Father, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack.
“Boring, was it? Even with your girl there?” His sharp gaze was fixed on him, and he could only wonder, what did he want? He was rarely involved with his life unless something went wrong or he had a piece of his mind to give.
“…Yes,” came his terse reply.
“Did something happen? You seem…” Father sat up in his seat, giving him a once-over. “Upset.”
“I’m tired. I’m retiring for the night,” he announced in a clipped tone, cutting their conversation short.
That night, he tossed and turned in bed. Sleep was no friend when all he could think of was his tarnished image. Perhaps tarnished was a strong word to use for such a minor incident over a bet, but the shame of being called out like that stung his pride. What would they all think of him? Would they laugh? Murmur about how he’d lost his charm?
The morning after, his behavior hadn’t improved.
He snapped at the maid for preparing him a cup of tea that was a touch too sweet for his liking. It was his usual, but today, everything felt off. The middle-aged woman flinched at his unusual outburst, but soon recovered, taking off at once to prepare him another cup.
Across from him at the dining table, Father was buttering his toast.
They rarely talked during breakfast. Them sitting together wasn’t out of some obligation to bond; Father had a rule that everyone must eat at the table. In his eyes, it was slovenly to eat anywhere else. So sometimes they ended up eating together by happenstance.
“Something did happen,” he spoke, to his surprise.
But he said nothing in return, instead cutting the eggs on his plate.
They communicated with silent gestures, usually. A raised brow indicated amusement. Silence was either disinterest or a sign of something bothering them.
“So it seems.” Father took a sip of his coffee and set his cup down on the coaster. Then considered him for a long moment. “What happened?”
“You’re rarely interested in my social affairs,” Coriolanus’s jaw tightened.
“You’ve been acting off.” More silence. “Did something happen with your girl?”
“Why would you assume it’s about my girl?” he deflected.
“Because I’m observing a pattern, son,” Father answered. “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with this girl. Tutoring her. Surely not out of the goodness of your heart.” He took a bite of his toast and swallowed. “You and I both know you aren’t the charitable type.”
His eggs tasted like rubber.
Upon his silence, Father continued. “So, what has she done?”
A Snow was never at fault. In his eyes, she was to blame.
“We had a misunderstanding. She’s upset with me,” Coriolanus replied, crisply.
“Then fix things with her. Make it right.”
As if he hadn’t already tried. “It’s not that simple,” he argued.
“Women are such emotional creatures,” Father agreed, leaning forward in his seat. “I’ve had my fair share of quarrels with my Lucilla before.”
“How did you resolve things?” asked Coriolanus. Perhaps he could impart some advice. If only Phoebe were more materialistic—the answer to his problem would’ve been as simple as showering her with gifts and promising her all sorts of things, then.
“Time. Lots of it. But you don’t have much time, do you? The Ball is right around the corner.”
“And I am dead to her,” Coriolanus remarked dryly, but he found no humor in this.
“Some women are wild. Harder to tame,” he reflected. “But none of them are unbreakable.”
“So… What do you suggest I do, then?” His observation was lost on him. How would one go about ‘breaking’ something they couldn’t catch?
“If I were you…” he trailed off in thought, twirling his fork, “I would leave her with no room for doubt. Remind her that she is yours. Remind her of her place.”
Remind her that she is yours. How? He could show up at her house and confess to her, though at the expense of his dignity (because there was no guarantee she’d forgive him). At best, she may push him off her balcony, right onto the thorny trellis, in a fit of rage. “And if that doesn’t work?” Coriolanus swallowed.
“Make sure it does. If you want something bad enough, you will do whatever it takes. Do not be afraid to get your hands dirty, son.”
Do whatever it takes.
A/N: This series was supposed to be a short deal, but here we are at 4 parts!! I have no idea where this will go next, but I do love drama. Stay tuned 👀. Reader discretion is advised! My stories are never planned out so they may take (dark) unexpected turns.
Tag List: @likklemy, @coryoslut
Comment if you would like to be added (specify if you would like to be tagged in all posts or only for specific series) or dropped from the tag list!
I had an idea for the next part of Gods & Monsters and I’m like… Should I dial it back a bit or go ham? I’ve had some wild ideas for oneshots and chapters, but I’ve been holding back. Like, y’all have no idea
Currently working on the next part of My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys 🩷
Tags: m/f ∘ sugar daddy!President Snow ∘ post tbosas canon ∘ daddy kink ∘ age gap (10 years, nothing illegal!) ∘ dom/sub dynamic ∘ district 4!reader/oc ∘ controlling and possessive behavior - toxic relationship ∘ pampering as ownership ∘ body image issues/forced feeding (just once this time) ∘ Capitol politics/inequality - classism (Coriolanus is a pieace of shit) ∘ original side characters ∘ objectification/dollification - punishments as loss of autonomy ∘ daddy issues (bc ofc) ∘ Lucy Gray and Crassus Snow haunt the narrative ∘ background university/actual psychology/cognitive science ∘ trauma
smut!! (mdni): impact play (spanking with a ruler), degradation, praise kink, slight pet play (if you squint), fingering, choking, piv, breeding kink, there is aftercare
Summary:
And so, on that day, Coriolanus had counted a total of four lacerations across Adriana's lip. His thumb carefully combed through the tender skin as she had knelt in front of him in the dark office in the Presidential mansion—warm licks of ember dancing on her face from the crackling fireplace.
“Have you no shame, hm?”, he had grabbed her jaw hard, yanking it from side to side — inspecting for any additional damage: “Hurting what belongs to me?”
His fingers bore into her cheeks in an attempt to reclaim the earlier pain as his own. And for that week… she couldn't go outside besides the gardens, she hadn't been allowed to feed or dress herself and… she had to swim for Coriolanus naked in his custom-ordered pool.
The lecture hall was far too exposing—pristine white walls with golden ornaments that only served to echo the cold fluorescent light coming from the bulbous fixtures. Those vial-like tubes covered the ceiling in a manner that was far too symmetrical—humming, not with life, but with caged energy. She'd hoped that at least when it came to literary analysis of the classics, the auditorium would match the lyrical decorum of the material discussed, the balmy comfort the texts would bring. But it seemed the only place that held any semblance of warmth within the University was its library—a separate building erected right next to the glass-domed Presidential greenhouse. The ceramic water-colored lamp lights and carved wooden benches, cushioned with velvet, that echoed a pre-War era certainly brought comfort. Naturally, this was all funded by Coriolanus a long time ago… anyone looking out of the baroque floor-to-ceiling windows, intricately framed with wrought iron, would see the white roses emerging from emerald bushes in the adjacent hothouse— ever-watching, a reminder that any unpalatable reading material can quickly be uprooted.
Nowhere is truly ‘private’ in the Panem, or in the Capitol for that matter. Citizens prefer to think they are the exception, certainly that is how it has always been portrayed… but they are just as much of a cog in the machine. With the important distinction that they got to keep their lives far more often on average—unless they got in way over their heads…
Coriolanus had cameras everywhere, even places he wouldn't care for in the past had some Peacekeeper assigned to keep watch. Now, however, those previously trivial locations are where his little siren swims. So, needless to say, he monitored those very closely when he had the time. Even when he didn't—sometimes just her image flickering across the monitor would bring him comfort he wasn’t ready to admit to. Seeing his sugar baby grateful and admiring—well-kept and close at hand—gave him a sense of euphoria he couldn't begin to describe. When he'd get furious at a Senator for being neglectful or outright dim-witted, the President had his siren—fingers tracing her image even now as she sat upright at the ebony desk, eyebrows furrowed in attempted focus.
For Adriana, it had been an eerie adjustment when first she'd first realized just how observed she truly was. Chewing on her bottom lip in absent-minded nervousness during class as Professor Crane had droned on about an upcoming exam—her phone had buzzed almost at the same time as she tasted copper.
Keep those sharp little fangs where they belong—I won't have you ruining the gloss I am paying for…
Her breath had hitched then—eyes darting around like prey caught in a trap, a mermaid entangled in a sailor's net, not realizing what angle the ship had come from. Her fingers moved—shakily drafting a message.
You have cameras here?
A pause as she deleted it—of course he did, why ask? Wasn't a siren the one supposed to lure instead of being cornered? Her eyes moved across the small screen—decisive now.
What if I have to bite my lip to stop myself from squirming, Daddy? Doesn't that earn me some good girl points?
After all she did feel quite sore after the punishments she'd earned herself the past few nights. Though Coriolanus preferred to call them ‘corrections’—she was still his good girl by the end, she just needed a firm reminder sometimes.
The message he sent in response then had been sharp in its tone, not patiently crafted—proving she had managed to provoke him quite well. A proud smile had dawned on her features.
Try it. Since you are so eager to play games…
That was all for a while, like he was waiting for her to crack, to break as well. Instead, she sat and waited, taking notes as if the whole ordeal didn't send a spark across her body. Then, the game rules came—from the man who played them best.
Every mark you leave on your lip before I see you? That's one less privilege you'll have this week.
A verdict brutal in its finality—she had lured him, sure enough, but possession was all she'd get from that haul. Not bad at all…
A ‘privilege’ in Coriolanus’ rule book could be anything—from as trivial as her being allowed to drink coffee or alcohol to the more extreme end of her being allowed to eat with her own hands, going to the bathroom without needing permission… getting to cum at all. The severity of her transgressions would determine which one of these would be removed—always and entirely up to him.
And so, on that day, Coriolanus had counted a total of four lacerations across Adriana's lip. His thumb carefully combed through the tender skin as she had knelt in front of him in the dark office in the Presidential mansion—warm licks of ember dancing on her face from the crackling fireplace.
“Have you no shame, hm?”, he had grabbed her jaw hard, yanking it from side to side — inspecting for any additional damage: “Hurting what belongs to me?”
His fingers bore into her cheeks in an attempt to reclaim the earlier pain as his own. And for that week… she couldn't go outside besides the gardens, she hadn't been allowed to feed or dress herself and… she had to swim for Coriolanus naked in his custom-ordered pool.
That, having happened almost a month ago, gave Adriana more than enough of an introduction into just how intense Coriolanus truly was when it came to their arrangement. And so, most alarmingly… it gave her a full show of just how much she loved being on the receiving end of it—their dynamic was his way of coming up for air freely… and maybe it had become hers too. Her whole body had trembled as she would swim, not from the coldness, but knowing she was watched—every stroke, every breath, every minute movement of the water teasing her, gliding across her bare skin—pressure wanting to enter.
Now, Adriana sat in a lecture almost squirming thinking back on that particular ‘correction’ whilst a rather fitting Odyssey passage was discussed.
Never has any sailor passed our shores in his black craft until he has heard the honeyed voices pouring from our lips, and once he hears to his heart's content sails on, a wiser man
We know all the pains that the Greeks and Trojans once endured…
Did she lull his pain away just like the mystical creatures Circe had warned of? Adriana surely wasn't as deadly to him—or maybe so she thought. She didn't know all his worries in the end, all his walls—even if some of them would crack under the salt water of her tears every so often—not by virtue of her freedom, but her willing captivity.
It was getting increasingly difficult for her to pay any attention with the distracting opacity of the auditorium, courtesy of its eye-piercing lights—far too overstimulating for someone who had her head down under the waves. And so she pulled out her phone to serve as the welcomed distraction once again.
Since I'm getting my nails done after… how would you want them, Daddy?
Coriolanus would have given her the instructions regardless, but when she'd ask—that was yet another surrender she was readily giving. And that was why he'd keep her his forevermore—a satisfied smirk spreading on his lips as soon as he read her message during a particularly dull policy review. He never kept her waiting too long—especially not on matters of her appearance and especially not when she’d been so good—asking first. The response was familiarly precise, leaving no room for artistic interpretation, but still tinged with that care he always gave. Care for detail, sure, but it also extended to her…
Crimson, high gloss, with gold filigree at the tips. The same shade as the ribbons I ordered for you when we saw ‘La traviata’ last week.And don’t forget… the manicurist knows better than to cut them too short—I prefer them just long enough to leave marks, sharp enough to match that tongue of yours. Send me a photo when they are done so I can decide whether you've earned your allowance this week…
Her heart was already pounding imagining herself sitting there, no thoughts in her head safe for that she was being further shaped to suit him. The pause preceding the next message was brief, not long enough to allow her to gather herself for the lower tone Coriolanus brought on through the bright screen:
And don’t forget… I expect them wrapped around me by tonight. My evening has been cleared.
The ping that followed sealed the fact that hers had now been swiftly occupied. Her calendar now sported a navy-colored dinner event, prefaced by a fitting slot in the high-end boutique she came to know well— ‘Velvet & Satin’. He rarely allowed her to attend unaccompanied. At the very least, he'd usually just have the seamstress sent to his mansion so he'd supervise the fitting… and when he was feeling particularly territorial, he'd only allow Tigris to fix Adriana's attire. Not only that but she was almost certain Coriolanus was rumored to be expected as a guest to Livia Cardew's gallery opening—his future fiance in all but name… yet he had preferred to spend the evening with his sugar baby? Certainly not a decision someone so image-conscious would easily make.
Adriana swallowed hard— something more was afoot here and she wasn't sure if the shiver she felt was entirely of a good origin.
Just a little something to make sure you are prepared for our two-month anniversary… a reward is due, like I promised.
Adrian's mind raced, wondering what would call for such a long session. But she quickly typed back, almost afraid to be perceived as unappreciative. Like the gift could slip through her fingers if she wasn't cautious enough. With Coriolanus, one could never be too sure and he had ingrained gratitude within her like a Pavlovian response—in just ninety days’ time. Efficient, if you'd ask him…
Thank you so much, Daddy… you always make me feel taken care of <3
I hope your meetings have been going well?
She had quickly learned how to cater to him. Rosalind, as someone very well-versed in the lifestyle, had told her younger ‘apprentice’ from the very beginning how she needed to ask her sugar daddy about his day, to make sure he knew she was thinking about him—how this made all the difference. After all, he was not just paying for her trinkets, but for her time, her thoughtfulness too…
It had started like this—asking because it made sense to. But as the days rolled on, Adriana had become genuinely interested in how Coriolanus was feeling, what he was feeling. Not just because of the exclusivity of it—being able to peer into the unreachable President's mind, but because she had come to see a certain sensitivity within him, juxtaposed to the rational, cold tyrant. That didn't make him any less merciless, on the contrary—it only further drove him. Beneath the harsh exterior stood a man who appreciated the complexities of the world around him. And how deeply they may cut if he wasn't the one holding the dagger…
The message only reflected that—his growing contentment at having someone to own, someone sure in the ever-shifting world. Someone to match his hunger…
They have—they always will go well. Though certainly better when my favorite distraction remembers her place so well… such a well-behaved little thing when you are given the proper stimulation.
Ah, so he wouldn't be honest immediately, that was okay… Adriana knew when to wait and listen.
The Senate debates were tedious though. Creed wouldn't stop grandstanding… I nearly had him removed.
There was the real truth—not everything was going well all of the time. And he was allowed to feel that way, to still have something… or someone to feel in control of when the reigns were slipping away. And that was the closest he'd ever come to admitting that Adriana's care and attention weren't just part of the arrangement for him—his rose had grown thorns.
I fear grandstanding is out of his arsenal.
Naturally, I spared him the humiliation but at the intermission last week he butchered that District Four quota report… truly an embarrassment if he can't tell apart the cod he was gobbling down from the haddock his policy supposedly aided in exporting
Coriolanus let out a rich chuckle at that—so unburdened that the maid serving coffee for the round meeting table jumped out of her skin. She most definitely didn't know the President could produce such a sound, or allow himself to—more accurately.
But it was ironic and so the reaction was well-placed, Coriolanus had determined—the fat Senators would pass rule when none of them had truly known what it was like to rise from the ashes of the War—not fully, not like he had. They didn’t know how fragile peace was, because they never got to see the ugliest sides of humanity. And that made them inept at making chief decisions… He found it fascinating when his own little siren was the one humbling them—an oyster with unassuming origins, opening up to reveal a pearl. He loved how tasteful she was about it too—unlike Livia who'd make the loudest statement whenever she'd get the chance to shame someone, Adriana kept her tact. Ten years Cardew's junior, yet the little siren already had her ways to uplift the man next to her…
So insightful, like always… why am I not surprised that my little urchin would know her fish?
But you are right… he is too overconfident for what he pitifully contributes
Naturally, he wouldn't allow the praise to get to her head. Her background and thus her reliance on him for a Capitol citizenship was something Coriolanus had no qualms about exploiting to his full advantage—reminding her subtly but in a manner that cut nonetheless, that she was special because she was his, not because of who she was…
Adriana's hand trembled—her somewhat intact traces of pride not allowing her to admit that the degradation had sparked not hate, but a sense of belonging. Like despite it all, Coriolanus still chose her… Before she could come up with a response that wouldn't give her away, Professor Crane's hoarse voice rang louder as students fluttered to leave the auditorium: “Professor Demigloss has asked me to remind you about Monday's research group on neural responses to patriotic materials—sign up at the exit!”
A fancy way of saying ‘propaganda’, Adriana thought. But she had wanted to study precisely to understand more about everything around her—literature as an art, but also the psychology classes she clung to as if they could somehow explain why she had to suffer through her past. To finally make sense of it… she wasn't allowed to veer too much in her thoughts though as a follow-up message graced her screen:
While we are on the topic of people who don't contribute… The car is waiting for you, don't dawdle entertaining that boy. I won't tolerate distractions, especially not ones with bleeding hearts.
Coriolanus had had his fill dealing with do-gooders—hypocrites, the lot of them, thinking they were capable of ‘fixing’ things that needed to be left alone, thinking they knew better… playing humble, yet appealing to some higher moral standing. As if their actions were outside of them when they’d inevitably harm others. Their fate was at the end of a rope, like his dear ‘friend’ of old—a fool who never once stopped to consider that he didn't understand the reality around him. Lysander reminded Coriolanus of Sejanus far too much, and so every interaction he'd witnessed Adriana having with the intern gritted his nerves. The boy was playing knight in shining armor, thinking he'd ever be capable of giving her what she hungered for, believing his naive kindness was the balm… No, his little siren saw the world for what it truly was. She was a survivor—but unlike Lucy Gray—one content with being devoured.
Adriana's throat went dry—she had her defiant spark still, always wanting to dive deeper, wanting Coriolanus to be there when she came back up... guided, owned, but still swimming forward. Unfortunately, the President wasn't trusting enough for that. And what they had was never about freedom. She'd experience depths, sure—but only the ones he permitted, only the ones he'd be there for—dragging her down himself.
He is just a friend, Daddy… so is Rosalind
Oh, she tried to be sweet about her escape—it wasn’t like Coriolanus hadn’t wanted the challenge with her. He scoffed, irritated now—close to reeling the still filled coffee cup at the nearest wall. Instead, he channeled that energy into typing way too fast.
Did I ask for your input on semantics, little siren? Keep your interactions with him strictly professional… unless you'd prefer I come to collect what I'm owed in person and remind where your loyalties lie… I do have a gap between meetings
Adriana was just getting to the window-tinted car, the driver—nameless to her and the world—opening the door for her, when a tap on her shoulder woke her up to the reality outside her phone screen.
Lysander’s warm eyes—looking concerned, right with Rosalind on his tail. The girl, quite on the contrary—appeared buzzing with barely contained excitement. It left one wondering how did the two of them manage to stay friends, being so different.
“Hey… I-we just wanted to make you are okay, little pearl. You seem distracted lately... You know—we can always talk, like we used to…”, he nudged her shoulder. The nickname now seemed far too familiar—a reminder of a time when Adriana would live, cramped in the Gamemaker accommodation, with the suffocating presence of her father. And Lysander… being the only one who’d keep her company outside of work.
“I'm fine, Lysi… you know I'm excelling with my studies, no? See how fast I got used to it all!”, Adriana assured, spinning elegantly at the University gates as if proving the world hadn’t swallowed her whole. As if she wasn’t willingly letting herself be crushed and remade between a shark’s sharp teeth.
“You know that's not what I meant— you used to trust me—”, Lysander started again, voice too low but still sharp, like he was afraid even the ornate doors or the summer sunlight itself—far too unmasking in its brightness—might carry his words straight to Coriolanus.
Rosalind took a step in front of him unprompted, rolling her eyes: “Boo-hoo, we actually wanted to invite you to the freshmen outing, Addie! Not this melodrama…”, she huffed, apparently fed-up with her best friend: “Anyways you have to come—everyone will be there. It’s a great way to meet all of the elite around our age…”
Her conspiratorial tone unveiled all the subtext—that while both of them were sugar babies, Adriana needed to enrich herself beyond the confines of Coriolanus. Rosalind cleared her throat, already calculating how to soften the blow when she realized the driver was still there—not arresting, not threatening—just a silent ever-present escort and witness to any possible transgressions. Even Lysander, who liked to pretend he was above Capitol fear conditioning and who had been slouching angrily —now straightened his posture and took a small step away from Adriana. Renouncing his mission… for now.
“Not that you don’t have all the connections you could ever want! Just, you know— you could always show off that diamond choker you had on at the opera last week.”, she quickly boasted loudly on the other girl's behalf, worried that the President was somehow omnipresent.
Little did she know… that exact piece of jewelry had other functions. Chief of all—ensuring Adriana was reminded of Coriolanus’ ownership with every step she took wearing it and after. The velvet-lined inside—embossed with his initials—would press into her soft neck, wound tightly enough to break the skin delicately around each letter, leaving them imprinted, branded there. At Rosalind's unknowing suggestion, Adriana moved automatically, adjusting the silk foulard that was now hiding the tender C.S. scarring—her neck having learned the shape of them, of him.
Before she had any time to blush and further give herself away, however, Rosalind was already moving onto another topic—overexcitable as always. She had lowered her voice to a whisper, slithering closer: “If I'd known you'd snatch the President so well, I'd have gone for the take myself. Ugh, Festus can be such a scrooge sometimes! I listen to him whine and whine all day, I ride his dick—and what do I get?! A fugly bracelet…”, she whined, wiggling her wrist around with a jingle. The beads weren't exactly tasteful, but, well… there was more to life than that.
Adriana looked around embarrassed at the brazen steer of the conversation. She was used to Rosalind's energy. Sure, she'd even join in after a drink or two—but at the University central gate—in broad daylight?! Really? She couldn't claim any modesty after what she was doing with Coriolanus, but she could still be shy at Lysander and the driver being right there, even if the conversation was hushed.
“Aw, come now, Rosa—Festus cares for you just as much, you know that…”, she assured, patting her friend on the shoulder. But the other girl frowned even deeper and Adriana was forced to scramble a puppet show, praising: “Y-your dress! At the gala—the white flowing one—wasn't it like part of the new winter collection?! Very chic to be ahead of it all…”
Rosalind sighed, a lighter expression on her face now, despite the audible pout: “Yeah, well… I guess you're right…”
Lysander swooped in, putting an end to the pity party: “Anyways! Think about the party, yes? It's tomorrow… I will be very happy to see you there.”, he hastily added.
“Sure… I will ask Coriolanus if I'll be available.”, Adriana gave a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. These were the things she wanted to be able to just agree to if she wanted to—to dive, not alone, but supported. Lysander echoed his distaste for her situation but the words were muffled by her loud thoughts.
So loud in fact that she had neglected to hear or feel the ceaseless notifications her smartphone had accumulated. An error in judgement that was swiftly corrected by one of the Peacekeepers keeping guard of the car moving to seize her wrist and attempt to haul her into the car without a word.
She quickly did the math and peeked to see the remnants of the last message:
Time's up, little siren… And if I ever hear you comparing me to Creed again, you'll spend the weekend learning the difference firsthand. Bound to my bed, gagged and silent.
“Oops, Daddy is mad…”, Rosalind singsonged, too obliviously lighthearted as the heavy door closed in on Adriana. The other girl's voice was subdued in the process: “Toodles! Tell us if you're coming!”
And then—real silence enveloped Adriana. Left with the Avox driver and the inharmoniously twinkling star-lit car roof, she felt like the walls were closing in on her—like she was drowning. Just like she was plunged into panic when she'd first realized Coriolanus had eyes on her everywhere. But now that he had ears as well—even her voice wasn't her own. What would be next—her thoughts?
Her eyes darted around again—unable to bring herself to read the bulk of his messages… When she finally landed on the rear-view mirror—a bright red rose lapel pinned to the collar of the driver looked back at her, almost mocking in its prominence against the white uniform. A microphone—like blood on snow…
Coriolanus had ensured almost all servants tending to Adriana were Avoxes… but it seemed their silence only worked one way.
The sudden ringing of her phone made her twitch back to life as she picked up, feeling his warm voice coil around her ear: “Don’t look so shocked, now. It's for your protection, little siren… for your own good. I'm simply looking out for you, like always.”
Was that what people meant when they'd speak of a boiling frog? The creeping normality of it all—of his claim on her. Not even just ordinary, but… appreciated, sending goosebumps along Adriana's whole body, despite how controlling the words sounded. Maybe because of that…
“I could just tell you how my day has been? Instead of this…”, she suggested, testing the waters.
“Ah, but my little siren can be so forgetful sometimes… and well, even deceitful if you wanted. This eliminates all the nasty pretenses… I thought you'd be thankful—Daddy going out of his way for you like this. Especially when you proved my worry so readily. Tomorrow you are to attend the senate dinner by my side. Which you'd have known if you bothered to check the schedule I meticulously update for you…”, he went on, every stretch of his vowels through the crisp speaker crackle sending honeyed prickles at Adriana's skin.
One could erroneously think he was bored at having to explain himself, but she'd come to recognize that slight fraying in his tone—a giveaway that he was worked up because of the whole ordeal. Because she could never lie to him—not for long and that was the closest Coriolanus could come to ‘love’ after Twelve's forest.
“I'm sorry, Daddy—I-it must have slipped my mind…”, she supplied quickly, breath growing heavier from the ongoing game.
It was such a well-crafted play—shifting the accusations onto her, building himself up as the hero, the guardian force. Who, despite the inconvenience she was—would be the only one to treasure her for it. It was what made their relationship so inevitably pulling.
“You know how I feel about apologies, little siren—they are empty if you don't get consequences… and since you clearly need reinforcement on where your priorities lie, I've taken the liberty of adjusting your calendar.”, Coriolanus explained, intonation far more clipped and determined now.
When Adriana glanced at the screen she saw the myriad of events created—not something he could do in a single click—unless it had already been planned. He had just waited for her to slip it seemed and use the opportunity to fill her every previously free hour with him. More fittings, private lunches, supervised study sessions… the list went on.
Before she managed to take it all in order to utter a response, Coriolanus let out a self-satisfied chuckle: “Oh, and sweetheart? Wear that choker tonight—I want you to feel it when I decide whether you've earned forgiveness.”
With that, she knew she'd do well to not test him further today—unintentionally or otherwise… Instead of mindless submission, however, something slow and steady rose within her—white-hot tension pressing against her ribs as if her lungs were filling with salt water. She could attend the state dinner… and go to the party afterwards. Defiance called out to her like when she'd take a harder route diving for pearls, just to prove a peer wrong, just for the challenge of it. The frog jumped out of its boiling surroundings if only for a moment. Not to escape, but to start a chase—to test.
A plan was locked in place as she answered sweetly: “Of course, Daddy—I wouldn't dream of disappointing you…”
The quiet scoff on the other end of the line had definitely been the beginning of a small laugh, suppressed to convey seriousness: “Since you're so eager to prove how good you can be... Dinner's at eight—don't test me further unless you want to spend it with your pretty hands tied behind your back. We both remember how humiliating it was to not have that privilege, little siren.”
The last thing Coriolanus heard—much to his satisfaction—was Adriana's breath hitch as she tried to inhale through the fog. Then, the beep of the line cutting echoed through her skull—leaving her in that sensitive, almost floating state. She did remember, how could she forget…? The issue was how sweet shame always felt when administered by Coriolanus’ hand and sang in his mocking tone:
‘Poor little siren—can't even feed yourself properly… I have to do everything for you, don't I?’
How he'd reach over across the table from his chair to wipe the mess trickling down her chin from the rich meat sauce—a lamb for slaughter on his plate and sitting opposite him. How much it had affected him too—the outline of his cock throbbing against the red silk of his leisure nightclothes slacks as he brought the evidence of ‘her’ mess to his own lips.
Adriana had almost completely sunk into that vulnerable mental state—blinking awake as she sat across from the manicurist now. It was disarming, almost scary—how Coriolanus could lull her into pliability so swiftly—like toggling a switch she never even knew existed.
There was some idle chatter going on as per usual, Adriana's responses almost felt automatic as she relaxed into the plush chair. The pampering subtly complementing her docile state… and her schedule had already accommodated that—mandated it actually. Like Coriolanus had gotten it down to a science—when to spur and when to whip.
“So… any gossip around Senate tables?”, Martha's eyebrows wiggled as she finished off a golden swirl on Adriana's pointer finger nail with a flare of her small brush—emphasizing the theatrical turn of the conversation.
Adriana had to choke back her surprise at the sudden questioning as she took a sip of her coffee: “Hah, Martha… you know I can't talk about this!”, she reprimanded in a hushed tone, rolling her eyes. So much for relaxing—the Capitol would always make sure you were walking on eggshells.
The older woman's voice turned lighter, downplaying the possible consequences of the indulgent crumbs she was asking for: “Oh, come on, miss Tidewell. I just mean the President's got strong opinions on the new dress codes at the opera house—or so I've heard… nothing scandalous!”
In a sense, Coriolanus’ paranoia was contagious and for a good reason. The last thing Adriana needed—given that the full extent of their arrangement was still somewhat hidden—was an offhand comment leading back to her through the Capitol's tempestuous rumor tides. Handling this was yet another way to prove her loyalty—another test.
She forced a laugh, leaning back to match Martha's conspiratorial smile, ready to feed the vultures just enough: “The only opinion he's ever had about fashion is that it should be flawless. So if the opera house is cutting corners… maybe keep that to yourself.”, she shushed—the cherry on top, making it feel all too-exclusive. The satisfied grin that spread on the other woman's face confirmed her success. Now there would be enough to not think of Adriana as conceited, but also not too much to draw blood for the sharks—a fine balance on the tip of her rod.
The Peacekeeper keeping watch took a step forward when the allotted time had passed. No words were uttered once again, but Adriana knew to stand straight, smooth her dress and exchange whatever final pleasantries were appropriate. At that, Martha reached into her work apron pocket to hand a bottle of topcoat with exaggerated innocence: “For touch-ups… The President is very particular after all!”, she chimed.
A strained smile cracked on Adriana's face as she politely thanked the woman. Martha thought she knew Coriolanus—like any other contrived socialite—viewing him as this unreachable high power they got to know all about through his speeches and Flickerman's segments. And, naturally, they saw anyone close to the President as just an extension of him—getting close to them meant basking in the light of ‘The Sun King’. And so, almost no ‘friendship’ Adriana had made after becoming Coriolanus’ sugar baby was genuine…
Thoughts, reflections—reflections, thoughts in an endless input-output loop.
The car was silent again, clashing with her restless mind—always drifting somewhere until it reached a soothing depth. Adriana fiddled with her phone, looking for that regulation—the external validation that'd set her right.
Impulsivity won, like it always did, as she snapped a quick photo under the guise of showing her nails… quality assurance and all. She deemed it more than necessary to bite her finger in the picture… durability testing.
Adriana:
Status update… thought you might appreciate it, Daddy~
Three blocks away, Coriolanus was sitting at the Head Gamemaker conference table—a vein popping prominently on his forehead from sheer continuous frustration. Doctor Gaul, albeit his former mentor for many years, had begun to grossly overstep—meeting after meeting, proposal after proposal. She never did have tact, or any otherwise inconvenient human sentimentalities for that matter. That was a strength Coriolanus could and did admire for a long time—until its blade was pointed at him. To him, Valumnia now was nothing more than an ugly reminder—of his own past powerlessness. The last person left still breathing that had seen into him far too deeply—a particularly nasty and determined barnacle, latched onto the otherwise victorious ship.
“You'll have to excuse our dear President, doctors. He rarely had an appreciation for things capable of fleeing…”, she sneered, addressing the rest of the conference over his head.
Coriolanus had criticized her mutt design trials—their schematics sprawled across the reflective table in waves of mockery, aimed to engulf him.
“You proposed shark mutations for an oceanic Games’ theme… Let us—for the sake of losing more time—pretend that this is even remotely imaginative. You would have them situated at the largest open-water region? What, so they may admire the tributes from afar?”, Coriolanus didn't relent, his voice dropping in condescension—frost taking hold: “It's not the fleeing that concerns me—it's that you want funding for a pet project that might not even result in meaningful screen time…”
He was going in circles—swimming for a shore without knowing how to place the final blow. He knew it, Gaul, with her sharp smile—also knew it and was just waiting for him to stutter.
And then, Adriana’s message arrived—the notification sending ripples across the crystalline table, calling to him. It was his time to smile now, ready to crash the waves: “Let me remind you that the Games didn't survive thanks to lab work… You don't know how to make a show, Valumnia—just scientific perversions.”
That use of her first name was the final seal of her fate. No longer seen as a professional, and so no longer needed—surgically removed as the meeting was dismissed.
Coriolanus had needed his little siren just as much as she needed him—and she had delivered. She—the true north to his compass and he—the pearl she'd always dive deeper for.
Coriolanus:
Appreciate is a word for it… Good girls don't bite. Look at the camera like that again and I'll have you kneel at my feet the moment you walk through my door.
In the car—light shone through the dark depths as Coriolanus responded, owning even those reckless parts of her. Her breath stifled as if he was holding her by the throat through the pixels that had formed his words—making all bad thoughts swim away again.
Coriolanus:
But since you are so eager to tease… unbutton the top of your blouse before you enter the boutique and lose the foulard. I want my branding to breathe—just enough to remind you who you are dressing for.
The next photo—his initials visibly imprinted on her neck—made him want to reach across the screen and wrap his fingers around her pulse. The ocean always claimed its bounty…
The white marble floors of ‘Velvet & Satin’ only echoed that sentiment. As attendants flocked around Adriana, she couldn’t help but laugh to herself—suddenly reminded of the seagulls’ piercing cries in Four as they’d rain down on the wealthier merchant children… in this case—unfortunate enough to carry the occasional ice-cream.
The golden chandeliers, twinkling above, made the whole hallway seem like it were swallowed by the sun itself. Boutiques usually carried a warmer light, Adriana had noted—wanting to be as far removed from the sterility of Capitol labs as possible. But even then, it was a forced sense of comfort, for everything was engineered in fashion just as much. Especially when it came to Coriolanus…
That single private fitting room was larger than a whole family’s living quarter in the Pearl Precinct. She'd come to learn it fast—that a District’s scale of comparison was really inadequate. Still, the parallels were hard not to draw when everything around her had been curated to remind subtly of Four. Not its ‘foul brine’ as Coriolanus had so expressively put it—but a mimicry of its best parts. A message in a bottle. Just like their first encounter in the Millennium—it served to show Adriana how tamed she was under his care.
The large mirrors were draped with turquoise shawls, their shine so transparent that one might think actual shallow waters were caged just for display—flowing but caught in the silver metallic edges of the frames. A force of nature trapped in gleaming luxury. Her reflection stared back—stripped down in just a plush robe.
Just in time, garment racks were rolled in—endless pieces resting upon velvet hangers with no chance of slithering down to touch anything else besides Adriana's skin. She instantly noticed a theme—swimsuits, sun dresses, delicate slides to match. What would she need all of that for?
Before she could think of opening her mouth to ask, one of the senior seamstresses was already passing her a particularly tight-fitting one-piece. At least it looked like it—dark blue with embroidered iridescent snowflakes that'd only appear if twirled in the perfect angle to catch the light. The swimsuit, however, felt and looked slacked around her waist—not hugging as tightly as originally suspected.
“Ah, it must be my new training regimen…”, Adriana noted nervously, not wanting to cause trouble for the boutique: “I might have overdone it the past few weeks.”
Food was in excess here in the Capitol and it wasn't even Coriolanus who had suggested she start going to yoga classes or on morning runs. It had been Rosalind who urged her on—emphasizing how important it would be for Adriana's status now—to be in shape at any cost.
The attendants, buzzing around, suddenly stopped dead in their tracks, exchanging anxious looks—a silent understanding. And then, they scattered like worker bees in pre-determined formation—to pin the fabric back and take notes for corrections.
A now familiar rose lapel on the main seamstress’ collar caught Adriana's widened eyes as the woman spoke: “President Snow's orders were very specific about each fit, Miss Tidewell. We will have all of the selection adjusted—by-by morning!”
The stutter made Adriana's stomach drop—there were maybe fifty outfits here, from what she could estimate. How and why in Panem's gem would they manage? It wasn't their fault…
She shielded herself back into the robe, almost tangling her limbs in the tape measure an attendant had been battling with. For a moment the poor girl flinched—like she had come to expect an outburst from such wealthy clientele. Instead, Adriana's voice softened—reaching over to take one of the tulle dresses.
“It's barely visible… especially the airy sundresses—see?”, she assured, layering the outfit over her.
Her muscles were more rigid now though, arms close to her torso—like she wasn't just comforting them but soothing herself. The boss’ voice came in harsher now, more assured: “That would be unacceptable by our standards, I'm afraid, miss. And the President does so hate it when things aren't… precise.”
Clothes or Adriana—neither were predictably matched now. And uncertainty was the one thing Coriolanus eliminated by any means necessary.
The shrill notifications sound lodged into her temples—momentum rounding between them like a Newton's cradle as the words stared back at her. Yet another consequence of being his…
Coriolanus:
Weight loss is unacceptable, my siren. You were already put on a perfectly balanced routine—by the doctors I handpicked no less. Maybe you think me incompetent? That you know better? Tonight, when we dine together, you can be sure—every bite will be accounted for… measured by my hand.
Because his hand was the steadiest—the most discerning. People lived and died by those hands day after day—drops in a vast ocean. But Adriana was chief of all—his creation. His to remake if necessary… when necessary.
Adriana:
Of course, Daddy.
She'd responded with a trembling hand—endless submission. The seamstress stepped back quietly, forcing a smile as she gestured toward the mirror after the pins were put in place: “See? Already better!”
The dress frills gathered like sea foam at the waist but all Adriana could see was Coriolanus’ invisible hand tightening there—correcting, controlling.
She exited ‘Velvet & Satin’ already dressed for dinner, tightening that choker impossibly more as the car drove off towards the Presidential mansion. The setting sun painted the Capitol skyline in gilded hues—a fitting backdrop as Adriana rested her forehead and palm against the cool window. The hues blurred into streaks, and they in turn—bled in with the golden ornaments on her nails. Not just a show, but a symptom of his all-consuming claim. She didn't know where she ended and he began now but… in these moments—where one should be able to find peace in themselves instead of constant turbulence—she'd be irrationally thankful to him for remolding her. Because it meant she was never alone.
Adriana:
Thank you… for making me believe I am worth something.
She confessed—she sent, trembling with the shock of it. The bubbles on the other side appeared, then disappeared in a loop of… was it calculation? Or perhaps self-doubt? No, she had a hard time ascribing the latter to Coriolanus. But then his messages arrived in quick succession.
One—a vulnerability shared.
Coriolanus:
You always have been—and always will be.
The other —a shield for his rusted heart.
Coriolanus:
But if I ever hear you question it… I'll bend that doubt out of you, right over my knee.
And just like that, the weight of it all—of the world, but of him too—felt less like a chain and more like an anchor.
Soft summer rain dribbled down from the gray clouds above as Adriana made her up the large limestone stairs leading up to the mansion doors. The material—bright white and showing little sign of wear despite the many Victor's Tours that culminated here each year since the Eleventh Hunger Games—drank up every drop greedily.
Snow would always come and wash away the past.
And she'd come to know this ascent better than her way home. Each step—a countdown to another preordained meeting.
Inside the mansion, it was quiet but never empty—just subdued—hushed in a way only a space under Coriolanus’ control could be. The staff moved efficiently—footsteps swallowed by plush carpets, even the china and trays they'd carry were somehow gracefully soundless due to trained movements. A presence that was acknowledged only when required—a ghost town.
“There you are, little siren…”, the baritone of his voice sliced through the stillness as he descended the grand staircase.
Dressed down to his shirtsleeves—cuff links discarded somewhere—he looked almost comfortable, like he had shed his armor for the day to finally find respite. Adriana dragged a slow step forward, as if compelled to close the distance herself—pulled by a tide.
“I've missed you, Daddy.”, she offered sweetly.
Coriolanus’ smile was a slow cut, spreading on his face as he extended his hand—hovering just above Adriana's head but not yet touching, not yet offering her that gratifying physical contact. Not until she showed she'd seek it out like a well-behaved pet.
And she did… swaying on the tips of her toes, she nestled her head into his touch—like a cat would nudge its master. He hummed long and low, clearly satisfied—tangling his fingers harsher through the threads of her hair and pulling her closer to him.
“You have? I'd wager you missed being corrected more like—with how you insisted on testing my patience… first that boy, then forgetting your schedule. And to top it all off—”, the pause was cold, like the person listening would be left to stare at the edge of an abyss: “—you once again found a way to defile what is mine.”
The vexation he felt at Adriana's ascertained weight loss was abruptly emphasized by a squeeze at the back of her neck. He wanted to ensure that at least that claim—his choker, his initials—remained unmoved, steadily fastened.
“I thought you'd be pleased—”, she tried to explain, voice edged: “—Rosa said the latest trends—”
A visage of a bright orange shawl sprawled onto foliage flickered in his mind’s eye, followed by sharp pain on the back of his hand. It seemed so real even in that moment—even miles away from Twelve, years away from its forest—that he physically flinched away.
“After everything I've done for you…”, he whispered low before he snapped out of it—addressing Adriana, interrupting her meek excuses: “Trends?! You'd sooner be like every brainless socialite than follow my lead and excel?”, he challenged—plunging her into the abyss now: “You are perfect, because I chose you and choose you every day. That means I choose for you, think for you—a simple instruction when you boil it down, don't you think?”
No, if she started forming decisions, preferences of her own—she could just as easily run, abandon, betray. To his relief… his little siren nodded, lowering her head—a rose snipped of its thorns. Because unlike Lucy Gray, Adriana needed this as much as he did—she dreaded being alone too.
“Y-you're right… I'm sorry, Daddy, I—”, she was so docile now: “—I will make it up to you…”, she promised.
Sometimes she'd lash out, rarely, but it was always there—that split in her when she'd start seeing people as just black or white, all bad or all good—no nuance, just survival. But Coriolanus had learned how to tame that too. Her instincts were right—he wholeheartedly believed—just unstable in their targets. She lacked that center, that dependable perception of herself. So, Coriolanus happily settled into the role of being her pulling force, her aim—and Adriana had latched so readily onto that.
“Oh, I’m certain you will, little siren…”, his voice was deliberately soft, a small reward so she didn’t spiral. His fingers brushed featherlight across her jawline, palm settling to cradle her face—caressing, but also holding—calming himself in the process after the unsavory and involuntary memory.
“So then, dinner first…”, he hummed, ordering slowly—the bow’s string being pulled, then—: “And if you dare leave so much as a crumb on your plate, I’ll have you lick it off my fingers like the good girl you pretend to be.”—the shot taken.
With that, Coriolanus’ fingers coiled around her waist, entrapping and digging like a fisherman's net as he led her to the expansive dining chamber. The oblong black table was already set, waiting for tonight’s session. Bright floral china served as a sharp contrast against its obsidian-like shine—a testament that everything here not only endured, but was shaped into something more by his mutable, contrived conditions. As he pulled out a chair for her next to his like a refined Capitol aristocrat—Adriana came to realize that tonight wouldn’t be just about displaying obedience. This feast and any punishment after would be lessons that it wasn’t just her body that belonged to him—all her hungers did too.
The pasta portion appeared bigger than usual, but it wasn't like she didn't expect Coriolanus to already have ordered it as such to the chef. Frutti di Mare—it had been a while since he'd indulged them in something from Adriana's home district. Not since their first ‘date’ to be precise… first the outfits in the boutique, then this? With the President, nothing was pure coincidence. But she had more tact than to ask straight away—knowing he preferred to be eased into revealing things himself, rather than be pressured.
Adriana picked up a forkful, making sure she relayed she would eat every bite properly as she looked to him gently—just with the corner of her eyes: “Anything bothersome with the Senate?”, she prompted.
Coriolanus’ fingers paused mid-motion, fork hovering over his plate as his eyes settled on her—assessing. The chandelier candlelight caught in the blue irises, making them appear almost translucent for a moment—just at the corneas—like icy mountaintops.
“Only predictably so…”, he half-admitted, finally committing to chewing only to wash down the ocean’s taste with a deliberate sip of his bright red wine: “Rebellious muttering in District Eleven—all crushed, naturally. Heavensbee was foolish enough to question my land decree policies—swiftly silenced.”
Physically or metaphorically…. that was up to an interlocutor's interpretation. Coriolanus’ lips curved barely at that—a tremble almost, like he was reliving the exact moment control had been reinstalled. A few more quick bites passed when he suddenly lifted his hand—fingers lingering against Adriana's choker—making her breath hitch.
“Isn't it unsettling though…?", she assessed: “Eleven is Panem's granary, yet they have the highest rate of rebel approbation. At least based on the recent studies, that could mean—”
He abruptly pressed in—hard enough to make her feel the weight of his initials against her pulse, this time stealing her breath fully, not bothering to entertain reality: “Truthfully though—”, an echo of her sentence: “—Gaul was the thorn in my sight today…”
He let go, focused on swirling his glass—like he could imagine it were Valumnia's blood churning about. “She was supposed to showcase her mutts at the new ‘Santiago and Manolin’ resort. But the designs are just plain disappointing—a mere fortnight before the Reaping no less…”, he sighed, feigning disappointment now.
He'd managed to overcome the slight his former mentor had inflicted hours ago. So now—his eyes glinted, voice clearer—hopeful that Adriana would catch on his hook. And she did—oh, she sure did—her own eyes reflecting his brightness.
“As in ‘The Old Man and the Sea’?”, she discarded her fork with a clink: “What's this resort?”, she asked directly now, carefully on the verge of excitement.
“Aw, little siren… you haven't figured it out already? Now why would Daddy indulge your tastes? Why would he, say… order two dozen beach wear outfits for his precious girl, hm?”, he tsked and the play continued.
“Will we… watch the Games from District Four?”, Adriana suggested—voice uneven. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it—seeing her old home but now being so far removed from it. It being used as entertainment, as something exotically matching the Games’ theme—with no real benefit to its residents no doubt…
“So perceptive…”, Coriolanus encouraged, snapping his fingers: “What better way to reward my favorite distraction and just in time for our anniversary? You help me so after all…”
His butler brought parchment, so much like the one sailors would write their journals on, but manufactured to look worn—wax-stamped ‘S&M’ at the top. An invitation to “an unforgettably authentic experience”, it stated. Adriana wasn’t deluded to believe this was done especially for her. Surely, Hoffman—the senator overseeing District Four—had seen the return on investment years in advance. But one thing was for certain—Coriolanus wouldn't have greenlit it to be such an integral part of the Games—what was his ‘exact science’—if it didn't constitute yet another way of showing his little siren in whose net exactly she'd been caught. A Bermuda triangle of her past, present and future—all coming together in that resort.
“Th-thank you, I-I just don't know what to say—”, her voice was more hoarse than she would have wanted: “I'm happy I'll see Four again.”
She wasn’t lying, but Coriolanus would take nothing less than starry-eyed admiration.
“You will not be seeing Four.”, he cut off sharply, taking a longer sip of his wine: “You will see it remade in a better image—a piece of it, perfectly presented on a platter.”
“And what of Livia?”, she bit back, suddenly wanting to twist the knife on its way into the oyster.
Would she find a pearl or would it snap off her fingers?
“Livia will be otherwise occupied.”, he concluded, each sound short and exhaled.
Adriana wasn't an idealist, she wasn't a fighter—she was selfish. And so, just like that, the pain she'd felt in her heart at her district being reduced to a spectacle—dulled ever so slightly, because Coriolanus kept her again.
“How convenient…”, Adriana twirled the figurative pearl she'd managed to latch off—that trickle of attention.
“Indeed… but enough dawdling on things yet to come—we will end up ruining the culmination.”, he demanded. Allowing her that win for a moment before he moved her plate closer to her—a reminder of her obligations. “Tell me about your lectures, little siren. Which tedious theory or analysis will they force into that pretty head of yours?”
Adriana picked up her fork, almost missing why she did it—that it had been prompted by his silent order. Maybe it had been a deflection but a warm feeling settled in her chest that he'd bother to ask.
“Professor Demigloss will have a research group on attachment theory and neural excitability. She… well—”, a pause to take a bite and time to consider how to phrase it to match Coriolanus’ sensibilities: “—always wants us to apply empirical studies to the “current political climate”. So she'll have us correlate how the different attachment styles respond to different mediums of propaganda.”
A venture he'd wholeheartedly support—probably having funded such studies. Why base your campaign on gut feelings when you can know what is most likely to actually work—targeted messaging? His indulging nods revealed as much.
But Adriana looked at him through the rim of her glass as she added, more meekly: “Personally, I wanted to see its applications in therapy… to help people.”, she confessed.
“Therapy?”, he echoed, tasting the word like it was an extravagant delicacy—interesting, but ultimately useless and even possibly dangerous. His finger tapped against the table: “A noble pursuit… if one enjoys wasting time. People don't need healing—they need direction.”
When she didn't immediately agree, he became crueler: “You mourn your mother's descent into madness—you think you could somehow retrospectively help her?”, he laughed: “The past is best left alone, little siren.”
—Is what he’s told himself too… lest he remember mockingjay songs.
That was the first time he'd named Adriana's fears outright. It made her look away, the ‘fruits of the sea’ suddenly tasting bitter.
But he only continued: “‘Propaganda’, sweetheart—well, that's simply guidance in its purest form. Though I must admit—”, he lunged forward, grabbing her jaw and forcing her to face him, holding tightly through his interrogation: “—even weakness has its uses. And… your particular fascination with attachment is deliciously ironic.”
She scowled for a second as he brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, sealing the next words into her, as he uttered them low: “… given how thoroughly you've attached yourself to me…”
“Because there is something to attach to—even if you don't want to see it… Daddy.”, she challenged with a well-placed pause, emphasizing the honorific as she glared at him.
His eyes widened imperceptibly as the forgotten dessert platters were whisked away by unseen hands. He moved slowly, but at soon as his hand raised toward the tiered serving trays—all hands froze, waiting for his next move. Coriolanus didn’t tear his eyes from Adriana’s for a second—embracing the challenge. Maybe his next order was all the confirmation she needed as he picked up just one piece of gumdrop cake and brought it to her lips.
“Open.”, his voice rang. But she looked away—forcing him to reclaim. And so, he did—lodging her mouth open, lingeringly placing that soft and sweet pastry—pressing the bite onto her tongue. A sadistic spark crossed his features as he swiftly sealed her lips and nose with just one hand, holding as long as needed—a silent battle. As she was successfully forced to swallow it down, breathless—his fingers lingered on her throat, harshly pressuring the gulp down. Then, he rose up fully, with an absolute command, licking his thumb: “My office—now. We will discuss your academic priorities…”
Empty hallways with tall ceilings accompanied her journey into the butcher's den. Coriolanus’ hand—ever-present, alternated between resting on the low of her back and tracing soothing circles along her spine. Portraits of past Head Gamemakers blurred as they neared his office—not many, only those who'd earned their memory be preserved. Though one likeness always stood out to Adriana—an oil painting on the wall just opposite the office doors. If one would have them opened and was sitting at the desk—a man with golden hair and inhumanly cold gaze would stare back, just above eye-level—a twisted warden in an endlessly haunting tunnel vision.
This time, Coriolanus closed the door behind her, stalking past to take his seat in the grand leather chair—legs spread invitingly. No order to kneel this time—no need for inspections—because he had all of the information needed to administer his corrections. She took the unspoken summons as natural as taking her next breath—perching up on his lap.
“You know how this goes by now, little siren—”, he began, voice thick like heavy smoke as his hand glided to open the notoriously deep desk drawer: “—pick your poison.”, he instructed.
He liked to keep his assortment close at hand for his office was where he felt most at home. The well-guarded tools taunted Adriana—the wooden paddles’ shine catching in the soft glow of the adjacent fireplace as a promising crackle carried through the air. She brushed past the riding crop with a subconscious wince—fingers circling instead around the slender silver ruler. The very same he'd use to tear reports with…
“Ah, predictable…”, Coriolanus concluded, squeezing her hand over the sealed choice: “Just like your attachment style, hm?”
Her breath caught as he guided her to bend over the desk, free hand squeezing the back of her neck—not an unfamiliar position by any means—but thrilling each time nonetheless. He let go for a moment, not to deny touch, but to magnify it as his fingers trailed down in a hypnotizing ritual—first the swell of her breasts, just ghosting over her nipples, then her ribs—making her shiver, almost whimper.
Coriolanus shushed her when he reached her hips—fingers digging into the supple softness at the joint: “No squirming now, little siren. This is for me to enjoy and you to learn, no? Straighten your back…”, he pressed into the tail of her spine, making her perk up.
Adriana nodded—too lost in the feeling when he rolled up her dress skirts, teasing as he placed the ruler against her ass. The feeling of the cold metal against warm skin made her suppress a whine.
“What was that?”, he prompted, unhappy with her nonverbal state.
“Y-yes, Daddy—I'm… for you to enjoy. And I deserve to learn my lesson.”, she echoed, embarrassed at the words leaving her lips. But the humiliation of them, the anticipation that the redness of her cheeks will soon be matched… left her floating, dripping—subconsciously and barely pushing backwards into his hand and the ruler that rested against her.
“Good… so, I'm thinking five?”, not really a question to her, more so a voiced contemplation: “You lost exactly two centimeters off your waist measurements… and it's been thrice now that you've entertained that boy despite my guidance.”, he explained as started to knead into where the spanks would land, preparing her.
Then everything disappeared, every sensation as she was left exposed. Before any real warning, the first hit landed sharply—the thin but cutting ruler sending a whistle through the air at its recoil as Adriana was sent gripping the edges of the polished mahogany for purchase. A loud gasp escaped her, but nothing more and that didn't sit right with Coriolanus.
“Good girls count… and are grateful for being corrected, little siren.”, he whispered into her ear.
She almost wanted to bite back… almost.
“O-one… thank you, Daddy.”, she whimpered, bracing for the next to land.
Instead, Coriolanus did something even crueler, more revealing—the ruler rested, but his fingers slid between her thighs. Testing, checking as a finger teased through her folds, gliding up and down effortlessly through her slick.
“Mm. Already soaked—this is supposed to be a punishment, you know? What a perfect little masochist I have sprawled out in front of me.”, the low growl in his voice betrayed his own hunger though.
And then, the ruler descended a second time—in tandem with his finger pressing deeper into her. He could always find that spot that made her see stars instantly—like a button being pushed.
“Hah…”, Adriana moaned this time—pushing back into the confusing sensations, chasing all of them: “Two… th-thank you, Daddy.”
“Good girl—”, he emphasized each word with a rumble: “Now, arch like you mean it.”
She obeyed instinctively and the satisfied groan that left him vibrated through her as his strained cock pressed tightly against her hip. A third strike landed, somehow harder than the last or maybe she was just more pliant now when his fingers twisted—rewarding the obedience with the same intensity as he punished defiance.
She counted and thanked—already voiceless if she ever had it in the first place. Coriolanus’ voice was ragged too as he bent down to untie the choker, breath hot against the back of her neck. The sight of his little siren finally learning her place again was far too delicious, far too much. Each sound she made sent jolts across him which quickly translated into throbs down his length.
The fourth was the point at which he started rubbing taunting circles against her clit. She almost thrashed at the feeling, but once he'd felt her tighten around his fingers, he yanked back, leaving only the ruler close.
“Work and pleasure aren't to be mixed, naughty girl”, he reprimanded.
But by the fifth, she couldn’t breathe—brought to the edge already, yet being denied release. As soon as the final gratitude left Adrian's mouth, Coriolanus tossed the ruler to the side—the clank far too brutal. But he couldn't wait any longer… Once he flipped her over, truly spread her across his desk, he traced his initials on her delicate neck as he teased her entrance with the head of his cock—gliding up to that sensitive bundle of nerves and back down, barely entering before pulling out. He was leaking too by now, but he wouldn't be seen losing control first.
“Such a perfect mess for me—”, he inhaled sharply as he teased again, dragging agonizingly slow. The wet sound was deafeningly obscene: “Tell me—do you need more lessons, or… ah-are you ready to beg for what you really want?”
Adriana tried to roll her hips into him but he pushed down—the leather desk mat digging into her back as she let out a shaky whine when denied. Coriolanus tsked, pressing the fresh wound of his initials as his other hand removed the straps of her dress, then bra: “Shame… and here I was ready to fuck the lesson into you—to leave it more permanent. But I guess you need more of this before that—”, his lips closed around one nipple… then the other, biting and then soothing with his tongue. Filthy stripes that matched the slaps of his cock against her cunt.
That made Adriana swallow any pride, forgo any game she deluded herself into believing she could win. Small whimpers grew louder and then…
“P-please, Daddy—I need you, please. Make me take it…”, she begged prettily—finally.
As soon as Coriolanus heard that, he slammed into her—bottoming out so fast that she thought his cock reached her ribs. His pace wasn't subtle or gentle—he waited far too long—and the desk shook with the evidence of it. He wanted to imprint himself inside her, carving his claim into flesh and soul. One hand dug into her waist, while the other held at her throat: “Nghh—fuuuck!”, he threw his head back, thrusting fast: “Always so fucking tight for me—”
When one hand slithered down to her clit again, Adriana arched off the desk: “Mmmplease—I can't…”, she begged high-pitched. She had to unravel but she also knew she couldn't do it without his permission. Every muscle in her body was so taut now, trembling with effort to hold back: “I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry I spoke to him, msorry I—that I went against you!”
Her eyes rolled back as he continued to hit that spot just right. The fullness of him and the rightness at the welts his ruler had left made her feel like she was drowning in the most delicious way—lost but found.
Sweat dripped down from his golden curls, as he forced a labored breath: “You've earned forgiveness...”, his voice was deceptively soft for what his next words would relay, but it still sent relief through Adriana, knowing she did well, that she did it for him.
His voice became louder, matching the trembling snaps of his hips: “Daddy's almost there, little siren… are you ready for his gift?”, he chuckled as he felt her clench around him: “Oh, I know you are, I can feel you milking for it. You need it to fill up everything in you, don't you? Every empty space—you can fill it with me, sweetheart… always—f-fuck—”, he snarled, burying himself to the hilt. His release was almost torn from him—hot and claiming as she fluttered around him in tandem, taking it all in waves of pleasure.
For a moment he just held himself there, humming in satisfaction as he traced idle circles over the curve of her hip while her breathing calmed. He sighed after, once he pulled out, licking his initials at her neck and taking in the sight of her: “Look at that—all that begging and you still come like a whore. Makes me want to keep you like this all night—dripping with me.”
As if to prove that point, he brought his fingers through her fluttering entrance—gathering anything that might have escaped… and pushing it all back in as she gasped at the sore feeling. His hips rolled against her thigh in the process, cock spent but twitching—basking in the sight of his claim remaining sealed—kept safe in her warmth.
They took turns in the shower—an intimacy they hadn't yet shared and maybe never would. Not in the near future anyways. The rain—or anything trickling down his body—always reminded Coriolanus of the forest. Of the lost boy, clutching the legacy of his father as a last guide back to civilization. He couldn't believe he'd been so close to abandoning it all… for a girl who lived by her charms, who'd go where the wind blew. To Lucy Gray, he'd surely been a fleeting fancy. At least that was what his bruised ego could muster—easily forgetting that he was the one who readily chose to return to his ‘rightful’ place. But Adriana needed him—saw what he did for her… admired and admiring, kept.
He shut off the shower, finally hearing how loud his heartbeat had gotten as he quickly dried off. He didn't bother wrapping himself in a towel in front of her—that was an intimacy he had no issue sharing.
He found Adriana sitting on the soft mattress, black ironed sheets crumpling below her as she attempted to apply some rose water cream onto the marks blooming from his earlier punishment. Five distinct red welts bloomed there—making Coriolanus bite back a groan, reliving her pathetic whimpers anew.
He chuckled low, making her jolt at his sudden reappearance: “Here, let me…”, he offered: “Lie down.”
She obeyed, laying on her stomach—gripping the crisp sheets as if needing to brace herself for this gentle offering. He scooped some of the cream—carefully rubbing it into the angry marks. The sensation made Adriana close her eyes and melt into the bed—soft nightgown pooling at her sides like milk blooming into earl gray tea. When he was done, he set the balm on her nightstand and pressed a deceptively tender kiss between her shoulder blades.
“Thank you…”, she sighed sleepily—not ‘Daddy’, just him. She was already somewhere far away. Yet still here…
He hummed, lying beneath the covers on his side of the bed—arms reaching out to hold her. She was tired, but eagerly reciprocated, nestling closer. That was the greatest intimacy he'd allowed himself to have with her. On some days he'd convince himself it was just out of pure convenience—when Adriana was next to him, he could actually sleep, not wake from coal-smelling nightmares. And when he slept, he was productive—really, a simple calculation.
But a part of him questioned why he'd allow himself to feel that vulnerable with her in the first place… it was that part that now moved his lips for him: “Could you sing for me? Of the sea?”, he prompted.
Not an order—not this time. This time it was his turn to let the tide take him. And so, she began, and carried him from his bed of roses… a melancholic feel to the melody she loved.
“On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say:
Carry on, my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more”
At least with Adriana in his grasp... he got to own her voice.
𔘓 Tag list: @p4neminem, @coryoslut, @needleandpengirliee, @loverreid
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a/n: Lots of plot points that are to he paid off (ㅅ´ ˘ `) dark!Coriolanus tag incoming for the next chapter... for now I have a total of 5 planned for the series. Of course — my inbox is opened for any suggestions or thoughts — and thank you again all for the support (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈) it makes me so motivated to write more!
Contents: NONCON/DUBCON, DDDNE, Alternate Universe, Abuse of Authority, Power Imbalance, Degradation, Smut, maids, Contracts, Infidelity, Blackmail, Misogyny, Mirror Sex, Dollification, Objectification, Possessive Behavior, Controlling Behavior, Dissociation, Aphrodisiacs, Jealousy, Emotional Manipulation, Age Difference, Old Money Society, Daddy Issues
A/N: I edited the previous chapters to add a bit more depth. I highly recommend a reread before continuing (especially for chapter 2)! This was an older work I wasn't confident about and I am learning how to write stories as I post. I'm slowly reading the books and I just realized a character named Lavinia already exists, so I changed the Cardew sister's name to Julia! I apologize for the confusion to any prior readers.
Phoebe POV
Once, her future had held promise.
She was a shining beacon of youth. A graduate from the Academy—a school only the rich could afford to attend. Nearly all its alumni were guaranteed prosperous futures and her father had a clear vision for her future, wherein she’d go on to attend the University. Which was, of course, a preamble to her true purpose.
To become someone’s wife.
Someone’s mother.
In that small world of hers, there was little that a woman could aspire to become. An adamancy towards tradition was prevalent among the upper class. Unlike the lower class who existed in a separate sphere, untethered to such rigidity. Free in that way, but that freedom came at an expense.
They would work for the rest of their lives to maintain livelihoods that were, at best, mediocre. Devoid of the privilege of cushy jobs and generous inheritances. Furthermore, they were seldom invited to high society events. Instead they busied themselves with their menial day to day tasks—sweeping floors and waiting on people at hand and foot. Working at front desks or catering to others in some way. All their efforts, benefiting some higher up.
Phoebe could not fathom it. Could not fathom serving anyone. Someone of her status was meant to be served.
Which made her situation, all these years later, so ironic. Scrubbing floors and polishing furniture. Doing laundry and whatever it was that was demanded of her. Because the pay was good. So good. What would her father think of her now?
Her father, the imperious head of the house of Blackwood, made a point to remind her of how privileged she was growing up. Sometimes when they ate at the grand table in the dining room under the crystal chandelier, he reminded her of how fortunate she was to be sitting up there, feasting on steaks. Not down there, scrubbing the floor. He did not even have the courtesy to be discreet and wait until their maid was out of earshot. Always so blunt like that when it was just the two of them. Their maid did not count as a third presence. It was easy to forget that there were servants present when they were trained to be silent and all but invisible.
There were many maids in her life.
The first she recalled was a middle-aged woman with lines of fatigue etched deep into her pale face. Always working like a dog because their townhouse was far from tiny. There were many rooms and her father liked the place to be spick and span. In fact, he made a routine out of scouring the townhouse at the end of each day, for a spot that the maid at the time had neglected to polish. If he found one, he got on the poor maid’s case about it so many times that she’d either quit or he’d taken it upon himself to fire her first. Nobody managed to meet his lofty expectations. Nobody stayed for long.
But there was one maid.
A young lady. So pretty, a young Phoebe had thought, with her raven hair swept into a neat bun and her eyes a dazzling shade of green.
She’d eavesdropped on her a few times while she was cleaning and had heard the most enchanting melody escape her. The lady sang one tune after another, like a jukebox, to entertain herself. Until she heard a sneeze just behind the door that was cracked ajar, and then spotted a pair of tiny eyes peeking up at her curiously. Phoebe’s first instinct was to abscond as if she’d done something wrong, but the lady told her there was no reason to hide. This place was hers, after all.
Friends were few and far between for the girl, even then. Especially then, when she seldom spoke. Speaking was sort of crucial for making friends. It had taken many years for her to learn how to control her speech impediment—a source of embarrassment to her and her father. The maid had stumbled across him one day, at his wits’ end after he’d instructed Phoebe to recite a passage from a book. But she was rather tongue-tied despite all the practicing she did to enunciate clearly. The words refused to flow, unlike how they had with her governess, who was much kinder and patient.
The pressure to do well and please had weighed immensely on her shoulders when she was all but six, and she’d been driven to tears after Father had muttered something under his breath about how she was a lost cause. Was she meant to be his heiress someday? She had her work cut out for her, if so.
The maid often found her sulking in the garden in light of her father’s disapproval. Little Phoebe’s vision blurred as she recognized all too well what was coming on: tears. She could not allow herself to cry; tears were undignified and, as a lady, she ought to carry herself with decorum. Despite that, she could not stop them from falling when her father’s voice echoed in her mind.
I’m disappointed in you.
The maid’s gaze had softened, and then, she crouched beside her and placed her hands on her small shoulders. “I thought you read it quite well,” she’d confessed, then gave a reassuring squeeze. “Keep up the good work, little one.”
Phoebe brightened at her praise, unaccustomed to receiving that little. And she thought, maybe they could be friends. Of course, if Father were aware of her intention to befriend the maid, she would not hear the end of it, of how she should not mingle with someone so beneath her status. But what was so bad about that? People were people.
There was something intriguing about how different the maid’s life was from her own. She had been determined to befriend her after her kind words, but did not know how to approach her. So she lingered and played with her toys while she watched her work.
What was one good way to get someone to like or notice you?
Well, a gift was a fine start. A token of some sort.
She scrounged the front yard of the townhouse to pick the loveliest rose in sight. If her father were there, he would’ve scolded her and told her to leave them be. But he was nowhere to be seen and still at work.
Phoebe, so young and naive, was unaware that there was likely a reason he didn’t want her messing with his roses. That day, she learned that something so seemingly delicate possessed a secret weapon: thorns. She struggled to snap a rose off the bush and had succeeded, but in the process, a thorn had embedded itself in her fingertip. But she did not cry. Or rather did not allow it, because only babies cried. And she was not a baby. She blinked back tears on her way into the townhouse, clutching that rose with newfound respect. That token which she was to gift to her new friend.
The maid was alarmed to see her in such a state, all teary-eyed with blood trickling from her hand. It stained the carpet red and Phoebe apologized profusely. What a great start. All she’d done in her endeavor to befriend her was create another mess for her to clean. The maid did not dwell on that, to her surprise, instead turning her hand over to assess the wound.
“How did this happen?” she’d inquired, to which Phoebe guiltily informed her she was trying to pick a flower. As a gift for her. She pointed at the rose abandoned on the coffee table.
“You picked that for me?” The maid placed a hand over her chest, all touched for a moment, but was swiftly distracted by the blood dripping from her little hand. “Thank you for the gift. It is lovely, but we should take care of this.”
She fetched the first aid kit and got to work, carefully extracting the thorn from her finger. While she worked, she hummed a familiar tune and Phoebe could not help but mention, “You sing like a bird.”
“Why, thank you,” the pretty maid had said, and then smiled at her.
And Phoebe murmured, “You should hide your gift.” If Father knew she’d plucked one of his precious roses, he would lecture them both for it. She did not wish to give him another reason to be let down.
Was a rose a proper present to give? She’d pondered later on, unable to think of another gift to present to a lady that she was capable of obtaining herself. Often, her father handed bouquets to women, or snapped the stem from a rose before tucking it into her hair (like he had with her mother, who he’d evidently forgotten about after her passing). People also gave flowers to celebrate birthdays or mundane moments that were not cause for celebrations. Just because. Back then, she liked to pick flowers with her friend during recess, and they weaved them into crowns for each other.
Her father was unusually kind to that maid. Kinder than he was with the others before her. He regarded her with a certain softness and never scolded her for any specks of dust he found. Sometimes, there was a stolen moment she intruded on whenever they were laughing together and sitting so close, murmuring about something she was clearly not meant to hear.
And there it was, that strange gesture where their lips touched.
It left a bitter taste in Phoebe’s mouth, him kissing that maid. Her mother had long since departed this earth, and if he truly loved her like he said he did, he wouldn’t have moved on. Ever, like she never existed. It was a betrayal to Phoebe, and the start of a pattern she observed throughout the years.
Him fooling around with the maids.
She’d never walked into anything, but had heard enough and had connected the dots from those stolen gestures and glances she caught. Most of his maids were young and pretty, and so friendly with him. Her knack for observance was at times a curse.
That one maid he was fond of soon took her leave after the bump in her stomach grew too large for anyone to ignore. She never knew what had become of her and her child after all those years.
Phoebe had once asked her while she was polishing furniture, if she could be anything, anything at all, what would she be? Surely she did not aspire to become a maid. No one did, she had a feeling, just from watching her slog through her routine like a machine.
She confessed that she wanted to become a professional ballerina someday, but did not make the cut. No matter how good you are at something, there is always someone out there who is better at it than you.
It was so unfair.
Now, all these years later, Phoebe asked herself that same question. Wondering what sort of life would’ve been in store for her, had she not thwarted her father’s plans for her future.
Most who ended up with this type of job chose it out of necessity, not passion. But she, on the other hand, had waltzed into this life meant for someone on the bottom rung. Anything but to be married to that man. That rich friend of her father’s, so old he probably could’ve had a daughter her age.
Mr. Grant’s pockets were deep. Deep enough to excuse Silas Blackwood offering his own daughter on a silver platter. All her life she’d been under the impression that he wanted what was best for her, and surely that wasn’t it. Surely there was someone around her age who wanted to marry her. She was not ugly—far from it—and though she wasn’t a skilled conversationalist, she was well read. But what was the rush? She was nineteen. Barely into adulthood, with a few years ahead of her at least before society would expect her to settle down.
Her father was determined to set the two of them up on chaperoned dates, which were incredibly awkward as she was mostly silent while the two of them discussed numbers as business partners. She did not appreciate that man’s wandering gaze or his thinly veiled niceties all while it went down. At every chance she had, she cooked up an excuse to dip out early, or ‘freshened up’ for the umpteenth time.
Eventually, Phoebe started to connect the dots as to the true reason behind her father’s rush to marry her off. She did not buy his nonsense about his wanting to secure her a proper match out of fatherly concern. Not when, only her entire life, he’d regarded her with an air of resentment, as if she were a burden he ought to handle. Whatever will he do with her? Throw her at the first well-off man who expressed interest in her, evidently. Like guiding a lamb to the slaughter.
The little things that stuck out to her. Like how he dismissed one servant and then another, until they had one taking care of everything. Less fancy dinners and afternoons at The Promenade, too. And to her horror, she was no longer permitted to shop at her favorite boutiques. Be so grateful for what you have. Even if they are outdated designs with less flounce and fuss.
It ate away at her. Something was clearly wrong with this picture.
One evening, she decided to get to the bottom of it and investigate. She snuck into his office, which he’d always kept locked, and unearthed a few letters. Bills upon bills, and an eviction notice. His frivolous spending caught up to him, it seemed. Why hadn’t he mentioned that to her? Was he determined to keep her and Mr. Grant in the dark about it forever?
Her father was a charlatan.
He’d informed her about an important dinner at the end of the week which she was to attend. She had a feeling what it was, judging by his triumphant air whenever their discussions circled back to Mr. Grant. That smug look meant trouble; it was the look he wore in light of a successful business endeavor.
He was setting her up for a proposal. Simple as that.
Days had passed since she found those letters and her father made no attempt to pawn off his possessions. Nor did he panic like any reasonable person would’ve, at the threat of losing their livelihood. All he did was drink, gamble, and shake hands in his endeavor to mooch his way up to the top. So confident that his daughter would drag him out of the hole he dug himself into. Soon they would be forced to live at the bottom rung that he so loved to look down upon, she’d thought. At the rate things were going. Would he still feel so high and mighty with nothing but the clothes on his back? The Blackwood name would fade into irrelevancy and they would join the ranks of those faceless citizens. Mere cogs in the machine. Unseen.
Surely he’d lost everything, now that she’d left home months ago.
She could have saved her father from his fate had she married that man. When she’d expressed her disagreement over a potential proposal, he’d delicately brought up the subject of his financial plight—finally—and she had almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Until he lashed out, in light of the ‘mockery’ she made of him during the proposal dinner.
Everything had gone according to plan, until that moment when Mr. Grant knelt down on one knee, leaving her floored, and torn between two things: duty and what she truly wanted. Not that man. Or any man for the matter. At nineteen, she’d hoped to have a few more years before settling down.
She’d stood there, frozen in shock despite having anticipated that moment only the entire day while preening herself to look her best. Her hair and nails had been done up in preparation, as her father had wanted her to go all out and address the occasion with the ceremony appropriate for it.
A moment of unbearable silence stretched on as her gaze darted between her father and Mr. Grant, who’d appeared equally triumphant. They were waiting for her to say yes so they could be done with these formalities. Mr. Grant, borderline geriatric as he was, had struggled to stay down on one knee for long. She opened her mouth and the words tumbled out before she was able to stop herself.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
No explanation to follow it. Just a shake of her head before she made haste, rushing out the door of his apartment. Out onto the street, into the rain, like a loon. Her father yelled for her to get back inside this instant, but did not attempt to chase her down, not wanting to get his crisp tailored suit and his slicked back hair ruined from the downpour.
She fled to her good friend’s house to seek shelter for the evening and had for the most part enjoyed it in peace, relaying the events of the dinner in theatrical fashion. Her friend was partly horrified and partly entertained to discover what a mess she’d made, until the landline rang, halting them before the story had reached its conclusion. Phoebe’s father inquired if she was over, and she’d mouthed for her friend to keep hush about it. Thus she’d said she wasn’t. Still, he showed up and barged in to collect her anyway, clearly unconvinced. All frightening like an angry storm cloud, covered in rainwater. Where else would she go when she had only one close friend?
They argued during the car ride home. It was a short drive near the Corso, and when they pulled into the driveway, they did not immediately step out. Too preoccupied volleying bitter remarks back and forth, ad nauseam. Their poor chauffeur was paid handsomely to ignore whatever he’d witnessed.
Her father, that nasty man, had berated her the entire time. How could she be so selfish after everything he’d done for her? Feeding and clothing her? Educating her? All things a parent should have done for their child, regardless. She was her own person, she fired back. His daughter! Not his meal ticket. Would he have treated her any differently, were he not in debt?
Well, Phoebe had thought, if Mr. Grant were older, she would’ve considered marrying him so she could wait for him to croak, then inherit his riches. A viable pipeline to security. But he was not that old and in good health for his age, and thus, would’ve been a thorn in her side for quite some time. So that was simply not an option.
What was the alternative, then? It was either marry him, or what? Be kicked out onto the streets? Her father could not possibly force her to do anything, and kicking her out was sure to cause scandal. We will convene again next week, he informed her, and this time you will say yes.
Or what? she’d thought. Or what, Father?
After careful deliberation, she seized matters into her own hands and left. Perhaps the first selfish decision she’d made. It was a hard one to come to, abandoning all that she knew, but that cushy life would not have been hers for long anyway, with the trajectory of her father’s mess. Better to jump off that sinking ship than go down with it.
And, what now? Would every day be the same like this? She could kiss all prospects of securing a match for herself goodbye. No one among the upper class would ever marry a servant. Phoebe scrubbed a stain on the ground with such aggression, so lost in the throes of her mind that she did not realize she’d been scrubbing the same clean spot.
Until he appeared in the living room.
Coriolanus Snow.
“What are you doing?” he inquired crisply, and she blinked out of it—dropped the sponge right into her bucket.
“Cleaning,” she answered dryly, in a tone she knew he did not appreciate. What does it look like?
“You seem distracted today,” he noted, ignoring her tone. It seemed he was in a gracious mood today, if he were willing to let that slide. “Is something the matter?”
Earlier today, she’d made quite the blunder, adding salt instead of sugar to his tea. Granted she had little sleep, working overtime to sate Mr. Snow’s other appetite. Some days, he took her once. On others, when he was particularly stressed or vexed about something, he put her to work all night. And by far, she had not broken. Until today it seemed, when she served him his tea, and she was briefly perplexed by the disgust that had crossed his face when he tasted it. After apologizing, she set off at once to prepare him another cup.
“Nothing,” she replied hoarsely, wiping the sweat from her brow. “I’m just tired. You did not let me sleep last night.”
“That I didn’t,” he agreed flippantly, without so much as a hint of remorse in his tone as he sauntered past her. But he didn’t leave the room—a sign he wasn’t finished with their conversation. He always lingered with purpose. Did he have more work to give her? She exhaled and braced for her next command. Perhaps he had some critiques to share about the way she folded his clothes.
Coriolanus had always been hard on her, getting on her case for every little thing she did or didn’t do, and she’d wondered, why? It made sense when she was still new, learning to do all sorts of things she never had before as a lady who was once privileged. But sometimes he admonished her even when she did her job perfectly. Followed every step to a T.
Earlier, she’d tasted the tea in the kitchen to confirm whether he’d been pulling her leg. And well, she spat it out. Enough confirmation that it was indeed her fault. There was no hint of sugar to be found in that cup and it was as salty as the sea.
He used to get on her case for bringing him the wrong flavor of tea or adding more sugar than he claimed he requested, even though she’d remembered what he said. And there were those phantom spots on the ground he pointed out that she had neglected to polish.
It reminded her of a certain someone she knew, who was probably in the process of pawning off his earthly possessions.
Phoebe thought, sometimes, when she wasn’t all but in tears from having to redo her work, that she might like to strangle Coriolanus Snow. Until she reminded herself of how gracious he was, offering her a roof over her head and all sorts of benefits a woman in her position could not dream of.
She was spoiled more than she deserved.
When he wasn’t getting on her case about how she cleaned every square inch of his penthouse, he was quite generous, feeding her the finest dishes prepared by his cook. He sometimes insisted they ate together, which was strange because it was not like she was significant to him, like a spouse or a sweetheart. Or that witch he was seeing. Despite that, she didn’t dare question him, because the food was certainly nice. A step up from the gruel-like meals and random slices of bread she ate back at her rundown apartment to stretch every last dime.
She’d lost a considerable amount of weight on such a paltry diet then, and was too thin for his liking apparently, because he was adamant on her eating every last crumb off her plate. God help her. It was too much to eat, but in an almost paternal tone, he advised her not to be wasteful. She ought to take better care of herself. Phoebe had a feeling he wasn’t stuffing her out of pure-intended concern. Clearly he had a preference for a fuller-figured woman.
Whenever they ate together, he inquired about her day, which in her opinion was humorous since he gave her so much work to do, that she could possibly think of going anywhere. Once he discovered she was capable of preparing delicious pastries, he had her bake nearly every day. Another task added to her rigid checklist. While delicious, her pastries were nothing to the caliber of a trained chef. And yet, he preferred hers. Did he, truly? Or did he just like to see her busy?
He got off to it, she was sure.
Whenever she baked, he would sneak up from behind and encircle his arms around her waist, trapping her against the marbled counter top. An intoxicating wall of roses would cloak her before he leaned in to inquire what she was making. All while his hands, of course, roamed. How could they not, when she was wearing such provocative things? Mere suggestions of fabric fashioned from lace and silk, hardly practical for the changing season and the draft it brought in. But such things, like her choice of attire, were not up to her. He’d made that clear when one morning, she woke up to an entirely new wardrobe. She gaped at the negligee in particular, and could not discern if one garment was meant to be an eye patch or a flimsy thing to cover her nether regions. Oh, it was all lovely, but it was not her. And where were her things?
She’d taken it up with Coriolanus in her best attempt at a respectful tone, inquiring what he’d done with them. “You needn’t worry about them,” he’d said. “I’ve replaced your wardrobe with something more… updated. The latest styles. I hope it is to your liking.”
She’d discovered then how much Coriolanus enjoyed dressing her up like a doll.
That was no doubt an invasion of her privacy, him rifling through her things without her knowledge. Was there something in the contract that permitted him to be so invasive? Who knew. The words on it were so minuscule that she’d hardly been able to decipher them, as if by design. Nor did she have the patience to sift through ten or so pages of fine print. She’d simply done what nearly everyone presented with a contract did before signing it: had pretended to read it for a moment, and then jumped to the dotted line. A mistake in hindsight. The lack of privacy and free time she was allotted was surely enough reason for concern.
But the pay was good. So good. Good enough to excuse a multitude of things.
Whenever she was hard at work, scrubbing floors and dusting furniture, Coriolanus would recline back on the settee with his cup of coffee and observe her with calculated detachment. She felt the searing heat of his gaze from behind and knew for a fact from the breeze drifting up her impossibly short skirt that he had a good view. Sometimes, she was sure, he dropped something and had her pick it up just so he could revel in the power he felt, seeing her so humiliated, holding the hem of her skirt down so as to not flash him. Such convenient clumsiness for a man who was otherwise so orderly and meticulous about everything he did. It seemed he enjoyed pressing her buttons in little ways, but she never, ever spoke up about it. Why would she?
He gave her everything so long as she was obedient and diligent in her work.
Coriolanus was not the only one who enjoyed tormenting her like that. His esteemed guests—his friends—did too. A few men gathered at his penthouse some days for the hell of it, to eat, gossip, and play games. She recognized a few faces: Festus Creed, Felix Ravinstill, and Urban Canville. All men from important families that her father had tried to connect with, but they were not as kind as Coriolanus, regarding him with as much significance as one would a speck of dust on their boot. Because he was not one of them. Not among the old money elite. Phoebe had been utterly embarrassed watching her father try to kiss up to anyone and everyone who was relevant. Sometimes it paid off and sometimes it was in vain. But Silas Blackwood took it in stride. A persistent man, hungry for status.
“Well, what have we here?” Festus had purred, not the least bit discreet about his enjoying her figure the first time he laid eyes on her in her special uniform. “Who’s this? I never knew you had such a pretty maid, Snow.”
Usually, Coriolanus had her wear a simpler uniform with a longer skirt, but when it was just the two of them or he had selective company over, he had her wear a special uniform. One replete with frills, too short to be practical. Those men eyed her like a prime cut of meat.
Phoebe had discreetly attempted to retreat to the kitchen that first evening, only for Coriolanus to summon her with a snap of his fingers. A snap of his fingers, as if she were a pet at his beck and call. The gesture was in poor taste to her, but like many in her position, she bore with it for the pay.
Thus she appeared at his side at once, and sat beside him when her told her to (even though she did not want to be there, subjected to an evening of strange looks from his friends). She rigidly reclined on the sofa and smoothed her clammy palms over her apron. It had been a busy evening, she’d recalled, like any other, and she wanted nothing more than to retreat to the safe fortress of her bedroom after all the cleaning and baking she did. A lavish spread of pastries sat on the coffee table, along with cups of piping hot tea personalized to the taste of each guest.
“This is my new maid,” Coriolanus had announced, without ceremony. And of all the things he could’ve done, she did not expect for him to shift her onto his lap so brazenly. Phoebe had been under the assumption that what they had was meant to be their little secret, but she supposed things were different when his closest friends were involved. They all exchanged a knowing look and she thought, she might like to disappear.
Their conversation continued as if nothing untoward had occurred, and they simply… ignored her, to her surprise. Phoebe likened her presence to a couch cushion. Decorative. She busied herself in the meantime, fidgeting with her fingers, attempting to ignore Coriolanus’s hand resting on her thigh and then moving up, playing with the frilly hem of her skirt. Then, so deftly, he slipped his hand beneath it, teasing close to the lace hem of her panties but never exploring further. He wore a bored look on his face all while he did it.
The casualness of the gesture alarmed her and had her wondering what all went down before she set foot inside this penthouse. Were there other women he played around with before? Other maids? And what of those men present in the room with rings on their fingers? Did they too have dirty secrets? Her stomach had churned with disgust towards them all.
Men have one thing on their mind, her father had warned her when she was of that age where she started considering the boys around her in a different light. There was one she liked—the son of their cook, but he was beneath her status. She’d thought it was something her father had told her to keep the boys away until she was of courting age, because he wanted what was best for her. But as she aged, she’d started to consider his warning when she’d been surrounded by men with wandering eyes. There was something off about them—a funny glint in their eyes, and their syrupy words seemed ingenuine. They always corrected their tone when in the presence of their spouses. Sometimes older women side-eyed the younger ladies and whispered amongst each other about how they ought to cover up more.
When she’d attempted to hop off his lap, Coriolanus gripped her waist with such iron-clad strength. No words were needed. She’d learned there was no slipping out of these situations. If he called, she must come, and then stay for however long he deemed necessary.
And she had to cater to each and every one of his guests, of course.
They did not speak to her much, but when they did, it was more often than not to dole out an order. Fetch me another cup of this, or that—never mind—pick up this thing I dropped. She practiced to an art how to remain composed, despite how tempting it was to spill scalding tea onto their laps. They could drop as many things as they pleased, but she, on the other hand, could not afford any errors.
As is, she had a debt to pay off. An insurmountable one, all for that rug she ruined that day when she tripped and spilled coffee all over it. The stain on it was long gone now, but Coriolanus had made such a big deal about it. And now the price of that loomed over her head.
“Wear your other uniform,” Coriolanus’s smooth voice interrupted her memory, pulling her back to the present. That uniform. The special one. Those words were enough confirmation of who his guests for the evening were.
Coriolanus left her with that to get ready.
She rinsed off the filth of the day and changed.
◆◆◆
Later that evening, the doorbell rang and Coriolanus was nowhere to be seen. So she took it upon herself to greet his guests. Well, there was just one so far. Festus Creed.
“Good evening, Miss,” he greeted her, then tipped over his hat in a rather dramatic gesture reserved more for a respectable lady than a servant. Mr. Creed was among the kindest of Mr. Snow’s guests, although there was something greasy about him that she couldn’t quite place. She did not wish to linger around long enough to figure out what.
“…Good evening,” Phoebe replied stiffly, uncertain how to respond to that greeting. She took his coat after he shrugged off, then placed it on the rack to hang. A beat of silence lingered between them, and that little had been stifling to her, but he looked so at home standing there in the foyer with a languid smile plastered on his face. “Mr. Snow is still getting ready,” she announced. “He’ll be down shortly. Would you like any refreshments?”
“What would I like?” He pondered it for a moment, and sure enough, his gaze dragged over her form. There it was, that familiar look that never failed to make her feel small. He stepped closer. She backed away until the baluster of the stairs touched her back. “Something sweet,” he lilted, “would be preferable.”
Coriolanus was certainly taking his sweet time getting ready.
Festus, emboldened by some unknown motivation or perhaps Coriolanus’s absence, reached out and twirled a strand of her silky blonde hair with his ring-clad finger. He inhaled it, her expensive perfume, and hummed in appreciation, a dangerous glint igniting in his dark eyes. “Like, perhaps…”
“Speaking of sweet things,” Phoebe retreated from the rack—from him—at once, “I-I should go check on the biscuits before they burn. Please excuse me.”
Her heels clicked as she fled to the kitchen. In her frazzled state, her shoulder clipped a wall and she heard Mr. Creed chuckle at her expense. She carried on, attempting to ignore the dull ache radiating from her shoulder.
It took some time for her to learn how to walk all day in these heels: modern-day torture devices, she was convinced. She was unaccustomed to all this running around in shoes so uncomfortably arched. Perhaps Coriolanus would allow her to wear something more practical if she pleaded her case.
Soon, Coriolanus headed down, in time to greet the rest of his guests who appeared at the doorstep so she did not have to. Which was a relief; she did not wish to see Mr. Creed again this evening if she could help it. But she could not possibly hide in the kitchen forever. At some point she had to come out. And sit and say hello because Coriolanus, for whatever reason, liked to keep her around when they were over. Just in case his guests required something, he’d said. There was no excuse for showing her off and having her sit on his lap.
Disturbing, yes. But the pay was good. Very good.
She poured four cups of tea into the fine china and set it down on the tray. One trip would be for the tea alone, just in case she slipped. Coriolanus would not be pleased if she broke one of his expensive teacups. Again.
Phoebe carefully carried the tray out of the kitchen, but before she entered the living room, she liked to pause and hover out of sight, to listen in on whatever she could. Sometimes it was boring talk about their businesses and personal endeavors, but sometimes she was thoroughly entertained by their gossip about familiar names from the exclusive circle they belonged to.
This time, however, she regretted lingering there. The topic hit close to home. Or what once was home.
“That maid of yours looks familiar,” Felix Ravinstill had mentioned casually. “I can’t recall where I’ve seen her before. What was her name again?”
“Why are you so curious about his little maid, Ravinstill?” Festus Creed offered him a lopsided grin. “Do you want to take her off his hands?”
There was a beat of silence, almost as if Coriolanus were considering it. And then, “Sorry. I don't share.”
Then came the round of chuckles.
“Are you familiar with Silas Blackwood?” Coriolanus queried as he fixed the coasters on the coffee table. Any moment now, she was sure, he would inquire about what the holdup was. Why wasn’t the tea ready yet?
“Who?” Urban Canville replied in a tone dripping with sarcasm, like her father was irrelevant. Which he wasn’t. At least not entirely. But he was barely hanging onto relevancy.
“I know him from the casino, I think. That stout man? He is a sore loser,” Festus confessed, then shook his head. “He lost a game of poker to us the other day. Put in such a high wager and did not want to accept defeat.” There was a pause for dramatic effect. “He demanded a re-match.”
Phoebe was not the least bit surprised that her father was still gambling away his money, even in his dire situation. Did he truly believe he could gamble his way out of debt? That was a slippery slope that would drag him further down.
Coriolanus chuckled and the rest of them followed. She noticed that whenever he found something funny, they all laughed as if on cue. It was clear who held the most importance among them. “Well, my maid is his daughter,” he indulged their piqued interests.
There was a stifling silence for a moment, which she interpreted was disbelief.
“…No kidding. What is she doing here? Did her father approve of this?” Felix was the first one to break the silence.
Because a woman of her status—her former status—would not be caught dead performing such menial labor. Let alone for a living. That was what the rich had servants for. If she had played her cards right, she would still be at the University now, or too busy engaging in endless high society affairs.
“It is not my place to say,” Coriolanus responded, and she was somewhat relieved that he chose not to drag her name through the dirt like that.
“Perhaps he has gambled his way into debt,” Urban Canville mused, languidly. “I know a good many who've made the mistake of living larger than they could sustain. It did not end well for them.”
“Poor girl,” she heard one of them say.
In that moment, she inhaled a speck of dust and fought the urge to sneeze, and in the process, bumped her tray into the wall. Just a light scrape, yet that was enough to alert everyone to her presence.
“Phoebe.” Coriolanus called for her, his voice as cool and unyielding as stone.
On cue, she stepped out. Inched out, really, because it was unbecoming to eavesdrop and she was caught red-handed.
“There you are. I was wondering what happened to our tea.”
◆◆◆
The evening came and went as it usually did when his friends were over.
It was easy enough to get used to sitting still and looking pretty, long enough to fade into the background. If anything, it was a moment to rest her aching feet. Coriolanus held her in his lap as she stared at the grandfather clock with such intensity, as if willing time to hasten. But it was unyielding; each minute dragged on for an eternity and the repetitive sound of the clock engraved itself in her mind. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Until finally, he released her.
She soaked in the bathtub, in the near scalding water and thought, she did not like how the doors in the servants’ quarters didn’t have any locks. Anyone could barge in unprompted if they didn’t have the decency to respect privacy (as Coriolanus Snow had indeed proven).
She submerged herself entirely and did not come up for air until her lungs demanded it. It was a tranquil sort of state she entered, and when she came to, she was all dried up and dressed in a satiny red slip.
Something she did not choose to wear.
But it was either that, something equally skimpy, or nothing at all.
Red was his favorite color, she learned. Most of the clothes in her wardrobe were in various shades of it. Loud and impossible to blend in while wearing. She preferred soothing pastels and the effect they had in helping her disappear, but there were only a handful of pieces in her wardrobe like that.
After getting dressed, she curled up at the nook of her window, waiting for him to call for her, but he didn't. That she was thankful for; it had been a long day and she needed rest.
◆◆◆
Phoebe slept in nearly all morning, since Sundays were her day off.
Once she headed downstairs to prepare herself some breakfast, she was greeted by a humorous sight. Coriolanus nibbling on cheese with his head in the refrigerator. Like a mouse.
“What are you doing?” she inquired and could not help but raise her brow at that.
“Enjoying breakfast,” he replied flatly, glancing over his shoulder.
“Just cheese? That is hardly breakfast.”
“It broke my fast.”
Touché.
On Sundays, he preferred to dine out and give his cook a rest.
Sometimes his meals were apparently random assortments of cheese. It led her to wonder if he knew how to cook or if he did not wish to bother with all that fuss.
She poked around the pantry, procuring a few things, and he popped his head out of the refrigerator to ask, “What are you making?”
Correction, ‘Could you please cook for me?’
Phoebe smiled and ran her fingers through her wavy tresses. “French toast. Would you like some?”
“Too much sugar to start the day off, don't you think?” he commented, stuffing away the cheese and shutting the fridge.
“I’ll take that as a no, then.”
On cue, his stomach growled.
“…I suppose I’ll have some.”
She went straight to work, whipping up a small batch of French toast, all while he waited patiently at the dining table, perusing the latest issue of the Capitol Gazette.
After preparing it, she sliced some fruit and laid everything out on the table. Not quite a feast, but it was better than a mere handful of cheese to start the day off. Coriolanus raised a brow at the fun shapes the fruit had been cut into. Hearts and stars because of some molds she found, but he chose not to comment on them. He got the nice shapes and she got the odd scraps.
She sat beside him but did not take the first bite yet. Not until she had his opinion.
It was just that he appeared quite hesitant to dig into his dish. Well of course, it was not to the caliber of his cook’s. She watched as he poked at it with his fork and examined it carefully. After deeming it edible, he cut his French toast into small pieces and poured on a drizzle of syrup. Unlike her, who’d drenched her plate in the stuff.
“All that sugar will rot your teeth,” he commented dryly.
To which she quipped, “It may not be good for my body but it is good for my soul.”
She served herself double of what was on his plate, granted he’d already snacked on some cheese earlier, and she loved sweet things more so than most. Cups of freshly brewed coffee accompanied them, the rich aroma of vanilla wafting in the air. It was all mouthwatering.
“How much did you overhear from that conversation yesterday? With my friends?” he asked, filling the silence with something other than the sound of scraping cutlery.
“Only a little.” she swallowed, put on the spot like that.
“Then you are aware of what your father is up to lately.”
She nodded and left it at that, but he was ever so keen, his focus narrowing in on the way she gripped her fork like a vise at the mention of him.
“You do not speak about him,” he egged her on, despite that. “Your father.”
“I do not wish to.” The reply came out a bit clipped, which was intentional. A more direct hint for him to drop the subject, which he would hopefully take. She carefully directed their conversation to the other dishes she intended to prepare, and he offered his opinions on them.
Once breakfast came to an end, she gathered his plate after he’d scraped every last morsel off of it. Coriolanus Snow might’ve indulged in excess, but the one thing he never did was waste food, she observed.
And that extended to her as well, now.
His laser-like gaze shifted from the few berries she’d left on the plate to her, and he needn’t say a word for her to heed his command. Eat. Every last bite. During times like these, she felt like a child being chided.
There are people starving in the districts, he’d reminded her once when she insisted she was full when in truth, she was not a fan of the salad she was served. She’d picked at it the entire time until she had no choice but to scarf it down if she wanted dessert. Her favorite thing in the world.
All those sweets had gone straight to her thighs and stomach.
◆◆◆
After washing dishes, Phoebe grabbed her latest crochet project and headed to the rooftop garden of the Snow penthouse to get some fresh air. Her usual Sunday morning routine.
Sure enough, when she stepped out onto the rooftop, she was immediately met with the cloying scent of roses lingering in the breeze. Only roses. There were no other plants present.
She reclined on a chair under the shade of an umbrella, then brought out some bundles of plush pink yarn in various shades. Accompanying them was the crocheted head of a fox, with beady eyes and whiskers.
Now, to work on the rest of its body.
Phoebe assumed that soothing and repetitive pattern she came to love over the years, crocheting away at what was meant to be its torso. Always, when she was stressed or not in the mood to read, she liked to work on her creations: small crocheted animals and knick-knacks. She’d gotten so lost in the craft that she had not noticed Coriolanus’s presence on the rooftop until he was in view, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Devilishly handsome as always. He slipped on a pair of gloves and from his pocket, produced some pruning shears.
As usual, he was tending to his garden now.
Coriolanus was so overprotective of his roses. The first time he’d spotted her lingering by his shrubs, touching the petals and smelling them, he’d sternly instructed her not to mess with them. And not water them—it was his duty. There was a method to caring for these roses, he’d explained delicately. Such fickle things were hard to maintain and he was adamant about cultivating them himself, although he easily could’ve afforded a gardener.
His flowers were vibrant and bountiful, in many hues. Traditional ones and there was a corner of the garden reserved for ones more synthetic in appearance. In colors so unnatural, as if they came straight out of a lab. And they very well might’ve.
Experimentation was an emerging trend in the Capitol recently, after most of its important establishments received a facelift. She’d observed all sorts of strange plants in botanical gardens and new breeds of teacup pets sold in specialty shops. Some with synthetic colors of fur and particular temperaments. Many years ago, pets were a luxury. People could hardly feed themselves. Surely this change was a sign that the Capitol was entering a prosperous era.
It was a Sunday morning routine they shared, her crocheting or reading up here while he tended to his plants. She stole glances at him as he worked, cutting and preening vines and leaves with careful precision. Sometimes he would add stuff to the soil, and then of course water it. There was something so attractive about seeing him like this, with his curls let loose—not slicked back like they were when he had places to be and people to see. To think she had this view all to herself.
Did Julia Cardew get to see him like this?
Stop it. Less staring, more crocheting.
After he'd tended to his roses, Coriolanus threw his gloves down on the table and slid into the seat beside her. Usually this was the moment when he would inquire about what she was reading or working on.
“What is that?” he’d asked, sure enough, picking up the head of the crocheted animal and inspecting it. “A rabbit?”
“A fox,” she corrected him, and he played with its pink ears. “A baby fox.”
“A kit,” he corrected her correction.
She was thankful that when he went through her room without her permission, that he left her stuffed animals alone. There were quite a few of them on her bed, most of them her own projects accumulated throughout the years.
“What do you plan to do with all of those stuffed animals in your room?” he inquired, putting the head back down on the table. “At the rate you are working, they will take over.”
“If you think I have too many now, you should see how many I have back home—”
Back home. What home?
Her smile faltered.
“Your old home,” he deciphered.
There was a long moment of silence as he observed her, and she crocheted faster just to give herself something to do.
“My resources have informed me that your father is in the process of moving,” he announced, out of the blue. “I thought you might want to know.”
That was no surprise at all.
“I do not. But thank you for telling me.” She did not really care to hear about him, but Coriolanus for some reason was determined to make her father a conversation topic today.
“It’s quite the downsize,” he continued, “a small apartment. Not quite a hole in the wall like yours was, but…” At that, her attention piqued, and he continued, “If he was anyone before, he is nobody now.”
How soon will it be before he is also sweeping floors or working at a desk somewhere? Her father did not exactly have a cushy inheritance. Whatever wealth he had saved up was surely running low now.
“He has no one to blame but himself for that.” She tapped the crochet hook and fixed him with her best attempt at a nonchalant expression.
“And that leaves you with nothing to return to, should you both decide to reconcile.” Although it was the simple truth, the impact of his observance stung.
“I never intended to.” She fought the tightness in her throat. Why was he so adamant about prying? He had no use for such information from her.
“Why didn’t you do it?” he asked, after a moment of silence.
“Do what?” She set down her hook.
“Marry that man. You said you were engaged, didn’t you? Or almost?” More silence. “He could've been your way out. You’d never have to work a day in your life.”
“He was only twice my age,” she jested, but there was no trace of amusement in her tone. “I didn’t want that life for myself.” Being bound to a man like Mr. Grant till death do they part seemed like a more miserable existence. And his death would likely not have come soon. She distantly wondered, if Coriolanus had already unearthed so much about her father, had he dug up some dirt on Mr. Grant as well?
“You wanted freedom,” he continued, shrewd as ever. “So you ran away.”
“I left. I didn’t run.” That was a lie; she’d stolen some of her father’s valuables before she absconded into the night, and left a note in her bedroom telling him not to look for her. But he didn’t have to know that. “I wanted to feel safe. I was never safe there.”
“And now you are safe. Here.” He plucked a velvety petal from his shirt and rolled it between his fingers. “What will you do with your future?”
“I’ll take it one day at a time,” she decided, after hesitating over her words because she truly had no idea. If someone had told her a year ago that she’d end up a maid, she would’ve laughed at such a ridiculous notion. Her, a maid?
All her life she’d been raised with the idea that one day she’d marry a wealthy man and become his broodmare. And he would provide so she could do whatever it was that busy mothers did.
“For what it’s worth, you’re living well as a servant here,” said Coriolanus.
As well as a servant can live.
◆◆◆
Sometimes she thought, it might not be so bad, this new life of hers.
Yes, she worked like a dog, but in return she was rewarded well.
Coriolanus brought her sweets, supplies to crochet with, and new books since he knew she loved to read. Some nights, after he indulged in her, instead of dismissing her immediately, he would request she read him a chapter of a book. To put him to sleep, he said. She was initially unaware of his insomnia and had assumed he was a night owl—until she found him wandering the penthouse at ungodly hours, several nights in a row. On his nightstand was a bottle of prescription pills. The strongest dose there was. What troubled him so?
He was Head Gamemaker, she knew that much. Only all of Panem did.
It was no easy task, orchestrating funerals every year. Death games that Capitolites treated as entertainment with their pomp and pageantry. Such was the way of this world. He must’ve seen horrors working with the Muttations in the Lab. Unnatural beasts they were. She’d heard that some experiments were once human.
Coriolanus never let her stay an entire night beside him.
At some point, he always dismissed her and locked the door.
But, before then, she would curl up beside him on the bed and read. Whenever he was so close like this, a tension coiled in her like a wire. What was it? Arousal? Anticipation? Dread? Or was it disgust? More towards herself than him; Coriolanus Snow was a taken man, after all.
Some nights when he returned, the stench of that woman—Julia Cardew—lingered on him, cloyingly sweet, and the rose pinned to his lapel at the start of the evening was missing. He’d probably tucked it in her hair. Like he had with her, once. Those roses were precious to him, so when he’d picked one from a shrub one Sunday morning while she was out on the rooftop crocheting and tucked it into her hair, she could not help but feel a little fuzzy that she was deserving enough to earn one. Until she remembered she was not the only woman he gave his roses to. Perhaps they were not so precious after all.
After she went upstairs, she ripped it out of her hair and contemplated throwing it away, but never did. It would be a shame to toss something so beautiful. Consequently, it remained abandoned on her nightstand until it wilted.
While he was half asleep and she read to him, he liked to trace his fingers along her skin—silky smooth from those luxurious masks she pampered herself with, but rough where there were love bites and marks. He left them all over her like evidence of a claim. Always where her clothes could conceal. But if anyone could have the chance to see what was beneath them—
That would never happen.
He’d indirectly ensured that, always giving her so much work to do, keeping her home whenever possible. She could not recall the last time she set foot outside of the penthouse. If she needed fresh air, he said, she could go up to the rooftop. Smell the roses and whatnot. She had to be close by whenever he needed something.
If she could not arrive at the snap of his fingers, she was too far away.
◆◆◆
Tonight, he presented her with a new dress to wear.
A white one to her surprise, adorned with lace and a bow behind her back. Did he listen when she said she preferred softer colors and styles? After she put it on, he sat her down before the mirror and massaged a floral oil into her hair. Coriolanus took his time combing it until it was silky smooth, not a strand out of place. Whenever she moved, his icy stare pierced her through the mirror as he reminded her to stay still.
He truly did treat her like a doll, prettying her up himself. Like a soothing ritual, lately, before he took her. When she’d told him she was capable of brushing her own hair, her words fell on deaf ears.
Once he deemed it was perfect, he brushed her sandy waves to the side, then pulled out a string of pearls from a velveteen box. Then he brought it up to her neck and at the mere brush of his cool fingertips against her neck, she shivered. After he fastened it and helped her put on her matching earrings, he did not move away to allow her any air to breathe. He always lingered with purpose, as if relishing in how nervous his presence made her. How it commanded her, whether he was observing her from afar or running his fingers along her skin like this. Letting his lips graze her ear, and his breath warm her—
“White suits you well.” His voice pulled her from her thoughts. “It makes you look pure. Like a dove, don’t you think?” There was a pause as if he expected a reply, so she nodded stiffly.
The string of pearls adorning her neck was expensive enough to feed a whole district. Did he give her gifts like this, too?
Julia Cardew.
All she could think of when he touched her was, did he do the things they did together with her too? Or did he hold back because she was saving herself for their wedding night? There was this whole song and rhyme about an unmarried woman needing to remain pure, to avoid ruin. At least that was the way it was for the upper class. Not lowly servants like her.
As she looked into the mirror, she tried to recognize who that girl staring back at her was.
◆◆◆
Beneath her dove-white dress was a set of red lingerie. Provocative in every way. A contrast, of innocence lost.
“You’re so good for me, doll,” he crooned, his breath hot against the shell of her ear as he rutted into her from behind. He had a mirror positioned at the foot of the bed because he liked to watch himself fuck her. And he liked to make her watch too.
Look at what you’ve become. What I’ve done to you.
It was easy enough to detach herself from the situation when she was not staring at herself. She could look at the wall and count how many lines marked the patterns, or pinch herself so as to not feel. Still, she felt everything.
He wanted her to—didn’t like whenever she pulled that trick on him, retreating into her mind. That was why she assumed he thought it fit to make her look at herself.
Sometimes he could not have given less of a fuck about letting her cum. When he was in a sour mood, after a long day, he vented his frustrations on her, using her for all she was worth. At the end of it, she was left with a sort of filthy feeling no amount of scrubbing her skin raw could rid her of.
But, some nights, he wanted her there with him, in body and mind. She hated those nights the most, when he took the time to doll her up and wrap her in silk. Those nights, he did not fuck her like an animal. He warmed her up with drinks, chocolates and rounds of games. Chess in particular, because it gave enough time for whatever he fed her to kick in. Those chocolates, she found, had always done wonders for her nerves. Relaxed her and heightened every sense she felt. Pleasure in particular.
The feeling of his cotton sheets was sumptuous, more so than usual. The noise around her faded into a quiet hum, and there he was at the center of it all, so devilishly handsome above her. In moments like these, she truly forgot who she was.
There was just him. This man, and this floating feeling carrying her away into a height of ecstasy, until she came crashing down from it, feeling emptier than ever. Mascara streaks running down her face, rouge smudging her lips. Like a proper whore, she thought.
And when it was over, that cold mask of his hardened. It was time for her to leave.
But, this time, he didn’t explicitly tell her to before he slipped into the bathroom to wash up. So she allowed herself to linger for a little longer, lying there on his bed, listening to the shower turn on. It was well into an ungodly hour now and she was exhausted, so she ought to get to bed. He would expect her to get up early to do all that work as usual.
But. She could not will herself to move. Yet. Until a few minutes passed, and a muffled ringtone came from under his pillow.
For some reason, she’d been compelled to reach underneath it and turn his phone over. Who on earth was calling him now?
Julia Cardew.
She ground her teeth. Clicked the button on the side of the phone to mute that grating sound.
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So I revised parts 1 & 2 of Gods & Monsters (to add more depth!), and I saw the content warnings cut off at blow. Is it just me? I assure y’all there is no coke in this story LMFAO. Is tumblr censoring it on mobile? 😭 because on my laptop I can see the full content warning block… And the warnings for part 1 cut off at ‘Old’ (I meant old money, not old people—HELP)
Contents: NONCON/DUBCON, DDDNE, Alternate Universe, Abuse of Authority, Power Imbalance, Degradation, Smut, maids, Contracts, Infidelity, Blackmail, Misogyny, Objectification, Emotional Manipulation, Age Difference, Office Sex, Kitchen Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Blow Jobs, Old Money Society, Daddy Issues
Coriolanus POV
Hiring her might’ve been the best decision he’d made.
Coriolanus couldn’t help the smug expression on his face as he looked under his desk at his little maid who was taking him so well. So pretty with her hair done up and that red lipstick he had her wear. Red suited her well. For a moment, he imagined her wearing a red dress and some red heels to match. A deviation from a standard maid uniform, but, she was no ordinary maid.
The timid look in Phoebe’s eyes seemed to ask, am I pleasing you, Mr. Snow?
He responded with a languid smile and carded his fingers through her soft hair.
That was all the reassurance she needed, her small lips wrapping around his cock. She bobbed her head up and down, pleasing him just the way he taught her to. So diligently. In one month, she’d improved enough to where she could take him without gagging. Still she couldn’t hold his gaze properly for more than a few seconds. So shy like that, and after having her around for a while, he determined that it was not a ruse. That was in fact the way she was. And he didn't mind it. He found it endearing, in fact. A healthy amount of fear was good to instill.
Phoebe had adjusted quite well to this change in their dynamic, ever so grateful to have a roof over her head that wasn’t falling apart.
She was initially skeptical of the meaning behind his generosity and the gifts he gave her. All the money she earned which surpassed the quality of her work. That was when he reminded her such things were never free. He had to humble her and remind her why she was here.
To meet his every need.
No matter what.
Even if that meant scrubbing every inch of the penthouse clean until it gleamed and glistened. Even if that meant appearing in his study at ungodly hours.
She more than anyone knew how high his standards were.
At the end of each day, he searched the penthouse for any spot she neglected to shine properly. Made a big show of it, lingering over things just to see her tense under his scrutiny. Occasionally, he had her do it all over again, to keep her busy when he had no real work for her to do. Nothing peeved him more than a lazy woman, and he intended to get his money’s worth.
Speaking of his money’s worth.
“A little faster,” Coriolanus commanded before leaning back in his chair, sighing when her cheeks hollowed. It was a bit of a struggle for her to take all of him; past a certain point she started to resist and gag but he pushed her head down, holding her there for a moment. That, he called it training. She wouldn’t improve unless she tested her limits. A look of displeasure formed on her face, which he chose to ignore. “Breathe,” he reminded her, and she tried.
He’d thought having a pretty thing like her at his beck and call would’ve been a distraction, but that’d proven to be contrary. Lately, he was more productive than ever with her here to provide him with relief when his work nights were stressful. And on those nights when sleep was no friend, and he could not get away from that sound. The ruckus of gunshots, of those Mockingjays twittering in the treetops. Her. That girl, who'd disappeared into the woods like her namesake. Forever a mystery in the lonesome wild.
Sometimes, it wasn’t the warmth of her company he sought.
It was her presence. Just her presence. Sometimes he had her sit there for hours, holed up in the corner of his study with her books and gadgets. Something she didn’t enjoy. But at least it was a moment to rest her aching feet, from all that running around she normally did in the heels he had her wear.
All the hours sitting in silence seemed to bore her to no end, so much that she’d started to come out of her shell, asking him questions to pass time by.
“What are you working on?”
Confidential work, he said.
“Can I touch this thing on your shelf?”
Annoying. She could be quite annoying when given nothing to do, he observed. Sometimes when she acted like this, he sent her off to clean some far corner of the penthouse or a guest room he hardly frequented. On the rare occasion, however, he humored her distractions.
Sometimes he asked questions.
“Tell me more about yourself, Phoebe,” he’d said. “What do you do when you’re not working?” He already knew the answer, of course, since he gave her so much work to do that she had little time to go out. Which meant whatever she did involved being here. In his penthouse, in this gilded cage. But she was not aware it was a cage, not when she was so distracted. And that was by design.
“I like to read and write. Bake. Not very good at it though.”
Quite contrary; her sweets were delicious but he didn’t praise her so it didn’t get to her head. “I know.” Coriolanus gave her a pointed look and she shrank back in her seat. He already had a cook so he didn’t need her cooking, but it was busy work.
Usually she’d be fidgeting with something she found in his study, like an hourglass or a few marbles. He bought a few things he thought might help soothe her fidgeting problem. Because it was either that or her nails, which she bit whenever she was nervous or bored. He’d also given her gloves to deter that nasty habit of hers, but he always caught her when he found red staining the fingertips of the cloth.
“What do you like to read and write about?” he’d inquired.
“Fairytales and romance.”
He shook his head at that. “Nothing educational? Like history or science?” All the books on his shelf were practical. No nonsense meant to entertain frivolous imaginations.
“Science is fine. But the whole point of reading, for me, is to escape the mundane.”
That explained why she ranked so low in her class at the time of her graduation.
“So you imagine yourself in these books?” He set his pen down, and then, beckoned her over with a tilt of his head.
Ever obedient, she rose and found her place on his lap.
“All the time.” She sighed, a girl with her head in the clouds.
“Have you ever fallen in love, then? Like the heroines you read about?”
She went quiet for a moment, seriously pondering it. “No... not really. I've liked a few boys before, but I wouldn't call it love.”
Love held as much value as a speck of dust on his shoe. He’d witnessed how it had turned respectable men into buffoons. And he didn't like how vulnerable it made him feel.
“What about you, Mr. Snow? What do you do when you’re not working?” Phoebe had given him a sleepy look and rested her head against his chest. The gesture felt far too intimate and made him uncomfortable but he chose to ignore it.
It occurred to him then that there was little in the way of leisure in his life. Everything he did was purposeful, whether that was attending events to maintain his image or slaving away his work and personal endeavors. The way it had always been, and always would be. He’d graduated from the University at the top of his class, of course, and landed himself a role as a Gamemaker. Now, Head Gamemaker, in light of Dr. Gaul's passing. But his ambitions didn’t end there. Someday he would break into politics.
“I like to grow roses,” he’d confessed, thinking back to when the Grandma’am had taught him the art of cultivating them. When she wasn’t having those delusions of grandeur about days long ago, before the war, she would go on about her precious roses. He entertained her enthusiasm because she didn’t have much longer to live then, battling an illness starvation did no favors for. He took it upon himself to care for her roses after she'd departed this earth. The one thing he had to remember her by after the penthouse had been restored to its former glory.
“That’s it?” Phoebe offered a soft laugh at the notion of someone as imposing as him being into gardening.
He’d tried steering the conversation towards the subject of her father. A sore spot it seemed when she tensed at the mention of him. Or anything related to the high society she no longer participated in. How unfortunate for her, whatever her story was, but lucky for him. Everything that had happened landed her here, right where he wanted her.
Just as Coriolanus was starting to reach his peak, the telephone rang.
He was tempted to ignore the phone, but it was more tedious to leave a voicemail than it was to simply answer. Phoebe tensed, all wide-eyed at him reaching for it, and she attempted to back away, but he held her still with a firm grip in her hair. “Keep going,” he mouthed, and she made a sound of protest. But after all that work he did over these past few weeks training her, she’d become so malleable, and had inevitably caved. She continued like the good girl she was, leaving lipstick stains all over his cock.
“Festus. You couldn’t have chosen a more inconvenient time to call,” Coriolanus greeted his friend flatly. His friend had a knack for calling him at the most random times like they were still in their school days, whenever he wanted to gossip, complain, or arrange meetings. Which of the three would it be this time? He had a feeling what it was. The last time Festus called, he’d gone on quite the rant about Persephone. A recurring pattern. It was so bad that he’d considered charging him for therapy. “What did she do now?”
Coriolanus sighed and set his phone down for a moment, not caring what he had to say.
Phoebe, unsatisfied by the lack of attention on herself, had taken it upon herself to tease him, that minx, languidly swirling her tongue around the tip of his cock. Training her was a double-edged sword; the more she learned, the more she could use against him. He narrowed his eyes and she averted her gaze, pretending to be so innocent, but he caught the mischievous glint in her eyes. She could do all that and still have trouble looking at him properly. It was a mystery, decoding her.
He covered the receiver and gave her ponytail a sharp tug, eliciting a squeak from her. “Do it properly or I’ll make you start over.”
She mouthed an apology and he brought the phone up to his ear.
“Hello? Are you there?” Festus's voice cut in.
“Yes, Festus. Get to the point.”
“Fine, I won't bore you then,” his friend continued. “The boys and I are going golfing this Sunday. Are you coming with?”
Coriolanus grunted and pushed her head down once he felt his peak nearing again. “Depends on the time. I have a date.”
“Let me guess. Julia Cardew?” he teased sarcastically.
“Is it that obvious she likes me?” he returned his humor in good fun.
It was no secret between his circle of friends that the youngest Cardew sister was vying for his attention. So insistent about it too, trying to insert herself into his path at every event, all giddy just to talk to him. Like a schoolgirl in love; she lacked that cunning prowess her eldest sister had. She wasn't the ideal sister to marry, but the better one was already off the table. Still, the girl was still a Cardew and that shiny pedigree that would look good on him. And think of the connections, the doors that would open.
His friends had teased him about it and asked if he planned on pursuing her. If he intended to court her, or fool around with her. It was a game among some Capitolite men to see who they could seduce. Even better if they succeeded in stealing her virtue. Was the younger Cardew a virgin? he wondered.
The blood left Phoebe’s face unceremoniously, and her lips pulled off him with a pop. What? Had she heard Festus?
“What are you doing?” He whispered tersely. “Continue.”
Except she didn’t. She thought about it, and didn’t. Then weaseled out from under the desk, the mischief from before nowhere to be found.
She just left.
Left him high and dry.
✦ ✦ ✦
“I love what you’ve done with the place!”
It was so easy to impress Julia Cardew.
Unlike her older sister who sneered at the mention of him, she laughed at everything he said, even when he had not made a joke. Batted her lashes and agreed with every opinion he had to try and appeal to him, although she was too distracted by his handsome face to properly follow along. He had that effect on people. His father had, too, he’d heard, and he’d grown to be his spitting image. That was all he heard lately from the older Capitolites who had nothing but praises to say about the upstanding man. Even his cousin Tigris agreed.
I think you look just like your father, Coriolanus.
Julia ooh’d and aah’d at every passing fixture. None that he’d polished and shined, but he took her praise in humble stride. “Do you have a preference for your tea?” he inquired. “My maid will prepare us some.”
Speaking of the maid—she was nowhere to be found.
Eventually, he found her hiding in the pantry. Perhaps not hiding, but she’d been in there for a suspiciously long time, almost as if she were dreading Julia’s arrival.
It seemed there was a problem here.
No, there definitely was a problem. Ever since the incident in his study when Festus called, she’d been acting so off. He assumed it was because of the mention of his date. Still, it didn’t warrant her avoiding him like the plague and lying about feeling under the weather. It didn’t warrant the silent treatment. Her behavior was petulant and frankly uncalled for, because they were not in a relationship. She was his maid, and just that.
“Get out of here and greet our guest, Phoebe.” A stern edge laced his tone and she turned to face him, visibly pale and nauseous.
“I’m tidying the pantry. It’s a mess.” She scrambled for a broom and brushed a random cobweb on the ceiling.
“You can clean it later. Now, get out there and make us some tea.”
She walked—no, dragged—herself out.
Only to find the lady of the hour examining the kitchen, her fingers skimming the marbled countertops.
“I see you’ve found the kitchen.” He returned to Julia’s side and pressed a hand to the small of her back. At that, she preened. Then made her way around, inspecting what she could of the surface. Until her attention drifted to the source of a scuffing sound making its way into the kitchen.
For a moment, her face widened in surprise when his maid stepped into the kitchen. And that surprise slowly shifted into confusion as her gaze narrowed in on her. “Phoebe Blackwood? What are you doing here?”
Right now, he had her wearing a version of her uniform that was, by all means, standard-issued. Plain and drab, and her shoes were not heels. “I could say the same to you,” she muttered under her breath, not so thrilled to see this girl she was apparently familiar with.
“I was wondering where you’ve been, Phoebe.” Julia rounded the kitchen island and Phoebe forced a terse smile on her face. “You stopped attending my parties,” she continued, undeterred by her tepid behavior. “I thought I’d done something to offend you, but, it appears you have been...” She looked her up and down, a hint of sarcastic amusement bleeding into her expression. “Busy.”
“I have been.” Phoebe gripped the countertop so tightly that her knuckles whitened. “Anyway, how do you like your tea?”
“You stopped attending all of our parties, actually. We’d thought you’d eloped to the districts or something,” Julia blabbed on, leaving his side, and he was left a bystander in their two-person conversation. “With Marcellus—”
“Black? Earl Grey? Green—”
“And now you’re…” Julia gestured at all of her. “We must catch up.”
“You seem like an Earl Grey person.”
Eloped? Marcellus?
A strange picture was being painted. One where they were acquainted at the very least. Peers at the Academy perhaps, which explained her stiff posture. It must’ve been embarrassing to be seen like this by an old school friend who would no doubt be gossiping about this to all of her friends. Is that why she never went out? For the fear of being scrutinized? And who was this Marcellus? A boy she liked? Eloped was a strong word; that implied some closeness between them.
“I’ll take hibiscus if you have any. With three cubes of sugar.”
He hated hibiscus. And the smell of Julia’s perfume: cloying, demanding to be the center of attention. That described her perfectly.
Coriolanus led Julia to the living room, providing Phoebe with a brief moment of respite.
For a while, he tuned out Julia’s chatter as she went on and on about her interest in frivolous things like fashion and jewelry design. And oh, she could play the pianoforte quite well. He must come over sometime, so she could play for him. He was admittedly still undecided, whether he wanted to make this ditsy girl his wife. But she was practically throwing herself at him, so, he would see how this goes. How their future meetings go.
Tea had taken quite a while to be prepared and he suspected that was because his little maid was stalling for time. Eventually she appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. She served them and they both watched as Julia took her first sip... Only to scrunch her nose at it and wave her over.
“This is far too sweet. How many cubes did you put in here?”
“Three, Julia—Miss Cardew,” Phoebe corrected herself, wincing a bit. “Like you asked.” How awkward. As a maid, she was expected to address his guests formally.
“Would you be a dear and fetch me another cup? I meant two cubes. My apologies.” Her words came out saccharine sweet, and she gave her a funny smile, crinkling her nose.
Phoebe accepted the piping hot tea, only for it to go plummeting to the ground when the handle slipped. It missed the carpet, to his relief, but had gotten all over her hand instead. She hissed and grasped her hand that’d been nearly scalded by the beverage.
He noticed it was Julia who’d let the cup slip, so deftly, like she thought he wouldn’t notice.
“Oh, goodness! You should be more careful.” Julia gasped, feigning concern for her as she placed a hand over her chest. That had been diminished by what she said next: “You could’ve stained the carpet.”
His eye twitched at what was, without a doubt, a petty power trip. It seemed there was a history between the two that could explain the animosity lingering between them. Initially he’d assumed the Cardew sisters were like night and day, but it seemed the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. They both had a mean streak after all.
“I’m. I’m so sorry, Mr. Snow.” Phoebe blinked back tears. “I’ll clean it right away.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two of them behind.
It was so quiet after she left. You could hear a pin drop.
“I didn’t appreciate what you did,” he admitted, crisply, stirring his tea.
“Pardon?” She gave him an innocent look.
“Luckily it didn’t end up on the rug. If it had, I would’ve had to ask you to replace it. And I am afraid it is one of a kind.” She looked offended, and he for some reason, couldn’t bring himself to care. “I do not know what is going on between you two, but do try not to make a mess in my house.”
That offended expression shifted into fear as she shrunk back in her seat, and then offered a humorless laugh to diffuse the situation. All humbled now. She was in the presence of a man, not a schoolboy who would entertain her schoolyard behavior.
“Anyway.” He sighed and took her hand in his, reminding himself that the purpose of this rendezvous was not to scare her off. It was to test the waters and get to know her better. See if she possessed the qualities he needed in a first lady. So far, it was not promising. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
After a minute, he excused himself for a restroom break.
He headed upstairs to find Phoebe struggling to reach the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. Jumping and jumping, all frazzled at it too. “Looking for the first aid kit?” he asked, causing her to exhale sharply in surprise at his unceremonious appearance.
She nodded and looked off to the side, still blinking back tears. Without much effort at all, he reached over her and grabbed the first aid kit. Then he led her to the loft, where he sat her down on the settee.
“Give me your hand,” he commanded, and she gingerly outstretched it—only to grit her teeth and recoil when he barely touched it. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me see it.”
She held it out again and tried not to move as he assessed the damage. There was an ugly pink splotch on it that was sure to darken soon. “Have you applied ice yet?” he inquired, and she shook her head. “Go do that after I patch you up.” He carefully wiped down the wound and applied the ointment.
Then came an apology, which she murmured so softly under her breath.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he replied plainly. “I know you didn’t drop it.” He wrapped the bandage around her hand with practiced care, after having wounded himself numerous times playing sports. “I am curious,” he continued, “what history the two of you have. You and Miss Cardew.”
Phoebe watched his hands moved, but he noticed her gaze wasn’t focused. It was a distant one, like she’d retreated into her mind to retrieve a buried memory. From days long behind her.
“We were classmates at the Academy,” she confessed, and he did not tell her that he deduced that already. It was more so the mention of that Marcellus, and ‘eloping’ that piqued his interest.
“I see. Were the two of you friends?”
“We were.” She smiled almost wistfully. “Long ago. But things changed when we were in High School. We just grew apart. I suppose I wasn't as interesting as her other friends.”
“Is that the whole story? I feel like I'm missing a chapter,” he replied, pointedly.
“Well.” She swallowed. “There was this boy she liked back in Middle School. They had a thing going on for a while in secret.” He nodded, following along. “He asked me to go to the Yule Ball with him. Years after they broke it off.”
“Did you go with him?” he queried, and she shook her head.
“No, of course not. He was rather pushy. Didn’t get a good vibe from him either. He glanced at every passing skirt so I knew I wasn’t special.” Phoebe shrugged. “Ever since, she treated me differently. Poked at me with her new friends. I had a feeling it was because of that boy.”
“What was his name?” he could not help but ask.
“Marcellus.”
“The one she assumed you eloped with?” His brow arched.
“It was just a joke. His family owns a business in the districts so he takes off every now and then to go see it. We ‘disappeared’ around the same time.”
“That is quite the history you two have.” He considered it, a friendship between the two. Most advantageous for a Blackwood, who did not come from old money like a Cardew. “Anyway. Who did you go to the dance with instead? I’m sure there were many suitors lining up the block for a chance to dance with you.” Many might’ve been an exaggeration, but a bit of flattery went a long way with unearthing secrets, he found. It got people to open up to you more.
She shook her head and laughed, as if his comment were incredulous. “I went with a friend who didn’t have a date. I wasn’t exactly popular with the boys.”
“I don’t see why. You’re a beautiful woman.” That was not a lie, although his words were a bit glazed.
A blush colored her cheeks. “Thanks for the compliment. But beauty isn’t everything.”
Status meant everything.
“I was a wallflower, so I didn’t get much attention,” she elaborated. “Never attended any events unless I was forced to go.”
“So. Positively average, then,” he decided. Part of her problem could’ve been that people forgot she existed. That sort of happens when you don’t put yourself out there.
She winced. “Exactly.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. At least you know your place. I know a few who let their beauty get to their heads.”
“That was harsh,” she quipped in good humor, but he could see she didn’t appreciate it.
“I’m not interested in dressing up the truth.”
“So it seems.” Phoebe rose from her seat and withdrew her hand. “You should head downstairs before Miss Cardew wonders if you’ve come down with something.”
“You may think me cruel for it, but I believe honesty is important,” he continued.
“Right. That’s why you’re going to go downstairs and pretend you’re enraptured by Miss Cardew.”
“You’re assuming I’m not interested in her?”
“Not for any good reason.” She gave him a skeptical look.
He hummed and did not know what to make of her observation. She was more perceptive than he gave her credit for. Dangerously so.
But she wasn’t wrong. That was exactly what he did. And by the end of the night, the incident with the tea had been long forgotten by Julia. All water under the bridge.
He noticed how their conversations kept circling back to his maid.
“How much do you know about your maid?” she queried, and he told her, as much as one would know any other maid. Whatever was necessary and not much more. “We used to attend the Academy together,” she confessed, then took a sip from the second cup of tea she’d been served. “Rumor has it that her father has been... quite the mess since she ran off.”
“Why is that?” Coriolanus had his ears sharpened the entire time, but pretended not to care whenever his little maid was brought up.
“Well.” She whistled, and sat up, ready to get into it with her theatrics. “He racked up quite the debt, I've heard through the grapevine. And it’s no wonder! All that gambling. That man is a loose cannon.”
That reminded him of a certain someone.
Indeed, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
✦ ✦ ✦
The day after Julia’s appearance, his maid headed upstairs to his office to deliver him his morning tea.
He was not met with a good morning or a warm smile like usual. There was something almost frosty about her countenance when he inquired about the state of her hand.
“It’s fine,” she replied in a clipped tone, and he had other pressing matters to focus on than her shifty mood. Perhaps she could go clean something to cool off from whatever it was that was weighing her pretty little head. And then she made her quick escape, closing the door of his study on her way out. Were he not already focused on his paperwork, he would’ve insisted she come back and greet him properly.
Whatever. He continued his work in earnest, and their paths had not crossed for the rest of the day.
Until late at night, when he found her in the kitchen rolling out some biscuit dough.
“Something smells good,” he began, announcing his presence. She immediately pulled her robe tighter across her chest, trying to make herself decent even though he’d already seen every inch of her exposed. Before she could retreat upstairs, his taller frame caged her against the island. “What are you making?”
“Biscuits, sir.” She flashed him that fake smile he recognized all too well now. “They’ll be ready within the hour.”
“Is something the matter?” he asked, brushing her hair back to expose the smooth corner of her neck. Her blonde waves were damp, as was the rest of her, he felt, through that thin barrier of fabric separating them. She’d just showered. The scent of strawberry shampoo hit him and he inhaled its intoxicatingly sweet scent. “You’ve been acting rigid all day. Am I overworking you, is that it?”
“I’m fine.”
“There it is again. That tone.” Her breath hitched when his lips skimmed across her shoulder. She tried to wiggle out of his hold but he pressed down, leaving her with no room to escape.
“I don’t think we should be doing this anymore, with all due respect.” She tacked on a “sir” at the end to address him the way he preferred.
“Is it not your duty to meet my needs? Right now, I require your company.”
She set the rolling pin down and gave him a frown.
“You’re seeing someone. I don’t think she’d appreciate us doing this.”
“It seems you’re misunderstanding what our arrangement is.” He turned her to face him, then pressed her hips back against the counter again. “My personal matters and what I wish to do with my time are none of your concern. Your job is simple. Shall I remind you what it is or do you remember?”
What was it, in fine print? A plethora of clauses she skimmed over that day when she signed the contract. It did not help that the words on the many pages were minuscule, and she’d given up trying to read it after the first one. “To do… what you say,” she managed, half breathless at him being so close, pinning her down like this. Her small hands wrapped around herself almost protectively, to wedge some distance between them.
“Good girl,” he hummed, satisfied at her simple response. “That wasn’t so hard to figure out.”
Her robe shifted her movement, teasing him with a glimpse of what was underneath it: a thin red slip adorned with lace, the same shade as a strawberry. Her nipples pebbled under the fabric as it slipped down her shoulder, but she made no move to adjust it. It was almost like she was trying to tempt him.
She didn’t move when he pulled the tie of her robe loose, letting it pool at her feet.
“You wanted us to stop this...” His fingers traced her nipples over the thin fabric, and she shivered, trying so hard to stay still for him. “Yet here you are, wearing this.” He picked at her little red slip. “Like you're trying to entice me. Do you think I'm blind?” It wasn’t like she had much else to wear, besides the few pieces he’d curated for her. Tailor-made and one of a kind, because whatever she’d brought was out of fashion. All that, he donated.
“I’m wearing what you gave me,” she murmured, her eyes glued to the floor. “It’s not like that.” The only light present was the warm glow emitting from the oven. Its heat suffused through the kitchen and it all smelled heavenly, like vanilla and shortbread.
“Let me make something clear, Phoebe,” he said, tipping her chin up with his finger to command her undivided attention, because, it was very important she understood what he was about to say. “You are not my lover and I am not your keeper. You are only here because I find you useful. So be useful.”
That was the magic phrase he noted to use again. Be useful. Instantly, he saw something in her shift. Tears prickled her eyes and she responded so quickly. “I. I can be useful.”
“Then prove it,” he commanded, feigning boredom. That, his boredom, she didn't like to see, he observed. And now there was a sort of determination in her, to fix this. To make it better. Almost instinctively, she dropped to her knees, then shivered at the cool draft on the floor. Then she undid his trousers and worked through the motions he'd engraved in her mind. That she had plenty and plenty of practice with. She took him well and with purpose, her small lips closing around him. So soft, like velvet around him.
“I noticed you always bake when something’s bothering you,” he said, stroking her head the way one would soothe a pet. “Does it make you feel more at home?”
She tried to nod with a mouth full of cock.
He wondered if she ever felt homesick. If she ever felt lonely, having no friends, or anything for the matter. He tracked the calls on the landlines and tapped her phone, which, she’d never even used to call anyone anyway, much to his surprise. There were incoming calls from some contact with a feminine name that she never picked up. Upon his further investigations, it was just another young woman like her, a recent graduate from the Academy. A friend, perhaps, that she cut contact with. A few concerned voicemails from her.
And a few nasty ones from her father, who blamed her for ruining everything. It switched between vitriol spewed at the speaker and then, him begging her to come back, and oh, he did love her. They could fix all of this, and make it right. Start over, and she would not have to marry Mr. Grant.
And then there was nothing. For weeks.
Once he’d tired of her languid pace, Coriolanus dragged her to her feet and bent her over the counter, face-first, before she had a chance to adjust.
A yelp escaped her when he pushed her slip up and tore the flimsy excuse for underwear she wore clean off. He pushed her cheek flush against the cold marble and didn’t bother prepping her, since she’d already been wet from who knew what was running around in her mind earlier.
He pushed in, inhaling sharply at how tight she was, even after he’d fucked her more times than he could count. Her body trembled as she adjusted to him, and then, he bottomed out, pressing her back flush against his chest. It was impressive how much she take, when, he'd scared off some women because of his size. “Good girl,” he praised, and she clenched at that. “Do you like it when I call you that?”
She didn't have to think about it. A dumb nod was her only response.
“I like you best like this, when you’re quiet,” he confessed, beginning a slow and languid pace.
“I wish you would—” Coriolanus found her sweet spot, cutting her off before she finished that thought.
“Go on.” He pat her thigh, encouragingly. “Say it.”
“I wish you would treat me with more respect,” she admitted, shakily, as he used her like a toy.
“If I didn’t have any respect for you, would I do this?” His hand slipped between her legs to rub her clit and she gasped, bucking her hips. “Most men don’t care about a woman’s pleasure.”
Well, there some nights when he could not have been asked to care, to bother to make her cum. Particularly when he was in a nasty mood, but, she never complained about it when he left her high and dry. There were other times when he was more than generous, coaxing out one orgasm after another from her until she had to pry him off because it was too much. Which made up for that, in his opinion.
“I pay attention. I notice what you like. You like it very when I touch you here, don’t you?” He angled his hips just so, and she tried to stifle a moan. That in combination with his skillful touch had her knees weakening.
“Oh,” she gasped and bucked her hips, seeking more. More pleasure. So greedy like that, even when she didn’t mean to be. “I do.”
He made sure to bring her right to the edge, so close, but right before she was able to finish, he withdrew his touch. “But I don’t do favors,” he reminded her. “If you want to finish, you’re going to have to ask me to let you cum.” Again, with the vulgarity. It was less of a shock to hear this coming out of his mouth after weeks of this routine they had.
She huffed, giving him a bit of attitude, which he did not appreciate.
“I don’t like your attitude.” He gave her ass a spank and she squeaked. “Fix it before I fix it for you.”
“Please,” she sobbed. “Let me cum, sir.”
“I don't know. Do you deserve it?” he teased, flexing his thighs to pace himself, when she was squeezing like a vise and it was so tempting to finish already. But not yet.
“Yes,” she nodded eagerly, and he exhaled in amusement, because she in fact didn’t deserve it. He was under no obligation to please her. But, he thought, it was like another form of power to get her all worked up and begging for it. And he did enjoy the feeling of her cunt squeezing him as she came undone.
“Very well. I suppose I could let you cum once tonight.” He yanked her up with a firm grip in her hair and she hissed at that, but was too distracted by the pleasure she felt then to pay any heed to it. Not when he was rubbing her clit just the way she liked. Until she bit down on her arm, coming undone with a squeal.
“Th-thank you,” she managed afterwards, a bit dazed trying to focus on him. For a moment they froze like that, as she waited for him to relinquish her, but he didn’t.
“I think a change of scenery would do us some good.” He flipped her around so she was straddling him, and then hoisted her up, carrying her out of the kitchen. She attempted to grab onto the island to stop him, but that was about as good as useless.
“The biscuits!” She wiggled in protest, and gasped once she spotted the time on the oven. “They’re going to burn!”
“Well then. You better hurry and finish me off fast.” He squeezed her thighs.
Ten minutes to go.
Editing Notes (5/9/26): Revised to add more detail. While reading the books, I also noticed that a character named Lavinia already exists, so I changed the Cardew sister’s name to Julia! I apologize for the confusion to any prior readers.
In preparation for part 3 of Gods & Monsters (which I will be posting within a few days), I revised parts 1 and 2 to add more depth to the narrative. This was an older work I was not as confident about, so I hope the newer revision is a more engaging read. I highly recommend a reread for anyone still following this series! Especially for part 2.
Note for part 2: While reading the books, I noticed that a character named Lavinia already exists, so I changed the Cardew sister’s name to Julia! I apologize for the confusion to any prior readers.
Contents: NONCON/DUBCON, DDDNE, Alternate Universe, Abuse of Authority, Power Imbalance, Degradation, Smut, maids, Contracts, Infidelity, Blackmail, Misogyny, Objectification, Emotional Manipulation, Age Difference, Office Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Blow Jobs, Old Money Society, Daddy Issues
Coriolanus POV
She didn’t need to knock to announce her arrival.
Coriolanus had already spotted the shadow of her feet hesitating at the door of his study.
He pictured his little maid standing there, pale as could be, gripping her tray tightly as she worked up the courage to knock. It usually took about a minute, sometimes more when she suspected he was in another one of his moods.
Was it that time already?
He flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch.
12:31 PM.
By the time she knocked, he’d already sorted the papers on his desk into neat stacks. One contained the proposals he’d reviewed and the other, the letters he had yet to. “Come in,” he beckoned, not sparing a glance at the door.
After hours of wading through proposals for the Games, Coriolanus noticed the signs of his body starting to give. First it was his stiffened shoulders—a mild discomfort he ignored until a fuzziness settled into mind, forcing him to set his pen down.
The fatigue was nothing a short rest couldn’t fix, though he had little time to idle, with all the plans he had for the week. A strong dose of caffeine served as a supplement for the rest his body required in the meantime. His poison of choice: a cup of tea or coffee served black—no cream or sugar. Its bitterness was an acquired taste, though lately it hadn't quite hit the spot, as he’d developed a palate for sweeter things.
Speaking of sweet things.
The grand oak doors swung open and his little maid came rushing in, two minutes late. Navigating the penthouse was easier said than done in three-inch heels but she never complained. Never asked to change her uniform. She was so quiet like that, only nodding or shaking her head unless she absolutely had to speak.
Her shortness of words, he could excuse.
But never tardiness.
That was something he made sure to instill in her just days into her time here, when he scolded her for being a minute late.
She glimpsed the clock on the wall behind him before inhaling sharply, bracing for his scrutiny. Then, she crossed the threshold of his study, each step measured. They wouldn't want a repeat of what had occurred a few days ago.
A few days ago, his clumsy maid had tripped, spilling coffee all over his expensive rug—something worth enough to feed a district for months. It should've upset him, yet it hadn't. Perhaps it was because he was too distracted watching her drop onto her hands and knees to scrub off the stubborn stain. That dangerously short dress of hers rode up but she didn't bother fixing it, too absorbed in her effort. Oh well, he'd thought, catching a glimpse of something lacy and pink. It was about time he switched the rug out anyway, with the season changing.
Instead of scolding her for arriving late, Coriolanus admired the handiwork of her new uniform. He’d taken the liberty of altering it into something flattering for physique, with the excuse of it being big on her. Which it was—she was smaller than he remembered. He sized it down and had it shortened to hit about mid-thigh: shorter than a traditional maid’s uniform but long enough to be tasteful if she was mindful of how she moved. Some frill and lace brought the ensemble together.
It was more pretty than practical, like her.
“Your tea, Mr. Snow,” she murmured, setting the tray down on his desk. “I added two sugar cubes this time,” she fidgeted with her hands, not quite sure what to do with them now that there was nothing to hold, “and I steeped it for five minutes like you asked.”
He didn’t answer at first, simply watching as she bowed, her sandy waves spilling over her shoulder. Her ponytail was sleek, each strand smoothed into place except for one cowlick that refused to behave.
Hiring a new maid might’ve been the best decision he'd made in weeks. The previous one had a habit of pocketing trinkets—little things she thought he wouldn't notice if they went missing. But he always noticed; he noticed if his things were even slightly off-place. One call to management and that'd been dealt with. Out with the old, in with the new.
Coriolanus took his time skimming the catalog for someone young and attractive; anything else would've ruined the ambiance. A few candidates caught his eye, though not quite like the woman on the last page. Something about her seemed familiar; he couldn’t quite place what.
So he had his assistant run a background check, then it all made sense.
Phoebe Blackwood.
Nineteen years old.
Capitol-born.
Never married.
A pretty thing, and her beauty was perhaps the only thing she had going for her. The reason she was fortunate enough to be standing here now. A graduate from the Academy, yes, a school only the wealthy could afford to attend, but that accomplishment was somewhat diminished by her low ranking in her class. Proof that she wasn't the ambitious type, and her position here as his maid reflected that. No further prospects or family support to speak of either. She lived alone on the outskirts of the Capitol, in a block of pre-war housing that was largely untouched in the reconstruction effort. A place like that was where the bottom feeders, the lowest of low resided.
A picture began to form in his mind once he picked up the next file, coming face to face with a photo of a familiar man: Silas Blackwood. They’d briefly conversed at events, only because he’d been approached first. He merely recalled the man because of the secondhand embarrassment he endured watching him kiss up to others, so desperate to climb the social ladder. In a place like the Capitol, it was all about connections. Painted smiles. Pretending to like people you didn’t.
Last year, at the debutante ball, Coriolanus had the pleasure of meeting his daughter, Phoebe, who’d recently turned eighteen then. At a first glance, she was rather unassuming. Beautiful, yes, but there was no shortage of beauty in the Capitol, which meant she was among many jewels. But there was something refreshing about how unchiseled she was, when the trend nowadays was to go under the knife. Pillowy lips and angular cheeks were more in style, and well, the Capitol so loved to follow trends. It transformed most Capitolites into carbon copies of each other in their endeavor to conform. But she, she was soft all over. Round cheeks and small lips. The muted color of her pink dress and the modest cut of it seemed strategic, like a deliberate choice for one who wanted to hide in plain sight. She came up to his chin in her heels.
Their first meeting had been a disaster, to say the least. They were both making a beeline for the Posca to get refills when she tripped on her gown, spilling her drink all over his expensive blazer. Having years of practice with it, Coriolanus masked his irritation behind a pleasant smile and allowed her to try and blot out the stain. Even though she was only making it worse.
Coriolanus was no stranger to the endless galas and functions he was to attend, and at the age of twenty-five, there was an expectation for him to choose a partner. He was among the few in his inner circle still unwed, and was frankly tired of being asked if a special someone caught his eye.
He’d considered courting Livia Cardew many years ago, but she turned him down for Felix Ravinstill, who was only the President’s grandnephew. A fine choice for a woman so shrewd and keen on climbing the social ladder. It was no secret that Ravinstill wanted to fill his uncle’s shoes and someday become President. Quite the wrench in his plans, as he too was vying for that title. But, no matter. He would deal with him, in due time.
There were other fine choices he had for a potential wife than Cardew. It was just a shame to lose her, since she was the heiress of a large fortune as the daughter of a bank owner. It was a shame Clemensia Dovecote had burned bridges with him after that accident in the lab with Dr. Gaul—may she rest in peace. There was Lysistrata Vickers, but, she was not an ideal choice. Not because she wasn’t of suitable status. It was just that she was too agreeable, and to him, a level of detachment was necessary. His wife was not meant to be his friend or someone he liked, even. She was meant to be one thing: a vessel to carry his heir.
The perfect match, in his mind, was someone incapable of swaying his heart.
Finding a wife should’ve been easy, he’d thought, since he was only a Snow. The adopted Plinth scion, and one of the most eligible bachelors in all of Panem. There were no shortage of ambitious Capitol mama's trying to entice him to have a second look at their daughters. The women he courted all lacked a certain something he couldn’t place. They were all beautiful, of course. But what most of them had in common, he’d discovered, were their headstrong personalities. Too comfortable after a few dates, challenging him in discussion. This generation was raising women who were a bit too opinionated.
What he sought was someone impressionable. Easy to mold. A blank canvas to craft in his will.
Schooling his expression into a cool indifference, Coriolanus lifted the teacup off the tray and took a sip. Phoebe watched, all bright-eyed, and he liked that, her eagerness to please. To go above and beyond, but, was it enough? He couldn't help but push her sometimes, testing the extent of her determination. Searching for any sign of vexation, any crack in her demeanor. Yet she never broke, even when she had to scrub a spot on the floor that wasn’t dirty because he said it was. His penthouse wasn’t clean until he could see his reflection on the tiles. Everything must gleam and glisten.
The moment she first stepped into his office, it was clear she had little experience for the job.
It was one thing to be bad at cleaning, but another to be wholly unprepared. The kind of woman who’d never lifted a finger in her life. This must’ve been her first time stooping this low, scrubbing floors for a living. Back home, her father could afford a servant, but here on her own, she had to get her hands dirty herself. He noted the little things when she thought he wasn’t looking. How she wrinkled her nose whenever she had to toss out the trash, and how she fumbled with the washing machine, refusing to ask for help when she clearly needed it. It was so pitiful he had to guide her through the basics himself. Something he wouldn’t have done for anyone, ordinarily. It was ludicrous, him having to teach his own maid how to clean.
There was nothing wrong with the tea. It was steeped just right and it wasn’t too sweet. Perfect, in fact. But that wasn’t what she’d be hearing. “This is the wrong kind.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Did I not tell you to bring me Earl Grey?”
“You didn't, sir,” Phoebe insisted, brows furrowing as she wracked her mind for any recollection of him saying that. But she found nothing of course. So forgetful like that. “You said black tea.”
“I know what I said,” he replied tersely, before looking off to the side as if pondering something troublesome. Whatever will he do with her? “I’m starting to question whether you're capable for this job.”
“My apologies, Mr. Snow,” she mumbled, her shoulders tensing at his disappointment. “I’ll brew you a cup, right away.” With that she turned, attempting to leave as if he permitted her to.
“Have a seat.” Coriolanus beckoned her to the chair across from his, the sternness in his tone leaving no room for argument. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you first.”
Those words had her paling as she padded up to his desk, and with a shaky breath, settled into the leather chair. For a moment they sat in silence as he watched her squirm, and he pieced together what he wanted to say. Let his fingers drag along the steaming rim of the teacup. It was a moment of reflection to him, but to her, it must’ve seemed like a deliberate tactic to unnerve her. Because she was always so terrified of him, even though he'd been nothing but polite. Reasonable. Generous, even.
“You seem distracted lately, Miss Blackwood.” He straightened the fountain pen on his desk. “If there's anything preventing you from putting forth your best effort, I'd like to know.”
“I’m fine, sir,” Phoebe insisted not a second later in her defense. “Just a bit under the weather today.”
“You’ve used that excuse before. That can’t be the case everyday,” he challenged, and she wet her glossy pink lips, at a loss for words. “This week alone, you broke one of my teacups. Stained my rug. Do you have any idea how much it cost?”
“More than my paycheck?” She offered a half-hearted laugh but he could tell she wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow her.
“It’s worth more than I’d pay you in a year.” He let that sink in.
“I’ll pay to replace them. It might take some time… but I will.”
Coriolanus stirred his tea and took another sip, its warmth soothing him. The brew wasn't as bitter as yesterday’s. In fact, it was perfect. Miss Blackwood could be a quick learner if she put her mind into it. “With what money, pray tell? Certainly not mine, if you think I’m keeping you around after all that.”
“Allow me to make it up to you.” Panic contorted her features. “I could, I could work extra hours. Or for less. I can sew, cook—”
“I’ve already been quite generous with you. You wouldn’t have lasted a week anywhere else, with the way you clean.” She was trying not to take his statement to heart but he caught the way she winced because it was true; she was simply that lacking in her ability. “I suppose I could give you one last chance. But why should I, if I could easily find someone better?”
Maids and Avoxes were a dime a dozen, with the wealth he had surmounted. At least he wouldn’t have to pay an Avox a wage. But they weren’t so pleasant to look at.
“I know it might not seem that way to you, but this job means so much to me.” She traced the frills of her apron almost compulsively, blinking back tears. “It is how I get by. Afford anything. I may not be the best at my job, but I am... dedicated. I’ll do anything to keep it. So if you could...” she was struggling to come up with more words to say, but her message had gotten across.
“Anything?” He barely managed to conceal the smirk in his tone at what that implied, though he was uncertain she understood the weight of her words. What they implied. “That’s a dangerous offer, Miss Blackwood. Are you sure you’re up to it?” There was a flicker of hesitance in her eyes, which was swiftly replaced by a determined glow as she straightened up in her seat.
“I have a proposal for you,” Coriolanus continued, leaning forward in his seat. “Housekeeping isn’t your forte, that is fine. Thus I can offer you a position more geared to your… skill set.”
Phoebe blinked, not quite registering the insinuation.
“It’s not all about sweeping floors, Miss Blackwood. There are other ways to be of service,” he elaborated. “I could explain, but a demonstration would be more efficient.”
She nodded, though not before hesitating for a moment. “I’m listening.”
“Come,” he beckoned with a tilt of his head.
Rising, she rounded the corner of his desk, coming close, though not as close as he wanted her to be. “A little closer,” he requested, and gingerly she closed the distance between them, their knees almost touching. Her breath caught in anticipation of her next instruction. Good. “I can see how eager you are to please. That dedication can bring you far here.”
She brightened. “Of course. This is my first job, but I believe I’m a quick learner.”
“Kneel, then. Prove that you can keep up.” His own words surprised him. Where was he going with this? What did he want from her? Coriolanus leaned back in his chair, commanding her with such casualness, as if he were requesting a glass of water. He was well aware he was crossing some boundaries here, but his home was his domain. A place where he made the rules.
“Mr. Snow?” His little maid gave him a funny look, as if he’d asked something absurd.
“I’d like to speak with you properly, Miss Blackwood. Eye to eye.” His voice sliced through the quiet like a blade, leaving no room for argument. And he thought, well, she was a bit too high up, standing before him in her heels. She’d look better down on the floor. She dropped to her knees a bit awkwardly, and his gaze swept over the swell of her humble breasts. That tight dress accentuated her assets just right.
“There we go,” he hummed, tipping her chin up. “If I’m to make an exception for you, I’d like to get to know you better first.” She flinched at the slightest touch, at his thumb swiping across her bottom lip, smudging her pink lip gloss. “Before I hire a servant, I do a background check. To ensure I am accepting someone fit.” She nodded dumbly and he carried on. “Your background, it intrigues me. You are from a well-off family, are you not? Someone of your age and status would’ve been spoken for already. Yet here you are, scrubbing floors for a living. Curious, isn’t it?”
Phoebe's eyes darkened. “It’s… complicated.”
“Go on,” said Coriolanus, tucking her sandy waves behind her ear. The black satin ribbon in her ponytail was a nice touch, though a red one would suit her better, he thought. Maybe he’d commission another uniform for her, in a different style. A privilege no ordinary maid would have, but, it was normal for maids to keep spares of uniforms anyway. Why not vary them a bit? This was his domain, and he was her employer.
“There was an arrangement that fell through,” she explained. “My father and I had some disagreements.”
What a funny way to say she refused. That was the only explanation he could conjure for her situation.
“And now you’re on your own. How unfortunate. Still, you’ve landed on your feet.” A gourmand scent lingered in the air, syrupy sweet and delicious. Her strawberry perfume. It piqued his appetite. “I won’t pry, but I can see you’re in a tough position. Thus, I’d like to extend you an olive branch.”
“Thank you for your consideration, sir,” she murmured, fidgeting with the hem of her dangerously short dress. “About the job. What would my new duties be, exactly?”
What indeed? He thought about it long and hard, how he could make someone like her useful. And it hit him all at once, this feeling he could not name, seeing this girl down at his feet, looking up at him, her hazel eyes so full of hope. Please don’t turn me away. Please, give me a chance to prove I can please you. What was it?
Power, he decided.
“You’ll still be doing some housework, but there are other needs of mine that I’ll require tending to,” he said, and his gaze drifted down to her small pink lips as she bit the skin on them. Coriolanus was briefly bombarded by the image of them wrapped around something else, and oh, how soft they would feel. He would give her purpose, he decided, because he was generous like that. A chance at a better life, and in the process, maybe indulge in some rakish joys before he would inevitably be tied down someday, with a ring on his finger.
His tea was now lukewarm yet he sipped it anyway, savoring the sweetness on his tongue. Would she taste this sweet? Coriolanus offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he set his teacup down on the coaster, pushing the intrusive thought aside. “You’ll need to do some training first. I’d like to check one thing if that’s alright with you.”
Phoebe gave a slow albeit hesitant nod. All the confirmation he needed.
His thumb skimmed across her bottom lip and pressed down, testing its yield. “Open your mouth.” She furrowed her brows, still confused but cooperative nonetheless. Her eye contact was lacking, something he noted for them to work on later.
“You’ll need to learn how to follow directions if you’re to succeed, Miss Blackwood. This is all part of the process.” She peeked up at him through the curtain of her long lashes and tried to nod. His thumb then slipped past her lips and pressed down on her tongue. “Close your lips around it, just like that.”
A flush crept up her cheeks at the direction this was going and he caught a spark in her eyes, something he had no trouble snuffing out. All it took was a cold stare to humble her again and remind her of her position. How precarious it was.
She didn’t hesitate anymore.
“Let’s see how much you can take now.” He carried on, pushing his thumb further down until he found it—her gag reflex. Coughing, she pulled back, and he gave a pleased nod. “Your gag reflex is strong but that is fine. That can be improved with time. I trust you will be diligent.” And lucky for her, he was a patient man when he wanted to be. “Are you ready for the next step?”
Coriolanus didn’t wait for her to decide; he simply seized her hand and registered her lack of resistance as an agreement. In that moment, he appreciated how small her hand was in his, her thumb all but the size of his pinky. Delicate, so easy to crush if he wasn’t careful. Her nails, they were not perfectly manicured like a lady of her former status. They were bitten down to the nailbed, cuticles chewed, a nasty habit he noted to have her break.
He guided her hand down to his belt and held it still, always slow when he moved, as if any sudden movement would frighten her. Surely this was a lot to process, being allowed to touch him like this, when before, she'd been spooked by his mere presence in the same room as her. Such sensitive things, like her, took time to coax. He would hate for her to run off after all of this work, trying to coax her close, like he would a frightened fawn.
And then it hit, a moment delayed as she jerked her hand away, the insinuation finally registering.
“This—this is highly unprofessional, sir.” There she was, fawning away from him, but there was something else in her expression. Disgust. For once, he spotted something on her face that wasn't pure anxiety. “I’m uncomfortable with this. I’m a maid, not a—” she hesitated over the last word.
“Very well, I understand.” Sighing, he feigned boredom. “I hoped we could come to an agreement but it appears not. Before you leave—I’m missing my watch. Have you seen it?”
Phoebe rose to her feet, a tad clumsily. “Watch? Which one?”
There were at least three of them.
“The one you’ve misplaced.” A ruthless smile curled his lips. “Things don’t vanish into thin air, Miss Blackwood.”
“Maybe you forgot it somewhere,” she fired back, and he’d never seen her so red before. This time it wasn’t from embarrassment. “If you’re implying I’ve taken it, I haven’t. Check the cameras, you’ll see.”
That was an option, yes. He’d taken measures to secure the place before hiring help. One could never be too careful.
“You’re sweating a bit,” he observed, and the amusement faded from his expression as it shifted into something cold. The kind he would give a thief. “There’s no point lying about it.”
“Like I said, you should check the cameras. There’s proof.” Her pretty face was suddenly much uglier with that scowl contorting it. It didn’t suit her.
“I’ll file a report with your company.” He waved in dismissal.
Phoebe scoffed. “But there’s proof!”
“And who would they believe?” he challenged her, raising his brow. “Some girl whose name means nothing? You ought to remember your place. I am telling you this for your own sake.”
“You are despicable,” she spat, “do you think you can just—” She raised her hand and he caught it in an iron-like grip. Did she intend to slap him? That would be one way to ensure she was not only fired, but blacklisted from every cleaning service.
He did not relinquish her despite her struggling. Not until he said, “I do hope you’ll reconsider, Miss Blackwood. Don’t let your pride get in the way of a good opportunity.”
With that, she recoiled at once and took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together, and he couldn’t tell whether she was about to strangle him or burst into tears. Probably both.
“Now I’ll ask one last time. Are you or are you not interested in this position?”
It took a moment for her to decide, and it seemed she came to her senses once she nodded. “I. I am,” she muttered under her breath, and spitting those words out may as well have been pulling teeth. Her temper came as a surprise to him because, he’d never seen this side of her before. Only that meek little maid. Yes sir, no sir. And now she’d come at him like that. It appeared that, after all, she did have a spine. Refreshing indeed.
“Good. Now, where were we?” His attention drifted to her pink lips which were now bitten raw. “Kneel.”
Phoebe exhaled before dropping to her knees in defeat. This time she didn’t resist when he guided her hand down to his crotch so she could properly tend to his needs. “Do you feel that?” he crooned. “It appears we have a problem here. Take care of it for me, will you?”
“I’ve never done this before,” she admitted, shakily. “I’m not sure… what to do.”
“I’ll guide you through it,” Coriolanus replied. “Unbuckle my belt,” he tipped her chin up, “and keep those pretty eyes on me.”
It took a bit of fumbling but she managed to do so. Then came his briefs. She pulled the waistband down and his cock sprang out, half hard and demanding attention, which she gave it for all of one second before averting her gaze as if she didn’t have permission to look. Her shyness would’ve been endearing were it not for the fact he suspected it was an act.
Capitol women were taught to be demure but that wasn’t necessarily how they were deep down. He’d seen glimpses of it in coquettish stares he’d received from women fanning themselves. Staring at him from across the ballroom, like, come and get me. But always so quick to put on that mask and feign innocence when approached.
“What did I just say?” He gave her head a shake, forcing her gaze to fix on him. On it. On his cock, which was now twitching with excitement at the tentative squeeze she gave. So gentle with it, like she was afraid of hurting him.
“Squeeze tighter,” he instructed. “Lick it. Get it nice and wet for me.”
She licked an experimental strip from the base to the sensitive head of his cock, lingering there long enough for him to think she was teasing him for a second. But her clammy palms and the uncertainty of her touch were enough to refute that. It all screamed of a girl who had no idea what she was doing.
“Good girl,” he praised, stroking her cheek with his thumb, and he didn’t miss the way she leaned into his touch. Still seeking his approval, even now. Those soft lips wrapped around him like a warm embrace and he sighed, eyes fluttering shut. Her mouth was rather small so it was a bit challenging to fit it all. But that didn’t deter her.
Coriolanus guided her along and she tried to be good for him, she did; still he felt her inexperience when her teeth grazed his sensitive flesh. “No teeth,” he hissed out, eyes snapping open as he yanked her ponytail. A startled squeak escaped her, then she offered an apologetic look, which he accepted. Naturally, it would take time to train her, but he was confident she’d adapt. Her life only depended on it. No pressure.
She took extra care not to graze him, every touch meticulous as she allowed him to guide her along, to show her how to please him. For a while, that was enough. But soon his patience was a fraying thread and couldn’t help but push her head down, just to see how much she could take. Not much it turned out, once she gagged almost immediately and pulled back.
By then he was fully erect and more than ready to move along.
“Bend over the desk for me,” Coriolanus commanded, shoving things aside to make room for her. She awkwardly wobbled onto her feet, then leaned forward, elbows bracing against the cool surface. Stiff as a board, her muscles tensed beneath his touch; he had to press down on her back just to get her flush against it.
“Mr. Snow?” Phoebe’s breath caught once he hiked her skirt up over her hips, revealing the thin fabric protecting her intimate parts.
“Did you wear this flimsy thing for me?” he teased, playing with the lace trim of her pink undergarment. “You might as well have worn nothing.” He pictured her in that tight uniform, cleaning whilst trying desperately not to flash him. She certainly wouldn’t appreciate it if he forbid her from wearing any panties, though it would bring him great pleasure to watch her squirm.
“They’re my regular ones.” I know, he thought, but he refrained from telling her that. She shook her head, utterly mortified by his assumption. He attempted to peel them down her slim thighs but she squeezed them shut, denying him entry. “I’d like to keep them on,” she boldly requested, as if him agreeing to that was a possibility.
“They’ll get in the way. Off.” Coriolanus gave her thigh a slap, eliciting a sharp gasp from her. Inevitably she yielded, parting her legs for him like the good girl she was. Oh, how she trembled, and how he liked it, her fear. A bit of fear was necessary to keep them pliant. He wasted no time ripping her panties down her legs because he’d waited long enough. Had been patient this entire time, looking but never daring to touch. Typically he didn’t mix business with pleasure, but there was a first time for everything. Call it getting his money’s worth. He nudged her thighs apart, revealing what she’d been hiding this whole time, and fuck—her cunt was prettier than he imagined, neatly trimmed with blonde wisps sparsely covering it.
“Please don’t stare.” Phoebe’s nails dug into the desk as she sought for something to ground her, but there was nothing there—no way to distract herself from the sensation of his fingers gliding along her silken folds. There was a bit of wetness there, which was natural; it didn’t necessarily mean she was aroused though he thought it’d be fun to tease her about it anyway.
“Eager, are we? You’re dripping and I’ve hardly touched you,” Coriolanus hummed, fingers catching a certain nub he found. “Just what filth do you have running around in your mind?”
“Nothing—” she jerked her hips, a startled gasp escaping her at him having found her weak spot.
“If you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing.” He rubbed her clit in slow, deliberate circles, and it was almost embarrassing how quickly a bit of wetness turned into her becoming sopping wet. All it took was some petting for her legs to part wider, of their own accord. “Your body’s quite sensitive. How often do you touch yourself?”
“I…” She hesitated long enough for him to doubt her. “Don’t.”
Without warning, he brought a heavy hand down, striking her perky ass and she flinched, a squeak catching in her throat. “Lying to me again, I see. I can always tell when.” It didn’t help that she made it so easy for him to read her, like an open book. There were little tells, like how her voice went up a pitch the way it did just now. Sometimes she’d shrink in on herself, trying to hide in plain sight. But there was nowhere to hide anymore.
“A few times a week,” she confessed, caving under the weight of his authoritative stare.
“And who do you think about when you do it?” He rewarded her with a lazy stroke, savoring the way she shuddered.
“No one, really.”
That earned her a slap between her legs.
Just to punish her for lying again, Coriolanus made sure to get her all worked up, stroking her sensitive bud, only to pull back and deny her pleasure the needier she became. Of course she never admitted how much she wanted it, but he didn’t need words to tell she was getting closer. A frustrated whine escaped her at his fingers tracing so close to where she desired them, but never quite there. He elected to ignore her until she gave an honest answer for once.
“You!” Phoebe huffed. “I think about you.”
“Do you imagine me touching you like this?” He returned his touch and she rolled her hips, so shameless about it. Funny considering how shy she’d been just to be seen mere minutes ago. She bit back a whimper and nodded. “Show me how I do it.”
She cast a glance over her shoulder, the wide look in her eyes seeming to ask, do I have to?
“Go on,” he nodded before pulling back and settling into his seat. “I’m waiting.”
Phoebe sat up on his desk, facing him. Once she worked up the courage, she slipped a hand between her slim thighs but still couldn’t look him in the eye. And she could bite her lip all she wanted to stifle her whimpers, but there was no concealing the sound of her wet cunt. Her cheeks burned and he smirked, watching her fingers mimic the movement of his but moments ago. The vision before him sent a jolt of excitement straight to his loins and he swore under his breath, fist encircling his rock hard cock.
He stroked himself as she slipped a finger inside her entrance with little resistance thanks to how soaked she was. One, then another, she tested herself, but that wasn’t enough. “Look at me when you do it,” he demanded and she had no choice but to yield, gingerly fixing her attention on him. “How many can you fit?” he inquired, and well, her answer came soon enough when she tried to ease more fingers in. Three, just three. Nowhere near the size of him. But she had time to adapt, to mold to him. This was a start.
“Come for me,” Coriolanus ordered, and she tried. It was adorable how worked up she’d gotten, all teary-eyed at not being able to please herself the way he could. Her slow movements shifted into something sporadic and soon she couldn’t hold back her frustrated whines, each one exciting him more.
“I can’t,” she sobbed.
“But you’re close.”
Her hips arched off the desk and he would’ve been content watching her struggle, were he not already painfully hard. It was becoming increasingly difficult to restrain himself. “Take your hand away,” he commanded.
“Lick them clean,” he instructed once she withdrew her fingers which were slick with arousal, and she did so without hesitance. Already learning so quickly. “Good girl,” he praised. “Come here.”
She slid off the desk and padded over to him. Then waited, waited like a pet for her next command.
“Have you ever come before, Phoebe?”
She shook her head, a bit dazed from all that had happened.
“Maybe we can change that.” He pulled her onto his lap and she tensed at his erection pressing against her.
“Please, sir.” She buried her head against his chest, inhaling the scent of roses and cologne lingering there.
“All you have to do is ask me to fuck you.”
That had her looking up, eyes widening at how vulgar his words were. And he, too, was surprised by them. Never had he been so uncouth before. There were only a handful of times that he slept with women, but always, he made sure to treat them with respect. But now he'd found himself in a different situation, with a woman so beneath him in status, position—everything. And nothing at stake, this time. He could say whatever he wanted. “Just a few words, lamb. It’s not that hard,” said Coriolanus, stroking her thigh in an attempt to soothe her.
“I can’t.” She swallowed. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”
Saving it for her future husband, how typical.
Her strawberry perfume wafted over him like an intoxicating cloud, and the warmth of her body reminded him that all this was real. Not a fantasy his mind conjured while he was trying to remain professional. Everything had conveniently fallen into place, as if inevitable. No, he wasn’t taking advantage of the situation the way a worse man would. Of course, the girl would be paid well. More than what a maid typically earned. Generous considering she was barely qualified for the job as is. “It’s quite funny you said that, considering you just fingered yourself on my desk,” he pointed out, dryly. “There’s no point in being coy now.”
“That’s different,” she protested.
“Different.” He raised a brow, fingers slipping between her legs to pet her. “Need I remind you, you’ve racked up quite the debt? If you’re looking to repay me for that teacup you broke, this is a start. Or I could simply let you go now and you’ll be pressed to find another job.” His tone carried no hint of malice as he delivered the cold hard truth. “Thievery… That’s a crime that could get you blacklisted. Or worse.”
“Wait.” She stiffened in alarm.
“Going once, twice—”
“Please.”
She mumbled something indecipherable so he asked her to speak up, to be clear.
“Please. Fuck me… sir.”
“There we go.” Coriolanus patted her head. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He didn’t wait for a response, simply planting a firm hand on her waist and guiding her to straddle him. “Lift yourself up a little,” he instructed and once she did, he positioned himself at her entrance. “Ease down on it, slowly.”
“Will... Will it hurt?” Phoebe hovered there, shaking so much he had to steady her. She was afraid; that was only natural with it being her first time. It didn’t help that he was twice her size and he could easily split her in half.
“Just a pinch,” he assured her, brushing her bangs back. “Then it’ll feel good.”
With that she pushed down, and he groaned at her velvety warmth swallowing him. Her walls tensed as she struggled to adjust, and that alone was enough to have him flexing his thighs as he reminded himself to pace this. Reasonably. Nothing prolonged enough to be tender, but certainly not a quick fuck. He wasn’t an animal; he wanted her to enjoy this too. “You’re doing well,” he praised. “Just a bit more.”
Gingerly she nodded, sinking down as he stretched her impossibly. Inch by agonizing inch. He was nothing if not patient with her taking her sweet time with this, but even he had his limits. Thus, he gripped her hips and pulled her down all the way, sighing at how tight she was.
She yelped at the suddenness of it all, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care when he was too distracted by her squeezing him like a vise. Once she recovered from the momentary shock, she lifted her hips—just like he told her to—then eased down, brows furrowing at the foreign sensation of being filled so deeply. Up and down, she repeated the simple motion, searching for the pleasure she was promised, though not finding it yet. Meanwhile he sighed, tuning her out like background noise.
“Finally, something you’re useful for.” His fingers dug into her narrow hips like talons. “I think I’ll keep you around a bit longer.” It was a bit mean of him to reduce her to a living cock sleeve, but it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t clean well. What use did he have for a maid who couldn’t do her job right?
“I can be useful.” Phoebe blinked back tears. “Let me prove it to you.”
“Just keep doing this,” came his response.
After a few minutes of enduring a slower pace for her sake, he took matters into his own hands, using her for all she was worth. It had been his intention to take it slow, but, this whole process was truly testing his patience. He was so tempted to indulge. Had been, ever since she first set foot inside his penthouse. She wasn’t the least bit prepared for it, confusion contorting her face at the sudden switch up. “It hurts,” she cried, gripping his shoulders for dear life.
“I know it hurts,” he crooned, grabbing her ponytail and tilting her head up to gaze into her misty eyes. They were the warmest shade of hazel, even prettier when she was tearing up. “But you’ll take it like you should.” He held her gaze before pulling out and thrusting in again, not missing the small bulge in her stomach. Something about the image filled him a satisfaction he couldn’t quite place. “Just like that. You’re a perfect fit, see? Taking me so well.”
There was a certain decorum he exercised around the women he courted. They had to be handled with care and respect, unlike common whores. Not that he entertained the company of those sorts. Not those girls dancing on the stage at Pluribus Bell’s nightclub. This one here had fallen right onto his lap, so it was different. A win-win situation for them both. Her with a roof over her head and him with his needs sated. Perhaps he was the best thing to happen to her at this point in her life.
He had her like this, on his lap, and then on his desk, face down as he pounded into her. A particularly rough thrust tipped over the cup holding his pens but he ignored it; it wasn’t his job to clean messes.
“From this day onward, you’ll belong to me,” Coriolanus decided. “Me. Not your company.”
He looked down to find her eyes had gone vacant, like she’d retreated into some far corner of her mind, which wouldn’t do. He needed her present, in body and mind. So he brought her back with a firm slap on her ass and she flinched, looking back at him with that startled expression. As if he’d done it unprovoked.
“Who do you belong to, Phoebe? Say it,” he hissed out, giving her head a shake.
“You, sir,” she stuttered, half breathless. He liked that she didn’t need to think about it. As if she already knew the answer long before he asked.
“That’s right. You exist to serve my needs. So long as you remember this, you’ll be rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir—” she gasped when he grazed a certain spot inside her. “I won’t let you down again.” He aimed for it again and again, drawing out her soft moans which were like music to his ears. Her walls flexed, a good sign; he knew just what would push her over the edge.
His thumb returned to her clit and she jerked her hips in response. “Oh!”
“What do you feel, pet? Describe it to me.”
“Strange,” Phoebe fumbled over the words to use, and whatever she was going to say next had been lost thanks to the distraction.
“Another rule.” He halted, pinning her hips down so she couldn’t control the pace. “You may not come without my permission.” All pretense of modesty was long forgotten now as she whined, pushing back against him.
“Please!”
“Please, what?” He couldn’t help but tease her, as she was so close to falling apart.
“Please let me cum, sir. I’ll, I’ll be good.”
That was enough for him. He rubbed her clit until her walls pulsed and her knees buckled at the unfamiliar sensation. Her breathy cries turned somewhat confused at what she was experiencing for the first time, and he grunted as he felt it, her coming undone. Her cunt choked him as he fucked her through her first orgasm, little waves of pleasure cresting through her.
By the time she came down from her high, he was still going, her soft whines of protest falling on deaf ears. It may as well have been background noise. Only once he was satisfied did he still, painting her walls with his seed.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he pulled out, a ravenous glint in his eyes as he watched the evidence of his claim drip down her sticky thighs. Red. It mixed with his seed and she squeezed her legs shut, trying to keep it all in. The last thing she needed was to make a mess on his floor again.
“Clean yourself up.” Coriolanus settled down in his seat and slid a box of tissues to her. He grabbed a tissue for himself, cleaning up before tucking himself away and she followed suit, trying to make herself presentable. Though they both knew she was beyond that point now, with her makeup smudged and her hair all messy. All that effort putting herself together to look her best, wasted. Yet he didn’t mind it, this look on her.
“I’d like to discuss our arrangement now,” Coriolanus announced, mild amusement painting his expression as he watched her cringe at the feeling of her soaked panties clinging to her.
He patted his lap and she sat down on it, a bit awkwardly.
“Do you remember what I told you earlier?” he asked and she nodded, but he figured he’d remind her again just in case.
“You may continue working here under one condition.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You will no longer work for your company. I will employ you directly and your duty is to tend to my needs. Whatever they may be.”
“Thank you, sir.” There was something in between resignation and relief in her tone.
“Since I’ll need you to be available whenever, it would be more convenient if you live here. I’ll have a room prepared soon.” For any maid, that would’ve been too much to ask. But she was no regular maid, that much was apparent.
“How, how much would that cost?” She eyed him warily as if searching for some hidden catch.
“Your hard work. Nothing here is free,” he reminded her, coldly. She bit her lip. “Come see me tomorrow. I’ll have a contract ready for you to sign, and we can discuss the legalities then.”
“Alright.” She played with the frills on her skirt, forcing a smile on her face to keep this as professional as possible. Though her being on his lap made that just about pointless. “I accept.”
“Perfect.” Coriolanus squeezed her thigh. “My chauffeur will give you a ride home. You may have the rest of the day off to pack your things.”
He was getting ahead of himself. She still had to review the contract and there was still a slight chance she would deny to sign, but she was in no position to turn down such a generous offer from him. After finishing the rest of his tea, he sent her on her way, to take it to the kitchen. Her last task of the day. His attention followed the sway of her hips as she moved, a smug satisfaction crossing his face. What a pleasant turn of events. It’d only taken two weeks and some days to come to fruition.
He turned his attention back to his desk and the disarray it was now in, papers to his left and right. Many of them still unaddressed. First he would phone his assistant and have her draft the contract. It was alright, letting her in on this. She’d signed an NDA and she knew better than to breach it, if she valued her cushy job.
The day was young and there was still much to do, but knowing he’d have a little something to look forward to tomorrow made it all the more bearable.
Editing Notes (5/8/26): Revised to add more detail.
In preparation for part 3 of Gods & Monsters (which I will be posting within a few days), I revised parts 1 and 2 to add more depth to the narrative. This was an older work I was not as confident about, so I hope the newer revision is a more engaging read. I highly recommend a reread for anyone still following this series! Especially for part 2.
Note for part 2: While reading the books, I noticed that a character named Lavinia already exists, so I changed the Cardew sister’s name to Julia! I apologize for the confusion to any prior readers.
Tags: m/f ∘ eventual vampire!Billy ∘ for now vampire!Coriolanus Snow cameo (wink, wink) ∘ canon adjacent — Lincoln County war ∘ Mexican ranch owner daughter!oc/reader ∘ period-accurate language and misogyny (not from Billy!) ∘ religious themes ∘ ranch life + descriptions of foaling (blood but not too graphic) ∘ arranged marriage for oc — some angst ∘ forbidden romance
smut (mdni!!): oral (f and m receiving), piv, hair pulling, nipple play, edging (f receiving), biting
Word count: ~16k (hehe)
Summary: Billy led her to the ridge overlooking the valley, where the arroyo danced silver under the moonlight: “This yours, reina…”, he murmured, his chest pressed to her back in an embrace: “All of it—ain't no dowry or husband gonna change that.”
Del squeezed his hands where they rested hugging her, taking it all in: “It's ours.”, she determined, turning to face him in the dark: “The land belongs to anyone brave enough to be free…”
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
So this is big bad Billy the Kid, hmm?”, the voice was elegant somehow, yet quiet and haunting—like it didn’t belong to one person. Or maybe it did… but any time a word came out, it was as if a chorus of tortured souls chimed in, sending a chill through Billy: “All I see is a scared mouse…”, the shadowed figure chuckled and somehow that was even more chilling than any sound uttered so far.
a/n: Spanish is my third language so I tried! I actually started writing this partially to find the will to study it again. If you need help with the nicknames/some sayings, pls refer to this “dictionary” I compiled. I'm by no means an expert, especially not at Mexican Spanish, but I find it beautiful and I did my research, so any feedback is appreciated as always.
Hope you enjoy!
⏭ Link to my full Billy the Kid playlist
The ranch sat low against the land—more dust than wood or brick. Not shabby by any means—just worn down to its purpose, emerging from the ground as if it would always serve it.
This is the place Billy had found refuge after a particularly nasty shootout between the Seven Rivers gang (though they fancied themselves “proper guard dogs” of The House now) and Tunstall's Regulators. It had been the Englishman himself who rode out here, together with McSween, dragging a bleeding Billy and Charlie to Don Ignacio Alvarez's whitewashed hacienda in the dead of night.
“The new iron on them deputies sure has a bite—” Charlie had winced, clutching his shoulder.
Both men had been promptly settled in the tack room so as to not sully the doorway. That had been when Billy first met her—Mary Delphine Alvarez—the Don’s youngest daughter. She was a stubborn thing, he could immediately tell, but also… a soft voice in a hard place if you showed her there was no reason to be spooked. Trouble, but in a quiet way—the one that’d sneak up on you.
“¡Del, ayúdenlos muchachos! Ay, hazte útil!”, Billy still remembered how Don Alvarez’s voice had rang out in the cold air back on that night, as he had ushered all four wanderers out of prying eyes. The girl had already made herself more than useful—carrying gauze and what looked to be strong distilled tequila in her skirts, even before her father felt the need to prompt. Still, it was apparent that in his rancho, the Don's word reigned supreme.
Mary Delphine… or “Del” as all of her close family and friends called her, muttered something in Spanish about how her father needed to watch his heart. While Billy was somewhat well-versed in the language, the night had been long and far from forgiving and the constant ringing in his ears didn’t help. He could barely make out what Tunstall and McSween were discussing with Don Alvarez — the two gentlemen having stayed far enough from the bullets that they didn’t sport proof of the confrontation. At least, not the kind that needed tending to. The lawyer had been shaking all throughout their journey here—having seen just how futile his fancy paperwork had been. This war wouldn’t be won based on justice, but rather, who had the quickest draw, the most guns — in short, who could play their hand better.
Billy yawned, trying to pop the tension in his ears and jerk close enough to discern the words “new Governor” and “pardon” coming from the thick oak table. This had only earned him a well-placed nudge from Del, rooting him in place back onto his chair.
“Ay, Dios, stay still, vaquero — those wounds won’t patch themselves up and all that wriggling sure ain’t helping. Are you that eager to ride off and have another hole in you already?”, her voice had been softly teasing, like honey, yet somehow still quietly commanding.
A smirk tugged on Billy’s face despite the sharp pain in his knee. But before he could retort, he bit down on the cloth offered up to his lips to suppress a groan as she poured that distilled alcohol over the gaping wound: “Nghh—...”, a snarl escaped him. His pain didn’t seem to affect her — not for a lack of care, but because she had been focused on getting them well as fast as she could.
“Here, better take a swig of it before I start my needlework.”, Del advised, bringing the bottle up to Billy’s lips from where she had been kneeling in front of him.
The alcohol burned down his throat, its sharpness like a soothing balm, as a coyote howled into the darkness somewhere far away and her needle drew fresh beads of blood.
That was a few months back, just as springtime was turning over… Just like that, Billy had started his “proper” employment as a ranch hand for Don Alvarez. As it turned out, those hushed words weren’t just wishful thinking. The new Governor was working to pass a law of pardon to all outlaws whose major crimes had spanned before their coming of age. Something about needing to build the country up, instead of filling jail houses and wasting good rope.
More so, the plan was for him to lay low now — until Tunstall prepared their next attack. Better weapons… better law. Billy had a feeling that this talk of pardoning had been orchestrated by Thomas Catron somehow. The man was the Seven Rings and if there was one thing those posh American businessmen hated more than anything — it was to be made fools of. No, this had to be them throwing dust in Tunstall's eyes and any other opponents to Catron's interests. Thankfully, McSween listened to sense and didn't put his hopes up too much into that. This war would be won ugly— and that was that.
Billy had almost given up on his hope to settle down one day — seeing as how quickly the war in Lincoln County had escalated. Tunstall did promise him back when Billy was joining his cause, that he'd walk out of it a free man. But the cowboy just didn't imagine it would come soon. A part of him worried every passing day — that if the House won their day in court, nothing would change and that if that corrupt banker, now fancying himself a Presidential candidate — actually won… the Seven Rings would just thrive more and more. He couldn't rest, not until he proved to himself and all who he lost along the way that there is such a thing as “justice” in the New World.
Until then, he settled for hauling hay in the burning sun—a pair of curious, warm hazel eyes following his every move far back from the thick shade of the cottonwood. Del pretended to read, that much he could tell—as she chewed on the plumes she had gathered. She'd avert her gaze if he even glanced in her direction… like a spooked mare. Now, that was just his kind of work—not taming, not truly, he never saw it like that. Billy would move with a mare like they’re sharing the same heartbeat—his thighs pressing firm but never forcing, his hands steady on the reins but never yanking.
‘Easy, chiquita…’, he'd murmur, voice unhurried: ‘Ain’t nobody here to break you. Just to ride you right.’
Del was just like that—fire in her belly, but measured in the way she carried herself. She was bashful in her advances, not for a lack of confidence but more so — they both knew it'd be an inappropriate show of interest. He was an outlaw, a working hand on her father's ranch — not someone a proper señorita like herself should be pining over.
Yet, in the days after their first encounter, they had only grown closer, sharing similar values. He hadn't presumed her to be a spoiled heiress, seeing as how capable she was when she'd handled Charlie and him. Even still, what he definitely didn't expect was someone so selfless and understanding of the “common folk”.
Her father had built his fortune long before Del was born — in fact none of her two older sisters had wanted for anything either. Alvarez had it all. Even then, Del spent most of her time teaching at the mission — just west of the ranch, helping Father Diego like a good, devoted catholic woman. The padre had been a guiding light to her and probably the only man in her life who urged her on in her ambitions, instead of suffocating her. Until Billy’s free spirit whirled through the land that is.
Del had told Billy that much of her past and her goals—that she wanted to give back to her community and ensure that all of the farmer's children knew their letters and their rights. The young girls especially were often neglected in their education… all because of greedy bastards like Murphy, Riley and Catron running the show.
One afternoon, when the sun wasn’t yet in its copper cast that would settle over the land, bringing promise of a cold night’s respite, Del had taken it upon herself to change Billy’s bandages. He could do it himself now but he figured having someone fuss over him wasn’t so bad after all… not when that someone had the gentlest of hands.
“I gotta say, maestra… you sure ain’t what desperados like me would expect.” Billy grunted then, looking beyond the stables, waiting for the small hours to welcome him like an old friend.
‘Maestra’… that was what he had started teasingly calling her after he had seen her surrounded by the little kids she taught at the mission. Like ducklings following their ma, eyes brimming with endless curiosity—even after reading time had been long done. Back then Billy had just been riding back to the small cabin he made his home—far off Alvarez property in case Sheriff Brady’s posse came sniffing around. Despite himself, he did stop to look at her—really see her… and how the whole scenery just sat right with her. If only the world were truly so gentle and patient—then again, maybe her students would make it so one day…
“¿A poco?...” Del smirked then while tightening the dressing: “What use is privilege if one just hoards it for themselves?", a soft challenge beneath the playfulness—like she yearned to defy the world for telling her who she was supposed to be.
“My father owns a grand ranch, sure enough—but I don't like just staying pretty, waiting to pop out heirs for some thankless sinvergüenza... I want to help the people of Lincoln here— especially my people. So many kids end up unlettered because their parents need helping hands to get food on the table. Especially with the House bleeding them dry.” As Del's hands dropped from Billy’s knee, work finished—her voice had turned hopeful, meeting his blue eyes: "I'm not naive or sheltered enough to not know what's really going on around me, vaquero.” The raw honesty in her voice carried over like a knife slicing: “You—you are doing Lincoln a fine service... I hope the Englishman can bring just pay for the farmers..."
Billy had listened to her with growing admiration, his usual playfulness softening into something more earnest: "Well now—” he murmured, propping himself up slightly on the chair despite the lingering pain—like he wanted to give her words the respect of his full attention. "—ain't often you meet someone who talks 'bout privilege like it's a rope meant to pull others up instead of strangle 'em."
Billy’s fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the arm of the rocking chair they had on the veranda: "Tunstall’s got the right of it—fair wages, fair fights—" he agreed quietly: "Though I reckon you’re doing more for Lincoln than any outlaw with fast fingers."
The teasing glint in his eyes returned as he added: "Teachin’, helping ‘round the rancho and nursin’ lost causes? Darlin’, you sure your Pa ain’t raising a one-woman army instead of a proper lady?" His laugh was warm, unguarded—the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. But there was no mockery in it—just bright fascination, like he'd stumbled onto something rare and wonderful.
Del chuckled earnestly at that, raising to her feet so she could bring tequila for them to share and indulge in this time… enough of that distilled acid: “I think he may be asking himself that very same question more often than either of us would like to admit.”
She passed Billy a filled cup and he raised it in thanks.
After a pause of comfortable silence, Billy confessed: “...You ever get tired of it? Fighting for folks who might never thank you?"
The question hung between them—less flippant curiosity, or judgement… more the ache of someone who knew what it cost to stand alone against tides. His thumb brushed absently over where his holster would have sat on his hip, if Don Ignacio didn't forbid weapons around his horses. The movement was so purposeful, like he was tracing old battles fought on uneven ground.
"No. Do you?" She took a long sip, wincing at the harsh taste: "It's not about the thanking, I'm sure you believe as much... When you see something that's just not right... not fair, there's that itch to put it back together in any way you can. The new country here is supposed to be equal for all, ¿no? La tierra recuerda... so must its people—that we are all one at the end of the day… we come from dust and to dust we return.”
Del poured some of her glass onto the ground then… mourning someone, honoring them.
Billy’s breath caught when she spoke. He was quick to feel things usually, even if he didn't let his state show. His features slipped like a dropped saddle, leaving something raw and quiet in its place: "The land remembers...”, he echoed softly, testing the weight of the words on his tongue: "Ain’t heard it put like that before."
It was beautiful and scary at the same time.
He followed suit, trickling some liquor from his own chipped cup, watching the dry desert soil drink it up—remembering all his fallen brothers—gone too soon in this unforgiving world. If he had to think back, it had all started with Carlito… the small Mexican boy—his amigo who’d help in the inn where Billy’s own Ma earned their keep. Back then, Billy’s brother was too young to be of much help in the kitchen—so he only hauled dirty laundry for the patrons. Maybe, selfishly, Billy thought—it had been for the better… that Joe didn’t have to see how that crazy gambler shot Carlos and then took his seat back at the table like nothing had happened, like his bullet didn’t drain the life from another human being. All because the drunk, racist son of a gun couldn’t win one round of faro to save his life. Joe lived a very short life in hindsight… but at least he was spared some of its most unsavory, violent parts. Really thinking on it, though, Carlito was just one of the unfortunate many… Billy had seen cruelty long before that, just maybe not as cold-blooded. He was tracing the bandage Del had carefully wrapped now, remembering how Kathleen would patch him up with the same warmth when he’d get into a fight.
His voice came out a bit too low, a bit too honest, but it didn’t bother him. Billy would get like that with the maestra more and more these days. "Reckon that ‘itch’ you mention is what keeps me riding with Tunstall too. Even when some folks act like we’re just stirring trouble… even when every selfish bastard I've met tells me I shouldn't risk it all for things that don't matter. Well to that I say—it matters to me, hells be damned! It should matter to someone in this forsaken world… But you, chula—you stitch up wounds neater than I make ‘em—I'll drink to that!"
That he was sure of… be it physical ailments or those of the soul—Del had her ways with both hands and words. And in a land where most people would sooner use the former—the latter was a rare comfort.
That was how Del knew why he'd asked that question earlier—because even he'd get tired when he had been thrown to such a life. Billy thought those moments of weakness made him selfish, but she knew better—no one absorbed in themselves would ever bother asking.
The burning heat had forced Billy to ditch his shirt for quite some time now, his toned arms flexing unrestrained around the stacks of hay, as sweat ran down his torso. When their eyes met again, he had the audacity to smirk at her—acknowledging, even indulging her interest. This prompted Del to snap her head, quickly returning to her studies. Sure, there had been the lingering looks, the dallying around each other, the infuriatingly tender little names they'd call one another when no one was around… and the passing touches—a hand on the small of her back, her hand dancing on his forearms as she'd pass him meals or water from the kitchen, or when they tended the horses together. Hell, she even gifted him her own copy of ‘Romeo and Juliet’, with carefully scribbled annotations in its yellowed margins.
There was nothing subtle about what they had now, even if the ethos around them wouldn't approve. Especially with how Del already had an arranged marriage to ‘look forward to’. Edward Cardew wasn't a delight—his kindness was exclusively performative—like a viper plying up its prey, a dagger wrapped in velvet. His fangs and sharpness were clear whenever he'd speak over Del with condescension (‘What would a pretty thing like you know about it?’)—like she was something to be looked at, not listened to. And thus, he'd carry himself as if the world owed him everything. Mary Delphine was anything but prey though, and she paid little mind to her fiancé's scheming—often ensuring he ended up being seen as the fool for overplaying his hand.
Maybe that's why her and Billy had fallen for one another so quickly, so inevitably—like fire catching on parched grass. And she was parched… for affection, for someone to see her. Much like he thirsted for proof that there was still good on this earth, to have somewhere to lay his weary head and feel at home.
So lost in thought was Del by that point that she had neglected to notice how the distant chatter of the working men had died down, how the patterned rhythm of footsteps carrying hay into the stables had now turned nearing, more purposeful… until Billy’s voice came out hovering right above her little picnic.
“Staring again, chula? Makes me feel like I'm something for sale, y’know—one of your Pa's prized stallions. Though I sure don't mind it when it's you…” He teased, nestling his head on her lap, blue eyes peeking up at her just below the book, bright like the fresh creek water.
“I-I was just trying to switch spots—the sun really is in the way today…”, she defended: “The book is far too engaging for me to entertain you, vaquero.”
Billy just scoffed, tongue darting to wet his chapped lips, feigning contemplation of Del’s hasty excuse: “Hmm… the sun, I see—funny how it’s only botherin’ you when I’m out there liftin’ hay bales…”
It was rare that Del could be rendered speechless, opting to instead roll her eyes at him. Oh, he was playing the game better than her and he knew it—a self-satisfied smirk dancing on his sun-kissed features now. Billy hummed, calloused hand ghosting over hers, where it held the book, prompting the heavy tome softly out of her grip. He turned it over to examine the cover, dirt-smudged fingers leaving a trail in their wake—making a show of assessing what ‘engaging content’ apparently deserved to hold her attention. He had seen it earlier, of course, as he’d approached the cottonwood undetected—but he basked in putting her on the spot like this, seeing whether she’d squirm or bite.
“‘A Practical Guide on Equine Care’”, he read out pointedly: “—a real page-turner, reina… considering how you probably learned ridin’ before you could even think of reading.”, Billy chuckled, setting the book back on the quilt beneath them, his fingers drawing small circles on her exposed knee, where her skirt had ridden up higher.
Del’s breath hitched, caught in her folly: “Well, I am a proper ranch heiress, no? I need to make sure all ground is covered…”
The moment those words left her mouth, her face sank. Neither of them mentioned how if she were to really marry Edward, he'd whisk her away to Philadelphia and make her a little more than an ornament in his fancy empty house. Neither of them would voice it because the sweet illusion of them together against all odds, was far too tempting.
It was Billy who broke the tension: “Well now, if you're still fixin’ to stare at me… least you could do is share them jocotes proper?”
He opened his mouth expectantly as he adjusted his head on Del's lap, his stubble pressing into her inner thigh sending goosebumps along her whole body. The dare was intentional—sure they were just off the stables but anyone could spot them if they knew where to look.
Still, that didn't deter Del, her voice smooth as silk as he picked up a pre-sliced plume: “Ay, what am I going to do with you, corazon? But I guess such a hard worker needs to be taken care of…”
She dropped the slice into his mouth, fingertips grazing his lips, lingering a little too long as he chewed. Billy couldn't resist the closeness then, as he sprung up his head suddenly to bite at her finger—gentle but daring. Oh, how Del wanted to bend over and kiss him on the spot… but she thought better of it.
The only evidence of how worked up she had gotten was the dreamy sigh that escaped her: “It's a fine day to enjoy some sonnets though… not so much the practical guides…” she looked down at Billy, then at the clouds dancing in the sky just through the cottonwood crowns—the bright blue so much like his irises.
Billy chuckled, his bare shoulders shaking in the process—making the warm sound reverberate where their bodies were joint: “Of course you'd say that. Them sonnets with all that pining… Still, I enjoyed the homework you gave me, maestra. ‘Under love's heavy burden do I sink’—for a fancy chico, Romeo sure knew a thing or two about how hard it can get... To long for something that isn't yours to have…”
Del blinked rapidly, taken aback by how his heartfelt wording struck her right in the chest. Yet, before she could shush him, a shout from the corral woke both of them from their fairytale. Jose—one of the wranglers—was waving urgently, gesturing at a spooked mare. It must have been the harsh winds sending those loose boards rattling about. Any sudden sound could be the culprit when the horses were cooped up in such a small space, and worse yet, they’d start unsettling each other…
Billy was supposed to fix the fencing last week… but his ‘reina’ had been especially distracting—bringing him pie and making sure any ride of hers ended right where her vaquero could see her—all sweating and breathless. A lesser man would have had no self control whatsoever—Billy just elected to steal her away for a quick kiss or two on such days.
Point was, that is how the corral fence remained… day after day… unattended. It was only natural that his negligence would catch up to his albeit small indulgences sooner or later.
Yet, Billy made no haste for now, still tracing Del's knee with his fingertips—the same hands that could draw a colt the fastest, now so very patiently mapping her skin as if committing it to memory: “I guess we'll have to take up that poetry lesson later, maestra… unless you want watch me up close while I gentle that mare? Heard you are… partial to my way with stubborn creatures.” The other part: ‘like yourself’, remained unspoken but very much understood.
He huffed through the teasing words, getting up slowly—like putting distance between them physically pained him after the stolen moment of intimacy: “Maybe… if you don't stir up trouble, I could recite you something better’n some dead Englishman softness…?”. Billy leaned in closer, lips brushing against Del’s ear as took her wrist, calloused thumb pressing into her rabbiting pulse below the soft thin skin there. He needed to feel how it would jump, betraying her at his next whispered words: “‘Course, I'd have to whisper them verses real low, just like so… ain't proper for an heiress to hear such things in broad daylight…”
As he attempted to pull back, he swiftly picked another plume, purposefully brushing the back of his hand against Del's thigh in the process—he couldn’t let go.
“Corazon…”, she grabbed his hand, holding it close to where her skirts pooled at her hip: “I am weighing whether I should even bother giving you the gift I’d prepared…”, Del provoked, looking up at the outlaw through her eyelashes. Every vowel dripped with passion, breaking through the dry heat of the summer day—Billy felt it seep through his skin, all the way down, mending his tired bones.
Jose had probably dealt with the unruly horses ages ago…
As she rummaged through her well-kept, though slightly sun-faded satchel, his eyes danced with curious shadows—his free hand reaching over to tuck an unruly dark curl behind her ear. Del bit her lip, wanting to snake her hand up to cradle his against her temple—she often did just that, keeping him close—showing him it was okay to want that closeness with her, proving that she yearned for the same…
But now, she wanted to touch his soul more than anything. It was Billy’s bandana that she produced, still carrying his scent and the memory of many-a-crimes. Still, she treated it like something holy, as she'd readily do with any part that was Billy—unwrapping it carefully as it rested on her palm—like sacrament. The glint of the rosary caught in his widened eyes, greeting the shadows of his old life.
“I know you aren't exactly a man of faith, Billy—when you've seen all the ugliness running amok… but I just wanted you to have this. Not as a token of belief, rather… so you can feel me near your heart. It's remade from one of my rings.” Del admitted, looking down at the delicate golden cross.
Billy took it gently as if he feared it may crumble in his hands, feeling the delicate chain as he unclasped it. "Let me…”, Del stopped him. He could feel tears brim in the corner of his eyes—he had been baptized, but his cross necklace was one of the first things to go when his mother and father ran out of money. It was like he had lost a piece of his own innocence when it was pawned… at least that was how it had felt—not because of the blasphemy but because it was the last tether he had of a life when things were simpler.
As Del circled around Billy to adorn him with her gift, he let out a shaky breath—holding the rosary tightly with his hand to his chest. Her hand joined his as she met his eyes again, a soft smile dancing on her lips.
“Thank you…”, he let out roughly: “—for letting me feel something other than anger.”
Anger at the world, anger at himself, anger at whatever God allowed all of the injustice to persist in a never-ending cycle of grief and loss. But she was his religion now… and this ranch—his place of worship, giving him strength. Even if the war would continue to rage outside of this mirage, he'd have his rest, his true peace… one day. Still, he felt a little lighter now—knowing his reina would be with him for every step of the long road ahead.
“You already have it in you, vaquero…” she teased, planting a kiss to the rosary over his bare chest—his work shirt still discarded somewhere over forgotten hay stacks: “I just help it come out… same way as I bloom thanks to you.”
Del's smile was brighter now as she looked over his shoulder, noting a very exacerbated Jose running after a horse: “I think he might just come over and drag you by the ear if you don't giddy up, partner.”
Billy was rendered defenseless by Del's sudden cowboy turn of phrase, a breathless chuckle shaking his whole torso: “And what am I supposed to answer when folks start askin’ how a desperado like me got to wear such fancy insignia?”
“Ay, you are smart—you’ll think of something. Maybe you won it at poker—that sure sounds like your lucky self… or maybe you’ll finally start telling truths and make us real?”, she shrugged, but her heart fluttered at the idea of dancing with Billy during a fiesta. Not hiding…
And Billy—he wished the long summer days could be even longer…
It was Del’s second oldest sister, Elena, who found her like this—all hot and bothered—trying to cool down by the creek that ran along the ranch land. She sighed in relief that it hadn’t been Beatriz sneaking up on her or she would have gotten an earful about loitering—the oldest were always the most stuck up and Bea was no exception. Even still, Del loved them both…Now that they were visiting for the summer with their husbands, she could almost pretend that nothing had changed—that they were still three storms riding through the desert air, instead of having a burden of expectations thrust upon them. But it wasn't all awful—Bea loved the extravagance of city life, while Elena wasn't sentenced to a loveless marriage. Mateo was a gentle man with a heart of gold, yet he weighted where it mattered. They owned their own saloon and Elena was a storm there—tending to patrons, cleaning tables all the while she never once complained. ‘It keeps me busy, gives me meaning when I grow restless.’, she'd say…
Still, the open country air really sat well with her and especially with Bea’s son—Antony, who couldn’t get enough of the freedom now awarded to him, fascinated by all of the animals prattling about the dry land. And it was exactly that which called to Del always—here, she had Billy, her students at the mission and her father's horses… that was her calling, that was where she could be the storm that both nurtured and lived fully.
“Ay, hermanita…”, Elena said in a voice so hushed that the wind almost stole it: “Either you are running a feaver… or someone has been reading too much indecent poetry.”
The older girl smirked with all the confidence of a bigger sister catching a smaller rascal dirty-handed, crossing her arms over her chest—just like she'd get when she'd catch Del sneaking treats for her horse, Lucha, when they were younger. But even back then Elene never told on her little sister…
Del defended, unafraid: “I don't need poetry for that, hermana…”
Elena scoffed, taking a plume from the basket and tossing it between her hands: “Oh, please you, Mary Delphine… I know exactly what—or rather, who makes you look like you've been galloping bareback in July…” she nodded her head backwards in the general direction of the corral where Billy was now skillfully settling down the spooked horses.
The moment Del's eyes darted there, fixing the boy in her sight—that had been all the confirmation all-knowing Elena needed: “Seems I know you best. Papá thinks you are still out here reading or sketching wildflowers in your journal… and Bea, well, she is convinced you are mooning over Edward Cardew's latest letter.”, a scoff accompanied that last part. The older sister knew how absurd it was for Beatriz to be putting her own beliefs onto Del like that.
At the mention of letters, however, the younger girl stilled—like she had heard a ghost tale. Edward's letters had become… far too claiming for Del to stomach. He was already making decisions for her, explaining how she should be grateful because he was working so hard to get her ‘away from those mission scoundrels and onto a more refined life’ and that her only duty henceforth would be to ‘please him as is expected of a wife’.
Needless to say, she hadn't honored those words with a response. And she wasn't about to do so now—she simply looked away, picking up her basket as she quoted into the air, hoping it would carry it and make it true: “‘Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, and therefore is winged cupid… painted blind.’… I am being careful, hermana… I just—I wish for my life to be my own.”
Elena held her breath at Del's confession, only releasing it in a sharp exhale like she was bracing for something, her voice far more lighter now—deciding to spare her sister, albeit momentarily: “Bea wanted you to help plan a luncheon for tomorrow. Something about civilizing Antonio Rafael before the happy family returns to town…”
Del chuckled wholeheartedly at that: “Luncheon?”, she echoed: “Ay, Beatriz really is turning gringa…”
Elena joined the shared teasing over their absent sister: “Dios mío, if she heard you say that!” Her voice was shrill, mimicking Bea far too well, even fanning herself like she might fall victim to a spell. Then, suddenly—her eyes darted over to the road leading up to the ranch gates with urgency, sobering up: “Listen… I wasn't supposed to say—those tontos thought you'd care for a surprise but… Edward is due back from Philadelphia by supper. With Billy sticking to you like a shadow at high noon… he won't stop at just reprimanding you, Mary Delphine…”
Something stirred in Del then, burning in her throat—her “duty” was about to catch up to her and worse yet, Elena's warning was, unfortunately, well-placed. By the hand of his clerkship, Edward could make Billy's ‘old’ warrants very much current, and his current once—very close to being carried out. But… he wouldn't dare… would he? He knew her father was behind Tunstall's cause and so kept Billy ahead of the law while things were sorted out… but when had such sentiments stopped men like Cardew from forcefully taking what they believed was theirs?
The thought lodged in Del's head—like a debt that wouldn't settle—so lost in thought that she barely realized they had made it back to the hacienda.
Beatriz was already impatiently tapping her foot on the porch: “Niñas, your sobrino is asking for you!”
Elena squeezed Del's hand as she took over the excuses: “We were just discussing ‘A Midsummer night's dream’—our hermanita believes Puck should've dropped the love potion over Oberon's head instead!”
Well, that was definitely an interpretation Del would be partial to, especially to scandalize Beatriz. And indeed, the oldest Alvarez huffed—somehow deeply offended by the statement, tone patronizing like she were reprimanding Anthony: “Foolishness. That play is about obedience prevailing over childish fairytales. Yet here you are—having a jest, are you?”
Del found it in herself to defy, her words coming out confidently: “It is also about wonder, dreams and art. Funny how all those things go hand in hand, instead of having to be at odds…”
She could almost feel Billy’s approval from where his full back was rocking against the fence—hat low as if he was protecting his eyes from the sun, instead of keeping himself scarce. Had he heard about Edward's arrival from someone…?
Del, having found her balance again after setting her sister right—turned on her feet towards him: “I saved you some plumes…”, she whispered, passing him the basket, willing her heartbeat to quieten. The rest came out louder for the sake of any eavesdroppers: “It was a hard day's work after all—feel free to share them around with the men.”
“Much obliged, señorita… I will make sure to return it proper later.”, Billy tipped his hat—words and demeanor far too politely unfamiliar. The forced charade tugged at both of their heartstrings, rendering a discordant, sad melody. But the promise of there being a “later” mended its wounds even if only somewhat.
Elena was quick at Del's side, trying to pry her away for all their sakes: “Antonio is already kicking up a fuss over not having horchata to drink—the rice's been soaking all night, mija.”
Del smiled, though not the easy kind: “Ay, I have spoiled him rotten—a banker’s successor whining about sweet drinks. Bea will have my head for it…”, a lighthearted remark, even when her heart was heavy.
Swallowing hard, she spared Billy a final longing look over her shoulder as she took her leave towards the kitchen—where she ruffled Antonio’s hair and promptly led him to help grind the rice.
“What you put out, finds its way back, chico…”, Del advised, encouraging his small hands. But it wasn't lost on her… how cautionary it came out to her current predicament.
Del could almost forget her worries—now drowned out in the busy chatter around supper preparations. The main cook, Manuela—had insisted they didn’t need helping, but the three storms that were the Alvarez sisters couldn't stay idle for long.
Elena had been rolling the dough for the tortillas—flour coating every inch of her—as Del brought in the jerky from the drying shed, catching the last of Beatriz's restless ramblings: “I told you, mijo—to stay back today… the horses were really acting up...” Her son clearly wanted to be more involved in the ranch life than she’d ever permit.
As soon as Bea saw that her youngest sister had made a reappearance, she turned pointedly, stirring the chilies in the pot so they wouldn’t stick to the bottom—so vigorously as if she was ready to whack someone on the head with the wooden spoon: “Well, your cowboy has been really neglectful of his work lately, Del—he should know what’s good for him! With Papá basically risking it all sheltering him, he should be more grateful!”
Her cowboy… the phrasing would have made Del blush if it weren't delivered with such a heavy backhand. She dropped the cloth sack sharply onto the table. Sure, she had been distracting Billy every now and again—but he didn’t owe them every second of his time just because he was in hiding. He was an honest man who had a way with anything thrown at him on the ranch—cutting wood, tending to the horses, mending the fences and barracks —you named it, Billy did it.
“Beatriz, William is reliable and honorable—that is why Papá aids his cause—our cause! This isn't some thankless servitude that we are owed. If anything, having him here is just the natural way of things. Does he not fight for the farmers here—¿nuestra gente?”, Del challenged. ‘Our people’—he had been risking his life for a town that nailed his 'wanted’ posters on every post.
“¿Oye, lo que dice? I never—in my life—thought I'd hear the name of a desperado and the word ‘honorable’ uttered in the same breath!”, Bea refuted, clearly angered.
The commotion was now definitely audible through the cracked kitchen window overlooking the barracks… and Billy chose that exact moment to pass by, bringing water for the horses, as he hummed—voice thick as tree sap:
Oh bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free
His way of making sure Del knew he had heard her—that he knew what he was, where this road may lead him… but that Billy refused to be alone on it when he had her by his side. Even if vipers hid in the tall grass, wanting to strike him for his crooked ways—they would be free, riding together as one. The rosary caught in the last rays of sunshine, now on top of his work shirt… and her heart rested a little lighter—meeting the spark in his eyes.
Elena had just been about to get in-between her sisters—one flour-dusted hand-print already on Del's wrist—ever the mediator. But the tension had died down naturally and it would have remained so if Manuela didn't decide to chirp in with her idle talk: “I have to agree with Señora Beatriz, mijas… bringing in this desperado is a bad omen… But it wasn't my place to comment, so I kept my lips sealed for Don Ignacio's sake!” She raised her hands in the air—trailing off on purpose like any vieja with too much time on her hands who wanted to be asked about it all.
Manuela picked up her tall tale again when she felt that all eyes were on her sufficiently: “—just know—it wasn't no neglected board that spooked them caballos…”
Del scoffed: “Pray tell then, Doña Manuela—what story has the townsfolk span?” She reached for some of the chillies tortilla stuffing before Elena swatted her hand, playfully reprimanding.
“It's not loose talk… I saw it—el caminante nocturno…”, she whispered and the ruckus died down as if she invoked it—so much so that one could hear a pin drop in the previously lively kitchen: “Sí, I saw his tall shadow, lurking just outside the gates, atop the hills in the west—where the sun sets. Just like legend has it!”, she muttered a prayer, making the sign of the cross hastily—three times over her torso. All of this screamed superstition, but the ranch had indeed felt… heavier these days, like something was looming over it, wanting to collect what was due.
Del laughed with a full chest at that, even making a show of falling over the chair near her: “The night walker, Doña, really? Are we children trying to best one another in a scare? Don't we have enough troubles that we need to start looking for ghosts? And anyhow—isn't the creature supposed to be a nightfall dweller?”, she slapped her knee, so unbelieving of the whole ordeal.
That was just a cautionary tale that parents would tell their children so they wouldn’t stray too far onto roads that spelled danger… or an easy way to explain unusual animal behavior and crops going bad. People needed someone—or something to blame for their issues. The more windy thinking—the better in the case of folk who didn't feel in charge of their own fates. When you didn't have a say in how things in the lived world went—you start conjuring up spirits to explain injustices.
“Right you are, mija, pero… wise women say he may walk among us once he’s had his fill... All those reports of the livestock near Bowdre’s farm—whispers of the sheep looking emptied out… that's no good sign, I tell you!”, Manuela pointed up in the air, as if calling upon a higher power already.
Elena went pale, halfway dragging Anthony by the shoulder out past the back door, pacifying in a hushed tone: “Come now, chico, let's see about them horses after all…”. Even Bea gave a nod to that, deeming it appropriate for her young boy to be as far away from such tales as possible.
“Tío Billy promised he'll teach me how to shoot proper soon! So you needn't worry if any pendejos come lurking—I'll protect you!”, Anthony broke free of his aunt's grasp and stood up on a chair, proclaiming it thus. Now it was time for Bea to turn a sickly color when she heard such words spouted from the mouth of her own—supposedly refined—flesh and blood.
“‘Properly’!”, his mother corrected, having to step aside and fan herself at the inevitable harsher reprimand that was to follow. The anger in her voice was a living thing—bubbling up alongside the pot of chillies: “Antonio Rafael—I will hear no such foul language from you! Not only that… but weapons—a banker’s son doesn't have use for such… such barbarisms! That vaquero really has been such a bad influence on this whole family…”, she sighed like she might just faint.
Del just chuckled, quickly hiding her amusement behind her palm, even Elena followed suit, snorting into her cup of horchata: “Barbarisms? You should tell on your mama to your abuelo, mijo…”, she took Anthony off the chair, smirking conspiratorially at him: “Because she forgets—our Papá could shoot a coin out of the air at fifty paces and quote Cervantes while doing it! No need to choose one over the other.”
“Really?!” Antonio beamed, already excited by the grand tales of his grandfather's former glory. The fear of lurking bloodsuckers seemed to have been all too quickly buried.
“Come now, Bea—let him be a boy for once!”, Del aided in the teasing, ruffling Antonio's curls: “Besides even bankers need to know how to defend their vaults, no?”
“Defend?!” Beatriz echoed, her wrist flicks with the fan growing increasingly stiff but rapid: “Dios mio, Delphine, must you encourage this? Real gentlemen prefer women who don't romanticize pistoleros…”
Her pointed look towards the road leading to the hacienda made Del's stomach sink—Edward, that was who her oldest sister was referring to… and how suddenly she should be catering to his preferences, instead of listening to the song of her soul.
Even still, she could always count on her twin flame to reprise their shared melody—Billy’s silhouette now coloring the doorway—far too early for their night's reprieve, but just in time to steady each other. His hat dangled from his restless fingers—a show of genuine respect, like his Ma had taught him: “Beg pardon, señora—”, he drawled, tipping his head towards Beatriz: “—but shootin’ ain't barbaric when it puts meat on the table… or scares of coyotes and whatever aberrations the good Doña saw from eyein’ the hens.”
He shot Anthony a secret look that only enticed the young boy further: “You can shoot el caminante? Doesn't he become a shadow?!”
Beatriz exhaled, long-suffering and swiftly fell back to what she did best—ordering everyone around—clearly unsuccessful in her attempts to steer the conversation towards more palatable topics: “Delphine, set the table, Elena—watch the stove!”
Billy chuckled, low and indulging as he leaned at the door, arms crossed—now the world revolved around him, his young apprentice and Del's stolen looks, filled with fire: “There ain't no such things as devils that can hide forever… iron catches up to flesh sooner or later…”
He looked down, clearing his throat after, catching himself—that maybe his words were a bit too heavy for an eight-year-old, coddled boy to face. That didn't mean he wasn't speaking truth though…
He took a few steps closer, apologetically brightening up for Antonio's sake: “Tell you what, chamaco—you finish supper without fussing—I'll show you how to whittle a slingshot after. Your tía Del can vouch for my skills…”, he raised his head—meeting her gaze head-on. He could watch her breath stutter and her cheeks flush under his words all day.
Del could indeed attest to Billy’s careful but determined hands—that small wooden horse he had made for her one quiet summer night, under this very same kitchen light as she read to him was proof enough. It now adorned her nightstand— front hooves raised in an endless gallop. Each small shaving that dropped with his scraping that evening counted the minutes of time stolen… of time shared.
The sound of a carriage nearing, followed by muffled orders and a knock at the door flashed in a spell, breaking the idyllic atmosphere. Edward’s polished boots tapped against the creaking floorboards and all heads turned to meet him—a man out of place with his ostentatiousness.
“Mary Delphine—”, he exhaled her name, not waiting to be invited in, even though he wasn't part of the family yet— immediately closing the distance to Del. His features contorted in disapproval as he took in her still ruffled hair and dress, face flushed from riding and other distractions: “—you look… windblown.”
Always a master of words, especially if they hid his deep distaste for anything unruly.
“I was simply enjoying the fine weather, Edward.”, Del muttered defensively.
Bea, always so easily impressed by shallow gestures… or more so, knowledgeable on how to scratch a man's ego to avoid an all-out argument, had instantly noticed Edward had been clutching a bouquet of hothouse roses in hand—no doubt imported at ridiculous expense. A real token of the only brand of love he could give—foreign and suffocating.
“Oh my—such lovely flowers. Aren't they just, Del?”, the oldest Alvarez's tone was forcibly pleasant.
Edward didn't swoon over the praise, however—uncharacteristically so—instead, his shallow eyes settled eerily on Billy—a silent battle unfolding. And so, before the ‘gentleman’ could inquire about the unseemly presence of a ranch hand in the kitchen—work still clinging to him and him to Del—the cowboy took the opportunity instead: “Hope I ain't interruptin’ anything important. I just wanted to return señorita Del's basket proper…”
A swift excuse, as Billy reached for it—resting on the porch just out of sight and devoid of plumes now. When he handed it over to Del, their hands met over the rough hardwood handle, his fingers lingering comfortably there against hers a moment too long, making her breath hitch as she whispered a soft thanks. Yet another little moment they shared—even if they shouldn't, even if the corner of Edward's eye was twitching in barely suppressed anger.
Elena swiftly interjected: “Interrupting indeed—dinner that is.”, she somehow walked the fine line of playing devil's advocate and still smoothing things over: “The men eat in the bunkhouse… you know this.”
A gentle prompt, yet one that set a clear distinction on where Billy stood in the hierarchy—an injustice that made Del's blood boil. But he, being used to it, and knowing his fight wasn't with the Alvarez, simply tipped his head politely and turned… but not before sparing Del one last longing look that was returned twice over.
At that, worst of all, Edward decided to chime in, feeling more confident and entitled to it now, even at Billy’s retreating back: “Indeed, Mary Delphine doesn't need some outlaw playing fetch—”
Billy’s hand had twitched, slowly inching up towards the empty holster that sagged from his hip—a nervous habit Del had come to recognize. It didn't mean he'd actually draw his weapon, even if it were there… he adhered to the notion of only pointing guns at people if you are prepared to bury bodies. Even still, Billy wore that cartridge belt—like a mark he didn't want to fade; a part of him, each empty bullet slip—a story lived and tried.
“Edward—”, Del's interruption wasn't loud, but it was determined—leaving no room for rebuttal, especially when she finally acknowledged the roses, taking them gently: “You really shouldn't have…”, quite the literal statement when she didn't want his pleasantries at all: “Let's take a walk before supper—you can tell me all about Philadelphia…” she suggested sweetly, the mere forceful act of it making her skin crawl. The whole charade was for Billy’s sake—she had to remember—because powerful men were not in the habit of being denied and so were the quickest to yearn for revenge.
“A capital idea…” Edward announced dryly, taking it all piece by piece—Billy’s stiff jaw, how he seemed to have a pull on Del, and she on him. And so, like any entitled arranged suitor, the lawyer simply concluded: “We shall discuss your… associations later.”
The word dripped with poison, equally as unsettling as the harsh grip he had on Del’s wrist now—the gifted flowers feeling more like the gilded chain they were. The contrast was palpable… Billy’s fingers, calloused from a life worn thin, yet so reverent when it came to her— and then Edward’s hands that hadn’t earned their wear, yet readily inflicted harsh ownership.
As they went out into the low summer sun, the wind continued to echo promises of freedom. Even as Cardew's thumb stroked her spine though the dress—far too proprietary for her liking—Del could still hear Billy’s careful footsteps… mending the corral fence as he listened in. And that is what gave her peace even in this moment—that her spark was right there with her, always riding in the same direction.
She wasn’t the first to speak—a big ego, given the space would always take up the whole room—and Edward only proved that right. His cadence was measured, chest puffed up like peacock: “Philadelphia was dull without you there, Mary Delphine…”, he said—far too unemotional, like he had rehearsed it in front of a mirror: “Though I did secure a clerkship with Judge Holloway. By spring, I'll have enough saved up for a house near the courthouse.”
Of course he'd stir the conversation there—to his plans, to what he was promised… Del swallowed dryly as Edward continued his narration: “You'll like it there, I am sure of it—proper society, no more… ranch odors.”
At that, she could no longer stay quiet, stopping in her tracks: “What gave you the idea that I'd want for that? I've always spoken of my home with nothing but love—my devotion is with this ground here… that you so frivolously belittle.”
Edward just tutted, as if preparing to scold a particularly unruly child, gripping her shoulders—forcing her full attention: “Your father and I have an understanding, Mary Delphine. By summer's end—you will be my wife.”
The ambient hammering near the fence stopped abruptly—no doubt Billy denoting his distaste.
Del looked away, wanting to be anywhere but here, feeling a lump settle in her throat: “How very traditional of you both…”, the disdain in her voice was so sharp, she hoped it could cut him deep.
But men like Edward wouldn't be caught bleeding: “You will thank me someday…”, his grasp on her shoulders loosened, hands moving to instead smooth out the material of her sleeves, crumpled by his rougher handling: “—a woman like you needs a firm hand.”
She flinched away instantly at his assessment: “Ah, so you are judge, jury and executioner now—you do not know me, Edward, so don't presume to know what I need.”
A twig snapped closer to them now—Billy, ‘coincidentally’ needing to move more planks to their side of the fence. He made a show of dropping the wood harshly—fury given shape. The cowboy couldn't help but be reminded of his long-dead step-father—Henry Antrim, who had swooped Billy’s mother in her desperation for a better life with a man who appeared to have it all figured out. Reality had been quite different though and the only thing separating that rotting sorry excuse of a man and Cardew was that the latter had coin and luck… for now. Money and good fortune could dry out in a spell and then, in trying times—the real substance of a man is revealed. Hadn't Antrim promised a comfortable life as well? Only to turn to gambling, cheating and a heavy hand. No, Edward was far more dangerous than that even, because he already spoke like he was entitled to those vices, to treating Del like property. He didn't even try to lure her, just demanded.
Edward scoffed, not closing the distance this time—acting offended that she hadn't begged enough, that she didn't pay him the respect he believed he was owed: “You indulge in too many distractions—that is what has been clouding your judgment… emotions are a woman's curse after all.”, a pointed look towards Billy as Cardew continued: “That man—Bonney is familiar… to familiar. Hasn't the good Father Diego taught you who you should be submitting yourself to… as you do to the Lord?”
That lump that had been settled in Del's throat now slithered down her ribs, prickling—making her uneasy at his quick assessment. Elena was right… Billy and her had been too obvious. And Del could tell Edward was already drafting a letter to Brady in his head.
“We are not married in the eyes of God, Edward—”, Del began, throat dry but fury riding in her eyes.
“That matters little…”, naturally he spoke over her: “You'll have better ways to occupy your time soon enough—hosting, corresponding… raising our children.”
The thought made her sick—bringung a sharp ringing in her ears. The only measure of time passing was Billy loudly hammering a nail just as Edward had delivered his sentence. But before she could respond, all heads turned to the sound of hoofbeats thundering down the drive—Jose, hat askew and hands trembling: “Señorita Mary—el jefe says come quick! The palomino's foaling gone bad—el medico is two hours out!”
Edward scoffed: “Surely you are not suggesting an Alvarez lady aid in such… filthy work?”
Del pushed past him, already hiking her skirts up to hoist on the wrangler's horse: “I am an Alvarez and that is precisely why Jose is asking for me. My father built his fortune on this ‘filth’… I will not have you diminishing honest work.” Edward continued to spout angry remarks that went unacknowledged as she turned to the more pressing matters with an urgent voice: “Is it Fresa?”
They had two mares that were due soon… but Fresa had more of a temper. If the ranch foreman couldn't handle her and there was no medic in sight—it all spelled bad news. Jose simply nodded, kicking the horse on.
By the time Del looked ahead—Billy was already mounted on his horse, pressing forward to the barns further off where the more vulnerable horses were kept. They could hear Fresa's heaving growing louder and louder as they neared the wooden doors.
Then it all moved fast—Billy rolling up his sleeves, Del pulling her skirts out of the way—both kneeling in synchrony in the stall besides the mare, his shoulders warm and steady against hers.
“Easy, reina…”, Billy murmured—more to Del than to Fresa. His hands were sure, unflinching as he gripped the foal's slippery legs, fingers lacing with Del's for a heartbeat before he leaned it, bracing: “Pull with me—now!”
The mare screamed, thrashing but the cowboy braced a knee against her flank, steadfast. Blood streaked across Del's forearms, but she too was determined—having seen the process many times up close and having aided in it when she'd been needed. Somewhere outside, Edward was offendedly trudging along the dusty road, but here and now—the only thing either Del or Billy cared for was saving Fresa and her foal.
Its nose had just emerged and then the wet crown of its head when a helpless shrill left the mare—
“She's tiring, señorita!”, Jose hovered restless, holding a lantern above the scene unfolding. The sun was low enough by this point that only spots of its dying light made it into the barn.
Del braced a knee through the straw, ignoring the dampness that seeped through her skirts—the dress was ruined, but she couldn't care less when their hand in this could mean life or death: “Fresa, mi vida, listen—”, she spoke to the animal now, head pressed on the mare's shoulder as her and Billy’s hands worked in tandem through the nect contractions: “—now!”
They could hear Jose mutter a prayer, hands shaking the warm glow of the lantern.
“Almost there—”, Billy gritted out, biceps straining as he guided the foal's shoulders free: “—you've got this, corazon…”
Just like that, a final wet gasping cry settled it all… and with the sun setting, a new life emerged—the foal tumbled into Del's waiting hands, coat slick and gleaming like new copper: “Dios!”, she exhaled with a smile as she froze into the moment.
Fesa whickered weakly, turning to nose at her baby as Billy’s laughter curled warm and relieved against Del's ear. She hadn't realized she'd been crying—desparate tears, turned happy…
“Damn fine work, vaquera…”, Billy murmured, brushing a streak of blood diluted by her tears from her cheekbone as she let out a stuttering breath—laughter, free and delighted. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her senseless at that moment, despite the filth on them both, despite the looming presences around them. As the foal took its first wobbling steps—his heart was filled with love that it had been the two of them who'd aided in bringing that small life into the world.
Del felt very much the same—her breathing never calmed as they looked into each other's eyes: “Not so bad yourself, vaquero…”, she smiled at the shadows dancing across his face.
Then, the barn slammed open with a roar as Edward’s silhouette colored the doorway—his cravat wilted and his face dawning a mask of horror: “Mary Delphine! Y-you are covered in filth!”, a strangled noise left his delicate lungs.
“Her name is Amancer…”, Del announced, not looking up, too busy rubbing life into the foal's trembling legs: “Sunrise…”, she echoed in English: “Might have been born at nightfall, but she brought in light with her.”
Billy smiled wider, head dropping slightly like he wanted to keep this moment private still: “Suits her…”, he praised. Then he was moving to scoop water from the nearby bucket—rinsing his blood-streaked hands, then passing Del the ladle with a soft chuckle: “City boys, eh?”, the drawl—his voice sent a shiver across her: “All that talk ‘bout legacies but faint at the sight of makin’ one…”
Billy’s eyes met Edward's in a silent challenge, one that said the cowboy had heard everything the lawyer had spun earlier and that all the coin in the world couldn't make him worthy of Del. Cardew's features contorted in rigid disapproval, a viper ready to strike: “Funny, an outlaw lecturing me on legacy—when the only one you'd ever have awaits at the end of a rope.”
Billy scowled, hand twitching: “You are overplaying your hand, abogadito…”
But the threat had been clear and Edward could make it happen. The bastard was so self-assured that he continued spouting threats: “Your father will hear of this, Mary Delphine.”
Del just continued to scrub her hands, watching the pink swirl into the dirt: “How heroic I was?”, she challenged, eyebrow raised: “Do tell him I saved his favorite mare and her foal…”
Amancer stumbled, her legs still shaking as Fresa nickered softly, nudging her baby upright.
Edward scoffed, like he was the one entertaining a vain request, like he had any right: “You can't possibly mean to keep that defective creature—”
Del snapped her head at him: “Oh, so you fancy playing God now? Watch your tongue…”, she snapped, stepping between him and the stall protectively: “Or I'll tell Papâ you called his prized mare's bloodline flawed in her face.”
Let's see how he fancied threats sent his way, Del thought. After all he didn't want her—just the idea of her—the ranch fortune and good standing that came with Alvarez influence.
She could feel Billy’s presence behind her, his boot nudging her heel beneath the straw—a secret touch in their shared victory—as he pushed off the stall: “Best check the back hoof, señorita. Fresa's favoring it…” His tone was so casual no one would hear the lie it hid.
Conveniently and quite predictably, Edward stomped off, unable to stomach much more of being bested or the stench of manure. As he turned, he barked an order about suppertime—but his words got swallowed up in the night. Jose was already far off on the other side of the barn, making preparations for the foal's first night. That allowed Del to follow Billy back into the stall, her hands searched for his to anchor to in the dim light.
“He's gonna make trouble for you…”, he exhaled, brushing the tips of her fingers with his and then intertwining their hands.
Del brought her free hand up to cradle his face: “Billy… he'll make trouble for you—that's what worries me. Papa wouldn't let them touch you but… that doesn't mean Edward can't be sneaky about it—calling on Holloway or worse yet—go directly to Brady!”, her voice was urgent, breath shallow and clipped, like she was already imagining Billy being dragged away.
He chuckled dismissively, his hand coming up to meet hers on his cheek, holding it there like he was searing the feeling into his skin: “And risk his perfect wedding? No, reina—men like him are all talk—he prefers his things orderly. And I can tell you—ain’t nothing orderly about Lincoln right now. Sure, Brady has Jesse, but half of his other men can’t shoot to save their lives—they wouldn’t risk the embarrassment.”
Del tried to believe him, and a part of her truly did—after all, she knew what Edward was here for. Billy could see the care in her eyes and how lost she felt in this arranged engagement. A sigh escaped her, more hopeful now: “I-I will try to speak to Papa again come the morrow—I don’t want us to live like this, corazon…”, she confessed.
Don Ignacio was overbearing, true enough, but it always came for a place of love—he’d want her to be happy, she assured herself. And Edward couldn’t give her that in a million years. Even though her father sheltered Billy, he still saw the cowboy as an outlaw—someone who’d bring his daughter only sorrow and hardship.
Billy’s shadow swallowed Del whole, his mere presence like a warm blanket warding off all worries: “You think I don’t notice—that your Pa won’t either? How Cardew thinks he owns you—”, he muttered, breath hot against her temple as he closed any remaining painful distance between them: “—like-like a horse he can breed and trade for profit…”
The disdain in his voice was palpable, but then his voice turned brighter as he nodded towards Amancer who was wobbling closer: “But look at her, reina—that filly’s got your spirit.”, his smile spread warmly to his bright blue eyes, thumb brushing Del’s forehead, then her hair: “All fight, even when the world says she oughtta fold—you and her—you thrive on being wild. And a man like Edward… he can never own what burns too bright to hold.”
Del’s breath caught in her throat as she gently came up—standing on the tips of her toes, her lips brushing against his: “I want us to fight together, mi vida…”, she moved to take off his hat, as if preparing him for a prayer: “Take me riding… please.”
The space between their lips was nothing now, yet everything precious at the same time—a frontier they had already crossed numerous times. Still, it always felt like the first—trembling limbs, turning hungry and free in their joint reverence for one another. And so, far too impatient for their usual dance, Billy crashed his mouth into hers—desperation dripping like a man starved. Del’s fingers dropped, twisting in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer until there was no air between them or in their lungs, save for the one shared—the thrum of his beating heart as if coming from between her own ribs. Billy had always kissed her the same way as he would ride—reckless but sure—never leaving room for doubt on where he was going.
He pulled back reluctantly, breath heavy, only to sigh a promise into her ear: “After the night watch rotates… same as always.”
The night swallowed them both whole with the promise of a wild chase. Billy had already kicked off ahead in a gallop, like always—daring Del to follow and catch up. Hooves pounded the earth with the sound of their beating hearts, in sync with them, while the wind whipped through her braid—unraveling it strand by strand—as if every wallop away from the hacienda meant breaking apart from the stifling restraints of the ‘high society’.
Somewhere far off ahead she heard Billy whooping, wild and free, as she realized she'd been laughing too—letting her lungs be filled with the cold night air and her vision, with the stars blurred above. This was theirs—their whole world in the thrill of the night and soon enough—their hands would seal it on each other.
Billy was already dismounted next to the riverbank, waiting for Del. She tried to catch her breath: “One of these days I'd be able to catch you, vaquero…”
The corner of his lips went up in a smirk, eyes dark when he saw her heaving from the overexertion: “Sure you will, reina—maybe I'll let you next time.” He pulled her down by the waist before she could protest further: “Come look…”
Billy led her to the ridge overlooking the valley, where the arroyo danced silver under the moonlight: “This yours, reina…”, he murmured, his chest pressed to her back in an embrace: “All of it—ain't no dowry or husband gonna change that.”
Del squeezed his hands where they rested hugging her, taking it all in: “It's ours.”, she determined, turning to face him in the dark: “The land belongs to anyone brave enough to be free…”
His thumb came up to brush the corner of Del’s mouth, planting a peck there soon after, then another, and another alongside her lips… until she was dizzy enough to chase a full kiss herself, melting into him: “Been waiting to get you away proper all day, reina…”
“Oh, you waited? Since when did Billy el Niño learn patience?”, she teased, nipping on his bottom lip.
“Since your ‘intended’ decided to show his sorry face and spout nonsense about what you ought to be…”, he hissed, part pleasure from the delicious pain Del inflicted, part contempt.
“Billy Bonney… you listen to me—and listen good. I will not be his wife—they'd have to drag me to that courthouse, and even then—I will spit on their papers.”
The determination in her voice sent a shiver through Billy as he rested his forehead against hers. He had known she was his, and he—hers for a while now, but… hearing Del say it like that, the fight in her voice and fire in her eyes made his cock stir.
Suddenly, he was rolling both of them on the ground, the specs of dried grass softening the thud. His voice was gruff already as he caged her in, one arm below her head, the other already kneading at her hips—rolling her closer against his ache: “Say that again, corazon… por favor, I need to hear you.”
She tilted her chin up—defiant and teasing but her pulse, wild below his touch showed in her trembling voice: “I'd sooner burn those papers, Billy. We belong together, no?”
“Sí, sí…”, is all he could chant as his hand roamed her torso—reverent, planting kisses down her neck as she threaded her fingers through his hair. Her hips arched off the ground, desperate to meet his hardness more.
A coyote howled somewhere far off and the horses stomped, stirring. Lucha—Del's horse, especially worried all of a sudden, like she smelled the danger of the open land.
“Fuck, reina… we gotta stop. Ain't right—not here, not like this.”, he gritted through his teeth like it had physically pained him to halt.
“Then take me somewhere better… I haven't been to your cabin in days already—”, she enticed, chuckling as the memory of Manuela's supposed signs and such came to mind: “Or what? The brave vaquero is suddenly scared that el caminante may steal me away if we stay here?”
He rolled off her, offering his hand, but something in his eyes still dimmed with worry: “You said it yourself—I ain't a man of faith. But that don't mean we oughtta pull the devil by its tail. Tall tales or wild animals—you are safer in my cabin, where I can take care of you proper…”
With that teasing edge back, Del couldn't wait to indulge.
As Billy lit a match, bringing it to the candle just close enough to his nightstand, warm light colored the dark wooded walls of the cabin. Del had been here only twice before—on nights such as this but every time she came, she could see he put more and more effort into making it feel like a home.
The cabin had been a groundskeeper lodge way back when the Alvarez needed a lookout so far back from the main ranch property. Del's father hadn't always been on exactly the best of terms with appointed sheriffs—not that it was any different with him aiding Tunstall now, but at least he learned to not be as hot-headed, playing the long game instead. ‘There are young diablos out there better suited to fight—an old man has to enjoy what little time he has left…’, he'd say and that had been why Del was convinced her father would see her love for Billy not as something he should fear, but as her only future.
She noticed Billy had fixed the window stills: “Ay, those really used to annoy you…”, she noted as her eyes landed on a small bookshelf he seemed to have fashioned from the same whitewashed wood. On it, proudly displayed, stood the copy of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ she had gifted him.
“True enough but… I started them renovations so I had somewhere special to put this.”, he confessed, stepping closer.
Del took the book, opening it to a particular dog-eared page where she had underlined a quote, knowingly. Her eyes gleamed as she read: “‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea—my love, as deep…’”, she lifted her eyes, a smirk on her lips as Billy hummed. She slowly left the book on the table as she continued to cite by heart, hand on his chest pushing him back closer and closer to the bed: “‘—the more I give thee, the more I have—”
He was looking at her like she was the only thing he could ever hear, see or feel. In two steps, the back of his legs met the mattress and Del straddled him, wasting no time: “‘—for both are infinite.’ I meant that, you know…”, she concluded, nipping at his exposed throat, eliciting a gasp from him, his hips rolling up into her: “From the moment I saw you, Billy—really saw you… why you fight, what you want to stand for. And then, when we first rode together, I knew—my love for you'd be infinite.”
“Del… You knew that play would wreck me, but truth is—”, he flipped her in one swift motion, pressing her back into the mattress: “—it's you who wrecks me, reina. Not some fancy words or promises, but you—with your fire and kindness. You are free but caring… that will always make me want to be the man you see in me.”
And then he was kissing her—deep and claiming as his practiced fingers worked the corset of her riding dress. Each button off punctuated by a nip down her stomach, his tongue soothing the love bites. He pulled aside her panties to find her soaked already, dragging a finger through the evidence: “I ain't the only one who lacks patience it seems…”, he teased. But he didn’t plan on allowing her to come up with a witty response. Instead, he fully settled his face between her thighs, tongue lapping at her clit in filthy circles. Del's back arched off the bed as one had found purchase into the finicky headboard, while the other threaded through Billy’s hair, urging him on: “Dios, Billy—ah…”, she whined.
At that, he pressed her back down, caging her in with the weight of his shoulders: “Shh, be good now for me, reina and let me make you feel good…”, the growl sent ripples of pleasure from her cunt through her whole body as he took his time—alternating between teasing licks and deep wet strokes—his tongue curving between her fluttering lips. Any time she'd get close, however, he'd pull back—just to watch her whine, satisfied chuckle coursing from him and ghosting over her skin.
“I ain't rushin’ this—I'm teaching you patience after all, reina…”, he murmured, nipping at her inner thigh. He rested his head there now—the tip of his middle finger teasing her wet hole, shallow in-and-outs as he waited for her inevitable protests.
“B-billy—Billy, please…”, Del's hips stuttered back into his hand, chasing any feeling of fullness as she looked down to meet his eyes. He looked so happy with himself that he had gotten her so needy, but she could tell—behind the smirk on his glistening lips, he too was fraying—hips grinding into the mattress in slow rolls, chasing friction.
“I cannot say ‘no’ to you, reina. Not when you beg so pretty—”, he snarled, mouth sealing back over her as his two fingers worked her in, knuckle-deep, hitting the right spot with each curl. Pleasure coiled in her and spilled over the moment Billy hummed encouragingly against her—she rolled her hips shamelessly riding out her high. And the cowboy—he never let up, working her through it until pleasure mixed with the pain of overstimulation. Del pushed weakly at his shoulders as he reluctantly came up.
Naively, he thought she'd be exhausted by his worship. But instead of calmness, her eyes were filled with mischief as she wasted no time getting on her knees, settling between his thighs: “Your turn now, vaquero…”
Del's lips brushed that rough trail of hair below his navel, taking her time too. That teasing made his hands immediately fly up to tangle in her hair: “Christ, Del—”, his hips snapped up, his entire body tense from restraint. He was so achingly hard now that even the cool air was stimulating as Del nuzzled closer, breathing him in, smirking against his skin as she dragged her tongue up his length agonizingly slow before she swirled at his tip.
Billy tightened the grip on her head as he groaned: “If-if you keep—hah—keep doin’ that, reina, I ain't gonna last…”, he warned. She sighed, wrapping a hand around him in slow strokes: “Come now, vaquero… I know how you ride and how you fuck. You can do better than that…” she assured, taking him deep into her mouth, hollowing out her cheeks.
His thighs started to shake as she took him in faster. One of his hands gripping the sheet, the other cradled the back of her neck as his hips snapped up again and again, rough groans spilling with each wet sound. Just when he was about to go over the edge, wanting so badly to spill down her throat, he instead pulled her up: “Need to be inside you, Del, right now. Need to feel you wrapped around me—”, he managed through ragged breaths.
She wiped her lips, feeling so empty all of a sudden: “Want you too, mi vida… need you…”
That was all the confirmation he needed—his lips captured hers in a kiss so deep it stole her breath as he eased her back into the bed. No preparation or teasing this time, just the raw desperation that flooded through them both as he sank his cock into her—bottoming out, waiting for her to adjust to the stretch. It burned so deliciously that she was fast to beg: “P-please, you know I can take it…”, she whimpered, moving on her own even though it was shallow from this position, definitely not enough to satisfy.
Billy held her thighs apart at that, driving into her deeper with a rhythm that made her choke on her breath: “Oh, I know you can, reina—show me… ngghh—fuck—just how much you’ve missed this too.” He moaned, voice low and lost in her as his movements turned relentless—her small whimpers climbing higher and higher in octaves only serving to drive him crazy.
His name was a prayer on her lips as she closed her eyes for a moment—too overwhelmed by the heat of the moment. Billy’s fingers tightened against her thigh as he hitched her leg higher, getting an even deeper angle—driving into that sweet spot that made her see stars with every thrust: “Look at me, Del…”, his free hand roamed, cupping her breasts, pinching a nipple to reprimand. That quickly made her squeal, eyes shot open as she whined, but he quickly soothed the perky bud with his tongue: “That’s it, reina—look at me when I fuck you—I want to see those pretty eyes roll back…”, he cooed.
She gasped at that, nails raking down his back—leaving angry red lines in their wake that only served to increase his pleasure. Each thrust sparked white-hot ecstasy up her spine, the whole bed, small as it was, rattling with the weight of them: “Billy—hah… te amo!”, she almost screamed as her back arched higher, so close to the edge again already. Her name fell off his lips too like a prayer as he slid his hand between them—rubbing tight circles over her clit through each ripple of pleasure.
“Díos—takin’ me so fucking good, mi amor. I could watch you all night, all day, just being mine like this… ”, his head fell back as he shook, trying to make it all last: “Gonna make sure you feel this the whole day—make sure you remember… how good I love you.” With that warning, he gripped her hair, exposing her neck to bite at the sensitive skin there. The pain made her walls tighten around him, so close now to unraveling as she brought her hand up into his scalp—to keep him there, licking and groaning against her neck.
He trailed kisses up her jaw, kissing her deep—content with pulling back only to watch her break with him: “Come on, reina—I've got you…”, he coaxed: “Let go f’me…”, his words slurred as she fell apart with a cry, clenching around him as he fucked her through each wave. His own release slammed into him seconds later, dizzying in its intensity—unable to utter anything but her name.
Billy collapsed on top of her, his weight like another surge of security after such a shared vulnerable moment. Their limbs stood entangled like the vines that would crawl up the Alvarez gates at spring and for a while it was just this—slow tremble of aftershocks, sweat and slick and hot breaths still seared into each other's skin.
Neither of them had noticed how eerily quiet the first morning light had gotten—as if something were drinking its soul, as if all things, living or dead, had bowed in fear. Neither of them noticed a long shadow painting the new window stills, taking cover and waiting to strike.
“I want to stay here forever… No need for a big ranch—just us, Billy.”, she sighed—his smell, voice and essence so deeply ingrained in her every fiber.
“I know, reina, I know—this here is our little heaven, ain’t no one gonna take it from us. And I don't mean this shabby ol’ cabin—a storm could take it for all I care… It’s our shared breaths that’ll build something new then.”, the gruffness in his voice from what little sleep they managed sent a beautiful rumble along Del’s spine.
Billy’s hand moved to rest on her heart as if to emphasize that it wasn’t about where they were—they’d always have that piece of the other, that piece of heaven within them. His arm then settled protectively around her waist, keeping her close still as she continued her ramblings. Del would always get bubbly in the mornings with him, like he managed to unscrew all pretense, all of the restraints others had put onto her. And so, with his face buried in her neck, he listened…“I will probably have to take the chapel road again—if anyone asks where I’ve been. I guess in a sense… I’m always praying in here—just not always to God…”, she teased. She'd prayed plenty for Billy, but their love was another religion entirely.
Now… that ensured he was very much awake—breath catching as his fingers traced idle patterns across her bare back: “Careful, reina… If you keep talkin’ like that, I might just tie you to this bed—kindappin’ you like a proper desperado should…”
A sharp knock at the worn door shattered the moment—making them both freeze, breaths still as if already taking aim. Billy reached for his pistol on the bedside stand and murmured, voice low and serious: “Stay here…”
But she was already moving, scrambling to find her dress—her thoughts running wild. Who’d come looking in this early hour? The Don’s men usually kept their distance in case trouble found its way back to Billy… unless it was something urgent.
He stalked to the door, gun half-hidden behind his back as he creaked it open. On the other side, bright and tall, stood Mateo—Elena's husband: “Morning, hermano…”, he greeted, arms crossed: “Just thought you might wanna know—Cardew's been asking after Del all morning. Says he couldn't find her in her room at first light…”
Elena must have sent him while she held off things at the ranch. She had been the only one who knew of Billy and Del's relationship or rather saw their connection—nothing was truly admitted out loud.
Billy's grip on the pistol tightened: “And?”, like he knew that small piece of ‘evidence’ wasn't enough to send a posse.
Mateo's gaze settled past him and onto Del—a knowing smirk dancing on his lips: “And the night guard rotatin’ saw her riding toward the arroyo last night—awful close to here…”
Del straightened her dress, taking a step in front of Billy: “Well, tell them it was a lie—that I went for an early prayer to the chapel.”
Mateo raised an eyebrow: “And who's gonna believe that, hermana?”, he challenged.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She wanted to speak to her father in private, when things were slower so that the arrangement with Cardew could end amicably—as amicably as it was possible with such a man. But she had been too lost in her passion, Billy too… and now it would look so much worse—now, it would be harder to convince Don Ignacio to break off the engagement without Edward demanding retribution. A bride-to-be who'd already surrendered her virtue—it would be a scandal... Del didn't care for it, but Edward would claim he'd been ‘played’—what tales would they then spin to pin it all on Billy?
“Take the back trail, turn up from the chapel like you said. I will come later—say I had to see Tunstall…”, Billy thought quickly on his feet.
“Billy, something ain't right here…”, Del's voice trembled, feeling uneasy.
Not only because they were close to being caught red-handed, but also… with how things felt, with how she knew them to be. If they were really so sure she was here, why wasn't Edward leading the grand rescue? To then get all of the praise—saving his fiance from the claws of the ‘low-life’? A man so full of himself wouldn't pass up on this opportunity surely…
“Del—I ain't runnin’, not from this, not from you.”, he assured, thinking she was worried for that alone.
“It's not that, corazon, I know you, I—it's just—don't you think we would've already been hauled out of here if Edward was so ‘concerned’, so convinced? I don't know, Billy—just… just be careful, por favor…”, she spoke too fast, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Then one palm slithered down, fluttering over the rosary: “‘¿Qué es poesia… y tú me los preguntas?’”
Billy’s hand covered hers there, breath heavy when she continued the quote: “Poesia… eres tú.”, her bright smile, opposed to the worry in her eyes. Like she tried to be strong for him too: “You told me it's not about the fancy words, but it's you—you are my poetry, mi vida…”
His eyes bore into hers as he bit his lip: “Don't you dare quote Becquer at me like this is a goodbye, Del… I will be safe, I know it—I have to come back to my little heaven after all.”
Billy had more things to fight for now after all… a home in her. He reached for her face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear then cupping her jaw for a deep kiss—one that sealed his promise: “I love you, reina…”
Mateo was already saddled, going in circles with worry on whether he had been followed: “Ahora, Del! We need to make haste!”
She forced herself to step back while Billy’s hand stood extended, but curled—always reaching but having to stop just short of it.
Billy focused on scouring the parameter, riding through the dusty roads surrounding the cabin. He wasn't sure which option would bring him more solace—no posse in sight, or someone trailing him. So, when he found no evidence of the latter, he was still left uneasy…
Why send accusations his way if you will not follow up on them? Billy wasn't even sure if it was safe to ride out to Tunstall—so he stood in the cabin, feeling cornered by an invisible foe. He took to strumming his guitar to pass the time before he'd return to the ranch—he was no coward after all, if no one would come to him, he'd face whatever he had coming his way.
But then, just like that, he heard hooves and rustling outside—no name shouted, no indication of who'd approached—clearly the visitors didn't want to make themselves known… Billy set down his guitar slowly, grabbing onto his pistol instead as he merged with the wall next to the window overlooking the meadow. Now, spent and dusty from the summer sun—it was too open for anyone to dare cross from that direction.
He expected an angered Cardew, prattling about with bodyguards. Maybe he’d order Billy restrained so he could land a couple of cheap punches to feel better about his miserable self…
But then—when a voice finally shouted, it wasn't one that Billy expected or was really too fond to be hearing: “Come out now, Billy—you are surrounded!”, Pat Garrett—who'd wager that the former outlaw would be the one hunting him down now. Of course, Pat owed his freedom to the House… so it was of little surprise that they'd find themselves on opposite sides now.
Billy peeked just to confirm that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. And there he was—big goofy mustache and all, sporting a deputy's badge from what he could see. And Jesse… right next to him, hair poking out from the dry bushes—amber like burning grass. A third horse was hitched further off—Billy knew its owner to be Olinger.
From what he saw, there was no one on the back trail—all horses he counted had a rider he could see from here. With all heads being accounted for, he moved to the back door—he could outride them, knowing the land better and bring the battle to Tunstall land—Bowdre’s farm where Brewer was also laying low for a while. Then, they'd be forced to back off… or risk a full-out war with a posse of three. This had just turned very much south… and all previous plans and superficial worries of star-crossed lover rendezvous suddenly felt too trivial—like a set up. Del had warned him—she had seen it for the puppet show it was even if she hadn’t fully realized what would follow. Billy cursed at himself for taking more than he could hold once again—he was skilled, but he had neglected to remember that there were still things out there that could touch him. Shooting fastest didn’t mean you could always dodge…
Just as he reached for the handle, however, a sudden roaring force pinned him to the far wall of the cabin—the sheer force of it sending the whole structure rattling. Looking around, dazed and confused, the cowboy patted rapidly along his torso. That blow had felt like a shotgun—but no holes gaped or bled to prove it. That meant he could still fight— twitching, Billy reached for his pistol, standing up… trying to stand up… What in God’s name was happening?!
Billy thrashed his arm, flailing with the weapon, no longer in control of any of his limbs as an excruciating heaviness settled atop his chest—its origin—unseen. It was like someone had put a boulder there, yet there was just empty air… Then—his whole world tilted, vision fraying at the edges, his eyes forcefully settling onto the floor as the room plummeted into darkness, like someone had drunk up all of the sunlight. All he could do is look down to the ground—try to make sense of what little his senses could tell him when two polished shoes settled in his vision with a clink. Even when he’d been cornered in the past—he had never felt like the prey, like he was hunted—not in the same way like he did now, unable to move or see his opponent.
He tried to think as it seemed that was the only function he had some control over. The shoes were too well kept to belong to a man who had been on the road—it was like he had materialized here. But how? Why couldn’t Billy move? What witchcraft—
“So this is big bad Billy the Kid, hmm?”, the voice was elegant somehow, yet quiet and haunting—like it didn’t belong to one person. Or maybe it did… but any time a word came out, it was as if a chorus of tortured souls chimed in, sending a chill through Billy: “All I see is a scared mouse…”, the shadowed figure chuckled and somehow that was even more chilling than any sound uttered so far: “Catron said you were the devil incarnate—that no bullet could catch you for yours strike faster…”
A finger—cold and pale—hooked under Billy’s chin, forcing it up to finally meet the eyes of the cursed apparition. It was a man, after all, just one—his hair golden, far too bright for the carnage his eyes promised. Billy could swear that they had been blue—so like his until they'd landed on the rosary adorning his chest—then they turned scarlet as the man hissed. The cross was suddenly covered, not by the man's own gloved hand, but by a shadow creeping up to Billy’s shirt—seemingly commanded by the ghoul in front of him. So this was what Catron conjured in his cowardice and desperation…
“And… who… are you, then… partner? It's… awfully rude… to not make… yourself known… in a man's house…”, even as his throat grated through every word, Billy was cheeky. Even as he started to believe the intruder could be… was the Walker, el caminante nocturno, he still had his wits about him. Fairytales sure… but his intact thought process could only lead him here—a mouse knowing it'd be devoured. The only thing missing was how did the bloodsucker even gain the right to cross Billy’s doorstep? From what he could remember of the tales folks from back East used to tell—a ‘strigoi’, as they called it, needed to be invited in… knowingly or unknowingly welcomed.
The smile that spread across the man's face—sharp canines glistening, only confirmed Billy’s fears. His nails dug into the cowboy's jaw, prying it open—shallow breaths curling out in cloudy vapors in the suddenly freezing air. Then, the chilling voices returned: “You needn't strain that fleshy throat—my shadows can hear your grating thoughts—riding and riding in circles…”. The undead's finger danced around the air, almost mesmerizing as a black shade coiled around it: “You've seen a lot, cowboy—but you are just as blind as any mortal. It's your ‘queen’ who called to me… insisting on her prayers over you like a good little believer. But she didn't know—anyone could answer on the other side… as above—so below.”, each syllable was like an icy dagger sinking into Billy’s last strains of consciousness as the night crawler pointed two fingers toward the heavens and then the hells—almost ritualistic: “And the name's Coriolanus Snow… partner…”
A rasp came out of the Walker, followed by a sharp pain in Billy’s wrist as the whole world faded fully to black.
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summary: childhood sweethearts from the start, yet forced to reunite your love in secret. what happens when coriolanus resorts to severe lengths in order to make you his forever?
@slaymitchabernathy little mention of soarynn in here, this finally got published!
“darling, what have i said about running around when we’re in a guest’s home?” your mothers’ gentle yet lecturing voice stops your little feet, now resigning to shuffling unhappily.
“that- that it’s rude…”
she nods, stroking your perfectly groomed hair. “exactly. you can play with coriolanus later, just stick with mother for now, hm?”
your eyes longingly gazed at where your best friend coriolanus resided, also impatiently waiting to run around with you. looks like his parents caught him too. however, the scolding he got seemed way more harsh, what with the displeased look on his father’s face.
“children. what i would give to be that carefree again!” mothers’ friend laughs, smiling down at you.
you skillfully ignored her, looking down at the ground with an adorable pout on your face. being coddled by adults was fun, but playing with coryo was even better.
he must’ve read your mind, because he slipped away from his parents and ran through the french doors of his ballroom, leading to the gardens. your favourite place!
smiling brightly, you followed, yet was shortly greeted face-to-face with perfectly mowed grass.
looking up, you were met with a hand and a distinct face.
but this wasn’t coriolanus’ hand, no. nor his face.
it was felix ravinstills.
eyes shooting open, your heart beat precariously from the aftermath of your nostalgic dream.
“good morning, sleepyhead.” your dear husband chuckled, with that shit-eating grin on his face. clearly, you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, because even looking at the shining band of silver on your finger was torturous.
“morning.” you mumbled, wanting to fall back asleep. at least your dreams kept you sane.
it was relaxing there.
being a kid again.
it was fun. thrilling.
mothers friend was right, what you would give to be that carefree again.
what you would give to be waking up next to coriolanus snow this morning, instead of felix ravinstill.
don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a bad husband per say. just… boring. unattractive. predictable. too… nice.
now you were being mean.
you couldn’t help it, not when your first love’s fiancée was being shoved in your face every day by your friends. and the capitol newspaper. at least soarynn nightingale’s column distracted you from the soaring jealousy looking at livia’s hand on his.
“c’mon, get up, we have brunch.” felix ruffled your hair, leaving you to use all your might to not punch him.
“brunch? with who?” you rolled over, sitting up and stretching.
you weren’t paying much attention until his words settled in.
“oh, just a few old academy friends. this time last year we left university, so we figured a little reunion would be nice.”
your eyes widened, unbeknownst to him who was fixing that goddamn hair like always. the ‘curls’ he claimed to have weren’t the ones you wished to see every morning.
but now you were. in an hour.
you swallowed, “who’s going to be there?”
“you know, just our group. dovecote, creed, cardew…”
you rolled your eyes at that last name.
he continued, “oh, and snow. i think his and livia’s wedding is soon, did you know?”
‘did you know’, you nearly scoffed. who didn’t know?
“mhm, yep, i know.” you mumbled, swinging your legs off the bed and trudging to the bathroom.
leaning over the sink, you inhaled slowly.
“you okay?” felix’s voice emerged from the bedroom.
yes, you were just wonderful. ecstatic, even. having less than an hour to see your childhood love with the worst match ever was the best way to start your morning.
“i’m fine!” you called out, a silent plea to leave you alone.
sighing, you got on with it, trying to see it as another meet up with friends. friends.
even after all these years it felt strange to include him in that category.
ᥫ᭡
the car ride to the sacred place you would visit during your teenage years allowed you to ponder about many things.
number one being: is coriolanus thinking about you this morning? if so, is he also imagining what you two could’ve been, if it weren’t for your fate sealed already?
number two being: what was livia cardew wearing, and did you manage to one up her?
number two was now the main focus as your eyes landed on the destination, bringing back many memories of your mother picking you up from one of your many night outs with coriolanus.
he would bring you here during your late academy days: a one-on-one meal as best friends. friends. that’s what you were, and that’s what you were always destined to be.
felix’s hand on your knee made you turn to look at him. he grinned. the car slowed to a stop, bringing your heavy thoughts with it.
taking a deep breath, you emerged from the sleek car. the one coriolanus had looked slightly more luxurious, however the woman sitting inside didn’t compliment the outside.
all envious thoughts came to a halt when you locked eyes with the very man who had intruded your thoughts all morning.
he looked occupied with memories too, it seemed, what with the way his face softened for a moment when you entered his line of vision. he cleared his throat immediately after, getting back in order, but you noticed. you always noticed each other.
“snow!” felix chuckled, oblivious to his friend’s lingering look on his wife.
snow smiled — not his genuine one, of course — and began walking up to ravinstill. livia trailed behind him, like always.
okay. appearances. be happy for livia and her stupid ring.
“felix, what a pleasure. it’s been a while.” the two shook hands and gave a pat on the shoulder.
“livia, hello!” you greeted, earning a squeaky chirp back from her when she said your name. she leaned in for a hug, which you reluctantly accepted. the whiff of sickly perfume that invaded your nostrils should be considered a hate crime.
clemensia and festus appeared. thank goodness — if you spent one more minute with coriolanus’ cologne in such proximity, you might’ve fainted.
“girls!” clemmie squealed, walking quickly to you and livia, squeezing you both tightly. you smiled. although clemensia could be the biggest bitch you’ve ever met, she was quite good-natured to her friends.
festus joined the welcoming with the men, whilst you and dovecote said greetings. she turned to livia.
“livia, oh how i’ve missed you!” she smiled, “or should i call you mrs snow?”
you saw the way livia’s smug smile curled. you felt the way your stomach twisted into a mix of jealousy and disgust. oh, here we go.
she lifted up her glamorous ring. surely, coriolanus didn’t pick that out — it was so… loud.
no wonder old money was unheard of in the cardew family. it seemed she lacked all elegance a soon-to-be first lady should have.
“beautiful! coriolanus, surely you didn’t pick this diamond out?” clemmie caught the men’s attention.
they all walked over, felix’s hand resting on your back and festus’ hand on clemensia’s waist. you didn’t miss the way coriolanus’ hand stayed put.
it was as if livia read your mind, because she quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed it. pathetic.
“i didn’t, in fact. livia picked out this ring; i plan to use my grandmothers for the actual wedding.” coriolanus explained, his pearly white teeth on display.
what a shock, you wanted to say. of course she managed to pick the most outdated ring on the planet. you and clemensia would be sure to share a comment or two about it later on.
everyone nodded along, the men agreeing with his traditional approach. you tried to pretend it was sweet, but you just gave a small smile to clemmie when she looked for your reaction.
no one knew about your… well, distaste for their upcoming marriage. everyone in the academy knew you and coriolanus had been close since you could walk, but no one paid any mind when you went your separate ways after university. this was fairly common in capitol elites — you’re betrothed to a family from the moment you’re born. no matter if you’re ‘madly in love’ — it was better for business this way.
“alright, let’s go and eat!” festus cheered, beginning to walk into the day restaurant.
ᥫ᭡ a couple hours later
the reunion had gone well. you only had to endure around thirty minutes in total of livia’s boasting about her wedding, which was great compared to last time after coriolanus proposed.
it was edging 1pm now, and the men were already a little tipsy from the couple glasses of whatever was sipped. festus couldn’t handle his alcohol, everyone knew that. felix was alright, yet his hand wouldn’t leave your thigh and his lips stayed in a lopsided smile.
coriolanus seemed just fine. he always knew exactly how much to drink; you had never seen him too wasted over the age of sixteen.
whilst the group continued to laugh and converse, coriolanus stood up. his eyes fell onto yours, “i’m going to get some fresh air.”
this sudden act didn’t waver the group, who usually would question why he was leaving for a moment. you saw livia mumble something to him, but coriolanus just shook his head.
he met your gaze once more before you left, which concluded your curiosity.
a couple moments after he left, you murmured something to felix about the bathroom before exiting the group atmosphere.
why coriolanus insisted on going outside was lost on you. the chilling wind was freezing your ears — thanks, felix, for telling you to wear your hair up. although, in his defense, it did look more sophisticated along with your outfit.
“coriolanus?”
a pause.
“coryo?”
you sighed. you didn’t have time for these games.
“i’m going back inside.”
a hand over your eyes and a strong chest pressing against your back nearly forced a scream to leave your lips until you inhaled the familiar scent of roses.
his smirk could practically be heard. “guess who?”
you smiled, pulling his hand away and turning around, only to be met with a pink nose and blue eyes. “stalker.”
“you know it.”
the harsh wind and cars driving by was all that could be heard on this november afternoon, and he leaned down, lips right beside your ear.
“it has been quite a while for us, hasn’t it? i might have to reschedule my wedding to make up for our lost time.”
your cheeks burned pink. you blamed it on the wind.
glancing around, you anxiously searched for anyone who might’ve noticed the new president so close to a woman who was not his wife.
through a nearby window, you saw livia holding her hand out to clemensia, parading her obnoxious ring about once more. it took every ounce of you not to strangle yourself whenever she did that.
you looked back at coriolanus, your annoyance on display.
“you always look at me like that whenever she waves that ring around.” he smirks fondly.
“maybe because it should’ve been mine.”
his demeanour changed in a matter of seconds, and before you knew it, he was pulling you into a nearby alleyway and smashing his lips on top of yours.
“trying acting indifferent towards me today, were you?” he spoke into the kiss, “as if you weren’t gagging on my cock last week.”
his sudden use of vulgar words made you whimper into his lips, your hands suddenly not so cold after gripping his shirt collar tightly. one hand went to your neck whilst the other slid down your silk dress, savouring every curve.
“thought i wouldn’t notice you staring at me like a bitch in heat every minute?” he chuckled cruelly, “who knew ravinstills wife needs a good fuck every other day to keep her sane—“
“snow?” festus creed’s voice was like a knife as it cut through your pleasure faster than it began. seems like fate had other plans. “your wife is asking for you.”
coriolanus’ hand stopped, as did your heated kiss. he inwardly groaned, his head falling onto your shoulder.
your heart stopped. what if he came round the corner? the president with his friends wife, in an alleyway? it’d be the scandal of the century.
you and coriolanus had been in some risky positions during this little affair of yours, but this was by far the most scariest.
“wait here,” snow whispered, stepping back. he was calmer than ever, like always, not crumbling under pressure. if this was felix, he’d be having a full-blown panic attack.
“after a minute, come back inside.” he ordered. you nodded, swallowing down your worry. he caught your anxious act, his gaze softening and his finger brushing a hair out of your face.
he took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, with your initials in fancy writing on it. your eyebrows furrowed.
“don’t open it until you’re alone, tonight.”
he didn’t wait for you to nod before walking away, giving a small kiss just for effect.
you were floored for a moment, holding the paper, dumbfounded. his voice trailed away as he spoke to festus.
“she’s not my wife just yet, creed...”
gathering yourself together, coriolanus’ words set off a string of realisations which left you feeling slightly less riled up than before.
livia’s not his wife, yet.
yet.
in a week she will be.
then what? then what happens to this ongoing affair?
“they’re not married yet, it doesn’t count,” you would tell yourself. it was the perfect excuse.
a man cheating was frowned upon during the early stages of marriage in the capitol. a woman cheating, at any point, well, she might aswell banish herself from the capitol as a whole.
it was risky for coriolanus to be having an affair before he’s even married to the woman.
it was even riskier for you, who’s reputation could be destroyed for simply wearing an out-of-fashion dress to an event.
all sexist traditions aside, the reliance you’ve both had on the excuse of his pre-betrothal is now thinning by the day.
you may despise livia’s need for male validation and envy her engagement, but that doesn’t mean you’ll feel good about potentially ruining her marriage. it is a big thing, and if it’s destroyed, so is her place in society.
and you would find it very hard to live with bringing another woman down for your own personal gain.
if this is what fate shall bring, then that’s that. you’ll just have to live with the unfortunate circumstances.
ᥫ᭡ later that night
your eyebrows furrowed at the note before you, torn between options. the night was quiet, silent even, what with your husband fast asleep as you sat in the living room.
usually, you would be laid beside him, on the other side of the bed, swept away in a book. instead, you were swept away in a sudden tough decision.
our spot, 12:30am. i miss you, my darling. let me show you how much. — C.S. p.s, you forgot a certain pair of undergarments.
let’s take back your usual place at this time of night. laid beside felix was a lie, you usually would be intoxicated by coriolanus, drunk on his cock. well, not every night. every friday night, however…
why he decided to give you a letter instead of using the telephone like normal was beyond you. maybe it was because he had stolen your red panties he had gifted you last time, and you never gave too much away on the phone. anyone could trace it back, and boom, image corrupted.
by now you would’ve already had shoes on and ordered your driver to take you. but tonight… your thoughts about his arriving marriage prevented you from moving off this sofa. one last time wouldn’t hurt, right? then you’ll break the news to him. maybe he had already realised this can’t go on forever.
you tip-toed out of your penthouse and sweetly asked the driver to take you to your usual friday night destination, a giddy feeling in your chest despite the inevitable conclusion your affair will come to.
ᥫ᭡
as the car drove away, you stared up at the familiar place before you. a townhouse, sat at the end of a street a couple blocks from the corso. no one would bat an eye to it if they drove past — little did they know, the president and the fatal flaw in his marriage resided there, hidden away like a dirty secret.
because that’s all it was.
and that’s how it would end. nothing more.
coriolanus claimed he had bought this place when he was seventeen to ‘reminisce how it would be to live alone’. sure, you thought, and it just happened to come in handy when you and him spontaneously needed a place to fuck a few months ago, when this whole ordeal started.
whether he did just buy it because he planned to kiss you that night of festus’ birthday ball, you weren’t complaining. it was the perfect distance from both your homes and somewhere where the likelihood of someone finding you was little.
looking both ways before approaching the house, you turned the lock, slipping in and turning the foyer light on. seems you got here before him. nothing new.
you strolled around the cosy halls, wondering how it would feel to come home every night waiting for coriolanus. you’d take his briefcase, greet him good evening, and give him a sweet kiss on the lips. maybe you both would spend the rest of the night cuddled up in the library, or the living room, or the bedroom…
no. you were getting ahead of yourself. there was no point in creating your dreamworld with him. felix. livia. they were your lives now, and it was too late for any change to happen from the moment you met.
small, longing glimpses of what could’ve been your life would have to suffice.
so swept up in your own thoughts, you didn’t even realise you were on the balcony until you felt the gust of wind in your hair and the cold metal of the railing underneath your fingers.
why you were even here was nearly lost until you felt a strong pair of hands grasp your waist and pull you against a strong figure.
you smiled. the smell of roses only followed a certain someone. turning around, you met eyes. then lips. the feeling was heavenly, like it always was when kissing coriolanus snow.
“i had a strange feeling you wouldn’t show up tonight.” he murmured through the kiss. damn him and his brilliant intuition.
“i nearly didn’t.” you breathlessly responded — no need in lying.
this made him pause, until he pulled your head back and sucked kisses on your neck.
but this time, you didn’t feel the warm fuzziness in your stomach. instead the anxious lingering of what was to come persisted, a stubborn warning which persisted on.
the wedding.
the scandal tiptoeing closer and closer. it laid on the edge of your fingertips now. the risk of losing everything you had built — even if it wasn’t what you dreamed for. societies harsh, judging eyes leaving a stain on your name forever.
is it worth chasing temporary happiness for a potential lifetime loss? that very question racked your brain for weeks, but you had yet to find a solid answer.
until now.
determined, you turned around, only to be met with the familiar eyes you had been dreamily gazing into since you were a little girl. that look. soft. warm, even.
as if nothing you’ve done is wrong. as if you hadn’t spent nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling beside a man you barely knows, feeling his touch like something borrowed.
as if you hadn’t begun to dread the sound of your own name.
“i was beginning to think you’d come to your senses,” he muttered lightly.
it came out sharper than you intended. “that’s exactly why i’m here.”
something flickers behind his eyes. interest, perhaps… but it’s gone just as quickly. you force yourself to hold his gaze.
“we can’t keep doing this,” you say, the words rehearsed, repeated, worn thin before they even leave your mouth. “it was a mistake. it is a mistake.”
he doesn’t interrupt. he just watchesyou. that’s always worse.
“you’re getting married,” you slowly continued, your voice tightening despite yourself. “in front of the entire capitol. do you understand what happens if anyone finds out? if she finds out?”
livia.
the name sat between you both without being spoken. a dark cloud, haunting, lingering above you, threatening to rain fire upon your dangerous affair.
“i won’t have my life ruined over… over stolen moments in dark rooms.” your breath catches, but you push through it. “i won’t be that woman.”
silence.
“you already are.”
it’s not cruelly said. that’s what makes it worse.
your composure fractured, just slightly. “don’t—”
“you come when i ask,” he continued, stepping closer now, slow, deliberate. “you stay when you should leave. you let me touch you like he doesn’t exist.”
each word lands precisely.
“you don’t get to pretend this is something it isn’t.”
your chest tightened. “it isn’t anything. that’s the point. it ends here.”
you expected resistance. anger. something. instead, coriolanus tilts his head, studying you as though you’d said something mildly interesting rather than something devastating.
“does he make you happy?” he asked.
you hesitated. his gaze sharpened, not with jealousy — no, something far more dangerous. certainty.
“i didn’t think so.” his raspy voice grated your ears. this wasn’t going well.
“this isn’t about felix,” you snapped, too quickly. “this is about us. about what we’re doing—”
“what we’re doing,” he repeated softly, closing the distance between you now, “is inevitable.”
your breath faltered.
“no,” you say, though it sounds weaker now. “no, it isn’t. i’m ending it. tonight.”
he’s close enough now that you could feel the heat of him, steady, unshaken. his hand lifted, not quite touching you yet — hovering just at your waist, like a memory waiting to happen.
“you’re frightened,” he murmured, “of being caught?”
a faint, almost amused exhale escaped him, “or of wanting this too much?”
your jaw clenched. “you’re engaged, coriolanus.”
finally, something lands. not visibly. but you see it in the slight shift of his expression. not guilt. never guilt. just calculation.
“livia,” he says, as if recalling her distantly, like an afterthought.
“yes, livia,” you press. “your fiancée. the one parading that ring around every event as if she’s already won.”
“and that bothers you.” it’s not a question, and you hate that it doesn’t need to be.
“it should bother you,” you say instead.
another pause. you stared into his eyes, a sly, subtle tug at your gut telling you to leave. almost a warning—
“if she’s the problem…” he says quietly, his voice filled with a dark seriousness, “say the word and she’s gone.”
the world tilts. not dramatically, not even violently. just enough.
just enough for something cold to slip beneath your skin. you stared at him, searching his face for any sign of exaggeration. a joke. but coriolanus was never known for his humour.
“you don’t mean that.” an unbelieving smile appeared on your face, waiting for his amused smirk to be returned. it doesn’t. you tried to sound carefree, yet your voice betrayed you.
because a part of you knew — he means every word. coriolanus stepped closer, finally closing the space between you, his hand settling against your waist like it belonged there. like it always had.
“i mean,” he says softly, a harsh contrast to his tone before, “that nothing stands in my way for long.”
your pulse stuttered. this isn’t charm, nor romance. this is something else entirely.
“you’re not listening to me,” it almost sounded like you were pleading, but now it’s quieter. unsteady. “i’m ending this.”
his thumb brushed lightly against your side. absent, nearly affectionate.
“no,” he stated. such a simple word. so gently said.
“you’re trying to.”
and that’s when it settled in your chest: heavy, suffocating, inescapable. not the danger of being caught. not the guilt. not even livia.
him.
he wasn’t arguing with you. he wouldn’t plead. he was correcting you.
as if the decision was never yours to make.
as if it never would be.
ᥫ᭡ 4:47am
sighing, you trudged into your shared house where only you, your husband and a few housemaids stayed. in your eyes, it always seemed much too large for only two elite members of society. clemensia and all the other materialistic girls you met throughout the years would never be fulfilled with all the luxuries in the country. but every time you walked into this grand room, strolled through the sleek hallways… you couldn’t help but feel as if you were playing house.
it never felt like a show with coriolanus. through the little glimpses of doubt and tension these past few months, coryo always felt like home. didn’t he?
the last few hours were surreal. laid, skin to skin, with a satisfied daze in your eyes. yet you couldn’t shake the disappointment weighing in your chest. you arrived there, set to do one thing. you left with sore legs and a mind reeling with confliction. how did he pull you back in? one moment, you’re filled with determination and guard. the next, you wake up right back in his trap. it is a gruelling cycle; but any form of thrill which removes you from your dear husband’s — frankly, boring — lifestyle is easy to get addicted to. devoted to.
ah, yes. your husband. you had a good guess at where he would be at this time.
beneath the high ceilings in your living room laid a passed out felix, one hand in his messy black curls and the other lazily grasping the empty glass which reeked of alcohol residue. you sighed. this had been occurring more and more these past few months. you knew why. part of you felt empathy for the man. surely he would’ve felt the loss of your homemade morning coffees by now. he must be thinking you’ve been sleeping in one of the spare rooms. the excitement of coriolanus’ antics had made you sloppy.
so, with a single pitiful glance, you put the whiskey bottles away and quietly shut your bedroom door. you ignored the recurring notion of exactly how many more times you were going to do this daunting routine.
ᥫ᭡ one day later
“holy shit!” felix’s deep voice was poisoned with concern as it echoed from the kitchen. eyebrows furrowing, you quickly walked to his call, a twisting slither in your gut like the fangs of a snake pulling back to bite.
“what is it?” you hastily followed his eyes, staring down at the capitol newspaper. your heart sunk, just like the fangs seeping into your skin.
“FROM ENGAGEMENT TO ELEGY: PRIVATE ILLNESS CLAIMS THE LIFE OF LIVIA CARDEW.”
Sources close to the family request discretion during this difficult time.
Tags: m/f/f ∘ f!reader ∘ polyamory - throuple ∘ reader is a bi disaster ∘ a pinch of miscommunication (in the beginning), turned into healthy communication ∘ drunken kisses in Croatia (book canon adjecent) ∘ use of Y/N ∘ use of nickname for reader - "bunny" ∘ academically inclined reader (for plot purposes) ∘ love confessions - PoppyAlex are yearners too! ∘ discussions of moving in together, coming out, rules and boundries ∘ intense cuddling
smut!! : threesome ∘ bj ∘ oral (f/f) ∘ piv (Alex x reader) ∘ reader has a praise kink ∘ slight dom!PoppyAlex ∘ slight sub!reader
Word count: ~13k
Summary: You were their other best friend, taking all these vacations ever since university—the glue holding Poppy's creative chaos and Alex's structured character together. Until… an eventful game of “truth or dare” made you feel like you were in the way. Falling for not one, but BOTH of your best friends would spell disaster for anyone… so no one could blame you for keeping your distance after, right? And then… They invited you over to Poppy's old apartment, needing a hand to move out to a bigger place just down the street from where you lived. Now why would they do that? Turns out… They have something very important and long overdue to talk to you about. And it does involve your wildest dreams.
Croatia. The hotel was courtesy of R&R, of course—the room was enormous, with a gorgeous view of the Adriatic sea and a glass ceiling. It was supposed to be just you and Poppy sharing a room and Alex having a separate one. But, as these things often happen… there was a mix-up—one none of the three of you complained about as you were quickly led to one of the Premium suites.
“It'll be just like uni!” Poppy exclaimed, always looking to the sunny side.
“Well… not “exactly”...” your jaw dropped as an attendant opened the door to the suite: “Yeah—our sorry asses would have never been able to afford this.” You look up, still in awe, seeing the glittering reflections of the three of you staring back, the light hue from the sea making it all appear like you were soaring in the turquoise waves.
“I'm with bunny on this one, Poppy… this doesn't exactly scream “budget vacation”.” Alex added.
Bunny… it was a nickname Poppy had fashioned for you after the many episodesof you being so overly excitable in university. And then there was the “straw incident of ‘18”, wherein you had chewed through almost all of the plastic straws available in the dingy dormitory you shared with her in an attempt to quell your pre-exam anxiety. Needless to say, Alex showed you a much healthier outlet for all of that… the gym. It was how he dealt with his own anxiety.
But back to the important stuff—it was this oscillating temperament that had earned you the petname. And it made you blush every single time, without fail…
“Well, duh! You are welcome, by the way!” Poppy's voice brought you back to reality: “I just meant it'd be all three of us sharing a room.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper: “Hey, Y/N, let's annoy the hell out of Mister Nilsen—our style.” Her eyes glinted with mischief: “What say you, brave bunny?” She challenged with a dramatic flair.
“Already on it…” you whispered back, winking as you showed her the bounty—his precious hand sanitizer you managed to snatch from where it had been dangling, no longer strapped to his backpack. Poppy's eyes followed your scheming with a smirk on her face, and found that you had gracefully swapped it with a peach-scented one. Alex hated scented lotions… a giggle rose from the two of you, making Alex's head snap back with an exacerbated yet fond look.
Sharing a room with your two extremely hot best friends was… torture, plain and simple. The sweet kind maybe, but still a torment—Alex with his morning stretches for those back spasms, making his muscles tighten and… the strained gasps leaving him made you look into your coffee like it held the secrets of the universe. Then there was Poppy… with those tight “comfy” blouses she'd wear inside—no bra… it made you squeeze your thighs together in pent up frustration.
You'd survive… if it weren't for that bar reservation falling short—
“Sorry, miss, we don't see you on the list.” The security guard checked for what was the third time now—the glow of his tablet making the scowl on his face appear ghostly in the dark night.
“Well, that's just unfortunate… I was sent here on a special invitation with R&R!” Poppy tried to play it up, but when that didn't work the three of you were put in time-out—sitting on a bench near the beach. You pulled up your phone, nudging Alex who was sitting between Poppy and you.
“Operation: 'Save tiny fighter's vacation' is go!” You whispered, determined, as you showed him a liquor store, not far away from here, and more importantly—still opened. Alex looked at you suspiciously while Poppy just stared ahead, her spirits crushed.
“Come ooon, Alex…” you whined softly: “It has good reviews! We stock up and play board games like we used to!” You suggested, knowing he would appreciate that last part, just as much as you—even if Poppy would call you both “nerds” for it (affectionately).
Alex sighed, probably drafting a pros and cons list in his head already, while scratching the back of his neck. You found these small habits adorable—so him, like the physical movement would somehow send the solution from his vertebrae right back to his brain.
After the list seemed mentally compiled, he announced: “Fine—Operation: Save tiny fighter's vacation! Featuring bunny assistance!” Suddenly he was yanking your wrist with one hand and Poppy's with the other—lifting you both off the bench in one swift motion.
You loved how he could just let go in these moments, while Poppy could feel safe— like she was finally given space to be herself. And you—you never felt more at peace than being slotted in this jigsaw puzzle, filling all the raggedy gaps.
...
How did it all turn into a game of truth and dare…? It was supposed to be something tame—like Monopoly! Or if you felt daring, maybe Activity. But… spin the bottle?!
Poppy was now basically straddling Alex, finishing off his meticulously painted winged eyeliner: “Viola! I'm truly a generational talent!” She proclaimed.
When Alex looked at you, you barely held back a chuckle, burrowing your face in the bunny plush Poppy had won for you from a claw machine, just outside the liquor store. This promptly turned into a full-body laughter as you rocked back and forth, clutching your stomach.
There stood Alex—in full-glam, smoked eyeshadow and everything… even the glitter. His lips were painted bright red and Poppy's signature blue wig, slightly skewed, adorned his dark curls.
He scowled at your unsavory reaction: “N-no, no! It's—good. Great actually! The brown really makes your eyes pop!” You defended, but your cheeks hurt from smiling so wide.
“Okay, okay, very funny… let's see how well you take it, huh?” He challenged, spinning the bottle.
It landed on Poppy and you, prompting her grin to widen slowly: “Oh, poor bunny…” she pouted in mock concern: “Let's see what you are made of… truth or dare!”
You bite your lip and meet her eyes… then Alex's. He'd just taunted you, you couldn't just take the easy way out…
“D-dare!” You mentally curse at yourself for the stutter. Maybe the alcohol was getting to you… and their joint hotness definitely wasn't helping your state.
“Aw, look at you stuttering already!” Poppy cooed: “This next part would be far more fun if you are already flustered.” She warned, looking between Alex and you as she twirled her necklace around. The clinking of it made your ears tingle like a well-trained pet, basking in anything she had to offer. “Mmm, Y/N…” she built up, her voice rising dramatically: “—I dare you to kiss Alex!” She declared.
Your breath caught as you stared wide-eyed at Alex: “I-I mean… is that okay with you?” You asked.
“Come on, bunny… I thought m you could take it?” Alex teased and your face instantly heated up.
He wasn't one to take these things lightly, you knew that. He wasn’t with Sarah last you heard, that much was true, but… didn't he like Poppy? Why would he encourage it? Was it the alcohol… would he regret it tomorrow?
As the questions flooded your mind, you felt overwhelmed—unable to process your usual overthinking. Your head throbbed with want and booze, making you feel dizzy as your vision frayed at the edges.
Before you could chicken out, you moved across the floor from where the three of you were sitting criss-crossed and settled near him, staring at his lips.
“Come on, Y/N! It's Alex—he won't bite!” Poppy urged on.
Just a game between friends, you thought to yourself, wishing it was more as you slotted your lips against Alex's. At first, you thought it'd just be a peck… but his tongue swiped across your bottom lip, insistent. You parted your mouth, feeling him press against you, the hard outline of his muscles like an anchor when all you felt was a quiet drowning. He tasted like tequila and lime—you probably did too, but his warmth was so welcoming it made you almost whine into the kiss. Like warm tea on a gloomy day, you concluded.
You felt it then—Poppy's eyes boring into the two of you with an intensity that you didn't know how to place. Alex and you separated after what felt like ages and you held your breath, wanting to bring your hand to your lips—as if that would seal the kiss. Your pulse hammered in your chest…
“Well, well, that was something!” Poppy exclaimed, downing her shot while you look down, suddenly shy as you spin the bottle.
It landed between the two of them… and you wondered if you were in the way again.
Alex shifted on his legs—the kiss had clearly affected him too… but he looked at Poppy with determination: “Now… you kiss Y/N…” he murmured in that low, serious tone of his.
“Gladly!” Poppy chimed and you thought you'd died and went to heaven. Dealing with the fallout and the guilt that you are standing between your two friends, who clearly had a thing for one another—would be tomorrow's problem.
Before you can blink the thoughts away, Poppy's hand is on your thigh… she was always handsy and comfortable but now that it had different implications, you felt like you couldn't breathe. Her palm sent electricity through you, warmth coiling low in your abdomen as you shifted your thighs.
“You okay with this, bunny?” She asked, voice sweet and enticing as she was already leaning closer, her lips tingling your neck. You could smell that citrusy perfume of hers that complimented her so well, you wanted to drink it all in, instead of the tequila.
You nodded: “S-sure… wouldn't want to be a spoilsport.” You swallowed hard, your tongue still holding Alex's taste.
“So gracious…” she praised and it went straight to your core as she leaned in, her soft lips nipping at yours teasingly. She was self-assured in this, every movement was purposeful. It was you who parted your lips first this time, eliciting a satisfied hum from her as her teeth caught in your lower lip, making you jolt and open your eyes in surprise… only to see that it was Alex now that was watching the two of you, his eyes widening as if he was just realizing something. This kiss… was different but equally dizzying—like a warm sunrise.
That was two years ago… and now—they are both happily moving into a place of their own. Just up the street from where you live—coming back into your life.
You are both excited but also nervous as an uglier feeling settles into your chest. You want to be happy for them… and a part of you truly is. But, there is a selfish part of you, one that had awoken especially loudly in Croatia—the part that greedily wants both of them to choose you as well, to return your feelings.
The morning sun barely makes its way through your tattered lace curtains—all of the surrounding buildings towered over your small unit, making it carry an inherently gloomy aura.
You sigh, adjusting your dress as you look at yourself in the mirror—This will be just like before... just three friends, hanging out together. If that's truly all you ever were.
Just then, you get a text from Alex:
Hey, Y/N, don't keep Poppy and I waiting! We have been dying to catch up! I bought your favorite drinks, just so you are sure we are not using you just for your amazing organization skills! 😉
There it is… that quiet humor shining through his caring nature. He wants to make sure you feel welcomed and comfortable—careful like always.
Then another text comes through:
We actually had something we wanted to talk to you about…
Attached is a selfie of the two of them, with moving boxes scattered behind their faces, but their smiles were bright as ever. Alex's blue eyes stare at you from the display, while Poppy's warm brown ones are almost closed from how wide her laughter must have been in the moment the photo was snapped.
What is it that they want to talk to you about?—curiosity starts buzzing in your bones. After two years…
But you shake your head, trying to focus on them, on you—as you make your way through the subway and to Poppy’s old apartment. It is in a far more luxurious part of town—after all, R&R used to pay her good money.
And then you see her battling with a box she is actively trying to carry. “Hey, Poppy!” You greet, voice cracking ever so slightly, like the words felt foreign now. The realization makes your heart sink just a little, but you quickly mask it: “—here, let me help you with that…” you offer as you take the far end of the box, easing it into the van.
When in doubt… just people please—a handy motto.
You take her in then—that orange slice necklace, brightening her smile even more, her warm eyes look back at you as if no time had passed whatsoever, as if it is all like it used to be. Her hand lingers a bit too long against your fingers while handling the box—sending a warm sensation along your arm and right to your chest.
“S-so… has Alex had a meltdown over the subway already?” You chuckle, attempting to get back into the groove. It helps that you are genuinely curious—you can already imagine Alex's nose crunching at the filth of some of the stations here.
Poppy too lets out a delighted laugh, her whole face lighting up as she leans against the van door. "Oh my god, bunny, you know he did! Three days in and he nearly short-circuited when someone's latte spilled near his shoes. But—" She lowers her voice conspiratorially, "—he made this adorable little spreadsheet of 'optimal subway routes' color-coded by cleanliness rating.” Her eyes turn mock-throughtful, as she taps her finger against her lips: “Hmm maybe I should use it for my blog after all… have to utilize his obsessive tendencies somehow!”
From inside the apartment, Alex's voice calls out dryly: “I heard that, tiny fighter." His tone is so warm and affectionate even as she teases him. It is that familiar dynamic you know so well—it tugs at your heart… how you used to fit so perfectly in it. Teasing Alex, together with Poppy, while also appreciating his conscientiousness—leaning on it.
The sound of him shuffling the myriad of boxes in the building hallway is barely audible as the angry traffic drowns it out. But then, there he appears—sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair slightly messy from moving. He gives you one of those quiet, warm smiles that always makes your stomach flip. There has always been something enchanting about seeing your tall, stoic best friend so lost in the moment—like you have stumbled upon an intimate display. You are sure you must be staring by now… you try to stop yourself from biting your lip as you drop your eyes awkwardly.
You cannot be that desperate… Are we back in college, Y/N, really?!
"And for the record—" he begins announcing, stepping forward to bump Poppy's shoulder playfully: “—the spreadsheet has already saved us forty-three minutes of commute time just this week." A proud raise of his chin makes you want to hug him tight.
Poppy rolls her eyes but her smile doesn't falter for a second as she nudges him back: “Anyway!" She turns gracefully on her heels. You notice she is sporting the very same boots she wore when the three of you had to take a forced-proximity road trip together… memories invade your mind uninvited, as she chirps: “You're here! And you have to see the new place—Alex picked it because it's got this gorgeous bay window that'll be perfect for your reading nook when you—" She cuts herself off suddenly, a hitch in her breath, while exchanging a quick glance with Alex.
The whole interaction made you raise an eyebrow, but it is something you could chalk up to them being… well them. They have a way of understanding each other with just a single glance. For a while, you thought you were synced like that with them both—but be it because of your anxiousness or just how stupid you’d get when either one was around, your brain just ended up short-circuiting now. Or maybe… most likely… fuck it—definitely, it was because you had been on a self-imposed sabbatical away from them for so long.
Alex clears his throat, adjusting the box he is carrying as he rubs at his neck— that nervous tic again. You wonder if the thought reached his brain acceptably, as he corrects the course of the conversation: "What Poppy's trying to say is... we might've chosen the apartment with you in mind. More than just, uh, helping us move today."
They wanted you to visit? The realization sends a warm feeling to your cheeks, your heart fluttering. Though the giddiness is slowly drowned out by the ringing in your skull—the one that reminds you that you’d just be seeing more of them together—cuddling, kissing, holding each other… while you remained coldly, friendly on the sideline.
Alex reaches out hesitantly, fingertips grazing your wrist. "We have—we’ve just missed you, Y/N."
Since when did he get so touchy?
Poppy bounces on her toes, unable to contain herself: "Yeah! Like, stupidly missed you. Alex mopes about your book recommendations, and I keep almost texting you when I find weird thrift store finds—" She suddenly grabs your hands—her touch warm and electric, like she wants to close the circuit—pass on that excitement and be in this moment with you: "We have so much to talk about!"
Almost texting you…
How many times did you almost text her too? Him as well? Whenever you’d see a vinyl that reminded you of those girls’ nights with Poppy, or when you’d stumble upon a book shop and were suddenly transported to those quiet study nights with Alex…
You blink rapidly, trying to wake from the daydream. They are still right here—in front of you, wanting to reconnect. You know you’d end up hating yourself if you let your unrequited love get in the way of enjoying this time you had…
“Y-yeah, it really has been ages! But some things never change…” you add, like your love for them…very self-aware— “I still follow your blog, Poppy. I am so happy you ended up going back to it… R&R might have been luxurious but, well ‘Poppy's guide’ is just so authentic and you!” You praise, unable to hide your blush: “And, Alex…” You turn even more self-conscious now: “I heard you are finally making it out of high-school hell? Aren't you teaching in the same university where I'm doing my PhD?”
You know he is… but somehow voicing it makes it more real, it makes you more flustered—maybe you are a masochist deep down? Knowing you'd get to see him there—all proper and serious like he'd always get when he tried to explain how APA is indeed the superior way of citation, or how ANOVA tables worked. A lit grad better at statistics than you? You still can't swallow down the hit your ego had taken... jokingly... almost. You and Alex have always been in a quiet, friendly academic competition.
The sound that left Poppy sounds almost like a squeal, as she claps her hands together the moment she hears you mention her blog: “You've been reading my blog? Oh my stars, bunny—now I'm extra embarrassed about that chaotic '3 AM dive bar adventure' post!"
She throws an arm around your shoulders, her citrusy perfume wrapping around you—making you want to melt in it: "We have to do a collab sometime. Maybe a 'Poppy drags Y/N to weird NYC spots' series?" There is a pause of overexcitement as her breathing catches up to her: "And yes, Professor Nilsen over here—" She jerks a thumb pointedly at Alex "—has been grading papers like a machine. It's honestly kinda hot."
Oh, oh, you bet it’s hot—he'd always get so passionate about the smallest details when it came to literary analysis. And now he actually got to teach people who wanted to discuss the devices and forms, instead of high-schoolers who probably imagined all the ways they could be skipping his class.
Alex chokes on the coffee he'd just pulled out of the van cup holder—his ears turning pink as he adjusted the AC. All those small gestures make you smile—he is always so thoughtful when Poppy and you would rather live in the clouds. But then again, you and her brought him that sense of creativity and adventure. All the freedom he used to deny himself as the oldest, responsible Nilsen brother in a family that was shaped by grief… if anyone needed to let go—it was him.
Still, you adored his structure—it is what got you through your masters degree, even if Poppy found it overwhelming sometimes. Maybe that's why all three of you just work so well together… like pieces of a puzzle—different but coming together to form a whole.
"Poppy!” he warns with a feigned stern tone—that fond exasperation you remember so well, shining through. He circles to the trunk, moving around some boxes to make more space. It is like he was looking for something to keep himself busy, instead of looking at you.
Weird…
"Same university, yeah..." he mumbles still in quiet acknowledgement: “Teaching on this level has been... surprisingly good! There are the usual overachieving TAs—uni politics have always been tiresome... but nothing to complain too much about when you get to see all of the creative energy those postgrads have. "
He nudges Poppy gently with his elbow, passing over her order of coffee—almond latte. The smell hits you as Alex hands over your cup from inside the van too: “I hope it's still the same…”
“Th-thanks.” You manage.
Americano—it was the easiest to obtain back in college and it was especially valuable for all-nighters. Alex would often complain about how strong it smelled, but you'd argue it brought you both a sense of comfort. Especially when it was Poppy bringing you emotional support and a fresh cup. After she dropped out, she never stopped checking in—waiting for the summer vacations was one thing, but when she'd visit Chicago… it would be like the sun finally shone through.
Poppy is still being fidgety—the way she'd get when she wanted to bring something up to the surface but her self-doubt would get in the way. Alex swiftly moves to trace the back of her neck to soothe her. You wish you could be doing the same… just to slot there and embrace them both without it being weird.
Alex’s gaze lingers on you, warm and steady after that, like he is scanning you—like he has noticed: "Speaking of academia and caffeine—you look tired, Y/N. More than just PhD tired."
Of course he'd spot it… you were losing sleep thinking about them and this reunion. On top of your dissertation and no one to remind you to take breaks, you were really feeling lost.
Poppy’s playful energy shifts instantly, moving to grab your shoulders, examining you like a butterfly pinned to a board: "Alex is right—” she murmurs, studying your face with sudden intensity. She isn't as observant usually, but whenever she would notice something was off, she always turned protective.
"Are you sleeping? Eating? Because if not, I’m about to stage a pajama party-slash-movie-marathon intervention at our new place, stat! No arguments." There is that tone of hers that makes you shiver every time—when she'd get serious over the things that were important to her… A warm feeling settles in your chest when you realize you are still that to her—precious.
"We still have that terrible ‘Activity’ game from college. And Poppy did impulse buy a ton of sour candy yesterday." He adds, as if bribing you now.
The care in their voices, the way they notice, makes your throat tighten. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
Alex's gaze flicks meaningfully to the box labeled Emergency Comfort Supplies—in it you see… what looks suspiciously like that strawberry cow plushie you'd left at his place years ago. He kept it… a barbed ball lodges in your throat.
"I..." You fiddle with the lid of your coffee cup, pulse racing: "I’d really like that. All of it." You admit, even if it meant pretending your heart isn't jumping out of your chest.
Poppy beams, pressing a quick kiss to your temple—always so effortlessly close to you, never enough to fully bridge the gap between your hearts: "Then it’s settled! First: moving. Second: food. Third—" She exchanges another glance with Alex, her grin turning sly: "—well. We’ll tell you over candy!"
Alex’s quiet laugh sends warmth curling through your ribs all the way down to your toes: "She’s been practicing her big reveal face all week. It’s... something." He emphasizes, making jagged jazz hands.
Poppy gasps in mock outrage, swatting his arm like an air dancer, limbs flailing in an almost-tantrum: "Rude! I’ve nailed the dramatic timing—"
Big reveal? What is this about again? Alex had texted you cryptically earlier… now they tease it. Surely them moving in together doesn't warrant all the drama, and, well—you are privy to that part already, so… was it a pet? Was Poppy pregnant?!
You decide to go with the more auspicious guess as you help with the final load of piled boxes: “Dramatic timing? Are you… planning on adopting a cat?”
You remember Alex’s cat then… Flannery O'Connor—that little guy with so much fight in him, contained in such a small fluff form. It was no wonder he used to liken him to Poppy—his "tiny fighters". A sigh leaves you as you move through the boxes, noticing one labeled ‘Fun Times ;)’. Well, shit… you deliberately side-step it, heat rushing to your cheeks… and elsewhere. The echo of your other guess is ringing in your skull at the implications and purposes of whatever its contents are.
Your question seems to be the most hilarious thing to Poppy though, because she scoffs trying to contain a full-blown laughter attack. Which she promptly fails at as she doubles over, clutching her stomach for effect: “Oh, bunny, trust me—” she sing-songs: “It's a looot better than a pet!” Her grin is far too mischievous for how confusing all of this is to you.
“Definitely better for Alex anyways…”, she is back to teasing him in no time: “If only you knew how hard he agonized over whether we were pet-ready—all the research about dog breed lifespans, guides to hamster care—"
Alex sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, but you catch the way his lips twitch: "In my defense—" he mutters, adjusting the ‘Fun Times ;)’ box you'd deliberately avoided—his voice dropping suspiciously low: “Poppy once forgot to water her succulents for three months. I was being... cautious."
He exhales through his nose, but his blue eyes are so deep and happy as he looks at both you and Poppy now: "But… Yeah—" he murmurs, brushing a stray curl from your face—so casually intimate it steals your breath: “What we mean is way better..."
“Okay, weirdos…” you manage, wanting this to never end.
The way they're hovering—Poppy's fingers tracing patterns on your wrist, Alex's thumb lingering on your elbow as he passes you another box—it feels... deliberate. Like every touch is a question they're too nervous to voice for now.
Soon enough, all boxes and all three of you are loaded in the van. You expected, naturally, that Poppy would sit in the front passenger seat, next to Alex… but without as much as a word, she takes a proud seat next to you, puffing as she bounces into the cushions.
“Alex! Alex! You have to play the playlist I prepared…” she demands. Like he would ever deny her.
You eye her phone screen to see that the playlist was named “Bunny Hop”... wow, did they really miss you that much? Somehow, you don’t feel like a third wheel anymore and that confuses you. Not more than Poppy starting to sing ‘Forever Your Girl’... not at Alex, but… at you. Her brown eyes hold so much depth, for a moment you can really fall into pretending that it is a love confession.
What really does a number on you though is when she prompts you to sing at her and Alex: “Come now, don’t be shy…” she entices.
You don’t do it with your full chest, you can’t—it would be like laying yourself bare to them when they are so happily in love now. But they… they suggested it, they were the ones to be touchy all day today, not just physically, but—including you in everything they are doing.
Something was going on…
Before you realize how dissociated you have been for the past fifteen or so minutes, you are already in the new apartment—bringing boxes in, instead of out—welcoming the new. You sit on the ridiculously large couch, ready for a very much needed break, as Alex brings Poppy and you some tea. A moment’s respite…
You swallow hard—now or never—you had to ask what the hell was up with them. You needed to, so you could put yourself back together after all this time: “S-so… what is up with this mysterious thing you wanted to talk to me about?”
Straight to the point… brave bunny.
Poppy opens and closes her mouth like a fish, trying to mask some underlying vulnerability with humor again: “Ah-ah, there is no sour candy in sight, the court cannot be in session!”
Alex almost glares at her but there's undeniable fondness in it as he toys with his warm mug, mentally preparing as he sits on the smaller sofa chair, so he can look at both you and Poppy at the same time. "What Poppy means—" he says pointedly, giving her a look that is somehow both reassuring and a reprimand for delaying this further: "—is that we've been doing a lot of thinking. About... everything."
Great… that really gives you a lot to work with…
His voice drops slightly, in that octave he’d use when he was really passionate about something—in that way that would always make your pulse stutter: "About how it never really felt right—just the two of us." He reaches over to take Poppy’s hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.
Hello? Is this going where you thought it was going?! Your bones buzz with excitement that you try to manage some way… any way, please.
Poppy bounces forward, unable to help herself now, like she was finally given the sign that all of this is okay, more than okay—that this is a safe space to be herself and feel things: "Yeah! Like, remember when we used to share hotel rooms on trips? How you always ended up sandwiched between us because you 'got cold'?" Her eyes glint knowingly: "Or that time in Croatia when we all got drunk and—"
"Ah, tiny fighter, you are already rambling. All we will get is a confused bunny in the end…" Alex cuts tenderly in, his own cheeks flushing pink—but he doesn't deny all of the “qualifications” Poppy just dumped. Instead, he reaches to cup your hand where it was gripping the mug white-knuckled now as you try to process if this was really happening. His fingers linger above, barely touching, like he is waiting for permission to make this real: "Point is… We’ve missed you, Y/N. Not just as a friend."
There it was… panic ensues in your chest, though you feel like you hide it well…? No, if you were in a movie, the camera would definitely be panning to you now after this internal monologue just to reveal what a shaking mess you are.
Poppy nods fervently, suddenly serious as she scoots closer on the couch, her body heat far too distracting now: "We talked about it so much—how you were always the missing piece. And not just—", she waves vaguely at the boxes, "—for moving heavy stuff."
There it is again—her humor deflecting how she truly feels. Yet, in that moment you are not exasperated by it, just incredibly fond of it—of them in all their quirks. You look up at them both, eyes pleading for this to not be a dream you’d ever wake up from.
Alex exhales softly, his thumb now moving to trace idle circles over your knuckles, when he sees just how soft you had gotten at their confessions: "We were thinking... maybe we order takeout tonight? Just the three of us. And talk properly."
Poppy’s hand inches closer on the couch cushions, squeezes your fingers, like she also needed reassurance that you are real, biting her lip as her voice came out raw: "Say ‘yes’, bunny... Please?"
The box labeled ‘Fun times ;)’ suddenly feels very relevant.
It takes you a moment to compose yourself, though you wouldn’t say you are quite able to breathe yet: “I—if this is one of your 'let’s prank Y/N' moments… I will be really mad.” You let out a long-suffered exhale that could have been mistaken for a laugh, wondering where to look now.
Poppy immediately stands to kneel in front of you, so she could meet your eyes that were now lowered—not sad, just your brain going a hundred miles an hour. There was a reason they had this pet name for you after all… But all that you see then is her bright overalls pooling around her as hooks a finger under your chin: "Oh, bunny—no…" she murmurs, her voice so intimately soft: "This isn't a joke. Not even close." Her hand moves to cradle your cheek, fingers dancing along your jawline, making you shiver and lean into it… pathetic, you think, but after so many years, there was no other way this could have played out. You would be putty in their hands and you would be the happiest person on earth at the arrangement.
Alex moves to sit beside you now—like they were rotating formations, his shoulder pressing gently against yours—solid, steady. "We wouldn't— scratch that—we could never joke about this…" he admits quietly, his usual measured tone fraying at the edges. You notice his fingers are trembling slightly where they rest on his knee: "Not when it comes to you."
Poppy exhales sharply, her usual whirlwind energy replaced by something painfully earnest. All of the therapy she was doing seems to be paying off when it comes to showing feelings, to committing: "I didn’t bring up Croatia just for the shits and giggles, Y/N…” she starts, like yarn unraveling: “When we all got stupidly drunk and played truth or dare?", her smile wobbles, trying to contain her big feelings now so she can do this properly: "We both kissed you, and you laughed it off like it was nothing, but—", she takes your hands again, pressing her forehead there, like she needed the closeness just as much as you. "It wasn't nothing for us. Not ever. That wasn’t just messing around for us. We wanted to kiss you. We wanted—", she cuts herself off, swallowing hard as she reaches for Alex’s hand as well. All three of you, connected now… the circuit finally closing.
Alex picks up where she falters, his voice low and rough: "We want you, Y/N. All of you. Not just as our friend. Not just as—as some temporary thing. Not the ‘oh we want a threesome, we are so bored’!" He looks between you and Poppy again, like he wanted to sear this moment into his brain. It is like he read through all of your questions, all of your insecurities when it came to this dynamic—and he answered them all with two simple sentences: "We want you to come home with us. Properly.”
Alex leans towards you slightly, his breath warm against your temple: "We tried, you know…" he admits: "Just the two of us. But it always felt... incomplete." His fingers drop to brush your wrist, then Poppy’s— back and forth, again and again—like he's mapping your joint pulses. "Felt like we were missing our favorite part..." His smile was so bright it sends a wave of warmth through you. "You don't have to answer now…" Alex murmurs, though the way his voice cracks tells you he needs to know what you think, after they have been so vulnerable with you.
Poppy lifts her head from where she is still kneeling, her eyes suspiciously glossy, like tears threatened to spill at the sheer intensity of the moment: "But if you say yes—" She produces a set of keys from the breast pocket on her overalls: "—this is for our new place. Your place too, if you want it."
The air feels thick with something terrifying and beautiful—like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. Alex's quiet intensity and Poppy's raw sincerity form an undeniable gravity pulling you in, like always. But this time, beneath your roaring pulse, blooms a quiet yet certain realization—they mean it.
Was it moving too fast? For someone who has yearned for them for a decade—you certainly didn't think so. You'd practically lived together already during the longer vacations… but this was different, more meaningful. This was like coming home.
“O-of course I want this, I want you both… God, you don't know how long—” you cut yourself off, wanting to ask all of the questions in the world. You echo, like a broken record, vulnerable tears threatening to spill: “When did you know? And wait, so... you're both okay with this?" You whisper, looking wildly between them as if you were watching a tennis match: “Sharing? Because I—I don't think I could choose between—”
Poppy cuts off your stuttering breaths by pressing her lips to your knee… the gesture is so reverent, you try not to squirm: “Bunny—” she says fiercely as if reprimanding you for ever thinking anything else of them: “—we want this. Both of us. We talked and talked, and talked about it… like, agonizingly detailed research-level talks—"
Research? It daunts you that you do not know the first thing about how polyamorous relationships are supposed to work. Sure, you want it—it feels like the truest thing in the world, but… how does it work? You table that thought for now…
Alex makes a pained noise at the raw confession, at the fact that you agreed to it all… then nods, his free hand coming down to stroke Poppy's hair—it all feels so domestic you want to melt, trickling down into all the gaps that are left. You feel so full, as Alex adds: “We care for each each other, yes. Aaand we care about you—different, but... equal. Always equal." He assures, shrugging like it is the most natural thing in the world.
‘Different but equal’... that made so much sense in the moment. You love each of them in a different way, but always... equally, always so much that it hurts.
The tears spill over then—not in heartache, but from the overwhelming rightness of it all, from everything clicking into places. Poppy immediately surges up to wipe them away with her sleeve, murmuring soft nonsense as Alex presses a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.
Poppy sits next to you—now you are properly sandwiched between your two best friends… partners? You breathe a deep sigh of relief: “S-sorry, m’just… so happy.” You admit, sniffling away a nervous chuckle.
Poppy shushes you gently: "So... dinner? And then maybe we finally unpack that box together?". Her wink is outrageous, but the passion in her eyes is real as the ‘Fun Times ;)’ box stares back at you.
You nod and the rest of the night dissolves into Chinese takeout boxes, blanket forts and… finally you realize why this couch of theirs was so huge. You were just in the middle of pantomiming the word ‘cuddle’ (very on-brand, thanks ‘Activity’ board game!), when you suddenly realize, dropping your own hands from where they were circled tightly around your torso: “Hey! Neither of you ever answered me… When did you know you liked me?”
You throw the word card on the coffee table, plopping yourself back on the couch—demanding answers. Poppy lets out a shaky laugh, pressing her face behind a takeout box, like a makeshift emotional shield, her shoulders trembling: "Since forever…", she admits, voice muffled against the carton: "I just... didn't know how to say it without ruining everything. Kind of like how I was with Alex, I guess, but there… it was the forced proximity around David’s wedding that made it all crumble faster." When she peaks her head, her usual vibrant energy is softened by vulnerability—her lipstick smudged from chewing her lip in worry. You want to kiss it all better, inching closer to her subconsciously…
Alex exhales sharply through his nose, fetching a blanket for all three of you as he muses: "For me… it was the rainy day in Toronto. When you sang on that karaoke machine for us by the fireplace in the hotel lobby… We were so bumped out that we couldn’t go sightseeing, but somehow that quiet time was way better." His thumb brushes your wrist beneath the blanket. "Poppy kept wiggling her eyebrows at me every time I stared too long..."
The memory blooms in your mind, warming up your cheeks—the three of you curled under blankets, just like now… but so much different still, because then your love for each other wasn’t yet all laid bare—just small stolen glances. You still remember it so well though— the rain tapping on the windows, their awed faces as your voice trembled around the lyrics of ‘I Was Made for Living You’, how Alex's knuckles had whitened around his mug when your eyes met mid-song.
Poppy’s grin returns now, with familiar mischief, ready to cause her two favorite nerds to get flustered: "And I finally actually admitted to it when Alex caught me staring at your—"
"Poppy!" Alex groans, his head falling back against the pillows as he elbows her.
She dissolves into giggles, sprawling across both your laps dramatically: "What, Professor Nilsen? Our bunny deserves to know how utterly gone we were—we are! But for real... It was that stupid poetry seminar sophomore year—you were arguing about Sappho's fragments and your hands were all flailing around and your cheeks went pink and I thought: 'Oh. Oh no...'" Her fingers find yours again, intertwining tightly: "The point is... we're done pretending now. No more 'just friends' crap."
Well, Poppy’s mission was definitely a success, because you feel too heated now, all those thoughts of ‘how will this work?’ coming back to you, crashing: "I—I don't even know how these things work, you know... a relationship like this. Truth be told, I'd only dreamed of it with you both! I never expected it to… actually, you know… happen." you admit. Ah, so now it's time about the actual talk... you chew on the sour candy for added courage.
You figured communication would be key... well, isn't it always, in every relationship? But three people like this—honesty would be the name of the game, even when it is hard, especially then. Maybe more so than when it’s just two people, because there are more feelings, more love but also more needs to be met. You wanted to be there for it all…
Alex gets up, meaningfully rummaging through the boxes. Before you can spiral further, Poppy settles you on top of her, a full-body cuddle that makes your brain turn into putty: "Bunny, listen, we can do this—we've got color-coded calendars already between Alex and I, shared journals… we have planned how to add you to those. And… even a three-person chore rotation chart— Alex even has tabs for ‘Emotional Check-Ins’ and ‘Scheduling Cuddle Time’ like the giant nerd he is!" She pulls out her tongue at him.
Alex's doesn't deny it—instead, he finally finds what he seems to have been looking for all this time… a notebook labeled ‘Operation: Bunny Acquisition’ in Poppy’s loopy handwriting. "We might have… overprepared." he admits, putting it on the table as he comes behind you, practically engulfing you and Poppy.
You can feel his steady heartbeat on your back, where his chest is so tightly pressed now as he clears his throat: “It's just... we wanted to do this right. So that no one feels overlooked. You know, for adults in our 30s, all three of us are incredibly emotionally constipated sometimes… given how long it took us to get here."
The first page bears the heading ‘Us, v1.3’, this time in cursive, with bullet points ranging from weekly check-ins to 'Poppy’s impulsive vacation policy'… Three edited versions?! For a moment you wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t reciprocated their feelings—if you had moved on from them before it could get to the here and now. But you quickly shake your head, knowing you are right where you should be, that it couldn’t have happened any other way.
Poppy peels her eyes from yours with reluctance only to settle them onto the spread notebook: "See the highlighted part?" She reaches a hand from where it was trapped below you to take it and tap a section pointedly titled ‘Important Things’:
Nobody gets left out
Feelings don’t get ‘saved for later’
Bunny gets extra cuddles when stressed
Alex gets extra coffee breaks in uni when stressed
Poppy gets extra pancakes and wine when stressed
Your breath catches as you take all of their effort in, hand coming to clutch the papers like they might vanish if you blink.
Alex hugs you impossibly tighter, voice low: "We know it’s unconventional. But Poppy’s right—we want to figure it out… with you." His fingers brush yours where they grip the key to your future with them. "No need for many rules, except the ones we make together. That’s how we know they will work…"
Poppy suddenly gasps, scrambling up. Oh, this was one of her eureka moments… "Wait! Wait!" She dives for a half-crushed box labeled ‘Memories’, emerging with a polaroid from your college days—the three of you tangled together on a hostel bed, your head resting on Alex’s shoulder while Poppy pressed a kiss to your cheek: "We’ve always been this—" She whispers, placing it in your palm: "We just... finally got brave."
You smile unbelievably wide, as Poppy settles below you again, slotting so perfectly.
“So… should we dive more into the sour candy and start drafting a version 2? The official one…” Alex suggests, lips grazing your shoulder where your blouse had helpfully slipped.
"Th-that sounds perfect..." you add, feeling like your whole face is on fire, pressed against Poppy like this.
An hour later...
Poppy squeezes your hand under the blanket, her laughter vibrating against your temple. "Bunny, no—you cannot claim dish duty just because you ‘find it calming’!" she protests, air quotes at all: "That’s basically letting us exploit your adorable quirks!"
Alex sets down the notebook, his lips twitching as he adjusts the blanket over you: "She’s right, you know." he murmurs, reaching over to tuck a loose curl behind your ear. "But…" His fingers linger, tracing the shell of your ear, sending a delicious shiver down your spine: "I do like watching you wash dishes—you hum when you’re happy."
The admission sends warmth flooding through you, especially when Poppy hums fondly: "Alex! That’s unfair levels of sweet…" She hooks a finger on his collar, dragging him closer—always closer. "Fine, compromise! We all do dishes together. You wash, I dry, and Professor Nilsen here puts everything away in his perfect little system."
“Three is truly the magic number… like our very own industrial line!” You conclude with a smile.
Poppy pulls you on top of her again, adding: "Okay, but my main chore contribution has to be written down as 'vibes'." she does jazz hands and all, flinging an arm over your waist—it's like you can hear sparkles in her speech: "I’ll hype you up while you scrub: ‘Go, bunny, go! Those plates won’t know what hit ‘em!’"
"Noted." Alex murmurs, scribbling in the margin of the notebook, his fingertip brushes along your arm, as he settles—chest to your back again—a silent thank you that sends sparks up your spine.
The sheer absurdity of it—Poppy cheering you on over dirty dishes, Alex sneaking up behind you to press a kiss to your temple as he refills the soap dispenser… all so domestic, all so amazing. To top it all off, Poppy starts planning on buying matching aprons: "We would get yours embroidered with ‘Bunny’, naturally…" she smiles, nipping at your earlobe, making you whimper: "And mine would say ‘Bunny's Favorite Distraction’."
Alex sets the notebook aside, his voice dipping into that quiet, sure tone that always makes your breath catch—ready to fall, knowing he will be there to catch you: "We’ll figure it out. All of it." His palm slides to cradle your face when you turn back to face him: "Together."
Poppy squeezes your hips as she adds: "Yeah… Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff!"
Her hands are all over you, like vines trailing up, not suffocating but exploring… you shift, chasing more, a small needy sound escaping you: “Together…” you agree, but your voice is already far too gone.
Poppy lets out a delighted humm, pressing her body up against yours pointedly: "Bunny, you adorable disaster—" she coos, her fingers dancing up your ribs: "Did you just get flustered over chore delegation? Because I swear I felt you shiver…"
Her voice, her touch, it is almost too much…
Alex exhales sharply through his nose, not to reprimand Poppy, instead it is laced with something hungrier: "Let her breathe, tiny fighter…"
"Mmm, nope!" Poppy pops the 'p', hooking her ankle around yours under the blanket: "Not a chance, not when she’s all flustered and squirmy…"
You whine, almost involuntarily as Alex’s fingers tighten just slightly in your hair: "I-it's not the ‘efficiency’...” you roll your eyes: "It's you, guys... feeling you so close like this—" you admit as you bite your lip.
Alex swallows hard, seeing how close Poppy and you truly are now—the sight doing things to him too. He tries to add, though his voice is rough already: "Non-boring stuff... includes daily check-ups, you know." His voice is half-teasing, half-serious: "So no one feels left out.—Poppy has to travel for her blog from time to time and we can't always be with her. I travel with my students on study trips..."
Poppy presses her forehead against yours: "Daily check-ins, huh?", she murmurs, her fingers moving below the thin fabric of your shirt, like the whole conversation was just background noise to the real mission of exploring you: "Does that mean video calls where I dramatically describe every pastry I eat in Paris? Or..." Her grin turns wicked: “—much more creative ways to stay connected?"
As if to prove her point, Poppy hums against your shoulder, her mouth finding a spot at the base of your neck, lips sucking in a mark there that makes you bear your head back, warmth pooling in your core. She quickly soothes it with her tongue after you hiss, grinning at your reaction: "Mmmh…" she teases, her hands wandering up your thigh then: "I knew it. You really are a squirmer." She gives your ass a playful squeeze, her voice dropping into a low, intimate murmur: "...Always have been."
Alex makes a strangled noise, his grip tightening in your hair, his other hand moving to trace Poppy’s lower lip, answering her previous line of questioning: "Both", his voice is so rough, you want to burn it into your skull: "Preferably both."
The admission sends a thrill through you, especially when Poppy’s eyes light up, happy with herself: "Oooh, Professor…" she purrs, dragging a fingertip down his collarbone: "Who knew you had such a wild side?"
"I just mean—" He stammers, but you feel the unmistakable presence of his arousal, pressing against your backside: "—we’ll make it work. In whatever way we have to."
Poppy looks into his blue eyes now, past you as she nips on his thumb: "Oh, we absolutely will…” That makes Alex roll his hips into you again. You are so deliciously sandwiched between them, as Poppy never seizes her teasing narration: "Can't let each other get lonely out there, right?"
She glances down at where her leg is tangled with yours, her knee still hooked over you… now she unclasps it gently, only to press it between your thighs—offering you much needed relief as you roll into her: "Good thing bunny's not going anywhere."
"H-hey!" You defend in a whiny voice that you couldn't even recognize as yours: "I'll have you know, I might get approved for an abroad research seminar in Sweden, so..." you add, warmth still pooling low in your stomach. God, it was so embarrassing that you can feel you are already dripping. If you leaned forward, you were met with Poppy and if your hips stuttered backwards… it was Alex’s broad frame caging you in—you'd never felt more loved...
"Who knows, we may all go to that hotel made of ice finally!" You continue, trying to stay composed.
Poppy lets out a sound you can only describe as a purr: “Bunny… no fair, I wanted to be the one to get all the credit for that vacation, like four years ago! And now you are threatening to leave us frostbitten and lonely while you go gallivanting with academics?” Her lower lip juts out in an exaggerated pout as she presses closer, making sure you feel every inch of her warmth.
Alex hisses low—something between amusement and a tinge of possessiveness, as his hands settle firmly on your hips: "The ice hotel, huh?" he echoes slowly, his thumbs digging in just enough to make your breath catch: “So you do remember our old travel plans? Honestly… taking care of Poppy when she was sick didn't count as a ‘failed trip’ in my book. But, now there's that promise of all three of us keeping warm together, no?”
Poppy wiggles her eyebrows, trying to hide her guilty expression as she nuzzles into your collarbone, but you assure: “Me neither… not ‘failed’, just… derailed in the best way possible—fussy Poppy was a delight. But now we can circle back to it!”
You squirm under their combined attention, acutely aware of how every shift of your body presses you deeper into Poppy’s embrace or back against Alex’s solid chest. The air between you thrums with silent but definite promises—of tangled limbs under fur blankets—Poppy’s giggles echoing off ice walls, while Alex’s steady hands would map your skin like he’s memorizing every inch.
"Well, well. Guess we’ll just have to warm up properly before we go." Poppy’s grin is so wide as she leans in, her lips hovering just shy of yours. You can smell her cherry chapstick, as she drones on: "And after, of course, and during. After all… I'll have two heat sources now— far better than just Alex.”
Alex’s hum is deep: “We should start practicing immediately... For research purposes, naturally."
The way Poppy’s breath catches at his words while his grip tightens when you arch between them, makes one thing abundantly clear: You’re never getting cold again—not when you'd all rather burn in this together.
The low lights of the apartment settle you further into an almost dizzying state. Here, there's no worry, no anxiety on whether things can go wrong—just acceptance, pure and unadulterated.
“Can I—can I kiss you?” You blurt out, not necessarily shy, but buzzing with too much love. You want this to be real now, no dares, no spin-the-bottle—just three hearts beating together. You are not even sure how to direct your question—but deep down you know it calls to both of them.
Poppy lets out a soft breath, affection and surprise at you even feeling the need to ask, mixing deliciously together as her fingers tighten in the fabric of your blouse: “Oh, bunny…" she murmurs, her voice trembling with barely-contained want: "You never have to ask."
And then, she’s closing the distance, her lips meeting yours in a kiss that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds—warm, bright, inevitable. The sun will always shine… but Poppy shines brighter. Her mouth moves against yours with a confidence that makes your toes curl, one hand cradling your jaw while the other grips Alex’s wrist to move it so it can tangle in her hair, dragging him closer until his temple presses against yours.
He makes a sound like someone punched the air out of his lungs against your skin, his fingers flexing, hips stuttering into you incessantly. Still clothed… you press into Poppy’s knee, chasing friction as well.
“Fuck—" he breathes, the word shuddering through your back. When you break away—gasping, dizzy, Poppy doesn’t go far, her nose brushing yours as she smiles, satisfied.
"See?", she beckons, thumb swiping over your bottom lip as if to seal the kiss: "Easy."
Alex exhales sharply, his grip shifting to tilt your face toward him, careful but deliberate until his lips slot against yours in a kiss that’s all heat and quiet desperation. The rough fabric of his jeans is now too restricting and uncomfortable against his hard cock, but he cannot bring himself to care—not when his teeth catch at your bottom lip until you whimper.
Poppy watches with rapt attention, ensuring her knee moves against the wet spot on your shorts, just to make it more difficult for you, her teeth sinking into her own lip: "Wow…" she breathes out heavily when Alex finally pulls back: "Okay. Definitely not letting you two out of my sight in Sweden!"
Alex huffs a laugh, but his gaze stays locked on your swollen lips: "Good, we wouldn't want it any other way…”
"Hmm, I'm glad…" Poppy taunts against your lips, nipping playfully: “Should we maybe… take a house tour now? I feel like we all need it.”
Oh, you knew what she meant the moment she took your hand while Alex guided you, arm steady on your waist… toward the bedroom doors. Your jaw drops—there's the usual decorations, Poppy’s touch, naturally —with all the pastel frames around vibrant art pieces, and a myriad of bookshelves, filled with Alex’s favorites. But what elicited that reaction from you… was the huge bed—yet another thing they must have planned for ahead of time. The throw pillows and covers looked so fluffy… so inviting.
Alex clears his throat, but there's no hiding the way his eyes flicker between you and Poppy, dark with hunger: "It's— well… Easier for…shared space."
The confession sends a fresh wave of heat through you—their bed, your bed now—where all three of you could finally be one. How did they even manage to put this together? It was custom-made for sure… somehow beneath it all, you are still focused on the how—because the why was too overwhelming now when it was about to happen.
Poppy skips toward the soft sheets, rolling onto her back and pulling you with her so you are sprawled halfway across her chest: "You should see your face right now, bunny!" Her fingers card through your hair as she grins up at Alex, who is still standing by the door, toying with the adjustable lightswitch. The room sinks into a welcoming dimmed ambiance, purple soft lights making you feel like you are up in the clouds at sunset.
“H-how did you even…? Put all of this together?” You voice your question then, eyes transfixed on how the lights danced across Alex's face as he sinks into the bed next to you—his blue eyes suddenly become infinitely deeper in the low light.
Poppy’s excited voice snaps you back to reality: "My dad came over to help! Tell her how we told Jimmy, Alex. Do the serious voice!” She demands.
Alex reaches over, thumb brushing your cheekbone—so lost in the moment himself that he doesn't feel like doing a puppet show for Poppy: “We just... told him.” he shrugs, like it had been the most natural and easy conversation to have with a parent: “Sat him down with coffee, said 'we want to start dating Y/N now too, if she'll have us', and he said—"
"'—About time!'", Poppy interrupts, mimicking Jimmy's booming voice—clearly far too excited to let Alex's narration simmer down the moment: “Then he immediately started planning our first joint homecoming to Linfield with you." She nuzzles into your hair and you can feel her buzzing with excitement: "Turns out all this time we weren't as subtle as we thought."
The moment Alex fully relaxes onto the bed, Poppy takes it as a sign to tease him further, pulling you by the wrist—guiding you so that both of you now rest along his torso. He is so tall and broad, you somehow always knew it was made for two.
Her nails start grazing his abdomen, making him twitch. You take that as your cue to caress his arms—so toned, like whatever he would come to hold would always feel protected: "Wanda was so jumpy too—" he continues quietly, throat bobbing at your shared ministrations: “Kept saying she always knew…" It seems he can't bear to be left at his girlfriends’ mercy, so he pulls you up—now eye to eye—lips brushing your temple: "No one was surprised, Y/N—not even a little."
That somehow makes your heart soar—expanding in your chest to fill up all the cracks that were left by lingering insecurity. All the fears and worries couldn't melt away that easily, naturally… because not everyone would be as accepting as Jimmy and Wanda—the two were basically hippies in their time and were always so supportive of Poppy, so it wasn’t like this was an objective reaction. But true feelings don't need permission to be real… you repeat to yourself—the only people that should matter are the ones in said relationship—the two people whom you love the most in the world and who love you back just as fiercely. You want to scream it at the world—and you should, without a care of what it may scream back.
“That—that makes me very happy…” you admit: “There's nowhere I'd rather be.”
You can feel both of their breaths catch then as Poppy stretches like a cat across Alex's legs, her lips brushing against your ankle purposefully in the process: "All pieces are in place… especially this bad baby—” she gloats, patting the massive bed for emphasis with her free hand: “It took ages to pick out, you know—custom frame, memory foam, the works." Her smile turns mischievous: "Wanna test how well it holds up?"
You let out a deep breath you didn't realize you have been holding all this time as you nod: “Y-yes, so much yes… please.”
It's not like you are pleading to them necessarily, more so beginning the world to really allow you to have this nice thing in your life—the thing you have been dreaming of. Poppy spins you into her—greedily hoarding your attention, but Alex seems content to bask in the moment—just close, encouragingly mapping your joint bodies as he takes off his shirt. With all the walls down, you don't stop yourself from chasing Poppy’s touch now—rolling against her still clothed thigh.
Poppy lets out a satisfied breathy whine, her fingers tightening in your hair as you press there, wanting to urge you on—fuse the two of you together: "Someone's eager…" she teases, her voice is so sultry, so warm that it makes you melt, hips stuttering in small desperate circles against the hardness of her knee.
Her free hand skims up Alex’s bare chest, nails scratching lightly through the small trimmed hairs there before sliding down to palm him boldly, making him groan, his head falling back. You could tell he is already so hard, the outline of his length throbbing into Poppy’s touch: "—And someone else is already way ahead of us.” she notes.
You wouldn't say he is that much ahead… feeling how wet you were. Alex’s jaw clenches, but before he speaks, he props you so you are hovering above Poppy’s thighs now. You bite back a whimper at the loss of contact, but it pays off—his fingers hooking under the hem of your shorts, deliberately slow—helpful, yet infuriating.
When he sees how eagerly you bend to their shared touch, he remembers he can speak: “Can't help it… been waiting…" The admission feels even sweeter when his thumb strokes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just shy of where you’re dripping for them: "Both of you. Every night. Thinking about—"
Poppy cuts him off by surging up to kiss him—familiar and deep, not as exploratory as yours had been as she makes a quick work of her own clothes, while you take it as an invite to unzip Alex’s jeans.
You take them both in then—the sight alone stealing your breath for a second—Poppy’s softness you want to drown in juxtaposed with Alex's gentle strength that makes you want to be ruined and put back together. All three of you just stand transfixed on the bed—but even this hesitation drips with the intimacy of holding something dear and fragile in your hands… and not wanting to break it.
The moment you are brave enough to set your eyes on Alex’s, that's all the reassurance he needs—to realize that breaking didn't mean destroying, but fusing into something new.
His hands are back on you, peeling the last of the restricting layers away—your panties—down your legs as Poppy tugs your shirt over your head. You feel so overheated—desire coursing through your veins—that being exposed to the air makes you shiver. However, you are not left chasing for too long—Poppy pushes you against the headboard, her mouth finds your collarbone as she focuses on sucking a wet, worshipful mark there, blooming right next to the one on your neck from earlier.
Her fingers trail lower and lower until they are trailing along your seeping folds, drawing small circles against your clit. The desperation that greets her certainly delights her as she praises gently: "Soaked already…" The coo is so approving that you swear your vision blurs, as she presses featherlight pecks down against your skin, reaching the soft curve where your thigh meets your hip, her tongue pressing flat in a long filthy stripe that makes you buck pathetically into her face—so close, yet not where you need her yet: "Pretty thing... Bet you’ve dreamed about this too, huh?"
You nod eagerly, shallow breaths unable to escape your throat: “Hah…Y-yes, s-so… mmh-much. Only eh-ever you…” you confess, too drunk on them to care for holding back. You had enough years of suppressing how you felt—past relationships in which you could never unfold and be authentic—because this right here, nestled behind a small New York lighted window, is where you belonged.
Alex’s touch follows hers, fingers coming to toy with your nipple, the nub so embarrassingly sensitive and perky at this point that the smallest graze makes your back arch.
He groans, knees planted on the soft mattress, his cock so close to your face, you can almost taste his desire in the air: "Gorgeous…" he leans over to breathe a kiss into your shoulder blade: "Let us take care of you."
He takes your hand gently from where it is holding onto the sheets for dear life, guiding you to wrap around his length—the satisfied throb is all the confirmation you need to start milking all the wonderful sounds from him. He bites off a curse as your thumb swipes over his tip, smearing pre-come in its wake and just as you are about to swipe your tongue across, Poppy makes a counter-move—her teasing licks across your inner thigh, suddenly turning into her tongue working in and out of you. You moan… loud and who can blame you? When Poppy is eating you out like she’s been starved. As your hips hover off of the mattress, mouth still agape in silent reverence, Alex naturally uses that opportunity to slide past your lips—the heaviness on your tongue is overwhelming but so welcomed: “Ffuck—” he gorans: “You feel so good, bunny…”
You swear the praise alone makes you clench around Poppy’s tongue, her delighted laughter at your willing reactions reverberating through your core. As Alex starts moving in and out of your warm mouth, making the corners of your eyes brim with tears at the intrusion in your throat—he has the nerve to hold you there, while chuckling: “By the way… we laid our hearts bare for you, bunny, yet you didn't tell us... since when when did you first imagine this?”
You can't think much less speak, but Alex ensures you are put on the spot as he pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop. Your voice comes out hoarse: “C-croatia… I mean I knew I was crushing on both of you ever since college, but even before our truth or dare in Croatia—” you swallow down the spit that had accumulated in your mouth, feeling your throat tighten around nothing now: “It was just so perfect… the sunsets and you two when we'd go to the beach…”
Poppy lets out a soft, pleased noise against your skin, almost a chuckle, but more so a moan—as she squeezes your thigh reassuringly. Her other hand trails into you, brushing at your entrance as she teases: "Croatia? That specific hotel room—mmph—” She curls that finger inside you so perfectly you as she finishes the sentence: “—with the mirrored ceiling? Oh, I think we would have made quite the sight from all these angles...”
Alex's grip tightens in your hair, his hips jerking instinctively as you take him deeper: “Haaah. You remember that?" His thumb brushes your cheek, smearing the wetness at the corner of your mouth: "Poppy kept—fuck—glancing at you every time I—"
Poppy rolls her eyes adding a second finger like you weren't rolling into her helplessly already: “You both were impossible…”, she accuses, dragging her nails lightly down Alex's stomach as she lifts her head just enough to meet your gaze—her lips glistening: "Him with his stupid 'casual' shirtless stretches. You with that ... God—that tiny towel after showers."
You whimper around Alex, your hips stuttering as Poppy's fingers work inside you with torturous precision.
Alex chokes out a laugh, his free hand gripping Poppy's wrist to still her movements as he pulls out again, clearly set on allowing you to talk, just so you are ruined even further: “Tell us then—” he rasps, thumb pressing against your lower lip: “—admit what you wanted us to do to you that night…"
The memory crashes over you almost uninvited—how you'd lain awake, listening to their quiet breathing, imagining Poppy's nails down your back, Alex's teeth on your neck... looking up at the ceiling and seeing three tangled reflections merged in ecstasy—
You whine from the embarrassment of it, a pout on your lips: "Wanted you t—to notice me—" you gasp, arching as Poppy rewards your honesty by crooking her fingers, her lips sucking on that overstimulated bundle of nerves. You try to get out the rest: "Wanted you both to—ah, pin me between you, just, just like—like this—"
Poppy's answering moan vibrates through you as she drags her tongue over you in one long, filthy stripe: “Done, now keep him messy for me, bunny. I want to taste him on your tongue when I kiss you later….”
Their hands keep finding each other—Poppy’s fingers tangling with Alex’s over your hip, his thumb tracing her knuckles as she wrings pleasure from your body like she’s memorizing every hitch of your breath.
“Guess we will have to make up for lost time…” Alex warns as his hips rut into your mouth: “Hhah—” his hand is fully tugging at your hair now, the pain far too blinding: “Can't—gonna—”
Poppy reaches over, pinching his thigh in reprimand: “Not yet…” she coos, her fingers never slowing down inside you, thumb drawing maddening circles on your clit in conjunction: “Our bunny hasn't come nearly enough yet.”
That makes you whine—she wanted you to shatter together. You felt the pressure coil in your stomach, you wanted her to feel good so desperately as well…
The protest dies down in Alex's throat when he sees you so close to unraveling. Poppy feels it too, how you flutter around her fingers—increasing her pace: “That's it!” She urges on, mouth returning to swipe over you as the command comes out muffled: “Now both of you… fall apart for me…”
You shatter between them—sobbing Poppy’s name… then Alex's, but it all gets garbled around his cock as he spills down your throat.
Poppy collapses against your chest with a satiated hum, her smirk sticky-sweet: "Still think Sweden’s a good idea?" she teases, trailing a finger down your sternum while you still try to catch your breath, stomach rising and falling in small hiccups: "Because this?" She gestures between the three of you, a mess of tangled limbs and shared breath: “Might be worth staying in bed for."
Alex huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then Poppy’s templе, a satisfied sigh escaping him: "We can bring the ice hotel here?” He suggests.
Poppy grins indulgingly: "Mmm—starting with the ice cubes."
You whimper, looking at them, eyes filled with affection. You muster the strength to trail down and settle between Poppy’s thighs now, caressing her: “Can I—can I return the favor, Poppy? I want you… to feel good too…” you blush deeply.
Poppy's breath catches her fingers twitching against the sheets. For a moment, the ever-playful shine in her eyes softens into something vulnerable, her usual bravado flickering like a candle in the wind: "Bunny—" she murmurs, voice unexpectedly raw as she reaches to tuck a stray curl behind your ear: “—you don't have to—"
Alex circles to stand behind you, hands tightening around your waist, his chest pressing warm against your back: "She wants to…", he ensures steadily, lips grazing your shoulder, his fingers trail up and down your spine reverently, making you shiver… before settling his large hands at your hips: “Let her take care of you now, tiny fighter."
The pet name makes Poppy's throat bob, as you see it then—the quiet wonder in her eyes, the way she bites her lip like she's savoring the novelty of being wanted like this. You are sure Alex does worship her as well, to the same degree she shows him her devotion… but being at the mercy of two of her partners was probably overwhelming for her.
You can't wait to show her that it's safe here. Leaning in, you press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, her muscles jumping under your lips—until your tongue finally swipes through her slick heat. Poppy gasps, her hands flying to fist in the sheets: "Oh, s-shit—"
Alex hums against your skin, his fingers kneading the tense muscles of your lower back. One hand slips forward to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple as his other hand guides your movements—gentle but insistent, like he was showing you just how Poppy likes it: “Just like that…", he praises in a murmur: “Take your time… she isn't going anywhere…”
Poppy's hips jerk helplessly as you lap at her, her breath coming in sharp little pants: "Bunny—", she whimpers, fingers now scrabbling for purchase in your hair: "Too much, it's—ah, too good—"
Alex's teeth graze your shoulder as he watches Poppy unravel beneath you, his hips grinding lazily against your ass. You can feel he was hard again at the show you two were giving him, the head of his cock now prodding, teasing at your entrance—wetness already trailing down your thighs from Poppy’s previous attention. You can't help it—you push back into him as you moan into Poppy.
"Good girl—" she whines, head falling back against the headboard, thighs stuttering as you taste her with slow, deliberate strokes, savoring the way her breath hitches when you swirl your tongue just so. "Don’t stop, don’t stop—", she was chanting now, her voice breaking as you slip two fingers inside her, curling them in time with your tongue.
Alex groans, finally pressing inside you, bottoming out in one push… you were already so pliant after all: “Look at you…" he rasps, bending to press a kiss to the nape of your neck: “So perfect for her. For us… Let her fall apart for you."
Poppy’s breath hitches when you moan against her, her fingers tightening in your hair, rolling into you, practically riding your face now: “Taking us both so perfectly…” she praises.
Alex growls against your back, his hips snapping his cock into you with deliberate, measured thrusts—just enough to make your thighs shake but not enough to knock you off balance. His hands slide down to grip your hips, anchoring you: “You’re insatiable… Can’t even stop tasting her when I’m filling you up, can you?"
The contradiction turns you into putty—Poppy’s sweetness on your tongue, Alex’s relentless heat pressing into you from behind, until you’re whimpering around every stroke, every flick of your tongue.
Poppy arches off the bed with a broken cry: “Y-yes, just like that—" she moans, her hands scrambling to cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks as she falls apart, coating your senses: "My sweet, perfect bunny—"
Alex’s rhythm stutters when Poppy peaks, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades, following her over the edge, branding each roll into you: “God….Feel how bad she wants you? How much we both—ha—love you.” That confession and that final deep thrust makes you flutter around him, falling apart—your head planted into the mattress between Poppy’s thighs.
She fully settles onto the pillows then, chest heaving, but her eyes never leave yours—dazed and devoted, as Alex follows with a soft kiss to your forehead.
And just like that, cocooned in their warmth, their scents, their love, you realize—you are finally home.
“I love you too…” you confess.
It all ‘speaks to you’... like Poppy had once said about that ridiculous ugly wooden sculpture... Now its contorted eyes were staring at you—three tangled messes—judgementally from the corner of the room. But this time, the art that spoke to you wasn't some thrifted find, rather the warm thud of three hearts—joint in a melody.
𔘓 Tag list: @p4neminem
If you want to be added/removed from my tag list (be it for a particular WIP series or my general work), pls leave a comment or DM me. Thanks for reading!
cont. a/n: This one-shot was entirely self-indulgent — I just had to do one for those of us who have fallen in love with BOTH Poppy and Alex after their amazing (and hot!) portrayal in the PWMOV movie. If you enjoyed it, don't hesitate to leave a note — I'd be happy to take requests for this throuple in the future. There are so many scenarios they can tackle together, but I just want to see if there's the audience for it, yk.
CORIOLANUS SNOW X FEM!READER
Note: Reader is terrible artist here, and wears skirts & heels.
A tendency for perfectionism was hardwired in Coriolanus.
In everything he did, he made it a point to do his very best. Everything from his handwriting down to the way he folded his clothes was precise. Every stroke of his pen was immaculate, and every fold crisp. He was convinced there was nothing he could not do well.
Of course there were some skills that even he, an exceptional person, was not naturally gifted with. Those had to be honed with time and careful cultivation. It was just that, he was only one person, and a busy one at that. There was only so much time he could waste on particularly frivolous skills. Like painting.
His darling approached him one Sunday morning, bored out of her wits’ end. His typical remedy for her boredom was simple: another date. Sometimes they went for a stroll along the botanical garden or they wined and dined, on the finest that Panem had to offer. Other times, she dragged him all over The Promenade, in and out of any shop that caught her eye, until she had no choice but to stop because it was rather difficult to walk all day in her heels. Thank god for those. Not only did she look ravishing in them—they ensured she could not use every last hour of his precious time dragging him around, as he was more of a homebody. Sometimes they went to the Ballet, the spa, the theater, or wherever her little heart desired, as he so loved to spoil her rotten.
But it seemed she’d tired of that predictable routine they established.
“Come,” she urged him, one morning, and he did not have much of a choice when she dragged him out onto the rooftop of his penthouse garden. The brisk morning air hit him at once before a sweet scent followed from the roses he’d carefully cultivated in the Grandma’am’s stead. A little thing to remember her by, long after she’d departed this world.
His attention landed on the display she’d set up, which he assumed was meant for their activity. Two easels, a pair of fresh canvases and palettes, and a wide variety of paints and brushes awaited them.
“I wanted to do something a little different today,” his darling announced, and then corralled him to the stool before one of the easels to sit.
“You know I do not care much for painting,” he said, acquiescing anyway, since she’d already gone through the trouble of setting things up.
“Perhaps you don’t enjoy painting alone,” she began before rushing over to her stool, strangely giddy about this. “But I think it will be fun if we do it together.” Them painting like children was apparently her idea of fun. It was a small price to pay to keep her happy he supposed, so he picked up a paintbrush, though he did not bother to match her levity. He could not recall the last time he touched a paintbrush.
Painting was one of the few skills he was not innately gifted with and Livia Cardew took great pleasure in reminding him of that during their Academy days, when they were all forced to choose from a narrow list of electives to take. Oh, what luck, for them to happen to pick the same one the same semester. She was such a critic, although her own work resembled chicken scratch at best. But oh, there was this funny thing about art—how subjective it was. So her work could not even be called bad, even though it clearly looked like shit in his opinion.
Most of his peers were horrible to mediocre artists at best, too, so they banded together in solidarity, in that humiliation ritual they were forced to partake in. After they painted, they were to share their work and talk about it afterwards. Of course, he’d passed with flying colors at the end of it. And after he’d witnessed a few of his friends snicker at his hard work, he was determined never to take an art-adjacent class again if he could help it.
“What am I supposed to paint?” Coriolanus inquired, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His darling had plucked him straight out of bed before he’d even had the chance to enjoy his morning cup of coffee. He thought about stepping out to brew some for a moment so he could drink while he painted, until he pictured himself accidentally dipping a paintbrush into his mug. Or worse, drinking from the wrong cup. Oh, how his darling would laugh at that. And though he loved to see her laugh, he did not quite like the thought of it being at his expense.
“I thought we could paint portraits of each other,” she explained, smoothing the wrinkles of her pleated skirt. She did not bother changing into something simpler that she did not mind getting paint all over; he could not think of a single garment she owned that did not reflect the opulence a Snow was known for. He saw to it that she only had the best. The finest of silks.
“This is a rather large canvas,” he observed, suppressing the urge to yawn. Tired before it even began.
“Because, my love, we will frame it once we are done,” she decided. “We will both have an hour to paint. No more than that.”
An hour. Plenty of time, he’d thought. How hard could it possibly be? It was just a bunch of strokes on a canvas and he’d passed his art class many years ago.
With that knowledge, they began.
She’d even gone out of her way to set a timer.
No pressure, he’d thought, rolling up his sleeves. It was only going to be hung on their wall for all to see. Perhaps he could convince her to hang it in her recreation room where hardly anyone but her frequented.
He must’ve wasted five minutes mixing paints, trying to come up with shades that weren’t downright hideous. Whatever he made, he had to do it well. And it was very, very important that he chose the right colors. He imagined even if each line were perfectly made, it would not matter much if the colors were not aesthetically pleasing.
The moment he made the first stroke on that canvas, he already regretted it. That wasn’t the right shade and was he meant to sketch it out first? Where was he even going with this line? It meandered, somewhere. Oh well. It was too late to take it back now, so he worked with the line he made.
They spent a good while staring at each other and his darling made a funny motion, holding her brush out in the air and squinting at him to gauge some sort of perspective. She was truly taking this seriously; he knew that much because she wasted little time prattling in her endeavor to paint the best portrait of him that she possibly could. A stark difference from how talkative she could be sometimes.
Coriolanus had seen her paint flowers and eldritch horrors that he assumed were meant to be animals, and when he questioned her about what on earth he was looking at, she’d defensively insisted it was abstract art. Ah, abstract indeed. Anything made sense if you called it that. He supposed that if this turned out like shit, he could just tack that on to excuse his shoddy work. The beauty of art.
Coriolanus committed to memory every detail of her face, from the shape of her eyes to her nose and cheeks, and how the light contoured it. Oh, how he wished he’d be able to capture her beauty just as he saw it, onto that canvas.
The portrait he was piecing together was starting to resemble something out of a nightmare, much to his horror. It was all so terribly askew. Proportions all wrong, and her nose was certainly not this long. And the shape of her face was all wrong, not at all true to his vision. No! He fumbled with his paints, mixing shades to try and correct it, but it had all comingled into a hideous hue. Ruined for good.
The timer rang, to his horror, before he was even able to finish painting the straps of her top. So he scribbled on a colorful patch, haphazardly, to make it look like she was at least wearing something in the portrait.
“Time’s up! Who wants to go first?” she chimed, and when she noticed he was still sneakily painting away with his brush, she reached over and snatched it from him, much to his chagrin.
So, who went first?
They spent a moment staring at each other expectantly, and her lips pressed into a thin line as she compared him with what she painted, quietly. It seemed she was holding back laughter by the telltale shake of her shoulders, which was not a promising sign.
“Let me see yours first,” he said, gesturing at her.
She took a deep breath, attempting to turn her easel only to stop half-way, cracking up at it. “Maybe—maybe we shouldn’t frame mine.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he replied crisply, crossing his arms. Now he was truly curious. What eldritch horror had she turned him into?
His darling slowly, very slowly turned the canvas, and he was not sure what he was expecting.
She made him feel like fucking Picasso.
“My eyebrows look like they’re going to fly away,” he commented drily, observing the strange caricature-like arch of them. One eye seemed larger than the other, and the color of them resembled something artificial, like a glowing stone rather than the cool blue of his. Seeing the aggressively pointy oval that was meant to be his face made him feel the slightest bit better about his own attempt at painting hers. He ran his hand over his mouth and truly searched the piece, attempting to find some admirable quality to it. Something that remotely resembled his likeness. Platinum blond was hard to spot on a canvas, so he supposed that was why she elected to paint his hair the color of radioactive hay.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked, her shoulders shaking in her effort to try not to laugh. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“Everything and more,” he fibbed, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “Why don’t we hang it up in the foyer for everyone to see?”
They spent a moment laughing over it, until it was time for him to reveal his piece. Only he clutched his canvas almost defensively when she leaned over, trying to sneak a peek at what he painted. “Wait. It’s… not fully polished,” he said, fretting with the canvas.
“You spent half the time mixing paint,” she pointed out. “That’s not my fault. Show it to me before I snatch it from you!”
With that, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line. Then he turned the canvas and braced for it, the ridicule that was to come.
It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.
He peeked at her once that silence stretched on too long for him to bear.
His darling tilted her head, soaking in the masterful piece before her with such care and consideration, that in his opinion, should not have been reserved for the monstrosity he made. But she was so kind to him like that.
“You went all out,” she said, diplomatically. “I admire your dedication. The color of my eyes is spot on, but.”
“But?” He attempted to snatch his portrait back, as he could not bear to have her scrutinize it for a second longer, but she smacked his hand away.
“But is that what I look like to you?” She’d tried so hard to be polite, his girl, but she could not help it anymore. She doubled over, laughing all but hysterically, to the point of tears, and it was all but infectious. He could not help but smile despite her ridiculing him like this.
“It’s abstract art,” he retorted in his defense, because, anything flies when you call it that.
“What is that?” His darling gestured at the colorful scribble on the chest of the portrait.
“Your top,” he murmured. “Or at least what was meant to be it,” he let that last part slip under his breath.
“Consider it a job well done,” she beamed, anyway, and he did not wish to hear it anymore. Her patronizing attempt at telling him she liked it. She very obviously didn’t.
“Where shall we hang it?” she queried, taking her canvas off the easel.
Somewhere no one but them would see, obviously, he wanted to say. But instead he said, “Not everything will be your magnum opus. Save your best work for the living room.”
“How kind of you to say that,” she quipped.
They took their portraits to her recreation room, to dry off for now.
There, they would rest among the other horrors his darling drew.
Tag List: @likklemy
A/N: Inspired by those videos of couples painting portraits of each other.
