My stories take place in an alternate universe of The Hunger Games/TBoSaS. Some of them contain triggering themes, so please make sure you are comfortable with the content warnings before reading. MDNI.
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🩸𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩 ch.2: ❝Need you to see me for what I have become❞
↻◁ previous (ch.1) || next (ch.3/in writing) ▷ ↺
Tags: m/f ∘ vampire!Billy ∘ vampire!Coriolanus Snow cameo (wink, wink) ∘ canon adjacent — Lincoln County war ∘ Mexican ranch owner daughter!oc ∘ period-accurate language and misogyny (not from Billy!) ∘ religious themes ∘ ranch life ∘ arranged marriage for oc — some angst ∘ forbidden romance ∘ world building for a future thg/coriolanus vamp spin-off
a/n: i will always, always thank the lovely @p4neminem for beta-ing. Truly, cannot send enough appreciation for helping me improve sm!
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 <3
Hope you enjoy while I continue writing for chapter 2!
⏭ Link to my full Billy the Kid playlist
‘Some things thrive on being wild…’
Billy’s words rang in Del’s head, louder than her pulse, as she rode back to the ranch with the sun still barely breathing a new day into the horizon. Mateo followed suit along the muddy road leading up from the chapel. The tale they'd spin was somewhat believable, if a bit sudden.
The youngest Alvarez was known to seek comfort in her prayers when restful sleep eluded her. She'd always dreamt vividly—ever since she was a babe—and could remember it: not all bad, not all good, but always lived, always barging in uninvited and bestowing a mark. Only with Billy could her mind rest somewhere safe; even when her strong intuition remained, it was a far more tranquil affair when paired with his steady resolve.
The final corner greeted brother- and sister-in-law ahead, weaving around the tree Del’s father had planted below her window. It was a patient thing—never reaching for the sky the way the cottonwood did. Instead, its cinnamon-brown trunk bent as the winds rolled, to grip and fight with the dusty earth in determination to stay rooted. Not bowing in surrender, so much as it let the droughts test its soft-looking but prickling crown—and, come harvest time, it still brought its ink-blue berries, proving that hardships were just another cycle that would pass.
The wise women had told Don Alvarez that no wandering spirit would dare cross a ring of juniper. As if whatever overcame Del in her black dreams came from an unseen curse somewhere far away and not within. It'd offer protection, certainly, but beneath it all, its ribboned branches dispersed a hint of crushed citrus—sharp enough to clear the mind and carry prayers farther than any church bell could. In the end, if one put their faith in such old things as her father did, the presence of that tree brought some ease… but Del preferred her respite be placed in Billy, as his was in her.
What awaited was anything but calm, however, as Edward’s heavy pacing on the veranda rose above the gallop. Like a man possessed, his ego needed to announce itself in every waking moment—boards creaking underneath his polished shoes, his chest huffed and lips puffed.
“She was gone all night, Don Ignacio—”, the disgruntled fiancé demanded.
The Alvarez patriarch stood proud, hand resting against the wooden railing as if his portrait was being painted. He wasn't known to jump at every provocation—it was bad for business to bleed where others are counting their coin; and while he didn't set out to treat his daughter's future as a bargain, the fiancé dictated it as such. It was tradition—to settle a marriage was a father's duty and a show of great care. If he hadn't been blinded by fear of some ill fate befalling Del, he might’ve doubted whether the protection Edward pledged so readily wasn't a mere parade; dust in Ignacio's eyes, while the son-in-law feasted on whatever remained in his greedy wake. A coyote invited into their stables…
Elena, meanwhile, was the picture of serenity, a welcomed respite—like the ripening juniper berries buried below sharp needles. She quelled the spirits, sipping her tea. “My sister oft prays at dawn… your preoccupation is unseemly, señor.”
Edward sighed in mild exasperation, checking his pocket watch with a clink—purposefully turning his back to Mateo and Del's approach so as to not risk it bearing even the slightest scratch from the kicked up sand. He could seldom be consoled with so little—an ironic predicament for a man who'd readily claim a woman was hysterical if she'd ever wanted after the smallest of freedoms. Almost like he'd anticipated Del’s escapade… as if he had some great deal to gain from it.
“Unseemly?” There was a pretend edge to his echo. “She is my promised, sister… as her husband-to-be, I have every right to know of her whereabouts!”
His framing and claim wasn't lost on anyone, save for the Don who found nothing amiss with it… A woman had only one purpose in a man's world: to be promised—while a man was complete as he stood, so long as he nurtured his reputation. Though Edward did appear especially engrossed with taking in the Alvarez name and having heirs… perhaps he wasn't as self-sufficient as he painted himself out to be. The world Billy showed Del was a free one—not his or hers, instead shared below the stars.
Once Del dismounted Lucha, she muttered under a forced breath. “‘Sister’?” A scornful echo, followed by mockery that may as well have been birdsong to him. Had she really been ‘his’, maybe he would've made the effort to learn her language. “¡Ya se está haciendo castillos en el aire!”
Edward raised an brow, brushing off invisible specks of dust from his immaculate dress shirt in sharp padding motions. “Well, good morrow to you too then, Mary Delphine.” He tried to reprimand, pretending he was in on the jest, that he was somehow relevant because his money and status deemed him so.
Elena's hidden smile at the show brightened the atmosphere even for a little while, while Mateo shook his head, stepping closer to her. “Found hermanita out praying again…” He covered in a convincingly calm tone, resting his hand on his wife's shoulder.
Del could swear she saw Edward's gaze dart about—bothered while his posture stiffened. This time around, he wasn't ill at ease because of his inability to control his ‘promised’; rather, he was set on checking if Billy would ride in for work. Knowing he wouldn't… that soon enough, the cowboy would stand cornered by Garrett, his men, and something otherworldly—all courtesy of a concerned citizen’s tip.
In a cruel twist, the youngest Alvarez daughter fit the pieces into the wrong picture. Once she'd come to know Edward's control, she expected its bite and so mistook his troublesome fidgeting for barely restrained fury at her lack of submission. It was how it usually went… which left Del to expect Billy’s comforting presence by her side in a spell—his playful blue eyes painting the lie they'd shared and maybe a new future once she had the chance to convince her father.
Instead, those very same eyes she adored and sought the warmth of would soon be overcome with quiet horror, face-to-face with el caminante.
Don Ignacio finally moved from where he stood, framed in the sunlight that had finally bled above the horizon to rid the sky of its muted early blues. Hands clasped behind his back, he took in his youngest—the one who reminded him of his late wife so painfully.
His careful gaze shifted from her mussed braid to the straw still clinging to her skirts. “Rezo, mija? Or did you ride con el diablo last night?”
Del squared her shoulders, seeing her father step in instead of letting Edward's tirade draw out.
Appreciative, yet determined, she spoke with precision. “I turned to prayer… for clarity, Papá.” A pause as she turned her head to meet Edward head-on. “God answered.” She raised her chin, believing it a first step toward victory.
Unfortunately, it was no divine spirit that answered… and her plans to put an end to the engagement farce would be gravely interrupted.
Don Ignacio's mouth twitched at Del’s display of sharp wit. “Entonces, let us break our fast, sí?” He permitted, turning around to enter his hacienda. “Edward—you will join us.”
A clear message rang in his tired voice—this wasn't over. He might yet meet his daughter halfway, but chief of all, he would keep her safe—from herself and the wretched world as he saw it.
Waking up landed like a blow, as though Billy’s lungs were being torn apart. If a stag were ever alive to feel its carcass being flayed, that was what the poor animal would come to suffer, he decided. The pain was so gut wrenching, no living person could ever fathom its full cruelty that preyed upon his very soul. Not even in his most grisly dreams did Billy believe something as simple as breathing could burn so thoroughly and hellishly. Whatever that thing had done to the cowboy, it’d left him hung out to dry.
He knew it was a creature, for there existed no man who could command shadows at will, nor suck the light from a room in broad daylight as if it had never been there, and never would be again. Like the sun itself had abandoned the place whence the nightwalker feasted.
Billy was used to facing an opponent—trouble took familiar shapes once he’d walked enough long and lonely roads, known enough killers, corrupt drunks and all around desperados with death already in their eyes… The visitor, however, hadn’t been any of those. Death walked with it, instead of staying buried in peace.
In due time, the spur-clad hooves of a more acquainted beast came rattling closer down the hall leading to the cowboy’s cell. At least, that was where Billy thought he was being kept—the haze still consumed him far too heavy to discern his whereabouts in earnest. He'd tumbled off the small cot at some point and made the far wall’s edge his new home; only his sweated off weight remained clinging to the yellowed sheets. Had he been able to taste something other than his own copper hurt, he might have welcomed the old jail air that reeked of filth and desperation like an old friend. By all accounts, the searing pain that was mauling meat clean off his bones excused this transgression against outlaw ghosts.
The man who was staring daggers at Billy had to be Olinger—his tiny rat-like eyes carried sick delight as he leaned all too casually against the bars, feeling it his God-given right to gloat after contributing nothing by his hand. Even cornered, the cowboy would've ridden off with the wind on roads few knew of… but proud Garrett just had to make league with darkness, employing its wicked ways to mask his own incapability.
It's that smooth drawl of the sheriff's heir apparent that Billy could make out—a cadence capable of spewing lies so readily was hard to forget. Even if muffled due to the ringing in the cowboy’s ears, it grew higher pitched in agitation, and thus clearer.
The addressee remained unseen as Garrett continued his tirade. “He is all but dead! We needed a trail on Tunstall, not a husk of a man, sullying my jail floor with viscera. Any judge worth his salt'd take one look at him and go sayin’ he ain't fit to stand trial!”
“Good thing Catron employs ‘em just fit ‘nough to stamp whatever paper lands on their fat bellies…” Olinger chuckled ugly.
Billy could see the smaller man's mouth moving in an almost disjointed fashion—like a grotesque version of the puppets from one of those traveling shows he'd pass by at markets when he was a kid. He was still so detached, courtesy of the throbbing loss of consciousness that refused to come back to him fully that he remained untethered even while he tried blinking away the confusion. His senses couldn't meet solid ground while his head was simply lulling along, feeling drunk without the whiskey… until a chilling voice revealed the party opposite Garrett's fury. That corpse, wearing the skin of a man could sober anyone up.
“I warned you, sheriff—”, the title wasn’t spoken out of respect, but mockingly so, for the creature found little interest in mortal customs, especially when it came to positions that were gifted rather than seized, “—you denied me sustenance. For fear of havoc, I was reduced to drinking livestock… like some mutt.” The screaming souls that aided his speech returned tenfold—channeling all untold ire. “I may have gotten a little carried away with your prisoner, true. But he is here, is he not? As Riley willed… and he will live until you bid his breath cease.”
So that was what had left Charlie's farm drained… Flesh left to rot bloodless. Some animals were even mauled—evidently a result of the ‘walker’ getting far too famished to rein in his impulses. A wild animal on an endless hunt to fill the hollow where its soul should reside.
It was clear the whole ordeal didn’t sit right with Snow. Even though he’d swallowed his pride inasmuch as a beast's ego could allow, the lack of human blood had made him weaker—physically, but also in spirit. As if he were a mere teethling who hadn’t earned fangs yet… It was this palpable distaste that made Billy wonder: what exactly could the vampire need from The House that wasn’t already his to take?
Coriolanus could plunge the jail in darkness, split the throats of the demanding men open, or leave them cleanly emptied of their life source and vanish without a trace. Yet, there he stood—reduced to a mere errand boy.
Despite the sharp pang in his chest, Billy finally managed to slide up the wall albeit briefly, just enough to focus in on his old riding partners. Something viscous and sour bubbled up his throat and the cowboy had to stop himself from retching as he gagged, bracing the back of his hand against his lips to stop it.
“Even with half a mind, I’mma still outshoot you, Patt,” Billy coughed out. “And I ain’t gotta go sellin’ my soul fo it…”
Garrett twitched as if he'd been bitten, surprised by Billy’s sudden strength and lucidity. Yet, delighted that he had the notorious Kid cornered like this—and his name might finally ring famous next to the cowboy’s.
“Ah, old friend, I can assure you—nothin’ so poetic is afoot. Whatever deal the devil's struck, it ain't with me. I'm just the lucky executioner.” His eyes glinted in cold opportunism, mustache barely hiding his smirk. “The hand of the law, if you will.” He rested his hands proudly on his holster, chest inflated to flash the shiny badge.
Now, that made Billy laugh with his full lungs—despite the sharp pain, he couldn't let this moment pass him without a proper show of outrage. Patt parading himself as a true beacon of justice—it was one thing to take a position on offer, keep your gullet shut and fatten up with bribes… and another thing entirely to delude yourself into thinking you were somehow worthy of it.
Lowly gamblers like Garrett made for good prey, but never for good spawn. Void of any lasting indebtedness, greedy and reckless—the new sheriff would be uncontrollable had Coriolanus ever thought about turning him.
But the reluctant outlaw… the drifter with principles, who upheld morality more than anyone walking these lawless roads carrying a badge—now, he would make for a fine get of darkness. He’d be so reluctant to accept this nature, the poor soul, and so would only use it sparingly. Unlike fools drunk on power—his heart could be controlled.
As soon as Garrett deemed Billy fit to meet his doom, the new crook of a sheriff took his leave to inform his patrons of the joyous news. Come morrow, the Kid would stand trial, come nightfall—he'd hang. Jesse hadn't graced Billy with his presence… likely unable to face the consequences of his betrayal and already in too deep to offer any viable aid. The old partner was most definitely set on finding the good life at the bottom of a bottle at the saloon down by the road. A directionless journey they'd once shared… blown to whatever corner desperado winds willed.
Billy had always had his sights set on a cause greater than himself though.
Taking down the Seven Rings… the embodiment of the deadly sins in any honest person's eyes. Clearly now in consort with the devil himself to remain in control at any cost.
Whatever bounty the vampire had to claim, its hour wasn't yet nigh for the creature never left Billy’s side. The pain hadn't subsided, and for some time, the cowboy thought it might be purposefully prolonged by the walker’s influence. Maybe he was stationed here so that the outlaw could never recover and attempt to escape—ensuring a chain no hammer could sever.
The only respite had been Del’s rosary… and Billy clung to it like a drowning sailor, lest he be forever lost to Coriolanus’ shadowy tides. The light that begot some clarity in this endless hellfire was her—his reina whose wild spirit burned brighter than the abyss. Did she believe him gone? That he'd abandoned her?
To swallow down the bitter possibilities, Billy spoke through gritted teeth. “Even in all your power… you still kneel to someone. Ain't that somethin’?” The dismissive grunt he let out was shrill, coupled with the sputter of blood.
“Hunger is my only master, cowboy,” the ‘walker’ assured in a slow cadence, his commanding choir of voices coming from whichever corner of the suffocating jail cell.
That provocation seemed to stir the creature—Billy could feel the whirling shadows at its command becoming almost prickly in shape and coldness. The closest to a full-body shiver that the vampire could muster. A well-placed challenge such as this may provide the cowboy with a slippery way of escape. At least that was what he banked on. It was clear the walker was prideful—anyone walking the land that long without ever needing to consider death as an adversary had every right to be.
Unfortunately, Billy had much to learn yet—one couldn't strike a guaranteed deal when they remained clueless as to what the other party couldn't do without. Unless you held their innermost fear in the palm of your hand, it'd be like playing poker plunged in a dark room. No hand known, no tell to be discerned… even no table upon which the ruling cards would be laid out.
“Sounds like a miserable road to walk… bein’ a slave to your urges.” Billy countered, clutching at his aching ribs, right below his still-pounding heart.
He was taking shots in the dark, hoping their ruckus would cause some consequential imbalance beyond simply infuriating the walker. If that proved fruitless, the rosary he'd brought behind his back to file away at the windowsill of the cell might yet earn him his freedom.
Del had said so herself—that it wasn't gifted in an empty hope for his hands to be folded over it in prayer; just a means of keeping her close to heart instead. Now, the little brass crucifix—wrought from her favorite ring—served a humbler, more earthly purpose as it worried away at the rotting wood one patient stroke at a time. Each pass drove the cross back into Billy's palm with a reprimanding sting—either divine fury at the blasphemous action, or simply reminding him that salvation was seldom won without blood. Little did the unwitting outlaw know, it was precisely that desperation which Coriolanus hoped to exploit; it tasted so potently sweet, despite the blows to his vampiric pride.
Snow's hissed chuckle permeated the air, cooling it over.
“Not when you have all the means you could dream of to satiate it… Hedonism is a virtue when you can indulge deliciously. And I can assure you—everyone hungers for something,” he explained carefully, patiently priming his prey with venom. “Creatures of the night just have a sure way of snatching it for ourselves—” His hand outstretched in a harsh grabbing motion, clasping around nothing. Yet, it felt as though he were seizing at Billy’s throat, denying his next words of challenge. “—you, righteous outlaw that you are, you hunger for justice. To protect your loved ones from the land’s unforgiving turns… turns dictated by small men who believe themselves giants.”
Billy's fingers twitched to life, previously clasped over Del’s cross in a dead man's hold, now itching to seize his revolver. Naturally, it couldn't have been resting at his belt while he was jailed. Yet that habitual movement meant he'd already bled in front of the walker, shown him he was right in his assessment without needing to utter a confirmation.
Now, it was the creature that held the winning hand.
“Ah, bull’s eye! As you may say…” Coriolanus noted smugly and it was as though the grasp he had over Billy’s soul loosened ever so slightly. Snow had the cowboy where he wanted him—no need to suffocate a perfectly viable spawn. “You want to go back to your love, hm? To… Mary? Or do you want her to watch you swing—”, his fingers glided through the air, as the words droned out, mimicking the hanging sweep of feet at the end of a rope. “—away?”
A deal Billy started… walked into dangerously unprepared and ended now as an open book to the adversary. Rattled and protective, despite his circumstances, the outlaw raised his voice. “What d’you know of her?!”
Coriolanus appeared almost enthused at how quickly this was untangling. He knew a bleeding heart like the little criminal in front of him couldn't resist its call to provocation long. That he'd sooner put his head in the jaws of a beast than see those he cared deeply for suffer.
“Oh, I know a thing or two about your ‘reina’...” the vampire started, stepping closer to the bars until his pale fingers danced across them in a discordant melody. “I know how she tends to her father's land, his animals, teaching those children at the mission. I also know she is promised to another… and it makes you burn.”
What he spared Billy was the knowledge the Snow family had of her blood too… how it has hungered for sight dating back generations. Naturally, Don Alvarez knew of that ‘affliction’—his own mother used take in the half-lost and the never-found for guidance. She could foretell what no doctor would ever dream of seeing, painting futures so vivid, they couldn't be chalked up to simple trickery for they always came to pass. Some wiser people recognized the power, other foolish and superstitious folk imagined it as the devil's will given flesh. As though the mere utterance of the blessed visions brought upon someone's demise.
The gifted Alvarez women were the messengers, not executioners; yet, out fear of being ostracized for witchery, for the uncanniness of her sight, pious Ignacio sought to to erode Del’s instincts — keeping lemon balm in a silver string-tied cloth beneath her pillow on a new moon, planting that ghoulish, lifeless juniper tree next to her window. Tried as he might, he couldn't uproot his progeny of the foresight that swam ever-seeking in her soul.
The cowboy didn’t need to know—if he was a good boy, he’d turn her himself. To protect her, to grant her life eternal, void of any pain… and then the full extent of her sight may finally be unleashed. As was written… if not, Coriolanus would be more than happy to make her his own bride.
“You tellin’ me all this just to play with your food, diablo? Or've you forgotten, you put me in this damn cell!” Billy stood up abruptly, fighting through the pain in an attempt to assert whatever strength he could muster.
“And I can just as easily get you out, partner…” Coriolanus enticed in a hypnotic tone, vanishing into the candle-lit corridor only to appear abruptly in Billy’s cell, walking out of his shadows given form. “You are already ripe with my venom, it'd take but a drop more and you shall become invisible. Like me…”
Not really… Snow would need to give a drop of his blood back if Billy was to roam free of his influence. The cowboy wouldn't be a supreme, just a spawn. Even still, that would make him a creature powerful enough to break through these bars and run back to his love, to rid the land of its suffering and prove honor still lived.
Within Coriolanus’ bounds, naturally—you gained something, you had to give up something. It was the way of the world.
“A beast you mean, lose my soul—”
Billy clung to that last thread of hope he had. That his own two hands would be enough to see this through. After all, the windowsill had begun to surrender, its rot no longer hiding beneath chipped paint—one hard brace and it could break clean away. Freedom and his reina waited no farther than the saddle of the nearest horse below… if only the pain could lift long enough so he'd feel his legs again.
“You say that like it's a bad thing… To become something more. Someone who will be able to finally make it right.” Coriolanus sat on the creaky cot, not invading or trapping like he'd done back at Billy’s cabin. This was the beginning of a true alliance and the vampire would treat it as such, even if he withheld the full extent of his gain. “No more pesky ties with people who betray, no more wallowing and waiting for fancy lawyers to settle their paperwork. Just you and your precious justice… and your lovely Mary.”
At the repeated mention of her name, the cowboy stilled as though he'd heard gunfire closing in on him. Images of the life he yearned for once he was done avenging and fighting swam in his already heavy head. Mary Delphine coming back from a day of teaching with their children, hand-in-hand and carefree… cared for but never confined. Her riding with him come nightfall with promises of free hearts and sweet kisses.
What monster could ever have that?
Billy looked down, pretending he'd been contemplating the offer. Before the silence could settle too comfortably, he sent his weight up sharply, attempting to lunge at the waist-level window. Overeager and overconfident, the uneasy movement hit him back tenfold—like the recoil of a heavy shotgun. Every movement made in what felt like molasses instead of the thin air that oft offered guidance—the vampire venom scorching at his flesh.
One board managed to fall, sure enough, landing in some withered bushes with dangerous thorns to them. Had it been Billy tumbling down, he found no certainty he'd even be able to get up, much less ride in this condition. As the cowboy grunted in pain and hopeless despair, the path split before him, forked and ugly—no longer offering an easy direction... embrace the monstrosity that was already eating away at him, or suffer the burn of a rope around his neck.
Persevere or give up.
How did that song Del used to sing on their lovely nights go again?
Ah, yes… ‘Angels, meet me at the crossroads, meet me… Don't charge a sinner any toll.’
For a moment, he allowed himself to be lost in that memory. When he wobbled on his feet though, he was found by a demon at his crossroads instead—
“Easy there, partner… Think of it like that deformed filly you and your sweetheart saw into this world. You are just taking your first crooked steps, but with liquid power coursing through your veins. It’s not an easy thing to adjust to… and it will only become worse if you are to resist the transformation. Well, evolution, is the term I prefer.” Coriolanus framed it without offering as much as a twitch of concern that Billy may yet fall through the window and disappear into the night. He knew the limitations of a new blood… especially one that fought with the venom so viciously.
“It ain’t really a choice now, is it?” Billy noted bitterly as his body swung in an attempt to meet the cell floor writhing. “The moment you marked me, it was either takin’ this or a short dance with the noose,” he scoffed. “I'm a dead man walkin’, only question is how long I'll get to walk…”
“And that’s still a choice, cowboy—more than I’d offer anyone else in your position.” Coriolanus appeared almost bored by how difficult the outlaw was being. “Truly, I could've been doing something far more beneficial by now… like planning that Reaping good ol’ Catron promised our kind once he comes to rule,” he let slip.
Billy heard it though, even when he couldn't move his limbs, he'd remained lucid enough to gather whatever he could on the creature. “Now… hold on. Reapin’?”
That didn't sound good at all… if he was any judge of it. The whole ordeal spelled the start of hell on earth. Previously lurking in the shadows, the strigoi reign would befall the land, keeping it veiled in darkness—all the while those above the law kept their bellies full.
The vampire stilled, his shadows stopped their hum too, as though caught red-handed, feigning reluctance to divulge the whole story. What started as a genuine slip-up shaped up to conveniently place Billy back into his sphere of influence. Thus, the blonde-haired creature allowed it to simmer, twisting on the cot as if he was uneasy, as though the other man knowing may spell some awful end.
It only made the cowboy naively bite harder: “Don't leave it half-buried, diablo! I'll either die and never see another day… or I'll be your ‘kind’ too, now, won't I? I oughtta know.” Billy thought he had the upper hand even when it'd always been the walker who held all the cards.
Toying with the buttons of his immaculate sharp suit—velvet as blood, a vestigial breath leaked from Coriolanus’ lungs. “Tributes… offerings to us vampires. Instead of hunting about sporadically, we get to rid the land of its enemies.” His glinting eyes met Billy’s, sick satisfaction bleeding through the icy blue irises. “Convenient if you think about it really… it's how it was meant to be.”
“Reckon that suits the folks on top mighty fine.” Billy spat, breath turning sharp through his nose as the storm continued to brew in him.
Somehow, it always ended up like this—with honest people suffering. While the cowboy ran a thumb over his worn knuckles, like that would still him in any way, the vampire's shoulders were loose, like nothing weighted on them anymore.
Bracing an arm back to lay on it, Coriolanus challenged: “So… do something about it.”
Billy could now… hadn't the walker said so himself— he could become ‘someone who'd finally be able to make it right…’? Suddenly, the one path at the fork felt less like a damnation and more like sacrifice that called out to the cowboy.
But then again, if he were a vampire—what would it mean for them? Del was so accepting, so caring and kind that he had no doubt she’d welcome him no matter his predicament or shape. Because she loved and shared his vigorous search for the fairness of things.
If Billy returned inhuman, she’d still know his true nature… as he knew hers.
She’d help him find his way back home, back to her.
Siempre. Always.
More jarringly, he thought of what it would mean for her. She might not see him hang tomorrow but he would have to watch her wither away while he stayed frozen in time. That was a grave plight Billy couldn't stomach.
No “‘til death do us part”, because he'd never be returned to dirt. He’d never meet his parents, brother or all his fallen friends up in the stars. The same shining, mystical lights his father would turn to, assuring little Billy that everyone went there eventually—to keep watch over their loved ones below. The long low spell had consumed his pa… yet, even he, with a shadow over his mind, had met the sweet release of death. And Joe, and then Kathleen had joined him—finally together once again.
A vampire got no such universal kiss to bless him… For all that, maybe persevering is was what Billy owed them. For a moment, it felt like he could take a full and fresh breath, as though he'd be washed clean of his sins if only he could journey on. If there was a reason behind all the lives lost and all the sins he’d committed.
After all, what good would it do if he hung? It would've all been in vain, that was for certain—all the suffering and long roads, leading to nothing but another sunrise on a land terrorized by the Seven Rings.
“But… Del will die,” Billy murmured in quiet horror, “And I'll have to ride alone forever,” a conclusion, almost to himself as he looked away.
Then, his fingers fiddled with the rosary, its shine catching in what little candlelight remained; as though his reina might offer consolation through it. Coriolanus heard—of course he did—it was what the latter half of this tedious day had been building up to. Another nail removed from Billy’s coffin. Another step closer to sealing the preordained fate of the Alvarez seer.
“Aterna amantes… lovers, forever. Should she wish to join you on this journey—you can make her your vampire bride,” the ‘walker’ offered with ease. As though his fangs had already condemned many to a soulless existence.
Whence the room plunged into complete darkness, not with the sun setting, rather by the walker's will… Billy's final utterance laid beyond knowing. A smile or a grotesque contortion—his eyes were wide, his mouth hung open—
The crucifix burned against his chest. And his heart—once strong and fierce—seized its gallop.
Noon came and went with no word or trace of Billy. It was as though even the wind had forgotten his name while it whistled through the crooked, barely-mended fence he’d left yesterday. Del hated feeling powerless even if she was often forced into such circumstances—decisions being taken for her, rarely with. Giving her love to the cowboy was the first such ruling she could allow herself. Even then, it'd been one veiled in secrecy.
Tried as she might to brush Edward off, he didn’t leave her side for a second, which made her father very pleased. Bea had been talking her ear off about the wedding preparations when that was the last thing on Del’s mind—ever, and especially now.
Something was amiss with her vaquero…
He’d have sent word… unless he no longer could. Unless he’d been captured, taken flight as he might.
Every sound in the sitting room felt louder, magnified by her nerves stretching taut. No one was bothered that a person who readily put his life on the line for this rancho and for every farmer in the vicinity had gone missing. Not a single worry crossed their coddled minds; they were happy to bask in life’s mundane bounty so long as it may serve them to never get their reputations dirty.
What was one more life lost to ruthless men? It was better that it wasn’t them. No need to stick your head out, lest you lost it.
The sample fabrics for her future dress looked anything but innocently white. All she could see were the shadows that bled through the delicate lace, carrying a certain gloom instead of the blossoming excitement expected of a bride-to-be.
“‘S just the weight of the holy vows, hermanita,” Elena assured, warmth flowing through her words, though their content was a mere masquerade. She knew, in her heart of hearts, what was really eating away at her younger sister. “I remember mine own wedding like it was yesterday… Ay, Mateo was more shaken than I was! Thought the cabron might run for the hills!”
At least she’d been marrying someone who respected her, the younger Alvarez thought. Some lucked out with their arrangements, others—not so much. The other, spoke now, having been convinced of her place—
“It is a duty regardless,” Bea countered the high emotions with cold pragmatism, like she usually did. “Our battlefield is with the labours, not the land.”
Del’s eyes remained blank while she moved with habit instead of her usual spark. She reached for the offered tea cup only to whisk it awkwardly, spilling the deep red clover tea over the pristine materials. Even then, the girl didn’t move to correct her mess, just watched as though compelled, at the way the pale cloths soaked up the scarlet liquid with hunger.
Beatriz acted though—jumping in a fuss as Edward snatched Del’s wrist, offended at her carelessness for his investment in her.
“That is why you should’ve been sound asleep at your fiance’s side,” he reprimanded dangerously, leaning in to whisper the next sure threat: “—instead of pretending you pray for something that shall never come.”
“You’d do well to listen to your sister and your intended, Mary Delphine,” Don Rafael interjected firmly whence he returned from his rounds. Thick cigar smoke clouded his face, almost as dense as the dust the wind started to pick up outside. “A veces, you forget yourself, estrellita—saliste a tu mama… An Alvarez woman doesn’t wallow in dirt like a—”
“—Like a man?” Del challenged, finding her voice when the time called. Her initial catatonic stupor, forgotten as soon as she sensed the attempt to shove beliefs forcefully down her throat. “Tell me again, Papá… did abuelo scold you for tending your first foal? Or did he clap you on the back and call you ‘un vaquero verdadero’?”
Her gaze didn’t flinch even as the smoke from the cigar curled overwhelmingly strong into her face. Edward did rest his hand on her shoulder, but it was nothing short of claiming instead of calming or praising. The condescension in his voice like a live wire, a leash he attempted to tug her along with.
“Too much freedom spells ruin, sweetheart. Your father knows it well,” the lawyer said in a sickly sweet tone, “— ‘tis why I'm here—to care for you—”
“Care? You care for the idea of me. The Alvarez name, the land… the obedient ghost of a girl you think I’ll become,” Del retorted, “You want a wife who’ll fade into your shadow, Edward.” She stood up, discarding the previously intricate fabrics turned blood-like offerings in favor of holding her ground. She wasn't about to become small in the face of a play-pretend hunter. “Who'll birth your heirs and host your parties and never dare to have hands rougher than yours. But the truth is… You do not frighten me—not your influence, least of all your fragile, self-serving bearing.” Her conclusion came sharp as were her dark eyes, letting the remark hang between them.
Edward stepped forward appearing assured, though his eyes betrayed how utterly cornered he felt at the unexpected impertinence. Men who presumed bows and recognition would follow wherever their presence graced oft resorted to cruelty when their standing was threatened.
And this was no exception…
“Ah, you know it all, like always... little girl speaking on matters she cannot begin to conceive of.” His breath came out in shorter spurts, almost heaving as he seethed at her challenge. “So what is it that you want, Mary Delphine?” the low hissed continued, “To kneel at some hovel, scrubbing floors with that outlaw's bastard in your belly—”
A slap was about to ring through the hacienda, even the Don had seized his puffing—showcasing a quiet dislike at how his daughter was handled. Had her security with the lawyer always been a cage?
Had it not been for the loud bang at the door that made everything stop in its tracks, this could’ve turned ugly real fast.
“Don Alvarez—” Jose started, already out of breath as he swallowed the next words, forcing them to come out through his dry throat. “There's a man at the gates... he ain't from around. Pero, he's offerin’ a mad heap of cash for the Turner stallion.” A commonly joyous announcement, yet the man’s stiff lip revealed how unsettled he felt. “Says he won't be spillin’ more in front of ranch hands.”
“Un forasterito—all the better!” Don Ignacio sighed, welcoming the distraction and celebrating good news hastily. “Make sure he's well-greeted. A man like him wouldn’t know what he’s buyin’—just sees glory and speed.”
“If I may, jefe—shouldn’t we ask what he’s about? He didn’t even speak his name. Such a chance wager… somethin’ doesn’t smell right—” the foreman said in a hushed voice, worried to offer an opinion when it wasn’t asked.
“He wants a parley, we give him one. What would it say about mi negocio here if we cast him to the wolves, hm?” the old man spoke harshly, leaving no way around his storm, only through it. “Either he's desperate or he thinks we are. And I’d hate to think you mistook me for the desperate one, muchacho?”
Unbeknownst to the prideful Don, the the wolf was already at his door, draped in the skin of a lamb. An apparently rich lamb.
Jose shook his head in valiant denial of the accusations and with the muttered apologies that rained down—all was at its place once again. All the while, Del wondered if the arrangement with Edward had unfolded much the same fashion. Like a horse to be traded to the highest bidder, the most ravenous of wolves.
The stranger was peculiar, Del could immediately tell. For one, he continued to stand outside the gates, even as the Don and his envoys approached, as though some unseen force was keeping him repelled from crossing the estate's boundaries. Weirder still, no carriage awaited his eventual departure. Had he made his way on foot? Impossible, his skin was so pale it bordered on transparent—as though the sun ought to burn him where he stood.
His face looked young—no older than herself or Billy—but there was a certain callousness that lay heavy in his eyes, masked by a pleasant smile. It wasn’t forced the way Edward’s bestial grin with bared teeth usually was. Instead, the outsider’s lips sealed his pearly whites into a smirk sharp enough to cut, but charismatic enough to hide any carnality.
“Good day, Don Alvarez,” a smooth voice rang as the newcomer lowered his hat to reveal a crown of sun-gold hair, a mock halo, “I must admit I’ve heard many tales of your stallions—each more grand than the last. One would think you’re breeding beasts instead of noble mounts.”
“Ah, creatures can be whatever you make of ‘em, señor—” the Don stopped, clearing his throat, “Perdon, I didn’t catch your name quite so soon?”
“No apologies needed, I don’t supply it to just anyone. After all,” the stranger set his cold eyes on Del for whatever reason and an unpleasant chill ran through her. “—names hold power.”
Sheepish laughs ensued at the dramatics displayed, though the way his voice had dropped, so convinced, left the youngest Alvarez at a loss for words.
“Coriolanus Snow, it really is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The pale one shook hands with the Don, but a part of his attention was always set on Del.
“How Shakespearean,” she muttered, trying to shake off the unease. “Let's hope you have more respect for the common folk than your namesake.”
Frighteningly, the man heard even if her huff should have been carried by the wind. His smile settled wider and void of any warmth—an uncanny attempt at playing human. Del could swear she’d seen him somewhere before… though she doubted she’d misremember a man with a face sculpted by angels and eyes bestowed by demons. Maybe in her dreamlike moments? That was the only place such a visage belonged—both enamoring and plaguing.
Ranch hands were already making preparations, though they more so attempted to look busy with it, respectfully unwilling to tempt fate when it came to halting Relámpago without Billy around. It'd been a shared trust between the outlaw and the ‘Lightning’—watching him with the black stallion made it easy to forget the animal had once sent a grown man over the fence. Billy didn't gentle him as much as the horse chose not to fight him—a recognition of tried spirits.
“Entonces, bienvenido, Señor Snow—my foreman will gladly show you ‘round. Can even take the beast for a spin!” Don Ignacio assured, speaking far too soon.
Only when his welcome and name were spoken did the stranger cross the gates with a heavy step. Taking in his surroundings as though he'd been blind to them before this passage was granted, his whole body flinched quickly from the juniper tree, much the same way one way one would recoil from a burning flame. On instinct.
“Jefé… Bonney minds Relámpago better than the rest of us is all. I ain’t sayin’ he can't be handled—” Jose attempted to make the old man see reason.
But just like back at the hacienda, when it was his reputation on the line, an Alvarez never backed down. He ushered Doña Manuela to keep the guest busy while he dealt with the ramifications of the inept staff.
“You mean to tell me I should've heeded a desperado instead of my best man?” The Don's face turned red like he'd eaten something far too hot for his palate. Though there rarely was such a thing save for his own temperament—even he couldn't stomach his own fury sometimes. “Don't you ever bleed such weakness in front of a buyer!”
“Papá—” Del offered, “Billy’s shown me the ropes with Relámpago. He trusts me in stride.”
The Alvarez patriarch turned slowly as though waking up from his anger.
“Great! What would the esteemed señor say, huh? That my own men cannot handle the stallion, but my hija can…” her father scoffed, but his head shook in that softened way—happy to admit defeat when it was delivered by his own. The same way he'd hide a smile when Del would best him in a game of backgammon.
“I'll see to it that he remains confident in our business, Papá,” she assured in a tired voice, that worry for Billy ever gnawing at her, “—fast and sure as lighting.” A strained smile cracked on her face.
A tug at her dress pulled her from the depths of her thought. She'd already been restless, sure, but the moment this Mr. Snow entered, she'd felt as though a heavy shadow was draped on her already preoccupied shoulders.
Antonio continued his attempts to get her attention. He was far too excitable after his afternoon nap so he resorted to listen in on the commotion, knowing his mother would just send him reading instead.
“Tía Del, where’s tío gone to? He promised he’d make me a resortera! Said I’m real young and too spoiled to be shootin’ yet,” Antonio spoke so fast, like his dreams hadn't been eventful enough, mimicking Billy’s lower timbre dramatically. A pout dawning his face, he expected to wake up to surroundings that catered to him—like any small boy who hadn’t yet seen hardship.
“I couldn't say, Tony… I tried telling your abuelo he should send riders to see about,” Del glared feeling surrounded by traitors save for her nephew. “It ain’t like Billy to abandon work.” She let her care show this time around. Let her father see what real love ought to look like.
Beatriz looked red as a tomato when she'd heard her son call the outlaw ‘uncle’ again. Promptly, she pulled Antony by the ear, scolding. “Señor Cardew's your tío, you little rascal! You hear!”
Two birds with one stone—reprimanding her son while condemning her sister for the perceived frivolity of allowing Edward be pushed to the sidelines. For trying to set things right by her heart when everyone involved, save for the sole beneficiary of the dowry and the Alvarez patriarch turned broker of false safety, wanted out of this arrangement.
“Unless there’s trouble—and for low-lives like him, bad omen sticks like a tick on a stray hound!” Edward offered in a loud bark, “Who’s to say they didn’t catch him. Don Alvarez was wise to hide him out far from here… what would have happened if the sheriff came knocking?!”
“Well, you for one would’ve shown the white feathers, that much is certain.” Del’s tone bit back. “Billy would die with more honor than you've ever lived with.”
Though it was a sentiment she didn't want to conceive of… it didn't make it any less true for judging the lawyer’s moral character. She could only hope that day wouldn't come soon.
Through it all, the men simply took to speak over her. Only the pale outsider met her eyes—blue, like Billy’s but calculating, so unlike. As though he was observing the beat of her very heart, he set his whiskey glass on the porch table. That was when Del knew she had to quell her fire or suffer its burn herself. To rein herself in, lest her well-placed worry be reduced to a hysterical outburst in the eyes of the beholders.
Her next words released the tension slowly and carefully. “I’ve been plagued by this nagging question ever since I saw you comfortably waiting on me, Edward. You seem far too certain something befell him. Sure, it may not be a stretch, given his reputation, but for someone so mistrustful, you rest so easily with it…” she muttered in suspicion, a chill running through her as she took her fiance in.
How gloating he appeared, smirking like a coyote in a henhouse. As though he had a hand in the ordeal—that would be the only explanation as to his passiveness.
“Ay, mija—aléjate de esas malas andanzas!” her father ordered. ‘Bad ways’, as though it wasn’t a human life on the line, but someone dispensable. “We offered him shelter and that's that. His business is with Tunstall and his fate rests with the Lord. I ain’t gonna overstep and risk mi familia, ni mi negocio.”
The words rang final… better survive than stick your neck out in the end. No, Don Alvarez was never lenient, he just knew how to pick his battles.
“Ahora, ve con Dios, ‘fore I change my mind and let José showcase Relámpago after all.”
A final warning, one that Del would heed, swallowing down the bitter lump in her throat. She nodded, muttering an agreeable deflection. Pick her battles she shall in stride.
Mr. Snow didn't look like a man who wanted to buy the stallion for a race. Those types were usually far more impulsive, even the ones who viewed themselves as kings among gamblers… they were still slaves to the habit.
Not this man though. Coriolanus looked all but bored, far more engaged in a conversation with Del than actually trying to appraise Relámpago's speed.
“If you'd follow me to the fence line, señor?” She kept up the pleasantries even as the meadow called for her to run to Billy. “Gauge the speed of our lightning. He doesn't shy away from a challenge.”
“Please, call me Coriolanus. I may be a potential patron, but a little star like yourself… you are the one holding the reins after all, no?” A low voice rang, much more gravelly than what he'd shown before. “And I'd much rather see how you handle pressure.”
It was like the words didn't come out of his lips but from the very shadows that danced around the corral. Del was growing heavier with unease at how observant the stranger was, at how piercing his presence stood. Not only could he hear much clearer than a normal person ought to be able to, it was as if he could peer into her very essence, gouging out what lay in her heart's desires.
That nickname her father had for her—the audacity the strange man displayed of using it so freely... if she didn't feel like a snared rabbit, she might have spoken her mind about it. Yet, there she remained— paralyzed by the snake's venom.
Relámpago matched her weariness, pawing at the ground until she soothed him with a gentle hand on his mane. The whites of his eyes were still showing, the poor animal—seeing more than a simple beast should.
“Ah, protective that one. Much like your cowboy—I see why they are kindred.” Coriolanus came closer, breath almost tickling at Del’s neck.
A stutter caught in her throat as she moved away, feeling her skin crawl. “H-how do you—?” Her words failed her.
“It’s my curse—knowing what others yearn for, while the bane you carry… is to know what shall befall them in the end,” The pale man raised his hand gently, setting his thumb between her eyebrows, tracing with sudden reverence. She tried to take a step back only to be greeted by the fence that stood in disrepair, courtesy of Billy’s neglect. “You've seen me in your dreams, have you not? Same way you saw your Billy…”
The strange man spoke matter-of-factly; as though he wasn't uncovering tales that Del had been told were better left buried under her pillow or carried away by the juniper tree.
“Who are you?” she whispered, trying to still her trembling hands.
“That isn’t for you to know, little star.” Coriolanus’ hand dropped abruptly, fingers pulsing in a fist. “The cowboy's walked that road to your heart,” he concluded with a sharp icy hiss, sounding almost disappointed. “Go now, while your father's men are none the wiser and let lightning carry you to his cabin…” A wide smirk spread, fangs glistening on display at last. “He must’ve grown ravenous by now.”
Her blood wouldn’t sing to Coriolanus. Turning her was in the hands of the outlaw now—a powerlessness the vampire hated.
Whence Del tried to blink away this waking nightmare, searching for answers… He was gone. As though he flew away on the dark wings of shadows, or maybe got swallowed by them.
She wasted no time, a spell more and her father might’ve come to check in on the deal with the devil. Relámpago carried her toward the cabin without need for much direction, knowing where trouble awaited.
A storm always came with lighting.
Del’s haze finally lifted when she saw the cabin up ahead—no sign of Billy’s horse, door flung wide open. The moment she stepped closer, she saw it wasn't just hanging—the wood was splintered almost in half across the width, like someone burst in… or couldn't be contained. She traced the shard of what was left as though it would speak out what had transpired.
Then, a loud bang—
Out of the corner of the dimmed room—something tumbled, eager to make itself known.
Del flinched, cutting herself on the rough canines of the door. Wincing as it pierced her skin, a fresh drop of blood was drawn, trickling down. Her eyes followed its crimson path… to find her rosary. The one Billy wore proudly now lay abandoned on the cabin floor. Its beads had spilled like someone had yanked it while it'd been secured around his neck still.
Compelled to enshrine the precious gift, she knelt, heart beating so loud she could hear its thump reverberate in her ears. The moment the metal graced her skin, it burned blinding hot, searing its shape across her fingers. Del jerked her hand back, shaking it vigorously as the cross dropped with a clank.
What could have caused such a thing?
It was like the crucifix had been held over the potent flames of a blacksmith fire. Whatever the reason was… it had to be within a whisper of the cabin still, with how the heat managed to linger. Del could feel panic bubbling up in her chest, stinging at her throat as small tears began to well up in her eyes. Not enough to spill, but plenty to blur her vision. She shook her head, drawing a sharp breath—she had to endure whatever uncertainty lay ahead.
Something bolted, slithering down the wall like a shadow incarnate.
A growl, like that of a feral dog.
It made Del's lungs draw little hiccups of dread, she reached for her penknife; the one she used to sharpen the graphite when she’d teach—always on her in case. Trying as she might to inhale the thick air, it was to no avail. Whatever presence was in the room with her had her pinned in place.
Surely, her mind was playing tricks on her with the setting sun. It couldn't be—
Billy… eyes red as the droplets of blood that still perched on her fingertip. He didn't speak, couldn't utter a word, only grumbling gnarls pushed through gritted teeth.
“Billy!” Del made for him even in this state, her small knife clattering to the ground. She needed to feel him with her own two hands. “Mi alma… what's happened?!”
He didn’t flinch from her approach, even if every instinct in his body screamed in fire to push her away—sensing what his new essence was capable of, what it was beckoning him to do. Especially when he could smell her blood, dripping from her finger like the most tempting Ambrosia.
Drink, take, satiate.
‘My soul’, she'd uttered in that loving timbre… Was there even such a ghost inhabiting Billy still? Or was it all carved out, with just sin cursed to forever dwell in the pit of his being?
His gentle spirit that didn't need to assert, but simply guided those around, now felt like a distant mirage. Just emptiness remained, and an ever-growing need to make it whole again.
As she cradled his cheeks, she could sense an odd, stark coldness radiating from his skin. A far cry from the warmth he'd radiate after basking in the sun, so full of life, now his very movements sat strangely on him—so fitful like he might pounce on anything daring to move in his field of vision.
His eyes darted wildly, a hollow gleam pulsing in them, so unsure of what it was he was searching for.
Something, anything to quench the thirst.
“Run, reina,” Billy’s voice was inhuman, rumbling from his chest. “Please, I had to—!”
An invisible, inward battle was occurring as he shook, trying to hold himself back. He doubled over in pain, cramps squeezing from his teeth through his stomach.
She'd understand—
He just needed a taste, her sweet essence pumped so loudly from her heart, blossoming through her veins. What delight it'd be to have it running down his parched throat, soothing the ache.
No, Heaven, no!
Had he taken leave of his senses so deeply? The devil had whispered in his ear and took with him Billy's humanity… but the cowboy would have liked to envision it'd be a far less rude awakening. That his reason and heart may yet prevail—
But its beat had left him the moment he fled the cell with the searing of the cross against his chest.
“What do you mean?!” Del whispered urgently, hands moving with purpose to gather the full extent of his state. “I can't leave you like this—I won't!” she declared, steadfast.
He wasn't sweating, no cough split his chest in torture— all maladies urged her toward a conclusion that it couldn't be the bite of a mad dog unsettling him so. The rage didn't show its ill effects with such haste.
When her words reached Billy, he attempted to thrash away, albeit weakly. His accursed strength could only find him only once he's feasted. While he was gravely terrified of causing her harm… an awakened spawn knew nothing of temperance or preservation—only consumption.
“Del… I beg of you—” Billy hissed, unable to recognize his own voice even as it pleaded for her safety. “It's not safe.”
He wasn’t safe. The only place she’d found home in now threatened to devour her whole.
She just shushed him, not grasping what faith she was condemning herself to—a moth drawn to a funeral pyre. Del continued her assessment, tears brimming in her eyes as she grew more and more weary. How could she hope to cure him if she couldn't see the source of his ailment?
Then, once her careful fingers reached the valley of his chest, she saw it and her breath trapped itself in her throat. The crucifix shape stood branded in his flesh—the only warm presence still sizzling there.
Before Del could think to ask, her world tilted with her thoughts. It all happened so fast; one moment Billy was still holding the battle front, and the next—the beast had won. A deep growl ripped from between his teeth the moment her fingers had reminded him of what he'd lost. Then, it was all anger and need.
He grabbed her over his shoulder as his fingers dug into the flesh of her calf, pinning his prey onto the bed with such force that the decrepit headboard threatened to give out. Her eyes turned frantic now as did her short breaths that couldn't reach her lungs, trying to find her Billy under all the animality that had consumed him.
“Snap out of it, Billy!” she attempted, more a plead than a command for she sensed nothing could rein him in now.
Human words failed him— the only language he now knew was that of bloodlust. She saw them… gleaming through what little light made it in with the setting sun. Fangs, sharp and ready.
He was heaving now, pain searing through him like a branding iron—the moment that'd seal him as a monster was nigh, inevitable. Del understood… She knew it now—that he'd relinquished everything to return to her, to be free in the only way this land would allow. Become the beast or suffer its claws.
She accepted it with grace, welcomed him back when his fisted hands scrambled to her bodice and ripped it wide open. Buttons scattered like raindrops as she braced herself. And then, his fangs sunk just below her collarbone. The sound was crisp, like biting into a fresh apple, mixing with her shrill scream that was suddenly edged with an involuntary moan.
Too much, too painful, yet it was Billy who delivered it so… her Billy.
He lapped at the gushing drops, not close enough to the bone to hurt, afraid to touch her neck lest he leave her drained or even mauled. Here, close to her breasts and beating heart was a place he once knew well, now getting reacquainted to its softness in this new form.
The moment he heard her whimpers, something else stirred within Billy. With new blood coursing through his undead veins, the contrast between his cold body and her inviting warmth left him dizzy. Not as lightheaded as his reina though, as he found the calling to bite anew, feeling it'd never be enough. It was at her right arm now, just above the shoulder… closer still to her neck but sucking in what he could reach from here.
The sounds were wet and filthy in of themselves and treacherous wetness started pooling between her legs. She couldn't believe herself… that she'd leaned into the touch of a vampire. Yet she knew it wasn't a beast wrapped in Billy’s skin, but her love himself. Keeping her safe even when he couldn't trust himself. He'd hate what he'd become once his lucidity came back to him, she was sure of it. She'd welcome him nonetheless.
“I'm sorry—I'm sorry—” he chanted in a throaty whisper when he came up. Not for air, but for repentance.
Lips stained, blood dripping past his chin and onto the scar that he bore on his chest. She traced it then and assured…
“It's okay, Billy… Come back to me.” Del begged. “Take what you need, mi vida.”
His eyes were still wild, still not his blue calming pools. She wasn't sure whether he'd heard her permission, far too consumed with satiating all needs that befell him in that moment. His cock, hard and aching, pressed against her, just as insistent as his fangs had been. She allowed him to sink everywhere, with everything he'd got. Even the harsh rhythm of his humping was an evidence of the deep need to devour her. Billy drove into her like he might find salvation somewhere along the road, desperate for it with every groan. With each thrust, it only felt like he was reaching deeper into her; be it because he'd fed from her or just because he was chasing carnality of a different kind, she felt as though her place was right here.
In blasphemous Heaven.
Del met his movements, bracing herself against the bed even as it creaked in protest, even as she knew she had to feel ashamed for chasing a high in such a low moment. It was their shared sin.
“Billy, please—” she’d started begging for more, for him. “Te amo…” she whispered through a whimper.
He’d been a kind lover every time they lay together, only ever demanding when he’d been worked to the ground and so needed a save haven to bury himself in. On these long summer days, it’d been reckless abandon and surrender, now it was just greed—fangs drawing gulps upon gulps while his cock plunged into her seeping warmth, over and over.
She reveled too in this newfound ecstasy, the pain from her blood being drained slowly mixing with the sweet sensation of him filling her. His hands were just as demanding, that primal part of him that darkened his vision guiding his fingers to worship each bite mark that bloomed behind his feasting. That touch left a bloody trail in its wake, his religious icon being painted.
“So good f’me, Del—fuck,” he groaned, tongue darting to wet his lips and then soothe the two small marks his fangs had left on her wrist. “I needed this, darlin’, you know I did—I just had to—”
It wasn’t long before Del shattered around him, walls pulsing around his cock in sync with her racing heart. Her palpable pleasure, his name spilling from her lips, made Billy blink awake for a spell, clarity shining in his eyes. His fingers stilled where they’d kneaded at her breasts. Terror permeated his face at the sight of his love covered in her own blood, his crimson handprints around her ribs and hips where he was holding her. He was too far gone to stop himself though, her warmth gushing around his cock was all too much—
“A chroí—” a strained moan left him as he spilled deep inside her. Branding as the blood he'd spilled from her.
‘My heart’, because hers had to beat for him now too.
Then, Billy was heaving, though his lungs didn't require it. In a flash, he scrambled back off the bed, horrified once he'd seen what he'd brought upon. Del moved with the same flow, as though some invisible tether was pulling her in as she crouched onto the floor next to him, showing him she hadn't been afraid, and wasn't about to be now.
“Billy, Billy—mi vida, miramé,” she spoke in a careful hush, worried he might flee. “I’m fine, more than that even! I needed to—wanted to help you in any godforsaken way I could! You came back to me… that’s all that matters.”
She rested her head on his hard chest… but no living hum greeted her there and she wondered if she’d just uttered a lie. If she could really take him as he was now—unliving, frozen in time. Del felt Billy’s ribs constrict in short little bursts… he was crying. In that burning way that left one’s throat sore and chest aching with exertion. This wasn’t a tarnished form, it was him still—what had become of him was just another step they’d take together. Love was the strongest power in existence, she wholeheartedly believed; theirs was pure and shall remain so even if one of their paths was tainted.
“I ain’t scared of dyin’, Del,” Billy choked out. “I was terrified of what I’ll leave behind—of you seein’ me swing and it all not bein’ worth a damn!”
Even now, after being laid bare, he needed to assure that it hadn’t been cowardice that drove him to shake the Devil’s hand, but the call to justice the two of them shared. And her, always her.
“Sí, ya sé… lo sé,” Del chanted, keeping him close even as she felt all he had to sacrifice. “It’s still you, vaquero,” She looked up, taking him in—still covered in blood, mixed with the bitter tears of regret. Only a man with kindness in his soul would think twice about taking life eternal, and Billy was definitely such a man. “Despite everything, it’s still you.”
He hadn’t become anything monstrous, the stuff of nightmares. No, Del knew nightmares, knew men of ugly actions and uglier intentions—and her cowboy, the trembling yet fierce lover that stood in front of her, wasn’t either of these things.
Ever-searching, ever-fighting… eternity would suit him well.
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Thanks for reading!
3k ish words into the next part of MBOBHFT! Taking longer than usual to write since I went on vacation for a week and college has been kicking my ass. I also made some playlists if any of y’all like to listen to music while you read! Lana Del Rey, Taylor Swift, and Ethel Cain fuel me.
Tags: m/f ∘ eventual vampire!Billy ∘ canon adjacent — Lincoln County war ∘ treating wounds ∘ drinking ∘ Mexican ranch owner daughter!oc/reader ∘ period-accurate language and misogyny (not from Billy!) ∘ religious themes ∘ ranch life, herding ∘ arranged marriage for oc — some angst ∘ forbidden romance ∘ bonding and non-sexual intimacy
Word count: ~7.1k
a/n: No, you aren't seeing things — the first 2 scenes used to be a part of chapter 1. But I decided it reads so much better as a prologue + with extra scenes that can really let the story breathe.
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 <3
Hope you enjoy while I continue writing for chapter 2!
⏭ 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 the cowboy was well-versed in the language, the night had been long and far from forgiving and the constant ringing in his ears did little to 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'd 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'd 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's “proper” employment as a ranch hand for Don Alvarez had began. 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 an uneasy feeling that this whole 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.
The cowboy 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 outlaw 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. That if that corrupt banker, now fancying himself a Presidential candidate — actually won… the Seven Rings would just thrive forevermore.
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, yet measured in the way she carried herself before one came to know her. 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, the youngest 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 them.
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 about.
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 sitting pretty, waiting to pop out heirs for some thankless sinvergüenza..." Her grip on the bandage grew tighter with her words. "—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. And the House's just bleedin' 'em 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're doin’ 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 indulge in, instead of pouring it over old wounds… 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 sighed, passing Billy a filled cup.
He raised it in thanks and they sat for a while, basking in the low sun.
After a pause of comfortable silence, he 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?" Del took a long sip, wincing at the harsh taste. "It's not about the thanking, I'm sure you believe as much" She took a long swig of the burning liquor. "When you see something that's just not right... not fair, there's that itch to put it back together. Any way you can, really. 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.”
She 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… The cowboy 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.” Billy shook his head with renewed vigor. “Well to that I say—it matters to me, hells be damned! It should matter to someone in this forsaken world…”
His eyes softened suddenly as if a storm crept up on. “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 being thrown to such a life. Billy thought those moments of weakness made him selfish, but she knew better.
No one absorbed in themselves would've ever bothered asking.
Before the heat could make everything meaner and the world would lose its softness—branding time came. From there, it was long days that started early and labor that seemed to never stop, just blend into exhaustion.
One piece of land at a time, neighbors, even business rivals, gathered with all their children running about. Dozens of riders were needed to round up the animals while ranch hands tended to the mothered up calves in a system of trust and comradery. Everyone busied themselves with something as such occasions usually called for many a mouths to feed.
And all throughout, song carried their labor—a festivity among sweat and aching muscles.
Don Alvarez was a good, serious man. If you'd chanced to ask his associates—all would attest that a promise with him was a finished thing. Though some of the more ruthless variety may go about telling that he was too lenient for his owed iron days always came last. Preferring to lend ranch hands to other members of the community first instead, the good Don took care of his people. Of those with less fortune to their names who'd otherwise risk loosing their cattle and so, their livelihood.
As the sun still shyed away from showing and the cool breeze swayed the awakening hacienda, Billy overheard a gringo businessman giving his voice to the dust of it, spinning tales to the old rancher about how bad it was for business—such large gatherings that didn't contribute solely to his estate. Those outsiders knew nothing of strong community or hard work, however. Knew even less of how no one needed to count their due, because honesty and family stood chief among petty coin. The concept of folk who would leave something for the next hand was foreign in their corrupt city worlds, yet they had little shame bringing its filth here. Even in smaller towns, the people in power were those very same greedy coyotes in suits.
Later, the cowboy had learned, that this gringo was a lawyer and Del’s promised. No wonder the boss tried to make peace with that silver-tongued devil, whose mouth outran his wisdom. Had it been anyone else, the boss would’ve cursed them out in his low rumbling Spanish that made everyone lower their heads like a prayer turned wrong.
“May be good if you don’t see beyond the end of your nose, mister Alvarez. But it slows growth. I’ve seen it send people bankrupt when they go without contracts to show for the work. You can’t scale on goodwill!” the man had announced proudly, raising his shoulders as though he’d been owed some standing ovation for repeating the words of others and wasting breath.
That overstep only made him stand out more as he searched for a place to settle amidst the ranch that was beginning to bristle with work. It seemed he didn’t trust people would show, but Billy knew he was in for a rude awakening.
“¿Escalar? Ay, mijo, these here are cows, not numbers. I ain’t trying to grow like a bank,” Don Ignacio gave a small breath through his nose, fighting back laughter. “You see business, I see vecinos—mi gente.” Leaning against the coral, the old man tapped its rail once, making his point stand with the labor that would blossom around them. “Hoy por ti,” he added with a steady voice, “mañana por mi. Eso siempre paga.”
Indeed, that always paid. Not on any ledger, but it showed on the land. You helped ten small ranchos one day, and when a storm came you didn’t need to hire hands because they'd already be riding in.
“Just like that? For free?” The man in the suit looked appalled, wide-eyed and shaking his head as if he were talking to a madman, instead of the most successful rancher this side of the Pecos. “With all due respect—” Though there was little to no respect in his pompous voice.
“Keep your respect. Nothing’s free,” Del interjected with a scoff as she passed them while hauling water from the well for the day ahead. “It’s paid with time… and time,” she continued, still in her native tongue, unbothered by the gringo’s inability to comprehend, “—siempre cobra interes. Better than your usurers.”
Once she rid herself of the heavy bucket she muttered under her breath, close enough for her father’s ears only, though Billy heard just fine when he knew what to listen out for—that sweet defiant voice of hers. “Esta hablando mucho… like it’s his rancho already!”
She was angry at it, at how her apparent fiance was speaking as if her father, who’d known no days of rest or coddling, wasn’t the man of the house. As though she wasn’t someone worth considering as a successor without a husband by her side.
She’d already been up and boiling coffee over the open flame—strong enough to keep people on their feet through the day; unlike the lawyer who’d found plenty to supervise and precious little to shoulder. A man whose clothes had never carried branding smoke before and yet he felt entitled to running his mouth as though he’d held bawling calves all his life. That much was clear, though the Don neglected to see it—that the businessman didn’t see a community built on shared hardship, but a golden goose that would be gifted to him alongside the Alvarez daughter.
Still, almost forcefully and through gritted teeth, Del translated for the gringo out of duty. Edward was his name, as Billy learned later.
When she started passing filled cups and scrambled eggs with chorizo, Don Ignacio beckoned her closer and whispered something that made the fire in her eyes grow quieter, reduced almost to a sad flicker. She was Edward’s promised, so she owed him respect no matter what. It was a paradox—all her life, Del had been taught respect was earned, not given out to yellow bellies who didn’t know when to listen and when to speak. She didn’t go into his courthouse telling him how to issue paperwork, so why did he feel entitled to run the conversation as though no one around him knew what they were doing?
As silhouettes rode in against the rising sun, marking the start of the gathering, Billy swallowed down the bitter coffee. The thoughts that swam in his mind were equally as acrid, consuming even. All he could think about was how he never wanted to see that fire stifled again. Such a rare spark should be cherished, not abolished just because it was a woman who carried it.
“That abogadito sure talks easy with clean gloves, ey?” Billy raised his voice over the other riders who'd started mounting.
Del shot a look over the heads of the running children she was trying to keep busy. Seemed like she was doing a rodeo of her own and the little rascals were just as stubborn as a leading cow on a stampede.
When she saw who'd said it though, her features lost their sharpness and her smile warmed up as she teased back. “Well now, ain’t you watchful as a sheepdog on a new fence?” She didn’t mind the attention one bit it seemed, when it came from someone who saw her as an equal. “You just be careful out there, claro? I don't wanna be stitchin’ you up again quite so soon.”
That care again, shining through the dangerous flirtation, made the cowboy’s racing heart still and listen for once. And in that slow heartbeat, he yearned to be washed clean in her light and tenderness.
“Reckon I know my way ‘round trouble, maestra,” Billy's double talk sure was smooth with that sharp smirk and hat tipped low enough to keep the mystery thick. He spun his stallion to settle it as he continued a chase of his own. “Try to not miss me too much while I'm gone.”
And, oh, what trouble he hoped would await him if the dangerous dance between them continued. Forbidden as it may be, that fruit always tasted the sweetest.
Del’s hearty laugh made his chest swell with warmth far hotter than the branding fire.
“Try not to lose the herd first,” she managed to counter before one of the children started tugging incessantly at her sleeve.
As the men rode out, Del stayed looking back every once in a while. Even as the little ones demanded they ought to herd the chickens just like their parents, even when they pestered her about teaching them how to rope the fence post, she'd steal these glances long after the riders were far ahead at open land, with no trace save for the rogue shout that the valley would carry. And Edward grew quiet… the way men like him—cunning and calculated— did when they saw something that didn’t sit right with them.
There was nothing out there but grass gone pale at the edges and cattle scattered wide, the range having loosened them from the habit of being kept. Even still, the herd responded well enough at first—drifting together with heads held low at the purposeful drift of the riders.
“Ease ‘em up! Don't crowd them now,” Billy directed.
Though he wasn't the most experienced, he had the mind for these things. That confidence was what drove the other workers to listen in, already finding themselves agreeing with the ideas he supplied.
The animals, however, started to grow restless despite the languidly guiding movements around them. Nothing to was out there to spook them, yet some kept lifting their heads toward the far side of the draw where the land dipped out of sight. Just like that, the herd started dictating the pace, instead of being subjects to the cowboys. The herd widened slowly, forcing Billy to angle left, further away from the unseen threat, yet further still from the ranch. He knew such lack of control could devolve into chaos in a heartbeat.
And it surely came, the first sign of a fine mess. The heifer in front was leaning away from the riders, slightly still but there and her tail had started flicking about sharply. She wanted to run—
“Watch the lead cow!” Billy tried to bark.
But before the final word left his mouth, the animal was already breaking sideways as though something was pulling her. Two more followed instantly and the thud of their hooves turned from simple pattering to a committed stampede.
The valley disappeared into motion and the long stretch they were covering quickly drew out beyond taming. Which only meant more distance… and with it, sure work until dark. Billy’s horse dropped without being guided, sensing danger one with the rider, as they raced to the edge of the stampede. Every step away from the center meant less hell to pay and more command over the havoc. In these lived moments, you had to convince yourself that it wasn't a disaster, but something smaller—something that can be reined in.
“Left side's loosin’ them!” someone shouted. And indeed, one black cow, stronger than the lead had broken even farther.
Billy's instincts took the reins and he abandoned the earlier pursuit, correcting his path fast to cut across the slick-coated Angus’ line just in time. He always found himself at the eye of the storm, always patching himself out of one mess onto another it seemed. Stuck in a stand-off, the animal and him had met at an angle where she had to choose between him or the wild and uncertain.
She chose back into the heard. Albeit barely and with a huff of frustration.
He sighed, but there was no time to rest, not when the sun was coming down and the herd was still high on alert.
“Keep ‘em together! Keep ‘em,” Billy yelled, not in command this time but a prayer. To get this wicked gather over with.
With dust clinging everywhere, even at their teeth, and sweat starting to cool off too fast, they managed to get back to the corral. As the gates slammed hard, sealing the long day, all laughter had died down with the sun. Even Billy's horse sidestepped under him as though it too needed to shake something off.
“Something must've scared them clean outta their hides,” Del noted with worry, exhaustion clinging to her features.
As if summoned, a bellow rang from inside the pen. Even as nightfall had settled heavy, the animals were still restless. Before Billy could answer, something else far off in the valley took that chance. It could've been a coyote, if the cry wasn't edged with an odd, almost growling undertone— a sinister attempt to mimic the cows and lure someone green enough to follow it.
“D'you hear that?” one ranch hand asked in a hushed murmur like he was afraid the wind might give away his potion.
None of the men answered, as suddenly nowhere felt safe. Still couped up like a heard of their own, they span tales instead, which was acknowledgement enough.
“Old Man LaGuerta said he heard somebody callin’ his name out by the creek,” someone added and a sharp, unconvinced laugh followed.
“You're joshin’! That graybeard couldn't hear a stampede if it ran him over!” the foreman clicked his tongue in disbelief. But under it, there was always a quiet challenge to start a one-up competition for tall tales.
“Doesn't hurt to have someone makin’ sure their little souls settle,” Del added, unafraid to make a point even when surrounded by men.
They didn't dismiss her outright either. Most of the neighbors and especially the Alvarez workers knew her since she was a wee little estrelita, and so came to expect the fire she'd grown into. The one that burned like the desert sun. Even if Billy didn't believe the whispers, his gut went tight—unable to dismiss how wrong and heavy the air had sat throughout the chase, how unusual it was to lose the animals given the many days each rider had seen on a saddle.
More than anything though, the way Del had phrased it made his heart smile. ‘Little souls’—in that gentle song of hers could ward off any ill omen that may yet dare to lurk about. And it surely sent his gut tightening for a different reason entirely.
Thus, Billy whose blood was running too hot from the gather to find sleep, ended up volunteering first watch.
“Can't say I disagree, maestra,” he assured, meeting her eyes with tired softness. “Let's make sure at least they rest easy, sí?”
Del found him whittling over the night herd fire when her dark dreams overcame her…
A man veiled in shadows, fangs like that of a beast—sharp as daggers.
Children ordered in arrays by the dozens, clean in their Sunday clothes. Not blessed by the Lord's light but crying and scared—trembling like little leaves in the wind.
A was called and a mother bellowed, harrowing and deep, just like the cows—
That was when Del had woken up with a barely stifled gasp of her own. Throat tight and eyes watery, she put on her night robe with shaking hands. By then, she'd expected Billy to be sound asleep at the bunkhouse with no way to ride out to his cabin in the witching hour. But she was happier yet to find his company…
“No rest for the wicked, chula?” He murmured, half-focused on the his wooden creation. A part of him wondered if he was just seeing things and Del wasn't really there—just a wishful visage in the lonely night.
When she sat next to him by the flames and the air shifted, carrying her sweet signature smell of the lavender and rosemary oils she kept under her pillow… he knew it wasn't him sleepwalking but peace finally gracing him in his waking moments too.
“Not for me, not since my memory first opened its eyes.” Del sighed softly, not with ease but with familiarity, used to the veil of her dreams. “I've always had these… visions whenever sleep takes me,” she explained, looking out into the darkness beyond the ranch's gates. Suddenly, its shape became far more abysmal with the flames contrasting it. “I knew you'd come for shelter that night… Well, not you, but someone. It’s why I was at the ready.” When she saw confusion answering on his face before any question came out, she continued to tell of what befell her. “Not a dream before, I’d seen four riders on a storm, kicking up dust and trying to outrun the hail of bullets that chased them.”
“Tunstall, McSween, Charlie and I…” Billy mused, “That’s some scary accurate night visitations you got bitin’ at you, maestra,” his voice became serious as his hands seized their work to meet her head-on.
Quiet shadows painted across their faces from the fire’s licks. Yet he was more spellbound, drawn like moth to a flame, by how the flickers danced in her eyes—untold tales coming from within.
Her smile was reluctant and small—scared to count it as a blessing so readily.
“Papá says some women in our familia suffer that affliction, that we let our minds wander far too often. It's why he insists I fast on a full moon. To quell the hunger,” she scorned, shaking her head. “As I know it, my abuelita was a wise woman—not a mad one. Yet, he says we should let the old blood wither so new one may thrive…”
“I ougta bite my tongue instead,” he started leaning in with no real indication of wanting to keep quiet. “But an arranged marriage sure sounds like old blood and beliefs to me,” Billy dared reveal with a bitter undertone.
Del picked up a stray shaving and tossed it to the blaze, letting go of a wish as her eyes settled on his hands that still clung at the small wooden piece. It was like the shape of a calf was being coaxed out, instead of carved in under careful knife. Despite being mesmerized with his gentle steadiness, she found her words again, thinking on her father and how his disposition as well as Edward’s were far more firm and suffocating.
“Mighty right you are, vaquero,” she scoffed to herself, echoing the same sore emotion. “I think he carries shame that he rose from modest means. The Lord can sure have a sense of humor… bringing him three daughters. One was bound to keep her roots in that hard ground he sprouted out of!”
“From where I’m standin’, it ain’t such a bad thing…” Billy assured, “—not one bit,” he allowed despite how inappropriate their shared affections were becoming.
Comfortable silence settled, with nothing more than the crackle of the fire, the chirp of the crickets and their shared breaths to keep them company.
“Have you ever been to the río off to the south?” Del murmured, not wanting to break the spell. “It’s probably grown quieter with the heat now, but for a while… only its hum could lull me back to rest.”
“Don't reckon I have, chula… not all that restful-like at least,” he barked a laugh as if the memory was forcefully coming back to him. “It was just a moment of icy respite when we were runnin’ here—some wet chill spraying my face when Charlie was dragging me up his horse. For a spell, I thought it might’ve been death's grip,” he lowered his voice like he was reliving the fear that had threatened to eat him whole. “But I remember thinkin’—if it really were the horned one commin’ to collect his due, it wouldn't have been damn cold south of Heaven!” The jest caught them both by surprise, but then his timbre became soothing, reminiscing. “… Afore long, I could only see your castle up ahead.”
His smirk lacked its usual rugged sharpness, features settling instead into tender calmness.
“Castle?” Del echoed with a disbelieving chuckle of her own, finding his wording endearing. Like he was some prince whisking her away instead of the most notorious outlaw around Santa Fe.
The way he carried himself, with that goodness that colored his soul, had made her question the very definition of lawfulness around these parts. Edward fancied himself a hero, yet was anything but—a man whose integrity ended where convenience began. While Billy had been forced into hiding for defending what was right and still believed himself irredeemable.
Such an ugly world to live in, where evil reigned, not in shame but celebration.
“Sure felt like it,” He leaned back against the coral, “Them grand doors and white walls—like Heaven's gates openin’ just f'me. Undeserving as I may be.”
“You ain’t hollow of virtue—” she countered swiftly, almost offended on his behalf. “—you value life and you want it to be fair, even when it’s shown you its treacherous twists and turns. Even when hollow men tell you it’s best you turn a blind eye. Stubborn—sure. A sinner—most definitely. But you repent, your conscience is strong and you sure as hell ain’t beyond grace!”
“I've taken lives, Del.” Billy dropped her name firmly, gravely serious, pulling her in to listen. “Pointed my iron and pulled its trigger with the sole purpose of draining the spirit out of a person. Surely, the Lord takes grand offense with low-lives like me—” His voice was getting heated, unable to permit her defense of him.
“That much is true,” she replied with a steady confidence as though he’d just mentioned something ordinarily amendable, instead of spilling his guts. “It's a cruel road you've been put on. But you are no beast… not like those diablos that serve The House. Feelin’ pride in their blackened hearts when they bring poor farmers to their knees—killing them without blinking—like they are worth less than the dust under their boots! Those sick varmints with pistols, basking in what little twisted power that gives them... you, you are not a killer for the sake of it.”
Billy realized he’d stopped breathing, seized thinking—just let her passion consume him. Let himself believe, for just a moment, that she was telling the truth. At least in her presence, he may finally be understood.
“I’ve met many-a-people who’ve said criminals like me are damned from the day we drew breath…” he confessed and it felt like attempting to come clean, to come home.
Del shook her head, reaching over to take his hand without a back thought—proving that she wasn't afraid of his touch. On the contrary, the warmth and rightness of it instantly made her breath stutter. But she held on, squeezing his calloused fingers like she wanted to seal her next words there.
“I believe there’s a natural goodness born into us all. You can either cross that line into evil… or not,” She met his eyes in determination. “And with every breath we are allowed to take, it’s our duty to stay on the right side of things. To nurture our hearts, so we may listen to their rightful call.”
It was high time his breath caught as well. Everything stilled now, even the wind and coyotes in valley beyond stopped responding—holding space for the sacred moment where two souls met.
“You really believe that…” he sighed. It wasn't really a question much as it was reverence. At her words, at her kindness and love.
“Let's ride to the river… right now,” Del offered, “If you don't believe my thoughts on the matter, the water'll set you right and wash you clean for good. I promise.” She stood up, actions speaking louder as she tugged him along. “I was baptized there, y’know. It really is a blessed place—just like you felt on your way here.”
He looked around, uneasy with any possible prying eyes and lurking ears. Much as he hated it, they were still of different standings, and she… was spoken for. Though he preferred to let her declare the matter.
“Señorita, you mustn't—” he tried, but his words failed him the moment he felt her fingers dance along his forearm.
“Proper all of a sudden?” she teased in a purr, “Told ya, you're no desperado.” With a skip in her step, Billy allowed himself to be led along to the stables. “God bestowed us with free will, there's no such thing as ‘mustn't’. Only what you feel in your heart.”
“Don't all those varmints listen to their hearts too?” Billy challenged, yet still helped her into her riding coat.
“Their depravity isn’t freedom, vaquero. That's bein’ a slave to pride and gluttony. To take ravenously, mistaking infamy for greatness… they will never be able fill that void inside where their hearts oughta be beating.” She grew serious but allowed her palm to rest on his chest, feeling its song beneath her fingertips. “Your heart ain't shadowed like that. What does it tell you?”
“That I should kiss you before it's too late, reina…” Billy said with no hesitation clouding his voice, just raw want. He clenched his hand in a fist, trying to rein that force in. “How do I know this ain't lust talkin’ then?”
“If it were that sin whispering its treachery,” Del took his braced hand and let it spread at her ribs, over her own beating melody. “—then our hearts wouldn't be soaring… but chained to its demise. And I think,” She leaned in to whisper against his ear, breath tingling up his neck. “—my lips would taste better when drenched with the river's freezing mist.”
He drank her in—hair still messy from sleep that couldn't come, eyes like orbs that contained untold secrets for him to unveil. Billy braced a breath as he finally allowed himself to reach for her and tangle his searching fingers through her curls. Their softness felt intoxicatingly right against his hardened hands. The very same who wielded the biting sting of a gun, now clasped in prayer to be redeemed.
As his thumb caught between her lips, Billy vowed: “Let us repent then, together if need be. For I may yet find my salvation in you.”
And when he finally captured her lips while the cold but tamed current lapped at their bodies, there was no fear, no premonition that gnawed at her. Just sweet nothings turned prayer. As they looked toward the sky, Billy wondered… What star did he have to thank for being blessed not only with another soul who understood him but also loved him?
Unbeknownst to him, a more prudent worry ought to have been echoed…
What power may yet answer his gratitude out here in the dark land?
𔘓 Tag list: @p4neminem, @taniamiller, @deathbyvexs
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Thanks for reading!
❝(Take me to the place I love) Take me all the way❞
↻◁ previous (pt.2) || next (TBA) ▷ ↺
Tags: m/f ∘ drug dealer! Dee x reader, nose candy + ‘study buddies’ intake references + weed smoking scenes ∘ academic perfectionism (to a very obsessive, unhealthy degree) ∘ reader has self-esteem issues ∘ reader studies medicine ∘ no use of Y/N, Dee calls reader "angel" ∘ moving to a more defined relationship ∘ canon-compliant anger issues ∘ canon characters and some additions — Taylor is here too and he has anxiety ∘ gang dynamics — Dee is king of the jungle now ∘ untangling the angst — Dee is still bad at feelings ∘ Dee barges into reader’s practical exam, so nurse kink (if u squint) ∘ reader takes care of Dee, who doesn’t value his health ∘ working on their relationship
smut (mdni!!): first kiss (for their relationship), 69 while high, unprotected piv sex while high, spitting kink, good ol’ size kink too
TWs (DDDNE): kidnapping, bodily harm
Word count: 8.4k
🎧ྀི Full Wasteman/Dee playlist if anyone's interested
a/n: Finally!! They are trying to be together (until tragedy strikes :)) Thank you once again to the talanted @p4neminem for the beta <3 and for rambling w/ me🙏go get your Coryo juice from their blog right neow!
You get through the day, somehow you do… and then the next rolls over… and the one after that. Soon enough, the cold fluorescent lights of the examination room melt your eyes off, leaving behind a dull throb. It's the day of the health assessment practical and doctor Smith is in one of his moods—already listing off how heavily he'll deduct points for sloppy patient history intake.
You shouldn't have popped that pill just before the exam… you should've just let the tiredness consume you, maybe settle you a bit. Instead of going to Alex, who inevitably bought from Gaz as you sat waiting in the car. Maybe if you'd stayed put and simply accepted that not everything had to be peachy all the time, these jitters and muscle spasms wouldn't be here to make it all so difficult. You are sure it's just your hypervigilance playing tricks on you… worried about Paul's men associating you with Dee. Sure, they'd seen you at that party, but… it was dark then… and it's not like Dee will walk through the door right this instant; or any door around you in the near future.
You try to focus, somehow that leaves space for more worry to flood your brain in painful waves. The part you are most nervous about has to be the blood samples. So many variables, so many things that can blow up in your face. What if you get one of those people whose veins are so deeply burrowed that you'd have to poke and prod just for them to end up complaining to the examiners? Or… oh god, what if you get a fainter? You shake your head—it's all pretty standard, you passed theory with flying colors and you want to be doing this. Practice makes perfect… you will be perfect. You have to be. Because if you aren't, then what else do you have left, and what will it mean for you, and—
—And, oh sweet baby Jesus, it's Dee. One of the volunteers… is him.
He strides in, shoulders broad and raised, tattoos only peeking slightly beneath a striped sweater. The soft pastel green and blue against the cream stitching look so captivating on him, echoing a subtle glow back into his eyes. He doesn't seem ill at ease in the slightest—wearing the hat of a tempered criminal when it suited his needs.
A true social chameleon answering your challenge.
And so, you wait—having learned from him that stillness means preparation. A game of chicken after days of silence. Who will take flight first? He really tries to make it seem casual, you have to give him that—snatching his patient ticket and taking his place in line… all but looking bored. Yet, he is further away from the volunteer before him than is necessarily needed.
The plastic chair digs into your back as he looms over you, even taller in this arrangement… even more intoxicating.
You look up, blinking slowly like a cat indicating no ill intent. “What are you doing here, Dee?” You whisper through your teeth, catching a whiff of the cigarette ashes that have seeped through the polyester fabric of his sweater. Rot… but the lavender is still there—notes of it lingering and defining.
Dee tuts as he burrows his hands into his pockets. “Don't flatter yourself, angel. Smithie here is a valued customer in the garage, so I came as a... ‘professional courtesy’ you could say,” He shrugs, continuing to feign nonchalance.
“Ah the good Samaritan…”, you nod along, a sour feeling bubbling up on your tongue. “Though, I find it telling that you were somehow signed up for this slot. I thought you don't like ‘forced t’ings’?”
The way you ring his accent makes some warm feeling climb up his neck—hairs standing on end. His eyes look sunken and tired, almost bitter that he'd slapped that label on the two of you.
“Maybe I saw a thing or two back at the garage… and before then even. Things that intrigue me, you feel.” He stretches, cracking his shoulders but doesn't look down to where you remain seated. Like he's unsure what his eyes may reveal. “You seem like a ball of nerves when I pull shit or when stuff corners you, but then you untangle it all like a curious kitten. I gotta see what makes you tick, still.”
A free breath leaves you—challenge accepted. You barged into his world, it’s only fair that he returns the favor.
When he catches your convinced smile, he proceeds to effortlessly tuck in the numbered card up his long sleeve with just his fingers. When he takes a quick look around and deems that no one is interested in what he's cooking up in the slightest, he slithers it over to the papers you are clutching at. Dealer’s tricks work their magic even when he cleaned up. You look at the laminated number, gloss catching in the lamp light and see… ‘7’.
“Ha, lady luck has my back today?” You raise a brow, still looking up at him, tapping rhythmically on the cork back of your clipboard. “You know… I have to draw blood today. I doubt these long sleeves roll up above your elbow?”
Dee finally meets your eyes at that and you see the gentleness that dances in his irises in a reluctant pulse. “Oh, angel, personally… I prefer making my own luck.” A pause as he tests the durability of the sweater, rolling it up. And sure enough, his biceps get in the way. “Well, I can always take it off. And I won't be crying about no privacy screen.” He dares to shoot you a wink and you feel his gaze settle on the tattoo, hidden beneath your scrubs.
The ink is starting to feel searing hot.
When the time comes, you go to the plastic bowls for a fake draw and repeat the slight of hand trick he'd executed… but reversed in a sense. Burying your hand in the myriad of cards that poked at your fingers made it easier to execute, that's for sure. But you still feel proud of yourself, given that the good doctor remained none the wiser to your dash of curated luck.
It's weird and fascinating all at once, to be treating Dee as if you don't know him—explaining what tests need to be done, what questions you'll be asking. Calling him ‘sir’ all throughout.
Your stomach sinks when you skim the final question for the intake, feeling like a train has ran you over as your lips move on their own, forcing out a mumble. “Are you sexually active?”
The idiot has the audacity to look proud, lazily stretching his legs.
“Very,” he simply states, so much like him to boast about it.
This one ends up being an angrier note than the rest—pen scratching the paper, ink bleeding through the page as you mark the check. It's not like you are in any sort of defined relationship with him—it's foolish to believe you're exclusive… given that there was nothing to be exclusive about. The two of you haven't even kissed for crying out loud… the intimate touches were just… exploration. Two people wanting closeness.
He takes in your reaction while his legs continue to swing in attempted inattention. You don't need to know he's full of shit… not yet anyhow.
Sure, he rang Cindy—his go-to girl for ‘exchanging favors’ but it wasn't like before… She was a hot little thing, he always thought. Convenient too, because she knew whay buttons to push to please him. A perfect distraction when he had to prove to himself he could still do ‘casual’. Cindy wouldn't expect anything more, anything bothersome—unlike someone else he knew.
Yet, when she'd been in his ‘office’, on her knees, sucking his dick—Dee could pretend to get lost in the physical relief but… it felt empty. His eyes always wandered to his phone and your messages. Cindy could tell his head was somewhere else—not that she usually minded when it meant getting her fix quicker. This time though, it'd felt especially weird—not his usual bottled anger but an uncharacteristic steadiness that coiled in his tense muscles. What's wrong, big D?’, she'd asked and the nickname made him nauseous. It was funny… pathetic. That the sleazy things he used to get off on before, now failed to give him any gratification whatsoever. He would always reach the same conclusion—that you'd made him want dangerous things…
As you instruct him to lean forward so you can listen in on his breathing with the stethoscope, he whispers low enough for just your ears to catch: “Is it weird that I find this hot, little nurse?”
You knee at his dangling shin gently enough to deliver the reprimanding message. “Please, stay still, sir. I hear some wheezing when you exhale. Could you take another deep breath for me?”
“You ain't helpin’ my case, angel…” Dee mumbles in mock irritation but pent up desire frays at the edges of his voice while he follows your instructions anyway.
“And out—” you guide, paying his flirtatious attempts little mind. You keep telling yourself that, but your heartbeat rings in your ears alongside the small whistling you unfortunately hear again.
Worry washes over your face as you quickly glance at the history you managed to take in during the questions-and-answers. You focus on the ‘chest tightness’ and ‘shortness of breath’ he reported. Initially, you noted them as potentially psychosomatic but now… there's more context to add.
“I'll have to recommend you for follow-up assessments for possible asthma based on these… but first I need to make record of any habits that may be exacerbating the symptoms,” you explain with a dry throat as you hear Doctor Smith approach your chairs. You swallow hard, feeling a twitch in your thumb joints from the overexertion… and the earlier stimulants. But you force yourself to continue. Not just for the grade this time, but chiefly—for Dee's sake.
“Do you smoke? If yes—what and how often?”
Sure, you already know the answer but you have to put on a show for Smith. Especially when the old doctor looks quietly impressed by what you were able to so astutely catch on in your ‘patient’.
“I'm an asthmatic weed fanatic…” Dee raps proudly, the acapella arrangement accompanied by a shit-eating, ear-to-ear grin. No grand applause follows though. “… It's a Skepta lyric…” he explains with a sigh, pinching his nose like he's offended you aren't aware of the grime culture titan. But when you continue to look unimpressed and concerned, he switches gears: “Fine, fine. You can make a note that I smoke it… medicinal-like. For my back pain and shit—four times a week give or take.”
Dee takes a once-over as you write it diligently. When he notices all the decorations you've put on your clipboard—random stickers with cute cartoons— he can't help but add: “Is that straight enough for your charts and stickers, angel?”
“Yes, sir… That will be all.” You clear your throat, attempting to remain professional. A big sigh of relief follows when Smith jots something undeniably positive in his assessment sheet. Then, you turn back to Dee: “Please, watch your blood pressure as well. It was high, but… a lot of patients can be nervous.” You respond with a tease of your own, though you add in a whisper after the doctor leaves. “This wasn't a laughing matter, Dee… you could've had an asthma attack at any point. You don't even know what triggers to avoid and you smoke like a chimney!”
“‘Triggers’, angel? Seriously? We only live once—and I sure as hell know to avoid any triggers on actual guns and enjoy my time in this shithole. Not whatever tomfoolery this is…” His voice may be dismissive, but he reaches for your notes with some underlying determination.
“No,” you say in a huff, not letting go of the paper so he doesn't run away from this again. When he raises a brow in question, you continue with a smooth but serious voice: “We live everyday. We only die once. So it's best that day comes later rather than sooner…”
Dee stops for a second, halfway done with tucking in the papers into his pocket. He lets out a noncommittal noise… yet something in his body language screams that a slower, more deliberate and cognizant process is taking place.
Like he is contemplating the merits of finally letting himself be cared for… with a gentleness he once knew but has long believed dead.
After the practical, it's like a dam broke open. Dee feels more compelled to try and work on showing up for the good and the bad. Not always in the best shape for the deeper conversations, but it's the effort that counts. He has to repeat to himself that ‘effort’ doesn't mean ‘forcing’ things to work so much as it's adjusting and working through something together.
A previously unfamiliar concept to a lone survivor.
When he can't, you go with him to the gym, so he can redirect that frustration somewhere else. Doing push-ups with you on top of him was a surprisingly fun experience for you and a sure ego boost moment for him.
You, for your part, also try to be straight with him—voicing your worries when you can instead of letting them rule you. When you can't, he lets you sit pressed against his chest and you listen to his heart—until its language makes you speak up. He tries to not take your silence personally, though he still has a hard time understanding how you can dissociate so intensely. As someone who lets reactions show and consume him first, it's yet another very foreign notion.
But… you both can learn something from the other—his tendency to jump and bite could cost him greatly if he crosses the wrong person. And you, well—you can use less thinking sometimes and more impulsivity. Doctor Dee's orders…
You both have patterns that once served your survival but no longer make you whole—only let you spiral in case of a clash. Letting go of something that's defined you is hard, but it's better to live everyday, instead of being afraid this is your one chance. Better not to fly away like each of you had dreamt of in your own ways, but stay present to greet another morning.
You can think on it all day while the sun warms up your face through the delicate curtains, but then your phone buzzes at the vanity—
Still on for 2nite? I'll pick you up at 7. Pack a bag.
A bag? Yet another confusing direction … you'd slept over at the gang’s house a couple of times when movie nights got too late. ‘Note to self: ‘Scarface’ is marginally less stupid when Dee does a Tony Montana impersonation.’
Most of all though, cuddling up next to him, you had such sound rest that you never wanted to leave.
So… was this an invitation for something more serious? If he planned ahead…
I hope I won't be your first murder victim?
His response arrives quickly and you can already feel his cheeky smile through the pixels—
That depends. Will you behave?
You twirl your phone as you open his cigarette case he left with you for ‘safekeeping’. As you take one stick in your mouth, the cheap rolling paper sticks and crumbles lightly in your fingers—moldable but efficient.
You send the response before you ceremoniously light it, smoke curling up your nostrils:
That also depends…
“Smartmouth…” Dee chuckles to himself as he shoves his phone into the glove box of his car.
Ahead, the view of his men moving furniture and cleaning weeds greets him below the hot and high noon sun.
He has to admit, your grandfather's house is a thing of beauty—a wide acre of land that looked like a proper place for a throne. Secluded but not decrepit… he will take better care of it than your father ever could.
It's another step toward trying to make something out of old wounds instead of cutting the rot clean off. A weirdly poetic way of doing it—he almost wants to slap himself awake.
Then, he imagines your confused but appreciative surprise—how your eyes will light up in disbelief, how your whole body will thrum, because he did something right… and that fuels his strength.
“Where are we going, Dee? Come on!” You whine in protest as he drives off the campus.
“It's a surprise, angel… a good one.” He sounds so convinced it's contagious. As he grips the wheel harder, his other hand only reluctantly and occasionally leaves your thigh when he has to shift. “We are ‘practicin’ trust and confidence’, innit?”
You almost pout at the way he adopts your vocabulary with suspicious enthusiasm and mischievous accuracy whenever he can use it to his advantage. Shifting to face his eyes that are still focused dead ahead on the road, you become mesmerized by the way the shadows of the dense trees cover parts of his face, ever-changing like his moods. When he feels you shift, his left cheek twists into a crooked pull that makes you chuckle.
You finally find the words to speak again: “Yeah… honesty too though!”
“You always have something to say, ey?” Dee glances over and meets your gaze at last.
You see the playfulness that burns through his features and it urges you to squeeze your thighs together in response, effectively trapping his hand just above your knee. But he is in to play it seems—answering swiftly by digging his fingers against your softness.
The cheeky ministration reaches the desired boiling point, eliciting a whimper from you, effectively forcing you to spread your legs apart in an attempt to stop the dull throbbing. Once you release his biting palm, Dee lets out a deep chuckle in satisfaction and takes it as permission to drum short and light slaps at your inner thigh with a loping, almost lazy beat—like you are his personal instrument to play his tune on.
“You quite finished, angel? Take care of the music f'me, enjoy the scenery and feed me that shit gas station coffee every now and again, yeah? You won't get a better deal…”
“You're still talking like you're selling something to me!” you accuse in a banter, but he just dangles the AUX cable in your face.
Relent you shall… as you play some of his preferred songs. It isn't your cup of tea but him serenading more than makes up for the bass that rattles your bones.
Once you follow his advice and look out the car window, you swear you recognize the swirly higher roads. Even the trees echo memories of quiet, safe summers. They don't seem taller—maybe because you are all grown up too… The question that seeks confirmation dies in your throat and you just try to let things happen, instead of stressing over and controlling every possible outcome. Dee seems pleased as you settle into the passenger seat… and a little less so when he gulps down the metallic aftertaste of that coffee.
Sure enough, you pull down the tight unpaved road that leads up to your grandfather's house—your eyes transfixing on its white walls that appear more yellow in the setting sun. It's like someone is showing you a picture… you can't believe you're actually here. Like a day hasn't passed yet you've lived a thousand lives ever since. The intermediate owners seem to have taken great care of the place—probably made it all theirs on the inside, but that could never erase the memories you built throughout or in the garden.
Your jaw still hangs wide when Dee casually opens the gates. As you blink awake from the blurry haze, you mumble: “Don't tell me you…”, you inhale the smell of freshly cut grass and try to continue with a stuttering breath, “—you bought it, Dee… Why?”
He stands next to you, respecting your space, even letting time stretch wide and accommodating as the reminiscing flows. “Figured the place was used to criminal activity… it's private but not suffocating. Not like the city apartments where you need a doorman twenty-four-seven.”
He lays it on thick—all these practical perks, but when your eyes land on the campfire spot—already fitted with trunks and quilts for seating, you realize he's still holding back on diving into the full story, on expanding his chest and letting honesty flow out.
It can't be just the convenience… He'd never reduce your past to such crude, simple terms.
“It's also seen plenty of love and hope.” You counter as you tangle your fingers through the vine-ridden fence.
Dee huffs from behind your back. It's almost like his breath catches at how right the words ring. Time is freezing over again… imaginary chilly air prickling at his skin. Like it had at the tattoo shop, when all he had to worry about was you—your breath and your natural movements that somehow keep him in a trance.
He twists back, whistling for Taylor who's still battling with the lawnmower. When he manages to get the other man's attention, Dee gestures across his neck in a cut-off motion—ensuring it's quiet, ensuring he can try and stay present with you…
Once the only sound either of you can hear is the ambient trills of cricket wings, he finally takes a step towards you. “I could tell it’s seen more than simple wastemen… just by the way you talked about it. Kinda like how I remember my mum's singing…” He reaches over and instead of threading a flower through your hair or caressing you like some lovesick main character from those sappy romantic movies you'd made him watch… It's a joint, pre-rolled with care, that he ends up tucking behind your ear. You look up with a soft smile as he admits with his full chest: “I wanted to be here. Want you to be here too.”
That’s all he can put into words, to hope to express the deep longing for a place frozen in time. Not devoid of life but marked by it—by the bad, the ugly and the better. Not just a place you can fly off to, but a place where both of you can breathe in.
“I'd like that too…” You admit in a whisper that gets carried by the wind, bringing your hands to settle against his chest.
When you see a smile mirrored on his face for good, even bright, you take it as permission enough to kiss the first place you can reach without getting on the tips of your toes. You extend your neck slowly so as to not miff him from the closeness you are initiating and when you feel him tense up… you answer by placing a soft peck against his Adam's apple.
It bobs as Dee swallows, taken aback but not rejecting as he settles his hands around the small of your back, bringing you impossibly closer. Naturally, the two of you had this kind of familiarity for a while now… but a certain boundary has never been crossed thus far.
Not for a lack of want but a fear of pushing the other away, of making what the two of you have feel… mundane, transactional even.
“Angel…”, you can tell his throat is dry but there's barely restrained desire that threatens to spill over, edged into his purr. “This here is no fairytale—where you'll get to kiss the frog and get a squeaky clean prince in the end.”
Fears laid bare… At last. He expects a slap—be it literal or figurative, expects it all to end once he's named it… because no happy ending awaits dirty crooks.
“I never said I wanted that…”, you exhale as you press your ear against his beating heart. Its beat grows faster, heavier… like the melody of your shared breaths. “My ex made everyone around us think we were this perfect couple…. But it was all a lie.” You nuzzle further, only to take a fistful of his shirt, holding on for dear life as you gather the strength to peel off your face to meet his eyes. Honesty and vulnerability ring in your next words: “I want something real, Dee. Not something that shines for the sake of shining.”
His gaze scatters across your face, moving rapidly as he tries to take in any sign of uncertainty, any chance you may flee. Once he finds none, he feels his heart grow lighter, his chest feeling freer than it’s been in ages. “Nothing in here shines, angel. But maybe you'll help me polish it still?”
With that, Dee hooks his index finger below your chin and pinches it with his thumb, bringing you up, up… until you feel your spine stretched to its limit. Only then does he grant you some reprieve, bending down ever so slightly to capture your lips in a kiss that's eternally hungry. One hand still holds your back so you never lose balance—be it from lightheadedness or the sheer surprise that electrifies you when he bites at your lower lip. It makes your eyes shoot open only to be greeted by his blue ones—desperate to absorb any reaction, to make the moment real and lasting. A small smile tugs at his lips when you whimper into the kiss once he soothes the mark his teeth leave behind.
And because Dee is… well, Dee, he proudly growls: “Careful, little nurse… you'll steal my breath away and we both know how concerned you get over my potentially asthmatic ass.”
You roll your eyes as your feet meet solid ground fully again, though your mind still remains a delicious mess. You can still form one thought… and that entails feeding him his own medicine.
As you tilt your head to the side, you proudly mimic: “You practiced that one in front of the mirror or something?”
He puffs, lips caught between his teeth. Before you can register anything else, you feel his palm land on your ass fast and sharp. Just once—just a tease and a reprimand tied together now that he feels the two of you'd broken the final wall that used to stand in his way. You squeal in surprise, as expected and he just looks down at you… daring you to bite again.
“I know you're jumpy… but something tells me you enjoyed that one a lil too much?” Dee dares to add as he takes your hand. “Good to know…”
The smell of the grill lingers long after the outdoor meals are wolfed down, coal remains heavy in the air even as the lit up joint fights for odor dominance. Naturally, Dee's men were famished from a day of hauling furniture and cleaning the house, so you’d tried to be as helpful as possible when dinner was prepared. He, by contrast, definitely didn't aid in that mission—coming up behind you as you chopped the tomatoes for the bottomless salad, biting your earlobe before he’d steal a slice. The bastard even managed to sneak a roll or two of his hips every now and again as his hands would come to rest around you.
It was an intoxicating feeling—being free to express how much you wanted him and an even more addicting realization that his desire for you runs so deep in return.
Gathered around the campfire, he is laying stretched across a hammock and you feel so at peace fitting in whatever free space you can find against him. Two peas in a pod, though you aren't so similar… you make it work. He holds the joint to your lips as you stretch your neck backwards to allow him easier access while you take two purposeful inhales… ‘Puff puff pass’—a great rule to adhere to in larger groups so no one ends up butthurt.
You float yet you're also centered and mindful, excited to catch anything you can of him in this new light. Since it's also the first time you feel so grounded while high… Maybe because you have him to lean on, now.
When his turn is up and he's passed the joint to T, he stretches, letting out a grunt. You're sure he is trying hard to appear nonchalant as you feel the evidence of his growing arousal pressed against your backside, conveniently hidden from the view of others. It makes you press your thighs together—wanting to roll back into him so badly… but you catch yourself, prickling embarrassment spreading through your chest.
So instead, you yawn in performance—a perfect diversion. “Dee, I'm so sleepy…” you say with a convincingly heavy voice, though it's desire that clouds it.
He clocks it fast, so ready in fact that you fear the hammock will recoil on you while he pulls you up with him. “Sure thing, angel. G’night y'all!”
“But, boss—what time do we gotta—”, some guy you forgot the name of throws out into the air. His eagerness is easily reduced by Taylor jabbing him in the leg… read the room (garden?), dude.
With how quickly Dee leaves it all behind, you'd think he just drank a whole jug of coffee instead of getting high. In a flash, you are already halfway across the garden and past the glass screen doors inside. It hasn't changed much even if it had other owners… you only saw the kitchen and the living room, and for now, the tour will be postponed it seems. Not that you are complaining.
It’s all quite blurry at the moment…
One thing you can tell apart is when you finally reach inside Dee’s claimed room, because he presses your back against the closed wooden door. It rattles at the shared weight of your movements as your lips tangle messily with his in what can be only described as consuming hunger.
The kisses are all teeth and heavy breaths as his hand snakes up your thigh. Once it settles on your ass, the other one joins easily to hook your legs around his waist. Getting high usually meant feeling sluggish but this time… he claims the weight and guides you to the next destination with ease.
The soft bed welcomes your curves. You keep your feet tangled, wanting to feel every inch of him even through these pesky layers that stand in the way of carnal pleasure. Whenever he breaks the lip-locks, it’s to drink you in. Still, you’ve learned from the best, that any opening should be seized, so you are quick to attack his neck with pecks and love bites. He is all sweaty but even that tastes sweet to you somehow.
The delicious attention make his hips stutter, meeting your ache while the last thread of patience he might have clung to, snaps and a throaty sound escapes him. “Need you, angel… need you bad.” Dee grunts as he all but gets tangled in his shirt trying to get rid of it… followed by yours. “I can tell you need me too, hm? We've been kept waiting too long…”
As if some outside force is the culprit behind the slow burn that you two dance in.
You giggle but the sound quickly gets trapped in your throat, turning into a choke when he bites at your collarbone, sucking in a mark. “I thought you said you were ‘very sexually active’ when the question came up?”
Dee drags up his tongue across the freshly blooming mark, dipping lower between your breasts, licking a filthy path before his lips settle over each forget-me-not he can scout. He almost wants to ignore your pestering, but then he feels your heart beating faster under his palm and he looks up, almost shy—hand caught in the biscuit jar.
“I thought you were smart, angel… I said it to spite you.” He admits as his fingertips whisper around one of your nipples, lapping leisurely at the other. “Sure, I called Cindy… but—”, he pinches the perky bud he's been circling teasingly, “—I ended up giving her extra smack just so she'd walk out faking a limp. I didn't need any of my guys getting on my case now…”
As he defends, you tremble with laughter despite yourself. You'd leaned into his touch a second ago, hips raised off the mattress to meet his aching length but now… all you can imagine is his red face as he puts on his tough guy, nonchalant act.
“Sorry, sorry!” You clutch your stomach while your other arm hangs on his shoulder for support. “It's just that, I never thought—”
“Ah you find it funny, then? How many times I had to walk you out of my room… Blue-balled as hell just ‘cause I was stopping myself from ruining you. Ruining us.” In one motion, he scoops you, fingers digging into your waist to settle you comfortably sprawled on top of him. “You never thought what? That you'd nestle yourself under my skin like this?”
Your eyes dash away for a second as you nod slowly, taking in his words and the small thrusts of his hips into you. Pressure only builds up, threatening to burst open from your chest in a myriad of needy sounds. The shorts you still have on feel like a straitjacket.
As if he can read your thoughts, he hooks a finger and peels the troublesome restraint off of you, guiding your hips up so he can have free access into your neediness. A hiss from his lips quickly turns into a moan that reverberates from his chest and throughout your ribs as his fingers ghost between your folds… when he feels you dripping with desperation.
He hums, adding: “Yeah, well… me neither. Turns out you are my ruin, huh? Making me degrade myself, waitin’ on you, tending to you… making it feel right.” His hand continues on its destined journey, fingertip just teasing your entrance, barely in and out, until you're forced to chase it back, shaking and needy. “Let's see if you’re truly that delicate… come sit on my face, angel. Take what you need, hm?”
Your suddenly feel exposed by the invitation, eyes widening and breath becoming shallow. The moment Dee catches your hesitation, a wave of irritation threatens to wash over him. As someone used to taking everything any time, any place, his instinct is to believe it's yet another rejection.
You catch it in his eyes, these barbed feelings threatening to pierce through you, and you default to assuring: “It's not that I don't want to, Dee… I'm just—I'm m not sure if I—”
If you'll look and feel like he expects you to.
He catches the beginnings of your spiraling but this time he tries not to cut you with his jagged edges. This is supposed to be an experience you cherish, not one you have to walk on eggshells around.
Did that really just cross his mind? He must be too high if he was thinking like a complete bellend.
“You'll be perfect, angel… I just wanna have a little taste, yeah? And if you wanna, I can keep that smart mouth of yours plenty occupied—you won't have the time to think to worry.”
He kneads at your hip bones while you still remain perched on top of him, only reaching to flick your nipple when he sees the confirmation on the tip of your tongue.
“Well… when you put it like that…” You smile this time and he wants to burn that image onto his retinas—you in bliss, with that ink coiling around your body.
“Slap my thigh if you need a break, yeah? I can take it…” Dee's smirk is sinful as he allows you to brace against his shoulders.
You hover above his waiting lips, not fully settled as you face the very prominent tent in his sweatpants. Mouth watering, you palm him through the fabric, feeling a seething throb call to you in response.
You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, only teasing through the fabric, wanting to see just how taut he can become. Sure enough, once you cup his balls, Dee's already grabbing your hips and practically slamming your heat against his face—tongue swirling around your clit with filthy wet sounds. You all but whimper in blinding pleasure at the hot breaths he fans against your folds.
“I suggest you get to work, angel… if you know what's good for you.” That edge in his muffled voice gets your hands to work.
When you slide below his waistband to free him, you feel how warm, full and heavy he is against your palm. His length slaps your chin as it springs free and you can see beads of precum gush out in sync with his tongue working your hole. Slipping and teasing, he never leaves any part alone; his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves while his mouth continues its worship.
The noises that spill out of you are not small now, not sheepish at all. You take in the rhythm, eyes rolling back as you push into him and finally swirl your tongue across the head of his cock, gathering the bitter yet intoxicating drops. Just when you think the electricity coiling in your abdomen cannot possibly get any more burning, you feel him growl against your clit when you manage to take him deeper. It only rushes you to milk more of these delicious sounds—saliva dripping between his thighs at each bob of your head.
The moment he slips a finger into your waiting, pulsing cunt, it's your shuddering sounds that resonate down his length, making his hips cant up—salty delight hitting the back of your throat impossibly deeper.
Now that his mouth is no longer preoccupied, he urges you on, voice drunk on the pleasure you're giving him with each ready gulp. “Fu-uck—that's it, angel… Just lean on me, take what you've been missin’…”
Dee isn't as greedy as you'd expected him to be. Even when he's lost in his own building high, his fingers never stop curling and twisting in a concordant melody. He can tell how close you are to unraveling, low voice coaxing more tremors out of you before his tongue rejoins in tight fast licks around your clit.
“Just let go, baby… I've got you.”
It's like a wrecking ball breaks through your walls as you ride out the wave. Lips puffy but no longer around his cock, you cry out as you clench around his fingers, searching for more. It's not just mindless sounds though—the moment your lips form his name in a breathless chant while your thighs all but clamp trembling on his shoulders, he knows he needs more.
Coming down from such an orgasm feels like an endless free fall, but you manage to let out some coherent words while your nails skim along his happy trail. “That was… wow.” You sigh, but are still greeted by his hard cock right in front of your nose.
Once you grow placid under his soothing brushes up and down your calf, he pats the unoccupied side of the bed, voice fraying with a barely contained need to ravish. “‘Wow’ indeed… delectable even. But I think it's time for the main course.”
This was preparation… like he'd seasoned the stakes before nailing them down on the grill. Like he lays out his supplies before he rolls a joint—but this time it's you who will get squeezed and pressed just right.
You try to be as enchanting as possible, getting off of him and perking up across the mattress, but your thighs are still shaking. That doesn't deter Dee in the slightest— if anything it winds him up greatly… to see he had such a mind-numbing effect on you.
His left hand takes the length of your arm, stretching it forward, until he reaches your fingers—guiding them to grasp the headboard. Then, his right palm settles at the junction between your abdomen and hip, steering you to tilt and open up further.
A sight to behold… he believes with passion.
One knee pulls yours apart more as he glides his cock between your still weeping folds, slapping it there with a hiss every now and again. You feel how much he's trying to hold back when he lets out a shaky breath as he spits for good measure, working the makeshift lube on his length.
You whine at the sound, brain too far gone to realize you’re actually voicing your thoughts: “Spit in my mouth…. please—”
If you'd been facing him right now, you could’ve seen his eyes grow cartoonishly wide. Even his breath stills… but you do feel it when his fingers thread through your hair pulling at your scalp, so your lips can meet his. He isn't too close, wanting to see you fight for it.
“Ah… so not a delicate angel after all... Filthy,” he growls lowly and presses his thumb against your lower lip—prodding your mouth to hang open; tongue out—ready and waiting for him as he savors the moment. For a while you think he’ll just tease you more, even laugh. But instead, he never lets go and spits down your throat. You shudder as you swallow, his thumb catching any stray drool and pressing it into your tongue.
“I could watch your mouth get filled all day, angel… but I think I'd rather slot in here.”
The word is punctuated by the breath stolen from your lungs as he drives into you in one motion. The grip he has on your hips is vicious and you're sure you'll be able to make out marks in the shape of his hand prints come morning. But you can only push back, once you feel how right you two fit in this delirium—how unbelievably full he makes you and how desperately unearthed he feels.
As you become entranced in the chase, Dee lets go and instead leans on his hands—caging them on either side of your head, pressing you into the mattress as he raises and rams back with full force.
“That's it, angel… God—you feel so good!” You are all but laying prone on your stomach now, grabbing at his forearms, nails raking in an attempt to find air. His hips only roll deeper at the feeling as he leans in to coo in a tight breath: “Wanna mark me with your claws, pretty girl? 'S that it?”
When you nod in fervor, he pulls out, much to your dismay. But he quickly makes up for it by guiding you to face him, tilting your legs up and slipping back as if not a second has passed. His shoulders stand so broad above you but you try to close your arms around them—your nails leaving angry red marks in their wake.
You feel yourself getting close again, full and wanting, begging him to catch you once more. “I'm gonna— Dee, please! Don't stop—”
“Never, angel… Be good again, yes? Come f'me… I'm right there with you, gonna finish this ride together.” He groans, scrapping to pull out in time but he swiftly coaxes your waves of pleasure with his free fingers instead—never leaving you empty.
It sends his head on a spin—imagining you would be milking his cock with the same greed as you take his hand. Thick ropes of cum coat your stomach as he drills into his fist one final time, muscles coiled and spasming with each drive. Your moaned names become a tangled muddle of a mantra but his eyes never leave with your release, not when you lose and find yourself below him.
“Beautiful…” Dee sighs much in the same fried octave as he had back at the tattoo shop.
This time, however, you know what he means. And it steadies your ragged breathing while you take his hand to your chest.
Showering without hot water can be a bitch, even on hot summer days. Even as you lay cuddled up with Dee whose one and only function now is that of a human furnace, you feel the goosebumps linger for some time.
You're restless, not in thought as much as physically—like he's unlocked something you didn't know you had in you and now it's all but begging to be poured out. Dee feels it too, your minute movements now and again, but he's too far gone and exhausted to let them bother his deep slumber. He looks so at peace, his broad chest rising and falling… it all looks so inviting. You don't think you've ever seen his face muscles so relaxed, used to him grinding his teeth all the time. It makes your heart fill with warmth.
After another round of tossing and turning, you realize the itching in your eyes isn't just the result of some leftover pent up energy but your contacts actively drying up into a crust.
Great…
You roll over and groan dramatically, seeing his forearm dawn small crescent-shaped marks from your earlier clawing. It spasms once he no longer feels the weight of your head on it—reaching out for some tether, for you, even subconsciously.
“I forgot the lens solution in my bag downstairs!” you whisper, high enough to hopefully let him register at least part of it.
A huff edged with a grumble is all you get in response. And so you journey on—phone flashlight bravely illuminating your path down the winding stairs.
All doors to the bedrooms are closed and it seems the whole house sleeps. Like Dee said, seclusion makes it less prudent to keep watch and it's not like his name is making rounds on the streets regardless.
You find your bag on the living room couch, as expected… a successful and quick one-stop journey. But then, the moon-reflected glisten of a framed photo on top of the fireplace catches your eye. It's your grandfather and you—smiling and giggling respectively as he ruffles your flower crown. The one your grandmother taught you how to weave. It's like the sunlight from that day shines through the photo and back at you all these years later…
“Boss said the old fuck kept it off any blueprints ‘cause he was brewing moonshine up in here. Good thing the pigs didn't find them tunnels—ain't no way that snake knows about ‘em. I doubt his lil lady clocked it either…” Someone's making their way up from the basement… but you don't hear a word.
You're so lost in that trip down memory lane, fingers trailing up the glass panel of the frame, you fail to hear the small creaks in the shabby floorboards that only grow closer. So used to the house settling in…
That's when an unknown reflection scowls in the picture—contrasting your smiles.
The moment you think to scream when you fially register the unknown presence behind you, a big hand is already across your mouth and an arm tackles you onto the couch. It's not a loud fight but an unfair one; the only giveaway is the photo crashing against the stone fireplace step, sending glass shards flying off.
“Shit! Better hurry before some rat wakes up—” A man's voice commands.
You thrash, legs flailing to try and kick off whoever the assailant is. Then, your eyes paint quiet horror when you see a familiar face… Gaz.
So they'd seen you that day after all, when you were waiting on Alex to hook you up with pills. You shouldn't have gone—they probably kept tabs on you since Paul hated Dee's guts now. Lacking the manpower, they'd never be able to take him down in a clean fight… so they snatch you the moment his guard is down— the moment he dares defile and own Paul's legacy by purposefully buying off his old headquarters.
Your heart grows bitter at your misstep; even more so at the question that bubbles up to the surface…
Did your father remember who you are before he sent his men here?
You aren't even sure which option is worse: him knowingly kidnapping his own daughter or being content with taking out anyone stupid enough to get caught in the crossfire?
Despite the confusion, you manage to slip free between Gaz's cumbersome movements—landing squarely on the broken pieces, feeling them slice sharply at your palms and knees. You scream Dee's name, but no one responds, not when he'd finally allowed hismelf to sleep peacefully.
When you try and make a full run for it, you're faced with yet another challenge—Alex, waiting for you just down the hall. He kicks you across the shin albeit unconvincingly. It's clear he hasn't done this before, yet his crazed eyes tell you he's set on seeing it through so he can get to have another day high. He's full on cold turkey, sweaty and trembling but with how out of it you are, you end up stumbling in pain despite his awkward movements, hitting your head hard against the shoe rack. Your "friend's" clammy hands settle on your throat in an unsettlingly sober attempt to choke you out.
“What you losing time for, junkie?!” Gaz takes a heavy step closer and stuffs your mouth with some filthy rag. “What good will the bitch be if she's dead? She's already out like a light!”
It's true, your head throbs, growing woozy from the smash and somehow your futile attempt at escape has only made their jobs easier... to the point where you can only flap your hands weakly while the bigger man hauls you up.
The next time you can blink with heavy eyelids, you're already through the basement's tunnels. You knew of the room, sure… even helped your grandfather pick apples for the moonshine. But these tunnels—these had to be Paul's creation. If the police had ever uncovered them during the raid, Dee might’ve had them walled off. Then again, that would've meant your father walking free, ruining your family further.
It doesn’t matter now, what might have been. It's slipped through your fingers and when Dee wakes up he'll see he's never truly been free…
Not when one single moment could turn you from predator into hunted prey.
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Thanks for reading!
Reminder that it’s canon that Katniss and Peeta were staring at each other before they even knew each other. Just remember that means that in between each scene in the books and for the rest of his life Haymitch is most likely witnessing this
Contents: NON-CON, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Alternate Universe, Peacekeeper!Coriolanus Snow, Smut, Abuse of Authority, Degradation, Predator/Prey Dynamic, Theft, Prostitution, Misogyny, Blackmail, Emotional Manipulation, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Loss of Virginity, Stalking, Corporal Punishment, Controlling & Possessive Behavior, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hanging, Gun Kink, Dehumanization, Power Imbalance, Trauma, District 12 (Hunger Games), Manhandling, Pregnancy Scares, Outdoor Sex, Poverty
← PART 3 || PART 5 (in progress) →
A/N: Please make sure you're comfortable with gunplay smut, noncon, (and an unreal amount of dehumanization) before reading! This chapter was beta-read by the lovely @coffeeblyth on ao3 and tumblr ❤️ (if you enjoy coriolanus fanfiction, check out their work)! I appreciate y'all so much and I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Phoebe’s POV
“It’s too early to pick them.” Ezra’s shoulders slumped.
They were kneeling beside a patch of flowery tubers down in the meadow by the lake. Swamp potatoes, most liked to call them—but if you’d ask her, ‘Katniss’ had a nicer ring to it.
“Once they’re ready, we’ll have a feast,” Phoebe decided, patting her friend’s shoulder to cheer him up, as he’d been banking on harvesting those for his signature dish.
When they were kids, they used to come here all the time. It was their little secret, their haven sequestered away from it all. Here among the lush ferns, where the air was sweet and fresh, one could almost forget they were in this coal-dusted wasteland that was Twelve. Here you could forget your woes and let your troubles lie.
Back before June was born (and Phoebe was not glued to her side rearing her), most of their free time was spent here, foraging and hunting, swimming and enjoying their bounty under the shade of the willow tree. Fruits were brought home to Ezra’s ma, who baked them into delicious sweets.
This perimeter was strictly off limits, though that rule was hardly enforced when there were no Peacekeepers stationed here to keep guard. Nor was there any fence to deter people. Most stayed away, fearing the wildlife in the woods: bears and wolves—beasts that could devour you whole. Some Peacekeepers, she was sure, turned a blind eye since plenty of the commodities they paid a pretty penny for in the Hob came from here.
Ezra was an excellent hunter. He learned from the best—from his pa—who’d taught her pa how to hunt. He’d tried teaching her how to hunt too, but she had a terrible aim and possessed her ma’s sentimental disposition. She wanted to heal those rabbits, not eat them. The idea of fashioning their pelts into garments was barbaric to her. She’d been in tears when she learned something had to die so she could eat her favorite stew, but she couldn’t afford to be picky. She either ate the game or starved. Either wore the fur coat unless she wanted to freeze to death in the winter. Winters in the Seam were notoriously harsh when their homes were so poorly insulated.
Everything had a price. Warmth had a price. Security had a price.
Back then, they were pretty well-fed as far as Seam folks went thanks to their pa’s.
Ma forbade Phoebe from coming down to the meadow, but was too busy working odd jobs to keep an eye on her. She was no fun, always so stuck up, and perhaps that was the town girl in her. Though she’d married Pa and moved to the Seam, becoming one with him, she held onto her old quirks—cleaning and decorating obsessively in an attempt to make their home appear more put-together. Everything had to be perfect and colorful, but there was only so much one could do when their homes resembled shacks. She hated their place, but it was government-issued and there was no arguing with the government. It was a far cry from her childhood home, which was spacious and built with solid cement.
Phoebe had been there once—just once—when she was gravely ill and Ma had tearfully pleaded with her estranged parents for them to help foot the medical bill. It was a matter of life or death, she’d stressed. There was a flicker of softness in her grandparents’ eyes for a moment before it faded into disgust, like Ma had dragged a sickly rodent onto their doorstep, instead of their own flesh and blood. During her stay there, all Phoebe sensed in them was contempt, and something else she hadn’t been able to comprehend then. There they all feasted on delicacies Seam people could ordinarily not afford: bread—real bread—and chicken. Stuff people fought over in the Hob, and she’d know because she used to tag along with her pa on his trips. Their standard fare, conversely, was gruel-like stews made from rabbits and squirrels that they forced down. Food meant for fuel, not pleasure. Indulgence was a foreign concept to them.
The food was heavenly, so heavenly that Phoebe had eaten like a slob, forgoing her utensils to the distaste of her grandparents. Afterwards, they feasted on cake. Real cake with the cream. The place was twice the size of theirs—still tiny, but a palace in comparison to her imaginative mind. She’d been too fatigued to explore it in full, but what little she was permitted to see was mind-blowing.
To think that was her ma’s childhood home.
She must’ve been filthy rich or something.
No wonder she was miserable in the Seam. The fact she was living there voluntarily—not in the heart of town—was nothing if not a testament to how much she must’ve loved Pa. To leave it all behind for him.
After Phoebe recovered, they went back to being strangers again.
“Why don’t they like us?” a young Phoebe had asked her pa, tugging at his sleeve. She’d been hurt that when she’d smiled at her grandparents from across the street, they’d merely turned their noses up and kept walking, as if she were as insignificant as a speck of dirt on their boots. Ma had to hold her back by the collar to keep her from chasing after them.
“It’s complicated, sugarplum.” Pa had offered a wistful smile before he ruffled her blonde hair the way he always did, affectionately. Those golden waves, like woven threads of sunlight, were inherited from her ma. She had her hazel eyes too, her spitting image in every way—right down to her dimples and how she crinkled her nose when confused. “You know, your ma used to be a town girl,” Pa had told her. “Her folks aren’t thrilled that she married a Seam boy.”
“Why?” Phoebe furrowed her brows. ‘Why’ was her favorite word and she loved to question everything, her mind a sponge eager to absorb what knowledge it could. She inherited that from her pa—the only one who had indulged her ever-curious mind. Their summers were filled with picnics and nonsensical games like ‘Would You Rather’ as he endeavored to match her energy.
She’d asked her ma what it was about Pa that she’d been drawn to. Was it his voice when he sang? Whenever he did, the birds stopped to listen. Was it his humor that she liked? He’d crack the most morbid jokes sometimes, and Ma would give them both a pointed look for daring to laugh. But laughter was a contagious thing. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but join along in their merriment. Ma had confessed that what she loved most about him was how freely he lived—marching to the beat of his own drum. All her life, she’d been raised to be that perfect daughter. To do whatever she was told, without question. But then he came along and taught her what it was like to live for yourself.
Oh, to go back to those days when they used to weave flower crowns and dig for Katniss down by the lake. When the only monsters were those under her bed, and her parents kept them away. Until she learned the real monsters were the ones in human skin.
Why didn’t her grandparents like Pa? He was a wonderful person, she’d thought. What was so bad about belonging to the Seam? He worked hard—harder than anyone—coming home so fatigued, he practically passed out at the end of each day. All to keep food on the table, but he took it, like all things, in stride.
The circumstances that sowed those bitter seeds of contempt, she’d discovered once she was older, were more nuanced than that.
Ma had her rather young—when she was just seventeen. A baby herself, and apparently she was to marry another. Mr. Lipp, the mayor, she’d confessed once in a drunken, half-conscious stupor, many years later. That had to have been a joke, but Phoebe’s pa had long since been food for the worms when she’d learned that, so she couldn’t ask him if that was true. She’d gone on about the skeletons in her closet, or rather, how her daughter was the product of a tryst. Her parents had eloped—as much as a couple could when there was no getting out of this district. In this case, they fled to the other side of town, where they wallowed in their shame.
They were in love, so it was fine. Love conquers all, she’d thought. However, that came with a heavy price: a great fortune and a future of prestige sacrificed. It was no wonder her grandparents were so upset with them. She wondered if whenever they looked at their daughter, all they saw was their failure to raise her ‘right’.
It was one thing to turn down a man as rich as Mr. Lipp, but another to elope with a Seam boy.
Town folks didn’t yolk with Seam dwellers that way. From a young age, she’d observed a hierarchy among her peers in the schoolhouse: they liked to divide into cliques and stick to ‘their kind’. She thought of those times she was side-eyed and gossiped about. People like her, caught between both sides, usually were.
Her grandparents hadn’t shown her any kindness since that one exception they made when she was at death’s door. That was a one-time favor—they made it clear when they refused to take her and June in after their ma had passed. She was, in their opinion, old enough to take care of herself and her sister. Little Junebug.
“We’re in luck.” Ezra tapped Phoebe’s shoulder, then guided her to a wild patch. “Look what I found.” Before them was a bounty of strawberries ripe for the picking. He waited, hands folded behind his back, seemingly pleased with himself for finding these.
“Oh, June’s gonna love these!” Phoebe brightened and knelt before the patch.
They were going all out today—hunting and foraging in preparation for June’s eighth birthday, which was days away. They weren’t eating all of their game. Some of it was for trading down at the Hob. Some of it would pay for June’s medicine—those useless tonics which weren’t helping much, but it was better than nothing.
It rubbed her the wrong way, Ezra’s insistence with providing for her and June—as if her efforts weren’t enough to suffice. As if he were implying she was failing to give her sister the care she needed. He was incorrigible as ever with his big heart, despite her insisting she had it covered. Guilt soured in her stomach each time he did something nice for her, as if she were taking advantage of his kindness. She was her ma’s girl through and through, relying on the mercy of others.
“I’ll bake her a strawberry cake,” Phoebe announced. The cake would be a sad excuse for one, but it was the thought that counted, with what she could afford. June had never tasted a good cake anyway, so she wouldn’t know what she was missing. So easy to please. But she deserved much more. Everything she couldn’t give her.
It had been a while since June came down here, she thought. Perhaps they could have a birthday picnic. When she was a babe, she used to tie her to her back so she could watch her while foraging, but that’d become less practical since she screamed like a banshee, demanding to be set free. It didn't get any better once the little rascal started walking. Her energetic footsteps scared off all their prey.
Once, she had a powerful set of lungs, and so loved to sing gibberish. She’d be a good singer someday, Ezra had jested. If not that, then a mighty good heckler.
They filled their bags to the brim.
Usually, they walked home together after their excursions into the woods.
But this time, she told him, “You don’t have to walk me home. I can make it back myself.”
Which was a rather odd thing to say when they lived on the same street and had to walk in the same direction anyway. How else was she to tell him not to follow her? Saying that outright would invite suspicion, and as is, she was in hot water with him lately.
This wasn’t their usual routine.
She’d been nothing but unusual lately—evading him at every turn, with every excuse under the sun not to see him. She never greeted him with open arms anymore, instead paling at his presence. How was she to tell him, her best friend, that she wanted nothing to do with him anymore? It was for his own good. For his safety.
She’d done a poor job pushing him away. Him standing here beside her was proof of that. No, she hadn’t invited him to go foraging with her, but they always went together, ever since that time she was attacked by a wild dog. She’d been terrified to set foot into such perilous territory without him, who would protect her should any harm fall. He was her eyes and ears. Always.
They liked to go on Saturdays—usually they’d rendezvous at her place before going together. Lately, she’d turned down the offer of going with him. So he was here because…? There were two plausible reasons. The more likely one being: it was a Saturday morning, after all. Two: if he hadn’t come here of his own volition, perhaps a little birdie had told him where she was. June. Her sister, bless her heart, who could never keep a secret.
He’d gotten straight to work, foraging with her, neither of them willing to address the palpable tension lingering in the air. Some things were easier left unsaid. His presence alone and that expression he wore told her he wouldn’t be easy to shake off her tail. Lately, worry was etched deep into his fatigued face, and he hesitated before speaking, as if words were caught on the tip of his tongue, but he was trying hard to obey her wishes and not pry.
But her business had always been his business.
She thought to the handful of times when he beat the living shit out of someone for her, and she had to rein him in like a dog on a leash. Only she could rein him in. Sometimes. Sometimes it didn't work.
This time it had to work. She couldn’t afford for him to go ballistic on her, or rather her ‘beau’, if he was compelled to assume he was hurting her. Which he wasn’t. But how would it look to him? A bruise wasn’t much, but he’d been thrown off seeing that little on her wrists. That was nothing compared to the rest of her body.
“I’m heading the same way. Won’t be no trouble,” Ezra insisted, to which she sighed. Of course, she anticipated that response.
“Just…” She gestured vaguely, fumbling for the words that wouldn’t come, “…don’t follow me home.” That didn’t sound concerning at all. Leave it to her to talk before thinking. “I don’t want people to get the wrong idea about us. That’s all.” Since when did she care what people thought? She attempted to rush off—
But he was quicker.
He intercepted her with ease, a tall wall in her path, a shield blocking out the harsh sunlight. “We need to talk.”
“Maybe later. I’m busy today.” She side-stepped him, but he copied her movements, to her chagrin. It was like a dance, and a rather ridiculous one at that. “Ezra,” she huffed.
“We have to talk now,” he stressed. “You’ve been acting strange, Phoebe. What’s going on with you?” His voice was as unwavering as stone, booming amid the quiet rustle of leaves surrounding them.
“Nothing,” she blurted out, never good with confrontation like that. There was a certain tell, he’d once explained, that helped him discern if she was lying. Whenever her voice went up a pitch (the way it did now), he knew. She silently cursed herself for letting that slip.
“Nothing, my foot,” he remarked, lowering his blood-tipped bow. “You’ve been avoiding me. I thought you were busy, but… do you know what June told me the last time I tried stopping by?” He looked off to the side and gave a mirthless laugh, the bitterness of it making her chest ache. She swallowed; she could never trust her sister to keep a secret. “She told me she wasn’t supposed to open the door if I came by. To pretend nobody was home.” He let that sink in for a moment. “What’s up with that?”
She hated it, having to push him away like this, but it was for his own good. A preemptive measure, in case her ‘beau’ happened to make good on his threat to harm her friend. In the quietude that followed, she’d never felt so scrutinized. Her throat constricted as if any word she’d say would somehow be heard by whatever was lurking beyond the brush. That feeling of being watched had never left her since he entered her life.
Coriolanus Snow.
The thought of him made her stomach churn as her breakfast threatened to make a reappearance while his words replayed in her head, when he was so close, his lips brushing her ear. A subtle touch, yet so disarming. It rattled her very bones.
I’d think twice about biting the hand that feeds.
He didn’t mean what he said. That was what she told herself, what she tried to convince herself, but Coriolanus had already proven he was capable of unspeakable things. The scars on her back were a permanent reminder of that. The ever-present ache in her body and the rawness festering in her was proof.
But he couldn’t know. Ezra.
“He doesn’t like us being so close,” she confessed, figuring there was no point beating around the bush anymore, now that she was cornered here.
“He,” Ezra remarked dryly. “That Peacekeeper who keeps coming around?”
He never said his name. ‘That Peacekeeper’ was a good enough name to him. They had a good chuckle though, when they heard June butcher his name trying to say it. Cornelius. What a ridiculous name, he’d mused out loud. Where’d that come from? What’s with his strange accent? The way he lilted his words at odd points and hissed like a snake trying to enunciate.
She told him he was from the Capitol. They were both left to theorize why on earth a Capitolite would be here willingly, in the shittiest district of all places. Cornelius here was a mystery.
She nodded, confirming his identity.
“Don’t you find anything wrong with that?” he pressed on, advancing forward, and she stepped back, putting some distance between them.
“I told you to stay out of it,” she murmured tersely, glancing at her feet. “We’re happy. Don’t mess things up for us. It’s best if we stop spending so much time together.” But what time they did spend was few and far between with his job in the mines. They were working him like a dog, just like they had his pa—and hers.
“You’re happy.” He tossed his bow right beside his bag on the ground, haphazardly. Before she knew it, he’d seized her wrist. She attempted to pull away, but it took little effort for him to roll back her long sleeve to reveal the finger-shaped bruises marring it. In her shock, she did nothing, while he rolled up her other sleeve, too. “Is that what you call happy?”
She blinked, her vision blurring, her ears ringing.
“I’m not mad at you, Phoebe,” he stressed delicately, sensing her emotion so well, the way he always did. “I just want to know that you’re okay. We’re family. We look after each other.”
“Me n’ June can take care of ourselves just fine, so you focus on your folks.” Her voice came out so hollow as she fixed a soft smile on her face, despite those words feeling like glass shoved down her throat.
I’m alright, her ma would always tell her. Such a convincing actress, always so patient despite her loved ones prying. It took years for Phoebe to connect the pieces that something was horribly awry with her ma, as it never quite sat right with her how she flinched at sudden movements. Shutting down when someone so much as raised their voice at her. Not to mention those bruises and cigarette burns she caught on her while she was changing, the bedroom door cracked ajar. That was just the surface of it.
It seemed the implication didn't go over his head, when his gaze darkened. “Is he… Are you giving him…”
She swallowed, ripping her hands away in that moment where Ezra’s grip eased. “He helps us. He brings June medicine.”
It was everything her friend did for her, except he required something in return. With him, everything had a price. It was a small price to pay, she decided, if it meant taking care of her sister. If she truly cared for her, she ought to swallow her pride. Better off humiliated than risk losing her.
“It’s worse than I thought,” Ezra uttered under his breath, fingers combing through his raven hair as he looked off to the side to gather his bearings. Then his attention returned in full force, along with his voice. “You don't have to live like this, Phoebe. You don’t have to be like your ma—”
“It’s not that simple,” she bristled. Her ma could’ve let her starve if she wanted to. Could’ve let her wither away while she used her depression over losing Pa as an excuse. She gave herself some time to grieve in her catatonic state, not eating, not sleeping or drinking, not bathing, while the neighbors cared for her daughter. Until she picked herself up and decided that was enough. This was her life. Her burden to bear, not anyone else’s.
She did what she had to do to survive. It wasn’t enough, whatever she scraped together from her odd jobs. Not when they had a scare—Phoebe’s health declining again, almost like it had when she had to lug her to her grandparents’ doorstep to beg for help. The second time around, they were not so gracious. They slammed the door in their faces.
By some miracle and a dozen vials downed, they pulled through, and when she grew older, Phoebe tried not to dwell on what her ma had to do to afford the exorbitant price of those tonics. After that victory, the universe had not been as forgiving to them anymore. Sometimes it felt like some unseen force was keeping score. For one blessing it gave, another it took away.
That realization came with the arrival of that Peacekeeper—that man who took everything from them. Who took her ma away, somewhere she couldn’t reach. All she had left to remember her by was that baby. June. Little Junebug, who’d never asked to be brought into a world like this, but while she was still young and innocent, Phoebe thought she could cloak her eyes and ears. Let her live like a child should—with a full belly, in a safe and loving place to stay, with whatever her heart desired, if it was in her power to obtain it.
“Why won’t you let me help you?” he pleaded, half frustrated, half perplexed. “It’s one thing not to have a choice, but you have one. You have me.”
“You already work yourself half to death as is.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t wanna add to that. Everyone has to do their part in a family, don’t they? Let me pull my weight.” Her voice faltered. “It’s my choice to make.”
She was hurting for business now more than ever after she was outed as a thief. Thievery was in poor taste—a surefire way to have your community look down on you. Sure, you could say you were doing it out of desperation for a loved one, but you don’t steal from one another. Not when you’re all in the same shoes. No one wanted to buy her trinkets or sweets—no one wanted her to do their laundry. Getting hired at any establishment was out of the question with her sticky fingers, and menial jobs at the Peacekeeper’s base were already taken.
What else did she have to offer that anyone would want?
Why, of course, herself.
It was a bitter pill to swallow.
“Fuck that,” he fumed, so stubborn about it. “I’m not lettin’ you do that to yourself. Next time you see that bastard, you tell him to fuck right off, you hear me?” he pointed at her.
“Ezra—” She held her hand up in an attempt to placate him—
“If you won’t tell him, I will.”
“Don’t.” It was sweltering outside, the humid air all but suffocating her. “Don’t start anything. Just drop it, please.” There was no smooth way to go about this, was there? Her dear friend was incorrigible, always the protector, even at his own expense. But she couldn’t have him caught in the crossfire of the mess she created.
“This conversation ain’t over,” he reminded her, as if she didn’t full well know how persistent he could be. At least he left her alone after having the last word. At least he walked off without her, leaving her by herself to ruminate in peace.
How on earth was she going to smooth this over?
Coriolanus’ POV
He came by whenever he wanted to, really.
Passing by to grab a drink when he knew his little mouse would be home, as he’d memorized her schedule. It annoyed her to no end because surely he had some water in his flask. Surely he could mooch it off of someone else. The barely drinkable water she offered was subpar compared to the ice-cold water he enjoyed in the barracks.
To his surprise, when he showed up after breakfast, she wasn’t home. As usual, her ratty-looking cat greeted him with a hiss, then jumped off the mat when he approached, left with no choice but to make way. The door cracked open and a familiar pair of blue-gray eyes peeked at him through the gap.
June.
“Good morning,” he greeted, making sure to smile to avoid intimidating her, as vermin tended to be skittish. “I come bearing gifts.”
At the mention of gifts, the door swung wide open. “What did you bring?” a rather eager June asked, bouncing on her feet. His presence—his gifts—brought such joy to her life where there was little elsewise. In her fatigued state, she somehow managed to appear so bright. It had taken some time for her to make it to the door and she was out of breath as they spoke. He could hear her struggling to breathe, which was pitiful. It reminded him of how many took breathing, an ability so intrinsic, for granted.
“You know how it works,” he reminded her. A question for a gumdrop, or something like that. He liked to toss them to her one by one, and she caught them in her mouth like a pet eager for treats. The system they had going had worked wonders for him.
June sighed, stepping aside for him to enter. If she had it her way, she’d snatch the pouch from him and take off. Eat it all at once, like a greedy little rat. He knew she wasn’t genuinely interested in talking to him, but she put up with him for the gifts. The marshmallows and gumdrops, the chalk to color with—it went on.
“Is your sister home?” he inquired, settling down on the couch. It was a rickety thing that was Panem knew how old, covered with colorful sun-bleached throws.
“No,” she informed him, and for that, he tossed her a gumdrop from the pouch in his pocket. She caught it in the air and chewed it gratefully. Such gratitude was refreshing to see. June was certainly more grateful to him than her sister, who’d been testing him relentlessly. Her temper was a flame and though he despised the unpredictability of a flame, he relished it, somehow, in her. Took pleasure in kindling her spirit, only to snuff it out.
“Where is she?” he asked, and to his surprise, she wasn’t so eager to respond this time. She remained by the door, glancing out of it, then back, as if keeping guard. No response came, but surely she’d heard him.
He narrowed his eyes at that. “Go on, you can tell me.”
“I… can’t.” She pressed the door shut with her back, then looked off to the side, so guilty, as if she’d committed a crime.
“Why not?” he pressed on, toying with the ribbon of the pouch in his pocket.
“Because… I’m not supposed to.”
“Do you want more gumdrops, June?” She looked so conflicted now, staring at both him and the gumdrop, and the promise of a treat which was so close, if only she complied. “All you have to do is tell me where your sister is,” he enticed.
A moment of silence…
“…Somewhere you aren’t supposed to go.”
Look at her, betraying her sister over a mere gumdrop.
The embodiment of greed.
He’d been unsuccessful with getting June to tell him exactly where her sister was, but a few places came to mind. Of course, there was the Hob: the black market that shouldn’t have existed in the first place, though such disorder was rampant in this district. There was also all that uncharted territory beyond the outskirts of Twelve: the woods and the meadow. There was no fence to keep people out, so a handful liked to come and go as they pleased.
The meadow was beautiful, Sejanus had whispered to him. A breath of fresh air compared to how stifling it was within the district’s perimeters, where the air was thick with coal dust. Coriolanus had walked through it once, into the woods to capture those Jabberjays. It was beautiful indeed, but that was besides the point. The point being, Sejanus went back there, of his own accord. He’d made many friends here and had invited him along to a picnic—an invitation he’d of course turned down, as he was not as eager as him to go breaking all the rules.
How typical of Sejanus Plinth, he’d thought. Sedition, after all, was in his blood. That was exactly what had landed him here. He could’ve chosen any other district to serve his time as a Peacekeeper, but he’d chosen to follow his good friend. He’d never once told him they were friends, but the impression Coriolanus strived to maintain was genteel. As such, there were many, he supposed, who considered themselves his friends.
Sejanus had accepted his punishment for his stunt in the arena with such grace. Such grace that it seemed it wasn’t a punishment at all to him, but a fresh start. He wanted to put it all behind him and do some good for this world—become a medic. A waste of his skills when he was such a crackshot. So much so that he deliberately missed his targets during practice, lest he caught the attention of the Commander, who would no doubt put a wrench in those plans. He’d said his ‘pa’ had taught him how to shoot.
Sejanus was ecstatic to be among his kind again. While that was all fine and dandy—none of his business, he’d thought initially—he was reminded of the disturbing reality of what it meant to be perceived as his friend. Should his ‘good friend’ get into any trouble, it wasn’t a stretch to assume he could also take the fall for his messes, by pure association.
How troublesome.
Sneaking off to the meadow wasn’t an earth-shattering offense in and of itself, but he was building a track record here. Always whispering with strange people when he thought he wasn’t watching. What he’d later revealed to him about his plan to help smuggle those rebels out of Twelve was truly his last straw.
That’d been dealt with, he’d thought. Gaul would be pleased with his message from the Jabberjay, and perhaps would reward him for it. Give him a leg up, a way out of this district. Sejanus, as always, would get a slap on the wrist. They’d delegate some other punishment to him. Whatever it was, if it meant getting him out of his hair, he’d be relieved.
His morning patrol led him in proximity of the Hob, shortly after his conversation with June. Why not take a look? he thought. See what was going on in there. Maybe grab a snack. His eyes just so happened to be peeled more than usual. It was wise to be vigilant in these shady parts.
He just so happened to stumble upon a most compelling sight.
That man. His little mouse’s friend, carrying a heavy sack of something. He made his rounds, stopping by to trade some fruit, and all hell broke loose once he tried to discreetly slip an elderly woman selling stew a whole turkey. To his left and right, there were people bidding over it. If not the whole thing, then parts of it.
It was unprecedented chaos.
More chaos than the drunken brawls he’d observed.
It was useful to get to know the people around him. You never know what might come in handy. A habit for observation had been hardwired in Coriolanus, for only his entire life, that was how he survived. Back in the Capitol, where there was order, survival looked a bit different than this. Back there, he used his skill to mold himself to those around him. For each of his peers, he sported a different cadence and persona. A bit of flattery went a long way when he brought up things he remembered about them. That was precisely how he’d ended up in good graces with almost everyone. Almost everyone except Highbottom, who was immune to his charm and had a vendetta against him for whatever reason. He worked tirelessly to exude an impression fitting of a Snow heir, who wanted for nothing.
Here, it was different. There was little benefit in making friends and he was already in an advantageous position as a Peacekeeper, so there was nothing to claw towards. Nothing to strive for, besides perhaps the prospect of working his way up to a better district. Still, he could not help but observe every little thing, as though in that way, he was in control of the world around him. Observation was a useful skill, anyway, for reprimanding those who broke the rules.
If it were up to him, he thought, he’d burn this whole place down. But he rested assured that it’d take care of itself. One spark and this whole place would light up like a tinderbox, if it didn’t cave in from how decrepit it appeared.
Coriolanus, not wanting to be caught up in all this ruckus, made his swift exit.
Still, the thought scratched at his mind, to bring it up to Hoff. Surely he was aware that the Hob existed. Surely he was aware that the illegal goods sold there didn’t spawn out of thin air. Was he alright with people running off into the woods like that?
No wonder this district was such a mess.
He pictured himself, for a moment, as Commander instead. Thought of all the ways he might shape this place up, so it was less like a zoo. At least a zoo kept its animals caged. Perhaps he would surround the outskirts with a fence. Preferably an electrical one, so they couldn’t gnaw through it. That would keep them from getting out. There would be no whores running around in the barracks, soliciting his men for coin, either.
Anyway. That man made it out of the Hob in one piece and in bright spirits, having earned himself a pretty penny. Certainly much more than he’d have earned working in the mines.
Observation, Coriolanus thought, as they crossed paths, could be a weapon. Lethal, just as a blade was. His filthy bag brushed him as they bumped shoulders, and they both gave pause.
The man’s coal gray eyes hardened the moment they locked on him, in recognition. The warmth bled from them as he clenched his jaw—a stark contrast to how he’d been moments ago, making his rounds, greeting people and bartering with them. An apology was in order, yet not a word left his lips. He just stood there, gripping his bag so tight, as if frozen in a murderous rage. A look he’d never given him before, which, frankly, came out of nowhere when he was in such a seemingly good mood. Had he ruined his day?
“Can I help you?” Coriolanus inquired, since it appeared there was something he had to say.
Silence. Nothing. He simply sized him up as if contemplating something for a moment. Then he rolled his boot, shaking off the errant pebble stuck in it with the same carelessness that he’d demonstrated in his demeanor. Shake it off. Shake him off.
And then he was on his way.
How curious.
His strange behavior sat with him for a while. Truly confounded him. What did it mean? His little mouse’s friend had never given him any pleasant looks before—that much was certain. Whenever Coriolanus showed up, he was met with the same critical stare of someone trying to dissect something. Who are you and what do you want? was the general sense he got. Only this time, he was met with a stare so charged and brimming with ire, as if he’d personally done something to offend him. They’d never exchanged more than a brief greeting here and there, whenever in the presence of her.
It led him to wonder if, perhaps, the two of them had met up again. If not once, then twice, or several times for all he knew; he didn’t have the time nor care to keep a close eye on her. That was what a little birdie was for. She’d informed him that her friend hadn’t stopped by this week.
On a Sunday afternoon, Coriolanus came knocking on their door.
One knock, and—
It swung open with such haste that he initially assumed it was June, all bright-eyed and eager to see her favorite Peacekeeper who’d come by with another delivery of gumdrops. But no—it was his little mouse, all dolled up and ready for him. So pretty in pink, and was that the ribbon he gave her?
She’d finally worn it.
The satiny glint of it in the sunlight was something no cheap cloth ribbon could produce. It was the cherry on top of this new dress she was sporting: one a town girl would wear, with all its frills and fuss. Something she could never afford. Was it an heirloom or a gift from another? She’d gone all out. What was this? An attempt to butter him up? Distract him from what she’d been up to when he wasn’t keeping a watchful eye on her? She never wore any of his gifts unless he reminded her to, and had never thanked him for them, either. So, her wearing that ribbon out of the blue was certainly something.
“You’re here early,” she greeted him so sweetly—it was almost cloying. “Would you like a drink?” He took his time drinking her in, while she fixed him with the kindest smile.
“Some water would be nice,” he replied, humoring her anyway, pretending not to notice how chipper she was. She took off in her flowy pink dress, into the kitchen.
He didn’t like it—her regarding him the same way she did those Peacekeepers she swindled at the Hob. Batting her lashes and lilting her voice just so, all while waiting for them to get drunk enough so she could get away with fleecing their wallets. Normally, he would take a seat on the sofa and wait for her, but today he made himself comfortable, stepping past the fluffy orange obstacle by the door who was currently glaring daggers at him—probably plotting his demise. He made his way into the kitchen, hot on her tail, and she froze.
“Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll bring it to you.” She attempted to block his path, but he swiftly side-stepped her.
“I can help myself,” he insisted, then paused, waiting for that crack in her demeanor, that hint of irritation that he’d come to associate with her, to show. What’s yours is mine. She didn’t cave, merely retreating towards the kitchen counter. Just behind her, he spotted a large mixing bowl with a cloth covering it.
“What have we here?” he inquired in passing, grabbing himself a cup from the cabinet.
“Just some dough,” she gestured, her smile tensing. “I’m letting it sit.”
Well, he could’ve left it at that, but he wanted to pry—to get to the bottom of her unusual behavior. So, after pouring himself a glass of water and taking a sip, he made his way over to her side. It was like whiplash, how quickly his hand flew to the cloth behind her, pulling it off the bowl before she could attempt to hinder him. Her smile dropped so fast, the color bleeding from her face at having been caught red-handed with… what’s this?
“I’ve never seen bread like this before,” he remarked dryly, glancing at the bowl teeming with wild berries. Something you normally wouldn’t find within town, unless procured from the Hob, or perhaps… the woods. “Where’d you get these from?”
She swallowed. “The… Hob. June’s birthday’s coming up, so I wanted to make her something special.”
He didn’t pull away, instead letting his presence linger in proximity. He plucked a ripe berry from the top of the pile and examined it with precision. “How old is she turning, again?”
“Eight,” came her clipped response. He already knew that, but rather enjoyed watching her squirm. And squirm she did, picking her nails the way she did whenever she was nervous or lacking enrichment.
“How will you celebrate? Will you throw a party?”
Parties in the Capitol were once extravagant affairs. He’d witnessed that much through his hazy memories as a toddler, back before the war had done its damage. His mother used to parade him around in his little velvet suits, and all the poshly dressed mothers in her circle gushed about how handsome he looked. Just like Crassus, they unanimously agreed. It was all torturous; he instead directed his focus towards the intricate marbled fixtures and Avoxes strolling by with endless trays of fancy appetizers and drinks—drinks he’d not been allowed to touch, for he had to grow up first. Oh, how he could not wait to grow up so he could understand and perhaps enjoy all of that.
Then the war happened, and there came a time when such indulgence was a thing of the past. There came a time when no calorie was unwanted and every bit of scrap was utilized in some manner, whether fed to the fire or boiled into some insipid broth. Old outfits were repurposed for important occasions, when before, one would not be caught dead wearing the same ensemble twice.
But things were finally changing after ten hard years, just when he had to leave it all behind. Hedonism was creeping back into fashion, and so the parties came, along with the reconstruction efforts as Capitolite families endeavored to give their places a much-needed facelift. He was left to imagine what sort of parties his friends were throwing over their summer break. Were they all talking about him back home? Were they lauding him for ‘following in his late father’s footsteps’?
“That’s the plan,” she replied stiffly, still on edge about the berries, he assumed. Which was odd, given it was no secret she was a little rule breaker. Was something else troubling her?
“Who will be in attendance?” he pressed on, dragging his hand up her slight and bony frame. She stiffened under his touch, under his fingertips playing with the satin ribbon in her ponytail.
“Just me n’ June,” she managed, breath hitching.
“Only the two of you? Surely there are more people you could invite,” he mused. “Like your friend, perhaps? The two of you are seemingly inseparable.” He tried to picture what a party in Twelve looked like. Something sad, he imagined, without an endless buffet of refreshments and hors d’oeuvres. No orchestra playing in the background, nor any affluent guests. Just people crammed into a hot room with plenty of cheap booze. No class whatsoever.
She appeared perplexed, gingerly wetting her lips. “You… told me not to talk to him anymore.”
“Didn’t I?” He hummed, bringing a lock of her blonde hair up to his nose and inhaling its sweet scent. She’d showered recently; her signature strawberry scent wafted over him like an intoxicating cloud. “I saw him yesterday at the Hob, trading. He brought in quite a haul. A wild turkey. Those are hard to come by, aren’t they?” She was so quiet, so frightfully quiet, gripping the countertop so tightly her knuckles whitened. “I’ve heard, if you’re lucky, you can stumble across one out there, in the woods…”
“What about it?” she finally managed, straightening up.
“I stopped by your place yesterday to grab a drink beforehand. A little birdie told me the strangest thing. Do you want to know what?” He wasn’t asking, of course. “She said you went… somewhere you aren’t supposed to go.” He had her trapped like a mouse, and her gaze darted to her left and right as she searched for a way out. Poor little mouse, about to be devoured like prey. “Only two places came to mind, and I didn’t see you at the Hob. Where were you, pray tell?”
“In town—” she fired back, though her tone lacked conviction, “—looking for work.”
“Who were you with?” he inquired, plainly.
“I was alone,” she murmured.
“I thought we agreed not to lie to each other.” He tutted, pulling back. Nothing peeved him more than a liar. Especially a terrible liar.
“I’m not—”
He pressed his finger to her soft pink lips, shushing her. “I already know you saw your friend. I only want you to admit it. If you do, I’ll consider being more…” he paused, looking her up and down, trembling as she was, “…lenient with you.” Of course, it was mere speculation whether she’d met with her friend. He wouldn’t put it past someone like her who never learned how to follow rules. But he could be gracious… to those who were grateful.
“Why don’t we go out today?” He pulled away, permitting her enough room to breathe. “Some fresh air would do us some good. It’s quite stuffy in here.” As if fresh air were a possibility in this district. Usually, they stayed home. After they enjoyed a drink, she usually led him to her room, where the real fun began. To think indulging in such baser, animalistic urges was… fun. It wasn’t necessarily fun what they did. It was just… something to do. Something, where there was otherwise nothing. Was this how it felt to live like someone in the districts? There was little in the way of indulgence in a place like this. At least he wasn’t indulging at the expense of his liver. White liquor was what his fellow Peacekeepers preferred, but back home, they called that nasty drink Moonshine. Something hard and unrefined to the palate of the average Capitolite.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he steered her out of the kitchen, his hand on the small of her back.
“Outside. Didn’t you hear?” was all he said.
He had her walk a few feet ahead of him while he trailed her from behind, far enough so it seemed they weren’t walking together. That way, they wouldn’t draw suspicion. There was a certain decorum he strived to maintain, wherein he didn’t indulge in the company of her sort.
She kept glancing back at him like a skittish mouse being followed, and he simply told her to keep walking straight. For all she knew, they were meandering toward some unknown destination. It all clicked in her head once they crossed the edge of the seam, into the entrance of the lush field ahead.
“We aren’t supposed to be here.” She halted in her tracks, breath shaking.
“We’re almost there,” he replied smoothly, ignoring her words, her pretty words, such meaningless embellishments to his ears. “Keep going.”
They continued moving through the tall ferns, deeper into the heart of the meadow.
Now, they were out of sight and far from prying eyes.
That was when he reached into his holster, procuring his pistol, all while she kept walking, deeper and deeper into the field, none the wiser. Until finally, she flinched at the cool steel barrel pressing against her narrow back. Her hazel eyes widened in alarm once she found the source of it.
“Cor—Coriolanus…”
How strange it was to hear his name coming from her lips. Her loose lips.
“Did I tell you to stop walking?” came his callous response. “Keep going.”
It was a long, long stretch of a walk, but he’d gotten used to being on his feet all day, so this was nothing to him. Nothing but a brisk afternoon stroll. He took a moment to appreciate how sweet the air smelled, and the sight before him was truly stunning, purple and yellow wildflowers decorating the earth. The beauty of it was all but disarming to him—disarming for what he imagined when he pictured Twelve. Here, he found no trace of anything gray and decrepit. Nothing covered in a film of coal dust. Just the earth itself, thriving wildly, as nature did.
He led her down, down to the willow tree.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, giving the place a wide sweep with his cold blue eyes. “How often do you come down here?”
“I haven’t been here in ages,” she lied. Again. She rubbed her arm in an attempt to soothe herself, the leaves of the willow tree tickling her tanned neck.
“My apologies, I meant—how often do you come here with your friend? What was his name again?” He waved the pistol around, his memory failing him, or so it seemed through her widened gaze.
“We should head back—”
“Ezra, was it?” In the meantime, she was eyeing his pistol warily, as if it were a loose cannon. “The two of you truly are inseparable.” She backed up against the trunk of the willow tree and he followed her, matching her hastened strides with his longer ones. “Did the two of you come here yesterday?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve learned that whenever you say no, you actually mean yes,” he remarked. “Such a backwards way to speak, in my opinion. It would save us both the trouble if you would simply be honest with me. Honesty is so important.”
Her kind would know nothing about that.
He was reminded of that when he looked up at the source of the rustling above them in the tree. Sure enough, he found a few of those birds flitting about on its branches. Those Mockingjays—unnatural beasts they were. He’d pitched the idea to Commander Hoff to use them as target practice. It would be like killing two birds with one stone, he’d said, proud of himself for coming up with that. They’d fix the issue of those things multiplying rampantly and hone their skills in turn.
“He followed me—it was just once—”
“I don’t care to know,” he confessed, caging her against the rough trunk of the tree. What had happened had happened. The mention of that district boy irked him, however, and not for the reason one would suspect. It wasn’t jealousy he felt, but rather irritation at something of his falling into the coal-blackened hands of another. She belonged to him, as he saw it, and it was not the sort of possessiveness one would have for a lover, but rather a favorite toy. Toys were easily discardable once they served their purpose. And she was not serving hers well, he thought. He drank her in, trembling as she was, the cool barrel of his pistol trailing up her arm, then down her chest, pressing down with such force as if he were trying to feel her heartbeat. How fast it must’ve thrummed when it seemed she was struggling to breathe.
“Why did you bring me here?” she murmured, her hand finding the barrel and pushing at it. His aim, however, was steady, locked on its target.
“To enjoy the weather. Did you not listen?” he taunted, tapping the pistol against her temple, against her thick skull, making her flinch. “You have a free spirit. A mind of your own… and that is precisely why your actions have consequences. Do they not?” He clicked the safety off the pistol, truly driving his point home. The horrified look she gave him was priceless, like she was truly convinced she was at death’s door. “There is a way you can make it up to me. If you manage to convince me that you’re sincere, I might let this slide…”
His hand, which held the pistol, as if possessed, moved along her silhouette, down her tightened throat and humble breasts, her slender middle, further down, finding its home between her quivering thighs.
“Are you gonna kill me if I don’t?” she managed, appearing as if she might soil herself.
“Of course not, little mouse. I am many things but not wasteful—if you can prove that you are of use to me.” What was it, this high in his head? All he knew was that her fear looked delicious. It made him want to devour her whole, like a wolf having drawn its first taste of blood. He traced the cool barrel of the pistol along her inner thighs, sending a shiver up her spine. A familiar heat pooled in his loins.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, and though her reaction pleased him, he didn’t show it. He rather liked having her dwell in this perpetual state of uncertainty. Fear was respect. Breath hitching, she tried to ignore the pistol tracing up to her core, teasing it through the flimsy barrier of fabric beneath her dress.
“Get down on your knees,” he ordered.
“This is my ma’s dress. I don’t want to ruin it.” She gave him a pleading look.
“Then take it off.”
It was a simple solution, yet she hesitated with the hem of her dress. Though they were out in the middle of nowhere, there was still that shame, that indecency about being exposed to the elements. Inevitably, she caved, lifting her skirt and dropping to her knees on the lush grass.
“Good girl,” he praised, one hand finding her golden crown of hair and stroking it, as if he were addressing a pet. “Now, I want you to please me.”
And so she moved through the motions mechanically, her trembling hand reaching for his belt—
But he gripped her hand tight, halting her. Her brows furrowed in confusion because, after all, this was how it usually began, with her pulling down his pants and briefs, then taking him with her skilled hands and mouth. “Close your eyes for me, little mouse.”
A direct order, which she obeyed, despite her perplexity.
Where her lips had expected to meet warmth, there was instead the kiss of something cold and metallic. Her eyes snapped open at once, and she gasped at the pistol prodding at her lips. His hand caged her in place, pulling her forward when she tried to retreat. “I’m truly astounded that you thought I’d let you lay a finger on me after what you pulled. Who knows what these lips of yours have touched?”
An incredulous whimper was all she offered in response. His fingers carded through her silky waves. “Open your mouth.” She did—barely—and so he yanked her hair, eliciting a hiss from her. That allowed him to slide the barrel in, with a bit of necessary force. The metallic taste of the metal made her gag, but he didn’t ease up. After all, wasn’t she meant to please him? Was that not her purpose?
Her hazel eyes prickled with tears—tears of humiliation—because she had never looked so dumb. “You know what to do,” he said, a chill in his tone. “Work that pretty little mouth for me like you always do.” It was what she did best. Her lips wrapped around the barrel and her cheeks hollowed, then she began to suck it gingerly like it was his cock. What a sinful sight. He grazed his finger over the trigger, just to see her tense up in fright. “There we go. Just like that,” he crooned, watching her bob her head up and down so carefully, like it was the first time she’d ever sucked a cock. But they both knew this was far from the first time she’d debased herself.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if looking at him would unravel her composure, which she was barely holding together. Her hands were balled into fists over her lap, unnaturally stiff as she went through the motions, just waiting for it to be over. He wondered what she was thinking of now. Was she praying that his finger wouldn’t slip on that trigger?
Coriolanus pushed the gun further down, as deep as it could go, feeling a familiar stiffness in his trousers. A natural reaction he chose to ignore. It wasn’t about the gratification—it never truly was. “Why are you so tense, little mouse?” he taunted. “Are you afraid I’ll let my finger slip? One pull and it would be all over for you, wouldn’t it?”
Her frantic eyes snapped open at that, and she watched him play with the trigger, with such carelessness as if it were a toy. The sinful sound of her struggling to take the gun was all he could hear then—no birds, no leaves rustling. All of nature had dissolved into a quiet hum, where at the center of it all, there was just her. She tried to pull back for air once it had gotten too difficult for her to breathe, but he was relentless, seeing just how far he could push her. Her thighs squeezed together as she shifted restlessly.
“Is it too much for you? Do you want to take a break?” his voice softened as if in consideration—before he let the other shoe drop. “You can go a little while longer.” Until he was satisfied, if not bored with this. She looked like a right mess, drool dripping down her chin as she whimpered, clearly begging for something, but her mouth was too preoccupied for her to tell him just what she needed.
Out of nowhere, her hand slipped between her thighs, beneath the thin fabric covering her modesty—what little remained of it. The satisfied look on his face faded, just like that, when he saw her hand move in teasing circles as she… as she… pleasured herself.
What a sick, depraved individual, getting off to something like this.
He was, by all means, disgusted, and a bit miffed because this wasn’t supposed to be enjoyable for her. This was meant to be a lesson for her, but some people, it seemed, were beyond rehabilitation. His jaw clenched and he could’ve sworn for a second that he caught a triumphant glint in her eyes, somewhere beneath the haziness. Even now, she was testing him, as if to say—you can do whatever you want to me, but you’ll never break me.
“Look at you,” he crooned, returning her energy with narrowed eyes. “All worked up from sucking my pistol. A proper whore, if I’ve ever seen one.” She offered a hum, rocking her hips against her hand, and well, he heard the evidence of her excitement loud and clear. That sticky, shameless sound, that almost made his face heat up. “Shall I replace your fingers with something better?” She didn’t offer him any response. Just a glazed-over look, which he’d interpreted as a challenge.
Well, it was about time he put her in her place. In a proper sense. No more second and third chances. With that conviction, he withdrew the pistol and pulled her up by her arm. She gave a surprised squeak, and the next thing she knew, she was pressed up against the trunk of the willow tree. He ripped her panties clean off her body and she gasped, but he gave her no time to recover from that, pressing the cool weapon between her legs.
“You’re not actually gonna…” Her voice cracked when he traced it along her folds, teasingly, all while she stared at it in horror.
“Not going to what?” He feigned innocence, prodding the weapon between her folds and coating it thoroughly in her arousal. “You were so eager, playing with yourself while you sucked my gun like it was my cock,” he pointed out, dryly. Such vulgar words, but he’d gotten used to hearing all sorts of vulgarities during his stay here. Such words that he hardly heard back in the Capitol were so normal now. “It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume you’d like being fucked by it too, hmm? It takes a special sort of whore to get wet like that.”
“You’re insane,” she faltered, the rawness in her voice breaking through the facade she put up. A moment of silence stretched on as they tried to read each other, tried to calculate their next moves. It seemed she decided hers once she straightened up, steeling herself. “I see you’re getting off to this too…” So boldly, her hand found its way to the stiffness in his trousers, pressing down. “Do you need a little help there?” A teasing rub, and then a twitch, which she certainly felt. A wry, forced smile formed on her face, mingling with the fear already there, making her look almost manic in her attempt to keep it together.
She had to have the upper hand. Had to remain in control, no matter what, even when he had a gun pointed at her. Reckless as can be. There was only one winner in this game they were playing, and well, as the saying goes… Snow lands on top. Perhaps he hadn’t spelled that out for her clearly enough. He slapped her hand away. “Hands to yourself, unless you want me to tie you up, little mouse.” She’d like that, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. Was there anything he could do to her that she wouldn’t like?
He thought of one thing.
Without ceremony, he eased the pistol inside her tight walls, and she inhaled sharply at how cold the metal was, and how unnatural it was to be filled with something like this. She bit down hard on her lip, desperately trying to stifle the whimper building in her throat. But he heard it. He assumed a languid rhythm, as if all of this were a mere inconvenience to him, while her blunt nails dug into the rough bark, seeking purchase.
“Not so talkative anymore, are you?” he taunted, each thrust, each subtle movement calculated, disarming her little by little. Her walls fluttered, struggling to accommodate the pistol and all its rough ridges. “It would be so easy to pull this trigger…” he murmured, his voice low and velvety smooth as he carefully tapped it, watching her flinch. “One twitch and… this little game of ours ends for good.”
“If you’re gonna do it, just do it.” Her face burned with humiliation, and yet, she managed to bite back. “Stop playing with your toy.”
“Eager, aren’t we?” he purred, a gleam of amusement in his expression. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”
He continued toying with her until he grew bored. Or was it that the tightness in his trousers had become too distracting to ignore? He pulled the pistol out of her and she exhaled in relief.
“What now?” she asked him when he slid it back into its holster.
What indeed? He looked her up and down, considering how to go about solving this problem he had. “You see…” he began, “I don’t think you’ve learned to respect me yet. I think I ought to fuck that attitude out of you.”
She swallowed. “I thought you didn’t want to touch me.”
“Touch you, no. But mold you—” he grabbed her wrist, then turned her around to face the tree in one swift motion, “—perhaps.” He shoved her dress up over her hips, exposing her to the elements completely. Then he freed his cock from its tight confines and pressed it flush against her ass, letting her feel it, that pulsing warmth. “When I am done with you, you won’t be the same anymore.” It wasn’t a warning, but a promise. Eventually, there would come a time when he tired of her, or they naturally drifted apart. By then, would she recognize herself?
His knee wedged her legs apart. In one swift thrust, he entered her, filling her completely—bottoming out without any regard for easing her into it like he often did. A sharp cry tore itself from her throat, echoing in the meadow around them. The birds above responded, mimicking that sound, that broken moan she gave. She gasped in mortification, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her sounds, but he gathered both of her hands and pinned them behind her back, not allowing her that privilege.
“Don’t. Let them hear exactly what you are,” he hissed, constricting her with his very presence, as if he were a snake, and she, the little mouse, his prey. He fucked her hard against the willow tree as she struggled, thrashing beneath him, entirely helpless. She hated being tied up—hated that loss of control. The last time he’d tied her up, she’d struggled just the same, demanding to be untied. Those words on her lips were just that. Pretty little words. They meant nothing.
And so the birds echoed her song in refrain while she cried out pathetically, the rough bark of the tree scraping her skin. What more was a little cut and bruise? He’d already left so many on her. Most of those hadn’t been done by his hand, but he’d delivered her to her judgment, and so, was responsible. His gaze traced along her back, over where all those scars were, concealed by her dress. She’d worn long sleeves despite the sweltering heat, determined to cover the evidence, as if that would erase what had been done.
“Can you hear it? How pathetic you sound?” he hummed, listening to her cry out as he hit her sweet spot. The one place he noticed she was trying to hide from him, but he sought it relentlessly, making her knees tremble. “Ah, ah,” he mocked her, and she gritted her teeth.
“Shut. Up—”
“Is that any way to speak to the one who helps feed and clothe you? Hmm?” His grip eased, and in that moment she managed to break free and throw him off. He landed on his ass in the dirt. It was moments like these, when she behaved like a wild animal, that he was again reminded of what she was. He wiped the dirt from his chin, smiling coldly at her from her spot by the tree. Fists clenched and everything, knees shaking. Where was she going with this?
Coriolanus rose to his feet, moving towards her, and she backed away.
“You’ve always liked it rough,” he thought out loud. She liked to scratch him and bite him, liked to make him draw blood, as if a taste for it were innate in her. It very well might’ve been. “We can play rough, if that’s what you want.” He seized her by her arm and shoved her to the earth, onto her face. How familiar it was to have her pinned to the ground like this. It reminded him of how they met, and how she squirmed just the same, struggling to break free. He yanked her head back, hissing hotly against her ear—“If you want to act like an animal, I’ll treat you like one.”
Coriolanus mounted her from behind and thought of how elemental this was. Them in the dirt, her clawing at it while she gasped, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him and the suddenness of it all. Her pathetic cries resumed as he fucked her at a relentless pace, working out all of that pent-up energy. No, there was nothing animalistic about this. Nothing uncouth about what they were doing. It was mere strategy.
His large hands, once so smooth, were now calloused from his new lifestyle, and they gripped her small waist, squeezing it tightly. He grunted as he used her for all she was worth, as the birds echoed—ah, ah. It was all too much for her; she’d tried to cover her ears just so she couldn’t hear it, and him laughing at how worked up she was getting.
Soon, he felt that familiar tightness in his loins, and she sensed it too, in the way his rhythm stuttered, and how he grunted. “Pull out.” She tried to turn her head to him, but his strong hand had her pinned in place. He wasn’t stopping, and at that, she gave a panicked look. “Coriolanus—”
“Did I give you permission to say my name?” he hissed.
“Sir. Please!”
Oh. All of a sudden, she was so sweet with him, as if seeing the error in her ways, but he knew better. “What would happen anyway?” he thought out loud. “It won’t take. Even if it did, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It might settle you.” His hand moved down to her hollow stomach, pressing down on it, right where her womb was. “Think of it, you swollen with my seed. My bastard child.”
That would never happen, of course; she was so visibly malnourished. Did she even have her regular cycles? She tried with all her might to get away, as if that would truly mean the end of the world to her. “You’re squeezing me so tightly, little mouse. It’ll be impossible for me to pull out now,” he taunted, pulling her back onto his cock, making her cry out.
“No!” She sobbed. “I can’t risk it…” She’d tired herself out, from all that trashing around, the ground around her riddled with claw marks—the evidence of her struggle. “I can’t end up like…” End up like what? Like every other district whore, inevitably?
She went rigid, shuddering when she felt that warmth flooding inside her.
“No…” She shook, lying still there, even after he pulled out. He watched her from above, taking in what a mess she was, his seed trickling down her thighs and onto the dirt. The same place she liked to come to with her friend, and do heaven knows what. It might’ve been their little secret before, but not anymore. A part of him thought, if his seed did take, she’d forever associate this place with where she’d gotten knocked up by some man who wasn’t even her husband. A common occurrence in the districts.
Conceiving out of wedlock in the Capitol was a surefire way to cause scandal, because there, in that beautiful land, there was order.
Come to think of it, his theory might not be sound. How were they all getting pregnant here, if they were so malnourished? Nature was a tenacious thing. He knelt over her trembling form after he tucked himself away, brushing her messy waves back to see her face. What a mess it was, dirt on it and everything. “Why… did you do that?” she asked him, her hazel eyes filled with such shock, and a hint of hatred, spreading like wildfire, sure enough.
“Because, little mouse, I wanted to remind you that your actions indeed have consequences.” He played with her hair almost tenderly, a mockery of a lover’s touch, and then pulled her to sit up straight. She flinched when he touched her, but made no move to smack his hand away, and so he continued, brushing her tears away. Fixing her hair and making her presentable. “Let this be a lesson to you, not to test me further. I would hate for you to force my hand again.”
“Now,” he said, pulling away, “pull yourself together. We have a hike to do.”
“Where… are we going?” She struggled to her feet, cringing at that sticky feeling between her thighs. Upon further examination, her panties were torn to shreds. As good as useless, but she still pocketed them, as if to hide the evidence.
“Into the woods,” he answered. “I want you to show me where you and your friend like to go.”
Tag List: @likklemy @coryoslut @coffeeblyth @theycallmecissy
Let me know if you would like to be added (specify if you would like to be tagged in all stories or only for specific series) or dropped from the tag list!
The next part of Little Mouse will be out within a few days, hopefully! It is all written and ready to be beta’d. In the meanwhile I am fighting for my life trying to wrap up my college course this week.
I’m going to work on finishing my series, but I won’t lie, I have dozens of plot bunnies in my head 😭😭😭. Vampire au, werewolf au, Obsession AU—the list goes on. I think MBOBHFT will have one more part left (working on that next), but we will see what happens 👀 I never plan ahead! It will be satisfying to get to finish a story for once.
ALSO!! My ask box is open if any of y’all feel comfortable with chatting!! Please be nice though 🩷
I’m worried about spamming this blog with random thoughts, but it is kind of therapeutic to shout into the void, I won’t lie
HI LOVELY I WAS WONDERING IF YOU CAN WRITE FOR DEE AGAIN
hmmm idk... he's such a WEIRDO!
jk jk hehe, thank u sm for the interest, it's been a journey writing this part too bc i always get stuck but once it unstucks it's like the full magic can flow~
so, enjoy responsibly! 💜
❝Spit the blood back, baby❞
↻◁ previous (pt.1) || next (TBA) ▷ ↺
Tags: m/f ∘ drug dealer!Dee x reader, nose candy + ‘study buddies’ intake references ∘ mechanic!Dee in this part (rejoice!) ∘ academic perfectionism (to a very obsessive, unhealthy degree) ∘ reader has self-esteem issues (thinks academic success defines her worth) ∘ reader studies medicine ∘ no use of Y/N, Dee calls reader "angel" ∘ a not-so-healthy/undefined relationship ∘ toxic masculinity ∘ canon-compliant anger issues ∘ canon characters and some additions — Taylor is here too and he has anxiety ∘ gang dynamics — Dee is king of the jungle now ∘ territorial Dee ∘ Dee is bad at feelings and is mean in this one ∘ both reader and Dee aren't well-adjusted individuals ∘ reader gets a tattoo and it’s fluff + awful humor ∘ non-sexual intimacy ∘ then angst bc Dee feels neglected/used while reader has to study and no one can express their feelings ∘ confrontation scene
Word count: 7.6k
🎧ྀི Full Wasteman/Dee playlist if anyone's interested
a/n: Thank u for the nth time to my lovely, amazing beta @p4neminem! Not only did she manage to take out all my awful brain glitches but this was her song recomendation that made me appreciate the angst in its glory. So, I hope you all will too!
Rain smells so different this low the city… especially when it's this heavy—a sense that is supposed to be refreshing, but stands suffocating with the bustling traffic. The stench of the nearby alleyway doesn’t do wonders to soothe your growing anxiety either. Piss and other bodily fluids you don’t want to imagine right now—probably piled on by drunk pub goers ever since the Black Death roamed the streets of London—now settle like mildew, threatening to never wash off.
Or maybe the difference is that you were with Dee last time it was coming down in buckets? On your terrace… higher than the clouds—be it mentally or physically. A couple days ago, your joint heartbeats were far louder than this prattling… a better place to be and to lose yourself in.
Where is he?
This is so stupid—you should be back at your dorm, preparing for the upcoming health assessment practical. Doctor Smith will have your head if you come in shaking with nerves again… Well, at least then this awful odor might leave your nostrils for good.
You got yourself in this mess, though. You’d wanted a tattoo for god-knows how long… it hadn't been just the weed that made you all talkative and inquisitive about the ink Dee sported. And so, once you’d shared that fixation, as always with anything you may ever need—your criminally handsome drug dealer had ‘just the bloke’ for the job! Or so you thought…
Now that the florescent sign of the shop blares its angry red lights in your face, you are no longer so sure you know what you truly signed up for. Ugh, on top of it all, that ‘A’ letter is broken—its neon coils bring about an annoying and persistent flickering, like they are fighting to keep the thing alive. It hurts to look at; the thrum reverberates through your skull and it’s starting to feel like it's actively peeling off your retinas. For some reason, you don't avert your eyes while the ashes from your cigarette fall into a nearby puddle, mixing in the filthy water.
“Nah, you're mad if you think I'll settle for less!” Dee's voice zigzags through the rain, muffled by its smothering pounding. But you easily make it out—it calls to you like some twisted guiding light… or one of those wands with bells at their ends that some cat owners would dangle in their pets’ little furry faces.
You shake your head, as if the image can erase itself with the motion—‘Etch-A-Sketch’ style… Has the weed rattled your brain that much? In any case, you definitely prefer the initial analogy—far more poetic and it doesn’t suggest you are Dee’s pet. You aren't even sure what the two of you are still.
‘Fuck buddies’…? No, that can’t be right—the two of you haven’t even ‘fucked’ for the first part to be true.
Just ‘buddies’ then? Nope, that makes your chest twinge with pulsing and nauseating gloom.
His ‘special customer’? Okay, now your thoughts are starting to sound borderline filthy.
You are both getting something out of keeping close to the other—a symbiotic relationship of sorts. Him wanting to see if you'll be dragged low into corruption, you wanting to see if his tough facade will crack.
Dee's steps are large and heavy as he cuts the distance between your existential crisis and the inevitable open wound the tattoo will become. He is clearly pissed, displacing the water that has accumulated along the sidewalk pavement as if his feet were ridged tires. It’s a baseline state for him.
Still, you can't help but listen in on the ‘business’ conversation he is currently conducting… “Don't move weird now, yeah? A deal’s a deal—man's got hungry mouths to feed!”
Dee had finally made it out of Paul's employment… but not everything is sunshine and rainbows just because he is top dog now. The crown rests heavy when men put trust in him, and more so, when certain people from this conglomerate tend to shiv people for less than a ‘sideways’ glance. He'd seen what a powerful tool growing discontent can become. Hell, he built himself up because Paul only ever looked out for Paul.
It’s not a pretty thing—sleeping with one eye open, thinking your head is on the line—that anyone could’ve ratted you out already and you are living on borrowed time. So, Dee cannot afford to make the same mistake… it's a growing paranoia that gnaws at him and never lets go. Its ugly, sharp teeth sinking ferociously like a bulldog's bite.
Some days, he pretends he could just say ‘To fuck with all!’ and let the matter rest, let everything sort itself out… But really, he feels like an animal trapped in a terrarium—pacing his room with sweat dripping down his torso, head pounding loudly from his racing thoughts. Exercise helps—push-ups to be specific, so he can pretend he can actually lift the weight that rests on his shoulders.
Your little wave and that quiet relief that floods your eyes when you meet his helps too… It shouldn't, damn it—but it does. It flows through him like a balm on his sore heart or tea washing down his gullet on a dry morning. Those types of sunrises that squeeze the life out of you…
It's hard for him to admit it, but as you suffocate. The ember burn of your cigarette into the concrete window stills, he forces himself to end the call: “Just cut the bullshit and make the drop happen, you hear?”
If the rain wasn't so insistent on being the only audible thing, you would have heard the vibrating shouts from the other end of the line. But that doesn't matter now—he settled it…
“Tough day?” You ask softly, unable to speak up over the downpour because of the lump that grows heavier in your throat.
“I'm tougher, still.” Dee assures as he takes you in—trembling and wide-eyed, yet standing out here, waiting for him to collect you. A part of him is almost exhilarated that he can have such a reach into you… and then, the other part is mortified at the implications of being responsible for it. So, instead, he swallows it down and elects to chalk it all up to you being cold. “You should’ve gone in, angel… Jacob knows to expect you.”
“Jacob? Isn't that the guy who made us waffles?” You echo with a raised brow as you rub at your arms—trying to bring some warmth and ease the tension prickling in your stomach. It feels charged and spiky, like one of those plasma balls everyone had in their physics classes.
Even back in school, when Dee was all but forced to start selling, his only thought on that experiment had been that the round things would make great decor for an LSD trip. With their wavy lightning, commanded at one's fingertips, they'd set just the right ambience for a guided loss of cognitive function. He'd stolen the one his homeroom owned… and in that brief but beautiful moment that is all but lost to him now, he felt all-powerful, ‘like that Greek bloke—Zeus or whoever the hell’.
But on this rainy day, he feels like he's being dissected instead. He can hear it in your question—the reluctance to trust Jacob, to trust him. The diner's owner was just that to you—a cook. Surely not someone you want to trust with a needle prodding about your skin. Like Dee shouldn't be trusted around you… It makes him bitter, your reaction settling in his bones—an offense to his character. You should be letting go when you are with him—blindly, excitedly even. One second, he wants that—for you to rely on him more than you'd ever even believe in yourself; the next, he doesn't know what to do with this searing want.
So instead, he chuckles low, deep and indulgent as if you'd just told the funniest deal-gone-wrong anecdote—and not that you potentially have the power to split him open and hold his beating heart. Ultimately, he can't help but find your jittery state almost endearing. Like you are just itching for a reason to abandon ship.
“Jacob wears many hats. Most guys I grew up with and around have to, angel. So, cut him some slack, yeah? He knows what he is doing…”. Dee assures with mild annoyance—as fond as he can allow himself to get before he reprimands for good measure; no need for you to have a big head, after all. “And by the fuckin’ way—he is the owner of that diner. Not just some guy who flipped your waffles—put some respect where it’s due.”
To Dee that's a show of status—to own your shit. To be self-reliant instead of some wet-behind-the-ears bloke who begs for scraps and whines when the world inevitably turns a blind eye. Yet, you roll your eyes—unconvinced and slightly irritated that he not only ran late, but failed to mention where he was taking you. You are testing his patience, that’s for certain. If it were anyone else who tried that move on him, he might have jumped them or at the very least scared them into thinking he might. One never knows with a loose canon… it’s a proper hat to wear—high risk, high reward but it’s what kept him surviving for so long.
Issue is, you are starting to make him realize he might want to live too.
And so, Dee reaches out, putting his hand over yours—the one that’s still shaking up and down your cradled arms and joins it in the motion. “Don't get sassy with me, angel. You said you wanted them pretty flowers? Jacob did mine... and never once called me a pussy for getting them either.”
“Forget-me-nots…” you restate in a dreamy whisper. The same blooms that frame his mother's name on his neck. Like the ones that used to grow in your grandfather's garden. All reminding you of a life worth living.
Dee nods as he peels away the hood of your raincoat, sending small droplets cascading and inevitably catching down the hairs of your neck, making you twitch. “So? We doing this or what?” His eyes glint, challenging you to take yet another leap with him there.
“Hell yeah, we—!” You try to sound convinced, but choke instead—ungracefully so, on the sharp wet inhale your lungs finally allow, “—are!”
“A little early to be hiccuping like that, innit?” He lets out a breath through his pursed lips as he leads you into the parlor.
You nudge your whole body weight onto his side at the attempted banter, even putting a small jump into it, causing him to quickly double over in mock defeat—pretending to let out a shrill wheeze. In another life, maybe, he could have been an actor. With how good his singing voice is and how amazingly goofy he can be in these situations, it would be a perfect fit—possibly even a way to work through some of his issues. It makes you finally warm up at that thought—that for all it's worth, he can let go in your company every now and again. Not fully free, but still himself nonetheless.
Even when he jumps on the brakes… the resulting whiplash is worth it.
It definitely takes a minute for all of your senses to adjust as you enter the establishment. The one constant that pushes you through is feeling Dee’s hand near yours. Not touching or intertwining your fingers in a bold claim… just lingering. You swear his hand twitches, itching to get closer, yet ever so reluctant—like he may break the spell if he takes that step towards making it real and defined. Like he doesn't know what it will mean when it comes to you.
For a moment, you think he’s led into a cave—a very tacky, rundown cave, but a cave nonetheless. Cherry-colored walls squeeze you in, bloodthirsty, alongside thick but cheap magenta drapes that fight off any unwanted attention or light from ever daring to come into the studio. Some of the golden swirls, that have grown gray with grime, remind you of Dee's crass rococo-esque robe and matching slippers…
You can't forget the night he'd shown up in that little number on the porch of the house his new crew was cooped up at. If you hadn't been in dire need of stimulants stronger than coffee, you would've snuck in a laugh. That hadn’t stopped you from snapping a quick candid photo instead. All was well until the flash had seared across his vision, leaving ghostly afterimages dancing behind his eyelids. And thus, an equally wraithlike overexposed visage of Dee wincing was saved into your camera roll. Thankfully, the goods had already been exchanged and so you could make a proper run for it, keeping the real bounty—that photo— with his pimped out fit, seared in your phone's memory. And probably your nightmares too…
Now it won't be a good time to tease him about it though, when you’ve crossed into his world once more. You note that the smell here is different too… but that doesn't mean it’s any better than the street outside. Scattered leather stretchers and bare walls that chance a look from beneath torn off wallpapers seem to have soaked up all the dense smoke that’s been cooking the air. No one is bothering to be particularly hygienic around here, much less to let the space breathe.
One tattoo artist stands so close to a guy's thigh—working on a piece while a cigarette dangles from his lips… it's a miracle the client's leg hairs aren't singed off. You lift your eyes from that sight to be greeted by… a woman.
A half-naked woman, getting her nipples pierced.
“Don't they have privacy screens for all that?! Her boobs are out!” You whimper in horror, voice suddenly being carried louder than expected now that you are inside such a cramped space. This is as good a time as any to bury your head in the sand… with how red your face gets when the piercer, who’s built like a house, turns around to shoot you a disapproving look.
“It's only natural, missy.” Jacob's throaty pitch arrives from behind Dee and you: “No need to get your panties in a twist.”
Where did he come from?! Probably from behind one of the crusted over drapes… It's getting way too overstimulating for how laid back everyone seems to be and it makes you feel like an alien. Like you are the odd one, sticking out like a sore thumb and the wolves might just take a bite out of you if you drop your guard down. Is that how Dee felt growing up? How he feels every day?
Before you can ‘psychoanalyze’ him further—as he affectionately calls it, he is already shaking the older man's hand, bringing him in for a pat on the back. But he then notices—out of the corner of his eye—ever watchful, just how shriveled you've truly become. Like back at that party… You really can’t deal with new people, can you? It’s a wonder you ended up with the likes of Dee.
“Angel…”, he starts, getting closer to you without asking permission as he whispers what he thinks will soothe your nerves—rich and raspy in your ear: “If it’ll make you feel any better… you have way prettier tits!”
Nope, this doesn’t help your case of ‘who set my lungs on fire’ at all… It’s praise he wholeheartedly believes most women would swoon over—it has yet to fail him. Its crudeness just makes you feel more self-conscious at the call-out you’d executed mere seconds ago. It doesn't calm you down, but it definitely distracts you in a way, sending images flashing in your mind’s eye. Of you on Dee’s lap, of his fingers brushing and teasing… taking whatever stood in their path. All because of that silly snarl his voice reverberated that always makes your knees weak. His attempt at being smooth could never be considered romantic in the traditional sense—it would be a generous assessment to call it a ‘one-liner’ in any sense. Yet, it's so much like him—to rely on raw influence instead of considerate thought. He is a person built out of reflexes, rather than calm intent. It's that unpredictability that gives you life, a sense of motion as the air around him never stands stale. He could never suffocate you in rigidity. And so, it works… on some instinctive level—it pulls you in, begs you to accept his ragged edges.
You clear your throat in an attempt to stifle the alternative needy sound that bubbles up: “Anyways! I’d just appreciate it if I could have a… drape? Or a privacy screen, or whatever…”
You look away if only to attempt and stop the warmth that spreads to your face from matching the color of the extravagant flaking wallpapers. As luck would have it, your gaze settles on the stencil of what will become your tattoo—peeking out below a very disorganized pile at the main desk. Sunflowers, bright and yellow, intertwined with the mellow blue of the fuzzy forget-me-nots. The artwork is beautiful—nature’s shapes translated in fluid motions even with just markers. Wide-eyed, your heart skips a beat for an entirely different reason now, even as you try to manage your excitement and fit in: “But yeah—to each their own I suppose!”
Yet you are no longer sure if you are referring to the woman’s blatant exhibitionism… or how Dee’s eyes grow ever so softer when he catches your reverent appreciation for Jacob’s work.
“You like it, angel?” Dee prompts, finally brave enough to let his large palm settle on your shoulder, even in public: “Told you Jacob had it covered…”
The older man huffs and puffs, putting on an annoyed face at his art being critiqued. But he still leads the two of you to a more secluded section of the parlor and even offers more cushioned pillows to make up for the worn-down, flattened stuffing of the tattoo bed. You can definitely feel its edges poking—at least you know it was put to good use… For all it's worth, this place sees a lot of faces and happy customers.
“I imagine this ain't your first rodeo, missy? Such a large piece… and on your ribs at that. You must be packing a lot of ink under them clothes?” Jacob asks almost absentmindedly as he winds some tape on the grip of his tattoo gun.
“Uhm, no, actually… this will be my first work!” You say, excited to share instead of being trapped in your own brain (that you feel totally hates you)—forced to stare at the various needles laid out.
Jacob’s mouth opens and closes as he starts to move slowly, relenquishing his equipment to the table. “Have you lost your mind, lad?!” He is addressing Dee directly now, eye to eye, voice raised and convinced like he is haggling at the market. “‘Cause I'll help you find it! Bringing in the poor summer child up in here...” the older man shakes his head and finally turns to you—disappointedly counting the seconds until he loses you as a client. “Tell me, missy—do you even know how bad it could hurt—sitting through such a large piece with that placement? Not to mention you want the colorin’ and shading...” A deep sigh as he gives in when he catches the sparkle in your eyes: “You might wanna take a swig or two from the vodka my Russian friends settle their bills with! Hell, on second thought, I might take the whole bottle for myself—with all the whinin’ and cryin’ that's in store!”
“She's tougher than she looks, J.”, Dee attempts, uncharacteristically measured—refusing to match the man’s outlandish reaction.
The realization hits you like a truck, that this is probably the nicest, most genuine compliment he could ever give… to anyone. And he believes it, said it…. About you. It grounds you, convinces you that you can take on being a canvas for a dozen pieces right this instant if need be!
“I promise, sir—the only thing that's scary to me are those needles, not the pain that’s in store. I've done my research—all the needed prep and post-tattoo care in detail! I know what I'm getting myself into.”, you assert, balling your fist into the small fringed pillow Jacob had given as padding.
“‘Sir’…?” The man sucks his teeth dismissively, though you can immediately tell you’ve done well to polish his pride the moment he sits up straighter. “Ain’t heard that much respect ‘round this shop in… probably ever.” His next words are emphasized by a quick shake of his head as he readies a small tin with glide. It’s definitely seen better days, but so have most of the interior pieces and people in here. “What a proper little lady our favorite stray has brought in, ey? I knew it ever since I saw you in my diner—that you ain’t here just for mileage.”
That part makes you wince, shoulders growing tense at the reminder of Dee’s history… It doesn’t make you jealous necessarily. Right? You are just high-strung because there is that part of you that doubts you won’t end up being just another number, another ‘fun time’ for him—forgotten the moment he squeezes out what he wants. Hope is still here, it dies last—hope that he will let you down slowly if the bells toll, but also hope that there wouldn’t come such a time. That the two of you may yet try to clear a path and walk through this filthy, rotten and nasty little world together. That there will come a day when you can call it ‘home’ at last. Maybe then you will finally be able to read him, know him—the good and the bad, the yin and the yang… Or maybe you are just bound to learn from some hard mistakes.
Isn’t that what life is about though? Thinking you are prepared for it all, just to get humbled when the wolves are at the door…
“Just don’t go telling me you’ll refuse J’s vodka…?” Dee’s sharp jab takes you out of the comfortable thought cocoon you’d synthesized. “With all that crap about ‘diluting the ink’. I’m telling ya, those new-school geezers are just a bunch of softies…”
“Oh, I am refusing… I won’t need it.” You shrug the tension off—plain and simple. Still careful but no longer defensive, you are playing catch now.
The challenge makes Dee curl his lips in a pulsing smirk, becoming incredibly still as he takes in the feel of your confidence. He’s seen it before, sure enough, when you snapped that pic of him, or when you ‘foretold’ his future, or especially when you settled your way on his lap. You’d been like a cat testing his boundaries. But you are in his territory now. He’d expected you to cower—keep recoiled like you had when you were just getting adjusted to the scene—but it looks like he's just scratched the surface of where your limits lie.
“You always this sure, or is it just when we have an audience, angel?” He gets in closer, like he needs to see it for himself. “Still, you said you didn’t appreciate them needles? I thought a nurse in training won’t mind?” A response in stride, almost stress-testing you as he meets your eyes. And he’d never let his glare be the first to falter.
“I’m not the one holding the needle now, am I?” You think quick on your feet—able to keep in your element even as he bites.
“Ah, so you prefer to be the one doing the poking? Good to know…” Dee fetches his vape just to blow a large strawberry-scented smoke cloud in your face.
Round won. By you, it seems.
“I’m just gonna ignore how backwards that came out, lad.” Jacob doesn’t look particularly moved by the not-so-subtle tension that’s prickling in the air. A man set to simply do what he loves, get paid and get all the drama somewhere far away from his booth. “Come now, missy, let’s see what we are working with!”
It should be making you feel exposed… it's what you expected. But somehow Jacob's tattoo gun becomes background noise and the sharp pain settles, turning dull after the first fifteen minutes. Just the thrumming vibrations remain, but it's nothing you aren't already growing accustomed to… Dee's roughness carries very much the same effect.
“You tell me if you need a break at any time, yeah!” It's not a question, so much as it's a veteran's instruction.
“Will do, sir…” you assure, but the only thing on your mind now is how Dee never once loses focus from your form.
It's not like him… to be this preoccupied with something he deems enjoyable. And from how eerily still he sits right now—it's obvious he is savoring every twitch of your fingers around the outrageously dated pillow, every breath you don't want to release and just let build up and up until your chest rises. Untold sighs fill your lungs, but the almost translucent quality to his eyes—it tickles at your ribs.
Usually, he opts to deal with all that can go wrong, and fast. He sees these quiet times as danger sneaking up on him if he ever gets too comfortable, too stationary. When he gets high, it's to forget exactly that innate burden—that any change in his environment could be a cause for alarm. More often than not, any sound arrives as a question his body answers before his mind can even have the chance to register it, much less respond. Fuck it, these deep thoughts can be considered vestigial for all he cares—totally non-conducive to his immediate needs or survival… Yet, now he stands mesmerized by every subtle taut movement of your body. How the side wings of your bra move just a tad higher with every inhale, making room for the ink to leave its mark against your ribs with its relentless buzz. Something within him thrums with equal intensity—not because he is forced into vigilance, but because he chooses to see you, know you—remember you.
“What's the deal, big man? Cat sprawled on my table got your tongue, huh?” Jacob is very much the same beast—sensing everything around him even as he gives off the impression that he's focused on the work in front. “I ain't never heard him be steady…”
“Shut your mouth, fam, ‘fore I shut it for you—”, there is the expected snap of his teeth.
“He’s just making sure you don’t mess it up…” You cut in slowly, gently—conspiratorially almost, not calling attention with loudness, but with intent. The rich amusement that seeps from your tone and into the air around makes Dee huff sharply… It’s a rough sound from the back of his throat that could’ve been the beginning of reluctant laughter if his tightly pursed lips didn’t stop it dead in its tracks. As he looks sideways, inhaling from his vape like it can stifle any genuine affection far better than his useless lips ever could… you don’t let up, deliberately prodding to see just how much you can push: “He can be careful when he wants to, you know?”
Dee’s bouncing leg is forced still as he barks a real laugh this time: “You practiced that one in front of the mirror or something…?” A sharp click of his tongue signals irritation, though something threatens to crack through his features—something that will allow this game to continue. “The only thing I’m ‘careful’ about is where your soft spots are…”
“Aye, second that!” Jacob stops for a bit to crack his neck as he blinks away the evident exertion that clouds his eyes. “Single-minded suits him proper like—he finds where to bite and never lets go, that one.”
Same as how Dee sees his problems it seems—as pests. Rot begetting rot, he has journeyed through life mistaking familiarity for truth—looking into the eyes of others and seeing only fellow beasts… ruling it sound judgement.
Cooped up in the heavy air of the parlor though—he can only count the next petal that's shaded on the ridge of your chest.
Soon enough, you are holding a small mirror… more like a piece of what used to be a mirror, angled toward your upper torso. Sunflowers shine and forget-me-nots glisten their reflections back and you let out a content and long sigh as finally, all the breaths you’ve been saving up come loose. For some reason, you feel your eyes grow damper, like you’ve finally achieved something that may help you move forward.
“Pain catching up to you with delay or something?” Dee nods in your direction, not really mocking but dancing on the verge of it. It’s almost like he’s looking for a way out of acknowledging how his eyes brighten when he recognizes the flowers as your shared language of pain and resilience.
The urge to flip him off in return extinguishes the moment you see it for yourself—the subtle give in the not-so-carefree smile lines that have been etched into his skin as a result of wincing rather than real happiness. But now, these wrinkles rest softer against his scratchy stubble.
“In a way…” You offer gently, feeling your sore tattoo get warmer as Jacob helps you wrap it in foil. “Ache isn’t always a bad thing, y’know.”
While he rolls his eyes, a thought settles in his muscles—that he wants to come to know it, to start believing it too. He cannot remember the last time he could feel settled in his body, instead of just a passenger in it.
But as he opens and closes his mouth, wetting his dried lips—two small words leave him: “Yeah… beautiful…”
He sighs it so faintly—like he let go of a wish that might extinguish with its falling star. With it, he isn't sure whether he is longing for just the pain, or what it can become.
Dee is pissed… once again. Pacing his room… once again.
The deal went well, alright. He didn’t even need to throw hands at the end... Well, Dee didn't—his attack dogs did the dirty work adequately. The other side’s suckers paid like the obedient underlings they were and even thanked him for good measure. One did so on the ground, voice twangy and stuttering from his broken nose, while the others seemed to have their wits about them and took the hint to get it done without fussing. At the end of the day, it made little difference—he had their fear and so… their respect.
But you. You’ve been ignoring him. How else should he put it when you always say you are busy studying?
Yeah, right… so busy you had half the mind to be asking for something to snort in order to pull another all-nighter that doesn’t even include him. Well, gun to his head, he has to admit—you… did try and engage him a couple of times. All of those failed attempts ended with Dee inevitably pulling out his Nintendo that distracted you to no end. The game's loud gunshots blasted and painted the dark room like an epilepsy-inducing rave opener… His immersion in the action-packed pixels didn't help either. When the shots stopped, his cussing shouting started and anyone remotely involved in the game's creation was sent on an endless exile to ‘suck their mum’… a very intellectually stimulating environment for sure.
You didn't hate it necessarily. If you hadn't been flooded by assignments, it could even be funny to let yourself exist without a filter as well. Especially when the more favorable distraction tactic Dee employed involved sneaking up on you as you’d sit at your dorm desk— pulling you up and onto his lap. The practiced motion would elicit a yelp from you almost every time, even whining out pathetic strings of protests. But all excuses were ultimately stifled for a short while in your throat as he'd massage these intense, almost claiming circles into whatever softness his hands could grab. Closer and closer to where he knew you needed him the most, even if you couldn't admit it with how stressed you'd been.
The contrast of his hard touches meeting the sensitive skin of you inner thighs made your head dizzy. A whimper here and there, needy movements that you were forced to let go of as you'd push off of him—far too overwhelmed to truly relax. Even with how steady and grounding his chest felt against your back, even with how his lavender smell corrupted your senses and the evidence of his arousal would send your mouth watering… You couldn't allow yourself to have it. A part of you desperately thrummed to be forced on your knees so you can just forget the thoughts running circles in your skull. In front of you stood an endless lake, and you could only see how to swim through, never over.
He supplied so you could finish those exams but it'd just made you more twitchy and him… more annoyed than supportive. Again, he'd felt like he was humiliating himself trying to break past your shell—stripping his walls down even if in small bits… like the flaking ones at Jacob's tattoo parlor. Why not just call one of his girls for a quick shag? It's the same predicament as when he'd first come to your dorm—nothing else is enough now. You'd unlocked something in him and never gave him the key. Just left the door swinging open at the whims of the wind. The unstoppable force has met the immovable object and now—it's anyone's guess how the paradox will unravel.
But unravel it shall…
“That snow bunny of yours came knocking yesterday after lunch.” One of the newer guys reports, a little unnerved that anyone could've seen you walk up to their den. “Said she had one final thing to get done? I don't know, boss… she looked a real mess.”
You'd seen better days, sure… bags under your eyes, dry skin, hair day hadn't blessed you in a week or so—it's not a list by this point but a whole tome. The only thing you found the strength for and didn't feel guilty indulging in, was taking care of the tattoo, tracing each petal while it still healed, while it was still sore. That, and sending Dee messages that went unanswered.
It's tough when the only thing in front of you is graduation. That way you can finally have something no one can take from you—something yours, like the tattoo. Who cares if you needed to snort a line or two of nose candy or pop a benny to get it done—it's all worth it in the end. Academic perfectionism can be a real pain in the ass… or flip your world ass up? One of the two, but what was certain is that it made for a really lonely place when the only other person who tries to see you for who you are just doesn't get it. When there's no way of communicating, because you are at different places—always in different worlds. Sure, they collide when it's convenient, when you can delude one another into believing you aren't there to probe and test your yin and his yang—the small seed of darkness in a forest of light and the small drop of hope in an ocean of rot.
“What you yappin’ ‘bout?! Fuckin’ get a slap if you run your mouth like that.” Dee snaps immediately, getting in the boy's face as he crossed the small room in a low rush of momentum. Once he owns the space, he mumbles slowly, face dropping, eyes pinning whatever stands in his way: “She won't talk, that's for sure. I told her, she ain't getting none. Not until she patterns her shit first.”
It's not care… not precaution for your health. Just a sick desire to see if you'd come back for more than the drugs. If you are that sliver of hope in the world, or if the rot has corrupted you full.
I won't bother you with that anymore… promise. I have just one practical left. Hope to see you soon!
‘Hope’… yeah, well, that ought to drop dead last.
The garage smells of sweaty oil, burnt tarmac and hot tires. It's a potent combination that's been ingrained into him since he was a small boy, coming in to get his father's car serviced. Though his old man often paid in threats instead of giving people their due. Dee wipes off the grease from his forehead as he clatters the hood of the truck he's been working on shut. Now, he runs the garage—started as soon as he’d made enough money. A businessman of his caliber needed a place to wash his money clean and this was a great front for his deals. He knew the place inside and out. Well, all that, but he also had the passion for it. Dee even ensured the last owner got a much deserved early retirement... No, nothing sinister like that—just paid the old grump off. Not a lot of people around him had the fortune of seeing late age, and even fewer came to greet it gently and safely. It was the least he could do, he felt.
“Yo, T, run the numbers on the Smith job real quick!” Dee shouts the order at Taylor who was put to man the reception. “Bloke's been waiting on this beauty for a while now…”
When he doesn't get the immediate response he wants, that he expects, he smacks the greased towel on the gravel in palpable agitation.
“I swear, that loon better not be gulping down the Sabutex… can't find jackshit help nowadays!” Dee mumbles under his breath as he all but storms past the cheap white plastic door of the waiting area. It flies off harshly in the process, almost creaking under the pressure. “I said—it's not fucking break time, you twat! You having a tea party with the queen or some shit?! Get to working or so help me—”
And then he sees you—smiling, put together, carrying what appears to be a box of homemade biscuits… Hold on, rewind—smiling at Taylor, more like. That towel shrivels in Dee’s iron grip, as he becomes unnaturally still once again—assessing the threat. You want to restore safety, instead he sees what you two have as an issue he has to smooth out. Again, the different worlds at odds.
“Dee! I tried to call and warn you I was coming but… you seemed busy.”, you mumble softly, already opening the box you'd meticulously prepared. The rich buttery smell contrasts the garage's settled grime and dust rather starkly. “I just wanted to say ‘thanks’… and apologize. I couldn't really be there for you that much these weeks…”
There you are with your rambles, always explaining yourself like the world might crush you for taking up even an ounce of space. Like you had to be allowed to breathe. The pattern is so self-evident that Dee doesn't need to think before he’s smelling it on you… how curious and even vexing you can be when you are comfortable; and then how closed off and sheepish you become once you feel threatened. Now it's time for the latter, and it sends him seething at it, hating it. Shuffling in here, batting your eyelashes… and the biscuits? It was almost too formulaic. And what now—he's supposed to give you the stars for playing the victim?
“Ridiculous…” He cuts off sharply, not even looking at you. “I seemed busy…. to you? Yeah, guess what, angel—I actually have a fucking job to do instead of lose my head in some made-up shit like you do!”
“I-I just had to—”, you try, but you already feel yourself shrink; each attempt to justify yourself somehow leaves less space for the actual explanations.
“H-h-had to what?! Snort another line so you can ignore me for anything else? Oh, you picked the right one today, I’ll tell you that!” Dee mocks your stutter bitterly, not laughing—just set on a snapping rampage. Leaning closer to you as you try to step back, he doesn’t leave any air to breathe, speaking faster than you’d ever seen him. Now, it’s like he can finally allow the overfilled bottle to burst open. It’s a far scarier picture when he emphasizes his red-hot irritation with a well-placed tilt of his head, like he is trying to sniff out your response. “You dare come here… in my shop, where I take care of serious business.” The next words come out paired with a mock pout—belittling, like you are unable to comprehend your actions. “What if one of your stuck-up friends followed you here, saw you buying ‘study buddies’, hm? What then, little nurse?”
“No one did! I told you… I am not here for that! I am so sorry I made you feel like I was using you—I’d never—I just… I really need this, Dee… Graduating, getting the grades.” A reluctant whisper rears its ugly head from your lips: “My brain won’t give it a rest.”
As if naming the problem out loud may make it hurt more than it already does. Like you are giving your compulsive, neurotic strive more power to eat you up.
At that, the tension stops feeling like it’s just in your body and it starts filling the room instead. His insistence and your reluctance are pitted in a deadly duel… yet the space between you misjudges both. It’s not building something up, instead you and Dee are conjoined—spiraling down toward an endless abyss. And unlike that rainy day in your dorm—he is blindsided by his anger, by the fact that he was hurt first. It’s that momentum that keeps the avalanche rolling, growing bigger and closer to suffocating you.
“Ah, right—you are here to bring biscuits… because that’s what you want, innit? A cookie-cutter, perfect fucking little life where no one tells you to get your act together.” He scoffs, finally letting go of that towel he’s been squeezing dry and places it on top of your box. “Y’know, unlike your wasteman of an ex, I can wipe my own arse without you being here. I don’t need you—I just didn’t expect you’d rinse me… mess me about like that, you feel.” For a moment, he looks down and his foot goes through a swinging motion—like he is kicking an imaginary rock and wants it to fly somewhere far away. “Shame on me, ey?” He shrugs in sync with his bitter voice.
“Dee, I tried to tell you—”, you squeeze your fists, wanting to force him to listen for once, instead of baring his teeth, “I texted, I invited you over—”
It wasn’t enough… when a chunk of his life gets hard, he bites it off, before it has the chance to strike back. He’d chew through his own leg if it meant never feeling trapped. And you, even if unwittingly, made him feel cornered—lulling him under your spell but never assuring him in the way he seeks. Never making him feel like ‘the man’, the one and only, the strongest who could be there to battle your issues. How can he ever battle something he can't take a swing at?
“Spare your breath, sweetheart. We are a forced t’ing is all.” He looks towards the box covered by the towel—the evidence of his hard work, thrown in the ring. Then, his eye twitches as he recalls the way you’d looked at Taylor earlier and it only stirs him further. “Spineless wet wipes should stick together pretty neat, no? T will enjoy your biscuits.”
The whole world is rot; and even friends get caught in Dee’s adrenaline-induced velocity.
You look between the box and Dee… then Taylor who wants to disappear off to somewhere. You want to stay, however. Call it self-destructive, call it faith in what you and him have, or plain stupidity—you will see this through and show him that your temperance isn't cowardice. You have the guts to be in his life, you just need him to show you his waters won't always be treacherous. That there can be a quiet time for the two of you to rest…
As the tether that's been pulling you guilt-ridden cuts off, you feel like a puppet devoid of strings—able to move with agility again. It's your momentum that snaps back now, like a band in his face when he turns to leave. “Just so you know… you are the one running away from the hard stuff now, Dee.”
Catching an alligator on a hook is no easy feat, but the eerie softness with which you deliver truth pulls him in. Not many dare to hiss back at a beast. And so, the moment your words hit him, his jaw tightens and he sucks in a forced breath through his teeth.
You've just drawn first blood… and he can already smell it in the water.
𔘓 Tag list: @p4neminem, @taniamiller
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!
m/f ∘ sugar daddy!President Snow ∘ post tbosas canon ∘ daddy kink ∘ age gap (10 years, nothing illegal!) ∘ dom/sub dynamic though there’s an inherent power imbalance ∘ district 4!reader/OC ∘ controlling and possessive behavior ∘ toxic relationship ∘ OC helps Coriolanus prepare for a poisoning ∘ Capitol politics/inequality - classism ∘ original side characters ∘ objectification/dollification — punishments as loss of autonomy (OC is in a cage/aviary at the end) ∘ daddy issues (bc ofc) ∘ Lucy Gray and Crassus Snow haunt the narrative ('The Ballad of Lucy Gray' is retold in District 4 wording) — Coriolanus flips out ∘ trauma/fear of abandonment — allusions to OC having BPD/DPD ∘ described physical abuse as punishment (not to OC) ∘ Tigris and Livia make their debut in this chapter! ∘ so angst
smut!! (DDDNE//mdni): NON-CON/dub-con, Coriolanus uses a love serum on OC (none of the smut happens during its effects, but it’s implied he’s been using it on her for some time), use of belt as a leash — so, choking, one (1) slap, piv, Coriolanus Snow and his (canon — fight me!) breeding kink, praise and degradation, overstimulation, use of plugs (vibrating one 👀), forced imprisonment and loss of voice
a/n: A HUGE thanks to @p4neminem for the beta on this!! It was a longer writing process because I wanted to flash everything out — darker themes are challenging, who would've thought 🤔 (+ life got busy). But really, without you, I don't think it would have had the same feel it does now, especially in certain places 🤍
The bedroom was silent save for the fantom kiss Adriana still felt pressed into her scalp—searing, not soothing. Yet another mark.
It certainly sent loud thoughts racing through her mind, like his absence always did. Loneliness physically pained her, and the emptiness caused by him—even more so. It was like even his cruelty could mend the hollow parts inside her, making her chase him for the ever-missing fragments, fearful of remaining shattered into countless pieces.
A thirst that can never be quenched.
The thick drapes let so little light in that she was unsure what time it was, but... it was a confusion she’d come to expect and greet like an old friend. All a result of his roller-coaster of unregulated highs and bottomless lows.
Adriana tried to stay in the middle now, balanced—the dark silk sheets creasing beneath her weight, beneath the exertion as she moved restlessly. But the concept—the stability was far too foreign, so her mind settled back to him. To the pearl she dives for.
Coriolanus was gone, so it couldn't be earlier than seven. She rolled over to his side of the bed—neatly made, nothing to suggest he'd ever been present—except for the white rose he'd left on his pillow and a note to her for the day. Elegant, yet assertive cursive bled through the small thin parchment piece…
Busy day, little siren. I expect you ready for the senate dinner. No party for you tonight and no coffee at breakfast. I've made sure of it.
Milk and honey from now on.
-C.S.
Not a text, but his own penmanship—his hands leaving something behind. For such occasions that required precision and for lessons that necessitate permanence, he preferred this method far more. His initials were written sharply, ritualistically practiced—an unnecessary addition… Who else could the note be from after all?
Adriana lifted her hand up to trace the matching ones imprinted on her neck and realized... everything had its purposes in his world.
He liked to watch her before he got on with his day. Her sleeping peaceful form. Liked knowing he stood behind it—guaranteed it.
Not that he couldn’t check in through the myriad of digital eyes he had on her at all times… but then, he wouldn’t be able to hear her breaths, to allow them. The act would settle his nerves, knowing she’d still be wherever he pointed to—a sea god commanding his siren and her emotional waves. He’d written the note, still watching her from the escritoire in the bedroom, imagining how she’d scrunch her nose in distaste at all his adjustments—but that she’d follow nonetheless. It was a high like no other.
‘No party’. The denial made her clench her fist and crumple the paper. Why couldn't she have both? Have it all? If she was so alone now, what would he care if she went?
The plan was still there… she'd leave the dinner and make him chase her. Finally prove he was in just as deep as she was. Not a distraction, not a secret—but something kept. And gem of Panem help her, she'd be drinking espresso martinis with Rosa in celebration until she couldn't walk straight…
Why did the thought of being away from Coriolanus make her head pound?
For now, sure as the moon commanding the tides, breakfast came—served in bed. The milk tasted far too sweet—a reminder of the life Coriolanus offered, but also of the weight he demanded on her hips, her thighs… a claim deep to her very bones. But the salty ocean currents made for better conquerors…
She chewed through the french toast, sprinkled with dried rose petals—fluffy but filling her senses far too overwhelmingly, making her his inside and out. The plethora of sourced wild berries stood still on extravagant china, so domesticated. Adriana popped one blueberry in her mouth when she heard heels clicking down the hall.
A woman—definitely refined in her gait. A feline-like shadow spread when the door was reached… Tigris. Her sweet voice that had become more of a careful purr recently now trickled through the keyhole. She didn’t dare knock—showcasing the subtle way in which Adriana wouldn’t even have the authority to let her in.
“Darling…?” the older woman prompted, waiting to hear what she would be dealing with on the other side.
After all, Coriolanus liked to play rough with his toys from a young age—break them if necessary. Even when the Snows couldn’t afford much, his belief was that if the trinkets were of no use to him, they better not be his at all—or exist at all for that matter. He’d try and make all these ‘adjustments’ to his military set—more wheels on Peacekeeper vans, painting camouflage stains on the small figurine soldiers, switching out limbs of stronger pieces, adding weapons as limbs… the list went on. If they couldn’t withstand his treatment, his improvements… they’d be thoroughly disposed of.
A tendency Tigris knew had followed him into adulthood but had switched focus to more... practical things. Like the lab work with Gaul he refused to abandon. Be it body modifications to troopers or the epitome of it all—his cabinet of vials galore, labeled to perfection. More often than not, a trip to it meant another bell tolling—another Capitol coffin lowered. A magistrate poisoned to perfection.
Like the Sea Witch of olden tales… poor souls would deal in terms few of them were astute enough to fully grasp before they’d inevitably turn to sea foam. It wasn't just lethality he administered though—chemistry was versatile like that.
“Yes, Tigris?” Adriana’s fog lifted, responding as she swallowed a mouthful. If Coriolanus were here, he’d surely take away her utensils for daring to speak while chewing. And that sweet breakfast bite would have been the last she’d get to feel on her own.
“Coriolanus requested I be the one to make any final adjustments to your wardrobe for the trip…" she explained, voice still muffled from behind the grand bedroom doors.
“I can be at the dressing room in ten!” Adriana automatically wiped at the corners of her lips with the thick handkerchief provided—already carrying the ingrained table manners even when there was no one around to scrutinize her.
“I was thinking… let us have the modeling outside? See how real sunlight compliments the fabrics with your complexion…” Tigris explained hastily: “We wouldn’t want to miss any angles now!" A well thought out excuse—her tone clipped and efficient. Just what Coriolanus would expect of anyone tending to his little siren. Nothing too familiar.
Outside… where there were no cameras. Adriana couldn’t lie that it’d be a reprieve from it all—from control disguised as care. From a constant dive for the latter, only to settle for the former, being confused in it herself. An uneasy feeling settled low in her stomach, that she was somehow betraying his rules—with reluctant awareness, but committing to it nonetheless.
The sun was bright against the white marble columns that surrounded the gardens, warming—even if they always gave the feel of endless snowfall. The first dress from yesterday already hugged Adriana’s frame better as she exited onto the large veranda and into the light. Tigris’ careful fingers brushed the tulle downward. Every movement spelled the reverent respect she held for her craft.
“The stitching here is sloppy… I tell my baby cousin—that’s what happens when you rush art! But then again, he never saw much value in the fashion itself." she shook her head, moving to pin a loose thread in place: “Not to worry, sweet girl—I’ll fix it in no time.”
The fabric wasn’t what was appraised here—it was the model, always Adriana. These ‘fancy rags’ were just another way to hold her tied down, in them—no unnecessary color and definitely not a means of self-expression. What a silly thing to even consider—there was no ‘self’ outside of him.
Yet there were still far more permanent chains Coriolanus could put in place. And Tigris knew it…. saw it—the ordinarily bitter serum stirred into the sweet milk this morning, by his hand. Brain chemistry was such a delicate thing after all, and his siren’s—even more so.
Adriana let out a small laugh, cutting through the older Snow's calculations: “I still don’t understand the rush to have the whole wardrobe done today… if we leave in five days.”
“Ah, it’s not for us to know—at least that’s what Grandma’am used to say.” Tigris related—a louder display of compliance for the sake of any lingering surveillance. But as she continued her distracting ramblings and coordinated accessorizing—a necklace here, an earring there— she'd squeeze the other girl's shoulder in a quieter comfort every now and again. “She permitted Coryo all his quirks. In a sense, he reminded her of my uncle… and, well, he was the Snow ideal.”
Just at that, a maid arrived with fresh lemonade and a conveniently pinned rose lapel—Coriolanus’ ears were scattered like jabberjays it seemed….
Adriana reached for a glass, but Tigris seized it sharply—hands suddenly far too unsteady for a well-trained seamstress. “That's okay, leave them on the table. We wouldn’t want to sully the new dresses, now would we?" she added sweetly.
“Of course, ma'am.” the maid curtsied hastily and left with that—fearful of something or rather someone.
The younger girl swallowed hard, lips pursing at the display. It wasn't like Tigris to command like this…
Carefully, Adriana opened her mouth, voice thin as if threading a needle accompanied with an anxious chuckle: “What was that about, Tigris? Surely we can enjoy some refreshments?”
Tigris took a final paranoid look over her shoulder, back at the looming gardens—somehow dark even when the bright summer shone. To her relief it was just the gardeners now—far away, tending already perfectly shaped evergreen shrubs.
She exhaled through her nose firmly as she turned to rummage through her leather work bag: “Listen, my girl… Coryo—Coriolanus—" she corrected, the action paining her greatly as she grimaced.
‘Coryo’—such an affectionate nickname—it sounded almost like a bird's chirp. Adriana wondered if the President's heart had ever been truly so open as to respond to its calling. Maybe long ago… with a certain songbird whose presence lurked between her and Coriolanus now—a ghost solidifying Adriana’s cage.
But before she could pursue that line of thought further, Tigris’ voice cut through, continuing lowly: “…He has been spiking your drinks... those gumdrops he feeds you too. I doubt the lemonade was a part of it since I'm here too, but… one can never be too careful." her throat was tight, breath barely escaping as she pressed a cold vial into Adriana's hand, squeezing it just as tightly as the invisible hand constricting her neck.
The siren took a step back, jerking away like she'd been burned: “Wh-what do you mean? Tigris? Why would…", her voice trembled as did her body. Suddenly, Adriana felt like she were standing back at District Four's Justice Building like she had for five full years. But this time, as in her worst nightmares—her name was being pulled from the Reaping bowl. “—I didn't do anything wrong!" she raised her voice, panicked while frantically feeling around her heart for a pulse through the sheer dress. For any indication that she was still alive. Maybe that was what every ‘tribute’ thought to themselves…
And Adriana could fathom it—Coriolanus wanting her out of the way… Painless, clean, poisoned—a snake's weapon. Even still, the betrayal hurt, fear consumed—like saltwater filling her lungs.
“Quiet now—we wouldn’t want to call attention!” Tigris warned but assured further: “It's not poison he is giving you… it's—”. Suddenly, she looked to the large pool, water in her eyes meeting the turquoise dancing in artificial waves. The mechanical whirl of the machine producing them somehow calmed her breathing, even if only somewhat: “—I don’t even know what exactly. All that I am certain of is that he spent sleepless hours in Gaul's lab before you moved in. When I inquired, he had all of these ready-made excuses… like he always does. Something about a serum for the civic service Peacekeepers—to ensure their loyalty.” Tigris didn't let go of Adriana's hand as her voice carried strained—bitter at Coriolanus’ lies, she bit her cheek: “One of the reports I saw on his desk called it ‘Cor raptum’…”
‘Stolen heart’… a compound that could be made strong enough to introduce physical pain upon separation from the intended ‘anchor object’—as Tigris had read and now retold. For precise effect to take hold—behavioral conditioning was paired; for soldiers, that meant being subjected to any number of propaganda materials after administration… for Adriana—it meant getting Coriolanus’ rewards, so she'd come to associate all the wonderful highs and lows with him. Low cortisol, high dopamine—she was slowing being forced into an addiction.
“What are you saying, Tigris?… I-I've always been like this." she tried to make sense of it, to explain to Tigris. She'd always felt empty, when she wasn't on the deep end of one emotion or the other.
“Maybe that's what he counted on… he was always good at finding sinkholes—or creating them when needed. But, Addie… I know what I saw, I know what my cousin is now… maybe what he has always been and what I was too blind to see." Tigris looked away with wet eyes as if she were mourning a non-existent version of Coriolanus—of the boy she'd protected for so long. When her hands trembled again, she forced them steady and looked back at Adriana—intensity boring into her eyes: “You don't have to trust me—I sure know it wouldn't come easy now. Just, please, keep this close… in case. Test it if you dare… if it isn't too late.”
Tigris, like the Lady Justice statue at the Capitol Square, had been blind—not because she is impartial in her judgement… but because she fears to gaze upon the world and the true nature of humans. But that didn't make her powerless. The older Snow tapped Adriana’s palm, still holding the vial—making the little siren clutch it harder…
She had indeed been feeling like something was tearing her apart when Coriolanus wasn't around—like an actual physical pull at her heart strings. A traitorous part of her wondered if that were such a bad thing. Would he have gone through the trouble if he didn't intend to keep her?
But being kept and being wanted weren't the same. He would never need her as much as she did him with that poison… it was poison after all, one of the heart and soul. He made sure her devotion remained endless, but never shared—never vulnerable himself. The realization sank deep within Adriana as she looked toward the carefully placed morning newspaper on the garden table—the whirling white hand-forged iron leaves blended with the thin paper… as if the printing ink sprung from within. As shall the truth.
Coriolanus didn't usually allow news around his little siren—what would she need them for, when she had him looking out for her? Yet, on the front page… there it was—an engagement announcement from Livia Cardew herself. Adriana’s eyes darted between the grainy picture of the smiling blond woman and the label on the vial, growing heavier in her hand… ‘cor revocatum’— ‘heart reclaimed’. If Coriolanus wouldn't keep her heart safe, maybe she'd finally find the strength to do so on her own. So she wouldn't end up a shipwreck buried in his depths—looking for a pearl that was never there.
“Thank you…" Adriana whispered as Tigris held up a pearl earring to match the dress.
“Don't thank me yet—choose first." a warm but reluctant smile spread on her lips but her eyes remained glossy throughout.
The gown was like twilight trapped in a bodice—dark but tasteful, not hugging but owning every curve. Adriana gave it a performative spin in front of the floor-length mirror while Coriolanus’ eyes never left her form through the reflection. With a measured step down from the fitting platform, he adjusted his cuff links—approaching slowly while they caught in the clear dressing room lights like the scales of a snake.
His left hand came to rest on her waist, while the right seized her wrist… pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger—wanting to keep even her pulse under his ‘care’. No words yet, just his presence had been enough to make warmth spread—pressing against her skin from within, as if her blood was boiling.
Adriana hadn't taken its antidote counterpart yet, wanting to see if its effects were true—if Coriolanus really had denied her even the opportunity to be honest with her heart.
It had been a reality she'd been living for weeks, but it was another thing entirely when she knew what to look for. He hummed now, apparently pleased with his observations—the heartbeat matching his expectations. Another data point for his collection.
“Looks like someone's worrying their pretty little head over the senate dinner, hm?" his voice was so gravelly, it reverberated from his fingers deep through her bone marrow—willing her still: “No need to fret, little siren… it will be a total bore." he assured, blunt fingernails digging, then dragging slowly up and down the length of her arm, forcing it to extend: “Though I have something extra special for my good girl.”
Suddenly, he moved back, denying touch—waiting for her reaction. And it came—a pang in her chest—more painful, more unbearable with every step he took away from her; immediate, guaranteed—a chemically induced invisible chain—like he could pull her heart out with him and keep it in one of his glass jars forevermore.
He fought the urge to smile when he saw it for himself —just how effective the serum was. And so, he concluded: “Since you've proven your loyalty… you get to help Daddy tonight.”
More like the cor raptum had forced it out of her… Adriana mourned her right to choose—to show the real extent of her devotion.
“Help?" she echoed inquisitively. While she’d become well-versed in what was taught in her classes, she couldn’t imagine Coriolanus allowing something as pivotal as political discussions to be outside of his control. But then again, they wouldn’t really be external to him. Not truly, not ever, if he owned her heart so thoroughly.
“Yes, sweetheart… help. Don't you want to be good and help Daddy? I know how curious you have always been and tonight—I'll indulge. Just a couple of drops, but by your hands." he let each word simmer slowly, enigmatic as always—speaking in riddles to force a binding promise of the little mermaid becoming human… if she just gave her voice away.
And Adriana, fool that she was—took it every time. As she stepped towards him and felt his fingers lace with hers, guiding—her stolen, rotten heart skipped a beat; and even that pause was his to enjoy.
Coriolanus led her to the infamous maid’s bathroom—though its one and only function was to house his vial cabinet—a shrine of his experiments in all flavors of control. The lavatory was made to be an exact replica of the one that rotted away in the old Snow penthouse. It was so tall that no natural light could force its way inside save for a little twinkle that bled through the small window high above. The glass was stained so any warmth would transform cold and blue upon forced entry—repurposed and bent, making it all feel like an underwater cave with no means of escape.
The cabinet stood menacingly large; wide doors like lungs—it was the closest thing to a living presence in the otherwise soulless room, even when closed. Though Adriana wasn’t sure if its essence was a good thing or just a testament to the spirits, whose breaths were now and forever trapped in its wooden depths.
Widdled serpents coiled at the sides—their heads reaching dark and fanged to serve as handles at the heavy doors. A reminder that reaching for a poison meant embracing it fully and suffering its bite too.
But what a small price to pay it was—Coriolanus believed and as such had ordered the old mural from his father's office be displayed above the cabinet. The ethereal figure of winged Nike, goddess of victory—hand outstretched in a blessing… had been teared together with the wall which she once downed. She hadn’t brought his father any successes, but Coriolanus knew better than to let his chances be ruled by silly gods. No, luck was made and his Victory would—quite apparently—be ripped forcefully if need be. The ragged panel edges were honed down to a semi-circle—a halo. A crude mockery of one, if Adriana had any say in it. The watchword that could still be made out—letters, once black now faded to almost burgundy against a pure white ribbon translated—
“The Victory has… honor," Adriana mumbled while she stood frozen next to Coriolanus, only tilting her head slightly to make out the textured words at the end.
He was more than willing to let her adjust to what he felt was the glory of it all while he guided her hand to grasp one of the serpent heads. The wood bore into her skin—much like Coriolanus’ voice—drawing prickles.
“Ah, someone has been polishing their Latin? Good, I'm not paying that University tuition for nothing then…" he started as the cabinet wing creaked open under their shared hands, but more so under his guidance.
The muted light of the room caught in the vials that rested within—some were filled to the brim, others looked almost empty—a melody of agony. In turn, the reflection carried their menacing promises onto the tiled walls; the small rhombus stones that connected each of them suddenly stood out to Adriana. Tesserae—a death sentence for many tributes—traded as a means of imposed survival. Morbidly fitting, she thought—for these to be here.
Coriolanus’ words cut through as his fingers seized Adriana's chin when she'd gotten far too distracted for his taste: “But, pray tell then, little siren… since you are so wise now. Do you know its meaning? Or are you just good for reading what others before you had to say?”
Adriana pursed her lips for a moment... then shook her head, like a deer caught in headlights. Her mind drew a blank, or more so she couldn't will her lips to move. She knew well—that history was written by the winners. That victors held honor regardless of their morality. But here and now, she couldn't say it—couldn't be part of it.
His voice continued to drip with mockery as he held her head there—eye to eye with the various poisons on offer. “No?" he sighed, shaking his head: “Disappointing… truly. I guess, some things never change—your gaze holds fear at what it takes to rule…. the reprimand was almost at the tip of your tongue, was it not? It probably tasted so bitter—and then… you always get distracted by shiny things.”
He reached for a small yet ornate mixing bowl, putting it in her hand while tracing its engraved snowflakes. His reluctance to let it go was palpable. “It’s what caught you in my net in the first place. And now… now you will see the price I pay every day.”
Adriana looked back at him—worry seeped through her bones. “Isn’t the dinner too risky of a place? Who—", she gasped at the sudden grip at the back of her neck. He was scolding her without words—much like one would hold down an unruly puppy.
The intensity of Coriolanus’ clench matched that of his eyes—an endless whirlpool dancing there as he examined his cabinet.
Noting to himself… a particular vial… missing.
He hated sentimental people, yet he suffered from that ‘affliction’ tenfold. Though he'd like to believe it was his way of thinking clearer—his way of reclaiming his rightful legacy; no sentiment for the sake of some soft gullible feelings.
And so, tile by tile, tesserae by tesserae—he had the whole maid’s bathroom brought here—lock and door included. His cousin seemed to think she was still the groundskeeper, that she still had authority over him.
He didn’t need her, he didn’t need Gaul—any of them.
Coriolanus could almost hear the jingle of the keys dangling on that large ring, ringing now in his ears, even over the breathing he tried to steady. Tigris used to carry them always… after the Grandma’am became far too fragile, far too gone to keep track of it all.
And now… one small silver key had allowed her entry here—into where he planned to keep Adriana’s heart.
What came next was an uncanny expression on Coriolanus’ face—not a smile, but an ugly pulling at his cheekbones—pulsing and alive, paired with a deep chuckle—a cruel sound, from the depths of his being, edged with a cough from all the prior poisons: “What a thoughtful creature you are… but it's not your place to ask who the recipient of my justice is.”
He picked up the intended vial for tonight as if nothing had happened.
He’d let it play out—but this time, he wouldn’t be helpless... He’d be the hunter, already setting a trap in his forest. And when the little siren, none the wiser, got caught—then, he'd feast like a king.
“Just two drops of this for Daddy. And the the rest goes out to Senator Sickle and Commander Heavensbee... who were kind enough to feed rebel informants." He squeezed the pipette at the top, without unscrewing the vial yet—just to show and seal Adriana to her purpose in his ritual. His deep voice proceeded with more instructions: “Mix it with this—", he passed a leaf-like plant oil with a sickly sweet smell: “—moringa, same as the perfume I had ordered be made for you. It helps with, well… the less favorable effects you might say.”
He had gotten gradually resistant to most of his poisons, but this one… he needed some exposure to still. A particularly nasty concoction that would melt the men from inside. To Coriolanus, it'd just feel like a thousand blades pressed at his throat.
Adriana counted the two drops and added generous amounts of the moringa, mixing them—the poison dark like tar, quickly soaked up in the bright oil. She held him in her hands now, his life. Should she obtain access unattended, she could easily put more than two drops. So, he never missed a beat—and this here and now was the only semblance of autonomy he'd allow when it came to the poison preparation. She was part of it now—bathed in blood too.
“T-to your health!" she cheered far too timidly after she'd stopped swirling the glass stirring rod with a click—passing the bowl back to him.
“Hm, thank you…" he raised it to his lips—too chapped, too used to spew and take poisons: “Victory loves preparation after all.”
As he drank, he never once blinked away from Adriana. Even as his throat grew tighter and his stomach was set aflame—he simply gripped her wrist tighter—holding her through the process, making her see what he was.
He tried to hide the wince that followed…
“Shall I bring you water, Daddy? You don't look—" Adriana was pulled closer to him, feeling his heartbeat harsh and spiked through his chest.
“And dilute my hard work?" He coughed, his voice growing hoarse: “I thought my siren was unafraid of the depths?" he challenged.
At that, she poised herself—still tight in his forced embrace, but more aware now, more upright and ready. She'd play her role to perfection and then… she'd see the real extent of the price she was expected to pay.
“I will dive deeper, so long as you are there when I come back for air, Daddy." she added sweetly.
A final plea—to be allowed an independent swim before she tried to take matters into her own hands; with the cor revocatum's call burning through her hidden pocket.
“Ah, you forget yourself, Adriana. I dive with you, or… Well, there wouldn’t be a purpose to you breathing at all, would there?" He smiled a sharp smile—a shark bearing its teeth: “Now, shall we? We have big fish to fry...”
It was the Senate summer residence that hosted the dinner. Wide open spaces, framed by metal arches that displayed various mythological scenes—all bacchanalian in nature. Chalices, ivy and grapevines tangled with nymphs in various stages of undress and intoxication—some were part of the marble columns that held up the curved structures, others already dancing at the top.
There were probably two dozen of these archways that made up the main pathway through the green luscious expands of the summer gardens. Each step toward the grand table was framed by stepping stone leaves—a march toward a feast, but a last supper for some.
“Were these not outlawed in Rome? With the unrest they caused?" Adriana prompted curiously as she remained hanging on Coriolanus’ hand.
“Indeed—but not to Senators..." he pondered: “The ‘Feast of Bacchus’ is a great display of one's vices… and we all have them, as I have well taught you." a huff that could have been mistaken for a laugh: “These long summer days can be quite revealing." he murmured for her ears only—breath metallic from the sores the poison left behind.
These esteemed citizens thought they'd be safe to indulge in it all—but nowhere was truly safe. Their ‘freedom’ was just more information—more means of control. If anyone took more than Coriolanus allowed, they'd suffer his wrath.
Was that all she was to him then too—an indulgence? He so readily displayed their closeness now—wasn't his arm reserved for a fiancé and not his vice?
As a leopard-mutated Avox handed Adriana a wine chalice, a shrill voice sliced through the honeyed air: “Coryo! Gem of Panem give me strength, where were you?" Livia's arm snaked around his in an intimate display. “Did you read the morning paper? I left you a surprise…!" She sing-songed proudly.
“Livia… darling, when will you learn I do not appreciate surprises." he shook her off, taking a step back. “Thanks to your overstep, Senator Sickle was forced into early retirement from his editorial duties.”
Adriana blinked like she were waking up from a dream. The article… hadn't been authorized by Coriolanus? And the Senator—wasn't he a rebel informant…? Or was there a more personal vendetta that sealed his poisoned fate? So many questions floated, but none could ever be voiced.
Livia scoffed offendedly—looking between Adriana and the President. Her face grew red like the wine that was spilled around: “And why shouldn't it be published? So you can parade your whore around and embarrass me?!”
Her voice was far too loud, raising even above the festive ruckus. To the younger girl's horror, it caused eyes to turn towards the oak tree under which all three sides of the folly currently stood. The words—ugly and harsh were like daggers, but what hurt most was that they held truth. Livia had called their 'arrangement' for what it was, Adriana thought.
Coriolanus’ grip on his own cup tightened, composure cracking at the seams though still hidden from public view as he cornered his fiancé toward the thick tree trunk.
“Adriana is here because I am her patron as you well know.” his voice was low and dangerous—a snake suffocating its prey: “You, darling, are as important as I deem you to be. Without the promise of a marriage, you are nothing. So, see to it that it doesn't become an empty one…" a hissed threat.
Livia, however, didn't back down. Entitled people like her had little sense of self preservation—Coriolanus knew that well but had still given her a chance to cower. Instead, she bit, not bothering to lower her outburst: “Is that what we are calling it now?” a forced laugh escaped her lungs: “‘Patron’… so what—you think everything you touch turns gold, huh, Snow?! A district mistress? How incredibly exotic—wait, no, you are probably waiting for her to birth your bastards—then you would have had your fill!”
Oh, now she was causing a scene. And not the type Coriolanus enjoyed correcting. No, unlike his little siren—who couldn’t bear take a step away, even as the words hit her. The pompous Cardew couldn't be mended or molded… and these were the types of tantrums that would settle a dull pain throbbing behind his eyelids.
Suddenly, he was reminded of Arachne Crane—blood gushing from her gaping throat but also… of her shrill peevish complaints when anything whatsoever didn't go her way. Livia had held more class than that during their Academy days, but it seemed now she'd gotten too comfortable with her cushioned life. Coriolanus thought his hate for the pompous Cardew extended to just her gloating… But it was becoming quite clear that her affinity for attention was far more unsavory when she'd whine in defeat. A muscle jumped at his jaw as he bit down his anger.
“Miss Cardew, please, let's all calm down for a second…" Adriana attempted, even as she had intruded, even as she felt unwanted and ostracized by everyone but Coriolanus it seemed.
Maybe she should poison Cardew herself… Coriolanus had shown her the vial cabinet—surely the siren could do it. A sick satisfaction settled in her—burning at the thought of remaining the only person close enough to him. Was it the serum that made her so desperate to cling to him that she was suddenly willing to kill?
“Ah, the fishie can talk! What a tremendous feat, Coriolanus—you mean to seep her through the Capitol ranks? And then—what…? You think your money will wash off the smell and filth?" Livia continued, not addressing the other girl at all.
Suddenly, her turn of phrase brought Coriolanus back to other such plans he once held dear. Of a songbird singing at Pluribus’, of her coming home to him—of remolding her to stay in the Capitol. But Lucy Gray had practically laughed at his face when she’d run away.
‘What if this was our life, Coriolanus?’— he should have laughed at that—suggesting a Snow would ever be contempt with living like a wild animal… what an insulting, naive proposition. She had led him on so expertly that for almost a full day in that forsaken forest, he had turned his back on what truly mattered—fulfilling his calling to greatness. So yes, he'd wash Adriana clean—because it was he who decided what was acceptable now… and what wasn't.
Coriolanus turned deadly, snapping his hand toward a nearby Peacekeeper. The officer immediately rid Livia of her wine. “I am afraid you've had too much to drink… isn't that right, darling? Better run off, before I remind these same ranks who exactly pioneered the whole ‘patronage scheme’ in the first place… maybe then you'd know what true embarrassment tastes like then?”
It was clear Cardew's blood ran cold at the threat—some skeletons were better kept in their closets. She stood there— catatonic, with just her lip quivering in barely contained nerves until the guard stood menacingly next to her, making her peel away small steps from the grass.
When the immediate threat was eliminated, Adriana could feel herself sober up from the panicked hold the serum had held on her. It was then that it dawned on the siren—that her quarrel wasn't with the other woman. She could have just as easily been on the unfortunate end of the President's whimsy. It was him—the viper— pinning small game against one another. And she had been ready to kill someone over it… Coriolanus had made the perfect weapon. As Livia passed in bitter defeat, Adriana's features dropped.
“Do say hello to your father and sister for me—or is it ‘step-sister’? Families can be so very messy…" Coriolanus twisted the knife.
And thus, he turned sharply to his little siren, pulling her closer—a mockery of a lover's embrace: “Do not. Ever. Speak unless spoken to here. I will not be the one cleaning up your next mess." he hissed—each punctuated word sounded like steam leaving his body.
Adriana swallowed but simply nodded, because what else could she do? When the serum burned through her core even at his cruelty… because it was his… as was she—even as a scapegoat.
He raised an eyebrow, demanding she voice her willing obedience.
“O-of course, Daddy—I spoke out of turn…” the forced words scorched her even harder as her back hit the rigid tree.
He seemed pleased and so left her with a final warning, bringing his lips to her hair in an almost-kiss—inhaling her rose scent, the one that always grounded him: “That you did. Now, spare me the melodrama—I have an audience to attend to.”
Coriolanus’ gait grew determined—to the private chamber with the men set to die. Adriana, once again, felt each step away as if a trickle of her own blood was drawn. So, matching his resolve, she turned to face the oak where where rays penetrated its thick crown and washed her in their glow. Unscrewing the cap of the vial Tigris had given her—she downed it so fast it almost made her dizzy—her grip threatening to break it. The liquid coated her throat like fresh water and she felt the immediate effect. It seemed it was planned as a fail-safe switch… in case Coriolanus grew bored. He always planned for those.
Now, it allowed her to take a freed breath, breaching through the surface. As Adriana wiped a tear she didn’t realize had fallen, she heard his voice before she felt his presence—steady as the tree in front if her.
“Addie… come, Cardew has lent us her driver.” Lysander assured with a hand on her shoulder.
“Lysi… what are you doing here? Aren't you at the University party?” her voice was far too mellow, like she was finding it anew.
The boy laughed an unburdened sound: “Obviously not… Rosa suggested we stop by here first and extended the not-so-official invitation to me. Something about her ensuring Festus was ‘behaving’." A roll of his eyes punctuated just how different their worlds had become. Then he suddenly grew intense, shortening the distance between them: “I saw it… how he treated miss Cardew. How he treats you. Whatever you think he is offering—it cannot be worth it, Addie. He wasn't protecting you… He protected himself."
He offered a place to belong, she thought—even if his four walls weren't a home but a cage. Her hand itched to slap Lysander at how correct his words rung, but she knew it wasn't him she should be angry with. And so that tempestuous fury coiled tighter in her stomach— a tide threatening to release.
She knew exactly where to channel it now that her mind was clearer. “Let us go then… I just hope you realize what you just uttered." Adriana concluded: “The party awaits.”
It bordered treason, but then again anything that went against Coriolanus could be seen as such. But there was no one to witness it now, or so they thought—no rose lapels, no cameras… just her quiet rebellion and a person who cared enough to aid it.
“Oh, I know, little pearl. And I'm glad to know you do too. At least for this short while.” he smiled with contagious warmth.
Guests blurred with their retreating shadows as another mutt Avox passed Adriana her shawl. The circular fur patterns across the servant’s skin would have been beautiful if they hadn't been forever etched on a human being against their will. She lowered her head in gratitude… or was it in apology?
When they neared the waiting car, someone caught Adriana's wrist—trembling, clammy fingers holding desperate and tight. She turned to meet Livia's empty eyes, as the woman finally addressed her instead of speaking like she wasn't there: “If it is money you want—I can supply… for every day you stay out of his life. You could go back to Four—new name, new future… give diving lessons at the ‘S&M’ resort. My father can make it happen!”
The frenzied hopelessness in her voice made Adriana tremble back in surprise. For what she knew of the woman in all the interviews and gallery showings—she was a self-assured, well-adjusted individual, if a bit overconfident. Yet, what she saw in front of her right now was a husk of that—as if all her life force had been drained out by Coriolanus. It was shocking—that Cardew had really come to believe she would be nothing without him as a husband, without his name painting her future. The siren couldn’t fathom it—Livia had the resources, the family… surely she didn't yearn for the President to be at her center—not like she did.
“Let go, miss Cardew—you're hurting me.” she wiggled her hand free, still feeling the ache—the physical but the mentally contagious one in equal stride: “It's not your money I am after… even if I do realize that's hard to believe…”
Livia retreated her hand, opting to instead brace it around herself in a self-soothing gesture while she took the other girl's words in. The sigh that left Cardew's lips was half disappointed, half expectant: “Just… Think about it. This here isn't your world…" she started retreating, but turned slightly to add: “I'll have a train waiting for you at seven tomorrow. In case you change your mind.”
Adriana didn't respond—she didn't want to. Just because she was acting out against Coriolanus now didn't mean she'd flee from his cold but present embrace.
It was a horrible realization—but a very real one.
As Lysander helped her into the car, the last words she heard from Livia reverberated through her skull, leaving their destined mark: “Do his bruises and lies taste sweet? The ones he spews at me only taste sour.”
The party was already in its peak as Rosa ushered her two friends in. Somehow, she had gotten to the venue before Cardew's car, even though Lysander insisted they'd arrived at the senate dinner together.
“I guess you made a quick work of Festus, then?” Adriana joked, raising her voice so she could attempt to be audible.
This get-together was far more flashy and loud than the ‘Feast of Bacchus’—the former was obviously curated by their peers who didn't cling to snobbish high society refinement. The stark difference between the Dark Days and the post-War era had shaped a peculiar cultural milieu wherein the younger generations—who weren't even alive during the rebellion—simply didn't see the point of old aristocracy. Some, more bohemian than others, even opposed it.
Why wouldn't they? It wasn't like their family lineage made a difference between starvation and survival. To this generation, the Capitol was at the top and that was enough—a conglomerate of free spirits, ready to give themselves over to hedonistic indulgences. That last part they did have in common with their parents, who—despite attaching themselves almost ritualistically to their class—felt they ought to gratify all their cravings, no matter how exotic. They'd earned it after all… as the victors.
“Oh, please, he was like a fish out of water—gaping and stuttering… needless to say, I got Clemensia off of him rather quickly.” Rosa announced, proud of herself: “Though… I heard Livia caused a fuss? How scandalous!" Rosa slapped the other girl's arm.
“Let's just… put that back in its box for tonight, eh?" Adriana suggested shyly as she took a sip from the liquor Lysander had offered. Its harshness made her scowl: “How are you drinking this and still standing upright? Eugh—”
The strong aftertaste reminded her of the moonshine sailors would bring around the docks to stock up for personal use at longer journeys. She'd stumbled on a stashed bottle once, when she was about eight years old and had curiously taken a chug from it… Only to promptly spit it out and get yelled at by her father, who made a show of pouring the whole load out into the ocean. He wasn’t about to ruin his immaculate record just because his subordinates lacked discipline—no contraband had been allowed on a ship under Ronan's sail ever. Needless to say, the poor sailors weren't very pleased with the small rascal for ratting them out—even if unwittingly.
This was a more refined version of that, naturally—it was the Capitol. Mixed with some citrus pulp that provided not only refreshment but great texture to the drink.
“Tolerance, little pearl—" he teased, raising his glass in a cheer: “—you can't learn unless you try things for yourself. Not just what he allows…”
No name… no honorific—it was blatantly obvious that Lysander was bitter at Coriolanus. ‘Tolerance’ was the word that stuck with Adriana though, given what she was aiding in before the senate dinner.
“There's a karaoke machine?!" she jumped excitedly, opting to ignore the tension for now. It wasn't like she was ready to take any side—and if she did, Lysander wouldn't like the outcome. “I thought these were like… outlawed?”
“Yep, but—wait, do you keep a mental list of forbidden items or something?" Rosa laughed as she swayed, almost spilling her drink: “We got Darius to find one! There was some old abandoned cabaret up at the Corso with all kinds of stuff—it'd be a pity to leave them rotting just because Daddy Snow has a stick up his ass!”
Now, it was Adriana's turn to try and not make a mess of spitting her drink. She expected Lysander to reprimand his friend at the audacity… but he just… laughed along—with the kind of smile that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle.
Why didn't Coriolanus’ smile ever reach his eyes?
It seemed this place was underground enough to allow for blasphemy—or at least, so everyone thought. It gave the siren a peace of mind to let go herself.
“Yeah… I don't understand the whole secrecy around songs. It's been a way for humans to bond— like, ever since we lived in caves!" she noted as they got closer to the makeshift stage—neon lights swallowing their conversation.
“Maybe it's just… that—some are afraid to truly bond." The boy shrugged like it'd been obvious all along—exactly what Adriana was getting tangled into.
“You know, for an engineer, you can be oddly insightful when it comes to human nature…" she responded somewhat bitterly, but there was an undeniable thread of fondness below the banter as she downed the rest of her drink.
“What's that supposed to mean, little pearl?" he chuckled with his whole chest. “Don't tell me you are insulting my intelligence to my face! I'll have you know— I pay attention when it comes to the people I care about.”
“Lysi… You are hopelessly drunk! I'm just saying… You are full of surprises—good ones!" she nudged him.
“Ah, those are hard to come by these days, no?" he took her glass to refill at the bar next to the speakers, which were currently blasting an awfully off-key rendition of some old Capitol estrada—courtesy of none other than the machine scavenger.
Though it was becoming quite clear the original lyrics had been substituted for less sappy and more… downright vulgar and vociferous ones. Darius Vickers was a tall boy so the way he overplayed the tune—putting his whole body into it was quite scary for the integrity of the stage but also for anyone close enough to be caught in the crossfire of his beer.
It was quite theatrical though, how he lowered his voice and widened his eyes—expecting ovation at the especially unsavory parts he free-styled:
If I fall in love, it will be in you
And I will sing like you sing about many-a-roses fling
Like a drunk Peacekeeper and a corrupt senator—poisoning my competitor
I will give you something more—maybe a Gamemaker's whore
“Charming…” Adriana sighed, eyebrows furrowing at a particular line or two which were a subtle call out to the President... with the roses, flings and poisons. Maybe Coriolanus wasn't as subtle in his extracurricular activities but still kept citizens afraid enough to limit themselves to simple parody songs.
“That's just Vickers for you—his sister is a surgeon but look how he turned out!'“, Rosa booed at Darius unceremoniously.
“I told them you'll be up next, little pearl…” suddenly said Lysander as he brought back a full glass of the same liquor.
Adriana's eyes widened, suddenly stuttering: “I-I don't know any of the songs on this thing! And I sure as dark days can't improvise like mister political controversy over there. Lysi—is this payback for when I said the Arena water reflections weren't authentic enough?" she groaned dramatically: “I'm sorry I ever doubted you, oh, greatest engineer!”—a final sober attempt at reconciliation before she'd inevitably stress even more about the distant possibility of making a fool of herself.
Instead of humoring her histrionics, Lysander reached over— tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that was far too fond to be just friendly. “Come now, humor us and bring something real into this whole farce—the way only your shanties can." he comforted.
‘It'll be the single most captivating thing all evening’—he'd wanted to add, the words prickling at the tip of his tongue. He had that way of reassuring Adriana always—that she was welcomed, not despite her roots but with them, even because of them. If only it were true outside of this small bubble… Coriolanus, on the other hand, had been solely focused on ‘correcting’. He thought the world was a place marked by a constant struggle to fit in—not an oppressive strive—but a symptom of a necessary, well-functioning society. That was a dynamic Adriana knew far too well growing up… and so clung to that familiarity.
“Ah, none of the melancholic stuff!” Rosalind protested: “I've had my fill thanks to Festus… Do something boppy—shake some ass!”
“Ah nope, no requests!" Lysander sighed in warm annoyance. Then, he turned back to Adriana— dropping the latter part and keeping only the affection: “Do what feels like you tonight, yeah? There are some simple arrangements you can browse through and make it yours…”
Make it hers… what was hers? Who was she? Her identity was a ballad long forgotten or maybe never truly known. The most connected to herself she'd ever felt—besides the intoxicating thread that kept her leashed to Coriolanus—had been far too long ago… either when she'd dive or when her mother would sing one particular song. Taken from some pre-Games interviews… the woman had emulated whatever melody and lyrics she could recall from the live broadcast. Its footage was somehow lost, it was told. Intertwining District Four imagery—she seemed to had tragically foretold her demise and Ronan abandoning the family.
Adriana scarcely remembered the feeling that washed over her when she first heard parts of it in first grade. Hazy images of a tribute with a colorful dress and her guitar—so poised yet some bitter hurt had slipped through the cracks of her performance.
That was how Adriana felt now too… playing a role that gave her some safety—but unlike that girl, she was never truly letting go. Maybe she could try now..
“I have it." she announced confidently when the song had made itself clear in the pool of her memories: “Just help me pick a guitar accompaniment, Rosa? Something… you’d want to find yourself in.”
“Wow, sappy much!" the other girl jested, but Lysander shot her a scolding look and she toned it down so quickly one would think her wardrobe was on the line: “Fine, fine… you can use ‘Riptide’ I guess. My mother used to cry every single time those blasted strings played on the radio. She cried even harder when they banned these songs. Whatever, point is—it should fit right in with… whatever you have going on.”—Rosalind's quiet exasperation was emphasized by her over the top hand gestures—drawing wide circles in the dismal air around Adriana.
“Thanks, I knew I could count on you…", the siren smiled wider than she ever had for the whole day: “—both of you.” she added when she’d noted Lysander had taken to slouching in mock heartbreak after being ignored.
Naturally, he still helped her set up the tune on the ancient-looking screen and when she met some of the confused eyes from the crowd who had noted her incongruously sophisticated dress—he assured her softly: “This is for you, yeah? Just let yourself enjoy it…”
Adriana nodded, taking a deep breath in with each bop of her head while she brought the microphone closer. It was a vintage thing—golden finish but not nearly heavy enough to be the actual precious metal—clearly made for live shows where there would be some choreography or at least enticing movements for the sake of the audience. It ended in a horn that was meant to capture the sound instead of the modern ‘grill’ equivalent. Adriana felt its ridges with her fingertips—like a seashell, she thought, almost forgetting that her cue would soon come.
As it did, she could hear her heartbeat in her ears, raising even above the loud chatters. She wanted to not think of Coriolanus as she sang, but her voice—deep, sorrowful and inviting—carried her to him. Where she’d never be abandoned, but she’d never just be either.
When I was a babe, I fell down the marina
When I was a girl I fell into your arms
We fell on hard times and we lost our serena
You went to the docks and I lived by my charms
I dived for my dinner, spread pearls like honey
You journeyed and gambled, and I said you should
We fought for our suppers, we drank up our money
Then one day you left, saying I was no good
Her breath hitched, knowing what part came next… knowing it relayed a sort of bravery that she’d never come to posses herself. But still, she sang like it could be true—
Yet every line was marked by him long before it left her lips—
Well, all right, I'm bad, but then, you're no prize either
All right, I'm bad, but then, that's nothing new
You say you won't love me, I won't love you neither
Just let me remind you what I am to you
'Cause I am the one who looks out when you're sailing
I am the one who knows how you were brave
And I am the one who heard what you said sleeping
I’ll take that and more with the new hungry wave
—her soul soared like it believed there was honor in fighting against the current, instead of letting it take you.
Instead, her throat tightened as she felt his hands stifling her voice—
It's sooner than later that I'm deep underwater
It's sooner than later that you'll be alone
So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder
For when the pharos dims, lover, you're on you own
—like there was more to her than what Coriolanus made.
Instead, she felt him guiding her deeper in cold darkness, as if love was an emotion never to be shared, only taken—
I am the one who you let see your weeping
I know the soul that you struggled to save
Too bad I'm the bounty you lost while at sea
Now what—
—A loud crash stole her breath entirely. Then, it was her heart that was sent stuttering at the uncompromising barks, answered by terrified screams, reeling from where the secret venue’s door stood.
Adriana had a direct view of the stampede as Peacekeepers filtered in, white like an all-consuming avalanche—unafraid to use batons when some of the intoxicated or otherwise too foolhardy students failed to fall in line fast enough. Somehow one officer had made it to where Lysander and Rosa stood next to the stage. The boy was trying to usher Adriana with them, but the Peacekeeper had other plans—shouting a warning to line the wall. When Lysander didn't oblige—laser focused on getting his two friends out of harm's way—the uniformed man raised his black club.
Adriana moved before she could even think, raising her voice: “Don't hurt them! They weren't part of it!”
It's true—they didn't sing, didn't rouse any dangerous ideas… more or less. But there were a threat by association and anything remotely defiant made them dangerous. As the girl attempted to stand between a rock and a hard place, something strange happened—the Peacekeepers grabbed her friends and hauled them against the wall all the while… they didn't even address her. It was like Adriana wasn't even there…
It quickly became clear why—she wasn't just anyone now after all. Even after her little stunt that had grown more invigorating when she'd somehow chirped that blasted song—there was still a test she could pass, a chance at divine redemption.
Coriolanus appeared from behind an entourage, dark red coat swirling as a path was cleared in front of him—like the deepest pits of the underworld had cracked open to allow for his journey here. Adriana stared at the scene unfolding, almost falling back against the elevated stage, but his hand was at the ready—grabbing what was his in a flash.
“My, my—quite the show, little siren. But I think it's high time we settle some debts… and you can explain to me, in excruciating detail—how in the twelve districts, did you even come to know that song." His grip on her wrist only tightened with each word. Adriana thought she'd seen the extent of his ruthlessness—but his eyes weren't just cold now… they were inhuman. Like the man from the portrait opposite his office…
“Daddy…", she attempted to soothe, more so getting her bearings still. But like a viper striking, his other hand shot up to grab at her jaw, squeezing hard—making her jaws grind at the dig of his fingers.
“Of course, I shan't forget your most devoted fan…" His eyes settled on Lysander—the boy was barely contained— like a rabid animal, ready to pounce if it weren't for the Peacekeepers holding him back. Then, Coriolanus let go of Adriana's wrist—but not without purpose—as he reached into his breast pocket to unfold Livia's newspaper announcement: “—and your… ‘agent’, shall I call her? Offering so graciously to extend a tour back to Four. What a very self-centered proposition that was though…”
He let the thin paper fly down slowly to the ground—like a leaf caught in the wind—as he snapped his fingers, silently ordering the Peacekeepers in formation with the impromptu prisoners. It was apparent that the main show was over… and a private encore was to follow.
“P-please, wait! I'm-I'm sorry—don't hurt them! We were just having fun, I'd never—" Adriana tried to speak through Coriolanus’ iron grip as Lysander and Rosa passed them by, escorted.
“Oh, you aren't sorry—not yet anyway. But… you will be. What did you think—just because you warm my bed you get a say in how I deal out justice?" she could feel the mocking laugh fighting its way through his poison-wounded trachea as he held her tighter to his body, like a part of him was afraid she'd run off. “It's a fine balance, our system—little siren, a fragile thing—and like a child you'd enjoy breaking it if you ever slithered your dirty little scales on it…”
She attempted to look away, only to be met by Lysander’s dark eyes. He knew no rest now, trying to roll free from the Peacekeepers’ hold: “Just leave her alone! And go back to your miserable, lonesome idea of kingship!”
“Ah, how the naive lead the naive… tell me, boy—did she ever say she needed someone to save her?" Coriolanus challenged and Lysander ground his teeth in frustration. When no answer came, the President dragged Adriana by the hair—tauntingly closer to the boy's face, like rattling a toy in front of a beast.
“No? That's what I thought… she knows what she chose—what she will always choose."
The smile that spread was victorious.
Coriolanus could scarcely wait—his whole body was taut like a string—as a deep need to release all the boiling feelings coursed through his veins. The mansion was darker, like it'd usually get when it was later in the night… but this time it was the force majeure events of the day that orchestrated it as such. Every living creature hid under his heavy step—not in soundless rest, but forced, self-preserving refuge.
Adriana was practically dragged along the way—even when she tried to regain her step, he was somehow faster, more controlling—and so she'd easily falter back to her knees. It was a miracle the door didn't fly off its hinges the moment they reached the bedroom. The scariest part was how deafeningly silent Coriolanus was—as if the whole stunt at the party was for publicity's sake and now the real shark would bare its teeth. He prided himself in having trained his temperament—previously reactive, now he could let things marinate. But that made his waters even more treacherous when someone was reckless enough to test his limits.
Without so much as a warning, he tossed Adriana across the floor—her back hitting something metal backed up at the edge of the wall. She wasn't sure what it was with how dark the room was kept… but it was definitely a new addition—taller than her even when she tried to hoist herself up with its help.
Cold delicate alloy strips, long and bended at the top… bars—she realized suddenly.
Bars to a cage.
Not one meant to host just any pet but a sized up version of a songbird's aviary. Surely it hadn't been fitted for her… The siren wasn't yet in it, yet somehow, she knew that was the only place she could end up—no matter what she said now.
Coriolanus flicked the lights on—the switch sounding like a bullet shooting through the silence.
Then, he waited… observing—will Adriana flee or cower? His steps were slow—not shortening the distance—but encircling, trapping her instead. She mirrored his dance, but defensively so—folding in further to the edge, closer to the cage. A true prey in a freeze response.
Satisfied with that data point, he moved closer—letting his fingers ghost her torso, feeling her shiver beneath. Then, out of nowhere, he seized her wrist—feeling her pulse point methodically: “Your heartbeat… it is unusual all throughout. Not just fear—no, my gift would have made your heart calmer in my presence… no matter what you see." he reassured—himself more than her, that what was to come was well-deserved. “Yours hesitated. So, tell me, little siren and be honest—did my cousin give you something naughty?”
Adriana looked away out of spite, feeling like that piece of information may be the last tie to her autonomy that was slipping through her fingers in real time. Coriolanus didn't wait, didn't voice disappointment in that coiling tone of his. No, this time, he moved fast, twisting the Snow family ring that dawned his middle finger so that the insignia now hung on the inside of his palm. And then came the sharp pain.
With the same prolonged motion—he landed a cracking slap right across her cheek. The heavy embossed frozen rose left a cut where it landed as Adriana choked a breath—not a shout, not a scream as her brain was still catching up to it all. And who would be there to hear it anyways?
“What did I say about looking at me when I'm talking to you?" He hissed—barely audible. It was what made the the whole interaction even more chilling—the quiet anger that coiled gradually, never sure when it would be released.
He hadn't done much in terms of physical exertion yet he was somehow out of breath already while the words battled to come out. Like a bubble that had finally popped— it was all raining down—but its drainage would be slow and steady. “No matter…" he tried forcing himself to dial back, speaking purposefully without any contractions: “I'll just have to purge it out of you.”
He forced her mouth open, as if he could still find the antidote lingering there. But he didn't plan on undoing its effect—by the end of it all, his little siren would come crawling back to him willingly.
“A shame that Tigris wasn’t even clever about it—I expected more from a Snow... But I led you there myself—to my secrets… and you—you spat in my face." He said bitterly, pressing his thumb down her tongue once it was past her lips: “Why did you do it, hm? Why did you drink it?”
Adriana held back on choking at the uncomfortable intrusion—anger blurring her vision instead of tears. There was no point in pretending or protecting now—so she let the overwhelming emotion consume her, like she always did. She tried biting down on his finger—set on hurting him back. But, prepared like always, his other hand was already squeezing at her neck, introducing a curious dilemma—will she breathe or continue her futile rebellion?
When she opened her mouth—readily taking whatever breath he allowed, she snapped: “Cor raptum—I know it all, Coriolanus!” It was hard to speak like that—truth purposefully muffled by his hand. Yet, she didn’t let that deter her efforts—bellowing as her salivadripped around his digit: “You stole my heart with no mercy of ever giving yours in return! You will marry Livia one day and forget about me—leave me to drown!" she tried pushing him off, but he just held her tighter: “And you dare ask me why?! I gave myself over to you… wasn't that enough?”
The unspoken part ‘Wasn't I enough?’, lingered—even heavier on her tongue than him still pressing down. But bitter reality was soon to come crashing down. Adriana had said it—his name… not ‘Daddy’, not ‘Mr. President’… Coriolanus. A twisted satisfaction dripped down his frozen soul at the desperation that pierced each syllable while she'd struggled saying it.
“Stolen? Such an ugly word from such beautiful ingrate lips… My heart rests at the bottom of a lake, little siren— far, far away—weighed down by the lessons it learned. Livia will, most certainly, not possess it either." he explained, not addressing the betrayal she'd expressed—only how utterly ridiculous her fantasy of finding love within him had been in the first place. In his mind, he was entitled to squeeze out anything and everything that was ripe for the taking, by any means necessary—including subjecting her to the serum.
“As for yours—it was never stolen, rather claimed. And a heart claimed is a heart earned…" he spared her—finally taking his finger out just to smear her spit across the cut from his ring… it stung, yet fittingly so—like war paint: “Did you not take? And take… and take—greedily so. The food, the lavish dresses and appointments I supplied? Or would you prefer I send you back to Four myself—ensure your father never finds employment—make you beg for scraps? Will you then learn the price of safety? My price—for the ultimate safety?”
His hand moved to grip her hair instead—always somewhere on her—pulling, ensuring she didn’t move an inch. A hiss left her lips, but she continued to spiral—
“I never agreed to Livia's offer!" she demanded desperately, sent on a self-justifying frenzy… Again, he had twisted all the blame back to her. And again, she fell for it. “I would never have! Even with the blasted serum gone—I-I never agreed! I just—I want you.”
It was true—even without the chemical tether, she knew she'd come back… He had her exactly where he wanted her, yet carding his hands through her hair, he continued to hail down his tunnel vision—obsessed with all possible levels of betrayal she could be capable of. “Maybe not today… but tomorrow… the day after?" He let the bed take in his weight while she remained more so splayed on the floor—a good pet at her master's feet: “You did go to that party… and sang that song…”
He was getting angrier at the not-so-distant memory, voice growing deadlier and raspier at each imagined offense he listed off, at each possible future. Adriana clung to his leg—her hands joined in a prayer around it. She’d quickly switched from harrowing anger to messy desperation, letting the emptiness she always carried consume her, hoping any grace from him would mend the broken pieces: “It was just a thing my mother made up! I-I didn’t know it would hurt you…”
“‘Hurt me’?!" he choked out in an outrage, fighting the urge to shake her off his leg. Her plea hadn’t worked it seemed and instead Coriolanus saw red at the end of the tunnel—set on proving himself invincible, always in control: “No, she can never hurt me again—I made sure of it. But you—" he looked down at Adriana’s trembling form, undoing his belt as he spoke: “— and Tigris, tried to take what is mine." wrapping harsh the leather around her neck, she didn't have time to struggle—already lulled into his trap as the buckle settled against her voice box with a clink: “Your breath, your body, your desires and… even your hatred—I own them all.”
With a deliberate tug, he hauled her up by the makeshift leash, claiming her breath in the process and allowing the mattress to swallow her weight. He was moving with single-minded purpose—settling between her legs while he made a quick work of any barriers that still remained in the way. The new dress—one of the many that had cost the ‘Velvet & Satin’ boutique his wrath due to Adriana’s unaccounted weight loss—was torn into rags in seconds.
One hand always remained gripping at the end of the belt, though she gave no indication of attempting to flee. “And if you ever—try to take what is mine again…" he edged the threat, hissing in satisfaction as he slid inside her waiting depths—feeling her cunt flutter around him: “I won't just punish you… I'll punish her too.”
A brutal snap of his hips sealed the promise in as he yanked the leather in conjunction, making Adriana's vision spot. Even still, familiar warmth spread low in her belly—used to his claim, set to chase something real in his sea of deceit.
“I took the antidote because I wanted it to be my choice—", her explanation came out raspy at the constant pressure around her throat, but she had to battle the words out: “For you to want me as I am!" she choked out as his large cold hand hiked up her exposed thigh, deceptively gentle—raising her ass up in an almost mating press—to purposefully hit deeper, drowning out their joint ecstasy.
Coriolanus cared for her pleasure… in as much as it would lead her back to him. He'd seen how intimacy could turn her into putty at his hands and mercy—a token for manipulation. While to him, it was just a way to satisfy his physical and emotional need for control—or so he told himself.
“Why should I want you as you are, little siren… when you can become perfection?" Coriolanus challenged, continuing to abuse that spot inside her with each roll of his hips, with each deafening slap of skin to skin—just to make her grow drunk on the feeling, to stop her pesky challenges. “I thought it was what you wanted? To have my hand always reach and guide you…”
“I wanted you to ne-ed me like I need you! To chase me too!" A shrill whimper cracked from her lungs, unable to see through the haze of her pleasure.
“Ah there it is—you are finally being honest… greedy still, but honest. I’ve done enough chasing to serve me a lifetime… Now, I consume." he purred, slowing down only to reach into his nightstand. Whatever he retrieved, it had gone by so fast that Adriana couldn't see it—but immediately felt it when the persistent vibrations started against where she was most sensitive.
Coriolanus pressed and circled that plug onto her clit, making her feel like she was burning from the inside. She moaned loudly the second he resumed his pace, cursing about how tight she'd gotten at the onslaught of sensations: “And you will take what I give you—when I give it to you. Ha… you are dripping for me even now—can you feel how right this is? How good I fit in all the broken places?”
Adriana tried to wiggle further from the vibe, overwhelmed by its ministrations, but he held her down—guiding her through all the confusingly stimulating sensations: “Settle! Unless you prefer I stop altogether? Leave you high and dry in the cage?”
She shook her head immediately—instincts only ever able to scream his name: “N-no, Daddy—please!" she whined.
It was the penultimate test—even when it was too much, would she listen and stay? Would she trust him with her pain and pleasure… and she did, even without the cor revocatum.
He let out a satisfied breath: “Good. Girl. Just stop thinking now, yes? And take what Daddy gives you.”
With that demand sealed, he drove harsher and restless into her—the vibrations of the plug and the recoil of his hips making her whole body shake. Sooner than later, Coriolanus couldn't delay it anymore and his high overcame him—hitting him like that slap he'd landed. Never wasteful, he held through her own—palm splayed low and possessively across her abdomen—as each pulsing clench of her cunt around him threatened to make his knees give out: “Ge-gem of Panem—you were made for this, weren't you?”
He loved how she was drinking him in—could watch her all night—just full of him. His corrupt idea of legacy singing in the hollow where his heart should be like a persistent brain worm. With that claim settled, he let go of the belt and she was able to breathe fully—simultaneously opening up to him further at the exhaustion that threatened to consume her. But, opportunistic as usual, he made sure to fill the emptiness his throbbing cock had left behind with the plug—nestling it as deep as it was willing to go.
“W-wait—I can't—" Adriana pleaded weakly—oversensitivity coating every nerve ending, down to the tips of her toes that curled at the new intrusion.
The stretch burned even through the sticky evidence of his seed, marking the fact he wasn't done… and a final test—once again void of any chemical alterations commenced.
“Don’t sell yourself short now, sweetheart… I decide when you are done, remember?" he tinkered with something on his data pad and the same vibration pattern that had made her convulse the first time, now invaded her from within—a consistent hum against the exact spot that made her dizzy.
Adriana mewled trying to adjust herself against the plug, but Coriolanus was always faster once her guard was down. He picked her up swiftly from the soft mattress as if he were carrying his bride—but instead of a heartfelt kiss, instead of carrying her over the threshold into safety—he brought her inside the aviary. He rested her on a plush rug that carried his initials—the same one she’d always kneel at when in his presence. Before she could reach back to him, hand almost outstretched—he was already closing the lock around the barred door.
“Why are you doing this?! Didn’t I apologize? I learned my lesson—" a hiccup left her lips—not crying, but simply overwhelmed. Both emotionally and physically now from the plug that shifted with her every movement.
“You don’t even know what you were apologizing for, little siren… ‘Sang for our suppers’—ha!" he mocked the original lyrics—the ones he’d let simmer during late nights as he’d reopen the classified footage. These days would be long gone, he'd thought, when he had his little siren… but somehow she’d found a way to remind him and leave him bare. Now, he had to prove he would remain unaffected…
So, he unbuttoned his shirt methodically, ready to wash himself clean: “I told you—you are only good for reading what those before you have said. Not one unique thought swims in that empty brain of yours… does it?" he folded the shirt methodically: “That’s okay—you will be a good songbird now and sing. Again and again—until the sun comes up, until you have no voice to challenge me with and most importantly—until you have paid for the dress you made me tear off of you." the look he gave her was glacial—like the marble pillars at the mansion freezing over during the winter. Then, he added the remaining conditions: “Any time you stop—I will increase the vibrations.”
“Those weren’t in my ma’s tune! ‘Fought for our suppers’—" Adriana demanded, gripping the bars—feeling the small space closing in around her. Unlike the microphone at the party—she could feel these were pure gold—no resources were spared for the aviary that may never find its destined hostage. “A song like this isn’t something you know or think—but something you feel!”
She hated him at that moment, hated that he seemed lost to his past—again with that ‘songbird’ he evoked every now and again. Hated how he demeaned her whenever she would express her tender heart—just to soothe the bruises with honey-like praises at the end when she’d inevitably fall in line.
Hated that at the end—she wanted it all.
Meanwhile, as Coriolanus’ words bled Adriana dry—he felt a full-body chill consume him, something almost instinctual cringing at her district locution. ‘Ma’… he should wash her mouth with soap for it. He counted to ten slowly, trying to steady his irritability—him finally being fully naked, whereas she’d been exposed for what felt like hours was yet another show of their imbalance. At that realization—his instincts settled somewhat—she was where she was supposed to be, with him always on top. No need to do anything rash now…
He took a deep breath in—a terrifying second to gather himself as he turned slowly towards Adriana's caged form—stalking an already trapped prey, crouching to meet her eyes: “You will sing—I do not care if you feel it or think it—much less what your dead ‘Ma’ had to say about it." the word tasted like bile to him: “Your sole patron missed the whole performance... so now, you will make it up to Daddy. Or maybe I should start Tigris’ punishment?”
Adriana dropped her hand off the bars, eyes widening. Tigris was his cousin—surely he didn’t mean her harm, not really. But before she could delude herself further, Coriolanus’ ruling came loud as he rattled the cage: “I told you—when you don't sing, I'll just increase the vibrations… and every time you come—and I'll know you did… I'll have a Peacekeeper break one of her fingers." A smirk pulsed across his face in satisfaction when his little siren gasped at the threat. But he only continued cruelly painting the picture: “It's only fair… after all—she tried to suggest you don't belong to me. But every clench around my cock or that plug is evidence enough that you… in fact do… so it will be a splendid and, well, rather fitting reminder.”
“Break mine instead—my hands took the vial from her!” Adriana's voice came out shrill and fast—not thinking, but battling the sensation that was already pooling anew inside her at the stimulation that never seized. “It's monstrous… what you are saying, Coriolanus!”
His name again… if he indeed still had a heart, it'd be soaring at that desperation she edged into it once more. She didn't call him a ‘monster’ though—just settled to condemn his actions as such. He noted the distance she put there with even greater satisfaction. She couldn't see him as inhuman—not when she was so thoroughly attached to him it seemed. It was her curse… one that made her just so precious to him. One that made her less of a liability.
“Aw, don't be a martyr now—it's so boringly predictable. You think that's the worst of me?" he scoffed, the poison-laden sores in his throat and mouth still making such spontaneous noises hard: “Her fingers will heal… the betrayal she left in me won't though." he pressed something on his data pad—making Adriana curl into herself at the overwhelming throb the plug perpetuated. “I'm being merciful, if you think about it—such permanent damage to my trust ought to have earned her something just as lasting. But I'm not wasteful—never wasteful. She has her uses, so I won't deny her talents to the Capitol… I'm not that selfish."
He stood up, dragging his data pad across the bars in a discordant melody, meant to intimidate further: “Last chance—start singing or I start collecting… with a backdate”—a tilt of his head as his eyes glistened—waiting.
It had already been once that she'd come undone… and she couldn't bear someone else suffering because of her decisions. It was one thing—compartmentalizing the fact that she was sugar baby to the President… the sole person who kept the meat grinder running; and another thing entirely—to be at the cause of a person's suffering.
So, she opened her suddenly dry lips and carried the song in trembling notes: “Wh-when I was a babe, I fell down the marina… when I was a girl, I fell i-into y-your arms…”
The vibrations stopped and she breathed in the next lyrics—hitching around each syllable in quiet relief. To distract herself from what was to follow, her gaze settled on the wallpaper past Coriolanus. She hadn’t noticed before just how intricate the cloud imagery was woven—starting at one end of the wall, galloping all through the other. Or maybe it was waves… taking wind suddenly—as if willed by the windheads that she’d seen illustrated on old world maps in the library.
But these curves were so dark, they could never be the product of these wind gods. Black and red—a sea of shadow and hatred, instead of the mirage their classic forms would evoke. Even when she tried to let her mind rest somewhere else—what responded wasn’t soft or welcoming—but just another reflection of Coriolanus.
“Good, very good. See? It's not so hard." he let out a content sigh as he gripped the controller harder. Once he got closer to the en suite bathroom door, he spoke again, but didn't turn back: “No stopping now—put some flair into it, sweetheart. I want to be able to hear you well enough while I shower.”
Adriana nodded but didn't dare stop singing to respond, tears pooling in her eyes as she felt the burn already scratching at her throat. She could hear the soft echo of water hitting the tiles from the bathroom and for a moment she swallowed, realizing how thirsty she'd grown. But even that basic need was answered promptly—by the plug coming back to life inside her, making her still sticky thighs shake.
As Coriolanus came out, drying his golden curls, he asked innocently: “Oh? You need something? Funny how you didn't need me when you were at that party…" he put on a fresh pair of briefs slowly, each muscle glistening with rogue droplets: “Choose then—satiate your thirst and lose control or take what you deserve.”
Her hands shook around the glass he handed her through an opening at the top of the aviary—almost spilling the water. No singing meant he had the settings all the way up and in this state it was hard to breathe, much less to swallow the liquid down. It dripped down her chin but even then she took every drop she could. It was hard earned after all.
“You were right though… you aren't a songbird it seems. Water suits you better." He conceded when she resumed her singing.
Coriolanus didn't sleep that night—electing to revisit reports and complete some miscellaneous paperwork on his desk. He'd have to ensure her punishment was met after all.
By the second hour—her silky voice had turned into pathetic whimpers. She remembered how he'd asked her to sing to him last night—didn't demand… just wanted to be carried by the waves. Oh, how distant that person seemed to what stood at his desk now—a cold-blooded serpent wearing his skin. Or maybe this was him shedding it? To reveal the darkness that lurked beneath.
By the third, she'd started croaking… whenever she'd lose the rhythm to attempt and battle the air that burned her sore throat, he'd restart the plug with a flick of his finger. He looked almost bored doing it— like she’d turned into simple background noise. The only thing that betrayed him though were the minute adjusting movements he'd sneak—attempting to alleviate the growing arousal he felt at her predicament. He would steal glances atop his paperwork and he'd see her there—leaning against the beautiful shiny bars, exhausted but pleasing to look at nonetheless—fighting just to keep him pleased. In Adriana’s mind… she was diving in cold refreshing waters.
By the fourth hour he had to take his chair closer to the cage to even attempt to hear her. As he read the interview plans for the Reaping ceremony, he met her eyes once—softly pleading while her chapped lips moved around the words ‘I know the soul that you struggled to save…’. Quite ironic, he thought—for he'd found no salvation within his songbird of old and may yet never find one within his little siren. But maybe, just maybe… he would get Adriana lost with him instead. An honorable compromise…
By the fifth hour, the words had lost all meaning and the final anchor that kept her deep at sea let loose. She felt like she was floating, carried by the winds somewhere higher in the aviary. Maybe she'd finally grown wings—but not strong enough to help her fly away.
The turn of the sixth hour marked the sunrise and with it—the complete loss of her voice. He moved to unlock the aviary without uttering a word… waiting instead for what his final test would reveal. Adriana looked up—confused and dazed, as if she were just waking up. She was still singing—unaware that the punishment had run its course.
“Daddy?" she asked—more so mouthed, without even a screech coming out.
“Shh, it's over now…" he said—voice deep with unfulfilled sleep.
Knees and hands still on the ground, she saw Coriolanus had purposefully opened the bedroom door behind him… She had a clear view of it—a clear path and a train possibly still waiting for her at the station. Her eyes then settled on his crouching form—hands beconing her over too softly.
Then, she slithered… too tired to stand up, too ashamed to walk. She needed his embrace even after everything he put her through. After him being the sole reason she was in this state at all… Adriana crawled to her master and melted the moment she felt his hands caress her cheek—gathering the stray tears with his handkerchief. Some dried, some just coming in—sore and fresh.
As he cradled her torso and led her to the bathroom to wash her himself, he realized that, yes—she was a wild creature, but not a solitary one. Not a ‘lone child’ like Lucy Gray… he didn't need his potions for she didn't need a leash to stay at his feet. What he needed was to ensure there would be no temptations in her way, no way that the world would take her from him.
“Then I'll keep you—pure as snow, wild as the tides… but I shall weather the storms." He concluded as he let her sink into the bathtub he'd drawn just before the sun had washed the bedroom in its glow that promised a new beginning.
She couldn't respond. Her voice was now truly and utterly his… like the Sea Witch—he'd taken it to bind their contract. And now… he could finally enjoy the obedient silence—no meaningless words, no vows spoken just to be broken.
Just this—her being kept forevermore.
𔘓 Tag list: @p4neminem, @coryoslut, @needleandpengirliee, @loverreid, @taniamiller
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Thanks for reading!
3k words into the next part of Little Mouse! I will try to finish it as soon as possible 🩷. I’m just trying to figure out how much I want to torture the characters 👀… Coriolanus is all about careful manipulation, but he has those rare moments where he just snaps when he loses control. It will definitely be intense if it goes in the direction I initially planned.
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, Choking
← PART 3 || PART 5 (in progress) →
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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