Welcome to the chaos.
This is a little side blog of mine. Something I’ll add to whenever inspiration strikes (or when the state of the world sends me spiraling back into old fandoms). Lately, I’ve found myself revisiting familiar stories and characters, and I figured it was time to start putting my thoughts down on paper.
A quick note before we dive in: Coriolanus Snow is, without question, a villain. However complex or compelling his character may be, nothing here is meant to excuse or glorify his actions. That said, there’s plenty to explore in the twisted layers of his psyche, his charm, his cruelty, and the seduction of power. Just remember who he reveals himself to be by the end. Remember who the real villain is.
Let’s have some fun.
Rosa 🌹
Talk (Completed) 43k words
Summary: Coriolanus snow, new University Student, finds something pretty and complicated in the library, so he makes it his goal to seduce such an odd woman...
"I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we'd do
So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you"
Part 1 (mostly SFW)
Part 2 (NSFW)
Part 3 (NSFW)
Epilogue: Choose your own ending- coming soon!
\_> Option 1 - More romantic/light hearted
\_> Option 2 - Bit more... grounded/angsty
Ao3 LINK
The Dance of Pawns, Queens & Kings (coming soon)
Summary: Seven years after the 10th Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow returns. Not as a mentor, but as the mastermind behind the 17th Games. When an unexpected tribute steps forward—a mysterious girl from District 1—everything changes. Bellona Titus, Capitol-born yet representing the districts, is a puzzle Snow didn’t anticipate. Fierce, calculating, and unpredictable, she disrupts his carefully laid plans and ignites a storm that could either secure his rise… or unravel everything.
Warnings: Violence, Death, PTSD, unhinged Coriolanus Snow, "I can fix him make him worse", Bellona Titus deserves her own trigger warning, manipulation, sexual themes, sexual content, political relationships
on your computer or on your phone | one-shots or multichapter | <5k or 10k or >10k words per chapter | chronologically or jump back and forth | planning things out or winging it | drabbles or plot or character study | dialogue or action | romance or comedy (aren't these the same???) | mystery or horror | alternate universe or close to canon | writing new content or editing your work | finishing a WIP or starting a new one
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Extra questions:
How long on average do you spend writing 1 chapter? It really depends for me if I am honest. I think for most writers when that like god mode activates, it can be quite quick. Lately I've been averaging like a chapter a day roughly. But it depends on how much the chapter needs to contain?
How long do you spend editing? That's hilarious. Uh. No, seriously I mostly just... skim for glaringly obvious stuff and leave the rest until I attempt book binding then I do a panic edit. But if anyone ever wants to hear about my book binding adventures feel free to shoot me a DM.
Favorite thing to write? As unhinged as it sounds... smut. I really do enjoy writing smut. It's always such a fun challenge. Having to find kinks to make it interesting, the dialogue of smut is such fun.
Hardest thing to write? Action. There is such a delicate balance of things that exist when writing action (the literal layout of the scene, not going TOO internal but not purely being external, dialogue that feels appropriate, etc). Action sequences or fighting is just peak difficulty for me.
Fic/story you are most proud of and why? uh, this is a sideblog and I don't want to out my main to the masses so shoot me a DM to ask my favorites on my main... but on here I'd say Talk since its currently the only thing I've released.
Now that "Talk" has concluded (yah!) I was wondering which Epilogue is resonating more with readers...
You can find the link here if you've missed them:
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Or want to catch up on the full series here
Which Epilogue...
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Voting ended onAug 12, 2025
Also, I'd love to hear thoughts as this short series is concluded. Ideas for the future, things you would love to see (maybe as blurbs?). I'd love to hear some feedback... Thanks as always ~ Rosa
"Talk" || Coriolanus Snow x Reader || Epilogue Option II
Author's Note: The other ending! It's up to you to decide... more details below and a link to the other! Read one, read both, it's up to you! Thanks again to everyone who's read along so far! ~ Rosa
Summary: Coriolanus won't say he's in love.
Word Count: 6,000+
Rating: SFW but some suggestive elements; Teen +
Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy, mentions of children, mentions of mourning/grief, angsty but beautiful (I'd argue) ending
Masterlist | Previous Part | Epilogue Option 1
Coriolanus Snow stormed out of the meeting. It didn’t matter that they were catastrophically behind schedule on the preparations for the Eighteenth Hunger Games. It didn’t matter that he was the Head Gamemaker. He could tolerate their panic, their inefficiencies, their thinly veiled accusations into the early hours if necessary. He had already planned to go without sleep, before, during, and after the Games.
But none of that mattered. What did matter was the slip of paper passed to him mid-meeting, folded crisply and written in his secretary’s elegant hand on clean, official stationery. Just three words, unadorned and startlingly intimate: I need you.
His wife, for all her composure, rarely used the word need. It had only crossed her lips a handful of times in all their years together. Once, the night before their wedding, when she’d stormed his flat soaked through from walking a mile in the rain, trembling with something unspoken. Another, when she had worked herself past exhaustion to open the public library, the strain quietly consuming her. She’d asked for him, not for solutions, just to be there. And again, when she had been gravely ill, her body racked with fever. She had clutched his hand and whispered that same word, asking him to stay rather than leaving her care to the nurse he’d hired. And he had stayed. Without argument. Without hesitation.
That was part of what bound him to her so deeply. She did not demand him. She never tried to possess him. Which gave him the space to care for her without ever confessing that he loved her. Their marriage was built not on romance, but something sharper. Mutual respect. Understanding. A quiet, enduring loyalty. Affection, yes, but not love. Not openly.
And that was precisely why a message like this, a need, plainly spoken, meant everything. It was reason enough to walk out of an important room. To drop everything. To go to her.
He didn’t ask where she was. He didn’t need to. There were only a few places in the Capitol she ever allowed herself to come undone, and only one of them was truly hers: the library.
The one he’d bought her years ago, in the aftermath of a bitter legislative fight he’d barely won. She hadn’t asked for it but he’d known. Known in the way her fingers lingered on the spines of old books. Known by the way she’d walked through the empty building before it was restored, looking not at the rot but at the light pooling through the tall windows. He’d given it to her quietly. He had proposed to her there, too. Not in some grand public gesture, but in the same reading room she went on to repair by hand. Dust still clung to her sleeves that day. Her hair was half-pinned. She hadn’t been wearing makeup. They had been married beneath the painted ceiling following the restoration.
So when she said I need you, he knew precisely where to go. He didn’t bother with a hovercar. He walked. More accurately, ran. The streets of the Capitol were dim with the fading day, the polished buildings gilded with amber light. He passed silently beneath them, not seeing the people who noticed him.
By the time he reached the tall doors of the library, dusk had settled fully over the city. The building stood serene and stately beneath it, the golden dome aglow from within. The lights were still on. She was still here. He entered without ceremony, his footsteps echoing through the marble vestibule. It was quiet. Always was. He passed the main hall, then the eastern wing. Past shelves he’d seen her organize herself, rows of volumes she'd saved from basements and burn piles and bureaucratic neglect. And then he turned toward the back office, her private one.
The door was cracked open. He pushed it gently. And there she was. Sitting on the floor. Not at her desk, not in her reading chair. Just on the floor, her back against a shelf, knees drawn in slightly. Her hair was half-loose, as if she’d started to undo it and forgotten. One shoe was off. Her blouse was wrinkled at the collar. Around her were scattered sheets, notes or letters, he couldn’t yet tell, fluttering slightly in the draft from the open window.
And her face—Gods. Her face was pale, her mouth slack with something that wasn’t quite sadness, but wasn’t peace either. Her eyes were rimmed red, and her hands trembled faintly where they rested in her lap. She didn’t hear him come in. And he didn’t speak. He simply walked to her, each step deliberate and quiet. As he knelt, the wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, and her head turned just slightly. Her eyes met his. She didn’t say his name. Didn’t try to explain. She didn’t need to.
He reached for her, without hesitation or restraint, and gathered her into his arms, folding her against him with the kind of care that made the intricacies of their arrangement seem irrelevant. Her breath hitched against his chest, just once. Then her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat. He said nothing. There were no questions. No demands. No performance.
One arm wrapped securely around her back, the other rising to cradle the back of her head, his thumb brushing the strands of her hair as she breathed through whatever storm had led her here. Her body slowly began to loosen against his. Not fully. Not yet. But enough. Enough that he felt the tension bleed out of her with each shaky exhale.
And as he sat on the floor of that office, he felt something wordless settle in his chest. Love was not what they built their lives upon. But here, in the quiet, in her need, and his presence… something so akin to it bloomed anyway.
He didn’t know how long they sat like that, with her breath muffled against his chest, his arms a cradle around her trembling body. But eventually, his hand moved. Slowly. Carefully. He tilted her chin with two fingers, easing her face up from where she had hidden it against him. Her eyes, when she met his, were glassy and distant. As if she’d been somewhere far from here and hadn’t quite made it back yet. “Tell me,” he said softly. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something underneath, fragile and aching, like ice cracking beneath pressure. “What is it?”
She shook her head, once, sharp and small. Her lower lip trembled, and she pressed it between her teeth to still it. No words came. His brow furrowed, and his hand moved to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath her eye where tears had dried, leaving faint traces of salt. He didn’t press her. Didn’t ask again. But his gaze flicked downward, slowly taking in the disarray around them.
Documents lay scattered like fallen leaves across the floor. Papers folded, creased, some still half-tucked in a file that had toppled open beside her. Most bore the cold, clinical markings of Capitol medical records, headers in that sharp, sterile font, barcodes, stamped signatures in red ink. And then his eyes fixed on one page, its edge curling slightly where it had been gripped too tightly. The words hit him like a blow to the ribs.
Diagnostic Confirmation: Pregnancy – Positive
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The breath in his lungs stilled. Time seemed to compress. Every second pulled taut between one heartbeat and the next. The paper didn’t shake, but his hands did, faintly, where they still held her. She watched him. There was no dramatic flourish. No confessions. No collapsing into tears. She just looked at him, as if waiting to see whether he would stand or shatter.
And he, who had stood on stages and arranged weapons, who had never let the world see the fault lines inside him, did neither. Instead, with a care that felt almost too fragile for this world, he drew her closer again, his hands shifting from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms, until his fingers found hers and folded them gently between his own.
His voice, when it came, was barely a breath: “…You’re certain?”
She nodded once, and for a heartbeat, her eyes flickered, not with fear, but with apology. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
He looked down again at the page, as if the words might change. But they didn’t. Of course they didn’t. Pregnant. She was pregnant. With his child. The thought didn’t hit all at once. It arrived in fragments, each one sharp with meaning. The way she’d looked that morning. The way she’d reached for him last week and said nothing, simply leaning on him on the sofa and breathing deep and heavy. Her silence during their last dinner together. The way her body had curled into itself tonight, trying to hold something in, or maybe hold something together.
And now this. He reached again, brushing a lock of hair from her face, and let his hand settle at the base of her neck. His palm was warm against her skin. Steady. “You should be resting,” he said quietly, almost absently.
She gave a small, tearful laugh at that, half disbelief, half relief. “I couldn’t,” she whispered. “Not until I saw you. I needed you.”
He leaned forward then, resting his forehead lightly against hers. “You have me,” he said. “You always do.”
And though his heart still thundered in his chest, and his thoughts spun in directions he couldn’t yet name, his hands never left her. He stayed grounded in this moment, in her warmth, in the soft shape of her fingers around his. He would reckon with the meaning of this later. The implications. The risks. But for now, there was only this: The woman who never asked for him unless it mattered, and the fragile, undeniable truth growing inside her.
He didn’t pull away. He kept his forehead pressed to hers, his breath slow and even now, anchoring them both in the quiet. But after a moment, his voice broke the stillness. Gentle. Low. “Why were you crying?” he asked. His thumb brushed just beneath her eye again, catching another tear before it could fall. “Do you not want this?”
She drew in a shaky breath, her fingers tightening faintly around his. “No, it’s not that,” she said quickly, voice catching in her throat. “It’s not that I don’t…” She swallowed, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His brow furrowed deep, but not in anger. It was born of concern, as if he could hold the weight of her confession before she even finished speaking. “You thought I’d be upset?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She hesitated. Then nodded. “We never talked about this,” she murmured. “Not really. Not seriously. And then I missed a cycle, and I thought it was stress, and then it wasn’t, and I…” She exhaled. “It caught me off guard. Completely. And once I knew, it all became so loud.” Her hands lifted, gesturing vaguely at the room, at the floor strewn with documents, as if the mess mirrored the storm inside her. “I couldn’t think. I didn’t know how to tell you. I kept thinking, What if you don’t want this? What if this ruins everything we’ve built?”
He stayed quiet, letting her speak. “I feel unprepared,” she admitted, her voice smaller now. “We didn’t grow up with this, not really. My parents were already gone before the war ended. Yours too. Neither of us had siblings to look out for. I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like. I don’t know how to be good at it.” Her throat tightened, and she looked away then, ashamed of her own honesty. “I don’t want to fail it. Or you.”
Coriolanus reached for her again, both hands cupping her face now, thumbs warm against her cheeks, as if to remind her she was here, and none of this was capable of breaking him. He waited until her eyes met his. “I’m not upset,” he said quietly. Her breath caught. “I’m not disappointed. I’m not afraid of this… not the way I’ve been afraid of other things.” His voice steadied. “You gave me something I didn’t think I’d ever have. And now… you’re giving me something I never thought I was allowed to want.”
She blinked at him, as if trying to believe it. He leaned in again, pressing his lips to her forehead with aching care. His next words were spoken there, soft against her skin. “I do want this.” Her shoulders trembled beneath his hands. “We’ll figure it out. Together. You won’t do this alone. Not for a single day. We’ll make it work. Even if we’re scared, even if we mess up. We’ll make it ours.”
Her hands lifted and covered his, grounding herself in the certainty of his touch. He lowered his head again, brushing his nose against hers, letting his breath mingle with hers in the hush. “You are not going to fail,” he said.
“How do you know?” she whispered.
“Because you’ve already built something beautiful from nothing,” he said. “You’ve done it before. I’ve watched you.”
She finally broke then. A quiet letting go. Her forehead fell to his shoulder, and she held onto him like he was the first time she’d relaxed in days. And he let her. He held her with all the gentleness the world had tried to take from him. He held her tighter, as if the gesture alone could anchor them together. Could steady the ground shifting beneath his feet.
A child.
After the first swell of emotion, he found himself needing something to hold on to. Something tangible. He’d been trained his whole life to rule through facts, strategies, and controlled variables. And this was none of those things. So he drew in a slow breath and leaned back, just enough to see her face again. His hands remained on her arms, warm and steady, as if he feared she might vanish. “How far along are you?” he asked, his voice rougher now, quieter, tempered by awe more than fear.
She blinked, surprised by the question, then gave a soft exhale, half a laugh, half a breath she’d been holding far too long. “Not far,” she said. “Maybe… six, seven weeks. It’s still early. They only confirmed it a couple days ago.”
His eyes dropped for a moment, returning to the discarded papers near them, then back to her. “You’ve been carrying this alone.”
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you,” she admitted. “I didn’t even know how I felt about it at first. It didn’t feel real, not until I saw the scan.” Her voice quieted. “And even then…”
He nodded slowly, taking that in. His hand drifted down her arm, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding line over her wrist. “You don’t even know the gender yet,” he said, not quite a question, more a thought spoken aloud. The edges of his voice were soft, careful in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
She shook her head. “No. It’s too soon.” That silenced him for a long moment. It was too soon. For answers, for certainty, for plans. But not too soon to feel the way the ground had shifted. Not too soon for the ache in his chest to turn warm and protective and frighteningly real. He stared past her for a moment, his thoughts threading themselves into shape. He imagined a child with her eyes and his mouth, or maybe the reverse. Light hair. Pale skin. Hands too small to hold anything but his fingers. He imagined a tiny, perfect being who didn’t know war. Or hunger. Or loss.
And he wasn’t ready. Of course he wasn’t. But the part of him that had once known only ambition and vengeance had gone quiet now, melted into something softer. “You’re scared,” he said finally. “And so am I.”
Her eyes flicked up to his, startled by the admission. She knew how rarely he allowed himself to speak that kind of truth aloud.
“But,” he added, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “that doesn’t mean we won’t be good at this.”
She looked down, her fingers curling lightly around his wrist. “I don’t know how to be a mother,” she whispered.
“And I don’t know how to be a father,” he said, just as quietly. “But we’ll learn. Together.”
She looked at him again. His eyes, so often cold and unreadable, were bare, almost boyish in their wonder. And beneath the fear, there was something fierce in them. Something tender. Unshakable. “I want this,” he said again. Firmer this time.
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then rested his lips against her hair, breathing her in.
And for the first time in his life, Coriolanus Snow did not look ahead to what could be gained or lost. He simply sat in the moment beside the woman who had never demanded anything from him … And the child who, even in silence, was already changing him.
The sun had barely risen over the eastern spires of their estate when Coriolanus Snow found himself in the kitchen. Barefoot, hair unkempt, wearing a robe he'd never dare wear in public, with a three-year-old clinging to his leg and a six-year-old carefully arranging strawberries into the shape of a heart on a porcelain plate.
It was her birthday.
And he’d woken with the particular kind of urgency that only came from wanting to do something right. Not allow their servants to handle such an occasion, but to deliver upon it himself. The children had helped, if generous interpretations of "help" counted. Their eldest, precise and serious like her mother, had taken charge of the fruit with quiet concentration, brows furrowed as if she were orchestrating a state banquet. Their youngest, more chaos than coordination, had dropped an egg on the floor and then cried.
Coriolanus had crouched down to him, wiped the flour from his little cheeks, and said, “She’ll love it anyway.”
He was certain of it. If there was one thing in this world his wife loved, it was their children. Her calculating and cold nature, evaporating the moment both their children had come bounding into their lives in a whirlwind of chaos.
The kitchen now smelled of toasted brioche and warm cinnamon. The tray was simple but carefully assembled. Bergamot tea steeped just the way she liked, soft cheese and jam, the strawberries in their shaky little heart, and a folded napkin tucked with a note he’d penned himself while the children weren't looking. He rarely wrote her notes. He’d learned, over time, that words from him meant more when they were saved for the right moment.
The children trailed him now, whispering too loudly as they ascended the stairs. “Don’t stomp,” he murmured over his shoulder.
“We’re sneaking,” their daughter whispered, holding her brother’s hand as they tiptoed behind him with exaggerated care.
At the top of the stairs, the bedroom door was slightly ajar. Pale morning light spilled across the hardwood floor in narrow stripes, soft and golden. He paused there for a moment, tray in hand, children at his side. And something caught in him. Through the half-open door, he could see her, still asleep. The covers were drawn up to her shoulders. Her hair spilled over the pillow, illuminated gold at the edges by the sun. One hand rested palm-up near her face, loose and open.
She looked younger, somehow. Softer. Time had not erased the beauty from her, but he’d watched it settle. What was once young, sharp magnetism, seeped into soft eyes and cheeks. She had built a life with him not through force, but through insistence: quiet, patient, and extreme care.
He drew a slow breath. The children stood beside him, watching. The little one reached up and tugged at his sleeve. “Is mommy awake?” he asked, eyes wide.
“Not yet,” Coriolanus whispered. He pushed the door open a bit farther, and they crept in, three shadows and a tray of breakfast, held with the kind of care that made his hands feel too large, too clumsy for the moment. He set it on the side table. Then leaned forward and touched her shoulder. “Darling,” he whispered, voice as soft as he could manage.
She stirred, lashes fluttering. Her brow creased, then relaxed when she saw him. Her lips curved into a sleepy, unguarded smile. “Happy birthday,” he said. And then came a rush of feet and high-pitched giggles. Her title of mom shouted twice in delight as two small bodies clambered onto the bed and nestled in beside her. She laughed, the sound drowsy and warm. Coriolanus watched her sit up, hair tangled, arms full of both children. Her eyes met his over the curve of their daughter’s shoulder. Her smile deepened in that way reserved only for him.
He picked up the tray and brought it to her lap, steadying it with both hands. “Made by all of us,” he said.
“Even him?” she asked, nodding to the little one, who was already reaching for a strawberry.
He gave her a wry look. “Especially him.”
She kissed the top of the boy’s head, then looked down at the note folded beneath her napkin. Her fingers brushed it, and her breath caught. He said nothing. Just watched. And in that quiet, the sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains, his children pressed against her sides, her eyes glassy from tenderness instead of tears, he felt something unfamiliar lodge in his throat.
Coriolanus watched her skim the edge of the napkin with her thumb, their son had already clambered over her knees and reached for another strawberry with sticky fingers. Their daughter, more patient, sat primly at her side, trying to sip the tea. “Easy,” he said with a quiet smile, gently righting the cup before it could spill. “Let’s not ruin your mother’s breakfast before she’s had a bite.”
“They’re wild this morning,” she said, laughing softly as she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.
“They’re excited. We all are.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his hand steadying the tray across her lap. Then he straightened, clapping his hands lightly. “Alright, you two. Off.” Two small faces turned up to him, blinking. “Go on,” he said with a faint smirk. “Upstairs. You’ve got outfits laid out. Get dressed. We’re taking your mother out.”
“Where?” their daughter asked, immediately curious.
“It’s a surprise,” he said, kneeling between them. “But there are flowers. And sweets. And possibly, just possibly, a carousel.” That did it. Their son let out a whoop and tumbled off the bed in a tangle of limbs, darting for the hallway. His sister followed at a more graceful pace, but her excitement buzzed in the air like static. “Shoes!” he called after them. “And not the mismatched ones!”
The bedroom quieted the moment the children disappeared down the hall, their footsteps fading into the soft scuffle of socked feet and excited whispers. Coriolanus stood for a beat longer than necessary at the closed door, hand still resting on the knob. Then he turned back to her.
She was nestled upright in bed now, legs tucked beneath the linen, the breakfast tray balanced neatly in her lap. A half-bitten strawberry rested against her fingertip. But she wasn’t eating, just watching him, eyes still full of that sleepy brightness he so rarely got to see before the rest of the world caught up to them. “I think,” she said lightly, “this is the first time in three years I’ve had tea without needing to reheat it.”
He smiled. Crossed back to the bed. “Luxury,” he murmured, easing down beside her once more.
They sat like that for a moment. Then her gaze dropped to the folded note, now resting on the nightstand beside her. The seal, pressed into the flap with his personal insignia in the wax, was cracked. “I already read it,” she said. He nodded. She tilted her head toward him, that faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”
That note had been written alone in the quiet hours of the night, when the house was still and the world outside felt far away. It had come easily, the words uncoiling from a part of him he rarely let speak aloud. But to say them now, to her, while the light touched her face and she looked at him like she always did , like he was someone good, made the words feel heavier. Realer.
She didn’t press. So he reached for her hand. “I said…” He cleared his throat quietly. “I said that I’ve built many things in this life, but none of them made me proud until you.” Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “I said that you are the first thing I’ve ever chosen for the sake of joy, not survival. And that I would choose you again. Every day.”
She blinked slowly. Her eyes didn’t move from his face. “I said,” he continued, voice growing quieter, “that I don’t know what I did to deserve this. You. Them. Any of it. But I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure it was never a mistake.”
She looked down, biting back a smile that trembled at the edges. Then she turned her face and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, the cotton of his shirt soft against her lips. “You say it better than you write it,” she murmured.
He laughed under his breath, just once, and leaned in, letting his forehead brush against hers. “I meant every word.”
“I know.” For a long, quiet moment, they simply breathed together, a hush of warmth and comfort held beneath the hush of morning. Outside the window, the city stirred, but in this room, time moved slower. She shifted closer, her hand resting over his chest, above the steady rhythm of his heart. “I used to wonder if you’d ever let yourself have this,” she said.
He blinked. “Have what?”
“This life. Something gentle. Something good.”
His jaw tensed faintly. Not defensively, more like he was steadying himself against the sharp truth of it. “I didn’t think I’d live long enough,” he said after a pause. “And if I did… I didn’t think I’d deserve it.”
She leaned up, her lips brushing against his cheek before she whispered, “You do.” He swallowed. Looked at her. And then, without ceremony, he kissed her. Deep and unhurried. A kiss that said thank you, and I’m still learning how to admit I love you.
When they parted, her fingers lingered in the hollow of his collarbone. “So,” she said, brushing her thumb lightly against his skin. “Carousel?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “They’ll riot if I don’t deliver.”
“Then we’d better not keep them waiting,” she said, but made no move to leave the bed. Instead, she looked at him. Her still-impossible husband, and leaned into him once more, just for a second longer. And he let her. Her head rested against his shoulder, her hand still clasped lightly in his. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then she shifted just slightly, her fingers moving to his cheek, the touch feather-light. Her gaze studied him. “You know,” she murmured, brushing her thumb just below his eye, “you really have aged like good wine.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, head tipping back against the pillows. “Don’t start.”
“I mean it,” she said, her voice low and playful. “The silver threads in your hair, the lines near your eyes… You’re more handsome now than you ever were.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Today’s not for flattering me. I believe me and our little mini-mes made that clear.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m only speaking the truth.”
He turned to her then, one hand lifting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No,” he said softly, “you’re studying me. Like you used to back in the library. Like you’ve always done. And as always, its very dangerous.”
She smiled, not arguing. His palm lingered against her cheek for a breath longer. Her skin was warm, her eyes softer now. She leaned into his touch. “Well,” she said lightly, “dangerous or not, I’ve made a habit of seeing you. I don’t plan to stop now.”
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I like being seen by you.” She drew back just far enough to kiss him. When she pulled away, her thumb traced the corner of his mouth. “Happy birthday to me,” she whispered, smiling.
He kissed her once more, then stood, smoothing the sleeve of his shirt like he needed something to do with his hands. “I’ll go wrangle the little monsters,” he said over his shoulder, pausing at the doorway. “But please take your time. I meant it. Today is about you. No arguing with me.”
She laughed under her breath. “You’re only saying that because you know I’ll win.”
He gave her one last look, and in it was everything: the years between them, the quiet steadiness they’d built, and the way she still undid him, completely, without ever trying to. He lingered for a moment longer in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, as if anchoring himself before stepping back into the noise of the day. There was something about the way she looked in that light. Wrapped in linen and early sun, the outline of her framed by everything they’d built, that made him hesitate.
She had once been a stranger across a room. An eccentric librarian at his university who kept him on the fringes. A woman that openly made him pursue her without ever giving the illusion he could penetrate her impossibly high walls. Someone who confused him in every right with her insistence on simplicity not luxury, in preferring books to living humans, but playing the role when she needed to. She had spent the years learning to trust him, to see him as he was. A monster and a man in all. Now she was the home he didn’t know he could have. And somehow, impossibly, she still looked at him like he was worth allowing into her orbit.
He dipped his head, just slightly, not quite a bow, but something close. Something grateful. Something reverent. Then he turned and walked out, the door clicking gently behind him. As he shut the door, he looked down at the simple gold band on his hand. Even as the hallway filled again with the sound of children, with laughter and half-tied shoes and the clatter of morning chaos, the warmth of her remained at his back.
She was the ink in the margins of the story he’d narrated. She was the archivist of his legacy. The librarian holding his collection of important declarations with reverence. There was softness always left in her wake. Proof that love, once earned, does not have to be loud or even spoken out loud. A truth he carried with him.
The doors creaked open, long-forgotten hinges groaning under their own weight. No ceremony. No escort past the threshold. Just the faint shuffle of two guards who waited on the steps behind him, eyes lowered. Coriolanus Snow stepped inside the library alone.
Coriolanus Snow, once a boy too proud to beg, then a man too proud to break, had finally bent. Not for survival. Not for power. Not even for penance. But for a promise. His last request had been simple: to see it once more. The library. Her library.
The building still stood, spared from fire and ash, though its windows bore the fractures of years. Ivy had returned, climbing the old stone like a hand reaching for warmth. The front doors were heavier than he remembered, or perhaps it was simply that he’d grown older, but the familiar creak greeted him as they opened, and he stepped inside.
He stopped in the entryway. It smelled of old paper, wood polish, and rain. But beneath that, just faintly, it still smelled like her. He didn’t move at first, one hand curled over the edge of his coat, eyes locked on the hearth. The portrait was still there.
Her likeness, painted decades ago, when she was bright with youth and fire and dreams too delicate for the world she’d married into. Her head was turned just slightly, caught in the act of listening, as if the artist had interrupted her mid-thought. The corner of her mouth teased a half-smile. Her eyes were steady. Curious. Fierce.
She hadn't aged. She never would. Not like he had.
He approached slowly. The echo of his steps felt too loud in the hush of the room. “I rerouted soldiers to protect this block,” he said quietly, stopping beneath her gaze. “Told them the archives were culturally invaluable. But I lied, you know how I detest liars..”
The quiet seemed to bend toward him. “I did it for you,” he said, eyes not leaving the painting. “I didn’t want them to touch this place. I couldn’t let them. You built it. Shelf by shelf. You filled it with meaning, even when everything around us was just chaos and blood.”
He reached into his coat. Fingers trembling now. He hadn’t worn it in years, not since the day they'd buried her. It had been quiet, without a state funeral, per her wishes. Only himself, their children, Tigress and a few close acquaintances.
But he’d kept the ring. Simple gold, dulled by time. Familiar. Heavy in his palm. He slid it back onto his finger. “I should’ve visited you here again,” he whispered. “I always meant to. When it was over. When it was safe. But I kept moving the finish line.”
A pause. He exhaled slowly. “The children were kept far from this,” he added. “They’re safe. I made sure of it. I let them go before I burned what was left of myself to ash. It’s the only thing I’m certain I did right.”
The painting watched. Still. Unchanging. His eyes stung, but he didn’t cry. He hadn't in years. Not since the night he held her hand and couldn’t feel her squeeze back. “I don’t know what you saw in me,” he murmured. “I was never… easy to love.”
He looked down. Then back up. And finally he let the truth rise up through the ache in his chest, the one he’d buried too long. “You died thinking I couldn’t say it. And you were right. I couldn’t.” He swallowed, jaw trembling, then continued. “You said it once. After the children. After one of those quiet nights when I wasn’t looking for softness and you gave it anyway. One of those nights I showed you my worst and you hadn’t batted an eye, you said it.” His voice broke around the memory. “And I just… nodded.”
He reached out, barely brushing the bottom frame of her portrait. “But I loved you,” he said aloud. “God, I loved you. My wild, untamed, eccentric librarian who made my life full of much more care than I deserved.”
The silence didn’t answer. It didn’t need to. His hand dropped back to his side. The ring caught the light, gold against the papery thinness of his skin. “I should’ve said it,” he murmured. “And I should’ve said it when you were still here.”
A beat. Then, quieter still: “I hope you knew anyway.”
Behind him, the guards shifted, signaling the time had come. He stood there for one moment longer. Eyes fixed on the woman who had once softened him, who had seen who he could’ve been beneath the armor of ambition. The woman who had died before he ever had the courage to hand her the words she always deserved.
And then he turned. He did not look back. Because everything left of him… remained in that room.
"Talk" || Coriolanus Snow x Reader || Epilogue Option I
Author's Note: Alrighty! Time for the conclusion to Talk! This short series has been a lot of fun! This is one option of a choose your own ending. More details below in the summary to see if you prefer this one! My masterlist has the series in order. Thanks for hanging around with me for this! ~ Rosa
Summary: Coriolanus Snow realizes he's feeling the L Word...
Word Count: 6970
Rating: SFW but some suggestive elements; Teen +
Warnings: mentions of pregnancy
Masterlist | Previous Part | Epilogue Option 2
Coriolanus Snow stood beneath chandeliers, the Capitol’s elite raising glasses in their honor. Laughter echoed. Music swelled. The reception was flawless. And yet, somewhere beneath the gilded surface of it all, he could feel the crack forming.
She was across the room, mid-laugh, her hand delicately resting on the arm of a government official he barely tolerated. Her gown shimmered in candlelight. She looked every inch the part they needed her to play: capable, disarming, radiant. But it was the tilt of her head, the unreadable expression in her eyes, that twisted something in his chest.
She saw too much. His fingers tightened around the rim of his glass. He had built a life on control. From calculated choices to surgical detachment, his rise through the Capitol hadn’t allowed for softness. Not truly. But she had entered like a fault line. Eccentric, infuriating, eyes like sharp glass and asking questions he didn’t want to answer. And over time, his restraint had become something more fragile than he was willing to admit.
Coriolanus told himself that care did not require love. That you could protect someone without offering them the softest part of yourself. That you could marry her, bind her to your future, and never say the word love. But standing here, surrounded by people who believed this was the love story of a lifetime, he felt something closer to panic than joy. He couldn’t name it. In fact, he outright wouldn’t.
She turned toward him then, as if feeling the weight of his stare through the crowd. Their eyes met. And in that split-second, the world roaring around them, glasses raised, cameras blinking, she smiled. Not the smile she gave the public. Not the practiced version meant to pacify senators or charm reporters. This one was just for him. One that came from behind burnt bitter coffee mugs, or in the shower steam in the early mornings before the rest of the Capitol arose. It was knowing, warm even. It gutted him.
He hadn’t blinked when she walked down the aisle. Not once. Not because of the spectacle but because the look in her eyes had demanded it. Steady. Undeceived. Unafraid. She’d been even more beautiful than that day he’d caught her in his flat, trying on the dress. Even wrapped in the elegance she so often rejected, she was still herself. And as she took her place across from him, he’d realized she wasn’t looking through him anymore. She was looking at him.
And in that still moment, as their guests held their collective breath and the officiant began speaking words that were centuries old, Coriolanus Snow felt something rare steal over him. Not fear. Not victory. Something closer to awe. Her voice, when she spoke her vows, was unshaking. Each word, deliberate and spoken with a reverence. The same voice she’d used that night before. When she’d come to him, needing him. When she'd touched his face in the dark and didn’t ask for love, but came dangerously close to it.
And now, hours later, the reception blurred with gold and candlelight and praise, he still hadn’t shaken the way she'd looked at him during that ceremony. Like she meant it.
“Sir,” a voice chirped beside him. “A toast, perhaps? Or—” But he didn’t hear the rest. His eyes had found her again. She was at the edge of the floor, speaking with a diplomat’s daughter or a financier’s wife, he honestly didn’t care to mentally distinguish the woman. Her hair had loosened slightly from the ceremony, and the candlelight caught in the strands like fire. She was laughing, but not distracted. Her distant gaze let him know that she knew he was watching her.
Coriolanus moved before he could think better of it. Not the parade-walk he'd given earlier, or the glide he’d perfected. Just a young man, cutting through petals, perfume and politics, heading toward her like he belonged to her in the moment. She turned to him fully when he reached her, that familiar arch in her brow. “Well if it isn’t my husband. Escape the fanfare enough for a moment, darling?” she asked, voice low and silken.
“I believe I’m entitled to one,” he said, extending his hand. “I married you, didn’t I?”
“You did.” Her fingers traced the rim of her glass. “And yet, you haven’t danced with me all evening.”
He leaned in slightly, just enough for the moment to hum between them. “That,” he murmured, “is a shame which immediately needs to be rectified.” Something flickered behind her eyes. Amusement, maybe, or something softer she wouldn’t name. Not here. Not yet. But after a single heartbeat, she placed her hand in his.
The music changed, the strings soft and slow, like they’d been waiting for this. As they stepped into the open floor, the crowd parted, folding back with delighted anticipation. Someone gasped. A camera flashed. He placed one hand at her waist, light at first, then firmer as she stepped in. Her free hand rested against his chest, her fingers just above the silk edge of his boutonnière. They moved into rhythm with such quiet precision that it didn’t feel like choreography.
Up close, she smelled like bergamot tea and ink and something floral and unfamiliar. Perhaps some rare perfume she must have chosen just for today mixing with the scent of her that he’d come to know so well. Her pulse beat steady beneath his hand. Her gaze, when it met his, was calm. Direct. Unflinching. “You didn’t look away once during the vows,” she murmured, her breath brushing his neck.
“You neither did you,”
She tilted her head slightly, that half-smile tugging at her mouth again. “I almost said it.”
He didn’t need to ask what. “I almost did, too,” he said. His voice was quieter now. Honest. Taut with something close to reverence. He cleared his throat, changing the subject. “You look beautiful, not sure if I’ve said it today,”
“You have. Several times.” she chuckled.
“Still, it’s not enough. And I’ll keep saying it.” Their steps slowed. The music carried them in gentle circles, orbiting the center of something neither of them could name. To everyone watching, they were the very picture of unity. But in the narrow space between their bodies, something far less composed was beginning to stir.
He watched the way her lips parted slightly, the way her fingers curled almost imperceptibly into his coat. “I told myself I would get through this whole day without feeling anything dangerous,” he said softly, almost to himself.
She didn’t laugh. “And?”
“And yet here you are,” he said, brushing his thumb along the edge of her spine, “looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.”
“Because you are the only one worth looking at, Coriolanus Snow.” There it was again. That ache. That impossible thing twisting beneath his ribs, threading itself through the fabric of his restraint.
He dipped his head, letting his forehead rest for a moment near hers. “It’s possible I could fall in love with you, you know,” he whispered.
She didn’t stiffen. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, warm and intimate and full. Then, softly, with the smallest smile: “It’s possible that I already know.”
The door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing away the distant murmur of the celebration. The clinking of glasses and faint laughter faded into a hushed memory, leaving only the quiet, settled between four walls. Beyond the window, the city lights shimmered, casting a muted glow that barely touched the room. For the first time all day, they were truly alone.
He stood motionless for a moment, drinking in the sight of her. The way the gentle light traced the elegant curve of her neck, the subtle rise and fall of her breath beneath the delicate silk of her gown. It was a moment he wished to capture and keep. The kind of intimate secret pressed close to his chest. A sudden clearing of his throat broke the silence, startling in its sharpness against the stillness. “Did you mean it?”
She didn’t answer immediately, meeting his gaze with a quiet certainty that spoke volumes. Without a word, she set the rose bouquet down on the table with deliberate care. Her fingers moved to the clip of her veil, undoing it slowly, tenderly, as if shedding the day’s carefully constructed roles. He said nothing, watching her with a mix of admiration and cautious hope, drawn to the calm precision of her movements.
“You’re not as secretive as you think, Coriolanus,” she said softly, stepping forward with measured grace until she stood directly before him.
“Are you mocking me?” His voice slipped out harsher than intended, the raw vulnerability of the moment catching him off guard and sharpening his defenses.
“Not at all, Husband.” Her hands reached for his tightly clenched fists, fingers gentle as they unwound his fingers, her thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles over his palms. “I’ve spent enough time with you, observed you closely enough, to know you’re not as cryptic as you would have everyone else believe. At least with me.”
Her touch was steady, grounding, coaxing the tension from his body, and for a brief moment, the walls he had built around himself softened, giving way to something more fragile, more real. He swallowed, the weight of everything unsaid pressing heavy on his chest. Love. The word hovered, fragile and forbidden, too close to admit and yet impossible to deny. He was a man trained to command, to control, but here, in this quiet room, with her standing so close, every calculated certainty began to unravel.
“I don’t know if I’m capable of...” His voice faltered, the admission raw and half-formed. “Of what you may want me to be. With what I need to be.”
She tilted her head, eyes soft but unwavering. “What do you want, Coriolanus?”
The question echoed in the stillness, reverberating through the hollow spaces within him. His jaw tightened. “I want... to keep you safe,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “To protect you from what I am, from what I might become.”
“But you don’t have to do it alone,” she whispered. Her hand slid up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, a simple gesture that made the walls inside him tremble. “Not anymore.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing her in, the faint scent of bergamo. When he opened them, the hardness had softened, replaced by something almost tender, though he refused to name it. “I’m afraid,” he confessed, voice barely more than a breath. “Afraid that if I let myself feel it, feel this, it will undo everything I’ve worked so hard to build.”
She leaned closer, her forehead resting lightly against his. “Maybe it’s about finding someone who understands you well enough to help you fortify what you’ve built, not undo it..”
A shudder passed through him. Not from weakness, but from the sheer force of the truth in her words. He wanted to deny it, to push it away, but beneath his stubborn facade, something fierce and desperate stirred. Anyone else would demand he knock those metaphorical walls down, but instead she seemed to offer herself up, to build them higher, so that he may achieve his goals. His lofty ambitions. It made her perfect in his eyes. His perfect wife.
“I don’t know how to say it,” he murmured, “but it’s there. The way I look at you, when no one else is watching. The way I…”
Her fingers brushed lightly over his lips, silencing him with a tenderness that unsettled him. “You don’t have to say it. Not until you’re ready.”
“I want to say it,” he replied stubbornly, the words rough but earnest. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, the soft whisper of his mother’s voice lingered. Her promise that one day he’d find someone who loved him with gentle certainty. The memory of Tigress’s hands cradling his face, assuring him he was good, flickered like a fragile flame. He searched desperately for that warmth amid the coldness that always threatened to swallow him whole.
Even now, staring into the steady, knowing eyes of his librarian—his wife—he forced those metaphorical moth wings to keep beating, aching for the light to consume him entirely. Gods, how he longed to play the fool, utterly and irrevocably in love. To say the words without pretense and mean every one of them. To be Icarrus, and fly himself so close to the sun for just a moment’s warmth.
This woman had become exactly what he needed. She tended to his silent needs with unwavering care. She asked for little, demanded almost nothing. Though born into luxury, there was a rawness to her. A plainness that grounded him. Bitter coffee on quiet mornings. Ink-stained hands from hours of cataloging. A methodical mind as precise as the lines in his own work. Blood-red wine shared beneath dimmed lights. Evenings filled with the soft rustle of turning pages. Her watchful eyes always quietly oversaw his labors. Gentle hands that soothed his aching muscles. Parted lips whimpering his name like a prayer. Curls that wrapped themselves around his fingers in the early mornings, in those moments when his heart betrayed him most.
And then Coriolanus stopped, stepping back like a startled animal, needing the space to wrestle with the simplicity his mind dreaded. The terrifying possibility that he already knew the truth, but was too afraid to admit it. Coriolanus retreated as though the thought itself had scorched him. The room suddenly felt too still, the light too soft, the closeness unbearable. He stood there, breathing unevenly, looking at her like she might undo him with a single breath.
She didn’t chase him. Instead, she remained where she was, watching, steady as ever. She had learned that about him. He wasn’t a man to be cornered. He needed space to flinch, to brace, to pretend he wasn’t trembling. “You’re afraid of saying it,” she said at last, voice calm, like her hands moments before. She was always so calm, even when he wasn't. “Because you think the moment you do, it becomes something someone can take from you.” He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. She stepped forward slowly, until there was only a whisper of space between them. Her eyes never left his. “But I’m not here to take anything from you, Coriolanus.”
His name on her lips cracked something open inside him. She reached up, brushing a curl away from his forehead, fingers lingering. “I love you,” she said.
Just like that. No ceremony. No pause for breath. No expectation. The words landed between them with the quiet weight of something undeniable. She said them like fact, like she’d known it longer than he had. Like it didn’t matter that he hadn’t said it back, might never. Her voice didn’t tremble. Her hands didn’t shake. He stared at her, stunned silent. “I know you’re not ready,” she said gently. “And that’s alright. I didn’t say it to be answered. I said it because it’s true. Because I wanted you to know you’re loved, not simply tolerated.”
A breath left him. It was sharp and unsteady, almost like he was in pain. His hands reached for her without thinking, as if drawn by instinct, and when he touched her, it was with something close to desperation. She let him gather her close, let him press his forehead against her shoulder, let him hold her like he’d been waiting a lifetime to believe he was allowed to. He didn’t say it. Not yet. But the arms around her tightened, and she could feel it. How close he was to breaking the silence. How badly he wanted to believe that her love could survive him.
“How long?” he asked, voice rough with restraint, like the question had been clawing at his throat.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?” she replied softly.
“Yes,” he breathed, a faint smile ghosting his lips as he pressed them to her shoulder. Her fingers moved slowly across his back, grounding him with their quiet reassurance. “But tell me anyway,” he added, barely audible.
She nodded, voice calm but weighted with truth. “I just looked up one day, and you were there. Inside the cracks. The ones that formed after my parents died. The ones that made me feel like no one would ever truly see me. So deeply buried I didn’t think they could be touched again. But somehow… you were already there. Like you’d been waiting.” Her touch never left him. “You saw me,” she went on, her voice threading through the silence. “You listened, really listened. Not to respond, not to correct or compare, but like you were memorizing me. You treated every odd part of me like it belonged.”
He tried to deflect, a habit too deeply rooted. “Anyone could’ve done that.”
She drew back just enough to meet his eyes, and shook her head, deliberate and gentle. “No. And they didn’t. You did. You showed up. You paid attention.” Her hand moved to his jaw, her thumb brushing beneath his eye. “You bought me a library, Coriolanus. You came to see me in it. Not to parade me, not to inspect me like the others. But because you said I looked like I belonged there. You found that book, the one my mother used to read me. You didn’t ask me if it mattered. You just knew.”
Her voice softened, though the emotion behind it did not. “You gave me a ring that had already lived another life, because you knew I’d treasure the story more than the shine of something new and gawdy. You didn’t just try to love me, you sought to understand me. You chose me in the quiet ways that count.”
Her words hung in the air, unflinching in their truth. He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t move. His eyes searched hers like they were trying to solve something. If he looked hard enough, he’d find the catch. The lie. The cost. But there wasn’t one. Just her. Steady. Brave. Devastating in her certainty. He blinked, and something behind his eyes flickered, too fleeting to name, but it softened the sharp line of his mouth. “You make it sound so simple,” he said quietly.
“It wasn’t,” she replied. “Loving you has never been simple. But it’s real. And I chose it. Every time.”
His hands twitched at his sides, like they wanted to reach for her but didn’t yet trust themselves to. His voice was tight when he finally spoke again. “I don’t know how to be what you see in me.”
“You don’t have to be,” she said. “You just have to stop pretending you aren’t already becoming him.”
That cut through him more than any tenderness had. Because she was right, and he hated how much he wanted to believe her. A breath escaped him, unsteady. “You’re not afraid of what I might become?”
She tilted her head, eyes unwavering. “I’ve already seen it.”
“You’ve seen it, and you still love me.” It wasn’t a question, but somehow he needed her to nod. She did. He stepped closer, slowly, like a man approaching the edge of something sacred. His hand found hers in a quiet, deliberate touch. “You say it with such ease,” he murmured.
She smiled, small and sure. “No, I don’t. It is most certainly not easy. But, it is the truth. And I know how deeply you detest liars.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, heart thudding like a war drum in his chest. Then, quietly he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, reverent. He didn’t say the words. But he didn’t retreat from them either. It was clear in his mind. He was already in the middle of loving her. He let her hand fall slowly from his lips, holding it between both of his like something delicate. “I used to think I’d have to become someone else…,” he said, voice low. “Someone colder. Sharper. I thought love was a luxury I’d never afford. That it would make me weak. Soft.”
His gaze lifted to hers, steady now. Honest. “But you never made me feel weaker. If anything I feel stronger.” She didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just waited, like she always had, for him to find the words on his own. “I’ve watched you,” he said, “without knowing what it meant. The way you move through rooms like you don’t need them to see you. The way you read people, not for advantage, but for understanding. You have to understand, I tried to be near you without needing you.”
He exhaled, eyes still locked on hers. “And I failed. Completely.”
A pause. Long. Fragile. “I don’t have the word yet,” he admitted. “That word. But I have everything that leads up to it. I think about you when you’re not near. I notice the absence. I miss the sound of your pages turning. I’ve memorized the way you smell. And in the mornings…” He trailed off, shaking his head, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “In the mornings, when you’re asleep, I feel more like myself than I ever have. Like someone I might’ve been, in a different world.”
Her throat tightened, but she didn’t look away.
“I am not sure I can say it yet,” he whispered. “But if this is what love feels like, this ache, this pull toward you even when I don’t understand it, then I am deep in it.”
She stood very still, his words settling over her like the final page of a long book, heavy with meaning, delicate in its closing. Her fingers, which had been resting lightly against his chest, curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt, as though she could steady herself there. Or maybe steady him. “You don’t have to say the word,” she said softly.
He looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment there was something raw in his eyes. Not fear. Not pride. Just a man reckoning with the fact that someone had seen him. Seen every cracked and contradictory part, and chose him anyway. “Does it scare you?” she asked, voice barely more than breath.
He nodded once, slow. “Yes.”
“But not enough to push me away.” She mentioned it as a fact. He didn’t answer, only brought a hand to her cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of her jaw. His touch was light but reverent, like she was something rare. Something he’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve, and now wasn’t sure he could live without. “You make it harder to be the version of myself the world demands,” he murmured.
“Then let the world adjust,” she whispered.
In that moment, Coriolanus Snow—strategist, survivor, man of ambition and armor—let himself simply feel. Let the ache stretch and settle, let her warmth soften the edges of what had always been cold. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t brace himself for the fall. He welcomed it. He didn’t move, not right away. His fingers lingered against her skin like they didn’t quite believe she was still here. Something shifted in his chest. Tightened. Broke.
And then, before he could stop himself, before pride or habit could intervene, the words came.
“I love you.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rehearsed. But it landed like a thunderclap in the silence between them. Her breath hitched, her lips parting just slightly. “I love you,” he said again, like saying it once had loosened something in him, like he could finally breathe. “Gods, I think I have for a long time.”
He drew back just enough to look her in the eye, and there it was. The confession, raw and unguarded. “I kept trying to push it away. I kept telling myself it wasn’t that. That it was convenient, that it was admiration, respect, care, anything but the truth. Because if I said it, if I even thought it, then I couldn’t control it anymore. And I need control.”
His hand was at the back of her neck now, his thumb just beneath her ear, grounding him. “I told myself I hated liars,” he went on, voice rough. “Swore I’d never be one of them. And yet I’ve spent the last years lying to myself. Every day. Every time I looked at you and pretended it was anything less than this.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I’d convinced myself that loving someone would make me weaker. But it just… made me uncertain. And I didn’t know how to live with that.”
She didn’t say anything. Just let him speak. Just let him pour it out like it had been waiting all this time.
“I kept trying to find the moment it happened,” he said, his eyes searching hers, desperate to make her understand. “Was it when I saw you in the library, smirk and condensation in your tone? Or that time at the bookstore on Rion street, with that sweater slipping off your shoulders and curls wild and free? Was it the night you fell asleep on my chest after kissing me, and I couldn’t bring myself to wake you? Or when you made coffee at midnight and curled up in the chair in my office so I wouldn’t have to be alone when game plans fell through?"
His voice dropped, low and certain. “Or maybe it was that first night. When you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Like I wasn’t just my ambition. And I’ve been terrified ever since.” She brought a hand to his cheek then, warm and certain, and he leaned into it like a man finally surrendering. “I love you,” he whispered once more, with no audience, no strategy. “And I don’t want to pretend I don’t anymore.”
And this time, he didn’t flinch from what followed. He just stood there, open and quiet, and let himself be held in the truth of it. She didn’t speak right away. Her fingers remained at his cheek, thumb gently brushing the skin just below his eye. Her gaze never wavered, not surprised, not overwhelmed. Just full. Knowing. And then, quietly: “There you are.”
The words weren’t triumphant. They weren’t smug. They were soft and reverent. Almost as if she’d just stumbled across something sacred, something she’d always believed was there, buried beneath the layers of performance and ambition and fear.
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. Don’t apologize to me,” Her hands slipped around his neck, fingertips brushing the fine hairs at his nape. She pulled him just slightly closer, their foreheads nearly touching again. “I knew,” she said, “even when you didn’t. Even when you refused to name it. You showed me in a thousand ways. In the silences. In the things you never said to anyone else. In the way you remembered things I’d forgotten I told you.” Her voice dipped lower, more intimate. “In the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t watching.”
He let out a quiet breath, his shoulders loosening, the last of his defenses unraveling with her words. “I wanted to be someone who didn’t need this,” he said. “But gods help me, I do.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that,” she whispered. “You’re allowed to need someone. You’re allowed to want something soft. Even now.”
He pressed a slow kiss to her temple. A thank-you, sealed in silence. And when she looked up at him, her eyes bright but unwavering, she smiled. “Say it again,” she murmured.
He didn’t hesitate. “I love you.” This time, he said it like a vow. And she answered without needing to speak, her mouth finding his in a kiss that was neither rushed nor desperate, but deep. The kind that speaks in the absence of language. The kind that builds something lasting in the quiet spaces between one heartbeat and the next. They stayed close, the quiet between them thick with unspoken things. When their lips parted, she held his gaze, a mischievous spark lighting her eyes.
“Well,” she said softly, a slow smile curving her lips, “if you want me to believe you mean it, maybe we should get back home. You know… so you can show me exactly what those words feel like.”
He blinked, caught off guard by the boldness, but the heat flaring behind his eyes told her he was far from indifferent. “Is that a challenge?” he asked, voice low and amused.
“Consider it an invitation,” she replied, stepping closer, her fingers grazing the edge of his jaw.
He swallowed harshly. The weight of the day and the gravity of what he’d just admitted, suddenly burning behind his ears as he heard the promise in her voice. “Well then,” he murmured, “I suppose I better not keep my wife waiting.”
Coriolanus Snow had once sworn, arrogantly, that he would never love again. Not in the woods of District 12, not in the Capitol, not anywhere in Panem. Love was a weakness. Love was loss. But he had been wrong. Profoundly wrong. Wrong in the way poets lamented across centuries. Wrong in the way the gods punished with storms and fire. Wrong in the way that only human frailty could predict, because even monsters are born with hearts, no matter how long they try to silence the beat.
He cradled the child in his arms, small and restless, her body warm and coiled like a question mark against his chest. And in that moment he understood something he had spent a lifetime denying: He was capable of love.
It pulsed in him now, raw and insistent. Not strategy. Not possession. But love, unarmored and earnest. He loved her. His daughter. She blinked up at him, eyes still deciding their color. Her breath hitched in that newborn way, soft and stuttering, and for the first time in years, Coriolanus Snow felt the full weight of that crack in the armor. And it went further still. He loved her mother. That admission came slow. He had tried not to. He had told himself it was politics. Fascination. A momentary lapse in discipline. But that had all been lies, carefully rehearsed for the mirror. He had loved her in the hush between the stress of his life, in the echo of decisions that impacted the games, in the stillness of their lives. She had undone him. Not with idealism, but with understanding. With supporting the monster he was, loving him all the same.
The child stirred. A faint whimper at first, just a breath catching in her throat like a note half-sung. Then came the wriggling. The small, aimless movements, the confused urgency of a creature new to the world, unsettled by hunger or dreams or the absence of a heartbeat not her own.
“Shhh,” he whispered, instinctively rocking her. “No… let her sleep...” His voice was barely there, a thread of sound pulled taut with care. He felt ridiculous. Like a man of his nature had no business trying to soothe an infant with nothing more than soft words and borrowed tenderness. But the child would not be soothed. Her restlessness grew, lips puckering, fists curling. Then came the inevitable cry. Small lungs trying to summon the only world she knew.
He winced. Too late. From the bed came a soft, familiar stirring. She shifted beneath the thin quilt, brows knitting faintly as she turned toward the sound. Even before her eyes opened, her arms reached, guided by instinct, not thought. “She’s hungry,” he said gently, moving to the bedside.
His voice pulled her the rest of the way from sleep. Her eyes blinked open, still heavy, but aware and found his. There was no alarm in them. No surprise. Just the quiet gravity of new motherhood. Carefully, he climbed onto the bed beside her, cradling their daughter in one arm. With the other, he reached for her. “Let me help you,” he said, already wrapping his arm around her back.
She didn’t protest. With a soft grunt, she let him lift her, guiding her upright. Her body leaned into his chest as he settled behind her, one arm circling her waist, the other steadying their daughter. She sighed, exhausted but grateful, and let her head rest briefly on his shoulder.
The baby squirmed again, lips seeking. “She knows,” he murmured, smiling faintly against her hair. “She always knows when you’re near.”
Together, they helped guide the child to her mother’s chest. She latched quickly. Desperately, her little body relaxed with the first few greedy swallows. Her mother hissed softly at the initial sting, but didn’t pull away. One hand came up to cradle the back of the baby’s head, the other resting lightly along her daughter’s spine.
And then there was quiet again. Coriolanus sat behind her, holding her gently against him, watching over her shoulder. He had never felt so still in his life. Every breath she took pressed against his ribs. Every twitch of their daughter’s tiny fingers was a tremor through the center of him. It should have been awkward. He was not a man built for softness. But here and now, nothing about it felt unnatural. In fact, it felt inevitable. Like gravity.
His wife shifted slightly in his arms, and he responded without thinking, adjusting his hold to support her better. She was worn thin, and he knew it. The birth had taken from her what it hadn’t taken from him, and yet she had borne it all with a quiet strength that made his chest ache now just to witness her breathing. He looked down at their daughter. Her eyes were closed, her tiny hand clutched the blanket between them. She was so small. And in this moment, this fragile, precious hush, Coriolanus Snow, a man who had been the harbinger of death, held something else entirely: Peace.
He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing against him, slower now, as if, in the quiet rhythm of feeding, her body remembered how to rest. His hand, resting just beneath her ribs, felt every gentle exhale. He kept it there, grounding her. Grounding himself. His gaze drifted down again. Their daughter had settled into that sleepy, half-dreaming state where nourishment blurred into comfort. Her tiny fingers twitched against the blanket, her jaw moving in slow, lazy pulls. A bit of milk pooled at the corner of her mouth, and Coriolanus reached carefully to wipe it away with his thumb.
He paused. Gods, she was beautiful. Fair skin like cream, pink in the cheeks. Her mouth, already shaped with something unmistakably familiar, was a softened version of his, and her nose bore that same narrow slope. The beginnings of fine, pale hair clung to her damp scalp, already trying to curl near the temples. But it was her lashes that startled him most: long and dark against her skin. Framing eyes that, when open, mirrored his own in both color and clarity. That startling, icy blue.
He hadn’t known what he expected. But not this. Not to see himself there. In her. It disarmed him. “She’s… so new but so familiar all at once,” he said aloud, softly.
His wife shifted slightly, lifting her head just enough to glance up at him. Her eyes were tired but bright, the corner of her mouth quirking faintly. “Hmm?” she hummed.
He nodded toward the baby. “Her nose. Her lips. Her eyes. She looks like me.”
She looked down at the little girl, who had begun to drift off, her body soft and heavy with contentment. “She does,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment, unsure how to name the feeling that bloomed slowly in his chest. Awe, perhaps. Or fear. Or some strange, impossible blend of the two. “I didn’t think I’d see myself in something like this,” he murmured, “and feel... something good.”
She turned her head toward him then, resting her temple back against his jaw. “Why not?” she asked gently.
He hesitated. “Because when I see myself, I think of ruin. But when I look at her…” He trailed off. She waited. “…I just see her. Not what she’ll be, or what she’s supposed to be. And that terrifies me.”
Her hand shifted from their daughter’s back to his arm, fingers stroking absent-mindedly along the fine fabric of his sleeve.
“She isn’t here to redeem you,” she said softly. “She’s just here. Yours and mine. Something precious we made together.”
“I know,” he said, quieter now. “I’d say we did a pretty damn good job,” he smiled.
His wife gave a quiet huff of laughter, the sound muffled where her cheek pressed against his shoulder. “We did,” she said, her voice laced with something both amused and full of wonder. “Despite everything.”
He let his fingers brush over the curve of their daughter’s back, featherlight, like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real. The way her little body rose and fell in sleep. The way her mouth stayed slightly parted after nursing, her lashes casting faint shadows across her cheeks. “I never imagined this,” he admitted. “Not really.”
She tilted her head, just enough to look at him again. “You didn’t think you’d be a father?”
He shook his head faintly. “I figured I’d have one, but it all seemed so… detached. I figured I’d father children, but I didn’t think I’d be the kind that… holds a child like this and thinks the world could end tomorrow, and I’d be content. But then also wants to scorch the whole earth to keep her safe at the same time.”
Her expression softened. She reached up, gently brushing a bit of white-blond hair from his brow. “Well, you are,” she said. “You’re hers. And mine.”
He swallowed. That phrase “mine” echoed in his chest like something sacred. Their daughter shifted in her sleep, a little sigh escaping her lips. She nuzzled against her mother’s chest, one hand still curled in the soft blanket between them. “She’s going to keep us on our toes,” she murmured.
“She already does,” he replied with a low chuckle.
“She’s stubborn.”
“She is. I can see it already. Look at that little scowl.”
“Yours,” she teased, without missing a beat.
He raised an eyebrow, but his grin betrayed him. “She got your frown lines, not mine.”
“You’ll have to prove that in court.”
“I’d rather not cross-examine our infant daughter,” he said dryly. She laughed, the sound quiet but clear, and he felt her relax even more into his arms. Her weight folding into his like she’d found the only place left in the world that required nothing from her. After a moment, her voice softened again. “She’ll be loved,” she said.
He nodded. “Completely.”
For a while, they sat in silence again. Not out of emptiness, but because there was nothing left to say. Just the hush of early light, the warmth of three lives entangled.
Eventually, he whispered, “You should rest.”
His wife shook her head, eyes fluttering closed as she spoke. “Just a minute more.”
So he held her tighter. The quiet stretched long and warm. The kind that filled the air without pressing down on it. His wife’s breathing began to slow again, deeper now. Each rise and fall of her chest syncing with the rhythm of sleep. Her body relaxed fully against him, all tension finally eased. He stayed there, holding her, holding them both, as the minutes passed slowly. Their daughter stirred once, just a twitch of her arm, a sleepy sigh, and then stilled completely. The tiny fist that had been clenched against her mother’s chest fell open.
Coriolanus waited a moment longer. Then, gently, with a care he hadn’t known he possessed, he eased his wife down onto the pillows. She didn’t protest this time. Didn’t even blink. Her hand, still halfway extended toward the bassinet, drifted back to her side as she slipped into deeper sleep. Carefully, he lifted their daughter from the space between them. She nestled into his arms without waking, her warmth pressing against his chest. One of her feet kicked softly, before she stilled again.
He stood there for a moment, just holding her. Then he crossed the room, past the bassinet and the dim lamp still glowing faintly in the corner, and stepped toward the window. The world outside was hushed in the soft gray haze of the pre-dawn hour. Panem stretched beyond the horizon, quiet and still. Just rooftops dusted in dew.
He looked out over it all, his daughter nestled against him. This world would one day belonged to him. Every corner. Every heartbeat, every fear. And yet now, it felt distant. His ambition for ownership of this empire silenced just for a moment. He didn’t feel larger than it anymore. He felt small. And for once, he didn’t resent it.
He looked down at her, at the soft rise of her breath, at the way her lips moved slightly in sleep, as if dreaming already. “This will belong to you one day,” he said quietly.
She didn’t stir. Just stayed warm in his arms. And in that fading hush, as the sky just began to lighten, Coriolanus Snow, stood still at the window promising his daughter a world he had yet to conquer. He would one day, but for now he’d hold her close, and let himself remember that that fire he felt inside for his family, was stronger than anything he’d one day build in this country.
Author's Note: Hi folks, so I couldn't abandon Coriolanus and the librarian until it felt a bit more complete. This one takes place after a brief time jump. Additionally, I am writing a choose your own ending... one more romantic and one more grounded in reality I believe. Anywho, thanks again as always for the love. I am still working on the long fic for Coriolanus and I am hopeful that once I get more written (honestly I'd love to finish book one before uploading), I can have more news regarding my OC Bellona Titus. If you want some sneak peaks though, just shoot me a DM! ~ Rosa
Summary: Years down the line, after Coriolanus has fallen into a rhythm with his little Librarian, and he considers the future, all while grappling with the difference between loving someone, caring for them and knowing them.
Word Count: 8900+
Rating: NSFW (if you are reaping ages stay away!)
Warnings: Smut briefly included (no where near as in depth as last time). Shockingly soft Coriolanus. Hints of Possessive Coriolanus.
Masterlist | Previous Part | Epilogue: Choose your Ending 1 & 2
After Lucy Gray, he swore he would never love again. Not because he believed himself incapable of love, but because he no longer saw the value in it. Love was perilous. It demanded too much, revealed too much, and offered no guarantees. In the end, it was always the things we loved the most that destroyed us. That belief hardened into principle. Love, he decided, was not a force of nature, but a choice. One he would refuse to make. He’d seen what it did to people. How it stripped them bare. How it made them reckless, stupid, weak. He would not let that be him. No again.
Still, abstaining from love didn’t mean denying himself connection. There was room for companionship, for mutual benefit. He could share a bed, a drink, and a fleeting confidence. Romance, when carefully managed, could be an indulgence, not a surrender. Respect could be earned and given, even a kind of affection could be permitted. So long as it never grew teeth.
What he sought was not passion but alignment. Someone who understood ambition, secrecy, control. Someone who could play the part when the spotlight demanded it, and disappear when it didn’t. A partner who, like him, knew how to stay on the fringes of vulnerability, never drifting too close to the fire. When Coriolanus returned from District Twelve, he imagined he might eventually marry someone he despised. A calculated union, both cold and efficient. Someone whose presence would act as a final barrier between him and the temptation of real feeling. Someone who would never remind him of what he had lost. Or worse, what he had once wanted.
Then he met the librarian. Pretty in an unassuming way. Sharp-minded. Guarded. She had built her walls so high that they dared him to scale them. And he had, but only partway. He now sat there, on the precipice, never fully crossing over. Neither of them wanted him to, it would seem. It was the balance they both preferred: proximity without risk, intimacy without surrender, a dark romance without love. There was comfort in this unspoken arrangement. A shared understanding. They were partners. Not lovers in the traditional sense, but co-conspirators in a silent pact. They enjoyed one another’s company, but they kept a cautious distance. Enough space to maintain clarity, control, and above all, sanity.
He didn’t love her. That was the point. But perhaps, in another life, he might have.
What they had defied traditional language. There was no name for it. Not quite a relationship, yet not merely convenience. Not love. Certainly not that. But something functional. Comfortable. Mutually sustaining in a way that required no confession, no drama, no delusion. She knew what he needed—intellectually, physically, emotionally—and she provided it with quiet precision. She never demanded what he wouldn’t give. She never pressed him for more than he offered. And in that restraint, she gained access no one else had.
She was his chosen counterpart in all but name. And perhaps, he thought, it was time she had that, too. Not because he envisioned a life built on vows and sentiment. Not because he dreamed of waking beside her for decades to come. But because it made sense. She suited the role, and the role suited her. Together, they struck the right balance. She looked perfect beside him. She understood when to speak and when to disappear. She demanded no explanation for his silences, only presence when it mattered.
Marriage would be a continuation of what already was. There would be no sudden revelations. No unraveling. They would maintain the same unspoken rules: proximity without proprietorship, affection without dependency, intimacy without illusions of love. He imagined how it would look. The announcement in the paper. A charming photo selected by his Grandma’am. Perhaps Tigress would design the dress. Classy without being overly fashionable. The reception. The way the Capitol would sigh in approval at the pairing. Two cultivated minds, sharp and well-fitted. Power disguised as romance. He suspected she would see it the same way: not as surrender, but as strategy. A merger, not a melding.
They had never spoken of the future, but she existed in it regardless. Present in his routine, woven into his public image, settled like furniture in a room he never wanted to redecorate. Comfortable. Familiar. Predictable in the ways that mattered. And in the dark, when they were alone, there was still closeness. There were nights when her fingertips trailed his skin like punctuation marks, when their bodies moved in tandem. Measured. Controlled. She never asked for tenderness, but she let him have it in degrees, as long as it didn’t come with expectation.
Fingers gently in his hair. Soothing his aching muscles in the steam filled shower together. Long delicate fingers plucking lint from his jacket. Offering him an extra eye to correct mistakes in his work. She was not a weakness. She was a choice. The kind of choice that allowed him to retain every part of himself while still appearing complete. A soothing medicine late in the evenings in which he could use to lie to himself so that he could pretend he was normal.
So yes, he would marry her. Not for love. But for alignment. For appearances. For the quiet, transactional peace of knowing exactly where they stood. And the beauty of it was: she would understand. She always had.
He didn’t rush it. There was no need.
Nothing about their relationship moved with urgency. It unfolded in quiet, deliberate steps. An understanding deepened over time, not through grand gestures, but through habit. Presence. Routine. A shared language made entirely of implication. He began to test the idea quietly. Mentioning hypothetical futures in clipped, offhand remarks. A nod to the potential of “us” without any emotional weight behind it. She didn’t flinch. She rarely did. If anything, she met him with that same composed ease he found so compelling. She understood the subtext. She always had.
He started to picture her more concretely in the places that mattered: beside him at formal dinners, across the table in late-night strategy meetings, by his side in carefully staged photographs. It wasn’t a fantasy, it was logistics. Optics. Structure. And she wore that future well. In many ways, they were already living it.
She came and went from his apartment with quiet familiarity. Her presence left no clutter, no trace, but he noticed the absence when she wasn’t there. He noticed the way the air felt thinner, less anchored. He noticed how much easier it was to sleep when she was reading beside him in bed, her silence a comfort, not a demand.
They rarely spoke about emotion. Neither of them needed to. She gave him what he needed without asking why. She touched him with purpose, not sentiment. She shared his space without invading it. And when he unraveled—which was rare, but not impossible—she never tried to fix him. She simply stayed. Unmoved. Constant. Quiet. Gentle in a divinely feminine way he chose not to acknowledge. It was enough.
He began to think of the proposal not as a question, but a statement. A next step in a sequence they’d already chosen. There would be no kneeling. No velvet box. No breathless moment. He would tell her over breakfast, perhaps. While she sipped burnt coffee. While the light slid through the glass like spilled gold. “I’ve been thinking,” he’d say. “We might as well make it official.”
And she’d pause, just slightly. Raise an eyebrow. Consider. Then, in that cool, quiet voice of hers, she’d reply, “That seems reasonable.”
They wouldn’t celebrate. There would be no sudden shift in the way they touched or looked at one another. Because there was nothing to celebrate, not really. They were formalizing what already existed. They wouldn’t call it love. But they would belong to one another, in the only way that mattered to either of them. He’d planned to tell her in passing. Just a line between bites of toast, a casual nod toward inevitability. No fanfare. No softness. Nothing unnecessary.
But as he imagined the scene, something in it felt... off. It wasn’t nerves. He had no illusions about this being a romantic overture. It wasn’t doubt, either. She was the right choice. That wasn’t in question. It was something else. Something quieter. A kind of dissonance. He imagined her reaction. How she’d take the news without blinking, how she’d respond in kind, rational and composed. It would go smoothly. Efficiently. Like every other part of their lives. And yet. Some small part of him—the part he often denied, the part he had starved for years—winced at the thought of offering her so little.
He frowned. Sat back in his chair, brow tightening. Was he truly so clinical that even this would be treated like a boardroom decision? She had never asked him for sentiment. Never once hinted at wanting more. But that didn’t mean she deserved less. There was dignity in her. She matched him not only in ambition, but in restraint. Even if she let down those walls slightly, curling into him with quiet care, she never opened the door on true vulnerability. There was no theatre, no lying, but an omission in the gaps where love would exist for any normal man and woman. And perhaps that was why he could offer her something slightly more considered. A gesture made not from emotion, but from intention.
A recognition of her role in his life, of her place beside him. And wasn’t care different from love? He could grant her respect. He could make something meaningful without making himself vulnerable. He could offer a moment of ceremony, not to indulge her, or himself, but to mark the gravity of their pact. To say: This matters. You matter. Even if we never speak the word aloud.
He scoffed quietly at himself. Foolish, maybe, to dwell on the difference. But he knew it mattered. There was strength in subtlety. In knowing the line and staying just this side of it. A ring, perhaps. Simple. No dramatic setting. Just an object of quiet purpose, as pragmatic as it was symbolic. Something she wouldn’t be embarrassed to wear. Something that would suit her hand. Something that the women at formal events wouldn’t scoff at.
And he would not present it at breakfast. He would wait until they were alone. Not out of shyness, but out of respect for privacy, something they both treasured. He would speak clearly, without flourish. He would offer her the choice, as one offers terms in a negotiation. Not because he feared rejection, but because he valued her autonomy.
That was the difference between affection and vulnerability. Between care and love. She was not a weakness. But she had earned more than a line over toast. And if he gave her nothing else—not warmth, not poetry, not the hollow pretense of romance—he could still give her this: a moment that acknowledged what they had built. Not love. But still… something.
The idea lingered longer than it should have.
At first, he dismissed it. Gesture was a word for sentimental fools and desperate men. And yet it kept returning, persistent and unwelcome, curling in the back of his mind. He could, if he chose, make it simple: present the ring in his office, between meetings, voice cool and clear, then return to his day as if nothing had shifted. And she would accept it. She’d mirror his tone, slip the ring on without ceremony, and neither of them would flinch.
But he would feel it. The hollowness of it. Not regret. He didn’t regret anything. But a kind of wasted opportunity. Not to win her over. Not to make it romantic. But to honor the structure they’d built with something more deliberate than a passing remark. He began to imagine it differently. What if he did something... more? Not extravagant in the way the Capitol adored, but something crafted. Controlled. Intentional.
His mind wandered to the idea of reclaiming a place. A site they’d shared. There had been a brief trip—months ago and unimportant on paper—where they’d visited an archive on the city’s edge. A decaying, ivy-draped ruin of a library she had explored like it was holy ground. He hadn’t spoken much then, but he had watched her. The reverence in her fingers as she brushed dust from forgotten spines. The hush in her expression as she scanned the brittle shelves. She glowed. Not in some poetic sense, but in a way that suggested she belonged there more than she ever had in the Capitol’s ivory towers.
It had stuck with him. What would it look like, he wondered, to bring her back there? To arrange the restoration of the space. Not for the sake of romance, but as a show of awareness. A private demonstration that he saw her clearly, understood what rooted her. It would be subtle. Intimate. Empty of overt emotion, yet undeniably personal.
And wasn’t that dangerous? The idea of giving her something so pointed. So her. Wasn’t it a kind of power, to be known that well? He clenched his jaw. Scolded himself. He wasn’t giving her power. He was acknowledging it. There was a difference. It wasn’t about feeling. It was about precision. About aligning the gesture with the woman. She had never been the type to want flowers or diamonds or declarations. But a library that could be hers, not just in affection but in deed, was a gift she couldn’t dismiss. A place to retreat. To build. To be fully herself within it’s walls.
And perhaps that was why he hesitated. Because to give her something she truly wanted was to let down one more barrier between them. Even if love had no place in this arrangement, something else stirred beneath it. Dangerous in its own right. Still, he couldn’t quite shake the image. The dust cleared. The doors opened just for her. A single ring waiting inside an annotated volume of some forgotten classic. No words written, no speech rehearsed. Just the gesture. Quiet. Measured. Intimate in a way only they would understand.
He could do that. He might do that.
And if she asked, Why this? Why now?, he could answer plainly: “Because it suits you.”
Not because he loved her. But because she deserved something that showed he valued her as one of his most prized possessions.
They walked in silence, as they often did. Her presence beside him never felt like an intrusion. Familiar in a way that didn’t demand his attention but made him notice its absence when she wasn’t near. He didn’t look at her, but he was aware of her the entire walk. How her fingers held his arm comfortably. How she didn’t ask where they were going, but he knew she knew. She always did. There had been a time, early on, when she had looked him in the eye and said, “I don’t trust you.” No dramatics. Just a fact. A line in the sand. And he hadn’t argued. He’d simply nodded. Because she was right not to.
But time had done what words never could. Trust had crept in, slow and quiet, never declared. But there, all the same. In the way she let him near. In the way she didn’t flinch when he was sharp. In the way she stayed. Now, she followed him without question.
The old library stood at the edge of the city, swallowed in ivy and shadows. The Capitol had forgotten it long ago. Ruins of the war that no one bothered to glance at. He opened the gate and let her step in first. The air inside was still and dry, thick with dust and the scent of decaying leather. Sunlight filtered in through broken panes, catching in the floating dust like gold scattered through ash. Vines curled around cracked stone, bleeding in from the outside. Nature had made its claim here, and still, it stood.
She said nothing. Just looked. Slowly. Thoroughly. Candles flickered on high ledges and atop old tables. Their flames were small, deliberate. A concession to atmosphere, an attempt, however quiet, at gesture.
She turned to him then, brows lifted slightly in question. She wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but there was light in her expression. A subtle shift. An understanding beginning to form. He pulled a folded document from inside his coat. “The deed,” he said simply. “It’s yours now.” She blinked. Took it from his grasp. Read nothing from his face. “There’s no restoration plan,” he continued. “No architects. No schedules. Do what you want with it. Or don’t. I didn’t buy it for what it could be.”
“Why did you buy it?” She asked, confidence in her tone. She already knew, but wanted to hear it.
He paused. Then added, “I bought it because you looked like you belonged here.”
That gave her pause. Her grip on the paper shifted. She looked around the space again, and this time, he saw it. Something opened behind her eyes. Something close to longing. She walked a slow circle through the heart of the library, trailing fingers along a shelf overtaken with moss and dust. When she stopped, it was beneath a fractured skylight, where the ivy dipped low enough to brush the floor.
He joined her there.
From his pocket, he pulled a box. Small, square, black. No embroidery. Velvet. “I don’t expect anything from this,” he said. “Not affection. Not comfort. I’m not asking for a future you haven’t already seemed to agreed to.” He opened the box. A ring. Silver. Small stone in the center. She hardly seemed the type for large and gaudy. It looked perfectly dainty when he’d first seen it in the window of the old consignment shop. Minimal. Loved already. The kind of halfway point between luxury and lived-in he knew she adored. It was longing to be hers. “This is simply an establishing of permanence. And a recognition of what we are.”
She looked down at it for a long time. Long enough that the silence grew thick. But she didn’t step away. She didn’t deflect. Instead, she reached for the ring. Took it from the box herself. Slid it onto her own hand. Still, no words. No theatrics. But when she looked at him, her expression was soft. Not in the way people described softness. Not weak. Not overcome. But settled. At peace with the choice. And for a woman who had once said she didn’t trust him, that look meant more than any declaration.
She wouldn’t say she loved him. He didn’t want her to. But she looked happy. She turned her hand slowly, watching the ring catch the dim light. Simple, unadorned, but carrying a weight far beyond its silver. He stood close enough to feel the faint warmth from her skin as he pulled her into his much taller frame. She let him hold her. The library around them was heavy with dust and shadow, vines threading through cracked stone, candle flames flickering in the gloom like small acts of defiance against time’s slow claim.
“So,” he said softly, a hint of dry humor playing at the edges of his voice, “shall I give you the grand tour of your new domain? What ideas do you have in that beautiful mind of yours.”
She glanced at him, eyes sharp but unguarded. “I think I’d like time to plan, but the kind of restoration I would love requires much funding…”
He allowed a brief smile. “I’ll brace myself. Anything my wife-to-be seeks, she shall have.” He promised, squeezing her to him before letting go.
They moved together through the quiet, her fingers trailing lightly over cracked spines and faded titles, absorbing the history and the neglect alike. Every so often she’d mention something, about a renovation idea, then move along. After a moment, she spoke, voice low and steady. “I never thought you’d care enough to do something like this.”
He shrugged, expression controlled. “Care isn’t love. But it’s something. Something practical.”
She looked down at the ring on her finger, then back up to meet his eyes. “You could have been colder,” she said, almost thoughtfully.
“Cold doesn’t mean careless,” he replied. “I’m never careless with you.”
Her hand found his arm, slipping in lightly, almost hesitant, but deliberate. “Care,” she said quietly, “isn’t such a bad thing.”
He let out a short, genuine laugh. It surprised them both. And in the dusty, ivy-clad silence of the old library, surrounded by fading pages and candlelight, they found something neither had dared name.
Not love. But care. Real, solid care.
It had been weeks since the proposal. The ring still hadn’t made its way into the spotlight, but that had been by design. She was managing the optics of their engagement with precision. One carefully orchestrated Capitol luncheon here, one veiled remark to a gossip columnist there. Nothing too loud. Nothing too sentimental. Just enough to stir interest without revealing substance. He admired it. It was how he would’ve handled it, had she not already taken the reins. Publicly, they were exactly what people expected them to be: composed, coordinated, and smitten.
Privately, though, he found himself visiting the library more than he intended. The front door creaked when he pushed it open. The scent of sawdust mingled now with the ever-present smell of paper and ivy. Sunlight streamed through new, unbroken panes of glass. The candles from that night were gone, replaced by practical lighting hung high on newly cleaned rafters.
It was still hers. Still wild around the edges, in fact she’d told him cheerfully over dinner that she’d planned to leave the tree in the middle of the entry way once the new floor was installed. But now there was intention. Shelves had been scrubbed down. Tables cleared. She was building something. He stepped carefully over a length of drop cloth, carrying a covered basket in one hand. She looked up from where she knelt near the back wall, arranging a line of antique volumes with almost reverent care. A smudge of dust darkened her sleeve, and a piece of hair had slipped loose from where she’d pinned it. She looked entirely at home.
“You brought something?” she asked, standing slowly.
“I thought you might have forgotten to eat.”
Her brow lifted. “You thought of that?”
He gave a small shrug. “Someone has to.”
She crossed to him and looked down at the basket, then back up at him with a narrowed gaze. “Is this… an attempt at romance?”
“It’s not an attempt,” he said, “if I succeeded.”
That made her smile. A rare, fleeting thing. She took the basket and gestured to the cleared floor near the window, where the light fell soft and angled. They sat on a folded blanket he’d tucked inside, legs stretched out, backs to the wall. He uncorked a small bottle of wine; she unwrapped the simple fare inside: bread, soft cheese, dried fruit, dark chocolate. “This is surprisingly thoughtful,” she said, tearing off a piece of bread.
“I’m full of surprises,” he replied.
“No, you’re often not. But I appreciate the effort.”
He watched her eat in silence for a moment, watching the curl of her hair catch the light like spun gold. “I like seeing it this way,” he said finally, her eyes sparking with mischief at tracking his own fixation on her hair so he shifted them away, his blue eyes sweeping the space. “The library. It’s taking shape.”
She glanced around with faint pride, deciding to not delve into his moment of vulnerability. “It’s moving slow.”
“That doesn’t matter. You are making it yours.” They sat side by side, backs to the wall, legs outstretched across the dusty floor, sharing cheese and dried fruit and pieces of crusty bread that crumbled in their hands. He didn’t speak. Not for a long while. Just watched her. The way the light played against her collarbone. The rise and fall of her breathing.
When she finally spoke, it was soft. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked about any of the wedding details.”
He looked sideways at her. “Do you want me to?”
“Not necessarily,” she said honestly. “But I keep waiting for you to care more about the pageantry of it all.”
“I’m sure it’ll come up at some point,” he said. “Currently, I trust your judgments.”
She was quiet at that. He reached into the basket again and drew out a small linen-wrapped parcel. She gave him a skeptical look as he handed it over. “What is this?”
“A bribe,” he said.
She snorted. “That tracks.” But when she opened it and found the old, restored book inside, her fingers stilled. The title was familiar. One she’d once mentioned in passing, barely more than a sentence dropped into a late-night conversation they hadn’t meant to stretch so long. Her voice, when she spoke again, was unreadable. “You remembered.”
“I tend to remember what matters.”
She held it for a long time. Didn’t open it. Just let her thumb rest against the spine. “That’s dangerously close to sentiment.”
“Maybe,” he said, watching her carefully as he toed the line gently. “Problem?”
She turned to face him then, slowly. The light caught her eyes, her mouth, the faint smudge of dust on her jaw. “I didn’t say it was unwelcome.”
The silence that followed was different than before. Not soft. Not casual. It buzzed beneath their skin. She was looking at him with something unguarded in her expression now. He leaned in slowly. Gave her every chance to move away. She didn’t. Their lips met in the quiet, in the dimming light, between one heartbeat and the next. It wasn’t hurried, or reckless, or grand.
It was deliberate. Warm. Real. When they parted, her gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not going to pretend this changes everything,” she said.
“I wouldn’t want you to,” he replied.
He hadn’t meant to come home early.
The meeting at the Ministry had wrapped sooner than expected. Some minor official’s ego soothed quicker than usual, and rather than attend another pointless reception or pretend to enjoy a drink he didn’t want, Coriolanus had found himself walking. Not aimlessly, but not deliberately either. Just... toward the flat.
He stepped through the front door quietly, closing it behind him with the soft click of the latch. The apartment was still. Not the silence of absence, but the kind that held breath. Contained. Listening. There were no sounds from the kitchen, no rustle of turning pages from the sitting room, no quiet mutterings from the library alcove. And then, from the bedroom, the faintest shift of fabric.
The door was ajar, light slipping out in a narrow, golden strip across the hall floor. He moved forward, steps measured, uncertain why his pulse had quickened until his fingers pushed gently at the door and it opened just enough to reveal—Her.
Back half-turned to the full-length mirror, standing barefoot on the dark wood, framed by soft light from the high windows. The wedding dress hugged her figure in simple, perfect lines. No pearls, no feathers, no ostentatious spectacle. Just clean silk, a barely-there sheen when it caught the light. The neckline dipped modestly, elegantly, showing the delicate notch of her collarbones, and the sleeves flowed down like liquid, ending in a kiss of fabric around her wrists.
She looked… timeless. Not like a Capitol bride. Perhaps not even like a bride at all. Like a secret the world hadn’t earned the right to see. A goddess bathing in a deep river pool, hidden away from mortal men by nymphs.
She didn’t notice him at first. Her reflection was turned slightly away, lips parted, brow furrowed in a quiet kind of wonder. One hand hovered near her waist, not adjusting anything, just touching, as if confirming its shape. He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
She caught him in the mirror then, her eyes locking with his across the space, a flicker of surprise in her gaze. But she didn’t startle. Didn’t hide. She simply turned, slowly, the hem of the dress whispering against the floor as she faced him fully. “Tigress dropped it off this afternoon,” she said, her voice steady but low, like the dress had softened her too. “I wasn’t going to try it on yet. I just, got curious.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to. She stood in the middle of the room, backlit by the low sun, which had turned pale gold with the late hour. It streamed in behind her, lighting the edges of her hair like a halo gone slightly crooked, curling where it had escaped its pins.
She looked… unreachable. But not distant. Like a memory he hadn’t made yet. A moment he hadn’t meant to keep, but would. “I don’t even know if I’ll wear this one,” she added, running a hand along the curve of her hip, across the clean lines of the silk. “It’s too—”
“Don’t,” he said, sharper than he meant to. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
She stilled, her brow lifting just slightly. He stepped into the room, slowly, like the light itself might shatter if he moved too quickly. “I wasn’t supposed to see this,” he said, quieter now. “Was I?”
“Probably not.” Her lips curled faintly, but it wasn’t amusement. More like… resignation laced with affection. “But here you are.”
And there he was. He could have stepped back. Should have. But she didn’t tell him to. And so he stayed, caught in the impossible stillness of the room, with his heart beating too loudly in his chest, hands suddenly unsure of themselves. She looked down at herself again, like she wasn’t quite certain who she was in this skin. Then back at him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked softly.
“That I’ve seen you do a dozen things more dangerous than wear that dress,” he said. “And none of them have shaken me quite like this.”
Her mouth twitched at the corner. “You’re not usually this poetic.”
“I’m not usually this undone.”
He moved toward her like gravity had made the decision for him. No words. No warning. Just the slow, inevitable pull of something he hadn’t yet named but couldn’t ignore. She watched him in the mirror, her body still, her eyes flicking to his as he stepped behind her, close, but not touching. The train of the dress pooled around her feet and she stood barefoot on the polished floorboards, spine straight, lips parted but silent.
Coriolanus let his gaze trace the soft line of her shoulder, the graceful slope of her neck, the way the fabric molded to her shape as though it had always belonged there. The gown wasn’t extravagant. It didn’t scream power or tradition or status. It was simpler than anything he’d imagined. And more arresting because of it. He raised one hand and gently rested it on her waist, fingertips grazing the silk. Her breath caught.
Then the other hand found her arm, brushing lightly along the inside of her elbow before settling against her other hip. He stood there like that, behind her, their reflections captured together in the glass. He hadn’t meant to see her like this. Not yet. But now that he had, he couldn’t look away. The sight of her undone him. Not because she was beautiful—though she was, painfully so—but because there was something unguarded in her expression. Something he hadn’t expected her to show. “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said softly, after a long moment.
“I know.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You weren’t supposed to see it.”
“I’m not sorry I did.”
She didn’t step away. Instead, she exhaled, long and quiet, letting herself lean back slightly into his chest, just enough to feel him there. “It's not what people will expect.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s better.”
She looked at their reflection again. “Tigress dropped it off and I was only going to glance at it. I just… wanted to see if I’d actually feel like a bride in it…”
He nodded, letting his chin rest lightly above her shoulder, breath brushing against her temple. “I’m glad you did.”
Neither of them moved. He felt her heartbeat, steady beneath his hands. Her warmth. The shift of her ribs as she inhaled again. And he realized with a sort of quiet awe: she was letting him hold her. Not for show. Not for obligation. But because she wanted to. “How do I look?” she asked, almost teasing, but there was a flicker of real vulnerability there.
He didn’t rush to answer. “You look like something I don’t deserve,” he said eventually. “And something I wouldn’t let go of if I tried.”
That made her go still. But she didn’t argue. She didn’t scoff. She just let the weight of the words settle between them. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and then another, slightly higher. Not demanding. Not desperate. Just there. “You’re being sentimental again,” she murmured.
“I’m allowed.”
She turned her head slightly toward his, and their eyes met in the mirror. Something unspoken passed between them, a kind of softness neither had quite mastered. Then she turned in his arms, slowly, carefully, letting the dress shift and gather at her feet, and faced him fully. Her hands rose to rest lightly at his chest. His found the small of her back. They stood there, not quite touching lips, breath mingling, eyes locked. And then she kissed him.
A kiss without armor, without distance. Just the quiet certainty of two people who’d chosen this, chosen each other, even if they would never name it love. When they broke apart, her forehead rested gently against his. She smiled, just slightly. “You’re not going to see it again until the wedding.”
“I will try my best to survive that,” he said. But his voice had softened. As though the admission cost him something. As though he meant it, but barely.
She didn’t pull away yet. Her forehead still rested against his, the silk of her gown cool under his hands, her scent close. Clean and faintly floral, mixed with old paper and fresh linens. Familiar now. Grounding. "You say that," she murmured, “but you looked as though you’d been struck dumb.”
He let out a low breath of a laugh. “I was. I still am.”
That gave her pause. He didn’t press. Didn’t try to define what this was, even now, when his whole body seemed to know it before his mind did. Instead, he lifted one hand and cupped her jaw, his thumb grazing just beneath her cheekbone. “You’re beautiful,” he said, the words finally surfacing after being held back too long. “And I don’t mean that the way people often mean it. I mean... I look at you and everything else gets quiet.”
Her lips parted, but whatever response she might’ve given never made it out. Instead, she leaned into him, slow and deliberate, and kissed him again. This time, it was deeper. Not hurried, not searching. Just there. A kiss rooted in something unspoken, still unnamed, but felt all the same.
His arms drew her in, careful not to wrinkle the gown too badly, but unwilling to let her drift even an inch. When they pulled apart, her hands still resting against his chest, her voice was lower. “I’ll take it off now,” she said, the smallest smile ghosting at her mouth. “Before you say something foolish and ruin the whole illusion.”
He exhaled a soft laugh, forehead against hers once more. “Too late for that.”
She gave him a look, fond, but pointed, and stepped back. He let her go. And as she turned toward the mirror once more, her fingers beginning to work at the hidden fastenings along her back, he stayed in place for a beat longer, just watching.
Not for the dress.
Not for the moment.
But for her.
And somewhere in the hush between then and now, he realized: He could survive not seeing the gown for a few more weeks. But he didn’t want to survive without this.
The office was quieter than usual. Papers stacked in precise piles, the faint hum of associates moving beyond the door, and Coriolanus at his desk, eyes narrowed over documents that demanded his attention but failed to fully claim it. His mind kept drifting back to the wedding preparations, the library, and—most unexpectedly—the woman he was to marry.
The knock came soft but deliberate. He glanced up, brow arching in surprise. She stood in the doorway, framed by the sunlight spilling down the corridor, hair pulled back loosely, eyes scanning the room before settling on him.
“For once,” he said, voice low but amused, “you seek me out instead of the other way around.”
She shrugged, stepping inside with a casual grace that seemed almost rehearsed. “I thought I’d see what kind of world you hide in when you’re not busy being… unpredictably charming.”
He allowed himself a small smile, setting aside the papers. “It’s mostly dull. But now you’re here, so I’d say it’s improved.”
She crossed the room and perched lightly on the edge of a chair near his desk. “Don’t get used to it. This might be a one-time event.”
He regarded her carefully, noting the faintest flush on her cheeks. “I’m counting on it not being.”
There was a pause, easy but charged with something unsaid. “You’re handling this whole wedding thing with your usual pragmatism,” he observed.
She tilted her head, a playful spark in her eyes. “That’s because I don’t need to pretend. You and I—this is about what works. No illusions, no unnecessary complications.”
He nodded slowly, admiring her clarity. “Practicality has always suited you.”
“Practicality keeps me sane. Keeps you sane. Keeps this what it is.” He reached out, briefly brushing a stray curl from her face: an unspoken promise of care, of presence. “And you?” she asked softly. “Are you keeping sane?”
He let the silence answer, his gaze steady on hers. “Sometimes,” he said honestly. Then, after a beat, he asked, “Why did you really come?”
“Does there need to be a reason?” she countered, a faint smile playing at her lips.
“With you?” He raised a brow, voice low and teasing. “Yes.” Coriolanus deadpanned, his hand reaching out to hers, fingers curling around the delicate skin along the back of her knuckles. His thumb traced slow, gentle circles.
“Perhaps I just wanted to hear your voice,” she admitted quietly, her honesty slipping out like a confession.
“My voice?”
She nodded, eyes searching his. “It’s... grounding. Especially when I feel like I’m standing on unstable ground.” Her words hung between them, simple yet weighted. He was flattered, undeniably so, but it was the truth beneath them that made him pause, the unspoken strain behind her calm.
“What’s going on?” he asked softly, drawing her closer into his frame. He settled onto the edge of his desk and gently pulled her to stand firmly between his legs, their bodies close, tethered by more than just touch. For a moment, she said nothing, her silence speaking volumes.
Finally, she sighed, a breath barely escaping her lips. “The wedding planning... it’s finally reaching a point where I feel the slightest bit overwhelmed. Not in a way that alarms me, but more than I expected to.”
He tightened his grip just slightly, offering steadiness without words. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Her gaze softened, and for the first time that day, she let herself lean into the quiet comfort he offered. “I know,” she whispered. “And that’s why I came.”
He nodded slowly, still holding her hand with a quiet firmness that spoke of steady support. “You’ve managed so much already,” he said softly. “But it’s okay to admit when it’s too much.”
She gave a small, grateful smile, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “I’m used to handling things on my own,” she admitted. “Letting someone in like this... it’s different.”
“Different doesn’t have to be worse,” he said, his voice low but certain. “It can be better.”
She looked up at him, searching his eyes as if trying to memorize the sincerity there. “I want it to be better,” she said quietly.
He brushed his thumb once more across her knuckles, then leaned in just enough to catch the corner of her mouth with his. “Then let me help you,” he murmured against her skin. “Not because I have to, but because I want to.”
Her breath hitched, a flicker of something tender and real breaking through the usual careful walls she kept. “Sometimes I forget that you’re here,” she whispered. He didn’t take offense. He knew she managed her distance.
He smiled, a slow, genuine curve that softened his usual reserve. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
The room was cloaked in shadows, the only light a pale wash from the streetlamps outside filtering softly through the curtains. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, wide awake despite the late hour. Tomorrow was supposed to be the beginning of something practical. Yet his mind churned restlessly, tangled with doubts and unspoken fears. How could he promise forever when the word itself felt like a gamble? A vow made not from passion, but from pragmatism and quiet necessity? The steady rhythm of rain tapping against the window seemed to echo the restless beat of his thoughts. Then, just as the night threatened to swallow him whole, a gentle knock came at the door.
He swung his legs off the bed, the cool floor grounding him as he rose and crossed to the door. When he opened it, there she was. Rainwater dripped from her hair in slow, tangled rivulets, strands plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Her clothes clung to her form, soaked and heavy, outlining the subtle curve of her silhouette. Her eyes, wide, searching, and raw, held a vulnerability that made his breath catch. “What’s wrong?” His voice was low, steady, but edged with concern that surprised even him.
She took a hesitant step inside, the door clicking softly behind her. The scent of wet earth and cold rain clung to her. “I…” she faltered, as if the words themselves were fragile things she had to catch before they slipped away. “I needed to see you.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it filled the space between them with a weight that pressed on his chest. “I needed to be here… with you.”
He stood still, heart tightening. The storm outside raged on, but inside, the world narrowed to this moment, this breath, this fragile confession. She stepped closer, and he saw the tremor in her hands, the way her eyes flickered with unspoken fears and needs. “I needed to feel you,” she said, voice trembling like a leaf caught in the wind.
For a long moment, he said nothing, only reached out, his fingers brushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear, tracing the line of her jaw with quiet reverence. Then, slowly, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close, as if anchoring them both against the storm, outside and within. Her body melted against his, fragile and fierce all at once. The rawness in her touch, the desperate need to connect. It shattered the walls he’d so carefully built.
Their lips found each other with a hunger that spoke of more than just desire: it was a release, a confession, an urgent claim. His hands traced the familiar contours of her body, knowing every curve, every shiver he could provoke. They had been intimate before, yes, his fingers memorized the language of her skin, the subtle arch of her back, the way she responded to his touch.
But this—this was different. There was a fierce electricity crackling between them, a tension borne not only of flesh but of something far deeper. It wasn’t just the act; it was the storm of emotion, the years of guarded distance dissolving in a single embrace. He felt the tremor in her hands against his chest, the way her breath hitched as he pulled her closer, pressing into the heat that radiated from her. It was like trying to hold lightning in his arms.
His own restraint melted away, replaced by a raw need that had nothing to do with pragmatism or practicality. He was no longer the man who measured everything, weighed every word, every step. Here, now, there was only her. The way she looked at him with wide, unguarded eyes, the way her body curved into his like she belonged there. He captured her mouth again, deeper, more demanding, as if trying to erase the silence that had settled between them for so long.
Their hands roamed freely. Her fingers threading through his hair, his palms burning trails along her spine, igniting every nerve ending in a fire that neither wanted to douse. They moved together with a desperate grace, the world outside the door forgotten, the coming dawn irrelevant. In that moment, stripped of all pretense and cold calculation, he realized something undeniable: this was no longer just about convenience or duty. It was about needing her—body, mind, and soul—in a way he hadn’t dared admit before.
“I couldn’t wait,” she said with a laugh as she pulled away to catch her breath. Forehead pressed against his as she stared into his eyes.
“One night. You couldn’t wait one night.” He scoffed. He knew she didn’t mind the jest.
“You aren’t telling me to leave.”
He shook his head slowly, a slow smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “No. Not tonight.”
Her eyes softened, that fierce spark melting into something quieter, something vulnerable. “Good,” she breathed, voice low, barely above the whisper of the rain. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Without another word, she closed the small distance between them, lips capturing his with a fierce urgency. The world outside ceased to exist as they fell back into the rhythm of their kiss. Intense, desperate, and filled with all the unspoken need that had been simmering beneath the surface for too long.
His hands tangled in her hair, fingers gripping gently but possessively, as if to anchor himself to this moment. She responded in kind, pressing closer, body molding perfectly to his.
Every breath, every touch, every heated glance spoke of something deeper than before. This wasn’t just the continuation of old habits: it was a reckoning. He pulled her tighter. His fingers undoing the latches of her soaked through jacket. Shoving it to the ground with urgency. She responded in full measure, running her hands along the already exposed skin of his torso.
Soon he found himself as bare as the day he was born. Her as well. He hadn’t formed the time to march them back to the bed they’d fallen into so many times together at this point. Instead he dragged her to the sofa, shoving her back. She bounced slightly, before reaching forward to drag him down to her. He obliged, coming to rest above her. His eyes traced her form carefully. Hardly any light coming through the window as the rain outside continued, yet his eyes found it in the dim light. The ring, on her hand. The one he’d given her. The one he hadn’t seen her without since that day in the library.
“You insatiable woman,” he smirked, reaching to collect her hand in his palm. Bringing it to his lips he kissed every knuckle, every pad of each finger, and finally ended on the place where skin met metal.
“You say that as if you’d want any less,” she scoffed.
“I don’t.” He kissed her again. And again. Her fingers threading into his as they kept moving. At some point he realized that in the thrones of their passion, he’d slipped himself inside. The action was not conscious. Just that at some point since he’d laid down, consumed by her, he’d entered. Now he was moving against her. Inside her. Dragging them both closer to release.
“Coriolanus—” she gasped, breath catching on the edge of a wail. It undid him. He moved harder, sharper, chasing the sound, greedy for it. She said his name like no one else ever had. Not as a plea or a prayer, but as if it belonged to her alone. And in that moment, he wanted it to. He didn’t want to hear it from anyone else. Didn’t want anyone else’s touch, anyone else’s need.
She was his. Not in the hollow, possessive way he’d once understood ownership, but in the way gravity belongs to the earth. Inevitable, anchoring, terrifying in its pull. She was his body to worship, his calm in the eye of every storm he created. She was the pause between each political maneuver, the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years. His few stolen moments of joy.
She had crept in like light through a cracked door. Quiet, uninvited, but impossible to ignore. An indulgence he never sought, but somehow nurtured despite himself. And now, as she clung to him, nails dragging down his back, mouth open on a moan that curled his name into something sacred, he knew. She was the closest he would ever allow himself to love. And that terrified him more than anything.
Her legs tightened around his waist, drawing him deeper, closer, until there was nothing left between them but breath and heat and the wild, headlong collapse into something neither of them could name. His forehead dropped to hers, sweat-slicked and trembling, their mouths parting only to gasp, to catch air, to murmur half-broken versions of each other’s names.
She looked up at him then. And it was that gaze, not the way she moved beneath him, not the way she said his name, but that look that nearly undid him completely. Unflinching. Fierce. Trusting, in the only way she knew how.
How had this happened? When had she become the one thing that grounded him, steadied him in the spiral of his own ambition? She had asked for no promises, no declarations. Who held herself at arm’s length, and yet always met him in the quiet between their shared solitude. He buried his face against her neck, the scent of her skin—soft, clean, rain-kissed—searing itself into his memory. He whispered something then, not quite words, but reverent all the same. A hush against her collarbone.
Because this wasn’t about conquest. It wasn’t about power or posturing. It was about need. Hunger. The terrifying, soul-deep craving to be known by someone who could see through the carefully composed mask and not flinch.
She didn’t flinch. Her hands rose to his face, cradling his jaw, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones with something achingly gentle. He leaned into it like a man starved. And as their bodies rose together toward that inevitable peak, everything else—titles, duty, legacy—faded. It was only her. It was always her.
The stillness that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick with breath and warmth and the invisible thread of something neither of them dared name. Their bodies were tangled. Limbs draped carelessly over one another, skin still flushed and damp with exertion, and for once, neither of them moved to correct the closeness. Coriolanus lay on his back, one arm hooked beneath her shoulders, the other resting gently along the dip of her waist. Her cheek was pressed against his chest, her breath slow and warm where it fanned over his skin. Every so often, she shifted slightly, like she didn’t quite trust the stillness, like she wasn’t used to staying.
He wasn’t used to it either. But he didn’t want her to go. Not tonight. He stared at the ceiling, one hand trailing absent patterns along the curve of her hip. They had done this before, shared space, shared skin, the raw heat of being consumed by one’s desires of the flesh. But this was different. There was no rush to pull away. No clever remarks to reset the balance. Just silence. Heavy. Intimate. Safe. She didn’t ask him what he was thinking. She never did. And somehow, that made him want to answer.
“You said my name like it meant something,” he murmured.
He felt the faint tension in her muscles, the way her breath caught ever so slightly. She didn’t lift her head. “It does,” she said quietly. “I just don’t know what yet.”
He turned toward her then, slow and deliberate, guiding her face upward with two fingers under her chin. Her eyes met his in the low light: stormy, uncertain, but open in a way he rarely saw. “I don’t need the answer,” he said. “Just… don’t lie to me about it.”
“I haven’t,” she replied. “Not once.” A beat passed. The rain outside softened to a whisper.
“You’re staying?” he asked, not demanding, just confirming.
She didn’t look away. “At least for a little bit longer.”
He kissed her then. Not with the hunger of before, but with something steadier. Something real. The kind of kiss that asked nothing and gave everything. And when they finally lay back down, limbs intertwined, she rested her head against him again. He held her like he might lose her at any moment. Because somewhere in the dark, where neither of them could see it clearly yet, he knew: she had already undone him. And maybe, just maybe, he was willing to let her.
To be continued...
Epilogue : Choose your own fate (coming soon!)
A more romantic, soft ending -> here
A more beautifully tragic ending -> here
(Essentially the question: Would Coriolanus Snow ever say the words "I love you")
hello i love "talk" so much it has quite literally brought me back from the dead <333 i hope both sides of ur pillow are cold i hope the weather is always good for u. you are shakespeare reincarnated the way you write coriolanus & reader's dynamic and the way you spin the story so beautifully, i am deadass so locked in on your fic, it will take me millions of peacekeepers and a nightlock pill for someone to rip me apart from it
Thank you so much anon this made me laugh, (also might’ve cried a bit but I ain’t admitting that shit out loud)
I am considering doing a choose your epilogue after I post Part 3… if that’s of interest…
Author's Note: Thank you so much for the love on Pt. 1. This one can be read independently, however I firmly subscribe to the "I need to know why they are fucking" notion, so you got 12k of set up before this... if you need a recap its linked below. I decided to write a conclusion for this series, which takes it in a bit more of a semi romantic direction but I am still uncertain if it fits the vibe? If you are interested in a part 3/conclusion let me know! Thanks again for all the love and support. I am still working on a long fic with an OC (about 125,000 words/27 chapters into writing that from the last 2 months) but it's still in the wings until I can finish book one. Stay tuned for updates on that. Thanks again loves ~ Rosa
Summary: New University student Coriolanus Snow finds something pretty in the Library, and does his best to charm this elusive if not slightly odd woman. (No use of Y/N!) Coriolanus Snow fucks his little librarian
Word Count: 8,700+
Rating: NSFW (if you are reaping ages stay away!)
Warnings: Smut. Smut. SMUT. Possessive Coriolanus Snow. Yearning Coriolanus. Tit fucking. Oral Sex (female/male receiving). P in V.
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The city had quieted by the time they reached his building. Its grand facade bathed in the pale wash of moonlight. He led her through the marble foyer with practiced ease, but his hand never left hers, their fingers still laced from the walk. In the lift, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was anticipation distilled. Compressed into breath and heartbeat and the faintest shifts of body language. She stood close, not quite touching, but near enough that he could feel the warmth of her. The hum of everything she wasn’t saying made his skin vibrate. When the doors opened, he motioned her out first with a flick of his fingers. Always the gentleman.
But when she crossed the threshold of his apartment, something in the air changed. The door clicked shut behind them, and with it, the Capitol with all its propriety seemed to fall away. The high ceilings and sleek furnishings faded into the periphery. The only thing that felt real was her, standing there, coat draped over one arm, eyes sweeping the room like she was mapping out the territory of something inevitable.
She dropped her coat onto the arm of the sofa. Her dress clung to her in the low light, elegant but unpretentious. It was the kind of silhouette he’d come to expect from her, as it toed the line of playing into the expectations of their world while still sitting on the outskirts of it. A line of skin at her collarbone gleamed faintly, and when she walked toward him, there was nothing casual about it. “You’ve been walking a line all night,” she said, voice low. “I wanted to know how long you'd last.”
“I’m still standing,” he said, but it came out quieter than he intended.
“Barely,” she replied, stepping into his space. “You’re very good at pretending you’re in control.”
“And you’re very good at making me forget that I should be.”
She stopped just in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something soft, clean, expensive. “You brought me here,” she said, tilting her head, “because you wanted to see what would happen.”
He nodded, slowly. “You let me,” he counters before continuing, “And now?”
She reached up, brushing a hand along his collar, just enough to make him still beneath her touch. “Now I’m deciding.” The moment stretched, coiled tight. His breath came shallower, but he didn’t move. He let her lead. Her fingers found the edge of his jacket and undid the button on his lapels with the same slow precision she used when turning pages. She stepped back. “I like watching you try not to react,” she murmured.
“I like watching you pretend you don’t want me to.” That made her smile, and not the polite one she gave at galas or the restaurant. This one was sharp and slow, a private secret. And then she kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t delicate. It was deliberate. Her hand slid into his hair as his arms locked around her waist, and the tension that had haunted them all evening. Through dinner, in their conversation, and in looking into one another’s eyes across candlelight, ignited all at once. There was no space left between them. Just the heat of mouths, the press of fingers, the quiet sounds that marked surrender in slow degrees.
She broke the kiss first, just barely, her lips brushing against his as she whispered, “Am I still pretending?” He smiled. “No,” he replied, his voice rougher now. “And I plan to take advantage of that fact.” She kissed him again, harder this time, pulling him further into the living room without ceremony. His coat hit the floor. Then his tie. Then the last of their restraint.
His hands found the zipper of her dress, dragging it down, pushing the fabric off her shoulders to bunch at the waist as he walked her back towards the wall dividing his living room from the bedroom. In the lowlighting he could only make out the basic shapes of her features, but with her kissing his neck the way she was, mixing with her content sighs when he returned the favor, he hardly cared. Pushing a leg between her dress covered thighs, he pressed harder against her core as his palm found the curve of her breast.
Sick of the current positioning, as he had to lean down considerably since her heels had slipped off at some point, he bent enough to lift under her thighs, pulling her to his frame with ease. He anticipated a flirtation remark, possibly even a dismissive one. But what he hadn’t anticipated was laughter. A lighter than air chuckle as he moved them from the wall into the safety of his bedroom. Coriolanus didn’t think himself massive, but he was stronger than one might assume. His time as a peacekeeper showed him as much. The physicality of it all, something he enjoyed continuing to enhance in his space time with the pull up bar in the other room. Conditioning his body in a way that was hidden beneath scholars cloaks. Still thinner than most of his peers, some damage from the time post war could never fully be undone, but much stronger than he was as an academy student.
He felt the sharp bite of her nails digging into his bare shoulders, a grounding contrast to the way her thighs clung tightly around his waist, holding herself steady until he lowered her onto the edge of his bed. There, poised on the corner like some rare and delicate offering, she looked up at him. This eccentric student who preferred dusty archives and forgotten manuscripts to living, breathing people, now with a quiet, blooming hunger in her eyes. The sight of it stirred something low and hot in his core. A need that unfurled like fire roaring inside a hearth.
Snow’s pale gaze lingered, greedy and reverent. He took in every detail. The way her eyes found his through the veil of her lashes, dark with anticipation; her hair, tousled from his fingers, falling in loose, imperfect waves; her skin, flushed and glowing from the momentum of their closeness. And then there was the lace—fine, intricate, and maddeningly delicate—clinging to her body like it knew exactly what it was hiding. Sacred things, wrapped in temptation.
He didn’t touch her again right away. Instead, he watched her. The way her chest rose and fell, shallow with anticipation. The slight part of her lips. The faintest tremble in her fingers where they gripped the edge of the mattress, as though she wasn’t quite sure what would happen next but refused to look away. Coriolanus leaned closer, just enough that their breath mingled. “You handle books at the library like they’re sacred. Like they might shatter if you aren’t careful.” Her eyes flicked to his, something uncertain behind them. But she didn’t interrupt. She waited. “I used to wonder,” he went on, his gaze dropping to her mouth, “what it would feel like to be touched the way you touch those first editions. The way your fingers linger on the spines, as if the story might whisper something just to you if you’re patient enough to hear it.”
He reached out then, brushing his knuckles along the line of her jaw, light as the turning of a page. “And ever since I noticed,” he continued, “I haven’t been able to stop wanting that. To be held with that kind of care. That kind of intention.”
Her breath caught, not loud, not performative. Just enough that he knew he’d struck something deeper than want. The silence between them wasn’t empty now. It was full. Heavy with all the words they hadn’t said, all the things that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. His hand slipped behind her neck, cradling it gently in his large palms.
“And now?” she asked, voice quiet, raw around the edges.
His thumb traced a slow line beneath her ear, reverent. “Now I think I’d let you ruin me instead.”
She smiled slowly, deliberately, and devilishly. And that’s when he knew he’d been right all along. All the times she had drawn near only to retreat, the moments where her fingers lingered just a second too long, or when her voice softened into something close to intimacy, he had suspected. Not just attraction, not just interest, but something deeper. Calculated. Intentional. She had always extended trust with precision, shown gentleness not out of fragility but because it was a choice. A tool, even.
She was not merely the quiet girl curled up in corners of the library, lost in someone else’s thoughts. That image, while true in part, was only a surface. One she allowed others to see because it kept them at a safe distance. But Coriolanus had looked longer. Closer. And now, in the firelight of her smile, he saw it for what it was. She was bold when she wanted to be. Poised when it served her. A lady in the company that demanded it, and something far more dangerous when it didn’t. She never played his games unless they aligned perfectly with her own. And that was what fascinated him. It’s what had ensnared him.
Because beneath the wit and layered silence, she was fire and brimstone. A force. The kind of woman who didn't need him, but might choose him. And for Coriolanus Snow, there was no more powerful position to be in than standing beside someone who could walk alone, but let him match her stride. She wasn’t dull, not in the slightest. She was challenge, ambition, and intellect all wrapped in the elegance of restraint. A partner with her own orbit. Someone who would push him, sharpen him, leave him to his own thoughts when he required solitude, and return not in need but in presence. A companion who could sit beside him in silence without seeking to fill it with redundancy.
She was what he had always believed power should look like: subtle, self-possessed, and singular. And now that he had seen it clearly, he didn’t just want her physically.
He wanted everything she was. It wasn’t just the smile. It was everything that came before it: everything that had led to this point. He could still feel the ghost of her lips from that night weeks ago. A kiss that hadn’t been part of any plan, hadn’t been teased or bargained for. No coy glances, no clever prelude. Just the sudden press of her mouth to his: warm, deliberate, and devastatingly soft. It had undone him. She had curled into him afterward like it was the most natural thing in the world, her head resting on his chest, her breath evening out against his skin as if she belonged there. He hadn’t dared move. Not when every part of him felt suspended between disbelief and surrender. Her fingers had lightly gripped the fabric of his shirt, a silent anchor, and he’d stared at the ceiling for hours, wide awake and reeling.
By morning, she was gone. No note. No farewell. Just the faint scent of her perfume clinging to his collar. And then came the distance. Chilling, deliberate distance. She hadn’t avoided him entirely; she was far too strategic for that. But she’d shifted. Eyes that once lingered now passed over him like wind over glass. Conversations clipped short. Invitations politely declined. And gods, it made him burn. The fact that she could give him that moment—that kiss—and then walk away like it hadn’t tilted the entire axis of his world.
The game had changed. She wasn’t just avoiding entanglement. She was making him chase. And worse, she was doing it with exquisite precision, offering just enough presence to keep hope alive, to stoke the fire, but never letting him get close enough to hold it. It was driving him mad. Because Coriolanus Snow was not used to being the one in pursuit. Not used to feeling like his want was an exposed nerve, a flaw someone could see and toy with. But when it came to her... he didn’t want to dominate the game.
He wanted to win her. Because now that he’d tasted her, he craved her in a way he hadn’t thought himself capable of. Not just for her body, or her mind, or even the convenience of her silence. He craved the choice of her. Her permission to allow him even within a foot of her presence. The way she would offer herself when she decided, not when he willed it. It was infuriating. Addictive. And it was working.
And now, with her perched before him, smiling like she knew exactly what she’d done, what she was still doing, he couldn’t hold the stillness any longer. His hand, the one still resting lightly at her jaw, shifted, fingers sliding into her hair, cradling the back of her head with a touch that bordered on reverence. But his other hand moved lower, to her waist, pulling her forward with a firm, undeniable intent until her legs bracketed his hips and there was no space left between them.
“You don’t get to kiss me like you did that night,” he said, voice low, cracked with the tension he’d kept caged too long, “sleep on my chest like it meant something, and then disappear.”
Her lips parted, but he didn’t give her the chance to reply. Not yet. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like?” he went on, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. “Every time you look through me like I’m just another forgotten volume on a shelf. Pretending you haven’t already marked me up like the margins in the books you give me. As if I don’t still feel the ghost of your breath on my skin when I sleep.”
He leaned in, his mouth near hers, close enough to tempt her. “You’ve been haunting me,” he confessed. “And I let you. I let you keep me at arm’s length because I thought maybe that was part of the game.” His eyes searched hers, sharp and unguarded now. “But let me be perfectly clear when I say, I’m not content being your passing curiosity anymore. I don’t want distance.”
And finally, he closed the space between them, his mouth crashing into hers, not with reckless hunger, but with a desperate, consuming ache that had been simmering for weeks. It wasn’t careful this time. The kind of kiss that demanded an answer. His hand at her waist tightened slightly, holding her to him, grounding them both. There was no pretense now. No power play. Just this: his need, laid bare.
Her mouth moved beneath his, responsive, electric, but it wasn’t enough. Not after everything. Not after weeks of flirtation, of her distance in other moments, of her slipping through his fingers like smoke. He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding from her waist to her thigh, gripping it firmly, possessively, pulling her closer until she was flush against him. Like her body could answer everything her words never had the courage, or cruelty, to say.
“You don’t get to vanish,” he murmured against her lips, voice thick with something darker now. “Not after what you did to me. What you keep doing to me.”
He kissed her again, harder this time, like he could press the ache out of himself and into her. His hand threaded deeper into her hair, not quite harshly, but certainly more firm. Holding her there. Holding her still while she squirmed. “You gave me a taste,” he continued, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, then to the warm skin beneath her ear. “And now I want the whole damned meal.”
She gasped, quiet, instinctive, and it only fueled him. “I see you everywhere. In the margins of my books. In the silence between meetings. In the corners of my mind when I can’t sleep. In my dreams with wild hair and commoner's clothing. I taste you in bitter coffee, knowing we both prefer it to perfectly ground espresso for some gods forsaken reason.” He lifted his head again to look at her, his gaze sharp, his breathing uneven. “And you think you can smile at me like that, like this is some scholarly debate, and I won’t take what’s mine?”
His thumb traced the edge of her lower lip, lingering there. “Say you didn’t mean it. That it was a mistake. I’ll stop.”
She said nothing. And that silence, her silence, was everything. He pressed his forehead to hers, voice quieter now but no less intense. “Then you are mine. And you always have been. Even when you were pretending not to be.” There was no smugness in it. No victory. Just the quiet desperation of someone who had tried not to want something and failed. Utterly.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Her hands slid up his back, slow and deliberate, fingers dragging over skin as if committing it to memory. There was no hesitation now. No coy retreat. Just the quiet yielding of someone who had made a decision, one she wasn’t going to explain, because there was nothing left to say. The space between them ceased to exist.
He kissed her again, but this time slower. Like the urgency had cracked open into something deeper, if not more dangerous. His hand slid along her thigh, tracing the line where skin met lace, the silk-soft edge of temptation that had been haunting him since the moment she walked into his life. She arched into him to meet him. Equal. Present. Her breath warm against his neck as he dipped his head, lips brushing the hollow beneath her throat, where her pulse fluttered. He stayed there for a moment, letting it steady him, letting it prove she was real.
The bed shifted beneath them as he eased her backward, one knee pressing to the mattress, guiding her down like she was something he was finally, finally allowed to hold.
No more distance. No more silence.
Just the sound of breath and movement, the soft rustle of fabric, the tremble of anticipation giving way to inevitability. His hand splayed over her ribcage, feeling the sharp inhale beneath it, the way her body reacted to his touch without resistance. There was nothing performative in her. No calculation now. And it undid him. Everything she had withheld, every glance, every withheld word, every retreat, was burning away beneath his hands. She was here. She had chosen this. Chosen him. And so he moved with purpose, deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to learn her the same way she studied those books. He could carefully trace her spine, read between every line for the hidden meanings of her eyes, and take in the secret language written across her skin in beauty marks.
“I think you owe me for all this chasing,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat, his nails digging into the soft skin of her hips, anchoring them both in the moment. She lifted her face just enough to catch his eye, a slow smile teasing the corner of her lips, daring him to push further. He took it as permission. His lips trailed down her neck, lips and teeth and tongue marking a path like punctuation on a sentence that refused to end. His hands tightened at her hips, fingers curling just enough to remind her that this was not gentle.
“You’ve been running circles around me,” he whispered, his voice rough with need, every word carrying the weight of weeks spent chasing her elusive attention.
Then, without warning, she moved, swift and sure, faster than he could have anticipated. The sharpness of the motion caught him off guard, a reminder of everything he’d admired but sometimes forgotten about her: that beneath her delicate lace and quiet exterior pulsed a wild, unpredictable spirit. With eyes wide and unabashed, as if silently daring him to follow, she settled herself on his lap, her body curving perfectly against his. Coriolanus found himself lying back against the soft embrace of his duvet, utterly silent. Words escaped him, not because he was stunned, but because everything he might say paled against the intensity of what she was offering.
She smiled, slow, confident, and charged with promise. Her fingers brushed the few stray strands of his disheveled hair from his forehead with a tenderness that was unexpected. Then, with that same smile still lingering on her lips, she ground her hips down against his, a deliberate, delicious motion that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him. The contrast was exquisite. The softness of her touch against the boldness of her movement. It unsettled him, thrilled him, and anchored him all at once.
He reached up, fingers curling around her waist, pulling her just a little closer. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, voice thick.
She laughed softly, the sound both warm and wild, a delicate tremor that sent shivers down his spine. Leaning down, her breath brushed over his skin. “Good,” she whispered back, voice low and daring. “I want to be.” The space between them vanished completely as she dipped her head to kiss him again. This time, he let her lead, granting her the moment, allowing her to dictate the pace within this fragile window they’d carved out. But beneath the tenderness, a plan already formed in his mind: once the last piece of fabric slipped away, he would reclaim control.
His fingers moved with quiet certainty, tracing the delicate lace that clung to her chest. Finding the tiny latch holding it in place, he paused just long enough to search her eyes, and when she didn’t stop him, he slid the fabric free with practiced ease.
Sitting up, the dim light filtering through the curtains cast soft shadows over her skin, revealing the lovely slope of her chest, the gentle rise and fall with each breath. The softness of it was almost disarming beneath his gaze. Before he could stop himself, his hand was already there, fingers tracing the curve of her ribs, mapping the warmth beneath the cool night air. The sudden contact made her shiver against him, a silent invitation and a quiet surrender.
His thumb brushed over her collarbone, heart pounding as he drank in the sight of her, so close, so real. The world outside the room fell away, leaving only this charged silence. He bent his head again, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was both a question and a command, promising that while she might lead now, the reckoning was coming. And when it did, he would be ready.
He made up his mind then and there, that at some point his length would be buried between her bosom. That the skin there would fold itself so beautifully around his cock and simply, house him there until he came in her face, or decided he’d had his fill. Maybe he’d keep himself there, forcing her hands to press them around him, using his own spill to repeatedly finish over and over again until he’d decided he had enough.
But that would be after he finished his current task after all: wrapping his lips around her peaks. Bottom row of teeth pulled gently on the delicate skin as his hands ran down the length of torso, tugging at the thin scrap of lace covering the rest of her body. He planned on multitasking. That was, until the breathy sigh of his name passed her lips. Then he pulled back, eyes wide. Hell bent on hearing it again.
He’d never heard his name whispered with such tenderness. Such reverence. Such raw, desperate need. In an instant, he was on his feet, quicker than the bullet that had claimed Mayfair. His hands yanked down his briefs without a second thought, driven by the relentless pounding behind his temples. He didn’t pause to let her adjust. Didn’t hesitate to wonder if this was her first time. He pulled her down onto the duvet with a rough urgency that bordered on recklessness, claiming her as if the world might collapse if he waited a moment longer.
She didn’t fight him on the matter, only letting out the most enjoyable sound he thought he’d ever heard as he leaned down roughly, running the flat of his tongue in the space between her breasts. His knees came to rest on each side of her body as he stared down at her. Then he held himself out, only muttering “open” and thrusting himself into her mouth.
He felt the way her throat initially contracted at the intrusion. Staying there until she relaxed enough to take him. He thrust only a few times, enjoying as he heard the most glorious gags coming from her and then pulled out. He could see the sheen of her saliva on his tip as it trailed to the base. Even if it was enough he wasn’t going to risk it. Collecting as much as he could, he leaned down, spitting onto her chest right in the valley to be sure.
Her eyes grew large, realizing almost instantaneously what he had imagined. “Hold them” he commanded and she nodded, pressing them up more and he took advantage of her obedience, adjusting until he was pressed so tightly between her breasts. Then he moved. He didn’t care if the way he rutted seemed to push air from her lungs. He didn’t care that every so often he’d have to pull back and shove himself back down her throat to keep things moving better with more lubrication.
He only cared about the fact that her chest grew increasingly rosy and her eyes burned into his with intensity that screamed of her wanting to please him. Let him use her in this way, even if it did nothing for her own pleasure. It only felt fair after the weeks of running around she’d made him do. Going to some dusty book store. Forcing him to ask her guardian for permission to escort her around even though she’d already been inside the walls of his apartment. Every thrust of his hips was payback. It was surrender. It was his conquest to conquer her coming to a most glorious conclusion.
Coriolanus felt movement, looking down he saw that she was trying to rub her thighs together for some sort of relief. “You can wait,” he hummed, watching her eyes snap to his with surprise. He kept moving, gesturing behind his back. “You will wait,” he corrected as he pulled himself from between her breasts, threading his other hand in her hair. His vision settled on the way her skin looked raw and decided the least he could was give her a break.
He dragged her down with him, just enough pressure to command, just enough gentleness to keep from startling her. His grip remained firm in her hair, fingers threaded deep, holding her steady, not just physically, but in the moment. A quiet dominance burned beneath his skin, hot and thrumming with control barely leashed. She knelt before him without resistance, gaze lifted, waiting. There was nothing weak in her submission, only choice. Intention. A silence that spoke volumes.
He looked down at her, his chest rising with heavy, uneven breaths, eyes roving over the sight of her there: bare, composed, his.
“So good when you want to be…” he murmured, the praise dark and low as his fingers trailed the curve of her cheekbone. The motion was almost tender, a stark contrast to the iron grip he still held in her hair. “When you choose to be.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. And that, more than anything, sent a pulse of heat straight through him. There was power in this. Perfectly aligned in the quiet tension between dominance and surrender. In the way she gave herself not out of obligation, but its own unique form of defiance. And he would reward her for it. In his own way.
His thumb followed the trail of his fingers, brushing over her lower lip, pressing just enough to feel the warmth of her breath. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained locked on his, wide and unblinking, like she was daring him to test just how obedient she could be. Coriolanus let out a low exhale, more growl than sigh. “You enjoy driving me mad,” he said softly, almost like a confession. “And the worst part is, it’s working.”
He tightened his grip slightly in her hair, tilting her head back just a touch, exposing the soft line of her throat. She swallowed, slow and deliberate, and his eyes flicked down to catch it. “Look at you now,” he continued, his voice somewhere between awe and possession. “On your knees for me. And still, somehow, holding all the cards.”
He could’ve taken more from her then—pushed her further, commanded instead of coaxed—but something in the way she held herself, regal even in submission, kept him anchored. She wasn't fragile. She wasn’t broken open. She chose this. And that knowledge made his blood burn hotter than any kiss could.
His grip loosened. Not fully. Just enough to let the tension stretch and breathe. Like a string drawn taut, not yet released. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath hot and deliberate against her skin. “I wonder,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel, “if you even know what you do to me.” Her breath hitched, just slightly. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. He let go of her hair slowly, deliberately, as if it cost him something to release that anchor. His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face up toward his with a reverence that stood in stark contrast to the storm building behind his eyes. His other hand traced down her bare shoulder, down the length of her arm, a featherlight touch that left heat in its wake.
Then she spoke. It was soft, sure, devastating. “Perhaps…” she whispered, her lips close enough to graze his length, “you should show me.”
Her words landed like a match illuminating a darkened room. Not an invitation, despite the word choice themselves. The tone showed it was truly a command. And gods, he wanted to obey. His breath left him in a low exhale. “You’re right,” he said, gaze heavy on hers. “I should.”
His hand dropped from her jaw to the hollow of her throat, fingers sliding down her sternum, over the delicate rise of her chest, until both hands framed her ribs, steadying her. Then, in one motion, he lifted her. Effortless. She let out a soft gasp as he rose to full height, carrying her with him, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He moved like a man with purpose now. No more teasing, no more stillness. Just the quiet thunder of control reclaimed, of desire finally given direction.
He laid her down on the duvet with far more care than his urgency suggested. As if she were something rare. Sacred. The silence between them pulsed with unspoken promises. Then he knelt over her, eyes raking over the lines of her body like scripture. “I’ve imagined this,” he said lowly, bending to press his mouth to her collarbone. “Too many times. But now…” He kissed lower, slowly, thoroughly, claiming her inch by inch. “…now I intend to memorize it.”
And this time, he would prove everything. Not with power. But with precision. With patience. With a hunger restrained only by the need to make her feel it. That she was wanted, yes. But also that she was worshipped. Because if she was going to undo him, he’d make damn sure she knew exactly what she was breaking.
She lay beneath him, breath shallow, eyes locked on his. And for a moment, just a moment, he stilled. Not to hesitate. But to look. To see her. Not as a symbol of power, or strategy, or some feverish obsession. But as she was now: flushed with heat, stretched across his bed, heart pounding beneath skin he’d revealed with nothing more than his eloquent words and gentle touch.
His hand slid along her thigh, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, grounding himself in her. Then his mouth was back on her skin. Her collarbone, the curve just beneath it, the top of her breast. Slow. Purposeful. Worshipful. Every movement was measured. Not lazy, not hesitant, but deliberate, like he was studying her all over again, this time not from across a library or a formal event, but from the most intimate distance imaginable.
She arched slightly into his touch, wordless, and the shift in her hips made his control falter just for a second. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn't let the moment rush him. Instead, he doubled down, teeth grazing the soft skin above her sternum before his tongue soothed the mark. “Do you feel that?” he whispered, his voice low, strained. “That’s what you’ve done to me. Every time you walked away. Every time you looked at me like I was something you could take or leave.” He trailed a hand across her stomach, flattening his palm against her abdomen, holding her still. “No more leaving,” he murmured, almost to himself.
She reached for him then, slowly, fingers curling into his hair, anchoring him. And in that moment, something wordless passed between them. Something not born from control or cleverness or lust, but from the ache of having wanted for so long. Then he moved lower, dragging his mouth down her body, lips charting a path no one else had ever taken. And when he reached the top of her mound, he looked up at her and she nodded.
Quiet. Certain. Open. Coriolanus didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself with the kind of care usually reserved for his studies or secrets, and when his mouth met her, he didn’t rush. He proved. Every sigh from her lips. Every shift of her hips. Every desperate grasp of his shoulders, he drank it all in like it was his due. His devotion. His reward. And above it all, the thought that rang loudest in his mind wasn’t victory or conquest. It was a foundation. It was a cornerstone to build upon the direction of his future in an all consuming pleasure.
Pleasure that poured into him from everywhere. From the way she tasted: sweet, tangy, warm and wholly his. From the broken sighs and the soft, breathless way she said his name, like it was a prayer barely holding her together. From the way her fingers tightened in his hair no, not with reverence, but with need, yanking with the kind of desperation that blurred control. From the way her hips moved against his mouth, instinctive and aching, searching for more. More friction, more contact, more of him. From the dizzying, all-consuming knowledge that he had her now. Truly. Fully. That for all the chasing, all the games, all the distance she’d once kept like armor, there was nothing between them anymore.
And neither of them seemed ready to let go. Coriolanus groaned softly against her, the sound low, the vibration pulling another gasp from her lips. His hands gripped tighter at her hips, holding her still, not to restrain, but to savor. To prolong the edge she was frantically climbing. Every movement she made, every sound, every pull of his name from her throat, it fed something primal in him. But it was more than that. Deeper. It felt like a victory, yes, but also a surrender. One neither of them wanted to name.
She was trembling now. He could feel it in the way her thighs flexed against his shoulders, in the stuttering cadence of her breath. And still he kept going, more focused, more precise, until her grip in his hair turned almost punishing and her hips bucked once, twice Then stilled. Her cry was quiet, but raw. A shudder rolled through her, body tightening, then giving way completely beneath him. And he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held her through it, mouth still soft against her, grounding her as she unraveled.
Only when she began to ease, breath slowing, limbs heavy with the weight of release, did he finally rise. His hands were steady as he pulled himself up over her, dragging his mouth along her skin in soft open mouth kisses on her inner thigh, her hipbone, her stomach, until he hovered above her again, looking down into her dazed, flushed face. And for once, he didn’t feel the need to say anything clever. He just looked at her and waited to see what came next.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly, still unfocused, her lips parted as she tried to steady her breath. There was no mask now. No smirk, no shield of wit or deflection. Just her. Laid bare beneath him in every sense. And he felt it. The shift. That fragile, almost unbearable gravity pulling at his chest. Her fingers reached up, tentative at first, then more certain as they slid through his hair, smoothing where she’d tugged moments before. Not to claim this time, but to touch. To anchor. “You’re staring,” she whispered, voice husky, a rasp drawn from everything they'd just shared.
He smiled. “Can you blame me?” he said, quieter than usual, lacking his usual edge. There was no performance now. No posture. Just the aching truth in the space between their bodies.
She exhaled something close to a laugh, small, warm, and leaned up, tilting her head, and brushing her lips against his chin. A barely-there kiss. An answer of its own kind. He settled beside her then, not fully breaking contact, one arm slipping beneath her neck, the other hand splayed across her stomach, grounding them both.
She didn’t speak right away. Neither did he. Because something about the quiet was sacred now. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. “I didn’t think it’d ever get to this,” she murmured finally, fingers tracing idle shapes against his chest. “Not really.”
He turned his head, catching the side of her face. “Because you didn’t want it to?”
“Because I didn’t trust it,” she said. “Didn’t trust you.”
Her honesty didn’t sting. It steadied him. If anything, it made him want her more. “But now?” he asked, voice low, barely audible against her hair.
She didn’t look at him, but her hand slid down and rested just above his heart. Her thumb moved in slow circles. “Now I’m unsure,” she admitted. “But I’m here. Trying to trust you.”
That cracked something open in him. And for once, Coriolanus Snow—the strategist, the manipulator, the man always three moves ahead—had no idea what came next. But for the first time in years… he didn’t mind. Her words lingered in the quiet between them. And he didn’t fault her. Not even a little. Of course she hadn’t trusted him. He knew who he was. The smile that touched his lips was faint, but real, wry and a little self-aware. “I wouldn’t have trusted me either,” he murmured, fingers tracing idle patterns along her ribcage. “Honestly, I’m still not sure I do.”
She huffed a laugh, soft and incredulous. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
“I thought we were being honest,” he said, turning slightly so he could see her face better. “Besides… you’re smarter than to fall for a lie now, aren’t you?”
She rolled her eyes at that, but there was no bite behind it. No real protest. Just warmth. Familiarity. “Fine,” she said, after a beat. “I don’t trust you. But I believe you, sometimes. That’s... worse, I think.”
He chuckled under his breath, and she felt it in the way his chest rose beneath her hand. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that,” he said, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. “It makes me want to convince you.”
“Oh?” she asked, raising a brow.
“Mm,” he hummed, leaning in to press a kiss to the edge of her jaw, then another just beneath her ear. “Slowly. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.”
“You’re insufferable,” she breathed, though her body betrayed her, arching slightly toward his touch.
“And yet here you are,” he whispered against her neck, smiling into her skin.
She tilted her head back toward him, eyes meeting his again. Clearer now, but no less full. “For now.” He nodded, accepting it. Not as a threat, or a condition, but as the simple truth it was. For now, was more than he’d had before. For now, was a beginning. For now, was more honest and truth than he thought he’d be granted. He hadn’t had a place for liars, and her honest uncertainty was a relief he hadn’t thought he could need. He kissed her then and when she kissed him back,, it felt like an answer.
The kiss lingered, not deeply or frantic, just slow. Warm. A quiet exchange of breath and softness that neither of them seemed in a hurry to break. When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch, just enough to look at her again. Her cheeks were still flushed, lips slightly parted, her hair draped across the silk of his pillow.
She looked like she belonged there. And something about that thought nearly undid him. “Do you ever stop thinking?” she asked, voice still low, but a little teasing now.
He blinked, caught. “No,” he admitted with a small smile. “It’s inconvenient.”
She reached up to push a strand of hair behind his ears, fingers light, affectionate. “You’re thinking right now.”
“Only that you’re… remarkably distracting,” he said, letting the compliment settle without the usual performance behind it. “And alarmingly good at reading me.”
“Not that alarming,” she murmured. “You’re just not as subtle as you think.”
He let out a quiet laugh, surprised by how easy it felt. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t. I like having the advantage.” They fell into silence then. Her fingers traced lazy circles against his chest, and his hand rested along her back, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t the kind that lulled to sleep. No, this was heavier. Tighter. Tension coiling again beneath the softness like something half-restrained, neither of them quite ready to admit the high hadn’t yet passed.
She was still tracing circles against his chest, absent at first, until her hand dipped lower. Intentional. Testing. His breath caught. “You’re not tired,” he said, voice quieter now, more curious than accusing.
Her lips curved into something that could’ve been a smile, dangerous, if not knowing. “Should I be?”
He turned his head slightly, meeting her eyes in the half-light. “You were just trembling under my mouth five minutes ago.”
“And you think I’m the only one who should be trembling tonight?”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re insatiable.”
“You’re the one who said you’d convince me,” she replied, fingers now dragging across the line of his abdomen, just above the sheet pooled around his waist. “Was that an empty promise?”
He caught her wrist, not to stop her, but to slow her. Control the pace. Make her wait. His eyes burned into hers, sharp and dark. “You really want to test me right now?”
“I think you like being tested.” He pushed himself up slightly, bracing on an elbow, his body already stirring back to life beneath the weight of her touch. Her smirk deepened at the sight of it, her gaze dipping lower, hungry and unbothered.
“You’re going to make me ruin you,” he said, leaning in close, lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “All over again.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” she whispered, breath hitching.
And that was all he needed. In one swift movement, he rolled her beneath him, reclaiming the space between his body and the mattress with no hesitation this time. His mouth found her throat, then her chest, relearning her shape with renewed purpose, still reverent, but no longer patient. She arched into him instantly, one leg hitching around his waist, already pulling him closer, chasing friction. “Round two, then,” he said against her skin, teeth scraping lightly. “But this time... you don’t get to stay so quiet.”
Her laugh was low, breathless, wicked. “We’ll see..”
And just like that, they were undone all over again. This time with no pretense, no distance, nothing but skin and heat and the dizzying thrill of two people who could never quite get enough of each other. His hands didn’t hesitate, traveling from her waist to the curve of her hips, gripping firmly as if anchoring her to him. Every inch of her skin beneath his touch sparked like fire.
Her nails raked down his back, sharp and demanding, pulling him closer until there was no space left between their bodies. His mouth found hers again, a collision of urgency and hunger that left them both breathless. He broke the kiss, trailing slow, deliberate kisses down her jawline, along her collarbone, savoring every soft gasp that escaped her lips. The room was thick with the scent of their desire, the heat of skin against skin.
She met his eyes, wild and fearless, the playful smirk never leaving her lips. “You said I don’t get to stay quiet,” she teased, voice trembling with anticipation.
He growled low in his throat. “Good. I want to hear every promise, every curse, every name you call me.”
Her hands tightened in his hair as she arched into him, lips parting to release a breathy moan that sent a thrill deep into his core. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, voice rough with need.
“And you’re irresistible,” he countered, pressing himself against her, feeling the slick heat building between them.
She didn’t respond. He could gather why. His long fingers had wrapped themselves around his aching length. The reminder that he had neglected to finish earlier now pounding in his skull as he used his hand to line them up. The tip of himself coming to rest at her opening. He could already feel how her body was going to open up for him. The shake of her legs from the anticipation. The arousal in her eyes as she nodded slowly, encouraging him to actually press inside.
For all the vivid fantasies he’d entertained—and there had been many—none of them came close to this. Not even remotely. Every careful phrase he’d used to mask his thoughts, every deliberately refined word meant to keep her from guessing just how often he’d imagined being this close… all of it unraveled in an instant. Because the moment he felt her tighten around him, warm and impossibly real, every imagined version of her shattered against the reality. And gods, the reality ruined him.
From that first day he’d seen her in the library, with her curious eyes, all he could think about was the way they could look up at him while he was plunged inside. Every time he saw her leaning over the counter to reach some book, he thought how wonderful it would be to keep her there as he forced his way inside. The way he’d use his foot to widen her stance by shoving her ankles apart. That day at the bookshop, with that charming look of a girl much less privileged than she was, he thought how wonderful it would’ve been to lift that dress enough to slip inside and keep her in his lap while they read. For all his fascination with her mind, there were equal measures of sexual fantasies that often made him mad from having to conceal them. But no more would he have to.
Every desire to have her panting beneath him. Every thought of pushing her into his tesserae bathroom wall as he shoved himself inside her repeatedly. The need to claim her in every spot humanly imaginable, with fire and brimstone, but also tenderness and longing surged within him.
They moved together in a rhythm that was equal parts familiar and electric, the past weeks of teasing and chasing melting away in the heat of this moment. Every touch, every gasp, every whispered word was a declaration of need, of power, of something fiercely unbreakable. He lost himself in her. Her taste, her scent, the way her body molded perfectly against his. Her nails digging in, her breath hitching, the spark of rebellion in her eyes that made him want to prove, again and again, that he was hers.
And in this fierce, tangled dance, neither wanted to let go. Her breath hitched again as he drove deeper into the moment, not just physically, but completely. With every movement, every drag of skin against skin, he wasn't just touching her body, he was answering every unspoken challenge, every boundary she’d ever set between them. She clung to him like she didn’t quite know whether to push him away or pull him closer. And gods, he adored her for it. “You don’t fight fair,” she murmured, voice tight with something that wasn’t quite surrender.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, breath hot against her flushed skin. “I didn’t come here to play fair.”
She laughed softly, breathlessly, her body rising to meet his with a desperate kind of grace. “Obviously.”
Their rhythm grew deeper, more consuming, a slow burn that neither of them wanted to end too quickly. He studied every expression that crossed her face. How her brows knit, how her mouth fell open, how her lashes fluttered with every cresting wave. She was beautiful. Not just in the way that turned heads in libraries or drew glances at formal events. She was beautiful like a storm. Fierce, unyielding, alive. And for the first time in a long time, Coriolanus didn’t feel like he was winning or conquering or getting ahead.
By the time the tension broke again between them—sharp, sudden, and shared—they were both breathless, foreheads pressed together, caught in that fragile space between hunger and satisfaction. He could feel the intensity as he erupted, ribbons of cum filling her beyond anything he’d ever experienced in his own self gratification until he finally slowed. Neither of them spoke at first. Their breathing filled the silence, heavy and ragged. His hand was still at her hip, thumb drawing slow circles into the curve of her waist. Her fingers were splayed across his back, no longer clutching but resting.
Eventually, she opened her eyes. And in them, he saw it. Not victory. Not submission. But recognition. She saw him. And he let her. Didn’t deflect, didn’t cover it with a joke or a challenge or some careless, cutting remark. He just held her gaze, letting her read whatever truths he wasn’t yet brave enough to say aloud.
She blinked slowly, lashes brushing her cheeks, and he felt her shift slightly beneath him, just enough for her fingers to sweep gently up the nape of his neck, curling in the loose ends of his hair again, not out of urgency this time, but something quieter. Something closer to comfort. “Are you always like this?” she murmured, voice rough with the aftermath of being thoroughly undone.
He raised a brow, lips quirking faintly. “Like what?”
She gave him a look. “Relentless.”
A pause. Then, a soft laugh. “Only when I want something badly enough.”
“And now that you have it?” she asked, her thumb brushing just below his collarbone, a question buried in the movement.
He leaned down, lips brushing hers in a kiss that wasn’t hungry. “I want more.”
Her breath caught from how easily she believed him. “And if I let you?” she asked, lips barely moving against his.
He smiled into the kiss. “Then I’ll keep taking my time. Until you forget what it was like to keep me at arm’s length.”
She hummed, content and defiant all at once. “That sounds like a challenge.”
His voice dropped to a murmur, laced with fondness and something darker, deeper. “You’re becoming my favorite challenge.”
And though the ache between them had quieted, the hunger had not. The fire that had roared between their bodies still smoldered, slow and low and enduring. He kissed her again, and this time, her hands slipped down his chest, curling around his waist to pull him back in.
Round three, it seemed, was inevitable. And neither of them minded one bit.
Continue the story here!
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Last line from an upcoming Rook x Lucanis smut (I'm trying, y'all)
As he took his place among the throng, a familiar sense of unease washed over him. It was almost reminiscent of the night he had been named First Talon, only this time, the crowd was not there for his recognition, if the eager faces, whose anticipatory eyes fixated on the entrance, were anything to go by. Lucanis couldn't help but feel pity for Wilhelmina, destined to be the centre of equal amounts of scrutiny and adulation, both of which can turn to persecution within seconds. She already was at a stark disadvantage being an elf, and racism would never disappear overnight, least of all in Tevinter.
NPT: @subrosa25 @silshinobii @farore05 @goodgirlgonebard @heyitszev if you've got anything you'd like to share 🩷
Author's Note: This is my first time writing for THG universe, so this is a recent side blog. I got a bit inspired by our favorite psychopath and wanted to contribute my own ideas... Drawing it's name from "Talk" by Hozier, and leaning a bit more into the dark academia vbe. This is the setup so largely SFW with some insinuation, and the smut will be in Pt. 2... Possibly might do a followup to that. Anyways, here's to hoping that THG fandom enjoys... ~ Rosa
Summary: New University student Coriolanus Snow finds something pretty in the Library, and does his best to charm this elusive if not slightly odd woman. (No use of Y/N!)
Word Count: 12,608
Rating: SFW with suggestive elements! Recommended teen +
Masterlist | Next Part
Coriolanus Snow had missed his class’s first year at the University. His stint as a Peacekeeper had set him back, not completely, but just enough to knock him out of sync with his former classmates. They had gone ahead without him, eager young minds diving into privilege and position while he remained in limbo. Still, the delay came with its own reward: a full year of Dr. Gaul’s undivided attention. A rare, but exhausting privilege.
The University loomed larger and colder than the Academy, perched like a marble monument above the rest of the Capitol, its iron gates twisting with frost in winter. Its towers stabbed upward, spined with gold and lined with dark windows that reflected the ever-drifting snow. It was older than the war, older than memory, and inside its echoing halls lived the kind of knowledge that built and broke empires.
Unlike the Academy’s polished propaganda and curated privilege, the University wore its intellect like a crown of thorns: severe, prestigious, unforgiving. But Coriolanus no longer entered it as a poor Capitol boy from a crumbling apartment. He returned draped in the Plinth name, fortune stitched into every thread of his tailored coat. Becoming Sejanus Plinth’s replacement had opened every door he previously couldn’t touch. Overnight, the Snow name glittered again.
And yet, despite the reinstated wealth and the carefully restored legacy, Coriolanus found himself lingering in smaller corners of the grand institution. Perhaps it was years of deprivation that made the finer things seem... untrustworthy. The velvet chairs and gilded fixtures felt too much like theater. Too much like a lie. He had lived on the other side. The cold winters, the hollow pantry, the nights when they’d fed the fire with his childhood books just to keep the air from freezing them to death.
It wasn’t Gaul’s lab he longed for, though most assumed it would be. Volumnia Gaul’s infamous laboratory was his proving ground. The place where monsters were born and futures forged. But he hated it. The room pulsed with too-bright lights that seemed to hum with unseen electricity. The floor was always too clean, smelling of bleach and formaldehyde, and the glass tanks that lined the walls swam with things that shouldn’t have been alive. They moved wrong. They breathed wrong. And when they screamed — high, clipped, wet sounds — the echo haunted his ears long after he left.
No, the only place he felt peace was the library. It stretched across an entire wing of the west tower, a dark, hushed sanctuary of mahogany shelves and oil paintings faded by time. The air there smelled of old ink, brittle parchment, and the lingering warmth of firewood. In winter, the snow outside cloaked the windows in soft white, and the hearths crackled in every corner, casting light that danced across the spines of centuries-old books.
There was something almost sacred about it. The way silence settled like dust, the way history pressed in on him from every direction. Sometimes he’d sit for hours beneath the painted gaze of long-dead scholars and statesmen, their eyes yellowed with varnish and time. They’d watched empires fall and rise again. They watched him too, it seemed, with judgment and curiosity. The library reminded him who he was. Or who he could still become.
In the first weeks of term, the University shed its hushed solemnity and came alive. What had once been still, echoing halls now hummed with ambition. The previous empty halls from a summer away from academics, now replaced by students once more. The soundscape shifted. Leather soles against stone, low conversations in clipped tones, laughter that echoed too loudly from marble stairwells. Students had returned like a flock of birds migrating home, their plumage vibrant, their confidence effortless.
Coriolanus watched it all with a certain distance. He walked among them, yes, but rarely with them. His clothes were tailored, his shoes shined, his name reborn in gold. But he hadn’t grown into this world so much as he’d been thrust back into it. A place at the University had once seemed unreachable. Now it was expected. Demanded, even. And yet, even surrounded by rising architects of Panem’s future political heirs, scientists-in-the-making, and carefully bred diplomats, he found himself distracted.
Or rather, drawn. Relentlessly, quietly, to someone who did not try to be seen. She was there in the library before he ever realized he was looking for her. At first, just a shape moving between shelves. Quick, efficient. Not hurried, not lazy. Purposeful. She handled the books differently than others. Never tossing them onto carts or letting their corners bang against the desk. She moved them like they mattered. Like they were alive.
He noticed the way she dressed before he noticed her face. Always in darker colors—blues, grays, browns—soft fabrics that gathered gently at her wrists or collarbones. Modest, but never careless. As if her clothes were meant not to conceal, but to quiet the world around her. There was something unassuming in it, something that whispered rather than demanded attention. And that, he found, was far more intriguing. Capitol girls often wore themselves like advertisements. Loud makeup, sharper silhouettes, everything lacquered and loud. She was the opposite. She was intentional. And it unnerved him.
He told himself he returned to the library for the quiet. For the firelit alcoves. For the smell of wax and parchment and the lingering warmth. But his eyes always sought her. She never sat long. Always working. Always moving. Sorting, shelving, scribbling notes in tight, upright handwriting in the margins of ledgers he could never read from a distance. She spoke rarely, but when she did—usually to the aging head librarian, a woman with clouded eyes and a spine like a question mark—her voice was soft, low, and certain. Not shy. Just... restrained. Like she’d learned long ago that most people didn’t deserve her full volume.
He couldn’t place her. There was a different shape to her vowels, a different economy in her movements. A provincial edge, but softened by something else. Sharpness or learning or both. She was a student, he knew as much as he’d seen her exiting lectures with a folio clutched tightly to her chest. But her role in the library seemed more permanent. Like she belonged more to its wood and shadow than any classroom.
And she watched. Not constantly. Not obviously. But sometimes, while reshelving near where he worked, he’d feel her eyes linger on him for a breath too long. Not flirtatious. Not challenging. Merely... assessing. As if she, too, hadn’t figured him out yet.
It infuriated him.
It fascinated him.
In the first few weeks of his return, she became a kind of gravity. He found himself inventing reasons to stay longer. Digging into books he didn’t care about, scribbling the same notes twice just to avoid standing. Always waiting for a glimpse of her: half-lit between rows of books, or bent over some old volume, one fingertip tracing the spine as if reading by touch.
He didn’t know her name. He hadn’t asked.
Not yet.
But he would.
He first spoke to her because of the ink on her hands.
Not a grand excuse. Not something clever. Just a thin, inky stain smudged along the edge of her thumb and across her knuckles. Blue-black and half-faded, like she’d tried to wash it off but hadn’t bothered to scrub. She was seated behind the desk when he noticed it, her head bent low over the circulation ledger, writing in firm, narrow strokes. The firelight caught the side of her face, softening the planes of it, drawing warmth from otherwise unadorned features. No powder. No rogue. Just her skin. And the ink.
He watched her turn the page, still mid-sentence. Her eyes scanned it once before she resumed writing. Precise. Focused. Unaware of him, or pretending to be. Coriolanus stepped closer. Not close enough to startle, just enough to be seen. “That doesn’t come out easily,” he said, nodding faintly toward her hands. “The ink.”
She glanced up then, brows barely lifted. Not defensive. Not intrigued. Just aware. “I fear that is the point. To make marks that will not wash away with time,” she replied, closing the ledger with care.
He smiled faintly, playing at charm, though part of him was watching her like a hawk. “Do they make you log all that by hand?”
“They don’t make me,” she said. “I prefer it.”
“Even with the mess?”
A pause. Then: “Some things are worth a little mess.” He felt that. More than he expected to. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it landed all the same. Honest in a way that caught him off guard. She reached for a cloth and pressed it into her palm, dabbing at the remnants of wet ink without much effort.
“I’m Coriolanus,” he offered then, smoothly, extending a hand. She looked at it. A blink. No surprise in her face: Only calculation. The kind that worked through a gesture before responding to it. Eventually, she took it. Her grip was firm, dry, and brief.
“I know,” she said.
He let that hang between them for a second too long. “And you are...?”
“I help with the library,” she said, neither smiling nor cold. Her tone was pleasant, almost wry. “That’s usually enough.”
Not your name, he noted silently. A boundary. Still, he nodded once, conceding the point with an easy elegance. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep coming back. See if you ever decide to tell me.”
She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t flirt. Just returned to her work, flipping open a fresh ledger page. But before he could step away, she spoke again. “The book you asked to have pulled,” she said without looking up, “was misclassified. It’s political theory, not constitutional law. I had it pulled from the archive.”
He hesitated. He had asked for no such thing. Yet, she seemed to be keenly aware of the kind of material in which he normally sought to read. Political theory was a majority of the texts he found himself going back to. He understood the invitation in her carefully crafted lie, and the fact she’d raised her tone ever so slightly in case anyone lingering nearby seemed to be listening. “I’ll be back for it tomorrow,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she murmured. And just like that, a door cracked open.
He returned the next day just after the second lecture. The library was quieter in the mornings, the hearths not yet fully stoked, the air still holding the last of the dawn chill. She was already there, of course.
This time, she was kneeling beside a low shelf near the historical archives, her sleeves rolled to the forearms as she sorted a tray of aging catalog cards. Her hair was tied back loosely, with strands falling free around her temples, and a half-finished cup of tea sat forgotten on the floor beside her. The scent of it—black tea and something faintly floral—hung in the air between them. Coriolanus approached without speaking, slowing his steps to let the soft sound of his shoes announce him. She didn’t startle. Didn’t glance up right away, either.
“The book,” she said, before he could speak, reaching without looking into the crate behind her. She held it up as she stood: slim, bound in rough maroon cloth. Worn at the corners.
He took it from her, careful to let his fingers brush hers only for the briefest second. “No ink on your hands today,” he said, letting his gaze flick meaningfully to hers.
“I’m more careful when I know I’ll be watched,” she said, calm, measured.
A pause. He smiled again, slower this time. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re not the first student who likes to wander through here looking thoughtful.”
“But I’m the only one you’ve spoken to,” he said, testing her. To that, she didn’t reply. Not with words. She merely stepped back toward the shelf and resumed her work, slipping a stack of cards into their drawer, her movements smooth and unbothered. And yet, there was something different now. A beat of silence between them that felt less like dismissal and more like... allowance.
He crouched near the opposite end of the same row, book in hand, pretending to skim a nearby title while he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t fill the silence with small talk. She didn’t ask why he was still standing there. And that, somehow, was permission. “I read the first few pages,” he lied, tapping the book’s spine. “The author’s a bit dry.”
“She’s meticulous,” the girl replied without looking up. “That’s different from being dull.”
He leaned an elbow on the shelf beside him. “You sound like you’ve read her.”
“I’ve read most of the people students only pretend to.” The line was delivered without arrogance. Just truth. It made his smirk falter, just slightly, replaced by something quieter. Respect, though he didn’t name it. He looked down at the book again, running a thumb along the faded letters on its cover. “Then maybe I’ll need your help interpreting it,” he said. “If I’m pretending too.”
This time, she glanced at him directly. Just for a second. Then she returned to the catalog drawer and slid it shut. “I doubt you're pretending,” she said. “But I do think you like to be seen reading.”
He laughed. Genuine, brief, surprised by her analysis. And for a moment, she smiled too. Small. Real. Then it was gone again, tucked away like a page turned too quickly. “If you find her dull then perhaps I can find something more to your liking tomorrow.” With that she turned and headed for the back rows without another word.
He came back the next afternoon. Not immediately. Not so soon that it would look deliberate. But soon enough that she would remember her promise and see his effort to ensure she delivered upon it. The book she’d mentioned was waiting for him at the front desk, just as promised. A slim volume, clothbound and faded, marked with a small slip in her handwriting: See Chapter IV — margins are annotated.
Her script was neat. Upright. Coriolanus ran a finger along the top of the page, not reading the words just yet. Just thinking. Not about the book, but the gesture. She hadn’t signed the note. But she may as well have. He took the book, thanked the older librarian at the desk, and carried it not to his usual table in the center alcove, but to a smaller one just behind the reference shelves. Near the back, where the wood creaked and the walls curved in with old heat.
It took twenty minutes for her to appear again. She emerged from between the theology and statecraft stacks, carrying a few misfiled atlases and a slim red volume he couldn’t make out. Her pace was calm, measured, as always, but her eyes flicked once toward the table where he sat. He saw her see him. He didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. Instead, he opened the book and turned directly to Chapter IV. The notes were precise. Sparing. Just small lines of pencil, underlining certain passages, bracketing others. There were no full notes, no opinions, only emphasis. It felt like a quiet kind of conversation between her and the author. And now, between her and him.
One phrase had been bracketed twice, a thin arrow pointing from one sentence to another: "Public loyalty is not rooted in law, but in fear of exile."
He read it again. And again. There was a chair across from him. Empty. He didn’t expect her to take it. That would be too forward, and she didn’t seem the type to offer her time so easily. Still, when she passed his table, he looked up. “Was this meant to be a warning?” he asked.
She didn’t stop walking. But she paused just long enough beside his table to glance down at the page. “If you think it applies to you,” she said quietly, “maybe it is.”
A breath. Then she was gone again, vanishing into the rows with her arms full of books. Coriolanus stared after her, lips parted slightly, the book still open in front of him. He couldn’t decide if she was mocking him. Or if she saw him more clearly than anyone else ever had. Either way, he knew one thing with complete certainty.
He would be back tomorrow.
The next time he saw her, she was at the desk again — not working, not shelving, but reading. A battered copy of The New Panem Legal Reader lay open in front of her, spine cracked from use. Her chin was resting on one hand, her expression unreadable. And beside her, as before, a chipped ceramic mug, contents long gone. Coriolanus paused a few feet back, adjusting the strap of his satchel so it fell noisily against his shoulder. She didn’t startle, but she looked up. The smallest flick of her eyes, the kind she might give to a passing shadow.
This time, he didn’t approach empty-handed. He set a small thermos on the desk beside her mug. Steel, clean-lined, warm to the touch. Neutral. Nothing ostentatious. “I thought I’d bring you something better,” he said simply. “Your usual smells like boiled dust.”
She blinked once, then looked down at the thermos. No movement to touch it. Not yet. “You’ve been cataloging my tea?” she asked, dry but quiet.
“I’ve been cataloging a lot of things,” he said.
That made her lips press together. Not a smile, but not disapproval either. A pause followed. Then, delicately, she closed her book and reached for the thermos. Twisted the top open. Sniffed. “Citrus?” she said.
“Orange blossom. And bergamot.”
“You drink this?”
“Sometimes, but I assumed you preferred bergamot because of your perfume.” Another pause. Then, surprisingly, she poured a little into her own chipped mug. She didn’t thank him. But she took a sip. Her eyes didn’t close, but he saw something shift in her posture. Just slightly. As if she'd exhaled without meaning to. “You don’t strike me as generous,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“So what’s this?”
“An investment.”
She looked at him, finally. Really looked, like she was trying to read past his face, past the Capitol-perfect posture and the studied calm of his voice. “And what kind of return are you expecting?” she asked.
He smiled. “That you remember it came from me.”
Her gaze didn’t drop. But after a long second, she reached into her book and pulled out a folded slip of paper. A page torn from a student ledger. She scribbled something quickly, then slid it toward him across the desk.
“Second floor,” she said. “Annex reading room. There’s a set of trial transcripts they never added to the public catalog I am supposed to be putting away later but conveniently I have found myself distracted. You want something real to read? Try those.”
He picked up the note. “Why give me this?”
She looked back down at her tea. “Because you actually read what I suggest.”
He found her in the annex, exactly where he’d read the transcripts last time. The room was dim, lit only by the failing light of a high, narrow window and a small desk lamp she’d angled toward a box of yellowing legal documents. His eyes traced the delicate lines of her tailored trousers as they turned into a looser button down blouse. She had one leg tucked beneath her, a few pieces of hair falling into her face as she flipped carefully through pages marked with age and ink.
She didn’t look up when he entered which meant, he was sure, that she’d already heard him coming. He didn’t speak right away. Just moved to the table and took the seat across from her, resting his elbows on the wood. She turned another page. “Careful,” she murmured, her voice soft in the stillness. “The spines crack if you open them too fast.”
He leaned forward slightly, studying the document in front of her. “I never see students in this annex”
Her eyes flicked up. “Most people don’t like it or have much use for the materials here. And those who do, simply request we retrieve it for them so they may leave.”
“I like it here.”
“No, you like me,” she said simply, and turned another page. “The records and this annex are seemingly a byproduct of stalking me it would seem.”
He blinked. She hadn’t said it unkindly. Not smugly. Just a fact. “I like both,” he said, after a beat. “But you’re right.”
That made her glance at him again, properly this time. He let the silence stretch. Let her look at his growing blond hair, at his perfectly trimmed suit jacket. “I was going to ask something,” he said, voice lower now. “But I’d rather not play with subtlety.” She tilted her head, not quite encouraging him, but not stopping him either. “I’d like to see you,” he said. “Outside the library.”
A pause. Her expression didn’t shift. She closed the folder gently, fingers still resting on the cover. “Why?”
His reply was quiet, without hesitation: “Because I think I’d still want to talk to you about something more than books and at a proper volume.”
She sat with that. Thoughtfully. The air between them changed. Then she exhaled through her nose. Almost amused. Almost not. “I work,” she said. “I study. I don’t go out.”
He didn’t move. “You could make an exception.” She watched him. Her thumb tapped once, twice, on the folder’s corner. Then stopped.
“There’s a used bookstall off the old Capitol Square,” she said quietly. “End of Rion Street. The owner doesn’t catalog anything properly, but he lets me sort through before it opens.”
“When?”
“Saturday mornings. Early.”
She stood then, gathering the stack in front of her. Not dismissive, simply done with her task and moving on to the next one. She didn’t tell him to meet her there. But she didn’t say not to. As she moved past him toward the door, her voice came, soft and dry over her shoulder: “Don’t wear anything you’re afraid to get dust on.”
And then she was gone.
It was just past sunrise when he arrived at the end of Rion Street. The Capitol was still half asleep, its glass facades bleary with frost, its avenues nearly empty save for the quiet shuffle of early workers and the smell of warm bread from a distant vendor. The bookstall sat wedged between two shuttered storefronts. And there she was.
Bent slightly at the waist, sifting through a crate of mismatched volumes with both hands. Her traditional worn academic clothes, replaced by something unexpected. A heavy knit pullover that hung off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, covering something akin to a sundress which ended above the knee. Nylon tights clinging to her exposed legs. Her hair, usually pinned or knotted back, was loose now. Soft. Falling across her face in unkempt curls as she leaned forward. She wore wire-rimmed glasses this time. Nothing stylish. Much more dressed down than he normally saw her, and even then, she lacked the extreme fashionability of most of their peers. And still, somehow, it caught him off guard.
He hadn’t thought of her as stunning before. Beautiful, yes. In a way that didn’t demand attention, but simply had it. He was more attracted to her mind and the fact she seemingly didn’t want to give him the time of day. She was lovely now. More lovely than he thought possible. Not in the Capitol way. Not with shine or polish. But this was different. Unstudied. Quiet. And it unnerved him more than he liked. She glanced up as he approached, blinking once through her frames. No surprise. Just a slight incline of her chin. “You’re late,” she said.
“It’s barely seven.”
“Exactly.”
He stepped closer, hands in the pockets of his coat. “You look…”
She raised a brow. “…like someone who doesn’t spend all their time in a library sorting books?” That earned him the smallest of smiles, crooked, barely there. “Interesting,” she said. “I believe you said you wanted to see me outside the library. You can’t expect me to always behave and look the same as I do there.”
He watched her kneel beside a crate, adjusting her glasses as she flipped open a clothbound title. The sleeves of her sweater slipped down as she moved, and for a moment he could see the pale line of her wrist, marked faintly by ink smudges. “From what I’ve gathered you really don’t care what people see,” he said.
She looked up. “Should I?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. She sat back on her heels and pulled a second book from the pile. This one with a thicker, spine cracked, title worn gold. She held it out without standing. “This one’s about wartime court proceedings. No one reads it because the language is dense. But it’s clean. Unfiltered. The kind of thing the University keeps under lock and key.”
He took it. Their fingers brushed. “You brought it for me?”
“I set it aside.”
He glanced down at it, then back at her. “Sorry, you look different today. Your hair its…” he trailed off, unsure as to the point he was trying to make..
Her gaze didn’t falter. “I’m not a different person simply because I look unlike the way you know me.”
“I didn’t say you were. I just wasn’t expecting this,” he gestured to her appearance. Another quiet. He heard her suck in a slight breath, her eyes meeting his then darting away again. The street behind them rustled with wind.
Then, simply and without ceremony, she stood and brushed her hands on her thighs. “I usually get coffee after this,” she said. “The shop two blocks down scorches it.” A pause. Then, as she turned away: “You can come. If you don’t mind bad coffee.”
He followed. Of course he did. The coffee shop was barely marked. A peeled decal on the glass, a bell that didn’t ring when the door opened. Inside, the lights were dim and yellowed, the walls lined with uneven shelves and a chalkboard menu half-erased. It smelled like scorched grounds and the sweetness of sugary pastries. She didn’t wait for him to catch up. Just stepped to the counter, nodding once at the man behind it.
“Two,” she said. “Black.” No cream. No sugar. No hesitation. He reached into his coat for money, but she was already sliding a coin across the counter. She didn’t look at him as she did it. Just turned, took both mugs, and crossed to the back corner. A small table. Two stools. The kind that teetered if you shifted your weight too quickly.
He followed. She set one mug in front of the empty seat and sat without ceremony, pushing her sleeves higher up her forearms. A strand of hair slipped forward as she bent over the cup. She didn’t tuck it back. He sat. The stool creaked. He didn’t speak.
Outside, the street moved slowly. A flicker of light against a car window, the ghost of someone passing. The city hadn’t quite decided to wake up yet. She took a sip. “Still terrible.”
He mirrored her. “Burnt and bitter. Impressive, really.”
She didn’t smile, not exactly. But something eased in her jaw. For a moment, neither of them reached for the conversation. Then: “I almost didn’t come today,” she said, without looking at him.
“Why?”
She swirled the coffee in her mug. “I thought it would ruin it. This.”
“And has it?”
She looked up at him then. Really looked. “Not yet,” she said softly. “But it might.”
He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just sat a little straighter, hands curled loosely around the warm ceramic, letting the weight of the moment settle without trying to rearrange it. The coffee steamed between them, bitter and thin. Neither of them seemed to mind. Coriolanus leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers curled around the chipped mug.
“So,” he said, voice low, “where are you from?”
She didn’t blink. “The Capitol.”
“I figured,” he said. “But I never saw you at the Academy.”
“You wouldn’t have,” she said, calm. “I was tutored privately.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s rare.”
She only lifted one shoulder. “I don’t do well with routine. Or noise. Or sitting in rows of desks pretending everyone’s there to learn because they actually enjoy it or see the value in it..”
He smiled, crooked this time, genuinely curious. “So what did you do?”
“Studied. Read. Argued with my private instructors. Took notes no one asked me to take.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It was quiet,” she corrected.
A silence settled for a moment. He watched her trace the rim of her mug, slow and absent, like she was tuning something out. Then, before he could ask the next question: “I know you turned up at the University late,” she said. “And that you are being mentored by Dr. Gaul, yet you are not a biology student. You are in Political Science.”
He stilled, not visibly. “Do you?”
“You transferred in by request of the Plinth family. Top marks from your former schooling but, and correct me if I am wrong, appeared more like a Peacekeeper than a student the first few times I saw you.”
His jaw tensed faintly and then questioned, “Why do you say a Peacekeeper?”
“Your hair. It was shorn when I first saw you. Leaving Dr. Gaul’s lab.”
“I hardly imagine that to be something worth notice. My hair.” he scoffed, sipping the coffee easier now that it wasn’t scalding. Somehow the bitter taste went down better than the higher quality one he now had at home.
“You mentioned mine looking different earlier did you not?”
He didn’t have a reply for that. Instead he changed the subject. “I didn’t know I was being watched.”
She didn’t smile, not exactly, but her gaze sharpened with something like amusement. “You’re a Snow. And you’re orbiting the Plinths now. People watch.”
He studied her for a moment. “But you do more than watch.”
She met his eyes. “I have been known to also listen to the whispers.”
Coriolanus leaned back in his seat, just slightly. “All right. What else do you know?”
“You sit straight even when no one’s looking. You read exceptionally fast. Your handwriting is quite frankly, terrible.” She rattled them off easily.
He laughed. A short, surprised and daresay light one. “That’s either flattering or terrifying.”
“Both,” she said simply.
“And what do I know about you?”
She raised a brow. “Apparently not much. Other than that I dress a certain way at the library, and that my perfume smells of bergamot.”
“I’m trying to know more.”
That made her pause. For just a breath. Then: “Try harder.”
He nodded once. Not offended. “Fair.”
Outside, the street was beginning to stir. Low voices, footsteps, a bell chiming open on the corner. She glanced toward the window, then back at him. “You want to know what I care about?”
“Yes.”
“Books that don’t lie. People who don’t pretend. Mornings when the city forgets to be loud. And burnt bitter coffee.”
He held her gaze. “And what don’t you care for?”
“Flash. Ceremony. People who ask questions just to get their turn to talk.”
But he only smiled again. A little smaller this time. “Those are rather charming observations.”
“I suppose.” No invitation in her tone. But no dismissal, either. She didn’t leave. Instead, she moved toward the window, cradling her mug in both hands, letting the silence settle between them again. The light was brighter now. Soft and gray, filtering through the frosted glass, tracing the curve of her cheek.
Coriolanus watched her for a moment before speaking. “If you were privately tutored,” he said slowly, “you have money.”
She didn’t look at him. Just let her finger trail down the side of the mug, collecting condensation. “Is that a question?”
“It’s an observation,” he said. “Which leads to a question.”
She tilted her head, still not facing him. “Go on, then.”
He nodded toward her. The oversized knit, the worn skirt, the wire-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down her nose. “Why come here? Why dress like this? You could be up the hill right now, sipping something hand-pressed with a lemon twist, talking about gallery openings and scholarships. You’ve got the pedigree — I can tell. But you show up on Rion Street with dust on your sleeves and ink on your wrists dressed like a commoner.”
She turned back to him then, slowly, until she faced him. Her eyes were clear behind the scratched lenses, and when she spoke, it was even. Not cold. Not defensive. “I was raised among people who performed wealth like it was faith,” she said. “Every shoe polished, every word rehearsed. I wore the clothes. Sat at the right dinners. Smiled at the right times.”
“And?” he asked.
“And none of it ever felt like mine.” That landed heavier than he expected. He looked at her, really looked — the undone hair, the small ink stain near her thumb, the softness of her cardigan as it hung off her shoulder.
“But people notice,” he said. “They talk.”
“No they don’t,” she said. “Not when you play enough into their rules and stick to the edges of their orbit like I do.”
Coriolanus watched her for a long moment. “You know, it’s strange. The first time I saw you — on one of those ladders in the art history section — you had your hair pinned back like a senator’s wife. Pearl collar. Nothing fancy by still playing enough into the illusion.”
She smirked, faintly. “I was hiding in plain sight.”
“From whom?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she took another sip of her coffee, then turned it slowly in her hands. “I do what’s required. And then I go home and wash it off.”
His voice was softer now. “And this? Today? Is this you?”
She considered him for a long moment. “This is closer,” she said.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Then I prefer this version.”
Her eyes flicked to his, unreadable. “You don’t know me well enough to have a preference.”
“Not yet,” he said.
A pause stretched between them, but not uncomfortably. Outside, a breeze moved past, scattering a page of newsprint across the street. She glanced toward it. “People are always so eager to be known,” she murmured. “Like it proves something. Like being understood makes them more real.”
“And you?” he asked.
“I think being misunderstood has its uses. As does hiding in the fringes of the world in which we occupy.”
He smiled. “You’re very practiced at disappearing in plain sight.”
“Good,” she said. “Then maybe you’ll stop looking.”
But she said it too late — too lightly — and they both knew he wouldn’t.
They met again in a quiet hallway off the main records building. Not planned, but not a surprise either. He’d stopped by the central filing office to sign off on something for Dr. Gaul, and she was there, crouched beside an unattended cart of misplaced volumes, re-shelving them in her own silent order. No clerk in sight.
“You volunteer here now?” he asked.
“I got tired of watching them shelve everything in the wrong place.”
He leaned against the doorframe. “So you’re rescuing lost files.”
“They deserve better.” There was that dryness again, effortless and soft-edged. She didn’t look up. Not until he crossed the room and crouched beside her. “I’ve got two hours before I’m expected anywhere,” he said.
Her eyes flicked toward him. “And?”
“And I’m asking if I can spend them with you.” She didn’t answer right away. Just slipped the last book into place, stood, and gestured with her chin toward the back exit. They walked silently until they were off school grounds, when he took the lead. She followed him to his flat without asking why.
He hadn’t offered an explanation, only a quiet, “It’s close,” when they left the archives, and she hadn’t asked for more. That was something about her: she didn’t press. She simply chose whether or not to follow. And tonight, she did.
The flat was what she’d expected. Spare. Orderly. Functional, in the way Capitol apartments often were. Polished wood floors, glass shelving, one too many mirrors pretending the space was larger than it was. She stood just inside the doorway, taking it in with the same composed disinterest she used to examine records or redacted testimonies. He’d allowed Tigress and Grandma’am to continue to occupy the apartment above, but as he’d begun repairing it with the Plinth’s money, he’d bought the one on the opposite side of the building, repairing it as well. Privacy when he sought it. Proximity to be with them if he chose. “You clean before you leave every morning?” she asked.
He shrugged off his coat. “It stays relatively clean.”
“Which is another way of saying you don’t live in it very often.”
He glanced over. She was running her fingers along the back of one of the chairs. Not sitting, not settling. Just touching. “Tea?” he asked.
“No thank you.” she said and instead, moved to the small sofa. He did the same, sitting next to her. Not close, not distant. Enough that their knees might brush if one of them shifted. “This isn’t how I thought tonight would go,” he admitted.
“You didn’t think it would involve me?”
“No, but I hoped.”
She smiled at that. It wasn’t wide. But it was real. “I don’t usually do this,” she said.
“Come to strangers’ flats?”
“Let people wonder about me for more than a few minutes.”
He studied her. “You knew I was wondering?”
“You make it obvious.”
“And you let me?”
Her voice was quieter now. “You haven’t asked anything I wasn’t ready to answer.”
He nodded slowly, eyes still on her. “You look different here,” he said. She raised an eyebrow. “Softer, and I daresay unsure,” he added.
That made her laugh, just once, dry. “That’s an illusion. You’re seeing me when I haven’t had the chance to calculate all the outcomes.”
“Is that what you’re usually doing?”
“All the time.”
He leaned back, watching her. “And right now?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She looked at him then. Met his gaze for longer than she usually did. Not darting away, not calculating. Something in it held. And after a pause, she reached forward. Her hand was slow and deliberate as she fixed the collar of his shirt. Not dramatically. Just smoothed it, her fingers brushing the base of his throat. She didn’t seem to notice the way it stilled him. “You don’t relax easily,” she murmured.
“Neither do you.”
“No,” she agreed. “But I like quiet rooms.”
Their eyes held again. Neither of them moved. Then her hand dropped. Her arm stayed close, though, resting lightly along the edge of the cushion between them. Their sleeves brushed. She didn’t pull away. “You want to ask me something,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Then ask.”
He hesitated, not because he didn’t know the question, but because he wasn’t sure she’d stay if he asked it. Still, he asked: “Why me?”
She tilted her head slightly, considering. Then leaned in, just enough that he caught the scent of her, something rich and decadent, jasmine mixed with bergamot. “Because you don’t fill the silence with nonsense," she said softly. “You wait in them until you are confident, and then you move.”
He nodded once, slowly. And then not boldly or abruptly, she rested her hand lightly on his knee. Just a touch. Brief. He didn’t move. “Don’t mistake this,” she said. “I haven’t let you in.”
He looked down at her hand, then up at her again. “I know,” he said. “But you didn’t lock the door, either.”
She held his gaze. Then stood. He stood too. Not blocking her, but close to it. At the threshold, she paused. Turned back. “If I come back,” she said, “don’t read too much into it.”
He smiled. “I know,” he said again.
She left without another word. But the ghost of her touch lingered, emphasizing the heat in the room.
She came back three nights later. No warning. No message. Just a quiet knock against his door. Not tentative, but not loud either. The kind of knock that knew it would be answered. When he opened it, she was standing there with her hair half-pulled back and a wrapped bundle of old legal transcripts under one arm. He blinked. She lifted the bundle slightly. “You said you’d never read the Tribunal reviews from after the war.”
“I… did.”
“So,” she said, stepping past him, “I brought them.” He shut the door slowly, watching her cross the room with confidence since she’d done so before. She didn’t take off her coat, just set the papers on the table and turned to face him. She was waiting for something. Or maybe she wasn’t. He looked at her. Really looked. This time she was a perfect blend of what he’d come to know her as. Her clothes from the University. Their worn, older academic appeal, but her hair shaken out, curly. The wire rimmed frames made their return. “You came here just to bring me files?”
“I came here because I wanted to,” she said. “The files were just an added bonus of my presence.”
She unbuttoned her coat then, letting it slide from her shoulders. Underneath, she wore something he’d seen before. Soft fabric and bare forearms, her collarbone catching the light when she turned slightly toward him. “I don’t make these kinds of decisions lightly,” she said.
“I know.”
She stepped forward once. Slowly. “I don’t open doors,” she said, voice low, “unless I’m ready to walk through them.”
Coriolanus felt the weight of that, not purely as invitation, but as a sign of her trust. She was handing him something fragile. And he didn’t want to fumble it. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the last time you were here,” he said.
Her expression didn’t shift. “Then don’t waste the opportunity I’m granting you now.”
His hand lifted, slowly, to her elbow, just above where the sleeve was rolled. He touched her gently, barely pressure, like testing if she’d stay. She did. Closer now, just within reach.
“With this opportunity, do I get to kiss you?” he asked.
“Not if you ask like that.”
His thumb moved slightly along the curve of her arm. “How should I ask?”
“You don’t.” And she leaned in. Not all the way. Just close enough for her lips to graze the corner of his jaw. It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite. But her breath was warm against his skin. “Since you are hesitating, I think I’ll choose when,” she said softly.
“Understood.”
She stepped back half a pace, eyes still on him. “I don’t want pretty words,” she said. “Or rehearsed lines.”
“You think I rehearsed that?”
“I think you rehearse everything.” That made him smile just a little. She was right. She brushed past him then, toward the table. He let her. But not before letting his hand trail from her elbow to her wrist with a touch that lingered before it fell away.
“I don’t plan to stay very long,” she said. And even that small promise of minimal time, from her, was everything. She settled at the table, unwrapping the bundle with practiced care, but he could tell she wasn’t focused on the papers. Not really. He moved to the kitchen, not because he needed to, but to give her a moment. To give himself a moment. When he returned with two glasses — something better than the tea he often saw her drink — she’d already kicked off her shoes and drawn one leg beneath her, the Tribunal pages barely skimmed.
She accepted the glass without thanks, just a small nod. Their fingers brushed again but this time, he didn’t pull away. Neither did she. For a while, they sat in the hush of it, the warmth of the room settling around them. Outside, the city murmured faintly. Car lights sweeping past windows, distant hums from the grid towers. Inside, just the shift of paper, the soft clink of glass returning to the table, and the occasional rustle as she adjusted her sleeve where it was rolled.
“I was wrong about you,” she said, not looking up.
He glanced over. “How so?”
“I thought you wanted something pretty you could show off. Someone that said the right things at the right dinners. A Senator’s wife.” He recalled his choice of words the day at the coffee shop, his decision to refer to her in that manner. Now it felt clipped in a way.
“And now?”
She lifted her eyes. “Now I think you’re not entirely sure what you want.”
He didn’t answer right away. Her gaze didn’t flinch. “I know I want you to stay,” he said, quietly.
“I already knew that,” she said. “You are just catching up.” She shifted then, closer. Casually, but not without purpose. One of her knees brushed his thigh beneath the table. She didn’t move it. He watched her, the way her hair fell along her jaw, the faint light playing off her collarbone. Gods, he really loved her collarbones. He wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t unnaturally thin but something about the way they always caught the light looked divinely feminine in a manner he wasn’t accustomed to focusing on. Her lips were slightly parted, but not waiting. Just breathing.
“Say something real,” she demanded after a moment of silence.
He leaned toward her. Just slightly. Close enough to speak, not to touch. “I think about you,” he said, “more than I should.”
Her eyes didn’t drop. “And what do you think about?”
He hesitated. “About how you look when you're not playing a role you seemingly don’t want. About your hands when you’re sorting through old books. About what it would take to make you stay longer than ‘a while.’ About what I’d do if we were alone.”
Her breath caught just barely. And then she stood. But not to leave. She came around the table, glass in hand, and stopped in front of him. Her free hand reached out — slow, deliberate — and touched his jaw, just with the side of her fingers. “We are alone right now,” she whispered.
“Funny how that happened…” he replied, a charming smile playing on his lips. He wanted to highlight the fact she sought him this time. Where every other time he was chasing after her like a lost puppy, this time she hadn’t satisfied his request. This had been the first time in which she came to him of her own free will and in a way larger than simply entertaining him at work. That had to mean something.
“I’ve never needed someone,” she said. Her eyes were uncertain. He could see the conflict within them. She looked as if she couldn’t make up her mind. She looked like he was beginning to address the manner in which she returned curiosity towards him. She seemed at war with herself in a manner that was maddening. After a moment she continued. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
Her hand slid back into his hair and she kissed him. It was deliberate. Quiet. Not the kind of kiss meant to spark something immediate, but the kind meant to linger. Like she was giving him permission to know her differently. As if that war within her slowed only for a moment to allow herself the brief indulgence of taking something she wanted without consequence. When she pulled back, she didn’t move far. Her forehead rested lightly against his. “I’m still not staying the night,” she whispered.
He nodded, his breath shallow. “I didn’t ask you to.”
She let her hand trail down from his hair to his shoulder, her fingers catching faintly at the collar of his shirt. She looked at him then for the first time as if there wasn't any distance behind it. “I should go,” she murmured. But she didn’t move. Neither of them did. Seconds passed like held breath. Then he shifted slightly, just enough to brush his knuckles along the inside of her wrist. “You could stay a little longer.”
Her eyes didn’t drop. “Why?”
“Because for once, I don’t feel the need to watch my words for the fear of you finding out how I am imagining you.”
She was quiet at that. He couldn’t tell if she was flattered, flustered or something else entirely. She was simply…still. And then, slowly, she exhaled. She stepped back, not away, but just enough to turn, grab his hand in her own and pull him to the sofa behind her. Her thigh pressed against his as she drew her legs up beneath her, the tension in her shoulders loosening inch by inch. “Do you always say things like that?” she asked. “Like you're rehearsing a speech no one asked you to give.”
He smirked. “Only when I mean them.”
She looked over at him sidelong. “Still, you are very practiced in eloquence."
“Trust me when I say, I am starting to not be that way when it comes you.” That silenced her again. She reached behind her head, unpinned the clip from her hair without comment, and let it fall around her shoulders. He watched the motion — the casual vulnerability of it — and felt something inside him ache a little. Not with want. Instead it bore the weight of knowing her more than he imagined most people could, and yet, still wanting more. She looked over their shoulders, at the Tribunal papers still spread across the table. “Are we going to pretend we’re still working?”
“We could,” he said. “If it makes you feel better.”
She shook her head and turned toward him. Her leg resting against his now, warm through the fabric. “I don’t need to pretend tonight,” she said. And then she leaned in again, slower this time, her hand settling on his chest like she was grounding herself there. Their mouths met again, deeper now. Her fingers curled into his shirt. His hand slid along her waist, and for a while there was only that. Quiet breathing mixed with the slow caress of their lips moving. The shared warmth, the kind of touch that didn’t rush because there was no need to.
When they finally pulled apart, she stayed where she was, resting against him, her head tucked beneath his chin. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. It was better that way. Later, after the streetlights had become the only source of light, and the silence between them had deepened into something heavier but not uncomfortable, she spoke again, her voice barely above a murmur. “I don’t sleep easily.”
He brushed his thumb lightly along her forearm. “Neither do I.”
Another pause. “But I might close my eyes,” she said. “For a while. Just to rest.” He nodded. And when she leaned into him fully, her body settling along his, he reached down and pulled the knit throw from the back of the couch, draped it over her shoulders without a word. She didn’t thank him. But her fingers, resting near his ribs, curled softly into the fabric of his shirt and didn’t let go.
The Capitol’s grand hall gleamed under dozens of chandeliers, the air thick with whispered alliances and polished charm. Coriolanus moved beside his grandmother, the embodiment of control and propriety. His tailored coat, immaculate. Her silk gown catching the light with every measured step. But then his eyes caught her. She was seated just off to the side near the gilded balcony, poised in a way that drew the eye without trying. Her dress was exquisite. A deep blue satin that hugged her figure and shimmered softly with each slight movement. Her hair swept into a loose, elegant updo. Every detail marked her as someone who belonged in the room.
And yet—her attention was buried in a dog-eared book. Worn and well-loved, held close as if it were a lifeline. She barely noticed the swirl of Capitol aristocrats drifting around her. His grandmother noticed too, arching a delicate brow. “She’s beautiful,” the old woman murmured, “and utterly distracted by that book. Not something you see every day.”
Coriolanus blinked, heart quickening. “I know her,” he said quietly.
“Really?” his grandmother asked, with a sly tilt to her lips. “Poor thing seems a bit odd. What does she do in a place like this? With all that beauty? Sit alone, ignoring the crowd?”
He hesitated, the memory of quiet mornings at a cluttered bookstall flooding back. The way her wild curls tumbled loose, the casual defiance in her sweater and glasses. Then again on his sofa somewhere between this world and that one, where she’d kissed him without urgency, but stayed nestled against him as she slept. “She’s… different,” he admitted.
“Well then,” his grandmother said with a mischievous smile, “go say hello. Or better yet, ask her to dance.”
Coriolanus felt a flicker of hesitation, but the warmth of his grandmother’s gaze urged him forward. He stepped toward her, the polished floors echoing beneath his steps. She looked up, meeting his eyes with a calm that made him catch his breath. “You didn’t expect to see me here,” she said, closing her book gently.
“No,” he admitted. “To be frank, I haven’t seen much of you at all recently. Perhaps you’ve been hiding from me?” He raised a brow. Her expression didn’t shift, so he continued. “But you are right where I would expect to find you.”
“On the fringes?” She smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips.
“I was going to say in your own world. A goddess not bothering with mortal men.”
“As if I command that level of attention Coriolanus,” she scoffed, but her smile depended with his compliment.
“You command my attention,” he stepped closer, “Isn’t that enough?” He offered his hand, a silent invitation. “May I?”
Her eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. “Only if you promise not to step on my toes, mortal.”
He grinned. “You have a deal my goddess.” As she rose, their hands found each other, a touch light but electric. They moved into the flow of dancers, and for a moment, the weight he’d felt since her disappearing act began to lift. Here, beneath glittering chandeliers and watchful eyes, something quiet and real began to bloom. They moved slowly across the dance floor, the music swirling around them like a private current.
She glanced up at him, eyes glinting. “So… did you attend with a cougar, or…?”
He laughed under his breath. “That’s my grandmother. The one who ensures I don’t tarnish the family legacy.”
“Ah. The matriarch. No wonder you looked like you couldn’t exhale.” She tilted her head. “I half expected her to hiss at me for luring you away.”
“She’s too sophisticated for hissing,” he murmured. “But she’s definitely assessing you as we speak.”
“Well,” she said, voice light, “if she’s anything like you, I’m probably already catalogued, footnoted, and filed.”
“She admired you,” he said simply.
Her brows lifted, pleased. “Then perhaps I should conclude this early and thank her for her impeccable taste.”
He chuckled. “You’d have to escape me first.”
She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear. “I think I’m up for the challenge.”
His hold on her tightened slightly, not possessive, but aware. Measured. As if instinctively drawing her closer before the dance slipped through his fingers. “It’s hard to focus on anything else,” he murmured, “when you’re this close.”
Her lips curled, a touch of mockery in the smile. “Flatterer. Do you say that to all the Capitol's most eligible women, or am I truly that disarming?”
“Special,” he said, without pause. “I’m not even trying to hide it. Especially when I know how perfect your lips feel against mine…”
“Good.” Her eyes flicked to the cluster of onlookers across the floor, faces half-lit by crystal and calculation. “But you should learn to.”
He studied her, brow tightening slightly. “Why?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned with him, letting the music guide them through the wide arc of the ballroom floor. They moved in rhythm, but her gaze was somewhere else, sharpened, weighing the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield.
Then she looked at him again, and her voice lowered. “If you want to be able to kiss me in a place like this,” she said, “you’ll have to learn to play by the rules. Not charm. Not instinct. Rules.” He blinked, caught off guard not by the words, but by the cool precision of them. She continued, more gently now. “This world isn’t built on honesty, Coriolanus. It’s built on performance. Timing. Power. And appearances, most of all.”
“I thought you don’t care for appearances,” he said, quieter now.
“I often don’t,” she replied. “That’s what makes this... complicated.”
Their steps slowed into a turn. His hand remained at her back, hers at his shoulder, but the space between them had shifted. “Until you handle their expectations properly,” she said, “we’ll have to keep this”, she glanced briefly down at their joined hands, “as it stands. Private.”
He exhaled slowly, but nodded. Not in defeat. In understanding. “And what is this, exactly?”
She looked up at him again. No coyness. No pretense. “A possibility,” she said.
“And if I choose to play by the rules?” he asked.
Her gaze flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Then someday,” she said, soft but sure, “you won’t have to ask or be kept at arms length in rooms like this.”
And then she slipped her hand from his and stepped back, her absence sudden and sharp as cold air. He watched her walk away, her gown sweeping behind her like a trailing secret, every movement composed. Measured. Controlled. But she didn’t look back. She didn’t have to.
He knew she’d left him with a challenge. And a promise. And both of them were going to keep him awake.
The street was quieter than usual, bathed in the honeyed light of late afternoon. Long shadows spilled across the worn cobblestones, and the air held that stillness just before evening settles in.
Coriolanus spotted her before she saw him. She walked briskly alongside a tall, broad-shouldered man whose lined face and steady eyes spoke of a life lived alert. His hand rested lightly at her shoulder. Not commanding, just present. Protective. Her curls were tucked beneath a simple scarf, her coat slightly oversized, sleeves pushed to her elbows to reveal delicate wrists. She looked... ordinary. And still, impossible to miss. She wasn’t expecting him. It had taken days—quiet questions, discreet inquiries, and careful threading of names and routines—until he’d gathered just enough to find her here. With the man she called uncle. He stepped forward and cleared his throat gently. She looked up. Surprise flared in her eyes, flickering quickly into composure.
“Oh. Nice to see you again,” she said. Too formal, too bright. Her voice pitched higher than usual. It grated, because it wasn’t her. But Coriolanus understood. The performance was for her uncle’s benefit. He was finally coming to understand how she operated in the perfect balance of her own wishes and expectations.
Still, he pressed forward, polite smile in place. “You as well. I’ve found I rather enjoy our conversations at the University Library.” The man turned to face him, assessing. Not unkind, but not careless either. “Coriolanus Snow,” he said, extending a hand to the man.
“Lukas,” the man replied, gripping his hand with practiced strength.
“It’s an honor, sir.”
Lukas’s gaze narrowed. Not hostile, just sharp. “You’ve been around my niece long enough to be familiar. But I’d appreciate a little more than a name, young man.”
Coriolanus glanced at her, then back to Lukas. “We’re both students at the University. I spend a great deal of time in the library researching policy and strategy. I also assist Dr. Gaul with her development projects for the Capitol.”
Lukas gave a small grunt, considering. “So you're the one working under Gaul. An aspiring Gamemaker.”
“Yes, sir.”
A pause. Then: “And what do you know of her?” Lukas asked, tilting his head slightly toward his niece. “She rarely gives the time of day to anyone. Yet here you are, not long after a gala where, if the reports are true, she was seen dancing with a young man. Tall. Fair-haired.”
“That was me,” Coriolanus said calmly. “My grandmother and I passed her as she was reading. Alone. I thought someone so beautiful shouldn’t hide in the shadows with a book all night.”
“You managed to pull her out of a book?” Lukas said, eyes flicking to his niece with mild disbelief.
“So it would seem.” Coriolanus hesitated, then added more quietly, “Forgive me if I speak too freely, but... your Niece is remarkable. Intelligent. Self-possessed. Exceptionally well-mannered. I was hoping to ask your permission to take her out. Properly. For dinner. Somewhere deserving of her.”
Lukas’s gaze lingered on him, measuring, not just the words, but the weight behind them. Then he looked at his Niece. The flicker of something passed between them. A history. A warning. “You know she’s not like other Capitol debutants,” he said, voice low. “She doesn’t bend easily. She’s cautious. And I’ve kept her that way on purpose.”
“I know,” Coriolanus said. “That’s part of why I admire her.”
Lukas raised a brow. “And you? What is it you want?”
“To be someone she can trust,” he said. “To offer her more than distraction or fading affections. To build something real. I much enjoy our conversations on literature and her perspective on our society. Beauty fades, however intellect is a noteworthy characteristic I hold firm in admiration.”
The silence held for a moment, heavy with unspoken things. Then, slowly, Lukas nodded. “Alright, Snow. You have my permission.”
She looked at Coriolanus then. Her eyes wide, touched with disbelief, and something softer just behind it. “Thank you,” Coriolanus said quietly. She smiled. A rare, unguarded one. The kind that warmed even the fading light around them. He stepped forward and offered his hand. She took it with practiced grace, letting him lift it gently to his lips. He kissed her knuckles lightly, then released her. “I’ll send word once I’ve made arrangements,” he said.
“Until then?” she replied, voice laced with something amused, something curious.
He bowed his head slightly, then turned to leave. As he walked away, he heard Lukas chuckle behind him. “So… you’ve got an interest in Crassus Snow’s son?”
Coriolanus slowed his step, just enough to catch her quiet reply: “He noticed me when most do not.” It was true, he did notice her. And in time, she was becoming such a well guarded possession he intended to claim in more than simply private.
The restaurant was quiet. Tucked into a narrow side street where the Capitol’s noise faded into something softer, more deliberate. The air inside was warm with low conversation and the scent of saffron and roasted citrus. Candlelight shimmered off polished silver and glass, dancing over the crisp white tablecloth between them. Coriolanus watched as she settled into her seat. Elegant, composed, effortlessly striking. Capitol polish, yes, but that same quiet defiance still burned in her eyes. The same spark that had unraveled him since the very beginning. “Nice place,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room, precise and appraising. “You have a talent for finding corners no one else would think to look for.”
He gave a slight smile. “I thought it suited us.”
She looked back at him, arching a brow. “Us?”
“Well,” he said, lifting his wine glass, “I didn’t charm your uncle just to share dinner with an empty chair.”
She took a slow sip of wine, the candlelight catching the curve of her cheek. “Impressive, by the way. Lukas doesn’t usually take to… anyone.”
“I was on my best behavior,” he said smoothly.
“Seeing you size up the man was quite humorous. He usually is not caught off guard, but a suitor for me certainly caught his attention. Normally I send the boys running for the hills and he knows that.”
He laughed softly, a quiet thing. “I’m full of surprises.”
She tilted her head, eyes catching the light. “You say that like a threat.”
“Maybe it is.”
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. The first course arrived in careful, artful portions. They ate slowly, unhurried, but with a tension that simmered just beneath the surface. “So,” she said eventually, setting down her fork with deliberate grace, “If you are so full of surprises and things have taken a more traditional approach, how long before you start quoting obscure romantic poetry at me?”
He feigned offense. “You wound me. I hadn’t even reached the sonnets portion of the evening yet.”
“Good. I’m terrible at trusting men who speak in riddles.”
He smiled, just enough to be disarming, not enough to lose his footing. “Then maybe it’s time I stop pretending I’m unreadable.”
Her gaze met his, steady. Sharp. “Are you?”
He didn’t flinch. “I don’t want to be.”
A beat. Then she leaned in, elbows lightly brushing the edge of the tablecloth, voice low but unguarded. “What if I told you I was tired of the performance? Tired of pretending not to care what happens next.”
He reached across the space between them, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek with a touch so careful it almost wasn’t there. “Then I’d say you’re not alone.”
Her eyes dropped to his hand, then lifted again, softer now. “That would be… new.”
“Not unwelcome, I hope.”
She gave a quiet laugh, real this time, unpolished around the edges. “No. Not unwelcome.”
He leaned back slightly, but didn’t break the connection between them. “Then let’s agree,” he said. “No more theater. Just us.”
She studied him, and the quiet between them grew rich. Thick with something unsaid, warm and golden, as if the whole world had narrowed to a single breath held too long. Then she gave a single nod. Measured. Certain. “And if it turns out I like the idea of us?”
He didn’t smile this time. His gaze didn’t flicker. He simply said, voice low and steady, “Then you came to the right table.” Around them, candlelight flickered softly, casting the rest of the restaurant in a warm haze of murmured conversation and clinking glasses. But their table felt separate. Removed. As though whatever hovered between them had carved out its own space in time. By the second course, the tension hadn’t softened, it had sharpened. And then, somewhere between a sip of wine and a shared glance over the rim of her glass, he felt it.
The faintest scuff beneath the table. Quiet and deliberate. He assumed she was merely adjusting her crossed ankles but then felt it. A brush of her heel against his ankle, featherlight. Then the slow glide of nylon-covered toes tracing up the line of his shin, just beneath the hem of his tailored trousers. His fork paused mid-air. His breath hitched. His eyes met hers across the candlelit glow, wide—caught somewhere between astonishment and awe. She didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink. Her expression was perfectly composed, but her eyes told a different story: cool, calculating heat. He swallowed, lowering his fork with forced calm. “Is that... strategic provocation?” he asked, voice pitched low.
Her lips curved. “Consider it a field test.”
“For what?”
“To see how easily you're rattled.”
“You’re assuming I am,” he replied, adjusting slightly in his seat.
“You’re not?” she asked, tilting her head, teasing with the pretense of innocence.
He leaned in, elbows resting lightly on the table, voice dropping into something velvet and dangerous. “I’m many things,” he said. “But I don’t scare easily.”
Her foot retreated slowly, almost lazily, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She picked up her wine glass, eyes never leaving his. “Good,” she said. “I don’t enjoy chasing things that collapse too quickly.”
He took a long sip of his wine, trying to ground himself. “Remind me not to underestimate you again.”
She smiled. “You’ll forget. That’s part of the fun.”
Their main course arrived, but neither of them looked down at the plates for a moment too long. The food might as well have been decorative for how little either seemed interested in it. Conversation resumed, but it had changed. It became taut and layered. Every word was a double-edged note. Every glance another drawn breath between moves.
And still, beneath the table, her foot found him again. Lighter this time, but with more confidence. He shifted in his seat again, this time deliberately, inching closer to the table’s edge. “You do realize,” he said, his voice dry, “that I invited you here to make a proper impression.”
“Darling,” she murmured, eyes gleaming, “you’re making an excellent one.”
He looked at her. This girl with her silk composure, her sharp mouth and sharper mind, all elegance and provocation wrapped in one, and knew, with absolute clarity, that nothing about her would ever be easy. He also knew he would never want it any other way. He returned his attention to his plate, or at least made the attempt. But the food was secondary now. His senses were tuned entirely to her. To the warmth of her presence across the table, and more urgently, to the press of her foot slowly climbing his leg again.
Her toe slipped past the cuff of his trousers this time, the faint glide of nylon against skin drawing an involuntary breath from his lips. He didn’t flinch. Not visibly. Instead, he set his knife down with deliberate precision and reached for his wine, using the motion to conceal the clench of his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was maddeningly composed. “Is this how you usually conduct your field tests?”
She raised her glass, her expression placid, but her eyes sparkled like dark wine catching the light. “Only when the subject is particularly... uncooperative.”
His fingers curled slightly around the base of his glass. “You’re not making it easy to behave.”
“That’s the point,” she said sweetly, her foot now dangerously close to the inside of his thigh. “I wanted to see where your control ends.”
He didn’t move, but his pulse thudded beneath his collar. Still, his voice was smooth when he spoke. “Careful,” he murmured. “You might not like what happens when it does.”
Her head tilted, as though considering him under a microscope. “Oh, I think I might.”
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh, low in his throat. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Then you should stop me.”
He leaned forward then, just slightly, enough to close the air between them without touching. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” he said, voice like a slow match being struck. “But if I did, I’d want no misunderstandings about who started it.”
Her foot stilled, just barely, hovering at the edge of somewhere truly irreversible. For a breathless beat, they simply looked at each other. He didn’t move away. He didn’t touch her. He simply held her gaze, as if daring her to go further. She didn’t blink. “Fine,” she whispered. “Let’s both pretend we’re not tempted.”
He smiled, but there was no humor in it. Just tension, sharp and taut. “Pretending,” he said softly, “is something I thought we agreed to no longer do with one another.”
“We did,” she said, drawing her foot back inch by inch, “yet, you still look like you’re unraveling.”
“I am,” he said. “Just politely.” They sat back in their chairs at the same moment, perfectly composed, as if nothing had passed between them but wine and wit. A slow silence settled between them, not awkward, but charged.
Then she reached for her water glass, and with a smirk that barely touched her lips, said, “I hope dessert is something cold. You look like you need it.”
He chuckled, tightly, dry. “You’re impossible.”
Her smile widened. “And yet here you are.”
The seconds ticked by, stretched taut by unspoken things. Her foot had returned to its place, and yet the memory of it still ghosted along his skin like a secret he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They spoke less now. Not from lack of things to say, but because every glance, every shift in posture said too much already.
He reached for his glass, but she reached at the same time, fingers brushing, brief but electric. Their eyes met. A beat passed. Neither pulled away. She leaned in, the candlelight catching the gold at the edge of her lashes. “If you were hoping for a quiet night of manners and politics,” she murmured, “you chose the wrong girl.”
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into something unreadable. “On the contrary. I think I chose exactly the right one.”
“Is that confidence,” she asked, voice barely a whisper, “or surrender?”
He laughed under his breath, quiet, low, almost dangerous. “Does it matter if I’m still walking willingly into whatever fire you have planned?”
The flicker in her gaze changed then. Something shifted. The amusement remained, but underneath it came a hunger, flickering at the edges like a flame finally given air. “Then stop walking into it,” she said. “Run.”
The words hit him. She wasn’t just provoking now. She was inviting. Daring. And he was already halfway there. For a moment, he sat still. Very still. Then he reached slowly across the table and took her hand, not playfully, not with pretense. Just contact. Direct and deliberate. Her fingers curled into his, soft but certain. His thumb traced a slow line across her knuckles. “This isn’t going to end the way either of us expect, is it?” he asked.
She smiled, the slow, secret kind that belonged to someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was. “That’s the point, isn’t it? All the games. All the tension. Finding out exactly what sweet spot between bold and uncertain we occupy? There is a joy in contradiction. There’s an excitement in seeing how far each pendulum swings.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you want to know all the ways I think of you when I am alone?”
He exhaled through his nose, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then he straightened, controlled again, but just barely, and signaled to the waiter. “Check, please,” he said, not breaking eye contact with her. The waiter appeared instantly, discreet. As he placed the bill on the table, Coriolanus reached for it without looking down. She leaned back in her chair, arms folded lightly, eyes sharp with satisfaction. “What’s the rush?” He slipped a credit token into the folder and handed it back with a faint, knowing smile.
“There’s only so long I can sit across from you without doing something foolish,” he said.
“Foolish,” she echoed, voice soft and velvet-dark. “Or overdue?”
He stood and stepped aside to let her rise, offering his hand once more. This time, when her fingers slid into his, there was no performance. Just heat. And intent. As they stepped into the night, the restaurant faded behind them, candlelight and restraint left at the table. What lay ahead… was no longer polite or restrained… But something else entirely.
cw// blood, mentions of killing/death, manipulative!coryo - here is the pk!coryo version of my billy fic by the same name and i'm actually insanely happy with it even though i sat down and wrote it on a complete whim tonight. i'm very happy that it turned out the way it did especially in comparison to the billy version and i hope you all love it just as much as i do!!
Coriolanus had patrols in town on Monday and Wednesday. Tuesdays and Thursdays were night patrols in the woods. He spent half of Friday and Saturday training with the nights off. But on Sundays, he was in charge of guarding the barracks. You repeated this information in your head as you walked through the woods, trying to silence the other dark thoughts that were attempting to slip to the forefront of your brain. You could only allow yourself to focus on one thing. Getting to Coriolanus on the edge of the barracks on a cold Sunday night while the moon wasn’t at its peak yet. If there was ever a time you were grateful for the dimmer light of a waxing crescent compared to a full moon, it was now. You didn’t want to look at yourself, even as you did your best to block out what was happening, you knew deep down what you had done.
Half past nine, and Coriolanus swore he had stared at the same ten trees for the last two hours so much that he’d see them in his sleep. He had wanted to spend the day with you after leaving you in bed at the crack of dawn that morning. He’d even spend the day in the garden covered in dirt, and getting bugs in his face, helping you replant some flowers you wanted, if it meant he hadn’t had to leave you sleeping peacefully under your quilt. It was the image of you cuddled into his chest from the night before that he kept in the front of his mind the whole patrol so far. Your hair soft against his bare chest while you traced small figures along his pecs with the tip of your delicate nails. He swore you looked like an angel in those quiet moments. An angel who was somehow stuck so far from the capital where she belonged. It was that image that made him startle so much at the change in the horizon.
Between the same ten trees he’d been looking at all night, he spotted a figure, soaking wet and dark beneath the moon’s soft glow. A small voice in his head deemed it one of the demonic rebels his grandma’am went on for hours about, but as he raised his gun and headed closer, he could start to make out features he recognized all too well. The demon’s hips formed into the ones he’d held so many times before. Its waist was the one he kept an arm around at all times. The shoulders he thought menacing from a distance formed into the ones he adored kissing when he stirred in the middle of the night. It wasn’t until he got within a few yards that the terrifying eyes illuminated by the light streaming in through the leaves were the final piece in understanding that the figure was actually his angel. But you weren’t peaceful like he had left you this morning. You were trembling, covered in blood, and staring at him with so much fear in your eyes he swore he felt it right to his very core.
"D-darling?" he stammers as he lowers his gun quickly, slinging it behind his back and checking for any other peacekeepers nearby before rushing to you. He wasn't sure if you had heard him at first, not responding to his call but when he was in front of you, eyes roaming your body in search of whatever wounds had caused such bloodshed, your voice cracked trying to speak.
"Cor-coryo." It was a devastating difference to the soft whisper of his name you had spoken only mere hours ago but he cupped your cheeks, blood be damned, and spoke firmly to get through whatever terrors were racing through your head.
"What happened? Is this your blood? Where are you hurt? Darling, I need you to do your best to tell me what's happened." He only watched how your eyes watered before you let out a sob that pierced the quiet atmosphere around you two. Wrapping his arms around you, he let you bury your face into his chest, effectively muffling your cries from anyone nearby.
"You're okay. I've got you. Let's get you home, okay?" But the second he tried to move you back towards the woods, you fought back, pushing against him and nearly screaming into his chest. He didn't understand. He didn't know why you were bloody or why you were crying or why, for the first time since he met you, your home was clearly the last place you wanted to be. It was an anxiety he didn't quite understand—the thought of not knowing you.
You were something he had memorized like the back of his hand by the end of the first week he'd known you. He had your schedule engraved into his brain like ancient scripture, forever and unmoving. He knew you spent your Mondays at the market trying to sell what extra you had from your garden to spare coins for some bread and other luxuries. He knew you worked a short shift some nights, most often the Tuesdays and Thursdays he would later use his patrol as an excuse to walk you home for, at the Hob. You loved to tend to your garden on the weekends most of all and he'd come visit after training on Fridays and Saturdays to find you covered in the rich soil that he'd then wash off you by jumping into the lake with you in his arms. Yet this night, not a single thing was right.
"Darling, I've got to get you home," he tried to reason with you but the more you pushed back, the more he lost the will to fight you on it, trying to think of alternatives. There were private rooms he could rent as his newly-designated title of Corporal—he had laughed when you told him that Private Snow sounded much better even if he had better benefits as a Corporal. But how to get you into the barracks was a whole different question entirely.
"Okay… Okay. Not going home. Just let me think, baby," he spoke softly, trying to calm you as your pushing slowly morphed into weak pokes against his chest. The idea that came to mind seemed so unchivalrous that he wanted to shame himself for it but the weaker you got in his hold, the more he knew he needed to get you clean one way or another. Soon, several minutes of quiet steps through the edges of the barracks later, he had made it to the crude excuse of an outdoor shower by the training sector, not much more than a hose and a sloped floor to run the dirt off into the sewers.
"This is the best I can do right now, my love. I'm gonna look for any injuries while I wash you off, okay?" When he got no response, your eyes now a bit more distant as you fell into the comfort of having him close and being taken farther from home, he just sighed softly.
"Darling, can you hear me?" he nearly pleaded and yet, he still received no response. It wasn't until he had washed the blood and dirt from your hair with such a tender touch that you finally broke through the fog in your brain enough to tell him even part of what had brought you to him that night.
"Someone broke into the cabin," you whispered. Coriolanus' first instinct was to freeze, but he worried it would startle you out of the clearer state you managed to transition to.
"He… I don't know who he was. But he… Coryo, I had to d-defend myself," you mumbled, unsure if he understood the gravity of your situation. However, Coriolanus immediately knew. The blood was washing away from your body and even with stained clothes, he could make out that you had no injuries serious enough to cause such bloodshed. That only meant the blood had to have come from somewhere else and when you didn't speak for another minute, he softened to reassure you.
"You defended yourself and you came and found me. That's what matters. Nothing else. I'm gonna get you clean right now and we're gonna sleep here tonight." He could see the adrenaline quickly fading as your shoulders slumped. He didn't hate you or reprimand you or even think of turning you in. He took you into his arms after you were finally clean like the rose he thought you were, thorns and all. You hadn't done anything he hadn't already done; in fact, he still considered you far purer than himself.
The next day he'd pay to let you stay in the room at the barracks while he sorted things out for you. You lived far enough from town that he knew, without any tips, the peacekeepers wouldn't find the destruction of your cabin for days. It would give him the perfect opportunity to dispose of the body so you'd never have to see the bloodbath your delicate hands had caused. In a vulgar way, he would spend a moment in awe of your work when he had arrived at the cabin and saw the man dead on the ground. He'd do his best to clean the blood from the floor and the walls before taking you home, telling you that he'd help you repair the damages and request the following night off patrol.
He wouldn't need to worry about if it would happen again because he'd make sure it never did. He'd be possessive in ways that should make you feel overwhelmed but perhaps it was the now-broken part of your mind that allowed him to act as such an easy fix. He seeped into the corners of your brain, cleaning up every spot stained with the blood you had shed and reminding you that you didn't belong in the districts anymore. It was too violent for you. He'd get you a garden in the capital, fill it with whatever you wanted to grow no matter the cost, and he'd keep you from ever having to touch another cruel man like the one you'd killed again. You were his angel and he'd keep you as far out of reach as the ones in the heavens.
“He seeped into the corners of your brain, cleaning up every spot stained with the blood you had shed and reminding you that you didn't belong in the districts anymore. It was too violent for you. He'd get you a garden in the capital, fill it with whatever you wanted to grow no matter the cost, and he'd keep you from ever having to touch another cruel man like the one you'd killed again. You were his angel and he'd keep you as far out of reach as the ones in the heavens.”
Oh. My. STARS!!!
Coriolanus is so unwell even when comforting and I adore it so much 🖤
