Hello! I would like to request a Coriolanus snow x fem!reader where the reader is pregnant and they are under attacked and she gets knocked out or passes out and Corio finds her?and in the end she and the baby(s) are fine? Or if you wanted during the rebel attack the reader gets very badly hurt and concerns the doctors a whole and he thinks he going to lose her? She wakes up.
(Sorry if it’s confusing.. it can be two separate fics or one of your choosing! :) )
Incompetent Beings | C.S.
summary: ^^^ everything mentioned above in the request
No matter what he did—even if he just breathed—everyone would still, stupefied from how commanding his presence was. With every speech and every interview, the crowd was left with awe and fear of the man. But even so, everyone knew the President had one weakness.
That weakness being you.
Everyone in Panem could see the way he softened ever so slightly when you appeared—it was like a goddess emerging from a light and he was ready to surrender. Unfortunately, that only made things worse for him when they were visiting District 12 and they decided it was the best time to rebel against the President.
You were already being led away toward the safe house in District 12 as Coriolanus had made a safe house in every District—knowing their history of violence all too well. The copious amount of peacekeepers leading you there made you an even bigger target than before.
Truly, you sometimes believed your husband wasn’t the brightest in some areas that related to you.
“Ma’am, the President requested you stay put while he handles everything outside—“
“I’m aware of that, but I also am concerned for the safety of my husband and leaving me in here with no knowledge of what is happening outside isn’t—“
“Get down!”
The ground shook as Coriolanus tried mediating the faults between the Capitol and District 12, his eyes immediately darting toward the peacekeepers who took away the leader of the rebellion. The fate of the man was already decided the second he opened his loose mouth anyway.
Coriolanus rubbed his temple as he took a seat once more and creased his brows when the door to the meeting room opened, his voice tired yet sharp as he addressed whoever entered. “What is it?”
“Mr. President, there’s been an attack by the safe house.” A peacekeeper spoke, his voice ringing clear in the air.
It took less than a beat for Coriolanus to get up from his seat and head for the door, hands curling around his suit jacket as two more peacekeepers flanked his sides. The drive to the site was less than appealing, his lead peacekeeper recalling everything he was told when he first got the call.
“The men and women who—“
“I’m not sure you understand right now.” Coriolanus cut the peacekeeper of and spoke with a calmness in his voice that sent shivers down the spines of everyone riding with him. “I don’t care how this was orchestrated. I would like to know if my wife is well and safe.”
The peacekeeper cleared his throat and met Coriolanus’ piercing eyes, his voice barely holding on as he spoke. “We’re still searching the area for her, sir.”
Silence filled the air before Coriolanus spoke.
“Are you telling me my wife is currently missing?” He raised his brows and clasped his hands together, a dangerous look in his eyes. When no one answered, he sighed and waved a hand. “Well, I guess we have to drive faster, don’t we?”
Almost immediately, the peacekeepers relayed to one another about their President’s commands, the car going well over 90 miles per hour before they came across the rebel bombing right at the outskirts of 12. There were already other peacekeepers tracking down those fallen from the attack, and another group merely searching for you.
Coriolanus knew the men and women sent out to search for you weren’t nearly looking as hard as they made it seem because he found you within a minute of hopping out of the military car.
However, it was unlucky that he found you passed out and buried under muck and rubble from the explosion.
While maintaining his dignified demeanor—or what was left of it when he ran over to you with crazed eyes—Coriolanus pushed the pieces of wood and rock away from your body, cradling you in his arms while peacekeepers rushed around the two of you like complete fools.
If Coriolanus was being truly honest, the ride to the hospital seemed like a blur. His mind was elsewhere—thinking about what he could’ve done better to prevent this, and if you weren’t too badly hurt—praying you weren’t. Coriolanus swore he would protect you and everything that came with you, especially when you were carrying the Snow heir.
The entire west wing of the hospital was cleared out for you, staff members zipping their mouths shut when they saw the President take long strides down the hall with you cradled in his arms, his tone commanding as the doctors walked beside him with clipboards and barely there expressions.
It wasn’t until hours later that Coriolanus was able to breathe again. Albeit, still shallowly given the circumstances.
He was sitting beside you, your limp hand clutched in his as he stared over your figure. You were lying in a white hospital bed, head bandaged with IVs sticking out of your arm. The doctors said you were okay, and that the baby was fine, but Coriolanus stopped listening to their judgment when they dismissed his mother and his unborn little sister back during the first rebellion.
“Mr. President, Mayor Gallowood wants to speak with you.” A peacekeeper reported, saluting Coriolanus as she stood before him.
“I’m busy.” He waved her offhandedly, eyes trained on your furrowed brows—clearly still deep in thought as you lay unconscious. “We’ll deal with the rest of District Twelve later. For now, they're on lockdown.”
“Sir—“
“Dismissed.” Coriolanus spoke with a touch of finality, pursing his lips when the door shut again. Sighing, he kissed your knuckles and brought them to his forehead. “God, how am I supposed to deal with incompetent beings without you, my love.”
He sighed and kissed your knuckles again, watching your vitals with every heartbeat that passed. To him, you were the one thing grounding him in a world of pure horror—the horror that no one else but you knew about. If you were gone, there really wasn’t a point in being a commanding President at all.
Time ticked slowly the more Coriolanus sat still by your side, only ever getting up to use the restroom that was in your private hospital room. Even so, he would listen for anything irregular coming from you. It had been three days since he last left the room to lead the country—yet everyone was still holding their breathes as if he was watching their every move.
But the only person he really was watching was you.
When you finally stirred, Coriolanus instantly shot up from his seat and clicked the button on the side of your bed, his hand still wrapped around yours as it twitched in confusion.
“Coryo?” You mutter, voice raspy from not using for so long. You tried sitting up, but were gently forced back down by him, confusion still swimming in your mind. “What are you—?”
“I thought you were never going to wake up.” He murmured and cradled your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours for the first time in days. “How are you feeling?”
“Terribly tired and sore.” You frown slightly and crease your brows, scanning his face in worry. “What happened? You look like you haven’t gotten any sleep, Coryo…”
He exhaled softly and kissed your forehead, pulling away and lacing his hand with yours when the doctors and nurses came into the room. “You did enough sleeping for the both of us, I’ll be okay as long as you are.”
You looked at him in confusion again before shifting your attention to the doctors who were asking you far too many questions for you to catch up. By the time you were able to answer with no issue—and find out what happened to you—they were already scanning your stomach for the fetus.
“Your daughter is alright, Mrs. Snow. And your vitals are excellent, so you can expect to be out of here by tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest.” One doctor flashed the sonogram of your baby to you and Coriolanus, a small smile making its way to Coriolanus’ face before schooling it.
The doctor handed Coriolanus a prescription for some cream for your bruises, saying it was to help expedite the discoloration on your skin and ease the pain you would feel once the medication wore off.
You nod and thank her, watching all the doctors and nurses walk out before the door on the room clicked shut. You looked back over to your husband with bright eyes, excitement shining in them.
“Did you hear her?”
“I did.” He helped you sit up properly this time, tucking a piece of hair behind your hair and smiling at your giddiness. He chuckled under his breath when the shine in your eyes intensified, “We’re having a baby girl.”
“We’re having a baby girl.” You repeat almost in disbelief, squeezing his hand in mild shock at the information revealed.
Coriolanus pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his blue eyes meeting yours. “And I’m glad both you and her are safe. But next time we have to come out to the District’s—especially twelve—you’re staying with me.”
“Dramatic, Coryo.” You tease and plant a kiss to his lips.
“Careful.” He corrected and smiled when you kissed his lips again. He pulled away and thumbed your cheek. His gaze turned serious after the scene of you lying unconscious appeared in his mind once more. “I’m not going to see my wife in another hospital bed again unless our daughter is coming, alright?”
You nod and tilt your head to the side, the same glint Coriolanus always wore when speaking to those lower than him reflecting in your own eyes. “And those rebels?”
Coriolanus hummed, sitting up straight and tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves. “Already taken care of.”
I know I haven’t requested anything in a long LONG time but if you’re still up for it, could you please do a very protective snow fic?🥺🥺 like one when he’s so protective of his wife and new born daughter when doing an interview or like a presidential something 🥺🥺 if that’s okay with you!!
<3 <3 <3 this took forever but luv youuuu <3
౨ৎ꣑ৎNEXT QUESTION, PLEASE౨ৎ꣑ৎ
꣑ৎcoriolanus is protective of you in an interview꣑ৎ
fem reader x coriolanus snow
large text version here!
Even though the door shut quietly, you still woke up, humming and stretching where you were laying on the sofa. Turning onto your side, you settled back in, still sleepy. It was late; you fell asleep in front of the television.
A warm palm found your face, and you leaned into it, half sure you were dreaming. When you opened your eyes, Coriolanus was there, watching you with soft eyes. "Sweetheart."
His hands were smooth. You had only ever known them as a place to rest your cheek. "Coryo."
The corner of his mouth tipped up. "You're tired."
"Mhm." Your eyes widened suddenly, and you struggled to sit up. "Your interview. I slept through it."
"Shh." He soothed you with a hand on your back, bringing you forward to rest on his shoulder. Before he came over, he must have removed his suit jacket. You twisted your arms around him and yawned into his neck. Coriolanus kissed the side of your head and smoothed his fingers up your back. "It's alright. You didn't miss anything.
"I meant to stay up for it," you said, brow furrowing.
He reached up to smooth it out. "I wouldn't want you to watch it anyways."
He must be tired too. His voice was heavier than usual, and his arms were tight around your middle. You pulled back, searching his eyes. "Is everything okay?"
"Of course." Even if it was a bandaid over a snake bite, he wouldn't let on. You squinted at him and he smoothed your hair, your eyes growing heavy again. "We'll talk about it later. After you've gotten more rest."
"You need rest," you repeated, and he chuckled lightly.
"Arms around my neck. Yes, just like that." He lifted you into his arms, adjusting the strap of your nightdress when it fell off your shoulder. "Just close your eyes. We're going to go to bed."
"I want to hear 'bout it," you insisted, fingering his collar. "Please?"
"In the morning," he promised, "I'll tell you everything you want to know." When he laid you down on the bed, you stretched out, arms falling above your head. "I'll be right back. Do you think you can manage getting under the covers?"
You giggled, nodding. "I can do it." Coriolanus left you with a kiss on the forehead and you wiggled up to tuck yourself in. Closing your eyes, it felt like seconds before the mattress dipped and he was arranging himself around you.
"I thought you'd fall asleep," he muttered into your hair.
"Waited for you."
"Very generous." Coriolanus latched his arm around your front. "Now will you rest?"
"Don't know why you want me to sleep," you mumbled, arching into him, stretching. "I don't even do anything."
"You do plenty. Exactly what I want you to do." He rubbed your side, and you slumped into your pillow. "Just rest, sweetheart. You have nothing to worry about."
It was easy to believe him.
When you got up to get your breakfast tray, he was still passed out. It was hard to get him to sleep at all, let alone for this long. Settling beside him in bed with your trays at the end, you leaned against the headboard with his newspaper. Knowing him, he would probably wake in a few minutes, so you would wait to eat.
Unfolding the paper, you smoothed it down on your lap, surveying the black and white pictures. One of Coriolanus caught your eye, and you traced your finger to the story. One about the interview, so the headline said. Perking up, you settled in and started reading. At least if you knew what he was being interviewed about, then you would know what questions to ask.
Skimming, you searched for anything that would allude to his mysterious mood last night. When you read your name, you stopped and began to read.
The president's wife is not-so-secretly a sore topic among many high profile Capitolites. Snow has been criticized for her seemingly inappropriate behavior at her few public appearances. Several of her peers in high society have disclosed her too-sunny behavior, as well as her charity work, deemed unclean and unnecessary.
You frowned, pausing and mentally skimming over your work from the past few months. Attending the new theater and donating a large sum to the performing arts department, re-visiting the animal shelter where you adopted Fish, announcing a grant for scholarships to the university. Was any of it inappropriate? You thought Coriolanus would have told you if it was. He was very concerned with public image. Shrugging, you kept reading.
The tipping point in the media came recently, when Mrs. Snow attended a gala alongside the president. An inside source mocked her public display of affection toward President Snow. She was holding his hand throughout the night, even leaning her head on his shoulder at one point. The insider claimed the couple left the room at one point and when they returned, her makeup was smudged. What were they doing while they were missing for nearly fifteen minutes? We may never know.
The source detailed Mrs. Snow's conversation throughout the night too, her unnecessary showing off. "She's trying to seem smart," they said, rolling their eyes. "It's pointless, really. We all know why President Snow married her-"
You put the paper down. There was a horrible gnawing feeling in your chest threatening to overtake the rest of you. Folding your legs into your chest, you tried to will the tears pricking your eyes away. Was this really what everyone thought of you? That you were an empty headed socialite who spent all of your husband's money? Sniffling, you hid your face in your knees.
When Coriolanus began to stir next to you, you gritted your teeth, hoping your eyes weren't red. The door creaked open, and you looked up in time to see Fish strut inside, making his way to your side of the bed. You petted him when he sprang up, silky fur grounding you. Fish had seen you cry the most out of anybody in your life, and he never made you feel bad for it.
Coriolanus reached across your thighs, rubbing you slightly as he sat up. "Good morning, darling." He smoothed his hair back, the messy wave you loved. You brushed your cheeks with your fingers, making sure there weren't any stray tears.
"Morning." You turned to face him on your side, smiling softly. "How did you sleep?"
"Very well." He cupped your cheek, looking over you like you were a goddess. "You?"
"Good." His pleased nod lit your candle. You pulled the covers over your shoulders, burrowing back into bed. "I'm sleepy still."
Sitting up against the headboard, Coriolanus opened his arm. "Come rest while we eat breakfast." He spotted the paper on your lap. "Were you reading that?"
"Uh, just a little." You shrugged, pushing it away. "Nothing good."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Anything about last night?"
"No!" Your answer came too quickly. Your husband reached for the paper, still open on the story about his interview.
He went quiet as he read, and you curled into yourself, face going hot. "It's nothing, Coryo. Nothing."
When he looked at you again, he was sharp. "How much of this did you read?" You folded your lips together and a fire lit in his eyes. "I have a call to make."
"Coryo." You sprang up, shaking your head. "It's fine."
"Nothing about this is fine." His voice could cut steel. "Printing lies about the president's wife when I specifically told them last night to cut the questions I refused to answer is punishable."
"They asked you about me?" You covered your cheeks with your hands, feeling too hot all of the sudden. It was mortifying, the thought of him being asked about you with the connotations the article implied.
He softened as he looked at you. "Sweetheart, it isn't your fault."
"Coryo, everything they said-"
"None of it is true. You know how the gossip rags are." He took your wrists, pulling your hands down. "You have done nothing wrong. People jump to conclusions and make things up because they're bored."
"Coryo, they talk about when we stepped out," you said, tears burning your eyes again. "They thought we were-"
"We know we weren't." He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles. "You were overwhelmed, and you needed a few minutes. I won't let what people say stop us from doing it again."
"After all this time, I'm still not used to these events." You felt tired. "If people are going to think we're being crude when we step out, I'll just deal with it. If they think I'm spending all your money on bags and shoes or trying to get a tax break, then I'll stop going out."
"No, you won't." Coriolanus thumbed a tear that slipped down your cheek. "You aren't going to stop doing anything you love doing. We're going to keep moving."
"I don't know how to do this," you said, shaking your head and hiding your face in your hands. "Coryo, I don't want to ruin your reputation. I want to be a good First Lady."
"You are a good First Lady." He took your hands from your face. "Sweetheart, you've already done more than anybody before you."
"I'm embarrassing."
"You're charming. Enchanting." He took your face in his hands, kissing your forehead. "You make me look better. People vote for me because they see you next to me."
"I'm not a good person."
"You're the best person I know." Coriolanus palmed your cheek. "I won't let anybody in the world make you feel like that again." He searched your eyes, letting it sink in. "You have no idea how much you mean, my love."
Tears pricked your eyes again, and you leaned into his shoulder. Coriolanus held you, rubbing your back. "Don't worry about anything they say. I'll take care of it."
You didn't question it, even though maybe you should have. All that mattered right now was his arms around you, his promise echoing in your ears. Fish curled up at your feet, purring like a motor. There was no doubt in the love you were surrounded by.
"I'll protect you forever," he vowed, and you could hear his heart beating into your ear. A rose that would never stop blooming.
SUMMARY. in which tom blyth can’t let go of your hand after an intense argument scene in your film
installment of this au | your character and Tom’s lines in the film are written in italics
“Action!”
Tom and you have probably been on your tenth cut by now, the scene was an argument between yours and his character, Balleona and Coriolanus. It was fierce and intense, filled with lots of angry yelling and a few tears.
Needless to say, your director was on both of your asses to make sure you got everything down perfectly, from the lines and hand movements to the crocodile tears.
“You can’t just expect everything to be okay Coriolanus!” You yell exasperated. You look up at Tom, who was currently looking down at you with a cold gaze. “You decided to cheat! You decide to risk your entire career for Lucy Gray, now you go sit with the consequences!”
Tom slams his hand on the table nearby, making you flinch back. “I had to! I did it for us! All of it! The rat poison—the scarf—I did everything for us! And now you repay me by yelling at me like a child?!”
You push Tom back with an accusing finger, eyes lingering with hurt. “You’re acting like a child Coriolanus Snow! I told you that my family has enough money, enough for you to go to university. But you just had to ruin the entire system, didn’t you? Is it Lucy Gray? The disgusting filth from District 12? Is she influencing you?”
Tom places his hand on your chin, grabbing it harshly, making you let out a whine.
“You don’t speak about her like that, do you understand?” Tom tightens his grip, making your hands come up to try to get out of his grasp. “Do you understand?!” He yells, causing you to close your eyes tightly.
“Let me go, you’re hurting me.” You say, “Coryo, let go, you’re hurting me.”
Tom’s eyes suddenly switched from anger to softness, and he lets go of his hold on your face. “I’m sorry sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
He brings you into a hug, letting you bury your head into his chest. “You know I didn’t mean it right? You know you’re more important to me than Lucy Gray—that’s why I did all of this. It was for you.”
You nod, letting out a few tears. Tom breaks the hug to hold your hand, his other one coming up to wipe them away.
“And.. cut!”
Tom stops wiping the tears that have fallen down to your cheeks, sighing in relief when the director says that they don’t have to redo the scene again.
However, he’s still holding tightly on your hand, nodding slowly at each of the words that come out from the director’s mouth.
“You okay?” You whisper to him.
“Hm? Yeah, no, I’m fine.” He reassures you, smiling down at your figure. “I’m a bit thirsty. Water?”
You smile and nod, letting him walk you two over to the water dispenser. He’s still holding firmly onto your hand, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by your co stars, Rachel and Josh.
“Geez Blyth, do you always have such a possessive hold on our dear Y/N here?” Rachel jokes, smiling teasingly at you two.
You roll your eyes, looking up at your boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to hear Rachel’s words, instead, focusing on getting the two of you water.
“Do you want some Rachel? Josh?”
“I’m good,” Rachel replies, “and Josh is too. We were gonna head out to this smoothie place for our lunch break.”
“Ah.” With his free hand, Tom pulls you closer to him until you’re practically leaning against him. “Well have fun you two.”
Rachel and Josh say their thanks, but before they leave, Rachel slips by you, whispering “he’s stuck to you like glue, isn’t he?” in your ear.
You try to hold in your smile, butterflies filling your stomach. Despite shooting the scene 15 minutes ago, Tom was still holding onto your hand as if you were his lifeline.
“Hey babe,” you say, which automatically makes all the gears in Tom’s hand focus their attention on you.
“Hm?”
“How come you’re still holding onto my hand?”
He seems to be surprised at your words, glancing down briefly at your intertwined fingers.
“Oh, I didn’t realize.” He says, shrugging.
“Yeah,” you tease him. “Obsessed with me aren’t you?”
He rolls his eyes, but nods in agreement. “Just a habit I guess. I felt really bad for yelling at you so much in the scene and grabbing your face. I’d never do that in real life.”
You let out a laugh, making Tom furrow his eyebrows in confusion.
“Aww Tom,” you say, leaning into his chest with your head. “I know you would never do that in real life baby. It’s just acting.”
“I know,” he sighs. “I just hate arguing with you, whether it’s acting or not. Coriolanus is a loser for not realizing what he has, you know.”
Now that made you laugh even louder, “yeah, but Tom Blyth is a sweetheart.” You tippy toe to reach his nose, placing a small kiss on the bridge of it. “I love you.”
Imagine how distraught snow would be if his wife had a really rough time giving birth to their child where she’s coming in and out of conscience and there’s blood and he’s terrified she won’t make it like his mother leading to him hating the baby for a little bc of how badly his wife was recovering sorry for the angst! Ignore this if uncomfortable <3
forever winter |young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader|
prompt: as requested, troubles with child birth leaves coriolanus very cold towards your son.
contains: angst. mentions of parental death, blood, complications during birth. darkish coriolanus. kinda fluffy-ish end?
Coriolanus knew the horrors of childbirth. He knew the dangers, the risks. He’d seen the blank stares of a new mother rocking her baby, eyes blank and distant like she’d been through war. He’d heard the solemn whispers in a dim room, quiet and hushed, darting eyes that looked everywhere but the casket- sometimes two. His own mother had been torn from his grasp at a young age because of it, and for a while, he was sure he’d never let his own wife experience it.
Then he met you.
You who lit his world up from the inside out, who he rose only each day to see- to love. You who cradled a baby at your engagement announcement, a friend’s newborn, held him so naturally and delicately that it ignited something inside Coriolanus. He wanted a dozen babies with you, he decided at that moment that he’d do anything to make it happen.
You’d blossomed so naturally, swelled up overnight. Round belly and a glowing demeanor- it was addictive to Coriolanus. How he’d brag, boast proudly to anyone who’d hear it- his wife pregnant, he couldn’t be happier.
All those fears, worries, were replaced with new ones. Horror stories about infants, toddlers. His own consuming thoughts about being a father. The idea of childbirth was nothing but a fading thought to him. That had been in the war, technology was better, he was in a better place. Your father had ensured his darling daughter would have the best of the best- you always did. The best doctors, the best birthing suite, the best nursery- the best.
But money couldn’t buy your own body betraying itself at birth. It didn’t stop the bleeding, the paling of your skin as you fluttered in and out of consciousness.
You’d grunted like an animal, tearing yourself into two for hours, cursing Coriolanus’ name, begging him to make it stop, crushing his hands with your legs up in the stirrups, pushing your baby out.
Coriolanus was in awe of you, though he’d never get the chance to tell you. How you’d willed yourself to hurt yourself, inflict that selfless pain to bring life into the world. It was positively poetic.
He’d been so overjoyed hearing your babies gargled cry, the nurses announcing its gender- his gender. His son. A boy. A beautiful boy, wailing and delicate and covered in matter that Coriolanus didn’t even care about when he held him close to his own chest.
“What is it, Coryo?” You muttered, eyes drooping, chest heaving with aftershocks of pain from the birth.
“A boy, my love.” Coryo’s eyes shone with tears, lips pressing together to conceal it. “It’s a boy. Our boy, my darling.”
“A boy…” Your speech was slurred, head lolling back onto the pillow.
Coriolanus noticed for the first time how still the room had become, his son’s wailing the only sound. The nurses and doctors, once chipper and gleeful, now bearing a sickly paleness to their face, eerily quiet.
“What? What’s wrong?” Coriolanus snapped, eyes wide, frantic, bouncing around the room. “What’s happening?”
“We-We can’t find-” The doctor’s voice shook, ducked between your legs in a pile of crimson. Coriolanus’ stomach turned violently.
“She’s bleeding. We-We can’t find where the bleeding is.” The nurse whispered.
“What?” Coriolanus snapped. “Bleeding? H-How can she- Find it!” The baby wailed over the sound of Coriolanus’ demanding barks.
“President Snow, we-we’re trying our best-”
“-Try harder.” Coriolanus sneered, clutching the baby closer to his chest. “If anything happens to my wife, I will single handedly ensure your bloodline ends with you. Each of you will know what it feels like to lose your family too if you lose her.” He spat, sending the nurses and doctors into a fearful frenzy.
The newborn wailed, doctors shouted, and Coriolanus’ ears rang, his chest too tight, painfully tight. He couldn’t lose you, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t survive that loss. His eyes fell to the screeching baby beneath him, scrunched face and wailing gums. How was he to raise this baby without you?
Anger boiled through his chest at the sight of his son- his fault. A cowering nurse, frozen in shaking fear in the corner, watched him carefully as he stormed towards her. “Take this.” Coriolanus sneered, shoving the baby in her arms.
He hated the feeling, the helplessness that consumed him as he stood, wide eyed and shaking hands he clenched into fists.
Somewhere, somehow, the doctor found the bleeding, stopping it with a triumphant cry. “Get the blood, get the blood!” He shouted, head hooked over his shoulder. “Infuse it now!”
Coriolanus wasn’t sure he could remember how to breathe. Memories of the two of your: the moment you met, the first date, his shaking hands asking for yours in marriage, the way you beamed under your veil at the altar, the same glow that you had when you told him you were pregnant. It could all be gone so easily. Had his father felt this way? So helpless?
Maybe that’s why he’d been so hardened and resentful, so he’d never feel attached- never allow himself to feel so helpless.
Coriolanus decided he couldn’t blame him, sitting in this chair, watching as you rested. The doctor said there’d be a lot of that in the coming hours. That you’d gone through trauma and you needed time. He wanted to rip you from the bed, shake you until you awoke and told him you were ok. He needed to hear it, maddenned himself with the need for it.
Instead, he sat.
Coryo sent the baby out to the nursery. He knew your parents, Tigris, everyone waiting would be thrilled to see the baby boy. Coryo just couldn’t muster the feigned excitement now. The site of his own son made his stomach turn, fear soaked repulsion settled deep in the pitt of his own core.
Somewhere in the night, you awoke. A rustling and a groan that had Coriolanus snapping out of his dazed sleep, head tucked to his shoulder, slumped in the chair beside your bed.
“Don’t move.” Coryo commanded, eyes a kind of bright, frantic wide that had you stilling.
Your throat burned, head dizzy with the medicine they’d pumped into your system. Coriolanus’ hands shook as he brought you the water, hand cupping your jaw gently to feed it to you. You blinked, bleary with confusion. “You’re alright, my love.” Coriolanus' heart swelled, suffocatingly in his own chest. You were alright.
“Coryo,” You croaked, throat tight, rasping from before, you were sure. You remembered the birth, most of it anyways, the blurry memory of your baby in Coryo’s arms before your memory failed. “The-The baby… Is he alright? W-Where’s my baby?”
“He’s with your parents, my love.” Coriolanus’ hand smoothes down your matted hair, sticky with dried sweat. “Nevermind him. How are you? Is anything wrong? Do you need anything? I-I’ll call for the nurse.”
You shook your head, looking around the room. The sheets were clean, your gown clean, but you felt an achy soreness splitting you in half. “What happened?”
Coriolanus felt the lump in his throat grow, strangling his words in his throat. “Y-You had some complications, darling.” He swallowed the burn of his own tears down in his throat. “You were bleeding but they stopped it.”
You blinked, unmoving, soaking in the details of your injury. Coriolanus watched you with a studying glare, eyes scanning for any tiny, minor infliction that something was wrong. “Is-Is the baby ok?” You whispered, eyes shining with fear when you met his gaze.
“The baby’s fine.” Coryo snapped, harsher than he meant to. It alarmed you, your eyes snapping to his carefully. He took a deep breath, holding your hand carefully into his own, thumb running over your knuckles.
“He’s fine.” Coryo said, softer this time. “I need to know how you are. What do you need from me, my love? What can I do to make it better?”
You squeezed his hand lightly, your strength weaker than normal. It made Coriolanus’ spine tingle with shooting chills of concern. “I want to see my baby.” You whispered, head leaning against Coryo’s shoulder.
“No,” Coriolanus shook his head furiously. “No, you-you need to rest, and-and not be bothered by the baby-”
“-Coryo,” Your eyes rounded, so pitifully pleading Coriolanus would have walked through fire for you if you asked him to. “Please? I just want to see our baby.”
And how could he say no? He couldn’t, so instead, Coriolanus called the nurse in. Your parents, proud grandparents, holding the baby, tutting over you. Everyone flitting about the birthing room, Tigris even gleaming with joy at the birth of her nephew. All except Coriolanus, who watched in the corner of the room, a stoic look on his face.
You looked positively radiant, glowing with joy as you held your son. As if that baby hadn’t nearly killed you, Coriolanus wanted to scream the reminder to you, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t dare upset you, risk upsetting you in front of your family.
“Coriolanus,” Tigris’ soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts, brought him away from his own sinking, heavy feelings of disappointment. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Tigris.” Coryo’s voice was tight, firm and forced, like the look of awkward contentment he tried to paint across his features.
“You… You haven’t held your son.” Tigris hesitated, voice dropping softly so the others wouldn’t overhear.
“I don’t wish to hold him right now.” Coriolanus sneered.
“He is your son, Coriolanus.” Tigris hissed, her voice dropping to a low hush in the room, terrified you or the others might hear.
“And he almost killed her.” Coryo’s eyes flashed to Tigris’ in horrified rage. “Nearly fated her as my sister did my mother, and if you think for one second I am to be happy at that, then you are-”
“-Coryo,” Your voice croaked, still weak and tired. It made his heart lurch, attention on you in a second, already walking towards your bedside.
“Yes, my love? What do you need?” Coriolanus muttered. Normally, he’d be embarrassed, showing such affection especially in front of your parents, but he hoped they’d pardon his vulnerability in the moment, given the circumstances.
“Look at him,” Your eyes shone with love, pure adoration, as if you weren’t cradling the very thing that almost killed you. It made Coryo sick. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
Coriolanus looked down at the small newborn, wrapped in swaddles, eyes closed and lips twitching with the faintest whimper of a cry. He looked so much like you, so much like himself- the perfect blend of the two of you taking your lips but Coriolanus’ nose.
His heart swelled with pride before he could help it, lips curling in a half smile. He’d grown weak, Coriolanus decided, softened by you and your love. He should be disgusted by the baby, despise him and reject him like an animal in the wild would. But he couldn’t bring himself to it.
“A fine young boy.” Your father boasted, nodding proudly. “The two of you should be very proud.”
“Yes,” Coryo swallowed around the lump in his throat. You leaned into his touch, shifting the baby so he could better see him.
“Any idea on the name?” Your mother hummed, moving beside you.
“I still think Cyrene would be fitting.” You’re beaming, beautiful and proud when you meet Coriolanus’ gaze. “What do you think, Coryo?”
“Yes,” Coryo nodded. “I think that would be a fine name.”
“Cyrene Snow,” You cooed, pressing your nose to the baby’s, pressing a gentle kiss there. Your eyes brimmed with tears when you met Coriolanus’ gaze. “Do you want to hold him, darling?”
“Are you getting tired?” Coryo watched you carefully. “Do you feel alright?”
“Yes,” You nodded. “I don’t want to hog the baby. Want you to have a chance too, darling.”
“That’s alright.” Coryo shook his head politely, suddenly very aware of your parents and Tigris’ gaze on him. “You hold him, my love.”
You frowned lightly. You knew something was off with Coryo, the tightness in his tone, lips falling in a flat line. You waited until later, when Cyrene lay in his bassinet, your family all gone for the night, just you and Coryo in the birthing suite.
“Why will you not hold him?” You asked through the still darkness. Coriolanus' eyes snapped to yours fiercely, startled by your tone.
“Excuse me?”
“Our baby.” You groaned when you sat up, Coryo rushing to your side.
“You need to be careful-”
“-You won’t hold him, Coriolanus.” You gripped his arm, eyes shining in something new- something Coryo wasn’t certain of, but it made his stomach twist. “Why?”
Coriolanus swallowed, the lump in his throat suffocating him. “The last time I held him,” Coryo’s voice was soft, rasping in the quiet room, barely above a whisper. “You nearly died.”
The room was still, far too still for either of you to find comfort. A harsh, shocking truth for the both of you, sickening and cruel. Your near damned fated reality, Coriolanus’ worst fears, the peaceful baby resting in the bassinet besides the two of you.
Pressed into the side of your hospital bed, Coriolanus held you carefully, a stilled reminder that you were still there, that you hadn’t left him. The icy wall he’d built high for his son melted with every soft coo and whisper you gave him, a reminder that you were still with him and would be.
When Coryo finally held Cyrene again, when he’d stirred awake and you were asleep, he turned to the window overlooking Panem’s Capitol, eyes shining with tears- of regret, joy, pain? Even Coryo wasn’t sure, but he rocked his son to sleep carefully, promising him that one day, he’d have what Coryo had. That he wouldn’t leave him the way his father had, that he’d keep him safe, teach him how to keep you safe.
coriolanus snow is not a good man— he watches you from afar, eyes like a hawk and plush bottom lip pulled between his teeth. he doesn’t know if he’s being obvious and he doesn’t particularly care. he feels his teeth clench when you laugh and chat with other men, something hot and unpleasant stirring below his ribs. it should be him that makes you giggle like that, makes your nose scrunch like a little bunny rabbit at a joke. jealousy stings and he finds himself having cruel thoughts about things he wishes would happen to those other boys.
coriolanus snow is not a good man— but you speak to him so kindly, so softly. he’s never once mentioned anything about his home life, careful to keep up his facade. but you? you notice the way his cheeks are hollow, the way his belt has extra notches punched into it to tighten further. you wordlessly slide him a granola bar in class and pretend you don’t hear the way his stomach gasps the way he refuses to let his mouth do. you bring him a tin of cookies you “had leftover” the night before, filled with chocolate chips and butter that will bring his calorie count for the day up. he doesn’t say thank you, but the way the corners of his lips twitch upwards and his gaze softens when you pass him a pastry under the school desk is enough thanks for you.
coriolanus snow is not a good man— his hands shake sometimes, when he remembers the way sejanus had cried for him to help at the hanging tree. when he remembers the sound of his only friend’s neck snapping and echoing, the way it sent chills down his spine and he felt like vomiting. he did that. he killed sejanus. he is a murderer, and yet you still brush his hair back in the middle of the night. its starting to grow again, pale locks falling over his brow. he is a murderer, and you still kiss his temple. you still whisper that you love him, that he’ll be okay.
coriolanus snow is not a good man— the sore in his mouth aches, a necessary evil to ensure your safety. he’d had no other choice, that senator from 2 was eyeing you all evening at dinner. for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t let it get to him. he’s a president now, not some unhinged teenage boy. but the way that man had touched you, let his fingers linger at your waist, that would simply not do. you are the first lady of panem, you were untouchable. to anyone but him, of course. as you pass by him where he sits, you tut softly and pause to brush the blood off his lip, licking the red fluid off your own fingertip and dropping a kiss to his head. you remind him to be careful.
but coryo is good to you— he touches you so carefully, hands so gentle. his fingertips are always cold, but it never bothers you. not when they brush against your hairline, his palms cradling your cheeks as he kisses you like a man starved. not when they graze the bare skin of your back, your chest flush with his as his lips make their way down your neck. not when they squeeze at your hips, your thighs splayed out around his own waist and trembling with the way he pushes his cock up into you. not when they caress your cheek in the morning, his soft whispers of “good morning, sweetheart,” echoing in your ears.
coriolanus snow is not a good man. but he is your man.
[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.268 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; VERY dark content; NSFW; Strong Language; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; a lot of overly complicated situationships; Sejanus is a loverboy and that is CANON, don’t come at me; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar/context mistakes you might find find.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Life in District 12 never was easy. But after your old friend Lucy Gray comes back from the Hunger Games, bringing with her two strange Capitol boys in peacekeepers' uniforms, you might discover that there's more to fear in your district home than the horrors you were already accostumed to.
Likes, asks reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. This chapter is a little heavier than usual. Please read the highlighted warnings and proceed accordingly. PUT YOUR MENTAL HEALTH FIRST.
It’s always dark inside the wolf’s stomach.
Every night since Lucy Gray came back, you’ve been having the same dream, night after night: You’re in your sleeping clothes, watching over your flock. The dog’s rushing by your side, weaving in and out of the wayfaring sea of wooly backs and ringing bells, when, from far away, you see a wolf—white as the pure driven snow, and covered in blood— Its yellow eyes pierce into you, shimmering white and gold with something like humor, as if he'd found the easiest prey a predator could hope for, and was amused by that fact.
Frightened, you pull the lambs in by your shepherd’s crook, and whistle to the dog, rounding up the sheep you can reach towards their corral.
But the wolf’s already moving.
You look down to pick up a lamb that has stumbled, and when you look up again, the wolf’s gone.
The dog runs, barking, guiding, and the sheep scatter, their bells jangling loudly as they rush towards you, filtering into the corral like water through a dam.
You don’t feel any better.
You're standing up to your hips in grass, uselessly looking around for a predator that might as well be right in front of you, waiting to pounce.
A shiver runs down your spine.
You close the corral, and shout for the dog.
No barks ring out as answer.
You climb on the fence, count the heads, call again. “Ori! Ori!” Nothing. Your heart races. “Ori! Heel, boy!”
Your command rings hollow into the darkness, empty and fearful. No answer is heard.
The silence that follows presses down on you like the weight of the world.
You hop off the fence, landing hard, and stumble through the tall grass, ears pricked for any sound—steps, growling, a bark, anything.
You tell yourself to leave him, that he’s a dog and he’ll find his way back. You tell yourself this isn’t the first time he’s run off and that it won’t be the last. You tell yourself that you love him, but that your family can't afford for you to die.
But you know the wolf is out there.
And not only do you know that, but you know that you could never stomach the thought of Ori, sweet Ori, that licks at your heels and sits at your feet, wagging his tail, dead, desecrated and dismembered by some soulless beast.
Your father might get another of him, but he couldn't get you another conscience, much less relieve you of your guilt.
So you step out into the grass, not brave, but worried, and get six steps from the corral before you look over your shoulder.
The sheep watch you with the placid blankness of a child that watches its father head into war, hoping, though not believing, that he'll give up on honor and turn back around— It’s not honor, though. You tell yourself. Ori's my dog. He's my responsibility. I can’t let him die, out here, alone, without even trying. He'd try for me.
You step further out, brushing through the reeds, letting them slap at your bare legs.
They’re wet with dew, or blood, or both. Something dark stripes the cotton of your nightdress, metallic and pungent, soaking through the fabric like a sin. The whole night smells like it. Like danger. Like endings.
Wrong.
The sky above is heavy with clouds, bloated and grey, and the moon flickers behind them, milky and bruised like the blind eye of God.
“Ori,” You call out again, the word barely louder than breath. “Please.”
The grass is taller now—Up to your chest as you ease down the slope, parting through it with your stock—your field of vision growing dimmer as your lamp burns out in the distance, hanging from the pole by the corral, and the green beneath you just begins to brush your chin as the soil turns slicker and less trustworthy.
Something buzzes through you then: a weird feeling, a sixth sense.
You're frozen on the sloped ground for a moment, heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Ori?”
The word echoes out, murky, as if it had been said underwater. But your eyes sharpen for a moment as you set your sights to your side.
A shape in the field.
Motion amidst the grass.
The wind howls.
The shape moves.
Ori bursts from the grass like a hummingbird, barreling toward you with his tail wagging.
You fall to your knees, arms already outstretched, laughing even as you’re crying, your voice trembling with something close to hysteria.
But Ori isn’t alone.
He’s carrying something in his mouth. You think, a rabbit, or a squirrel. But he trots closer and you see the snout. The eyes. The little teeth.
It’s a wolf’s head.
A cub’s.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Ori drops it at your feet, proud, tongue lolling out of his mouth like he expects praise.
But you can barely breathe, let alone move to pet him. You stare down at the severed head, at the fur and the blood and the eyes, laying cold against the grass that swallows you whole, unsure whether to keep frozen or to make a break for the safety back at top.
The head looks up at you with its glassy black eyes empty of life, frozen in the terror of its last seconds. Its mouth is open, the little razor-sharp teeth still stained with the blood of the last meal its mother must have fed him.
It’s tiny. Too tiny.
What are the odds that it was alone? That Ori found it circling, that he ripped its head off of its little body for no reason at all?
You look at your Ori. At his dark, loving eyes. His long soft fur, black and brown, perfectly dry.
There's no blood on his mouth.
No blood on his fur.
He's clean as he's ever been, soul uncorrupted. This wasn’t a sacrifice. This was a find.
Your gut churns.
You reach down with trembling fingers, parting the little wolf's fur.
The bite mark on the neck is clean.
Too clean.
The bone cut straight, not even broken.
Everything stinks of copper.
Of rot.
Of something wrong, and half-alive.
Something dangerous.
You don’t hear footsteps.
You feel them. Like thunder through the earth.
Ori’s ears perk up. His teeth peek out from under his lips in a growl, soaked in a sort of anger you've never seen in him.
You stand and turn at the same time as the world falls silent.
A shadow rises at the edge of the field, parting through the tall grass like a battleship emerging from the foggy waves. It moves like a thought. Like grief. Silent, steady, huge.
Its fur is white, impossibly white, but its mouth drips red, and you realize then, despite all logic—the blood on its fur isn't the cub’s, or Ori's or any other thing's.
It's yours.
Your hand flies to your throat.
You feel it now. Wet. Warm. Pulsing. A bite mark. A sting. You hadn’t felt it before. You hadn’t seen it. But now it sears, agonising.
You fall to your knees.
Ori barks down at you—sharp, desperate. You try to push him, hands flapping aimlessly across the grass. “Run!” You beg. But he doesn’t move. “Ori, run! The sheep!”
You try to crawl away, try to put some distance between the beast and the dog —between the beast and you— but the pain around your neck overwhelms you, the blood on the grass consumes you, and your eyes are still caught on the wolf.
On its bright yellow eyes.
On its pristine white coat.
On the blood that drips from its mouth and down its chest, not like he's stained with the mark of a kill, but as if it's frothing from the mouth with disease, an illness neither of you can place.
The thing bares its teeth, but doesn’t growl. It holds your gaze for a moment, eyes shimmering white and gold once again.
When you see it huff, you almost think it's laughing.
But it doesn’t give you too long to ponder.
It lunges before you can think any more.
You don’t scream. Don’t try to run. There’s no time. Only the weight of it on your chest, the hot breath, the snapping of bone.
Teeth bracket your neck. Your chest. Your torso. Then—snap.
Silence again.
Your body floats.
Weightless.
But not free.
Because in the flick of an eye you’re falling down its throat, swallowed whole, but not unharmed.
The world around you pulses red and black. Dark. Lost. Repulsive.
You’re in the belly of the beast now, surrounded by heat, slick walls closing in, pressing against the searing around your neck.
You try to breathe and choke on blood. Your arms don’t move. You feel yourself slipping. Slipping deeper. Being digested.
You don’t know how long you’re there.
Only that you're bleeding.
Getting weaker.
And that the end is near.
The dark closes in.
You're pulsing.
Soaked in your own blood, being corroded by stomach acid, your wounds reeking with the saliva of a beast that barely bothered to sink its teeth into you before pulling you in.
This can't be how it ends, God. You think to yourself. Let this thing choke on my bones and die. Let the weight of me bring it down to the point it can't run anymore. Let it be devoured as it has devoured me.
You feel the movement around you.
The wolf keeps walking.
Breathing.
Huffing.
And you're wasting away.
Until you wake up.
In your bed.
At daybreak.
The sun is barely visible through the window of your caravan, the slightest bit of light bleeding from beneath the hill it hides behind, but you stumble out of your bed so fast you nearly tumble into your grandmother’s.
Your breath is haggard.
Your skin is damp with sweat.
Your ears are ringing.
You sink your face into your hands and sit, exhausted, and yet so completely horrified that you can't bear to keep your eyes closed.
The feeling lingers against your arms—the warm, overbearing wetness of that wolf’s stomach lining, squeezing at you, trying to dissolve you down into a meal and nothing more. Trying to reduce your whole existence to the little that he needs from you: fats, fiber, nutrients. When all is said and done, you suppose that’s all you really are.
The thought tears a shiver down your spine, quick and painful like an electric shock.
You jerk upright, standing again.
You need a bath.
The acrid smell of bile, blood and drool still clings to the inside of your nostrils as you step out of the caravan, bringing the first blanket you can find to dry yourself with as you go about your way. The wind howls outside, low and warning, cold as you imagine heaven must be.
You take a deep breath, heart still racing.
Grass.
Rain.
Mud.
Petrichor.
The air is as fresh as the rain that must’ve just fallen. You stare out at the horizon, at the tall grass your dreams had you being hunted through, at the sheep, still sleeping in the makeshift corral you locked them into last night, at all the other caravans standing guard around yours—your father’s, your uncles’, your cousins’, your grandfather’s— and for a second, it’s like you’re waiting for death.
The stillness consumes you, same way you think it must have consumed Lucy Gray, in those long days hiding inside air vents and underground rooms during the games. That frozen horror that comes from half-dreading, half-hoping that death comes at you quick.
You think about your brother and his air gun.
Think of the first time you saw him put down one of your flock: a black ewe you called Yawwie. Barely done weaning litter, she'd caught a fever, and started crying. Baaing. Screaming day and night. She was bothering the lambs, so your father sent Isaac down with the air gun to cull her, and you'd come along, still clinging to his tunic, too young to understand it's better not to see certain things.
He put the gun to crying Yawwie's temple, and told you not to look.
You closed your eyes, and promptly opened them. The pellet was quicker than your eyes could flick. But you saw how the light went out of Yewwie's eyes. Heard how the baas’ died in her open mouth. And stared at the wound left there, gaping and bloody, at the center of her head—You could never look at a black sheep quite the same again. Maybe it was a given that you and Lucy Gray wouldn't last. But when you had watched the games to see her, you found yourself hoping someone would go out and do her the mercy your brother had done Yawwie that day, and put her out quick, before she could think of it.
Despite it all, when she won, you were relieved.
And when you realized that meant you'd have to see her again, all that relief went out the window.
She'd already been the living ghost of your friendship before she left. Now she was the living ghost of the girl she had been. Just as charming and twice as empty.
The airgun is sitting above the door, heavy and threatening even in stillness as you pick it up.
Maybe you could still do her the mercy. You think.
Blood on the ground.
Empty eyes.
Heaven.
But you shake your head.
Or maybe you should take a plunge before you think anything even stupider. Your mind snaps.
You shake your head.
Breathe out.
Keep walking.
You're wading through the grass, the reeds clinging to your nightclothes, smearing it with dew that seeps through the fabric and through to you like sin—It's routine, you tell yourself. you do this everyday, have done since you were a child. But you can’t help but be unsettled.
It's too similar.
Too still.
You blink rapidly, as if it could clarify to you whether you've actually left the dream or not, and though you know instinctively that you have, you keep looking over your shoulder to see if you can spot a blur of white fur coming your way.
Your fingers are tight around the airgun. They remain like that until you're standing at the lake, ankle-deep in ice-cold water, and still hesitant to let it go.
Wolves can't wield guns. You tell yourself stupidly, as you peel the nightgown off of you and set it above the blanket. They can't laugh either, Another voice counters. but here you are.
Yes, here you are.
You barely feel the cold anymore.
The lake’s still as glass, your movement starting the only waves that move across its surface as you enter.
Your breath comes out in clouds even though you’re only half-submerged, drifting to where your feet can’t touch the lakebank mud—You swim a little farther, sink a little deeper, and sit up on a big rock until the water's coming up to your chin. The loose ends of your hair brush the water's surface even as most of it is up in the same style you had on the previous day, but you don’t care. You want the cold to consume you, to pierce through your skin and settle into your bones, even if just for a moment, hoping it'll somehow erase the half-hearted warmth of sitting inside a wolf's stomach from your memory.
But the nightmare clings to you.
You can’t shake it off. You never do.
Your clothes sit folded on the shore, your blanket, wrapped around the gun, draped over a flat stone to catch what little sunlight there is. You could swim to them, if you wanted to. Wrap yourself up in wool, retreating into a cocoon to stretch back into the ‘comfort’ of childhood, and pretend you’re safe right there. But there’s no use in pretending when even your fantasies are tainted by fear.
Nothing here is pure.
Not your thoughts, not your dreams, least of all your reality.
Nothing has ever been pure since the peacekeepers rounded you up and tore you out of Eleven.
This wolf you're dreading never really goes away, only changes coat: First it was those peacekeepers. Then it was the fear of being called into the games. Now it's Lucy Gray Baird, back from the dead in another coat of fur.
You should just accept you'll never have peace and be done with it—Resign yourself to your life of nightmares and paranoia, hoping neither one nor the other comes true. But your chest burns with the idea.
You've buried your head on the sand for as long as you can remember. And it's never helped you —worse, on more than one occasion, discretion was what got you bruised.
Somehow, you're always in the crosshairs of whatever disaster happens to befall the people around you.
Somehow, everything always crashes on you.
Your eyes shift towards the bank—From under the fabrics on the rock, you can see the faint outline of the airgun sitting there, unprotected, unwatched— Maybe something else could crash against you.
You look around for a moment, watching the hill you descended from, trying to spot any faces amidst what you can see of the caravans from over the tall, tall grass.
The only movement is born from the wind, falling from the hilltop and down towards you, light and forgiving, like a kiss. It feels like encouragement.
You think of Yawwie.
Of her screams, her pain, gone in a fraction of a second.
silent, almost bloodless.
Your mind wanders.
You think of the end. Of peace. Of no longer feeling guilty as you walk along your family, burdened with their worry for you.
Of your younger brother inheriting your shoes, walking comfortably in your absence, the cost of your living subtracted from their finances.
Of your older brother finally going out to get married, having children, forgetting there was ever a sister to weigh him down.
Maybe it would be for the best.
You turn your body towards the shore, swimming slowly. The water laps at you with the ease of an embrace, as if its saying its goodbyes to you.
– Goodbye, – You murmur, the breath making small waves across the surface where it brushes the water.
Your toes scrape softly against the stone.
You're at peace, for once.
In the silence, your mind is empty.
Until a crack breaks through the silence. Sharp. Close.
A gunshot.
The sound echoes loud around your surroundings, seeping into your mind and bouncing off the walls of your skull.
Your heart drops.
Your body reacts before your mind does—muscles tensing, legs folding up instinctively. You rush back to your solid footing and sink lower, lips just above the surface, eyes scanning every leaf and tree bark on the bank. The mist hangs low, curling densely around the treeline beside your family's hill like it’s trying to hide something, but the sound gives it away.
Another gunshot rings out, and this one meets its target, the sound suddenly interrupted as the bullet meets something else.
Your eyes lock closed.
Nobody's dead. You pray to yourself. It's just some moron with a shotgun pretending to hunt. Nobody's dead. Nobody's dead. But your mind rushes. You think of Sammy, only ten years old. Of Isaac, not even married yet. Of your father. Your uncle. Your little cousins. God, please let them not have wandered into the woods again. Let them be safe and asleep and alive in their beds, as they should be.
A voice follows the second gunshot, muffled but clear in tone—irritated, frantic. A second one laughs in reply, louder, looser. Careless.
You can’t keep your eyes closed for long. Terrified, they peek open, scanning the extension of the water before you before drifting through the treeline once again.
Low and behold, there's movement.
You spot the hat first.
Dark blue, frayed at the edges, tugged low over blond curls that haven’t been brushed in days. Spruce. There’s a shotgun in his hands, and he’s pointing it skyward, grinning as a flock of startled birds scatter from the trees.
Your heartbeat slows.
It's just a moron with a shotgun.
You breathe out slow and shaky, so relieved you feel your muscles loosen.
Then someone else steps into view.
Taller. Broader. Wearing the stiff blue-gray uniform of a Peacekeeper, but holding himself like the suit doesn’t quite fit. You catch the back of his dark buzzed hair and the sudden fearfulness in his eye as he turns suddenly.
You freeze up again.
The peacekeeper's hands reach for the barrel of Spruce's gun, brows furrowed more in worry than in anger. His first words are too low to catch across the water, but the terror on his face carries all the way to where you float.
You can’t hear every word, but you hear enough to know this isn’t a friendly hunt. Nothing about peacekeepers is friendly. Nothing about Spruce is friendly either.
He jerks the gun away, laughing, and the Peacekeeper glances back toward the slope that leads to your hill.
Your stomach knots.
They’re looking that way.
Spruce swings the shotgun behind his back like it’s a toy, the strap crossing lazily over his shoulder. He hums something off-key—something you don’t really hear, but recognize before it even comes out of his mouth. Billy Taupe's song. The one you made for him, long, long ago—and kicks a stone near the water, where it skips once before falling flat.
– Spruce, – The other one says, voice low and tight, terrified in that way dogs are just before attacking. – You can’t just shoot into the trees like that! There’s people over the hill, they're gonna hear us!
He looks like a dog.
Dangerously harmless like one. All big eyes and panicked demeanor. Hair damp at the temples. Tension lining his back like he’s trying not to hunch under a weight he can’t name.
You'd almost pity him.
But that uniform? That tells you all you need to know.
– The hillbillies? – Spruce laughs, shrugs, casually, like the mere suggestion is ridiculous. – They ain't gon’ do none. Birds were loud, either way. I like the quiet. Got one of them, too. – He grins, all teeth and pride. Lifting the little dead thing in his hand like some sort of prize. – Soon as we get back, I'll put it in the pot to cook. I'll tell you, you ain't never had a stew like the one the Covey make.
– Cook it? – The peacekeeper repeats, appalled. – We’re supposed to ration—
– Ration? – Spruce laughs, slicing the air with his hand like he can cut off the conversation. – What we’ve got barely goes down as it is. I'm sick of it. You want to eat chalk for the rest of your life, be my guest, Capitol boy. But that ain't gonna be me.
The peacekeeper's hands are clenched now, flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. – What if someone heard?
You hear it too—the crackle of his fear, delicate as ice underfoot.
– No one heard. Ain’t no one out here but us. – Spruce glances over his shoulder, his voice dripping smugness. – Unless you think your little girl ghost is still watching us from the bushes.
Your heart jolts.
They know you’re out here. Or they think you are.
The boy doesn’t respond right away. His jaw ticks. He looks down at the ground—at the mud on his boots, the grass Spruce stepped through—avoiding Spruce's gaze like a devil avoids the cross.
– Spruce, – He warns. There’s real heat in his voice this time. – I mean it.
But Spruce just rolls his eyes, back already turned. – Fine, fine. Pretty lil’ sad girl from the trees is off-limits. – He pauses, smirking. – For now. Who knows, maybe she is around here. Maybe you're the one who's gonna have to put her in the pot.
The older man breaks out in a fit of laughter. Cruel. Crude. Reckless.
You can see the peacekeeper's jaw tick, but when he turns away to avoid Spruce's mocking, he looks over to the lake where you're at. And his eyes widen.
You sink further until the water reaches your chin, pulse beating in your throat. Your eyes dart to the blanket on the stone, the wool folded over the outline of the airgun. It’s not much. You’ve never fired it well enough to hit anything that wasn’t practically in front of you. But if they reach it before you—if they see it—it’s just one more reason to come sniffing around the caravans. And even when you had nothing to hide, it never led to anything but blood.
The boy nudges at Spruce.
The image flashes behind your eyes— your mother's hand being torn from yours. Your father trying to reason. Your brother crying in your arms. The peacekeeper scoffs, raises the baton at you, and when your mother interferes— No. You can't even think of it.
It won't happen again.
It can't happen again.
You won't let it. You can't let it.
Spruce says something you can't hear, his voice drifting down over the lake, and your blood chills. He’s grinning at the bank. At your bank. The Peacekeeper doesn’t laugh. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, scanning the treeline, like he’s measuring distance. Measuring pursuit.
They step forward together.
Your blanket—your clothes—your gun—sitting there like bait.
A hundred thoughts rush at once, trampling each other: If they find your things, they’ll follow the trail back. If they follow the trail back, they’ll see someone. And Peacekeepers don’t need a reason to make a target out of one of yours. They just need an excuse.
You push out of the rock, swimming towards the shore. The sound freezes them both, their heads turning towards you again. Spruce blinks, then smirks. The Peacekeeper’s eyes widen, and he hides, pulling Spruce behind the treeline, but watching, fixated, gun in hand.
It could end here, you tell yourself. You could die protecting your family.
But what would stop them from killing all of you, after killing one?
You can't play this brashly. You can't falter—So you pretend not to notice them at first, staring at the ground when you come out of the water, reaching for your clothes before they can get much of a look at you.
Best case scenario, they scatter as soon as they see you.
Worst case, you guide them away from the hill and they follow you for whatever reason.
Either way, your family remains safe and away from view.
The gun almost falls as you lift the blanket. But you turn your back to them, wrapping yourself in the fabric, holding it, hidden, in hand.
A branch cracks.
You look over your shoulder, but it's the peacekeeper's eyes you meet first—dark, accessing, unblinking. You brace for the flicker of cruelty you've come to expect from men like him, the kind that comes before the threats, before the swing, before the sickness and the rage.
But nothing comes.
He's frozen, a deer in headlights, but what you see in his eyes is not fear, not anxiousness. It's a quiet sort of breathlessness, as if he was trying to anticipate you, but got distracted halfway through. His gaze tracks over you—no, through you—slowing in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
It's not the way people usually stare at you—behind your back, with disdain, almost searing— his eyes catch like a fish on a hook, and for a flicker of a moment, you see him forget who he is.
He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't look away. Just watches you as if you're something he's not supposed to be seeing.
You breathe in.
Look away.
Look down.
Walk away.
A universal signifier—‘whatever it is that I saw, I didn't see it. I won't tell. Leave me alone.’—You stand up, clutching the airgun closer to you under the blanket, and step away slowly, with your head bowed. Your heart pounds against the metal, hands shaking.
You hear Spruce shifting. – C'mon, Capitol. She ain't saw non’.
You breathe a little easier, but keep walking away from the hill.
– She did. She obviously did.
There's a rustle of movement, a struggle. You don't look behind you, but you can almost see what's going on— The peacekeeper's pulling forward, and Spruce is trying to tear him away. – No. – He insists. The boy stutters in his step. – She ain't saw non’. Let's go.
You keep your pace steady, eyes on the dirt, trying not to hear the scuffle behind you.
They’re speaking in low voices now, too low for you to make out, but their footsteps grind in the soil—hesitant, indecisive. You hate that you can picture them without looking: Spruce’s jittery glances, the peacekeeper’s fixed stare still caught somewhere between knowing and not knowing.
A twig snaps under your foot.
You flinch, more at the sound than the sensation, and bite down on the urge to break into a run. You can feel their attention on your back like the heat from a stove, the kind that burns even when you aren’t touching it.
But it's not from far away.
For some reason, they've gotten closer.
They should have just left. Your mind reels in a panic. Why aren't they leaving?!
Breathe.
Another few steps and you’re in the thicker brush, shadows swallowing you, branches tugging at the fabric of your blanket. Your breath is loud in your own ears. Too loud. You focus on the weight of the airgun against your ribs, the cold press of the barrel, the scratch of the blanket against your palms.
A voice calls behind you—low, deliberate, a warning—It freezes you mid-step.
– Capitol. – Spruce rasps.
You close your eyes. The word drags down your spine like a blade, slow and sure. It’s not a command, not quite, but it has the shape of one.
The peacekeeper's standing right behind you.
You can hear him breathing. Hear the rustle of his sleeves against his sides as he presumably lifts the shotgun to your head.
You don’t turn. You don’t breathe. You tell yourself it’s just his brashness. He's young, obviously. He's probably scared. Doen't want to hang. You wouldn't either. But he should've just walked away.
Spruce hisses something sharp, quick, almost panicked.
Silence swells in the gap between them.
You take a step, tentative.
– Stop. – He orders. You freeze.
– What are you doin’ boy, let's go. She won't talk.
– You don't know that. – Spruce scoffs, tries to pull him back, but you can hear him shrug his hands off. You can hear him stepping closer. Something prods at your back. Cold. Harsh. A barrel.– Turn around.
You breathe.
Your hands are shaking. Sweating around the grip of the airgun.
– I won't tell you twice. Turn around.
You turn slowly, still looking at the ground.
The peacekeeper's frozen, looking at you. His hands are on the trigger, but they shake. For a second it seems like the wind's been knocked out of him.
Spruce rushes forward, forcing his hand under your chin. You look up, jaw clenched, trying not to cry.
– You're Billy Taupe's girl aren't you? – He breathes, harsh, impatient. – Sorry. Used to be. – He looks over his shoulder, at the peacekeeper. The barrel of the gun wedged beside his ear, still pointing straight at you. – We can settle this easy. – Hey breathes in deeper. – Billy Taupe!
The shout echoes around the woods like thunder.
The peacekeeper goes pale, faltering his aiming hand for a second: – What— Are you insane?! Stop screaming! You're gonna give us away!
Spruce scoffs. – To who? Those damn ars that live on the hill? What are they gonna do? Charge me for screaming? – You bristle, but bite your tongue, head still bowed. – Billy Taupe!
There's a whistle from beside you.
Three notes you recognize all too well—Your song. His song. The one he's always singing—The mockingjays repeat it as he walks your way: soft, distant, airy. Everything that he is not.
You catch the blue of the old shirt you'd sewn for him from the corner of your eye. The dark weathered boots that used to be your older brother's. The hat Lucy Gray had you making, without knowing she'd give it to him.
– What's going on? – He hums, eyes drifting through the barrel of the shotgun before they stop on you. You don’t look at him, but you know him enough that you can feel his eyes widening. His face warps into a grin. His hand rises to adjust the toothpick in his mouth. – Honey. – He laughs out the nickname, almost in disbelief. – Honey's giving you trouble, Spruce? – His eyes bore into you, leaves crunching underfoot as he circles you like a hound. – You didn't used to be like this, sweetheart. I thought you were a good girl.
You bite back the curse at the tip of your tongue and stare at the barrel.
Spruce looks over at the Peacekeeper, pushing the gun down. – I told you she weren't gonna do none. Ain't that right, Honey? We're friends of the business. You can keep a secret, right? – He pinches your cheek, laughing with his broken yellow teeth stained over with dark saliva like some sort of monster from a children's tale.
Billy Taupe pushes his hand away, but doesn't ease off. – He asked you a question, Honey. – His voice is gruff. His eyes are dark. He smiles like he's the one holding a gun to your head. – Damn, when did you get so disrespectful? Answer. You're not gonna say anything, are you?
You're quiet for a moment, but it's not out of defiance, it's out of fear. You swallow thickly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself— It just dawned on you that you're not wearing much, and that if you were to scream, nobody would hear you. – No.
– “No” What, Honey?
– No, I'm not gonna say anything. – You clarify.
He lays an arm over your shoulder, his hand sliding over around your neck. His thumb rests just over your windpipe, index pushing your chin towards him. – I ain't heard you. What'dya say?
– Billy Taupe. – The peacekeeper calls. His voice is low, his brows are furrowed, but he still has his hand on the trigger, as if he needs to be sure he could do something if you were to run away. – I think she got it.
– What? You like her, Capitol boy? – He laughs but the sound is hollow. More performative than amused. – I wouldn’t go for it if I were you. Don’t think you can handle it.
His hand closes around your neck for a second, just enough for you to flinch.
This time Billy Taupe laughs with his chest. – What'dya think, huh Honey-bee? – He makes you look towards the peacekeeper, then pulls your face towards his again. – He ain't your type, is he? Nah. You like you some pretty boys, don't you? – He dives into you as if he were gonna bite you, and you turn your head at the last second, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth. – Aww… what's wrong? You don't like me no more?
Your skin crawls where Billy’s mouth brushed, a damp mark that feels more like a bruise than a kiss. You want to wipe it away, but you don’t move. You can’t show him the gun. So you keep both arms frozen around you.
Spruce laughs behind him, sharp, careless, the kind of laugh that doesn't even pretend to hide the rot in his chest. – C’mon, Taupe. Quit playin’. You know these kinda girls ain't worth it. – He scoffs, looking at you, the disgust clear in his face. – She don't want you.
But Billy only squeezes tighter at your throat, pulling you close enough to smell the booze in him. – She always wants me. Don’t you, Honey-bee? Just don’t know how to say it.
You stare past him, past his grin, at the peacekeeper still hovering with the gun.
He’s still looking at you.
Not at Billy Taupe. Not at the way his hand drags down your collarbone like he owns every breath that passes there. Not even at the outline of the airgun he probably can see you clutching under the blanket. His eyes are fixed on your face, wide, intent, his lips parted like he’s caught in something he doesn’t understand.
You almost wish he’d sneer, or laugh, or spit like the rest of them. Anything you could place, anything you could brace against. Instead, you feel the heat of his stare like it’s prying you open.
Billy tugs your chin again, jerking your gaze back to him. – Tell him. Go on. Tell our friend, the Capitol boy, how you like your men.
You clench your jaw shut.
– Don’t get shy on me now, Honey. – His grip tightens just enough to make you swallow air too fast, coughing against his thumb. He chuckles, savoring it, pressing in closer.
The peacekeeper shifts—barely, but you catch it. His finger flexes against the trigger. The barrel moves, from pointing at you, to pointing beside you, before moving back. His shoulders stiffen like he’s torn in two.
Billy notices too. He leans back with a crooked grin, loosening his hold just to throw his arm heavy over your shoulders. – See that? He’s gone soft for you already, Honey. The poor little pet.
Spruce barks a laugh. – Can't trust these hillbillies. – He scoffs. – Don't know what witchcraft they're doing up there.
The peacekeeper doesn’t answer. He only stares harder, jaw clenched, like he’s swallowing glass.
You lower your eyes again, hiding in the blanket’s folds, heart hammering loud enough you’re certain they can hear it.
You don’t know what’s worse—that Billy Taupe is drunk, angry and touching you, or that the peacekeeper won’t stop looking at you like you’re something he’s never seen before.
Spruce pushes at the boy, and he stumbles forward, gun still in hand. – What’s wrong, Capitol?
Billy Taupe's looking at him, brows raised. – Go on ahead boy, cat's got your tongue?
Spruce pushes him again. – What’s wrong, kid?
– Nothing’s wrong! Stop it, man!
The other two look at each other, Spruce laughs and Billy Taupe shakes his head, his arm tight around your shoulders.
The air around you thickens.
– You lost something here, Capitol? Huh? Whatcha lookin at?
– Stop it, Billy Taupe.
– Stop what? – He hums, spiteful, jaw ticking despite the neutrality on his face. – Stop this? – He grabs you by the hair on your nape, pulls you into him so hard the gun almost falls from your hand. You crash against his chest, but you don't turn your head fast enough to avoid his lips.
Spruce breaks out in laughter.
It isn’t a kiss so much as it is a punishment, teeth scraping, breath sour with liquor. He presses harder the more you pull away, chasing your recoil, like he’s teaching you a lesson for daring to resist.
Your hands are shaking around the gun, blanket slipping down your shoulders. If he feels the barrel pushing against his chest, he doesn't show it. But you pull it back either way.
You can’t breathe with the weight of him, with the crowd of them watching. Spruce hoots behind you, egging him on. Billy Taupe groans into your mouth, savoring your stillness like victory. You drag yourself back, pushing, fighting. – Stop it! – You cough out, pushing at him with your elbows, gripping the blanket tighter around yourself. – Stop! – He laughs against your face, against your neck, his hands digging into the fabric.
You look to your side.
Spruce is standing there, eyes glazed over, lips open in an expectant smile.
Billy Taupe swipes his foot behind your ankles. You hit the ground hard, air punched out of your lungs in a ragged gasp. The blanket tangles around your arms, useless, a net instead of protection. Billy Taupe’s shadow looms over you, and before you can scramble, he’s already dropping his weight across your stomach, your ribs screaming beneath him.
The twigs and the stones and the dead leaves bite at you from under the fabric. Your skin splits somewhere, you feel the sting of fresh blood across your body, heart pulsing so quickly you can't even tell where.
You twist, choke, push at him with trembling hands. – Please— stop it—please!
He grins, his teeth yellow and sharp, you almost fear that he'd sink them into you.
– You like this, don’t you? Pretending to be a little saint. – The words stick to your skin, worse than the spit shining on his mouth. He pins your shoulders down, his elbows digging into your arms, hands forcing your face straight. – This could have been a lot nicer, Honey. This could have been much better if you weren't such a prude before, huh?
– Stop it! Stop it! Please! – You look away, try to move your head. But apart from the jeering behind him that grows sharper, meaner, Spruce’s laugh cutting through like a whip, the only thing you can sense are the toes of the peacekeeper's boot right next to your face.
Your memory flashes before you can stop it.
Your mother's screams. Your baby sister crying, discarded on the ground next to her, as the peacekeeper's circled her body.
It can't end like this, the same way that happened to her.
You can't.
You don't deserve this.
This isn't fair.
You kick your legs.
Try and shake your arms.
You look up. At Spruce. At the peacekeeper. But they're both standing there, quiet, careless, as you struggle.
– Stop! – You scream, the sound startling even yourself. Panicked. Distorted. Guttural. – Please—Billy Taupe—!
His hand falls against your mouth like a stone, and he presses until you can barely breathe. – Do it again. – He bids. – Scream again. See what I do to you.
You can’t move.
Your throat swells tight, like someone’s hands are already around it. The taste of his tongue is still there, sour and rotten, it makes you gag.
His weight crushes into your lungs, ribs bowing. The gun is trapped between your hip and his leg, useless, unseen. Your finger stutters around the trigger. From where it's pointed, you could shoot at his thigh. He'd never walk again. That is, if he didn't die from blood loss. Without a bullet to keep his entire blood system from spilling out, he wouldn't last very long at all.
You don't pull it.
You don't know what Spruce and the boy will do to you if you do. What they'll do to your family.
– Stop moving, Honey. Just stop. It'll be easier for you.
You try. You try to freeze. You try to lock up. Stay still and this might end sooner. But you can't. You can't stop yourself from struggling, even as you try, it's like your body doesn't listen.
– STOP IT! – He screams.
You shake your head involuntarily.
Something crashes against your cheekbone. Harsh. Sharp. A boot.
– What—Spruce?!
– That oughta keep her quiet. – He laughs. You can't see. Your face is swelling. There's blood in your eye now, your field of vision suddenly red.
– Get out of here, man! What is wrong with you?! Why did you kick her?!
– What? I was just helping you out. Ain't you gonna share? – The bastard laughs. Something cracks inside your head—like glass under too much strain. Your head is spinning. Your ear is ringing. – Get off, then.
– What?! No!
– If you ain't gonna do it boy, then I will!
– Fuck you!
They struggle on you. Spruce tries to push him off. Billy Taupe pushes back.
– Stop. – The peacekeeper finally says. – Stop it. Just—Just get off of her. Leave it.
Neither of them listen.
The noise, the breath, the stink of liquor and smoke—it all blends into one suffocating roar. Your heart isn’t beating anymore, it’s hammering, trying to break its way out.
You hear the shotgun drop to the ground beside you. And you feel the barrels chill nearly brushing your left before you open your still good eye.
A blue-gray blur of pressed uniform and panic rushes across from you to pull the fight apart. – Stop it! – His words are an echo of yours. The panic in them the same, and yet so different.
The peacekeeper pulls Billy Taupe from over you so quickly your brain can barely process your sudden ability to breathe.
The sound of your breath is loud against your ears. A desperate grasp. A stuttered cough. The metallic taste in your mouth is underwhelming against the pain, you barely taste it as you turn in a sudden impulse, your face now laying against the shotgun as you try to compose yourself.
But you don't have the time to.
You're curled into yourself for a single second before a pair of hands tugs at you again.
Your face is smashed against the soil. The palm heavy against the forming bruise.
You make a sound you can barely comprehend—sharp, agonized, animalistic. The same sound you'd heard from the sheep before your brother put them out. Before the pellet went in and out of their skulls. Before they met their sudden end.
Let it be sudden, God.
Let this end before I know it.
– Spruce! – Someone shouts. Whether it's Billy Taupe or the other man, you can't tell. But the blanket is ripped off of you in one sudden tear, and you're left lying there, bare apart from your underclothes, until he rips those apart as well.
You feel the cold air against your chest before you can open your eye, and your hand clenches in shock.
You can't see.
You can't breathe.
But you can feel the gun in your hand and the knowledge that if you don't stop it, nobody is gonna stop it for you.
Your hands move before yourself: The grip of the airgun knocks so violently against the side of Spruce's head as you turn that your single ear still functioning grasps nothing but the soundless yelp of his voice stopping short inside his throat and the deaf bang of his body colliding on the soil beside you.
There's a muffled commotion to your other side.
You open your eyes, and you still see nothing but crimson blots and blurred surroundings, but your hands keep mashing the end of the metal against his skull, over, and over, and over in a blind rage.
Your hands are warm.
Shaking.
Bloodied.
His arms try to push at you.
Weak.
Disoriented.
Powerless.
All you'd been just a minute before.
But you don't stop.
You don't stop until you hear screaming. Until two pairs of arms have to use all their strength to tear you off of the mess of broken bone and mush under you. Until you fall back on someone's chest, still swinging, and hear Billy Taupe yelp as your hand strikes him across the face in your confusion.
– Stop. – You hear, in a hushed plea beneath you. – Stop. It's over. Stop. – The words brush against your ears in a breathless whisper. More agitated than fearful, almost soft. – It's okay. It's okay. Stop.
Your back meets the ground again, only this time not harshly.
You can feel someone hovering over you.
Hands on your shoulders.
An arm around your back.
– It's okay now.
– It damn well fucking isn't! – It sounds like a roar more so than a sentence.
Your eyes part open.
The brightness overwhelms you for a moment. You hadn’t realized you were crying until you saw the watery blur swirling over your already ruined vision. But you can see Spruce stand, stumbling over his knock-knees with a face that's closer to a stomped strawberry than the smug, self-satisfied idiocy you usually see in his expression.
He spits red into the dirt, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and his voice cracks into a scream. – I told you! I told you you can’t mess around with these hillbilly bitches, Taupe! I fucking told you these WITCHES ain't worth a fucking DAMN!
Billy Taupe staggers forward, his eyes flicking between you and his friend in a panic, all that overconfident swagger he had just a second ago drained straight out of him. – Spruce— He calls, but the older man cuts him off:
– No! – He looks at you, pointing his finger like a trigger, beaten face distorted with rage – I know what you are, broad! I fucking know it! You and your— Your fucking people— They should've burned you all at the—
– Spruce!
– Shut up! – He coughs, stumbling on unsteady feet, but coming closer. You recoil on instinct, pressed closer against the peacekeeper's chest. – You fucking people— You and your sheep, and your—your fucking witchcraft! You're dogs! You're SCUM!
– Back off, Spruce! – The peacekeeper shouts, his arm tightening around you. – I mean it, man. Calm down! You're gonna get us—
– Shut up, Sejanus! – The vitriol oozes out of him, sliding down his mouth along the blood like rabies. Like Venom. – You don't know none—NOTHING—about these people! You don't know what these WHORES be getting up to behind their closed doors—their—their—their little caravans! You don't know it! She's got you in her spell, already! The fucking slut!
– What do you— You stutter, laughing despite yourself. You don't know where the impulse comes from. Don't know why you say it. – What do you do in your caravan, huh, Spruce?!
– Honey—!
– Jerk off. That's all you fucking do. – You scoff. – You can't get a job. You can't fix. You can't mine. You're a good-for-nothing fucking slob crying about people who put the work in to try and live in these places that you don't want us going in!
– They should've— They should've murdered the lot of you back in eleven! They should've rid us all of you fucking dogs when they had the fucking chance!
– For what? – The laughter bubbles out of you, hot and biting and cruel. More defying than you've ever been in your entire life. – To make more space so pieces of shit like you can get off on hassling girls and doing nothing all day?!
– SHUT UP!
– You SHUT UP! – You cry. Your hands are shaking. You can still feel the imprint of his hands on your skin. – Last time I checked, the Covey were being rounded up and torn out of their houses just like us!
– WE AIN'T NOTHING LIKE YOU!
– You're exactly like us you moron, you just DON'T HAVE THE FUCKING BRAINS TO SEE IT! – You spit, growl, kicking at the dirt behind your feet. – LOOK AT ME! I'M BLEEDING RED AIN'T I?! YOU BEAT ME UP, AND I BLEED! I BEAT YOU UP AND YOU BLEED! WE'RE THE SAME FUCKING THING!
– WE'RE NOTHING LIKE YOU DIRTY FUCKING—
– YOU’RE THE ONE WHO'S FUCKING DIRTY YOU PIECE OF SHIT!
He lurches toward the shotgun lying in the dust.
Billy Taupe curses, scrambles after him. – Leave it, Spruce, just leave it—! Stop it!
But Spruce’s hands are already wrapping around the stock. His face is feral now, dripping blood and hate, his whole body trembling with rage. – You are a dirty fucking whore! YOU'RE A DOG!
The boy holding you snaps, pulling you back, his arm tightening across your back, trying to shield you with his body.
– I’m gonna kill you! – He barks, lower, warning, nearly pleased. – The peacekeeper's back at Eleven will be—
– Do it!
Billy Taupe stutters forward, reaching for you. You push him away.
– Go ahead! You'll see what the peacekeepers'll do to you when they get the chance! The same fucking thing! Go ahead!
– Put it down, Spruce.
– Put it down man, you don't know what you're doing!
Spruce doesn’t listen.
He shoulders the gun, teeth bared, and levels the barrel at you. – Say it again if you're bad, Honey.
You're staring at him.
The barrel inches from your face.
– SHOOT ME! – You scream. – SHOOT ME IF YOU'RE HALF THE MAN YOU SAY YOU ARE!
– Say it again you fucking k—
– SHOOT ME!
The blast shatters the air.
Heat sears past your cheek, the powder burning your nostrils before you even realize what happened.
The boy, the peacekeeper, —Sejanus— his body jerks against yours, warm blood spraying across your arm in a sudden hot mist. His gasp is ragged and wet, right in your ear, before he crumples to the dirt, clutching the hole torn through his shoulder.
Panic cleaves through your haze. You reach for him without thinking, hands slipping over blood that’s not your own.
This wasn’t how it should have gone down.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
Spruce staggers back a step, already racking the gun again, still screaming nonsense through the froth of spit and gore. He points it at you. Cocks it. Triggers it.
But Billy Taupe lunges, grabbing the barrel, yanking it up. Another shot cracks—into the clouds this time.
The noise rips through the valley.
– What the fuck is wrong with you?! Are you insane?! – He looks back, blue eyes glazed over with panic as he holds the barrel of the shotgun. – Shit. Shit. Shit. You shot the fucking peacekeeper! We're dead! WE'RE GONNA HANG!
You're fucked.
Dead.
Gone.
This is worse than anything you could've done.
Billy Taupe paces back and forth, Spruce standing frozen on the ground, staring at the wound on this boy's shoulder.
– Go! – You push at him, taken over by an impulse you youself can't explain. – Get out of here! Go!
– Honey—
– Drop the gun and fucking leave, Billy Taupe! Go!
There's a sharp sound from over the hill. Loud. Rageful. So thunderous even Sejanus's eyes snap towards it.
Ori.
You try to stand, stumble. – Go!
Your name carries next, shouted, desperate. It's Isaac, your brother.
Billy Taupe’s face drains. He jerks at Spruce’s arm, tugging him back, stumbling over words— We gotta go, we gotta go—
Spruce looks between you.
Between the bleeding boy and you.
Some strange expression flashes through his face as your eyes meet. Shock. Relief. Understanding. You don’t know. But you shout again. – GO!
He listens this time.
Turns. Stumbles over his feet, but turns.
The two of them dash into the valley, Billy Taupe pulling, Spruce following best as he can, both of them looking over their shoulders as the barking and the voices grow closer, closer, until you can feel them coming down the hill.
– Isaac! – Your heart is beating out of your chest. With one eye, you see nothing but red. With the other, you don't see much different. – Isaac! – The peacekeeper's still wailing. Crying. Begging in half-mumbled prayers you can barely comprehend.
You see your brother in the distance, his face twisted in horror as he sees you, beaten, half-naked, bleeding.
You see Ori, quick as the wind, rushing towards you.
And from the corner of your good eye as you turn—a blur of white. Gold eyes. The wolf— it stares at you for a moment. You don’t know how long it's been there. If it'd been hounding you. If it would have came closer, to feast on what was left of you, if things had gone down another way.
But it turns and walks back into the bushes, looking over one last time before disappearing.
Ori crashes against you. Warm and worried and loving. Whining as he noses at your side.
You swear you hear a huff, almost like a laugh from its side of the woods. Your eyes are still fixed where the wolf vanished into.
You don't know what it wanted.
If it wanted anything.
But one thing is clear enough—You won't come out of whatever situation you've just gotten yourself into unharmed.
Two Can Play The Game || Young!Coriolanus Snow x reader
GIF by @tomblythsgf and divider by @firefly-graphics
Summary: Coriolanus Snow returns to the Capitol after his exile as peacekeeper. What you don’t expect from your lover is what he’s been up to while in district 12.
Warnings: smut, infidelity, swearing. If there’s anything else, lmk!
Wc:
P.t 1 P.t 2
Coriolanus Snow Masterlist
You engulfed Snow in a tight hug. He had just returned from his exile in the districts and serving as peacekeeper. “Oh how I’ve missed you!” You sway him from side to side as you hear his deep chuckle. “Likewise darling,” You pull back and that was when you really took in his change of appearance.
“You look- so… different,” You touch his buzz where his blonde curls used to be. “And my, look at the muscles you’ve grown!” Your hands move from his shoulders to his forearms as you salivate on the spot feeling his muscles under your hands.
“Training is brutal,” He laughs as he slings his arm around your shoulder. The two of you make your way to his new apartment given to him by Dr. Gaul as he would be mentored by her herself at the university. The whole time you were walking there, neither of you could keep your hands off of each other. But the two of you couldn’t help it, you had been away from each other for quite some time.
The second you step foot in his apartment, you both started ripping each others clothes off until you made it into his bedroom. “You’re so gorgeous,” He mutters as he aggressively kisses you. Your lips part allowing him to explore your mouth with his tongue. His hands ran along your waist, breasts, and thighs—anywhere but the spot that needed the attention the most.
He brushed his waist against your pussy, a groan leaving your lips wanting, needing more of him. You could practically feel Snow's excitement pressed up against you. You could hear the buckle of his trousers dropping to the ground. You hadn't fucked anyone since Snow left so you felt slightly nervous seeing his very large member.
You gulped as you propped your upper body up by your arms as he smiles as you, a glint of mischievous in his piercing blue eyes as he dives into your neck, placing hot, wet kisses along your jawline and collarbone. "God I've missed you," He mutters against your neck as he rubs his tip against your pussy.
"How was it like being celibate when you were a peacekeeper in the districts?" You joke as he trails kisses up your jaw to your lips. "Horrible." He whispers against your lips as you both smile into kiss, a soft giggle leaving your lips. He slowly pushes himself in, your hands gripping onto the sheets as you wince in slight pain as you adjust around him.
He runs his fingers through your hair to comfort you, and took it slow. You could tell it pained him to go slow but he kept a slow steady pace, it has been quite some time since his dick has been inside you.
The slight discomfort started to subside and your winces turned into soft moans. Snow started fastening his pace as he searched your eyes, looking for a response of pain so he would slow down. But the pain was gone. "You can go faster Coryo," You breathed.
The bucking of his hips fastened as he groaned in pleasure, "Fuck, you feel so good," His forehead rested against yours as you moan in pleasure, looking down at where his dick disappeared inside of you.
You grab his shoulders and push him so that you were now on top of him where you liked to be, riding his dick until he saw stars. You roll your hips as you throw your head back from the pleasure you were receiving.
Snow throws an arm over his eyes as he moans out loudly. "You are going to be the death of me,” He says as he places his hands on your hips, aiding you as you bounce up and down on his dick. "Fuckkk…. Lucy..." He breathed out as your eyes snap open hearing what he just said.
You slow down and eventually come to a stop as you process whose name just came out of Snow's mouth. Snow looks at you with furrowed eyebrows, his breathing still heavy. "Are you okay?" He props his upper body up, noticing your expression.
"W-what did you just say?" You were completely in shock. "What?" Snow scrunches his eyebrows as you stare at him in disbelief. "You said Lucy." You raise your voice as you push yourself off of him and grab a blanket to cover your body.
You watch his face contort into guilt. "I-I didn't say that, you probably misheard me-" "I fucking heard you Coriolanus." You spat, using his full name knowing he despised it when people close to him call him by his full name. "You said Lucy. Lucy Gray is it? Your fucking tribute from district 12?" You yell at him as he runs a hand down his face.
"Oh my fucking God," You cover your mouth, it made sense to you, everything clicked. Snow was supposed to be in district 8, but he was mysteriously changed to district 12. But now you knew why he did that, to be with Lucy Gray. You felt like your were going to throw up.
"You fucked her." Your voice was now stern as you could feel the tears prickling your waterline. "Y/n-" He gets up, "You did! You cheated on me- I- With a district girl! You fucking traitor!" You scream at him as you push his chest over and over. "Y/n calm down-" He grabs your wrists as you fight against his grip.
"No. You-you- I waited here for you- while you-you fucked some singer from district 12! How could you!" You yell in between your sobs. Your heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Your heart psychically hurt. You stayed loyal to him while he was away.
Men queued up once Snow left the Capitol but you turned each and everyone of them away because you loved Snow. And you thought your feelings were reciprocated but obviously not, because he cheated on you with Lucy Gray.
This was how he repaid your love towards him. After everything you’ve been through. “Get out! Get out!” You yell as you shove him out of his own room. He watches you in pain, he knew he fucked up. From the moment he felt a spark with Lucy Gray when he met her at the train station.
Snow sat in the living room, head in hands as your sobs could be heard. Then it went silent. He slowly got up and turned the door handle finding it unlocked. You were curled up into a ball on the bed, asleep.
He quietly walked in and stood by your side, watching as you as you peacefully sleep, tears still staining your face. He leaned down, pecking your forehead before whispering, “I’m sorry.” Against your forehead before looking at you one final time and leaving the apartment.
pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)
synopsis ; what did make him pause, however, was the very top button of your shirt. misshaped. odd. not matching the rest of your buttons. his gift to you. “you’re wearing it,” coriolanus whispered. his voice sounded strained.
words ; 3.4k
themes ; fluff, mild angst, smut
warnings / includes ; unprotected sex (not very explicit), possessiveness, themes of classism, we meet reader's rich parents !! and grandma'am and tigris appear, coryo's paranoia, he's not exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could </3
a/n ; there will be a third part loosely following the events of the movie (obv tweaked for the fic!)
series masterlist. main masterlist.
Your home was the very definition of old money—wealth and grace and high status carved into the marble floors, hung up in the large oil paintings, found within the fibers of the expensive carpets leading into grand halls. Snow had to consciously remind himself to appear unphased. He had this sort of life, too, as far as you were concerned.
It was only expected, especially considering your parents’ high positions: with your father being the top admiral of the navy, and your mother a renowned physicist with several awards under her belt. Dozens of rows of medals and framed certifications from both your parents were more than enough for Snow to gauge the mass of their importance.
He shifted the weight of his feet in his too-tight shoes. Anxious. He wore his dress shirt again, though not before asking Tigris to try and rework the buttons. The buttons hewn from his bathroom tiles. Make them look the same, he had told her. They’re uneven. Snow turned away before he could see her mildly crestfallen expression.
It was a special occasion, hence his dressed-up attire. There was a rose pinned to his waistcoat, a deep shade of red, from his Grandma’am’s rooftop garden. Your father had come home today, after months of military work in the districts. And to celebrate such a momentous evening, you invited him to dinner.
To meet your parents. How utterly fraught.
Though, now that the two of you were officially together (albeit only recently—Sejanus asked if the two of you were a thing and Coryo replied with an instinctive, possessive yes, much to both of your surprise), Coriolanus supposed there was no use in delaying the inevitable.
“Don’t be nervous,” you told him, arm looped around his. The white rose he’d given you upon his arrival was tucked neatly behind your ear, a lovely contrast to your all-black garb. In a light-hearted tone, you added, “Father would be able to smell it on you. The fear.”
Coriolanus shot you an exasperated glance, to which you only smiled. You landed a soft, reassuring kiss onto his cheek, hand sliding down from his elbow to lace with his.
“You look… breathtaking,” he said, lifting your conjoined palms to brush his lips over your knuckles. Of the many lies that he told you, this certainly wasn’t one of them.
Your eyes gleamed with the light from the chandelier hanging above you.
“And you look handsome as ever.” A pause. You seemed bashful all of a sudden, averting your gaze to the gold patterns on the marble floors. “I know this is all very new, so I apologize in advance, if my father asks about our, uhm… our future… He’s a very forward man.”
A smile twitched at the corner of his lips and he slotted his free hand beneath your chin, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly over the side of your throat, forcing you to look back at him. “I have no intention of letting you go, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
You smiled again, all sunlight and warmth, and Coriolanus couldn’t help but steal it away with one last kiss.
“Ready?” you asked, jerking your head in the direction of the dining room.
Snow swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.
Dinner was quite a pleasant affair. The food was better than anything the academy ever served—Coriolanus wondered how you could willingly go from eating such delicacies at home to basic, run-of-the-mill meals the cafeteria provided. There were courses, tender peppered steaks (his very favorite), rich mushroom soups, iced lemon cakes, and several sorts of breads and butters were offered all throughout.
Your mother was a delight, enchanting him with stories of laboratory mishaps and her dangerous adventures with radioactive material. You looked a lot like her, he realized.
Your father, on the other hand, was pressing at first, grilling Coriolanus with dozens of personal questions. If you hadn’t warned him beforehand that he was a military leader, he most definitely would’ve worked it out for himself then. There were times where you politely but forcefully snapped at him, telling him to lay off the invasive interrogation and to let the poor man eat. But Coriolanus really didn’t mind—he’d spent hours upon hours preparing himself for this. He answered all of the questions with effortless ease.
By the third course, your father was satisfied. Reluctant, but satisfied. By the fourth, he was already asking about marriage, much to your mortification. Coriolanus smiled down at his plate, and quietly listened to you lecture your father about privacy and civility.
Yes, dinner was quite enjoyable. Several containers of food from unseen servants were wrapped up for him to take home, at your request, despite his polite protests. It wasn’t a common thing to do in the capitol, but your parents hadn’t batted an eye.
He was safe. They didn’t know. It was an ongoing mantra the entire night.
He was shown out the door by your father, who clapped a large hand on his shoulder and told him to take care of you, especially while he was gone. Your mother kissed him once on each cheek as farewell, and you did the same, though your kisses strayed far closer to his lips. He caught the mischievous gleam in your eyes.
The door shut behind him once he strode into the expansive courtyard in front of your mansion of a home. He glanced down at the rose pinned to his coat, wondering if you were still wearing yours behind your ear. A minute later, he jumped out of his reverie when the entrance creaked open once more. You peeked your head back out, eyes alight, pleased to see that he was still there.
You slid out from the entryway and made your way to him with quick strides, wasting no time to rest your hands upon his chest. To his delight, you were still wearing the rose. “Father and mother left to watch television in the estate’s Northern wing. Didn’t want to kiss you in front of them.”
There were wings to your house? Coriolanus blinked at you, accidentally letting his indifferent mask slip for a few seconds. If you noticed, you didn’t say anything about it, leaning forward to kiss him sweetly. It took him another moment to gather his wits, before winding his arms about your waist and deepening the kiss, nearly bending you backwards with his vigor.
He could never tire of this, he thought, fingers curling so his nails dug into the expensive black fabric of your top. Kissing you, touching you, entertaining the notion that you were his, and only his.
When you pulled away, your lips were wonderfully kiss-swollen and your pupils were blown wide, to his amusement. Were his eyes just the same?
“Thank you for being here today,” you mumbled, that smile-frown he was so fond of gracing your features once more. “I’m sorry if my parents were too—”
“They were wonderful. You’re wonderful,” he interrupted, tone soft. His hand lifted from your waist to cup your face. Cold fingers against flushed skin. “I’ll see you at the academy?”
A nod, a grin, and a relieved sigh. “Sleep well, Coryo.”
“You, too.” He pulled away, reluctant, allowing his hands to fall back to his sides. “You look good with it, you know. The rose.” With a final nod, he turned on his heel and walked away from your estate, back to his own cold penthouse, where he had to burn newspaper scraps to keep warm.
The months drew by like a lazy stream of water, gliding over a bed of stones, languid and pleasant. Your time with Coriolanus was nothing short of utter bliss. He was a sweet lover, despite his possessive streaks, always making sure you were alright with what he was doing. The two of you went slow and steady, always asking, always gentle. He kissed you as if you were made of sugar glass, and you held onto him as if he was a fragile ceramic vase.
Exams were drawing nearer with each passing day, and the two of you found yourself studying and cramming more than anything. He would often tell you that there was no need for you to study so hard, especially when you were already at the very top, likely to claim the Plinth prize for yourself, but you always waved him away with a modest laugh. If the two of you weren’t at the library pouring over dozens upon dozens of books, you were finding ways to sneak him into your home: kissing behind stone statues in the gardens, hiding behind velvet curtains, pulling him onto your massive, four-poster bed.
It was only a matter of time until you asked.
His arm was draped over your bare midriff, drawing mindless shapes into your hip. Your head rested back against his chest, mildly sweaty from the lovemaking session the two of you were still dwindling down from. You stared out your window, watching the sun slowly bleed the sky a hazy clementine hue, teeth sinking down into the flesh of your bottom lip in thought.
“Why haven’t we ever studied at your home, Coryo?” you asked. “I’ve yet to meet your cousin. You talk about her a lot… she seems wonderful.”
You felt a cold breath billow over the back of your neck. It sent pleasant chills spider down your spinal column. And you could’ve imagined it, but his fingers seemed to flex over your bare flesh. Twitch. Almost antsy. Did your question make him uncomfortable?
Shifting in his grasp, you turned within his arms so you could face him. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to pressure you, or anything. I just… just know that I’d never judge you.”
His expression was near unreadable, the blue of his eyes even paler than usual with the sunset’s light casting a honey-glow over both of your sprawled-out forms. He kissed you again, hungrily, almost as if to distract you. You let him.
Kiss you, touch you, bruise you. Any of it, all of it.
A low groan barreled within his chest when you fisted a handful of his soft blonde waves at the base of his neck, gently tugging.
“Nothing you could show me would make me love you any less,” you muttered against his lips, nose nudging against his. “Nothing, Coryo.”
And he, in a moment of love-addled weakness, let himself believe you.
Come the next afternoon, you were at the door of the Snows’ penthouse, a basketed batch of warm cookies held in one hand, the other holding a heavy bag full of all your textbooks to study. If the two of you were going to study at all today. Your mother was aghast that you were about to visit his home without some sort of gift, and abruptly shoved the basket of goodies into your arms out of seemingly nowhere, as if materialized out of thin air.
“Coriolanus loves the chocolate chip ones,” she harrumphed whilst ushering you out the door. “Honestly, showing up to someone else’s home empty-handed? Who raised you?”
The irony was not lost on either of you, and you barked out a laugh before kissing her farewell and setting off to visit him.
You rang the rusted doorbell once—curiously regarding the little button once you realized that it was broken. Then, you knocked the door twice, then another two times for good measure. There was a muffled scuffling behind the door, a woman’s voice echoing from behind.
And when it swung open, you were met with an elderly woman, shrouded in a too-large, black tunic with embroidered flowers on the sleeves, the threads loose and pulled, the once-vibrant colors faded. She wore a turban, covering most of her white hair save for the few thin tendrils framing the sides of her face.
“Hello, I’m Coriolanus’ classmate,” you greeted, in an ever-so-capitol-esque manner. “You must be his… Grandma’am?”
She appeared confused for a moment, before slow sparks of recognition fired across her blue eyes. Coriolanus had the same eyes, you noted.
“Oh!” she crooned. “Oh, dear me! Coriolanus! It’s your lovely friend!”
There was a bit of commotion down the hall. The brief moment of pause allowed you to finally take in why Coriolanus hadn’t wanted you to come to his home all this time. The penthouse was still quite lavish, as the Snow estate was one of the most expensive properties in the capitol, but it was clear that the space was diminishing with the weight of its upkeep—flickering lights, dusty floors, tears in the wallpapers, mold on the countertops…
Your attention was drawn away from the view when Tigris and Coryo emerged from the same room, and you couldn’t help the smile that threatened to break across your features. His cousin was fretting over his lopsided curls, and he discreetly tried to duck out of her way to get to you.
“My, you are just as gorgeous as he said you were!” Grandma’am said in a pitching tone, wrangling your attention back to her. She lifted her hands to lightly pinch at your cheeks. “Yes, you’ll do just fine.” Her fingers fell away and she scuttled off, murmuring something about the Capitol’s First Partner—
Coriolanus breathed out your name and his hand was on your shoulder, apologizing once, twice, three times (what was he even apologizing for?), before Tigris popped up by his side, bumping him out of the way so she could shake your hand vigorously.
“Hi! I’m Tigris—it’s so nice to finally meet you!”
You shook the blonde woman’s hand, smile seeming to grow impossibly wider. “It’s nice to meet you, too! I love your dress.”
Her mouth dropped open in a flustered manner and a lovely rose shade dusted over her cheekbones. “Oh, this old thing?” She absentmindedly smoothed a hand down the frills of her pink dress. “Yeah, I… oh, it’s nothing, really, I just made it myself.”
“That’s incredibly impressive! You must be a really talented seamstress.”
A sharp clear of his throat made your eyes snap back to Coriolanus.
“Coryo,” you greeted warmly. “I brought you cookies. Chocolate chip. Mother sends her regards.”
The two Snows in front of you eyed the basket with large eyes.
“Thank you,” he croaked, accepting the basket from your extended hands and handing it over to his cousin. “Tigris, if you’d excuse us—we’ve got some studying to do.”
Coriolanus began to tug you down the hall, and you waved back to Tigris, telling her that you’d love to see any of her other dresses later. She’d already reached into the basket and had a cookie halfway to her mouth as she nodded at you with a toothy grin.
His room was in around the same state as the rest of the home. Furniture was old, torn, frayed, or simply broken. There were several boarded-up holes in his dresser. There was a box of rat poison below his desk, which was full with all sorts of papers and stacks of yellowing books. You skittered in and dropped your heavy bag down by his bed, allowing him to close the door behind you. You just barely registered the click of a lock.
“So?” he asked, voice sounding much louder in such a confined space. He seemed tense, as if bracing himself for the worst. “Are you disgusted yet?”
“What do you take me for?” you replied easily, having already gathered why he was so afraid of bringing you here in the first place. “I’m not a leech, nor am I vain, Coriolanus. I don’t want more money, and I’m not here to offer you charity to flaunt my wealth. I thought you’d know that by now.”
He stalked closer, observing you like a wolf would its prey. “What is it you want, then?”
When you took a step back closer to his small, rather wiry bed, he would take two longer strides, crowding you back against it. He dipped forward so that his lips were only a hair’s breadth from yours, but just barely not touching.
“You know, I’m sure.”
“I do.” Coriolanus knew that you wanted him just for him, and nothing gave him more pleasure than that simple fact. His nose brushed yours.
“Would it make me a fool to stay?” you asked, the question fanning over his mouth. Inviting, ever so tantalizing. “You’re not planning on chopping me up and selling my organs for some cash, are you?”
He didn’t laugh at your little joke. Instead, he dove forward, one hand yanking your hips to his, the other winding over to the back of your head. He kissed you desperately, all teeth and tongue, hardened lips and his knee slotting between your thighs.
“No,” he susurrated thickly, as if he’d swallowed honey and soil, pressing you down until you were fully laid down over his rickety bed, back arched. “You’d be mine. All of you, just mine.”
He swallowed any sort of gasp and moan that fell from your mouth. Greedy, lustful, determined to make you pliable. His kisses didn’t slow down whatsoever when he tore himself away from your lips, freckling them down your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, your collarbones.
What did make him pause, however, was the very top button of your shirt.
Misshaped. Odd. Not matching the rest of your buttons. His gift to you.
“You’re wearing it,” Coriolanus whispered. His voice sounded strained.
“Mmh?” You glanced down at the button. “Oh. Of course, I am. I like how it looks.”
His face hovered above yours once more. His stare was so intense you began to shy away, staring at a moldy patch on the ceiling. The silence felt suffocating as you waited for him to do something. Anything.
“I love you,” he breathed out, finally. Upfront and abrupt. It wasn’t often that he said it. Maybe once or twice before, since you said it more than enough for the both of you.
You laughed then—your wonderful, wind-chime laughter. It was more out of shock than anything. He kissed you soft and sweet, momentarily quelling your chuckling. But as the afternoon of so-called ‘studying’ drew on, the laughter melded into sighs of pleasure when clothes were shed, shifting towards wanton moans of desperation when heated flesh slid against one another.
You nearly choked when his length breached your entrance, scratching faint red lines down the expanse of his back as he pushed in, pulled out. Rhythmic. Again and again and again—you couldn’t seem to get enough of him on top of you, inside of you, all around you. Your chest was pressed up against his; could he hear your heart beating through your ribs, yearning to feel his? The coil within your lower abdomen tightened. He read your every microexpression just perfectly.
He’d unbuttoned your entire shirt save for the oddly-shaped one, hands groping all over your bare skin, teeth biting down onto the patch of skin just above the button as he rocked himself into a climax, roping you down into the abyss with him. Ragged groans and broken sighs.
Coriolanus dragged his tongue up your chest and your neck, leaving a cold trail in his wake, and he sucked in a deep breath. When he pulled back to stare at you—flushed, hair mussed, sweat beaded along your hairline, his pearlescent spend between your thighs, your eyes half-lidded… chest only barely covered by his one button…
“Thank you,” he croaked, kissing the space beside your left eye. “For not running.”
“Don’t make me a fool for it,” you replied, looping your arms over Coriolanus’ neck so he could kiss you properly.
