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⚚ 𝖗𝖚𝖓, 𝖗𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖎𝖙, 𝖗𝖚𝖓 pt.1: ❝Needles & Pins, Pins & Needles❞

↪ read on ao3

m/f ∘ Mad Scientist AU — so animal and human experimentation (nothing too graphic here), drugging, objectification and classism ∘ district 4!reader ∘ not canon compliant — Crassus lives and has constant beef with his own son (Presidential candidate Crassus), Mama Snow haunts the narrative ∘ mentor Gaul ∘ mommy & daddy issues — canon-typical for Coriolanus, duh ∘ no use of Y/N, reader is referred to as “doll” and “bunny”

TWs (DDDNE): NON-CON medical play — needles, body worship, praise & degradation, loss of autonomy & identity, bondage, forced captivity, bodily harm (near choking out), m!masturbating, slight a/b/o dynamics — reader goes through a heat cycle bc of the experiment

Word count: ~ 10k

Summary: In which Crassus Xanthos Snow doesn’t meet his end somewhere in Twelve’s deep forest, and so Coriolanus is never faced with the corrosive fear of society’s walls crashing down on him… just an endless power struggle with the remote, strict man that is his father. The young heir is set on delivering his masterpiece—something his sire could never dream of controlling. His creation. That is when you are brought into his newly appointed lab, unwillingly sluiced out of District Four’s depths where you’d once saved a blonde-haired boy. In horror, you realize there's little left of that kid, who'd been tossed to sink or swim. Now, only furious strive remained. Now, you’d be salvaged and remade—beautifully vulnerable; at his mercy… completely and irrevocably his. And Doctor Snow has big plans for his new favorite subject.

a/n: well, well, I had this brain worm for a while now for the AU... it's darker than what i have written so far and it's definitely a different imagining of Coriolanus, but i'm excited to explore more directions with it! thank you to the moon and back (as always) to the lovely @p4neminem -- for listening to me ramble abt my love/hate relationship with writing this and for the final beta💚 Hope y'all enjoy and let me know what u think!

Someone should really fix these leaks…

With all of the funding his father is flooding into the Gamemaker ‘Romulus’ initiative as part of his ‘glorious’ Presidential campaign, Coriolanus thinks there ought to be a line of handymen, eager to get close to the Creation of it all. Yet, here he sits, waiting on the apparently urgent summons from Gaul—and that blasted trickling just Does. Not. Seize. Like maggots crawling through his brain, each drop is a frustrating reminder of the Head Gamemaker's overstep, of her playing with her food.

She is definitely observing through her digital eyes—the cameras all but a testament to her ever-reaching control. Every minute reaction he may let slip is another data point for her observation of human nature, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at her facial muscles in that disjointed, puppet-like fashion.

If there was one thing he can undoubtedly say Gaul enjoyed, it was playing games. And what greater joy than her toys being animated with worry, fear or worse…? It’s a lost art Coriolanus had come to find deep appreciation for—the ability to hold someone’s mind so thoroughly, in the delicate balance between sanity and madness. It is an intensely intimate affair, if one would ask him, to hold their brain and take it apart only to put it back together in whatever designs you can fathom. Not to void the subject of their life, but evolve it—study it, better it.

His specialty definitely lay with corrections, as he dubbed them. Carefully curated, be it behavioral or in more extreme cases chemically altering—his animal experiments are a glory to behold. He often finds himself falling asleep to the reports. Joined and soothed by the smell of his late mother's rose compact powder, he relives that blinding moment of ultimate control—when an experiment concludes successfully.

Ravenous, cannibalistic rabbits, bats that could tune their echolocation to the exact frequency of their prey's skeletal and muscle structure, causing the target to implode… Tendencies and markers that Crassus’ simple mind cannot begin to conceive of being displayed in a species’ lifetime, are now reality. By virtue of Coriolanus’ divine spark, the field of mutt designs thrived and will fuel at least a decade of Games to come.

Who would've thought that exploiting the naturally evolved behaviors of these creatures while splicing them with, at a first glance, totally incompatible genes can lead to scientific wonders?

Ingenious on his part, really.

His subjects may have been resistant little things—struggling and shriveling against the antagonistic genomes introduced—but the end always justifies the means. True enough, in his very beginnings, through his first steps on this wet floor that resembled a frozen game of kings, Coriolanus was a bit overeager. We live and we learn.

Science is precise like that. It doesn’t lie, doesn’t pretend—just reveals: what is strong enough to persevere… and what will sink and drown in the endless whirlpool of the natural order. That certainty gives him serenity like nothing else can.

It's of no surprise then, that he'd much rather have someone under his magnifying glass. Has Gaul forgotten his brilliance? Is she ignoring it to intentionally spite him? Maybe she is in dire need of a reminder as to who exactly she is dealing with.

Snow lands on top, after all…

Coriolanus has enough of butting antlers with his father to allow for any bothersome transgressions against his standing to hunt him here. The lab is his safe haven, where he governs and inevitably brings all to heel. He will decidedly not permit it to become an operating table for authority negotiations.

Mildew permeates the air, making the lingering chemical smell heavier, constricting, as though he is a specimen in a formaldehyde jar. His jaw is so taut, it aches now; a nasty habit of grinding his teeth has followed him ever since the start of his Academy days.

Socializing doesn’t dawn well on him. Of course, he is efficient enough at it—taking care to note all of the small quirks each classmate exhibits so he can win their favor. Though it comes at a great cost to his peace of mind. While, in theory, he grasps the importance of upholding powerful ties; in practice, most of his peers bore him to no end. Those simpletons weren't his subjects, sadly, and most of them never put any care whatsoever to strive for perfection… What a pathetic, brainless existence. A pity he couldn't get them on his table. What novel symphonies he could reach then…! Alas, it's not so easy to get his gloves on human experimentation. Point is, using the data he gathers while conversing with his so-called ‘friends’ was a matter of simple convenience, not a grand plan. Each such interaction inevitably left him repressed, hollow and always searching for more to apply his findings to.

A solitary wolf by choice and necessity… Crassus’ shadow has always been loud enough for the two of them to get swallowed by.

“Mister Snow…” Gaul's echo bouncing off the walls wakes him up. Next and as per her usual routine, she feigns surprise, waiting on her subject's reaction. “Ah, aren’t you a busy little bee—getting in your head again? Your eye should be focused outward… objectivity is king in empirical study after all. I'd hate it if it hasn’t been drilled into your skull sufficiently by now.”

She'd come from the control room, of course, from the door behind Coriolanus. For that brief time, before she approaches his desk and unveils herself, there had been no discernible source to accredit that deep voice to. A mockery of a guardian angel—calling from high above.

“Why have I been summoned on such an auspicious day?” Coriolanus queries in a hiss as his posture straightens automatically like a string—the very picture of a perfect heir. “Or has it escaped the good doctor's mind that we are needed to ensure Reaping preparations?”

The chipped wood under his fingernails—the result of his restless clawing at the desk’s bottom apron—is forgotten in haste. Such displays are not only unbecoming, but all around damnable for a Snow.

“Oh, my, so demanding today, Coriolanus…” she coos. “I assure you, it's marvelous news I bring, simply marvelous.” She clasps her gloved hands.

He'd noticed it rather early on—how Gaul addresses him depending on the occasion. Switching between the designations throughout the course of a single interaction, in ensuing sentences even. His first name is reserved for one purpose only: to deliver poison, make judgments on his character. ‘Mister Snow’ is for such occasions when she deems it indispensable for a lesson to be delivered. Theatrical as always, she would even dare to use that one in the presence of Crassus. Especially in the old man's presence. It feels personal, purposeful in fact, and a part of the prodigal son wonders if she's living out some fantasy where it's the Presidential candidate whom she guides instead of Coriolanus. And finally, ‘Doctor Snow’— a title he technically hasn't earned yet it's still his… in all but writing. That one, she's used just once before… when he managed to deliver those mutt rabbits.

“I hope it's indeed so. I'd hate for my precious time to be wasted.” He swallows the thick air around them.

“Come and you shall see, Doctor Snow…” Gaul encourages. “Don't be shy.”

Coriolanus’ eyes slowly widen, as though he's seeing for the first time. A pulsing sensation tickles at the corner of his lips—the beginnings of a smile that he swiftly suppresses. The genuine giddiness in her voice, almost child-like, can only mean one thing—new funding, a new experiment, and… a new subject. His for the claiming if that theory on her word choice patterns holds any merit.

And what scientist would he be, if he doesn't test his theories?

Black, white, black, white… the harlequin floor tiles mark every piece moved, every strategy carefully weighed out and applied that's led him to this moment. He finds deep consolation in routine; a compulsion gnaws at him to stick to it—an exact path through the patterned wet ceramics. The mysterious leaks aren't much of a concern now that he's moving through his territory and has a bounty to claim. The drops become a metronome that keeps him steadily moving.

Coriolanus can hear it before he sees its wellspring… the singing—resounding through the tight walls of the hall that lead to the holding cells. The melody rolls in deep waves and there’s subtle fury in the notes—like it's fighting its entrapment beneath water.

That dampness nets what will otherwise be a pretty voice and turns it haunting, seeking…

As I was a walking down in Pearl Bay I met a drowned sailor on the beach as he lay And as I drew nigh him, it put me to a stand, When I knew it was my own true Love By the scar on his hand Clear as the sea that saw us two together For the last time

So, it isn't an Avox. Marrow-deep relief washes over Coriolanus as he sighs, relaxing his coiled lungs. While far more readily accessible for their purposes, a thing void of their tongue cannot report on complex sensations, on what compels them after behavioral reprogramming. A sorry affair, truly. At that point it's as good as having a monkey to experiment on—still trainable on intricate routines without the nuisance of blank data points. Missing vital information because of this possible… physical inconvenience would've been a cruel waste of potential.

A sure way to spoil the fun.

It’s eerie, how lucid the words of the song ring over the lulling voice—like it's a lived account. The pauses between lines hang in the air, no doubt brought upon by the exertion of fighting the sedative. Whatever meaning this song holds, it must be far more soothing than sweet surrender to the drug. Otherwise, the shanty would’ve drowned long ago…

As he was a sailing from his own dear shore Where the waves and the billows so loudly do roar, I said to my true Love, I shall see you no more For ‘tis the last time.

That timbre, it is mournful… kissing freedom goodbye most likely with the way the bridge is repeated in that grated fashion. ‘For the last time, for the last time’… No—Coriolanus’ mind barks, almost offended—there shall be plenty of new times now. Better times.

A subject under his care need not preoccupy itself with notions of finality… it will be made immortal through the generational breakthroughs they'll deliver together.

So farewell, my dearest, you're the lad I adore. Anda stone for remembrance was laid on my grave, My joys are all ended, my pleasures are fled, This grave that I lie in is my new married bed.

‘Grave’? Hardly… his lab is a place of innovation—where the mediocre turn into something more. Burying one’s old self is hard, letting go of what holds you back as well, Doctor Snow ponders. He shall be the balm to that mourning.

Objectivity, yes, he reminds himself, objectivity reigns. Though for some reason he cannot shake the song’s call that only grows deafeningly louder with each step toward his destiny.

District Four, no doubt—that shanty carries the sound of saltwater, grainy sand and long voyages. He despised that place. For all the beauty capitolites ascribed it, that land was just a sorry, insignificant fishmonger's abode, reeking of guts and despair. His father had taken the family there once, in celebration of his second marriage. Save for the stench, it's all a blur and pressure-inducing darkness to Coriolanus… Good riddance!

What matters is the present—a final corner to be rounded, just a moment more and he shall greet his destiny. The summer storm has grown grotesque outside, lightning shining through the myriad of round windows high in the corridor. It truly is like a submarine in here.

Gaul's heels click in determination; Coriolanus’ jaw finally relaxes as he's set on a course…

And then… he sees you.

Folded in on yourself in an embryonic embrace… on the floor instead of the cot—more afraid to take what's offered by your doctors than by the filth that soaks the cell. Pitiful creature, so in need of guidance… what a bad subject, to not heed a professional's advice. And yet, he isn't too surprised—most of your kind suffer that affliction, thankless things that you are. It's what will make it all the more fulfilling, painful yet precious to take you under his care.

Aye, I know that I've loved, I've fought For the last time

You mumble and Coriolanus is so lost in envisioning all the possibilities ahead that the startle intended for you has the effect of making him flinch in stride. Doctor and subject already in sync…? Not bad.

Gaul snaps her fingers, willing a nearby Peacekeeper and the soldier readily surrenders his baton. She takes her time, feeling the weight of the black rod in her hand. Turning it, twisting it until it becomes almost an extension of her arm as her black gloves swallow its handle. Small rhythmic taps against the bars ensue, matching the drops that come from the rain penetrating the lab.

False comfort and suddenly—a loud bang in sync with the thunder outside.

You give a violent start and with a gasp, the melody drowns in your throat. While mildly unpleasant, the baton’s crescendo is a far less rude snapping to full consciousness than Gaul's usual treatment. He'd seen her practically waterboard her subjects. Though, a level of distance is owed now—you are his, not hers. She wouldn't want to sully the preconditions of whatever experiments awaited you.

When you realize you aren't floating ashore back in Four, anchored instead against your will, your eyes snap to the two figures you can distinguish. The ‘transportation aid’, as it's called, is a powerful sedative—yet whirlpools of fury dance within your irises. You are a fierce one…

Gaul doesn't utter a word, too busy conducting an observational study of her own. The lack of claim she displays should send a sufficient enough signal to Coriolanus that you are indeed his for the taking.

“Very well…” he mutters, attempting to mask his enthusiasm.

Oh, how long he's imagined this day. Ever since he was asked to submit his very first proposal, maybe even before then… when the ants on the playground were his initial and only research in group dynamics. Poor insects, so lost when their queen—their head of state was forcefully removed by his hand. It did teach him a great deal about how Panem ought to be governed and how limited natural creations were. Control is an intricate thing, one that requires nourishment. But its epitome, he believes, comes in the form of shaping individuals.

He will gladly leave Crassus to play court. In the end, all it takes is one piece to mate the king. One person to be that spark.

Now, a man grown into his calling, small creatures were a thing of the past. He's earned this, earned you… after observing his mentor in action more than he could pretend to care about. No, his method is different… He takes a step toward you, not within the cell just yet—the lock is still securely in place, marking the boundary of his territory.

Crouching, the words grate from his throat. “Hi, doll,” he outstretches his hand as though you need to get acquainted to his smell like a wild animal. “I'm Doctor Snow. Welcome to my lab.”

He expects you to recoil, to shout or beg for your freedom—however futile—but his mouth hangs, face drowning in surprised when you… you slither… towards him.

The lab gown hangs like a martyr’s rags on your famished frame. Your long hair is matted, begrimed from the unsanitary transportation correctional Peacekeepers typically utilize. You’d tried to subdue it—he’ll give you that—rake it back into a braid… the waves he expects from the visibly delicate curls are crudely slicked back. A puppet without strings isn’t allowed tools. Not when it can use them in less than favorable ways—pins, ties, combs—anything can aid in escape or bodily harm.

A thorough cleanse, inside and out, is in order… before he can even think about touching you without his gloves.

Blue shadows from the puddled water dance in ghostly ripples where the material dips between your breasts. Pretty thing… for a district girl, tempting his superiorly rational mind with your wicked ways—like a nymph of myth.

He shakes his head back into focus to meet your expression… it pleads silently—wide, warm eyes above your sunken cheekbones. You… recognize him? The thought is so absurd, a hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up to the surface.

“I'm—” your voice tries to find a confidant through cracked lips.

“—You are my subject,” he supplies before it can get out of hand. “Fish out of water, but I will have little trouble shaping you into the proper doll ought to be.”

The denial of your unspoken words burns you, forcing you to grow quiet. A wise retreat, he recognizes. Here, you have no name, no past… just the future he determines, as what he will shape you to become. It’s a responsibility, a burden even, but a calling he is destined to fulfill.

“Ah, the puppy recognizes its new owner?” Gaul notes, each word pressing with a blade’s sharpness. “What a delight!” She taps her fingertips together, restless—the same way she’d get when she knows more than anyone else in the room.

The disproportion in information, and thus power, needles him ceaselessly. Frustration festers beneath his skin until he can feel the vein pulsing on his forehead. Ordinarily, he is the fish that can’t resist the lure. Now, he simply stands up, not to bite at Gaul’s provocation but to gaze down at you from up high—the place where he belongs. And you—kneeling as his rightful subject, awaiting the greatness he’ll administer in due time. When your eyes follow him, fearful and desperate, that’s when his mind quietens as he realizes…

He’s already won.

“Strip,” Doctor Snow orders.

His display of restraint is truly commendable, he believes. Any self-respecting doctor, eager to start on the scientific method, would’ve resorted to strapping you to their table and pulling out the scissors already. Not Coriolanus though.

He prides himself in the patience he's trained into his temperament. Naturally, any growing Snow boy endeavored to seize the whole world. He wasn't born necessarily self-possessed. A man of turbulent emotions, he learned early on to quell them, suppress that high baseline of physiological arousal that’s plagued him so. Unlike Crassus who seemed entirely void of that human side, detached and raising above its mundane ruckus.

‘Pick your battles’—truly the single most effective way to lead one's life and emerge unscathed.

You, however—you've picked the wrong one today. As your legs dangle from the surgical table—the cold metal no doubt boring into your backside by now—he gives you a chance to be good. The way your fingers crumple the gown in white-knuckled fists—you are itching to tear it off. Whether it's to throw a tantrum, to try and show that the garment doesn't define you… he doesn't care. The result will be all the same—you, beautifully vulnerable under his guidance, and his assessments finally beginning in earnest.

Instead, you surprise him yet again… by shooting up with the vigor of a new day’s beginning. Big and angry barefoot steps patter Coriolanus’ way—not to obey, but to annoy with your insistence. Crawling definitely fits you better, he determines. Swimming though, will suit you best—far more elegant than your little display.

When you arrive in front of him, trembling like a rabbit beneath a hawk’s shadow, his hands twitch around the final button of his lab coat. Putting on his armor while you ought to be shedding yours—what a fitting, exquisite imbalance. That reminder steadies his fingers—he cannot allow you to scent his vexation, lest you weaponize it.

“Please, ain't you hearing?!” your voice quivers in a wheeze, throat tight with frustration and disuse. You flail your hands in fury as boundless as sea whipped into foam. “We've met before! I'm—”

“Ah, ah, ah—those delusions really aren't helping your case, doll. How unfortunate—your mental state seems worse than I'd hypothesized…” Coriolanus waves a finger as he interjects swiftly, a faux sickly sweet coo masking his practiced words. “I've already told you the exact parameters of what you are.” His gaze is set on the desk beside him and when it’s not, he’s looking past you, trying to not snap. “You are my subject, my doll to take apart and put together for the greater good of Panem… And good little dolls do not argue with their doctors.”

He seizes your wrists with one hand as if that would quell you. The body sends signals to the brain after all—some correct, some erroneous. A prey though… knows when it's trapped. His free hand finds its course to a readied syringe. In your desperation, however, you remain none-the-wiser.

You writhe against his cold grip like a fish caught in a net, trying to wriggle out. “Stop, stop! Don't you call me that! I—” The moment you let your guard slip, arms bound like this, a sting bites at your neck.

“There we go…” he coos as your muscles give out under the relaxant, and he catches you in his waiting arms. “Good girl, doll. See? Not so hard to just follow orders.”

“—I have… a name…” your words are still here, though nausea bubbles up and your body grows heavy—no longer yours to control.

“Hmm, do you now?” he feigns contemplation as you float, guided to his table. “Because I look at this file and…” He waves some papers you cannot hope to make out in this state, “… I don't think you do.” The mock pout that cracks on his thin lips is clear enough though as he taunts: “Not anymore. Not after your… what was it?” He pretends to consult the report on your imprisonment as though he didn't mull over every letter a hundred times before he went to sleep last night. Imagining you at those dark docks—running and afraid, your sweet voice begging for mercy. “Ah, there it is—your silly escape attempt. Thinking you can abandon your post? Your duty to the nation…? What an ingrate creature.”

His words reek of discontent. Sighing, he takes to strapping each of your wrists and then your ankles. The leather licks at your skin, a gentler sensation after the many bites of Peacekeeper whips. Even that, you know well, is a false sense of comfort. At least the lashes had been delivered on your body… now, these false kisses blossom on a mere cadaver. Your autonomy—swept away with the tides.

Still, you try to fight the current, to appeal to his humanity. “On Pearl Bay in Four, I—I saved you. I’m—” each word is slow and painful under the slow influence of the drug. It comes in waves as clarity fights to linger, but it’s muted—cascading in small bursts.

His hand shoots up to cover your mouth as your words bring about an unwelcome flash in his vision. No coo is detectable in his voice now, just poison. “It's fascinating, really—what fantasies your simple mind can concoct just so you don't feel powerless… ‘Savior complex’ as I have so eloquently noted in your file already.” He tuts in disappointment, squeezing your face harshly until your jaw aches, until your teeth catch your lips and you can taste the latex of his glove. “If you hate my darling pet names so… perhaps you'd prefer a number? Every specimen in here has one, but… that'd be so impersonal.”

Your only appellation here — 1042, he says. And you wonder—how is it possible for so many people to have been put through this? Then, you figure, like a stab through the heart… they probably count the animals in the same pile.

“It'd be a pity to have to use it when there's nothing more devoted and soul-baring than the relationship between a doctor… and his patient.” he hisses, fingers digging into your cheeks like talons, with even more ferocity—like he might seal the corrupt words there.

He doesn't believe it—the yarn you spin of a mermaid rescuing her prince. For he is no fairytale, and you… are no siren. Not yet anyhow. Even when, in his dreams with teeth, his subconscious remembers the shadowy depths of Four…

Was it his father who'd thrown him to swim or perish?

Coriolanus’ breath catches at the vision that's entered his mind uninvited. Blasphemy! It's all a child's scare, not reality. It didn't happen. You are playing tricks on him with your perfidious district ways… how you are able to peer into his fears and know what to exploit, he hasn't the faintest idea. One thing rings clear though—he needs to up the ante.

You get there first, however—your teeth sinking into his fingers hard the moment they slip. Relentless endurance courses in your district veins it seems, and sheer audacity.

“Little shit!” Doctor Snow yelps as he rips his hand away, though he has to fight with your fangs. “I have to put a muzzle on you now? Is that it?!”

You managed to put a tear in the glove and fresh droplets of blood bead at the wound. As you managed to hurt him back… pride swells in your heart.

“Go ahead—since you already treatin’ me like an animal!” you challenge, though you feel your heartbeat decelerate against your will.

Your eyes widen at the dreadful certainty that the sedative is taking the final drag under—like a hundred desperate hands pulling you with the ocean's fury. The quiet horror that paints your face seems to delight him greatly; he can overlook your outburst—if all is restored to its expected place. Just like yesterday when you crawled for him… just like it will be today, and tomorrow, and the day after… and forever.

“Well, aren’t you a handful…”

Letting out a self-satisfied huff, Coriolanus’ hands start rummaging at the helping table out of sight, no doubt preparing another dose of some altering concoction, or some barbaric tool with which to break bone and rend flesh. The clatter of instruments feels deafening for you know each one is some means to seal your fate as his doll.

All throughout his careful ritual, he doesn’t stop humming this bright melody. It sounds like a nursery rhyme, one that is just as unknown to you as everything around—clearly not meant to soothe your nerves. It’s his recital, his show to run. An occasional, almost whimsical whistle sharply emphasizes each clink of the glass flasks as he puts them down with a flare fitting for a conductor.

A second passes, then two, then three—but each feels like a lifetime in this lost world. The air in the examination room grows heavy with the dampness of the leaks that have seeped through the very structure of the establishment. You can see the black mold that’s made home in these walls—blooming in veins like blood in water. Will you remain like that too? Forever etched into whatever construction he designs?

“Almost there, doll, I can feel you getting antsy…” Coriolanus sighs as he dabs his forehead with the pristine white towel that hangs over his shoulder, wincing when he feels the throb of his wound. “I’m just preparing something extra special for my good girl… to ensure you have your strength before the real treatment begins—”

“I’m not ill!” you protest feebly. “I shouldn’t be here…”

“Hush now, don’t distract your doctor…” Coriolanus snaps, growing agitated, but his hands and eyes never leave his station.

Your begging falls on deaf ears while he’s too preoccupied with his sick idea of ‘healing’ you. Vapors curl in the air from a boiling vial, emanating this putrid stench of rot… gurgling until only viscid dark bubbles remain in the glass tube, whirling in a clear liquid.

You raise your head, struggling to look over to the small table. It’s obscured by his broad shoulders where he's settled into the spinning leather stool like a king on his throne. Still, you hope to chance a glance at what horrors he will unveil that will debilitate your agency further. Maybe then you'll at least be prepared… Wasn't it enough for his ego? To have you strapped like this on display, at his mercy? Why does he have to deny you the grace of knowing your fate?

He doesn't need to turn around to sense your rebellion, aware of your every sign, as any good scientist should. A spark of anger flares so fast even he cannot anticipate what he’s compelled to do to regain control over the situation.

In the same blink, without getting up, without even sparing you a glance—his hand flies to your neck, pinning your head down. The recoil rattles your skull onto the metal table in sync with his other fist coming down onto the tools and they are sent clanking like downpour from the abrupt force.

“Oh, no you don't!” Only when your throat is secured in his clutch does he turn slowly, forcing his instincts to take a backseat while his words attempt to regain their momentum— a dangerous note catches fire, “Forcing my hand to use the relaxant. Now, you try to compromise the study's blinding! Sullying my experiment before it's even began…" His eyes dart madly, "It's all wrong, all filthy, all wrong… all spoiled and wrong!” he chants through gritted teeth.

Doctor Snow presents himself as this put-together professional, yet you see the smoldering wrath that bubbles beneath the mask. A small, scared child—wanting to lash out at anything that dares defy his imposed order. That is why he hides behind the orchestration of his lab… if you can't fight the force that is Coriolanus Snow, you may yet bring it about… So it can scorch him back, so that the armor cracks and he's left to the untamed fire. Even if you are reduced to ashes in the process… you'll know—you have fought.

“Barin’, you said?” you echo his earlier tirade in a tired, thin voice. Somehow you find the strength to scoff under the spell of the drug and his possessive hands, your lungs and throat burning from the exertion. “I'm the only one in the open ‘ere… you can't even touch me without them gloves—”

“Ignorant, rotten little girl…” His hand is still on your neck, squeezing harder with each word. “Has Gaul put you up to this, hm? Or my father perhaps? He could never bear that my brilliance outshines his… maybe you are no gift, but a curse? Sent here to taunt me!”

The pressure is all too much now, you can't hope to breathe through it. If you could just move and scuffle him off… but you can’t. With grace, you are prepared to let the current take you. If this is how it ends, at least you'd still be yourself as you leave this world—not whatever mutt he wants to make of you. For a moment, his grip is a welcomed respite, a glimpse into the light.

‘Coryo… What have you done?!’

His mother's shriek echoes from somewhere low in his hind brain. It’s like she’s in this very room, afraid of her own son even from beyond the grave.

Then, just as your body thrashes to take the breath you're owed, his hands snap back as though burned and you are washed ashore— a fresh gasp torn from your lungs. Your surrender had tugged some string in his heart. Not pity, maybe not even a guilty conscience wrought from the memory of his mother finding his earlier experiments—back when his childish mind couldn't yet judge right from wrong. Surely, it's just as simple as him clinging to his ambition—redirecting his efforts to fasten a strap over your forehead.

Limited to your peripheral vision, for once you wish you were born a prey animal instead of being forced into the role of one. A small, fluffy rabbit mayhaps—with side-facing eyes and whiskers. A superior frame for detecting danger when it cannot be met head-on.

“No matter… you hurt me—I hurt you back,” he reassures himself more than you, chest expanding and constricting rapidly as his breath attempts to outrun his thoughts. “But we'll show them… we'll show them all.”

That he is good, because he's answered a calling bigger than himself, because he doesn’t shy away from what needs to be done—the grotesque and the vile. Even when his mother— sweet late Lady Snow, too soft-hearted and light of spirit, drifting through a world that never demanded she carry its weight—couldn’t see what he was destined to achieve. He'll show her, it's nothing to be afraid of, but a glory to be embraced.

He won't break you, not yet… and not with his own two hands. Curse or not—you still have your purpose and he'll be damned if he doesn't squeeze it out of you one way or another.

“They oughtta've hanged me…” you choke out. “Not leave me ‘tween the devil and the deep blue sea.”

Why didn't they? You were captured at the abandoned docks, searching for some blind hope: tales of rebels trying to escape the bounds of Panem through sea—a faraway voyage but nothing felt too vast when you yearn to taste freedom.

It would have been so easy to just deal with you like any other vermin… instead of subjecting you to a slow death at an unmarked grave.

“No, no... Shh, don't cry,” The squeak of his new glove on your heavy tears is assaulting to the senses, yet he seems unbothered by it, almost as if in a trance. A chill crawls up your spine at how quickly he oscillates from one extreme state to the other. “Do you miss my hands on you so dearly that you yearn for the burn of a rope around your pretty neck? I won't gag you, I promise. I will hear your song, even when it tries to deceive.” his voice is so gentle now or maybe it's the sedative that makes you melt. “I was a bad doctor, doll… refusing my subject's call for help,” his voice grows solemn as he cradles your scratched-up cheek. “Forgive me.”

He doesn’t wait for absolution, he doesn’t truly need it from a subject. It’s just another lesson learned… if you insist you ‘saved’ him, if you want to cling to that ludicrous story—that's just another thread he can cure or exploit. It truly is ridiculous—he never needed saving, but you… you do.

“Why should I?” you ask drowsily. “You ain’t savin’ me from drowning.”

“No, doll… But I'll make sure you are never afraid of the depths,” is all he offers as he lets the scissors lead.

He starts off slowly, holding his breath as each snip bares more of your skin to him… inch by inch he starts to peel the gown off—that last barrier. Be it because he forgets to exhale or because you look so tempting pinned to his table, his chest begins to ache, warm blood rushing to his core. The fingertips of his free hand trace each of your bruised ribs as though he can produce a melody drumming through the hollows…

He's always been fascinated with the curves of the human body—so purposefully sculpted. Even if you are frail now, you still have that fullness in places—your breasts, those nipples prickling in the cold air—his fingers still there, applying just enough pressure to feel the plushness beneath. A sponge bath is in order; you aren’t clean by any means—not in your state now and chief of all, not by virtue of your breeding, but… he wants to be engulfed in your softness nonetheless. He forces himself to sit down lest he reveal the… prominent result of your alluring form—the tent pressing in his pants that his apron so conveniently conceals.

Still, he cannot deny himself more exploration. It's a necessary part of the assessment, he tells himself as his gloved hand dances in featherlight strokes across each freckle where the sea sun had kissed you first.

It tingles in ways you don't want to be feeling… No one has ever touched you that way before, and maybe no one ever will. It's normal to be confused, you think to yourself—that’s just what this is. The first gentle touch you are graced with in this forsaken world.

“Good muscle tone, all things considered,” he notes clinically, yet the gruff baritone that rings underneath is anything but, “Though a woman should have more body fat in her composition. I will amend that.”

“It's not like we’re out there feastin’ in the districts,” you bite back, though your labored breath isn't something you're proud of. “And your Peacekeepers sure don't give a damn if we starve in them cells.” You attempt clear your throat in discontent.

“I said, I will see to it—”

The subtext is clear: ‘I'm more of a man than these soldiers my father hails could ever be.’

When you dare tremble as the sharp cutting edge reaches your abdomen, your underbelly—that vulnerable spot any animal protects—his composure cracks. The scissors are sent flying to the other side of the room with a clatter so vicious, for a moment you’d been afraid he was preloading a strike to stab you with them. Instead, he snatches the flaps of your gown-turned-rag, bracing a knee atop the table. His forearm veins bulge though the physical exertion shouldn’t be so grand… and he tears through the remaining fabric with a groan.

You shriek at the sudden exposure, and he just… stares at you.

“All good now…” he releases a slow exhale.

His breath is labored as he takes in the supple flesh of your thighs and the fawn-like fear in your glossy eyes—all ripe for the taking. All his to mold and enjoy. Yet he's careful, forcing composure back in place… he's no beast, even if he could do as he pleased within these four walls. His one purpose here is to serve more than just his primal needs. To show show Panem that his order reigned supreme, that Crassus’ political theaters and court pageantry had nothing on science and real progress.

‘We are the real puppet masters here, Mister Snow… Ties and strings that stay can only be born from the shadows.’, as Gaul likes to assert. ‘Bread and circuses—the only means to control a nation is not with empty promises, but by showing the plebeians who they truly are. Animals, savages… when there’s no Leviathan to reign.’

It pulls Coriolanus back at his center and away from the gravity of your trembling body. You are a means to an end, nothing more… First, comes the trust between a subject and their doctor—and he won't have it nipped in the bud. Then, well, the world's his oyster, and you—his pearl. It's embarrassing enough that he'd allowed his temper to get the best of him in front of you earlier—his hands clawing at your throat like a madman… Why do his palms still tingle?

A distraction—yes, he needs one and desperately. Thankfully, the enriching serum he'd prepared provides just that. Synthesized from his defining work, his pièce de résistance thus far—the rabbits. It will increase your appetite just right, he hopes, making your body retain more of the nutrition you’ll be pumped with.

A shortcut, yes, but one that he deserves. And should any side effects occur… he will be here to greet and treat them in whatever way is required.

This should keep his mind set on the target while he bathes his doll—can’t have you be messy while he works, now can he?

“My, my… Just look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” the observation rings as Coriolanus leans in to clean up the wounds that are still gaping, the bruises that still bloom in magenta—some new, from Peacekeeper lashes and batons and some old, from the night you tried to flee to the ship that promised to take you away. “So broken, so abandoned. Those soldier mutts don’t know how to treat a creature like you.” His breath hitches all but involuntarily when he squeezes at your inner thigh to keep you steady for the bandaging. “Fret not, doll, here you are wanted—so long as you let me take you apart.” His hand lingers at your ankle— it remained throbbingly swollen through your days in captivity. Doctor Snow’s touch will kiss it better… As he tightens the compression sleeve his curls brush against your core, making you twitch. All scientific, all with purpose surely. “Over and over, just so I could fit all the pieces back together perfectly. Imagine what spectacular designs we will create together.”

“Let you? Like I gotta choice—no one will choose to be sufferin’…” you offer, though your words are small, drained and confused. There’s some itch that bubbles up in you, that you cannot scratch — that you, more than anything, don’t want to acknowledge.

“Did you see what’s written at the grand arch of the department as they were hauling you in, doll?” he muses as though you are two peers catching up over afternoon tea, instead of you being tethered to him and this table like an unruly pet while he rinses out a sponge.

“No,” you whimper in fear, forcing your eyes shut with such grit that they wrinkle at the edges. You don’t want to feel clean—not by his hands.

“I don’t blame you… your poor heart was probably ready to jump out of your chest, getting mishandled like that. I should have them whipped for daring to deliver my subject in such suboptimal condition.” Coriolanus’ voice laps gently like the sponge he drags up your arm, though his words spell violence. “Have I already praised your beautiful pulse? Even weak like this, your vitals fight—that blood pressure is simply perfect… not too low, not too high. Just what I expected of my good doll.”

“Wh-what does it tell?” you ask, stifling a gasp. Your lids remain sealed—wanting to occupy your senses with anything but how close his hands were getting… to that need that rises treacherously. “The writing?”

“If you open your eyes, I might let you know…” his whisper tingles at the shell of your ear, while his cleaning doesn’t seize—padding the sponge below your breasts, almost at your belly button, one more swipe and—“Everything sounds much more enticing in Latin. And I can tell, you are an inquisitive one, hmm? I am too…”

With that, he reaches between your thighs and your eyes shoot open—the cold cleansing water licking at your warmth. As quickly as that drag floods you with some relief—it’s gone. With shame, you realize that if it weren’t for the straps, you would’ve let your hips chase that friction in a desperate buckle.

His chuckle reverberates through your body, through that emptiness he left behind.

“Good, see how well you listen when you are properly motivated? I’ll have to make a note of that…” he announces, “‘Ex duris gloria’ — from suffering comes glory. Choice or not, we all suffer… it's what comes afterwards that counts.”

“You think that’s it—that you’s what comes after?” you inquire, throat bobbing with contained abhorrence. That’s what you should feel, right? Disdain? At this foreign, unwanted touch… yet its apparent care lulls you. Practiced or not, it comes gently.

“Oh, you flatter me, doll.” The faintest curl at Coriolanus’ lips seems genuine but you aren't sure whether that's a good thing. “No, I'm a mere messenger. You will be my glory.”

He moves to unfasten your leg from the strap, only to secure the ankle compress to one of the wires that hang from the surgical lamps above. You'd thought you felt exposed before, but spread like this… electricity crawls up your skin. Yet another thing you cannot place as good or bad now—is it instincts or craving? No, it can’t be the latter—the drug must really be messing with your mind, clouding it like the mist that settles over the marina before first light. This is the man who almost choked you out… who treats you like an object… but whose touch is the only gentle one you’ve known. The boy you saved… is he somewhere in there, under the dredges of hatred and fear at the world?

“It needs to stay up—helps with the swelling,” he interjects clinically.

Some explanation finally graces you, yet what comes after is anything but gentle…

“Can I at least have a-a wool or somethin’?” you hold your ground, though sheepishly.

“Now, why would you need that?” he challenges, tone imbued with the mild agitation you sensed before— the same one that grew so wild in a flash. “I’m your doctor, doll—you have nothing to hide here under my care. Not your body, not your… little reactions.” His eyes are reduced to slits at how he concentrates on dissecting you. “It’s all natural, all part of the study. Even that ear-splitting sailor talk you have going on—I tolerate it, because it’s an independent variable.”

Everything he does, he does for his work.

The ‘blinding’ as he put it, seems ready to be unveiled now—when its application becomes inevitable and he is the one controlling the narrative… telling you a version of what the serum will do.

“Now, I hope you don't mind needles, because it all starts with this—” Coriolanus’ gloved hands handle the syringe like it’s an integral part of him—swiftly and confidently, positioning it with precision. “A little something to get you on the right track… to bring a healthy flush to those cheeks and prime you for what’s to come. And don't you worry, it’s passed all sorts of testing—”

Animal testing. With macabre but favorable results.

The disinfectant feels impossibly cold against your shoulder, even as your naked body quivers. When you sense the needle’s prod, you hold your breath. Although your head is strapped in place, your eyes dart to his, to the only other person in the room. In search of some warmth or anchor… you don’t know why you hope to find it in the architect of your distress, the one who supports and benefits from your captivity. His eyes widen, stunned by your display as much as you are.

Then, the only thing you feel is liquid fire scorching in your muscles. Whatever this medicine is, it leaves behind a throb that he pretends to soothe with more antiseptic. Panic cuts you up—prickling like icicles that threaten to burst from your chest. Even when you were captured, you had some inkling as to what may happen to you. Now, it's all unknown—an indeterminate, potent synthetic coursing unseen through your body and leaving its mark. Changing you from within…

“Such a good subject. You took your shot so well, doll,” Coriolanus praises as he finally removes his gloves. “I’m so proud.”

Now, you are clean, washed in his care… deserving of his touch. Yet you've never felt more sullied.

“Don't leave me here…” you rasp out as you grasp at his sleeve like a drowning sailor, words falling once the dam breaks and all you can feel is the all-consuming fear that you may not wake up the same. “Please, I—I don't know nothin’ about what that stuff was. What if it acts up and I'm all alone, and—”

“Doll.” He unstraps you with haste, though the relaxant doesn't allow you to skitter off. “Hey, hey, I'll be here… in a way,” he assures you, “We have so many cameras, so just know… I'm always watching. I told you already—you won't be afraid of sinking so long as I work my magic, alright?”

You nod slowly, bringing the injected thigh close to you—nursing it while you attempt to reconcile the hatred with the odd sense of security that his words bring. Reduced to begging for aid from the one who inflicted this dread upon you in the first place—you decide you'll take the rose with its thorns. For today.

“Thank you… Doctor Snow.”

You can’t recognize the voice—it’s your lips that form the words, yet, you cannot fathom it—showing appreciation for your captor… A delighted smile finally cleaves open on Coriolanus’ face—like cracks breaking through thin ice.

“Young Master?” the butler follows up in a practiced tone, “The President-in-waiting summons you to his office at your earliest convenience.” It’s almost formulaic—how that old fox scans Coriolanus with expert tact so as to report anything amiss to the man of the house. Inevitably, he settles on the boy’s bandaged fingers and slithers in a veiled remark: “Once you’ve managed to leave the day behind, naturally.”

It’s laughable, really, the way Crassus insists on being referred to now. Yet also tragic—that the prodigal son has allowed himself to become a specimen in his home.

“Of course he does,” Coriolanus huffs, knowing exactly what battle awaited him. “Tell my dear father, I shall tend to his needs when I see fit, since he requires so much coddling now.” he muses: “Old age… really scrambles the brain to mush.”

He doesn’t wait to hear a rebuttal, though the devoted servant definitely had one prepared. The young heir simply continues his journey up the winding stairs and into his room—shutting the door behind him with excessive force. He too wants to seal the day—not to let it go, but to sear it in his mind.

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he aches—his erection was throbbing, coming and going from the moment he strapped you onto his table and his hands found purpose on your body. He isn’t sure how he’ll be able to rein himself in if this is what the first day yields.

Maybe… he can just take a look at the live feed of the cameras? Just a peek… nothing inherently sinister.

He did promise to keep an eye on you, all things considered, and after the hearty dinner he ordered for you, you are probably feeling terribly lonely.

Maybe he can arrange for the two of you to have lunch together? Under regular circumstances, dining with a district girl would be an abhorrent thought… but these aren't ordinary circumstances, and you are no ordinary girl—you are his subject, his responsibility. And, well, he'd use it to gather data—that's all.

The screen of the portable tablet hums to life as the initially grainy footage crystallizes somewhat. There you are… and something is indeed bothering you. Nestled in that blanked you'd asked for, on the cot, but… writhing against it.

Could it be?

His mutated rabbits did display a potent heat cycle… maybe once you had your belly full with nutritious diet for a change, the synthesized serum allowed you to blossom into this?

Aw, you do look desperate, he thinks to himself, and the read-out of your vitals only supports his theory: high body temperature and elevated pulse. Poor thing, you must be so scared, unaware of what's happening as your hips draw these small needy circles, seeking relief. The image causes Coriolanus to shift in his chair, the tightness in his pants becoming all too uncomfortable and impossible to ignore as he sets to watch intently. The dedication definitely didn't have anything to do with those visions of you, naked on his table that still swim in his mind.

You are trying to sing even now, but it comes out all warbled—courtesy of the pre-War speakers as well as your state no doubt. Something in his primal brain whispers that the muffle will sound so much better if inflicted by his hand… the way he'd held you down today, even if you bit him in the end. Suits you right—to be a slave to this serum now—a bunny through and through, given how you use your teeth without regard.

A moan wrings free from your lips when you seem to finally find the appropriate angle that sends sparks flying through your neediness.

It does him in.

Steadying his hands, Coriolanus unbuckles his belt to join you in your movements— the serpent answering its nature. Though from afar, it feels so real as he wraps his bitten, sore fingers tightly around his painfully hard cock in an attempt to imagine you here with him. By some convoluted, sick logic, it's as though your mouth is on him. After all, your teeth were right there, sinking into his hand… and now the memory of that will guide him into ecstasy.

How strangled would your song be then, when you are too busy choking on his cock?

His eyes fall shut with a strained groan, letting his memories of the day paint the beautiful picture. The sponge through which he licked everywhere, between your thighs, through your wetness; he could tell you craved it even back then. Maybe not fully comprehending it, but that was his job—to know what you need, even when you may deny it. And to administer it accordingly. Each drag of that soaked sponge he'd inflicted on you is a stroke at his cock now—wet and filthy. It's so vivid in his mind—how he was marking your body as his.

Then he hears you—right there on the screen for him to enjoy. The familiar melody is there, but you aren't singing that melancholic shanty, no… you are begging. He can hear it below the crackle: the small pleas and sighs that rain down in the cadence he'd heard yesterday, with no lucid words of your own… because he'd fine-tuned you to play his song now. And all it took was one day. He was truly destined for greatness.

Are you putting on a show just for him? You know he's a man of his word… that his eyes will be on you. He might have to think of a way to reward you for how good you listen to your new body's call. And for pleasing him so well.

His strokes grow sloppy, trying to keep in sync with your chase. Each small tremble of yours translates to a squeeze around his shaft that beckons beads of pre-come. He's trying desperately to hold back… wanting this moment to last.

‘Thank you, Doctor Snow—’

That's right, you should be grateful that he graces you with his time, that he will make you perfect… his sweet doll.

That recollection of your words mixes in with the ‘please, please’ and whimpers from the live feed—so frantic, so hopeless. You must feel so empty without something to fill your cunt through the heat cycle.

“Poor bunny…” Coriolanus mumbles, swallowing a gasp, “Doctor Snow will make it all better—” he vows with a grunt.

His breathing grows heavier, doubling over at his chair. As he rests his forehead on the desk, he surrenders to chasing his release with reckless abandon while that coil winds tighter. Like a man starved, like a wild animal himself, his hips cant up to meet his fist in a desperate need to rut into something. The chair clatters, the desk rattling against the wall with each stutter.

‘Don't leave me here, please—’

“Never—!” Coriolanus bites at his free hand to stifle the growl that splits from his chest.

His release hits him like a whip, in all-consuming waves that he rides out as thick ropes of cum paint the screen where your image still writhes in your makeshift nest. Once his breath returns to him and the haze lifts, he sinks back into his chair, noting the obscene mess left in his wake. Reverently, he smears the evidence over the screen—not cleaning or absolving—just accepting the facts like the observant scientist he is. Oh, how he wishes it all ended up stuffed in you—making you whole, settling you through your cramps.

He looks down at his hands… one bearing your teeth marks, and the other—his. What poetic symmetry.

‘Fueled with the terror of becoming prey, see how quickly we become predator?’ Gaul’s words prowl at the edge of his mind even now… the only way to explain this primal, vulgar display.

Yet, it was not fear that drove him to forego his trained poise, no—it had been Coriolanus accepting his role, blossoming into his nature. Driven by witnessing his prey in such a dire condition, his instincts kicked in.

The epiphany cracks his skull open as an incessant pounding pulses in his head—Gaul is stagnated in her theories, limited, because of her innate objectivity. She stalks the corridors of the Department of War, postulating proudly how behavior is all about negative reinforcement, all the while she neglects the one chief truth…

A predator seeks to consume.

His ‘spiritual mother’ may wear the skin of a wolf, but beneath—it’s all cogs and bolts, whirring and tuning—laboring to imitate human nature and force baseless interpretations upon it. A machine, void of deeper wants and needs, just like Crassus.

Coriolanus, however, knows much of impulse and appetite, feels them throbbing in his heart. They aren’t a cancer that needs biopsy, but the very essence of his work. Maybe, it’s high time Doctor Snow’s paradigm reign over the ‘Romulus’ program… and for you to become the pearl in his insignia.

The grand doors of his father’s study weren’t always uninviting to Coriolanus… not when this used to be his mother’s studio. Creative chaos, filled with half-finished pieces, oil paint streaks coloring her face as well as her next escape on a canvas and the resinous smell of turpentine that permeated the air. There, a small Coriolanus would sit on her lap, proudly finger painting—safe and sound, loved and embraced.

Crassus permitted it even while she was pregnant. After all, a Commander called to duty didn’t need a place to parley—the War rooms had provided a sufficient enough stage for his ego... for a time. As soon as she left this world alongside Coriolanus’ baby sister who took all but a fleeting breath in it, the President-in-waiting claimed the peace Lady Snow left behind in that room. Before the mourning period had its chance to pass, he'd already turned it into a barren, desolate shell—a true reflection of Crassus’ inner world where he now spends his days entertaining political alliances.

Coriolanus holds his breath as he knocks and the instant response— ‘Enter.’ —is like a guillotine that slices clean through the full girth of his neck.

“So, my heir apparent finally decides to show some gratitude for the funding of his little pet projects? How fortunate must I be that the busy Doctor Snow graces me with his presence?” Crassus begins his sentencing sarcastically and without as much as a cordial greeting—tapping his cigar against the mahogany like a metronome. “Oh, wait, you aren’t a real doctor—it must’ve slipped my mind with how you parade yourself under my roof.” No turpentine in the air… just stale whiskey breath as he utters: “Tell me, boy—have you broken your doll yet? Or are you too busy savoring the only thing you can posses so long as I live?”

This study felt too small, even the whole of Panem sits meager and unable to contain two stags, two Snow men battling for ground. That full-height window, framed with wrought iron roses where his mother used to sit for better lighting as she painted… now casts the cold glow of the setting sun on Crassus. It makes Coriolanus wince before he buries the emotion.

“Father… what a warm welcome, as always. I still wonder—when will you stop whining like a child? Are the numerous bootlickers you surround yourself with not enough for your soldier toy set?” Coriolanus snaps dryly. He doesn't take a seat, electing to instead circle his sire. His rival. “I know the allure of honest work evades you. So—” The deliberate cracks of his leather soles emphasize each calculated pause as he reaches the cellarette, pouring himself a glass of the amber syrup. A sip, then two, and only then does he continue: “—Let me enlighten you. Presidents fall, dynasties can be usurped. But I'm building something of significance, a greater understanding of humanity. And my design will bask in life eternal…. while your head rolls in the dirt.”

And it all starts… With you.

𔘓 Tag list: @/p4neminem, @taniamiller, @deathbyvexs If you want to be added/removed from my tag list (be it for a particular WIP series or my general work), pls leave a comment or DM me. Thanks for reading!

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