also I love that suzanne wrote katniss and haymitch in first person pov but with coryo she was like “third person for you… you get some distance, creep.”
Maysilee would have humbled Young Coriolanus so badly. I can see her insulting him in different colour ways until he cries. She would call him "cabbage breath" "Coriolanus the anus" "rich wannabe". The possibilities are endless really.
in which the president gets a late-night drunk call from an ex-situationship.
young!president!coriolanus snow x ex-situationship!reader
warnings: intoxication, mild angst, hints at slightly toxic relationship but not rlly?, smoking, attempts at initiating intimacy while drunk, situationships
Coriolanus was awake. He was always awake. He'd been at his desk for the past two hours pretending to read a trade proposal from District Six, which amounted to the same stack of paper shuffled from one side of the desk to the other while he smoked and stared at the middle distance and tried, with middling success, not to think about her.
He was getting better at it. He thought. Some days.
A buzzing caught his attention. He saw his phone, vibrating on the edge of his desk.
With a sigh, he picked it up. Probably Tigris or Grandma'am.
But no. It was her.
His chest did something he refused to name. His thumb hovered.
She never called. Not since— not since it all went wrong. He'd half-convinced himself she'd deleted his number. He'd considered deleting hers. More than once. Hadn't.
He picked up on the third ring. "Hello."
"Coriolanus." Her voice was warm and slightly blurred at the edges. Loud music somewhere behind her, the clink of glasses, the ambient roar of a crowded room. "Hi."
Oh.
She was drunk.
"Hello," he said again, because he was apparently capable of nothing else.
"I—" A giggle, soft and helpless. He had never heard her giggle before, not like this, at least. It did something catastrophic to him. "I'm out. With my friends. It's— we went to Marchetti's. You know Marchetti's?"
"I do not frequent Marchetti's, no."
"It's on the Corso," she whined, as if trying to convince him he did in fact frequent the club. "The one with the— the hanging lights, all gold, it's very pretty. You'd hate it."
"Probably."
"I had four drinks," she announced. "Maybe five."
"That's very forthcoming of you."
"I'm a forthcoming person." She enunciated the word as if he'd made it up. A pause. The music swelled behind her and then muffled, like she'd moved into a quieter corner. Her voice got softer. "Corio-laaaanus."
"Still here."
"Can you come get me?"
He was quiet for a second. Just one. "Is something wrong?"
She gave a dramatic sigh. "No, not really. My friends are all with guys, and… well the guys are annoying, and the drinks are expensive…" She cut herself off with a little hiccup.
He was already closing the trade proposal, already reaching for his keys — not his driver, he decided without fully examining why. Not tonight. He grabbed his coat off the chair.
"Stay where you are," he said.
"Okay," She sounded relieved in a way that he could tell she was smiling. "Thank you."
He hung up before she could say anything else.
Marchetti's was exactly as advertised.
Gold hanging lights, yes. A crowd of well-dressed Capitol C-listers and twenty-somethings brushing up on each other as some artsy DJ mixed songs he'd never heard but sounded vaguely synthlike. Something with too much bass. Not somewhere he could ever go. Not elite, not tightly exclusive enough to avoid paparazzi, stares, whispers. At least it was less suffocating, in that way.
The coat check girl recognized him immediately and had the grace to look terrified.
He found her at the bar.
She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, head tipped back, one hand loose around a mostly-empty glass, her dress a short thing with a low back, the color of deep water. She hadn't seen him yet. He watched her laugh for two seconds longer than was defensible and then crossed the room.
She turned, some instinct, and her face—
There it was. That thing. That specific, involuntary opening of her expression, like something released.
"Coriolanus," she said, too brightly.
He stepped close, quick, dipped his head toward hers. "Keep your voice down," he murmured, low near her ear. "I'm not exactly dressed for an anonymous Tuesday night at Marchetti's."
She blinked. Then looked him up and down — the coat, the cufflinks, the general unavoidable fact of him — and pressed her lips together against a smile. "Right," she whispered. Conspiratorial. Delighted. "Sorry. Hi."
"Hi." He straightened. "Ready?"
Her friends were watching with enormous interest. He was aware of the whispers even if he couldn't make out the words. He didn't need to. He'd been in enough rooms to know the specific frequency of wait, is that—
"—is that actually—"
"—yes—"
"—but she said a friend was picking her up—"
"—she voted against him in the general—"
One of them, a girl with silver-dusted cheekbones, was very clearly trying not to visibly react to the President of Panem appearing at their bar to collect her friend. He appreciated the effort."She called the right person," she smiled.
"Apparently," he said, which made her laugh.
He helped her off the barstool. She came off it sideways, heels not entirely cooperating, and his hand went to her waist automatically — steadying, nothing more, just making sure she didn't pitch forward onto the marble floor of Marchetti's, which would be unfortunate for everyone. She grabbed his lapel with her free hand and looked up at him and smiled, slow and warm.
"You came inside," she said.
"I wasn't going to have you standing on the street."
"You said—"
"I said don't wait outside," he reminded her as he guided her forward gently, hand still at her waist.
"Oh, yeah," she giggled.
"Say goodbye to your friends," he murmured, gently turning her to face them as she clung to the arm he had politely at her waist.
She faced them, beaming as she waved. Her friends waved with the barely-contained energy of women who would be dissecting this the moment the door closed behind them. He kept his expression politely neutral and his hand on her back and got her out the door.
The night air hit them and she inhaled deeply, tipping her face up for a second, and then turned to him and tucked her arm through his without asking, her hand curling around his forearm. He let her. She came up to his shoulder and she leaned into him slightly as they walked, compensating for the heels on the uneven stone, and he adjusted his pace accordingly and said nothing about it.
"Cold," she declared.
"Yes, it is. I told you to take my coat."
"You're warm though."
He said nothing. She pressed fractionally closer.
The car was a block down. She managed it, mostly — one near-stumble off a raised curb that his hand at her arm caught before she noticed it herself, and one pause where she stopped to look at a floral arrangement in a closed shop window with an expression of profound interest that had him waiting with what he privately considered extraordinary patience.
"Come on," he said eventually.
"They're beautiful—"
"They're carnations."
"Well yes," she said, as if this proved her point entirely. "I love flowers," she sighed dreamily.
He watched her. Allowed her to watch the flowers as he watched her.
He eventually got her to the car, and opened the passenger door. She looked at him and then at the seat and made a small deliberate effort to get in gracefully, which he tactfully pretended to observe nothing about. When she reached for the seatbelt and the buckle evaded her twice, he leaned across, took it from her hands, and clicked it into place himself. His face was approximately six inches from hers in the process.
She looked well. That was the problem. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and the drinks, her lipstick mostly faded, a few strands of hair falling across her forehead. She looked soft. Happy-drunk, not sloppy. Which was its own kind of torture.
"Tell me your address."
She gave him the address in pieces, losing it twice before getting the cross street right.
He pulled out into the road.
Twelve seconds of silence.
"Where are we going?" she said.
He exhaled through his nose, which was the closest he'd come to laughing in weeks. "Your apartment."
"Oh." A beat. "Right. Yeah."
He drove carefully. He didn't usually — on his own, the car was the one place no one was watching and the roads in the Capitol at 2AM were empty and long, and he drove the way he did most things when no one could see: without restraint. But with her buckled in beside him he kept both hands on the wheel and the speed reasonable and took the turns smooth, none of the sharp decisive cuts he usually took through the Corso.
She didn't seem to notice, her cheek dropping against the headrest as she watched the Capitol lights smear by through the window. Gold and neon. He'd driven this route a thousand times and never looked at it. She was looking at it like it was beautiful.
"Coriolanus?
"Yes?"
"What if I don't want to go to my apartment?"
He hesitated. "Then you can tell me that."
She turned her head on the headrest to look at him. He could feel it. Kept his gaze forward.
"I want to go to yours," she said.
He said nothing.
"Coriolanus."
"I heard you."
"Then—"
"No."
She was quiet. He felt her shift in the seat, resettling, and he made the mistake of glancing over. She was looking at him with those eyes — wide and soft and slightly glassy from the drinks — and the expression on her face was not the face of someone asking a casual question. It was the face of someone asking something they'd been not-asking for a long time.
He looked back at the road.
"You've wanted to for months," she said. "I know you have. And I—" she stopped. "I want to. I really want to, Coriolanus."
"I know," he said. Evenly. With great effort.
"So why—"
"Because you're drunk."
"I'm not that drunk—"
"You are." The light changed. He drove. "And we're not doing this."
"We were doing it fine for—"
"That was different."
"How?"
He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "Because now you're drunk and I'm stone cold sober and the answer is no."
She was quiet for a moment. Thinking, he could feel it. Then:
"Come on," she said, and her voice had dropped into something lower, something deliberate, and he felt her hand settle on his forearm where it rested on the gear shift. Light. Warm. "Don't you want to?"
"Take your hand off my arm."
She didn't. She traced one finger along the inside of his wrist instead, barely anything, and he was suddenly aware of every individual nerve ending in his left arm.
"Please," she murmured. "It's not complicated, you just—"
"I said no." Firm. Final. He kept his voice even. "And if you do that again I'll pull over."
She withdrew her hand. Sat back.
He turned onto the Corso, the familiar stretch of it, the lights of the mansions bleeding gold across the road. "Go to sleep."
"I don't want to go to sleep, I want—"
"I know what you want."
She went quiet at that. Something in his tone, probably. He hadn't meant it to come out like that — too tight, too much in it. He pressed his teeth together.
"Are you angry at me?" she said quietly.
Shit. "No."
"You sound—"
"I'm not angry." He glanced at her. She was watching him with something gone uncertain in her face, the confidence of a moment ago folded back, and she looked suddenly younger, softer. A little worried. "I promise."
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." She pulled at the hem of her dress absently. "I just— I thought maybe— I mean you're so—" she stopped, and laughed at herself a little, embarrassed. "God. Sorry. I know this is weird. It's weird, right? We're so weird right now. We're in a weird place and I just— I saw you and I—" she pressed a hand briefly over her eyes. "You're just very big and gorgeous and I've wanted to for so long and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have— I don't want you to be uncomfortable, I'm being mean—"
His voice came out gentler than he intended. "Stop apologizing."
"I just—"
"I'm not uncomfortable," he said. "I'm not angry. I'm not— " he paused, choosing. "I just don't want you to wake up uncertain about it. Something you have to piece back together the next morning and decide whether you regret."
Silence.
"I wouldn't regret it," she said, quieter now.
"Maybe not. But I wouldn't know that, would I?" He turned onto her street. "And I'd like to know."
He could feel her looking at him again. He didn't look back.
"Okay," she acquiesced softly.
When he looked at her she was smiling at something outside the window again.
He finally parked on the street outside her building, and came around to her side before she'd fully negotiated with the door handle. She took his hand getting out and then didn't quite let go of it, which he allowed.
She made it across the pavement fine. It was the stairs that presented the problem.
There were only six of them, leading up to the building entrance, but somewhere between the third and fourth her heel caught the lip of the step and she lurched forward with a small sound of surprise and he caught her from behind without thinking — arms around her, her back against his chest, her weight light and sudden in his hands.
"Oh," she said.
"Mm," he said.
She turned in his arms to look up at him, their faces close in the lamplight, and for a moment neither of them moved. He was very aware of his hands at her waist. She was very aware of everything, by the look on her face.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"Can you walk?"
"Probably."
"Probably," he repeated. He looked at the remaining stairs. Then he bent slightly, tucked one arm behind her knees, and lifted her. If she had any protests, she didn't voice them, letting her head drop to the crook of his neck.
He carried her up the remaining stairs without particular effort and set her down at the top with complete composure, as if this were something he did regularly. "Key."
She stared at him for a second, puzzled.
"To your apartment," he said again.
"Right." She opened her bag. Found it on the third attempt.
Her apartment was dark and warm, the particular specific warmth of a lived-in place. Something came barreling out of the dark with a scrabble of claws on the floor. Fig launched himself from somewhere with absolutely no sense of occasion, skittering on the floorboards in his frantic bid to reach her. She caught him, laughing breathlessly, burying her face briefly in his curls. The dog then transferred his attention to Coriolanus with equal enthusiasm, apparently harboring no grudge about the months of absence. Then the animal transferred itself entirely to him, paws on his knee, looking up with an expression of immediate and unconditional faith.
Coriolanus looked down at him.
The dog looked up at him.
He crouched and allowed it.
He crouched, because apparently that was happening, and let it sniff his hand and then his face when it decided to go further than invited. Its paws on his shoulders were slightly damp. It smelled like biscuits.
"He likes you," she noted, from where she was tugging off her shoes.
"He likes everyone."
"He really doesn't, actually." She stood, slightly wobbly, and padded toward her bedroom. "Fig hated my last boyfriend. Barked every time he came over."
"Good instincts."
She laughed from the other room.
He found a glass in the kitchen, filled it with water, found another and left both on her nightstand. She was sitting on the edge of her bed looking approximately forty percent asleep, her coat already discarded somewhere in the hallway. He picked it up on his way in and hung it over the chair in the corner.
"Here." He handed her the water.
She drank, obedient, looking up at him over the rim of the glass with those sleepy, soft eyes. The room was dim. One small lamp. She looked— he didn't finish the thought.
"Thank you," she mumbled sleepily, suddenly leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around him loosely.
He hesitated, but cupped the back of her head and rested a gentle hand on her shoulderblades, just for a second. Her embrace brought in the cold air and the faint smell of something floral and sweet — her perfume mixed with whatever she'd been drinking.
"Lie down," he said.
She did, rolling sideways, and he pulled the blanket up over her with perhaps more care than was strictly necessary.
"Sleep," he murmured.
Mm." Her eyes were already closing. Fig circled three times at the foot of the bed and settled against her legs. "Coriolanus."
"What?"
She sighed, paused long enough that he thought she'd gone under.
"Don't go yet."
He stood there for a moment longer than he needed to.
The lamp made everything warm. She looked— she was—
He looked at her and the thing in his chest that he'd been pressing down for months sat there quietly, waiting to be named, and he refused. He refused, and he turned off the lamp, and he stood in the doorway for exactly one second.
Then he let himself out.
He sat in his car for eleven minutes.
He knew because he watched the clock without meaning to, the numbers cycling in the corner of his vision while he sat with his hands loose on the wheel and the engine off and the city doing its indifferent, glittering thing around him.
She'd asked him to stay. She'd asked him to come home with her in the car and he'd said no, and she'd apologized, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, you're just so— and she'd looked at him with those drunk-honest eyes and he had stayed firm and unmoved and driven her home and carried her up the stairs and pulled her blanket up and it had been the right thing, it had absolutely been the right thing.
He started the engine and drove home through the gold-lit empty streets.
Did not sleep.
He went home, poured two fingers of something he didn't taste, sat at his desk with the trade proposal still open in front of him, and watched the city lighten incrementally from black to grey to the pale, reluctant gold of early Capitol morning.
At 5:30 he changed and went out.
He ran the Corso route. Six kilometers, the same circuit he'd run since coming home from his Peacekeeper days when his body had gotten used to the exertion. The city was quiet at this hour, just his security detail, the street cleaners and the early delivery vans and the occasional dog walker. He ran hard, fast enough to make his lungs work for it, and it helped him shut off his mind for at least forty minutes.
He'd been on a poster on this street. The infrastructure one. He passed the spot without meaning to — the column where it had been plastered, replaced now with something about the Spring Civic Festival — and his pace faltered for half a stride before he corrected it.
She'd rolled her eyes at it, probably, she hated his campaign. Told her friends she wasn't voting for him.
Then called him at 1AM because her friends were all with guys and the drinks were expensive and she wanted him specifically, for some cruel reason, to come get her.
He ran harder.
The gym was in the lower level of his building, private, nobody in it at this hour. He went through the routine mechanically — weights, then the bag, then weights again until his arms ached in that productive, emptying way. He was good at this. Discipline. Routine. Giving the body a problem it could actually solve.
He was not good at the other thing. The thing where someone tucked their head against his neck in a dimly lit hallway and said don't go yet and he stood there wanting to stay more than he'd wanted anything in recent memory.
He hit the bag.
She'd only reached out because she was drunk. That was the part he kept returning to, the part that sat worst. Sober, she kept the distance. Sober, she was careful, managed, aware of everything between them. It was only when her defenses went down that she reached for him. Which meant that reaching for him was something she was actively, consciously choosing not to do.
He couldn't blame her. He'd given her reasons.
He hit the bag again.
He thought about her waking up. Right about now, probably — the particular grey of early morning coming through her curtains, Fig shifting at the foot of the bed, that slow reluctant return to consciousness. He thought about the moment she'd piece it together. The shoes by the door. The water glasses. The blanket tucked. His name in her recent calls.
He wondered what she'd do with it. Whether she'd text. Whether she'd pretend it hadn't happened.
Probably the latter.
He wrapped his hands, started again.
He hadn't meant to come inside the bar either. He'd meant to wait outside, and then he'd pulled up and thought about her sitting alone on the street in a dress in the cold and had gotten out of the car instead.
He hadn't meant for any of it, if he was honest. Not the months of her. Not what she'd become in them. Not the fact that he'd sat outside her building for eleven minutes like some— like some—
He stopped.
Stood with his hands against the bag, breathing.
The gym was quiet. His reflection in the mirror across the room looked back at him, shirt dark with sweat, jaw set, and said nothing helpful.
He showered. Changed. Went back upstairs.
His phone was on the kitchen counter where he'd left it. He looked at it the way he looked at things he wasn't going to touch and then made coffee and stood at the window and watched the Capitol do its morning thing, all pale gold and pigeons and the distant sound of the city waking up.
He picked up the phone.
One notification. Her name.
He looked at it for a moment. Put the coffee down.
Opened it.
hi :) sorry for calling so late you really didn't have to come all the way out but i'm very glad you did
thank you for being very gentlemanly about everything lol. and fig thanks you too probably
are you busy this morning? do you want to get breakfast?
He read it twice.
Then a third time.
She'd woken up and pieced it together and her first instinct had been — this. An open door. Are you busy this morning. Like it was simple. Like she was choosing, clear-eyed and sober, in the morning light, to reach toward him.
The thing in his chest that he'd been refusing to name did something he was going to have to deal with eventually.
He typed back before he could think about it too hard.
✷ ─ Coriolanus Snow x Reader
✷ ─ request : no
✷ ─ gif credits : @winterswake (gifs aren't mine; please don't mistake them with the original owner)
✷ ─ divider credits : @strangergraphics
✷ ─ Summary: Y/n accidentally let the one word slip out of her mouth, and now Coriolanus' brain is hardwired to make himself exactly what she called him. A Daddy.
✷ ─ Warnings : 18+, MDNI, breeding kink, daddy kink, hair pulling, light!begging, love confessions, neck kissing, praising
✷ ─ Word Count : 3.1k
Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games or its characters, nor do I claim them as my own
Comments, likes and reblogs are always adored and appreciated xx
this fic is inspired by Gods and Monsters - Lana Del Rey
✷ ─ welcome to missjadesfics official kinktober 2025, today is October 17th
A double delight of Daddy & Breeding Kink with Coriolanus Snow.
Coriolanus sat on his arm chair fingers tapping in a calming wave motion his blue eyes taking in the gardens with a thoughtful expression on his face. The distant chatter of his beloved and the wedding planners filling the vast marble drawing room. A smile appeared on his lips as he watched Y/n’s eyes lit up at the choices of flowers and colours to incorporate with her dress and theme of the wedding. Coriolanus sat up from his chair with a heavy sigh leaning down slightly to grab a champagne glass. As the planner left in a flourish manner her operatic voice ringing through as she bid farewell, Y/n spun around on her heels her hands clasped together in front of her lips. Excitement brimming on her face as Coriolanus smirked at his beloved. “There will be hydrangeas, the florist confirmed they are ready to be delivered tomorrow. Just think in a week’s time, we will be married, Coryo.” Setting the glass on the table Coriolanus extended his arms out for Y/n to slip her hands into his. Pulling her toward him and wrapping his arms around her body Coriolanus hummed resting his head on hers. “Indeed, my love. Though forgive me I am fighting the temptation to cancel such a lavish occasion and just marry you in private so I can have you all to myself.” Y/n giggled at his remark though it was intended to be light-hearted she also shared his mutual feeling. But Coriolanus was formal and a gentleman he wanted her to have everything she wanted. And if she wanted a beautiful wedding then she shall have one, it just makes the wait for their wedding night more anticipated. “Then perhaps... we can finally talk about our little garden we plan to grow, can't we?" She picked up a tiny rosebud, twirling it between her fingers. The white as pure as fallen snow shined from the sun coming through the window. Her gaze drifted to the window, to the sprawling Capitol gardens visible in the distance.
As Coriolanus joined her from behind his arms never leaving her body, holding her in a comforting embrace. “I've imagined it so many times. Filled with wild blossoms and the air sweet with aroma of our delicate flora springing to life. And too, a nursery, filled with light and laughter. Tiny clothes, all laid out. You, teaching them to play strategy games, just like your father taught you. Can you hear it the patter of feet running through the halls?” Her voice filled with love as she rested her head on his shoulder lost in her daydream of being a mother. Coriolanus laughed resting his chin on her shoulder. “A garden, you say? You can have as many gardens as you like filled with every flower possible. Anything to make your heart full. As for the nursery and filling our home with little Snows, interesting." His presence a warm, solid wall against her back. Feeling the rumble of his chest push through her back Y/n let out a small moan. The scent of his familiar cologne – crisp, clean, with a hint of something uniquely his – enveloped her. “Yes! Oh, Coryo, can you imagine? I’ll be a Mommy. It just sounds so... perfect.” She sighed, swaying gently in his arms her head brushing against his chest as she turned to face him. “And you... you'll be a Daddy.” The word, soft and innocent, hung in the air. Daddy. It resonated, a low, buzzing hum, deep within Coriolanus. His arms, which had been resting lightly around her body, now tightened. A sudden, unexpected heat bloomed in his gut, spreading rapidly through his veins. The image she conjured, so pure and sweet, twisted, darkening into something primal and possessive. His breath hitched. “Daddy,” He repeated, the word a brow raised in curiosity. He lowered his head, burying his face in the silk of her hair, inhaling her scent – jasmine and vanilla. His fingers, threaded into her locks, gently tugging her head back. Her throat, pale and delicate, was exposed, a tempting canvas.
It wasn’t just a title, not just a promise of fatherhood. The word transformed, shedding its innocuous skin, blossoming into something primal, possessive, utterly intoxicating. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound he hadn't intended, a vibration that startled even himself. Y/n’s eyes widened slightly, her smile faltering. “Coryo? Is everything alright?” Her voice filled with concern, her fingers tracing his arms and into his chest. He didn't answer immediately. The Capitol outside, usually a symphony of distant sounds, faded into a dull drone. His focus narrowed, sharpened centering entirely on her, on that word, on the vision it conjured. Daddy. His entire world had tilted, shifted on its axis. He saw her, not just as his fiancée, but as the vessel, the exquisite fertile garden from which their legacy would spring. The innocent future she painted, children and laughter, now for him twisted into a more visceral, demanding image. He saw her swollen, heavy with his seed, her body stretched taut, glistening with the effort of bringing forth life, his life. His hands fell to her hips with a firm grip, now forming a possessive clench. He released her fingers, his palm sliding across her stomach and moving up her chest between the valley of her breats to the delicate curve of her shoulder before finding the nape of her neck. He pulled her gently towards him, her soft gasp a welcome sound. His lips brushed her temple, then trailed down her cheek, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin. “Everything, my love,” he murmured, his voice deeper, rougher than before, a purr that vibrated against her ear. “Everything is more than alright.” He nudged her hair aside with his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of her neck, a heady mix of jasmine and her own unique essence. His lips pressed against the sensitive skin just below her earlobe, a feather-light kiss that sent a shiver through her.
She leaned into him, her body a soft yielding curve against his tailored suit. “Coryo?” She whispered, her voice breathy, the question hanging in the air. He didn't speak, not yet. His hands, no longer gentle, slid down her back, spanning her slender waist. He pulled her flush against him, letting her feel the sudden, undeniable press of his arousal against her hip. His growl returned, a low, guttural sound that resonated with a newfound intensity. He tugged gently on a strand of her brunette hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose the elegant line of her throat. His lips descended, a trail of fire, from her jawline to the hollow of her collarbone. “You want children… a family.” He breathed against her skin, his words a hot caress. His hands moved, no longer content to merely hold one part of her body moved around mapping every inch into his memory. They slid upwards, tracing the delicate curve of her ribs, brushing against the swell of her breasts, a slow, deliberate exploration that made her gasp. Lowering his lips to her neck before trailing to her lips he stared into her eyes. His lips curved into a predatory smile. “Then I can arrange it, my love. I can arrange all of it. Every single detail.” His hands, now bolder, slipped beneath the hem of her silk dress, cool fingers brushing against the warmth of her skin. He felt the soft give of her thighs, the gentle curve of her bottom. He pulled her even closer, a possessive embrace that left no space between them. “You would like to make me a Daddy? I can be that for you, Y/n.” His voice was a low rumble against her skin, a promise and a demand. With a sudden, fluid motion, he spun her around, her delicate frame light in his arms. He hoisted her, effortlessly, over his shoulder her surprised squeal was muffled against his back as he strode purposefully towards their bedroom, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps. The world outside the window, the grand salon the very air seemed to hum with a new, potent energy.
“Coryo!” Y/n’s muffled laughter made Coryo grin his hand lightly slapping her ass. “What are you doing!” Her small fists beat playfully against his back. He didn't answer, his grin widening, a flash of white teeth in the dim light of the hallway. He reached the bedroom door, kicking it open with a decisive thud. The room, usually a sanctuary of quiet serenity, now pulsed with an unspoken desire. He tossed her gently onto the bed, her body sinking into the soft mattress. She scrambled back, her eyes wide, a playful challenge in their depths. He stood by the foot of the bed, a silhouette against the soft glow of the bedside lamps. His fingers went to the buttons of his tailored red jacket, slowly, deliberately unfastening each one. The fabric peeled back, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. He shrugged out of the jacket, letting it fall silently to the floor. Then, his eyes never leaving hers, he began to unbutton his shirt. “You spoke of children, my sweet,” He began, his voice a low, seductive drawl, each word a caress, a revelation. He pulled the shirt free from his trousers, the fine linen rustling softly. “But I confess, my mind wandered further, deeper, into the very essence of what that means.” He pulled the shirt off, his muscles rippling beneath his pale skin, revealing his sculpted chest. Y/n watched him, mesmerized, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands rested on the silk sheets, her knuckles white. “I imagined your body, Y/n,” He continued, his voice a silken thread, weaving a tapestry of desire in the air between them. “Swollen with our creation. Full. Round. Beautifully heavy. I’ve always thought about it, you know. Making you bedridden, for a time. Filling you to the brim. Making you pregnant.” He unbuckled his belt, the soft click echoing in the quiet room he stepped out of his trousers, letting them pool around his ankles. He stood before her in only his silk boxers, a vision of raw, untamed masculinity. “Making you carry our child. Making you bloom.” He crawled onto the bed, a predator stalking its prey, his eyes never leaving hers. He reached her, his body a heavy but comfortable weight against her legs. His hand, warm and firm, found the hem of her dress. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed the silk fabric up, higher and higher, revealing the delicate lace of her slip, then the smooth curve of her inner thighs. The soft lace of her underwear came into view, a delicate barrier. His fingers hooked into the waistband, pulling them down, off her hips, and then away. Her nakedness, exposed to his hungry gaze, made her shiver, a delicious tremor that was part fear, part undeniable arousal.
Her breath hitched. The words, so explicit, so raw, painted a vivid picture in her mind, one she hadn’t dared to conjure herself. A heat, unfamiliar and potent, bloomed in her lower belly, the desire that was radiating off him she too began to feel it. He leaned down, his mouth finding the swell of her breast above the unbuttoned top of her dress. His lips were warm, soft, yet firm, as he kissed the soft skin. “You will be so beautiful, my love.” He murmured, his voice a guttural whisper against her skin, his breath hot. “So utterly radiant, carrying our child. I can already see it, Y/n. Your belly, round and full, our baby growing inside you. My baby.” He suckled gently at the edge of her breast, his tongue flicking out, tasting her skin. “You’ll be the most breathtaking mother in all of Panem.” A moan, low and involuntary, escaped her lips. The unfamiliar sensation, the raw desire in his words, the feel of his mouth on her skin, ignited a fire within her. Her hips lifted instinctively, a silent plea. Her hands, trembling, found his blonde hair, her fingers tangling in the soft curls at the nape of his neck. “Coryo,” she breathed, her voice thick with nascent desire, “Please. Give me a baby. Please.” The words, torn from her, were a desperate plea, an echo of the raw need his words had awakened. A triumphant growl ripped from his throat. His eyes, burning with a primal intensity, met hers. The charming, seductive Coriolanus had vanished, replaced by something wilder, a predator claiming his mate. His breeding and daddy kink, once a hidden undercurrent, now surged to the forefront, consuming him. He shifted, his hard cock pressing against her throbbing entrance, a silent promise of what was to come. With a powerful thrust, he plunged into her.
A sharp gasp tore from her lips, followed by a cry that was half pain, half ecstasy. He filled her completely, a searing heat, a profound pressure that pushed deep, deep inside her. Her body arched, a raw, involuntary response to the overwhelming sensation. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, a mixture of pain and a pleasure so intense it bordered on overwhelming. He paused, holding himself deep within her, letting her adjust, letting her body accommodate his cock. His eyes, dark with passion, watched her face, searching for her reaction. His hips began to move, a slow, deliberate grind, pulling back just enough to tease, then pushing forward, deeper, stretching her, filling her again. “God, Y/n,” he groaned, his voice rough, thick with passion. “You’re so tight. So wet. So perfect.” He pulled back, then slammed into her again, a guttural grunt escaping his lips. “Just like I imagined. Just like I dreamed.” Her hands, still tangled in his hair, pulled him closer, her nails digging into his scalp. Her legs, trembling, instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling his hips even tighter against hers, urging him deeper, faster. The pain, sharp at first, began to recede, replaced by a surging tide of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Each thrust was a powerful invasion, a deep, rhythmic pounding that resonated through her entire body. “Oh daddy please.” She panted, her head thrashing on the pillow, her body convulsing with each powerful stroke. “Oh, Coryo!” He leaned down, his mouth finding hers, kissing her with a fierce, hungry intensity. His tongue plunged into her mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his hips, tangling with hers, sucking, devouring. He tasted of desire, of sweat, of something wild and untamed. Between thrusts, his voice, hoarse with passion, broke through their kiss. “You’re so good, Y/n. So good for me.” He bucked his hips sharply hitting her sweet spot. “So beautiful, getting fucked by me.” Another thrust earning her to gasp and arch her back into Coriolanus’s chest. “You were made for this. Made for me. Made to carry my children.” Pulling out and slamming back in making her cry out her fingers gripping his forearms for support. Her hips bucked against his, meeting his every powerful stroke.
The friction, the stretching, the deep, insistent pressure, built to an unbearable crescendo. Her body was a symphony of sensation, every nerve ending alive, singing. She felt the knot tightening in her core, a coil of exquisite tension winding tighter and tighter. “Daddy!” The word burst from her, a guttural cry, raw and unbidden, ripped from the depths of her soul. It was a plea, an affirmation, a surrender. His eyes, wide and blazing, met hers at the sound of the word. A primal roar tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. “You’re so good, my love.” He grunted, his voice ragged with effort, with passion. He thrust into her one last time, a deep, punishing plunge that sent her over the edge. Her body convulsed, a violent, exquisite shudder that rippled through her. Her back arched, her fingers digging desperately into his shoulders, her legs squeezing his waist with all her might. He pulled her legs higher, drawing her even closer, deeper. A scream, long and drawn out, tore from her throat as pleasure, hot and overwhelming, consumed her. Her muscles clenched around him, milking him, urging his own release. He groaned, a deep, shuddering sound, his body tensing, his muscles rigid. “That’s it, my sweet,” he growled, his own climax surging, building into an unbearable pressure. “Come for Daddy. Come for me.” With a final, desperate series of thrusts, he spilled himself deep inside her, a hot, pulsing gush of his seed. He emptied himself into her, filling her to the brim, just as he had promised. His body shuddered, a long, drawn-out tremor, before he collapsed on top of her, his weight a heavy, comforting blanket. His head fell to her shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her chest.
They lay tangled together, their bodies slick with sweat, the scent of sex heavy in the air. He felt the warmth of his seed pooling inside her, a potent promise. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, a soft, tender gesture after the raw intensity of their coupling. Y/n stirred beneath him, her body still trembling slightly. She nestled her head into the crook of his neck, her arm slung across his chest. Her fingers, still intertwined in his damp hair, slowly began to trace patterns on his skin. “Coryo?” She whispered, her voice husky, a soft echo in the quiet room. “Hmm?” he hummed, his lips brushing her hair. “I didn’t realize,” She began, her voice tinged with a playful wonder. “you had such… a breeding and Daddy kink.” A soft giggle escaped her lips, a sound of pure delight. He let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, vibrating through her. He shifted slightly, pulling her closer, his hand tracing the curve of her hip, then her stomach, a possessive, tender gesture. “You bring it out in me, my love,” he murmured, his voice laced with affection. “You, and that sweet, innocent mouth of yours, calling me Daddy.” He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, a promise for their future, a future filled with children, with love, and with the intoxicating power of their shared desires. “And speaking of Mommy… I think we’ve done a very good job of practicing tonight, don’t you agree?” She giggled with a nod of her head. “I think so, Daddy.” She turned her head, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you, Coryo.” Coriolanus hummed gently with a smile. “And I love you, my little bird. More than words can say.”
Yeah Katniss Is Lucy Gray’s greatest revenge on snow
But Peeta is how she haunts him.
Katniss is Lucy Gray’s anger. She’s the retribution.
Katniss is fire. Katniss used her songs as a warcry. As a call to arms.
Katniss is the fight.
Katniss is the revenge.
Peeta is Lucy Gray’s kindness. He’s the reminder.
A boy in love with a songbird. A boy obsessed with with a victor from twelve.
Peeta is the good that Lucy Gray was. Peeta believes in that fundamental kindness Lucy gray did. Peeta is her memory. The reminder that Snow crossed that line into evil.
Even after being high jacked, peeta warns people. He tells them to flee the danger. Run like Lucy did.
Peeta knows how to hide. He can disappear in the woods.
Just like Lucy did.
Peeta is charismatic, someone the capitol fell in love with, like they did with Lucy.
Peeta is the memory.
Katniss was there to end Snow, to stop him to make sure everything he built was burned.
Peeta was there to torment him. Be the ghost of Lucy Gray. Make sure Snow was in pain over the woman he lost.
In the epilogue of Mockingjay, Katniss only refers to her children as 'the boy' and 'the girl'. We never learn their real names. Throughout her life, Katniss has never really been allowed privacy or the ability to make many of her own decisions. Whether this was caused by the living conditions of the Seam and having to constantly provide for Prim and their mother, or by the fact that she was forced into the scrutiny of the public eye when she was reaped/volunteered and became the face of the rebellion- The Mockingjay.
So then all of this passes, she and Peeta are living together in District 12 in the Victor's Village, and they are finally allowed to choose how they want to live. After 15 years, she decides that she's ready to have kids. They can be raised in a safe environment with no Games, no threats. So the one choice she makes at the end is to keep their names from us, the audience. The one thing that gives us our identity before anything else. The one thing that, essentially, makes us who we are (also Suzanne is so meticulous with picking names throughout the series, so it would be special to Katniss and Peeta). She decides that that's only for her and her family to know.
We, who have literally seen every inch of her life from the reaping up until now, are being told that no, we don't get to see parts of her life without her permission anymore. And it always makes me so emotional. Like yes! Take back your life! Rest. Live. Love. But on YOUR terms and no one elses.
(I posted this on my TikTok acc @narniachrons as well. It wasn't stolen, I swear!)
