[ MDNI ] [ word count: 9.268 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; VERY dark content; NSFW; Strong Language; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; a lot of overly complicated situationships; Sejanus is a loverboy and that is CANON, don’t come at me; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar/context mistakes you might find find.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Life in District 12 never was easy. But after your old friend Lucy Gray comes back from the Hunger Games, bringing with her two strange Capitol boys in peacekeepers' uniforms, you might discover that there's more to fear in your district home than the horrors you were already accostumed to.
Likes, asks reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. This chapter is a little heavier than usual. Please read the highlighted warnings and proceed accordingly. PUT YOUR MENTAL HEALTH FIRST.
It’s always dark inside the wolf’s stomach.
Every night since Lucy Gray came back, you’ve been having the same dream, night after night: You’re in your sleeping clothes, watching over your flock. The dog’s rushing by your side, weaving in and out of the wayfaring sea of wooly backs and ringing bells, when, from far away, you see a wolf—white as the pure driven snow, and covered in blood— Its yellow eyes pierce into you, shimmering white and gold with something like humor, as if he'd found the easiest prey a predator could hope for, and was amused by that fact.
Frightened, you pull the lambs in by your shepherd’s crook, and whistle to the dog, rounding up the sheep you can reach towards their corral.
But the wolf’s already moving.
You look down to pick up a lamb that has stumbled, and when you look up again, the wolf’s gone.
The dog runs, barking, guiding, and the sheep scatter, their bells jangling loudly as they rush towards you, filtering into the corral like water through a dam.
You don’t feel any better.
You're standing up to your hips in grass, uselessly looking around for a predator that might as well be right in front of you, waiting to pounce.
A shiver runs down your spine.
You close the corral, and shout for the dog.
No barks ring out as answer.
You climb on the fence, count the heads, call again. “Ori! Ori!” Nothing. Your heart races. “Ori! Heel, boy!”
Your command rings hollow into the darkness, empty and fearful. No answer is heard.
The silence that follows presses down on you like the weight of the world.
You hop off the fence, landing hard, and stumble through the tall grass, ears pricked for any sound—steps, growling, a bark, anything.
You tell yourself to leave him, that he’s a dog and he’ll find his way back. You tell yourself this isn’t the first time he’s run off and that it won’t be the last. You tell yourself that you love him, but that your family can't afford for you to die.
But you know the wolf is out there.
And not only do you know that, but you know that you could never stomach the thought of Ori, sweet Ori, that licks at your heels and sits at your feet, wagging his tail, dead, desecrated and dismembered by some soulless beast.
Your father might get another of him, but he couldn't get you another conscience, much less relieve you of your guilt.
So you step out into the grass, not brave, but worried, and get six steps from the corral before you look over your shoulder.
The sheep watch you with the placid blankness of a child that watches its father head into war, hoping, though not believing, that he'll give up on honor and turn back around— It’s not honor, though. You tell yourself. Ori's my dog. He's my responsibility. I can’t let him die, out here, alone, without even trying. He'd try for me.
You step further out, brushing through the reeds, letting them slap at your bare legs.
They’re wet with dew, or blood, or both. Something dark stripes the cotton of your nightdress, metallic and pungent, soaking through the fabric like a sin. The whole night smells like it. Like danger. Like endings.
Wrong.
The sky above is heavy with clouds, bloated and grey, and the moon flickers behind them, milky and bruised like the blind eye of God.
“Ori,” You call out again, the word barely louder than breath. “Please.”
The grass is taller now—Up to your chest as you ease down the slope, parting through it with your stock—your field of vision growing dimmer as your lamp burns out in the distance, hanging from the pole by the corral, and the green beneath you just begins to brush your chin as the soil turns slicker and less trustworthy.
Something buzzes through you then: a weird feeling, a sixth sense.
You're frozen on the sloped ground for a moment, heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Ori?”
The word echoes out, murky, as if it had been said underwater. But your eyes sharpen for a moment as you set your sights to your side.
A shape in the field.
Motion amidst the grass.
The wind howls.
The shape moves.
Ori bursts from the grass like a hummingbird, barreling toward you with his tail wagging.
You fall to your knees, arms already outstretched, laughing even as you’re crying, your voice trembling with something close to hysteria.
But Ori isn’t alone.
He’s carrying something in his mouth. You think, a rabbit, or a squirrel. But he trots closer and you see the snout. The eyes. The little teeth.
It’s a wolf’s head.
A cub’s.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Ori drops it at your feet, proud, tongue lolling out of his mouth like he expects praise.
But you can barely breathe, let alone move to pet him. You stare down at the severed head, at the fur and the blood and the eyes, laying cold against the grass that swallows you whole, unsure whether to keep frozen or to make a break for the safety back at top.
The head looks up at you with its glassy black eyes empty of life, frozen in the terror of its last seconds. Its mouth is open, the little razor-sharp teeth still stained with the blood of the last meal its mother must have fed him.
It’s tiny. Too tiny.
What are the odds that it was alone? That Ori found it circling, that he ripped its head off of its little body for no reason at all?
You look at your Ori. At his dark, loving eyes. His long soft fur, black and brown, perfectly dry.
There's no blood on his mouth.
No blood on his fur.
He's clean as he's ever been, soul uncorrupted. This wasn’t a sacrifice. This was a find.
Your gut churns.
You reach down with trembling fingers, parting the little wolf's fur.
The bite mark on the neck is clean.
Too clean.
The bone cut straight, not even broken.
Everything stinks of copper.
Of rot.
Of something wrong, and half-alive.
Something dangerous.
You don’t hear footsteps.
You feel them. Like thunder through the earth.
Ori’s ears perk up. His teeth peek out from under his lips in a growl, soaked in a sort of anger you've never seen in him.
You stand and turn at the same time as the world falls silent.
A shadow rises at the edge of the field, parting through the tall grass like a battleship emerging from the foggy waves. It moves like a thought. Like grief. Silent, steady, huge.
Its fur is white, impossibly white, but its mouth drips red, and you realize then, despite all logic—the blood on its fur isn't the cub’s, or Ori's or any other thing's.
It's yours.
Your hand flies to your throat.
You feel it now. Wet. Warm. Pulsing. A bite mark. A sting. You hadn’t felt it before. You hadn’t seen it. But now it sears, agonising.
You fall to your knees.
Ori barks down at you—sharp, desperate. You try to push him, hands flapping aimlessly across the grass. “Run!” You beg. But he doesn’t move. “Ori, run! The sheep!”
You try to crawl away, try to put some distance between the beast and the dog —between the beast and you— but the pain around your neck overwhelms you, the blood on the grass consumes you, and your eyes are still caught on the wolf.
On its bright yellow eyes.
On its pristine white coat.
On the blood that drips from its mouth and down its chest, not like he's stained with the mark of a kill, but as if it's frothing from the mouth with disease, an illness neither of you can place.
The thing bares its teeth, but doesn’t growl. It holds your gaze for a moment, eyes shimmering white and gold once again.
When you see it huff, you almost think it's laughing.
But it doesn’t give you too long to ponder.
It lunges before you can think any more.
You don’t scream. Don’t try to run. There’s no time. Only the weight of it on your chest, the hot breath, the snapping of bone.
Teeth bracket your neck. Your chest. Your torso. Then—snap.
Silence again.
Your body floats.
Weightless.
But not free.
Because in the flick of an eye you’re falling down its throat, swallowed whole, but not unharmed.
The world around you pulses red and black. Dark. Lost. Repulsive.
You’re in the belly of the beast now, surrounded by heat, slick walls closing in, pressing against the searing around your neck.
You try to breathe and choke on blood. Your arms don’t move. You feel yourself slipping. Slipping deeper. Being digested.
You don’t know how long you’re there.
Only that you're bleeding.
Getting weaker.
And that the end is near.
The dark closes in.
You're pulsing.
Soaked in your own blood, being corroded by stomach acid, your wounds reeking with the saliva of a beast that barely bothered to sink its teeth into you before pulling you in.
This can't be how it ends, God. You think to yourself. Let this thing choke on my bones and die. Let the weight of me bring it down to the point it can't run anymore. Let it be devoured as it has devoured me.
You feel the movement around you.
The wolf keeps walking.
Breathing.
Huffing.
And you're wasting away.
Until you wake up.
In your bed.
At daybreak.
The sun is barely visible through the window of your caravan, the slightest bit of light bleeding from beneath the hill it hides behind, but you stumble out of your bed so fast you nearly tumble into your grandmother’s.
Your breath is haggard.
Your skin is damp with sweat.
Your ears are ringing.
You sink your face into your hands and sit, exhausted, and yet so completely horrified that you can't bear to keep your eyes closed.
The feeling lingers against your arms—the warm, overbearing wetness of that wolf’s stomach lining, squeezing at you, trying to dissolve you down into a meal and nothing more. Trying to reduce your whole existence to the little that he needs from you: fats, fiber, nutrients. When all is said and done, you suppose that’s all you really are.
The thought tears a shiver down your spine, quick and painful like an electric shock.
You jerk upright, standing again.
You need a bath.
The acrid smell of bile, blood and drool still clings to the inside of your nostrils as you step out of the caravan, bringing the first blanket you can find to dry yourself with as you go about your way. The wind howls outside, low and warning, cold as you imagine heaven must be.
You take a deep breath, heart still racing.
Grass.
Rain.
Mud.
Petrichor.
The air is as fresh as the rain that must’ve just fallen. You stare out at the horizon, at the tall grass your dreams had you being hunted through, at the sheep, still sleeping in the makeshift corral you locked them into last night, at all the other caravans standing guard around yours—your father’s, your uncles’, your cousins’, your grandfather’s— and for a second, it’s like you’re waiting for death.
The stillness consumes you, same way you think it must have consumed Lucy Gray, in those long days hiding inside air vents and underground rooms during the games. That frozen horror that comes from half-dreading, half-hoping that death comes at you quick.
You think about your brother and his air gun.
Think of the first time you saw him put down one of your flock: a black ewe you called Yawwie. Barely done weaning litter, she'd caught a fever, and started crying. Baaing. Screaming day and night. She was bothering the lambs, so your father sent Isaac down with the air gun to cull her, and you'd come along, still clinging to his tunic, too young to understand it's better not to see certain things.
He put the gun to crying Yawwie's temple, and told you not to look.
You closed your eyes, and promptly opened them. The pellet was quicker than your eyes could flick. But you saw how the light went out of Yewwie's eyes. Heard how the baas’ died in her open mouth. And stared at the wound left there, gaping and bloody, at the center of her head—You could never look at a black sheep quite the same again. Maybe it was a given that you and Lucy Gray wouldn't last. But when you had watched the games to see her, you found yourself hoping someone would go out and do her the mercy your brother had done Yawwie that day, and put her out quick, before she could think of it.
Despite it all, when she won, you were relieved.
And when you realized that meant you'd have to see her again, all that relief went out the window.
She'd already been the living ghost of your friendship before she left. Now she was the living ghost of the girl she had been. Just as charming and twice as empty.
The airgun is sitting above the door, heavy and threatening even in stillness as you pick it up.
Maybe you could still do her the mercy. You think.
Blood on the ground.
Empty eyes.
Heaven.
But you shake your head.
Or maybe you should take a plunge before you think anything even stupider. Your mind snaps.
You shake your head.
Breathe out.
Keep walking.
You're wading through the grass, the reeds clinging to your nightclothes, smearing it with dew that seeps through the fabric and through to you like sin—It's routine, you tell yourself. you do this everyday, have done since you were a child. But you can’t help but be unsettled.
It's too similar.
Too still.
You blink rapidly, as if it could clarify to you whether you've actually left the dream or not, and though you know instinctively that you have, you keep looking over your shoulder to see if you can spot a blur of white fur coming your way.
Your fingers are tight around the airgun. They remain like that until you're standing at the lake, ankle-deep in ice-cold water, and still hesitant to let it go.
Wolves can't wield guns. You tell yourself stupidly, as you peel the nightgown off of you and set it above the blanket. They can't laugh either, Another voice counters. but here you are.
Yes, here you are.
You barely feel the cold anymore.
The lake’s still as glass, your movement starting the only waves that move across its surface as you enter.
Your breath comes out in clouds even though you’re only half-submerged, drifting to where your feet can’t touch the lakebank mud—You swim a little farther, sink a little deeper, and sit up on a big rock until the water's coming up to your chin. The loose ends of your hair brush the water's surface even as most of it is up in the same style you had on the previous day, but you don’t care. You want the cold to consume you, to pierce through your skin and settle into your bones, even if just for a moment, hoping it'll somehow erase the half-hearted warmth of sitting inside a wolf's stomach from your memory.
But the nightmare clings to you.
You can’t shake it off. You never do.
Your clothes sit folded on the shore, your blanket, wrapped around the gun, draped over a flat stone to catch what little sunlight there is. You could swim to them, if you wanted to. Wrap yourself up in wool, retreating into a cocoon to stretch back into the ‘comfort’ of childhood, and pretend you’re safe right there. But there’s no use in pretending when even your fantasies are tainted by fear.
Nothing here is pure.
Not your thoughts, not your dreams, least of all your reality.
Nothing has ever been pure since the peacekeepers rounded you up and tore you out of Eleven.
This wolf you're dreading never really goes away, only changes coat: First it was those peacekeepers. Then it was the fear of being called into the games. Now it's Lucy Gray Baird, back from the dead in another coat of fur.
You should just accept you'll never have peace and be done with it—Resign yourself to your life of nightmares and paranoia, hoping neither one nor the other comes true. But your chest burns with the idea.
You've buried your head on the sand for as long as you can remember. And it's never helped you —worse, on more than one occasion, discretion was what got you bruised.
Somehow, you're always in the crosshairs of whatever disaster happens to befall the people around you.
Somehow, everything always crashes on you.
Your eyes shift towards the bank—From under the fabrics on the rock, you can see the faint outline of the airgun sitting there, unprotected, unwatched— Maybe something else could crash against you.
You look around for a moment, watching the hill you descended from, trying to spot any faces amidst what you can see of the caravans from over the tall, tall grass.
The only movement is born from the wind, falling from the hilltop and down towards you, light and forgiving, like a kiss. It feels like encouragement.
You think of Yawwie.
Of her screams, her pain, gone in a fraction of a second.
silent, almost bloodless.
Your mind wanders.
You think of the end. Of peace. Of no longer feeling guilty as you walk along your family, burdened with their worry for you.
Of your younger brother inheriting your shoes, walking comfortably in your absence, the cost of your living subtracted from their finances.
Of your older brother finally going out to get married, having children, forgetting there was ever a sister to weigh him down.
Maybe it would be for the best.
You turn your body towards the shore, swimming slowly. The water laps at you with the ease of an embrace, as if its saying its goodbyes to you.
– Goodbye, – You murmur, the breath making small waves across the surface where it brushes the water.
Your toes scrape softly against the stone.
You're at peace, for once.
In the silence, your mind is empty.
Until a crack breaks through the silence. Sharp. Close.
A gunshot.
The sound echoes loud around your surroundings, seeping into your mind and bouncing off the walls of your skull.
Your heart drops.
Your body reacts before your mind does—muscles tensing, legs folding up instinctively. You rush back to your solid footing and sink lower, lips just above the surface, eyes scanning every leaf and tree bark on the bank. The mist hangs low, curling densely around the treeline beside your family's hill like it’s trying to hide something, but the sound gives it away.
Another gunshot rings out, and this one meets its target, the sound suddenly interrupted as the bullet meets something else.
Your eyes lock closed.
Nobody's dead. You pray to yourself. It's just some moron with a shotgun pretending to hunt. Nobody's dead. Nobody's dead. But your mind rushes. You think of Sammy, only ten years old. Of Isaac, not even married yet. Of your father. Your uncle. Your little cousins. God, please let them not have wandered into the woods again. Let them be safe and asleep and alive in their beds, as they should be.
A voice follows the second gunshot, muffled but clear in tone—irritated, frantic. A second one laughs in reply, louder, looser. Careless.
You can’t keep your eyes closed for long. Terrified, they peek open, scanning the extension of the water before you before drifting through the treeline once again.
Low and behold, there's movement.
You spot the hat first.
Dark blue, frayed at the edges, tugged low over blond curls that haven’t been brushed in days. Spruce. There’s a shotgun in his hands, and he’s pointing it skyward, grinning as a flock of startled birds scatter from the trees.
Your heartbeat slows.
It's just a moron with a shotgun.
You breathe out slow and shaky, so relieved you feel your muscles loosen.
Then someone else steps into view.
Taller. Broader. Wearing the stiff blue-gray uniform of a Peacekeeper, but holding himself like the suit doesn’t quite fit. You catch the back of his dark buzzed hair and the sudden fearfulness in his eye as he turns suddenly.
You freeze up again.
The peacekeeper's hands reach for the barrel of Spruce's gun, brows furrowed more in worry than in anger. His first words are too low to catch across the water, but the terror on his face carries all the way to where you float.
You can’t hear every word, but you hear enough to know this isn’t a friendly hunt. Nothing about peacekeepers is friendly. Nothing about Spruce is friendly either.
He jerks the gun away, laughing, and the Peacekeeper glances back toward the slope that leads to your hill.
Your stomach knots.
They’re looking that way.
Spruce swings the shotgun behind his back like it’s a toy, the strap crossing lazily over his shoulder. He hums something off-key—something you don’t really hear, but recognize before it even comes out of his mouth. Billy Taupe's song. The one you made for him, long, long ago—and kicks a stone near the water, where it skips once before falling flat.
– Spruce, – The other one says, voice low and tight, terrified in that way dogs are just before attacking. – You can’t just shoot into the trees like that! There’s people over the hill, they're gonna hear us!
He looks like a dog.
Dangerously harmless like one. All big eyes and panicked demeanor. Hair damp at the temples. Tension lining his back like he’s trying not to hunch under a weight he can’t name.
You'd almost pity him.
But that uniform? That tells you all you need to know.
– The hillbillies? – Spruce laughs, shrugs, casually, like the mere suggestion is ridiculous. – They ain't gon’ do none. Birds were loud, either way. I like the quiet. Got one of them, too. – He grins, all teeth and pride. Lifting the little dead thing in his hand like some sort of prize. – Soon as we get back, I'll put it in the pot to cook. I'll tell you, you ain't never had a stew like the one the Covey make.
– Cook it? – The peacekeeper repeats, appalled. – We’re supposed to ration—
– Ration? – Spruce laughs, slicing the air with his hand like he can cut off the conversation. – What we’ve got barely goes down as it is. I'm sick of it. You want to eat chalk for the rest of your life, be my guest, Capitol boy. But that ain't gonna be me.
The peacekeeper's hands are clenched now, flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. – What if someone heard?
You hear it too—the crackle of his fear, delicate as ice underfoot.
– No one heard. Ain’t no one out here but us. – Spruce glances over his shoulder, his voice dripping smugness. – Unless you think your little girl ghost is still watching us from the bushes.
Your heart jolts.
They know you’re out here. Or they think you are.
The boy doesn’t respond right away. His jaw ticks. He looks down at the ground—at the mud on his boots, the grass Spruce stepped through—avoiding Spruce's gaze like a devil avoids the cross.
– Spruce, – He warns. There’s real heat in his voice this time. – I mean it.
But Spruce just rolls his eyes, back already turned. – Fine, fine. Pretty lil’ sad girl from the trees is off-limits. – He pauses, smirking. – For now. Who knows, maybe she is around here. Maybe you're the one who's gonna have to put her in the pot.
The older man breaks out in a fit of laughter. Cruel. Crude. Reckless.
You can see the peacekeeper's jaw tick, but when he turns away to avoid Spruce's mocking, he looks over to the lake where you're at. And his eyes widen.
You sink further until the water reaches your chin, pulse beating in your throat. Your eyes dart to the blanket on the stone, the wool folded over the outline of the airgun. It’s not much. You’ve never fired it well enough to hit anything that wasn’t practically in front of you. But if they reach it before you—if they see it—it’s just one more reason to come sniffing around the caravans. And even when you had nothing to hide, it never led to anything but blood.
The boy nudges at Spruce.
The image flashes behind your eyes— your mother's hand being torn from yours. Your father trying to reason. Your brother crying in your arms. The peacekeeper scoffs, raises the baton at you, and when your mother interferes— No. You can't even think of it.
It won't happen again.
It can't happen again.
You won't let it. You can't let it.
Spruce says something you can't hear, his voice drifting down over the lake, and your blood chills. He’s grinning at the bank. At your bank. The Peacekeeper doesn’t laugh. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, scanning the treeline, like he’s measuring distance. Measuring pursuit.
They step forward together.
Your blanket—your clothes—your gun—sitting there like bait.
A hundred thoughts rush at once, trampling each other: If they find your things, they’ll follow the trail back. If they follow the trail back, they’ll see someone. And Peacekeepers don’t need a reason to make a target out of one of yours. They just need an excuse.
You push out of the rock, swimming towards the shore. The sound freezes them both, their heads turning towards you again. Spruce blinks, then smirks. The Peacekeeper’s eyes widen, and he hides, pulling Spruce behind the treeline, but watching, fixated, gun in hand.
It could end here, you tell yourself. You could die protecting your family.
But what would stop them from killing all of you, after killing one?
You can't play this brashly. You can't falter—So you pretend not to notice them at first, staring at the ground when you come out of the water, reaching for your clothes before they can get much of a look at you.
Best case scenario, they scatter as soon as they see you.
Worst case, you guide them away from the hill and they follow you for whatever reason.
Either way, your family remains safe and away from view.
The gun almost falls as you lift the blanket. But you turn your back to them, wrapping yourself in the fabric, holding it, hidden, in hand.
A branch cracks.
You look over your shoulder, but it's the peacekeeper's eyes you meet first—dark, accessing, unblinking. You brace for the flicker of cruelty you've come to expect from men like him, the kind that comes before the threats, before the swing, before the sickness and the rage.
But nothing comes.
He's frozen, a deer in headlights, but what you see in his eyes is not fear, not anxiousness. It's a quiet sort of breathlessness, as if he was trying to anticipate you, but got distracted halfway through. His gaze tracks over you—no, through you—slowing in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
It's not the way people usually stare at you—behind your back, with disdain, almost searing— his eyes catch like a fish on a hook, and for a flicker of a moment, you see him forget who he is.
He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't look away. Just watches you as if you're something he's not supposed to be seeing.
You breathe in.
Look away.
Look down.
Walk away.
A universal signifier—‘whatever it is that I saw, I didn't see it. I won't tell. Leave me alone.’—You stand up, clutching the airgun closer to you under the blanket, and step away slowly, with your head bowed. Your heart pounds against the metal, hands shaking.
You hear Spruce shifting. – C'mon, Capitol. She ain't saw non’.
You breathe a little easier, but keep walking away from the hill.
– She did. She obviously did.
There's a rustle of movement, a struggle. You don't look behind you, but you can almost see what's going on— The peacekeeper's pulling forward, and Spruce is trying to tear him away. – No. – He insists. The boy stutters in his step. – She ain't saw non’. Let's go.
You keep your pace steady, eyes on the dirt, trying not to hear the scuffle behind you.
They’re speaking in low voices now, too low for you to make out, but their footsteps grind in the soil—hesitant, indecisive. You hate that you can picture them without looking: Spruce’s jittery glances, the peacekeeper’s fixed stare still caught somewhere between knowing and not knowing.
A twig snaps under your foot.
You flinch, more at the sound than the sensation, and bite down on the urge to break into a run. You can feel their attention on your back like the heat from a stove, the kind that burns even when you aren’t touching it.
But it's not from far away.
For some reason, they've gotten closer.
They should have just left. Your mind reels in a panic. Why aren't they leaving?!
Breathe.
Another few steps and you’re in the thicker brush, shadows swallowing you, branches tugging at the fabric of your blanket. Your breath is loud in your own ears. Too loud. You focus on the weight of the airgun against your ribs, the cold press of the barrel, the scratch of the blanket against your palms.
A voice calls behind you—low, deliberate, a warning—It freezes you mid-step.
– Capitol. – Spruce rasps.
You close your eyes. The word drags down your spine like a blade, slow and sure. It’s not a command, not quite, but it has the shape of one.
The peacekeeper's standing right behind you.
You can hear him breathing. Hear the rustle of his sleeves against his sides as he presumably lifts the shotgun to your head.
You don’t turn. You don’t breathe. You tell yourself it’s just his brashness. He's young, obviously. He's probably scared. Doen't want to hang. You wouldn't either. But he should've just walked away.
Spruce hisses something sharp, quick, almost panicked.
Silence swells in the gap between them.
You take a step, tentative.
– Stop. – He orders. You freeze.
– What are you doin’ boy, let's go. She won't talk.
– You don't know that. – Spruce scoffs, tries to pull him back, but you can hear him shrug his hands off. You can hear him stepping closer. Something prods at your back. Cold. Harsh. A barrel.– Turn around.
You breathe.
Your hands are shaking. Sweating around the grip of the airgun.
– I won't tell you twice. Turn around.
You turn slowly, still looking at the ground.
The peacekeeper's frozen, looking at you. His hands are on the trigger, but they shake. For a second it seems like the wind's been knocked out of him.
Spruce rushes forward, forcing his hand under your chin. You look up, jaw clenched, trying not to cry.
– You're Billy Taupe's girl aren't you? – He breathes, harsh, impatient. – Sorry. Used to be. – He looks over his shoulder, at the peacekeeper. The barrel of the gun wedged beside his ear, still pointing straight at you. – We can settle this easy. – Hey breathes in deeper. – Billy Taupe!
The shout echoes around the woods like thunder.
The peacekeeper goes pale, faltering his aiming hand for a second: – What— Are you insane?! Stop screaming! You're gonna give us away!
Spruce scoffs. – To who? Those damn ars that live on the hill? What are they gonna do? Charge me for screaming? – You bristle, but bite your tongue, head still bowed. – Billy Taupe!
There's a whistle from beside you.
Three notes you recognize all too well—Your song. His song. The one he's always singing—The mockingjays repeat it as he walks your way: soft, distant, airy. Everything that he is not.
You catch the blue of the old shirt you'd sewn for him from the corner of your eye. The dark weathered boots that used to be your older brother's. The hat Lucy Gray had you making, without knowing she'd give it to him.
– What's going on? – He hums, eyes drifting through the barrel of the shotgun before they stop on you. You don’t look at him, but you know him enough that you can feel his eyes widening. His face warps into a grin. His hand rises to adjust the toothpick in his mouth. – Honey. – He laughs out the nickname, almost in disbelief. – Honey's giving you trouble, Spruce? – His eyes bore into you, leaves crunching underfoot as he circles you like a hound. – You didn't used to be like this, sweetheart. I thought you were a good girl.
You bite back the curse at the tip of your tongue and stare at the barrel.
Spruce looks over at the Peacekeeper, pushing the gun down. – I told you she weren't gonna do none. Ain't that right, Honey? We're friends of the business. You can keep a secret, right? – He pinches your cheek, laughing with his broken yellow teeth stained over with dark saliva like some sort of monster from a children's tale.
Billy Taupe pushes his hand away, but doesn't ease off. – He asked you a question, Honey. – His voice is gruff. His eyes are dark. He smiles like he's the one holding a gun to your head. – Damn, when did you get so disrespectful? Answer. You're not gonna say anything, are you?
You're quiet for a moment, but it's not out of defiance, it's out of fear. You swallow thickly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself— It just dawned on you that you're not wearing much, and that if you were to scream, nobody would hear you. – No.
– “No” What, Honey?
– No, I'm not gonna say anything. – You clarify.
He lays an arm over your shoulder, his hand sliding over around your neck. His thumb rests just over your windpipe, index pushing your chin towards him. – I ain't heard you. What'dya say?
– Billy Taupe. – The peacekeeper calls. His voice is low, his brows are furrowed, but he still has his hand on the trigger, as if he needs to be sure he could do something if you were to run away. – I think she got it.
– What? You like her, Capitol boy? – He laughs but the sound is hollow. More performative than amused. – I wouldn’t go for it if I were you. Don’t think you can handle it.
His hand closes around your neck for a second, just enough for you to flinch.
This time Billy Taupe laughs with his chest. – What'dya think, huh Honey-bee? – He makes you look towards the peacekeeper, then pulls your face towards his again. – He ain't your type, is he? Nah. You like you some pretty boys, don't you? – He dives into you as if he were gonna bite you, and you turn your head at the last second, his lips landing on the corner of your mouth. – Aww… what's wrong? You don't like me no more?
Your skin crawls where Billy’s mouth brushed, a damp mark that feels more like a bruise than a kiss. You want to wipe it away, but you don’t move. You can’t show him the gun. So you keep both arms frozen around you.
Spruce laughs behind him, sharp, careless, the kind of laugh that doesn't even pretend to hide the rot in his chest. – C’mon, Taupe. Quit playin’. You know these kinda girls ain't worth it. – He scoffs, looking at you, the disgust clear in his face. – She don't want you.
But Billy only squeezes tighter at your throat, pulling you close enough to smell the booze in him. – She always wants me. Don’t you, Honey-bee? Just don’t know how to say it.
You stare past him, past his grin, at the peacekeeper still hovering with the gun.
He’s still looking at you.
Not at Billy Taupe. Not at the way his hand drags down your collarbone like he owns every breath that passes there. Not even at the outline of the airgun he probably can see you clutching under the blanket. His eyes are fixed on your face, wide, intent, his lips parted like he’s caught in something he doesn’t understand.
You almost wish he’d sneer, or laugh, or spit like the rest of them. Anything you could place, anything you could brace against. Instead, you feel the heat of his stare like it’s prying you open.
Billy tugs your chin again, jerking your gaze back to him. – Tell him. Go on. Tell our friend, the Capitol boy, how you like your men.
You clench your jaw shut.
– Don’t get shy on me now, Honey. – His grip tightens just enough to make you swallow air too fast, coughing against his thumb. He chuckles, savoring it, pressing in closer.
The peacekeeper shifts—barely, but you catch it. His finger flexes against the trigger. The barrel moves, from pointing at you, to pointing beside you, before moving back. His shoulders stiffen like he’s torn in two.
Billy notices too. He leans back with a crooked grin, loosening his hold just to throw his arm heavy over your shoulders. – See that? He’s gone soft for you already, Honey. The poor little pet.
Spruce barks a laugh. – Can't trust these hillbillies. – He scoffs. – Don't know what witchcraft they're doing up there.
The peacekeeper doesn’t answer. He only stares harder, jaw clenched, like he’s swallowing glass.
You lower your eyes again, hiding in the blanket’s folds, heart hammering loud enough you’re certain they can hear it.
You don’t know what’s worse—that Billy Taupe is drunk, angry and touching you, or that the peacekeeper won’t stop looking at you like you’re something he’s never seen before.
Spruce pushes at the boy, and he stumbles forward, gun still in hand. – What’s wrong, Capitol?
Billy Taupe's looking at him, brows raised. – Go on ahead boy, cat's got your tongue?
Spruce pushes him again. – What’s wrong, kid?
– Nothing’s wrong! Stop it, man!
The other two look at each other, Spruce laughs and Billy Taupe shakes his head, his arm tight around your shoulders.
The air around you thickens.
– You lost something here, Capitol? Huh? Whatcha lookin at?
– Stop it, Billy Taupe.
– Stop what? – He hums, spiteful, jaw ticking despite the neutrality on his face. – Stop this? – He grabs you by the hair on your nape, pulls you into him so hard the gun almost falls from your hand. You crash against his chest, but you don't turn your head fast enough to avoid his lips.
Spruce breaks out in laughter.
It isn’t a kiss so much as it is a punishment, teeth scraping, breath sour with liquor. He presses harder the more you pull away, chasing your recoil, like he’s teaching you a lesson for daring to resist.
Your hands are shaking around the gun, blanket slipping down your shoulders. If he feels the barrel pushing against his chest, he doesn't show it. But you pull it back either way.
You can’t breathe with the weight of him, with the crowd of them watching. Spruce hoots behind you, egging him on. Billy Taupe groans into your mouth, savoring your stillness like victory. You drag yourself back, pushing, fighting. – Stop it! – You cough out, pushing at him with your elbows, gripping the blanket tighter around yourself. – Stop! – He laughs against your face, against your neck, his hands digging into the fabric.
You look to your side.
Spruce is standing there, eyes glazed over, lips open in an expectant smile.
Billy Taupe swipes his foot behind your ankles. You hit the ground hard, air punched out of your lungs in a ragged gasp. The blanket tangles around your arms, useless, a net instead of protection. Billy Taupe’s shadow looms over you, and before you can scramble, he’s already dropping his weight across your stomach, your ribs screaming beneath him.
The twigs and the stones and the dead leaves bite at you from under the fabric. Your skin splits somewhere, you feel the sting of fresh blood across your body, heart pulsing so quickly you can't even tell where.
You twist, choke, push at him with trembling hands. – Please— stop it—please!
He grins, his teeth yellow and sharp, you almost fear that he'd sink them into you.
– You like this, don’t you? Pretending to be a little saint. – The words stick to your skin, worse than the spit shining on his mouth. He pins your shoulders down, his elbows digging into your arms, hands forcing your face straight. – This could have been a lot nicer, Honey. This could have been much better if you weren't such a prude before, huh?
– Stop it! Stop it! Please! – You look away, try to move your head. But apart from the jeering behind him that grows sharper, meaner, Spruce’s laugh cutting through like a whip, the only thing you can sense are the toes of the peacekeeper's boot right next to your face.
Your memory flashes before you can stop it.
Your mother's screams. Your baby sister crying, discarded on the ground next to her, as the peacekeeper's circled her body.
It can't end like this, the same way that happened to her.
You can't.
You don't deserve this.
This isn't fair.
You kick your legs.
Try and shake your arms.
You look up. At Spruce. At the peacekeeper. But they're both standing there, quiet, careless, as you struggle.
– Stop! – You scream, the sound startling even yourself. Panicked. Distorted. Guttural. – Please—Billy Taupe—!
His hand falls against your mouth like a stone, and he presses until you can barely breathe. – Do it again. – He bids. – Scream again. See what I do to you.
You can’t move.
Your throat swells tight, like someone’s hands are already around it. The taste of his tongue is still there, sour and rotten, it makes you gag.
His weight crushes into your lungs, ribs bowing. The gun is trapped between your hip and his leg, useless, unseen. Your finger stutters around the trigger. From where it's pointed, you could shoot at his thigh. He'd never walk again. That is, if he didn't die from blood loss. Without a bullet to keep his entire blood system from spilling out, he wouldn't last very long at all.
You don't pull it.
You don't know what Spruce and the boy will do to you if you do. What they'll do to your family.
– Stop moving, Honey. Just stop. It'll be easier for you.
You try. You try to freeze. You try to lock up. Stay still and this might end sooner. But you can't. You can't stop yourself from struggling, even as you try, it's like your body doesn't listen.
– STOP IT! – He screams.
You shake your head involuntarily.
Something crashes against your cheekbone. Harsh. Sharp. A boot.
– What—Spruce?!
– That oughta keep her quiet. – He laughs. You can't see. Your face is swelling. There's blood in your eye now, your field of vision suddenly red.
– Get out of here, man! What is wrong with you?! Why did you kick her?!
– What? I was just helping you out. Ain't you gonna share? – The bastard laughs. Something cracks inside your head—like glass under too much strain. Your head is spinning. Your ear is ringing. – Get off, then.
– What?! No!
– If you ain't gonna do it boy, then I will!
– Fuck you!
They struggle on you. Spruce tries to push him off. Billy Taupe pushes back.
– Stop. – The peacekeeper finally says. – Stop it. Just—Just get off of her. Leave it.
Neither of them listen.
The noise, the breath, the stink of liquor and smoke—it all blends into one suffocating roar. Your heart isn’t beating anymore, it’s hammering, trying to break its way out.
You hear the shotgun drop to the ground beside you. And you feel the barrels chill nearly brushing your left before you open your still good eye.
A blue-gray blur of pressed uniform and panic rushes across from you to pull the fight apart. – Stop it! – His words are an echo of yours. The panic in them the same, and yet so different.
The peacekeeper pulls Billy Taupe from over you so quickly your brain can barely process your sudden ability to breathe.
The sound of your breath is loud against your ears. A desperate grasp. A stuttered cough. The metallic taste in your mouth is underwhelming against the pain, you barely taste it as you turn in a sudden impulse, your face now laying against the shotgun as you try to compose yourself.
But you don't have the time to.
You're curled into yourself for a single second before a pair of hands tugs at you again.
Your face is smashed against the soil. The palm heavy against the forming bruise.
You make a sound you can barely comprehend—sharp, agonized, animalistic. The same sound you'd heard from the sheep before your brother put them out. Before the pellet went in and out of their skulls. Before they met their sudden end.
Let it be sudden, God.
Let this end before I know it.
– Spruce! – Someone shouts. Whether it's Billy Taupe or the other man, you can't tell. But the blanket is ripped off of you in one sudden tear, and you're left lying there, bare apart from your underclothes, until he rips those apart as well.
You feel the cold air against your chest before you can open your eye, and your hand clenches in shock.
You can't see.
You can't breathe.
But you can feel the gun in your hand and the knowledge that if you don't stop it, nobody is gonna stop it for you.
Your hands move before yourself: The grip of the airgun knocks so violently against the side of Spruce's head as you turn that your single ear still functioning grasps nothing but the soundless yelp of his voice stopping short inside his throat and the deaf bang of his body colliding on the soil beside you.
There's a muffled commotion to your other side.
You open your eyes, and you still see nothing but crimson blots and blurred surroundings, but your hands keep mashing the end of the metal against his skull, over, and over, and over in a blind rage.
Your hands are warm.
Shaking.
Bloodied.
His arms try to push at you.
Weak.
Disoriented.
Powerless.
All you'd been just a minute before.
But you don't stop.
You don't stop until you hear screaming. Until two pairs of arms have to use all their strength to tear you off of the mess of broken bone and mush under you. Until you fall back on someone's chest, still swinging, and hear Billy Taupe yelp as your hand strikes him across the face in your confusion.
– Stop. – You hear, in a hushed plea beneath you. – Stop. It's over. Stop. – The words brush against your ears in a breathless whisper. More agitated than fearful, almost soft. – It's okay. It's okay. Stop.
Your back meets the ground again, only this time not harshly.
You can feel someone hovering over you.
Hands on your shoulders.
An arm around your back.
– It's okay now.
– It damn well fucking isn't! – It sounds like a roar more so than a sentence.
Your eyes part open.
The brightness overwhelms you for a moment. You hadn’t realized you were crying until you saw the watery blur swirling over your already ruined vision. But you can see Spruce stand, stumbling over his knock-knees with a face that's closer to a stomped strawberry than the smug, self-satisfied idiocy you usually see in his expression.
He spits red into the dirt, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and his voice cracks into a scream. – I told you! I told you you can’t mess around with these hillbilly bitches, Taupe! I fucking told you these WITCHES ain't worth a fucking DAMN!
Billy Taupe staggers forward, his eyes flicking between you and his friend in a panic, all that overconfident swagger he had just a second ago drained straight out of him. – Spruce— He calls, but the older man cuts him off:
– No! – He looks at you, pointing his finger like a trigger, beaten face distorted with rage – I know what you are, broad! I fucking know it! You and your— Your fucking people— They should've burned you all at the—
– Spruce!
– Shut up! – He coughs, stumbling on unsteady feet, but coming closer. You recoil on instinct, pressed closer against the peacekeeper's chest. – You fucking people— You and your sheep, and your—your fucking witchcraft! You're dogs! You're SCUM!
– Back off, Spruce! – The peacekeeper shouts, his arm tightening around you. – I mean it, man. Calm down! You're gonna get us—
– Shut up, Sejanus! – The vitriol oozes out of him, sliding down his mouth along the blood like rabies. Like Venom. – You don't know none—NOTHING—about these people! You don't know what these WHORES be getting up to behind their closed doors—their—their—their little caravans! You don't know it! She's got you in her spell, already! The fucking slut!
– What do you— You stutter, laughing despite yourself. You don't know where the impulse comes from. Don't know why you say it. – What do you do in your caravan, huh, Spruce?!
– Honey—!
– Jerk off. That's all you fucking do. – You scoff. – You can't get a job. You can't fix. You can't mine. You're a good-for-nothing fucking slob crying about people who put the work in to try and live in these places that you don't want us going in!
– They should've— They should've murdered the lot of you back in eleven! They should've rid us all of you fucking dogs when they had the fucking chance!
– For what? – The laughter bubbles out of you, hot and biting and cruel. More defying than you've ever been in your entire life. – To make more space so pieces of shit like you can get off on hassling girls and doing nothing all day?!
– SHUT UP!
– You SHUT UP! – You cry. Your hands are shaking. You can still feel the imprint of his hands on your skin. – Last time I checked, the Covey were being rounded up and torn out of their houses just like us!
– WE AIN'T NOTHING LIKE YOU!
– You're exactly like us you moron, you just DON'T HAVE THE FUCKING BRAINS TO SEE IT! – You spit, growl, kicking at the dirt behind your feet. – LOOK AT ME! I'M BLEEDING RED AIN'T I?! YOU BEAT ME UP, AND I BLEED! I BEAT YOU UP AND YOU BLEED! WE'RE THE SAME FUCKING THING!
– WE'RE NOTHING LIKE YOU DIRTY FUCKING—
– YOU’RE THE ONE WHO'S FUCKING DIRTY YOU PIECE OF SHIT!
He lurches toward the shotgun lying in the dust.
Billy Taupe curses, scrambles after him. – Leave it, Spruce, just leave it—! Stop it!
But Spruce’s hands are already wrapping around the stock. His face is feral now, dripping blood and hate, his whole body trembling with rage. – You are a dirty fucking whore! YOU'RE A DOG!
The boy holding you snaps, pulling you back, his arm tightening across your back, trying to shield you with his body.
– I’m gonna kill you! – He barks, lower, warning, nearly pleased. – The peacekeeper's back at Eleven will be—
– Do it!
Billy Taupe stutters forward, reaching for you. You push him away.
– Go ahead! You'll see what the peacekeepers'll do to you when they get the chance! The same fucking thing! Go ahead!
– Put it down, Spruce.
– Put it down man, you don't know what you're doing!
Spruce doesn’t listen.
He shoulders the gun, teeth bared, and levels the barrel at you. – Say it again if you're bad, Honey.
You're staring at him.
The barrel inches from your face.
– SHOOT ME! – You scream. – SHOOT ME IF YOU'RE HALF THE MAN YOU SAY YOU ARE!
– Say it again you fucking k—
– SHOOT ME!
The blast shatters the air.
Heat sears past your cheek, the powder burning your nostrils before you even realize what happened.
The boy, the peacekeeper, —Sejanus— his body jerks against yours, warm blood spraying across your arm in a sudden hot mist. His gasp is ragged and wet, right in your ear, before he crumples to the dirt, clutching the hole torn through his shoulder.
Panic cleaves through your haze. You reach for him without thinking, hands slipping over blood that’s not your own.
This wasn’t how it should have gone down.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
Spruce staggers back a step, already racking the gun again, still screaming nonsense through the froth of spit and gore. He points it at you. Cocks it. Triggers it.
But Billy Taupe lunges, grabbing the barrel, yanking it up. Another shot cracks—into the clouds this time.
The noise rips through the valley.
– What the fuck is wrong with you?! Are you insane?! – He looks back, blue eyes glazed over with panic as he holds the barrel of the shotgun. – Shit. Shit. Shit. You shot the fucking peacekeeper! We're dead! WE'RE GONNA HANG!
You're fucked.
Dead.
Gone.
This is worse than anything you could've done.
Billy Taupe paces back and forth, Spruce standing frozen on the ground, staring at the wound on this boy's shoulder.
– Go! – You push at him, taken over by an impulse you youself can't explain. – Get out of here! Go!
– Honey—
– Drop the gun and fucking leave, Billy Taupe! Go!
There's a sharp sound from over the hill. Loud. Rageful. So thunderous even Sejanus's eyes snap towards it.
Ori.
You try to stand, stumble. – Go!
Your name carries next, shouted, desperate. It's Isaac, your brother.
Billy Taupe’s face drains. He jerks at Spruce’s arm, tugging him back, stumbling over words— We gotta go, we gotta go—
Spruce looks between you.
Between the bleeding boy and you.
Some strange expression flashes through his face as your eyes meet. Shock. Relief. Understanding. You don’t know. But you shout again. – GO!
He listens this time.
Turns. Stumbles over his feet, but turns.
The two of them dash into the valley, Billy Taupe pulling, Spruce following best as he can, both of them looking over their shoulders as the barking and the voices grow closer, closer, until you can feel them coming down the hill.
– Isaac! – Your heart is beating out of your chest. With one eye, you see nothing but red. With the other, you don't see much different. – Isaac! – The peacekeeper's still wailing. Crying. Begging in half-mumbled prayers you can barely comprehend.
You see your brother in the distance, his face twisted in horror as he sees you, beaten, half-naked, bleeding.
You see Ori, quick as the wind, rushing towards you.
And from the corner of your good eye as you turn—a blur of white. Gold eyes. The wolf— it stares at you for a moment. You don’t know how long it's been there. If it'd been hounding you. If it would have came closer, to feast on what was left of you, if things had gone down another way.
But it turns and walks back into the bushes, looking over one last time before disappearing.
Ori crashes against you. Warm and worried and loving. Whining as he noses at your side.
You swear you hear a huff, almost like a laugh from its side of the woods. Your eyes are still fixed where the wolf vanished into.
You don't know what it wanted.
If it wanted anything.
But one thing is clear enough—You won't come out of whatever situation you've just gotten yourself into unharmed.
౨ৎ sejanus comes to visit you when he's touch starved ౨ৎ
sejanus plinth x fem reader
author's note: ANONNNN YOU'VE MADE ME SO HAPPY SENDING IN A SEJANUS REQUEST :(
“Sejanus?", you open the door to your to find him on your front porch. "What're you doing here?" You didn't see your boy as often as you liked, as being a student at the University took up most of his time.
"I missed you", Sejanus drawls as he closes the door behind him.
"I just saw you three days ago silly", you smile as Sejanus engulfs you in his arms, "We've been apart for longer than that".
"Still too long", he mutters into your shoulder, before his lips start to peck there "Too long".
"Sej!!", you squeal, "That tickles!" Before you have a chance to push his lips away, he carries you gently to your bedroom which earns another giggle from you.
"I missed hearing your laugh…", he says lowly as he rests your head onto your pillow. It doesn't take long for his lips to return back to you.
"So I guess you really did miss me lots", you teased when Sejanus finally pulled away. His hands refused to let go of you as he replaced the pillow that supported your head with his chest. You lost track on how many kisses he had left on the top of your head.
"I hate being away from you, I need my sweetheart". You would've laughed at Sejanus's desperate words if his eyes didn't look so wide with yearning. "I just need to hold you.."
You lift your head up from his chest and press a kiss on his forehead. "Oh Sejanus..", you took in his wary features. "Have you been overworking yourself again?"
Sejanus doesn't respond, but pulls you back down and weaves his fingers through your hair. " 'M fine now.. got my pretty honey in my arms. I'm already feeling better really".
"You always do too much", you coo, "Let me take care of you tonight for once".
"Love--"
You pepper his face in kisses before he can refuse. "You know I missed you too. I missed you holding me".
"Then let me hold you-"
"No!!", you stubbornly interrupt him again. "I told you I'm going to pamper you first. Now sit up and turn around".
Sejanus groans playfully as he obeys your requests, knowing he couldn't talk you out of this. "I miss you already".
"Sejanus", you snort. "I'm right here". Your hands start to knead at his tense shoulders, "See how good I am at this?"
"Mhm you're a real pro honey. Now will you let me hold you--"
"Patience!", you scold jokingly. "I still feel tension surrounding your shoulders".
"That's because you left my arms", Sejanus says as he turns back around and moves his hands back to your waist. He leans onto your chest and pulls you back down onto the bed with him. "Let's just lie here.."
"Is that what you really want?"
"Yes", Sejanus slips his head into the crook of your neck as you lightly massage his scalp. "That feels nice".
Your hands freeze as Sejanus starts to move his lips further up on your neck. "Sejanus..", you say softly.
"Is something wrong?", he asks as he pauses for a moment.
"No.. no just, I was the one who was supposed to be taking care of you.."
"You are taking care of me love.. letting me kiss you like this oh you're taking such good care of me", Sejanus rasps.
After your body tires from his lips, you hold him tightly, tracing shapes onto his cheek with one hand. He had fallen fast asleep by now, just as you predicted from someone who was overworked to the bone.
Summary: Covey! Reader and Sejanus go foraging with Maude Ivory and realize maybe a family is something they might want one day.
. . .
The early hours of the morning were always a bit chilly. The dew coated everything in moisture, leaving the grass damp and the hem of your skirt lightly stained. You trekked through the meadows and woods with Maude Ivory close behind. She's small, but quick. You always admire how innocent she is, how sweet she is. Despite the situation she always has a childish curiosity to her, and you both have grown to love her dearly.
"I'm chilly." She says, her arms folded as she steps forward, you were crouched down, plucking some brown hearty mushrooms from the earth. Sejanus, without thinking, shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the girl's shoulders. It swallowed her tiny frame, but her body appreciated the warmth it offered.
"Here, you can have mine," he says. "Thanks, Capitol boy." She giggles. She steps closer to you and bends down, mimicking your actions by gently plucking the food from its roots. "He's real sweet," She whispers to you. Sejanus is not far behind, now, wandering for herbs or anything else that could be of good use. "He is," you chimed enthusiastically. "I like him," she decides. "I see why you like him, too. He's really handsome." You were thankful your back was turned to Sejanus, because you flushed slightly. "He is." you whispered again.
Sejanus cleared his throat, approaching the two of you. "I found some berries." He announced. Maude Ivory jumped up in excitement and ran over to him. Maude Ivory shrieked, stabbing herself with the thorns of the bush. "Careful," he says. "Here," He plucks some and hands her a small handful- a gesture she's thankful for. After collecting some and making sure Maude Ivory had more than enough of a snack, he stepped closer to you, kneeling by you, feeding you some of the berries. You protested slightly until the tart sweet tang of the berries touched your lips and you were grateful. He popped a few in his mouth. You smiled at the interaction.
He helped you up by grabbing your hands, and you were so close, inches apart. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a slight smile when you caught his gaze, finally, and the intimate moment was interrupted. While you had your intimate moment together, Maude Ivory had wandered, and fallen down the meadow hill onto the base of a tree. With a thud, and a yelp, You called her name and rushed to the scene, Sejanus acting faster than you could.
You began to panic, pressure in your chest, trying to make sure she was alright, you helped her sit up and she brushed herself off, Sejanus brushed the hair that had fallen in her face away and his hands acted quickly. He was in training to be a medic after all.
He assessed her injuries promptly. "Are you okay?" she shook her head. "I think I hurt my foot," she frowned. She'd have a few bruises for sure, and there was a scrape on her arm- nothing major, but enough to be dirty and slightly red. "Can you stand?" he asked her, helping her to her feet. He frowned when she winced after putting weight on her ankle.
He prompted her to sit back down while he assessed her foot further; it was a little swollen, likely a minor sprain. You were thankful it wasn't anything more serious. "We've been over this; you've got to be more careful. It's always slippery when the grass is wet," you scolded her, with a sigh of relief. "It's okay," Sejanus says in a cheerful voice. "Accidents happen."
She groans, leaning against the tree for support. "Can you walk?" he asks. She tries to step forward but stumbles into him. "Nuh uh," She says, sighing in frustration. "I hope it's not bad cause we have a show on Saturday," she says sternly. "Well, if it starts to get better with rest, that'll be a good sign." Sejanus offers. She huffs. "Here, I'll carry you." He offers, she hops on his back, where Sejanus securely carries her.
"I think that's our cue to head back home," you said. "I agree." Sejanus retorted. "I think we have enough for dinner now, anyway," you say. "Be careful," you order Sejanus, every step is meticulous and thoughtful of the wounded girl resting on his back now.
You slowly found your way back to the small house you called home. The walk was silent, the birds singing above you, and the crickets' song slowly coming to an end as the day got a little brighter and warmer. You turned and noticed that Maude Ivory had fallen fast asleep, slung over Sejanus's shoulders, emitting a gentle snore. Seeing him being so caring awakened something in you.
As you approached the house, Lucy Gray was the only one awake that early- gently strumming her guitar in the front yard. She set it aside and rushed over. "What happened?" she asked. "I slipped," Maude Ivory said, coming back to life from her short and needed slumber. Lucy Gray pursed her lips, "Oh," she frowned. "Let's get you to bed." She said.
Sejanus had carried the girl all the way to her bed and gently placed her there, elevating her leg and tucking her in. She was a restless child, so she wouldn't enjoy the bed rest, but she was thankful someone was looking out for her. "Thank you, Sejanus." You said gently. The two of you stepped back outside into the morning air as the others stirred awake and began inquiring about their youngest family member.
You both sat in the yard, now. "You're really sweet with her," you said sheepishly, a slight flush on your cheeks at the memory. "She's a firey little girl." he chuckles. "She'll be okay," he said.
"It makes me think about having kids one day," you said quietly, a confession that left you vulnerable. "Yeah?" he asked, his eyes turning over you. "If things were different- I think you'd be a really good dad," you uttered gently. "We can make things different," he offered.
There was a shared moment of hope, something peaceful, a glimmer of a more normal life. Sejanus comes home to the house smelling of fresh bread, home to you. A place that was all yours. A place that was a real home, no stress and no worry. No more trading and struggling. Just happiness and each other. It was a fantasy you could get swept up in so easily.
"I really like you, Sejanus," you said. "But one day at a time, ok?" you chuckled. "Besides, I'd be no good having kids this young. Got enough on my plate as it is." You were older now than when you had met, but as the time passed, Sejanus knew he could be patient and that he'd wait for you and do whatever you wanted- anything. "I could build us a house." He said, finally. You turned to him with a curious expression. "I have the money, and everyone could live in it, Maude Ivory could have her own room, we could have ours," he said. Though it wasn't that far out of reach, It was a shared goal that seemed so far away.
"I'd like that," you said. " A nice garden out back." He nodded in agreement. "I appreciate you taking care of us like you have. Taking care of my family," you said softly. "Your family is my family." He said. This made you flush again. Before the moment had passed, you shared another meaningful gaze; his eyes were soft, gentle. He smelled like pine and honey. He took his opportunity this time, and planted a gentle kiss on your lips. Soft slow. tender.
After the embrace, you were interrupted again. Tam Amber was out on the front lawn. "What's this about a new house I hear?" he asked. He liked Sejanus; they all did, and they also liked him enough to tease the two of you. You flushed and pulled away. "Maybe new instruments, first." Tam Amber said. They both chuckled. Lucy Gray appeared. "What about the house?" she chimed.
"Oh, nothing," Tam Amber replies. "Just Y/N's boy here is gonna get us a real sweet house." He said in a teasing tone. You rolled your eyes. "Don't be jealous," Lucy Gray chuckled. "Though that does sound like something we'd all adore," she continued on, turning her charming personality on to tease you further. "You're all getting spoiled on your birthdays, anyway, you know," Sejanus said, matching the teasing sarcasm.
"If i get a new dress for my birthday, I might have to marry him." Lucy Gray joked, Coriolanus was somewhere shivering in disgust at the thought. "He's a keeper, Y/N." she said.
Your nightstand clock ticks well past one in the morning when you decide Sejanus has been working far too long.
You tried to stay up with him, draping over the chaise in the corner of his study, but maybe he had a special blinker somewhere in that strange mind of his (no, you were not a snorer, that couldn’t be it) that told him you dozed off around eleven.
Sejanus had scooped you into his burly arms, pushed the doors open with his back and laid you down in the middle of your shared bed, mumbling, “I’ll come in a minute.” He’d fixed your night gown over your hips, pulled the comforter to your chest while you groaned in incoherent, groggy dissent.
You weren’t sure if you had the same understanding of how long a minute was. With a sigh, you push yourself from under the weighted blankets that couldn’t compare in the least to Sejanus’ body lying on yours. It was a detail only you had the pleasure of knowing, the way your husband crawled into your sheets in the late hours, laying his head on your chest and letting barely half his weight absolutely smush you to the mattress.
Your bare feet hardly make a sound as you pad through the open double-doors to his study, but Sejanus wouldn’t have stirred even if they did. His broad back is to you, but you recognize the steady rise and fall shifting under his button-up. You can’t resist a smile as you step to the left— he’s leaned over his desk, arms crossed to pillow his cheek. Papers are scattered across the surface, an open book tucked under an empty mug of coffee you brought him nearly five hours ago. His fountain pen lies atop an almost neat stack of files beside his green desk lamp, a small dot of ink dripped onto the tan Manila folder. You huff through the nostrils.
Gently, to not rouse him, you shuffle papers around, quietly cleaning up the desk. Still, your husband stirs, as you lift that cup, slip the bookmark tucked beneath the hard cover between the pages and shut it. A soft sound leaves his shut lips, you’re reminded of an old dog sighing heavy. When he speaks you almost mistake it for a grumble, “Mama.”
“Time for bed,” you insist, setting the stack of papers you’ve collected off to one corner and slipping atop the desk in the new space. You watch Sejanus lean back in his chair, grimacing as his muscles pull. His dark eyes rove over you in your nightgown in the desk lamp’s warm light, shining with an appreciation that warms your skin. “I got more t’do.”
You lift a brow, leaning onto one arm on the wood. “Sejanus.” He smiles at your warning tone, rubbing a hand over his face and pushing back his mussed curls, falling over his forehead like hyacinths. He needs a trim, but frankly, you think he looks perfect just like this.
“How late is it?”
“One-thirty.” Sejanus blows the air out his cheeks, seeing your point. His hand finds the inside of your knee, his thumb drawing circles into the cool skin. He always ran warm as a furnace, your husband.
“Come to bed,” you murmur, your hand slipping to cup his cheek, rubbing over his beard. “Please?” There’s this look on his face, like he knows the decision is already made for him. Even despite all the work cut out for him. Sleepless nights were becoming more and more frequent, and Sejanus had to know how that upset you. And he hated to upset you.
Sejanus’ chestnut eyes are melty and warm with affection as his large hand grasps yours on his face. The look a man reserves specially for the woman who’s got him wrapped around her finger. He was defenseless. He sighs, pushing his chair out and standing. “You win.”
You let him scoop you into his arms, carry you to your bedroom like a doll. With a smile and a gentle scratch with manicured nails to his scalp, you hum, “Mm. I usually do.”
Husband!Sejanus Plinth x Wife!Female!Reader x Coriolanus Snow
mdni!!!
wc; 3.3k
cw; cuckholding, p in v, some degradation, cheating, toxic reader really, lil bit of a breeding kink
kinktober 2024 masterlist
a/n; ah, the return of coryo and sejanus together in a fic. we talked about this idea/plot a while ago and it needed an appearance, so here you go lovelies!!! Enjoy!!!
Every brush of Coriolanus’ fingers was another bought of sin dumping itself all over your body. And you let yourself marinate in it each time. How could you not? Coriolanus and his perfect hair and clothes of refinery and voice as smooth as butter, it would be a complete loss if you gave up on the agreement you had with him, even after he married Livia Cardew. Even after you married Sejanus Plinth.
You would lose the feel of his strong hips and all encompassing hands, his lips that get redder the more you kissed him and the sight of his gelled hair messy and unkempt. Not to mention the rare tender moments post-sex where Coriolanus would complain about almost everything in his life except you.
Except you. You were excluded from Coriolanus’ complaint list which was a compliment without being a compliment. He’d be laid out, naked and panting, allowing you to share his proximity and exchange soft words until he inevitably had to leave. He was always coming to your penthouse. Livia was around too much. Sejanus too naive. But he worked. So the better option was always your apartment.
Coriolanus came barreling into the penthouse this late morning, the keys you gave him clanging against the dish on the small foyer table. You’re in the kitchen sipping coffee. At first you think Sejanus forgot something, but you see that glimpse of Coriolanus’ hair before you see his face.
He looks angry. His eyes icier than ever, his brow knit and his hair isn’t gelled to perfection. Disregarding the fact you weren’t expecting him right now, you don’t give him a look of shock. All you do is tilt your head at him as he nears closer, “Coriolanus, what’re you-”
His hands cup the mug in your hand and gingerly set it down on the counter behind you, then they cup your face, forcing your head up. Coriolanus slots his lips to yours in a heated passion. There’s little hesitation on your end. A surprise visit is welcomed in your eyes. You loved Sejanus. You really did love the man. He was sweet, he took care of you, he paid attention to you, he cooked, he did everything someone would want in a husband.
But nothing lit a fire in your stomach the way his ‘best friend’ did. Nothing would ever compare to the way Coriolanus kissed you hungrily every single fucking time his lips met yours. He holds your face with a firm grip, keeping you from backing out of it, though you were not planning to. Your hands found his sides, rubbing them in what you consider a soothing manner. The nosiness in your nature wanted to know what he was so angry about. Livia? Sejanus? Work? It couldn’t be you. Couldn’t be.
Coriolanus sinks his teeth to your bottom lip in a quick bite, then he sucks on it, smirking at your little moan. His thumbs span across your cheekbones in slow rubs, nipping your lips before giving you a break.
You breathe out your words the moment he breaks it, “What’s wrong?”
“Quick,” he mumbles, squeezing your face gently. Also quick.
“What. Is. Wrong,” you repeat, enunicating each word, leaning up to caress his jaw with your mouth, coaxing an answer out of him. What you’ve learned from these years of rendezvousing with Coryo is that you might be the only woman, only person who could coax deep, dark things out of him. Not that this would be that, but it did not mean you wouldn’t use those skills.
His jaw tightens and he keeps rubbing his thumbs on your cheeks like it’ll magically calm him down but his eyes glare still. “Livia. Just Livia…stuff.”
You raise your brow at his vagueness but the little hint that it was marital problems making him this agitated. You kiss right under his jaw, then let your teeth graze his skin. Coriolanus’ breath is heavy and he pushes his hips up to yours, crowding you against the kitchen counter.
“She was just pissy that I’m busy all the time, that’s all,” Coriolanus concedes, but there must be more to it than that. They fight all the time about how he’s busy. And he is. Between working in his position as the Head Gamemaker and fucking you, he had little time for Miss Cardew, ahem Mrs. Snow.
“Are you sure it’s not cause you’re barely fucking her?”
Coriolanus scowls at you, his left hand dropping to your hip while his right grabs around your jaw, “Don’t be so crude about it,” he tells you. If you didn’t know better, you’d scoff in his face, but you had no reason to anger him more right now. Coriolanus would never truly admit that he’s just as crude as you can be.
“So it is that?” You question, but your tone is airy. Your lips sliding into their dignified place. A smirk, to which he can’t keep his scowl too long. He rolls his eyes though.
“Partially, yes,” Coriolanus tells you, squeezing at your hip and dipping his head back down to chase your lips. A spark runs through you and you glide your hands up his chest to his shoulders, before you lock your hands behind his neck, pulling him close. He lets you, let you steal him into the kiss, his hips jutting a bit to yours in a silent plea to take things further, but all you can focus on are his lips.
You fucking loved that Livia was pissed about that. Coriolanus knew that. Jealousy was never in your blood, but you did feel a spark of confidence whenever Coriolanus admits he hasn’t been sleeping with his own wife when he’s supposed to be making the heir to his fortune. No, instead he’s been balls deep in you, emptying himself into you every two days until he was spent. You can’t say you’re not in a similar position with your own husband. Sejanus was a sweet lover. There was nothing inherently bad about the way he took you, but that’s almost the problem. It wasn’t sex and it wasn’t fucking, something you craved, something animalistic and primal was what you wanted. You might have mentioned it subtly to him once or twice, but Sejanus was merely not as confident in himself as he should be.
Coriolanus presses his hips to you again, now sporting a hard-on from the way your tongue trails his lips and slides into his mouth with no purpose but to lure him in. Your skin feels hotter, his fingers digging into your jaw, while the other tries to bunch up the nightgown you’re wearing. You would have let the man fuck you against the counter Sejanus was making his lunch on this morning, but the front door opens.
Coriolanus pulls away from you in an instant, face flushed and lips swollen, “Maid?”
You’re about to speak when Sejanus’ honeyed-voice calls out, “Sweetheart?”
Coriolanus’ nose wrinkles and he’s most likely going to slam his hand on the counter but you catch it, and push him back, taking a couple steps forward, and straightening your nightgown as best you can just as Sejanus rounds the corner into the kitchen.
Sejanus looks to you, then to Coriolanus, who leans back against the counter behind you. “Coriolanus,” he says, giving the other man a nod, to which Coryo only gives a nod back. You’re sure your husband is assessing. He would see Coriolanus’ lips are redder. That you’re both slightly disheveled. You haven’t looked but you’re sure Coriolanus’ bulge is hard to hide.
Now, Livia may not know of the affair. But Sejanus, he knew.
He caught the two of you around three months ago. It took a lot of softly spoken words and convincing but you got Sejanus to believe this was okay. It did not mean he liked it. But he allowed it. Coriolanus gave you a kiss on the mouth for it when you told him.
“I just…forgot my notebook,” Sejanus says, his eyes still darting between you two. You catch his gaze go down to Coriolanus’ crotch and it almost makes you feel that stupid pit of jealously you never feel.
You shake those thoughts away. Sejanus looked at Coriolanus’ crotch. Oh you’re spinning. You always thought there was something between those two men, though you never pushed it. Sejanus would get too blushy and Coriolanus would probably explode. Maybe that’s why Sejanus was able to brush past the fact you’re fucking Coriolanus, but you couldn’t be completely sure.
Everyone always called you impulsive for a reason.
“Oh, I’m not sure where it is. Have you seen it Coryo?” You look back at him and he raises a confused brow at you. He knows you better than your husband does. He knows you’re playing at something, but what, he doesn’t know.
“No?”
“It’s probably just in the bedroom,” Sejanus says, having made no move to walk to the master suite of your penthouse. He shifts on his feet and you glance back over to him for a few seconds, before you land your gaze to Coriolanus again.
You take the three steps over to him, grab his face and pull him into a hard kiss, a bruising one that has his breath shortening upon impact and his hands wrapping around you. You hear some sort of gasp leave your husband, but you don’t pull away. Neither does Coriolanus. Whether he’s figured out your game or not, you can’t stop kissing him, knowing Sejanus is staring. You don’t hear footsteps, you don’t hear him say anything, all you can hear is the wet smacking of your lips to Coriolanus’ and the man’s heavy breaths breathing a new sort of life into you.
You don’t stop Coryo when he ruts his hips into yours, making you feel how hard he is, that he’s not planning on backing down for whatever you’ve got brewing in your head. It spurs you on, leaning your head back and breaking the kiss, letting Coriolanus taint your neck in sin as your eyes lock to Sejanus’.
He’s flushed, mouth slightly parted. A hand to the counter near the doorway and his pants tight.
You moan.
Coriolanus lifts his head, having not expecting the sound yet, but he glances to Sejanus, notices the same thing you did, then shares a look to your husband.
…
It was a blur. Coriolanus tugging you to your bedroom, to yours and Sejanus’ bedroom. Telling Sejanus to come with, Sejanus actually following.
In your fantasy, Sejanus would cut the shit and kiss the life out of you, fuck you like he should and show he’s your husband, but the perfect fantasy comes instead when Coriolanus nudges on Sejanus shoulder towards an armchair, then he grabs your waist, picking you up and practically throwing you on the bed.
It makes you stare at him a little wide-eyed, his finger working the buttons of his shirt, “I’ll show you what we do,” he says to Sejanus, who’s sitting back in the chair just as wide-eyed as you are. But god, the fucking noticeable tent in his pants makes you squirm, moving to push your nightgown up over you, but Coriolanus swats your hands away, “No keep it on.”
Coriolanus kicks his shoes off and lets his shirt fall to the ground, standing at the foot of the bed and holding his hand out for you. You turn over and crawl to him. You wonder if he thinks you’ll hesitate now that you’re in front of Sejanus, but you want to prove otherwise. Have to.
Have to see the look on your husband’s face. So without a thought of anything, once you’re close, you let Coriolanus’ hand rest to your head and you nuzzle your face into his groin, nose sliding along the length of his cock that’s visible through the fabric.
“She’s a whore for it,” Coriolanus mumbles, to himself, to you, to Sejanus, who knows. You almost comment, ‘crude,’ but you’re too busy finding his tip and latching your lips over the fabric so you can hear his breach hitch and his hand press down on your head.
“You don’t have to call her that,” Sejanus speaks for the first time. His hand is over his lap and his eyes are glued to the scene.
Coriolanus chuckles, “I don’t. But she likes it. Did you know that?” He pushes his hips up to your face more, then shoves your head away, undoing his belt as he looks over at Sejanus.
“Well? Did you know that?”
Sejanus swallows, watching you wait patiently for Coriolanus as he drops his belt and pushes his pants down, followed by his boxers.
“N-No,” Sejanus says, eyes stuck on Coriolanus’ hard, dripping cock in the same way you would look at it, which you are, reaching under your nightgown to take your panties off. Once they’re at your ankle, Coriolanus grabs them and tosses them to Sejanus, “There fuck those.”
You want to laugh so bad. Coriolanus is a fucking lunatic and you love him. God, you love him You love that fucking man, what the fuck.
Coriolanus kneels onto the bed with you, leaning in to kiss you. It’s softer than you would expect it to be, then he trails kisses from your lips to your cheek to your ear, whispering, “don’t speak too much. I can do it. Just enjoy yourself.” You give a slight nod and he nips your ear, turning your body over.
You take his lead and lean your head down to your plush pillows, your backside raised and ready for him.
Coriolanus pushes your nightgown up around your hips and rubs his fingers on your ass, massaging the skin as he spares Sejanus a look. “I haven’t touched her,” he starts, glancing between your legs, “but I can see it. She’s soaking. Already a wet fucking mess for…,” Coriolanus purposely trails off, teasing his knuckles against your cunt, and pressing one of them to your hole, kneading his knuckle against it.
“For me, mostly…but she fucking loves you’re watching, Sej.”
Sejanus swallows, but his mouth is dry. His hand instinctively rubs to his bulge and Coriolanus sees it. Smirks at it.
He rubs his knuckle against your cunt in slow dragging movements that have your head spinning. Coryo drops his other hand to his cock, giving it a slight tug before lining it up more to you. “Bet she’s been so happy she doesn’t have to hide this,” Coriolanus all but murmurs, taking his knuckle away, but quickly replacing it with the tip of his cock, rubbing it through your lips, getting himself wet with you.
“Oh, I wish you could feel this right now, Sejanus,” Coriolanus groans, watching you nuzzle your cheek to the pillow in annoyance over how much he’s teasing you. And his words. Of course.
“Yeah,” Sejanus replies, but then he gets a burst of something because you hear him say, “I know what that feels like. To do that to her.”
Coriolanus hums in thought to that as he starts to sink himself into you. It’s torture, only feeling the head of his dick inside you, somewhat easing a slight tension, but nearly not enough. You’re almost more surprised he’s holding back so much when he normally can’t, but maybe it has to do with your husband sitting in the armchair nearby. Maybe.
“You know some if it,” Coriolanus says, voice huskier as he pushes more of himself into you, “but she’s not getting fucked by you, Plinth.”
He thrusts the rest of himself into you, your cunt taking him like it’s meant to be there, his hands grasping your waist as you moan out.
“I don’t know how you can’t fuck her,” he grunts, drawing his hips back and slamming then back into you, a half-smile gracing his lips when you grip to the sheets tighter.
“I-I do,” Sejanus says, his hand still palming himself.
“No. You don’t. You make love to your beautiful fucking wife but you don’t do this.” There’s venom to his words, like he’s upset on your behalf, like he wishes your husband fucked you hard and rough, snapped his hips you like Coriolanus is doing now, the sound of his skin hitting yours getting more apparent.
You moan for Coriolanus, asking for it harder and he really does try not to laugh. But he does. This is so perfect. “Are you hearing her? Poor Mrs. Plinth needs a good fucking and you’ve been keeping her from it?”
You can’t see Sejanus. And Coriolanus knows this too. He knows especially when you try to turn your head to catch a glimpse, but he distracts you with a particularly sharp thrust of his hips, leaning his body down over you. You can feel the sweat of his chest and his ragged breath to your ear as he murmurs, “Baby, he’s touching himself. He’s getting off on it, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”
His words only make you whimper, and Coriolanus’ hand collides to your ass in only one slap before leans back up. “At this point, I’m her sex life. Not even her husband. That’s sick.”
Coriolanus fucks into you like he’s hungry. Like he needs to wreck you as much as he can since it’s front of Sejanus, a Sejanus who has slipping his hand down his pants, a Sejanus who can’t argue against Coriolanus’ words.
“Sejanus watch, don’t fucking look away,” Coriolanus spits out in a rushed tone, so you can only assume Sejanus did look away. Your moans are tumbling out of you, your body on fire as his cock pounds into you. You can feel him twitch and you know he’s close.
“Don’t look away,” he pants, “I’m gonna fill your wife’s cunt with my cum, gonna fill it all up, gonna give her my fucking baby,” Coriolanus grunts with each push of his hips. His words must surprise even him because his hips stutter before they regain their purpose and you whine. You whine for his seed, for him to breed you like he should have been meant to. You knew he would never speak those words about Livia and it turned you on to an unimaginable level.
With the first spurt of his load, you spasm against him, cumming with Coriolanus. A louder whimper leaves you while he grunts, his voice cracking with his last few words, “that’s it, that’s fucking it, you see this, Sejanus? You see this? She comes like this for me. All for me.”
You grin tiredly at his words, letting your body rest as Coriolanus pulls out of you. When you can look over at Sejanus, his hand shaky and his pants have a wet spot. It almost makes you want ot crawl over to your husband and take care of him again. Maybe this will change him.
But Coriolanus cups your face in his rough, warm hand and kisses your nose as his other hand cleans between your leg with your blanket. He whispers so only you can hear, “I’ll see you tonight,” then he’s finishing getting changed, saying absolutely nothing to Sejanus, and walking out.
Sejanus is glued to his seat still, staring over at you. With lust, with disgust, with awe, all of the above. It almost makes you nervous. Almost.
“You should-”
“I should-”
You both stop when you speak at the same time, then Sejanus stands up, “I should go back into work,” he says and you nod. Your husband tentatively takes a few steps over to you, then leans down and kisses the top of your head, before walking to his dresser to grab new pants and boxers, then he’s gone.
There’s disappointment welling in your stomach. He could’ve fucked you nonsensically after what Coriolanus did, but Sejanus just kissed your head.
