the interview with drew goes viral (cont.)
part one
(do not copy or plagarize, original work)
Your phone buzzed incessantly on the coffee table, notifications pouring in like a tidal wave. You had been trying to ignore them, focusing instead on the lukewarm coffee sitting untouched next to your laptop. But every time your gaze strayed to the screen, that unmistakable thumbnail glared back at you: Drew Starkey’s Red Carpet Interview Goes Viral.
You reached for your phone hesitantly, chewing on your bottom lip as your thumb hovered over the video. It wasn’t like you hadn’t already seen it—you’d watched it at least five times since it went live just hours ago. And yet, the views were climbing at an almost alarming rate.
1.8M views. 2.3M views. 2.9M views.
Your stomach flipped as you opened the video again. The screen flickered to life, and there you were, standing under the bright lights of the red carpet, microphone in hand, smiling up at Drew Starkey like you’d just won the lottery.
“Drew,” your recorded voice greeted, a bit too bright, a bit too eager. “Welcome. How does it feel to be here tonight?”
The video cut to Drew, his piercing blue eyes and easy smile capturing the camera—and apparently, millions of viewers. “It feels surreal,” he said in his calm, measured tone. “Like stepping into a moment that’s bigger than me.”
Bigger than him? The comment section certainly didn’t think so.
You reluctantly scrolled down, unable to stop yourself from diving into the chaos:
• “THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER. HELLO?!”
• “Girl, you’re me. I’m you. We’re all the same.”
• “Drew Starkey calling this interviewer good at her job and smiling like that??? ”
• “Her laugh at the end!! She’s so flustered but trying to keep it together.”
You groaned, burying your face in your free hand. “Flustered” didn’t even begin to cover it. Watching the interview now, with the clarity of hindsight, made you cringe in the most infuriatingly embarrassing way. You hadn’t just been professional—you’d been fangirling.
It wasn’t that you didn’t love your job—you did. Interviewing actors and being part of the glittering world of film was your dream. But there was something about Drew Starkey that had completely unraveled you. Maybe it was the way he spoke, thoughtful and deliberate. Or the way his eyes lingered, like he was seeing past the bright lights and chaos to something more grounded. Or maybe it was the way his hand had brushed against your elbow when he leaned in, sending a shiver down your spine that you still couldn’t quite shake.
You glanced back at the video, biting your lip as the final moments replayed.
“By the way,” Drew said, his voice quieter now, leaning in just slightly, “you’re good at this.”
Your recorded laugh was a little too soft, a little too nervous. “Well, thank you,” you’d replied, the words nearly catching in your throat.
The camera lingered on him as he walked away, and you swore you could see him glance back at you, just for a moment.
You closed the video, tossing your phone onto the couch beside you. “It’s just a clip,” you muttered, trying to convince yourself. “People are overreacting.”
But even as you said it, another notification popped up on your laptop, this time from Instagram. You opened the app, scrolling aimlessly through the flurry of tagged posts and stories from the event. And then you saw it.
Drew Starkey had liked the video.
He liked the video.
Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared at the tiny heart icon next to his name. He hadn’t commented, hadn’t reached out—but that single like was enough to set your nerves alight.
You picked up your phone again, scrolling back through the comments on the video. People were analyzing everything—your body language, the way you laughed, the way Drew looked at you like you were the only person on that carpet.
• “No, but seriously, he’s into her, right? RIGHT?!”
• “I’m not saying they have chemistry, but they have CHEMISTRY.”
• “Lord when is it my turn.”
You exhaled sharply, setting your phone down with more force than necessary. Your thoughts raced as you paced the small living room, the memory of Drew’s gaze replaying in your mind like a broken record. Was it all in your head? The playful teasing, the subtle almost-touches, the way his smile had softened just before he walked away?
It was his job to charm people. He did this all the time. And yet…
You couldn’t ignore the warmth in his eyes when he’d said, “You’re good at this,” or the way his hand had lingered just a second too long when it brushed against yours. It hadn’t felt like part of the act—it had felt real.
And now the whole world had noticed, too.
You sat back on the couch, groaning softly as you buried your face in your hands. “What am I supposed to do with this?” you muttered, though no one was there to answer.
Your phone buzzed again, another wave of comments flooding in. This was going to be a long week.
⸝⸝⸝ ⑅ —໒ྀི ִֶָ rafe’s impulsive actions and failed attempt to fix things with a ignite a heated argument, leaving you feeling unseen and misunderstood.
word count 1.7k
warnings : yelling & arguments so angst but ends on a good note / fluff
AN: the problem is left ambiguous & left to the imagination so you can make up the problem, you guys loved the last one lol :) i have plenty more in the vault so let me know if y'all want them. enjoy!
(please do not copy or plagiarize, this is my original work subject to copyright)
Rafe knows he’s in deep shit. He can tell he’s in deep shit. And he barely knows how he got here...nope he totally know how he got here.
The weight of it presses on his chest like a cinder block, a suffocating reminder of the mess he’s made. It’s the first thing he feels when he hears your footsteps stomping up the stairs on to the porch. The tightness in his stomach churns, and his hands instinctively find the edge of the counter, gripping it hard enough that his knuckles pale.
He rubs his hand over his jaw, rough and restless, staring at the front door like it might swallow him whole. It doesn’t. The door swings open, and there you are—eyes already blazing with fury, every bit of it directed at him.
You slam the door behind you with a force that makes him flinch. The sharp crack of wood echoes in the silence before you speak.
“I can’t believe you, Rafe!” you snap, your voice trembling, sharp enough to cut. “Do you ever think? Like, at all?”
The way you look at him—like he’s the worst kind of idiot—makes him stiffen, though he leans back against the counter, trying to feign some level of calm. It doesn’t work. He hates that look, not just from you but from anybody.
“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” he says, shrugging in what he hopes comes off as nonchalant. But his voice falters just slightly, betraying him. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say, even as the words leave his mouth. Way to put a foot in your mouth.
“Oh, my God.” You throw your hands up, your movements jerky, overwhelmed. “You didn’t think it was that big of a deal? Of course, you didn’t. You never think!”
The accusation hangs heavy in the air, sharp and piercing. He runs a hand through his hair, yanking at the strands in frustration. There you go again. Can't you tell he's sorry. Why'd you have to go there of all places. Why’d you have to say it like that? “Alright, just—calm down for a second,” he says, his tone already edging into defensive territory. “You’re making it sound worse than it is.”
“Calm down?” you repeat, and there’s a bitter edge to your voice that makes his stomach twist. “You think I’m overreacting?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he fires back, the words snapping out of him before he can stop them. His shoulders are tense, his movements jerky as he gestures vaguely between the two of you. “I’m saying I didn’t mean for it to be—whatever this is.”
You scoff, shaking your head as if the audacity of his explanation is too much to comprehend. “Unbelievable. You don’t even get it, do you? You don’t care how this makes me feel. You just do whatever you want, and I’m supposed to just—deal with it?”
“That’s not fair,” he says through gritted teeth, his jaw clenching as he pushes off the counter. “I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
“But you didn’t care enough to stop and think about me, either,” you shoot back, your voice rising with each word. “Do you have any idea how that feels? To know that I don’t even cross your mind when you make these dumb, impulsive decisions?”
The words hit him hard, like a gut punch he didn’t see coming. He exhales sharply, his frustration boiling over. He paces a few steps, his hands restless, like he’s trying to find an outlet for the tension coiling in his chest.
“Look, I—I’m trying, alright?” he says, his voice rough and strained. “I know I screwed up. That’s why I got you this.”
He gestures toward the counter, where an expensive box sits, perfectly wrapped with a crisp bow. It’s something he picked up earlier, certain it would fix everything. Now, standing here under your fiery gaze, it feels like a monument to his failure.
Your eyes flick to the box, then back to him, your expression darkening. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“What?” he says, his voice rising with confusion and a touch of defensiveness. He throws his arms out, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I was trying to—”
“It’s not about the damn gift, Rafe!” you yell, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of your emotions. “This isn’t something you can fix with money. Do you think I’m that shallow? You think you can throw a couple of thousands at me and it'll make my feelings go away?”
Your breath stutters for a moment before continuing, “Do you think I’m like all the other girls you’ve bought? You can’t do that with me. You can’t just throw money at this and expect it to go away. You have to be a person—a human—with me.”
He flinches, the words cutting deeper than he cares to admit. “No, that’s not—I’m just trying to fix it, okay?” His voice rises in desperation now. “I don’t know what else you want from me!”
“I want you to feel something!” you snap, the tremor in your voice betraying the raw hurt beneath your anger. “I want you to stop throwing money at everything and actually care about how I feel. But I guess that’s asking too much.”
The accusation lands like a blow, and he’s left staring at you, at the tears brimming in your eyes. The anger drains from his face, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place.
“I do care,” he says quietly, his voice rough and uneven. “I just—I don’t know how to… do this.” His hands move in an awkward, aimless gesture, like the words he needs are somewhere just out of reach. His voice is low, almost a whisper. It’s the kind of vulnerability he doesn’t like showing—doesn’t know how to. But he can’t bring himself to look away from you as he peers at you with those icy eyes.
You scoff, shaking your head again, but you don’t storm out. He notices this, clings to it like a lifeline, grateful in a way he doesn’t know how to put into words.
“Look,” he says, stepping closer, his movements hesitant, cautious. His hands twitch at his sides like they’re drawn to you, but he doesn’t touch you—not yet. “I’m not good at this, alright? I screw up—a lot. But I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I hate seeing you like this.”
Your shoulders sag, and for a moment, you look just as tired as he feels. “Then stop making me feel like I don’t matter,” you murmur, your voice softer now, but no less weighted. “Stop acting like I’m just… an afterthought.”
“You’re not,” he says quickly, his voice firm and insistent. He steps closer, his hands finally settling on your arms. “You’re not an afterthought, okay? You’re—you’re everything to me. I just don’t know how to show it sometimes.”
For a moment, you don’t respond. You just stand there, his hands warm and solid against your arms, the tension between you palpable. Then, slowly, you look up at him.
“I just need to know you’re willing to change, I need you to try...” you say softly, your voice thick with emotion.
The room feels smaller now, the space between you charged but quieter. His hand moves, almost hesitantly, until it settles lightly on your arm. “I don’t know how to do this,” he repeats, his voice rough and uneven. “But I want to. For you.”
You search his face, your gaze lingering on his eyes like you’re trying to find something—sincerity, maybe. And when you finally nod, your body relaxing slightly in his grip, it feels like the first breath he’s taken in hours.
“You better,” you say, your voice quiet but steady now.
“I will,” he promises. Rafe’s lips twitch upward, his own smile soft and unsure. He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. His arms wrap around the entirety of your body, holding you in his warm embrace like he never wants to let go. You feel his heartbeat against yours as the remenants of his anger fade away.
It’s not a perfect fix. Not even close. But as he holds you close, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally starting to understand.
interviewing drew for queer
(do not copy or plagarize, original work)
The buzz of the red carpet was a living thing, pulsing with life as cameras flashed and excited voices carried over the barricades. You adjusted the hem of your pants again, smoothing it over your hips even though it didn’t need it. It was instinct, a way to channel the energy that simmered just beneath your skin. The red carpet was alive with energy, a sea of lights, cameras, and glamour that seemed to stretch endlessly into the night. You stood at your designated spot, microphone in hand, scanning the line of arriving guests with practiced ease. This wasn’t your first premiere, but tonight felt charged with a different kind of anticipation.
You glanced at the crowd gathered just beyond the velvet ropes. Fans pressed against the barricades, their phones out, waving signs and shouting names. Somewhere behind you, another journalist was calling for their next interviewee, their voice competing with the noise of the evening.
You swallowed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you waited for your next interview. Your grip tightened on the microphone, the smooth surface cool against your palm. You’d done this countless times before, but tonight was different. This wasn’t just any film premiere—it was Queer.
The buzz around the project had been relentless. Raw, intimate, and deeply personal, it had stirred emotions before a single frame had even been released. And now, you were moments away from speaking with one of its stars. Drew Starkey.
You glanced down at your shoes, adjusting your stance and mentally rehearsing your questions one last time. You were prepared. You always were. But there was something about him—something about the way he carried himself, about the way he seemed to pull everyone’s attention with such ease—that made your nerves feel sharper tonight.
When you looked up again, there he was.
He moved through the crowd with an effortless grace, his tall frame cutting a striking figure under the bright lights. The black suit he wore was simple but impeccably tailored, fitting him like it had been made for this moment. His hair was perfectly tousled, the kind of artful mess that looked casual but probably wasn’t.
And then his eyes found yours, they locked on you like a spotlight, and for a moment, the noise of the red carpet seemed to fade. The corners of his mouth lifted into a small, easy smile, and before you could fully process it, he was in front of you.
“Hi, Drew,” you greeted, your voice steady despite the way your heart was racing. “Welcome. How does it feel to be here tonight?”
His smile widened as he slid his hands into his pockets, his posture relaxed but not careless. “It feels… surreal,” he said, his voice warm and measured. “Exciting, overwhelming, maybe a little nerve-wracking.”
His voice was low and even, carrying a weight that made you lean in slightly.
“Nerve-wracking?” You raised a brow, tilting your head slightly. “I find that hard to believe.”
“That’s the trick,” he replied, leaning in just slightly. His voice dropped, soft enough that only you could hear over the noise around you. “Pretend you’re calm long enough, and eventually, people start to believe it.”
“That’s a powerful way to put it,” you said. “Queer has been described as raw, vulnerable, and deeply human. What drew you to this project?”
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though searching for the right words. “It’s a story that matters,” he said finally. “It’s not just about one experience—it’s about the universal truths that connect all of us. Identity, love, loss, finding your place in the world. It’s messy, and it’s beautiful, and it’s real.”
The way he spoke, so deliberate and thoughtful, made your chest tighten. This wasn’t just another press soundbite—it was personal.
“And your character,” you pressed gently, “what was it like stepping into his shoes?”
Drew’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but there was something introspective in his expression. “Challenging,” he admitted. “And not just because of the emotional depth. It forced me to confront parts of myself I hadn’t looked at in a while. That’s what great stories do—they reflect you back at yourself.”
You nodded, his words resonating in a way you hadn’t expected. The noise of the red carpet faded further as the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you.
“What do you hope audiences take away from it?”
He exhaled softly, his shoulders relaxing as he considered your question. “I hope they see themselves in it,” he said. “Even in the parts that feel uncomfortable. Especially in those parts. Because that’s where growth happens.”
The sincerity in his voice sent a ripple through you, and for a moment, you forgot the cameras, the crowd, the lights. It was just Drew, standing in front of you, baring a part of himself that felt achingly human. As he spoke, his hand gestured lightly, and for a moment, his fingers hovered near yours—close enough that you felt the faintest hint of warmth.
“That’s beautifully said,” you replied, your voice softer now.
His eyes held yours for a beat longer, and then his smile returned, lighter this time. “Thanks. You’re making this way too easy, by the way.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Easy?”
“For me,” he clarified, his grin widening. “I usually have to work harder for good questions.”
You laughed, the sound breaking the tension in your chest. “Well, you’re welcome, I guess.”
As the interview wrapped up, he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “By the way, you’re good at this.”
The words sent a flicker of warmth through you, and you barely managed a reply before he was gone, disappearing into the next wave of flashing cameras. The warmth of his compliment lingered long after he pulled away, his grin softening as he straightened and offered you a small wave before heading to the next reporter.
Later, as you replayed the conversation in your head, the memory of his gaze lingered most. It wasn’t the kind of look meant to charm or deflect, but one that seemed genuinely curious, as though he were studying you in a way that felt both disarming and personal. The faint warmth of his compliment echoed in your mind, and though you tried to shake it off as professional politeness, a part of you couldn’t ignore the quiet connection you’d felt in that moment. It wasn’t just another interview—it felt like something more.
AN: i can't wait to see queer! love drew to pieces
exercpt from my latest piece
frat!rafe cameron x innocent!reader
You don’t know why you’re here. The party is loud, crowded, and suffocating. You hadn’t even wanted to come, but your friend had convinced you, insisting it would be fun. She had promised to stay by your side, but the moment you arrived, she disappeared into the sea of people, leaving you alone. Now, you’re standing in the corner, gripping a red solo cup, hoping a drink might help you loosen up.
The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floor of the frat house, a chaotic mix of voices and music filling the air. The sheer energy of it makes you feel both exhilarated and nervous. The air is thick with alcohol, sweat, and something unplaceable—a mix of excitement and recklessness that makes your stomach churn. People dance wildly, laughing loudly, their voices blending into an overwhelming cacophony. It feels like another world, one you’re not sure you want to be a part of.
You bring the cup to your lips, the liquid burning slightly as it slides down your throat. It’s stronger than you expected, making you cough, but you push past it, willing yourself to relax. The drink is meant to help, to take the edge off the anxiety curling in your chest. You glance around the room, scanning the unfamiliar faces, searching for your friend. But she’s nowhere in sight. A flicker of irritation pulses through you—how could she just abandon you like this?
You shift your weight uncomfortably, feeling the press of bodies moving around you, their energy infectious yet overwhelming. You take another sip, the warmth spreading through your limbs now, loosening something inside you. Maybe you should try to have fun, you think. Maybe your friend was right.
And then, you feel it.
A prickle at the back of your neck. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
It’s subtle at first, easy to dismiss. A fleeting awareness, an instinctive pull. But as the minutes pass, the feeling lingers, heavy and persistent. Your skin tingles, your breath catches slightly, and despite yourself, you scan the room again—this time, slower. More deliberate.
The crowd is thick, bodies packed together in clusters, drinks sloshing, conversations overlapping. But then, you see him.
Rafe Cameron.
He’s leaning against the bar, a drink in his hand, his expression unreadable. He’s not talking to anyone. Not laughing or joking like the other guys around him. He’s just… watching.
kinda of a continuation from this one, anyways enjoy!
(do not copy or plagarize, original work)
The ring of the doorbell cut through the quiet hum of the house, startling you for just a moment before the realization hit. It’s here. Your heart jumped with excitement as you shot up from the couch, your legs carrying you to the door with an eagerness you couldn’t hide.
You flung the door open, and there it was—a sleek brown box wrapped in crisp, elegant packaging, sitting neatly on the doorstep like a perfectly delivered Christmas morning gift. The delivery truck was already pulling away, but you caught the driver tipping his hat to you as he drove off, as if he knew exactly how much this meant.
The box landed on the kitchen counter with a satisfying thunk as you tore into the packaging, peeling back the layers of crisp tissue paper to reveal the treasure inside. The first thing you saw— the dress took your breath away. Its soft sand color was understated yet luxurious, and the fabric practically begged to be touched. The delicate lace at the neckline was feminine and graceful, while the corseted bodice promised to cinch and shape you in all the right places. The way the fabric shifted as you lifted it from the box made you certain it would drape over your curves effortlessly. The fabric shimmered faintly under the light, soft and luxurious beneath your fingertips. It was stunning, even better than you had imagined, the kind of dress that practically whispered promises of perfection.
“Baby,” Rafe’s voice drifted in from the living room, a casual mix of curiosity and amusement. “What’s got you so hyped?”
You turned to see him leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed lazily over his chest, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. His sharp blue eyes flicked from you to the open box on the counter, taking in the scene with an expression that was equal parts intrigued and entertained.
“Is that the stuff you were stressing about the other day?” he asked, arching a brow.
You held up the dress, letting the fabric catch the light. “Rafe, look at this. It’s perfect,” you gushed, unable to keep the excitement from your voice.
He pushed off the doorframe, sauntering closer with a look that could only be described as predatory curiosity. His gaze lingered on the dress in your hands, his head tilting slightly as his lips curved into a slow, teasing grin. “Perfect, huh?” His voice dropped just enough to send a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Well, try it on for me. Let me see.”
Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you rolled your eyes to cover up the butterflies stirring in your stomach. “You’re so impatient,” you teased, hugging the dress closer to your chest as you moved toward the bedroom. But you couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face.
“And you’re stalling,” he shot back smoothly, his voice following you down the hall. “I wanna see what I paid for.”
You disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind you as your heart gave a little flutter. His words played over in your mind—try it on for me—simple and casual, but the way he’d said it, with that low, confident drawl, made you feel flushed. You shook your head at yourself, grinning as you pulled the dress free from its packaging.
Sliding out of your casual clothes, you stepped into the dress, pulling it up carefully. The fabric skimmed over your skin like water, clinging to your curves in a way that felt both daring and effortless. You smoothed it over your hips, adjusting the straps before stepping back to take yourself in.
You blinked, your lips parting slightly. The dress fit like it had been made just for you. It hugged every curve, accentuating your waist and the line of your hips. The champagne satin seemed to glow in the light, and the neckline dipped just enough to be intriguing without being too revealing. It was the kind of dress that made you feel powerful, elegant, and a little dangerous all at once.
A soft knock on the door broke the moment. “You decent, or am I just coming in?” Rafe’s voice was teasing but edged with impatience.
You bit back a smile, smoothing the dress one last time before opening the door. You stepped out slowly, meeting his gaze. The effect was immediate.
When you stepped out, his reaction was immediate.
Rafe straightened from where he was leaning casually against the doorframe, his sharp blue eyes locking onto you like a magnet. His usual smirk disappeared, replaced by something quieter, heavier. His gaze started at your face, his brows lifting slightly before his eyes began a slow descent. They trailed deliberately, taking in the curve of your neck, the way the straps framed your shoulders, and the dip of the neckline that revealed just enough of your collarbone. His eyes lingered there for a beat too long, and you could feel your skin heat under his scrutiny.
“Say something,” you teased softly, shifting your weight. His silence, though flattering, was almost unnerving.
When he did, his voice was low, almost reverent. “Damn.”
“Well?” you asked softly, your voice more breathless than you intended.
He blinked, his lips parting slightly, but no words came out at first. Instead, he took a step closer, his movements deliberate. His eyes dropped again, tracing the lines of the dress like he was trying to commit them to memory. He lingered at the curve of your waist, where the satin clung so perfectly it looked like it had been painted on. His jaw tightened slightly as his gaze moved lower, over the swell of your hips and the way the fabric kissed the tops of your thighs.
He took a step closer, his eyes darkening as they locked on yours. “You look…” He trailed off, his voice low and rough, like he was searching for the right words. “You look unbelievable.”
The heat in his voice sent a thrill down your spine. “You really think so?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost shy under the weight of his gaze before turning back to the mirror in front of you.
Standing in front of the mirror, you smoothed the fabric over your hips, adjusting the fit as you looked yourself over. The dress was stunning, but his reaction had you second-guessing every little detail. You fiddled with the straps, brushing a hand along the neckline as you tried to make sure everything was just right. Behind you, Rafe moved, his presence unmistakable as he crossed the room. You caught his reflection in the mirror as he approached, his blue eyes locked on you with a hunger that made your breath hitch. He stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he closed the space between you. “Think so?” His hand reached out, fingers brushing over your waist before resting there, his thumb grazing the fabric in a slow, deliberate motion. “No. I know so.”
Heat flooded your cheeks, and you glanced away, but he reached out, his fingers brushing your chin to tilt your face back toward the mirror in front of the both of you, forcing you to not only look at him but yourself. “Don’t do that,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t look away from me when you look like that.”
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you a step closer. The warmth of his touch seeped through the satin, grounding you even as your pulse picked up. “This dress,” he said softly, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your hip. “It’s dangerous.”
Your eyes flicked to his reflection in the mirror, your stomach flipping at the way he was looking at you. “Dangerous?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper. Your voice catching as he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your temple.
“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips brushing just below your ear, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “Because now I don’t want to let you leave the house in it.”
A soft laugh escaped you, but it died quickly as his arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you back against him. His hands rested against your stomach, his touch possessive but gentle, and his eyes never left yours in the mirror. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower. “You see this? Do you see how perfect you look? And you're all mine?”
You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on his reflection. His hands traced slow circles against the satin, his thumbs brushing over your waist as his eyes roamed over your body in the mirror. “Rafe…” you started, but your voice trailed off when his lips brushed the side of your neck.
Your cheeks burned as his words sank in, the weight of his hands on your waist making you feel both grounded and lightheaded at the same time. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there before trailing back up to your neck. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Not in this.”
The tension in the room was electric, crackling between you as his gaze met yours in the mirror again. His hands slid to your hips, pulling you closer, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer but no less intense. “I might need you to keep this on for a while,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Or not…”
an: if you can't tell, i luvvvv this man :) word count about 1.6k but who's counting lol
my masterlist / my carrd
Pairing – coriolanus snow x black!reader
Word Count? 9.3k
Summary – What happens when you’re forced to confront the unsettling truths about your place in a world that feels both luxurious and inescapable?
Tags: (18+), cw: mentions of suicidal thoughts (small part in the middle), dark!toxic!coriolanus, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, physical abuse?
AN: This is my first time sharing my writing on Tumblr, so please ignore any typos. It hasn’t been proofread, but I hope you enjoy reading. Please let me Thank you! Do not reshare or use without giving me credit
The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your skin and settled deep in your bones. The sharp scent of antiseptic stung your nose, sharp and cloying, almost like it was trying to suffocate
The room was freezing, the chill creeping into my skin and settling deep in my bones, leaving me restless and uncomfortable. The sterile air smelled of antiseptic, sharp and chemical, clinging to the back of my throat in a way that made me want to gag. It was the kind of smell that had grown familiar over time but never less unpleasant, a constant reminder of the reason I was here. I perched on the edge of the examination table, its crinkly paper cover rustling beneath me every time I shifted. The noise felt deafening in the oppressive silence, each movement amplified in the cavernous emptiness of the room. I swung my feet slightly, my heels tapping against the cold metal frame in a nervous rhythm. It wasn’t a conscious movement—more of an outlet for the tension that had been building since I arrived.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, their harsh glare reflecting off every polished surface in the room. The white walls were devoid of anything resembling warmth or comfort, the kind of blank canvas that seemed designed to erase the humanity of anyone inside. My gaze wandered to the counter where an assortment of medical tools sat neatly arranged, their metallic edges gleaming under the stark light. Everything here was too precise, too pristine, as though the room itself wanted to remind me that I didn’t belong. My fingers twisted at the hem of my sweater, pulling at the fabric until it stretched, the familiar texture grounding me just enough to keep the growing anxiety at bay.
I let my eyes drift to the window. Outside, the rain poured steadily, streaking down the glass in thin, erratic lines. It had been raining all day, the kind of relentless storm that turned the world into a dull, gray blur. The sound of it was faint but persistent, a soft, rhythmic tapping that filled the silence like a heartbeat. I watched the droplets race each other down the glass, merging and splitting, their paths as unpredictable as my own thoughts. For a moment, I focused on the rain instead of the sterile cold of the room, letting its soothing monotony lull me into a false sense of calm.
Through the frosted glass of the door, I saw two figures standing in the hallway. Even distorted, Coriolanus Snow was unmistakable. His silhouette was tall and commanding, every line of his posture exuding power and control. He stood with the same unshakable composure he always carried, an aura of authority that seemed to demand respect—or fear—from anyone in his presence. Even blurred by the frosted glass, I could sense the sharpness of his gaze, the calculating mind behind those ice-blue eyes. Beside him, the doctor looked small and uncertain, his shoulders slightly hunched as he clutched his clipboard like a lifeline.
My stomach churned as I watched them. The doctor gestured faintly as he spoke, his movements stiff and hesitant, as though he were choosing his words with extreme care. Every so often, he glanced at Coriolanus, his eyes darting toward him like a child seeking a parent’s approval. Coriolanus didn’t move, didn’t respond outwardly, but his mere presence was enough to command the entire interaction. Even here, in the sterile confines of the hospital, the weight of his influence was palpable. He didn’t need to speak; his power was a constant, unspoken presence that loomed over everything.
The door opened with a soft creak, and the sound made my heart skip a beat as I straightened my posture. The doctor entered first, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes flicked toward me with a mix of pity and reluctance. Behind him, Coriolanus followed, his movements precise and deliberate. The faint scent of his cologne—crisp and sharp, like cedar and rain—cut through the antiseptic air. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound final and unyielding, much like him.
The doctor cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence like a shard of glass. He began, his tone professional but edged with hesitation. “After reviewing your latest results…” He trailed off, his gaze flicking briefly toward Coriolanus, seeking some unspoken signal. Coriolanus gave the barest nod, and only then did the doctor continue. “It’s clear that your condition has progressed. The flare-ups are becoming more frequent, and the current medication is no longer sufficient.”
The words landed heavily, like stones dropping into my chest, one after the other. “I thought…” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I thought I was getting better.”
The doctor hesitated again, his hands tightening around the clipboard. “Sometimes these conditions are unpredictable,” he said carefully, his words slow and deliberate. “We’ll need to start you on a new treatment plan. It’s a stronger medication, and while it comes with potential side effects, it should help manage the symptoms more effectively.”
I nodded automatically, the motion robotic and detached, as though my body had moved without consulting my mind. It always happened like this. Every time I thought I was making progress, every time I allowed myself a glimmer of hope, it was snatched away. Improvement followed by relapse, hope followed by despair—it was a cycle I was trapped in, and I was tired of fighting it. The thought settled in my chest like a heavy stone, cold and unyielding.
Coriolanus moved then, stepping closer to you with a deliberate grace that made your stomach tighten. He placed a hand on your shoulder, the weight of it grounding and suffocating all at once. “I know this isn’t the news you were hoping for,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, each word carefully chosen. “But this new medication will help you. I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”
The doctor handed him a folded piece of paper—the prescription—with a motion that seemed almost reluctant. His eyes met mine briefly, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something in them. Pity? Regret? Whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by the same professional detachment he’d worn when he entered.
Coriolanus nodded to the doctor, his tone polite but firm. “Thank you, Doctor. That will be all.”
The doctor nodded stiffly, his movements tight and deliberate. “Take care, Miss,” he said, his voice softening slightly, though it did little to cut through the haze in my mind.
I weakly nodded again, my motions mechanical, my thoughts dulled by the weight of it all, not trusting myself to speak. The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe, and the walls of the room seemed to close in around me as I digested the information. As the doctor left, the silence that followed was suffocating. Coriolanus squeezed my shoulder gently, a subtle reminder of his presence, a silent signal to follow him.
“Come,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Let’s go home.”
I slid off the examination table, my legs feeling like lead as I moved to gather my things. The crinkle of the paper beneath me was loud in the oppressive quiet, a final jarring sound before I stepped into the hallway. As I followed Coriolanus out, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was leaving more behind than just the sterile confines of the room. Something inside of me had been left behind too, my hope.
The rain outside hadn’t let up, the steady downpour creating a symphony of soft taps against the hospital’s glass doors. As Coriolanus and I stepped into the hallway, the storm seemed louder, closer, as if the entire world were drenched in the same heavy weight pressing down on my chest. His hand never left my shoulder, its pressure firm, steering me like a ship through a tide I didn’t have the strength to resist. My feet moved in time with his, though each step felt disconnected, like I wasn’t in control of my own body anymore.
We passed room after room, the doors half-open, revealing glimpses of other patients. My eyes were drawn to them, even as Coriolanus’s hand guided me forward. In one room, a woman lay motionless in her bed, her face gaunt and pale, her thin arms resting limply at her sides. A monitor beeped steadily beside her, the sound faint but insistent, like a clock counting down. In another room, a man was hunched over in a chair, his head cradled in his hands, the kind of exhaustion on his face that spoke of battles fought and lost. The sights blurred together, each one feeding the gnawing fear in my chest. Is that my future? The thought clung to me like the rain clung to the windows, cold and inescapable.
Coriolanus’s voice broke through my haze, but it was like hearing him underwater. “We’ll have your favorite dinner tonight,” he said, his tone soft, almost kind. “And I’ll stay home with you. No work tonight. Just us.” He paused, his hand tightening slightly on my shoulder, the gesture almost possessive. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”
I nodded, the motion automatic, disconnected from any real thought or feeling. A faint smile tugged at my lips, the kind of smile you give when someone expects it from you, not because you want to. My gaze remained on the passing rooms, each one a silent reminder of what could be waiting for me.
The rain was relentless, its presence enveloping the world around us as we stood in the lobby. It was louder here, the sound of it drumming against the glass walls a constant, unyielding rhythm that seemed to echo the weight in my chest. The streaks of water on the windows distorted the view of the city beyond, turning the Capitol’s towering buildings into blurred silhouettes. Their lights shimmered faintly through the storm, muted and dulled by the gray haze that cloaked everything. I couldn’t decide if the sight was calming or oppressive—perhaps it was both.
Coriolanus pulled a small communicator from his coat pocket, its polished surface gleaming faintly under the soft light. “Bring the car around,”, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable command. As he slipped the communicator back into his pocket, his gaze turned to me. His blue eyes, sharp and penetrating, scanned my face with an intensity that made me feel exposed, like he could see every unspoken thought lurking beneath the surface.
As if the moment couldn’t have come quick enough, the black car appeared, gliding to the curb like a shadow. Its polished frame gleamed under the rain, water beading and rolling off its surface in perfect, smooth rivulets. The driver stepped out swiftly, umbrella in hand, his movements quick and efficient. He was a man I’d seen countless times before but knew nothing about, his presence always hovering at the edges of Coriolanus’s world.
As he approached, I caught a glimpse of his face, illuminated briefly by the dim lights of the lobby. His expression mirrored the doctor’s earlier—a tight, strained politeness that bordered on discomfort. His eyes flicked to mine for the briefest of moments, and I thought I saw something there—something like fear, or perhaps duty so deeply ingrained it had choked out anything else. Whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it appeared, his gaze lowering as he came to stand before Coriolanus.
The umbrella opened with a soft snap, a shield against the unrelenting storm. Without a word, the driver handed it to Coriolanus, who took it with the kind of quiet authority that seemed to dictate every interaction around him. He held it over us, his other hand pressing lightly against the small of my back. “Go on,” he said, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument. “Get in. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”
I hesitated, my gaze lingering on the hospital behind me. The glowing facade loomed in the rain, its sterile, unyielding light spilling onto the wet pavement like a beacon. For a fleeting moment, I considered turning back, retreating to the cold, clinical detachment of its walls. It felt safer in its distance than the warmth Coriolanus offered—an offering that always came with invisible strings. But his hand at my back applied the faintest pressure, guiding me forward, and I found myself moving without thought.
The interior of the car welcomed me with a warmth that was almost suffocating after the cold rain. The leather seats were smooth and cool against my skin, their faint scent mixing with the ever-present cedar of Coriolanus’s cologne. He slid in beside me, folding the umbrella with a practiced ease before handing it off to the driver, who returned to his post without a word. The door closed with a soft, final thud, sealing us in from the outside world. The rain became a muted hum, a backdrop to the quiet of the car and the faint purr of the engine.
“Home,” Coriolanus instructed, his voice steady, deliberate. The driver nodded, the car gliding smoothly away from the curb.
I stared out the window, the city outside blurring into streaks of light and shadow. Neon signs glowed faintly through the rain, their reflections shimmering on the wet pavement like fragmented pieces of another world. It was beautiful in its distortion, distant and untouchable, like something from a dream. My reflection in the glass was a stark contrast—pale and tired, my eyes hollow and rimmed with unshed tears. I tried not to look at it for too long, but it lingered in the corner of my vision, a ghostly reminder of the weight I carried.
Coriolanus reached for my hand, in a gesture that was both gentle and unyielding. His thumb ghosted over my knuckles, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he were trying to coax some life back into me. With his other hand, he reached up to my hair, his fingers gliding through my curls with a softness that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
The car ride felt like drifting through a dream, one where the edges of reality blurred into an indistinct haze. he sound of the rain was ever-present, a steady, rhythmic patter against the car roof that merged with the faint hum of the engine. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t soothing. It was simply there. I stared out the window, my eyes tracing the streaks of water as they raced down the glass, but the sights outside barely registered. The city lights, distorted and shimmering, passed in a swirl of gold and silver against the wet pavement, but they felt as distant as stars in the night sky. My thoughts churned endlessly, a tangled knot of emotions too heavy to unravel. The weight of the day pressed heavily on my chest, each breath a little harder than the last. My thoughts circled endlessly, tangling into a mess of guilt, doubt, and something I couldn’t quite name. My hand rested in his, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that slow, deliberate way, but instead of comfort, it only brought a creeping sense of suffocation. My mind spiraled, darting between the doctor’s words, the fleeting looks of pity I’d received, and the heavy, inescapable presence of Coriolanus beside me.
When the car slowed, the shift in motion barely registered. It wasn’t until the driver stopped and stepped out, the faint sound of the rain growing louder in the sudden stillness, that I realized we had arrived. Blinking as though waking from a long sleep, I glanced toward the window and caught sight of the house looming ahead. The sharp angles of its pristine white facade stood stark against the rain-heavy sky, the warm glow of its lights spilling out in quiet defiance of the storm.
A tear clung to the corner of my eye, unnoticed until I felt its chill against my cheek. I brushed it away with the back of my hand, the motion automatic and strangely detached, like it was someone else’s tear I was wiping away. The door opened, and the driver was there, his umbrella poised like a soldier at attention. His movements were precise, practiced, the kind of efficiency that spoke of discipline but also a careful avoidance of anything personal. For a moment, our eyes met, and I saw something flicker in his expression—a faint echo of the doctor’s earlier look, a blend of duty and something sharper. It was gone as quickly as it came, his gaze dropping as he held the umbrella higher, waiting for me to step into its shelter.
Once Coriolanus emerged from the car, his gaze quickly dropped from me onto the ground below me. Corioalanus’ movements were fluid and unhurried. He adjusted his coat with a subtle flick of his wrist before joining me under the umbrella’s shelter. His hand found the small of my back, guiding me toward the grand entrance as I allowed myself to be led by him. The umbrella shifted slightly above us as he adjusted it, ensuring not a single drop would fall on my head, though his shoulders were speckled with water.
The house loomed larger with each step, its towering white facade glowing faintly against the storm’s dreary backdrop. The marble steps leading to the entrance gleamed under the rain, their slick surfaces reflecting fractured glimpses of the golden light spilling from the windows. For a moment, I hesitated, my feet slowing ever so slightly as I stared at the building. It looked like something out of a painting, too perfect to be real, its grandeur almost mocking in the face of the storm. The house was beautiful, undeniably so, but tonight, it felt imposing, its towering columns and immaculate design a reminder of how small I felt within its walls. Coriolanus’s hand pressed gently but insistently against my back, breaking my reverie and guiding me forward once more.
The servant at the door opened it with practiced precision, his bow low and exact, his movements almost mechanical in their efficiency. He didn’t look at me, not really—his eyes barely skimmed over my figure before fixing on Coriolanus with the kind of deference that bordered on reverence. For a brief second, I caught the faintest flicker of emotion in his expression—a shadow of something that felt too fleeting to name. Was it pity? Resignation? I wasn’t sure, and before I could decide, the moment passed, his face smoothing into the polite neutrality of someone who had long since learned how to mask their thoughts. The rain slipped from the edges of the umbrella as Coriolanus handed it off, the sound of droplets splashing against the stone floor oddly soothing.
Inside, the warmth enveloped me instantly, a stark contrast to the chill of the storm outside. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers, lilies mingling with the subtle aroma of polished wood and leather. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their golden light spilling across the polished marble floors in shimmering pools. Everything about the space was designed to impress, from the intricate molding along the walls to the soft glow of the sconces that lined the hallway. It should have been comforting, this carefully curated display of wealth and power, but instead, it felt overwhelming, the sheer perfection of it all pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake. The house was beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t warm. It was pristine, a masterpiece of design, but it lacked the lived-in messiness that might have made it feel like a home.
“Rest for a while before dinner,” Coriolanus said, his voice calm and steady, yet carrying an undertone that left no room for argument. He removed his coat in one smooth motion, handing it to a waiting attendant without so much as a glance. His movements were fluid, deliberate, every gesture calculated with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much space they commanded. “You’ll feel better,” he added, his gaze settling on me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. There was no question in his tone, no suggestion that I might disagree. It was a statement, a certainty, as if my well-being were something he could dictate with his words alone.
I nodded, the motion small and automatic, as though my body were responding on its own. “Perhaps I will,” I murmured, the words slipping from my lips before I could think about them. They felt distant, hollow, as if I were borrowing someone else’s voice to fill the space between us. The corners of my mouth lifted in a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach my eyes but seemed to satisfy him all the same. He lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on me as though searching for something he wasn’t quite sure he’d find. Then, with a slight incline of his head, he turned and strode down the corridor toward his study, his footsteps echoing softly against the marble.
I didn’t rest. Resting felt impossible, the idea of lying in that massive bed, surrounded by soft linens and perfectly fluffed pillows, too stifling to bear. The very thought of it made my chest tighten, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a stone. Instead, I found myself drawn to the window, its towering panes offering a view of the rain-soaked grounds. The bench beneath it was soft, lined with cushions that felt almost too indulgent for the ache that had settled in my chest. I curled up there, tucking my legs beneath me and pressing my forehead lightly against the cool glass. The chill seeped into my skin, sharp and grounding, a welcome contrast to the oppressive warmth of the room
The room I slept in was so vast, Coriolanus’ way of showing me the treatment he thought I deserved, but instead I felt small here, swallowed by the grandeur of it all; a grand four-poster bed draped in silken fabrics, its headboard carved with elaborate scrollwork; a writing desk positioned by one of the room’s smaller windows, its surface empty save for a single vase of fresh flowers; a seating area complete with armchairs and a low table, the kind of space meant for quiet conversations that never happened.
The room dwarfed me, its elegance a stark contrast to the gnawing emptiness inside my chest. The air felt heavier the longer I sat, the silence pressing against my ears until even my own breath seemed too loud. I curled up tighter on the window bench, tucking my knees against my chest as if making myself smaller might somehow lessen the weight of the space around me. The glass was cool against my forehead, a sharp reminder that the world outside this cage continued on without me, unbothered by my existence.
The rain continued its relentless descent, streaking down the glass in chaotic trails that blurred the world outside. Beyond the window, the gardens stretched into the darkness, their carefully manicured edges softened by the storm. The lights of the estate shimmered faintly through the rain, their golden glow distorted into shifting patterns of light and shadow. I followed the path of a single raindrop as it slid down the glass, merging with others before disappearing from view. There was something oddly mesmerizing about it, the way it moved unpredictably, as though it held a secret I couldn’t quite grasp.
I was grateful to be home, I told myself. Grateful for the warmth, the shelter, the quiet that wrapped around me like a cocoon. Outside, the world was wild and chaotic, full of joys and freedoms I could never hope to experience. Here, within these walls, I was safe. Protected. Hidden. Yet, even as I tried to hold onto that gratitude, it felt hollow, as though the edges of it were fraying under the weight of something I couldn’t name. The house was a sanctuary, yes, but it was also a barrier—a place where the outside world couldn’t reach me, but where I couldn’t reach it either.
I stared out at the rain-soaked grounds, my gaze tracing the endless trails of water that blurred the gardens and trees into a muted palette of green and gray. Beyond the estate’s walls, the world stretched out in ways I couldn’t imagine, filled with wonders I would never see, joys I would never taste. The thought settled in my stomach like a stone, heavy and cold, pulling at the edges of my mind until it became hard to ignore. This room, this house, this carefully curated life—it was all I had ever known, and yet it felt so far removed from anything real.
Why am I here? The question slipped through my thoughts like a whisper, delicate and fleeting. My hand moved almost without thought, fingers brushing against the cold glass of the window. The coolness seeped into my skin, grounding and yet strangely distant, as though I were touching something that wasn’t really there. I watched the rain beyond the glass, its chaotic patterns blurring the world into something unrecognizable, unreachable. My fingertips lingered, tracing the faint condensation that had gathered on the surface, and I felt the weight of the thought pressing down on me.
Why am I here?
The question wasn’t just about this room, this house, or even this life. It was something deeper, a quiet ache that I had never been able to name. Was there a reason for all of this—the endless routines, the careful balance, the constant feeling of being preserved and protected like something fragile and breakable? My hand slid lower on the glass, the smooth surface unyielding beneath my touch, as if even it refused to give way to my wandering thoughts.
The doubt began to creep in, threading itself through my mind like the rain streaking down the window. What was my purpose here? Was I anything more than a burden, something to be cared for and kept out of harm’s way? The room seemed to grow larger around me, its vastness pressing in on my small, curled frame. The grand furniture, the soaring ceiling, the soft golden light—all of it felt suffocating, like a gilded cage meant to hide me from a world I would never know.
My gaze drifted back to the rain, following the erratic trails of the droplets as they merged and split, their movements unpredictable and yet strangely beautiful. I thought of the world outside, the one that carried on without me, filled with joys and freedoms I couldn’t touch. For a fleeting moment, the thought came softly, unbidden: What if I wasn’t here at all? My breath hitched, the idea settling in my chest like a stone. It wasn’t angry or desperate—just a quiet acknowledgment, a shadowy corner of my mind whispering truths I didn’t want to hear. If I disappeared, would anything really change? The rain would still fall, the house would still stand, and the world would move on, untouched by my absence.
I pressed my palm flat against the glass, the chill biting into my skin like a reprimand. The thought lingered, heavier now, and I found myself gripping the edge of the cushion beneath me, the rough texture grounding me as I fought against the pull of my own doubts. Stop it, I told myself, the words harsh and insistent. I shouldn’t think like that. I had no right to. The ache in my chest was my own burden to bear, but it didn’t mean I should give in to it.
I forced my hand away from the glass, curling it into a loose fist in my lap. The cold sensation lingered on my fingertips, a reminder of the path my thoughts had taken. “You’re better than this,” I whispered aloud, though my voice sounded small, almost childlike in the vastness of the room. I didn’t know if I believed it, but I clung to the words all the same, as though saying them aloud might make them true.
The rain continued outside, steady and relentless, its rhythm unbroken by my turmoil. I turned my gaze back to the storm, letting the endless cascade of water fill my vision. I wasn’t the rain. I wasn’t free to simply exist, to move and flow and disappear without consequence. But perhaps that wasn’t my purpose. Perhaps my reason for being here was something I couldn’t yet see. The thought didn’t bring comfort, not exactly, but it was enough to steady the trembling edges of my mind.
The world beyond the glass remained blurred and unreachable, but I stayed there, watching the rain and telling myself that the doubts would pass. They had to. For now, I would sit in this room, in this house, and try to remind myself that my place here, whatever it was, mattered—if only because I was still here to question it.
And then came the knock.
It wasn’t loud, but in the stillness, it might as well have been thunder. The sharp sound jolted me, shattering the fragile thread of calm I’d been clinging to. I pulled my hand back from the window as if caught doing something I shouldn’t, my pulse quickening as I turned toward the door. The knock came again, softer this time, followed by the hesitant creak of it opening just enough for a maid to peek through.
“Dinner is ready,” she said, her voice small and careful, almost apologetic. There was a nervous edge to her tone, as though she were unsure whether interrupting me had been the right choice. Her gaze lingered on the floor before darting upward to meet mine for the briefest moment.
I swallowed, my throat dry as I nodded. “Thank you,” I replied, the words leaving my mouth almost automatically. My voice was steady, but quieter than I expected, like the weight of my thoughts still hung over me.
The maid nodded quickly, ducking her head before retreating from the room as quietly as she had entered. The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence rushed back in, even louder than before. For a moment, I remained where I was, staring at the door as if expecting her to return. The interruption had pulled me out of my spiral, but the lingering threads of doubt still clung to me, fragile yet persistent.
I exhaled slowly, smoothing the fabric of my clothes with trembling hands. My fingers lingered over invisible wrinkles, a futile attempt to press them out as though tidying my appearance might restore some semblance of order to my mind. My reflection in the glass caught my eye, pale and uncertain, my posture slouched in a way that felt unfamiliar. I straightened my back, forcing my shoulders into a semblance of composure. You’re better than this, I told myself again, this time with more conviction.
Turning from the window, I glanced around the room, its vastness suddenly more pronounced in the dim light. The grand bed loomed in one corner, its silken sheets untouched, while the writing desk sat pristine and empty, a silent testament to a life I wasn’t living. I resisted the urge to glance back at the window, knowing that if I lingered there again, the weight of my thoughts might pull me under.
The dining room was like a scene from a painting, too perfect, too composed to feel real. The chandelier above cast a golden glow that danced across the pristine table, stretching longer than it needed to, its polished surface almost blinding under the light. Each place setting was immaculate, every fork, knife, and plate precisely where it should be. Yet the grandeur of the room felt oppressive, as if it were bearing down on me, reminding me how small I was in comparison. The rain outside provided a soft, relentless drumbeat against the windows, its sound faint but unyielding, a background rhythm to the suffocating silence.
Coriolanus sat at the far end of the table, his posture so perfect it looked carved from stone. His sharp blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest tighten, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. It wasn’t a warm smile, not really. It felt deliberate, calculated, as though he were allowing me a moment to think I was safe. He rested his elbows lightly on the table, his fingers steepled, his presence filling every corner of the room. The distance between us, though vast, felt suffocating. Every time I glanced up, his gaze was there, steady and unwavering, like he could see through every thought I didn’t dare voice.
The maids moved like shadows, their footsteps silent against the marble floor. One glided to my side, adjusting my chair ever so slightly, pushing it closer to the table until the edge pressed against me. Another refilled my wine glass, her hands steady, but I caught a flicker of hesitation in her movements. I muttered a soft “thank you,” but she didn’t respond, her head bowed as she stepped back into the background. I noticed the way her eyes darted briefly toward Coriolanus before returning to the floor, the faintest tremor in her hands betraying an unease that mirrored my own.
I forced myself to pick up my fork, my fingers trembling slightly. The food on my plate was a masterpiece, a delicate arrangement of colors and textures that should have been appetizing. But it felt alien, like it didn’t belong to me. Each bite turned to ash in my mouth, my stomach twisting with unease. Across the table, Coriolanus ate with deliberate precision, each movement of his utensils smooth and controlled. He wasn’t eating much; he was watching me. His gaze was too steady, too penetrating, and the longer it lingered, the more I felt like an insect pinned beneath a magnifying glass. The silence was unbearable, broken only by the faint patter of rain against the windows and the muffled shuffle of the maids moving in the background. They moved like ghosts, their footsteps barely audible, their eyes flickering toward Coriolanus with an unspoken understanding that sent a chill down my spine.
“You’ve been quieter than usual,” Coriolanus said finally, his voice soft but unnervingly sharp. He set down his utensils with deliberate care, the clink of metal against porcelain echoing like a gavel in the stillness. “Do you have nothing to say? Nothing at all?”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, my voice trembling. “I’m just… I don’t feel well.”
He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing. “Not well,” he repeated, his tone deceptively calm. “Is that all? Or is there something else you’re not telling me?” His smile was faint, but it carried no warmth. It was a warning, a reminder that he could see through me.
I shook my head, my hands gripping the edge of the table. “No, there’s nothing else. I just…” My voice faltered, and I dropped my gaze to my plate. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were giving me time to reconsider my words. “Interesting.”
The maids paused in their movements, their presence like shadows against the edges of the room. I could feel their unease, see it in the way their hands hovered just slightly too long over a decanter or a tray. They knew something I didn’t, something that made my stomach churn with a sense of impending doom.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I stammered, my words tumbling out clumsily. “I appreciate it, I really do. I’m just—”
“Just what?” he interrupted smoothly, his voice lowering slightly. His eyes narrowed, the faint smile on his lips disappearing as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Tired? Distracted? Ungrateful?”
The last word hit me like a slap, and I flinched, my fingers gripping the edge of the table. “No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “I’m not ungrateful. I just—sometimes I feel—”
“Feel what?” he pressed, his voice growing quieter, more dangerous. “That this is too much? That you don’t deserve it? Or that you don’t want it?”
“No, it’s not that,” I tried to explain, but my voice cracked, betraying the panic rising in my chest. The maids moved silently around the edges of the room, their movements slowing as though they, too, sensed the shift in his demeanor. One of them hesitated by the sideboard, her hands trembling as she adjusted a tray that didn’t need adjusting.
“Then what is it?” Coriolanus asked, his words deliberate, slicing through my feeble explanations.
“Because from where I’m sitting, it seems as though you’ve taken everything I’ve given you for granted.”
The words were harsher than anything he had ever said to me, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. He had never spoken to me like this before, not even in frustration. My chest tightened, and I felt my cheeks flush with both shock and embarrassment. “That’s not true,” I said, my voice trembling. The word hung in the air like a slap, and I flinched, my hands gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white. “I’m not ungrateful,” I said quickly, my voice trembling. “I’m grateful, Coriolanus. I swear I am.”
“Are you?” he asked, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the table, his sharp gaze narrowing. His faint smile faded, replaced by an expression so cold and calculating it sent a chill down my spine. “Because from where I’m sitting, it seems as though you’ve taken everything I’ve given you for granted.”
“That’s not true,” I stammered, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean, then?” he interrupted smoothly, his tone dropping an octave. “Do you think this life is too much for you? Or perhaps, you believe you don’t deserve it?”
“No, it’s not that,” I said desperately, my words faltering as I tried to explain. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t belong.”
The admission hung in the air like a toxic cloud, suffocating and irreversible. Coriolanus’s expression didn’t change immediately, but I saw the flicker of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. Slowly, methodically, he straightened in his chair, his movements so controlled it felt like watching a storm gather in slow motion.
“You don’t belong,” he repeated softly, almost to himself. He let the words linger, rolling them over like a bitter taste on his tongue. “After everything I’ve done for you, after everything I’ve given you, you dare to sit at my table and say you don’t belong?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said quickly, my heart pounding so hard it drowned out the rain outside. “I just… I don’t know. I feel out of place sometimes. Like I’m not doing enough.”
“Not doing enough,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Do you know what it takes to ensure you have everything you need? The time, the effort, the resources? And you’re sitting here, telling me it’s not enough?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said desperately, my voice cracking. “I’m sorry,—” I said quickly, my voice cracking under the weight of his gaze. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend me?” he said, his voice soft but seething. “No, you didn’t offend me. What you’ve done is far worse. You’ve wasted what has been given to you, what others can only dream of having. And for what? Because you’re ‘not hungry’?” He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach churn. “Do you know what it takes to provide this life for you?”
“I am grateful,” I said, my voice breaking under the weight of the moment. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done. I swear I am.”
“Gratitude,” he said softly, his tone turning icy as he tilted his head slightly, studying me like a predator might study prey. “Do you even know what that means? Because from where I’m sitting, your gratitude looks hollow. Empty. Like a facade you wear to appease me, nothing more.”
“That’s not true,” I whispered, shaking my head, but my voice lacked conviction. The words felt weak, fragile, like they might shatter under the weight of his scrutiny. The rain outside pounded harder, the sound merging with the thundering in my chest, a relentless rhythm of fear.
The maids froze mid-motion, their faces carefully blank, but their eyes betrayed them. I saw the unease flicker there, a shared, silent acknowledgment of something I didn’t yet fully understand. The maids exchanged glances again, their movements almost imperceptible, but I caught it. They weren’t just silent; they were terrified. One maid’s hand trembled as she adjusted a wine decanter that didn’t need adjusting, her eyes darting toward Coriolanus as though gauging when it might be safe to breathe again. The realization struck me like a blow—they had seen this before. They knew this version of him, the one that simmered with a quiet, unrelenting fury. But I didn’t. This side of him was foreign to me, and that unfamiliarity made it all the more terrifying.
Even the rain outside seemed to intensify, its relentless drumming against the windows a hollow backdrop to the suffocating stillness. My heart raced, a staccato beat that I was sure he could hear from across the room. His gaze bore into me, unflinching, cold, and I felt my breath catch as if he’d wrapped an invisible hand around my throat.
I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, to claw my way out of the pit I’d inadvertently dug, but no words came. My throat felt tight, as though invisible hands were squeezing the air from me. The maids shifted nervously, their glances darting between him and me like animals watching a predator. They seemed to know what was coming, their wary expressions a silent confirmation of what I had begun to suspect: this wasn’t the first time Coriolanus had unleashed this quiet, seething fury. But for me, this was uncharted territory, and the man sitting at the far end of the table no longer resembled the Coriolanus I thought I knew.
He raised his hand, and the nearest maid stepped forward instantly, her movements stiff but quick. “Take her plate,” he commanded, his voice calm but carrying a finality that sent a chill through the room. The maid didn’t hesitate, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the untouched plate from the table. The absence of it felt like a blow, a visceral reminder of just how easily everything could be stripped away.
“Coriolanus,” I tried again, panic rising in my chest, but he ignored me entirely
“Quiet,” he said sharply, his tone cutting through my words like a blade. He didn’t raise his voice, but the command in it was undeniable.
He raised a hand, silencing me instantly, the gesture so precise, so commanding, that I found myself shrinking under the weight of his authority. “Take her plate,” he said, his voice calm, yet carrying a quiet menace that made my stomach churn.
The nearest maid stepped forward, her movements quick but visibly strained. Her hands trembled as she reached for my plate, her fingers brushing the porcelain as she lifted it away. The absence of the plate felt more significant than it should have, a hollow emptiness settling in its place. My chest ached with the realization of how effortlessly he could strip away something as mundane as a meal, a symbol of care now reduced to a calculated show of control.
“Coriolanus, please,” I whispered, desperation creeping into my voice, but he ignored me entirely. His cold, unrelenting gaze remained fixed on mine as though daring me to protest further.
“Take her chair,”
The scrape of wood against marble was deafening, and then, without the support beneath me, I fell hard to the ground. The impact was jarring, the cold marble biting into my knees and palms as pain radiated through my body. My breath hitched as I struggled to push myself up, my limbs trembling under the weight of my humiliation. The sound of the chair being carried away echoed in the now silent room, leaving me alone on the floor, exposed and vulnerable.
The clack of his shoes broke the silence, each deliberate step sending a fresh wave of dread through me. Coriolanus rose from his seat, his movements slow and controlled, his composure unbroken. The maids disappeared quietly through a side door, their departure as seamless as their service, leaving the two of us alone. Each footfall brought him closer, the sharp sound of his polished shoes against the marble floor growing louder, more oppressive.
“I didn’t mean it,” I whispered, my voice trembling as tears spilled down my cheeks. “I swear, I didn’t mean it.”
“Stand,” he said, the command sharp and unyielding.
I tried to push myself upright, my arms shaking as I braced them against the cold floor. My legs felt weak, useless, and I collapsed back onto my knees, my breath coming in shallow gasps. “I—I can’t,” I stammered, shame and fear choking the words as they left my lips.
His eyes narrowed, and without warning, he reached down, his hand gripping my arm with an iron strength that left no room for resistance. The suddenness of his touch made me gasp, and he hauled me to my feet effortlessly, his movements precise and controlled. My knees wobbled beneath me, my body leaning against his for balance before I quickly pulled back, trying to steady myself. His grip didn’t falter, his hand unyielding as he turned toward the door.
“This,” he said, throwing the door open with a swift motion, “is what waits for you out there.”
The storm roared beyond the threshold, the wind howling and rain slashing against the marble steps with relentless ferocity. The cold air rushed in, chilling me to the bone, and I recoiled instinctively, my arms wrapping around myself as though I could shield against the biting cold. The darkness outside stretched endlessly, a yawning void that promised nothing but chaos.
“Do you understand now?” Coriolanus asked, rising from his chair with a deliberate grace that made my knees feel weak. He circled the table slowly, his footsteps measured and purposeful, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable. “Do you see how easily everything you have can be taken away? How fragile it all is? Is that what you want?”
“No,” I sobbed, my voice breaking as I shook my head. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the rain that clung to my skin. “I don’t want to go. Please, Coriolanus. Don’t make me go.”
“Then prove it,” he said, his voice deceptively soft, each word delivered with a measured precision that made the air around me grow colder. It wasn’t a shout or even a reprimand; it was a challenge, calculated and cutting. His tone demanded submission, his icy blue eyes pinning me in place as though daring me to contradict him. His hand on my arm tightened slightly, enough to remind me of his physical presence, his control. “Convince me,” he continued, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to an almost intimate murmur. “Because right now, all I see is someone who doesn’t understand the gravity of their position. Someone so blind, so ungrateful, that they’d rather throw away everything they’ve been given.”
My breath hitched, a shiver rippling down my spine. His words struck a chord deep inside me, each one carefully chosen to cut through my defenses and twist the knife. I tried to look away, to retreat from the intensity of his gaze, but his fingers moved to my chin, tilting my face upward with deliberate force. The gesture was controlled, not violent, but it carried a weight that made my heart pound painfully against my ribs.
“Do you think anyone else,” he continued, his tone softening but losing none of its edge, “would have done what I’ve done for you? Do you think anyone else would have kept you alive, sheltered, cared for, when the world outside would swallow you whole without hesitation?” His thumb brushed against my cheek, a movement so slight and calculated it made my stomach twist. “No,” he answered himself, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “No one else would. No one else could.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him that wasn’t true, but my throat felt like it was closing. Words died before they could form, and I was left trembling under his relentless gaze. “I didn’t mean it,” I finally managed to whisper, the words cracking as they left my lips. “Coriolanus, I swear, I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t mean it?” he echoed, his lips curving into the faintest semblance of a smile, though it carried no warmth. “Words, darling, are meaningless without action. An apology without understanding is hollow. A lie.”
“I’m not lying,” I protested weakly, my voice trembling as tears spilled over my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t enough,” he said, his voice cool and measured, like a judge handing down a sentence. “Gratitude isn’t a word you utter when it suits you. It’s knowing your place. Knowing that without me, you wouldn’t just be lost—you wouldn’t exist.”
His words landed like a physical blow, and I felt my legs weaken beneath me. The rain outside seemed to roar louder, a violent symphony that mirrored the storm brewing in my chest. I tried to hold his gaze, but the weight of it was unbearable, and my vision blurred with tears. “I—I understand,” I stammered, the words trembling on my lips. “I do. Please, Coriolanus, I understand.”
He studied me for a long moment, his piercing gaze never wavering. His hand remained on my chin, keeping me locked in place, and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin as he leaned in closer. “Do you?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Because right now, all I see is a child throwing a tantrum, blind to the reality of their situation. Blind to the lengths I’ve gone to ensure their survival.”
“I’m grateful,” I sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I am. I swear, Coriolanus, I’m grateful.”
His thumb pressed slightly against my jaw, a subtle reminder of his control, before he released me abruptly. The absence of his touch left me unmoored, trembling as I tried to steady myself. He stepped back, his icy gaze flicking over me as though assessing whether I was worth the trouble. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he adjusted the lapels of his suit, smoothing the fabric with practiced ease.
“Good,” he said finally, his voice returning to its usual controlled cadence. But then he leaned in once more, his hand catching my chin again with a sharpness that made me flinch. His eyes burned into mine, and when he spoke, his words carried a menace that froze me in place. “If you ever forget again, I’ll remind you. And you won’t like how I do it.”
I bit back a sob, nodding frantically, the tears on my face mingling with the rain still dripping from my hair. My knees threatened to give out, but I forced myself to stand, every muscle in my body trembling. His grip on my chin tightened for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as though to drive his point home, before he finally released me. I staggered back slightly, my hands trembling at my sides.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice calm now, almost indifferent. “And get back to the table. Dinner isn’t over.”
With that, he turned and walked back toward the dining room, his footsteps echoing against the marble with an unhurried grace that made the contrast between his composed exterior and my internal chaos all the more jarring. He reached the table, smoothing his suit as he lowered himself back into his seat. When he glanced up at me, his lips curled into a faint smile, as though the scene that had just unfolded was nothing more than a momentary hiccup in an otherwise pleasant evening.
I remained frozen in the doorway, trembling, my hands clenched into fists as I tried to stop the shaking. The storm outside raged on, its fury a stark contrast to the eerie calm that had settled over the dining room. The maids began to move again, their steps quiet and practiced as they brought fresh dishes to the table, their faces carefully blank. Coriolanus picked up his fork, his movements slow and deliberate, as though savoring the meal in front of him.
But his smile—it lingered, soft and satisfied, a chilling reminder that this was his world, his control. And as his words echoed in my mind—Without me, you are nothing—I realized with bone-deep certainty: He owns me. Entirely. And there’s no escape.
bambi!student!reader is the girl to be • most likely be valedictorian • hypnotic charm • all A's in her classes and that extra point because she's pretty • beauty & brains but mostly beauty • super dramatic • does anything to get what she wants • spoiled asf • in love with romance novels & books • hopelss romantic • mostly focused on her future but hates the working part
bambi!student!reader is the subject of my new series, angel interrupted (coriolanus snow x reader) check it out later next week! stay tuned!
a/n okay , so this is going to be a regular series not really a fancast but reader is black! this is going to be a lot of posts of them through their relationships (bambi!student!reader is the subject of my new series, angel interrupted (coriolanus snow x reader) check it out later next week! stay tuned
