@thefawnatplay-old - Tumblr Blog

Mar 8

❦ A Reasonable Man. pt 7

✭ important! please reblog if you enjoyed this. i have been shadowbanned meaning it's going to be super hard for anyone to see this, and it's super discouraging to write all this just for tumblr to not let anyone see :(

m/f • President!Coriolanus Snow • therapist!reader • power imbalance • slow burn (kinda) • Capitol politics • reluctant vulnerability • touch-starved men • ethical gray areas • reader is emotionally intelligent • emotional repression • intimacy as control • emotional intimacy • soft x guarded dynamic • smoking • fantasizing • descriptions of sex • insomnia • paranoia • post-canon • romantic tension • sexual tension • unethical relationship lol.

likes and reblogs appreciated ↻

previous ↔ next incoming!

read below 💌

"In what world is silk a rare earth mineral?"

"It's rare. And, it's a natural resource. It comes from worms," deadpans Coriolanus.

“It's still not a mineral," she huffs. "And you rerouted half the textile sector into natural resources so you could give your friends tax cuts for their dresses.”

He hums lazily in response, the sound vibrating against her shoulder. “Not friends, allies. There’s a difference.”

She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow so she can look down at him properly. His hand smooths down her back and settles on her ribs. She’s curled across his stomach, her legs stretched over his lap while his own are bent underneath her to fit on the tiny office couch. His jacket is tossed somewhere on her desk, her heels lie long discarded on the floor.

“Do you hear yourself?” she asks. “You sound like a villain in a very boring historical drama.”

A corner of his mouth curves. “Careful. That implies tax cuts aren't interesting.”

“It implies you’re ridiculous,” she corrects, poking his chest lightly. “Entire districts are restructuring because you decided you wanted cheaper fabric.”

His eyes are half-lidded with desire as his thumb traces idle patterns against her side, brushing softly over the swell of her chest underneath her shirt. “The Capitol wants more silk. I'm ensuring that. It’s a very simple equation.”

She tips her head back to look at him. “One day I’m going to undo every silly policy you’ve ever put into place.”

His gaze drifts over her face, slow, amused at her words but with intent brimming underneath. “You’re welcome to try.” His other hand reaches up to card through her hair, holding her cheek as he leans up to kiss her temple, then her cheek, the corner of her mouth and then finally her lips again.

Her eyes flutter shut, the soft brush of his mouth radiating like sunlight through her skin. She hates that the warmth of him steals her momentum. Defeated, she sighs and drops back down onto his chest, where his arms curl up immediately around her.

“You’ll use the profit to buy yourself another absurd coat,” she says weakly, cheek squished into his sternum.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Or a dress for you.”

She snorts. “Absolutely not.”

“But you look so beautiful in silk.”

“Stop talking.”

He grins, obliging her— by flipping her underneath him, her knees coming up to curl around his waist as he kisses the little squeal of surprise off her lips again.

Her notebook is burning a hole through her cupboard wood, where it lays abandoned. She hadn't even bothered taking it out today.

Lately, it just ends up flung somewhere across the floor, nestled in her plush white carpet, next to a small, burnt patch of faux fur.

Coriolanus Snow

Six Weeks Ago | Vesca Centre for Restorative Care

It had been another session where her office was bursting at the seams with the nervous, jittery air that now seemed to perpetually occupy any room Coriolanus and her were in. Not that they had ever occupied a room together besides this one.

And, he reminded himself, they never would.

The only room they would ever share was a therapist's office. The only relationship they would share was therapist and patient. The only reason he had not yet lit a cigarette from the box sitting like a deadweight in his coat pocket was because he still could not bear to see disappointment in her eyes.

What had he become?

President Coriolanus Snow. He had resolved to take a wife the last year of this term, to help his next campaign. One who he would never love… but one who he could stand. He'd learned that lesson when he'd tried to court Livia Cardew (his first choice, they detested each other, but she loved his newfound power) and had almost gone mad by the third month of their relationship. He had known he would never love, not since Lucy Gray had left him, voice hoarse and with an empty rifle in the Appalachian woods.

So what exactly was this pathetic fixation with her?

Lust. Yes, yes, he'd told himself that plenty. But it was clear enough to him, now, that she affected him more than just physically.

Unfortunate. He could not afford attachment. He also could not afford to be dishonest with himself.

She was in the middle of asking him about his sleep. Monotone, routine. But his lungs still went empty when he heard her voice.

"And how many hours?" she said softly. "Rough estimate's okay."

"Maybe…5."

"…Per night?" she asked hopefully, the grim number giving her pause.

He smiled slightly, a rueful thing. "Weekly, as always."

She let out a breath through her lips. Not disappointed, but disconcerted.

She had never seemed troubled by his answers before, even when his answer was thirty minutes, maybe, or not at all. Just a clinical, nonjudgmental sort of concern. And now? Why the change?

He dared, for a second, to wonder if it was because she cared. Then wondered if it was because she was losing hope in him, now.

"That's not great," she said, voice careful.

"I know," he explained, feeling as if he were a child again, desperately rationalizing a crayon-drawn map of Panem to his father's discerning gaze. "It's been an eventful week for the country. Not much more."

She nodded, tugging on her necklace pendant. He'd noticed her do that more often.

"Alright, well. I suppose we can…move onto something else. Perhaps today your relationships?"

He felt his guard snap into place immediately. "My relationships," he repeated.

"…Yes. They're a vital, central part of any life, and anyone's mental state, and we've rarely touched on that—"

"Because I've told you I do not have the luxury of a social life."

"But— you have had relationships," she insisted, voice soft.

His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering there. "Women?"

She let out an exhale. "…Yes. I mean, not just…romantic, but also—"

"Sexual. Not romantic."

Her eyes flickered up to his. "…Strictly?"

"Yes," he lied, tongue tasting like ash.

Reader

She had been fighting with herself for the past half hour over how to approach transference. Every time she thought of asking him of his previous girlfriends, she felt vaguely nauseous. But that was the easiest way. Bring up old girlfriends. Identify patterns. Discuss how he might be projecting them onto…other relationships.

Once she finally won that battle and broached the topic, she found herself fighting with him to be able to actually continue doing so.

"Sexual. Not romantic," he said coolly.

Her gaze flicked up to his, stomach twisting. Her mind flashed to two sessions ago, the heady taste of his lips. Did that statement hold true then, too?

"…Strictly?" she asked, voice hesitant.

"Yes."

Oh.

"All…your relationships with women? Have you never had a committed partner?"

He sighed, irritably tugging on his tie. Grey today, she noticed, throat tightening. It suited him. "Why is this relevant?"

"It's part of your life," she offered weakly.

"Something I don't have is something that's not in my life."

"The lack is also part of your lif—"

"Do we have to do this?" he snapped.

She blinked, mouth closing. He shut his eyes at the sight, exhaling through his nose.

"We don't have to," she murmured. "I just thought it might be a productive area for discussion."

He kept his eyes fixed on the floor when he spoke. "I don't want to talk about the women I've been with. Not when—not when it's you."

Her breath caught in her throat. That was the problem, wasn't it?

That she was still his therapist when he felt there were things he couldn't bring up to me. Because of something that had happened between us. Something that was still begging to keep happening.

"Why is that, if you feel comfortable sharing?" she asked, because that was what she was supposed to ask.

"You know why."

She met his eyes, then. The muscles around them were tense, as if he were staring down the sun, emphasizing the prominent little plane on his left cheekbone that you could only see ever so often. Like it was hard to look at her.

He jerkily glanced at his coat pocket (he hadn't even taken it off all session) fumbling for something with a hand that was slightly shaking. "I'm going to light a cigarette," he gritted out, trying to turn on the lighter. "Go ahead and lecture me, but I just— fuck—"

It tumbled to the ground, the small, silver thing burying itself somewhere in the tufts of the furry carpet that sat between them.

"Oh, let me—" she dropped to her knees, ankles propped up on her heels as she went to search for it.

He reached down at the same time. "You do not need to—"

"Oh!"

She yelped as she saw a flame arise, the fibers of the carpet ample kindling for a small blaze to begin forming almost immediately.

Immediately, she felt a strong arm knock into her ribs and push her back against the sofa.

"Shit," he snarled, throwing his coat down on the carpet and giving it a nudge. To her surprise, the flame fizzled out almost immediately.

"How did that work?" she breathed.

"My clothes are all fireproofed," he said. "And bulletproofed, of course. Safety and all,"

"Oh." She was still kneeling by the couch.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

He offered her a hand, etiquette as imperishable as ever. She took it tentatively.

His hand lingered on hers, thumb absentmindedly brushing over her palm.

It was the tie's fault. Grey suited him too well.

She could not explain why, nor could she count a single thought in her head when she tugged on his hand, then his tie, until his knees buckled and she caught his lips with hers.

He groaned into the kiss immediately, hand coming to lace through the hair at the back of her head. Then— he pulled away, breath erratic.

"I will stop. I promised. I would not— you—"

Oh. The way she'd made him promise, last month, that this couldn't happen again. The hurt look in his eyes when he said you’ve decided I made you uncomfortable. He was probably wondering whether she'd cry again. Whether he'd have to regret it, for her sake.

She shook her head, breathless. "No," her hands tightened on the silk of his tie, and she pulled him down closer to her, to the floor. With his strength, his size compared to hers, his knees must truly have been weak to bend so easily to her will. "Don't stop. Please,"

His hands came up to cup her face, bringing her to his lips like a flask of water in a desert.

She sighed, a desperate sound coaxed out by his tongue seeking entrance to her lips, which acquiesced happily. She leaned into him, and he let her, until his back was flat on the burnt carpet with her stretching over him, hands trailing over his shirt. His warm palm came to cover hers, guiding it across his abdomen.

Buzz! Buzz!

Both their heads whipped up.

"Doc?" came her secretary's voice through the buzzer.

"Uh, yes?" she breathed, scrabbling to sit up, forgetting that it was square on his knees. He craned his upper body up, too, hand coming to rest on her waist in a way that was so natural, so dizzyingly casual that she almost descended down on him again.

"Your 9:30's here. It's three minutes past your last session? I haven't let her in order to protect your current client's privacy—"

She swore silently, scrubbing a hand down her face. "Yes, I'm so sorry. The session just took a little longer. We're wrapping up now, thank you,"

"Of course, ma'am." The buzzer shut.

"I have a client," she murmured.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. "You'd best get to that, then."

"Coriolanus, I'm…sorry."

His gaze hardened. He sat up, helping her down from his chest to the floor, even as his posture stiffened. "You are?"

"Yes, but not—like that. I mean, as in I don't…regret it! I mean, I— Maybe I should." She sighed, blinking rapidly. "I just…I don't want to hurt you. I'm afraid I did."

He leaned down to her ear, pausing before brushing the slowest kiss there, gentle yet firm. Intentional in a way that had her toes curling, thighs tightening and rising just to be that much closer to his body. "The only thing that hurts is the fact you have a client right now."

"Oh," her voice was soft, stupidly high.

He drew back with a slow smirk, rising with her as he put on his coat, moving to the door. "And I think my wrist might hurt, too, tonight. After what you've done to me."

He shut the door on her before she could respond.

She had the feeling her hands might suffer similar exertion tonight, as well.

Four Weeks Ago

“How soundproof are these walls?” he murmured against her skin. No answer. He nuzzled a few velvety little kisses underneath her ear, tongue darting out. She shivered. He had known she would. “Mm, Doctor?”

“Um–” she whispered, voice shuddery and even more syrupy than usual. “Fully.”

He grinned against her neck.

She had sworn to herself that this would not happen again, but of course, it had. Every time.

As he kissed down the column of her throat, gently massaging circles on the soft peak of her chest through her sweater, she shyly slid her hand down to his belt, feeling the evidence of his desire pressed against her thigh.

"Mm, wait," he breathed, kissing her cheek. She drew back with wide, soft eyes. He pulled her hand away, kissing the palm, the tips of the fingers.

Her brows furrowed. "I thought you wanted…"

He smiled. "I do. Trust me."

"Then…why?"

"Not like this," he sighed, placing the gentlest kiss to her temple. "Not here. If I…have you, I'd want it to be properly. You deserve more,"

Her heart felt like it was being squeezed.

"Oh," she breathed.

He smiled. "Oh? You always say that. Are you upset?"

"No," she shook her head. "Of course not."

"We might…have to cool down a little, though."

"Oh," she flushed. "Yeah. Of course."

At first, every time it happened, it felt catastrophic. Breathless. Reckless. Like something that would surely explode the room apart.

But then it becomes routine.

The door clicks shut. He doesn’t sit in the armchair. He walks straight past it and drops onto the couch.

She stays behind her desk for a full five seconds.

They talk. They always talk first.

About sleep. About unrest in District Eight. About why silk imports are down and who’s sabotaging what. He speaks lazily, but his eyes sharpen when he explains strategy. He tells her more than he tells anyone. Names. Numbers.

She shouldn’t let him.

She tells herself she is keeping him regulated. That he leaves calmer. That he is less cruel when he leaves her office steady instead of wound tight.

She knows that’s self-serving.

She also knows she waits for the moment he pulls her into his lap.

That’s the part she can’t defend. But when his mouth is on hers, it cannot do anything but stay silent. And then her head is silent, too. Devoid of caution, or guilt, or anything but how much she wants him.

Today

He huffs. “Perhaps I should revoke those cuts. Arlo Selkis loves his silks, and I spent four hours arguing with his committee about infrastructure funding like we’re choosing wallpaper.”

She smiles faintly. “What’s the argument?”

“They want to redirect funds to Capitol beautification.” He rubs his eyes. “Fountains. Public sculptures. Something symbolic and patriotic.”

“And you said no?”

“I said not right now.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Wow. Growth.”

He gives her a look. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” she says innocently. “That sounded almost… responsible.”

He shifts onto his side, propping his head on his hand to look at her properly. “You assume I’m irresponsible.”

“You assume you’re not.”

He studies her, amused but faintly wary. “You’d have me redistribute everything evenly tomorrow if you could.”

“I would,” she says without hesitation.

He clicks his tongue. “You’d bankrupt the Capitol in a month.”

“You bankrupted the districts in a week. In the first week of your term, if I recall—”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Careful.”

“Or what?” she challenges, leaning back on her palms. The first time he'd said something like that, she'd snapped on the defensive. But now…now he felt safe. Dangerously safe. Safe enough to express opinions you could hardly tell your mother in Panem, let alone its President. “You’ll put me on a list?”

He goes still for half a second.

Then, quietly, “You’d be the only name I’d take off.”

"You can’t mean that.”

“I mean,” he says, eyes steady on hers, “that you’re the only person who disagrees with me to my face and still gets to sit this close.”

"Because the rest sit in jail?"

A smile tugged at his lip. "I suppose so."

“Well,” she mutters, “maybe your advisors should try being less awful.”

“My advisors don’t tell me I’m morally bankrupt.”

“You are morally bankrupt.”

He laughs under his breath, reaches out, and nudges her calf. “And yet you’re here.”

"You always say that."

He exhales slowly, the sharpness draining from him.

"What?" she questioned at his groan.

“Just, today was exhausting. Everyone wants something. Money, favors. No one just talks.”

She softens despite herself. “We're talking.”

“I know," he murmured, gaze admiring. "You don’t want anything from me.”

That’s not entirely true anymore, is it? She wants…him.

Instead she says, “I want…you to sleep more than five hours a week.”

He smirks faintly. “There it is.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” His thumb hooks absentmindedly in the hem of her sleeve. “You always are.”

Silence settles for a second.

Then she flops back against the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “My mother called again.”

He sighs immediately. “What did she say this time?”

“That I’m ‘wasting my potential’ working at the Centre instead of consulting privately.”

“It would be more profitable,” he says lightly.

She glares at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours,” he says without hesitation. “Always yours. I just enjoy provoking you.”

“She said I’m too soft,” she mutters. “That I let people walk all over me. Just because I don't want to be an entrepreneur.”

His expression changes at that.

“Soft,” he repeats, quieter.

“Mm.”

He rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “You’re not soft.”

“No?”

“No. You’re stubborn to a fault. You argue with me about national policy like you’re not talking to the most powerful man in the country.”

“You hate that.”

“I love that.”

She turns her head toward him.

“You don’t treat me like I’m something above you.”

“You’re not above me.”

His eyes flick sideways. “See.”

"Besides," she shifted on his chest. "I'm literally on top of you."

He reaches out and pulls her gently by the wrist until she tips sideways against him, and her shoulder lands against his chest. His arm slides automatically around her back.

She stiffens for a moment.

She should move.

She doesn’t.

He speaks softer now, almost into her hair. “Maybe I should have my secretary schedule us some more sessions. Twice a week?”

“You can’t,” she says.

“I know.”

Her hand rests against his shirt. She can feel his heartbeat. Steady. Controlled.

“This is so unethical,” she murmurs suddenly.

“Mm.”

She shifts, trying to sit up, and his arm tightens just enough to keep her there.

“Coriolanus.”

“What?”

“You make it very hard to be good at my job.”

He smiles faintly against her temple. “You’re very good at your job.”

“I am actively failing at it,” she points out as he places a kiss there.

“You’re letting me talk about my day. That seems productive.”

“I’m not supposed to let you hold me while you do it.”

He lets out an amused huff at that. Not mocking, but not really considering it properly either. “Why?”

She scoffs, not unkindly. "Because I can't be your therapist and be…whatever this is. To you. How could you possibly—" she sighed. "It crosses boundaries.”

“And if I don’t want boundaries?”

She closes her eyes. “You need them.”

“Do you?”

She pulls back just enough to look at him. “Yes.”

They stare at each other for a moment. She drops her gaze first, but his follows her head as she shifts around on the couch uncomfortably.

He sits up too, a bit ruffled. "You're upset with me."

"No, I'm not."

"You are," he presses, voice calm as he straightens out his cuff.

"I'm not. I'm disappointed—"

"So trite—"

"At myself," she finished. "I could get fired for this. I should get fired for this."

"I can pull some strings," he says nonchalantly.

She shakes her head. "You shouldn't have to."

His phone buzzes slightly. He'd started putting an alarm, so that he'd remember to actually leave before her next client came. "Shit."

She sighs, too, despite herself. "Um, where's your blazer?"

"The desk," he says gently. He didn't forget. Anything, really. Ever.

"Right," she stands, straightening her blouse as she crosses over to hand it to him.

"Thanks," he murmurs, shrugging it on, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe her lipstick off before some tabloid pictures him with gloss smeared on his lips and plasters it across Panem.

He leans down to kiss her anyway. "I'll see you next week."

The first time he'd done that before leaving, she'd laughed and asked him if he was about to go off to war.

It works to diffuse the tension a little.

"Remember to put on your heels before your client comes in," he whispers against her cheek.

"Oh," she glances back at them. She would have forgotten. "I will."

"Bye," he murmurs, with an amused smile.

"Bye."

a/n: sorry it ends kinda abruptly but i wanted to stop starving u all :)

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