The Difference Between Me And Suzanne Collins Is That If I Wrote The Hunger Games I Would Have Made Katnisss

The difference between me and Suzanne Collins is that if I wrote The Hunger Games I would have made Katniss’s name Nicoal.

Eventually (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)

Word count: 6.7k

Summary: Coriolanus could appreciate irony, but the one person he desires more than anything wanting nothing to do with him pushes him to new territory

Tags: (18+), cw: noncon, dark!coriolanus, deeply implied stalker!coriolanus, unreliable narrator coriolanus (boy is delusional tbh, no one is doing more mental gymnastics than him), pre-mentor era, obsession, unprotected sex, choking (only for like a second), virginity status undisclosed but as I was writing I began to imagine this being the first time for both of them—it’s not even implied tho, so do with that what you will

A/N: a character as evil as him I couldn’t conceive writing fluff for. he’s bad and guess what I’m not gonna fix him, but I also can’t make him not-hot so… hehe. please read the tags and proceed with caution <3

Masterlist

You wanted nothing to do with him, and that made him crazy.

No, if anything, you were the crazy one. Coriolanus hadn’t done anything but try to be your friend, but you snubbed him without reason.

Coriolanus did a good job at keeping the financial situation of his family a secret. No one knew, and he doubted you were an exception. Yet, it was as if you looked down upon him.

Although, you’d grown fond of Sejanus, so even if you did know, status wasn’t a concern of yours. It was something he admired, yet questioned all at once. There had to be a reason for your dismissal. A reason you couldn’t bring yourself to even offer a smile back. It’s not like he was asking a lot.

It’s not like he wasn’t trying, either. He’d gotten used to trying to make people like him, to see him as better than he was, but it was never this hard. It would’ve been so much simpler if you just told him to his face what your problem was, but whenever he came around, mostly when you were talking to Sejanus—they were friends, it was the perfect excuse—you just went quiet. You’d greet him, make no effort to continue the conversation, then excuse yourself.

All Coriolanus wanted to know was why.

“You’re watching her again,” Clemensia whispered to him, eyes flicking between him and the paper in front of her.

They were class partners, but Coriolanus was beginning to think he spent too much time with her.

“Who?”

Clemensia let out a small chuckle, mocking him. The professor at the front of the class looked up, and Coriolanus quickly looked down at his paper, taking his eyes off of you.

“You’re too obvious,” she muttered, a smirk in her voice. “Maybe that’s why she doesn’t like you. Because you stare at her too much.”

She didn’t get a response—it didn’t deserve one. Coriolanus questioned why he ever told her anything. She made him sound like some sort of stalker. Which, for the record, he was not.

His eyes managing to find you frequently wasn’t a crime, and neither was crossing your path. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence most of the time, but it’s not as if he was harming you by watching you. He doubted you noticed anyway.

Seeing you nearly everyday had been enough to keep him sated, but then Sejanus started talking about you. Through no fault of his own, Coriolanus learned things about you. What he came to know made him curious to discover more. Even if you did not seem keen to let him.

Being content with what he had didn’t keep its appeal for long. Not when you were right there, your presence taunting him. Making him want what you would not let him have.

“You just need to talk to her, Coryo,” Tigris told him one evening, when he revealed everything to her. “Not in class and not with Sejanus. Just you. Let her know the real you and I promise she’ll like what she sees.”

Coriolanus took his cousin’s advice to heart. She was much more empathetic than him, she had to be onto something, right?

Everything changed when Coriolanus sat across from you at a study table in the library.

As beautiful as you were from a distance, being up close was something else entirely. He could admire you for hours and never get tired.

You looked up at him, he smiled and said hello just like Tigris advised. The smile you returned seemed forced, and you ignored that he had spoken.

It upset him, but not as much as when you got up and walked out. It was the last straw. Coriolanus was following you into the hall before he could think better of it.

He caught up to you, dropping his hand to your shoulder to make you turn around and face him. When you did, you looked surprised. That wasn’t what made Coriolanus hesitate, but the realization that he had never been this close to you before. Not even sitting across from you compared to touching you.

His heart skipped a beat.

“What do you want?” you questioned, a level of annoyance he thought to be unearned in your voice.

His heart started again.

“Have I done something to you?” Coriolanus confronted you, feeling a familiar sense of agitation creep over him. He had to know. “To make you feel such distaste for me?”

“I don’t dislike you, Coriolanus,” you replied, calmly after recovering from your initial shock. “I’m just… indifferent to you.”

The answer confused him more than it did enrage him. He smothered the latter feeling as he observed you.

“You’re… indifferent,” he stated, not asking. His feet shifted beneath him. It hurt, for some reason. “Why?”

Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly, studying him. It was the same way you’d look at your books when you were struggling with a subject, lingering behind in class or the library until a triumphant smile crossed your face.

Only, that smile never came. Your expression just faded back to normal.

“You shouldn’t put so much weight on what other people think of you,” you advised, stepping closer to him. His breath caught in his chest. You smelled sweet, like flowers. “Especially not someone you don’t even know.”

It was then, he realized, you hadn’t moved closer to him with purpose. You’d been on your way moving past him. His eyes focused on your back as you walked away, figuring out what to say.

“I’d like to know you,” he announced earnestly, verbally trying to pull you back. “If you’d only give me a chance.”

You slowed to a stop, looking over your shoulder. Coriolanus felt as if he was on display as your eyes raked over him, determining for yourself his sincerity.

“You’re friends with Sejanus, aren’t you?” you wondered. It wasn’t what he expected, but Coriolanus nodded. You sighed, which irked him to think it was pity. “If you’d like to join us for lunch I wouldn’t be against that.”

“I’ll see you then,” he said, but you were already turning away. He kept to himself that he had already tried in the past.

His friend was nice. Too nice for his own good, truthfully. It wasn’t as if Sejanus completely abandoned him the moment he befriended you. It was more like he split his time, attending to both friendships. The only thing Coriolanus held against him was that he never tried to reintroduce the two of you. Maybe even put in a good word.

At lunch Coriolanus found you and Sejanus quickly, he knew where you liked to sit.

“Hey, Coryo,” Sejanus greeted, smiling. “About time you decided to join us.”

Coriolanus put on a smile as he sat down. “Well, I would’ve sooner, but I wasn’t sure I was welcome before.”

The comment made you smirk, in on the joke as Coriolanus looked at you.

“Who’s to say you are now?” you sarcastically replied, as if you hadn’t been the one to invite him.

Well, “invite” was being generous, but he still seized the opportunity nonetheless.

“Ignore her, she can’t help herself,” Sejanus said with a chuckle, used to your humor.

This time, when he tried to talk to you, you engaged. In between discussions of classes and assignments, Coriolanus had to dodge your quick wit.

He liked the challenge, and the next day, he went back for more. Even walked right past Clemanisa and Arachne, who tried to invite him to their table with Festus. You were waiting for him.

He noticed you and Sejanus already talking.

When he sat across from you, you raised your brows. “Seeking refuge?”

Before he could ask what you meant, you nodded your head towards the girls he’d left behind.

You knew about his friends?

“You could call it that,” he replied, a smile starting to appear.

You nodded and hummed.

“Well, what are your qualifications?”

“Excuse me?”

“You joke too much, Y/N,” Sejanus lightly scolded you, interrupting whatever path you were going down, which made you laugh. “He’s going to think you don’t like him.”

“He knows I don’t mean anything by it,” you assured, looking at Coriolanus. “I’m just trying to figure him out.”

Your tone was filled with confidence, but your face… Coriolanus wasn’t sure how to place your underlying expression. You had a shield up, he knew that much, but what did that have to do with him? Were you trying to figure out if you could let it down for him? Or something else?

“Of course,” Coriolanus answered, not taking his eyes off of you. “I’m an open book.”

“Are you, now?” You folded your arms on the table. “Your friends love to gossip, and I don’t think I’ve heard that about you.”

“It’s not my fault if they don’t know how to read,” Coriolanus quipped, proud of himself for being so quick.

None of his friends had wronged him, but the joke at their expense was worth it for what followed after.

He made you laugh. Not just smile, but truly laugh. It was exactly what he wanted, and it actually worked. Awe didn't begin to describe how it felt.

Joining your table for lunch became the best part of his day. Sometimes he forgot Sejanus was even there, far too eager to see you. He saw you all the time, of course. Watching you was a habit he had yet to break, but this was different. You were aware of his presence, and he was able to speak to you. It didn’t matter that you still seemed weary, it was enough.

Even if you didn’t like him, you still had conversations with him, so that was something.

Sometimes, if you were deep in a discussion, debating ethics—your favorite topic—it would continue beyond just the table. He’d walk you to class, wanting to hear your voice just a second longer.

“I want to meet this girl,” His grandmother declared one night, after Coriolanus drifted to the topic of you over dinner. He’d been doing it more recently.

Tigris gave him a look, a light frown. There was no way to do that without you coming to his home, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Let Coryo decide that, Grandma‘am,” Tigris insisted, patting the older woman’s shoulder.

“Well, he has feelings for Y/N,” she argued, looking at Coriolanus. He used your name enough that she remembered it. “And she likes him too—doesn’t she?”

Coriolanus gave a tight smile. “Yes, she does.”

Keeping up appearances.

“Well, that settles it, then,” Grandma‘am decided.

“I think it’s time you get to bed,” Tigris intervened, getting their grandmother up from her chair.

Later, when they were alone, Tigris asked him, “Does she even know how you feel about her?” She knew him too well. He took too long to answer. “You should tell her. From what you’ve told us, you two should be together. But it won’t happen unless you make it known how you feel.”

Coriolanus’s dreams were filled with you, as they usually were, but something was different the morning he woke up after the conversation with Tigris.

All he had to do was prove himself to you, and he knew that now.

Coriolanus found you in the library a lot, often pretending to stumble upon you. This time, he didn’t put on a facade.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he acknowledged, sitting down beside you. Often he’d sit across, but he was testing the waters. Seeing if you were put off by the proximity. “Studying for Featherly’s class?”

“I’m terrified for his test,” you confided, rubbing your temples as you hunched down at your book. “I feel like my mind has no room for anything else. I’ve memorized nothing.”

With a sigh, you sat up and pushed the book away.

“I can help you,” Coriolanus insisted, reaching for the book. He read over the page you were on, knowing he’d already perfected the subject. “You should’ve asked for me sooner.”

Maybe it was a little spiteful, but he hadn’t purposely meant it to come out that way. You still noticed it, taking your book back.

“I’m not asking for your help now, Coriolanus,” you muttered, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

You were the last of his friends to still call him that. Most everyone else called him ‘Coryo’. Not you. But you were stubborn in many ways. This too, apparently.

“I didn’t mean anything against you,” he said lightly, even chuckling a little. It was forced, but he wanted to show he wasn’t being that serious.

Using your own words on you did not have the desired effect.

“Mmmhmmm,” you hummed.

Coriolanus tilted his head down, trying to get you to meet his gaze. You gave in, facing him, looking unamused.

He wanted to wipe that look away, but didn’t know how. If he could just make you like him—

Suddenly, your watch began to beep.

“Test time,” you grumbled, taking back your book and getting up.

Coriolanus followed you down the hall and into class. The tests were already on the desks, waiting. You two were early—he noticed that because of the clock on the wall.

He walked you to your seat and wished you good luck. To his surprise, you offered the same in return. Then, he went to his own. Other students filed in quickly after, professor Featherly being the last to enter the room.

The professor declared, “Begin,” then sat at his desk in the middle of the room and began to read.

The test wasn’t easy, but Coriolanus knew what he was doing. One look around the classroom and he saw that wasn’t the case for most other students. He felt a sense of pride, until his gaze landed on you. You were one row down and four seats to the left. He’d counted before. You were fiddling with your pencil, struggling to come up with what to write down.

While he could’ve been the first to finish, Coriolanus let other students turn their tests in before him. An hour passed by, but it moved quickly.

There were only a few students left when you finally got up. You radiated an anxious energy, much like the others, but Coriolanus didn’t care about the others.

Clemensia stuck her hand up in the air, waiting for the professor to notice her, distracting Coriolanus briefly. When the professor looked up and noticed her, Clemansia got her wish.

Coriolanus considered himself lucky, convincing himself with his own mantra frequently. As he watched you leave your test on Featherly’s desk and rush from the room, he realized how he could help you.

He quickly marked down the rest of his answers, having stalled so he could leave when you did. The professor was making his way away from the desk, while Coriolanus got up and went in the opposite direction.

With a swift, hard kick to the leg, the professor's desk wobbled and papers spilled off on the other side. It looked like an accident.

Featherly looked over his shoulder at the noise.

“Sorry,” Coriolanus apologized, kneeling down behind the desk to collect the papers.

Without anyone watching, he found your test. He had no time to change the written questions, but he made quick work of erasing and re-doing the multiple choice, with his own test and knowledge as reference.

He had to give you credit for getting a decent amount correct, but not enough for a passing grade.

When Coriolanus fixed that, he stacked together the papers and placed them back on the desk and exited.

Everyone was waiting in the hall. Against tradition, the professor graded tests directly after and would call students in to give the results. It was time consuming, and kept everyone on campus after hours, which was against the rules, but perhaps he’d gotten some kind of exception.

You were leaning against the wall opposite of the classroom, talking to some girl from the class—Coriolanus didn’t bother to learn her name. He wanted to go to you, but Sejanus got to him first instead.

“How do you think you did?”

Coriolanus shrugged, looking down at his friend. “Fine, I think.” That was the humble answer, right? “How about you?”

“Not perfect, but I passed.”

Clemensia trotted out then, a confident look on her face.

“What was so important you had to ask during the test?” Coriolanus couldn’t help but wonder. She’d unknowingly helped him, after all.

“Just clarity on a question, wanted to make sure I got it right,” she answered with ease.

“And did you?”

She gave Sejanus a look.

“Yes, of course.”

The last person exited the class, and professor Featherly closed the door. And so the grading began.

One by one, the professor called people in. There was no method to the order, it seemed likely he shuffled the papers or chose which one to grade next at random.

Time passed, Coriolanus didn’t know how much exactly, but it was beginning to get dark outside. Tigris would be worried until he got home, but she’d understand. His studies came first.

Eventually, Coriolanus realized it was dwindling down to be just you and him left. He was lucky today.

The third to last student was in the classroom, leaving you across the hall from one another.

You pressed your lips together before speaking.

“Do you think you did alright?”

The corner of Coriolanus’s lip twitched up at the sound of your voice.

“Yes, I think so,” he answered humbly. “What about you?”

You let out a self deprecating laugh. “When I said I was terrified, I wasn’t being dramatic.” You sighed, accepting your fate. “I’ll have to do perfect on the next one, I guess.”

“I can help you with that,” Coriolanus offered.

The smile he gave you spawned a mirror reaction. He knew he was charming, he had to be, and this time you actually seemed receptive to it.

“Maybe you can.”

The sound of a door opening made Coriolanus turn. Arachne was leaving, a smug look on her face as she thanked the professor.

Then the door closed, and the professor graded another test. There were only two left.

“I wish he wouldn’t do it like this,” you filled the silence. “The others don’t make us wait like this.”

“It builds suspense, I suppose,” Coriolanus mused. “Keeps us on our toes.”

“That’s not something I need right now.”

“At least you have good company,” he noted flirtatiously. He couldn’t help but grin at his own words, especially when you bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling.

“Could be worse, I supposed,” you retorted.

More time passed. The door opened again.

“Coriolanus Snow,” the professor addressed him next. “Your turn.”

As expected, Coriolanus did close to perfect. One answer off. Best in the class.

Back in the hallway, when he was done, Coriolanus waited with you. He didn’t announce he was staying, he just returned to his spot against the wall.

“Don’t keep a girl waiting. How did you do?” you asked, departing from the wall.

Coriolanus wondered where you were going, but then, you stood next to him, leaning back against the wall. There was still an arms length between the two of you, but it was something. You’d gone to him for once.

“You’ll think I’m full of myself if I tell you,” he teased lightly, which made you roll your eyes.

“Maybe I already think that, so just tell me,” you insisted.

The comment made him falter.

“Best in the class,” he divulged.

You almost looked impressed. “Good for you.”

The door opened.

“Y/N L/N, you’re up.”

“Wish me luck,” you said under your breath before following Featherly in.

“Good luck.”

Coriolanus waited for you, just like before. He tapped his foot. The professor didn’t actually go over the answers, he just told you the grade. You’d have no way of knowing what he did for you, but he’d be there to share in your excitement when you discovered how well you’d done.

Or, how well he’d done for you.

Not long later, you and the professor exited the class together.

“Wasn’t expecting you to still be here,” Featherly addressed Coriolanus. “You should get going. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

Then, he left you and Coriolanus alone in the hall, presumably leaving the building.

“So,” Coriolanus began with a smile. “How did you do?”

“He asked if I’d been studying with you. Apparently we had all the same answers,” you told him, crossing your arms. “Except when I asked him to show me my exam—which I did great on, apparently—I saw answers circled that weren’t mine.”

Coriolanus hadn’t expected you to find out so quickly, but a part of him was relieved you did. It meant he got to take credit, and he could show you that he really did want the best for you.

Or, he could always lie.

“You weren scared of failing,” he finally admitted. He offered a sympathetic smile. “So I helped.”

“No, you cheated!” you accused, causing his eyes to go wide. “You’ve implicated us both. If anyone finds out…”

“Don’t be so loud,” he hissed out in a whisper, stepping closer to you. The professor could still be in the building. He doubted anyone else would be. “I just wanted to help you, okay? You needed it, so I—“

“You helped, I get it. But I didn’t ask you to do that for me, Coriolanus. I have never asked you to do anything for me,” you sneered, somewhere between offended and betrayed.

He saw the way you scanned his face—his eyes. The pleading was beginning to seep through.

A wave of realization washed over you before he even opened his mouth.

“You didn’t have to ask me to,” Coriolanus said meaningfully, stepping closer to you. “I wanted to. I wanted to help you.”

You back hit the wall. The hallway was so empty it seemed as if the subtle sound still echoed.

“I’d do anything for you, don’t you get that?”

The sound of a large door closing carried from a distance.

Coriolanus reached for your face, wishing he could take away the concern that riddled your expression. Instead, he brushed a stray piece of hair from your face.

You swallowed. Why did you look so nervous around him? You were friends now, weren’t you? You never looked scared around anyone else. Why him? Why now? His own questions frustrated him.

“We’re not supposed to be on campus after hours,” you said calmly. It was the same tone you used when you first described your indifference to him. Coriolanus thought about that moment a lot. “Featherly already left. We should leave before we get caught.”

The corners of his lips twitched down.

“We’re still talking, though, aren’t we?”

You let out a shallow breath. You had no reason to look as scared as you did.

“I think we’re done.”

Coriolanus thought back to his cousin’s advice. He could’ve followed it better if she’d written it down, perchance.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Coriolanus pondered, smiling to himself at the sight of you. “You caught my eye from the beginning and I—I couldn’t figure out why you wanted nothing to do with me.” You watched him carefully. He wondered if you could sense the dejectedness brewing. “Did you see something in me? Is that it?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted under your breath. “People like you, and you’ve been making an effort to be my friend, so I don’t know what told me to stay away from you, but something did. I’ve tried to ignore it, but I still…” you swallowed. “I don’t know.”

The confession should’ve been a relief. That’s what he imagined it would be. That you would admit the truth, and he could fix whatever misconceptions you had.

Coriolanus did not know what to do with “I don’t know”.

Staring down at you, Coriolanus noticed your back was against the wall. Literally. He hadn’t meant to put you there, but he had.

It got you to listen, didn’t it? He’d gotten an answer?

“Can we start over?” Coriolanus suggested, even throwing in a smile that would charm most anyone. It worked on you before. “We can forget all this mess.”

You blinked. You didn’t believe him.

For most people, he wouldn’t simply let numerous slights go, but for you, if it would fix whatever this was, if it meant the two of you could have a real chance, then he’d overcome his instincts—old and new.

“I’m afraid my memory is too good for that,” you finally said, looking up at him with defiance.

Defying what, was the question. It wasn’t as if you were enemies.

The thought made his jaw clench. He let out a laugh that was sharp. It lacked any sense of humor.

“Why can’t you just accept my apology?”

Your brows arched up, questioning him.

“That was supposed to be an apology?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “But it’s not as if I owe you one.”

“I never said you did. I never said anything. You took it upon yourself to insert yourself into my life and now you are not happy with your place in it. You’ve overstepped, and you need to let me leave.”

Coriolanus frowned.

“You act like I’m keeping you here by force.”

You look up at him, silently telling him you believed he was.

That frustrated him further.

In an act that jarred even him, Coriolanus pressed his palms against your shoulders and pushed you back against the wall when you tried to move away.

“This is force,” he declared sternly, leaning down, making you maintain his gaze.

Everyone liked control, but he hadn’t used it in such a physical way before. It thrilled him in an odd way.

“Get your hands off me.”

“Why should I? You already think so poorly of me, why not let you be right?”

You moved again then, trying to catch him off guard and squirm away. But Coriolanus was quick to shove you back against the wall.

“We can still start over. If you would give me a chance, I think we can be good together.”

He let one hand rise to rest on your cheek. Your skin was so smooth. He inhaled deeply, resolve slipping further as his eyes fell to your lips.

If Coriolanus could just prove it to you, he was sure you’d understand what he meant.

He leaned in cautiously, gauging your reaction. You didn’t flinch away. You tilted your chin up, even. That familiar skip of his heart returned.

Coriolanus’s lips only just brushed against yours before you reacted. He had a second of relief before you brought your knee up, jabbing him in the lower stomach, although he doubted that was where you were aiming. It was still enough of a shock to throw him off his game. He stumbled back, and in a flash, you were gone. You were running down the hall—trying to get away from him, like usual.

Only this time, he didn’t feel like letting you go.

Something he had slowly come to learn was when he wanted something, it wasn’t just going to be handed to him. Vying for the Plinth Prize highlighted that, alongside his childhood.

He caught you easily, hand snapping out like a snake to grip your arm and yank you back to him. You collided with his chest. It was like you weren’t even trying. Not really. Just toying with him.

“Am I a game to you?” Coriolanus hissed into your ear, wrapping you in his arms. “Something for you to play?”

“I haven’t done anything to you! I hardly even know you!” you defended, but it just made him hold you tighter.

“I know you,” he implored, fighting against your squirming. He lost balance and when you fell to the ground, you took him with you. Coriolanus got you onto your back, sitting on your thighs, gripping your wrists in his hands to keep you from swinging at him. You let out panicked breaths, staring up at him. “I know more than you think.”

Something about the position made the front of his pants begin to feel constricting.

“Coriolanus, you’re frightening me,” you enunciated, as if trying to reason with him.

“I’m not being unreasonable,” Coriolanus grit out, working to maintain his composure.

“What?” you questioned, brows pinching together, a deep frown on your face. Confused and scared. Coriolanus used to feel that way. “Just let me go.”

“And then what? You go back to ignoring me? No I can’t… I can’t go back to that. If you just give me a chance I can show you.”

Coriolanus didn’t know what happened next.

Tigris told him it was like he left his own head, sometimes. She said he’d get so caught up, he wouldn’t notice things. At the time he had laughed. If anyone stayed aware, it was him.

It wasn’t that he left his head, but got lost in it. Lost in his own inner monologue to realize what he was doing.

In this case, what he’d done.

Far too busy thinking of ways to convey everything he wanted to say to you, how to make you understand, visualizing your reaction, he’d already acted.

Maybe there were two people living in his mind. One with a conscience, one without. Or perhaps that was just something he used to justify his less than decent actions. An excuse. He’d never let himself know the truth. Not really. Not yet.

What he did know was what he could see. You, beneath him, clothes torn from your body. The only thing left was a shirt. Too much effort, apparently. Your wrists were snatched together in one of his hands.

The power stirred something within him.

One might say he was out of excuses when he reached for the zipper of his pants, but no one else was here, were they?

Your mouth was moving. Speaking. Maybe even yelling. Looking at him, looking around the room. He couldn’t hear a sound but his own heart thumping in his ears paired with his own eager breaths. Was that normal?

He moved, wedging himself between your legs, nudging them apart to make room for himself.

“It’s just us,” Coriolanus spoke, loud enough to hear himself. You flinched. “No one’s here.”

He gripped himself, stroking his cock, lining himself up with your entrance. His patience was running incredibly thin.

Tears pricked in your eyes. You stopped struggling at his words, accepting it for what it was. Good.

“Why are you doing this?”

He heard your voice clearly, that time, despite the strain in your tone.

Coriolanus observed you carefully, squeezing your wrists together in one hand and lovingly caressing your hip with the other.

He finally understood the answer you’d given before. He found it fitting now.

“I don’t know.”

To him, it was the truth.

The moment Coriolanus pressed himself inside of you, it was as if the rest of the world disappeared. After so long of wanting you in every way, shape, or form, this was long overdue.

“You’re perfect for me,” he breathed out. Coriolanus gave a shove of his hips, his gaze falling to your mouth as an unwilling yelp slipped out. “I knew you would be.”

You were tight, too tight, even. Unwelcoming. Yet still, you felt like home.

His hand—the one that was on your hip—drifted between your legs. He found your clit, running his thumb in small circles, trying to ease the pressure you must’ve been feeling.

Coriolanus did not want to hurt you.

He looked into unfocused eyes. Where were you? Were you trying to be somewhere else?

He let your hands go. You didn’t move to slap him or shove him or anything. You were learning.

He leaned over you more, reaching for you face with his now free hand, and ran his thumb over your cheek, encouraging your gaze to actually meet his. He smiled softly when you did. You got more beautiful every second he looked at you. It was even better when he could see you were present.

Coriolanus found himself unable to resist it, so he gave into the urge to press his lips to yours. A real kiss, this time.

Your lips were softer than he’d imagined. You made a noise when his tongue tasted your mouth. His kiss was hungry—aggressive, even. But he’d waited so long he didn’t know how to contain himself.

Your body reacted to his touch. Your bent knees inched up his hips to accommodate him, and your walls were becoming slick, accepting the invasion.

A deep moan escaped him, cock throbbing inside you at the feel. The sound was muffled by his lips pressed to yours, but he still felt vulnerable, giving himself to you in this way.

Coriolanus pulled back from the kiss, only to rest his forehead against yours and breathe out a small puff of air from his lips.

“I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you. Not even the Plinth Prize,” he confessed in a whisper.

“What’s the difference?” You finally spoke, voice wavering. “You have to earn the prize?” The accusing tone felt like a slap.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Coriolanus muttered, eyes boring into yours. “You’ll see.”

He gave you one more searing kiss before moving his hips.

A gasp that morphed into a moan clawed its way up your throat. The sound was like music to his ears. He wanted to hear it again.

He began to move more consistently, finding a pace that suited him. Rough enough to keep you present, but not so harsh as to hurt you. He wanted you to enjoy yourself, even if you were trying to avoid it.

Still figuring you out, Coriolanus found your sweet spot with a hard thrust, causing you to wince. Instinctively, you tried to push him away, just like you had before, not wanting to surrender.

You stilled when you felt his hand. He hardly realized how he’d reacted until he felt your throat bob beneath his palm.

Coriolanus retracted his hand, like your skin and shot a volt through him. His movements slowed to a stop.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized earnestly, brushing the hand through your hair gently. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Your chest heaved as you breathed shaky breaths through your nose. Your lips pressed together in a line.

You weren’t going to dignify him with a response. In a way, he understood.

Coriolanus locked his arms under your body and in a surge of strength, pulled you from the ground and into his lap. He hugged you against him, nuzzling his face into your neck.

“Forgive me,” he requested softly.

You shifted in his lap, adjusting yourself to find comfort in the new position. You did not speak.

He slammed his hips up, forcing a gasp from your lips. That was something, wasn’t it?

You pulled back, and he did it again. And again. And again.

You fell against him, jarred by the change in his movements as he thrust into you. He liked it, feeling you in his lap, your chest against his, leaving you no choice but to hold onto him.

His lips latched onto the skin of your neck as he moved, barring his teeth and nipping the skin. You reacted as if he were venomous, straining away from him, but he’d left his mark.

You could pretend all you wanted that you didn’t like him, but Coriolanus could feel your body reacting to his. He could feel the way your walls squeezed around him, drawing him in, and how your body quivered as he pushed you closer to your edge.

“Just let go,” Coriolanus whispered, holding you tighter. He cradled the back of your head against him as he moved inside of you. Soothing and rough at the same time. “It’s okay, I know you want to.”

“Shut up,” you hissed into his neck, hands finding his chest.

Were you really going to try and get away from him? It was a bit late for that.

Coriolanus moved his hand between your bodies, finding your clit with the pad of his thumb, speeding along the process.

“What was that?” he taunted, feeling your legs start to shake.

A moan tore from your throat as you came around him, body slumping against his as he shoved himself deeper inside you. He wanted to feel your body tensed around him.

“That’s it,” he drawled, pressing his face to the side of your head. He inhaled, letting your scent flood him. Every sense was overwhelmed by you and if anything, it made him hunger for even more.

You became more pliable in your daze, going easily when Coriolanus laid you back down on the cold ground. He planted one hand on the ground near your head, where he held most of his weight, while the other rested on the base of your neck. Not squeezing, just resting. Reminding you of before.

Now that he’d taken care of you, made you realize the pleasure he could inflict upon you, it was his turn. Coriolanus was relentless with the thrust of his cock inside you, stretching you around him, groaning with nearly every movement. You felt so good, he never wanted to leave the warmth of your body.

You shifted beneath him, squirming as the intense feeling. Coriolanus was tempted to drag it out, to watch your face as the pleasure became too much for you to handle.

If it wasn’t for the desire to fill you, to claim you, he would’ve. There would be more times after this, he’d ensure it. He didn’t own a lot, but he treasured the things that he did.

“I can’t let you go, not now.” He meant to keep it inside his head, but the words spilled out. “You’re the only thing I want.”

At that moment, it was true.

Coriolanus gave one final shove of his hips before spilling inside of you. It crashed over him in an unexpected wave. His whole body shivered with pleasure at the feel of your body milking him. You wanted him. Your denial would eventually fade. He was sure of it.

Coriolanus let out a heavy sigh of your name as he watched your face. You’d turned your head, wincing as he filled you to the brim.

“Hey,” Coriolanus said when he finished, voice low. He ran a delicate hand over your face, persuading you to open your eyes. “We’re okay.”

As much as he didn’t want to, Coriolanus withdrew from you. You’d given up fighting against him, so he took the opportunity to help you redress. You were so pliant, it was like dressing a doll.

You rested your arms on your knees when he made you sit up. He wasn’t keeping you from moving from the floor, you chose not to.

Coriolanus watched you cautiously, searching for the same fire in you before, trying to figure out if he’d somehow snuffed it out.

There was a nagging in his gut. It was only for a brief second, but his confidence wavered.

“Can you talk to me?” he pressed, laying a hand on your shoulder and he knelt across from you, pants readjusted.

It was as if nothing happened, but you both knew that was untrue.

“Why should I?” You wrinkled your nose as you focused on the ground.

“Because, I care about you,” Coriolanus replied without thought, gaze softening. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I don’t think you care for me,” you said in a tone so hushed, Coriolanus wasn’t sure if you even meant for him to hear. Then, you met his eyes. The fire had only been dulled, not put out. “I think you’re a liar, Coriolanus Snow.”

His hands fell to clasp yours. He brought one to his lips, pressing a small kiss to the back of your palm. You eyed him as if he were some sort of predator, but he managed a smile nonetheless.

“Let me prove it to you, and you’ll come to learn you’ve been wrong about me all along.”

phone works two ways, you know

pairing: sam winchester x fem reader 5.2k

summary: stories of that one time sam surprises you, that one time you surprise sam, and that one time you surprise each other

contents: childhood bsfs to ‘i sometimes want to kiss you but like the normal amount’ to strangers trope will always be loved by me

notes: title from baby came home 2 by the nbhd. this is set during season one because ive only watched the first season of spn lol. this fact also makes me not liable for mischaracterization ok enjoy please!

— thank u to the lovely @locknco for editing this love ya

Nightmares follow Sam Winchester like a moth to a flame.

Most of the time, they’re about Jess. Before the nightmare even starts, he knows what he’s about to see because it’s always the same.

The steady drip of blood against his forehead.

The burst of unbearable heat exploding against the ceiling.

The guilt that creeps in every time without fail.

He wakes up from those nightmares with his heart pounding and a blanket of grief smothering his lungs.

But sometimes, Sam Winchester is lucky.

Sometimes, Sam Winchester dreams of you.

—

Sam wipes his eyes as he stands over your bed.

It’s your actual bed, and not one at a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere. It’s unfortunately humid since it’s creeping toward the middle of August, but Sam doesn’t care. It’s a pretty special occasion — you’re taking a break from hunting for a few days.

He’d been beyond surprised when you’d told him. Catching you at your house during the summer was near impossible with the way your parents ran you around the country, so all your free weekends were taken advantage of.

John had dragged him and Dean to a case just a state over from yours, and Sam had realized it was the closest they’d been to your house in a while. The second the bones had gone up in a pile of salty flames, he was halfway to the nearest bus station and on his way to your city.

The bus pulled in late, and the long walk to your neighborhood meant Sam arrived even later. He wondered if your parents were home and decided he hoped they wouldn’t be. The last thing he wanted them to see was the pitiful sight of him walking through their front door at four in the morning.

And despite the way you insisted it wasn’t true, Sam knew your parents didn’t like him. He’d probably be seeing the barrel of your mom’s revolver before he saw her smile at him.

(“It’s not smart to be telling people the code to your house alarm.”

You laugh in that girly way you do sometimes. Sam imagines you twirling the coiled wire of your phone cord and his throat runs dry.

“Come on. It’s just you, Sam. And how else are you going to sneak into my house?”

Your parents change the code to disarm the alarm every two weeks as a precautionary measure, and you never forget to update him everytime it changes. Sam thinks it’s sweet, but the both of you know he’s barely lucky enough to get the time to call you. The stars would have to align for him to come visit.

“I’ll go in through your window,” Sam says.

There’s a small lift in your voice. “I’ll make sure to double check it’s not you when I throw a knife at the freak climbing up the side of my house.”)

Zero-five-zero-two-eight-three, you’d told him last week.

He’d gone silent on the other end when the numbers clicked in his mind — his birthday. The code to your house right now was his birthday.

Your dad had been too busy to set it, so you’d done it yourself, using the first six numbers that came to mind.

His birthday, apparently.

Sam tries not to think about it too hard.

But now he’s here, standing over your bed and trying not to pass out from exhaustion on your carpet.

Your room looks slightly different from the last time he visited. The walls are a new shade of your favorite color, and the old desk that was in the corner has been replaced with a vanity. There’s pictures of your hometown friends pinned all around the glass, but there’s a few photos he does recognize.

One is from your ninth birthday. Dean had smashed your cake in your face, as expected from the then thirteen-year-old, and you’d clocked him with your fist a second after. The photo was taken post-punch, and you’re grinning through the frosting on your eyes while Dean clutches his face.

The other picture is of you and him from when you were both about twelve. He’s sitting between your legs, laying against your stomach with your American Girl doll in his lap. He’s braiding her hair using the instructions in an old book of yours, and you’d shoved the camera in his face before he could stop you. The photo captured him glaring into the lens of the camera, his thick brown hair pulled into two pigtails on top of his head.

It’s nearly cut out of the frame, but you’re smiling so hard behind him it makes your entire face light up. It’s one of Sam’s favorite pictures of you.

Now, you’re a lump on your full sized mattress, a new step up from your trusty twin bed. The blanket thrown over you has little flowers on it that match your bedsheets, which he already knows you’re very proud of. Still asleep, you roll over onto your back, and that exhaustion from earlier comes back with a vengeance.

Sam drops his jacket onto the heap of clothes on your chair and works to unzip his jeans before his legs give out.

If you were awake, you’d slap him on the back for that, a teasing grin on your face. “I would’ve brought some cash if I knew you were going to strip for me!” you would probably say, like a menace.

He can’t wait for you to wake up so you can annoy him even more.

Sam’s left in a pair of boxers and a baseball t-shirt from a supermarket in Pennsylvania, sweating even in your air conditioning. When he lifts the covers off the bed, he freezes.

You’re wearing a shirt he’d given to you as a souvenir a few months ago. A movie theater in Jersey they helped with their ghost problem gave them a free shirt in return. The cartoon penguin smiles at him now, balancing on one foot with his arms out, like he’s surfing. Sam smiles back while he settles in next to you.

Now that your bed is bigger, there’s more than enough room for the both of you, which is good since it’s so hot out. It means there’s no need to sleep piled up like you had to in the past.

…but Sam hasn’t seen you since that time your families had run into each other in New Mexico, and he hasn’t slept with you like this since you’d been home during your finals week a few months ago.

Under the eye of the penguin on your shirt, he slides one arm below your side pinned to the bed and uses it to pull you against him.

You complain up a storm, even asleep, but settle down quickly. He wonders if you’ll kick him in your sleep again, claiming you were dreaming of being a soccer player.

With your face pressed to the spot between Sam’s arm and shoulder, he listens intently to the nonsensical string of words you mumble out against his skin. Your musings only get more muffled as you press even further into him, throwing your arm over his torso and staying there.

Sam’s hand kindly soothes over your hip, where your shorts have little pink clouds printed on them.

“Woah,” you grumble, dragging out the word. Your hand flexes and then clenches into the fabric of his shirt. “Woah.”

His eyes dart to you embarrassingly fast, guilty for disturbing you but more than excited that you’re awake. Your voice always sounds sweeter in person than it does over the phone.

When he finds your face in the darkness, he realizes your eyes are still shut. Sam runs his hand up your side, warm with sleep. “Hey. You okay?”

Your mouth twitches into a frown. “My friend. My friend’ll do it.”

Oh, he realizes. You’re just sleep talking.

“Okay,” he answers quietly. He wants to hear your voice again, but he also wants you to go back to sleep. You only really mumble like this when you’re about to wake up from a dream. “Sorry,” Sam adds, though he’s not sure what for.

Your face screws up, but then you sigh sweetly against his chest. “Dean?”

(Even when Sam dreams of this, he still feels like you’ve beaten him over the head with that single word.)

You’re dreaming, all right. Of his older brother.

“You gotta get rid of it,” you complain, a pout pulling at your lips.

“He will,” Sam agrees, just to appease you. Thankfully, the worry lines on your face flatten out, and you move yourself even closer to him.

You’re quiet for a few seconds, so Sam closes his eyes, squeezing your shoulder in hopes you go back to sleep.

It doesn’t work, though.

You jolt up and practically launch yourself off the bed, nearly slipping on your hardwood floor before you grab onto your bedside table.

Sam calls for you, but you don’t seem to hear him, busy fumbling in the dark for the lightswitch. He leans over and flicks on the lamp, flooding your room with warm, yellow light. “You okay?” he asks.

The way you spin towards him is comically slow, like you’re being spun in a microwave. There’s a crease on your cheek from being pressed to your pillow for so long, and your eyes are barely open. Sam laments the heartbreaking fact that he can’t see you everyday.

Within the next second, he’s being flattened back against your pillows. You’re by his side so quickly, he’s half inclined to ask you if you’ve gained the ability to teleport.

He squeezes your hip. You take the hint and loosen your hug.

“Sam!” you say, at a volume much too loud for four in the morning. You don’t say anything when he tries shushing you, too busy flitting your hands over whatever parts of him they can reach, laughter spilling from your lips. “You’re here!”

“Took you long enough to realize,” he teases. “I could’ve been some kinda killer, and you would’ve gone on sleeping.”

“What kind of killer would have a face as sweet as yours?” You’re kneeling over him now, smiling so wide it makes Sam feel winded. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he says, matching your smile. “Do you wake up from all your dreams like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve been electrocuted.”

You smile. “I think my brain knew you were here. Made me wake up so I could say hi.”

Sam kisses your forehead. “Hi. Thank you to your brain.”

“Hi. And you’re welcome.”

The two of you sit like that for a little bit, taking in the sight of the other’s face for the first time in months. You seem to enjoy his new haircut, and he studies the new scar going down your bicep while you tell him the story about how you got it.

When the recount of how you were thrown out of a window starts turning into more yawns than words, he pulls you back down to the bed.

“How are you?” he asks, like he hadn’t just asked you that this morning.

Your tongue darts over your chapped lips. “Good. Missed you a lot,” you say, for the second time in the past five minutes.

“Your parents are—they’re good too?” he asks, stuttering over his words.

Whatever he feels for you gets stronger every day, but it’s only when he sees you again that he realizes just how much he likes you. He forces his eyes up from your lips and squeezes your side. Sam really wants to kiss you.

You nod, moving his arms around so you can cram yourself as close to him as the world and physics allows. “Yep. Yep, yep, yep. Your dad and Dean?”

Sam hums. “They’re fine. Didn’t even ask where I was going when I took off.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“I think they know by now. My dad asked about you on the drive back to the motel.”

You’re curled against his left side, your chin resting against his chest so you can stare up at him. It means that his next few intakes of breath have to be done with a lot of careful thought.

“Can I just come join you guys?” you ask, and Sam’s surprised he can’t hear any hint of a joke in your voice. “I’m sick of missing you all the time.”

He makes a fist, and uses his knuckles to drag circles over your back from the hills of your shoulder blades to the jut of your hip bones.

Sam laughs. “I don’t think you’d want that.” He can tell you’re about to argue until he adds, “Moving in with my dad, that is. You know what he’s like.”

“I’d put up with it for you, though,” you say honestly.

“He treats you like shit,” he stresses. “And he likes you. Maybe it’d be better if I moved in with you instead.”

You push yourself onto your forearm so you can give him a real serious look. There’s a sore spot on his cheek from where he’d gotten shoved into a wall by some spirit, and somehow, you know.

You caress his face, dragging the pads of your fingers over it. Sam makes a weird sound in his throat, something like a hiccup, and you thankfully don’t smile too hard about it.

Sam decides that it’s probably best for his health that you don’t see each other too often. He knows without a doubt that his heart would give out if he felt any stronger about you. He soaks up the warmth of your hand on his face before you let it drop to his collarbones.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You lean down to press a kiss to his cheek before shifting your face into his shoulder. “Just appreciating your pretty face. If you moved in, I think my parents would have your head on a stake by the end of the week.”

It startles a laugh out of him. He can’t quite look you in the eyes because you’re trying to hide from him, but he tries to anyway. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry!” you groan, using one of your free hands to push at his face. “I thought they liked you, I really did. But my mom found out what I changed the alarm code to and made me clean every single gun in that stupid closet.”

Cruel and unusual. “All ‘cause of me?”

You think long and hard about it. “I think it was part of it. She was also mad because I forgot to do the dishes last week, so it could’ve been that, too.”

Your parents have quite the array of weapons. The jacket closet turned armory in your living room has enough rifles to arm half the state of Kansas, and Sam thinks about what a sad sight it would’ve been: you on the floor with a cleaning rod in hand, and about fifty more handguns to wipe down.

“Poor girl,” he says, pulling your palm into his hand. He presses into the calluses you have from where your gun usually sits. “You didn’t suffer too much?”

“Nope,” you say, awfully cheerful. Your next blink is slower than the others, so he resumes his ministrations against your back. You go limp again. “Only cause I… knew you were coming over soon.”

His face warms, but he has to poke fun at you before he lets you fall asleep.

“Sam, my parents love you,” he mocks, letting his voice go quieter. “Come over for dinner, Sam. No, my parents won’t mind, they love having you over.” He smiles at you. “Must be why I gotta show up here before the sun is up, right?”

Your chest stutters before you laugh, which usually means you’re really embarrassed.

The dream ends when he takes pity on you and kisses the spots on your arms you tell him are aching from all your hard work.

—

Dean wakes up that morning to the sight of Sam hunched over the old table in the corner of the room. There’s a pile of newspapers at his feet and one in his hands, which he stares at so intently it looks like he’ll burn a hole through it.

“Y’know, if you keep scowling, your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Sam doesn’t grace him with a glance. It’s clear he’s been up for a few hours already. “I think I got something.”

—

Rachel Anderson and John Hansen were two college kids from the suburbs of Virginia. Both were from respectable families, both were straight A students, and both were well-loved by the community.

Two nights ago, John left family movie night to shoot himself in his backyard. And last night, Rachel drowned herself in her bathtub during a sleepover with her friends. In the center of their bedroom floors were identical suicide notes. Each in their own handwriting, but not a single difference in wording or sentence structure.

Sam has to park the car down the block when they arrive outside Rachel Anderson’s house. The street leading up to the building is lined with shiny new cars — Mercedes, Lexus, and BMW logos as far as the eye can see — making the Impala stick out like a sore thumb.

Dean cranes his neck to look up at the houses on the same street as the Andersons. Pretty suburban towns like these scare him a little more than he’s willing to admit.

He whistles. “Didn’t know they made BarbieLand a real place.”

Sam cracks a smile at that. “How many of these people do you think have a membership at that country club down the street?”

The two of them snicker all the way up to the front door. Sam knocks, his brother too busy looking around at the rest of the neighborhood.

“If any of your little college friends have houses as nice as these, maybe we should make a quick visit the next time we’re in California,” Dean jokes, eyeing a neighboring pool.

Sam stops rolling his eyes because the door swings open, and he plasters on his most sympathetic smile for whatever grieving family member is on the other side of the door.

It’s a guy about his age, wearing a crisp black sweater. The dark circles under his eyes make it clear he was close with Rachel — a man plagued with grief through and through.

“Hey,” Sam says. “This is Rachel’s house, right?”

The man flicks his eyes from Sam over to Dean, who’s only now looking away from the nice looking houses to join him at the front door.

“Yeah. This is it,” he answers, though he still doesn’t open the door fully. The three of them stare at each other for an awkward second before the guy clears his throat. “If you guys don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

“I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean,” he explains. “Me and Rachel had psych together. She saved my grade in that class last semester.”

Sam’s not surprised at how easy the lie rolls off his tongue. Lying is almost as important to the job as the guns in their trunk are.

The man, satisfied with the answer, lets the door creak open. “Oh, I see. I’m Will. Thanks for coming, you two. Everyone’s out in the backyard.”

A girl’s voice floats to the front door from somewhere nearby. “Will, is it Deb?”

William Anderson was mentioned in the article about Rachel’s death. He’s the girl’s older brother, who pivots to face the girl speaking from behind him.

“These are friends from Rachel’s psychology class,” he says, stepping out of the doorway.

Olivia Anderson was mentioned in the paper too. The youngest child of the family, just a year younger than her older sister. For a second, Sam thinks he’s hallucinating. She looks just like her and a little like Will too, down to their twin black sweaters.

A different voice responds, and something about it makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. “Psych class? Rachel didn’t—”

The closest Sam can get to describing this moment is like the seconds before a spirit manifests. His heart kicks up a little bit quicker. Alarms ring in his head, and the area around the Andersons’ front door turns electrified.

It’s you.

You get pulled into view by Olivia Anderson, a deer caught in headlights wearing your own matching black sweater.

Sam doesn’t want to blink, certain that your face will shift and it’ll be some sick trick of the light. A dream haunting him even while he’s awake.

“Rachel didn’t what?” Will asks, not suspicious, just curious.

Your mouth opens and closes, like you’re fumbling for something to say, and Sam doesn’t blame you.

For one, you’re going to lie for them. Both him and Dean are beginning to realize that Rachel didn’t take a psychology class at all, and you’re trying to figure out how to twist your sentence into an excuse that makes sense.

And two… you’re standing in front of your best friend who you haven’t spoken to in four years. Sam isn’t surprised that you have nothing to say to him.

“Rachel didn’t like anything about that class,” you decide on, your eyes shifting from Sam to Dean then back again.

You swallow hard. It looks like you’ve—

“—seen a ghost?” you ask, grinning.

The duffel bag in Sam’s hands hits the motel floor, but he’s too stunned to even wince at the sound.

“Looking a little scared there, Sammy,” you tease, pushing yourself off of the old bed in the center of the room. “A little old, too, honestly—”

He’s crossed the room before you can finish your sentence.

You squeak at the impact, your arms being crushed to your sides with the way he captures you in a hug. The two of you stumble two big steps back so you don’t tip over.

“You’re here,” Sam says, like he can’t quite believe it. You manage to work your arms away from your body so you can hug him too. “What are… How did you—”

“Dean finally remembered my phone number,” you joke, squeezing him with a big smile on your face. “I know you guys have to drive out early tomorrow — uh, I guess today, actually — but you know I had to come see you on your birthday, Sam. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”

It’s seven minutes past midnight on the second day of May.

Sam Winchester is eighteen.

“You’re here,” he repeats. He doesn’t bother trying to wipe the smile off his face. “I can’t believe it.”

When Dean had clapped him on the back and told him he’d booked him an extra room for his birthday, Sam was shocked. Birthdays weren’t anything special to either of them, so he’d been thankful, but also very confused. Buying another motel room wasn’t cheap, yet he’d done it anyway.

From the adjoining room next door, Sam’s sure his brother has a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s probably going to hold this over his head forever, claiming how much of a great brother he is, and Sam will let him.

He hasn’t seen you in four months. He thinks he might throw up.

“You drove here all by yourself?” Sam asks you, once the two of you have settled on the bed. He takes a seat cross-legged and both of you pretend like you’re not about halfway into his lap.

“Yep,” you say proudly. “Dean had to teach me how to parallel park over the phone so I would have my license in time.”

Sam’s heart swells ten sizes. “Thank you. I can’t believe you came out all this way.”

You hit him on the shoulder. “Of course. You’re my best friend, did you really think I was gonna miss your eighteenth birthday?”

He leans in close enough to the point that it’d be easy to kiss you. So, so, so easy.

He doesn’t, though, and you don’t push it. You reach for one of his hands in his lap and trace over the ridges of his knuckles, a little smile on your face.

His hair has finally recovered from the Nair that Dean had put in his shampoo a while back, so it hangs just over his eyebrows and curls around his ears again. You blow the brown locks out of his eyes and then smile a little wider.

“I have a gift for you.”

You slink out of his lap, and Sam tries not to frown when you get up to grab your backpack. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Stop worrying,” you chastise, dropping your bag onto the bed to look through. “I’m your actual birthday gift. This one’s just extra, so it’s nothing fancy.”get

“You being here is worth more than any fancy thing you could've bought me at a store,” he says, and you brush his hair from his face affectionately.

“I’m happy you think so, Sammy.”

Too wrapped up in the sight of your smile, he forgets to say something about the dumb nickname.

“I got this from the grocery store down the street before you got here.” It’s wrapped in the plastic bag you’d bought it in, but Sam takes it from your hands like it’s made of gold. “Consider this one… supplemental.”

You huddle close while he takes the gift out of the bag and reads it.

“Thirteen Ghosts,” he says, flipping the DVD case over in his hands.

“Figured we could watch a movie together.” You poke his side. “See how funny they make their monsters look.”

This isn’t the first time you and Sam have watched a movie together. There was that one time when you’d watched Notting Hill on your couch, but your parents kept giving him warning looks from in the kitchen and he’d made sure to keep the bowl of popcorn and half of the couch between you two.

And Sam will always hold some level of respect for your parents because they’re your parents, but he could not be more glad to be hundreds of miles away from them right now. Because the second that he comes back from popping the DVD into the player, you’re very kindly asking to spoon, and Sam is not well known for being able to say no to you.

You tuck yourself against his front, and he slips his arms around your middle. You trap his hands there by slotting yours together, tracing over the lines on his hands like a palm reader. Sam watches you while you watch the movie, pretending to follow along with the dialogue and your whispered commentary.

The lights of the TV flicker on the side of your face as you poke fun at the actors, and he’s hit with a wave of anticipatory sadness. Sam prays to whoever’s listening that he never falls asleep. Prays this night lasts forever, and that you don’t have to go home and he doesn’t have to leave in the morning. If the rest of his life is bad horror movies and sleeping next to you, he’d die happy.

You laugh at something that jumps on the screen, and Sam can’t help himself anymore.

When he says your name, he practically winces hearing the sound of his own voice. It’s shaky and nervous, and you shift to look at him with concern in your eyes. One of the actresses screams on screen, and you squeeze his hand that you still haven’t let go of.

“You okay? Did you wanna turn the TV off?”

“I love you.”

You turn to face him completely, and Sam Winchester, the luckiest eighteen-year-old in the world, is able to watch the smile light up your eyes.

You let go of him to hold his face, like he’s something to be treasured. “I love you too, S—”

“—am, and I’m Dean,” his brother says, offering his hand for you to shake.

Your grip looks solid when you reach across the threshold of the Anderson house to take his hand in yours, as if you’re meeting him for the first time.

The whole thing feels like a nightmare.

It’s unnatural to watch your tight lipped smile and awkward shuffling while you stare blankly at Dean. You let go of his hand like he hasn’t pulled you off your couch and taught you how to dance in the middle of your living room. Like he hasn’t let you finish the rest of his food at rundown diners just because you ate yours too fast.

You turn to Sam next, and his stomach does a backflip.

Four years was a long time.

Sam knows he’s not the same person who left you on your front porch. He’d held you for longer than usual that day, and left you with a promise to visit that he hadn’t meant.

He doesn’t think you’re the same girl who was left there either. You look different. A little older, a little more mature.

(At eighteen, you would’ve given him a nasty look for that. “Older? You can’t say that to a girl, Sam.”

“I said you looked older, not old!” he would’ve defended frantically. “There’s a difference!”

“Why the hell would I want to be told I look older, you jerk!”)

And he loves you, but it’s true. You look older, but it means you look as lovely as ever. Grown into yourself and radiant in ways you hadn’t been at eighteen. You look like you’re glowing.

Your hair is also done in a way you never liked to do by yourself. He knows it for a fact, because you’d always complain to him over the phone about it, wondering how he was able to do it for you so nicely.

(He’d always said it was because he was patient and you were clearly not, but it was mostly because he’d practiced it on your old dolls a bunch of times before he’d asked to do it on you.)

Your hair now looks nicer than anything Sam could’ve done for you. He wonders if you did it yourself—if you had to learn because he wasn’t around anymore, and was never coming back.

Sam wants to tell you that he’s missed you, and that there hasn’t been a day he hasn’t thought of you.

He wonders what you would say. He wonders if you'd sound the same, and he’d be able to tell, ‘cause of how often he plays your old voicemails over when he misses you. He remembers just how you would sound when you were laughing and remembers precisely how much slower you would speak when you were upset.

You don’t extend your hand for him to shake, and Sam’s left to wonder if your hands would still feel the same in his.

And when he meets your eyes, he reads the hurt written all over your features. Hurt that he put there. Hurt that’s probably healed over in the last four years, leaving a nice long scar he’s sliced open again just now.

You nod at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

He digs his fingers into his palms. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

notes: the party ended four years ago and she JUST GOT HERE!!!! LMAO ive been infected with the sam winchester virus but who can blame me look at his face

let me in (don't give in)

warnings/tags: minors DNI, movie/book spoilers probably, capitol!reader, semi unreliable narrator!reader, daddy issues!reader, established!coriolanus, weirdo!coriolanus, obsession, manipulation, minor but effective drugging, power imbalance, abuse of power, forced intimacy, stalking, these tags are not exhaustive word count: 9.7k (LMFAO) summary: Coriolanus’ eyes have always been bigger than his stomach can handle. 

divider by @/cafekitsune I think this might be the most insane run I've done on a character. definitely up there with writing 60k words for rafe lmfao. this is the last of the trifecta of readers that haunted me <3

You remember his face from the Academy orientation video. 

He’s grown in notoriety since then but you have never forgotten the awkward stretching of his fingers nor the misplaced arrogance of his intonations. 

His hair is lighter and cooler in tone, a stark contrast to the waxy yellow he sported in the video. His eyes remain the piercing blue you know them to be. His arrogance is natural now too, an unconscious thing rather than the conscious mask he had to step into as he did in the Academy. 

You tear your attention away from him. Casiphia will be disappointed. She was always fond of how pitiful he looked, especially in his ill-fitting clothes. 

You have no strong opinion on Coriolanus Snow. He is four years your senior so you have never been given the chance to cross paths with him in an academic setting. It mattered not as his influence remained a festering wound in both the Academy and the University. 

As heir to the Plinth fortune, he is considered a dutiful one. You’ve seen glimpses of him around the office. Despite Mr. Plinth’s intentions on allowing Coriolanus the choice of taking over his business or finding his place within the Gamemakers, it is clear Mr. Plinth harbors a shameful relief at Coriolanus’ competency. 

You excuse yourself from the corner you and your peers have secluded yourselves to. You haven’t bothered to engage as you should during this dinner party, more concerned with making an appearance than leaving an impression. You wave off Nerina’s offer to join you with a shake of your head and a smile. The smile drops as soon as your back faces them and you fight the urge to rub at your tired eyes. 

It doesn’t take long for you to find the balcony. The air is chilly but it is a welcome reprieve from the stuffy dining hall of the Byzans home. You search through your pockets and locate your pack of cigarettes and lighter. It is a vice your father has unfortunately passed onto you.

You cover the lighter with your other hand, hissing when you the flame catches the tip of your thumb. Smoking is not something you indulge in often if at all but having so many University alums in the same room makes your skin crawl. 

Leaning over the railing, you look over the city. It is nearly midnight and yet the city is fully lit in preparation for the Victory Tour. 

Human memory is fleeting because how can you have already forgotten what life was like before these Victory Tours? What did the Capitol do before the Hunger Games became the spectacle they now are? 

You take a long drag and hold it in your lungs until it aches fiercely. Then you slowly exhale. You plan on heading out soon seeing as you have accomplished what you needed.

A shoe scuffs the floor behind you. His scent gives him away before his voice.

Roses.

“Oh. I didn’t realize someone was already out here.” 

You turn around. Coriolanus stands behind you, adjusting the cuffs on his jacket. His hairline is slightly sweaty and the dark circles under his eyes are heightened in this shadowed lighting. But you are searching for imperfections so you’re sure everyone else sees him as the composed man he sets out to appear as. 

“I was just about to leave so it’s all yours,” you say with a false sweet smile. 

His eyes flicker to your barely started cigarette. “No, sorry, I interrupted you.” But he makes no move to step back into the home. 

“You can join me. I don’t mind.” The lie is automatic. You can’t imagine Coriolanus wants something from you but then again, there is always something to be gained even from the most insignificant of people. 

He moves forward until he’s near you. With the way he keeps looking at your cigarette, you are tempted to offer him one. But you don’t. He can ask if he wants one so bad.

He wraps his fingers around the railing. “I’ve seen you around Strabo’s office,” he says after a moment. You don’t miss how he purposefully uses Mr. Plinth’s first name. A stupid power play considering everyone knows of the relationship between the two. “Which I must say, I’m surprised by.” 

You know what he’s not saying but you won’t make it easy for Coriolanus. “The pay is surprisingly better than the offer I got from Baycroft,” you shrug, tapping out some of the ashes. 

“Baycroft tends to overpay,” he says thoughtfully. “Strabo isn’t exactly a generous man so it’s a curious thing he went out on such a limb for you.”

You think it’s mighty generous for Mr. Plinth to bankroll the Snow family but what do you know? “Is it though?” you ask. You hold the cigarette daintily between your fingers. His eyes are drawn to the imprint of your lips on the filter.

Your father’s hatred of Strabo Plinth is an ill-kept secret. He’s of the belief no one from the Districts should be able to buy themselves a ticket to the Capitol. New money meant a chance at District citizens supplanting those from the Capitol. Worse yet, if the newcomers could accumulate enough wealth to buy their way in, what would be left for those of old money? Were they to become subservient to those who have only just learned how sweet it is to be drunk on money and power? 

For your father, he knew the Plinths were a rarity. But setting such a precedent is dangerous and must be culled before it begins to infect those stupid enough to think they are of the same caliber as those in the Capitol. 

Your father is old-fashioned to a detrimental fault. The bastard. 

Coriolanus urges you on with a slight jerk of his head. His fingers loosen on the railing. 

“We both get to piss off my dad. I’d say that’s worth more than the salary Mr. Plinth is giving me,” you say, grinning at him. “‘Sides, Mr. Plinth is a decent boss. I have to work twice as hard but it’s better than being fired for answering a question wrong.”

“Your father did that?” Coriolanus asks. He’s not aghast as most are when you reveal that little tidbit of your dad. A frigid curiosity coats his voice. The wheels in his head are turning and not in your favor most likely. 

You count on your fingers. “Yeah. Six times.” Definitely a Father of the Year candidate. 

Most people don’t know this. He told everyone you wished to have multiple industries under your belt before you came back to the family company. You scoff internally at the memory. As if you of all people need the resume boost. 

“I should probably sell his secrets to Mr. Plinth.”

Coriolanus shakes his head. “Your dad would retaliate until nothing is left of Strabo.”

“He could cripple him if he wanted,” you agree. Your father had the means in which to take Mr. Plinth down from the inside if he so wished. But it would be meaningless if your father had to orchestrate his downfall rather than let Mr. Plinth’s luck run out. “But that’s not fun for my dad.”

“Your dad is not nearly as clever as you think.” It’s said as the fact it is. Your father likes the idea of being clever but he is much like a toddler who has found out they can lie. You know of it but you didn’t think Coriolanus knew your father well enough to analyze him to such a degree. 

Now you turn to him fully. He’s angled his body towards you this whole time so he’s already facing you. “You’ve met him,” you realize. And then, “Mr. Plinth was okay with that?” 

He laughs patronizingly. “He’s like a father to me but he’s not my father. And your father has some good ideas sometimes.” His tongue presses against the back of his teeth, a sarcastic leaving him. “He’s also one of our biggest donors so.” Coriolanus shrugs in a what-can-you-do manner. 

It is true your father loves the Hunger Games. Every year he hosts a watch party and celebrates each brutal kill with glee. Once the Games took off in popularity, your father funneled money into the development of the Gamemaker apprentices. The more brutal the Games the better in his eyes. Thankfully, most of the Capitol has a limit to what they can withstand in the name of entertainment. 

You take a drag. The smoke curls into your lungs, blanketing the awkwardness beginning to cement itself within you as Coriolanus lingers. Surely he has better things to do than entertain you. Many came to this dinner in the hopes they could have a chance at gaining Corionlanus’ attention even if for just a moment.

He intercepts your cigarette when you go to take another drag. The cloying scent of roses mixes in with the ashy smell of smoke. It isn’t as unpleasant as one might think. 

You almost ask if he smokes, being under the belief he thinks it below his station, when you catch how his lips wrap around the filter. He’s placed his mouth perfectly over the stain of your lips. 

A knot forms in your stomach.

“Did you win any bets?” he asks. To his credit, he sounds genuinely interested to hear your answer. 

You watch as Coriolanus breathes in the cigarette. The corners of his mouth twitch when it stings and you look to the sky as a mercy. The smoke billows out until it dulls the stars above. “No, I don’t usually bet. Did you?” 

A shadow of your lipstick darkens the center of his lips.“No. It’s considered a conflict of interest,” he says. It’s crossed your mind a couple of times whether or not the Gamemakers rig the Games for a specific outcome. His response neither confirms nor denies your suspicions. “You don’t bet?”

“I’m an unlucky person,” you say simply. 

He drops his voice as if to let you in on a secret. Handing you the cigarette, he says, “I’m no fortune teller but I can say it is a good choice to root for District 1. Usually.”

“No way? Are you allowed to tell me this?” 

Your jaw drops dramatically. But Coriolanus doesn’t know you and he thinks you’re serious for a brief flash of discomfort crosses his face at having to explain to you how the Districts are split in strength. You almost let him but decide to save yourself the condescending lecture. 

You drop the scandalized look to Coriolanus’ relief. “I’ve never won anything when it came to luck and I would really prefer not to try my chances with a tribute,” you say. “It also makes watching the Games with others really annoying.” 

His expression clears. “Sore loser?” he prods, mostly teasing but partly surprised. 

“The sorest,” you confirm. You stub the butt of the cigarette into your wrist. The pain barely registers. “Sometimes, it’s hard to watch the Games all the way through,” you muse. The nicotine is making your head fuzzy. 

“Is it not entertaining enough for you?” Coriolanus asks. The press of his lips is cordial but the unnatural tilt of his head unnerves you. 

You consider how you will answer. As Coriolanus is a part of the Gamemakers, you are sure he has a vested interest in any critiques you may have. In the same breath, he might think you rebellious for not finding the Capitol’s favorite past time as enjoyable as it is supposed to be. Your life is not yet so boring you find a thrill in watching children kill each other. 

“No. I just have a bad attention span,” you say, glancing at him. The tension leaks from his face. “You guys should implement a highlight reel at the end of each night.” You don’t know how anyone spends all day with the Games as their background noise but there have been stranger things. When you worked for your dad, lunches were spent discussing strategies the tributes should be utilizing as if survival wasn’t paramount. You’ll never forget the boos around the office when the 14th games ended with a singular spear to the heart. 

“He couldn’t have bludgeoned him? The axe was right there.” 

Coriolanus hums, interested. “That could work.” His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, disrupting the lipstick you’ve left behind. “It might change the minds of who some people will bet for. Keep some of the tributes fresh in their minds.”

You have to laugh. Of course everything ties back to this. Without sponsors and bettings, the Games can only go so far. Coriolanus certainly found his niche. But even by victors are victories undone. 

“You know what? Just for you, I’ll bet on a tribute for the next Games,” you say, dragging your words out playfully.  

He smiles, ducking his head a bit. It would be endearing if you didn’t find him so starved of something only he knew. Hunger is never a good look on anyone. “You’ll have to let me know the outcome.” 

“Mm, I’ll make sure to ring Dr. Gaul.” 

“Or,” and he sidles up next to you, “You could ring me directly.” 

It will be much too awkward to reject Coriolanus as he expectantly hands you his phone. You type in your number and he calls you the second the contact saves. Your phone vibrates against your thigh. The intensity in his too blue eyes doesn’t lessen until you bring out your phone to show you received his call. 

Your phone feels heavier with the addition to your contact list. Never did you think you’d get Coriolanus Snow’s number. 

Maybe you’ll give it to Casiphia for the right price.  

-

“You didn’t call.” 

Your nearly crack your pen between your teeth. Your manager didn’t notice the discrepancy in the output of equipment in one of the smaller producer buildings and you have been trying to trace where the excess could have gone. The numbers are still running in your head when you look up to see Coriolanus in front of your desk. 

There’s a crease between his brows despite the pleasant smile on his face. It takes you a too long second to understand what he is referencing. 

“Thought the offer was for the next Games?” you say, raising your eyebrows.

His smile strains. “Well, I thought you’d want to discuss strategy.”

“Wouldn’t that be considered a conflict of interest?”

“Mm. You can take it as picking the mind of a strategist rather than a Gamemaker.” 

“Would that hold up in court?” 

At this, Coriolanus laughs. “Ah, maybe you’re right. Especially considering I passed your idea along to the Head Gamemaker and he might think I’m trying to reward you.” 

You click your pen. “What idea?” Were cigarettes going to be used in the donation system for the next Games? 

Coriolanus gives you a long look, a trace of surprised irritation sparking in his eyes. “The highlight reel. It makes sense for us to upload one rather than assume the viewers will seek out whatever they missed. People are busy.” He nods at your bare desk. “Like you.” 

It is almost lunch time and you have finished all of your work for the day. Which is why you’ve taken to look over Criston’s work. Family connections can get you far but they cannot make you a responsible nor smart worker. 

You place your chin on your fist. “I’m glad you recognize how hard of a worker I am.” You wink at him. “Be sure to pass that on to Mr. Plinth.” 

“Where would he be without you?” Coriolanus teases. His mouth opens to say something else but he’s interrupted by the sound of his name. 

“Coryo!” 

Mr. Plinth’s normally emotionless voice warms at the arrival of his pseudo-son. He hugs Coriolanus briefly, hand splayed against his back. Coriolanus returns the hug albeit stiffly. 

You avert your gaze and go back to the report in front of you. The amount of red marks is alarming and with Mr. Plinth so close, you flip over the page. You brace your elbow on the papers and wait for them to leave. 

“Join us.”

Mr. Plinth shoots Coriolanus a strange frown but Coriolanus ignores him and gestures to you. 

“You’re done for the day aren’t you?” 

You click your pen. Coriolanus is an odd man. His questions are never framed as questions. “I would hate to impose,” you decline, waving your hand. 

“You wouldn’t be imposing.”

You look to Mr. Plinth for help. But his eyes are not on you. His frown has gotten deeper, pulling his brows forward until they’re nearly touching. He’s looking at Coriolanus as if he’s never seen him before. 

“It isn’t a bother,” Mr. Plinth says after a moment. “Come.”

And left with no other choice, you take Coriolanus’ proffered hand and follow him out of the building. It may be an insensitive comparison but you liken this to how the tributes feel when they are first released into the arena. 

Certainty echoes your steps but it’s anyone’s guess as to what your body is telling you you are certain about. 

-

Lunch is not the awkward affair you assumed it will be. 

Coriolanus makes sure to loop you into his conversations with Mr. Plinth. And Mr. Plinth finds a way to brag about Coriolanus any chance he gets. It’s sweet except for how grief-stricken it leaves Mr. Plinth. 

“You know, I’m so proud of Coriolanus.” 

You look up from your plate. Mr. Plinth has his fingers and thumb pressed against the corners of his mouth. He’s tired, gaunt shadows making him look older. “To come as far as he has all on his own is incredible.”

You chance a quick peek at Coriolanus. Neither pride nor embarrassment wash over his expression. He continues eating as if Mr. Plinth isn’t doling out praise. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you and Mrs. Plinth helping me out,” Coriolanus says modestly. “Tigris too.” 

The afterthought of his cousin settles uncomfortably in your ears. As if the admission is a sore spot for him, one he hasn’t learned to stop pressing. 

Mr. Plinth waves away his words. “You were the top of your class long before we were involved. Not to mention the—“ Here is where his voice cracks. You avert your eyes, opting to push your food around on the plate as he gathers himself. He is a stoic man but memories of Sejanus disarm him. It’s painful to look at grief to begin with but the moments when you’re reminded that Mr. Plinth was once a father who loved his son above all, you can only suck in a breath and hope your own loss doesn’t show. 

“It is hard to be displeased with someone like Coriolanus,” you interrupt gently. “He’s all the professors and students talked about at the University.” 

The Snow name was tattered but now, hardly anyone can remember a time when the name Coriolanus Snow wasn’t revered. It isn’t a surprise he was a favorite amongst many. 

“Did they?” Coriolanus looks amused at the revelation but unsurprised. 

You spear a potato. “Mm hmm. Your projects were always our examples. Dr. Gaul could do nothing but laude you.” You were infinitely pleased to find out about her passing last year. Good riddance. 

“She was an excessive woman,” Coriolanus says politely. 

You make a face. “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.” 

“Oh? You weren’t a fan?” 

Mr. Plinth frowns. “Didn’t she try to recruit you?”

You shudder at the reminder. Her lab is something you wish you could scrub from your brain. “Yeah but it was courtesy. I said no. Clearly.” 

Coriolanus shakes his head, rubbing his hands on his napkin. “It wasn’t courtesy. It was your essay.” 

You turn to him. You knew he was directly beneath her but for Coriolanus to be vetting her future apprentices as well…it startles you to find out how integral he was to this woman so early on in his career. “She told you?” 

Coriolanus dips his chin. “I’m the one who read it and gave it to her.” 

“Wow, she had someone like you doing her grunt work. That’s impressive.” 

Irritation clenches his jaw before he forcefully relaxes. “I was impressed by it. While not a unique understanding of the Games, you were insightful.”

Mr. Plinth looks lost and you do not wish to clear the confusion on his face. Your essay was meant to be seen by the most hateful woman in Panem and then to be discarded. 

You take a sip of your water. Noticeably, none of you have ordered any alcohol. “You’re making me feel embarrassed,” you say without shyness. “If I had known you were reading it, I definitely would’ve written something else.”

“Like?” Coriolanus presses. 

“Probably more of a focus on the Games’ mechanics themselves rather than the tributes. Oh, and I would’ve definitely read it over another time because admittedly, I did not edit the essay before I turned it in.” 

“Mm but that wouldn’t have been as good of an essay,” Coriolanus chides. His eyes are bright. “But it doesn’t matter. You didn’t take the apprenticeship.” 

You laugh. “I would’ve been ill suited so I thought I’d save you guys the grief of firing me.” 

“Lucky us,” Mr. Plinth mutters. 

“You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy cussing my father out when you hired me?” you ask him in disbelief. 

He rolls the memory in his head then nods. “It was a perk,” he admits. 

“It all worked out then, didn’t it?” you say, satisfied. 

Coriolanus stares at you and says with a tight smile, “That it did.” 

Eventually, Mr. Plinth is called in and leaves Coriolanus and you to enjoy the rest of lunch. The heaviness in the air dissipates by his departure. But it is quickly leveled with how off kilter Coriolanus makes you feel. 

“We should head out,” you say. As much as it pains you to decline dessert, you know it is for the best. Continuing to scramble to find things to talk about with Coriolanus will make your head explode. 

He smooths his hands over his slacks. “I’ll call a driver.” 

Coriolanus helps you out of your chair. His hand rests on the small of your back. He’s much larger than you realize and the expanse of his palm makes your stomach flip. He leads you out the door, sliding that same palm to curl his fingers around your hip. The casual intimacy makes you sick. 

The two of you are waiting outside for a minute before a dreadful downpour begins. Rain blurs your vision almost instantaneously and you struggle to blink them away. You take your phone out to look at the weather app. 

“Ugh, it’s going to rain all night. There’s no—” You cut yourself off as you look up. 

Coriolanus stops shielding himself to offer his arms as a pseudo-umbrella over you. The rain cascades from his hair to drip onto his suit. The ends of his hair are beginning to curl and you have the sudden sinking feeling that you find him hotter when disheveled. 

“Oh, there’s the car,” he says, tugging you close to him. You’re too frazzled by your revelation to escape his hold and let him drag you into the car. Your clothes stick uncomfortably to your skin. Already a chill begins to cling to you. 

“My house is closer,” Coriolanus says. Without waiting, he tells the driver to reroute. 

“Ah, my place is actually right around—”

The driver takes the opposite turn. 

“Oh.” 

Coriolanus puts his hand to your forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” 

You shake it off. “I’m fine, I think. What about you?” 

Undeterred, he brings your hand to his forehead, flatting his one over yours. “Do I feel warm?” 

His eyes are too blue, you think. The sort an apex predator has. 

“A little bit,” you croak but you don’t know if it’s because of your blood heating or because Coriolanus is actually beginning to feel the affects of his rain soaked clothes. 

Thankfully, you arrive at his house and are able to scramble out of the car before he can offer his help. There is a butler waiting outside, warmed towels prepared as soon as you get to the door. 

There’s a flurry of movement as the maids lead you to a room and have you strip off your soggy clothes. You don’t realize just how severely the wet clothes sapped you of your warmth until you’re able to slip into something warm and dry. The maids help to dry your hair, fussing over you until you can feel the blood circulating in the tips of your fingers again. 

It takes you a few minutes to convince the maids you are fine before they take you to the living room. Coriolanus has changed as well, though the dip in his linen shirt has you looking everywhere but at his chest. 

“Thank you,” you say to one of the maids when she straightens your shirt. She nods and quickly leaves. 

Glancing down at yourself, you can’t believe Coriolanus gives you one of his sleeping shirts. You can’t imagine him in something so informal. The soft cotton shorts are Tigris’ you assume but they’re strangely the perfect fit. 

It feels wrong to have on something so casual in front of Coriolanus. An uncomfortable intimacy in the action. 

You pick at the thinning edge as he putters around the room for the remote. A random drama lights up the screen and you recognize it as the penultimate episode of the one you usually keep in the background whenever you’re reading. 

The maid drops off the tea. She won’t meet your eyes and scuttles away as soon as Coriolanus crosses the room to retrieve it from the table. He pours the scalding liquid into the tea cup and adds the correct amount of sugar to your taste. He brings it over to you. His hand darts out to block yours when it looks like the tea will spillover but it manages to stay contained. 

You want to laugh. He took a page out of your playbook. You did the same for Mr. Plinth years ago when he visited your family’s home to make nice with your father. He hated how sweet you were because it cost him the mistake of thinking your father might be reasonable. 

“Thanks,” you say, accepting the tea cup. It’s hot enough the handle is warm. The saucer nearly scalds your skin. 

He pours his own cup before joining you. His thigh is pressed against yours but he keeps his arms to himself. You try to shift to the side but Coriolanus spreads his legs out. 

“I wasn’t expecting the rain to be so bad,” he says. He’s still drying his hair with a towel and you can see the curls beginning to dry on his hairline. The strands are shiny under the light and look soft to the touch. 

You shove your hand underneath your thigh. You take a deep drink from your cup, uncaring of how the liquid practically burns your throat. “It hasn’t rained like this in a while, huh?” 

“Are you warm enough?” he asks. His head turns as if to snap at a maid to bring in another blanket but you cut him off. 

“I’m fine. The tea is helping.” 

He scrutinizes you but accepts your refusal. “Let me know if you start to feel sick.”

“I’ll be fine! The rain can’t get you sick anyway.” 

He uses the back of his hand against your forehead again. His hand is comfortably cool against your skin. “It certainly doesn’t help.” 

You yawn. Your eyes water from the strength of it and you try to blink away your sudden tiredness. “I just need a couple of minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Coriolanus hums. “There’s no rush. Why don’t you stay for dinner?” 

His face swims in your vision. The blues of his eyes are all you’re able to make out with pinpoint accuracy before you fall asleep. 

You wake up with bleary eyes. A weight is on your shoulder and fine hair tickles your cheek. When you fail to recognize the room, embarrassed panic wells up inside of you. You shoot off the couch, nearly tangling yourself with the blanket placed over you. 

Coriolanus jumps at your sudden movement. His leaned over body topples onto the couch in your absence. He says your name, bewildered. 

“I am so sorry,” you say, horrified. You can’t believe you fell asleep on his couch. “I must’ve been more tired than I thought. Doing nothing really takes a lot out of you, huh?” You try to laugh. It’s strained. Ugh, what an impression to leave. “I should head out.” 

“You can stay the night,” Coriolanus blurts out. His hair is in disarray and there’s a crease mark across his cheek. 

“I’ve already overstayed my welcome. Thank you for letting me,” you pause. “Um. Sleep. And drool all over your very fancy cushions. And for the shirt. I’ll make sure to wash it.” 

“It’s no bother,” he says faintly. His hand is reached out as if to grab you back but then he curls in his fingers and brings his arm to his side. “But at least stay for dinner. Grandma’am has already seen you and she won’t take no as an answer.” 

As if summoned by the mere mention of her name, his grandmother comes into the room. She’s a rush of words and has you following her into the dining room with nary a peep from you. Twenty seconds in her presence and you are already exhausted. 

You give Coriolanus a pleading look but all he does is shrug. He leans down until his lips brush against your ear. “Best to go along with what she wants.” 

You go to pinch him but your arm protests. Grimacing, you adjust your hand until the ache evaporates. You must have slept on your hand wrong if your wrist is this sore.

The twinging pain doesn’t disappear until a few days later. 

-

Somehow, Coriolanus manages to be wherever you are. 

You wonder if he has a job. And then you wonder if Gamemaking is as rigorous as they like you to believe if Coriolanus is able to find himself haunting your routine. 

“Does it really make that much of a difference?” Coriolanus asks. 

You turn the apple in your hand. It’s fragrant but the fruit caves in when you apply the littlest amount of pressure. It won’t do. “Probably not. But to me it does,” you ask, putting the apple down. 

He’s carrying the rest of the ingredients. It bothers him but he has to tolerate it. He’s the one who insisted on joining you when he ran into you in front of the grocery store. You almost turned on your heel when he called out to you. It is unnatural to see Coriolanus grocery shopping for himself. It is beneath him. 

“Tigris was asking if you’d come to dinner tonight.” 

Imperceptibly, your fingers pause as you pick a different apple. The past few weeks, you have found yourself eating dinner at the Snow home more often than not. Coriolanus has a way of forcing your hand. Your dormant social etiquette skills resurface when his expectant eyes turn to you. You can hear your father’s voice in the back of your head berating you for letting the thought of saying no cross your mind when it comes to Coriolanus. 

But enough is enough. It feels as if Coriolanus is in your peripheral vision at all times, waiting for a misstep to take advantage of. 

“I can’t.” 

You take the rest of your groceries from Coriolanus, a meager supply since you are making an apple pie. Or tart. Or galette. You haven’t decided yet and you do not want input from Coriolanus either. 

“Do you have other plans?” he asks, easily matching your pace as you head to the cashier. 

It’s a quick transaction with minimal pleasantries. Usually, you’d be glad for it but right now, you wish the cashier had drawn you into some inane conversation to keep Coriolanus from breathing down your neck as he is. 

“Yeah.” 

He fights to keep his voice casual as he says, “With who?” 

It is so like him to think your rejection must be contingent on something else rather than you do not wish to spend anymore unnecessary time with him. 

You can’t lie because Coriolanus knows your friends. With the stars aligning to bring Coriolanus into every facet of your life, he has joined a few impromptu lunches, promptly charming your friends into asking you to bring Coriolanus around. 

“No one,” you answer honestly. The truth revolts in your mouth, sticking to the roof. 

“Then I’ll eat dinner with you. Tigris won’t miss us too much,” Coriolanus decides. He takes the bags from you as he speaks, holding them with one hand. The childish urge to tug the bags back eats at you. 

His words register. Ice begins to turn your blood into shards underneath your skin. You are hyper aware of how every nerve in your body frays at the thought of Coriolanus in your home. You have managed to avoid letting him visit through a myriad of excuses. Coriolanus’ favorite one is that you prefer his home over most places, chest puffing a bit in pride at your exuberant insistence at spending time there. 

“I think you should eat with Tigris. It has been a while since she’s seen you,” you say. You hope you don’t sound as panicked as you feel. 

“I see her all the time, she won’t mind,” he dismisses. 

Coriolanus takes a left. With no bags to keep you steady, you dig your fingers into the meat of your palms. You shouldn’t be surprised he knows were you live but it horrifies you all the same. 

“You don’t have to Coriolanus. I’ll be fine on my own. You don’t need to force yourself,” you say as you two stand in front of your gate. You don’t want to type in the code nor scan your eyes in front of him. 

He shifts the bags to his other hand. “I’m not forcing myself.” 

You’re forcing me.

You hesitantly go on your tiptoes to scan your eyes and then rapidly press the numbers of your code on the touchpad. Coriolanus doesn’t hide that he’s watching, taking in and memorizing one of your layers of safety. 

Coriolanus isn’t a bad guy. He’s charming and quick-witted to an extent. He’s also guarded and highly suspicious despite how friendly most people perceive him to be. You assume he likes your honesty and your lack of ambition when it comes to Capitol society. You have no desire to win over allies with the name backing you so you are free to flit in and out as you please. You can’t see why else he’d want to be your friend. 

He is not a spineless man but he is unassuming. He has a gift for making other’s believe they think him as wonderful as he is because that is simply who Coriolanus Snow is and not what he has to consciously slip into. You have been around men like him your whole life. You have no more need for the cutthroat. 

It feels like a concession when Coriolanus steps into your home. He takes off his shoes, taking it in. You aren’t embarrassed but it certainly pales in comparison to the opulence of the Snow home. 

His mouth rounds out to say the polite thing. You stop him. “Don’t.” 

“I was just going to say you did a good job,” Coriolanus defends innocently but the curl at the edge of his lips betrays him. “It’s so minimalistic.” He says it like a slur which is likely considering how disdainful Coriolanus is at covert shows of wealth. 

“I love how your glasses are—” He taps the side of the stray glass on top of your foyer table. It rings muddily. “So rustic.” 

“I never took you for annoying,” you say, snatching the glass from the table. You’re lucky he didn’t catch the minor crack on the rim. 

He follows you into the kitchen. His steps falter as he notices how cold your home is. There are no photos outside of the ones the frames came with. Your walls are bare of any personal touches and the decorations are straight from a catalogue. 

“You don’t take me for anything,” Coriolanus says. He’s factual and bland but a hurt anger belies the facade. 

The naked honesty punctures something in your gut. Guilt seeps into the wound like the beginning of an infection. “I don’t know what you mean,” you evade, turning to unpack the groceries he’s placed on the dining table. 

An apple begins to roll off of the table but Coriolanus catches it. He places it next to your hand, warmth emanating off of his chest and to your back. 

“I take you for exactly as you are.” 

Something scratches at the edges of your conscious, a misstep you are overlooking. You have treaded too far but you do not when you took the one step too many.

“I’m a bad friend to have Coriolanus,” you say finally. You turn, a little surprised at how he’s crowded into you. He’s dressed more casually than you’ve ever seen him and it bothers you to think it doesn’t suit him. Coriolanus is not a casual man and the attempt at being one is duplicitous. “I can’t give you what you want.” 

The companionship Coriolanus thinks he will receive from you doesn’t exist. Something went wrong with you along the way. Your broken heart was forced to heal itself around the cracks, suturing the wounds left by your father with what was left of your rotted love. You have nothing to give that Coriolanus can repurpose into something he needs. 

He smiles at you indulgently. “Maybe not now, but I know eventually you will.” 

-

“You’re up for a promotion.” 

Mr. Plinth straightens the papers in front of him with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. He is mirthless as he stares at you. You were half-convinced you were to be fired if it was Mr. Plinth calling you in but a promotion? Criston should be the one informing you of a potential jump in the hierarchy. He is your direct supervisor after all. 

“You’d be working as a VP of this branch.”

You straighten your already straight back. Mr. Plinth is very begrudging in his tolerance of you. You are the needed parts of your father, having the ruthlessness and savviness needed for business, but the rest of you is as different as can be. Mr. Plinth can’t fault you for your father’s sins try as he might and so, a reluctant liking of you is what his pride can afford. But even that allowance won’t allow you to rise the ranks like this. 

You have only been a senior analyst for three months. You still require oversight and handholding on the bigger projects. You are nowhere near where you need to be to take on a role like this. 

“Can I decline?” 

Mr. Plinth nods. “You can.”

“Then I’ll decline.” You wipe your hands off on your skirt, ready to get up from the chair when Mr. Plinth leans back in his cushioned seat, hands resting on his stomach.

“So we’ll be going with the lateral move then,” Mr. Plinth decides. 

“What?” 

“I know you purposefully underperform,” he says, unamused. “And while it is your choice to do so, it is unfortunately out of my hands to keep turning a blind eye to it.”

“You’re the boss, how is it out of your hands?” you gape. Is it really such a crime to want to do an easy job for a cushioned pay and not want to move up the ladder? At his sour mouth, you add on, “Mr. Plinth.” 

He sucks on his teeth, giving you a closed mouth smile. “I looked over Criston’s work.” Your cheek twitches. Oh no. “And it was one thing to see how much of a fucking idiot he is.” Mr. Plinth taps his fingers against his stomach. “But I come to find out you were the one saving his ass. You are doing him no favors by fixing his work behind his back.” 

He spreads his hands out. “So now, here we are. You have clearly outgrown your role as senior analyst but do not wish to advance your career.”

It’s uncomfortable how easily Mr. Plinth can read you. You’d rather be bored at work than working yourself to the bone. While a fucking dumbass who was only hired based off of his name alone, Criston is swamped with a workload you wouldn’t touch for double your salary. Triple might sway you but not too much. 

“I can’t force you to take a promotion, but it also pains me to see you waste away in such an unfulfilling role.”

You mouth the word ‘pains’. You’re about to tease him when Mr. Plinth leans forward. 

“You’re smart. Smarter than your father gives you credit for,” he says without pride. Something haunted hangs in his face, deepening the lines around his eyes. “And I know he is not grooming you as his successor.” 

Your tongue pushes against the back of your molars as you try not to laugh. Is your family really so obvious to those outside of it? That sick bastard wasn’t going to give you a dime of his fortune. A daughter was not in the cards and yet a daughter was what he was dealt. Knowing your father, he’s already written his younger brother into the will as his sole beneficiary. If your father was the man he wanted to believe he was, he’d donate his money. Alas, he cannot stand the thought of his fortune going to anyone but blood so to your greedy uncle it must go. 

“Do you really want to give him the satisfaction of proving him right?” 

You hate that you are swayed by such a cliche ply for spitefulness. But you are a human being before you are a dutiful daughter so the choice is out of your hands. 

-

You regret not arguing with Mr. Plinth. 

He didn’t let you know the lateral move was working under Coriolanus.

“You’re early,” he says when he notices your gobsmacked form outside of his office. Surprise doesn’t color his tone. 

Mr. Plinth made it seem as if he was doing you a favor for your growth but it turns out, it is a favor to Coriolanus. Perhaps he’s noticed his heir’s inclination towards you. 

Fuck, you hate politics. 

“Wanted to make a good impression,” you say, holding your binder closer to your chest.

“You’ve certainly made one on me.”

“Is that why you asked for Mr. Plinth to transfer me?” Your words are sharp. You don’t appreciate being played to Coriolanus’ whims. 

Coriolanus laughs. It leans closer to a scoff but you decide to be generous. “You were decaying working there. You looked like you wanted to kill yourself.” 

“I always look like that.” 

He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re actually upset.” 

You cross your arms over your chest. Coriolanus’ eyes drift to how your cleavage pushes up. Well, at least he isn’t the doll you have the inkling he is. You sigh, setting your things atop your desk. Inside of Coriolanus’ office. 

Technically, you are now a representative of Plinth’s Munitions with the intentions of helping advance the technology used in the Games. Mr. Plinth aims to move his focus from weaponry and investing into new Capitol technology to make the Games bigger and grander. Thanks to Coriolanus, the Games newfound popularity has created an entirely new sector to take advantage of. 

“I’ve never been upset in my life,” you say flatly. 

He doesn’t take your shit. “I thought you’d be—you’d be happy.” 

“Coriolanus, the whole point of me working at Plinth’s was to separate myself from my father. And now, I’ve lost most of my credibility because people are going to think I asked you to go out on a limb for me and convince Mr. Plinth to give me this position.” You bite your cheek and then shake your head. “Look. I’m not upset. Not really.” 

The next family dinner will be insufferable. Your father will get on his usual soapbox of you relying on others instead of yourself unlike him, the self-made billionaire who didn’t care who he crushed to get to the top. 

“Is it so bad to use the connections you have? Why suffer when you are presented with an easier path? There’s nothing wrong with what you do as long as the ends justify the means.” This might be the first time you’ve seen genuine confusion cross his face. 

Coriolanus never ceases to surprise you. It’s a quiet rumbling now but you heard of his family’s poverty before the Plinth’s saved the Snows. An unfortunate circumstance Coriolanus was luckily able to capitalize on. The reminder quiets your tongue. You’d do anything for your pride, even break your own heart. 

But perhaps it is foolish to do things the way you believe will garner you the most respect when even the littlest of things can crumble said respect in an instant. 

“We’re here now so it doesn’t matter,” you say with a careless shrug. “What do you need me to do first?” 

Coriolanus considers you and how your teeth retract as you for once adhere to the lesson of not biting the hand that feeds you. 

“Stay by my side.” 

-

“Aren’t you Snow’s girl?” 

You’re in the midst of searching for more information on nut allergies. You ate an exorbitant amount of baklava the night before and you fear the itchiness in your throat might be related. 

mild vs severe nut all

Your typing is interrupted when a voice gets uncomfortably close to your ear. 

“You’re Snow’s girl, right?” 

You jerk away from the waft of breath. “What?” 

A man with a shit-eating smile has his hand braced against your desk and he’s leaned down to speak quietly to you. “You’re Coriolanus’.”

The certainty in his voice pisses you off but asking for clarification will only serve to prove whatever point he’s making. 

“Is there something you need?” 

“Not particularly. I was hoping Mr. Snow would be in.” He looks around the office and whistles. “Fancy place. Must be nice.” 

The scratching in your throat has abided. Maybe stupidity is the cure for a nut allergy. 

“Do you guys ever…?” 

You erase your search, not looking at him. “Hmm?” 

His clothes rustle as he shifts his weight. “You know. I mean, why else would Mr. Snow keep you in his office?” 

Your head snaps up. “Keep me?” 

“Oh, don’t be so coy.” 

The sound of your name has the both of you turning at the needed interruption. 

“Would you like to join me for lunch?” 

Coriolanus ignores the man. He stands by the entryway patiently. Your words are caught in your throat at the question. You were only able to put off lunches with Coriolanus for so long before he made them mandatory so the question is a dismissal. 

“Mr. Snow! It’s so nice to see you! I was hoping—”

Coriolanus holds his hand out to you. “I have other matters to attend to.” 

The man’s mouth audibly shuts. “Your secretary.” And he looks at you. You keep your expression neutral. “Said you had some time in between—”

“I don’t,” Coriolanus says coolly. He crooks his fingers up and you take his hand. When you go to drop it, he instead intertwines your fingers together. To avoid causing a scene, you let him but you squeeze his fingers until you feel the bones move. 

He doesn’t react. Asshole can’t even give you the satisfaction. 

You usually take lunch with Coriolanus in his office but now he leads you down a back hallway. His steps are controlled but his strides are long and you hurry to keep pace. 

“Who was that?”

A muscle in his cheek twitches. “One of Aristotle’s council.” 

You blink. After Coriolanus, Aristotle Cramus is the most popular candidate for the presidency but the margin between the two is quite large. Coriolanus hasn’t officially announced his campaign but it is all but assumed in the Capitol. 

He uses his back to push open a door which leads into the building’s restaurant. The bustling sounds of the lunch rush soothes you and your shoulders loosen. 

An Avox ushers the two of you to a prepared table. Your usual lunches are already placed atop. 

“Sorry I was late,” he says, wincing. He undoes the napkin and places it on his lap. “The testing presented more difficulties than anticipated.” 

“It’s fine. What are you guys testing this time?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Trackers,” he answer shortly. 

“Trackers?” you repeat.

He cuts into his steak. His gaze flicks to the scar on your wrist from the first night you met him. It takes a second to drag his attention from the burn mark and to your questioning eyes. “It’s in the development stage but so far, it has been a success.”

“Why would the tributes need trackers if they are in the arena? Isn’t the whole point of the arena to keep them contained?” 

Coriolanus chews before speaking. “There were some issues with previous tributes trying to escape before the Games. Better to be cautious than naive.” 

“Are they noticeable?” 

“Hm?”

“The trackers.” 

He smiles to himself. “Not so far.” 

“Will the arena get bigger then? Later on obviously because I’m sure it’ll take some time before you guys can figure out how to have the cameras follow the tributes,” you say, twirling your fork in your pasta. If Coriolanus can manage this, you think his presidency will be all but confirmed by the next Games. “You’re running for president during the next cycle, right?” 

He nods. “I have two years until I’ll have to make an official announcement.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t think you need an official announcement,” you say, not unkindly. He’s the favorite. His youth is his only fault and that is temporary. “Livia’s already starting her campaign as the future Mrs. President Snow.” 

Coriolanus cuts you an unamused look. It’s more a thinning of his lips and a narrowing of his eyes but you give him credit for keeping up appearances. “She is a choice.”

“A good choice,” you say. “Especially if you are planning on being married before your presidency.” 

“I am,” he says slowly. “And I have a better choice in mind.”

Despite your best efforts, Coriolanus has intertwined himself into your life. And you like to think you may know him better than most at this point but perhaps you do not if there is someone he has his eye on. You take a bite from your noodles. His twenty four hours must vary drastically from your twenty four hours. 

There are too many potential candidates to narrow down anything. The man from earlier’s words echo in your mind but you ignore them. 

Coriolanus stops eating. “I’m actually thinking of announcing our engagement soon.”

You’re taken aback. “You’ve already proposed?”

Coriolanus grins. The hunger he’s always carried within seems sated for once. “Not quite.”

He doesn’t elaborate and you don’t ask. May the odds be ever in that poor girl’s favor. 

-

Work dinners are such a bore. 

You’ve managed to avoid most of them but Coriolanus showed up at your house this time. He bequeathed you a bouquet of blood red roses, making a smart quip of bringing some color into your home. The sickly sweet scent of them lingers in your nose despite the long journey to the restaurant. You’re overdressed by Coriolanus’ insistence but as you step into the restaurant, you think you may have been wrong about this being a simple work dinner. 

Your suspicions are further proved when you are led to private room and inside are the upper echelon of the Capitol. 

“Coriolanus,” you whisper urgently. “What are we doing here?”

He speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “You’ll see.” 

Coriolanus flits off to some of his classmates, faces you only recognize because of their prominence in politics. He melds easily into their conversation, laughing in a way that could be considered for Coriolanus when one jerks his head in your direction. 

You give a hesitate wave when multiple sets of eyes turn to you, skin prickling at the knowing smiles on their faces. 

An excited call of your name grabs your attention.

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” Nerina gushes. “You have to catch me up on everything.”

You haven’t seen her since you graduated the University and you struggle to remember if you spoke more than three words to her during your time there. All you know of her is she married a wealthy business tycoon since graduation and dabbled in daytime television whenever the news cycle was slow. 

Her exclamation draws more people to you. Sweat dampens the back of your neck as you field the increasing amount of questions directed your way. You smile politely and nod intently at the right moments. When not talking about themselves, most ask you about Coriolanus and how exciting it must be to work alongside him. There are a few pointed comments but you dismiss them with ease, laughing away the probing. Your mind is running a million miles per second. The constant repetition of Coriolanus’ name becomes harder and harder to listen to. 

With a quick glance around the room, you count how many political figures you can name. When it becomes more than your two hands can handle, you start to relax. Perhaps Coriolanus is announcing his official bid for the presidency. It’s a curious thing if he’s brought you along as moral support. 

The Plinth’s are noticeably absent which causes a crease in your forehead. 

You aren’t able to dwell too long on their absence for Coriolanus makes his way back to your side. Nerina titters when he touches your elbow and motions towards the table. His hand hovers over the small of your back as you walk over and take your seat, thanking him quietly for pulling your chair out. 

Nerina makes sure to sit across from you and smirks when Coriolanus sits beside you. 

You cross your thigh over the other. The man diagonal from you, Dohyun you believe, lights up when you look his way. 

“You have any updates for us, Coriolanus?” 

Coriolanus settles back in his chair. “About the Games?” he says playfully. The exchange of amused looks between the men has the hair on the back of your neck raising. 

Dohyun chuckles. “Why not?” he says, drinking some champagne. “We’d all love to hear about it.”

Nerina wants to say something. She keeps trying to meet your eyes but whenever you give in and look at her, there is a pinch in between her brows and huffy breaths leave her. 

His hand is placed on your thigh. You don’t register the blatant dismissal of propriety at first because it is inconceivable. 

“We’re hoping to make this the most interesting Games yet,” Coriolanus says with a smile. He gives you a pointed look as he squeezes you. The angle of his arm makes it obvious to anyone looking where his hand lies. 

Nerina can’t look away. 

“Must be nice for the two of you to work together,” Dohyun says. His eyes are gentle as he smiles. 

“It’s definitely a perk,” Coriolanus agrees. 

His fingers dig into your skin. “There’s never a boring day,” you say through gritted teeth. You try shaking off his hand but Coriolanus doesn’t give in. 

“Actually, I asked you all to come here today to announce something special.” His hand rests on your waist. Coriolanus pulls you closer, practically onto his lap. His palm is hot over the fabric of your dress. You look up at him, alarmed at the possessive hold but trying your best to hide it. “We’re engaged.” 

Your complacent smile is frozen. 

And then there are cheers. 

“I knew it!” Dohyun crows. “I told you guys he’d do it this month. Cough it up.” He holds his hand out as a couple of the guys begrudgingly dig into their wallets amongst their congratulations. No one is surprised. Delighted but not surprised.

Nausea sears your throat. Your ears ring so loudly you think Coriolanus must be able to hear it as well. 

“You really dragged it out, huh?” Nerina says, lips curled over her teeth. You read her lips more than you hear her.

Your voice is stuck. A crushing fist clamps over your heart, tightening its hold until you fear you may collapse. 

“You know how hard working my fiancée is,” Coriolanus defends lightly. “She wanted to make sure to tie up all loose ends before we made it official. Right?” 

You don’t know what to do or say. So you default to what you have always been taught because at least you know how to play that game. 

“You know me,” you say through gritted teeth. “Always wanting my ducks in a row.”

“I was so sure it would take another year,” Dante groans. “Mr. Plinth said he was stepping down soon but I didn’t know he meant this soon.” 

The conversation devolves for a moment to discuss Mr. Plinth’s apparent retirement and you turn to Coriolanus. Your smile becomes vicious. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss under your breath. 

Coriolanus maintains his soft happiness. “Don’t act stupid, it’s unbecoming.” 

“Cut the shit,” you threaten. “And get your hands off of me.” 

He grins with his teeth on display. His canines seem unnaturally sharp as they press against his lip. Coriolanus leans in, uncaring of how the group quiets as he towers over you. A chill drags down your spine at the amusement in his eyes. 

“Or what?” he mocks lightly. “Everyone here thinks you’ve got me wrapped around your pretty little finger. You think they’ll respond favorably if you deny me?”

You’ve forgotten before the Plinths, Coriolanus’ preferred choice of currency was social currency. 

“Smile, Mrs. Snow.”

this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!

lovesick snow really really really scratches a part of my brain that i cannot have the words that explain it and have to go the library of babel to find it. he'd be more easy to manipulate in that state, especially how vulnerable he is to you and how willing he'd do anything for you. like you said in one of your first posts, i'm in love with the idea of it of how powerful the reader is if you want to add more backstory to them.

ok so i went with your idea and gave manipulative!reader and snow the backstory they deserve for the little au we have going here!! i hope you love it <3

➸ so as a kid i see manipulative!reader as a bit of a daydreamer and what do lots of little girls dream about?? their wedding. for you though it wasn’t necessarily about the day, not even the fancy dress or the colour scheme but the person. let’s just say you’re already from quite an influential family but it’s not enough - you want more.

➸ you wanted a husband that’s powerful, motivated. he had to be important and charismatic - someone who could really get you what you wanted from life. you weren’t completely unbothered by the idea of romance though and hoped that’d you’d manage to get them utterly devoted to you, willing to do anything to protect you and make you happy. it’s not a hard thing to ask for, right?

➸ you’d always been aware of coriolanus snow but there always seemed to be better candidates for your attention. then he comes back to the capitol and you can sense the change in him - the unhinged, power hungry aura that seemed to surround him and as he quickly started making a new name for himself, you thought he could be the one.

➸ coryo would never be an easy person to get close to however. so you had to subtly start placing yourself in his life. it was a slow process but you were diligent. ‘bumping’ into him just outside his apartment, having the same social calendar as him, even showing an interest in the games so someone would set up an appointment between the two of you to discuss.

➸ then there was one moment. one that not even you - seemingly the mastermind of your own life - had planned out. it was raining that day, pouring and you were alone rushing back to your apartment. you weren’t paying attention to where you were going and when you stepped out onto the road you weren’t prepared for the onslaught of screeching tires or horns. or for the strong grip that wrapped around your wrist and pulled you back.

➸ coryo was there just as drenched as you were but with a kind of frenzied, panicked look in his eyes. ‘you should watch where you’re going,’ he’d urged. it was the way he said it, the way his hand squeezed at your wrist that had you thinking maybe he’d been noticing your efforts after all. he’d tugged you closer to him as if you’d be safer there and it was probably the most genuine moment you’d had in years, as you blinked up at the blonde man who’d just saved your life.

➸ honestly after that you decide to back off, feeling a little guilty about your scheming but seemingly the universe wanted the two of you on the same path. or maybe coriolanus did. suddenly he was there at family functions, taking meetings with your father, charming your mother at all costs. he’d come to dinners hosted at your families estate and his eyes would never leave you from across the table even when he was in a conversation.

➸ so when your family told you about the marriage proposal you weren’t that surprised, just giddy. everything was finally falling into place. you knew you’d have to be careful. to you snow was charming, doting in a sense but you’d heard the rumours. he could be dangerous and you’d have to make sure you were never in his firing line.

➸ in the beginning of your marriage you try and play coy, let coryo take the lead in things. you like to let him know how you rely on him, always holding onto his arm in public and letting him speak first. basically just playing up to his male ego but something about seeing you feeling so safe with him and letting your guard down has him letting some walls down too. which is exactly what you want.

➸ he’d start to confide in you after a while because you’re just such a good little wife! bringing him drinks in the evening in your pretty dresses, loosening his shirts and playing with his hair. it isn’t his fault he ends up telling you things about his past, things he plans to do in the future - a lot of things that he probably shouldn’t tell you especially since you’ll remember each and every one.

➸ kinda dark but i love the idea of you being able to read people really well and always hyper aware of who coryo surrounds himself with, always sussing out their intentions before he does. you give it a little while but if he’s still not catching onto them you’ll simply make something up. maybe they’re giving you dirty looks or maybe their gazes are just lingering a little too long for your liking, in places they certainly shouldn’t be looking. maybe they’ve flirted with you, maybe they’re making nasty digs but you have coryo eating out the palm of your hand by this point and he’s possessive, protective in a mad, feral way. you’re flat out lying but he eats it up and whoever you want gone doesn’t last much longer after that.

➸ maybe that’s how you get your power. by simply having his ear. people know that they can get what they want through you and by the time coryo is president you have people visiting you nearly everyday. hoping you’ll let them into your inner circle, offering you things in exchange for a word whispered in his ear.

➸ and maybe coryo comes to rely on you this way. you’re a capitol darling, their perfect first lady but behind closed doors you’re separating the good from the bad. the people who can help your husband and the people who’re out to damage what he’s built. people begin to see you as a powerhouse in your own right, someone with a good side they need to be on. or else.

See they are fine they are okay they are ALIVE! 😁