Ugh The Geonosian Brain Worms And Yandere Clones Have Taken Over My Brain Once Again, I Have To Write

Ugh the geonosian brain worms and yandere clones have taken over my brain once again, I have to write now 😔

Hunger | Coriolanus Snow

From the moment your husband introduces to President Snow, you're untethered, as if the very floor was ripped from underneath you.

Warnings: NON-CON, District 12! Reader, Covey! Reader, Housewife Kink, Manipulation, Somnophilia, Breeding Kink, Chasing

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Nervousness wrenches your insides as you peer at the proceedings from afar. Another gala to raise funds in order to quell a budding rebellion in the Districts. The second one this year. 

They always leave you feeling sour. It’s not like the Districts have no reason to start an uprising. The next reaping is fastly approaching and you’d rage too if your family was to go through that again.

You take a tiny sip from your glass of posca, mindful not to overindulge. The diluted, aromatic wine is far stronger than one would imagine. But a slight dash of intoxication is the only way you can see yourself getting through the night. Crowds always made you anxious, but a gathering of Capitol citizens stirs a particular discomfort in you. 

You’re not one of them and you often wonder if they can tell, sense a whiff of District 12 on you. The foul stench of unbelonging. Perhaps in the manner you speak or your stance. You’ve never managed to perfectly mimic the way Capitol ladies carry themselves, born from a lifetime of practicing poise and etiquette. After all, you are an outsider, and always will be.

Regardless of how many galas you attend, fashionable dresses you order to match the quickly changing trends of the Capitol, effort you exert to erase your thick Covey accent…it seems someone can always tell there’s more to you.

It’s in that mocking glint in their eyes, that sneering lilt in their voice.

To them, you’ll never be more than District rabble. 

Which is exactly why you despise these events. But your husband insisted. He’s working hard to impress his boss, the most important man in all of Panem, and you can’t let him down.

You must be the picture of charm. Laugh at every joke, nod your head when a serious topic is being broached, display interest when personal stories are being shared.

You place a hand on your roaring stomach, a frown creasing your brow. You haven’t swallowed a bite the entire day, too anxious about how tonight would go.

Your gaze darts about the room. The tantalizing spread of appetizers in the middle of the room seems to be calling your name. Your mouth waters.

Without a thought, your feet glide across the marble tiles. A little self-conscious, hesitation tingles at your fingertips as they drum by one of the silver platters. Another pang of hunger pierces your insides at the sight of the food. You cave in, picking up a tiny sandwich from a plate. Your eyes close, angels singing in your mouth as delicious aromas trickle on your tongue. 

“Sweetie, there’s someone you must meet,” your husband chimes at your back.

Still chewing on a mouthful of meat and bread, you whirl. Your eyes bulge. Startled, you nearly suffocate on your food.

You quickly wipe your mouth as heat rushes to your cheeks.

You’ve seen his face before. The murky screens do not do justice to his dashing looks.

“President Snow. It’s a pleasure. Apologies, I was…”

A smile ghosts over his lips as he drinks you in, his cerulean gaze dragging over your frame. “No apologies,” he answers silkily. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the food. At least someone is.”

He picks up your hand and presses an ephemeral peck on the back of it. You turn to Henry. The shock adorning your husband’s face mirrors yours.

President Snow’s lips curl skywards.

He lets go of your hand and adds, “It’s nice putting a face to your name. Henry is always raving about you.”

You shake your head, eyes bashfully finding the floor. “Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” you mumble.

The blonde hums as if to disagree. He bends close to your ear.

“He’s always lauding what a wonderful wife you are, dutiful, sweet…”

…Makes me almost jealous.

Your head whips up.

You blink at the whispered words, barely above a breath. Maybe you heard wrong. It’s hard to tell, the way Snow gauges you, that subtle smile still decorating his handsome face.

He asks you trivial questions about how you’re settling in and how you’re enjoying your life in the Capitol. You answer every time, ignoring the chill dancing at the base of your spine.

His scrutiny swells your unease.

So as soon as the conversation veers away from you and towards the topics of lawmaking and taxes, you snatch the opportunity to excuse yourself.

You give an apologetic smile to your husband.

“Henry, maybe I should go. I’m not feeling too hot.”

He scowls at you. “You want us to leave already?” Disappointment bleeds in his tone. A thick layer of shame settles in the pit of your stomach. You’re being a bad wife.

“You can stay, even if I go,” you try to offer.

“There’s still so many people we haven’t talked to…” Henry argues.

You deflate. You suppose it would be uncouth to leave too early.

To your surprise, President Snow’s smooth lilt interjects, “If your wife is unwell, you both should go.”

You gape at him. A strange glint bounces in his cerulean orbs and unease flutters through you once more. 

Henry sighs, grabbing your hand.

“Alright. I’ll go fetch the car.” 

He gives the blond a formal salute before dragging you away.

As the two of you leave, the heat of Snow’s attention prickles along your spine.

“Did he say something to you?”

Gasping, you turn to your husband. He pointedly looks at you and you shift awkwardly in the passenger seat. 

“What?” you say, taken aback by his sudden question. 

He studies you for a while before his gaze drifts back to the road.

“Snow. He said something to you, didn’t he?”

Your chest clenches. Faking nonchalance, you shrug and reply lightly, “Just a joke but I didn’t understand it.”

The days soar by, humdrum and uneventful. You file away the strange moment at the gala and return to your everyday life. Henry occupies most of your time but when you’re not catering to him, you tend to the house and read. And during stolen moments…you play and sing. Henry doesn’t know, of course. It’s a life you left behind, or are supposed to at least. 

You’re the wife of a Capitol official, not some District balladeer peddling song for coin.

But you can’t help it. 

Singing reminds you of home. Of endless green meadows and lazy afternoons by the river. Your life from before may have been uncertain but you find yourself missing it at times. Missing the freedom to do and act as you pleased.

An orphan like so many others, the Covey were the only family you ever knew. Then you met Henry. Henry who spoke so sweetly to you and gazed at you with warm brown eyes. And he became your family. He didn’t care that you were from a District or that your manners were lacking. He embraced you.

And now you wish to support him in all that he does. Even if it means tossing away parts of yourself.

The front door cracks open, halting the path of the needle between your fingers. A smile blooms on your lips as you place Henry’s shirt on a nearby table. You can resume fixing the buttons on it later. You rise from the armchair and make your way to him. You help him out of his coat, noting the excitement radiating off his frame.

He’s not usually this ecstatic after a day of work. You tilt your head in puzzlement.

He hugs you before announcing, “We have a guest tomorrow, a very important guest.”

“Oh,” you reply, tamping down your concern. The apartment isn’t exactly ready for guests, much less important ones. The fridge needs to be stocked and the furniture requires thorough dusting.

“Yes, I was mentioning what a wonderful cook you are and he said he hasn’t had a home cooked meal in a while.”

“Who?” you ask, your curiosity peaking.

“President Snow,” Henry replies with a victorious grin.

Dread and confusion collide inside you. Why would President Snow visit you and your husband of all people? While Henry’s been rising in ranks quite fast, you can’t picture the leader of the country making time for people like you.

But you don’t voice these thoughts, instead you inquire, “Are you sure my cooking will be enough for him? His palate is used to those fancy meals at the Capitol.”

He cradles your face and plants a kiss on your forehead.

“Don’t doubt yourself, honey. You’re an amazing cook.”

“I just don’t want to let you down,” you confess, anxiously chewing on your lip.

“You won’t,” he assures. His chestnut gaze dives into yours. “This could be a great opportunity for us. Imagine what being close to Snow could do for our lives. He could promote me. We could even move to a bigger place.”

Your brows knit. “I love our place.”

Henry laughs. “Yes but the day we expand our family, you have to admit it’ll be a little small.”

You peer at your surroundings. Every corner of the little house harbors a beloved memory. You’d hate leaving it behind, but you suppose he’s right. You might outgrow it one day.

Henry frames your chin to draw your focus back to him.

“Just be yourself,” he says. “Your kind, sweet, wonderful self and all will be well.”

Nodding, you give a feeble smile.

“Understood.”

The next day is spent meticulously cleaning every inch of the house. For hours you’re anxious, wondering what to say or do, how to behave. You don’t have the natural wit and charm to impress someone like Coriolanus Snow. You keep worrying you’ll speak out of turn and embarrass Henry. Preparing dinner is the only time your mind is at rest. You stir the vegetables in the stew, smiling as the delectable scent fills your nostrils. It’s simmered for hours to create a rich flavor. It’s only your second time trying this recipe so you’re a bit nervous. Henry adored it but he’s your husband. You don’t know if President Snow’s delicate taste buds will find your meals to his liking.

You’re slightly more confident about your strawberry cake. While you struggled with it at first, the frosting never quite coming out the way you wanted, it’s now turned into one of your specialties.

The doorbell rings and you freeze. You glance up at the clock hanging near the stove. Already? Time has flown and you didn’t notice.

As you approach the door, you smooth out the wrinkles in your apron and straighten your spine. You take a deep breath before opening the door. 

A wobbly smile cants your lips upwards. 

“President Snow, it’s an honor,” you greet cheerfully.

The tall blond crosses the threshold after your husband. You take him in, trying to girdle your apprehension. He casts an imposing figure with his slicked back silver locks and tailored purple suit, the signature white rose pinned to his left breast pocket as always.

An aura of authority seems to follow him wherever he goes. 

“Please, the honor is mine,” Snow says. His sky gaze roams across the living room. His expression is unreadable and you feel a bit self-conscious. It’s likely not as luxurious as what he’s used to. But to your surprise, he looks right at you and says, “What a lovely abode.”

His nose twitches as he hums, “I smell something heavenly, for me perhaps?”

You nod.

“I made beef stew.”

“Wonderful.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. 

“Shall we sit?” Henry says, escorting him to the dining room.

You rush to the kitchen and throw your apron on a chair. Inhaling a lungful of nerve, you slip on gloves and grab the pot from the stove. Slowly, you bring out the food. Your skin tingles with the weight of Snow’s eyes on you. 

You ladle out the stew on each plate. When you circle the table to serve Snow, you feel the faintest brush of fingertips over your hip. You flinch.

When you look at him, an almost imperceptible smile hovers on his lips. You blink and it almost seems like it’s gone, as if you dreamt the entire instant. The ladle wavers in your hand.

Did he mean to do that? Once again, you question your own senses, your sanity. It was a fleeting touch, the accidental kind that occurs everyday. But somehow your nerves are agitated with this mere, insignificant second.

Quickly, you round the table and plop down in the chair next to your husband. He squeezes your hand beneath the table, his brown gaze spelling “good job”. Relief sits inside you. You spent all day agonizing over every aspect of tonight so it’s nice to know Henry appreciates your efforts at least.

Everyone starts eating, your husband and Snow engaging in topics you only listen to with half an ear. Instead you focus on your plate, swallowing tiny bites of the stew. 

The flavor is nice and rich, just like you hoped, and pride trickles inside you.

“You’re so silent. Are we boring you?”

Snow’s abrupt statement yanks a sharp gasp from you. Your head snaps up. You realize both he and Henry are staring at you. Your face warms.

“N-No, I just don’t have anything interesting to contribute,” you stammer, your head dipping. 

“My wife has no mind for politics, I’m afraid,” Henry chuckles. 

Your mouth screws shut, your fingers tightening around your spoon. It’s more that your opinions differ vastly and there are things Henry prefers you don’t say aloud.

A crooked smirk blooms on Snow’s lips.

“Ah, a pretty, silent one. I believe you lucked out with this one, Henry.”

Your teeth grind as your brows twitch. Pretty and silent. You don’t know why the words chafe you, cutting into you as deep as a knife. 

You rise from your chair and grab your near empty plate. 

“I should go clean the kitchen,” you announce with a terse smile.

You don’t look back as you walk away, berating yourself with every step.

This isn’t how one should behave in front of him. But you also don’t think you can spend another second in his presence.

You rub the sponge over the top of the stove, satisfaction trickling inside you as the grease and sauce stains are wiped away. You bask in the calm, concentrated on your task. 

A warm breath tickles the shell of your ear.

“You seemed peeved before.”

Sucking a sharp breath, you whirl on your heels. Your hand spreads over your chest as your vision is filled with the towering frame of President Snow. His stance is relaxed as he peers at you curiously.

“You scared me…President.”

He ignores your reaction, continuing his statement from before, “When we were discussing the next reaping.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t peeved.”

“Your face, it did that thing.” Your forehead creases. He inches closer. The scent of roses, thick and heady, coats your senses. Your head starts spinning. “Like now. It bothered you.”

Panic flutters through you. This is a man who could have you hanged or jailed for saying the wrong thing. But something about his expression tells you he won’t relent, that he'll only take the truth and nothing else.

So your heart spills out of you.

“In an ideal world, we wouldn’t need the Hunger Games. They are…” You trail off, remembering yourself, who you’re speaking to. You bite down your feelings and go quiet.

But Snow bends over you, crowding your space as your back hits the edge of the stove.

“What? Barbaric? Cruel?” He chuckles and goosebumps rise on your flesh. “But we do need them, dove. Every single year. So the districts never forget their place, and most importantly ours.”

Your lip quakes. Snow’s gaze follows the motion, his lips slanting lopsidedly.

“Such a sweet soul,” he whispers.

He suddenly backs away from you. Air rushes back to your lungs.

“It’s late. I should take my leave. Thank you for a most…enlightening dinner.”

You resume your life and, for a while, everything is normal. Henry doesn’t talk about that night again and neither do you, the both of you bonded by that silent agreement. Maybe he saw Snow talking to you in the kitchen, maybe he didn’t. You’ll never know as he keeps his thoughts to himself, throwing himself into his work and acting like his usual self. 

And if there’s a bit more distance between the two of you in the marital bed, you try not to let it bother you. With time, the strangeness will fade and you and Henry will be back on track, trying for a child and enjoying marital bliss.

Though one evening, things are anything but normal. In fact, the world all but ends.

Your husband peruses the notice letter for rent once more. The blood seems to leave his face.

He runs his fingers through his dark curls.

“I don’t understand.”

Hands resting on his shoulders, your heart skips a beat as you read the neat printed letters.

Rent in your building has doubled overnight. If you and your husband do not pay up by next week, you will be evicted. Houseless.

Hell, you might even be sent back to your district. Your heart plummets to your feet. Your knees buckle underneath you. Henry catches you before you fall, leading you to the sofa as panicked breaths rush through your lungs.

He hunkers in front of you and holds your hands.

“I promise you I’ll find a way. Take out a loan or-”

“A loan we won’t be able to pay back?”

His jaw clenches. “Just let me handle it, okay?”

Though doubts creep inside you, you nod.

The days race along, tension growing each day as the deadline is approaching. Only three days. In just three days, you and your husband will be evicted unless a miracle happens.

And you conclude from the dark circles under Henry’s eyes and the way he barely answers when you speak to him, that he’s as clueless as you are.

There is no solution. Once again, the Capitol and its arbitrary rules strike.

So you come to a decision.

A decision that leads you in front of the biggest mansion in the entire Capitol. President Coriolanus Snow’s house. You suck in a wide lungful, quelling a shudder at the sight of the blue-clad peacekeepers lining the walls.

You stride towards the massive entrance gates. White roses twine around the wrought iron, their thorns seeming as sharp as knives. 

You gather your nerves and lift a tremulous hand towards the intercom.

Before you can even state your matter, a disembodied, feminine voice rises from the device.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asks stiffly.

Hasty words pour out of you. “No, but I just need a minute-”

“President Snow doesn’t accept any visitors,” she responds harshly.

Your heart sinks. Of course he doesn’t. It was naive of you to cling to the illusory hope he’d see you anyway. Just for one dinner he likely forgot about. He’s the president. There are crucial matters that perpetually call for his attention. A myriad of things bigger and more important than a single Capitol citizen’s rent issues.

Still, you elect to try again, remembering the imminent deadline.

“Please,” you beg. “It’s very important.”

A distorted sigh ripples from the intercom.

“If you do not leave the premises, we will be compelled to remove you from the property, miss.”

One of the peacekeepers posted at the gates looks straight at you, his hand tightening over the rear of his machine gun. A wave of ice spreads through your veins.

You swallow and step back, accepting your defeat. Burning with shame, you start walking away from the mansion.

But you’re hardly a feet away, as the same voice from before erupts again, much softer this time. 

“My apologies, miss. I didn’t realize you were a close friend of President Snow.”

Your jaw hangs slack as you turn.

A woman with long dark hair appears through the open gates.

“Please, follow me,” she says as she approaches you. “The president will see you right away.”

Still steeped in utter shock, you acquiesce. You trail behind her. You can’t help but allow your eyes to wander as the woman escorts you through a dizzying series of hallways. While the front of the mansion is impressive with its lavish gardens and striking architecture, the inside is just as grandiose. You feel small as your gaze rests on all the sculptures and paintings decorating every corner of the house. Everywhere you look, there is something beautiful and eye-catching. The entire house is like a museum, meant to be admired rather than lived in.

Eventually the woman halts in front of a mahogany door. She tugs on the brass handles and stands to the side, making room for you to walk in. You mumble ‘thank you’ under your breath as you stumble inside the office.

President Snow’s blue eyes crinkle when they rest on you.

“Hello, dove. Why don’t you have a seat?” he offers, pointing at the chair before his desk. 

Licking your lips, you do as he says. Despite the softness of the plush upholstery you sit on, your nerves flare up. You had an entire speech ready, one you practiced on the way here. 

But now that you’re here, his intense focus pinned on you, you’re at a loss. 

Shaky words trickle out of your mouth.

“President Snow. I know you must be so busy…”

“Nonsense,” he interrupts, leaning back in his leather chair. “I always find time for my friends.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“T-That’s a relief to hear,” you stammer.

A maid brings a kettle and biscuits on a silver platter. 

“Tea?” Snow asks as he picks up the kettle.

“No, thank you.”

As Snow pours himself a cup, you ponder your next words. You don’t want to seem greedy but you can’t think of an elegant way to state your purpose.

So you settle for the truth.

“I came because…my husband and I are in a bit of trouble.”

Snow scrutinizes you for a while. Your stomach tightens. 

He then gives a sluggish nod, bending forwards as his fingers lace together.

“Do tell me everything, dove.”

You do exactly that. Snow is silent as your trembling voice fills his office. No word leaves his mouth while he listens. You don’t skip out a single detail, making a point to emphasize what consequences could befall upon you and your husband should you fail to meet the deadline. 

When you’re done, he sips from his tea cup and hums, “How unfortunate.”

“Can’t it be undone? I mean, couldn’t you…”

He chuckles along the porcelain rim of his cup. “I’m not responsible for every law and charter. I approve them, of course, but there are committees, councils. Each law serves the betterment of Panem as a whole. I can’t undo what has been done. I mean, how would this look to the rest of the Capitol? Like I have a different set of rules for my friends? I have to look impartial.” Heaving out a deep sigh, he sets his cup down.  “Apologies, dove, my hands are tied.”

The world seems to collapse around you. Your stomach sinks.

You surmise it was too big an ask, even for the President of Panem. You can’t expect special treatment. It was silly of you to even come hoping for anything resembling that.

You were foolish. Now you must collect the pathetic remnants of your dignity and take your leave.

Gulping down the tears pressing at the back of your eyes, you nod. 

“I’m sorry I asked,” you croak, already beginning to rise from your chair.

His deep lilt pauses your motion.

“But I suppose…there could be a solution. An alternative.”

Your brow furrows as you drop back on the chair.

“An alternative?”

“I could cover the difference.”

Your mouth nearly hits the floor. Snow using his own funds to help? It could be the very miracle you and your husband waited for. You would have to pay him back over time, of course. But for now, it would allow you and Henry to keep the apartment.

It’s a godsend.

“You would do that for us?” you mutter, shock stealing your air.

His reply is nonchalant. “Yes. I’d simply file it under my own personal investments.” Slanting his head sideways, he studies you. “I’d just ask for a small favor in exchange.”

“A favor?”

You wonder what kind of favor you could do for someone like Coriolanus Snow, the man who has everything and more. Gaping at him, you wait for him to elaborate.

He leans forward, crossing his arms over his desk.

“It’s not much but it would mean the world to me. The house needs some upkeep. Just a few light chores here and there. No cleaning, of course; I have an entire staff in charge of that. But the garden needs tending.” His inflection softens as he takes you in. “A home cooked meal every now and then would be nice, and I might sometimes ask you to join me for tea and conversation…” Mirth sways in his cerulean orbs. “As dreadful as that may sound.”

You move your head in assent.

“I think I can do that. But w-why me?”

He gives a long exhale, resting his jaw in his hand.

“Honestly dove? You’d be the one doing me a favor. All day, I’m surrounded by vultures.” Snow rolls his eyes skyward. “Sycophants who placate me with false smiles and honeyed lies.” His tone warms when his gaze falls back on you. “I simply wish to return home to someone genuine, someone who would never lie to me. And you wouldn’t, would you?”

“W-What?”

“Lie to me.”

Your skin heats under his scrutiny. 

Trying not to squirm, you sputter, “Never, sir.”

“Music to my ears,” the young president croons.

It’s not sounding like more work than what you do at home. You can already hear Henry’s discontent echoing in your head. You won’t have as much time for him. That too will be yet another adjustment.

But what other option is there? Even the family of four above yours had to move, unable to keep up with the sudden rent increase. You and Henry could be next.

“I…W-When do I start?”

The corners of Snow’s lips tug upwards.

“How does tomorrow sound?”

“You’re going to work for him?”

Henry’s displeasure ripples through you. You twine your hands and cast him an apologetic look. He despises that you went behind his back; you know that. But Henry ran himself ragged trying to come up with a solution. You didn’t want him to carry the burden on his own. That is not what a marriage is.

“He needs a housekeeper, of sorts. And he paid this month’s rent and the next upfront.”

Henry’s brows crumple. “Still, that’s…” Shoulders sagging, he crashes onto the sofa. The built-up exhaustion of the last few days seems to return all at once. You know he hasn’t slept a wink this whole week. Heart squeezing, you join his side and cradle his hand in your lap. Henry’s voice is dripping with shame and regret. “The entire reason I moved us here is so you never have to want for anything, so you wouldn’t have to work or suffer another day in this life.” His head dips. “I failed you.”

You cup his face, plunging your eyes into his.

“You didn’t fail me. And I won’t suffer. Sometimes life throws you lemons and you just have to squeeze those suckers dry.”

A hollow chuckle slips through his lips.

You run your thumbs over his growing beard.

"Listen, I know this wasn’t in our plans, but it’s just for now. In time, we’ll figure something out but I have to do this.” You lean your forehead against his. “For us.”

“Okay,” he belatedly concedes. He pulls your hands to his chest, kissing your knuckles.

“Just come home when you’re done.”

“I will,” you promise. 

The first day slogs forth without a hitch. A car picks you up in the morning and drops you off at President Snow’s estate. The dark-haired woman from before welcomes you, introduces you to the staff and walks you through your duties. You learn her name is Ariadne. 

You spend most of the day busy in the garden and library. Snow’s garden of roses might be one of the hidden treasures of Panem. Taking care of it is a pleasure and you even give yourself some minutes to bask in the sun’s warmth. 

The library shelves need dusting and you tend to this task as well, humming familiar tunes to yourself while working. It is no harm if no one is around to hear you sing. 

You don’t get bored as there’s always a task requiring your attention in the massive house. 

When stars begin to dust the darkening sky, you rush to the kitchen. You get started on dinner. Staff members give you space to work and you’re grateful. You don’t like being ogled while you cook. You marvel at the gold, high-end appliances as you knead your dough. The kitchen is pristine, like everything else in the house. You settle for something simple, hearty and warm. There is no point in pretending you’re some fancy chef when you’re not. If it’s what Snow desired, he’d have hired one. There’s a plethora of them in the Capitol for him to choose from after all. And they’d all line up outside his house in a heartbeat if he requested it.

You stand nervous, hands folded in your lap as the meal you prepared is brought out onto silver plates. You spent hours on it. Hopefully he likes it.

“This smells like heaven,” Snow purrs.

He then points at the chair next to his on the long table.

“Have a seat.”

Your eyes bulge. Not only are you stunned by his request, as there are so many other chairs on the gigantic dinner table, but you were hoping to return home to Henry once dinner was served.

 “Oh, I thought…”

He smiles at you. “I hate dining alone.”

You consider arguing. But as you remember all that you owe him, your mouth squeezes shut. You give a meek nod and drag your feet to the chair.

“Of course.”

You pick up your knife and fork…one of the knives and forks. You choose at random, unsure what purpose each of the cutlery items serves.

A smile waltzes upon Snow’s lips as he watches you. Shame pools in your gut. You feel like you’re making a fool of yourself.

He takes a bite of food and hums low in his throat, his eyes closing.

“Your cooking never fails to amaze, dove,” he lauds. Blue eyes search your face. “Are you hiding other talents from me?”

Your eyes lock onto your napkin, following the swirl of the flower patterns sewn in the corners. “I don’t think so,” you mumble.

Dinner continues in silence, only occasionally shattered by Snow’s sounds of delight and words of praise. Your own bites are small. While you’re glad it turned out the way you wanted, you’d rather save your appetite for home.

When a maid brings tea after the meal, Snow raises a dismissive hand.

“We’ll have tea and cakes in the study,” he announces.

Your face scrunches. “But it’s getting late. I should-”

“I must insist,” he interrupts. He rises from his seat and offers you his outstretched hand. 

His smile broadens.

“You would rob me of your company so swiftly, dove? How cruel of you.”

Reluctantly, you accept the hand he gives you. He helps you out of your chair and motions at you to follow him.

The both of you end up in his study, sitting by the fire. Tea is placed on the small table between you. Coriolanus takes a slow sip while you fiddle with your hands.

His cerulean gaze locks with yours.

“That song you were humming earlier.”

Your chest seizes.

The loud thudding of your heart fills your ears. You swallow thickly. 

“A song?”

“Yes,” he says absently, adding another spoonful of sugar to his cup. He gives a small stir before bringing it to his lips again. “I heard it as I walked by the library.”

You try not to let your panic show, cloaking yourself in false nonchalance. You thought you were discreet, quiet almost.

“Ah, that. It’s nothing,” you elude.

“No, it was lovely. You have the voice of an angel.” 

The compliment leaves you speechless.

But his next words tie your stomach in knots.

“I want to hear it again.”

“I don’t really…perform for audiences.”

“You mean since you left the Covey?”

Mouth agape, you stare at him. How did he find out? You don’t remember ever bringing it up. In fact, you wouldn’t. You expend great effort to hide your past on a daily basis.

Your reaction draws a snort from him. Amusement bounces in his orbs.

“Come on, dove, that accent…It might fool others but not me.”

“I don’t sing anymore,” you state firmly. 

Even if you did, you wouldn’t do it for Coriolanus Snow. Not of your own free will.

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His inflection becomes sharp, all softness evanescing. “Remember when I told you that I hated lies?” His pointed gaze sends chills through your body. “Sing for me, dove.”

Your mouth goes dry as sand. 

You understand his words for what they are. An order from your president. A strange order…but an order nonetheless.

You don’t get to refuse. You’re to sing for him, whether it pleases you or not.

Like a bird in a cage.

So you do it. Your lips fall open and clear, soft notes rise out of you. A traditional song your mother taught you. It tells the story of a girl who meets a boy with ocean eyes, how she drowns in them but the fall is like rising to heaven. 

As your voice fills his office, Snow’s scorching gaze doesn’t leave you.

When the song is done, he doesn’t applaud or praise you.

Instead, his eyes bear into you for what feels like an eternity. You try not to move, though your heart thunders in your chest. 

“See, was that so hard?” he asks, that cocky smile still adorning his lips. You don’t reply, your throat ablaze. It felt as if you didn’t belong to yourself just then. And it terrifies you. He slides your untouched cup towards you. “Drink your tea before it gets cold. Then, you can go home.”

Without a protest, you lift the cup to your mouth. One measly cup of tea and you’ll get to go home. Then this uncomfortable evening can end. Finally.

But as the liquid trickles inside your mouth, tendrils of darkness lurk in your vision. Your body gets heavier. So heavy you can’t hold the cup anymore, or even yourself. The porcelain dish vanishes from your hands. You sag into your chair.

Progressively, colors dim around you. 

Then sleep drags you down into a rabbit hole of utter oblivion. And all is blackness.

Softness like you’ve never felt before greets you when you awake. Like being embraced by fluffy clouds. For a while, you linger in the comfortable sensation, humming against the plush blankets. But as your eyes land on the thin slice of sunlight spilling from the window, you unleash an audible gasp. 

You bolt in a sitting position. 

Your eyes widen as you find Ariadne observing you between the velvet curtains at the end of the bed.

Gripping the side of your head, you glance at your surroundings. Clearly, you’re in a room. But how did you wind up here? No matter how hard you try, you can’t summon a single memory from last night.

“Ariadne? What happened?” 

She circles the bed to take a seat next to you. Her gentle tone alleviates your rising panic.

“You fell asleep,” she explains. “Master Snow brought you here so you can get some proper rest.” 

You sigh. It does make sense. Though you can’t stamp out the trickle of embarrassment sitting inside you with that knowledge. You dozed off on the job, on your first day. Hopefully, Snow isn’t too offended. 

“I must have been more tired than I thought,” you mutter, looking down.

“He’s gone now; he had urgent business at the Justice Building. But he insisted you eat a proper meal before you go.” She points at the golden food cart near the bed, every tray brimming with pastries, fruits, meats and cheeses. Way more than you could eat in a single meal.

The kind of decadent abundance the Capitol likes to indulge in. 

You politely decline. 

“I can’t…I have to return to my husband. He must be worried sick.”

Ariadne puts a hand on your arm.

“Word has been sent to him that you were simply tending to Master Snow’s needs last night.”

You purse your lips. It’s not ideal but at least he knows you were working. 

“Good,” you reply, nodding.

You yank the blanket off your body, determined to stand up and leave. But as soon as you’re on your feet, you crash back down on the bed, a strange ache awakening in your limbs.

Your forehead creases. You hug your stomach, a vicious cramp creeping there too.

Ariadne’s immediately at your side, placing her hands over your arms.

“Take it easy, miss,” she warns. “You exerted yourself a great deal yesterday.” She beams brightly. “In fact, Master Snow has given you a few days off. He was very satisfied with your work and expects you in three days’ time.”

Your brows rise. “Oh, that’s very generous.”

Her grin expands.

“He is exceedingly pleased with your performance.”

Over the next few weeks, Snow keeps summoning you sporadically. The days you work for him are pretty much the same. You attend to your daily tasks, you cook for him and then the two of you have tea in his study. He has you sing for him sometimes. You’ve learnt to swallow your feelings and perform according to his whim. You don’t even sing to yourself anymore, the exultation you drew from it all but gone. It was a way to stay connected to your Covey roots, to keep your family close to your heart. Now you can’t do it without his icy gaze invading your thoughts.

You often end up incredibly tired on those days, your body aching and sore for hours afterwards. You never imagined working for Coriolanus Snow would drain you so much. Falling asleep in his house even turns into a regular occurrence, happening almost every time you show up for work.

Naturally, Henry isn’t thrilled with that. Every time you come back home, too tired to wait on him hand and foot like you used to, his displeasure grows.

But he’s also yet to find a way to fix the issue, so the two of you must keep working. You’ve already sold everything that you could, clothes, any belonging of slight value. 

The gap is still too vast. 

And the city won’t allow you to apply for another place to live, claiming the waitlist is already sky-high.

Though you resent it, Coriolanus Snow is your only hope.

“You’re not in charge of dinner tonight,” Ariadne announces one night as you fire the stove.

You turn the burners off, your eyes rounding.

“I’m not?” 

A bright smile blooms on the brunette’s face.

“Master Snow is inviting you to dine with him as his guest, to express gratitude for your outstanding work.”

Your lips part in surprise. In the many weeks you’ve worked for President Snow, this has never happened. You have shared meals, of course, but you’ve never received such a formal invitation.

You suppose it’s all a game to Snow, and he simply changes the rules whenever he feels it.

She astonishes you further when she urges you to follow her to one of the guest bedrooms.

Utter dismay fills you.

A white dress lies atop the bed. The sleeveless evening gown looks more expensive than any dress you’ve ever laid eyes on. The delicate white silk flares at the waist, the gigantic, fluffy layered skirt making your head spin already. You imagine how hard it'd be to move in such a dress. Though you surmise it won’t be too much of a concern as you only need to sit through dinner with it.

“Master Snow expects you to wear this tonight,” Ariadne chimes.

She helps you slip on the dress, a task you undoubtedly would have struggled to complete on your own, the many layers of tulle, silk and lace of the huge skirt alone their own challenge.

Eventually, you’re dressed. 

She escorts you to the dinner room. Curious eyes dart about the halls, noting their unusual emptiness. Not a single footman, maid or Avox in sight. 

You’re alone.

“The house is very quiet,” you point out.

Ariadne beams at you from above her shoulder.

“The entire staff’s been sent home. Master Snow wants to wait on you himself tonight.”

Your stomach knots, a foreboding feeling swelling within you.

Still, you glide forward. It’s a little late to turn back.

When you enter the diner room, Snow’s face lights up. He makes his way to you. As usual, he’s dashing, his platinum blonde locks neatly combed back and his crimson suit highlighting his tall frame.

His gaze twinkles as he drinks you in. 

“You’re a vision, dove.” He lifts your hand and brushes his lips over your knuckles. His eyes slam into yours. Time seems to hang still for a few seconds. “As I know you would be.”

Keeping your hand in his, he escorts you to your seat. He pulls your chair for you and you fumble with your skirt a little before finding a comfortable way to sit. 

“So…no maids today?” you say lightly. 

His lips slant. He removes the lid off one of the pots. The mouthwatering smell instantly reaches you. 

“I thought it’d be nicer to enjoy a quiet, private dinner together, as a way to celebrate.”

Your face contorts into a puzzled expression. 

“Celebrate?”

“Your last day as my housekeeper,” he replies cheerfully.

Your heart misses a beat. Is he firing you?

You attempt to tamp down the quake in your voice. You fail miserably.

“Really?”

He gauges you and his smile grows.

“Yes. In fact, you and your husband will never have to worry about rent anymore. Him  especially. Everything’s settled.”

An audible exhale slips through your mouth. 

“This is…I don’t know what to say.”

“You can say thank you.”

“Thank you, President Snow.”

His laugh resonates in the near empty dining room.

“Please, call me Coriolanus.” He ladles soup onto your plate before bending close. You tense as his warm breath ghosts over your temple. “We’re quite…close now, aren’t we, dove?”

You gulp down the lump in your throat.

“I suppose we are…Coriolanus.”

You wince. Uttering his name feels wrong, forbidden almost.

Satisfaction doesn’t part from his handsome features as he regains his seat. He gestures for you to start eating. You feel a bit self-conscious as he observes you intently. 

Still, you do as he heeds, not needing to be told twice. 

The quicker you eat, the quicker you’ll get to be home and out of the uncomfortable dress. 

You groan as your lids flutter, a blurry shape rocking back and forth in your vision. Fatigue tugs at your heavy limbs as you stir. Your forehead scrunches. Your body’s hot, like a furnace, like you’re burning from the inside out. Tingles spark somewhere in you and you keen sharply, leaning into the sensation. Feverish whispers surround you, words you don’t comprehend in your daze.

The pull and tear. The pleasure mingling with the pain. You’re in a strange dream, maybe a nightmare.

Deep-chested grunts land in your ears. You awake further. It’s a voice you recognize, from somewhere…but not like this. Never like this. Something’s wong. Your forehead wrinkles. Something’s wrong but you’re so tired. So so tired. Your mind’s like cotton. Your limbs are as rocks.

As your lids sag, something slams into you. Fast, hard and vicious.

Your heart bounces. Your eyes snap open.

Your stomach drops.

A sinister smile you know too well by now welcomes you.

“Hello, dove. Awake, finally,” Snow whispers, his hips snapping into yours. Your breath catches as his cock grazes against your sweet spots. You clench around him and he chuckles darkly. “That angle always does it for you.” Smugness oozes off his hoarse timbre.

You look up at him. Sweat dots his brow, his tousled blonde locks clinging to his forehead. His blue eyes are cloudy with lust. His white shirt is half open, revealing a glimpse of the bare, glistening muscles underneath.

And as your gaze travels lower, horror flares inside you.

You gape with wide eyes as his veiny length disappears inside you. Again and again. The fluffy white shirt is bunched around your waist, your panties torn, exposing your lower body to President Snow’s lewd scrutiny entirely. His large hands dig into your hips, trailing crescent bruises in the shape of his fingernails.

Your shocked gaze finds his.

His smile expands.

“P-President Snow, what are you doing?” 

You know it’s a stupid question…but you have to make sense of this. Because none of this can be real. Maybe it’s a nightmare and you’re still sleeping.

You gasp as he pushes you into the mattress, piledriving into you at an angle that has you seeing stars.

“Taking what’s mine, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, hooking his arm under your thigh.

He lifts you and spreads you even more. His darkened gaze follows the motion of his cock as he pounds into you, an insatiable look twisting his handsome features. 

Reaching between your tangled bodies, he pinches your tender heap of nerves. He rubs against it, teasing it with maddening circles until your legs quake. You come apart beneath him, crying out as your back arches against the soft sheets.

“Please, stop,” you whimper, tears gathering in your eyes.

Snow’s pace quickens. Ragged moans tear from your throat. Your vision flickers.

He bends over you to lick one of your tears, humming in satisfaction at the taste. 

His lips drag against yours as he asks, “Is it truly what you want? Because it’s kind of hard to tell the way your pussy hugs my cock.” His mouth curves upward against your cheek. “Like it does every time.”

A wave of ice spreads through you. 

Every time? Realization hits you, knife-like as it pierces through the veil of denial. 

Every time…

The pieces fall into place as you remember all those times you fell asleep, unable to recall how you ended up in bed. Tired, confused…sore.

A shudder shoots through your frame.

You twist your body as panic seizes you.

Coriolanus growls when you clamber away from him, heading for the edge of the bed. You curse the pesky gown and the way it hinders your movements.

He yanks you back with ease, gripping the back of your head and shoving you down into the mattress.

Lips graze your earshell as he snarls, “Where are you going? We’re not done. We have to make sure you carry the next Snow heir.” In one stroke, he sinks into you from behind. You choke on your breath, the pain snatching your air. With one hand cinched around the back of your neck, he starts rutting into you. Your bruised folds ache at the blunt invasion. Still, your core clings to him in a way that stirs shame in your gut. “Although after all these times…” You hear the smile in his conceited inflection “It’s a given, isn’t it?”

Your eyes swell with tears. Your lips part in a silent scream. The sick song of flesh against flesh fills the room, mingling with his feral moans. 

Each time your walls tighten around him, bile rises up your throat. 

“What have you done to me?” you sob against the drenched silk sheets.

“Oh, I think you know,” he purrs. His warm breath fans over your scalp. “You can feel it, can’t you? How well your body knows me now, dove.”

His hips stutter, his thrusts getting sloppier. His cock twitches inside you. As warmth trickles alongside your walls, you feel sick again. He remains nestled inside you a while, panting above you and shoving the excess back in as you remain still.

As you feel his digits poke and prod, a chill runs through you. 

You can’t let him touch you again.

You keel over the edge of the bed, heading straight towards the floor. Pain ripples through your knees as they hit the carpet. You’re forced to ignore the crack resounding through your bones, awkwardly getting to your feet and dashing to the wooden swing doors.

Coriolanus’ wicked laugh echoes behind you. 

“Oh, dove, if you wanted to play hide and seek, all you needed to do was to ask,” he taunts.

Terror grips your throat. You ignore it alongside everything else. Alongside the pain, alongside the uncertainty, alongside the fact that you can still feel him inside you. Like you never left the bed. Like you’re still caged in his embrace.

Your legs carry you, barefoot and panicked, as you run through the palatial hallways as fast as the bothersome white dress will allow.

The president’s deep voice bounces against the ornate walls.

“Ready or not, here I come, my darling.”

The blood rushes to your feet. Your head spins and your feet tangle. You trip. Immediately, you gather yourself. You lift the skirt and dive hastily towards the living room. You duck behind a sofa. 

It’s a pathetic place to hide; you know it. But the lavish mansion is nothing but open spaces doused in sunlight. 

There is nowhere to hide.

The clamor of your heart is deafening in your ears as you hear objects crash to the floor a few feet away from you. Hand over your mouth to keep every sound in, you jerk every time the racket grows on the other side of the sofa. 

His frustration coats the air.

“Come out, come out wherever you are, dove,” he calls, his tone icier than before.

You freeze, holding your breath and wishing he doesn’t think to look where you are.

The minutes pass, agonizingly slow. The flimsy hope that he may have left even begins to bloom inside you.

Hot air suddenly breezes over your nape.

“Found you.” 

Your heart leaps to your throat. You go still. Coriolanus hauls you from the floor, half-carrying you and half-lugging you across the living room. You try to bite and claw any part of him you can reach but his hand locks around your throat.

He slams you harshly against a wall. Your head rings, the lines of his face momentarily doubling in your vision. You bite his hand. Cursing under his breath, he bangs your head against the wall again. You go limp.

Through your hazy sight, you note the scarlet trail streaking the back of his hand. You drew blood. Even if you’re lost, you bask in the ephemeral second of victory.

He carries your unmoving form the rest of the way back to his bedroom. You loathe yourself for your stillness. You want to put up a fight. You want to claw. You want to bite. You want to kill him with your bare hands. 

But all you can do is simmer in helplessness as he brings you right back to the very place you tried to escape.

He gently releases you on the bed then climbs over you. Goosebumps erect on your flesh as he caresses the side of your face, a strangely fond gesture considering everything he put you through.

“Please,” you mumble weakly. “You can have anyone you want. I have a husband.”

His face contorts into an expression of pure mockery, as if what you said was beyond ludicrous.

“I don’t want just anyone.” He lifts your chin, scorching blue gaze diving into yours. “I want you.”

“As for your husband…” His voice trails off as he traces your trembling bottom lip with his thumb. A crooked smirk drags his lips skyward. He leans over you to whisper, “Well I did say he’ll never have to worry about rent ever again, didn’t I?”

Your heart sinks. You can’t believe you trusted Coriolanus Snow. A foolish mistake. A dangerous mistake. One you’re now paying dearly. He not only trapped you…he also hurt Henry.

All because of you.

You will never forgive yourself.

“What did you do to him?” you ask, anger and heartbreak making your voice wobble.

A chill-inducing glint dances in his orbs.

“I haven’t done anything.” He cocks his head. “Rebels are criminals of the state and shall be sentenced as such.”

The world collapses around you.

A chasm of despair swallows you whole as quiet tears stream down your face.

As sobs shake your frame, President Snow plants soft kisses on your wet cheeks. You feel him grow hard against your belly as he hums, as if the taste of your hopelessness was ambrosia to him. Heavenly sweet.

He cups your face.

“Do not fret, dove. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a second of his execution.” The emptiness of his blue eyes staggers you, their depths as icy as a frozen lake. “It’s important for all citizens of Panem to learn from watching.”

The expression on his face turns downright diabolical. His knuckles sweep over the apple of your cheek.

“And I want you to learn as you watch the light go out in his eyes, dove, that this was inevitable, that I always win.”

His tone softens as his hands drag over your hips.

“I wonder how many children you’ll give me. Will they all sing as pretty as you?” The hurried rustle of his pants as he frees his cock freezes your blood. He bites his lip, lust already misting his gaze as he prods impatiently at your entrance.

“I suppose we’ll just have to find out,” he croons.

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!

Silly Royal Yandere Idea-

Imagine being a worker for a royal family, you're a farmer who brings the goods to the kitchen every day and make sure all vegetables and fruits are fresh, not bruised, cleaned and ready to be prepared for their meals.

You usually make the trek alone, no big deal right? Just some heavy baskets and such but the job itself isn't really that bad. It's made even better actually when the young prince finds he fancies the way you work and how you farm, loves to walk with you on your way out of the kingdom and listen to you and your stories.

He's cute, you'll give him that. Curious and finally able to explore without much of an issue now that he's finished his training, his father boasting proudly today even that they shall share a feast in celebration.

The walks are nice, you aren't alone and are even safer as the highwaymen shrink away and know to stay back when they see such fierce eyes. Those calloused hands from fighting and training lay on your hips, pulling you closer to his side as you share yet another walk to your farm and get the baskets ready for another delivery.

These sweet meetings grow in size as time goes on. He's been given permission by the king and queen to bring you to the main rooms of the castle, though they aren't too happy that he disregards their rules about what you can and can't touch.

He's so puppy-like, grabbing your hand and pulling you everywhere he can, showing his favorite art, his instruments he's been playing while he waits for you to return, the things he requested be made to remind him of you, and some other odd but - at the time- well meaning items.

The prince however gets more and more demanding of your presence. So much so, that one morning you wake up to begin to water the crops and fetch some in your buckets but you opened the door to the man standing there, royal suit and all, a wide smile on his face as he greets you.

You insist you'll be at the castle soon, that you have work to be done, but he just pushes you forward as he walks with you, -not harsh, but definitely firm, making sure you couldn't turn away from him as he leads you.

"Just one day can't hurt right?" he says, "I just wish to spend the day with you, only you. It's why I took my own horse! He loves your carrots, you know? Only yours...He's very much like me in that regard". 

You decide that, on one hand, denying the prince anything could be dire, the royal family having all say in what is done and you're lucky they have been so benevolent. Risking your business because you didn't want to indulge the odd prince...It isn't worth the reward of just keeping up with the crops and farm work. 

But this one day out by the river and having the man buy you whatever you laid your eyes on, while sweet and very enjoyable, wasn’t enough. He shows up every morning now, you hear how exhausted his parents are when you reach the castle every time, they demand he act right, that he stop leaving without notifying any of the guards, but he just laughs it off and says “Why should they embark with me on my and my lovers adventures? Private matters are private father, remember?” 

They know what's going on but it's so much darker and more twisted than anyone could have imagined. Boundaries get pushed more and more, you keep trying to keep your farm alive for not just the royal family, but yourself and the others who need you too, but the prince insists that your time is to be spent with him, only him. 

It reaches its boiling point when you deny him a walk. No runs to the river, no waltz in the woods, not even a chat over tea. Your farm is sick, it needs tending, and you yourself are weary and exhausted from trying to balance it all out. 

He goes silent, hands clenching at his side for a moment before he just smiles, wide and friendly as usual, and he kisses your hand before apologizing. You assure him you aren’t exactly mad, you just have things to finish, and he at least seems to understand that. 

Or, so you thought. You crack open your eyes after waking up in a bed that wasn’t yours, hearing the horses outside neigh and chuff in terror as if something was very very wrong. You recognize the royal emblem on the wall, and you shoot straight up, knowing this was a carriage. You shove and knock on the doors, the smell of smoke filling your senses as you can only imagine the worst, but the heavy wood doesn’t budge and you can only make out garbled words as a man screams demands. 

You manage to break open the boarded window of the carriage and watch as your farm is engulfed in flames, horses neighing in terror, ashes falling all around, your cabin falling in on itself from the blaze. And you gaze upon what you can only assume is the incarnation of death and war itself, a sign of the end times, as the Prince rides up on his own horse and tosses a lantern, the blaze only erupting hotter as he cackles in triumph. 

You feel horrified tears well up in your eyes, so many emotions coming together at once. Everything you worked for, everything you had built from the ground up, all your memories and all of your belongings- gone. 

Ash and embers fill the sky as the knights who came begin marching back to the carriage, staffs in hand as they finally open the doors. You lunge, wanting to tear your teeth into the heart of that evil, sick, twisted man, but he just laughs. It’s a soft amused laugh like when you told him your stories in the market or on your many many walks. 

“Ah, I hadn’t expected that mixture to wear off so soon!” he boasts, stepping down from his own horse. His stride is slow, like he’s taking in the view of a beautiful field or admiring someones art. You want to spit at him, claw at him, break him in any way you could fathom. 

His feet stop, the crumbling building behind him still a blazing orange and red, opposite of the cold features the prince wore on his face. His hand comes to gently cup your cheek, his thumb stroking across where tears are falling down your heated cheek. “Why so upset? I took care of what was keeping you away from me! I know, I know, you’re sad, but I made sure nothing of importance was hurt! Which wasn’t much. A picture or two should still be safe-” he says with an expression of after thought. “ Anyway, dearest, I fixed the issue! And you can now come where you’re meant to be! “ “I’ll kill you-” “Ah, even when murderous and livid you strike my heart with your beauty. Do tell me every wicked way you wish to end me! It thrills me, makes my skin crawl so pleasantly imagining you touching me in any manner” he taunts, squeezing your face a bit tighter. “Be it anger and resentment or true love, I’ll relish any touch you bring to me” “My lord, the sun will rise soon” a deep voice says from the side, your own eyes too stunned to look, uncaring as everything else sets in. Your home is gone, your fields are ruined, your possessions all roasted and incinerated. Nothing left but the haunting image of burned rubble and some charred remains of any item you owned. 

You’re trapped. Imprisoned in a golden cage as this wild man declares that he and you are meant to be, whether you want it or not. 

“Get some rest darling. I’ll lead us back to the castle” He says with a kiss to your forehead, allowing the knights to force you back inside. “Don’t be so angered! I promise to treat you like royalty! Since you will be, once the marriage is announced and all”

(Hope you liked this! Feel free to comment and tell me your thoughts! Especially spicy ones :3c -Mommabean)

Random Yandere moods: #1

Doing this cause bored. Lol.

Yandere ex but the Ex broke up with you.

No bad Y/n or lover OC. The Yandere ended things but realized later they can’t stand being without them. Them causing their own snap. It can be because Yandere cheated or emotionally cheated and then went to this person for awhile. Yandere could immediately break up if you’re boring… or maybe Yandere subtle suggests thing to his cheating partner to slowly change into you until he realizes what’s actually going on…

It could also be he thought he or she was getting bored. They didn’t communicate well and thought you were the problem—perhaps your attempts to be a healthy relationship annoyed them and you of course had rose tinted glasses on. Either way you’re devastated for a while… Then you move on, just not from the feelings. You don’t look for someone quite yet, in fact avoiding relationships because you really tried to keep things together… you need a break from all that. You move on… by moving on from the area. You move to another city, make new friends and of course decline many potential mates as you still couldn’t do it.

Then you swore you thought you saw them again. You tell yourself it’s close to the anniversary so you’re just thinking of him… but little do you know he was given the perfect opportunity…

JEALOUS FUCKGIRL YAN.. yknow if ya don't mind. Coughcoughilovegirlswhoaremean

She's impossible to read.

One minute she's all over you, next she's disappearing off into the crowd. You can always pick her out sooner than later, watching you like a hawk cozied up with someone side night cared to remember by morning. You've told yourself time and again this is just how she is with everyone. Sometimes the flirty, extroverted type just don't get they can't be that way with everyone before someone catches feelings, but it's that same attention that makes you feel like there's so much more going on between you. Maybe you're just overthinking it. As her closest resemblance to a friend, you know better than anyone she'd be a tough partner to have..

Friends...

"hey..."

Yea, that's what you are.

"Hey!"

Over the music and chattering crowd, it's understandable to mistake the voice as directed at someone else. It's when you look at the glossy eyes of your slightly inebriated floor mate that you realize they were talking to you. Taking your gaze, they crack a toothy smile as they move closer so you're able to hear over the music - eyes watching their every step.

"What's going on with you and Dylan? Saw you two walk in and hanging around town before. She's never been so public with one of her partners."

The punch at the bottom of your cup tastes more bitter than you remembered as you sip from it. "It's nothing like that. Had a rough week so she offered to take me somewhere tonight. We're just friends."

The stranger frowns, but their pity never reaches their eyes. "Shame. Seems like she lucked out this time cause you're kinda cute. What's your name?"

"It's-

"None of your damn business."

The scent of department store cologne and tobacco assaults your senses as her hands fall at your waist. You can feel the weight of her glare over your shoulder as the stranger sheepishly backs away from promity to you and her line of sight. Gripping your waist, she pulls you to her chest - shooting an arm around your neck to keep you pinned in place as she swallows her visible anger with whatever's left in your cup.

"Baby.." She draws with that honeyedly sweet tone only she could channel, resting her head against your cheek with a sigh as she holds you close. "I leave you alone for a second and you run off with a stranger. Never pegged you as the type to break a poor girl's heart, but here we are."

The stranger looks between the two of you as her breath fans your ear through her laughter, confusion and a hint of disappointment clear on their face. "Sorry, Dyl.. Not trying to steal your date or nothing. They said you guys were just friends..."

"We are!" You argue, unsure of your own defense as her lips meet the skin of your neck. "we..are.."

Moving to your collar, her teeth close as her arms tight around you - biting down with no real force behind it, but enough to leave a sting. "All I know is if you're not out of my fucking sight in the next ten seconds we're gonna have a big problem on our hands and depending on how settling it goes there might be a few teeth on the floor."

The stranger opens their mouth-

"10...."

Turning tail as she opens hers. Watching as they flee, you finally wriggle out of Dylan's arms enough to shove her away. "What the hell was that, Dylan."

She shrugs, having the nerve to look upset as you raise your voice. "What? They were getting in your space so I helped you out. You're welcome by the way."

"They were just talking to me- Why bring me to a public place and go talk to somebody else if you didn't want me mingling with others. Why do you always insist we're just friends to people then turn around and act like my girlfriend when people trying to get to know me. Do you want me to end up miserable and alone?"

Something snaps in Dylan's eyes at your accusations. Grabbing a fistful of your shirt she yanks you back towards her - ramming her lips and tongue against your sealed mouth as she clutches your jaw, applying pressure to pry you open for her. The taste of liquor and the tobacco you smelt on her prior spills onto your tongue; the jewelry of her inner piercing clashing against your teeth as she robs you of breath and grasp on whatever grounding your relationship had before this. Her hand dips into your back pocket as her husky eyes into yours - voice dropping to a whisper so the watching crowd hasn't a clue what she says. All that matters is that you do and understand your place.

"What we are doesn't matter right now. Only thing that does is that you are mine. Don't let anyone put any silly ideas in that pretty head that make you think that you're not. Do I make myself clear?"

You swallow the air you had been holding.

"Do. I. make myself clear."

"..yea."

"Good." Her face relaxes into the smile you've grown accustom to as she pats your cheek. "Good. Say I'd hate to have to remind you, but I've been told I'm a bad liar."