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tunnel vision — six ; coriolanus snow

MASTERLIST

pairing ; king!coriolanus snow x debutante!reader

words ; 3.7k

about ; in the glittering world of panem high society, you were raised to be perfect — the prized daughter of a powerful family. your family was prepared to make the match of the season. but when king coriolanus snow arrives unexpectedly, announcing his intention to marry, everything changes.

warning(s) ; eventual smut, angst, courting (bridgerton style), eventual fluff.

chapter specifics: mentions of sex, smut, fingering, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), kissing, bruises,

authors note ; here's your treat! more smut to come :)

It had been a month since you became his wife.

Exactly one month since that fateful wedding night where your entire life came upside down in less than an hour's time. One month of careful smiles at court, of silk gowns stitched too tight, and a heavy crown placed upon your head. Things were easy in that degree, you were a surprisingly good Queen. To the public, you were so overwhelmed with your love for the King that both of you demanded a speedy wedding, one away from the prying eyes of the Capital, where you two could share your vows intimately. Everyone thought that you two hadn’t taken your honeymoon yet because there were so many things to do with the arrival of your presence at the castle. No one was the wiser as to what actually happened.

Behind the palace walls, the story was different.

Coriolanus treated you with the same precision he gave to every matter of his state. A gloved hand offered to help you step down from your carriages, a nod of approval when you spoke at the small number of council meetings you attended, lingering glances here and there. He hadn’t kissed you since your wedding night, hadn’t touched you beyond what happened in that garden.

Some nights you would wake in your gilded bed to the phantom sensation of his hand at your waist the way it had been those few weeks ago, his breath at your ear. You would lie there, still, heart racing, wondering if you had dreamed it. Wondering if you wished for it to happen. You hated him for it, you continued to say to yourself. You hated him for not giving you a choice in the engagement and wedding, or the night afterwards.

Your duties as husband and wife still remained, but it was more of a front than anything. You would answer the door and he would be there, say a few words, and then fall asleep in the same chair next to your bed as he did the first night. It was sporadic, the way that a husband in society would, almost as calculated as him.

But routines were never really built to last, especially not with a man like Coriolanus Snow. It was almost a month to the day when the routine finally cracked.

You heard the knock at your door, glancing at the glock you saw that it was around the same hour as always — just past midnight, when the palace grew quiet enough that only a few passersby would witness the King going to his wifes chambers. You rose automatically, smoothing the folds of your nightdress, and opened the door to find him there.

“You’re late,” you said before you could stop yourself.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Am I?” he drawled.

“By exactly seven minutes.” You leaned one shoulder against the wooden doorframe, tilting your chin up just to meet his gaze. “I was beginning to think you’d finally found someone else’s chair to fall asleep in.”

“If you're trying to make me jealous of furniture, darling wife, you’ll have to try harder.”

You hummed, stepping aside to let him in, the satin hem of your nightdress whispering against the stone. You watched him settle into the chair, the same way he always did. You hated how much you liked seeing the lazy sprawl of long legs, the fold of arms across his chest. The audacity of him, coming here every night like it was a duty. Like he was doing you some grand favor.

You crossed your arms and said, far too sweetly, “If you’re going to keep haunting my rooms every night, maybe we ought to make it official.”

“Official,” he repeated. “You do realize that we are already married?”

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until you stood near him at the foot of the chair. “I meant,” you said, giving him a deadpanned look. “We could set a schedule. Even days, perhaps. You visit only on the even numbered days of the month. So there is structure. Keep things . . . tidy.” It sounded even weirder coming out of your mouth than when you thought about it earlier today when you couldn’t get the sound of his voice out of your head.

“A schedule?”

“For us,” you clarified. “For our . . . duties.”

A beat of silence. A flicker of acknowledgement. “You mean you want me in your bed?”

Heat crawled up your neck, but you didn’t let it reach your face. You didn’t want him to see how his words affected you. Didn’t want him to think that you wanted more of him after he trapped you in this marriage that you had to convince yourself you disliked. It would be so much easier this way. Do your duties without getting too close to him. “Only on even days. For appearances. To make it believable. The court is already asking when an heir will be expected.”

Coriolanus only looked at you. Then a smile, slow, and sharp. “And you think scheduling your husband like one might schedule a meeting is the best way for us to produce an heir? That a mechanical schedule will satisfy them?”

“It would satisfy me,” you said.

“You would rather it be mechanical,” he murmured. “Than . . .”

He let the word dangle in between the two of you.

Than wanting.

Than feeling.

Then losing yourself, the same way that you had before you had been married.

You clutched the folds of your nightdress, the silk touching your bare fingertips and slipping between them. “It’s . . . efficient,” you said, trying for indifference.

You didn’t know how he would react to this. Half of you expected for him to get angry about it. But that half of you should’ve known better. Because he did the exact opposite of getting angry about it. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. It felt like you were caught in the jaws of something that you had dared to provoke with the way that he looked at you, entirely focused pinned wholly and solely on you.

“If you want it mechanical, wife,” he said softly. “Then mechanical it shall be.”

The promise almost seemed genuine.

He rose from the chair in one slow, fluid motion. He didn’t touch you, didn’t even reach for you. Instead he leaned down that his mouth hovered a breath from your ear.

“I’ll see you,” he murmured. “On the next even day.”

Coriolanus turned and slipped out of the door without another glance. It seemed as if he didn't want to sleep in the chair tonight. Perhaps it was because you had changed the game. He had to plan for his next move.

The next even day seemed to come faster than you anticipated. You thought that perhaps a day in between your proposal of the new schedule would give you time to feel prepared. It should have brought you peace. Control. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about when you grew too needy for him, even just a sliver of him like in that garden, and snapped. Instead you spent the entire day feeling like your skin was on fire. Breakfast tasted like dust. You pretended to read a book you couldn’t even see the words of.

You had found yourself thinking again and again that it didn’t matter. It would be simple, a mechanical duty. It was the same duty that your mother tried to explain to you, the one that the ladies of the ton would talk badly upon from time to time. You were a queen now, you had obligations. To yourself, to the country, and to . . . whatever legacy you two were supposed to carry on. It had nothing to do with the memory of his mouth brushing against your ear, the way your body remembered the feelings of his hands, the roughness of his kiss.

This wasn’t helping.

Night fell over the palace.

The lamps were dimmed, the corridors empty of most staff besides the occasional Peacekeeper patrolling the hallways. You stood by the window of your grand room, watching the moon gradually rise up, clinging to your nightgown.

It was a soft sound, the knock. Barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood. You moved automatically, crossing the floor and opening the door. Coriolanus stood there, the way that he always did when he came to your door at night. His jacket was already gone, white shirt open at the collar with his sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. It seemed there was no pretense tonight, no chess game, no armor of any kind.

You moved out of the way so he could enter, the door closing behind him. It was just the two of you now, sealed off from the rest of the world. Your hands curled into fists at your sides and he stood in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his icy gaze. “You will tell me,” he said, his voice almost a whisper but still commanding, “if you change your mind.”

You opened your mouth to reply to him, but he was already reaching for you. And he touched you with a precision so careful that it felt almost clinical.

Almost.

Except for the way that his fingers barely trembled as they slid along your nightdress, or the way that your breath hitched when his palms found the curve of your waist. Mechanical, you told yourself, as his face neared yours. It didn’t have to be anything but mechanical. Coriolanus tilted his head, his nose nearly brushing your own. His mouth hovered over your own, not touching, as if offering you the chance to pull away and forget that you ever tried to make it work. As if daring you to.

You didn’t.

His kiss was the same way that you remembered it being during the nights you stayed and laid awake thinking about it. He tasted the same, that same untamable taste that made you want to open your mouth wider to him. Your hands, ever the traitorous things, lifted on their own, curling into the soft fabric of his white shirt. It felt like no feeling, no lingering. Mechanical.

You kissed him back with the same precision.

But somewhere . . . somewhere in the slow brush of his mouth against yours, the control began to slip. Your fingers tangled in the soft curls of his hair, brushing them out of place and pulling on the edges of them. His breathing grew a little heavier, a tad bit harsher against your lips. And then his mouth slanted over yours, rougher, no longer measured. A clash between you filled with hunger and fury and need. You gasped against him and he swallowed the sound, like he had been starving for it. All at once, you were arching into him without permission or care and he was there to catch you, hands at your waist, dragging you closer.

There was no mechanical.

Only heat and desperation.

“Tell me to stop,” Coriolanus whispered against your mouth. “Tell me, and I will.”

But you couldn’t.

You wouldn’t.

Instead your hands tugged at his shirt, keeping him close to you like you would die if he was to ever leave. The soft cotton bunched under your fingers and you slid them down to his hands, tugging on them and pulling him towards your bed with an aching demand. Coriolanus didn’t even try to stop you, his hands curling around yours, letting you lead him.

Your legs brushed against the edge of your bed and your body sank down onto the mattress. He followed, moving in between your parted thighs without breaking your embraced hands. The mattress dipped even more under his weight and the heat of his body pressed up against yours, overwhelming and wanting. Your nightdress slipped from your shoulder, the coolness of the air around you brushing against your skin, his gaze dropped, tracking the exposed line.

This kiss was nothing like the first.

It was teeth and desperation, unraveling held together by the two of you like a ceremony. His mouth crushed against yours, drinking the air from your lungs, your fingers digging into his bare arms, your fingernails making crescent marks biting into his skin. Coriolnaus groaned low in his chest, you shuddered from his unbecoming. He lifted you and pulled you onto the bed fully, the silk sheets pressing against your skin. One of his hands slid along your thigh, pushing your nightdress higher and higher, baring you to the cool air of the room. You could feel the tremor running through him, so sharp it vibrated under his skin into yours. It felt as though he was holding himself in check with the thinnest, most fragile thread of discipline.

Reverently, he slipped his fingers beneath the hem of your nightdress, and when you didn’t stop him, he dragged it up completely, pulling it over your head in one smooth deliberate motion. And then you were bare before him.

Coriolanus exhaled, his pupils blown wide. His hands hovered just above your skin, as if he didn’t want to mar the sight of you with such rough trembling hands. “You’re,” he whispered, his head bobbing down to press his lips to the expanse of your throat. “You’re perfect.”

The words pierced right through you, raw and burning. Your heart lurched painfully against your ribs, your eyes squeezing shut as he began to press open mouth kisses along your skin. You weren’t afraid like you thought you would be, not a single part of you felt like this was wrong. In fact, it felt so right that you almost wanted to cry. Your body molded into his with such a perfect degree that it almost didn’t feel real. Tentatively, your hand reached for the buttons of his shirt, trying your best to fervently unbutton them to expose his chest to you. In between his kisses, he helped, shrugging off the garment and lazily throwing it to the floor. His mouth moved across your skin like a man desperate to memorize every inch.

You gasped when he found the soft swell of your breast, his mouth lingering, like he had all the time in the world to undo you piece by agonizing piece. Each brush of his tongue sent a shiver rippling down your spine. “Coriolanus,” you whispered without thinking, like a prayer. He groaned against your skin and lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. The sight of him, eyes dark with hunger, nearly undid you completely.

“Say it again,” he rasped. “Say my name.”

Your fingers skimmed down his bare chest, as if you were testing the waters. You traced the defined lines of muscle, faint scars you hadn’t known were there. You marveled at the strength of him, so solid and real and yours in a way you never dared to dream. You tilted your chin up and whispered again, “Coriolanus.”

His mouth crashed back onto yours, raw and helpless need.

When he finally moved lower, one large hand sliding down your stomach, parting your thighs with care, your body answered him instinctively. Arching, trembling, reaching for him. His fingers pressed against the heat between your thighs and moved, creating a feeling you didn’t even know was possible. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he managed. You didn’t answer with words, instead lifting your hips in a silent, desperate invitation. Coriolanus cursed under his breath and one finger entered you slowly, your mouth opening wide which he countered with his mouth slotting above yours.

He moved carefully, his finger curling inside you, coaxing another desperate sound from your chest. You clung to him, nails scraping lightly over his shoulders. Your body bowed into his touch without shame and hesitation. “That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “Good girl.” The words sent a shudder rippling through you and Coriolanus felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a smile so small that it made your heart ache. Another finger joined the first and he worked you open with slow, deliberate care. Praising you with every breath, every touch. You were barely aware of the way your hips moved against him, chasing the tension that coiled hotter and tighter inside you with every careful thrust of his fingers.

Right as you were about to whimper that you needed more, he pulled his fingers out, like he heard your thoughts. His forehead pressed against yours and you opened your eyes and it seemed as though there was an understanding. One that you were ready for what was to come next. You were ready for him. He fumbled for the fastening of his trousers, urgency bleeding into his movements, no more elegance that he started with. You watched as he freed himself, the hungry, desperate flush of his body making your mouth go dry.

He didn’t make you wait, guiding himself to your entrance and lining himself up with a hand that shook just slightly, and pressed forward in one slow devastating glide. You gasped, the stretch burning at first.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

But he caught your gasp with his mouth, anchoring you to him as he slid deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you. For a moment, neither of you moved or breathed.

It was perfect.

It was ruin.

He rocked into you, slow at first, savoring every inch, every sound you made against his lips. And you clung to him like a woman drowning, like the very act of being joined to him could hold you together when everything else inside you was unraveling. You breathed his name and that broke him completely, his pace stuttered, his control slipped, and the way he moved inside you turned rougher. He couldn’t bear the space between your bodies any longer.

You met him thrust for thrust, moaning softly into his mouth. You didn’t exactly understand what was happening inside of your stomach, if it was even your stomach. It felt like something building towards an impossible end, something that was unattainable until you reached some sort of pinnacle. Your release crashed over you, and it did so without mercy, with no hesitation. You shattered beneath him, around him, taking him with you.

He followed a heartbeat later with a low, broken groan of your name, your real name. Not title, not queen. His forehead pressed hard against yours as he spilled into you. For a long moment, the only sounds were your gasping breaths, the frantic pounding of your hearts. He stayed inside you, unmoving, for such a long while.

As if pulling away would make this fragile, impossible thing between you shatter into dust.

The next week passed in an unbearable rhythm.

Every even day, just as you had agreed, Coriolanus came to you.

You would open the door, already waiting in a pale silk nightdress.

He would enter without a word.

It was supposed to be mechanical and efficient.

Every time he touched you like he couldn’t help himself. And every time you kissed him back like you were starving.

Some nights, it was frantic. Your fingers fumbled with his buttons, his mouth rough against your neck. Other nights it was slow, agonizing. Coriolanus would undress you piece by piece, laying you out on the bed like a prized jewel, tracing every inch of your bare skin as if memorizing you was the only thing he could ever want.

He learned your body too quickly. Where to kiss, where to bite, where to touch to make you shudder and cling to him. And you learned his, the scar on his hip that he hated, the way his breath caught when you kissed the hollow of his throat, the low, broken sounds he would make when he was too deep inside you to think.

He was always gone by dawn, leaving nothing behind but the scent of his skin on yours and the bruises blooming along your hips where he had held onto you a little bit too tightly. At court you sat beside him, polished, untouchable, perfect, your fingers resting in your lap. You didn’t look to him, didn’t speak to him. Every even day. Every even night of swearing it would mean less. Every even night, however, it only meant more.

You barely managed a breath tonight before he was stepping inside, crowding you back against the door. His mouth crushed down onto yours before you could even think, before you could even close the door properly. You gasped onto him, clutching at his shoulders, the cold wood of the door pressing against your back.

“You’re late,” you panted against his mouth, your fingers already fumbling at the buttons of his uniform. “Again.” He made a sound of frustration and nipped at your bottom lip.

“Blame the ministers,” he muttered, dragging your nightdress up your thighs with his greedy hands. “Apparently keeping the country from falling apart takes precedence over keeping you in line.”

You shoved his stupid jacket off his shoulders with a desperate tug. “Keeping me in line?” You echoed, breathless. “You can’t even keep yourself in line.”

Coriolanus pulled back just enough to glare at you.

“You drive me insane,” Coriolanus spat. “Everything about you. The way you look at me, the way you touch me, the way you pretend to hate me. It’s maddening.”

You laughed, even as your fingers dug into his belt, yanking it loose.

“You think you’re any better?” You whispered. “Every minute. You haunt me. You’re like a disease I can’t cure.”

“Good,” he snarled against your collarbone. Before you could throw another taunt his way, he dropped to his knees in front of you. The movement was so sudden that it stunned you into stillness. It looked as though he would die if he didn’t have you.

You barely had time to gasp before he shocked your dress up around your hips. His mouth was on you before you could even think. A gasp tore from your lips, as his tongue parted your folds, lapping at you with a hunger that bordered on savage. There was no gentleness. He devoured you like a man starved, hands pinning your thighs open against the door. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and clawing.

“Coriolanus —” you choked out, hips jerking against his mouth.

He answered by pressing his tongue harder against you, flicking, stroking, pulling every gasp and moan from your throat like he was collecting them like trophies.

You were gone.

Ruined.

There was no going back from it now.

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