paraseleneg1rl

[paraseleneg1rl]

don’t fuck with him

[paraseleneg1rl]

some of tom from the plainclothes trailer <3

[paraseleneg1rl]

❦ "A Reasonable Man"

pt. 3

Pairing: President!Coriolanus Snow x Therapist!Reader

Word count: ~7.4k 🫠

Summary: Coriolanus is too strong for soft edges. Too hardened for late-night calls about nightmares and fragile dreams. Yet here he is —alone in a cold hotel suite, wrestling with shadows that no diplomatic victory can silence, and a sweet voice in a pink sweater offering remedies that unsettle him more than the sleepless nights.

“My first time was during secondary school. Drunk. A dare.” His tone was dry as dust. “We’d stolen posca from one of the kitchens. She was nice. Bit too much lip gloss. Not really my type.” A pause. He looked her up and down, slow and unbothered. “You’re more my type.” She didn’t flinch. Just blinked, once, calmly. “I’m your therapist. That’s not how it works.” “Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he muttered.

🩶 late-night confessions. nightmares. pink sweaters. hotel beds.

m/f • President!Coriolanus Snow • therapist!reader • power imbalance • slow burn (kinda) • Capitol politics • reluctant vulnerability • touch-starved men • ethical gray areas • reader is emotionally intelligent • emotional repression • intimacy as control • emotional intimacy • soft x guarded dynamic • smut • lucy gray crumbs • insomnia • paranoia • post-canon • masturbation (m) • sexual tension

likes and reblogs appreciated ↻

previous ↔ next incoming!

read below 💌

Coriolanus Snow

Vesca Center for Restorative Care | 7:58 PM

The walk to the therapy wing felt longer this time. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he was still sifting through the intel report in his head.

She hadn’t gotten clearance. That had been true. 

He’d drawn tight, vicious little gashes of ink underneath the names of her papers. Then an angry, bleeding circle around the blithe “no red flags” some useless intern had surely written under her surveillance recommendation. 

“Send this back to intel,” he’d hissed, “and tell them to figure out how she watched those Games.” Slammed the thick, typewritten sheets onto a wooden tray braced between the shaking hands of a junior aide, sending the dossier jumping in its manila sleeve and the poor boy scampering out the door. 

He’d read it three times. Nonlinear Grief Responses in Post-Trauma Youth. Tenth Games Study. Trying to find what he must’ve missed the first read-through. Something coded. A note of irony. A subversion. Some proof that her intentions weren’t what she claimed.

She only mentioned him once. Briefly. As a contextual footnote.

The focus had been on the tributes. Not him. Not even Lucy Gray, really — just passing references, how little Wovey had reached for her hand before entering the arena. Apparently, she had chosen to center her thesis on the psychological responses of younger tributes, especially those under thirteen.

And for the Games? The head of intel flinched the last time Coriolanus passed by her in the hall. Good. They’d tracked the citations. Scoured her bibliography line by line. Looked through her family home’s records, her library history when she’d written the document. She had nothing smuggled, no sealed documents.

No, the truth was almost worse than if she’d truly uncovered his worst, best-kept secret.

A VHS tape. He hadn’t even known what it was when he read the word.

An ancient device, apparently, from even before Panem existed — her parents were known for collecting rare, antique little oddities. Apparently they’d recorded the Games on the tape that year. 

It was beyond stupid. Of him. Of Dr. Gaul, who’d assured him eight years ago that she had the only known recording of the 10th Games — one that now lived in his basement. Of his entire intelligence team, who hadn’t even considered the possibility that any plodding, busy parent who lived for nothing more than the next episode of The Flickerman Show or the annual games would save a recording so they could settle into the couch after a long day of bureaucracy and pointless neighborhood pageantry, watch the entertainment they’d missed.

It should’ve felt like a relief. She wasn’t illicitly hunting out the Games that had changed the trajectory of his life forever.

It didn’t.

Because she still had them, didn’t she? The recordings. And so could anyone else.

Have Lucy Gray living in their cupboards, swaddled in folds of starchy rainbow gossamer, serenading snakes and crowds and boys who didn’t know better, coiled in the small frames of a film strip.

Now, in the same pale room with its same neat chair layout, she sat waiting again, notebook still closed, smile still mild. She looked at him like nothing had changed.

“President Snow,” she said as he walked in. “Glad you’re here.”

He didn’t bristle this time. But he didn’t answer either. Just sat down. Gloved fingers folded over each other.

There was a beat of silence. Then she said, “You’ve smoked more since last week.”

He glanced at her. How did she—

Ah. “You can smell it.”

“You always smell faintly like smoke,” she nodded. “But it was stronger today.”

“Hm.”

He didn’t elaborate.

She didn’t press. That bothered him, too. Instead: “Is it a stress thing, or is it just part of the image?”

“Both.”

“Honest,” she said gently. “That’s good.”

It was an alarming observation, especially because it was true. He'd given her honesty while he was deliberating whether she was decieving him, watching too close? Shameful. And it had happened so fast, so unassumingly and thoughtlessly he was still catching up to…whatever it meant.

He didn’t respond.

She studied him a moment longer. “Has it always been cigarettes?”

A blink. He hadn’t expected that question.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… did you ever try anything else? Back when you were younger. Back when you weren’t under quite so much surveillance.”

He smirked faintly. “I’ve always been under surveillance.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his. “So never a phase? Not even a rebellion year?”

“No,” he said simply. “There was no time to be reckless.”

She nodded once, voice sweet and earnest. “Then maybe the cigarettes are your rebellion?”

That annoyed him. God, he hated that word. “Hardly. I don’t puff smoke because I want to flip off the world.”

She didn’t flinch. “Then why do it at all?”

“Because it’s addictive.”

“I’m aware,” she hummed. “And you know that’s not what I’m asking.”

He hesitated. Then shrugged. “It keeps my hands busy. It’s familiar. I don’t sleep anyway, so the health warnings are irrelevant.”

Her voice was calm. “It’s also self-destructive.”

“So is the presidency.” He didn’t know why he had to tell her that. That this was the second time in two minutes — two minutes that he meant to keep laden with suspicion, holding every wayward word tight behind his teeth — that he'd admitted something with more candidness than intended. Unnecessary, really — he could have scoffed something about everyone knows what it does to your lungs.

“Is that how it feels to you?”Her voice stayed even.

Was that it, then? Her voice. Was that was disarming him so?

He didn’t answer. Not disarming, he thought. No, he could not be disarmed by a voice.

She shifted gears. “How many hours did you sleep this week?”

He frowned. “Three. Maybe four.”

“Total?”

“No. Per night.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Any dreams?”

“No.” he lied. “Still wake up the same, though. Tired.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “You’ve created a life where being at rest feels unsafe.”

“Rest is inefficient.”

“It’s necessary.”

“For you, maybe.”

Her eyes were kind, but firm. “For anyone. Including presidents.”

He turned away from her gaze, jaw flexing.

Near the end of the hour, after long stretches of silence and a few half-hearted answers on his part, she closed her notebook, glossy, cherry nails soft on its pink leather. So much color, he noted duly.

“I can tell you don’t want to comply,” Her tone was clear. Honest. “And I understand that. I really do.”

He didn’t look up.

“But I want to help you,” she said. “I genuinely do. I know it doesn’t mean much coming from someone you don’t trust yet. But it’s true.”

That made him glance up. Her expression was soft, yes, but not pitying. Not naive. Just sincere.

“I can only help you,” she continued, “if you want to be helped.”

He stared at her a second longer.

Then, quietly:

“And if I don’t?”

Her smile was barely there. “Then I’ll still be here. Until you do.”

He left five minutes early. Didn’t say goodbye.

His Penthouse | 10:17 PM

The cigarette shook between his fingers. He hadn’t noticed.

He'd taken the route back to his penthouse rather than the Snow's ancestral mansion. Despite the love he had for the place, the effort and money — well, the Plinths' money — he'd put into refurbishing it, he needed a place of his own.

Tigris had a place of her own, too, but she mainly used it as a studio — she and the Grandma'am lived there still. And he visited, very often. But he could do without Tigris's fretting and Grandma'am's singing, and generally without people, without interruption.

He'd never lived alone, not even while studying at the University. There was his parents. Then Tigris, the corpse-strewn Corso during the Dark Days. After, they'd found Grandma'am, scraping by on cabbage broth and the decrepit bones of their once stately ancestral abode. The sweltering barracks of District 12, Sejanus Plinth hanging on his shoulder with a laugh or a package full of sweets from his Ma, sleeping like cells in a goddamn spreadsheet with the other Peackeepers stuck on every side of him. And then again, Snow Mansion, reinstated to its former glory.

Now, with the Presidency, though, Coriolanus had decided it was time. He had never been much of a people person. And it just made sense, having this place — hosting informals with prospective allies, bedding beauties from parties when he needed, finally having a place of his own design, comfort, owning. Where he could smoke without being chastised by his grandmother.

He stared out the window, Capitol lights blurring in the fog.

No, Coriolanus Snow had not been disarmed that evening. He could not be so well decieved by anything, not honeyed, trustworthy voices or gentle looks.

It was genuine. She was.

He never intended to be open with her, whether or not he doubted her intentions — but he had, regrettably and he would not have answered her with a shred of honesty if he had sensed otherwise.

She wanted to help him, he realized.

She meant it.

He crushed the smoldering cigarette into the pewter tray at the sill, a few small embers feebly writhing by his knees.

Reader

Vesca Center for Restorative Care | 8:04 PM

He still showed up exactly on time. Still sat stiffly. Still spoke only when he had to. Sniped at her with his laconic musings on her job.

She didn't mind it, honestly. At this point she knew him well enough to know that — well, not that he didn't mean it. He probably did. But that it did not signify much more than observation and a general reluctance to be here. Neither of which he tried to hedge around.

But she noticed the difference in the small things. He didn’t deflect immediately when she asked about sleep. He didn’t agree to anything — but he didn’t shut it down, either.

Progress, in his own guarded way.

She'd asked if he talked to anyone but her about the insomnia.

"Tigris knows, but not by choice," he'd responded sourly.

"So you haven't told anyone else?"

A scoff. "Who would there be to tell? And no."

Softly, she asked, "Is that by choice?"

"Being alone?"

"Well, I was asking about if you choose not to tell anyone. But yes, I wonder about that too, I suppose."

"Yes, it's by choice. Word travels far too fast, I don't need to feed the rabid dogs even more."

"Alright. It's understandable why your circumstances put you in a position like that. And the second question…your not having people to tell? Is that by choice, too?"

“I don’t mind being alone,” he said after a while, picking lint off his perfectly tailored sleeve. “I function better that way.”

She didn’t challenge the lie.

“But.” He hesitated. “It’s strange. Not wanting people around, but also… wanting something from them.” A beat. “Affection. No, not that. Attention.” Another beat. “Whatever.”

“That’s not strange at all,” she said gently. “It’s human.”

He looked up at her then, sharp and unimpressed. “You always say things like that. ‘It’s human.’ Doesn’t mean it’s useful.”

She tilted her head. “So you don’t think wanting connection serves a purpose?”

“I think it creates weakness,” he said, flatly. “Expectations. Leverage. Disappointment.”

“And yet you still want it.”

He didn’t respond.

After a moment, she asked, “Have you had romantic relationships before?”

He tensed—just slightly, but it was enough. His jaw tightened. The smell of Lucy Gray’s hair came to his mind, unbidden. A fraction of a second too long before he answered.

“No.”

He said it like he had set down a blade on a table. Final. But it wasn’t a lie, technically. He may have loved Lucy Gray, but she certainly had not, despite how well she once deceived him. He’d hardly call it a romantic relationship. 

“Sex?” she asked gently, not pushing, but not tiptoeing either.

He exhaled. “Sure.”

He wasn’t shy about it. He never was. That wasn’t the part that threatened him.

“My first time was during secondary school. Drunk. A dare.” His tone was dry as dust. “We’d stolen posca from one of the kitchens. She was nice. Bit too much lip gloss. Not really my type.”

A pause. He looked her up and down, slow and unbothered.

“You’re more my type.”

She didn’t flinch. Just blinked, once, calmly. “I’m your therapist. That’s not how it works.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he muttered.

But she didn’t indulge him. And he didn’t press. He had no intention of seducing her. It was just that she’d – regrettably – already wheedled him into some degree of honesty. And while of course he would never be entirely truthful to her, or anyone for that matter, he certainly wouldn’t withhold the truthfulness she’d tired him into merely to shield her from mild, momentary discomfort.

For she’d discomforted him quite enough to warrant it.

Instead, she asked, “And after that?”

He shrugged. “There were others. Not many. Sex is... functional. A need. You meet it, you move on. I don’t entangle it with anything else.”

“No affection?”

“I don’t like things that linger.”

“You mean... intimacy?”

“Control,” he corrected, with just a trace of venom. “You lose it when you care.”

He shifted in his chair, briefly uncomfortable with how much he’d said. He hated that. Hated the look in her eyes, devoid of judgement. Like she understood him.

"I get the sense you don't really want to mull on this," she smiled, "so we can move on."

Oh, yes, he certainly didn't. She was right.

God, he hated that, too.

Reader

Vesca Center for Restorative Care | 8:22 PM

She could tell he was getting uncomfortable with the subject at hand. As a therapist, she thought, she did have the duty to make her clients deal with their discomfort, mine through it to find an elusive ore of solace, of closure.

But it was a slow process, and she didn't see any merit in making him shifty and bothered for the sake of it. In her experience, she and her peers had been taught to see them as clients, subjects, Amy from chapter three of their college textbook, rather than humans who didn't need to be put under an ordeal of emotional stress and exertion every week. So she changed the subject.

“Any dreams lately?” she asked, eyes flicking to the pen in her hand but not moving.

He hesitated. Then gave a single nod. “Yeah.”

That was new. Though he didn't reveal much. “I wake up at the same time every night.”

“What time?”

“3:36,” he said automatically. “Every time.”

That kind of precision didn’t surprise her anymore. “Do you remember the dreams?”

He looked at her then. Eyes cool. Not quite guarded, but not open, either.

“I remember enough.”

She didn’t ask what they were about.

He seemed almost relieved. Or at least not annoyed.

“Do they always feel the same?” she asked instead. “The tone, I mean. The emotions.”

He thought for a second. “Yeah. Same undercurrent. Doesn’t matter what’s happening in them.”

“What’s the feeling?”

He paused. His fingers flexed once on the armrest. Then, finally: “Powerless.”

The word felt like gravel in his mouth.

She nodded slowly. “That’s hard.”

He shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

“You know,” she said softly, “you don’t have to tell me what the dreams are about. Not until you’re ready. But naming even just how they feel… that’s still something. That’s still progress.”

He didn’t look at her. But his shoulders didn’t tense like they usually did when she said things like that.

At the end of the session, she handed him a slip of paper. Just a folded note.

He raised a brow.

“Not medication,” she said. Then, with a rueful little smile: “Just breathing techniques.” 

He arched a brow, but couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at a corner of his plush mouth. “When I said you’d prescribe me breathing techniques, you denied it thorough—”

“I denied that I make conjecture about your life!" she corrected, prim despite the smile playing at her lips.

He scoffed, but it wasn’t as sharp. “You continue to conjecture that breathing techniques have any place in it.”

“Mr. President,” she sighed, voice slightly admonishing but imploring all at once. Not upset, not really.

“Coriolanus,” he corrected. He didn’t know why.

“Coriolanus,” she repeated, once again in that same, gently wheedling tone. Though her lips were slightly softer around the name, tentative and sweet.

He took it from between her gleaming red nails, but said nothing. 

“One or two might help when you wake up,” she offered softly.

“Till next time, doctor.”

Coriolanus Snow

His Penthouse | 3:36 AM

Coriolanus Snow sat up in bed, heart racing, pulse wild.

His arm shot out to the side and fumbled for the ebony of his bedside table. Flicked on the lamp. Then closed his palm over the tiny, sheet he'd strewn there next to his watch and carafe of water.

He unfolded the paper.

Read it, pale eyes shifting in the aftermath of his dream as they traced the slanting loops of her cursive.

Didn’t follow it.

But he kept it by the lamp.

Just in case.

Coriolanus Snow

Vesca Centre for Restorative Care | 7:58 PM, Next Week

He never came during daylight. It was always after dusk, always when the corridors were empty and the city outside hummed with Capitol neon. The President of Panem didn’t want to be seen walking into a therapist’s office.

Coriolanus took his usual chair. Perched as if ready to leave at any second. As if this were a battlefield.

“You’re late,” she said softly, not unkindly.

“I’m the president,” he replied smoothly. “I don’t believe I can be late.”

“Ah. Right. You’re always perfectly on time for yourself.”

She said  it with a light smile, the sort that made it impossible to argue with without looking ridiculous. His jaw tightened, but he didn't bite. Instead he asked, “Do you mind?”

She gave a tiny shrug. “I suppose it gave me a bit of a break. But it’s your time we’re cutting into.”

“That’s fine,” he grunted.

“Long day?” she asked, reaching for her notepad.

“Long week.” He crossed one ankle over the other, settling in. “Do you smoke?”

“Cigarettes?” she asked.

“No, scissors.”

That earned him a look. Not disapproval. Something closer to amused tolerance.

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Then you won’t understand.”

He dug the silver case from his coat pocket, rolled a cigarette between his fingers, then returned it to its place without lighting it.

“You’re thinking about lighting that,” she said gently.

“I’m always thinking about lighting it,” he murmured. “But you’d get that, if you smoked.”

She didn’t press. Just shifted, legs crossed, pen steady. “Are the cravings worse this week?”

“The dreams are worse this week.”

He didn’t mean to say it.

He doesn’t  know why he said it.

But there it was.

She didn’t blink. “Nightmares?”

Silence.

The air shifted. The room grew sharper around the edges.

He gave a single, tight nod.

She scribbled nothing. Just waited. Waited for him.

He hates that.

“I’d rather not get into it,” he said coolly.

“All right,” she said. “But maybe we can talk around it.”

Coriolanus sighed. Drummed his fingers once against the armrest. Then abruptly added, “There was an attack on a trade ally last month. A family-owned weapons route in Three. I’ve been trying to negotiate a solution that keeps us from full retaliation without making us look soft. But my military advisor’s an idiot and my secretary of defense is a glorified wall hanging.”

She blinked,, surprised. “That sounds... complicated.”

He huffed a bitter breath. “Not really. It’s simple. If I make the wrong call, we lose the trust of an entire District. Or I lose face. Or someone dies. Or all three.”

There was a long pause. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm. “That sounds like something that might be causing... sleep disruption.”

He tilted his head. “That’s not what’s waking me up.”

He shouldn’t say that either.

 “Do you remember them? The nightmares?”

Another long silence.

Then, with that half-sardonic tone that had always been his shield:

“Why not. Let’s overshare. I dream I’m in the woods. That I’m being hunted. That something is moving in the dark. Sometimes it’s a snake. Sometimes it’s—”

He stopped. The words hung, unfinished.

“Sometimes?” she prompted softly.

Lucy Gray. Coriolanus flicked his eyes to hers. Cold. Flat. “Nothing.”

She let it be. “You mentioned the woods. Do you know why your dreams keep going there?”

His smile was knife-thin. “Oh, you’ll love this one. My father died in a rebel ambush in the woods. Dark Days. Charming symbolism.”

There was venom in his voice. But aimed inward. And she knew that.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He waved it off like it was meaningless. “Don’t be. He was a fool.”

She watched him for a moment. He avoided her eyes.

“Have you ever spoken about that before?” she asked.

He shrugged. “No need. I didn’t know him.”

“You ever been to Twelve?” he said suddenly, not looking at her.

She shook her head.

“I was there. Peacekeeper Corps. A summer.” He scoffed. “A proper Capitol boy in the coal fields. You can imagine how well that went.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “That must’ve been difficult.”

“You have no idea.”

Something glinted behind his eyes, but he swallowed it. Hard.

She let a beat pass, then steered gently: “So the dreams feel... dangerous. You’re being hunted. Threatened.”

“That’s typically what makes a nightmare,” he replied with dry sarcasm.

She didn’t flinch. “Do you wake up sweating? Heart racing?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “What a shock.”

She leans back slightly, unfazed. “Sometimes it helps to figure out what in your waking life is... echoing those feelings.”

“Mm. Helpful. If only my waking life weren’t classified.”

 There was a pause. Then he said, almost as if it had been wrung out of him:

 “I shouldn’t have told you about the trade thing.”

 She looked up. “I understand why, in your position, you feel that way. But you trust me, I hope.”

 He scoffed. “Do I?”

 “Well, if not,” she smiled, “there’s always the law.”

 His mouth quirked — more smirk than smile. “Touché.”

Another long pause. Then: “Well,” she said softly, “we can pick this up next week.”

“No next week. I’m traveling.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was mild but real. “Well, if you want to meet virtually, I’m happy to—”

“You really think I can’t survive a week without you analyzing my subconscious?”

 “I was just offering,” she said, surprised by the sudden edge in his voice.

Fuck, he hated that. The little dip of hurt in her voice when she said that. If only that it made him seem like the type of generational asshole capable of upsetting even his therapist. He stood. Paused. Then, so casual it was performative—

 “Fine. Whatever. Set it up.”

Her face broke into a relieved, soft smile. His chest untwisted a little.

She opened a drawer, jotted her number on a card, and handed it to him. “That’s my number.”

He raised a brow. “Not the most professional, is it?”

She blushed a little. He may have been her patient to prod and test and let confess as she wished, but he was still the President, and no one wanted his disapproval. “It’s convenient. Some of my clients text me when they need to set something up quickly. Or when something comes up between sessions.”

He looked at her. “You do that? Without charging?”

 “Yes.”

 “That’s a poor business model.”

 “I care,” she said simply.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

 So he pocketed the card.

 She smiled. “Safe travels, President Snow.”

Coriolanus Snow

District 3 Presidential Suite | 10:32 PM 

Coriolanus hadn’t planned to use the number.

The moment she’d written it in her neat, looping cursive on the back of a neutral business card he hadn’t even glanced at until later, he’d pocketed it with a scoff. Of course not. He wasn’t weak. Certainly not the type of man who needed to be coddled mid-trip like some soft Capitol official who couldn’t handle sleep on foreign pillows.

He’d lasted until the third day.

By then, the trip had already unraveled into a tangle of miscommunications, public posturing, and grating incompetence. The negotiation he’d flown out for had shifted tone entirely; allies were unreliable, and the whole week felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of knives. The only constant was exhaustion: tight behind his eyes, stretching the edges of his patience thinner by the hour. He hadn’t slept more than two hours straight.

So, on the armored ride back to the hotel, his thumb had punched in her contact. 

Would you happen to be available for a virtual session tonight. Delivered 10:35 PM

By the time he reached the suite, she hadn’t replied. Good. Great. He didn’t need her. He dropped his coat on the chair and yanked the knot from his tie like it had personally offended him. And it had, damn thing choking him all day—

hi! just saw this, ofc! Sent 10:47 PM.

He hit the dial button instantly. The screen pulsed for a second.

She declined.

 He scoffed a breath through his teeth, brows snapping together. A second later, she sent another message.

sry!!  give me five i just got out the shower Sent 10:48 PM.

He swallowed thickly. He didn’t know why that rattled him more than it should’ve. Something too casual. Too intimate. Unplanned. She hadn’t been waiting for his message. She wasn’t curled in a chair with her notes and her therapist voice ready. She was living her life. It was almost eleven at night. He ran a hand over his face, jaw clenched. Waited. Tapped his sole over and over on the floor. 

An hour later, five minutes passed.

When she finally called, he was sprawled on the suite’s long sofa, tie hanging around his neck, shirt half unbuttoned. His phone half-hanging out of his hand.

She wasn’t ready, not really. No makeup, hair damp and tucked behind her ears, cheeks rosy from the steam of her shower. She wore a soft pink sweater that looked like it had been with her for years, sleeves too long and neck slipping off one bare shoulder. No bra strap in sight, he noted, throat bobbing. She’d clearly been planning to go to bed. But she’d still propped the laptop up, sat proper on the couch, notepad balanced on her knee as always. She shouldn’t have done it. Had no reason to take a call, unplanned, at this hour.

But she had. It was…unprofessional. Inappropriate. Unnecessary. Kind.

“Did I interrupt something?” he asked dryly, eyes flicking about the cluster of pixels that made her cashmere sweater.

“No,” she assured him sweetly as she cozied into whatever corner of her room she’d taken her laptop. “Just me and some TV. But this is more interesting,”

He made a noncommittal sound. “You have low standards.”

She smiled. “Sure do. What’s going on?”

He paused. He’d already broken the seal last week, told her about the pending trade deal that no one else outside his circle even knew was brewing. Tonight’s storm had been fallout from that: power blocs bickering, paranoia everywhere. He shouldn’t say more. He really shouldn’t.

But her face was open and calm, soft from the glow of her screen.

He exhaled. “It’s about the deal. The tariffs. The east corridor alliance is throwing a tantrum.”

“Because they think they’re getting cut out?”

“Because they are getting cut out. Temporarily.”

She nodded. “And they don’t like surprises.”

“They’re not supposed to get surprises,” he muttered. “They’re supposed to trust me to execute the plan that saves their sinking economy. Instead they want assurances and transparency like…like I’m some fucking intern looking for approval.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “Well, did you spring it on them? I haven’t read anything mentioning—”

“You realize both the districts and I have dealings we don’t air on the news?”

“I do,” she said, firmly but not unkindly. “That’s why I asked.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. He felt a flicker of guilt for talking down to her about politics. He was the President, of course she didn’t know all the information he did. So he was more generous with his words than usual when he told her: “You’re right. I did. Because it works better that way.”

“Do you want my advice? I know I’m not exactly part of your cabinet, but in the interest of discussion—”

“Yes, of course,” he muttered too quickly. He didn’t want more guilt trips. It earned a little smile from her.

“That’s a strategy,” she allowed. “But if you’re asking for buy-in later, it helps to not make them feel like pawns.”

He tilted his head at her, irritated. “And what would you have me do? Send fruit baskets? Write them little cards?”

“Honestly?” she smiled faintly. “You should’ve just given them a heads-up. Doesn’t have to be cuddly.”

He narrowed his eyes. “This conversation is entirely confidential.”

“Of course.”

“I’m serious. If a whisper of this gets out—”

“Don’t threaten me.” Her voice was quieter than when she usually chastised him. Maybe it was just the audio. Though her lips had drawn into a small line, too.

“I wasn’t—” He blinked, caught off-guard. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

A beat passed. She let him squirm. Or maybe it was less intentional. 

“I swear,” he added. 

Then: “Okay,” she said gently. “So let’s talk about it.”

He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered something under his breath that sounded like you're impossible.

But he talked.

Not about the politics, eventually. Not entirely. Despite how impressively well versed she was—not only knowing her current affairs to the most recent, informed level a civilian possibly could, she had an uncannily good grasp of the strategies he mentioned. (A psychology thing, he guessed. He’d think her talents were wasted, but he didn’t need another formidable opponent on the senate floor.) She had a way of tugging the right thread just slightly and letting the mess of his thoughts unravel obediently into her waiting hands. He didn’t know how it happened, but soon they were circling around his sleep again. Around the dreams.

“You said they started back up,” she said. “Was there anything that might’ve triggered them?”

He shifted on the couch, reached for the glass of water he’d forgotten. “Flying out here didn’t help.”

“The travel?”

“The setting,” he said tightly. “I don’t like the Districts. Because of—” he huffed. “Those prejudices you’re always telling me off about. And,” he clenched his jaw.

“And?” she prompted, voice grainy through his phone.

“And you know what happened here. To my father. To me.” She didn’t really know the details of the latter, for good reason, but she knew how he felt about it.

He met her eyes again in the display. Her face was too kind, too sympathetic. He defaulted to sarcasm.

“What, no professional lecture about exposure therapy?”

“Not unless you want one.”

He sighed.

“The woods,” he admitted. “It’s always the woods.”

She tilted her head. “The nightmares?”

He nodded.

She let that settle.

“Is there anything in particular about them that stands out?” she asked. “Like, is it always the same? Does it feel like it gets worse or…?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed against the arm of the couch.

“The usual. Sometimes it’s my father. My mother. Baby sister.” he said. “Sometimes it’s the snake. Sometimes it's—”

He cut himself off.

She waited. Didn't press. Just kept her tone level, reassuring. “Are you alone in them?”

That surprised him. “What?”

“In the dreams. Are you alone?”

Another pause.

“…Usually.”

She didn’t nod, didn’t say I see. Just took a quiet breath.

“Okay,” she said. “That helps. We can talk more about what to do when you wake up, then. Some grounding things, maybe ways to disrupt the pattern.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Doesn’t sound like much.”

“It isn’t. Not all at once,” she said. “But we can build it.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched her face, watched her tuck her knees closer under the pink sweater, her hand resting under her chin like she had nowhere else to be.

Video Call With “Doctor” | 81:06

She was sitting cross-legged now, the sleeves of her sweater slipping over her wrists as she gestured. “Well, if you felt like calling me regarding all this, it might help to have your nightmares talked out with someone.”

Coriolanus raised an eyebrow, chest bare now. He’d long tossed aside the stifling, starchy shirt. “You know I’m not exactly the type with a woman I wake up next to every morning.”

“You could text a close friend,” she offered gently. “Or Tigris?”

A beat.

“No.” He said it too quickly. “I’m not a… texting person. And I’m definitely not talking to any of the women I sometimes sleep with.”

She smiled softly, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay, then. On that note, have you noticed if, uh…if sex has any impact on the nightmares? Triggers them? Or… maybe helps?”

He paused. The question threw him, not in content but in who was asking. Not a leering Festus over drinks. Not a sneering opponent. Her. Her voice, soft and professional, though her cheeks were tinged with color like even she knew she’d just toed a fine line.

“…Noticed?” he echoed, buying himself time, lying by omission. He had noticed, of course. Lucy Gray visited more often the nights after he'd been with someone else. The guilt, the contrast, the memory of someone who meant more. Who stayed in his bones. But that was not something he was about to say out loud.

She fumbled gently. “I mean, after sex, some people sleep better. Given the physical exertion, of course, but also, uh, orgasm releases a hormone, called prolactin, that relaxes and can induce sleepiness. The body’s just primed for rest.”

“You assume I only ever do that at night?” His voice lifted with a faint, arrogant smirk, but his fingers tightened slightly against his knee. He wasn’t flirting. Not really. But the way she tucked her pink lips, a little flustered, eyes darting downward, he felt, for a dangerous, heated second, like maybe he should be.

“Well…” she blinked at him. “When you do…?”

“I guess, yeah” He shrugged. “It helps. But if I do get a nightmare, it’ll wake me up anyway.”

She nodded, scribbling something outside of frame. “And does it change whether you get the nightmare at all? Like, maybe it’s less likely?”

He watched her, pale eyes steady. “You’re very curious about my sex life, Doctor.”

She stiffened. “Only because it’s relevant.”

And then she said it, voice soft, tentative, and far too angelic for the words:

 “Do you ever masturbate to fall asleep?”

There was a distinct pause. Long enough for both of them to feel it.

Coriolanus tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to make her squirm. “Relevant, you said?”

She blinked fast, already blushing. “It’s a common question. I mean — not in polite conversation, obviously — but in therapy it’s very—”

“No,” he cut in. “Not for sleep.”

“Well… it can help,” she said, still red but pushing through it, the clinical tone trying to hold. “It’s actually a very healthy sleep aid, if it’s not compulsive or interfering with—”

“You’re really telling me to jerk off to sleep?” His mouth quirked, almost laughing now, but the heat was rising in his throat and ears.

She huffed, face aflame, though less bothered, now that it didn’t seem like he was truly upset at her. “I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m suggesting.”

“Uh huh.” His voice dipped. 

“Yeah,” her voice was a little shifty, nervous.

“And it works?”

“The… physiological part, yes. You get tired, usually, with all the physical activity. It also releases hormones…did I tell you about prolactin? And it, uh, lowers blood pressure, and—”

“No.” He watched her pupils twitch on his screen like a caught rabbit’s. “I meant, does it work for you?”

It was her turn to short-circuit.

“I…” She fumbled with the edge of her sleeve. “I mean, I guess…that’s not really—”

And thank God, salvation arrived just in time.

In a tiny golden blur.

“Fig! No, baby, stop!”

Coriolanus furrowed a brow, trying to make sense of the staggering pixels of caramel that had suddenly flooded her feed.

A fluffy little goldendoodle launched into frame, his paws bouncing up over her lap and trying to lick her face, whimpering like he hadn’t seen her in years. She giggled, breathless, arms around the wriggling fluff. “Sorry, sorry, he’s just—he wants to say hi.”

Coriolanus watched her laugh, saw the way her face changed when she kissed the dog’s curly head, the little animal nuzzling contently into her touch. All softness. The messy reality of her home life, her couch, her sweater, her dog needing her affection. It hit him in a way he didn’t expect.

“Your dog,” he said eventually, low. “What’s his name again?”

“Fig. Like the fruit.” She finally settled him into her lap. “He’s dramatic.”

“Clearly.”

She scratched behind the dog’s ears and pressed a tiny kiss between his buttony eyes, eliciting a content little huff as he plopped his chin down on her knee. She looked back up, her eyes gentle and a little sleepy now. “You should still try one of the techniques. If not that…I mean, you haven’t tried writing before bed. Something reflective. Pen on paper, not screen.”

“You really believe in homework, huh?”

She smiled. “I believe in not waking up at 4 a.m. in a cold sweat.”

His eyes flickered. “You sound like you’ve done that before.”

She met his gaze. “I have.”

She looked sleepy. Still very much present and eager, yes, but it was nearing 1AM, her dog was clearly desperate to curl up in his mom’s arms in bed, and she was pressing her lids shut a little too long between blinks.

“…You should sleep,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft.

She smiled, a tired, sweet thing. “You sure you didn’t want to talk about anything more?”

God, she was so selfless it was infuriating. He nodded, a rare thing. “Yeah. Sleep.”

“Yeah. I will. You should too. At least try,”

After a beat:

“Okay. I will.”

That earned a small, hopeful look.

“Good night, Coriolanus.”

“Good night.”

She ended the call.

And he stared at the blank screen for a while.

Half-hard.

Chest strangely twisted and soft.

Still thinking of her flushed voice, her soft sweater, the curve of her bare shoulder.

He dragged a hand down his face and let out a soft curse.

She hadn't meant anything by it, of course. No, of course she hadn't, with her sweet, earnest eyes and tiny, plush lapdog and pink sweaters and general care for people's well being. There was no way she'd meant to provoke him. She'd given him an option, driven by some altruistic impulse to help him sleep. She'd probably printed out studies and underlined them with those gel pens she was always twirling.

Found him a solution that was data-backed, peer-reviewed, hormone-driven, sex-positive in whatever niche strand of fringe-literature feminist theory she adopted, and probably many more hyphenated, safe things. Therapeutic. Textbook, probably.

Still.

His hand shifted in his lap, irritated at his predicament. It was still manageable, sure, though it that pulse was certainly there — aching, persistent, uninvited. He told himself he was tired. It certainly had been a while since he'd taken anyone to bed, even with his abnormal self-restraint. He'd had a long day, that was it.

And it had ended with a gorgeous woman — his therapist, yes, not someone he would ever pursue, but still, a gorgeous woman — braless in screen, skin flushed and damp from a shower, talking to him about sleep and sex and whether he masturbates. Put it in his head that maybe, he should.

One could hardly blame him. He was a man, after all.

He let out a rocky breath that bordered on a sigh.

He was a man, in a hotel bed, alone. It was late. There was nothing wrong with this. A little relief. A little sleep aid. Much needed sleep aid, in fact, that had just been recommended to him by a medical professional.

Who had wide eyes and wet hair and soft breasts that peaked innocently under her fuzzy pink sweater. Not, he reminded himself sternly, that this had anything to do with her.

His shirt was already discarded. He undid his belt, pushed his slacks down to his ankles, stepping out of them. Sliding under the crisp, starchy hotel linens, he flipped off the light, casting the room in darkness. Settled against the pillows before tugging the waistband of his black boxers down just enough to free himself, and exhaled as fingers wrapped around his base.

He rarely did this. He wasn't a high schooler. When he did, it served a purpose. Practical.

For a year or so, it was Lucy Gray, always, in his mind's eye. But after her betrayal, he never visualised anyone in particular. Always the female form in abstract. Thighs spreading, breasts rising, an arched back, or wet, parted lips.

His eyes fell shut, willing those faceless visions to life beneath them as he palmed his length.

Glossy, pink nails resting on his chest. That's what he noticed first, in his mind. That detail — he recognized those nails.

Then, a sweet voice, ringing in his head—

Given the physical exertion, of course…

A soft groan escaped his lips. Her.

She wasn't trying to be seductive. That was the problem. She just was. Open, sweet, vulnerable — in that she was soft, not helpless — in that disarming, desirable way. And yet here she was now, in his head. The way she bit her lip when leaning to jot something down, flashing bare shoulder and collarbone. His thumb brushes his head, wet now.

He shouldn't imagine her, but his mind betrays him anyway. How her soft hands would tremble a little in anticipation, unsure. Ghosting down his stomach. Those pretty nails grazing the V of his hips.

He shifts again, hips rolling up into his own hand as the idea sparks, slow enough for him to dread it but not so slow he could quell it. Her hand, small and sweet, gently coaxed there by him. Maybe she'd be lying beside him in that hotel bed, hair spilling over the white pillows, or his shoulder. Nestled shyly into his side, his arm around her waist. And she'd whisper something half-embarassed at how much she wanted it, cheeks flushed and trying not to look at him even as he guided her fingers over him.

Like that?

And he'd murmur, Just like that.

His hand moved faster now, his breath catching. The fantasy warped, less tender now. Maybe she'd be in lace, a little thing of dusty burgundy. Or perhaps she was wearing something she didn't mean for him to see. Soft cotton low on her hips, her sweater still on but barely, collar wide and slipping down both arms, the curve of her breast just visible.

Maybe she'd drag those nails down his back, thighs clamped around his waist, eyes drifting heavenward in ecstasy.

He cursed, body tightening. His palm slicked up faster, friction edging him up and up as inside his ear, she cried out his name.

His release was sudden, sharp, breathless.

He laid there for a while after, chest rising and falling, the cool hotel air sifting through his hair.

Maybe he'd sleep now. Maybe she was right.

Or maybe, it was just that— her voice, shy and earnest, her form, the care in her eyes, that'd thrown her benevolent advice to the furnace of his wakefulness.

I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m suggesting.

It would be a long night, indeed.

tags: @likklemy

[paraseleneg1rl]

never moved on from coryo im afraid (and i never will)

i still am in love with coryo but nobody is anymore i fear.

[paraseleneg1rl]

I don’t know why I feel like I’m already behind.

I’m eighteen. That’s supposed to mean beginning.

But it feels like everything already started

and no one told me.

I watch people choosing.

Cities. Partners. Futures. Words.

And I stand there, quiet.

Not frozen just unsure which noise is mine.

They say there’s time.

The older ones say it a lot.

Maybe they’re right.

But I live so high.

I feel so much,

I dream so loudly,

I put pressure on my own chest without even meaning to.

And sometimes, I really believe

that even if I had a full lifetime,

I still wouldn’t be able to do everything I long for.

Maybe I waited too long to want something loudly.

Maybe I wanted too many things in silence,

so none of them knew how to find me.

Everything feels slightly out of reach.

Like being in a room where the conversation just ended.

Too late to join.

Too early to leave.

There’s no drama in this.

Just… a hum.

Like a train that already left

and the station’s still warm.

[paraseleneg1rl]

I think Donald Sutherland was really onto something when he said that Snow adores Katniss in a strange way, and she is a kind of window to what he could have been, and I would go further and propose he feels similarly about all four victors.

He loves their spoken and unspoken understandings, the messages he sends them (milk for Haymitch, roses for Katniss). He wants to possess them (golden cage for Haymitch, the wedding clothes, making Peeta his wartime mouthpiece). There’s a kind of hideous affection or intimacy to all of it. It’s why he laughs when Katniss assassinates Coin. That’s his (never his) clever girl. And it all begins with Lucy Gray, the ghost girl he loved, but not enough.

It’s like the mockingjays. He hates them to a degree that it becomes an obsession.

It’s such a deliciously twisted take on a villain.

[paraseleneg1rl]

Love your writing!!

thank you, i'm so touched! tbh i hadn't expected anyone to enjoy my writing or my coryo fic. the positive feedback i've been receiving makes me feel more inclined to try and update regularly!

[paraseleneg1rl]

Pet - Chapter 1

A Coriolanus Snow x reader fanfiction.

Summary: In a moment of weakness, Coriolanus finally gives in to temptation and decides to save you from Dr. Gaul's laboratory.

Chapter Summary: Your life takes a strange and unexpected new turn.

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow being Coriolanus Snow, Obsession, Obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, misogyny, captivity.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

A/N: This was not proofread so please excuse any mistakes lol and bare with my messing writing. Also, it's a bit of a slow burn, and I hope the story doesn't bore you. Let me know what you think, I appreciate all kinds of feedback!

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

CHAPTER 1

"What an interesting turn of events. You've grown fond of your little pet."

Dr. Gaul appears to be all smiles after her apprentice's meager attempts at bargaining. A chuckle claws its way out, resonating from deep within the gut and all her vileness. At the grating sound of her mockery Coriolanus flushes red and clenches his jaw.

The silence in the laboratory begins to grow eery and suffocating. Now that the others have clocked out, he and Dr. Gaul are all that remain. Coriolanus had waited nervously for office hours to reach its end before approaching her with his frantic idea, hoping such measure would promise discretion.

"I assure you fondness has nothing to do with my request," murmurs Coriolanus, with half a mind to chuck the papers in his hands smack against her hideous, wrinkled face. It is with a great and most tiresome restraint that he manages to refrain at all. "And you know I don't usually do this but my circumstances leave me no choice."

"I may be an old woman, little boy. But don't mistake me for a fool."

How many times must he justify himself, he wonders, before she loses all enjoyment of witnessing him in this stiff display of frizzled nerves. It is despicable how easily she makes his skin crawl, how exposed and patronized he feels beneath her smug scrutiny.

"As I've said, Dr. Gaul, I'm only looking for a caretaker to look after my grandmother. From what i've read in her folder the girl has the right experience for this role."

It was the only excuse he could conjure at discovering the details of your past life, how you were a volunteer at an old folks home in 9 on your days off from the bakery.

"Why, I'll take your word for it then," another loud bark of a laugh from Dr. Gaul. A sly, sharp-edged kind that rouses suspicion on the validity of her statement. At this point Coriolanus desires nothing but to crawl back home, never to encounter her wretched grin again. "After all, I doubt you have the means to afford a Capitol nurse."

A sharp jab. The corners of his lips twitch with something of disdain as he begins to shrink into himself. It is no secret that the Plinths provide a generous allowance every now and then. Beyond those monthly stipends, however, there was little else in the way of sustenance.

His internship at the Citadel pays dust and Tigris continues making a pitiful wage slaving away for that miser Fabricia. With renovations well under way and bills stacked high, what little they have is already stretched thin.

"Right. So you are perfectly aware that I am asking for a reasonable favor." Coriolanus bites with a tightness in his jaw.

"And you are perfectly aware that I don't do favors, Mr. Snow."

"Deduct whatever she's worth from my allowance," says Coriolanus, his words accompanied by a quivering sigh he failed to confine. The gradual unravelling of composure. "Or I can work longer hours, whichever you wish. Surely we can reach an agreement one way or another."

Dr. Gaul responds with an amused look, one brow arched at the pathetic display in front of her, no doubt thoroughly enjoying the destruction of his facade. A fine porcelain now fractured and cracked. Why is it, Coriolanus muses, that she always happens to witness him in such disgraceful circumstances?

"Deduct your allowance," she mocked with an ugly chortle that felt derogatory to both the ears and the soul. "Do you have any idea, Mr. Snow, just how much my good friends are willing to pay out of their pockets for a new district mistress to warm their bed?"

"I..." Something akin to a ball sized lump lodges itself in his throat. He swallows it down with shame and an inaudible stammered reply. "Yes, well, I suppose—"

"Magnanimous amounts. Magnanimous. You could never outbid these men should you dare try."

Of course. What was he thinking anyway, coming up to Dr. Gaul with such naive fantasies? Was he out of his mind?

His throat expands and bile threatens to rise. A mighty weight burdens his head, pressing down on either sides with an agonizing pressure. For a miserable moment the room spins and turns.

"Lucky for you, young man," she continues, the delight in her guttural voice slathered thick over that fateful turn of phrase. "I am in a particularly curious mood. My, how fascinating. It would be our own little experiment."

"Experiment?" He fumbles for the right words, or more accurately a grasp on her dreadful riddle. Qualm and something akin to glee battle for dominance within the empty pit of his gut. "I'm sorry, I don't think I understand your meaning, Dr. Gaul."

"Of course you don't," she chuckles menacingly. With a wicked smile she pushes herself off her chair and turns to the corner of the lab.

In his puzzlement he finds himself hesitating, until the mad woman shoots him a quick glance at last without as much as a pause from her marching. He rushes over to her, realizing his mentor was heading right to the quarantine zone where you quietly lay asleep.

With Coriolanus at her heels, Dr. Gaul trails on lazily, only stopping once she reaches the thick glass of your enclosure. In his perplexity Coriolanus eyes the mad woman, apprehension brewing and curdling inside him at the sound of her baleful snigger. She peers through the glass, to which he follows suit.

How peaceful you look in your quiet slumber, with long lashes resting gently under the curved petal of your eyes. He can't help the electrical spark that jolts him awake when he looks at you.

It's the kind of stupidity only Lucy Gray had ever fueled. He chews nervously on the inside of his mouth, the emotions he had long harboured now entangled with one another.

His conflict drives him quiet. A part of him is certain that whatever he is doing is an obvious and marked deviation from his plans, so decidedly opposed to his good sense that Coriolanus is most certain he will blight himself for it later.

But another part, a small, self indulgent piece of him, continues to insist that this is the one and only way. That he can't and musn't surrender your fate to the hands of another man.

How should he sleep in the future with the memory of your gentle face branded onto the darkness behind his eyelids, all glass eyed and rosy cheeks, knowing fully well that you will then be at the hands of another. Your goodness forever soiled by their filth.

No, he won't have it. What would they know about handling a girl like you? Nothing. They would break you. Your kindness would crumble into obscurity under the weight of their evil. He isn't good himself, but he's known goodness in his life. And he won't let you be ruined the same way his Tigris had been.

"It is most peculiar to me how predictable men can be."

Ugh, that awful noise. Coriolanus snaps out of his daze, quick to find Dr. Gaul's amused stare.

He sighs. "If you aren't willing—"

"I'm not blind, Mr Snow. I could tell she had caught your eye from the very first day our peackeepers dumped her here with those other vermins."

"It's not like that." He retaliates with desperate haste, eyes fluttering to the stone floor, then back up to the glass doors — anything but the awful woman beside him, who's now evidently persistent on being a mindreader. "Really, I wish you wouldn't twist this into something it isn't, Dr. Gaul."

"Look at you," she cackles. "There is nothing to be ashamed of. It's only normal. Everybody knows people tend to grow somewhat...attached to their pets."

"She..." He clears his throat, hoping with all might that the warmth that had crept up his cheeks wouldn't manifest into bright color over the skin. And that term again...Pet. He isn't quite sure what to make of it. Curiously enough it doesn't elicit much of an awful feeling. No, not at all. "She will be working for me. For my grandma'am. That's all there is to it."

"I've seen you, Coriolanus Snow. You think you are above it all, above your own weaknesses. That nothing and no one can come in your way. Well, boy, you could fool your friends, and even your foe, but certainly not me. I for one have always known that you've never forgotten that poor songbird of yours. And your boyish fondness for helpless little damsels...That hasn't seem to have left your system either."

"If you're trying to intimidate me, Dr. Gaul, I have to tell you it's not working," his jaw clenches tight. They are still in the Citadel, for goodness sake. She has no business mentioning Lucy Gray, not after all that trouble they'd gone to together to wipe out every proof of her trivial existence. He swallows down his conflict and glances back to the glass, raging blue eyes now subdued as they land on you. Perhaps it was all a bad idea. At least he tried. "She's all yours. I should get going anyhow."

"Now, just a moment. Wipe that frown off your face," Dr. Gaul ejaculates in terrifying glee, her exclamation followed by a wretched burst of laughter, apparently entertained by his discomfort. "Don't you see, child? You are failing to rise above your desire! This, Coriolanus, is humanity undressed. All that animalistic need...I can see it clawing at you when you leer at your pretty fawn. Men like you pine for what they shouldn't have — Don't mistake my silence all this time for blindness to your turmoil. You and I both know you could devour her if only you were given the chance. Well, Mr. Snow, let me tell you, your head is surely losing that battle against your biology. You're a man and she a powerless thing. That would appeal to most anyone if only they allowed themselves to admit it. Human nature always wins after all."

"I am above it." Coriolanus snaps. "Above anything you think I'm not. She is district. And it's...You must excuse me Dr. Gaul but whatever you are implying, it is incredibly despicable. These accusations are filthy, they have nothing to do with me, and everything to do with your twisted ideas."

"Lets see if you still feel the same way once she's caged up in that house of yours," says Dr. Gaul. "Nowhere to go. Chained to your mercy. You could do anything you wanted to that girl. Watch, then, how quickly your true nature overpowers all logic. All semblance of morality or humanity or social order you pretend to still have."

"This is absolute nonsense. I am not you, Dr. Gaul," Coriolanus sputters in anger. Or was it embarrassment? He could no longer tell. If it was any other situation Coriolanus would have punished himself for speaking against his mentor in such a way but this is turning to be much more different than her usual cheek. All this provocation was bringing his blood to a boil.

"Is it?" she retorts. "We are nothing but animals at the end of the day. Predator and prey. I know which one you are. You could trick yourself, and soothe that pitiful excuse of humanity you pretend you have left inside and drown in your self-indulgent delusions of being a savior. When I know for a fact, young man, that you have always been a starving wolf hunting for a little lamb. Nothing more, nothing less. Why is it, Mr. Snow, do you think those men are so desperately hungry for their district girls? You know as well as I do they like to consume and corrupt their prey. It makes them feel powerful, leaning into their natural instincts. And you are no different. The sooner that you accept that the easier for you it will be."

With every exhale his breaths come out ragged and harsh through his nostrils. How he despises the woman. What was she even rambling about, anyway?

Animal instincts and predator and prey and human nature. Nonsense, all of it. He's heard it before, and he could argue for it when it comes to the Games, but this? This has nothing to do with her awful ideas.

Sure he can admit he's a man with an attraction to a pretty girl but all that talk about corruption and consuming and prey is guff. Most of all it's stretching his patience thin.

And the gall to put him in the same league as those repulsive men...When in reality he is miles above them. Above them all, and their odious inclinations. What else were they besides idiots with a liking for foul district toys. Coriolanus swallows hard, his jaw tight. Dr. Gaul's been off her rocker a good while now, he reminds himself. This is her being true to her character and nothing else.

"What do you think made you pine for that little songbird of yours in the first place?" she continues, much to his vexation. "It made no sense in that mechanical head of yours, didn't it? Lucy Gray was a district chit. What good could she have brought you? Then of course you fooled yourself into believing it was... love. Ha! Delusions. I'll tell you what it was, Mr. Snow. It was precisely because she was district that you drove to such madness for her. Not love, whatever that silly word means. But she was beneath you, lesser than you in every way, powerless and impotent and helpess. Now that was the very source of all your affections. Oh, don't give me that look. It made you feel good, didn't it? She was in your palm, ready for you to crush. In the games, especially, Lucy Gray was at your mercy. Oh and how you loved it. To know in all confidence that she was yours, your songbird, your pet. Your possession...Well, until she flew away in the trees. But no matter. Now that you've found another pet you finally get to see your true colors again. How very predictable. Did I mention how predictable you men can be?"

Coriolanus grits his teeth at her mockery. He refuses to hear anymore of this. The nerve to speak of Lucy Gray! And to drive his name to the ground and cake it with mud and soot and filth like that...His nails dig painfully into the softness of both palms. Right as he turns to walk away, Dr. Gaul grabs him by the arm.

"We are no better than animals, Mr. Snow."

"If there's nothing else, i'm going home. I refuse to defend myself from such baseless accusations, and I won't beg you for a servant." He bites.

"Thankfully you won't need to!" she laughs with a bark. "The girl is all yours. We'll see, then, how long it takes for you to move past all those fine manners and all your faulty logic and at last accept that you are not in any way above your true nature. You'll thank me when you sink your claws in that poor little fawn of yours. And there's no reason to fret, in due time you'll forget the shame of it all. I for one, am most certainly looking forward to it. You can't let this bird go now, can you, Coriolanus?"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You awake with something of a start, alarmed by the tugging sensation on your arm. The bright light flashing from above blinds you momentarily. Despite your foggy daze you manage to blink it away and find the person who had shaken you into consciousness, locking eyes with a familiar set of ocean blue. This is it, the thought comes to mind. This is finally it.

Those are the words chanted by the voice in back of your mind everytime you regain consciousness and wake from your restless dreams to him again. Him, the inscrutable boy with his white coat and white gloves and pearly white teeth. If he wasn't staring you down and jotting in his notes, he was stabbing a needle into your arm. And scarcely a word ever comes out of his mouth.

Snow. You've heard the other men and women in white beckon him by that name. That god-awful scientist lady with the crazy eyes and wild hair always did. That was Dr. Gaul, or so they called her.

With every liquid the two forced into your body you wondered if it would be the last. More often than not you were fairly convinced.

In the beginning it was petrifying to imagine that once you closed your eyes and drifted off into darkness you might never see the light again. It was easy to drown in that bone-chilling, violent sea of fear, as you sat all alone in confinement.

You remember trembling at just the sight of him, that boy of sharp edges and cold composure. After all, he was the reaper himself. Your life was in his hands.

But as time went on you couldn't help but pray that death would finally come to take you away. The wait was excruciating. The pain from all their sharp needles and colorful serums even more so.

Perhaps it is time that makes all things easier to navigate and the most painful truths more delicate pills to swallow, for as the days flew past, you began to slowly embrace the imminent end of your short life.

Out of every other choice it was the only merciful one. The idea of remaining in that glass coop and being that mad woman's lab rat for eternity seemed like torture. Just to imagine felt terrifying; it was despicable how these people proked and prodded your body as though you were nothing. Well, you suppose that was what you were to the Capitol anyway.

Death was the one light at the end of the tunnel. There was no escaping your fate.

Snow is looking down at you now, towering from your bedside with that bone chilling ice in his stare. Your dry lips parted mechanically to make way for a quivering breath.

It is difficult to ignore the perfect symmetry of his porcelain face, a clean canvas of sharp lines and high cheekbones, after all that time you spent in his company. Every feature that decorated his skin gave him a beauty so perfect, so void of any flaw, that it bordered on uncanny. You'd never seen a man quite as beautiful as him.

You take notice of his own thin lips, a curve of soft pink flesh unearthed from its usual tight line as they parted to speak, stirring inside you a boiling mess of anxiety and fear and curiosity alike. So seldom does he ever allow his voice out of its box that when he does it feels as heavenly as it does mortifying.

After all it is he who possesses the power. Should he command you to march the front steps of death's door nobody would stop him. Get up, you imagine him saying before taking you to another room. One where nobody thrown inside has ever come out of.

He purses his lips shut then separates them once more. The words seem to have dried on his tongue, clinging desperately to his silence, much too stubborn to leave. You're all too familiar with the feeling yourself. Barely a word has ever been spoken between the two of you. There was never a need for conversation.

"Get up." his words stumble out at last.

This is it.

The time has finally come.

Release. For so long you had spent much of your time imagining this particular moment, and now that it is here at last it feels both strange and unreal.

Would it be painful? Would a peacekeeper face you to the wall and plant a single bullet to the back of your head? You used to hope as much, it seemed the closest thingn to a merciful end, in comparison to the vast range of excruciating penalties they could very well subject you to.

And yet, at this very moment, as you slowly rise from the thin mattress of the bed, every limb on your body begins to tremble and grow weak. Just standing up feels laborious — had it not been for the firm grip on both your arms, clutched in place by the reaper himself, you would have fallen and melted onto the polished floor.

You pray your soul slips away as soon as the shot rings, that nothing more than a pinch will register when the metal burrows deep into your skull.

"Oh don't look so terrified," a familiar laugh bursts through. She's here, you can tell from that awful sound. You dare yourself to look up from the white coat in front of you and peek over his shoulder. His hands on your arms loosen their grip. "You're not in trouble, dear. He's not here to kill you. Not yet, at least."

Not yet.

"He is, however, here to take you with him. Now you'll be his darling little pet, no longer mine," she continues, baring her crooked teeth through a wide grin as she strolls through the room. "Though I doubt you ever were..."

You catch a glimpse of the man in front of you as he clenches his jaw, suddenly so quick to speak up. "What she means is that you will be working for me. Hurry now, I've wasted too much time here. Get dressed."

The demand comes with a brief flicker in those cerulean eyes. He chucks a folded piece of fabric onto the mattress and averts his gaze, wearing that same measured expression he often wore at every attempt of avoiding your naked form. He is a man after all, and you're no fool, no stranger to their stares even in clothes.

At unfolding the fabric on the bed you discover it's a dress. Pale blue linen, with short ruffled sleeves and loose white buttons running down the middle. It's a bit worn-out, evidently, but something to cover up with no less.

"Now, now, stop your shaking. Do try to be good for Mr. Snow," says Dr. Gaul with eerie delight. "Or he'll bite."

Her foreboding words leave you nauseous. Whatever she meant, you didn't like the sound of it. Mr. Snow himself seems no more pleased than you are. It is almost odd to see him in such a state, so bizzarely uncomposed and flustered, with that tension in his jaw and the shadow cast over his face.

"I...I don't understand," you manage to croak out a whisper, throat barren of any moisture from the cold and dry air.

"Patience. You will soon!" she chirps.

That sinister response only nettles your nerves. You slip nervously into the dress, feeling a little awkward doing so with an audience of two. Strangely enough it has grown easier to get undressed than to do the opposite.

"Go on," Dr. Gaul says with a sly leer, gesturing toward the door. "Leave the old coop for your shiny new one. How exciting for all of us...But don't walk too fast now, it'll make him nervous. He'll think you're fleeing!"

The last part conjures out of her core a paroxysm of wretched laughter. Your stomach coils uncomfortably, throat growing more and more parched with every word she speaks. Mr. Snow clears his own and storms out of the room, leaving you to drown alone in your confusion.

"Oh but before you leave, I must advise you this — don't be so foolish as to try and escape. I assure you little girl, Mr. Snow will catch you. That one has learnt from his mistakes."

[paraseleneg1rl]

[paraseleneg1rl]

nooo girl don’t cry ur so ultraviolence, french film, kate moss, zero sugar vanilla coke, nyc, christiane f, 90s, skins uk, blush pink, punk rock, 2008 lizzy grant, cigarettes, sylvia plath, girl interrupted, red nails, sofia coppola, black coffee, pinterest, russian poetry, amy winehouse, autumn & winter, lilya 4ever, in utero, silver sparkles, david sorrenti, blue hour, gia, angelcore, slavic doll coded

[paraseleneg1rl]

Pet

A Coriolanus Snow x Reader fanfiction.

Summary: In a moment of weakness, Coriolanus finally gives in to temptation and decides to save you from Dr. Gaul's laboratory.

Warnings: Coriolanus Snow being Coriolanus Snow, Obsession, Obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, misogyny, captivity.

Prologue

Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

Coriolanus Snow is a meticulous man. He has been for all his life. There is something rather pleasing, he muses, about careful planning and calculations and organisation.

After all, without all these particular measures, how much control could he have over anything? Too little, no doubt. It would slip right through his fingers.

Life would be unpredictable. And if there is anything that Coriolanus despises most in the world, it would be all things unpredictable.

He'd learnt this the hard way in his ugly past; from the Dark Days, to the 10th Annual Hunger Games.

Even Lucy Gray.

Now, Coriolanus is determined to no longer yield to drunken illusions and fleeting romances. No matter how fun and all-consuming they can be. They're merely illusions after all. All the unpredictable things in this world are dressed in wonderful bright colours. It's the perfect way to lure one into a sense of love and comfort.

To fall for such a trap again would be to fail himself once more. It would signify a lack of strength.

This reminder resurfaces with every glance in your direction. And it comes much harsher when he catches his gaze lingering a tad longer than it should.

But no. This isn't weakness. Weakness has nothing to do with this fixation. Its only natural. Biological. All men have penchants for beautiful women, especially ones like you, with your sweet fawn-eyes and your girlish innocence.

Why should he be exempt from having such inclinations? Surely he could indulge every once in a while. And denying himself of a slight, lovely girl like you is more often than not an onerous task. What would be the harm in admiring from afar?

The pen in his fingers halts halfway through his scribbling and he takes another look at you from the corner of the lab. Dr. Gaul has one gloved hand pressing on your neck for a pulse as you lay unclothed and motionless on the operating table.

His own heart begins to thud louder than usual. With a clenched jaw Coriolanus looks away and attempts to concentrate on the report in front of him.

It shouldn't matter how pleasing you are to the eye. How delightfully sweet you appear, especially now, as you rest unconscious. It is none of his business if you live or die. At the end of the day, you are Dr. Gaul's little lab rat. Not his pet to touch and admire.

“Alive," says Dr. Gaul, her bored voice echoing across the cold room. His grip on his pen loosens slightly. For a moment he pauses his scribbling to watch the strange woman lift both your eyelids open. She then shines a light in each. "Rather strong for such a docile little thing. Pupils have returned to normal. No sign of scale growth."

Coriolanus jots the information down in your report. Dr. Gaul's dissatisfaction is palpable even from a distance. He's adapted to it by now; her fickle moods often radiate throughout the entire Citadel, keeping every employee on their toes.

At the sight of Dr. Gaul approaching his table Coriolanus straightens up and sets your report aside. She snaps the rubber gloves off of her hands. Here comes the storm, he thinks bitterly.

"This project has been a complete waste of time," she scowls. "Perfecting the formula for this serum is proving to be much more of a challenge than I had thought it would be. Two of our subjects have been completely immune and four have suffered scarcely any significant effects besides minor changes in the iris and pupils. There was, of course, that runt from 12 who showed all the signs. But even those changes lasted no longer than a mere 5 days."

A part of him feels glad about the turn of events. Besides evoking a series of bad memories, this experiment has done little else.

Clemensia Dovecote's strange 'flu' often comes to mind; flashes of her high pitched shriek and the vibrant snakes slithering in the tank appear as vivid now as the very day it happened. He doubts the memory would ever fade.

Dr. Gaul had always been rather proud of that incident. With Coriolanus as her apprentice, they worked hand in hand alongside her fellow scientists at the Citadel to formulate a new serum; one that would result in similar effects, from scale growth to other grotesque reptilian features.

This time, however, the aim is to bring about life-long consequences. Where Clemensia only endured those unsightly side effects for a few weeks, the new serum is intended to permanently transform its user.

It's taken 3 whole months of unproductive testing for Dr. Gaul to finally throw in the towel and admit defeat. What a mess, mocked the voice in his mind. They were lucky all her experiments hadn't started another Mockingjay catastrophe.

If only he could skip to the future, a future free of Dr. Gaul and her loose screws...

No matter. All he has to do is stick to the plan.

There are only a few months to graduation; that's the time Coriolanus has left before he can claim the official title of Game-maker. Once the position is solidified, perhaps after a year or two, he will no longer have to be bound to this awful laboratory.

Coriolanus will finally be able to carve his way through politics, and move on to bigger and better things. Oh how perfect it would be; how nice to work someplace without the hideousness of cold bodies and blood and needles. Someplace that never reeks of rubber gloves or strange chemicals.

"Perhaps," Coriolanus begins, treading carefully. "It would be a good idea to allocate our resources towards other projects."

"Don't tell me what I already know, child," she snaps with a glare. Right, Coriolanus thought to himself. Of course you know it all, now that you've wasted 3 precious months of our lives.

It is the sound of your faint coughing in the background that distracts her from her dour mood. Coriolanus's eyes dart towards you, heart pumping at an uncomfortable speed. He finds it rather unsettling, the way his shoulders immediately feel lighter at the sight of you awake and stirring on the operation table.

"Another lab rat that needs putting down," mutters Dr. Gaul, eyeing you from afar with a bored look. "I have no more use for the thing. Make sure she's out of my sight by the end of the day."

Coriolanus's stomach twists into a knot. This is it. He will have to do to you what he has done to the others.

He glances over to the corner of the laboratory once more, where you shifted in place without as much as a squeak. It reminds him of the first thing that struck him when you first arrived at the Citadel.

How strangely quiet you were, despite your trembling. As opposed to the other test subjects, all of whom made sure to give him a hard time with their screaming and kicking and cursing prior to sedation, you seemed quite docile indeed.

And yet deep inside you were terribly afraid. He could tell; it wasn't hard to. In the early mornings he could see you shaking like a leaf at the mere sight of him stepping into the lab. Sometimes he would catch you blinking back tears from your glossy eyes.

Doing his job felt most challenging in those moments, when you would peer up at him through damp lashes and that half lidded gaze. Pliant but afraid as you awaited your slaughter.

The look of the lamb.

The skin that covered his palm would burn and tingle as it curved over your outstretched arm, preparing you for another round of injections. And you allowed him to, every time, without a single sound of protest.

A bunny trotting into the bloody jaws of a wolf.

And now at last he has to chew you down and spit you out.

"On second thought," Dr. Gaul pauses in her trail and turns to look at him with a smirk. "It would be quite a shame, wouldn't it, to let go of such a pretty face? Capitol men do love their District whores. I know one or two who would pay me good money for your little pet."

His heart beat begins to thump so loud it sounds queer to his own ears. Suddenly inhaling and exhaling feels rather arduous.

He thinks of those men in their crisp tailored suits putting a price on you. Coriolanus swallows the lump in his throat, fingers curling tighter and tighter around his pen.

From afar he can see glimpses of your bare chest and exposed legs. It is far from an unfamiliar sight, though no less pleasant; like every other one of their test subjects, he's seen you naked a few times.

And when you were, which was quite often, Coriolanus did his best not to let himself stare for a second too long. Especially when he had to sit so near to observe your progress and collect data. He allowed himself brief glimpses at best. Anything besides only forced all his blood down south, something he learned the hard way.

On occasions where his mind and body refused to cooperate Coriolanus would feel his cock twitching and aching in his pants. Begging for a release only you could bring.

It was quite strange; you had a little more meat on your bones than one would expect of a district girl. In all the right places too, places he sometimes longed to touch. You were a pleasure any man would wish to hold and admire and indulge in. Coriolanus wanted to learn for himself how soft your body truly is — if it's as heavenly to the hand as it is to the eye.

The sight of your puckered lips, your rounded breasts and the plush flesh of your thighs — shivering and pinned close at times when the dry air in the laboratory grew unbearably cold — was often so potent it left him lightheaded. But a quick trip to the bathroom usually straightened him out.

Capitol men do love their District whores. I know one or two who would pay me good money for your little pet.

They would, they really would, he's certain of it. The idea of their grimy paws pouncing on your innocence makes his stomach coil. Would you cry? Would you tremble and quiver in fear the way you did around him?

At the thought alone his breakfast threatens to make a reappearance.

The sound of the door clicking shut plucks him out of his trance. Dr. Gaul appears to be long gone now, no doubt off to the pantry for her milk and crackers.

A plan. Coriolanus needs one before the mad woman returns.

His fingers hover over your report, hesitating to flip the last page. He's never read the background information on any of the test subjects before, afraid it might stir up sentimental feelings that would only interfere with his work.

What did their past life matter anyway? Their fates were already sealed. What good would his curiosity do?

But in desperation to choreograph your escape, Coriolanus finds that his hands had already made quick work of the documents containing your information. He scans the pages hastily, reading top to bottom.

You come from a small family of bakers in District 9, he discovers. You had volunteered to be apart of these experiments in place of some pickpocket named Mary.

It's beginning to make sense now — why you yielded to every procedure, always so docile and pliant. Volunteering meant you had long accepted that there was no other choice, that this was to be your fate.

You must have known it would have been the other girl's unless you interfered. Which you did. You saved her from a harsh sentence, a cruel ending you did not wish her to endure.

That could only mean you had long embraced your own demise in place of her suffering. Even the possibility of death.

His heart expands with a painful stretch. Why had you offered to bear another person's sin? You were an angel of salvation. Who is this Mary to you, he wonders.

Tigris comes to mind. Coriolanus ponders over how brave she had been for him during the war. How her frail, bony frame shielded his whenever bombs rained down from the sky. How she never once put herself first before him & their Grandma'am.

A strange tight knot forms in his gut. All this time hidden behind your frailty was a selfless valour. A rare gem he was yet to find in anyone else besides his cousin. Most people are rather self-concerned.

Not that he is one to judge. He doesn't care much for kindness. No, not in the way he used to. Who could afford being kind anymore in such a cruel world?

He had risked everything to save Lucy Grey and what did she do? The little songbird betrayed him at the first opportunity.

Had he not retaliated against her tricks Coriolanus was sure he too would have died and rotted amongst those trees in 12. Silly, treacherous girl, thinking she could hurt him with her ugly snakes and menacing riddles.

Yes, Coriolanus mused bitterly, the good are cursed to be punished. This wicked world only hurts them and batters them and spits on their kindness.

Look where you ended up.

How evil does this make him, then? Now that he has, at last, found an angel among heathens, but then sentences her to imminent corruption? To be cruelly debased and degraded and dishonoured by the grimy hands of the lustful. Hands of the men that will strip this angel of all semblance of goodness.

To release you would be watching a sinless litte kitten get clawed and de gloved by starving dogs.

His chest rises and falls with every heavy breath. Perhaps now it is far too late to protect Tigris from the lengths she had gone to save their family.

But it isn't too late to save you.

Well i'm not made out of sugar.

No. With a shake of his head Coriolanus banishes the voice from his consciousness. He's now a great distance from the evils of District 12, from Lucy Gray. He is safe and this is different. There are no wild snakes slithering in the dark. Only mutts. And even those beasts are trapped here in the lab, all within his control.

Here in the Capitol, the power is in his hands. And yours? Well, as long as you're here under his surveillance, your hands are, and forever will be, shackled to him. Yes, Coriolanus will make sure of it.

He can save you.

[paraseleneg1rl]

I’m so sad… time for an x reader fan fiction

[paraseleneg1rl]

"Why have you killed these beautiful flowers?"

[paraseleneg1rl]

The Crow (2024)

[paraseleneg1rl]

what goes on in my dream seconds before my alarm rings:

[paraseleneg1rl]

my favorite bts photos from season three ❤️