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carolmunson · 4 months ago

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blood machine.

emperor geta x senator's daughter!reader songspiration: in keeping secrets of the silent earth 3 | coheed & cambria

did not once plan to write for this guy but here we are. also like, is it historically accurate? no. like, not even a little. (hell is mentioned and technically hell wasn't 'a place' until 400 BC but like WHATEVER.) am i making a semi effort? sorta kinda. have i been a little stoned every time i've worked on this? well, yes.

summary: when what was supposed to be a diplomatic dinner before a much bigger and lively feast becomes a marriage offer, all of the wine you drank turns to ash in your mouth. haters to haters, bay-bee. tw: 18+, drinking but like -- idk it's ancient rome, tension, fighting, some mild body shaming (??), a literal threat of domestic violence but again it's ancient rome so like i don't think they cared, two stupid little bitches who hate each other. mentions of war and ultimate distaste for the poor. reader kind of has lady macbeth vibes. my little evil queen.

Wine is poured, golden chalices exalted. You are a vision and he is a toad looking creature of a man that only his mother could love. Not quite his brother, never quite measuring up the same way -- always trying to puff his chest. It was easy to tease him, ego easy to bruise -- little brother. You’d spent time in your childhood tagging along with your brother and the other kids to taunt him, pathetic and whimpering. 'Tale teller!' you'd jeer, every time he'd run off to his mother to blubber over how mean you all were. And you were mean.

But people grow, as they do. And so did you -- still mean, but in a different way. Listening to meetings, reading maps, keeping tabs on new republics, on potential uprising. The poor -- the fucking poor. Finding new ways to keep them occupied so that they'd stop trying to find ways to be powerful. Powerful like you. Powerful like the man at the head of the table with a plum to his lips. And as it has been said, a man in possession of a good fortune and power, must be in need of a wife. It became clear when you arrived that this was not a business dinner before a grand feast, your parents simply forgot to mention what this was really about. Your best linens, your hair coiffed, your best jewelry, you should have known it had been a ruse the moment you got there. His home on Palatine just sparkling the way the gold on your fingers did, candles in the halls and stairways glittering when they hit the rubies and pearls on your chest and ears. When your father veers the conversation from politics and business to marriage you both choke, stern eyes glued to your mother's painted face. A business dinner where you are currency -- more than worthy. Just a few months shy of being eligible when Caracalla was, regrettably, forced to marry Flavia at the last moment. It would've been nice to have the gang together again in some capacity. Could've bullied the toad to assasinating himself if you were lucky enough. Total power. Complete upheaval. The more you thought about it, the more of it your craved. The pit in your stomach grew, if it wasn't with his brother -- even though you bore no attraction -- there was not a point at all. Geta didn't think nearly as critically, didn't hit hard enough, didn't strategize correctly. You'd never even seen him pick up a sword -- but then again, that made sense. You very rarely spent time in his palace, much prefering the festivities of Caracalla's close by.

You listen while your mother goes on and on about his grace, tongue dipped in honey while she blabbers. She mentions how handsome he is, his valiance in leadership, how honorable he's become as he's taken the place of his late father -- you can't help yourself but laugh. The giggle echos and bounces through the high ceilings, floating against the archways, getting caught in the drapery by the open hall. His eyes flick to you over his goblet, catching in the candle light, an aggravated sneer plaguing his face. He looks like a pig when he does that, you think to yourself.

You know that business, for the most part, is a man's game. But it does not deter you from doing your best to try and wager yourself out of this. Ideas drip into your mind while the drone of the conversation turns to fuzz in the background. How can you sell that this is a bad idea? It will bring less publicity, less of a threat, less resposibility if married to someone with equal nobility. Certainly not an emperor. Especially not one like this. So petulant, so competitive, so eager for a war he does not know how to plan, so temperamental, so weak, so conniving, so consumed with the colosseum that he doesn't think of what should be done around him. It's his voice that brings you back to attention.

"And why is it she hasn't been taken for a wife then, at this age?" he asks, brow quirking in your direction. You let out of huff of offense while he sips his wine, metal clinking as he places it back down. A smirk flits across his features at the remark, "Is something wrong with her?"

Your father, sweating with embarrassment, looks over at you and back at the emperor, "Well she, she's of course beautiful." Geta winces, cocking his head to the side with a shrug. Your father sighs, desperate to try to find a better angle, "She um, she -- she has great wits, Ceasar, unmatched. She knows her duties as a wife, but -- a great thinker. She could -- she could be helpful!" "Wits," he mumbles sourly under his breath before leaning back leisurely in his chair, "Great thinker? Very surprising." "August--" your father starts. "Co--" you correct over a sip of wine, "Co-Augustus."

Geta tosses you another sour look, tongue running over his teeth before clicking it behind his lips. You shrug while swallowing. "Semantics, Publius," you wave a hand at him. A hush falls over the room as his gaze snaps up at you, blanching at the disrespect of being called by his first name. Your mother hides her face in her napkin with a groan. Your father leans his temple against his fingers, eyes closed in frustration. "Mind how you address me," Geta corrects with a stern pull to his lips, eyes glittering with rage. Your eyes catch over the mountains of food before you, holding your glass out as one of his servants pours you another glass of wine. "Is that not what your mother calls you?" your voice feathery, but certain. A vein begins to raise and pulse in his neck while his shoulders round forward.

"Please apologize, dear," your mother mutters, putting the napkin back on the table, "Tell -- tell the emperor what it would mean, to be -- to be wed to someone of such calibur."

Your eyes stay on his, challenging him while your mother begs you to say something to make amends. Another sip of wine passes your lips, "No, shan't."

Your mother scolds you, your full name escaping her with embarrassment tainting her tongue. Sweat beads at your father's forehead while he changes the subject, doing aything to try to keep his good favor with both sides of the imperatorship.

You grin into your goblet at the sight of Geta's face -- reddened with anger and frustration at the brazen disrespect. But it was fine to continue to be an enemy if it meant you would leave these regal walls and never have to step foot in them again. And if you did, it would be as another senator's wife, visiting his brother in another house where you'll laugh and drink wine and cheer when he's killed.

Even his posture is revolting, hunched over while he listens to your father speak. Now going on and on about paper work that doesn't interest you if it doesn't have a say on who is next on the list to conquer. Your eyes glaze over in boredom while pomergranate, honey pudding, and dates are placed on the table. Rose wine replaces the red to sweeten the tongue -- you're sure your parents wished it were true.

It's not very long after dessert is served that your parents start again.

"As you know, she does come from a family of very fertile women," your father encourages. You quickly swallow the bite of date you'd taken to interrupt, nearly choking, "Excuse me, I'm not sure this is appropriate dinner conversation."

Geta looks at you while you speak, scanning you and then lingering on the dessert in your hand, "Her hips are quite sizeable -- big enough to bear multiple childen, that's certain. Is that her only sell?"

Anger bubbles under your chest, but warning looks from both of your parents keeps your sharp tongue between your lips. The grip on your goblet tightens, jaw clenching while your pass another sip through gritted teeth. You let a seething breath out through your nose. "As I tried to explain before," your father continues, "She is very on the pulse in terms of the political climate and, and, and great with strategy." "I'm not looking for a wife who tries to strategize for me--" he responds coolly. "From how the empire has not expanded since your father's death I would guess that perhaps you should be," you snap back smartly. His posture straightens, chains and medallions across his chest glinting in the candle light. The room quiets itself again, only the sound of untensils and cups being put down or collected filling the dead air. The soft scrape of metal, the rustle of linens while servants and guards alike avert their gaze downward.

"Leave us," he states, voice pungent with authority. You stretch your neck on both sides while the servants depart, already bored with the back and forth. Already moved on from the eventual scolding and potential exile that won't get put into motion because you are simply too friendly with the rest of the upcoming generals and politicians. One rogue idiot who barely has the power his brother has, that his father never trained into him, could not dole a punishment that is worth your genuine fear.

You sigh, hearing the staff make their way down the long stone corridors into the grand halls to prepare for a more formal party with other higher status families. More likely a collection of offerings for him to choose from, other parents trying to arrange a marriage with the empire's most powerful and eligible bachelor. It would be one of the few times the brothers would have to engage with each other, which you're sure put Geta more on edge than normal.

"Senator, please take your wife to the grand hall to be seated," he commands, his voice lower, delving darker. The vein in his neck continues to pulse, forearms straining against the golden cuffs over his wrists, "The guards will accompany you."

You watch as your parents rise, bowing their heads before following the guards out of the room and through the blood red drapery hung from gilded valances. Geta's eyes stay hardened on you, and yours him, while you rise as well, taking a few steps around the large wooden table toward the exit. "Not you," he says, not turning to face you, "You will stay." "It is not appropriate for me to be unaccopanied in the pres--" "Do not speak," he huffs, hand coming up to silence you, "Your voice grates on me." "Then you can imagine what your own voice does, Augustus," you say without thinking, letting the insults flow out of you like the fountain water in the courtyards. He pushes away from the table, steadily walking towards you with enough vigor that the bottom of his cape starts to billow behind him. On his way, he pulls a sword from a guard's holster, dragging it so the tip grinds against the stone, making your jaw clench at the shrill sound.

"What happens to those who speak against me?" he asks, steps clicking against the floor from the studs on the bottom of his sandals. He begins to stalk around you, circling while he waits for an answer. "Execution," you respond, keeping your eyes on the drapery just twenty feet ahead of you. "What else?" he asks, you can feel his breath behind you, the whining grind of the sword against the stone making your shoulders tense. "Exile," you answer, a laugh bubbling out of you, "But I can't imagine your brother agreeing to either of those. You'd really banish me, Publius? Because I was a little mean to you?" When he appears in front of you again, your lips stretch into a sickeningly sweet smile, sarcasm staining your tone, "But we're such old friends."

He cocks his head to the side, taking a step closer with the sword between you, "Oh, I wouldn't do that to you."

He leans forward, enough that you can smell the rose wine on his breath. His voice quiet and menacing, "Though -- it could be that the senator said something to offend me tonight at dinner. It could be that perhaps he -- spoke poorly of my dear brother or my late father. Something just dastardly enough to sour my brother's respect for him." "And you expect Caracalla to believe that?" "In what way does it benefit me to lie about it?" he challenges, "And even more so -- with your father exiled, where does that leave you?"

You swallow thickly, not giving him the satisfaction of replying while your look into his now wild brown eyes. Flashing with mania and endless possibility.

"A peasant," he spits.

"If it keeps me out of these halls I should be lucky, no?" you fire back, looking at him from under furrow brows. He continues to circle you, dragging the sword again. The click, click, click of his shoes keeping time in your head. "I'm sure my brother would be happy to keep you as a pet in the meantime," he laughs to himself, "Or we could put you in the colosseum, you think you'd fare well?" "Better than you could, that's certain," you cross your arms over your chest, "Could never stand up and fight like a man, even as a kid. Your father would be embarrassed."

The grinding gets louder as he presses harder down, causing small sparks to fly from the edge of the sword.

"If you were to be chosen, would ever even attempt to learn respect?" he asks sharply, "Or would it have to be beaten into you?" You snort, "At least you're the funnier brother, you have that going for you." You can see him out of your periphery, the way he pulls his cheeks in, the roll of his shoulders -- he's losing patience. "What, would you prefer I called you Geta? Augustus? Ceasar?" your eyes roll. A soft cackle comes from his through, canines showing in a gleeful smile, "No, no -- from you? I'd much prefer something more respectful." Click, click, click. The grind of the sword. The rose on his breath. "Dominus," he nods with the threat, "Dominus et Deus."

"You disgust me," you respond quickly. "As a husband and as emperor is that not my title, already?" he shrugs, looking at you like it's obvious.

"You are nobodies Lord and God, you are a petulant -- sniveling -- repulsive little brother who is only where he is by being lucky to be born," you glower.

"You still see me as a child, femina," he tuts, "I promise you, what ever Caracalla has told you is a tapestry of made up stories. You could hang it on the tallest arch and it would hit the floor ten times over."

"I do see just a whining child before me," you hiss, "I'm sure you'll run to your mother after this, too."

His chuckle turns to a low, dark laugh from deep in his chest. It crawls up your spine and rings in your ears, mixing with the grating 'shhhhhhinnnngggg' of the sword on the ground.

"If it were fate that there was union between us," he asks from behind you, "What would you say to that?"

You look straight ahead, hearing the click of his shoes. The heat of the torches on the walls billowing onto your face while you keep your eyes on the drapery, still closed -- still keeping you here.

"It would be a fate worse than the hottest hell," you confess, your voice not wavering.

The whine of the sword stops, sheathed into his belt. The click of his shoes halts.

Quiet.

Rose wine on his breath, you feel it on your skin now, his chest against your back while he closes the space between you. A hand reaches up to push the hair from your neck, the other gripping the fat of your hip to pull you ruthlessly against him in a thud. Your eyes shut, bile crawling up your throat in disgust. His nose coasts against the shell of your ear, making you tilt your head away while goosebumps rise on your arms. Through a knowing grin he whispers, the words burrowing deep in your chest in loathing and a glimmer of fear: "I pray every moment of it burns you."

#emperor geta #geta x reader #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x you #geta x you #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 fanfiction

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milliesfishes · 2 months ago

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Omg I could really use some PK coryo angst from you, every time you write an angsty snippet about him I die 😭 PK coryo is something else

꣑ৎ౨ৎThe Bodyguard꣑ৎ౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: attempted kidnapping pairing: peacekeeper coriolanus snow x fem reader summary: after a scary incident, your father takes what you deem unnecessary precautions author’s note: anon I apologize for not answering this sooner but I hope this fulfills the need <3 tagging @melo-bees thank you so much for this idea lovey!! Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

Skipping through the town square, you dodged a few stray people, bestowing them large smiles and letting your bag swing as you passed through. You hummed something to yourself, basking in the sunlight. Summer was in full bloom, and you reveled in it, feeling as though you were in a whirlwind of happy things.

Maybe you shouldn't be out here by yourself. Maybe you should have told someone where you were going, like your mother or a maid or something. But it was just a quick pop into the market, to say hello to a few people and maybe get something pretty for yourself.

The arduous years of school had ended in the spring, and you'd proudly taken your diploma and hung it in a silver frame on your wall. A part of you mourned the loss of that time, knowing the innocence of those years would be pried from your hands and twisted into something worth marrying. But the other held onto the spark of youth that somehow hadn't been doused by your parent's warnings of the future.

"A young lady shouldn't wander the streets by herself." "A young lady needs protection." Given your father's prominence, there were legions of Peacekeepers at his disposal, and he'd made empty threats of putting one or more on your tail. But you waved them off. They were nothing but air.

Clasping the hands of a woman behind a vendor's stall, you squealed, bouncing on your heels. "Oh, Ember you've outdone yourself this week." The jewelry spread out across the wooden surface of the table was exquisite, metal twisting around itself, stones embedded as the tiniest of details. You held up a pair of earrings, letting the light catch the gold and emphasize the red shine of the tiny rocks nestled in the crafted design. "Would it be alright if I got these?"

"Of course, honey," she smiled, taking the coins you slipped into her hands. Counting them, she frowned and tried to pass a few back. "That's too much-"

"Really? Could've sworn you undercharged." Grinning, you swapped your old earrings out, stowing them safely in a pocket of your bag.

Ember gave you an exasperated look. "Now-"

"It's been a pleasure, I'll see you next time!" You tossed a few more coins on the table, letting them rattle and clink against each other as you broke into a run, skipping away. Ember's laugh followed you like an echo, and you smiled as you pictured her shaking her fist at you.

Your new earrings bounced against your cheeks as you ran down the alleyway and down the lush forest path, holding your skirts in both hands. It was always while running that you felt the freest. And so you did it over and over again, through the trees and streets, through every place you could think of.

With the wind on your legs, you felt liberty's sweet caress all around. It lifted the corners of your lips and practically made you levitate. If feathers sprouted from your limbs and air built up under your arms, sending you soaring into the clouds, you wouldn't have been surprised.

This could be your life. Dancing around town and supporting your friends in the way they needed you to. Nodding along to your father's requests and then turning your cheek. This was boundless, beautiful-

You smacked something firm, the force of it knocking you backwards. Shoulders hitting the dirt, your hair became a curtain over your eyes that you didn't part right away. The collision had stolen your breath, and you chased it back, finally able to grasp and shove it back into your mouth.

Blinking wearily, you swept your hair out of your eyes and got a good look at what had interrupted your joyful flee. A man, clothes tattered, face streaked with dirt. A hat shaded his eyes, but you could see the firmness in them.

An apology bubbled up, escaping your lips as you scrambled to your feet. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where-"

"You're the mayor's daughter." The words were frozen like glaciers, and you lifted your lips in a sweet smile, hoping to thaw him.

"If you'll excuse me-"

His hands were gripping you tight suddenly, roughened nails leaving imprints on your skin. You gasped, wiggling in his hold and trying to squirm away. "I really...if you'd just let me go-"

"How much d'you think Daddy's gonna gimme for givin' his pretty daughter back?" The question sent snakes slithering up your spine, wrapping around your throat. The look in his eyes was haunting, hungry. You cried out, trying to reach out and push him away but he held your wrists fast, twisting one and sending a sharp pain up your arm.

It happened before you could even think. Your knee shot up like a missile, landing between the man's legs. When he shouted, releasing your arms to clutch himself, you caught a glimpse of his mouth. It was unclear whether he was missing teeth or if they were blackened by dust.

You didn't stick around to find out. Now your running had a new purpose, and you sprinted down the road, sobs moving past your lips choked and desperate. Hot tears stung your cheeks as they poured down like rain.

Fear struck you like an arrow, hitting dead center. Over and over you'd been told of people who would be out to get you solely because of the position of your birth, but never before had you witnessed it. As you reached the edge of town, darting back through the narrow alleyway and leaning on the wall to catch your breath, you shuddered involuntarily and hurriedly wiped the tears away from your face.

"Are you alright?"

A gasp clenched your breath and your head snapped up, heart pounding before you realized who stood before you. A tall man in a Peacekeeper's uniform with blue eyes like cornflowers, clutching a weapon. Your shoulders sagged in relief, and your eyes fell to the ground, foot toeing at the cobblestone. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." His voice was low and you managed to meet his eyes, holding your chin high.

Studying him, you were almost surprised at how young he appeared to be. Close to your age, surely. It was such a strange thing, to be so close in age and yet so starkly different.

"I'm fine. I'm just having a bad day," you said, wiping your eyes again. It felt humiliating to talk about what had just happened, and so you sealed your lips.

The Peacekeeper's mouth was set in a firm line, and you could tell he didn't believe you for one second. "May I walk you home?" Now you could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes, and you knew the idea of your father was bouncing around in his head. Maybe he wanted praise, or a monetary reward. The chances of him doing it out of the goodness of his heart were low.

Mustering a smile you hoped was sweet, you shook your head, clutching your bag and sidestepping him. "No thank you. I'll manage."

"You're-"

"I'm fine!" you called, already walking away. This time you clung to the shadows rather than enjoying the sunshine. Nobody else needed to see you like this.

It was embarrassing enough that a man with eyes the color of the sky you so badly wanted to soar into had.

The delicate lace of your curtains looked so pretty in the sunshine, and you clasped them in your fingers, pleased to find them warm. Lying stretched out across your bedspread, you smiled brightly, kicking one foot up into the air. The bundle of wildflowers on your nightstand was tied with a ribbon, and their sweetened scent greeted your nose.

It had been a perfect day in the forest, lying amongst the flora and fauna. You'd brought your picnic with you as usual, reading to yourself and enjoying the quiet. In the past bit you'd hardly been able to have a moment to yourself, making today all the more magical.

Since that awful day a week ago you hadn't breathed a word to anybody about what had happened, although you knew your mother suspected something was wrong when you came home with dried tear tracks staining your face like berry juice.

She'd occupied you with social visits of all kinds, to people far and wide across the town. There were only so many parlors you could sit in, so many polite smiles you could offer for so many days in a row before you went crazy.

Of course she meant well. But today was your day, and you had enjoyed it immensely.

Your father's voice pierced the quiet and you sat up when you realized he was calling for you. Swinging your legs to the side of the bed, you stood and stretched, muscles popping like bubbles. It was rare that he summoned you before dinner, and you wondered what he wanted to discuss now. If it was the prospect of another son of a wealthy acquaintance you wanted no part of it.

Making it to his office, you paused in the doorway. Had you known your father wasn't alone, maybe you would have taken the time to smooth your dress or run a brush through your hair.

Standing there in front of him was a young man in a Peacekeeper's uniform, blond hair buzzed to his scalp, hat under his arm. You shyly clung to the frame and watched them exchange words for a moment before they noticed you.

When the other man turned it hit you like a stone. Those eyes. The color of a summer sky. You were frozen for a moment, staring at him and feeling nothing except your heartbeat pounding your ribs. His gaze didn't tear away from you either, and for a moment you felt as though you were the only two people in the room.

What was he doing here?

Your father broke the tension, clearing his throat. "I'll expect you back here tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." The man tore his gaze from you and nodded at your father, shaking his extended hand. "I look forward to it."

On the way out, he paused, giving you a nod. "Miss." You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest.

It wasn't until the front door shutting announced his departure that your father spoke to you. "That was Private Snow."

"Ah." You nodded, shifting on your feet and further entering the room. "Is he going to be here more often?" Now you were imagining him standing guard with the other Peacekeepers protecting your home and family, gorgeous eyes piercing your soul every time you left the bounds.

"Yes." Your father smoothed his beard, studying you. "He'll be here for you."

Straightening, you tilted your head, brow knitting. "For me? What-?"

"For your protection." Before you could argue, he firmly said, "An incident was brought to my attention recently. Apparently, you were seen hysterical in an alley."

Your lips parted and you tried to speak, the words coming out in a pathetic stutter. "I...it was...nothing-"

He held up a hand, effectively silencing you. Your fingers found your skirt, twisting the fabric and clenching it tight as every possible excuse swam through your head. But you could see now that it would fall upon deaf ears. For every time he'd warned you, he'd finally made good on his threat.

"You've been far too careless," he began, each word with an edge like a knife. You swallowed, bowing your head as he continued. "Running around town and cavorting with whoever you want. That ends now. It's very clear you can't handle yourself."

Tears were pricking your eyes, and you suppressed a sniffle. This was humiliating, to be reprimanded by your father for something that wasn't even your fault. In a whisper, you tried, "I didn't mean to-"

A shake of his head cut you off. "Private Snow will be accompanying you from now on wherever you go. You'll have constant supervision so I don't have to deal with you every time you get yourself into something stupid. There will be no further discussion." He turned back to his desk, waving a hand and indicating your dismissal.

The walk back up to your room was slow and shameful. Frustration brimmed at the edges of you, poking and prodding at your head. Constant supervision...already you mourned the loss of your precious alone time, the freedom you had enjoyed. Now you would have a shadow trailing behind you carrying a gun.

Shutting the door, you let your tears fall freely, though no sobs parted your lips and split your soul open. You tried to convince yourself that maybe this could be okay. It wasn't like your routine would be interrupted. It only meant that he would be there.

Sniffling and drying your eyes, you took a deep breath, eyes falling on the wildflowers again. It would be okay. Everything would be okay. It was for your own safety after all.

You tried to picture it then, a prophetic vision. The man who'd looked at you in a way nobody had before, who'd awoken some strange feeling in your heart protecting you.

It stayed with you for the rest of the day, trickling into your dreams.

In Coriolanus' life, he'd been mildly interested in a great many people. Ones who could aid his journey to the top or help him play the game of the Capitol's choosing and change the rules for him. He'd been interested, is all.

But he'd never been utterly enchanted by anyone before. Not until you.

All too often he chided himself. The daughter of the mayor, the girl he was only supposed to be keeping an eye on. Really, whatever he was feeling needed to stop immediately. It was blatantly unprofessional.

And yet here he was, standing in a field under the shade of a tree and watching you use your skirt as a makeshift basket as you gathered strawberries into it. Tucked haphazardly in the crook of your arm was a messy bunch of wildflowers. Your hair was loose, taken out of the braid he'd watched your mother approve before you left the house.

You were a vision, something not meant for his hopeless eyes.

Coriolanus took every bit of his life as a Peacekeeper seriously, but this was another matter entirely. It perplexed him how much more committed he'd found himself once every aspect of his duties were steered in your direction.

He'd once felt fascination for Lucy Gray, whom he'd pulled every stop for to get her out of the arena. A girl with a voice like a songbird whose dedication to her found family had inspired him. She had been his ticket out of poverty, and he clung to it with every fiber of his being. When his methods had been unveiled, resulting in his life sentence to the military, he'd kept at his trying, attempted to bribe his way to her.

The attempt had failed, and now he was in Two, among forest confines. At least he wasn't breathing in coal dust. And now there was you.

Given strict instructions on where you were and weren't supposed to go, Coriolanus had known you would be a stubborn case. From the moment he'd recognized you in the alley he'd gotten the feeling that you were as free spirited as a bird. Your father had seemed all too happy to hand you off. Coriolanus hadn't understood why until this morning.

"It's not dangerous," you'd protested in the kitchen this morning, cutting a few slices of bread. "I go there all the time. There's nothing but trees."

"Your father said not to allow you to go past the town limits," he countered, voice firm. He felt like a giant next to you as you delicately gathered your food into the wicker basket shaped like a heart, pink linen lining the insides.

Giving him an exasperated look, you brushed a stray strand away from your face. It had been bothering him for a minute, and he'd longed to do that exact thing. "What could possibly happen if you're going to be with me the whole time?"

Huffing slightly, Coriolanus felt the beginnings of a headache twinge at his temples. A week into this endeavor and he could already tell you were going to be difficult. You fought him at every turn, pleading with him to let you go literally everywhere on the list of prohibited places.

The market on the wrong side of town. A nighttime club with live music. And now the forest, which had particularly been emphasized to him by your father.

You'd batted your eyelashes and shut the lid of the basket. "Please? You've done such a good job at keeping me safe. And it's not that deep in the forest, just a little bit of a walk."

The white dress you were wearing was edged with fine spun lace at the neckline, exposing your collarbone. He tried not to stare at it, tried not to make it so obvious that he found every angle of you beautiful.

Unhelpfully, the look you were giving him reminded him of a doe, the pretty one who pranced among snowflakes in the picture books with rich illustrations his mother used to read him. He was struck dumb for a moment, staring at you.

"Okay."

The little squeal you gave was worth it alone, along with the way you grabbed his wrist and squeezed. "Thank you!"

Now he was watching you in your element, feeling like he'd stumbled upon a nymph. Your essence trailed behind you like fairy dust.

You spotted him watching you and threw him a sweet smile, one that gnawed at the edges of his heart. He somehow found it in him to snap to his senses, boots crinkling the grass as he made his way over to you. No longer did he have to carry the enormous Peacekeeper's gun, only a small one at his hip. This was one of many perks of working directly for your family, among being moved from the base to the servant's quarters of the house, and of course, you.

Now close to you, he solemnly said, "We should head back," expecting your face to fall or for you to try and pout your way into thirty more minutes. Coriolanus had grown accustomed to your methods in very little time, as they were tried and true.

Instead, you nodded and tried to shift your flowers up the crook of your elbow. "Could you take these? I want to put the berries in my basket."

Coriolanus removed your bouquet, feeling a little silly as he watched you deposit the strawberries. The skirt of your dress was lightly stained with red juice, and he wondered if it was as sweet as you were.

You reached your hand out from where you were kneeling, about to take the flowers when you groaned, letting your arm fall. "My hair. I have to braid my hair. Hold on-" you gathered it up and let it fall behind your shoulders, clumsily separating it into three sections. Your movements were messy, the result a crooked pattern traveling down your back. Tying it off with your ribbon, you reached up once again, expecting him to hand you the bouquet.

He was staring at your hair, frowning. You re-emphasized your hand. "I can take them now-"

"Your hair doesn't look anything like how it did when we left." He studied the messy attempt, and you half smiled.

"It's fine. Nobody pays attention to that."

Coriolanus pressed his lips into a firm line. If you came back looking even slightly like you'd been in the forest, his entire position could be jeopardized. It was bad enough your skirt was stained, but that could be played off. There was no place in town you were allowed to go where you'd be able to take your hair down. Women around here always had it pinned up or pulled back in some way.

Anxiety pulsed at his heart as he imagined what would happen if you were discovered. He'd be disciplined for not following orders and sent back to the barracks, maybe even demoted. Worse, he wouldn't be allowed to be near you anymore. You, who were quickly becoming what he orbited around.

Dropping to his knees and setting your flowers to the side, he paused before he touched your ribbon. "May I?"

You raised your eyebrows. "it's not a big deal Coriolanus."

He ignored how his name sounded with your lips wrapped around it. That was something he could dwell on later, when he was staring at the ceiling and trying to fall asleep. Instead, he gave you a look. "Just let me."

Shrugging, you faced forward and nodded. He untied your ribbon, fingers unweaving the mess you'd made of your soft hair. It was pretty- tumbling down your back like a waterfall, and he savored holding it.

Coriolanus combed his fingers through it once before meticulously separating the sections. You were perfectly still, the peace of the area enveloping you both. He was lost in the task for a moment, carefully weaving the strands together.

Your soft voice lilted his ears. "How do you know how to do this?"

"My cousin used to have me braid her hair," he murmured distractedly, careful as he smoothed one section before folding it over another. "Every day before she went to school."

"Oh." The word was quiet, and he had the feeling you'd have turned around if he'd have let you. "Do you miss her?"

He was surprised by the question, swallowing and nimbly finishing the bottom half of your braid. "Yes." Nobody had asked him about his family since arriving. The closest had been when he'd filled out the Corso address on the form that directed where his pay would be sent.

Tying the silky white ribbon around the end, securing your hair in place, he cleared his throat and sat back, getting to his feet. "All done."

You lifted your eyes to him, and he was rewarded by that sweet smile again. Coriolanus held out his hand and you took it, standing up with your flowers in one hand and your basket hooked over the same arm. For a moment, your soft hand stayed in his, soft fingers wrapped around his palm. "Thank you," you breathed, meeting his gaze.

It took a moment for him to find his words. Even the mere sight of you shook him to his core. "You're welcome."

On the walk back home, you let go of his hand and he mourned its loss for a moment before you slipped your own into the crook of his elbow, eyes darting around the space. He'd noticed you do this on the walk over too, searching the space as if you were expecting something to appear from the tree line.

As you walked quietly beside him, he thought of the first day he'd seen you, with tears falling and eyes blown wide. You'd come from the forest then too, and he wondered what had scared you so badly it had lingered. You bit the inside of your cheek and took in a shaky breath.

"I'll keep you safe." The words slipped out, but he made no attempt to remedy them.

If his heart was going to spark every time you looked at him, it would be a fire in no time. You searched his eyes, squeezing his elbow. Even through his uniform shirt he could feel your hand warm from the sun. If he wanted to (and he very much did) he could count every freckle you'd gained from your time outside.

With no more than a smile and a sweetheart's demeanor, you'd ignited something so untouchable in his soul, something that almost scared him. It was untouchable, boundless. An ocean of wonder he was only beginning to set sail on.

If the boat capsized and drowned, he'd go happily.

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