#snow starch

[hoodedcrowart]

Snow Starch

[thebitchbehindtheslaughter]

Me: Oh no, my party died! I feel so bad for letting them get hurt!

Also Me: *discreetly looks at Snow Starch’s defeated art (respectfully)*

I know he’s bleeding but that kinda just adds to it

[scoutingthetrooper]

[fieriframes]

[WHICH MEANT DISHES THAT ROLLED WITH THE TIMES. (Bob) MEATBALLS AND FRIES! SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY. DURING THE DEPRESSION, BUT STOPPED SNOWING AND THE STREETS WERE FULL OF PEOPLE. THEY WOULD GET TWO MEATBALLS, A LITTLE BIT OF FRENCH FRIES, AND THE STARCH WOULD FILL THEM UP, AND THEY'D BE ABLE TO MAKE IT THROUGH ANOTHER DAY.]

[pedrospatch]

fall into temptation | one

Jackson! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter Reader

series masterlist

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56, i know, i know but this is self indulgent because my birthday is next month idk just let me have this one) canon language, canon violence, several mentions of religion, terms pastor and preacher are used interchangeably here and there, mentions of the bible and religious symbols (cross), innocent/virgin reader, very brief scene of attempted sexual assault, no explicit smut (yet). asshole Joel, protective Joel, hints of softish dom Joel (if you squint). reader has two sisters, the only physical description for them is their hair, which they can also braid as well as their style of clothing.

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 8.4k

Jackson, Wyoming

Fall 2024

Joel had seen him around the community before. 

He’s an older man in his late sixties or possibly his early seventies with thinning, snow white hair and silver, wire rimmed glasses that always seemed to be perched on the tip of his pointed nose. He was a good, kind man from what Joel could gather—offering up warm smiles and friendly waves to anyone who happened to cross his path, stopping to greet and say hello to familiar faces. The hem of his starched white shirt is tucked into pressed black slacks and even from where he stood across the road near the horse stables, Joel noticed the book clutched in his right hand, old and bound in supple, worn black leather with the words Holy Bible etched into the cover in flaked gold lettering.

Jacob, he thinks his name is. Or was it Josiah?

Something biblical—a name fit for a man who was so fucking clearly devoted to the big man upstairs.

Joel knew his own name was a biblical one, but he was the furthest thing from a man of God. After all that he’d done in the past twenty years, there was only one place he was going and that place wasn’t exactly known for its pearly gates or sweet cherub angels playing harps.

Joseph? Was that it? 

He couldn’t be certain.

Not that Joel really even cared to know his name. 

It’d been a couple months since Joel arrived back in Jackson with Ellie after Salt Lake City and the truth of the matter was that he preferred to keep to himself whenever it was possible. Joel had zero interest in getting to know the people of this settlement, not unless he had to for the sake of patrol duties—and that’s only if he hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of getting assigned with a partner who wasn’t Tommy or Maria, the only two people in the whole fucking community Joel could stand being around. Minus his kid of course, but even he and Ellie could really only take each other in small doses lately. Perhaps it was their tense, strained relationship that was to blame for the fact that Joel Miller walked around this place with a standoffish attitude and a permanent scowl plastered on his face. 

Most people were smart enough to scamper off in the opposite direction when they saw him coming. He was never offended by it. It’s what he wanted. He wasn’t here to make friends.

In fact, the closest thing he had come to a friend outside of his brother’s wife was Esther, the woman Maria and Tommy had tried setting him up with when he first got back to Jackson. He wouldn’t go as far as calling her a friend, either. That’s a little too generous. Friend? No, more like a good fuck when he couldn’t drown his bitterness with Seth’s barrel aged bourbon and he was in need of a different kind of distraction.

But there was a reason this particular man piqued his curiosity. Actually, there were three reasons he managed to garner Joel’s attention and all three of those reasons were trailing behind him in an orderly, single file line, each one more fucking gorgeous than the last. He was positive he’d never seen them around before—because how could he possibly forget the faces of the most beautiful women in this town?

They’ve gotta be sisters, Joel thought to himself, his hand resting on the neck of the horse that he’d ridden out to patrol that morning, a dark, chestnut mare named Willow. Although he was supposed to be walking her inside the stables and back into her stall, he found himself far too distracted. While the three women weren’t identical to one another, the similarity in their traits such as hair color and their skin tone confirmed his suspicions that they were related. They all styled their hair in neat halo braids and wore slightly different color variations of the same getup—pressed, long sleeved blouses tucked into knee length floral printed skirts and worn, leather oxford shoes.

Clutching the brown leather strap of his rifle in his opposite hand, Joel leaned himself against Willow and squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight in an effort to get a better look at them. 

The first two were slightly on the older side. If Joel had to take a shot at their age, he would guess the women were in their thirties—a man of fifty six, he still had about two decades on them, easy. Joel let his gaze shift, his dark brown eyes flickering to the last one. His breath audibly hitched in his throat and part of him wondered just how fucking dumb he had to be to be drawn to the youngest one of the three. It couldn’t be fucking possible—you couldn’t be that much older than your mid twenties, if that. 

Joel’s grip on the strap of his rifle tightened. 

All three of you were beautiful beyond words—why the fuck did it have to be you who held over his interest?

“Take a picture,” Maria remarked with a tiny laugh. She dismounted her horse and peered at Joel over the black stallion’s back. “It’ll last longer.”

She’d led that morning’s patrol, her first time back on duty since she had given birth to her son in the spring. Joel had returned to Jackson right on time to meet his one month old nephew, Noah. 

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Just tryin’ to figure out what their deal is, that’s all.” He paused, then remarked, “Didn’t know polygamy was a thing around here.”

His comment must have struck a nerve in his dear sister in law—fiercely protective of the people who were under her leadership, Maria hadn’t found the sister wives implication the slightest bit amusing. 

“Watch it, Joel,” she admonished, shooting him a warning glare. “He’s the town’s pastor and those girls happen to be his daughters. So let’s keep our wise ass cracks to ourselves, shall we?”

His daughters? He almost couldn’t believe it. Surely the girls must have taken after their mother because they sure as hell didn’t get their good looks from their old man. They hardly looked anything like him.

“Pastor,” Joel repeated with a small hum. He then remembered her pointing out an old church house back during the winter when she’d given him and Ellie the grand tour of the community. “So he ain’t got a real job like the rest of us?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “His job is a real job, Joel. It might be hard for you to believe, but there are still a lot of people of faith around here,” she explained to him. “He provides them with comfort and with hope—”

He snorted sharply through his nose. “Hope?”

“Yes, hope,” she snapped at him. 

“Hope for what, Maria? That things will go back to fuckin’ normal? That the end of the world is temporary?”

Maria crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin. “Some people never lose hope, Joel. There’s a lot of people who need this man and he serves a much bigger purpose than what you’re giving him credit for.”

“And what about the girls? They have it easy too? Do they just stand there lookin’ pretty on Sundays while their old man reads verses out loud from the most useless fuckin’ book known to man?”

“If you must know, they work in the schoolhouse,” she answered, tossing him another glare. “They’re teachers. The oldest one, she teaches Ellie’s class. The middle one, she teaches the primary school aged children and the youngest? She takes care of all of our little ones. She prepares our preschool kids for her sister’s class by teaching them numbers and basic literacy. Shows them how to start counting, reading and writing, things like that. She also helps run the commune’s daycare.”

“At least they have real jobs,” Joel mumbled under his breath. 

“What was that?”

He feigned innocence. “Nothin��. Nothin’ at all.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.” Maria pointed her finger at him. “Come on, let’s get these guys back into their stalls. It was a long ride this morning, I’m sure they could use some rest.” Taking her stallion by the reins, she started leading him over toward Logan, one of the stable hands who helped take in the horses coming back from patrol. 

Joel took Willow’s reins in his hands—but before he could even think of moving another muscle, he glanced up and saw the preacher leading his three daughters past the stables and right past Joel. His self control faltered. All that he could do was stare at you, his eyes fixed on you so blatantly that one of your sisters had taken notice. Grinning, she turned back towards you and lifted a hand to her mouth. She used her palm to shield her lips from Joel’s view and whispered something to you over her shoulder.

Shit. 

He’d been caught gawking.

He thought about making a beeline for the stables but it was too late. 

Perplexed by whatever it was that your older sister had just said to you, you gave her an odd look, but then followed the subtle nod of her head. 

Glimpsing over in his direction, your lips parted in complete surprise and you came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dirt road when you found your gaze meeting that of the much older, rugged man standing there with a gun slung over his shoulder.

Unsure of what else to do, Joel simply offered you a polite nod of his head. The gesture was innocent enough but it startled you. He could tell by the way you let out a small gasp and turned away from him, your eyes falling to the ground as you scurried to catch up to your father and sisters like a spooked little mouse. 

Joel couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh.

“Is the preacher aware that his precious little daughters pay frequent visits to The Tipsy Bison at such late and ungodly hours?” Joel quipped. He gestured to a booth nestled over in a corner of the dimly lit bar with a subtle jerk of his chin. “S’gotta be the third or fourth time I’ve seen them here in the last couple of weeks.”

Tommy’s eyes followed his brother’s gesture. “Oh man, not again,” he said with an exasperated sigh. He shook his head. “Those girls, they ain’t got no fuckin’ business hangin’ around this place and much less at this fuckin’ hour. But the middle one, she’s a whole lot of trouble.” He paused, just long enough to nod at one of the three sisters, the one who was wearing her hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a lock of it around her finger as she made flirtatious fuck me eyes at the group of drunk patrolmen sitting a few tables away. “She’s somethin’ of a rebel, that one. Likes to drink a lot, get herself involved with things that she ain’t really supposed to be messin’ with. She’s the one who convinces the other two into sneakin’ out and comin’ to the bar when their old man goes to sleep.”

Joel chuckled in disbelief. “You fuckin’ serious?”

“As a heart attack. And then there’s the older one. I know she likes to drink too, but she’s a lot calmer than the other one. Ain’t gotta worry about her all too much, y’know? She tries to be the chaperone—it don’t always work out that way, though. Her halo ain’t exactly perfect either.”

“What ‘bout the youngest one?” Joel asked in the most nonchalant tone he could possibly muster. “Where does she fall on the scale between angel and devil?”

You’re carefully perched on the edge of the booth, your pretty features twisting in disgust with every sip of the rich, amber colored liquid in your glass. Unable to stomach the burning alcohol, you set it off to the side, abandoning it in favor of a glass of water instead.

“Her?” Tommy grinned, leaning back into his chair as stated, “Oh, she’s an absolute angel. She’s just ‘bout the sweetest fuckin’ thing you’ll ever see in your whole damn life, big brother. She’s gotta be the kinda girl who all the little birds and woodland critters sing to when there ain’t no one around,” he laughed. “She’s real good. Too good. Wouldn’t surprise me if the lord sent her down from heaven himself.”

Joel tossed him a skeptical look across the table.

“She really as innocent as she seems?” 

“I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to hold another man’s hand,” his younger brother laughed again and reached for his beer, taking a generous swig. 

Joel hummed softly and lifted his glass of whiskey to his lips. The mere thought of you being so pure and so innocent—untouched by anyone else—caused something to stir deep in his lower belly. 

“She’s the old man’s pride and joy,” Tommy continued, breaking into his train of thought. “Kind. Polite. Behaves. Doesn’t get herself into any kinda trouble—I mean look at her, she can’t even choke down a glass of whiskey. She’s just too good of a girl.”

Joel proceeded cautiously with his next question. “Any of them taken?” 

Surprised, Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Joel, don’t fuckin’ tell me—”

“No, I ain’t interested,” he interjected, rolling his eyes. “Just a curious motherfucker, that’s all.”

He didn’t seem too convinced by Joel’s answer. “They’re all single from what I know. To be honest, there ain’t a whole lot of men around here their old man would approve of,” he remarked. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice man and all, but when it comes to his daughters, he’s real strict. Not that controllin’ has done him much good, though.” He lowered his voice as a fellow patrolman walked past their table. “The middle one’s fucked her way through this entire town and then back again. She even made a pass at me while Maria was pregnant with Noah, if you can fuckin’ believe that.”

Amused, Joel snorted into his drink. Ballsy. “How goddamn drunk was she?”

Tommy ran a hand through his jet black curls. “Wasted. Oldest one ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, either.”

“And the old man doesn’t know?”

“Nope. Ain’t nobody gonna snitch on grown women in their thirties.” Noticing the amused expression on Joel’s face, he adds, “By the way, just in case you haven’t figured it out, this stays between us, Joel.”

He smirked. “Which part?”

“All of it. And take it from me, those girls? S’best you keep your distance from them,” he warned as he stood up from the table. He picked up the blue denim jacket draped over his chair, shrugging into it. “Don’t go gettin’ any dumbass ideas, alright?”

“Look, if the wild one makes a pass at me, I ain’t gonna turn her down. S’not like I’ve got a pregnant wife at home.”

“Joel, I fuckin’ swear. If you even think ‘bout it—”

He held up his hands to stop him. “Relax. Was just a joke.”

“Right. M’sure it was.” Tommy snorted. “Listen, I gotta get back home. Don’t wanna leave Maria on her own with the baby for too long.”

“How’s she been holdin’ up?”

“She’s been so tired. Jugglin’ motherhood, runnin’ this place, and bein’ back on patrol duty. I keep on tryin’ to tell her to slow it down, but she just won’t listen to me.” He let out a small sigh and waved a dismissive hand. “But anyway. If you’re all good to head out, I can walk you back to your place since it’s on the way to mine?”

Joel looked down at his glass, still half full. “I think I’m gonna hang back for a while longer. I’m on the roster for evenin’ patrol tomorrow, s’not like I’ve gotta be up at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Suit yourself.” Clapping him on the back, Tommy bid him goodnight and started towards the door. 

As soon as he was gone, Joel looked over towards your booth. He watched as you whispered into the ear of your eldest sister who nodded her head in understanding. You stood up and said something else to her, then spun around on your heel, long skirt flowing along with the movement. Head down, you hastily made your way across the bar, being careful so as not to bump into anyone along the way.

You were leaving. Alone. 

In the middle of the fucking night? While drunk morons poured in and out of the bar?

She’ll be just fine, he tried to convince himself. 

Joel frowned to himself, gripping his drink tightly in his hand as he scanned the room.

Sitting at a nearby table was Kent, some idiot he’d been stuck with a time or two for patrol. He clocks the smirk that crossed the younger man’s face, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Leaning forward over the table, he whispered something to his buddies, his smirk widening. His comrades, all who looked and behaved more like teenagers rather than grown men, lifted their beers to him, nodding in encouragement. Drunk off his ass, Kent drained the rest of his own beer, slamming the glass bottle down onto the table before clumsily stumbling to his feet. 

Joel momentarily froze as soon as he realized what was happening. 

Kent was going after you. 

Joel’s lips pressed together into a tight, thin line.

Setting his drink down, he stood up from his table and slipped on his jacket before following suit.

Joel stepped out of the bar and into the night, the chilly evening air nipping at his face. He took a look around. 

You were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kent. 

That couldn’t fucking be good. 

“Where the fuck did you two go,” he muttered to himself under his breath.

That’s when he heard it. 

The sound of muffled screaming coming from the side of the building. Joel didn’t hesitate. Following your smothered cries for help, he whipped around into the dimly lit alley nestled in between the bar and the commune’s mess hall. You’re pinned underneath Kent with your skirt bunched up around your waist. One of his hands was covering your mouth while his other hand clawed its way up your bare thigh. 

“Aw, c’mon now, sugar,” Kent slurred his words together. “It’d be a fucking shame to let someone as cute as you stay a fucking virgin. Don’t be coy—I know you’re just like your stupid slut of a sister. She’s got no trouble spreading her fucking legs for me, y’know.”

Red.

It was the color that flashed in Joel’s mind. It was all he could see as he went up behind Kent, letting his hands reach for fistfuls of his leather jacket. He lifted him off of you with ease, slamming him hard against the brick wall of the mess hall. Pulling him forward, Joel slammed his body into the wall once more, knocking all the wind out of his lungs. 

“Miller, what the fuck are you doing!” Kent gasped out, frantically pawing at the older man’s hands in an effort to break free. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Takin’ advantage of an innocent girl?” Joel hissed at him, tightening his grasp on the collar of Kent’s jacket. “Think that makes you a fuckin’ man?”

Though he was still intoxicated, the sheer terror of being caught in Joel Miller’s hands sobered him just enough that he started sputtering an explanation. “I wasn’t fucking taking advantage of her! Her and her whore sisters were making eyes at me and the guys all fucking night! She fucking wanted it! She asked me for it, couldn’t even wait long enough to get back to my place—”

The lie came straight through his chattering teeth. The same teeth he would be picking up off the ground in the next minute or two. 

Joel knew he didn’t need to ask. Still, he turned to you, his rage only intensifying when he took in the sight of you lying there on the ground, the hem of your light blue floral skirt hiked around your waist. 

“That true?” He questioned you. “You wanted it?”

You stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.

A single tear slipped down the side of your face.

“Answer me, darlin’,” he prompted. “You wanted this?”

“No. I didn’t.” Your voice was small, barely audible.

But he’d heard it loud and clear. 

“She’s lying!” Kent tried to tell him. “She’s—”

Joel delivered the first punch, a blow so hard he’d felt the younger man’s nose crack underneath his curled fist. He struck him again and again, the blows coming in harder and harder, turning Kent’s face into a bloodied pulp.

If Joel didn’t get a grip, he would kill him. Part of him wanted to fucking kill Kent for putting his hands you—and more so for accusing of you wanting it. Pathetic fucking bastard. 

Holding Kent up by the throat with one hand, Joel pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans with the other. Fingers curled tightly around the hilt, Joel held up the knife into Kent’s view. He had left his eyes purple and swollen, but judging by the pitiful little pleas for mercy, it was clear that he could still somehow see the sharp blade being held an inch or so away from his face. 

“If I ever catch you anywhere near her again, I ain’t gonna be so fuckin’ generous,” Joel growled warningly. “I ain’t gonna let you walk away next time, boy. That understood?”

He nodded. “Un—Understood.”

“Good.” Joel released him, stepping backwards as he fell to the ground. “Get the fuck outta my face. Now.”

Kent managed to scramble to his feet and staggered off, disappearing from the alley. 

Chest heaving, Joel inhaled a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled it through his mouth before turning to you once more. 

Petrified, you still hadn’t moved a single muscle.

You looked fucking terrified. Whether it was from Kent’s assault or the way Joel had nearly beaten him to death right in front of you, it was hard to tell.

Crouching down beside you, Joel caught your subtle flinch. He proceeded to move slowly as he reached for the hem of your skirt. Delicately, he gripped the soft, flowing fabric and pulled it down into place. Joel then held his hand out to you. 

You hesitated for a split second, but accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet. 

“You alright, little dove?” The nickname had fallen from his lips before he could even think to stop it. 

“I think so,” you replied, nodding your head. You’d started to tremble and even though it had nothing to do with being cold, Joel took notice of it and he shrugged out of his camel colored jacket. He gave it to you, draping it over your shoulders. The scent of him instantly enveloped you—a mouth watering masculine mixture of clean soap, woodiness, and musk. It was far more intoxicating than the scotch you had tried back inside the bar. He didn’t utter a word to you as he wrapped his jacket around your body, both of his hands pulling gently at the lapels to bring them together in front of your chest. That was when you glanced down and saw he’d injured his hand. You gasped lightly. “Are you okay?”

Maybe it was the adrenaline, but Joel hadn’t even noticed that he’d split his knuckles wide open. Giving it a light shake, he assured you gruffly, “M’fine.”

Without thinking it through, you gingerly grabbed Joel’s hand, holding it in both of yours. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” you countered. You inspected it as best as you could in such poor lighting. “You’re bleeding.”

“Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse,” he deadpanned.

Ignoring his remark, you asked, “Can you move all your fingers for me? Just to make sure that it isn’t broken?”

Joel felt a strange warmth radiate in his chest. 

Fucking hell, Tommy had been right about you. 

You really were too good.

“Darlin’ I already told you m’fine—”

“Please?”

That word, and the way you’d said it, sent a shiver up the length of his spine.

Joel started wiggling his fingers in your palms. He winced slightly at the soreness. More than that, he knew his cuts and bruises would be all the fucking proof Tommy and Maria would need to know that he had been the one who rearranged Kent’s face. 

“See?” He spoke after a minute as he continued to move his fingers up and down. “Ain’t broken.”

“Let me clean you up,” you offered. Looking up at him, you cradled his hand as if it were a fragile baby bird you wanted to take home and nurse back to health.

“That really ain’t necessary.”

“You just saved me from—it’s the least I can do for you,” you insisted. Seeing him open his mouth just to protest again, you cut him off. “Please?”

There it was again.

Christ. That word sounded too good coming from those plush, pretty lips of yours. 

Joel sighed out in defeat. “Alright then,” he relented. “I s’ppose there ain’t no harm in lettin’ you clean me up a bit, little dove.”

Pleased that he had finally accepted, you carefully let go of his hand and took a step back, beckoning for him to follow you. “Come with me,” you said to him. “I know somewhere private we can go.”

When you came to a stop at the old church house, Joel shook his head and took a step backwards. 

Puzzled, your brows knitted together. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

He backed away further. “I ain’t goin’ in there.” 

You tossed him an amused glance. “It’s a church.”

“Yeah, I know that. I ain’t exactly a man of God.” 

You couldn’t help but giggle. “So? What does that have to do with me taking you inside to clean your hand up for you?”

Shuffling his weight from boot to boot, Joel shrugged. “Just don’t think I belong in there, that’s all.”

“Do you think you’re going to melt if you step foot inside?” you teased him. After a minute, it became apparent that he was being serious about it. Joel’s discomfort about going inside the church wasn’t some kind of joke on his part, it was real. “Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a man of God. That doesn’t mean that you’re going to explode or burn into a pile of ashes for going inside, you know.”

“After all the terrible shit I’ve done?” He looked up at the building, shaking his head again. “I just might burn, little dove.”

You bit back a small smile. You’d already grown to be quite fond of his sweet nickname for you. 

“There’s a first aid kit inside I can use to patch you up,” you told him. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

His lower lip rolled in between teeth as he thought it over. “I ain’t too sure about this—”

“It’s only going to take me five minutes to get your hand cleaned up and then you can leave. Okay?”

You were as stubborn as you were sweet. How the fuck was he supposed to say no to you?

Reluctantly, Joel finally agreed to it. “Okay.” He followed you up the creaking, wooden porch steps towards the double doors. He’d just started to wonder how the two of you were even supposed to get into the building after hours when you leaned down, lifting the old mat on the floor to reveal a set of keys. Unable to help himself, he scoffed, “Serious?”

“Doesn’t everyone keep a key under their mat?” 

“Yeah at their fuckin’ house. Not their church.” 

“Well to be fair, this is kind of like a second home. I spend quite a bit of time here,” you confessed.

Joel raised an eyebrow at you. “So much time that you’ve decided to keep a set of keys under the mat?”

Sheepishly, you nodded. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I’ll come here alone and sit with my thoughts for a while.” You shrugged. “Maria let me have the spare set of keys. She knows I come here and so does the rest of the council. I trespass with their full permission,” you kidded with a small grin. 

Unlocking one of the two doors, you stepped over the threshold and waited expectantly for Joel. But he stood there, making no move to join you on the other side. 

“This place gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” he admitted. 

You laughed. “It’s only the outside that’s creepy, I promise.”

Grimacing, Joel finally walked inside, his back and shoulders stiff with tension as he stepped into the place of worship. 

You closed the door and flipped on the lights, then opened a second set of double doors with another key from the ring. 

“Whoa.” He was pleasantly surprised. For as old as this place was, the interior of the church was quite nice. He could tell that it had been well cared for in its lifetime—the former contractor in him had little choice but to appreciate the high ceiling, the large windows, and the satin finish of the white paint on the rustic, wooden panel walls. 

There were a total of twelve pews, six on each side of the church. There was an older, antique piano in pristine condition nestled over in one corner of the room and in another, there was a large chalkboard propped up on a wooden easel, biblical verses that had been the focus of the congregation’s previous gathering still scribbled across it in white chalk. 

“See?” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “This isn’t so awful, right?”

“S’ppose it ain’t all that bad,” he muttered. 

Your eyes twinkled with pure amusement, adding, “And you didn’t burn into a pile of ashes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joel grumbled out in response. “Can we just get this over with so I can get outta here?”

You tossed him a playful little eye roll then nodded towards the pews. “Go ahead and just have a seat anywhere,” you instructed him. “I’ll be right back.”

You disappeared down a short, dimly lit corridor.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel slowly made his way down the aisle holding his injured hand against his chest. Now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, it’d started throbbing with pain.

There was an altar at the front of the church—if he could even call it an altar. 

It was a plain oakwood table with a white fair linen cloth draped over it and nothing else. 

Above it, bolted onto the wall, was a wooden cross.

He averted his eyes, turning away from it. 

Of all the shit to be intimidated by in this world. 

A fucking slab of carved wood. 

Joel’s attention shifted over to the chalkboard. He squinted at it, silently reading the verse to himself.

God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability. 1 Corinthians 10:13

“But with the temptation, he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it,” you recited the rest of the verse from behind him.

“No offense darlin’, but it sounds like nothin’ but a whole lotta gibberish to me,” he remarked to you over his shoulder. 

“No offense taken, Joel.”

Whirling around on the heel of his worn boot, Joel blurted, “How did you know my name?”

“You’re Tommy Miller’s brother. Everybody in this town knows your name.” You held up the white tin box in your hands. A big, red cross had been spray painted onto the lid. You sat down in the first pew and patted the seat right beside you. “Come sit.”

He sauntered over and dropped down next to you, watching as you opened up the box and started digging through its contents. “You know my name,” he stated after a few seconds of silence. “Sure would be nice for me to know yours.”

Smiling politely, you told him your name.

Joel repeated it. It rolled almost too sweetly off his tongue.

“S’real pretty, little dove. Just like you.”

His compliment nearly knocked all of the air out of your lungs and for a split second, you have to remind yourself to breathe.

Cheeks burning, you murmured a small thank you and plucked a bottle of saline solution from the kit along with a piece of clean cotton. You tried not to think about the way his eyes were fixed intently on you as you unscrewed the cap and poured a bit of the liquid onto the cotton. “It shouldn’t sting,” you reassured him, reaching for Joel’s injured hand. It was rough and calloused, a stark contrast against your own soft and smooth. You set his hand down on your knee, a strange sensation fluttering in the depths of your lower belly when the warmth of his skin seeped right through the fabric of your skirt. 

Comfortable silence fell over the both of you like a curtain as you started cleaning the blood off of his knuckles and his long, thick fingers. 

“You really believe in all this stuff?” Joel spoke, his question echoing off the bare walls of the church. 

You continued dabbing at his cuts, thinking it over in your head for a moment.

“I honestly don’t know,” you admitted.

Your answer took him by complete surprise.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I have always been taught to believe in God, Joel. It’s all that I’ve ever known. I grew up in a religious community,” you explained to him, making sure to keep your eyes focused on his hand. Tossing aside the bloodied wad of cotton, you picked up another piece adding more saline to it. “After the outbreak, things changed, of course. I couldn’t imagine how He could let something like this happen. When we lost our mother to infection about five years ago, I stopped praying. I finally stopped holding onto the ounce of hope I had that He would make the world right again. I refused to believe in God. Sometimes I still do,” you confessed quietly.

“You said you spend a lot of time here. Why come to church if you’re not even sure you believe in any of this shit anymore?”

“I’m always here because there’s still a part of me that thinks there’s a chance for me to believe again. When I told you I come here when I can’t sleep at night, it’s true. It’s my time to be here completely alone, the time that I use to mend my broken relationship with God. Or at least, I’ve been trying to mend it.” Taking a little glass pot of homemade antibiotic ointment one of the women in the town made and traded, you took off the lid and scooped out some of the salve with the tip of your finger. You applied it carefully to his cuts and continued, “But lately, the more that I try to pray and talk to Him, the more foolish I feel. It’s just not working. It hasn’t been working for a long, long time.”

“Then why keep tryin’ if it ain’t workin’ anymore?”

“Because I don’t really have much of a choice.”

“Your old man?” Joel guessed, wincing slightly as you went over a particularly sore spot on his hand, right over the torn up knuckle of his index finger. 

“Mhm.” You nodded. “My father never lost faith in Him. He knows how I feel, but he refuses to let me give up on God. He won’t ever let me miss church or go to bed without reciting my nightly prayer. He won’t let me abandon our faith. Not until the day he is cold and buried in his grave.”

“So what I’m gettin’ is that he forces you?”

You finished applying the ointment and wiped the remnants lingering on your finger off on your skirt.

“Force is such a harsh word. I wouldn’t say that—”

“He’s forcin’ you,” Joel said, flatly. 

“Joel—”

“You can twist it however the hell you want, sweet girl,” he cut you off. “But if you’re tryin’ this fuckin’ hard to make yourself believe in somethin’ just for the sake of appeasin’ your dad because he can’t or won’t accept how you really feel ‘bout all this, well I hate to break it to you, but you’re bein’ forced.”

Your eyes widened ever so slightly at his words. 

You had never thought about it like that before.

Placing the lid back onto the pot of ointment, you put it back into the first aid kit and then set the tin box down onto the floor. You sat back and clasped your hands together in your lap, not knowing what else to say to him. 

He was right, after all. 

Joel’s fingers lightly squeezed your knee. “Hey.”

You brought your gaze over to meet his. “Hm?”

“Can I ask you somethin’ ‘bout your dad?”

“What is it?” 

Joel chose his words carefully. “Has he ever—he ain’t ever done anythin’ to hurt you, has he?” he asked you, earning himself a perplexed stare. He continued to elaborate. “What I mean is, he ever put his hands on you or anythin’ like that?”

Oh. That’s what he meant.

“Never,” you assured him quickly. “He would never lay a single finger on me or my two sisters.”

He gave your knee another squeeze. “Just needed to make sure of it, sweetheart. Back in the day, I used to hear and see awful things on the news ‘bout—”

You were quick to cut him off. “Look, my father isn’t perfect, but he’s not like that. He’s a good man who only wants what is best for us. He’s strict and he can be tough, but it’s only because he cares. He just doesn’t want us running down the wrong path.”

“The wrong path?”

You shrugged. “Life here in Jackson is decent, but there’s a lot of temptations he doesn’t want any of us falling into. He wants to protect us.”

“By controllin’ you.” 

It had been a statement, not a question. 

Giving him a wry smile, you assured him, “Joel, it’s really not as bad as you’re making it sound. I could be a whole lot worse off than this, you know.”

There was another short bout of silence.

Joel’s dark eyes fell to your blouse, noticing how a couple of the top buttons had come undone. 

He caught the slightest glimpse of the soft curves of your breasts—all it had taken was just a peek at them for his cock to twitch against the zipper of his jeans.

Don’t you get hard in a fuckin’ church, Miller.

His gaze wandered down a little further and that’s when he caught sight of the cross hanging from a delicate gold chain clasped around your neck.

Joel expected the sight of it to calm the straining in his jeans. Somehow, it only made it worse. 

“Earlier, when we were standing outside,” you had started to say, “You said you might burn if you came inside the church because of all the terrible shi—things that you’ve done.”

“S’right.”

You peered at him with curiosity. “So what exactly have you done, Joel?”

Joel leaned back into the pew, shaking his head at you as he finally pulled his hand from your knee. 

“You really don’t wanna know, little dove.”

“Why not?”

His answer was honest.  “Don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Angling your body towards him, you placed one of your hands on his thigh. Your fingers burned right through the dark blue denim of his jeans.

Joel’s lips parted slightly, taken aback by the bold move and the sudden shift in your demeanor.

Were you the same girl who’d nearly had a fucking heart attack a couple of weeks ago when Joel had nodded at you back at the stables? 

“I’m not scared of you,” you murmured, softly. You gave his leg a squeeze, pulling your plump bottom lip between your teeth. Between that and the wide innocent doe eyes that you were giving him, it was taking every last ounce of strength Joel had inside him to keep a straight face, to pretend you weren’t driving him absolutely wild with desire.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt such an incredible need to have someone. 

Want, sure. 

He had wanted Tess. He had wanted Esther. 

But Joel didn’t just want you. 

He fucking needed you. 

And he didn’t know why.

“I’m not scared of you,” you repeated, trailing your hand further up his thigh, setting a fire neither one of you would soon be able to contain. 

Joel leaned forward, bringing his face dangerously close towards yours. His warm breath fanned over your lips. It was still laced with bourbon. “You sure ‘bout that, darlin’ girl?” 

You tried to answer him in the steadiest voice that you could muster, but it was impossible for you to hide the effect this man had on you. 

You breathed out a shaky, “I’m sure.”

Lifting his uninjured hand, he reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of your braids behind your ear. As his hand fell away, the palm of it grazed against the silkiness of your cheek. 

Though brief, the contact sent an electric current through each and every last single nerve ending in your entire body. 

Exhaling sharply, your eyelids fluttered closed. You nearly whimpered out his name. “Joel?”

“What is it, babygirl? What do you want?”

“I—I want you to kiss me.” 

Joel leaned in even closer, stopping only when his mouth was less than an inch away from yours. 

You heard him chuckle softly. 

“Y’know, I’d expect better manners from a good girl like you,” he tsked lightly, his nose skimming near the corner of your mouth. Closer. “What’s the magic word, little dove?”

“Please.”

“S’much better.”

Your heart pounded with anticipation.

It was almost too much for you to handle. 

Joel closed the remaining gap of space, capturing your lips with his own. He remembered his brother talking about you at the bar—how he had told Joel that you had never even held a man’s hand before.

It occurred to him that he was giving you your first kiss. Him. Joel Miller. The town’s resident asshole and a man who was well over twice your own age. He was the one giving you your very first kiss. 

The guilt suddenly started to creep in, sinking into his bones.

What the fuck had he been thinking? 

And what about you? 

Where the fuck had your common sense gone?

Probably ran off together with Joel’s.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling away slightly in an attempt to stop it from going any further. He tried again, mumbling against your lips, “We gotta stop. This ain’t right—”

You were having none of it. 

None. 

Clutching fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt, you swung your leg over his thighs and straddled his lap. Your knees rested on either side of him on the bench. 

“Please,” you nearly pleaded. “Just kiss me. I want it—I want this. I promise you that I do.” You placed both of your hands on his broad shoulders, sliding them around him as you slowly sank down further onto his lap. “I want this, Joel.”

Suddenly, he realized that you were asking him for more than just his kiss. 

Now he knew for sure that all common sense had left that pretty little head of yours. 

“Baby, y’need to think real hard ‘bout this—”

Desperate, you uttered one final, “Please.”

Joel bit back a groan. How could he deny you? 

He couldn’t. Simple as that. 

“You sure ‘bout this?”

Your fingers toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“C’mere then, darlin’ girl.”

Joel cupped the side of your face in his large palm and tilted his head up towards yours. Your mouths fused together and although he tried to be gentle, it was proving to be much too difficult—how could he be gentle when you were practically clinging to him? Holding onto him with fervor as if you’d been holding onto dear fucking life itself? 

Temperatures rising, you quickly shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with a soft thud before wrapping your arms around him once again. You melted against him as your mouth molded to his in a perfect fit. 

His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to explore the cavern even further. 

Eagerly, your lips parted, granting him access. His tongue slipped past them, meeting yours in a slow and sensual heated dance. 

You breathed him deeply into your lungs, a little moan vibrating at the back of your throat. 

Joel’s hands went to your waist and he yanked the hem of your blouse free from your skirt. 

“Can I feel you, baby?” he asked, breathlessly. His mouth abandoned yours and he began to trail hot, open mouthed kisses underneath your jawline. 

Dazed, all you could do was nod in reply and utter, “Mhm.”

Joel’s hands slipped under your blouse and he slid them up the length of your sides. “Fuck, you gotta be the softest fuckin’ thing,” he cursed against the delicate, tender flesh of your neck. His lips latched onto your pulse point, suckling at the skin there as his fingertips dug into your hips. He needed to feel more, but he forced himself to wait. The last thing he wanted to do was make a wrong move or move too fast and scare you off.

“Joel,” you mewled his name. “Joel, I need—”

You trailed off, moaning when his mouth released your skin with a loud, wet popping noise. 

“Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you,” he promised. “Anythin’ you need or want, I’ll give it to you. Just say the fuckin’ word.”

“You, Joel. I need you.”

His hips involuntarily bucked upwards and you let out a startled gasp the moment you felt his bulge, hard as a rock, brush against your clothed cunt. 

Tearing away from him, it suddenly hit you. You’re in a church, straddling a much, much older man in a pew—and if that wasn’t sinful enough, the warm and slick arousal pooling between your thighs only proved that you were ready to fall into temptation, give into the lust and give your body to Joel. But it was none of those things that worried you. It was something else. 

You pulled yourself out of his arms and jumped up off his lap, nearly tripping over your own two feet.

“Darlin’ are you—?”

You didn’t even hear the rest of his question.

Knees trembling, you somehow managed to make your way up to the altar. Heart pounding and head spinning, you planted both of your hands firmly on the table and steadied yourself. Part of you hoped that Joel would just get up and leave. But a bigger part of you hoped he wouldn’t. 

Joel rose to his feet. “Listen, ain’t nothin’ wrong if you changed your mind, alright?”

“I didn’t,” you choked out. “That’s—that’s not it at all.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Embarrassed, you tried to explain yourself. “I have never done anything like this before. I’m a—”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word out loud. 

“You’re a what?”

Blazing heat flooded your face. “Joel, please don’t make me say it,” you groaned. “For the sake of my sanity, don’t make me say it.” You heard the sound of his brown leather boots as he walked up behind you, one heavy footstep after the other.

“Turn around, sweet girl.” 

Joel’s command was firm but still gentle. 

Swallowing dryly, you obeyed and did as you were told. He stood close and you found yourself at eye level with his chest. 

“Look at me.”

You tried, but couldn’t. 

“I said, look at me.” Joel gingerly took your chin in between his thumb and index finger. He lifted your face, forcing your gaze to meet his own, timid and submissive meeting bold and dominant in a sweet and tender exchange. “Never known the lovin’ of a man, have you little dove?”

He backed you up against the table, pinning you in between it and himself. Planting both of his hands on either side of you, he caged you in and brought his chest flush against yours, pressing your bodies together.

Close, but somehow not close enough.

Joel lifted his hand to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His thumb swept over your quivering bottom lip.

You reached behind you, clutching at the fair linen as you tried with every fiber of your entire being to remind yourself that you were standing at the altar where your father preached and delivered all of his sermons to the faithful people of Jackson. 

The very same altar where your father encouraged you to kneel and pray in effort to mend the broken relationship you had with God. 

You couldn’t help but to think if you were to get on your knees tonight, it wouldn’t be for prayer.

“I asked you a question, darlin’.” Joel’s voice broke into your train of thought. “Need you to be a good girl and give me an answer, alright?”

“My father loves me,” you stammered out in reply. “He loves me and my sisters—”

“C’mon, babygirl.” He chuckled and shook his head at you, lightly pinching your cheek. “That ain’t what I mean and you damn well know it.”

Sighing softly, you finally answered, “No, Joel.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’ve never known the loving of a man.”

Joel slipped the tip of his thumb between your lips and leaned into you, his hardness pressing against your upper thigh. Even through all the clothes, you could feel every inch of him. “Do you wanna know how it feels, baby? What it feels like when a man makes you his own?” 

You nearly moaned around his finger. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he prompted, pulling his hand away.

“Yes, please.”

“I can show you.” Joel paused. “But not tonight.”

You stared at him in disbelief. Both of you were so clearly riled up and he was going to take a pass?

He almost laughed at your expression. 

“C’mon, don’t give me that face.”

“But Joel—”

“Just don’t wanna rush it, not with you,” Joel said in a tone so soft it nearly threw you for a loop. “M’gonna need you to be real patient for me, just for a little while, alright? You think you can do that, little dove? Think you can be patient for me?”

Your answer came without an ounce of hesitation.

“Of course,” you breathed.

You would wait an eternity for Joel Miller.

[phoward89]

Based on this ask

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is a warning in and of itself. Coryo x Big Booty!Reader, Smut, p in v, creampie, cussing, breeding kink, Dom!Coriolanus

Coriolanus Snow has classic tastes when it comes to his life. He has a sophisticated image, so of course he wears gold rings on his hands; never silver. Full Windsor knots in his satin ties, custom 3-piece suits made with only the finest material, and fine dress shirts that have to be starched. He wears cufflinks and all of his shoes are floor shines with 3 or 4 inch heels (because Coriolanus' 6ft frame needs to be even more intimidating so he can tower over everyone that's beneath him). His taste in food is classic, but upscale as well.

And when it comes to women, well, his taste is classic when it comes to that as well. T&A does it for him.

Coriolanus Snow’s a tits and ass man. The bigger the better too. And when he started dating you, well his classic tastes were definitely filled.

You're, in his opinion, the whole package. To Coriolanus, you're so beautiful both inside and out. You have a personality that just pulls him in. You keep him engaged and on his toes with conversations. But your physical appearance is what attracted him to you in the first place. Your curves make his mouth water. Nice tits and a nice big ass, just what he likes.

And your big booty is something that he loves. Seriously, Coriolanus can't get enough of it. And watching you sitting at your vanity in nothing but a white bra and panty set, hair up in rollers while doing your makeup for the dinner he's taking you tonight as his plus one makes him grin. Your white lace edged panties cling to your big booty just right and the way your plump ass sits on your vanity bench has Coriolanus mentally swearing to have you fuck him in his favorite position tonight when you get home from the dinner the University’s hosting for the Political Science majors of the Senior Class of 14 ADD (After Dark Days).

“Are you wearing the pearl jewelry set I got you for your birthday, Peaches?” Coriolanus asks you, buttoning up his crisp white dress shirt as he stands by his dresser- which has jewelry box open with his various cuff links (including pearl ones) and his chunky gold rings in it.

“Yes, Coryo.” You nod. Lightly dabbing your blending sponge on your face, you tell your boyfriend, “I’m wearing them; thought they'd look nice with my dress.”

Your dress is a strappy white gown that's form fitting. A dress that's hanging up on the door of your side of the walkin closet.

“I thought they'd pair nicely with your dress as well, my darling.” Coriolanus remarks while grabbing his pearl cuff links from his jewelry box and putting them on. “How much longer til you're ready, Y/N?” Your boyfriend asks, walking into thw walkin closet to grab and put on his dark maroon and white stripe vest and its matching dark maroon dinner jacket.

“Not long; maybe 15-20 minutes.” You assure him as he finishes getting dressed.

Coriolanus loves how sweet your booty looks with your clothes hugging it just right. He's always smacking it or grabbing it- a result of loving that big booty of yours. Whether it's in the privacy of his penthouse, that he moved you into, or out in public. He doesn't care, he just wants to feel your perfectly peachy ass in his hands.

But when he grabs your ass in public it's sometimes embarrassing.

Like tonight, his large hand keeps sliding south off of the small of your back to rest right on your plump ass. An ass that he loves, that he thinks looks perfect in the white dress you're wearing tonight for the formal dinner he's attending with you as his plus one. But it's not appropriate in the pre-dinner party cocktail setting, so you have to keep dragging his hand up and off your ass.

Despite standing around and talking to various people (high ranking people might you add since everyone at this dinner whether they're a professor, student, or plus one is a somebody in Capitolite high society- your own boyfriend included) Coriolanus has no shame and keeps grabbing your ass. It's very annoying. You even give him a slight side-eyed look, silently telling him to stop it. But your boyfriend has not shame; Coriolanus just gives you a loving smirk only to slide his hand back down to grab your ass again.

“You're gonna be my good lil cowgirl tonight, Peaches.” Coriolanus whispers into your ear, his baritone dark and lustful, while giving your butt a light squeeze as his friend Festus Creed along with his longtime girlfriend Persephone Price head their way over to you and your future political star boyfriend.

And you knew what he meant by his remark. He wanted you to fuck him in reverse cowgirl tonight so he can oogle and smack your ass. Oh, how his whispered promise of the night’s future events had your panties dampening.

Damn him.

Now you're stuck with wet panties all throughout tonight's long drawn out dinner. That bastard. Coryo always knows how to get to you.

And he knows the longer you're stuck in wet panties for the more desperate you'll be to fuck yourself on his cock once you get out of those panties.

What Coriolanus loves more then anything in the world is to stare at your plump, perfect ass while you ride him reverse cowgirl when you're fucking. Yep, he loves to watch your ass jiggle as you take him deep while bouncing quickly on his cock. It's one of his favorite positions for you to fuck in.

“Fuck. Your ass is so fine, Peaches.” Coryo groans as you quickly ride him, pushing your body quickly up and down while facing the foot of the bed. You're gripping his thighs in your hands, your nails digging into the skin of his sinewy muscles, as your knees frame his hip bones. “Yea, that's it baby girl, make that big ass jiggle for your man.” The platinum blonde orders, his deep baritone thick and husky, as his icy eyes are glued to your large, sweet ass cheeks as they bounce up and down as your tight cunt quickly takes his large cock in and out, in and out at a pleasurable pace.

Looking over your shoulder at your disheveled boyfriend, you give him a sultry smile. “You never get tired of watching my big booty as I ride you, huh?”

“Oh, Peaches, I told you when we first got together that I'm a tits and ass man; that the bigger the better.” Your boyfriend smirks. Reaching a hand forward, he grabs your ass and groans, “Your ass is perfect and it's all mine.” Giving your ass a hard smack, that echoed throughout the room and mingled with the led wet sound of your pussy fucking Coryo's cock, the platinum blonde orders, “Tell me your ass belongs to me, Y/N. Say it, Peaches, or you're not cumming tonight.”

And you know he means it. If you don't tell your possessive and obsessive boyfriend what he wants to hear that he'll take over, fuck you til he cums, and will leave you high and dry. He's done it before early on on your relationship when you played stubborn and didn't summit to him. But you learned your lesson; now you summit even if you don't want to.

It's all just dirty bedroom talk, right?

Coryo doesn't actually think that your ass belongs to him, does he?

No.

No, he can't.

He can't be that possessive and obsessive towards you, can he?

No, it's just bedroom talk. Dirty talk that gets him off.

“My ass belongs to you and only you, Coryo.” You tell your boyfriend in a high pitch mewl as the tip of his cock bruises your cervix; sending shockwaves of pleasure up and down your spine.

“Goddamnit, I love your ass.” Coriolanus confesses, his tone tight and husky. Smacking your ass again, he orders, “Go on, fuck yourself fast and hard on my cock til we cum.”

Coryo didn't have to tell you twice.

You use the grip on his thighs as leverage, helping your upper body control your faster than lighting movements. Quickly, you impale yourself on your boyfriend's large cock- letting out whines and whimpers every time your special spongy spot deep inside of you gets hit just right by the large cock that's stretching your cunt open wide. Sweat rolls down your brow as mewls of pleasure escape your lips. With every move you make your pussy clenches; pushing you closer to your orgasm.

Coriolanus is loudly groaning out, “Fuck, baby.”, while watching your ass bounce up and down just right. His baby blues are blown black by lust and they're transfixed on your ass jiggling quickly. “Fuck, Peaches, I'm gonna cum soon.” Your boyfriend forewarns you of his upcoming orgasm. Grabbing your ass cheeks in each of his large hands, he uses his strength to slam you up and down his twitching cock at a punishing force.

“Coryo…I'm gonna cum.” You moan, nearly toppling over from the brute force of your boyfriend moving you to fuck his cock as if you're nothing more then his personal fuckdoll. The only reason you're not face first between your boyfriends spread eagle legs is because of the tight hold you have around his thighs- nails digging in so deeply that crimson’s trickling down the pale skin.

“Go on and cum, Peaches.” Coryo orders before groaning, “Cum so I can fill ya up with my seed; knock ya up.”

His husky words sends a jolt right to your aching cunt and suddenly you're cumming with a loud moan that's only one word: Coryo.

Coriolanus doesn't let you ride out your high gracefully. No. I stead, he slams you down even harder on his cock. His cum heavy balls begin to tighten up as he tells you, “You're gonna look so beautiful knocked up with my heir. Can't wait to see your tits and ass grow along with your belly swelling with our child.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your boyfriend curses before shooting a thick rope of his hot seed into your womb. Your name falls from his lips as he cums.

He pushes you forward, causes your butt to jiggle in his hands. Coryo smiles, his eyes shining with lazy lust, as he watches his cum slowly leak from your clenching, tight, abused hole like perfect pearls. Pulling you up to lay next to him, Coriolanus adjusts the two of you to cuddle so that his head rests on your tits while his hand holds your ass.

The two things on you that he absolutely loves; that attracted him to ask you out- causing him to fall obsessively, possessively, and madly in love with you.

Your tits and ass.

But if you ask him what he prefers on you, Coryo will honestly answer that he loves your large ass. Without a doubt, it's your big booty that really does it for him.

After all, he did give you the nickname Peaches because of his undying love for that big booty of yours. An ass that he thinks is the sweetest peach in all of Panem.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @lady-harvey @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @zombicupcake3 @jacesvelaryons @tempt-ress

[sanemisstalker]

NSFW sanemi post. obsessed with this stupid gif of him. This turned out way longer than i thought it would. Humiliating.

TW / fem genitals reader / he like, huffs your crotch. I know that turns some people off but he's not right in the head don't worry about it/you beg to get pregnant but like, you're not right in the head either-

Thinking about having a normal day with Sanemi, but something is off. Like- off, off. He's more silent than usual, and somewhat adverse to your touch.

He's not being cruel, he just seems almost confused? He's blinking more than usual, and looks to be almost dissociating during normal investigative tasks.

So okay. Whatever. You figure he needs a cool off day, you stop bothering him. The day winds down, and you and Sanemi are left cleaning up- normal.

Sanemi steps away from the scene, from you and the Kakashi for just a moment. Says he needs to piss. Normally you'd insist he'd get medical help, but the demon was miniscule, really. Maybe he got a new little knick. Nothing insane.

After your checkup, it's been maybe 30 minutes. Nobodies bladder is that big. You start to get a little worried. Not that he wasn't a pillar or whatever the hell, but still. He was your lover, and you liked for him to be in one piece and not wandering the woods at night.

So you venture off in the direction you saw him go- and it doesn't take you very long to find him. And when you do you're floored.

Sanemi has hunkered down at the base of a rather large tree. The first thing you see to indicate it's him is that snow white hair- standing out starch against all the deep green and brown-

And the second thing you note is the quiver of his body, and the almost animalistic speed of his arm, pumping furiously at his cock. Sanemi isn't a moaner by any means, but he is uninhibited now, thinking his voice is lost to the forest. He's all but crying.

One knee is bent up, pushing him against the tree, the other digging into the ground- his legs are open enough for his dick to be on full display. His pants are pulled down just enough to offer his cock freedom.

After a couple of hard jerks, he yanks his hand away to throw his head back. His feet press hard into the ground-

This state isn't enough to stop him from realizing you're there, though. It's seconds after you get within sight of him that Sanemi is scrambling to cover himself. He almost folds up like a lawn chair, but even the graze of his clothed thigh against his tip has him reeling.

'You need to leave.' He huffs,, voice shredded and throat dry.

'You look like you're in pain- are you o-okay?' You whispered.

'No!' He choked out. 'It's been like this all day it hurts so fucking bad.' His eyes looked like saucers. His face was blistering. He didn't add that it got worse everytime you opened your mouth or moved or hell- blinked. He felt vile, really. There wasn't anything particularly special about you today. He was just- terribly down for you.

You carefully made your way over to him.

'Don't look!' He spat. A hand flew up to your eyes instinctively. You immediately began to miss his miserable state, but you continued toward him. 'Y/N I swear to- fuck me- shi-hitt.' He slurred as your hand found the top of his head. His hair was soft, though his head was warm. You could feel a miniscule amount of sweat gathering at the base.

He'd immediately melt into your hand, all pleas of embrassment dissapearing, though the feeling wouldn't just leave. You hear him shuffle.

'You shouldn't have to see me like this-' He'd choke out, not knowing how pretty he looked. His head would crane up to your crotch, burying his face against the fabric. The scent was insanity inducing, driving his nose further up against your clit.

'Fuck' He'd slur 'I'm disgusting- I'm sorry-'

'I'm sorry you're so worked up.' You laughed a bit. 'Is there anything I can do to help?'

'You- fuck- come down here.' He mumbled, tugging at your pants. You knelt down next to him. He'd reach into your pants, not bothering to tug them down. You stayed silent, despite the sudden fingers spreading your slit open.

You could feel him begin to shake again, beating his dick with another low whine.

You'd take it upon yourself to pull your pants down. You'd laugh as his breathe would catch in his throat at the sight.

'Spread your legs.' He'd demand. You'd do as told and the noise he'd let out at the sight of your now sticky thighs and dripping cunt would be carnal. His hand would struggle to stabilize against your hip, fluttering on and off, gripping and grazing. He'd seem afraid to touch you. 'Ah, for me?' He'd croak out, trying to be suave and safe face, but even he released he couldn't manage it.

'Sanemi I want to- I want to open my eyes really bad.'

'You cant- see me like this. I'm a mess, you're not- ngh- ah-- god- missing anything.' He'd slip a finger in you with ease. Adding another a moment later. Despite the painful speed at which he was going with his own cock, Sanemi's hand with you was a much slower speed. Still a little rough and jagged, but more interested in staying inside of you, palm flat against your clit.

You'd bite your lip.

He didn't want you to look because he was sure he must look insane right now. Moreso than usual. He didn't want to blink and miss even a moment of seeing your pussy sucking on his fingers, so he wasn't. A blank, slack jaw stare at your pussy.

He didn't want you to look because he wanted to be rough with his dick. He wanted to edge. To be unsightly when he was done, face and chest red and blotchy- sweat pouring down him. He needed to just fucking let go. The ache had been weighing his limbs down the entire day, begging him to fuck you against anything, and infront of everyone. After killing that demon, it took an incredible show of strength to not bend you down next to the thing and give it something to take to the grave-

Sanemi would never do that- which is why he looked the way he looked right now, because he was really hating how close he got.

He'd finally pull out, taking his hand away from his twitching cock and over to your waist. He lifted you carefully up and over his lap until you were knelt above him.

'Can I see your chest?' He'd ask.

'Can I open my eyes?' You'd return, finally getting huffy. Sanemi practically barked. You could hear his teeth grinding together.

'No!' Sanemi shook his head. 'I'm pathetic right now, Y/N! Why would you possibly want to look at mw while I'm like this?'

'Because it was really hot.' You responded with little hesitation and full desperation, unable to rub your legs together like you really wanted. 'I really want to see you when you come- want to see your pretty face.'

'I'm not pretty.'

'You are!' You'd choke.

'You're pretty, I'm not pretty.' Sanemi mumbled.

'We can both be pretty.' You'd reason. Sanemi would huff. It took a moment of silence, the forest chirping and breathing beneath you all-

'If- if you open your eyes, you can't laugh at me.'

'I won't, I swear.' Sanemi's hand found your collar, and began to slowly unbutton it. Your eyes would flutter open, and you'd just swoon.

His eyes were so lax, so focused on your face and so- drunk. He looked like his breathe was going to stop any second. His chest was as flushed as his face. The fingers that had been inside of you had found their way to his lips.

He looked so fucked.

Your breath would shutter at the sight, your knees would almost give way- begging for his cock inside of you on a purely physical level-

You reached down, pulling his erection up to align with your hole- but Sanemi's hand reached out to grab you by the wrist.

'If I fuck you right now, I'm going to cum in seconds. No.' He choked. 'I'm not going to do that. I can't cum in you, I won't.' He'd fret.

'I want it.' You'd plead. His whole body would faulter. 'I won't get pregnant, I promise. I just- I want your cum in me-' your hand tightened around his cock, and your words rang in his ears.

'No we can't- Oh fuck- oh god-' With your hand still latched around his dick, Sanemi's back shot up and off the tree. His hands would reach up to latch over his lips and prevent the ovary shattering scream he wanted to loose. His eyes would roll back, feet digging into the ground-

His cum would absolutely paint your pussy. It'd splatter against your slit, and then drip back down onto his cock, spiraling down to his balls-

You'd never seen so much cum. It pooled against the waistband of his pants- spilling down his hips.

Sanemi would be left nonverbal after this, hands dropping to his chest to tighten around his haori- He'd look shocked, wide eyed and alert.

And very, very humiliated.

[euphemiaamillais]

blurb - mentor!coriolanus snow corrupts his tribute

cw: 18+//corruption kink//dub-con//blowjobs//fingering//piv sex//mentions of death (you are a tribute after all)

you’re his favourite tribute, he reminds you each time he makes a visit to your apartments. he’s been granted the illusive role once again, after dr. gaul had noticed his success—and to thank him for his immense contribution to changing the way the capitol viewed the games. so, in thanks, he was allowed to pick any tribute he wanted—of course he selected you. pretty, but oh-so-innocent. he mostly wanted you so he could force you onto your knees and have you lap every last drop of cum from his cock.

that’s why he was here this evening, a bouquet of roses in his arms, matching the one on his lapel, coming on the guise that he wanted to have a special dinner to commemorate your going into the games in two days’ time. you’d ensured your stylist had dressed you in the prettiest gown—a soft green dress that flowed over your figure in such a way that you had gasped when you saw yourself in the mirror. you wanted to look good for coriolanus after all—he had been so kind to you, and it was the least you could do to look pretty for him.

when he arrives at the door, he’s dressed handsomely in a starched white button up shirt and black dress pants, and he hands you the array of flowers. you gasp, bowing your head in thanks and rushing to put them in a vase. however, an avox sweeps past and takes them from your hand to rearrange them for you. a feeling of dread washes over you as you realise it’s unlikely that you’ll be alive to see the flowers wilt. however, you force a smile back on your face, giddy with excitement that your mentor has come to pay you a visit.

‘how’s my favourite tribute?’ coriolanus inquires, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to it, his eyes glistening with a certain intention. you blush, the imprint of his lips burning into your hand. you still felt it after he’d pulled away from you.

‘oh, well, i’m certainly doing well now that you’re here, mr snow,’ you smile, making your way to the settee to rest your legs. you’d been pacing for hours in anticipation of his arrival.

‘what did i tell you about calling me that—really, it’s not like i’m president or something.’ he reprimands gently, and you nod in apology.

he can’t keep his eyes off of you; the way that dress hugs every curve on your body, how its neckline plunges to reveal your pert breasts. he fantasises about unzipping you, hands caressing your breasts, fingers bringing your nipples to harden, and then sliding his tongue over them as you squirm beneath him. of course, he’s getting ahead of himself—you notice his face is hot, which only makes you blush in return. whatever could he be thinking of?

‘i do have another present for you,’ he says, and your eyes light up with delight. presents are such a rarity back in the districts that the mere mention of a gift sends your heart pounding with excitement.

‘oh really!’ you gasp gleefully, and he nods, his icy blue eyes glistening at the thought of what he’s about to do. his poor, innocent little tribute. you’d never expect this, but he knows you’re so desperate to please him—you’ll do anything just to make your mentor happy.

‘but you have to close your eyes. can you do that for me?’ he says in his charming tone, the one he uses when he really wants something. you comply, squeezing your eyes shut with a giggle of excitement, body thrumming with anticipation.

coriolanus unbuckles his belt, and pulls down his pants which are already straining with the hard bulge of his cock. he’s aching for you; aching for relief.

‘what is it, coryo?’ he sighs as you use his pet name; one hand firmly gripping his cock.

‘hush, it’s a surprise. but i promise you’ll really like it…’ he uses his free hand to caress your cheek, and you blush at the touch. his large hands are a little cold, but you welcome his ministrations.

‘okay…’ you giggle again, and he feels his cock begin to leak with precum—your innocence eggs him on, he wants nothing more than to tarnish you completely, make you his.

‘open your mouth,’ he commands, and willingly, you oblige. perhaps he’s given you something sweet. your belly grumbles with hunger, the thought of a bonbon or perhaps a chocolate truffle making you salivate.

you feel him ease something in; it’s firm, but it feels familiar in a way. it tastes… salty almost. you hear him let out a breathy sigh. coriolanus feels the sweet relief of your mouth around him, tongue thick with saliva, coating him so well.

‘don’t bite, sweetheart,’ he winces at the slight feeling of your teeth—you can’t help it, you’re just so hungry. ‘you suck it.’

you take his advice, and use your tongue to lick at the thing he’s put into your mouth. your eyes are still firmly shut, and he hasn’t told you to open them yet, so you assume it’s part of your present. perhaps it’s to enrich the experience—something you’ve heard the garishly festooned capitol citizens say.

‘good girl,’ he groans, feeling your tongue swirl around the tip of his cock, and he begins to slide himself in and out at a gentle pace. you’re not ready for a full face-fucking, no. he can’t spoil you that bad.

you blush at his praise, feeling him move your gift further inside your mouth. you feel something hit the back of your throat, and you gag a little, eyes brimming with tears. you try to squeeze them away with your shut eyes, but your attempts are in vain.

your eyes sting, and you are forced to open them, much to his dismay. coriolanus shakes his head in disapproval as you open your eyes to see him standing above you, cock fucking your pretty little throat. you furrow your brow, a little shocked at his corruption of you; but nonetheless you continue to suck.

‘what did i say about opening your eyes, sweetheart?’ he inquires, one hand stroking the back of your head, twisting his fingers in your shiny tresses.

‘i’m sorry,’ you say, voice muffled as your lips stretch around his tip. you’ve never done this before, but figure it’s quite simple. after all, you’d been doing it with your eyes closed.

‘you’ve been such a good girl; i wanted to give you something special, in thanks.’ he pushed your head back down onto his cock, groaning with delight as you sucked him.

you look up at him with your teary eyes, laving your tongue around his throbbing cock, feeling the rigid veins as he ruts into you. coriolanus tossed his head back, lips drawn into a satisfied grin. you looked so perfect taking him all in. god, just imagine how your cunt would feel around him—stretching out your pretty little pussy with his big, hard cock.

he thinks about how you’ll probably be dead in a few days time—he supposes he ought to relish you while he can, as morbid as it seems.

his thrusts slow, and you feel something warm release at the back of your throat. he pulls out, hot cum dripping from the tip of his cock, and starving, not having eaten in hours, you lap up all the leaking spend.

‘oh fuck,’ he sighs, patting your head as you slide your tongue up and down over the tip. he tingles with overstimulation.

you swallow obediently; he tastes a little salty, but not unpleasant, and feel it slide down into your belly. coriolanus leans down to press a kiss to your plump, wet lips; a little bruised from the sucking. he hoped the gamemakers wouldn’t notice you’d been a little maimed before the games.

‘i’m full now,’ you muse, eyes glistening a little with delight. he laughs at your sudden cheek, and you smile, glad to have just pleased him. that’s all you wanted—his approval; him telling you how good you were as you sucked him off.

‘mhm, i don’t know about that sweetheart,’ his lips curl up into an impish grin. you cock a brow; confused.

‘are you going to do that again?’ you inquire, gnawing at your bottom lip. while you enjoyed it, you felt the nagging feeling between your thighs; want, want for something more. a different kind of hunger.

‘no,’ his voice trailed off, and he knelt down, placing his hands on your thighs. ‘but i’m going to fill you another way.’

his hands creep up your dress, pushing the flimsy fabric aside, revealing your lack of panties—after all, it was impossible with the dress. he groans, seeing your cunt on display, his hands parting your legs which are sticky with want.

‘what are you doing?’ your voice trembles a little, not out of fear, but out of curiosity. back home, you’d known very little about the ways of the world. sure, you’d kissed boys, but nothing ever went further than a bit of tongue. you only knew that your body was desperate for him, and that you assumed, he’d use some part of himself to relieve that aching pressure building up.

‘shhh, relax, sweetheart,’ he put a finger to your lips, and thus you obliged, watching as he dips fingers in the slickness of your cunt.

you cry out, his fingers stretching out your tight little hole. he purses his lips together smugly, feeling you tense around him again—you’re a virgin. he feels his own belly burn with desire at the knowledge that he will be the first to tarnish you, to fuck you full of cum and claim you as his. in fact, you really do belong to him. your life depends on how many sponsors he can rack up for you, and how well he prepares you for the arena. he has to admit, he loves the power surge he gets from this.

he pumps his fingers in and out, adding another when he feels you loosening around them; wanting to stretch you out enough for you to be able to take him.

‘oh!’ you mewl as he fucks you with his fingers; your own making a fist in the rich upholstered fabric of the settee.

‘good girl,’ he praises, and you smile, proud to be pleasing him so well. you see his cock harden again. it is pressing against his stomach, the tip red with need; he’s so desperate to fuck your tight little hole and pump you full of his cum.

‘lay back,’ he demands, and you oblige, wiggling back on the settee and propping yourself up with your shoulders.

he guides his cock with his hands, and slides it slowly inside of you. you feel your walls loosen around him; stretching with a little pain at first, but you’re so wet that soon all you can feel is a delicious fullness, and the tingling growing more.

‘fuck you’re tight,’ he grunts, beginning to thrust into you. he can’t help but be a little greedy, bucking into you with vigour and force—he doesn’t really care if it hurts you, you’re just so tight that he is filled with the desperate need to spoil you.

he is poised over you now, muscular arms propping himself up, and you reach your hands around to caress his back; wanting to feel some sense of closeness. you’ve hardly known him a week, and yet he’s shown your more kindness than anybody else in the capitol.

he begins to pound into you, overcome by his intense desire, and the feeling of you clenching around his big cock is enough to send him yearning for satisfaction. you moaned, eyes rolling back in pleasure as he filled you full; cock buried so deep you could feel his balls slapping against the bare skin between your cunt and bottom.

‘mhm, coryo,’ you mutter into his shoulder, fingers clawing at his back.

‘such a pretty baby, taking my cock like this,’ he grins, rutting you like you’re nothing better than a common white. ‘can’t believe you’re letting me make you mine, huh? what other tribute would do that? are you a little slut, hm?’

‘uh huh,’ you nod, too fucked out on his cock to muster up anything but a few moans. you’d never imagined he’d be taking you, spoiling you with his big cock. and yet, you’d let him. he’d known how much of a desperate little whore you were; blushing too much whenever he praised you as you showed him your stamina in training.

coriolanus grips your hips as he fastened his pace, driving himself in and out; your wet pussy making a delightful sound as he rutted you. he watches as your tits bounce in that flouncy green dress, threatening to spill out with every thrust. if he wouldn’t get in trouble for ruining your dress, he’d have cum all over your tits, painting you with his spend. but he delighted more in pumping you full instead; watching it drip out as you tried to clean yourself up and put on a show of decorum.

‘fuck,’ he moans as your walls tense around him, your heat burning as his thrusts turn slow. ‘i’m gonna fill you up, hm? would you like that?’

you nod drunkenly—absolutely blissful from his cock. you shudder a little, feeling a sudden tightness in your belly—your cunt contracts slightly, and you gush around him, your first and albeit weak orgasm.

he bucks his hips, grunting and groaning as he finishes inside of you, filling you up with his second load; sticky and hot with desire.

‘god, you’re such a little slut, taking all of my cum, letting me ruin you like that,’ he says exasperatedly, not sliding out yet so he can ensure his cum stays in you—after all, you need to be reminded that you’re his. ‘i wonder what the gamemakers would say if they knew you were letting your mentor pump you full of his cum? letting a fucking slut into the arena…’

your cheeks burn with embarrassment, feeling his cum inside of you; a deliciously full sensation. you’re not so hungry anymore. he slides out of you, and watches as his seed begins to slowly trickle out of you and down your thighs.

‘will you come again, coryo?’ you ask, bottom lip between your teeth, a sheepish look painted upon your pretty face. he laughs in disbelief.

‘what, that desperate to have me before you go into the arena?’ he is a little surprised by this, but is gloating all over at the fact that you’re just so drunk on his cock.

‘mhm, please coryo,’ your lip trembles, eyes stretching wide with plea. ‘grant a dying girl her wish.’

his look darkens, and you feel a pit in your stomach form. neither of you were saying it, but it was unlikely that you’d be making it out alive. perhaps if you were especially lucky… but chances were slim.

‘i’ll try my best. for my favourite tribute,’ he half-promises, feeling a tightness in his chest when he has to remember that you too, are human. not some little doll to play with. he’s not one for getting feelings involved. he learned that the hard way, with lucy gray.

‘thank you coryo,’ you muse, pressing a kiss to his lips. you feel a tender flutter in your heart.

he dresses, and then leaves with the half-hearted promise of being back soon, perhaps later tonight if he can manage to sneak past the guards. of course, he only cares about satisfaction. knowing he has you wrapped around his finger means he has better luck at getting you to win—you’ll do whatever he says.

that’s how he leaves you, his favourite tribute, blissful from his cock, and wanting more; desperate for him. you don’t know his real intentions, that you’re just his little plaything, the chance to bring further glory to his name.

coriolanus snow is a bad man.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Love Will Tear Us Apart

based on the results of this poll, the very lovely game created by @saynomorefic 💜 (i did a deep dive into the meaning to this song and it's actually heartbreaking. so, sorry for this!)

Where Wilhelm keeps Simon and the Crown.

The ride home is silent, sitting on opposite sides of the car, heads turned in opposite directions to watch the dark city slide by. Wilhelm places his hand, palm up, on the seat between them. Simon doesn’t seem to notice. 

It is just as silent in their cold, dark apartments as they undress. 

“Simon,” he whispers, reaching out to skim a hand along his goosebump-covered arm.

Simon turns away, pulls away, shaking his head. He takes off his ring and sets it on the nightstand, then slips under the starched sheets, curled up on the edge.  

Wilhelm climbs in on his side of the wide bed, so far away, and traces the outline of Simon with his eyes, illuminated by the window of moonlight reflecting off snow in the Drottningholm gardens. 

“Sorry,” Simon mumbles, back still turned to him. “Just tired.” 

They used to come back from events like these and spend the night pulling pleasure from each other. They used to fall asleep tangled together in this huge, stupid bed. And, now. 

“It’s okay,” Wilhelm assures him. 

His eyes burn. Simon’s shoulders begin to tremble. He wants to reach out again.

“I love you,” he says. I’m sorry. 

Simon’s only response is a gentle hum, and the space between them widens a little more.

[aloysiavirgata]

What do you think Scully and Mulder would disagree on as parents? A prompt, if you will.

Scully wanted schedules. Meal plans. Calendars. She wanted piano lessons on Thursdays, swim lessons on Mondays, and labeled bins for the Legos and Thomas train cars. She wanted whole grains and bento boxes and clothes from Boden and Hanna Andersson and Tea Collection. Vacations in the Galapagos and the Grand Canyon. She wanted - in her most secret heart - for him to be the star of the soccer or lacrosse teams. Or both.

Mulder wanted the gauche consumerism of Disney World every spring. He wanted drippy ice cream cones and a perpetually muddy dog and troops of sticky neighbor children marauding through the back door so he could say JESUS CHRIST WILLIAM I’M NOT PAYING TO AIR CONDITION THE WHOLE STREET. He imagined burnt pig-anus hot dogs over a campfire, a floor strewn with action figures, snow angels, Chef Boyardee. No chess coach, no deportment classes, those new-fangled sneakers that lit up. He imagined Welch’s grape juice stains on the couch.

***

Scully, luscious and fully fleshed again, with William suckling at her blue-veined breast. Scully like a Renaissance Madonna reimagined by Margaret Atwood.

“My mother sold her wedding dress to pay for Charlie’s football gear,” she says, touching William’s rose petal cheek. “My father made pretty good money for the Navy and all, but four kids so close together…we ate a lot of spaghetti. Lots of hand me downs. Missy shoplifted makeup a whole lot, if my mother ever knew…”

“Malnutrition why you’re so short?” he asks, because he knows she wasn’t actually malnourished.

She scowls. “It was never dirty, my mother would have died first. But just…you know. Heaps of rain boots at the door and school books on the table and hair ribbons and pencil stubs and recorder sheet music and half a cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwich withering on a plate because Bill and Missy were pinching each other…”

Scully trails off, switches the baby to her other breast. Remembers dinners of store-brand fish sticks and creamed corn because one of them had an unexpected pricey field trip.

William gurgles, clutches a fistful of his mother’s silky hair. Blows a raspberry beneath her Delft pottery gaze.

Mulder kisses William’s warm, fragrant head.

Mulder remembers his father, pleasantly loquacious on bourbon, teaching him about shoulder lines and top-stitching at 8. His mother and Samantha in matching ruffled Gunne Saxe dresses, the starched disapproval of the maid when he tracked footprints over the fresh vacuum lines in the carpet.

Chicken a la King, wedge salad, Steak Diane, swigs of his mother’s sidecar…

William hiccups, dribbling milk down his fat cheek. He begins to hiccup more, which makes him laugh at first, and which then makes him cry.

“It was just always loud and chaotic,” Scully says, propping the baby against her shoulder. “Someone was always hurt or in trouble or pulling hair or getting their hair pulled…it was impossible to think or relax. College was such a gift.” She remembers a study- fort she built in the San Diego coat closet.

William belches, then cheerfully vomits down her cleavage.

Scully groans.

Mulder mops her up with tender precision, watches William try to stuff his dinner-roll fist into his mouth.

“It’s been silent at my house for twenty-eight years,” Mulder says.

[somethingheavenknows]

reputation

pairing: coriolanus snow x female reader

summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to see a flaw in coriolanus, to prove he wasn’t all he said he was. but when you catch him with his guard down, you’re everything but vengeful.

tags/content warnings⚠️: a little bit of mutual hatred that isn’t real, pet names, fingering, oral (female receiving), inferred overstimulation and nonverbal state if you squint. just coryo being cute and inexperienced but bold, for those of us who dare to dream !!!

**smut at the end but lots of long admiring how hot his arms are before that to make up for making you wait

word count: 5,824 (long, i know. i got carried away!)

nsfw content below the cut. i’m not your mother, but either way, proceed with caution.

coriolanus snow has a reputation. everyone knows that.

nobody likes him, yet they tolerate him, because he is not only the prized possession of dr. gaul’s precious hunger games, but he is the darling of the capitol- he is their emblem, their spokesman, the face of the new generation. every girl’s head lolls in adoration when he passes, and his peers sneer when every adult he comes across greets him as our future president, while he sits back and smiles.

at first, you didn’t like him either. you didn’t like his demeanor or the lightning white color of his hair. you hated how every time he spoke, it was eloquent yet condescending, no matter who it was he spoke to. you hated the way his eyes evaluated everyone, yet always settled on you with uncertainty. your biggest issue with coriolanus, though, was how there was not one visible flaw to make him human. his hands did not shake, nor did his voice. his university exams came back spotless and adorned with two zeros every time. his shirts were starched to a stiffness that would only be comfortable for a man so stiff and rigid as he, and his shellacked platinum locks carved a perfect quaff of stone atop his marble cheeks and crystal eyes. more than anything in the world, you wished to see something to dismantle the perfection of him, to watch him doubt himself or miss a button hole.

coriolanus never intended for anyone to see such a falter, because he only allows imperfection for himself when he is alone. when he is elbows deep in textbooks in a locked university classroom, he might unbutton his collared shirt to breathe; when he’s at home behind his bedroom door, he could comb through his hair and let it fall as it had back at the academy. but he was calculated, as was his persona. nobody was going to see him misstep, and they certainly would not see him fail. but poor coriolanus, so obsessed with perfection that it’s made him paranoid, forgot the little details from time to time.

it was only when he settled in a group study room in the library, believing it was a single study room, did you catch a glimpse of the boy everyone once called coryo.

the sun had set hours ago, cloaking the capitol in a darkness only deigned by the dead of night. when it’s this late, the university tends to fall silent; students have either gone home or to a party, leaving the resources at the school wide open for anyone who might wander through. you preferred to study in the library when everyone was gone, because it was the only place where you could focus. there was no noise, no talking, no pointless bickering amongst other students over grades or girlfriends. just you, and your books, and your notepad you loved to doodle in when your mind wandered from your assignments.

so it was a normal night for you, a lonesome one, where you entered the grand doors to the university library, met with the familiar darkness of the hall. the school turned the lights off after eight, and it was eleven. you were headed towards the back of the library with your truckload of textbooks, when you found one light on in the row of group study rooms. the yellow fluorescence spilled through the half-drawn curtains like honey, and you wondered who might be studying together so late? it was usually only you on nights like these. you detoured from your beeline to the single spaces to see who was still awake.

when your eyes fell upon the only other student still on campus, you had to fight the urge to exclaim in triumph- because you’d finally done it. you’d seen the real, human person that existed within stone-carved snow. coriolanus was craned over a myriad of study papers, scribbling equations over and over in a frantic fashion as his brows furrowed so tightly you began to fear his skin would tear. the boy had discarded his academy getup, red coat draped over the back of his chair and his blue button-down thrown sloppily across the table, leaving only his white undershirt left on him. you examined the broadness of his shoulders, which you’d failed to before; the t-shirt hugged him, clinging to the bulk of his arms and cascading down the front of his chest like a white flag. somehow, beneath the uniform, you’d never seen how buff coriolanus actually was, and you thought, well, he was a peacekeeper for a while. maybe he’s kept up with it. around his neck hung a tarnished pair of dog tags which you only assumed had to be his. a keepsake? a reminder? you couldn’t help but wonder.

the shirt and chain were nice informalities, but what did you in was his hair. you’d never recognized just how long it had gotten, since you’re so accustomed to the tightness of its placement; now, it seemed to spill over his ears like the sea foam that curls atop waves, and lapped at the back of his neck in long, soft-looking tufts. you felt heat rush to your cheeks at the messiness of it, and wondered why in the world he insisted on keeping it up when it looked so much prettier down.

the amount of time that passed between when you stumbled upon his study room and stared him down had no measure, but it was long enough for him to notice the shadow of a figure forming on the other side of the window. you watched anxiously as his head cocked, studying the darkness, and your body froze as his rose from the chair and walked to the door. the boy swung it open and the sterile light revealed you just behind the doorframe, doe-eyed and embarrassed. for a second, you thought his lip upturned, but you must have imagined it.

“what are you doing?” coriolanus asked.

“i-” you squeaked, and cleared your throat, “i always study late. what are you doing here?”

“you tell me, since you decided to spy.”

there was that coldness again. as long as you’d known him, he was never less frigid than his last name. you made a show of peeking through the window and replying, “well, it seems to me you’re studying alone in a group room. got nobody to tutor you, huh, coriolanus?”

coriolanus’ lips did not decieve you then, as they curled into a smile that was more chilling than warm. yet, something about it made you wish he’d do it more.

he took a moment to look at the sign on the door, recognizing the plaque designating the room for collective study. he rolled his eyes and muttered, “thoughtless.”

“you know, nobody’s here to tell you that you can’t study in there. it’s not like they’d deny you anything anyway,” you jabbed.

coriolanus’ intriguing grin faded. his opulent jaw tightened as he turned away and sat back down at the large desk where all his books and papers lay, deciding you were not worth a fight. you followed him inside.

“get out,” he groaned.

“it’s a group room, isn’t it?” you smirked, letting your book bag hit the floor with a loud thump! “what, can’t concentrate with me around?”

before he could impulsively agree, coriolanus reminded himself of his situation. so far, you’d violated every safe rule he had- he was half undressed, his hair was disheveled, and the trial and error of arithmetic on his pages proved exactly how many attempts it took to achieve those double zero exam scores you so greedily coveted. here, alone in this room with the only girl in class that didn’t follow his lead like a puppy, he was caught with his guard down. he hated it.

“do whatever you want, just don’t interrupt me.”

you couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips, because you didn’t have to interrupt him. just your presence was enough to throw him off course. you dug quietly through your backpack to fish out your notepad, your textbook for 21st century literature, and your math packet- the same one coriolanus was toiling over. the boy’s eyes kept flickering to you as you laid your belongings out on the table: a collection of graphite pencils, shaved to the nubs from drawing, a gray clay eraser molded to the shape of your fingers, and a sleek silver pen with your initials engraved on the cap. his eyes danced over the pen, admiring the slow curve of its body.

“what are you looking at?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. you liked seeing him so distracted by you, so to chastise him would be overkill- it seemed your normalcy was enough.

coriolanus’ fair skin flushed a rosy pink as he looked up at you. he made himself sit up straight and replied, “nothing. just looking at that pen you have.”

you plucked the utensil from the spot you placed it and passed it over in your palm, tracing the tiny letters of your name. you held it out for him to take, and his eyes glinted with confusion. you held it out a little further, as if to say, it won’t bite. coriolanus flashed a hint of a smile before taking it, and for the first time, he looked his age. he was a college student, a barely broke one at that- you knew more about him than he thought- and the way he held that pure silver pen was like he’d wished for one all his life. his long, slender fingers handled the pen like a relic. you found yourself fixated on the way they moved- with so much intention, so much focus. so much care. and for that, you didn’t hint at a smile at all. you wanted to scream for even allowing yourself to show any display of happiness because of coriolanus snow, but you couldn’t control it. this disposition of his was so new that you didn’t know what to do with yourself. feeling a bit embarrassed, you decided maybe now was the time to tease him, as you so cleverly do often.

“never seen a pen before?”

“i- no, i have seen a pen before,” the boy’s shoulders tensed, but his grip on the pen didn’t. “this one is just… particularly nice.”

you felt a sudden pang of guilt, and you withdrew the urge to be nasty. “well, my father gave me a whole package of them. part of a stationary set. i have seven more. you could…”

“hm?” coriolanus looked from you to your pen, and you rolled your eyes.

“you could- you could keep it, if you wanted.”

you didn’t like the silence in the library now, even though that’s what you came here for. the way coriolanus leaned back in his chair, looking a bit smaller now than he used to, made you squirm in your seat.

“keep it? why?”

“well, because you seem to like it,” you pursed your lips.

“so you’d just give it away? to me, of all people?”

his words felt like a slap to the face. sure, you’d never shown him much grace, but did he really feel you hated him that much? did he think you were that mean? were you that mean?

“yeah,” you pouted just a bit, “i’d like for you to have it.”

coriolanus had never given you a reason to feel softness before. his attitude was so insurmountable all the time that you were always in competition with him, trying to prove you were just as smart, just as quick, just as deserving of praise for all the hard work you do. coriolanus was a formidable opponent, and you both knew that. but all this time you’d been wishing to see him screw up was starting to make you feel like crumbling to pieces, because how could you have wished that upon the boy who sits before you now? the boy who held your pen like a promise, and ogled at the way it wrote so smoothly on his page, and muttered a thank you that was so quiet you wondered if he’d said it at all?

“that’s very kind,” he tacked on.

“well, it’s nice to give sometimes,” you stated.

you both fell silent again, and coriolanus hunched over his work, using your- his- pen to take another crack at the problem he’s been stuck on for nearly forty minutes. you could almost see his brain compartmentalizing, removing you from the equation as he tried to ace the answer. you pretended to open your textbook and read some passage, but you watched him through your eyelashes. you watched as he licked his bottom lip in frustration, and you realized just what situation you’ve gotten yourself into: this was what you wanted. you wanted to catch coriolanus snow acting normal, like a real teenage boy- you’d prayed to see one score of 99 or one trip over his shoelace, and finally you have. coriolanus snow is sitting across the table from you in a t-shirt, with his hair tumbling across his forehead like fresh-spun white gold, struggling to figure out a math problem you had aced during the lesson hours ago. you wanted to help him, when all you’d ever hoped for was to taunt him for his fault- you imagined the day you could pick him apart a hundred times. but you had to help him.

you coughed quietly before reaching across the table to place a finger on the corner of his worksheet, catching his attention. he glanced up at you to see your eyebrows raised, and you asked, “can i?”

the boy nodded, and you slid the paper sideways so you could both see. coriolanus followed your nimble hand as you swiped your pencil across, carrying exponents and deviating with flourish. it wasn’t the first time he’d been impressed by your smarts, but it was the first time he’d seen your brilliance so closely. you didn’t know that he always found your brain so fascinating, because of how everything came to you with ease- you didn’t have to study as hard as he did, or at least he thought so. you just clicked when it came to school. he found that… beautiful, in a way. and he found you beautiful now, as you showed him the correct answer, smiling softly.

“did that make sense? did i explain it right?” you wondered aloud, and he blushed, realizing he hadn’t heard a word you said.

“oh- well, i… i zoned out a bit. i’m sorry.”

you chuckled. “want me to show you again?”

something low in coriolanus’ stomach bubbled, and before he thought of any possible consequences, he lied right to your face: “you know, i couldn’t see the paper very well. could you…?”

you didn’t notice his ploy, which sent a surge of relief through him. you got up and walked around the table, squatting beside his chair so the both of you could see the worksheet straight on. as you walked him through the equation again, he failed to listen to your words; instead, he listened to the slight tremor in your voice, the low timbre with which you spoke. you sounded gentle, which he wasn’t used to. and he inhaled the scent of you, which was as strong as always. he was partial to roses, yet his grandma’am’s roses didn’t have much scent. but he had always held a reservation for your perfume, for it smelled like something he hadn’t known before. it was warm and starchy, but sweet, and if only he could get a bit closer, he might be able to tell exactly what sweetness he recognized…

you had stopped talking, and you were looking at him with a ghostly expression, and he wondered for a moment what stopped you. and he kept twisting a lock of your hair around his finger, trying to figure it out. until he noticed he was feeling your hair.

“i- oh, i-” coriolanus withdrew his hand like you had a disease and scrunched his face up with shame, “i’m so sorry, i shouldn’t have…”

you leaned back on your heels and shook your head nervously. “no, i-it’s okay.”

“your hair is soft.”

“thank you.”

“…could i?” he muttered, lips barely parting as he reached his hand out again. it looked so big up close.

“sure.”

coriolanus took a little more liberty, carding his strong palm through your hair, dragging his fingers all the way from the roots to the ends. he watched it shine in the low light of the study room, and you gazed up at him like you’d never met him before- which, in theory, you haven’t. not this version of him. he handled you softly, tracing the curve of your shoulder with his pointer finger, and you though he might as well be carving your skin with a blade the way it stung. you shivered, and he smiled. not coldly. a real smile.

“you’re not like this,” you croaked. “you’re… you’re mean, and you always win.”

“i don’t always win,” he protested.

“yes you do. everyone either hates you or wishes they were you. you’re the future president, remember? everything goes your way.”

“you never let me win, do you?” he dared to play with your hair again as he continued, “always on my heels. getting the same exam scores, spitting out answers like it’s a contest. you never let me get the best of you like others do.”

“well, why should you get to have all the fun?” you rebutted.

coriolanus laughed, and it filled your lungs with butterflies. butterflies. because of coriolanus. are you dying?

“i know i’m… well, an ass. it’s how i succeed. but i’ve always liked your competition, you know. you keep me on my toes.”

“someone should.”

“you’re right.”

his arms were filling out those t-shirt sleeves so nicely, and you’d never realized just how handsome coriolanus was. not statue-handsome, but boyish. he was strong and broad, and he had a hand at the back of your neck, and suddenly your hands were shaking.

“i’ve always liked you, you know. i always thought you were pretty, like the actresses in those old movies from before the war,” he admitted. “and smart. smarter than me. smarter than everyone at this school.”

“really?”

“really.”

you swallowed thickly and reached behind your head, finding his knuckles and touching them with your fingertips. “i always thought i hated you. i don’t think i do. i think i just… don’t understand you.”

you stood up and sat on the edge of the table, crossing your arms over your chest. coriolanus had to pretend he didn’t love the way you curved behind your arms. you were in a university sweater, a cable-knit one, and your issued slacks were rolled up to reveal the old army boots on your feet. he wondered if they were a keepsake from your father, a dutiful peacekeeper, or if you had a home life like his.

“what don’t you understand?”

“everything. your luck. your smarts. your power. your looks.”

“my looks?”

you rolled your eyes, trying to hide your nerves. “y-yes, your looks. everyone knows you’re handsome, coriolanus. you’re presidentially handsome, like all our professors say.”

“do you agree with them?”

you could tell he was teasing now, but you had too much pride to let him win. like always. “no. i think you’re a different kind of handsome.”

“and what is that?”

“the kind that’s frustrating.”

“frustrating?”

“yes.”

coriolanus leaned back in his chair then, and you felt like he was presenting himself for you to judge exactly what was so frustrating. but you knew it was how he smiled, and held himself tall, and struck down his enemies without lifting a finger. he was intimidating, and you didn’t know how much you liked that.

the boy licked his lips again and said, “you’re different outside of classes, too, you know. more like… how i imagined you.”

“you imagine me?”

“you don’t imagine me?”

this was driving you insane. sitting before him, legs clamped shut, trying to convince yourself that he’s your enemy, and he’s evil, and he’s only ever given you trouble; that you could easily come to school the next day and tell everyone that coriolanus snow can’t solve complex derivatives. but you felt it in your gut that you wanted to teach him how to solve complex derivates, just like you ached to feel how his big hands felt anywhere besides your neck. and in those icy eyes, you saw the way he looked at you, like you were a paper with a 101 marked at the top. like he had wanted nothing more than he wanted you in that moment.

you uncrossed your arms as he rose from his seat, taking a step closer to you. he placed those hands on your hips and pushed you back, sliding you onto the table. your legs parted naturally, and he stood between them, refusing to move his touch. you gazed up into his defrosted eyes and smiled, and he smiled back.

it was a surprise when he asked, “can i kiss you?” because coriolanus didn’t seem like that kind of boy. he took what he wanted. but he didn’t take you; it seemed like he wanted to earn you.

you nodded softly. “yeah.”

his lips were on you before you had a chance to breathe, but you didn’t mind. he was slow, and his mouth was dangerously warm. his thumbs pressed into your hip bones, which gave you the urge to reach for something of his in return. you chose his hair, burying your hands in the slightly crunchy curls that unraveled from the gel. you brushed through them to soften them up, and he giggled against your mouth, sensing you’d been thinking of doing that for a while. when his hand found your neck again, he tugged at your hair a bit to tip your face back for better access. when you felt him pull you, you gasped against his lips, and everything came tumbling down.

“coryo,” you heaved.

his eyes grew dark at the sound of his nickname, which he hadn’t heard since he was at the academy. he didn’t even know you knew of it. but oh, he liked the way it sounded coming from you. so desperate.

“what was that?” he smirked, tugging at your hair again. not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make your legs twitch.

you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, leaving a slight ring of saliva in your wake as you repeated it much softer. “coryo.”

“don’t ever call me coriolanus again. please.”

“kiss me again and i’ll forget your name altogether.”

he was everywhere. his hands roamed your sides as he kissed you again, taking his lips across your face and neck like you were the first meal he’s eaten in ages. you whined against this touch, feeling the pressure of his waist as your legs wrapped around him. you arched your back, attempting to roll your hips against his, bickering with his tongue; coryo’s calloused hands shoved beneath your sweater, bunching it up at his forearms as he kneaded the soft pudge of your stomach. you were leaving smudges of graphite on his porcelain skin from the worksheet, but you didn’t mind tainting his perfection just a tad. he could use a little smudging.

“please,” you asked kindly, nipping at his cheek, right by a smooth black stain.

“please what?”

“touch me, coryo.”

“how?” he paused. your hazy eyes caught his and saw apprehension, which only made you giggle.

“have you never…?”

“not, uh… not recently,” he blushed, and then retracted his lie. “not ever.”

you untangled from him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. “s’okay. sit down.”

the boy listened, unsure of how he felt being ordered around. you made him pull the chair right up to the table, and you leaned across to kiss him again. you took the moment to press your hands to his chest, feeling the hard muscles he’d been hiding under that uniform for so long. he shuddered when you ran your hands from his shoulders down to his hands, and you laced your fingers with his. an intimate gesture for you both, but he liked it. he liked being close to you like this.

“so smart, but you don’t know how to touch a girl, huh, coryo?” you grinned, pressing a light kiss to his lips. he chased after you as you pulled away, wanting another, but you nudged him with your nose.

“i don’t know everything,” he gulped, “i mean, i have an idea, but i… yeah.”

“do you want to?”

“yes,” coryo pledged. “please.”

“i didn’t peg you as a learner.” you were nervous, but you wanted him more, so you leaned back and said, “i’ll show you what to do, okay?”

“okay.”

you slowly layed back on the table, and coryo reached for the button on your pants. his hands shook, and you thought to yourself, every flaw i’ve ever wanted to see, i’m seeing tonight, and it’s because of me. you giggled, and coryo chuckled back out of shyness. he fumbled with the button and was gentle with the fabric as he slid your slacks down. his eyes took in every inch of curve you’d been hiding under that godforsaken school uniform, and how your little black underwear cut into the chub of your waist. he knew you had enough to eat, and that made him happy.

your skin felt like fire in every place his hands grazed as he freed your legs, and you did your best to be encouraging as you took his hand in yours. you leaned back on one elbow and held his hand in the other, and the two of you shuddered as you pressed his palm flush to your warmth. you guided his fingers to the little bud of nerves resting at the top, and coriolanus’ mouth was already watering at the dampness of the fabric.

“do you feel that spot right there?” you asked, voice cracking. his fingers were so warm.

“yes,”

“i want you to rub it. don’t push too hard, and circle it with your fingers, okay?”

coriolanus looked into your glazed eyes and said, “you’ll tell me if i’m doing it wrong?” and when you nodded sweetly, he gave it a try.

you couldn’t bite your tongue as he began, because this couldn’t have been his first time. he had exactly the right pressure, and exactly the right pace, and his fingers molded to the shape of you so well that you saw stars. you let out a string of soft moans, and the boy reached his spare hand over the table to hold yours.

“good?” he inquired.

“mm,” you struggled to respond, “coryo, mhm.”

“i like how you say my name. i wish you’d called me that sooner. haven’t been called that in a long time, pretty,”

a drunken smile tugged at your lips as you half-teased half-praised, “coryo, coryo, coryo.”

he kept circling for a while, watching the way you struggled to breath through your nose as you kept quiet. a cocktail of obsession and need swirled in his stomach, and he knew this would be enough for you, but it wasn’t nearly enough for him. he wanted to be as close to you as possible, and feel your hands on his face- after feeling the delicateness of them as they intertwined with his, he had come to love your hands.

“this isn’t close enough,” he pulled his hand away, and you whined at the loss of contact. “can i try something else?”

“what do you want to-”

coriolanus made quick work of sliding your underwear down your legs and discarding of it on the chair next to his shirt. you watched as he dropped to his knees before you and smiled, taking his first look at everything you had to offer. he looked so hungry.

“do you even know what you’re doing?” you breathed.

“well, i know where it feels good, don’t i? do you trust me?”

you sat up a bit to get a better view. his messy blond hair falling into his eyes, and his hungry face staring up at you. coriolanus snow, on his knees. you thought you’d never see the day. you nodded in response.

taking your nod for approval, he licked his lips, and he made his move.

your hands flew to his hair as his tongue licked a fat stripe between your hips, flicking ever so slightly over your clit; he made a few of these before he plunged his tongue inside, giving you no warning but rewarding you with happy little groans into you. you mindlessly bucked your hips into his face as he got himself acquainted with you, unsure of how he was so good at this but in too much ecstasy to care.

“fuck, coryo, just like that,” you moaned, and he responded with a chuckle that sent shockwaves to your stomach. his heavy palms stopped pressing your thighs apart, allowing you to clamp them around his face, which only made him lick harder, and faster, and deeper.

“you taste like your perfume,” he raved as he came up for air, his chin slick with your arousal. “sweet, like something powdery,”

“may roses,” you wheezed, “my perfume smells like may roses, coryo,”

may roses, he thought. she smells like roses. my roses suck compared to this. he took one more whiff of the skin on your stomach, which flooded you with butterflies, and then he went back for more.

he was torturous then. he lapped at you like a dog, twisting and swirling his tongue around, aiming to touch every single spot inside of you that he hadn’t had the pleasure to yet. your gut felt tense as he ate you so carefully, yet the rest of your body was growing limp; your hands tied into his curls were the only things holding you up. coriolanus noticed you suffering and pressed both hands to your tummy, coaxing you to lay flat on the table. he stood over you then, pressing sweet little kisses all over your body up to your neck, leaving lip prints in a slick trail. the boy caught your lips again, and you moaned into his mouth, tasting yourself; coriolanus used the opportunity to go back to circling, using what you’d taught him like a good student.

“o-oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face into his neck, “jesus, coryo,”

“i’ve always wanted you like this. even when you pissed me off, i still liked you. i really like you.”

you felt like your brain was melting out of your ears at his touch, feeling him pressing against your heat just enough to make your body shake. “fuck, i more than like you now.”

coriolanus grinned darkly and decided to get a little playful. he kept his thumb pressed to your clit, and he pushed his two middle fingers inside of you, cooing at the wetness and warmth. you gasped, clawing hopelessly at his t-shirt as he curled them inside of you, following the cadence of your heartbeat, which was racing.

“good, hm?” he asked.

“coryo!” you cried, eyes clamping shut like you were in pain. but it wasn’t painful, not one bit.

he kept placing tantalizing kissed on your chest, right near your collarbones, as his fingers ebbed and flowed. your walls ached, your body limp, brain completely dumb on his fingers.

“look at you, sweetheart,” he teased, “can’t even speak.”

he watched you try to protest, but all that fell from your lips were unfinished phrases. it was only when your hands scraped down his back did he feel you tighten around his hand, and he trapped you there, fucking his fingers into you as hard as he possibly could.

“come on, darling. let it go.”

“c- cor-”

coriolanus interrupted your mindless babbling, pressing you one more time: “let yourself go for me. show me i did a good job, yeah?”

the way his voice growled as he asked such a needy question sent you tumbling over the edge. as his fingers were hitting you in just the right spot, you let out what was meant to be a scream but broke on the way up into a million lewd pieces; coriolanus collected you with one dizzyingly strong arm as you bucked your tired hips into his palm, chasing after your orgasm as he kept moving ever so slowly inside you, working you through it. he refused to stop kissing you, and left praise after praise stinging your skin as he pulled his fingers out. he admired the way they glistened and dripped with you, nearly collapsing under the weight of what he’d just done for the girl he’d been admiring for so long.

“i’ve been dreaming of that, y’know,” he nipped at your ear, and you twitched in his arms. you could barely speak, so he kept talking. he helped you sit up, and pulled your black panties back up your shaking legs, kissing your knees. “you were good, love. you did so good. i always wanted to make you feel good like that.”

you blinked through the haze, helping him by raising your hips a bit so he could cover you back up. you swallowed thickly, and when your vision cleared, you saw coriolanus smiling at you in a way he’d never smiled at anyone… with love in his eyes.

“you’re nice,” you were able to choke out. “nice to me.”

“i’m sorry i haven’t been before. i wanted to be.” you offered a dopey smile, and he followed up with, “not so quick to talk back when you’re fucked out, are you?”

you could only giggle into his neck, pressing embarrassed, swollen kisses to the vein that ran behind his ear. “mm-mmm,” you shook your head, trying to speak slowly so you didn’t stutter, “if you sit… i’ll re… i’ll repay the favor.”

“but you’re-”

“shh,” you cut the boy off, “m’gonna be nice to you now, coryo.”

so, coriolanus showed you yet again that he was capable of listening when he wanted to, and you taught him a lesson in what it’s like to be loved by someone who hates first- just like him.

coriolanus snow has a reputation, and for good reason. he needs to be strong so he can succeed. but behind closed doors, where he can let his hair down and show the hard work it takes for him to stay strong, you’ve come to learn that there’s more to the coriolanus snow everyone sees. his uncertainty, his frustration- that’s when he became coryo. and coryo is a learner, a lover, even in his most harsh and unlikable forms. but most importantly, he harbors devotion like an obsession, and there is nothing worth more devotion than you. not his country, not his family name, not even his math exam. only you.

[tending-the-hearth]

and not to be a nitpicky book purist fan but the opening scene of the movie literally had me unable to control my excitement

from seeing snow and tigris as kids and getting the scene of the man chopping the maid's leg off

and the entire opening scene of watching snow getting ready, hearing grandma'am singing the anthem, the tessarae being taken from the bathroom, tigris saying word for word what the book says about how she put snow's shirt together, the DETAILS OF TIGRIS SAVING THE POTATOES FROM THE STARCH PROCESS AND PUTTING THEM AWAY IN THE FRIDGE?????

when i say faithful book to movie adaptations THIS is what i mean. they even had the movie split into parts like the book i'm going INSANE

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Unrivaled Beauty.

O’ Beautiful Queen, your loveliness is eternal and unchallenged.

Steal center stage, and the hearts of those who gaze upon you.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

War is as much of an art as it is a brazen display of brutality.

For Vil, every performance he gives is war. His weapons: skill, grace, beauty. All of it meant to charm the audience. No substitutions, it no stunt doubles.

Today is no different.

He kneels in the snow atop a corpse. Not a real dead man, but a dummy with an eerie amount of detail. It had been prepared by experts in the prop department, made to resemble his character's sworn enemy in the film.

Crimson blooms upon white robes marked with ancient runes. The collar and neckline are daring, plunging to reveal a generous amount of the bare skin of the chest to the elements. The hair, a tangled mess of glossy raven waves, sticking from the moisture to cold skin. The skin, pale blue with frost, the eyes cloudy orbs.

The mouth, stained red with the blood of countless innocents, no longer moves.

In this scene, the she-devil Snow White is dead, and he, heir to the Witch Queen, has slain her.

Without hesitation, he plunges his bare hand into the dummy’s chest, fishing out a model heart. It is covered in a mixture of corn syrup, food coloring, cocoa powder, and starch to simulate bodily fluids. The thickened liquid dribbles down his own pale hands, staining them.

Lifting his trophy into the air, a joyous, defiant sparkle in his eyes. A throaty cry erupts from him.

“With this, the Eternal Snow will be no more, and peace shall return to my realm!!”

Vil’s explosive laughter fills the mountain. The snow shakes, the land itself shudders in his presence.

He has won.

Finally, finally, finally.

A gruff man’s voice reaches him.

“CUT!!”

In an instant, the scene falls apart and reality sets in.

Cameramen tend to their equipment, prop managers and stylists exchange whispers. Special effects mages tamp down their snow spells. The illusion is stripped away, revealing a balmy day set against a backdrop of mountains.

Staff in scurry in, offering Vil towelettes and lotion to clean and moisturize his hands. He accepts them, then waves the staff off, one ferrying the fake heart.

“Bravo, Vil-kun, bravo!!” the director gushes. “I knew it was the right call to cast you as the hero for this film. There wasn’t a flaw in your acting, m’boy!!”

“Thank you, sir.” Vil bows to the older man, keeping his reply short and simple. “It is an honor to be a part of your masterfully written story."

It is the tale of a beautiful demon locked away in a glass coffin, freed from slumber and set upon the world to shroud it in never-ending winter… The tale of a selfless noble and her huntsmen that stands in opposition to her and her seven sniveling imp minions. A tale of two fates intertwining—the noble whose bloodline sealed the demon away, and the demon who vowed revenge on descendent of the Witch Queen.

Vil's eyes cannot stop themselves from sliding over to his co-star, who waits in the wings. His lifelong rival, Neige LeBlanche.

He is dressed similarly to the dummy that had been swapped in for his corpse. Red ruins his pristine white gown, and his hair is wild—but off-camera, Neige lacks the madness of the villain he plays. Neige smiles sweetly at the staff, giggles like an innocent schoolboy.

Vil fails to look away before Neige meets his eyes. He waves shyly, and, out of courtesy, Vil returns it.

“You've all been working very hard to bring my vision to life," the director happily booms. "Let's take a 30-minute break. Hydrate, grab some food, whatever. Actors, hair and makeup retouches before stepping back on set!"

There is a collective murmur of approval, feet shuffling for the refreshments table. A staff member offers Vil a spot in the donut line, but he politely declines.

"No thank you, I've prepared granola and a light fruit yogurt ahead of time. If you'll excuse me."

He peels away and heads for his trailer. Once Vil is shut away—a well-trained peacock stepping into his gilded cage—he produces his phone and reviews his jam-packed schedule: the film shoot, an interview with a popular variety show, modeling for a magazine cover, practicing for a stage play…

He, cast in the spotlight of hero in every single one.

You are the fairest of them all, Mira would robotically recite. All the social media websites and news outlets were talking nonstop about him, and he knows it.

It's the Age of Vil, his manager would joke. Isn't this great? You're demonstrating your range. This will definitely net you bigger and bigger opportunities in the future!

They’re finally recognizing you for your cuteness and goodness, his father would tell him. That’s my son! I knew everyone would come around eventually.

On any other day, he might have scoffed or dismissed their comments. Today, he simply smirks, silently pocketing his phone.

Vil passes a large vanity on his way to the mini-fridge. A glimpse of his reflection reveals the elaborate jewel-toned ensemble he is fitted for, the makeup that highlights the highest points of his face. Shining, commanding attention—just as any protagonist would.

He stands straighter, holds his chest higher. Proudly flaunting his feathers, his numerous accomplishments.

I've worked myself to the bone to reach this point. I've earned every little bit of this.

Retrieving his snacks, Vil makes to join the crew on their break. Even if Neige will be present as well, he grimaces.

A shadow invades his periphery.

Vil pauses at the doorway and looks back.

There, sitting on his vanity, was a bushel of roses the color of midnight. A black envelope embellished with gold accents is tucked among the petals.

His brows knit together. How odd--he is certain he hadn't seen that a second ago, nor had he heard anyone entering to drop it off while he was briefly at the fridge. How could he have missed such an obvious gift?

"Perhaps it's from the director or producer," he muses, plucking the envelope free and opening it.

Inside, there is, as suspected, a letter.

Same black paper, same gold embellishments.

To Schoenheit,

Please accept this humble offering from myself. It was a joy to watch you perform to your heart's content.

I was very moved by the experience. It is not often that I get to observe Man in all of its peaks and crests in such a short span of time.

I will continue to watch over you and support your dreams from the sidelines.

Sincerely,

M. D.

Initials in the place of a name? Vil turns the paper over, expecting more on the other side. It's unlike his fans to leave out their full identity. (Half of the time, they include a list of their social media handles and beg for a follow back.)

But alas, the back is blank and yields no answers.

He frowns, facing the words scrawled on the front of the square again. The cogs in his head turn, arriving at a single logical conclusion.

I only know of one possible M.D., but... Is he truly the type to send notes of this nature?

Vil toys with the idea in his head, just as he toys with the letter between his fingers. Ego rises and colors his lenses.

"Fufufu, it seems that even great mages such as he are not immune to my beauty and talent." Vil chuckles, exiting the trailer. His adoring fans await.

He's right about everything, and he doesn't realize how wrong he wants to be.

[exemplarybehaviour]

Today on making recipes I saw on my dash: I wanted to make this "Mongolian chicken" recipe and then did one of those "loved this recipe! I added several things and made a ton of substitutions :)" recipe review moves. Instead of chicken, I used tofu, and I also added broccoli and mushrooms. There's also some rice hidden under there.

Revised recipe under the cut for my own notes (vegan & gluten free!):

First I want to give a direct link to the original recipe. Flavor text indicates this is meant to be a slightly healthier take-out food mimic. I also referenced this recipe when deciding how to fry tofu (which I've never done before!). Small text indicates notes. I usually don't measure things so not everything has an amount.

Ingredience (tm):

cooking oil of your choice

extra firm tofu (I used a 16 oz block but if I repeat this i'd probably do two blocks)

corn starch (2 tbsp for frying the tofu)

soy sauce (or tamari for the gluten free) (1 tbsp for frying the tofu)

garlic powder

2 crown broccoli

small tub of mushrooms (8 oz? maybe??) (i bought pre-sliced mushrooms and then broke them up into smaller pieces by hand)

yellow onion, chopped (will probably only use half an onion in the future lmao)

4-5 green onions/scallions

you could also use all sorts of other veggies: peppers, snow peas, carrots, zucchini, etc. the world is your oyster..........

Sauce Ingredience (tm):

1 1/2 teaspoon sesame oil (this has a strong flavor so definitely actually measure)

chopped scallion whites

ginger (I use ginger paste)

minced garlic (recipe calls for 3 cloves but i use jar garlic and just go wild)

1 tbsp rice vinegar

1/2 cup soy sauce (or tamari sauce)

1/2 brown sugar

1 tbsp corn starch

1/4 cup vegetable stock or water (or chicken stock if you prefer)

something spicy. i used red chilli flakes but you could also try something like sriracha

Technically this is a one pan recipe (or wok, if you're fancy) but you will also use several other bowls and plates. Okay here's how to make it.

Fry tofu:

Press water out of tofu (wrap the block in paper towels, then balance a plate on it and put something heavy on the plate. leave like that while you putter around the kitchen trying to find where the FUCK the vegetable stock concentrate is. or use a tofu press if you have one).

Cut tofu into small blocks

Toss tofu with 2 tbsp corn starch + 1 tbsp soy sauce + garlic powder

Add enough oil to pan to coat the bottom and heat. Add tofu and let sit until bottom browns. Flip tofu pieces to brown other side. If you want to also get the sides you can do more flipping. Or you can get bored and stop

If you're smart, prep veggies by washing and cutting them while tofu fries. I was not smart

Move tofu to plate or bowl

I was surprised by how fucking tasty the tofu was right out of the pan? The garlic powder elevated it to something almost addictive. I ate several pieces while cooking everything else. I did think that later tossing the tofu with the sauce detracted from the crispiness of the tofu. So, next time I will probably keep the tofu separate and add it in last.

Also, if you want rice, start it up around here.

Cook veggies:

prep by cleaning and cutting up veggies

in the same pan as the tofu, add a small amount of oil (or don't, if you have left over oil from the tofu)

toss in veggies in reverse order of how long they will take to cook to the degree you want them. i wasn't smart in my organization so i did the mushrooms by themselves while i cut up onions and broccoli

cook, stirring frequently, until they're as cooked as you want them

move veggies to plate/bowl

Make Sauce:

prep: whisk together 1 tbsp corn starch and 1/4 cup vegetable broth in a small bowl

in the same pan, add sesame oil, scallion whites, ginger, and garlic

cook ~1 min, or however long it takes you to get your shit together to add other ingredients

add rice vinegar, soy sauce/tamari, brown sugar. stir to combine. yes 1/2 cup soy sauce AND brown sugar seems like a lot. yes it will taste fine, i promise

add corn starch/broth slurry. stir

add your chili flakes. stir.

sauce should have thickened

Now dump your tofu + veggies into the pan and then toss to coat with sauce. Garnish with scallion greens. Done!!!

[fromthefirstmomentitouchedyou]

The day before the lake scene

Do you feel forever about him?

There is something so wonderful about being here, swaying in a hammock with Henry with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the trees. It feels as if he’s in a snow globe, a bubble of warmth and comfort he doesn’t want to leave. Here in this hammock they are just Alex and Henry, and that’s all they have to be.

There’s something wonderful seeing Henry so relaxed even with his shirt and shorts, the shirt open at his throat, so far removed from his starched suits.

Henry’s face is creased with concentration rather then tension, the weight of the crown fallen to the wayside and Alex wants to keep him here.

Alex lets his own book rest on Henry’s knee letting himself drink in Henry in a way he rarely lets himself when they are caught up in their trysts, eager to share their bodies but more and more the sex was less the point of their meetings-it’s always present but Alex is slowly learning that when his body’s needs are met he has as much fun curling around Henry in bed or on a couch and just talking. He’s so enamoured with learning as much as he can about Henry, falling more and more in lo-

He cuts himself off. It’s not something he allows himself to think about consciously, it feels a little too much like putting his hand in a white hot flame but it’s getting harder to ignore. He feels like a moth to a flame, knowing the closer he gets to this vibrant light the more likely he’s going to get singed and yet he is helpless to do anything but circle closer and closer.

Do you feel forever about him?

His mother’s words come to him, in truth they have never left, not for one second since she said them. During the day he’s able to ignore it, to bury it beneath his work in Texas, beneath his law school work, but here and now it’s the only thought in his mind.

Can be ever belong to someone else?

He can hear himself say it in Paris, reaching for Henry and being rebuffed and the hurt that has flared up in him at Henry’s rejection. But here, now, Alex would swear that Henry belongs to him.

The constant buzz of Alex’s mind is quiet now, and he lets himself smile in contentment. As if he can sense Alex’s gaze Henry looks up.

“Everything ok?”

Do you feel forever about him?

His throat feels thick, words cramming behind his molars. He can’t keep it locked away anymore and he opens his mouth to let it out, to give it breath. To make it real……

“Henry I…”

“Lunch is up boys!” Oscar yells and Henry distracted looks away and Alex’s courage fails him as Henry clambers inelegantly out to the hammock. He offers his hand to Alex who takes it.

Tomorrow they’re going swimming, he’ll tell him tomorrow when they are alone on the pier, there will be no distractions or other people. Tomorrow he’ll tell Henry he loves him.

[fox-bright]

Gen's Soft Browned-Butter Rum Vanilla Chocolate Chip Cookies

This is really for everybody, but I'm putting it up at last 'cause @sounddesignerjeans requested the recipe. I have been making chocolate chip cookies for thirty years, I was making them when I was too young to have been allowed near an oven by sane parents, but it wasn't until fairly recently that I was really happy with the recipe. I want cookies that are soft and stay soft, but that are chewy and not cakey; that have a lot of flavor instead of just being overwhelmingly sweet; that aren't too much trouble to make in terms of tools, and that are entirely made up of stuff that the average American probably has in their kitchen cupboards.

Here's your classic flatlay of ingredients:

2C plus 2TBSP all-purpose flour

2 TBSP corn starch

1/2tsp baking soda

1tsp kosher salt OR 1/2 tsp fine table salt

1C brown sugar (light or dark)

1/2C white sugar

1C butter (two sticks/16 TBSP. Must be butter--I don't know anything about soy or nut spreads, but margarine absolutely will not work for this, unfortunately)

2 eggs, room temperature

Vanilla to taste (anywhere between 1tsp and 1TBSP is usually the sweet spot)

Chocolate chips to taste (Average is 1-2 cups, but live your dreams! I like my cookies a little less chocolatey personally, but this is absolutely up to you, anything under three cups shouldn't overwhelm the dough to the point that it doesn't cook right, though that would be Way Too Many for  me. I'm usually at about a cup or under.)

A couple of notes: this recipe really does work best if the eggs and chocolate chips are room temperature, but the butter can start from frozen if that's what you have. Take a half-cup measure and use that to scoop flour into your cup measure, and then scrape, don't compress, until the flour is level across the top of the cup.  And lastly--ANY vanilla will do, but I am hugely privileged to be able to say that the Bacardi there has been transformed to vanilla extract by a particularly enterprising kendo student of mine, I'm not just pouring straight rum into the cookies (though that might be interesting)

Also, please allow me to introduce you to Fork!

Fork is a stalwart friend. When I moved to be with the Magical Flying Husband, he was somewhat horrified by my Poverty Child, "This table fork and butterknife are all the tools I need for my day-to-day household existence" ways, and got me Fork as a present so that I would leave the silverware alone. Fork can handle a dense boiled potato and a silky buttercream with equal aplomb, not bending or transmitting too much heat up into my hand. I highly recommend Fork. But for this recipe, a hand mixer will also do, as will a table fork if that's what you have.

(The rest of Part 1 of this recipe under the cut:)

If you have two bowls, put the dry ingredients (flour, corn starch, baking soda, salt) into the smaller one, and both sugars into the larger one. If you only have one bowl, put the sugars into it and let the dry ingredients wait their turn.

When I was a kid, I used to imagine that the brown sugar was a castle keep in deep winter, and the white sugar the snow that hemmed it in.

Get a little pan onto the stove, and pop both sticks of butter in it to melt.

The butter will start off bright, but it will pretty quickly separate into liquid and solid; you must not leave it alone at this point, this is the most eyes-on-it portion of the game here. Take Fork, or a fork, or a whisk, and stir, stir, every few seconds.

The milkfats will sink to the bottom of the pan. Stir, stir. The milkfats will get sticky; don't let them cling to the pan, keep them in motion.

Pretty soon the butter will start giving off a lovely chestnutty smell, and the milkfats at the bottom of the pan will turn a darker color. Take the pan off the heat and continue to stir for another thirty seconds or so. If you leave it on the heat and stir now, the fats can easily burn; if they burn, you need to start over, there's no salvaging it. So better safe than sorry.

Carefully pour the butter over your sugars, making sure you get all those delicious browned bits in there, and stir stir stir! Don't burn yourself--but it starts cooling off immediately as the sugars dissolve into cooling liquid. I use Fork for this, but you can use a strong whisk or a hand mixer.

Once the sugars are completely dissolved and mixed, it will look kind of like a grainy caramel. Let it sit until completely cool, somewhere around fifteen minutes. Maybe take this time to go put up a Tumblr post about your delicious cookies.

(Part 2 incoming shortly)