dumbsoftheart

[dumbsoftheart]

this is sooo good im 😵‍💫

sleepy n thinkin ab using rafe while he’s on game!!

he’s too focused to care that you’re just so needy for him, whining and crying because you want him so bad till it gets to the point where you’re splayed in front of him, panties gone n rubbing yourself on his bulge just to feel a little bit better!!

⛸️✧˖°❅🤍

sometning about his nonchalance only further riles you up. he dodges around your head when you straddle him— hot in the face and teary eyed. you’d become tired of being ignored, but that romantic sickness that swirled in your stomach betrays you, and you miss him despite his presence being so close physically. he’s right there, but he hasn’t so much as glanced at you in hours.

his bulge presents itself to you. it’s always there, thick and prominent in any pair of slacks he wears, even clear in the old pair of grey sweatpants he wears to bed. you wondered why rafe never would be caught dead in the casual garment, being such a popular clothing item to sport among guys his age — and aside from his attachment to old money and being a ‘grown man’, maybe he wouldn’t wear sweatpants out doors because he was afraid of showing too much. after all, you could practically see each vein in his cock through the material.

if ignoring you for a screen wasn’t enough, he wears a headset today too. he’s not even a gamer, he wouldn’t call himself one anyway — viewing it as a hobby to be juvenile and time wasting. however; he was a sucker for 2K, coarse thumbs dashing across joysticks as he swears into the mic, undoubtably bossing topper or kelce about, telling them to pull their weight. classic rafe.

your legs are split either side of him as you find solace in the warm skin of his neck, peeking from the blue t-shirt he wears. he doesn’t mind you, it’s nothing he’s not used to anyway — your clingy and grabby ways catching up with you after an evening of being pretty much ignored for his friends and virtual characters on a screen. you’ve soaked yourself, it’s embarrassing really — how much watching your boyfriend relax and blow off steam can rile you up. like previously mentioned, it’s the lack of acknowledgment too. at this point, you’d do anything to appoint the attention to yourself.

“careful, baby.” is all he offers, barely opening his mouth to say it as he concentrates on the screen. you respond with a pleased hum as you grind on his bulge and he adjusts his headset, sitting up a little straighter with paranoia that his friends might hear. despite this, he continues to play — and you continue to hump him.

it’s clear it feels good for him too, because whilst he outwardly ignores you— he leans back, licking his lips and bucking his hips ever so slightly to adjust his seating, eyes glued to the screen. he even continues to boss his friends around through his headset, but you’re refusing to ignore the way his voice comes out just that bit breathier and slower, playing a little worse on the screen.

he knows when to call it quits on the game — and it’s when you really start putting on a show. you sit back, feet pressed onto the bed as you spread your knees wider — displaying your cunt fully to him as you grind, letting your pleased whimpers free without a care for his friends hearing. you tune in to what he’s saying through the mic as he speaks his farewell.

“alright — hey, i’m goin’. my girls — shutup, topper — my girl needs me. don’t expect you suckers to understand. yeah whatever bro.” you’re not sure what he’s responding to and you don’t care, only whining when your folds audibly part, your stickiness calling to him.

he yanks the headset off his head and looks down on you with a glassy gaze and parted lips.

“you wanna be heard. that right?”

“no, just want you.” you combat pathetically, panting like a puppy as you hump on your boyfriend.

“yeah…” he drawls, grasping a thick handful of your hip, lips shining from his tongue’s coat in the darkened hue of his bedroom. “you want attention. tha’s what you fuckin’ want.”

you pout at this, wishing he’d drop the mean act for just a moment. you can usually work it out of him, keep pleasing him ‘til he breaks — getting soft and sometimes even silly on you. you roll your hips, inspiring a low hum from him now as he helps you along with two hands on your ass.

“maybe i just missed you, rafey.” you groan, high pitched and bordering on pornagraphic. his nose scrunched when his lips part, eyes fixated on the way your folds part around the girth of his shape in his sweatpants.

“so god damn fuckin’ sexy.” he speaks through gritted teeth, and in a split flash you’re on your back — rafe hovering above you with strong greedy hands pinning you down. “gettin’ off on my lap. who’d you think you are, hm?” he hums, taking the lead as he noses at your jaw. there’s a faint clattering of his headset sliding off the sheets but you ignore it, lost in the moment.

“think m’your girl.” you daze, and if there’s any message your boyfriend drills into your head, it’s that his girl is allowed to take what she wants. even from him.

“got that right.” he’s fighting his sweatpants down with one hand, shoving your thighs open with the other. you didn’t need any preparation today, the art of being purely ignored for a game had gotten you as wet as they come.

⛸️✧˖°❅🤍

[dumbsoftheart]

my schedule has become wayyy too intense to write full length fics anymore :( but i’m open to taking requests!

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #coriolanus x reader #jj maybank #rafe cameron #peter parker

[dumbsoftheart]

send more asks! i’m working on another coryo fic rn <3 (even tho i said gibson girl was my last.. oops!)

[dumbsoftheart]

ik ‘gibson girl’ is already inspired by a song but i can’t stop thinking abt how ‘if u think i’m pretty’ by Artemas fits it so well

just listened and my god yes, you’re absolutely right

[dumbsoftheart]

cant stop thinking about latino!peter parker

#diary #he’d talk you through it in spanish #thats all i have to day #peter parker

[dumbsoftheart]

I just found your recent Peter Parker series and I’m hooked!! Your writing is top tier omg so so amazing!! Thank you for sharing!! <3

thank you so much!!! i’ve been considering shelving that one :/ but im glad you enjoy it!! means the world ♡

[dumbsoftheart]

gibson girl

pairing: post-university!coriolanus snow x reader

tags: 18+, mdni. dark themes, heavy mention of drug and alcohol usage, abusive/toxic relationship, calls reader a bitch, degradation, cunnilingus, vaginal sex

summary: “obsession with the money, addicted to the drugs. says he’s in love with my body, that’s why he’s fucking it up.” you and coryo aren’t proud of the relationship you’ve built, but you both can’t seem to get enough of each other.

notes: yes this is a repost because i did not proofread this and got a bit embarrassed. this is probably my most crudely written work, sorry (not!), and for a lack for better words is not as carefully written as my other fics, but i hope you all like it <3 this is probably the last i will write for coryo aside from any continuations of past works for now so soak it all in!!!!!

word count: 3.2k

౨ׅৎ

in the dimly lit hideaway of pluribus’s nightclub, where pulsating lights of reds, purples, blues, greens gleamed kaleidoscopically against the writhing mass of glittering bodies and thumping music, stood coriolanus snow. he hated the affair, being clamoured in the sweat and smoke of dancing strangers, a complete infiltration of his personal space, and far too stuffy for anyone’s comfort. it was an incongruous occurrence, his presence in the glitter-drenched revelry. clemensia had tormented him that day, with piercing whines of “but it’s your birthday!” and “won’t you ever have fun?”, and there he was, ludicrously dressed in slacks and a half-undone button-up shirt, courtesy of a drunken sejanus, traces of glitter— which he despised, smeared across his face and neck. when arachne had showed up and rubbed her lustre infested fingertips all over his clean-shaven face, he’d wanted to kill her right then and there. he sat there,  wide-legged in the private section of the club, fiddling with a half empty bottle of champagne with happy birthday! streamers dangled across his shoulders. he’d had about three of festus’s liquor concoctions, with their repulsively sweet maraschino aftertastes, but amidst the chaotic symphony that had his head spinning, there existed one exception to his distaste for the ordeal—a vision he couldn't bring himself to detest: you.

festus sat next to him, head nodding and lolling to the side from inebriation, and coriolanus kept a distant eye on clemensia and arachne as they disappeared into the dense crowd of hot, glittering bodies. his body yearned for the solace of his bed, plagued by the ache of alcohol and half-hearted dancing that numbed his legs, and the variegated torment of the club's vibrant lights— and then there you stood.

adorned in a cascade of the remnant sparkles that had rubbed off on you as you danced, gold flakes carefully splayed across your eyelids, and a daringly short dress hugging tightly on your hips graced your curves as you moved without care among the chaotic company of the nightclub. when coriolanus watched you beeline into his peripheral, open-backed dress teasingly swaying as you spun in hand with one of your friends, smiling so bright you outshone everyone else in that godforsaken bar, his hands tightened on the bottle held between his legs, and he exhaled slowly through parted lips. 

the subtle reaction provoked a slight nudge and a cocky smile from festus, to which coriolanus rolled his eyes childishly at, fixing his gaze between his legs in an attempt to veil the growing want spreading through his veins. festus wasted no time in spewing some audacious insinuations about coriolanus and a hypothetical "dancing girl across the room" to a stumbling clemensia and arachne (“so every girl in here?” arachne had giggled, rippling a current laughter throughout the rest of the group and a juvenile grumble from festus). then, without warning, coriolanus pulled himself to his feet and pushed your way, propelled by a mix of inebriated bravado and annoyance, running a hand through his hair nervously as he (cutely) tried to dance his way to you. 

drunk and hazy, you wasted no time in latching your arms around him, flashing him a smile that had him feeling weak and guiding him to sway in tandem with you as the music blared and vibrated through your souls. you’d coaxed his hips to move in consonance with yours, and soon he’d figured out the rhythm you set, his hands delicately enveloping the contours of your waist. he was grinding his hips against the curve of your ass yours in a manner that was far too seductive for a first encounter and had you gasping lowly under the booming noise of music and conversation. 

by the end of the night, coryo had bid his friends goodbye with his lips half-attached to yours, and fucked you so good and hard you struggled to walk for a week. 

he returned the next weekend, alone, a halfhearted attempt to alleviate his stresses within the familiar embrace of the bustling speakeasy. he needed a drink, and he went to the first place he could think of. he had expected the place to be buzzing on a friday night, but he hadn’t expected to see you again. 

he hated smoking, but something about the way you slowly let the dense vapour of your joint escape your lips with a dimwitted smile made his cock twitch. with a swig of whiskey, he made his way towards you, snatching the long stick of cannabis from your fingers and taking a long, hot drag. in a fluid motion, he closed the space between you, blowing the smoke between the parted entrance of your lip-glossed lips with a light hand venturing to your waist. the night continued with you on his lap, high and dazed from both the weed and the delicious feeling of coriolanus’s lips on your neck, sucking and nipping dark marks onto the softness of it. he was marking you as his, and you loved every second of it. 

he coaxed you into a few more drinks, cooing words of dirty praise into your ear when you downed the dark liquor from his hands, whispering softly in your ear how much he loved your body, the sweet and sexy suppleness of it, and you became his, entirely. when he beckoned you to take another drag of a joint, you complied. when he whispered into your ear the order of his drink, you fetched it for him, sipping it lightly on his command, and when he bent you over the club’s bathroom sink and ordered you to spread your legs a liiittle further, you did. 

after that occurrence, it was like clockwork. he was downright filthy when he fucked you; he’d show up, tense with frustrations from work, and there you’d be, beautiful and seductive as ever, and he would fuck his tribulations into your sweet little cunt like his life depended on it. like he never got tired of it, he’d slowly drag the head of his cock over your slick folds, circle it around your clit and then pound into you sloppily. he’d mumble how dirty you were before loading you with his cum, then he’d flip you over and finger-fuck you to a blissful release, making sure not a single drop of his load escaped your throbbing hole. he especially liked fucking you in the clothes he bought you, ruining the expensive fabrics he splurged on greedily. you’d grown used to the gifts he’d send you. you didn't know how he’d found your address, but you couldn't find it in you to care. the plethora of dresses and jewellery and shoes he sent you, always tagged with a note, for my aphrodite, made up for it. you loved dressing up for him, to his tastes, because it made him desire you all the more. the minute he caught sight of you in his hand picked ensemble, it was impossible to get his hands off of you. he was addicted to you, and how easy it was for him to claim you. just like that, you were his, and he loved even more that you embraced it; showed him off. 

coriolanus hated the bright colours of the club, but he adored them on you. he’d always pick dresses and accessories that glinted brightly in the right light, and he’d set the dark private room to a cool silvery blue that was easy on the eyes. you’d dance for him, not because he asked, but because you loved it, and he’d sit smugly and watch, sipping on some dark liquor that you loved to taste on him before pulling you onto his lap with a small laugh and letting you ride him until the sun rose again. when you ground your hips against him, sucking him to the base, he’d string his hands through your hair and moan out pathetically, “i’m never gonna let you go, never gonna let you fucking go,” which was far too intimate for the relationship the two of you had struck, but it only drew your orgasm closer and made your heart swell, the bittersweet combo better than any drug you could take on the market. 

he was addicted to you, in every sense of the word. “takin’ my cock so well, baby, fuck” he’d choke out in a high pitched whine, nails digging even deeper into your ass as he slammed your velvety walls into him, “pretty fuckin’ pussy.. sucks me in like it needs me,” his thrusts would get sloppier, your pretty moans egging him on to coax more out of you to satiate his fix. in a moment of vulnerability, he’d peer down at you with his brows scrunched together, lips quivering and ask, “do you need me?” 

you were too dumb and fucked out to answer, just as he liked, and he loved to slide a lousy hand to rub circles on your swollen clit while he angled his fat cock in a way that made your body weak and drool escape from the corners of your mouth, and repeat the question until your body shook uncontrollably with pleasure. 

“n-need you so bad, coryo, fuck me so good, please, please” you would pant in your breathy, whiny voice, absolutely unintelligible, squirming and shaky. 

“tell me again, baby, do you need me?” he’d try to overstimulate the words he wanted out of you, searching your eyes desperately until you croaked out a small yes, and his head would fall into the crevice of your neck as you managed to take almost all of him simultaneously, moaning out as he came inside you. 

when things turned slightly sour between the two of you, it only fueled your aching want for each other more. you were insecure, desperate for his approval, and when you sensed a glimmer of his disinterest in you, you were quick to spark up an argument with him; the only way you could figure out to show him you care without explicitly telling him. it was toxic, and part of you loved it. you loved to rile him up, make him so angry he’d brutally grumble in your ear how much of a slut, whore, bitch you were. you loved when the two of you would go at it and he would force you into an empty room, ramble about how much he hated you while he pumped his cock into you at an agonisingly fast pace, and then bring you two to sweet relief with a barely audible i love you, please never leave me, and then send you home. 

he hit you, sometimes. it would always happen after sex, when his insecurities got the best of him and he’d strike another argument of his own to form some semblance of conversation with you, then be driven to madness by his own doing so severe that his hand would unleash upon your cheek, staining the soft skin of your mandible a familiar shade of red. when he slapped you during sex, you hated it. you had no means of fighting back and winning, so you combat him with your words. 

“you’ll never amount to anything, snow,” slap, and his hand grabbed at your tits crudely, “you can walk around this city and act like you own it,” another slap, then he’d wrap his hand around your neck as he made you cum until your body couldn’t handle it, “and you can try control everything,” slap,“but you’ll never be able to control what matters.”

you tried your best to dig at his biggest fears, vulnerabilities, anything to ignite that shimmer of pain in his eyes so he could feel a morsel of what you did for him. he was coldblooded, and it took more than a simple jab at his ego to make him bleed. you loved him. everyone knew you did, no matter how much you denied it, because you wore him everywhere you went. in your clothes lingered his scent, under them, his bruises, and you were irrevocably his. 

you knew how deep you were in after your final shred of patience snapped. coriolanus wanted to play it hard today? fine. and off you were, dancing like a whore in the middle of the dancefloor with one of coryo’s coworkers. he sat and watched you dance with a fire burning in his eyes, his teeth grinding painfully and his hand wrapped around his glass so hard it threatened to shatter (on another occasion, it did). then, when you’d snaked a hand down the drunken man’s abdomen, lip bitten and eyes heavy with lust, he’d grabbed you harshly and stormed out of the club into the cold streets of the capitol, and you smiled. the sound of your heels clacking against the pavement reverberated in your chest. you threw him a loud “fuck you!” as he tugged you out of sight from any passerby, then, without warning, you found yourself pressed up a damp wall by the neck, coriolanus’s thin fingers twisting painfully into your carotid. 

“you’re a spoiled fucking brat, you know that?” his hands plunged into your underwear, and he toyed with your clit dangerously fast as he stared you down.

“did you want to fuck him?” the way he spat at you made you squeeze your thighs together. you smiled, mouthing a slow ‘yeah’, groaning when his grip around your neck tightened and your body became lax from the lack of air and his fingers on your dripping pussy. he dropped you, stroked a loving hand through your hair then grabbed your jaw, forced it open, and dug his two fingers down your throat.

“do you think he can fuck you as good as i can, you bitch?”

you gazed up at him, eyes wet and hazy and fucked out with lust, and mumbled with a smile, “mhm..”, he forced his fingers deeper, and you moaned. 

“don’t fucking lie,” tears streamed down your face now as you struggled to breathe with his fingers shoved down your throat, and your eyes widened as you heard the familiar sound of his belt buckle, “can he make this pussy cum as hard as i do, hm?”

he hitched your dress up, pushed your panties to the side forcefully, and lined his tip with your entrance while he awaited your answer. you shrugged, slowly becoming dizzy from gagging on his slender fingers, whining from the absence of his touch, and he growled angrily as he began to pound into you relentlessly. 

he removed his fingers from your mouth to slap you wide across the face, the slick of your saliva on his fingers causing them bouncing painfully on your cheek, and your smile grew further. 

“yeah, you fucking slut, this what you wanted? for me to fuck the sense back into you?” 

coryo liked it messy. he loved berating you, degrading you, arms wrapped tightly around your torso and feeling your cunt grow wetter on his cock as he did so. he loved to make you an embarrassing, babbling mess, then force you to watch as he bullied his way into you, a rough hand in your hair as he pumped his cock with an inhuman fervour. 

“you like that don’t you? keep watching.”

“fuck, coryo!” 

“thats right baby, let ‘em hear who you belong to.” 

you pressed your forehead against his, panting heavily through parted lips as you kept your gaze on those sapphire eyes of his that you adored, mumbling incoherent pleads and apologies as your release approached. 

“are you going to listen to me?” and with a tear-inducing orgasm, you shrieked cries of yes, coryo, fuck yes! into his shoulder, biting harshly on his pale skin as you tried to quiet yourself.

you walked home that night, panties soaked with his cum and a few new bruises to remember the night from. 

this was the routine the two of you had settled in. neither of you were proud of it, neither of you liked it, but neither of you knew how to do it any differently. you didn’t know how to love unless it was through petty quarrels or you were too high to remember the feeling. coriolanus didnt know how to love unless constituted of complete, whole control of you-- and you couldn’t bear accepting his love like in that form, not sober at least. so you let him. you let him destroy you, bit by bit. you would pump yourself full of any and all drugs you could find, down the glasses upon glasses handed to you on his lap, and the two of you would love, the only way you knew how. 

when things were like that; desperate and full of unspoken feelings after a tense week of not seeing each other, the private room the two of you often booked would glitter a dark red light, flickering radiantly against the sequins of your dress, and the pearly blonde of his hair; and you’d stand above him, between his legs, stroking the soft hidden curls of his in a haze, feeling so good and loose from whatever he’d given you that you’d giggle without warning, lean close to him and press earnest, loving kisses to his lips in between mumbles of i love you’s. he would nod, tears welling in his eyes, hating how far he had to go to make you feel love for him again, and cradle your face in his hands, kissing you with every ounce of his being. you’d find yourself straddled on his lap, like always, kissing red marks along his neck and his shirt and chest gently as you comforted him, trying your best to wash away his worries and assure him that you did, in your own messed up way, truly love him. he’d flip you over, hook your legs over his shoulders and lap messily at you until morning came. he would do it forever, if he could-- get on his knees and devote himself to eating you out. his hands would grip your thighs like he was afraid you would slip away from him, and he’d rest his head on one of your thighs after making you cum for the third time, staring up at you, breathless, face glistening, and mouth parted like you were everything to him; before diving into the saccharine mess of your pussy again. he knew how to please you like the back of his hand. he knew how to edge his nose against your folds in the way that made you whine and thrash; he knew when to insert his fingers into your gummy walls, how to curl them in a way that had you come undone in a mere seconds, how to kitten-lick his way around your clit with a lewd moan, drag out long, animalistic groans from you that had you gripping his hair so hard you wondered how you didnt rip the follicles straight out his head. 

the relentless cycle of passion and pain that defined your bond, the late-night arguments that left scars deeper than their words, the moments of fleeting tenderness that were overshadowed by deceit and manipulation. whatever you and coriolanus snow had made had eroded into a relationship neither of you could understand, but neither of you could let go. you were each other’s life lines, so when he hit you, you thanked him, and when you dug your knife deeper into his heart, he’d tell you he loved you. even as he fucked you up, ruined you, you knew he was doing it out of love, and you were grateful. 

౨ׅৎ

@dumbsoftheart, 2023

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow smut #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus smut

[dumbsoftheart]

hi im alive

[dumbsoftheart]

Pride & Prejudice - Coriolanus {Young} Snow x Reader

Summary: Spending more time with the miserable Mr. Snow, against your will, only proves to you exactly why he is a man you have sworn to loathe for all eternity. Steamy Pride & Prejudice retelling with young snow and you! Alternate universe, au!snow <3

Notes: so happy you all loved the first part — so i guess i’m continuing ahaha. as always, thank u for leaving comments and loves as it keeps me motivated! also, feel free to lmk if you’d like to be added to the tag list <3

two

The mist of September’s end and October’s greeting is a thick, heavy blanket in the air. You only scowl at it as you pick up your tiered skirt from where it drags against emerald moss and dirt. A storm is nearby.

You would melt into this very soil if you could. Become one with the lilacs and peonies if it meant you’d never be prevailed upon to marry again by the force of your mother.

Mama is unwell. As always but, with more fervor now. The dance was most successful for Jane. She and Sejanus have been exchanging kind letters with pomegranate stained kisses garnishing the print. Even so, mama is viciously unhappy.

The cherrywood cabinets slam louder when you pass, and her eyes narrow at any mention of the gathering. Perhaps your behavior was a great embarrassment for her. If only you were as divine as Jane.

The house is lively, far too lively for your liking at this settling hour. Sisters here and sisters there. They busy themselves with the grand piano and awful singing. It isn’t long until one of the twins rushes forward with a sealed envelope clasped tightly in hand.

“Mama! It is for Jane!”

You snatch the paper from her palm, worrisome that she will ruin it with how tightly she squeezes. Beyond this, you are most eager to see the development in your own personal romance novel starring your dearest sister. Mama slaps your hand away in turn, tugging it back into a monstrous grasp that nearly shreds it to minuscule little pieces.

You see the breath halt and dwell comfortably in her throat, unwilling to part or falter. This is most important to her, trivial matter as it is.

So long as Jane is happy…

You gaze on at the girl with petal-pink cheeks and bright eyes — her smile is a thing of beauty and joy at the mere idea that Sejanus Plinth could admire her.

“Mama! What does it say!”

Her hands tremble like hummingbirds now, and your frown stitches itself promptly upon your pretty face. Oh no, he is certain to have changed his mind.

At least he was kind and gentleman enough to inform dear Jane by letter.

That joy, excitement and eagerness once swimming within your mother’s eyes has dissipated to sheer horror.

“When did we receive this?” She whispers, a ghastly and terror laced sound.

“This morning!” One of the twins happily offers, twirling her chocolate ringlet tight enough to knot.

Mama cries out a sound of agony, shoving the paper hard against Jane’s chest — enough so that she stumbles. She is a frantic thing, running round your quaint living space like that of a farm animal who has lost its head.

You are fueled by your own confusion, constricting your mind to only wait upon Jane. She shakily reads the crumbled thing — hesitance becoming her. Her eyes shift then; a look of joy, excitement, fear — then dread.

“What is it?” You whisper, watching as mama mutters nonsense and brushes the collection of scattered breadcrumbs from the countertop — eyes wide as the moon aglow at midnight.

“Mr. Plinth and his sister, alongside Mr. Snow and sir Plinth’s dear — rich uncle, have all planned to meet with us this evening. They’ve taken a carriage, and have made arrangements to arrive by sundown.”

Four pairs of eyes, in perfected unison, glance into the grassy plains where the sun has begun to set.

You do not intend to giggle at the irony, perhaps it is a thing fueled by nerves just as your mother. Yet it floats from your sweet lips like a prayer, slender fingers rushing to suffocate it.

It is undeniably numerous, however. How could it be anything but?

The way your dearest blood all melts at the brim for the gaze of three men whom are only important by cold silver is a thing of great mystery to you, something you do not understand. It is not just mama and Jane and the entirety of your own family however. No, it is all of society. You only wonder what it would be like for a woman to reach beyond the horizon line — to be great. To not be forced upon a man of all creatures to be of true importance.

Mama rushes past, so quickly your hair becomes unruly. She presses her palms firmly against your cheeks — your face piecing together like a swift minnow from the nearby fish pond.

“Oh heavens — if you do even the littlest act so to embarrass me, I am certain to die of great illness. My nerves are far too weak, you must behave for me! Be as sweet Jane is. Sir Plinth’s uncle is of the richest gentleman in Newbury, 5,000 a year! You must converse with him, do it for your dearest mother. Oh! And brush that wild hair from your face, girl. He will think you to be a witch — keep guard at the window.”

Her words are a tangled, knotted mess of all the things you despise. Even whilst tucked away into a place where you do not truly listen, you know well she is asking you to be social for gain of a husband.

You frown, grateful when the headless chicken runs off from you again. Your hand fussses with the wisps rested amongst your forehead — and you obey mama’s orders by sauntering to the creaky old chair that faces the fogged front window.

The fog is a veil, a curtain hiding from you only dread. You are grateful for it now, though it does no good for your locks and tresses. Your eyes dart to the torn book beside you — and you consider disobedience as an alternative to this state. You know well what will happen if you stray, so you do not dare it.

It is an awfully timely and punctual arrival — perhaps ten ticks of the grand, tower clock before the stallion’s snouts peek through the fog. Just as the golden halo sets beyond them.

“Mama!”

You call, but she only waves you away with a busy hand as she continues fussing with the knit table mat. You will not bother it again. You shrink, hiding all but curious eyes behind the lace curtain.

Sejanus is grinning, nervously you think. Then the scowling sister, a small, old creature with a sunken gaze — and the miserable one. They approach, you sink further.

“God Sejanus, smile any more for the poor thing and your pockets will start betraying you.” Grace sneers, voice sewn tightly with disgust at the less fortunate situation your family finds themselves in, glancing around at the quaint, pathetic home. It is as if she believes one breath of hers will cause it to collapse to the soil — to her polished feet.

“Please Grace, she is the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Oh, uncle, her eldest sister is very agreeable as well. Don’t you agree, Snow?”

Oh, he’s asked the cold thing who’s far too proud and rich for a humble party. You’re curious.

“Perfectly tolerable, I suppose. But not pretty enough to tempt me.”

Oh…

Your mischievous, sneaky grin melts into that of a hard line — ample with annoyance. How arrogant of him to say. As if his blonde locks and blue eyes make him any different than the handsome officers that pass by now and then. As if he is some prize. You scowl, Grace’s laugh an unpleasant sound.

Four hard knocks and you are quickly up to your feet.

Mama rushes to you immediately, slapping your hand enough so that it stings greatly and fades the color crimson.

“You were meant to watch! Places, take your stance girls!”

It takes beyond the greatest force to drag your feet to stand beside Jane. Mama checks each forced position anxiously before she tugs the door open wide — with a horrible, eager grin.

“Welcome!”

They trail the moss and dirt onto your oak floors, not bothering to wipe it away on the torn cloth you call a carpet. No need, they believe. The house is pathetic already as it stands. No dirt shall make it any less worthy than it already is.

In unison, a curtsy of greeting becomes all of you. Prim and proper and perfect just as mother groomed you all to be. For preparation of husbands.

Good god, the blonde looks even more dreadful now. Cold eyes darting to the old, harmless hound that chews on a racket ball. He winces at the sight of dust and chipped oak wood furniture surrounding. He looks down upon this place as if it is beneath him.

He far from belongs here.

“Sit, please sit! I’ve already prepared us supper!” Mama practically pushes Sejanus with most nervous palms, and his shadows follow suite.

Though you dream of running through the open door and fading into the mist to never be found again — you obey; sauntering into the archway with tired eyes and reluctant feet.

“My lady…”

Oh.

The short man with bushy brows and coal colored, untamed locks pulls your seat back enough so that you may sit upon it. To your dismay, the miserable one takes place in front of you. His eyes are cast downward to the far from fine silverware laid before him.

“Thank you sir.” You whisper, the chair feeling as though it is determined to suffocate you the longer you sit upon it.

“Oh, Jane — everybody, please meet my uncle, Mr. Casca Highbottom of Bristol.”

You only nod at the grinning old man, and mama rushes back like a midnight breeze through the archway — setting plates filled to the brim with but all of the food left for the entire month. Even so, it remains poor to a gazing eye. Though it matters not how little garnishes the porcelain, for when you catch gaze of miserable Snow pushing his few peas around in disgust, you cannot help but narrow your sight.

How can he be so proud? Certainly, if a humble gathering invited you in for a warm meal in this awful mist — you’d be most grateful for even a singular pea on your plate. Let alone twelve.

Grace laughs at the sight of Snow displeased — placing a soft palm against his knee beneath the cherrywood table. He spares her laugh a glance, and his lip twitches in what appears to be an amused smile. They talk lowly to each other, you notice it from where you peer behind your glass. She must be fond of him what with the way she touches him and leans closer with each word he speaks. You cannot possibly imagine why. Perhaps they are just alike. Rich, rude things.

“So — I dare ask if any suitors captured your heart at the party then?” Grace, she speaks to you now. You snort, ready to offer words of disdain and disgust toward the lot of men and their sweaty palms. Your mother’s cold glare silences you.

“No… they did not.” You mutter in quick defeat.

“Hmm, how dreadful…” it is mock sympathy, noticeable to both you and Jane.

Tension thins to a mere string lacing the table together. Silence blanketing even more so than the mist as worn silverware and mama’s embarsssing tangents erupt in painful harmony. You are grateful for Jane who manages to pry her eyes from Sejanus for a single moment so to save you from mama’s disapproving glare at your silence. She is selling you to the short man, it seems. She has been for the entirety of this meal.

“It is not as though gentlemen do not flock to my dear sister…” Jane starts. “It is simply that she is far too preoccupied with her books to notice them. She is an avid reader, adores her novels you see. She possesses great talents because of it!”

You hoped Jane would be so kind as to avert the attention. Yet it remains stable upon you, the available wife — as cattle with clipped ears. You feel as though you are livestock being powdered and pressed for the market. If the short man is buying, you’d rather be butchered.

He is awkward and stout and his jokes are uncomfortable as they are just rude. He is far from a gentleman and all the reason you deny each hand bestowed to you in the first place. For reason of men like him.

“You write?” Snow inquires.

Those cold, devoid eyes are locked upon you — and despite wishing to send him away to never return so you may be free of his arrogance, you only peer up at his gaze through fanned lashes to see them commanding an answer of you. Awaiting one.

“Occasionally, sir.”

His gaze doesn’t falter, nor does the gaze of Mr. Highbottom, even as he presses a boiled potato to his tongue.

“What of?”

What a silly question, you think. What else would a woman of your age and lack quill about?

It baffles you to find him curious. Perhaps he does not wish to seem obviously rude any more so than he simply is — perhaps he is only creating small talk.

“What else, sir? My thoughts and desires, my ideas. Romance — dramatics…”

“Oh but she just despises poetry!” Mama interjects, as if to end the conversation and refocus it upon your eligibility. Even when she speaks, Snow does not spare her a single glance. His eyes, they still rest upon you.

“You do? I thought poetry to be the food of love.”

You dare a snort then, suffocating a fit of laughter with a spoonful of food. You take your time chewing it, only offering more words when you realize that the conversation does not seem to be at its end. No. It cannot be. Not when he looks at you in a such an expectant manner.

“A poet writes of women in the gaze of all men, which I do not believe to be a true show of adoration. Perhaps it is the food of love — if you want to suffocate it. Stone it till it remains no longer.”

His next words come quick, immediately almost. As if he is grasping at the first chance to reply, much to Highbottom’s dismay whom snaps his mouth shut after losing the opportunity. Every eye in attendance is on the both of you.

Do they think you to be an enigma? You wonder…

“What do you recommend then? To encourage affection between two people…”

You do not know why he asks you this, but you can only assume it is because he wishes to embarrass you. Grace’s sharp gaze morphs into that of an amused smirk. Why would he ask the only woman seated what encourages affection when she cannot obtain it on her own?

You are certain then of his intentions. To mock you in front of Plinth’s sister, his uncle. In front of your blood. He does it so subtlety that if you were not bright as you are — you would most certainly miss it. He is a fool, a great fool because miraculously — you can reciprocate.

“Dancing… even if one’s partner is only tolerable.” You almost sneer with a tilt of your head and raise of your sharp brow.

If something truly clicks within him, it is most quickly dissipated. Most tricky to see. Sejanus clears his throat, and Highbottom — rude creature, erupts into a fit of laughter with a mouthful of food. Your mother is nervous, she joins him.

Grace only gasps, and Jane’s soft features are laced with confusion at the thing only you five are lucky enough to understand.

You remain stoic, challenging his eyes and his tense, twitching jaw with proudness.

“Shall I fetch dessert mama?”

Your mother nods through fits of forced laughter, and you take the opportunity to lift upon your feet. The chair scrapes against the creaky panels and nearly topples as you rush into the quaint kitchen and away from him.

It brings you joy knowing that he has nothing further to say.

You are smiling, terribly overflowed with pride as you place canned, sugared peaches upon ten porcelain plates. How proud he must have felt to speak lowly of you, a girl he spared little words to at a party he refrained from dancing at for it was too poor for his liking.

You disliked him then — but a chat with miss Lucy-Gray Baird while passing by in town confirmed all of your prejudice. She claims to have been treated most coldly by him whilst he was courting her. He offered his hand, then fled into midnight when he grew bored of her. Only the next morning.

He is as any other man is. A heartless hound. His behavior in your small home only further proves your prejudice is with more than enough reason.

You take longer than you should selfishly, and when you return — your gaze locks upon Sejanus who is entirely enamored by the sapphire gaze of Jane.

Mama aids you in placing down the plates you juggle. It is a poor dessert, but one that is most delectable.

“Oh well, your daughter is most precious. Funny, too! How uncommon for women.”

“Oh please uncle, we all have our wit. She is just peculiar, I daresay.”

Mama laughs at Grace’s words, and you only offer a polite, tense smile before being seated once again. It is you now that pushes your food around your plate, fading into the mist truly as you remain silent.

They speak of things you care the least bit for — all irrelevant matters to your mind. You are grateful when wine is poured, you nearly inhale it and garner a slap on your hand once again from mama.

You need it to get thought this.

Highbottom and mama speak of you, she tells him lies. How much you wish to be wed, how eager you are to find a lover. All contradictions of Jane’s earlier lick of truth. The rich fool believes her, his eyes cast upon you like poisonous darts. Slowly suffocating you.

Sejanus is preoccupied entirely by Jane — and the miserable one chats lowly with the scowling sister.

“Well, how about some music and dance? Lizzie, off to the piano!”

Your youngest sister lifts — eager to press her hands against the keys. It will be a mediocre melody but one that offers enough sound so to dance. You wish to stay glued to the table as they leave you to the living space — but mama tugs at your braid harshly, you have no choice other than obedience.

Sejanus kindly offers Jane a hand — and you feel as though you will just sink entirely into the floor as Highbottom approaches. Your heel turns you swift as you try and find even a small bit of space in this little home.

A navy vest with a crimson rose tucked into its pocket cages your escape. You never thought to see the day you’d be grateful for the cold blonde who cuts in front. You nearly collide with him.

“Dance with me.” He commands.

How baffling…

You do not notice the tension settled within your features until your brows ease in confusion. Your chin is pointed upwards — enough so that he can be equal to your gaze.

“Are you asking this of me — or ordering sir?”

His jaw ticks once more, but he does not follow up with any more words. The cleared throat of the short man behind you is enough reason to pick the far less uncomfortable poison. You’d rather be fueled by annoyance as opposed to discomfort and dread. One dance is all.

“Fine.” You mutter, sealing your fate and betraying your swear to be far away from the man whom you loathe entirely.

He is a pale thing up close. Birth marks kissing silken skin, soft as the moss kissing your shoes. You are grateful that this dance does not require touch — only the occasional closeness.

You follow him to where Sejanus and Jane stand — his head nearly reaches your ceiling. His palm hovers over yours, eyes downcast on your pretty features. Grace is scowling, again.

Your fingers twitch as Lizzie begins the sonnet, and you follow his lead.

It surprises you greatly, how well he dances. Though his mouth is a hard line, and his eyes are like round lumps of charred coal. He is noiseless.

“Are we to dance in dread and silence, Mr. Snow? I dare comment on this awful weather, now you may follow with a remark about the food. How much you despised it.”

You catch a glimpse of him, a suppressed twitch of his lips. As if the words offended him. Maybe amused him. You step forward and then back, frayed skirt floating against the movement. He follows suite.

“I could comment on how you dance. I am happy to inform you it is more tasteful than how you cook. Please do advise me on what more you want me to say to you.”

You stumble by his words — and his eyes dart to your clumsy feet. They are stable soon enough, circling him like a shark in vicious waters. His words upset you.

“Mama and Jane prepared the meal. I only prepared the peaches; but I do believe that if a family was kind enough to welcome an abrupt attendance with a warm meal — I would not be so complacent about its contents. You see — we are not all so fortunate to have garnered inheritance, Mr. Snow.” A cold melody, but one he would be a fool to ignore. It is all true.

Now it is him that halts. He steps forward, dipping his head low. Your eyes wander to his gloved palm — it clenches then flexes outward; all evidence of his annoyance with your words.

There you both stand, Sejanus and Jane alongside the twins, mama and Highbottom swirling around you. You do not know where Grace lurks.

You both are still, he stands a tower above you. His eyes pour heat into your own, admonishing you — offended with your words. It is as if the room is only filled with the two of you, the lace of connection between you just your anger. Even in your short time being familiar, it is strong.

“Do you imply that my inheritance is all the reason for my success?” He forces through clenched — perfect teeth.

“Perhaps I do sir, miss Baird of Newbury certainly agree—”

The hand that lays against your side is snatched into his own. He squeezes it tight now, eyes wide and swimming with disapproval and frustration. It has been resting at the surface, but bound to crack.

“Oh I’m certain she does. I am sure she told you the many tales of her troubles and woes brought upon by her time spent with me. You won’t speak to her again.”

It is you that steps forward now, so laced with upset that you do not notice your poor and worn shoes are stepping upon his tip toes. Up upon the rich and shined leather. Your chin is pointed upward, your stance tense.

“You command me as if I am wed to you sir, but I am not. You have come here, unannounced and unhappy with your humble plate as if we are all but a quaint inn with poor maids. Just because we gather little and obscure and we do not have pockets as generous and full as yours does not make us beneath you, Mr. Snow.”

The music halts, and your eyes shift quickly to find a concerned Jane gazing on — alongside your horrified mother. How crazed you both must look now. Stepping upon his toes with palms clasped — anger and upset becoming you both.

You release his gloved hand and part your soft lips to dismiss yourself — yet a strike of lightning cracking from above the grayed sky is a gift given, a distraction from beyond. Yet alongside it? A curse.

The horses startle, lifting to their hind legs before running far and fast with the carriage. Grace cries out from where she sulked in the shadows, and Sejanus alongside his uncle run after the wild beasts. Your sisters and mama follow.

“What are we to do!?”

“Grace, please be calm. We will fetch them.”

“We cannot travel in these conditions, boy.”

“You may rest here!”

Dread is a serpent that wraps tight round your throat — making the pounding of your heart halt entirely.

It is all a blur, but by the end of the lively conversation it is decided. They will stay. They will all stay. You bow your head, crossing your arms round the beating at your chest so to protect it.

“Excuse me.” You whisper, so low it is taken with the breeze from the open door before rushing up your dilapidated steps; knowing full well that the hospitality offered by mama, selfish reasoning or not, is the last thing a man like Mr. Snow deserves…

[dumbsoftheart]

scratches my head while i try to figure out how to manage school, volleyball, clubs, fic writing, college apps, exams, and passion projects

#diary

[dumbsoftheart]

can you please make threads of fate a series? im literally so obsessed with the way you write and everything!!! seriously in awe ⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

thank you so much doll! i wrote it with the intention of making it a series however i just need to find the time to write it, but it absolutely is something i want to do

#asks

[dumbsoftheart]

one of my fav scenes from pride and prejudice is when darcy kisses all over lizzie’s face and i cannot stop thinking about snow doing that . . .

his warm palms cup your face, engulfing it till you feel like a small and fragile porcelain doll in his hands. you complain about his use of “dear” as it is too common.

“what do you want me to call you, then?”

you’re mischievous, grinning as he runs a thumb along the side of your face.

“my love for everyday, my angel for sundays, and my goddess divine — but only on very special occasions.”

he grins at you, brushing back the stray hairs that part from your precious braid.

“and when i’m angry with you? mrs. snow?”

you shake your head immediately at the thought of it. such a beautiful title you’ve earned and you would just wither if he used it when cross.

“no no, absolutely not. you may only call me mrs. snow when you are completely and perfectly, incandescently happy.”

he must take it as a challenge, evidence of his boyish grin before he guides your face near to him.

“mrs. snow…” he whispers to you, pressing his lips slowly, softly and with much attention and care against your forehead. “mrs. snow…” he repeats again, lips to your left cheek, then right, then your nose.

he continues, kissing each inch of your pretty face until he lands upon your lips with one final whisper of —

“mrs. snow…”

[dumbsoftheart]

innocence — modern ! coriolanus snow + reader : your friends ask you to get some drugs from the local dealer, but you never expect he would take a liking to you.

tags : 18+!!! MDNI!!! drug dealing ! coryo, drugs, praise kink, overprotective behavior, possessive behavior, porn with feelings, p in v sex, fingering, special treatment

coriolanus snow hated parties, they were loud, and the people were insufferable— but he needed the money from the things he sold. cocaine, weed, even some ecstasy. whatever the people wanted, whatever helped support his grandmother and cousin. they weren’t living in the most luxury like all the other people who held parties in these neighborhoods, so that’s why coriolanus attended them, they always paid the most.

he typically got douchebags or stuck - up pretty girls, they both always paid him in crumpled up ones that he took forever to straighten out and count— what a bunch of assholes.

what he never expected, though, was you, coming up to the man dressed in a korn shirt and baggy jeans with a bow in your hair as well as wearing a pretty dress. your doe eyes peered up at him when you tapped his shoulder, he turned, eyes slotting down to meet yours, “hey.”

“hi,” you hesitate, cute, “i.. do you sell drugs?”

he clears his throat, “sorry?”

“do you—“

“probably shouldn’t repeat yourself, doll,” he tips his head up, “i do, are you buying?“

“just for my friends, yeah,” you smile shyly at him, and he returns it.

you’re so innocent, had you ever done any drugs before? definitely not the ones he sells, maybe the weed, but cocaine or ecstasy? no, no way. if it were for you, he wouldn’t be selling you it anyway. coriolanus had a certain soft spot, if you will, for the innocent girls that wander up to him at parties with their batting eyelashes and naturally pouted lips.

“alright, let’s go upstairs,” he tips his head to the stairs, chuckling when you move to give a thumbs up to your friends before following after him, “why do they make you ask for them?”

he suddenly moves back to grab your wrist when the halls find themselves crowded, not wanting to lose you in the sea of people, nor you lose him. you were a client, a customer, and he always treats his customer this way.

loud incorrect buzzer.

he doesn’t!

coriolanus never dares to allow himself to sweeten up around his customers, or anyone, but something about your shy, deer like attitude— it had a wolf wanting to protect.

“they say they’re too nervous to do it themselves,” you finally answer when he leads you into the nearest empty room, closing the door behind you.

he finally lets go of your wrist, “that so? what are they askin’ for?”

“cocaine,” you swallow.

“then they’re not nervous,” he chuckles, having to deal with his fair share of cocaine users, none of them are nervous to approach him, “why do you let them push you around?”

he moves to sit on the bed, chopping up the cocaine from his pocket on the nightstand next to him. he typically doesn’t like when his customers stand over him, because he never knows what they will do, and he likes to be in control at all times— but you’re harmless, aren’t you? just a little deer.

you exhale a nervous laugh, “they’re not pushing me around, they’re just asking me for favors.”

he hums, eyes peering up at you as his hands absentmindedly work on the pearl powder, it was muscle memory for him at this point. “you promise you’re not doing this shit, too?”

“i promise,” your lips tip up to a curt smile, “it’s really.. scary, honestly.”

he exhales, eyes trailing over the curves of your face before they meet the nightstand again, swiping the powdered sugar like substance into a little baggie. you watch him, almost admiring, “yeah. it is really scary, dangerous, too— don’t want you doin’ this shit too.”

a warm feeling courses through your veins, you hardly realize he’s holding the baggies out for you until he clears his throat, you blink a few times, quickly trying to grasp the money you had— it wasn’t given to you by your friends to spend for them, it was just your own money. how cruel.

“it’s on the house,” he quickly says, almost unaware of what he was saying himself until it finally passes his lips.

you bat your lashes at him, “what—“

“free, doll, just take it,” he allows himself a faint smile.

you hesitantly reach to take the baggies, “are you sure…?”

he nods, “‘m positive.”

“thank you, snow,” his eyebrows furrow at how sweet his name sounds on your tongue, like nectar delivered by the kindest dove from the gods.

you turn to leave, but he quickly stands, “hey—“ he pauses, eyes sweeping over your figure as he tries to figure out what to say, you probably go to millions of parties with your asshole friends, possibly with other dealers.. “some other dealers are gonna try to rip you off, make you pay a lot for a little bit— so just, come to me and i’ll treat you good as long as you’re staying out of trouble, princess.”

“okay, i will,” you nod quickly.

“good girl.”

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

you don’t see coriolanus for a while after that night, it has been no more than a few days, less than a week but the idea of you is rotting in his brain and eating him whole from the inside out. at every party he went to, every girl with a bow in their hair (he despises that it’s the latest trend) or wearing a baby pink dress reminds him of you. with their fluttering lashes and soft smiles, god, he hates that he sees you in every one of them. he hates that you have completely plagued his entire conscience, but yet he never complains about it, not once.

sometimes, sejanus, one of the other known dealers, though he more so considers himself a look - out when coriolanus is selling, or a promoter for coriolanus’ business— he notices how coriolanus’ eyes linger more than usual on the women at parties, it almost makes him laugh, or tease coriolanus.

isn’t he supposed to be intimidating? not a man easily falling for women.

a lover boy, that’s what he seemed like now.

sejanus swishes around his drink in his cup, eyes falling to coriolanus, “what’s up with you?”

coriolanus blinks once, twice, “what are you talking about?”

“you haven’t blinked in like an hour,” sejanus liked to overexaggerate, “are you okay?”

“of course i am,” he scoffs, “‘m gonna find arachne.”

arachne, sejanus’ best friend, albeit she talks so much shit about him behind his back. sejanus is sweet, passive, and arachne is the complete opposite. some would call arachne a maneater, coriolanus thinks of her as a conceited bitch who needs to be put on a leash. she had a tendency to run off whenever she went to parties with coriolanus and sejanus, so coriolanus always had to run after her to try and find her.

sejanus nods, offering a small i’ll look too.

coriolanus allows sejanus to walk the opposite way as he turns the corner, eyes scanning each room for a brunette with a bold red lip. he doesn’t find her anywhere, god, she better not be having sex in one of the rooms upstairs like how she was last time. coriolanus likes to think opening that door to that sight was something out of a horror movie.

he does find a different brunette, though, with more golden tones and curlier hair.

festus creed, of fucking course creed is here. he was another one of the other well known dealers in the area. he wasn’t that well with his sells, mostly because he acts like he’s above everyone else in the worst way possible, and even allows people to pay with sex.

coriolanus heard his sex is never good.

funny, isn’t it? how someone with a small dick and hardly any skills on pleasing women would offer sex as payment.

coriolanus, at least, thinks it’s hilarious.

what he doesn’t think is hilarious, though, is that festus is talking to someone coriolanus is far too familiar with. glittery eye makeup, a lacy bow in their hair, baby pink dress.. it’s you.

coriolanus’ mouth runs dry when you spot him in the corner of your eye, your lips twisting into a sugar - coated grin as soon as your eyes widen, “snow!”

you immediately move to give him a hug, festus’ searing gaze following your every movement in the creepiest way possible— god, coriolanus hates him. his fingers lace around your waist, tugging you close, “hey, princess.”

“princess?” festus snickers.

coriolanus tries to ignore him, but he finds it near impossible with the words that leave your lips next, “this is festus, my friend, do you know him?”

coriolanus scoffs, does he know him, what a joke, “i know of him.”

festus finds himself chuckling bitterly, “is that right, pretty boy?”

coriolanus takes a step, and you feel a certain mold of metal against your waist when he does, a gun, his cold lips part, “sure is.”

your eyes roam over his features, the curves of his skin when his brows collide, the way his eyes darken with malice, the grit of his sharp teeth, the flush of his jaw against his flesh as he moves it. his muscles flex underneath his baggy band t - shirt, veins pulsing. he was angry.

festus’ lips part, but you speak before him, “snow?”

his head nods in your direction, but he doesn’t say anything.

“answer your girl, snow,” festus taunts.

“go upstairs,” he mumbles, it’s to you.

so you do.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

coriolanus sighs when he closes the door behind him, coming in mere minutes later. you had been sitting on the bed in the vacant room, fingers playing together, eyes glossed over in fear and pricking with tears. coriolanus wasn’t the only one who carried, but you didn’t hear any shots, fortunately.

“kid’s such a fuckin’ asshole,” he mumbles, cracking his bruising knuckles, “he’s not sellin’ you shit, is he?”

“sometimes—“

“don’t buy from him anymore,” coriolanus pauses, swallowing, “he laces his shit sometimes.”

it was true, festus was messy with his work, he didn’t lace the products himself but the people that distributed them to him would, he was just too lazy to even notice.

“i’m sorry,” it comes out hushed, a mere whisper, but coriolanus’ ears pick up on it easily.

his tone is softer now, “why?”

“i didn’t know—“

“then don’t apologize,” his head tips to the side, sniffling the bubbling blood in his nose, he inhales, pupils wide as they roam your features. a glass tear raced down your pliant cheek, and he immediately moved to carefully wipe it away, “don’t cry, doll.”

you don’t say anything, merely melt into his touch. coriolanus isn’t good with affection, he’s hardly had any girlfriend before and if he has, they don’t last long due to his struggles with showing kindness. so it’s obvious the next word that leaves his mouth isn’t one born from honeysuckle, “cocaine?”

your lips move nervously, bottom lip tugging under your teeth as your mascara covered lashes move to his frost - bitten eyes, “do you have.. ecstasy?”

his lips drop to a frown, “why?”

your lips tremble when they part, cheeks heating under his touch, “my friends want to try it.”

“no,” he swallows, jaw ticking, “i’m not selling you that shit.”

“what? why not?”

“that shit is too dangerous,” he chuckles, albeit it’s bitterness, “i don’t want you around that, it’s trouble.”

“i’ve been good,” you reassure, hips swaying when you scoot closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him.

“have you, now?” his thumb is gently rubbing against your skin.

“i have, i promise,” you offer, feeling his fingers move so his thumb is now moving against your bottom lip, dipping into your mouth ever so slightly.

you smile around it and his pupils dilate even more, are his eyes blue anymore or merely just sole pupil? “naughty girl.”

then he stops, as if he had realized something, and pulled away. your lips curve downward to a frown, desperate to have his touch again, “snow?”

“don’t,” his molars collide, “i’ll hurt you.”

“that’s okay—“

“—i’m bad news—“

“—i don’t think that—“

“—i’m dangerous, doll.”

you hesitate, inhaling sharply, “but you won’t hurt me.”

he doesn’t say anything for a minute, “so, you want cocaine?”

you give him a careful nod, and he smiles. again, he’s being sweet.

“you know how to chop up cocaine?”

you allow yourself a giggle, “you know i don’t.”

“i’ll show you.”

and he does, his hand is gentle as it guides yours, fingers curling against the curve of your own as he crushes up the cocaine, guiding you to chop it up with the card he gave you. you’re warm underneath his cold touch, his movements experienced whilst yours are new. “how many times have you done this?”

he shrugs, breath fresh against the shell of your ear, “a couple hundred, for sure.”

��i could help you, you know, with the business,” you offer, despite not even really wanting to.

“no,” his fingers are tighter against your skin, but not enough to hurt, “i don’t want you in this business, you being around me is dangerous enough.”

“you’re not dangerous, snow,” you hush out.

he moves closer, and you feel his gun brush against your ass, lips curving into a smile, “you think so?”

you shiver from the touch, it’s loaded, the safety is probably off, “i know so.”

your thighs push together, he feels it, making him chuckle, “you’re so needy, princess.”

“snow,” you breathe out, “this isn’t fair.”

“how so?” he presses a soft kiss behind your ear, “just because you aren’t getting what you want?”

“do you want it?” you pause your movements.

“of course i do, i want it as much as you,” he moves your fingers so you drop the card, guiding them to his bulge, “‘m just not spoiled.”

you frown at his works, fingers curving around his bulge, god, how big was he? “‘m not spoiled either.”

“whatever you say, princess,” he grits out.

you palm him so well, it nearly has him rutting against your hand, breathing getting heavier against your ear. his fingers move to trail down down your back, dipping underneath the hem of your skirt and tracing along the thin material of your lace panties. his jaw shifts, “such a dirty girl, wearing these panties.”

you whimper when his fingers graze along the soaked part of your panties, thick fingers brushing against your clothed clit, “please— snow.”

“please what, princess?” you mumble something in response, but it’s nearly incoherent, more of a whimper, “use your words.”

he moves to pull your panties to the side, now touching your bare clit, making your thighs tremble, “i need— fuck, i need you— inside.”

he nods, pressing kisses along the side of your neck, finding himself already pussy - drunk. it almost felt sacrificial, a sinful man dipping his fingers inside of a goddess, the way you moaned at the feeling of his finger stretching you out— it was as if he could be confessing of his sins at any minute.

to see your hips bucking against his finger, his name hushed on the tip of your delicate tongue. didn’t you know that many people wanted him dead? how many people hated him? how the police could arrest him at any second? yet you didn’t care, a lamb to the slaughter, a deer in between the jaws of a wolf.

yet you were rutting against his hand, begging for more, desiring him to push another finger in— and he did exactly that, prepping your tight cunt for his cock, “you’re so fuckin’ tight, doll, i don’t know if it’ll fit.”

“it will— it will, i know it will—,” you’re just babbling nonsense at this point, and coriolanus wanted to be gentle, he really did, but your sweet moans, your sugary whimpers, the way he so easily pushed his fingers inside of you, the way that when you curl, your moans up a few octaves. you were so sensitive, god, were you a virgin?

the thought had coriolanus pulling his fingers out, twirling you around so he can push his fingers into your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself as his other hand undoes the belt holding his baggy jeans up. his eyes are crystalizing the memory of your tongue swirling against his fingers, sucking up every taste of your own cunt— have you thought of this as many times as he has?

he moves his hand to take his gun before it falls, placing it on the counter behind you, his fingers move from your mouth to help him push his jeans down, your lips part, “why do you have a gun?”

he smiles sweetly at your words, nearly chuckling, “why do you think?”

“‘m not sure, that’s why i asked,” you had a certain tinge in your voice that makes him quirk a brow.

“it’s to protect myself, princess,” he pushes his boxers down, finally freeing his cock, “now be a good girl, turn around, and bend over.”

of course you do exactly what he asks, bending over the counter so he can push your skirt up. the feeling of your innocence being stripped away right in front of you was far too good, like a cross ripped from the chain around your neck, or your holy water being unpurified. you were a cupcake with frosting on top, and coriolanus was sinking his teeth into you, rotting his sweet tooth.

his dick slaps against your heat when your legs part with desire, making you whine against nothing, “snow— please..”

“just say it, princess,” he moves to rub his red tip against your clit, making you shudder, knees buckling already.

“fuck me— f..fuck me,” you repeatedly beg.

he moves closer to press a sweet kiss on the back of your neck, bones colliding when his cock finally pushes into your cunt. you were so tight around him, squeezing him around your velvet walls. your jaw falls slack when you gasp at the feeling of him stretching you out, his lips pull tight together in a grunt, “so tight for me, princess— jesus christ..”

his breathing is labored when he pulls his hips back and thrusts in, he goes slow at first, treating you like you were a fragile statue made from porcelain, but then you’re begging him to go faster, to go harder. your fingers graze along the gun placed on the counter, right next to the cocaine. his tongue swipes along the roof of his mouth before he speaks, “are you sure, doll? i don’t— fuck— want to hurt you.”

“h-hurt me, it’s okay,” you mumble out, and he truly does hesitate for a second, then his thrusts are suddenly faster, bumping you into the counter with the sheer snap of his hips. your cries sound like noises formed from a blessed harp, passed down by the gods for him to listen to, each moan getting louder and louder until his ears are ringing, until the music sounds hushed compared to your screams.

it’s so obscene, all of the things that he finds himself spitting out as he harshly bucks into you. so cute, jus’ wanna ruin you, takin’ my cock so well, that feel good princess? he can’t help the way his hands snake up to your hair, tugging at the pretty bow wrapped around it, earning a frosted moan from your glossed lips.

it’s not long until you’re cuming on his cock, with him pulling out to twirl you around and push you to your knees, allowing you to jerk him off until thick white stripes are decorating your face. the white glitter, the sweet scent of your lip - gloss, now accompanied by his cum.

how cute.

“so fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbles as he tucks his dick back in his boxers, pulling his jeans back up when your painted nails move to wipe away the cum on your face, lapping it up with your pretty tongue.

you giggle sweetly, “do you do this with all your customers?”

he shakes his head, “no, doll, you’re special, you know that.”

and it’s true, you really were special.

you were a dangerous man’s doll.

[dumbsoftheart]

[dumbsoftheart]

dog tag dangling in my face>>>

[dumbsoftheart]

“i wanna kill you” “i’m yours” IM SICKKK IM SO SICK

#diary

[dumbsoftheart]

nightly routine

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes