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coryosbaby · 5 months

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Cry, Kill, Die

[ part one ]

Synopsis: In which Coriolanus Snow takes you for his own.

content warning . Dark themes— stalking, kidnapping, and Stockholm’s syndrome heavily mentioned // Extremely dubious consent, Murder and gore mentioned, misogynistic elements // housewife kink, blowjob, peacekeeper (ish?) ! Coryo, dom! Coryo, he’s literally a fucking nutcase in this

note: this is probably going to be the darkest shit I’ve ever wrote b4, but I’ve had this idea for a while now 😭 not meant to be taken as romanticization, more of js me talking out of my ass w the plot and slight smut included during bc i wanna fuck coryo so bad . So yeah .

It’s been days.

You know that much— know that the last day you saw sunlight was at least four days ago, when you had been happily strolling through the woods picking flowers. When you had heard a snap of leaves. When you saw him watching you. When he had taken you for his own.

You sit, pretty and dainty, regardless of your current imprisonment, in a brown arm chair in the corner of the room. Your original dress had been torn into shambles, but he had gotten you a new one. A pretty lace thing, a pink babydoll dress with tiny bows all over it. It definitely wasn’t something district, so the mysterious man that had taken you confused you even more.

Not that you hadn’t seen him before all of this— he was a peacekeeper. At least, he was pretending to be. You know this because he had grabbed you from a rundown bar to save you from the hands of a drunken pervert one night.

You had thanked him, kissed his cheek sweetly.

“Thank you, Sir!”

But his niceness was all a lie. An evil, despicable lie. And when you saw him the day he had taken you, you noticed the change in him. The look on his face. Something dark, something not quite human.

Something hungry.

You had fought. You fought hard, too— clawing at his wrists, as his hand covered your mouth and he had shushed you.

“Shut up. Shut up right now, or I’ll fucking kill you. Do you understand me?”

And you had understood greatly, had went limp in arms from fear and something else that you didn’t want to mention out loud. He had taken you to a cabin, a run down but still beautiful cabin. He had thrown you into one of the bedrooms, locked the door, and left. Thankfully, there was a bathroom built into your prison and you could relieve yourself anytime you liked. It was stocked with toilet paper, a toothbrush, your favorite shampoos and soap. You were too scared to take a shower, though, in fear of him getting angry with you. So you didn’t. You slept— still sleep— naked. It’s the only way you can get comfortable because of the scratchy material of the dress. The sheets are fresh, blanket soft, and you sleep heavy. To pretend that you’re somewhere else— to pretend that he didn’t take you.

He came back that night with food and water, unlocked the bedroom door for you. He had stroked your hair as you ate the luxury cherry pie that was expensive in the districts, the thick pasty filling forming a lump in your throat. You had asked him where he got it, and he didn’t answer.

The days went like that. Him leaving, bringing you food and water the next day, training you to get used to him like a lost, traumatized puppy. You had begun to ask him more questions, and you had gotten his name. He had revealed it to you on the third day, as he pulled you into his lap and stroked your hair.

“Coryo.” He had murmured, oddly sweet. “Call me Coryo, sweet thing.”

And now, it brings you to the present moment: you hear the familiar click of the doorknob, the thud of heavy peacekeeper boots against thick, run down wood. His helmet is off, and his buzzed hair shows greatly. A handsome man he is, but you won’t admit that to yourself. He has a bag in his hand, made of brown paper. He sighs, as if exhausted. He sits down at the kitchen table, and you can see him from the doorway.

“Come here,” he mutters to you. “Come here now, bunny.”

You can’t help but flush at the name he had given you, though fear curls in your gut at his tone. Your feet nervously pad over to his chair. His big hand wraps around your waist, pushing you down onto his lap as he begins to rummage around in the bag.

It’s a container of warm tomato soup, your favorite. There are probably better dishes, better food, but in the districts it’s the best meal around. Before you can wonder how Coryo knows it’s your favorite, he pulls out a spoon and dips it into the red liquid. He holds it up to your lips, and although you want to reject his offerings the growling of your tummy wins you over.

You slowly put your lips to the utensil, your taste buds exploding as the soup is placed on your tongue. You let out a tiny moan. You can’t help it! The soup is just too good.

“Hungry, aren’t you?”

You can hear the amusement in his voice, as you grab the spoon from him and begin to paw at the cup. You gulp down a few spoonfuls.

“It’s..” you pause, feeling around in Coryo’s lap. Your eyes widen as you feel his cock poking against you, and you slowly set the soup and spoon down. “It’s really good, Coryo. T-Thank you.”

He breathes out a laugh. You squirm against him, and it’s all too much. You lift yourself off of his lap and move to the living room couch. He watches, his brow raised, and if you look close enough you can see the clenching of his jaw.

“Are you scared of me?”

It’s a tone you haven’t heard from him, the faux gentleness gone.

Your breath wavers, your eyes averting from his.

“It’s just that..” you start, cautious, as you see his expression darken. “You— you took me, Coryo. My family must be so worried, so worried about me—“

He holds a hand up, as if to silence you. Your mouth shuts, your heart thudding against your chest. Coryo lifts his body up from the chair, slow and threatening. He makes his way over to you, his boots thudding against the wood once again.

“Do you know how much I’ve sacrificed for you?”

You cower under him, your fingers gripping the couch cushions so hard that you fear they might break.

“I- I just—“

“You just what?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I come home, give you dinner, a roof over your head, a new dress.. and this is how you repay me?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You can feel hot, salty tears beginning to well in your eyes. This man in front of you is crazy, unwell. He hardly knows you.

Right?

You do remember seeing him around, as you mentioned before. Always in district twelve because it’s where he was stationed, but—

He seemed to be everywhere. You remember, now; little glimpses of that familiar platinum blonde hair moving through the crowd, big arms holding a peacekeeper’s gun. At the bars you went to, at the crowded reapings that you (thankfully) never got picked in. Outside of your house, as you would peek out the curtained window, marching down the gravel road and making sure that no one avoided curfew. You remember the way his eyes would lock with yours almost every single time. He may have been stalking you for months.

“No,” you breathe out, as his body moves closer and closer to you. “No, that’s not what I meant at all! Coryo, I appreciate everything you’ve done. R-Really! But..”

“But what, you ungrateful brat?” He crouches, his eyes baring into yours like a predator stalking its prey. “Answer me!”

You jump, his sudden change in tone scaring you, and you let out a sob.

“I wanna go home!” You yell back at him, sniffling.

Coryo’s hand grasps your hair firmly, and he yanks your head back. You cry out, his grip making your scalp burn. His breath his hot against your ear.

“You are home now, little girl.”

Your feet kick and flail, as he presses his lips harshly to yours. It’s the first kiss, one of many to come, and you don’t kiss him back, can’t kiss him back, as his teeth clack against yours. He takes your bottom lip in between his sharp, pearly white teeth, and bites. You squeal, holding your mouth, watching Coryo’s icy blue eyes stare into your own as he pulls away. You can feel something wet dripping down your chin and taste warm, metallic blood.

“If you ever say anything about leaving me again… I’ll make sure to take you out to the hanging tree and string you up dead for everyone to see.“

—

He doesn’t leave, on this night. He takes off the top of his peacekeeper uniform and stays in his pants and white tee shirt. You sit, watching his big hands clean the hilt of his gun. Your fears increase as you watch him, wondering if he’ll use it on you by the end of the night, and it’s been quiet since the moment he kissed you and said those horrifying words.

Until he decides to break the silence.

“I hope you like the dress.”

Your mouth stays shut, and you repeatedly tie and untie one of the ribbons on the fabric.

“It’s one of a kind,” Coryo presses, setting his gun down onto the table. And then, in the most amused tone, in the most unsettling tone, “I’m not going to shoot you, darling.”

Your hand goes up to your mouth, taking note of the scab forming there, and you chew on your thumbnail. You hear the sound of rustling as coryo gets up from his spot. He crouches down in front of you again, his big palms splaying across your thighs. You can feel the tears welling up again, and you bring your hands up to your eyes as you let out a quiet sob.

Coryo sighs, bringing his much larger ones up to take hold of your fingers. He pulls them down, revealing your blubbering face to him.

“ I didn’t mean to hurt you earlier, angel. I didn’t—“ he stops, breathing heavily. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. God, I didn’t mean to make you cry…”

His lips go up to the back of your hand, kissing it softly. You look down, not staring into those predatory eyes again. You let him pepper kisses along your wrist and arm.

After a moment, when your tears have dried up, coryo sighs deeply. He stands, and begins to zip his uniform back up.

“I’m going out,” he says. “Okay? I’ll be back… thirty minutes, tops.” he grabs his gun, slips on his helmet. He turns to you right before his hand twists the doorknob. “Do you have any suggestions for dinner?”

It’s the first time he’s ever gave you a choice, and the first time he’s ever allowed you to stay in the living room. You bite your lip, thinking over your options. Of the many, many possibilities of food, of drinks, of comfort.

“Tomato soup, please.”

—

Coryo is true to his word. It doesn’t take him long to return back to the locked cabin, and when he appears through the doorway you take note of the key that he slips from his pocket and relocks the latch with. Your brows furrow, as you see the cup of tomato soup in one hand and a large bag in the other.

“I got you something.” He says, and your curiosity peaks.

He sits the materials down on the table, and you stare at the bag with wonder.

His hand reaches in, and he pulls out a fabric of embroidered silk. He reveals it to be a nightgown; a baby blue slip, with beading along the neckline and a flared hem of knee length. You fake a smile, though in your mind you are impressed. You’ve never been gifted sleepwear so luxurious before.

“It’s amazing, Coryo,” you compliment. “I love it. Thank you.”

You grab the nightgown from his hands, the material soft in your palms. You hold it up to your nose; laundry detergent and parfume. The smell of riches. The smell of the capital.

As you hold your gift, you wonder how privileged this man truly is.

—

“Well?” He urges, sitting down on the couch. His thighs spread, oddly tantalizing. “Try it on, darling. Let me see how beautiful you look in it.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and when he notices your hesitance he chuckles and covers his eyes up with his fingers.

“I won’t look,” he says. “I promise. See?”

You can see his eyes peeking through, but you don’t mention it. You know what he wants, anyway. And it isn’t like asking for privacy is going to change that. He will get what he wants sooner or later.

You feel exposed, hot, and violated all at once as you pull your discarded dress over your head. You’re quick to slip on the nightgown. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

It fits like a glove, and when Coryo removes his hands from his eyes he gets up from his seat. He admires examines you with awe written on his face.

“Oh, honey,” he coos. “You’re stunning. An absolute gem.”

You hate the way your cheeks flush from his words. You hate the way your thighs clench when his fingers brush against your chest as he circles you. You hate it all.

He strokes your cheek, leaning closer to your lips with each movement.

“Think I deserve a kiss for spoiling my girl, yeah?”

Hesitantly, you nod, letting him thumb your bottom lip before pressing his mouth to yours. This kiss is slow, deliberate, calculated. This kiss is sweet, if you didn’t know any better. You kiss him back this time, in fear of getting bit again. His hand curls into your hair, and he whispers.

“Maybe I deserve a little more?”

You’ve done this before with other men, but not like this. You let yourself slip down to your knees, anyway, and when you slip Coryo’s cock into your mouth he’s almost gentle.

Almost.

You hate it all.